Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  She moved through to the study instead. Like the bedroom, it was situated at the rear of Number Ten facing the garden, and had been shielded from the blast. Some of the secretaries’ rooms, Junior Lords’ room and upper offices were out of bounds, their windows blown through. The iconic front façade would need extensive repairs.

  Curtis opened her laptop on the desk. Bizarre as it was, she felt like she’d missed all the news. That is, how she was being covered. She’d been given every fact the authorities had on the bombing – type of explosives used, the casualties, other possible threats – but had been sheltered from bigger picture things like the mood of the nation.

  She cruised the news websites to get a sense of how it was all playing. Under photos from Downing Street, editors had mostly used the same photo of Curtis from her press conference: her expression defiant, hand raised like a swinging sword. She had to admit to herself: she looked like a Prime Minister. The press seemed to be of the opinion she sounded like one too.

  She didn’t even feel guilty about her trick with Harrington’s Dictaphone. Come the time, he’d be rewarded with the first sit-down interview with Britain’s new Prime Minister. More often than not the press was the enemy. But sometimes they were crucial allies.

  The early coverage was glowing, both for the party, Parliament as a whole, and for Bannatyne and Hawkes, both trumpeted as having put country first.

  But deeper down in comment sections, and on Twitter, one question was gaining traction. What was Simon Ali about to confess to? In the immediate aftermath, it had naturally been forgotten about. As the dust settled on Downing Street, Curtis could sense the eagerness of commentators to return to Ali’s speech. Even in editorials pronouncing lines like, ‘Just what Simon Ali was about to “confess” will surely be an issue for another day, but it will be an issue.’

  Twitter – as she expected – was rife with speculation under the #AliConfession hashtag: he’d had an affair; he’d swindled his finances; he was leaving Islam; he was going to swap parties at the next election... It was endless. All of them faintly ludicrous. Curtis couldn’t help but wonder which of them might be true.

  As she crossed her legs under the desk, she felt her thigh brush something loose then tumble down against her leg. When she looked down she saw an envelope lying on top of her foot. The front of it said, ‘To my successor.’

  Curtis knew the author before she even opened it. She had seen plenty of documents with his handwriting over the years.

  It was unmistakably Simon Ali’s.

  It began, “If you’re reading this, then you have won the general election. Congratulations.

  “After my confession I assume the backlash against the PM following me will be substantial. I’m sure I’ve made an already hard job harder still. For that, I apologise. You do, however, have an opportunity now. To make a clean break with the past.

  “God only knows where I’ve ended up by the time you read this. Disgraced? Without question. In jail? Possibly. Dead? More than likely.”

  A chill ran up Curtis’s spine.

  The letter went on, “Should anything happen to me, there are a few things you should know. Firstly: do not trust Nigel Hawkes, regardless of your party. I’m sure my speech will have finished him off, but I don’t want to take any chances.

  “And secondly: if anyone from Goldcastle ever contacts you: JUST SAY NO. They’ll be the death of you.

  “Sincerely, Simon Hussein Ali.”

  Curtis couldn’t move.

  The letter made it sound that even the darkest theory on the internet about what he’d done wasn’t even close to the reality.

  Curtis’s imagination started running away from her. Who or what was Goldcastle? Curtis had never heard the name before. A quick Google search on her phone brought up a political consultancy firm’s website. Its homepage boasted the logos of mostly American political campaigns: the current U.S. President, Secretary Robert Snow. It also, surprisingly to Curtis, had the logo of Simon Ali’s General Election campaign. The Party had kept that one quiet.

  A knock on the study door took her by surprise. She quickly closed the laptop and turned the letter over.

  ‘Sorry, Prime Minister, I thought you should see these,’ Milton said, standing at the door. He looked slightly out of breath. ‘GCHQ has found a mobile linked to the bomber.’ He brought over a large photo emailed from Cheltenham two minutes earlier. ‘They managed to get this picture.’

  It was a high-resolution image of two suspects, one of them carrying a newly bought pay-as-you-go mobile. No baseball caps or glasses on either of them. A passport photo wouldn’t have been clearer.

