Novak set up in a corner of the room, so his laptop screen faced a blank wall behind his banquette. Last thing he needed was a constant parade of staff looking over his shoulder, or – worse – members of the public using restrooms. It also allowed him to scope out anyone entering the café.
He plugged in his Tails operating system from his memory stick, then logged into OTR. When he left Caspar’s later, he would be leaving no trace of himself behind.
One username was waiting on his OTR safe list: RGWood. He clicked on it, and almost immediately a message appeared:
RGWood: What the hell happened to you?
Tom.Novak: I’m sorry. I had to leave my motel. And there was no wifi at the second place.
RGWood: What second place?
Tom.Novak: Long story. Something related to Abbie in fact.
A brief pause.
RGWood: You’re in hiding, or being followed. Which is it?
Novak stopped for a few moments, trying to work out how she knew.
Tom.Novak: How did you
Before he could finish typing another message from Rebecca appeared. He had never seen anyone type so fast.
RGWood: You were staying at a motel, and judging by the time you bailed on our OTR chat last night, I’d say you were somewhere in the Eastern Time Zone. Can’t be Washington or you’d have been in a hotel.
Novak started to smile.
RGWood: Which really only leaves New York, and if you’re staying in a motel in New York then you must be hiding from someone, because you posted a picture on Twitter six weeks ago of the view from your living room window, which clearly shows the Williamsburg Savings Bank tower, which means somewhere near Brooklyn. And you haven’t moved since that picture was taken because your Twitter post locations are exactly the same. Which means you have no need to be staying in a motel in New York state unless you’re being followed, or you’re hiding.
Novak, who’d been about to take a bite of his hoagie at the start of Rebecca’s post still had it held there at his mouth. He put it back down, unbitten.
Tom.Novak: OK. That was pretty cool. The answer is a little of both. Mostly hiding.
RGWood: I need to impress upon you I’m not the only person whose security I have to worry about. So you need to tell me why you left your first motel.
Tom.Novak: I’m investigating a link between Abbie and a member of the British intelligence services who died in suspicious circumstances the same night as her. When you told me about your new information last night I wanted to run it past my colleague Stella. So I called her cell. As soon as I realised I could be tracked by doing that I got out of there.
RGWood: Lesson learned, I hope. If I had your number right now I could ping it to within sixteen feet of your current location. That’s more than close enough to bundle you into a van without much fuss. You can’t take risks with that. If your other story is linked to Abbie in any way, then I’d say you have some very serious people after you.
Tom.Novak: Is there anything else I could do to secure myself?
RGWood: Pick good passwords is number one. The most popular password for the past five years is “123456”. Second place? “Password”. People are morons.
Tom.Novak: I’m good. I’m also using Tails from a memory stick to hide my connection.
RGWood: That’s smart, but in certain circumstances it can actually make it easier for people in my line of work to find you. People hiding their connections on public wifi services is a sign of someone with something to hide. OK, they can’t see anything you’re up to on that connection but it gives them a starting point. That’s often all we need. If you go into a store and tell the security guard you’re going to steal something but he won’t see you do it, he at least knows you’re a thief. And he’ll look for you in future.
Tom.Novak: What about OTR? I’ve always just taken experts at their word that it’s safe. Can’t NSA hack anything?
RGWood: Only in stupid action movies. The NSA doesn’t have super computers that break code faster than mathematics allows. That’s the beauty of it. The security agencies are limited to the same mathematical rules as everyone else.
Tom.Novak: An annual budget of $10 billion doesn’t stack the odds in their favour?
RGWood: The numbers are always in favour of those encrypting over those decrypting. Say you use 64-bit encryption key, imagine a corridor with 64 doors. Behind each door is either a 1 or 0. To decrypt, you have to figure out the exact combination of 0s and 1s behind all 64 doors to break the key. A good programmer would take about a full day to break that key. Say you added a 65th door. With key encryption, you’re not just adding a single extra door to check on its own. You have to check the 65th AND the 64 others all over again. Now imagine going from 64-bit to 128. It’s an exponential nightmare. So yeah, we’re safe here.
Tom.Novak: They’re saying GCHQ is responsible for catching the terror cell. Anything to do with you?
RGWood: We don’t take victory laps here.
Novak couldn’t work out if he’d offended her or not.
