‘The black Audi outside. That isn’t one of yours?’
Leckie laughed. ‘You think I’ve got the bangers and mash for an Audi? Give over, will ya.’
Stella peeked out the balcony window. ‘Looks more serious than police.’
‘I thought you was in New York.’ He made “thought” sound like “fought”. ‘You covering Downing Street?’ He started walking down the hall. He knew where he was going.
Stella followed. ‘The only story in town.’
‘You think so, eh?’ He took out a credit card then slid it in and out through the snib. ‘Piece of piss these new builds.’ He knocked on the door with his free hand. ‘Bloody plywood’s all that is.’ The lock came free and Dan opened the door, standing aside to let Stella in first.
Stella hung back. Breaking and entering hadn’t exactly been on her resume at The Guardian.
He ushered her inside. ‘Hurry up.’ He went straight to the kitchen as if he lived there, opening cupboards to find a mug to make tea. ‘Six months away. I tell you, I missed all this. Duckin’, divin’, snoopin’–’
‘Hacking?’
He smiled. ‘That’s all in the past, Stella.’
She took out the police report, moving slowly from room to room as she pieced the evidence together.
Seeing the report, Dan shouted, ‘Nice one.’ He began fixing a tea for her. ‘I know this constable down Bethnal Green, young guy. He charged me fifty. How much was yours?’
Stella didn’t want to give him the satisfaction he’d got his half the price she had. ‘Same.’
He laughed. ‘I sat across a desk from you for two years. Think I can’t tell when you’re lying?’
She was uncomfortable swanning around a dead man’s flat with him. ‘Why don’t you tell me what the hell this is all about?’
‘S’all in the report. Murder made to look like burglary. Bomber must have stolen Rizza’s ID–’
‘It’s Rizzaq.’
‘Whatever...steals his ID, gets into Downing Street, blows the gaff up. End of. But the Home Office has got an injunction out on that little detail.’ Dan handed her a mug of tea, then sipped on his own.
‘Dan, you can’t just steal someone’s ID and use it to enter Downing Street. There’s something bigger happened there.’
The pair froze as a neighbour rattled their keys in their door. Dan put a finger to his lips.
At the sound of the door shutting Stella tossed the tea down the sink. She whispered, ‘I’m leaving.’
Dan left his mug out on the worktop, then chased after her.
When Stella got outside she checked for any sign of the black Audi, but it was gone. She looked from one end of the street to the next; she didn’t really have a plan for where to go.
Dan twirled his keys round his finger as he went to his car. ‘You know your problem, Stella? You don’t know how to chase a real story. This is the real world, not Whitehall politics. That copper’s wasting your time.’ He stood by the passenger door he’d opened for her. ‘By the end of the day every hack who’s ever filed a byline will have the police report we’ve got. Your editor will thank me.’
Stella hated that she was tempted by what was almost certainly bullshit. ‘This better be good,’ she said, getting into the passenger seat.
He smoked a constant stream of cigarettes as he charged through the London traffic.
Stella waved in front of her face and rolled her window down, choking on the smoke.
Dan slammed on the brakes and blasted the horn as a taxi stopped in front of him, ‘Ah, you wanker...’
Stella prodded an empty can of Carling by her foot out the way and turned up her top lip in disgust. The dashboard was caked in nicotine ash and dust, unboxed Oasis and Arctic Monkeys CDs piled around the gear stick, the floor a bed of old newspapers, betting slips, Ginster’s pasty wrappers and Coke cans. A pillow had been jammed up against the back seat and door, and a light blanket stretched out across the seats. Is he sleeping in here? Stella wondered, starting to feel sorry for him.
He was practically purring as he handed Stella another police report from his glove compartment. Smoke pumped out his mouth and nose as he spoke. ‘You’re interested in the wrong murder investigation.’
Stella read the report’s title. ‘Abbie Bishop. I saw your article on the wires.’ Not wanting to give away how keen she already was on the story, she said, ‘You didn’t mention murder anywhere in the report.’
Dan said, ‘That’s because I hadn’t spoken to the pathologist I just got off the phone to about forty-five minutes ago.’