  ‘Have they ID’d them yet?’ Curtis asked.

  ‘MI5 think they might have names for you within the hour,’ Milton replied.

  Curtis stared at the photo in wonder. ‘How on earth did they find this?’

  Milton threw his hands up. ‘They’re GCHQ.’

  ‘Do me a favour. Find out who it was. I want to tell them well done.’

  ‘Of course. Also, housekeeping are about to clear out the bedroom for you–’

  ‘No, really,’ Curtis said, ‘I can just go home.’

  ‘Prime Minister, you can’t go home. We need to keep you somewhere...’ He trailed off, knowing what she’d say.

  ‘Safe?’

  ‘Yes, well... We can’t have the Prime Minister getting hounded by photographers leaving a semi-detached in Shepherd’s Bush every morning. We’ll leave that to the leader of the opposition.’ He’d been with Curtis long enough to know when something was on her mind. Something beyond the immediately obvious. Something he didn’t know about. ‘Let’s just get the country through this. Tomorrow’s papers have all been very generous.’

  Curtis nodded absently. ‘What’s all this Dan Leckie stuff I got at the press conference?’

  ‘He’s trying to make some noise on his comeback tour.’

  ‘We’re sure this Tempest thing is a dead end?’

  ‘Sir Lloyd Willow assures me MI6 have it under control.’

  Curtis nodded at him. ‘Good job today, Roger. Go home and give your kids a hug. There’s a lot of parents not coming home tonight.’

  ‘I will. Thank you, Prime Minister.’

  Before he could leave, Curtis said, ‘Actually. One other thing. What do you know about Goldcastle?’

  ‘The consultancy? Not much. I heard they did a sterling job for Simon Ali. They’re an American outfit though. I can get a memo together in half an hour?’

  Curtis waved it off. ‘No. It’s nothing. Go home.’

  ‘Goodnight, Prime Minister.’ Milton left.

  That morning, Curtis had left her small flat off Portobello Road, her career grinding to a halt. Now she’d been thrust into a role she’d thought had long since passed her by. Yet there were conflicting feelings of guilt and horror about the atrocity that had put her in her new position, and the astonishing opportunity she now had. It was hard to go to bed not thinking about the polls. By morning she might be as high as 90% approval.

  Left alone in the study, it all hit Curtis at once. She knew her history: she’d replaced the first British Prime Minister to be assassinated in office since Spencer Percival in 1812; GCHQ had a mole working in league with a terrorist cell; an MI6 spy had died in CIA custody; another had died in dubious circumstances across the city; and she had to deal with it all herself.

  10 Downing Street was a lonely place to occupy without a spouse or partner.

  Curtis took a cigarette lighter from her bag and picked up Ali’s letter. Even without the rest of the speech, if the letter got out it could cripple the party. Maybe it was the thought of her polling numbers and the upcoming election, but something told her to hang on. That the letter might be valuable at some point. Particularly with its mention of Ali’s acrimony towards Hawkes.

  She tucked the letter away inside her personal Westminster diary, then called Milton.

  He hadn’t yet made it out the back exit of Downing Street. �
��Yes, Prime Minister?’

  ‘Sorry, Roger,’ she said. ‘I need you to find some information for me.’

  ‘Of course,’ he replied.

  Curtis paused. ‘Get me everything you can on Abbie Bishop.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And Roger. Do it quietly.’

  7.

  The Mayfair Motel, Newark, New Jersey – Monday, 8.12pm

  NOVAK SAT ON the end of the bed in his ground floor room of the squalid Mayfair Motel just off I-78 Express. His concerns about the cleanliness of the bedding had to be put aside for at least one night.

  After grabbing his go bag, Novak changed taxis three times on his way to New Jersey, and had developed a crick in his neck from looking over his shoulder the whole way from Manhattan.

  The Republic had used the Mayfair in the past as a secret interview spot for sources, politicians, even the odd Hollywood celebrity. Chang had sent Novak off with instructions to email him every two hours, or he would send over a private security officer to check on him. No one else in the office – except for Stella – was to know what was going on.