RGWood: Let’s get to business. The night Abbie died she emailed me 100s of files. I think they might be useful to you.
Tom.Novak: What have you got?
RGWood: Sending now.
Novak’s laptop pinged a notification:
“IronCloud has received a new file ready for download for [email protected]. Enter your key to decrypt file.”
RGWood: Tell me when it’s open.
Once the file opened, Novak realised he was looking at top secret British intelligence: a dossier on the man Artur had videoed.
Tom.Novak: It’s open.
RGWood: I have evidence Abbie was working – covertly – as that agent’s handler for MI6. Whatever he and Abbie found out during Operation Tempest, I think Simon Ali found out too. And he was killed before he could tell anyone about it.
Tom.Novak: You might be right.
RGWood: That file’s just a tiny taste of what you can expect. Stella gets the rest on a memory stick when we meet in person.
Tom.Novak: When and where?
There was a pause.
RGWood: Tomorrow. 12pm. Hatchards, London. I’ll be browsing the crossword books.
Tom.Novak: I’ll set it up. But I need your help with something.
RGWood: ?
Tom.Novak: There’s a video file NSA is trying to track from a contact of mine. It would really help him if you could find out how close they are to finding him. If they haven’t got him already.
RGWood: What’s his name?
Tom.Novak: Artur Korecki. He’s Polish.
RGWood: Tell Stella I’ll see her tomorrow.
Before Novak could reply, RGWood disappeared from his messenger window.
9.
Lambeth, London – Tuesday, 10.30am
LECKIE’S STREET-LEVEL flat on Lambeth Road was sandwiched between an alleyway leading to a cement back garden filled with old car tyres, and a flat whose door opened straight out onto the pavement. There was something rundown and desperate about the street, the sort of place you end up only if you’ve messed up your life in some way.
Empty beer cans rattled against the inside of the front door as Leckie let Stella in. With a sense of embarrassment, he warned her to ‘mind your feet’ on the living room floor. She couldn’t believe the squalor he was living in. She also couldn’t help but feel a little responsible for him ending up there. Even if all she’d ever done was pursue a reporter’s only real obligation: to tell the truth.
Leckie went straight for a battered old laptop in the corner of the room, which was – Stella noticed – hooked up to a landline telephone under a table.
‘Sorry about the mess,’ Leckie said.
‘It’s OK,’ Stella replied, hugging herself against the draft coming from both the door and the windows. Outside, traffic passed by so close it sounded like it was actually in the room. There were piles of paper everywhere, notes written on betting slips, bus tickets, folders, document walle
ts, printouts...
There were a number of old photos of the same girl around the room, and some couple-selfies of her and Leckie.
‘Your girlfriend?’ Stella ventured, picking up a photo. The frames were the only things that had been dusted in the room.
Leckie set up the laptop speakers. ‘Ex. Natasha. She took off when I got sent down. I haven’t heard from her since.’
‘Where was this taken?’ She showed him one of the photos.
A plaintive smile came across his face. ‘That’s a place near Loch Lomond. You know it?’
‘Never been.’
‘It’s called Conic Hill. Natasha used to go there when she was small. One Friday night we just threw our stuff in the car and drove north all night. We listened to the Beach Boys, we talked about...I don’t know. Everything. When we got to the top of that hill...That was when I knew, you know.’ He shrugged. ‘Didn’t work out in the end.’
‘You didn’t just lose your job.’
‘True. Still...no hard feelings about you testifying and that.’
‘Dan. If there had been any other way...At least you got in with The Post.’
‘Not really. This is a one-story contract. It’s a cattle market in there.’
‘You’re freelance?’
Dan wiped the laptop screen down with his cuff. ‘I almost single-handedly took down the biggest-selling tabloid in the country. No editor’s going to put me on their books after a phone hacking charge.’
Stella gestured to his Journalist of the Year 2012 award on the wall. ‘You’ll always have that.’
‘That’s a laugh,’ Leckie said. ‘When I got sent down they rescinded the award. Said it was gained through illegal means. I kept it anyway. Some dick on Wikipedia edited it out my entry, though. Like I was Lance Armstrong or something.’
‘Is that why you’re hacking again?’ she asked. When Leckie failed to respond, she added, ‘Come on, Dan. Why else would The Post give you a gig for only one story?’
