Sharp said, ‘Something must have made you think the first motel was no longer safe. But you’re evading me which means it was something you did. What did you do?’
Novak looked sheepish. ‘I got a break in a story and so I called my colleague. Stella.’
Sharp looked down into his hands, speaking like a disappointed father. ‘When I said no phone calls, was I unclear in some way? You of all people should know that.’
‘It was a brand new phone,’ Novak said. ‘The first call made on it. It couldn’t have been longer than thirty seconds.’ He thought harder. ‘A minute, max. How could anyone know it was me?’
‘Don’t you get it?’ Sharp replied, restraining his frustration. ‘They don’t find you by tracking you. They find you by tracking your primary connections: your editor, your colleague, your family, your–’
Novak felt it necessary to correct him. ‘I don’t have any family.’
‘Known contacts, then. They see a call come into her phone, they don’t know it’s you. But now they’re going to track every call that phone makes until they’re sure.’
Novak nodded. ‘I know. I screwed up.’
‘You got lucky. Don’t rely on luck ever again. Get rid of the phone.’
A little frazzled, Novak said, ‘OK, I will!’
Sharp had a quick look around, then said, ‘Reach into my bag and take out the black folder with a map wrapped around it. Keep the map behind it and open the folder.’
Novak did as he was told.
Sharp sat back as if soaking up the sunshine, looking out over the park rather than at Novak. Sharp only ever made eye contact when he needed to know what someone was thinking. And he already knew what Novak was going to be thinking when he was done. ‘What I’m about to tell you – and what you’re looking at – is off the record. For background only. That black folder you’re holding is a CIA prisoner transfer request from Bagram to Szymany Airport, Poland.’
‘Officer Sharp,’ Novak said, ‘before we go any further I need you to acknowledge you’re aware that this is classified material and you’re showing it to a journalist.’
‘Deniability isn’t that high on my priorities, Mr Novak,’ Sharp said dryly. ‘In about two minutes I’m going to be way past that.’
Novak said, ‘It’s so neither of us perjure ourselves if we’re ever asked about this meeting in a court of law.’
Sharp replied, ‘I’ve got twenty years with the company, Mr Novak. This is the first time I’ve leaked anything in my life. I’m not exactly jumping for joy doing this, but there are lives at stake.’
Novak read the name of the prisoner. ‘Abdul al-Malik. He’s the guy in the video from Artur?’
‘I can confirm that. He was detained in Nimruz province near the Afghan-Pakistan border on suspicion of terrorism. He was brought to my CIA facility–’ he raised a hand, ‘don’t bother asking where – and during my interrogation, he told me he was an MI6 agent. When I called MI6 with his code word they confirmed his identity. Malik went on to tell me he had uncovered a credible threat against a U.S. target, and because of this information his life was in danger.’
‘Who from?’
‘He knew we were recording the interrogation. So he drew five letters on the table.’ Sharp took out a piece of paper and wrote the letters on it, then showed it to Novak.
POTUS
Sharp asked, ‘Got it?’
After Novak nodded, Sharp took a lighter to the paper, then dropped it deftly to the ground. When it was charred completely he stamped it out.
Novak was as sceptical as Sharp had been. ‘Why would the President want to kill an MI6 agent?’
‘Malik said he had acquired information on a credible threat against a U.S. target. Fifteen minutes later a JSC unit arrived with a demand from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff – answering directly to the President of the United States – that I hand Malik over to them. Believe me when I tell you: this goes all the way to the top.’ He took the folder back and put it in his bag.
‘Where’s Malik now?’ Novak asked.
‘While I was out the room the JSC guys tried to move him from his cell, during which Malik somehow managed to steal a gun from a Navy SEAL who hadn’t been starved and sleep-deprived like he had, and shoot himself in the head. The official verdict will be accidental homicide. It was an assassination, Mr Novak.’
Sharp could see Novak’s mind working overtime.
‘Malik said this thing,’ Sharp continued. ‘He didn’t think he had much time, and he said, “Hell is empty, all the devils are here.”’
Novak’s eyes lit up. ‘Say that again.’