  There was one knock then two fast knocks on the door – a previously agreed pattern. Novak answered, keeping himself half-shielded behind it as his door looked out onto the parking lot. ‘I thought you already left for London?’ he said.

  Stella barged past in a soaking wet brown mac, carrying a bag from a nearby Seven Eleven. ‘I got them to bounce me to a later flight.’ She put half a Twinkie in her mouth as she spoke. ‘I’ve got doughnuts, beef jerky, and potato chips.’

  ‘So no actual food, then?’ Novak asked.

  She finished off her Twinkie while she shuffled off her mac, shaking the rain off it. ‘There were more Twinkies in the bag when I left the store. Sorry about that.’

  Novak stayed standing, ignoring the food.

  Stella went to the bathroom and emerged with a towel wrapped in a turban around her head and sat down on the bed. ‘In the taxi on the way over “Jungleland” by Bruce Springsteen came on the radio. Man, is that the best saxophone solo you’ve ever heard or what? I’m not normally a saxophone kind of gal, but phew!’

  Novak knew she was trying to take his mind off things, but it wasn’t working. He paced slowly across the room.

  She took out a DVD case from her handbag and held it out. ‘Kurt managed to extract the video.’

  ‘Are you serious? The dude’s a genius.’ Novak took the DVD to the player under the TV.

  Stella unravelled the towel and hand-dried her hair. That she knew something Novak didn’t – at least for the next ninety seconds – put a wide, cheeky grin on her face.

  ‘What’s on it?’ Novak asked, waiting on the disc loading.

  From under the towel Stella answered, ‘So you know how you stopped getting emails a day ago. Kurt thinks the video is the reason.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said it was hidden away in some obscure temp file made by the virus. Like someone’s been looking after the video.’ Stella looked around in vain for somewhere to put her wet towel, then tossed it onto the bed. ‘Kurt actually thinks the hacker’s been trying to protect you. Monitoring your incoming traffic. They hid the video away to stop whoever’s after you from seeing it.’

  ‘But if the hacker’s worried about my safety why not just delete the damn video?’ Novak asked, not unreasonably.

  ‘Trust me. You’re going to be glad he didn’t.’

  Novak pressed play.

  The video started off shakily, with stray strands of long grass blowing in front of the camera as if from a hiding spot. The camera trained on a small white Gulfstream jet, taxiing to the end of the runway. Artur zoomed in on the tail number, N511GA, whispering narration in English as he filmed. ‘OK, guys. As you can see the plane’s now stopped, and hopefully we’ll get a shot of something, or someone, from inside in a minute.’

  As the stairs unfurled from the side of the plane four men in combat gear took a man in an orange jumpsuit – hooded and shackled – down the stairs, moving slowly so the man didn’t trip.

  ‘Is this what I think it is?’ Novak asked, his body rigid with anticipation.

  Stella shushed him. ‘Wait.’

  Now the plane’s engines had stopped whirring Artur halted his narration. He zoomed in on the shackled man stopped halfway down the steps, raising his head as if gulping for air through his black hood. One of the four handlers seemed to understand the man was struggling, and reached for his hood, but another put a hand on his forearm to stop him.

  ‘Does he take the hood off?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Just wait,’ Stella replied.

  After some discussion the handler took the prisoner’s hood off for a moment. The shackled man turned his head to the sky, taking in as much air as he could. He squinted as the staircase lights beamed up at him, giving Artur a perfect shot of the prisoner’s face.

  Novak’s reaction gave nothing away.

  ‘How perfect is that,’ Stella said, wondering why Novak was being so coy. ‘Would that not make the greatest Republic front cover ever?’

  The prisoner looked in his mid-thirties, with oddly short hair for a supposed radical. Light stubble, no beard. And a vague Middle Eastern look that could have placed him with any of a dozen nationalities.

  At the top of the stairs was a middle-aged man in a navy suit and dark tie, looking every bit a CIA agent. He held his wrist up to his mouth, talking into his radio. In a swift flurry the prisoner’s hood was thrown back on and he was hustled into the back of the Mercedes, whose livery said “Stare Kiejkuty” on it.