Familiar with Metropolitan police reports, she went straight to the detective inspector’s comments on the crime scene. “She had somewhere in the region of fifteen units of alcohol in her stomach.”
‘That’s about two bottles of wine,’ Stella said.
‘Look at the other report underneath then look at the times.’
Stella switched pages. ‘These were printed at the same time.’
‘The one I got first was from the pathologist. Only trace amounts of wine found in the blood. Barely half a glass.’
‘Maybe it took longer to show up and they redid the report.’
Leckie shook his head. ‘Nah, because look...’ He passed her another file of photos taken from the scene of the safe house. ‘The bottle on the table. It’s nearly full. And the glass has barely been touched.’
‘So she drank another bottle.’
‘Nope. Police report lists that only one full bottle was found.’ He looked at Stella. ‘What’s more likely: she drinks a bottle of wine, then takes the empty downstairs to the bin before drinking another one? Or someone changed the autopsy report? There were no bottles in Abbie Bishop’s bin, or any of her neighbours for that matter. And the council hasn’t done a pick up yet.’
Stella was impressed with his thoroughness. This wasn’t the same Leckie she had known before, cutting corners and jumping to conclusions without evidence. He was going to great lengths to be credible.
‘They want it to look like an accident or maybe suicide,’ he said. ‘But it ain’t. I bet you all the lager in London.’
Stella lowered her window. Judging by the smell in the car it seemed Leckie had already drank all the lager in London.
‘That’s something else they’ve changed. I spoke to the copper who was first on the scene. He tells me he heard glass smashing then a scream.’
Stella scanned down to that part of the report. ‘The French window was broken.’
‘Exactly. Who jumps through a French window before throwing themselves off a balcony? And anyhow, the copper says he heard a scream before she fell.’
‘Before?’
‘Yep. Alright, if you’re mucking about and you slip, you’re liable to scream on the way down. But not before. The report makes no mention of that.’
‘You think someone threw her off?’
‘I think someone threw her off, and the police are covering it up. Whatever it is, GCHQ are up to their necks in it. They’re stonewalling me.’
‘No security agency will ever give you a statement about an ongoing investigation,’ Stella said.
‘So I’ve discovered.’
Stella continued inspecting the discrepancies in the two reports. There was no denying it: solid, credible, hard-copy evidence. ‘This is good stuff, Dan,’ she said.
He felt a swell of pride at this, but was careful not to show it. ‘Yeah, cheers.’
She laid the police report on her lap. ‘The problem is. You and I both know you didn’t get this story legitimately.’
Dan didn’t react. He just stared straight ahead.
Stella continued, ‘I think in a desperate bid to shoot yourself back into the big time – and every editor’s phone contacts – you found some dirt on someone. Something from your previously unpublished greatest hits. And that’s enough to get you on the right track, but let’s not pretend you’re not way out your depth on this. I saw how you got shut down at the Downing Str
eet press conference. You need me on this or the story you’re betting your big comeback tour on is going to end up at the bottom of a filing cabinet marked “No One Gives a Shit”.’
Deep down, Dan knew this was all true. ‘The way I look at it, Stella. I’m giving you everything I have. What do I get in return?’
‘The other half of your story: a man who washed up dead on the banks of the Thames this morning.’
‘What’s the link?’
‘He was an old GCHQ colleague of Abbie Bishop’s.’
‘Two dead GCHQ officers within a few days of each other?’
‘Actually, the body’s been in the water just over a day, which means they were both killed the same night.’ Stella could see him turning it over in his brain, how they could be onto something good.
He took a moment to consider. ‘Alright, Stel. Deal.’ He put his cigarette in his mouth to free up a hand from the steering wheel, extending it to Stella.
She shook it. ‘Deal.’ She held onto his hand. ‘Provided you stop calling me Stel.’
Dan laughed. ‘Another deal.’ He took a long congratulatory drag. ‘You know what the beauty of this story is? No one else will be able to put it together.’
‘Let’s not get carried away, Dan. We’re not the only journalists capable of putting money in an envelope. What makes you so sure?’