Hell is empty, all the devils are here. I looked into it. It’s from The Tempest. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘My laptop,’ Novak said. ‘That same quote appeared on the screen back in New York. It was like they knew I was watching it.’
Sharp said, ‘I think whoever infected your laptop is more friendly than I imagined. It’s possible they were trying to keep someone out, rather than hack themselves in.’
Kurt was right, Novak thought.
‘Definitely not JSC,’ said Sharp. ‘They don’t play games like that.’
‘Officer Sharp, I’ve worked in security for seven years now, and I’ve never even heard of JSC.’
‘Neither had I. They’ve been running black ops all over the Middle East, North Africa, Europe, South America. They go anywhere they please, and every year they’re handed a blank cheque from the President that says “I don’t want to know” on it. They’re completely off the books, answerable only to their CO and the President.’
Novak asked, ‘Why would they want Malik dead?’
‘That’s not how it works,’ Sharp said. ‘A team’s given orders, they don’t question it. All they’re ever told is: that’s the bad guy, now go get him. I think JSC were helping MI6 clean up something to do with an operation Malik was involved in. Something I can’t get near. It’s all classified STRAP Tree by the British.’
‘STRAP Three?’ Novak asked.
Sharp explained, ‘STRAP One is the kind of intel British political aides are always leaving on memory sticks on the subway. STRAP Two is the kind they interrupt a Prime Minister’s meeting for. If it’s STRAP Three they wake up the Prime Minister in the middle of the night. MI6 are now denying Malik was theirs; that he had gone rogue and resisted calls to come in.’
Novak could see their play. ‘Take him out, then disavow him. And now they’re coming after me.’
‘The British will clean house after this. All the other records on the U.S. end have already been destroyed. No Critical Incident Report has been filed. And JSC stole all the tapes of Malik’s interrogation.’
Novak could see the bigger picture now. ‘Artur’s video is the last piece of evidence Malik existed.’
‘I have friends at NSA that tell me every resource they have is going into recovering that video. They have no idea what’s at stake, of course. If they destroy all evidence of Malik, no one can prove there was ever any conspiracy. Everything and everyone related to Malik is being taken out. Malik, Secretary Snow, and Prime Minister Ali are all dead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there.’ He reached into his pocket for his phone. ‘After I called MI6 I left my phone with Malik. As I hoped, he used it while I was out the room.’ Sharp showed Novak the call log on his phone. ‘He called this number. A woman in London called Abigail Bishop.’
Novak was dumbfounded.
Sharp didn’t have to ask if he had heard of her. ‘How do you know her?’
‘A contact mentioned her in an email. Then my colleague Stella saw the wire report on her.’
Sharp said, ‘Malik told me it was his handler that was also in danger. He tried to warn her, but his call must have come too late. I assume your source was acquainted with Miss Bishop in some way.’
Novak didn’t answer.
‘Sorry,’ Sharp said, realising Novak was too much of a professional to out his source.
; ‘I need to tell you something,’ Novak said cagily. ‘My source thinks there’s been collusion with senior British officials in the Downing Street attack.’
Sharp didn’t seem fazed by this. He nodded to one side. ‘It’s possible.’
Novak couldn’t believe how casually Sharp was taking it.
Sharp said, ‘You have to start asking yourself, why would someone with information on a credible threat against a U.S. target be killed by U.S. forces? Aided and abetted by MI6. Meanwhile, the British Prime Minister was about to read a confession to something on live network TV.’
‘Unless someone wanted that credible threat to be realised.’
Sharp nodded as if to say Now you’re getting it.
Novak said, ‘My colleague, Stella, is following up the story in London. Do you think they’ll go after her as well?’
‘That depends on what she finds,’ Sharp said. ‘I’m just trying to keep you alive, Mr Novak. Honestly? I didn’t expect you to make this meeting.’
In a way this was the scariest thing Novak had heard Sharp say so far.