  ‘What language is that written in?’ Novak asked, squinting.

  ‘Polish. It’s a restricted military facility,’ Stella said. ‘Suspected since two thousand and five of involvement in the CIA’s black site program.’

  In the video five more agents came charging down the stairs, weapons now drawn and fanning out towards the perimeter fence. Artur’s camera shook, then began the nauseating judder of him running with the camera pointed at the ground. Somewhere behind him came American voices shouting at him to stop. The clip ended with Artur desperately panting for air as he ran.

  Then it cut to black.

  Novak kept staring at the screen. It was several seconds before he moved, backing away from the TV.

  ‘How do you know this guy?’ Stella asked.

  Novak sat on the edge of the TV unit, facing Stella. ‘He’s just a young Polish guy. He would email me links to his YouTube videos, ask to interview me, that kind of thing. The videos were all bat-shit stuff about secret governments controlling the world and UFO sightings...He kept saying I was the reason he wanted to become a journalist, so one time I wrote back and wished him well. It was harmless, I didn’t want to shut the guy down.’ Novak shrugged. ‘He just seemed lonely. I hadn’t heard from him in a few months.’

  Stella took out her mobile. ‘We have to take this to Diane.’

  Novak snapped a little. ‘We can’t take this to Diane.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What do we have yet? We don’t know who that prisoner is, who owns that plane, where it is now, what’s going on – nothing.”

  ‘You’re telling me that’s not video of a CIA rendition flight?’

  ‘I’m telling you what we have that’s a printable story. Diane Schlesinger will never go to press with this. She had twenty years at The New York Times: it’s on the record and it’s double-sourced. We don’t have half that.’

  ‘But if we find Artur, that’s one source. And you’re meeting your CIA guy tomorrow.’

  ‘A veteran CIA agent, go on the record over this? You’re dreaming. Our story – the one our editor’s given us – is the Downing Street attack. Artur Korecki will already have disappeared into the same rendition program he uncovered. The CIA’s going to lock this guy up for the next twenty years.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Stella said. ‘It looked to me like he had a pretty good head start. Plus he knew that terrain. He would hav
e been the only one knowing where he was going.’

  ‘It’s possible.’ Novak shrugged. ‘Maybe.’

  Stella laughed in frustration. ‘Novak, I wanted to work for The Republic because I thought they had the bravest reporters. Diane headhunted me. I told her I would come on one condition: that I get to work a story with you. I wanted to see what the guy who broke the NSA papers was made of.’

  ‘Then you should have looked elsewhere,’ said Novak, stepping away from her.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s time for me to move on.’

  She sighed in disgust. ‘Bastion?’

  He said, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I thought that was just contract negotiation bullshit. To drive your price up?’

  Novak laughed desperately. ‘There’s no money, Stella! Henry’s remortgaging houses. He’ll be selling office furniture in six months just to keep a working phone line up.’

  The news hit Stella like she’d walked out in front of a bus. ‘Why the hell did Diane take me on?’

  ‘Because they really need you. And they really don’t need me.’

  ‘Are you crazy? In the last year you were responsible for the most popular issue of Republic ever printed, you kick-started a debate on privacy and social media that was on no one’s radar before, raised the profile of the magazine, all the while making it more money than ever before. Where’s it all gone?’

  ‘The magazine’s been running a loss since Henry started it. The money the NSA papers made has barely made a dent in the accounts. What little has been made has gone straight back into my legal case, fighting a story that can’t stand up.’

  Stella had heard plenty of downbeat statements from Novak since she arrived in New York but this was of an entirely different order. ‘Why can’t it stand up?’

  Novak flashed her a knowing look. ‘Please. I saw the rings you made around the NSA issue.’

  ‘That was just–’

  ‘No, it wasn’t just grammar, Stella! I saw what you wrote. Inconsistencies. Doubts about my source.’

  ‘I was thinking out loud. You know what it’s like when you vet someone else’s source: you pick at loose threads. And you pull on them until they give.’