‘No one else has what I have.’ He sounded like he really believed this.
Years of being able to sniff out trouble told Stella something else was going on. ‘Dan. How did you find out about Operation Tempest? And if I think you’re lying to me I’m getting out this car at the next red light.’ She reached for her seatbelt clip – ready to bail – to show she was serious.
‘OK, OK. The thing is...’ He grimaced slightly as he tapped another cigarette out the pack. ‘It’s a little bit dodgy.’
Stella sighed. ‘Why am I not surprised.’
East Village, New York – Tuesday, 9.09am
Novak’s search for a new motel after his Mayfair evacuation had kept him up most of the night, getting only two hours sleep. By the time he got on the 108 bus from Newark, over the New Jersey Turnpike and the Hudson River to Port Authority, he was almost on his knees. His eyelids burned. Everything around him felt far away.
Keeping tabs on anyone who might be following him through the bus station was a nightmare. Anyone standing on their own, looking vaguely in Novak’s direction spiked his heart rate. With the passengers waiting for the 8th Avenue subway cramped together on the platform, Novak tried to not look around too much, but one man kept creeping into his peripheral vision. He was wearing a backpack and an NYU sweatshirt, a mobile phone kept up at his ear (but he didn’t seem to be doing much talking), and had been following him since Port Authority. When Novak emerged from the stairs of the dingy 1st Avenue station, he made a diversion across the street to a hotdog vendor to keep tabs on where the NYU guy was: crossing over to East 14th Street. Novak wondered, If he’s going to NYU why didn’t he get the subway to 8th Street, instead of going too far then walking back? But he made a right towards a tenement, sprinted up the front stoop and went inside. Novak relaxed a little, and put his uneaten hotdog in the bin.
The Village Cinema on the corner of East 12th and 2nd already had a small line outside for the first screening of their day-long “70s Conspiracy Thrillers” festival. Mostly older couples, and young men sipping coffee from takeaway cups. Novak noticed two of them had got the Starbucks barista to put their names on their cups as “Woodward” and “Bernstein”.
Ordinarily this would have made Novak smile, but he had other things on his mind. Namely, the most important dead drop of his life.
He approached the ticket booth. ‘Hey. I’ve got a reservation for All the President’s Men. The name’s Colson.’
The clerk checked the reservation, seeing he’d picked a seat near the back. ‘It’s not a busy screening. You can sit where you like.’
Novak passed him a twenty. ‘I’ll be fine, thanks.’
He’d reserved a seat at the back for a reason.
Once in the theatre, he found his seat – third row from the back, five seats in, tight up against the wall. The Village was perfect for Sharp’s requirements: a cinema that wouldn’t be too busy, but not so quiet that Novak stood out.
Before the lights dimmed Novak did a quick scan of the theatre, looking for the NYU guy, but he wasn’t there.
Sharp told him to watch at least the first half hour of the movie, but that point passed. An usher was sitting on a stair in the aisle nearest Novak, knees pulled up to his chest, immersed in the movie. Novak was right in his eye line. Where Sharp had made the dead drop.
To Novak it felt like the envelope that had been left for him was burning a hole under his seat, but he wasn’t sure he could reach down for it without raising the usher’s attention. He forgot to bring in a drink like Sharp said, so he could pretend to be setting it down on the floor when he swiped the envelope.
Not wanting to look behind, Novak waited for the screen to go dark as the first scene with Deep Throat came on. While the camera panned around a dark underground garage, Novak reached under his seat and felt the corners of the envelope. He didn’t know if the usher had spotted him or not, so he quickly slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. He waited a few minutes, getting swept up in Ben Bradlee’s speech to Woodward and Bernstein about the future of the country depending on their story.
Novak ducked out the row and made his way up the aisle towards the usher. As Novak passed him, the usher whispered. ‘You’re going to miss the best part.’
Novak said with relief, ‘I’ve seen it before.’
Facing the ATM right outside the cinema doors, Novak opened the envelope. Written inside was, “Tompkins Square Park, Temperance Fountain – 11.30am. Catch the ball.”