Sharp went on, ‘They killed Miss Bishop at a GCHQ safe house, they took out Malik in a secure CIA facility, and got the British to cover for them. Now, you might think because you’ve printed a few strongly worded articles in a magazine that you know all about taking on the military industrial complex. But believe me, whatever it is they want to stop you from finding out, they will do whatever it takes to stop you.’
‘What do I do? Hide out in motels the rest of my life? Start covering sports?’
‘If they just wanted to kill you it would be done by now.’
‘What would you do?’ Novak asked.
‘If I were you?’ Sharp smiled wryly. ‘We got a saying doing surveillance: Keep your head down, and don’t keep your head down. You got to know who’s around you, who’s been ten paces behind you the last three blocks; who’s walking towards you, and whether someone’s passed you more than once. And you’ve got to do it without them knowing you’ve seen them. Don’t remember jackets. They’re easily changed and often reversible, especially at this time of year. Look at their shoes. It takes too long to change shoes.’
Novak took out a reporter’s flip-notebook, about to write in shorthand.
Sharp stopped him. ‘The hell are you doing, man?’
‘Making notes.’
Sharp shook his head. ‘Notes aren’t going to help you out in the field. Nothing can prepare you for what’s coming.’
‘Try me,’ said Novak.
‘We’re talking dolphin surveillance. Now you see them, now you don’t. They go out in force, they’re big, they’re visible, they want you to know they’re onto you. To make you feel like you’ve got the upper hand. Then you turn a street corner and they’re gone. I’ve been on the wrong side of a dolphin team before, and it messes with you. Paranoia increases, your body language makes you more visible. You start seeing the enemy everywhere. So you gotta stay calm. Then you’ve got your waterfall team. It’s resource-heavy and expensive, but that isn’t an issues for these guys. As soon as a surveillant passes the rabbit – that’s you – they double back, crossing streets. New York blocks are ideal for waterfall. Then they rejoin the stream of traffic coming your way, in a change of clothes. One time in a jacket, the next in a t-shirt. Like I said, you gotta look at their shoes.’
Novak nodded, a little overwhelmed.
‘Your best bet?’ Sharp said. ‘Meet the source who emailed you about Abbie Bishop.’
‘It’s already in motion.’
‘Good. I’m guessing it’s the only active connection you have to the other side of this. There’s a lot of very powerful people who are going to try and stop you getting this out. Are you prepared to risk your life over that?’
Novak was resolute. ‘I’m ready.’
‘You’ve done it before.’
Novak’s head dropped. ‘Yeah.’
Sharp paused. ‘That’s the second time you’ve responded coolly to my mentioning the NSA papers story. What’s up with that?’
‘I don’t want to talk about that now.’
Sharp nodded. ‘How much cash do you have on you?’
Novak said, ‘I don’t think my contact is after money.’
‘No, for you,’ Sharp replied. ‘Nothing’s going to be more toxic for you then leaving a trail at ATMs or, worse yet, card payments over the next few days. What’s your max?’
‘Eight hundred.’
‘Take all of it. Keep it in separate rolls of fifties in different pockets so you don’t draw attention to yourself. Shopkeepers remember guys who pull out five hundred bucks for a pack of cigarettes.’
Novak’s head was spinning. ‘You know, I haven’t been the kindest reporter to the CIA the last few years.’
Sharp had heard him say it before, and he couldn’t stand it any longer. ‘Not for nothing, Mr Novak. But we never use the “the” with CIA.’
‘Fine. Why are you helping me?’
‘They killed a foreign intelligence agent on my watch. A friendly. A man I said I would help. That might only mean a hill of beans to you, but in my line of work friendly intelligence agents look out for one another. Now they’re hanging me out to dry.’ Sharp stood up and got both straps of his backpack on. ‘You’re not the only one who cares about the truth, Mr Novak. Of all the things worth fighting for in this world, the truth’s a pretty good one.’
Novak looked down at his forgotten cigarette, the ash long and unbroken all the way down to the filter.
Sharp started bouncing the basketball. ‘If you need to contact me again I’ve added you to my OTR contacts. I’ll be leaving the city tonight.’ Then he wandered back towards the park entrance, slipping into a crowd of guys who had just wrapped up a game at the courts. Seamless. A ghost in the Village.