Novak looked at his watch. All the sitting around in the cinema had made him late. Now he had six blocks to run in five minutes.
Hidden away amongst the typical East Village tenements, with fire escapes zigzagging up the front – the same buildings that had been there for one hundred years – Tompkins Square Park appeared like a deep green oasis in the middle of the Village. A mini Central Park, full of pick-up basketball games, shredded guys doing calisthenics on bars, and mothers with prams taking mid-morning strolls. Autumn was in the process of robbing the trees of their leaves, the low-rising sun arrowing through gaps in the branches. The air was cold and clean and crisp.
Novak stuffed his hands in his pockets, slowing to a walking pace and slowing his breath. When he reached the Temperance Fountain there was no one there except a few backpackers. He did a slow three-sixty looking for anyone carrying a ball.
Then a jock carrying a double-strapped backpack, wearing a tight long-sleeve baselayer and a Patrick Ewing-era Knicks jersey came towards Novak, bouncing a basketball. His arms and shoulders were huge. He was the most jacked guy Novak had seen for a long time.
When the man saw Novak he started jogging towards him, calling out from a good twenty yards away. He had a strong Brooklyn accent. ‘Hey, man! What’s up!’
When he was close enough he then bounce-passed the basketball to Novak, who caught it more out of reflex than anything. Realising this was his CIA guy, Novak stood up, holding the ball out.
Officer Sharp pulled Novak into a half-handshake/half-hug move. When their faces were close Sharp said, ‘Sit down with me. We’re having a chat before playing some ball.’ His accent had changed to a softer Midwestern one. He led Novak over to a bench with a clear view of the park entrance.
Novak sat down, trying not to look nervous.
When Sharp sat down he kept up his cheerful smile but spoke quietly. Taking in Novak’s Oxford shirt and black brogues, he said, ‘I told you to dress sporty.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Novak said. ‘It was all I had in my go bag.’
‘Why are you late? Were you followed?’
‘No, I...I thought for a moment there was maybe someone–
’
‘Describe him to me.’
As Novak started scanning around the park for the NYU guy, Sharp handed the ball to Novak to redirect his attention.
‘Don’t look for him,’ Sharp said. ‘Describe him.’
‘White. Short black hair. About six feet, grey NYU sweater, backpack.’
‘OK.’ He took the ball back off Novak. ‘I’m Walter Sharp, CIA.’
‘Tom Novak.’
Sharp’s first impression of Novak was encouraging: he demonstrated logical thinking, and followed instructions clearly. ‘You must have done some dead drops before on the NSA story, right?’ Sharp asked.
‘I did a lot of encrypted messaging,’ he said.
‘Well. You did fine.’ He pronounced it ‘fan’. Apparently the folksy Midwest accent on the phone wasn’t a put-on. ‘You weren’t at your apartment last night.’
‘You told me not to stay there.’
‘And you didn’t. That’s good. That means you’re listening. Which means you have a good chance of making it through this thing.’
Novak felt suffocated by Sharp’s manner, which changed from friend to interrogator in the blink of an eye.
Sharp said, ‘You can smoke if you want.’
Novak didn’t bother asking how he knew. He just smiled and lit up.
‘Where did you stay last night?’ Sharp asked, not making eye contact.
‘A motel in Newark.’ Novak snorted half a laugh, all he was capable of. ‘Then another motel in Newark.’ As soon as he said it he knew exactly what was coming his way.
‘Why two motels?’
‘It was just a precaution,’ Novak said unconvincingly, a nervous hand drifting up to his forehead.
‘Stop touching your face,’ Sharp said.
Novak put his hand down.
It wasn’t for appearances. Sharp wanted Novak to follow instructions. A trick used on Sharp during Marines basic training was that recruits would be told to tie their laces, even if they were already tied. The recruit would untie then retie them. The ones who made it never asked why. They just did. Constant commands to do push ups weren’t just to punish them or make them stronger (though they did). If Sharp could instil compliance in Novak now – no matter how mundane the instruction – the better his chances were when he left him.
Official Secrets Page 19