The city was as loud and alive as any other weekday at noon, but Novak couldn’t hear any of it. He found himself walking nearly twenty blocks towards Lower Manhattan, putting together the pieces of what Officer Sharp had told him.
The President of the United States. Implicated in something like this.
Novak got carried away thinking of the size of it, when he should have been paying much attention to what was going on around him. Remembering his situation as he found himself on the narrow one-way streets in Little Italy, he glanced around as subtly as he could for any suspicious characters. To his current thinking the only qualifier for suspicious was that you were upright and walking. Then there were all those yellow cabs. And people on phones. And he had never noticed how many beat-up old vans with blacked-out rear windows there were driving around.
Seeing a ‘Free Wi-Fi’ sign on a small Italian diner on the corner of Mulberry Street called Casper’s, he swooped in, taking a booth in the back corner. Novak’s mental checklist told him everything about the place was ideal: it was a place he had never been in before; as he was using public Wi-Fi he would be on a network with no associations with his name or IP address in any way; and judging by the two other customers on tablets and smartphones, he wouldn’t stand out using a laptop.
The waitress offered Novak a pot of coffee, but he didn’t think stimulants were what he needed right now. It was only at the mention of a menu that he became aware of how empty his stomach was. He needed real food. He ordered the Italian Special hoagie at the counter.
‘Cash or card, hon?’ the waitress asked.
‘Cash,’ he replied, laying down a ten-dollar bill.
While the waitress rang it up and got his change, Novak looked up at the TV screen where Fox News was cutting to breaking news of terror cell arrests in England.
The grill chef shouted to the kitchen, ‘Hey, Frank, they got those pricks in England.’ He then turned to Novak. ‘Sorry about the language, my friend. But these guys...’ He motioned at the TV in disgust.
‘No problem,’ Novak replied, noticing a picture above the grill station of a girl in her early twenties standing on the steps of the London School of Economics
. His daughter studying in London? Novak wondered.
The grill chef was joined by another chef – all glaring eyes, towel tossed over one shoulder – neither exchanging any words.
The Fox correspondent stood outside the charred remains of Downing Street. ‘...the British Home Secretary Ed Bannatyne, is refusing to comment on the specific intelligence that led them to this terror cell. But my sources in government are calling this a major win for GCHQ, the U.K. version of our NSA.’
The news ticker said: ‘Death toll estimated around 75 people...Deadliest terror attack in British history...’
After taking in the summary without a word, the other chef patted the grill chef on the back. ‘Hope they rot in hell,’ he said, before returning to the kitchen through the swing doors.
‘His little girl,’ the grill chef explained to Novak. ‘My niece. She was standin’ outside the gates at Downing Street when it happened. She’s lucky to be alive.’
‘I’m glad she’s OK,’ Novak said, unable to think of anything else to say.
The grill chef passed Novak his hoagie on a plate. He squinted slightly, then pointed his tongs accusingly at Novak. ‘Hey. Ain’t you that guy?’
Novak replied, ‘No.’
‘You know, the guy. Who did that NSA story.’
Ordinarily, Novak would have loved being recognised. He would have come back behind the counter, had his picture taken with the grill chef and the rest of the kitchen crew, then put it on Instagram to show he was still a regular guy, who did regular things like eat hoagies in Little Italy. Somewhere inside him, that desire was no longer there.
‘Not me, man,’ Novak answered, picking up his plate.
The scrolling newsbar on the screen changed to breaking news.
The reporter on the Capitol steps said, ‘Thanks, Katie. I have been speaking with a number of sources this morning, and they’re all telling me retired four-star General Bill Rand is expected to be announced later today as the President’s nominee for Secretary of Defense. As with all cabinet appointees, General Rand will require Senate approval by a simple majority, and so far – at least from the Senators I’ve spoken to – this nomination is expected to sail through. As General Rand has been retired for more than seven years, he doesn’t require a congressional waiver in order to serve. However, there are a number of Senate Democrats concerned about the President adding a third military appointee to his cabinet...’
Official Secrets Page 20