Dan placed the laptop aside. ‘I’m starting all over again, like some poxy staff writer. Have you any idea what that feels like? After those years at the top, the office parties, having celebrities, footballers, MPs calling me, begging me to take a story. To living like this? I used to have a beautiful three-bedroom gaff in Clerkenwell. Pool room, everything. I just need one break, Stel. But it needs to be big, and it needs to be soon.’
‘Who have you hacked, Dan?’
‘See, I know this guy, right–’
Stella had heard that sentence from Leckie many times before. ‘No,’ she said, ‘we’re not down the pub. Tell it to me straight.’
‘He was on background. It’s not fair to–’
She picked up her bag. ‘That’s fine. You can continue chasing your tail.’
‘OK, OK! Sit down.’
She put her bag down.
Dan paused to light a cigarette. ‘Charlie Fletcher.’
‘Why am I not surprised,’ Stella said.
‘He says have I heard about this Cabinet minister who’s been banging this civil servant chick.’
‘A cabinet minister having an affair?’
‘You’ve not heard anything yet. So Charlie gets me his mobile and I dial into his voicemail. Just to see what the score is.’
‘Dan, you just got out of prison. Now you’re hacking a minister’s phone? You’re still on parole.’
Leckie clicked through to the relevant files on the laptop and turned the speakers towards Stella. ‘What you’re about to hear is that little break I need. And after this, I swear, I can go straight. I won’t have to do this anymore.’
Stella perched on the end of the sofa arm. ‘Go on then.’
Dan pressed play.
“Message - First...August...two twenty...AM.
FEMALE: Hi, it’s me. [long pause followed by a sigh] Just lying in bed, thinking about you. Again. When can I see you? I hope it’s soon. I saw you on the TV tonight. You looked so handsome.”
“Message - Third...August...five oh five...PM.
FEMALE: I got the files you wanted. They’re way worse than you thought. Call me when you can.”
Stella was growing impatient. ‘Dan, can we get to the point–’
He shushed her as the next message played. ‘I want you to know, that what you’re about to hear, I promise you, is genuine. OK?’
Stella gave a shrug of low expectations.
“Message - Seven...December...ten...thirty-one...PM.”
FEMALE [out of breath, panicked]: You’ve got to help me! Tempest is blown...They know everything... [she starts to cry] You’ve got to help me get out of here–”
The message ended.
Stella stared at Dan in disbelief. She asked, ‘Is that what I think it is?’
‘It’s the last phone call Abbie Bishop made before she was killed.’
‘Who’s Nigel?’
Dan shook his head at Stella’s refusal to admit what she was hearing. ‘Listen.’ He played another track, a much earlier one.
“Message - Twelve...August...nine eighteen...PM
MALE: Hi, this is Nigel. I can’t take your call right now, so please leave your message and number after the beep.”
Stella knew the voice anywhere. ‘Bloody hell. The minister is Nigel Hawkes.’
She pushed herself off the sofa arm and paced the room, rushing her hands through her hair. The implications of it all were too huge to take in.
Dan said, ‘They’d been at it about six months. They talk on another track about how they met at some American embassy thing.’ He smiled, overwhelmed. ‘Do you get why I can’t handle this on my own?’ He looked like a man with no legs who had been told to run.
Stella’s phone buzzed with a text: ‘Westminster Public Mortuary. Side entrance. 1pm. - Sid.’ The extra fifty she’d put in his envelope was now looking like value for money.
Putting her phone away, Stella asked, ‘What else do you have?’
‘The rest will give you everything,’ Dan replied. ‘Everything. Hawkes is up to his neck in it.’
Stella nodded. ‘Get me the other recordings, and I’ll give you the other half of your story. Deal?’
Dan looked around the room, weighing up his options. He decided he had none. He grabbed his car keys off the table. ‘Alright. I’ll even throw in a bonus meeting with someone tomorrow. You’re going to want to talk to them.’
Stella followed him outside. ‘Who?’ she asked.
Dan pulled the house door shut with a clatter of the letterbox. ‘The man who heard Abbie Bishop’s last words.’
Streatham House, London Bridge – Tuesday, 11.12am
Although the British press was still known as Fleet Street, all the major newspapers had long since departed the area for plush new buildings across London. The Post had been the first to move out in the eighties: the Fourth Estate’s glory days when almost every paper circulated at least a million copies a day.
The paper had been bought over by the international media conglomerate News Media Group thanks to sweeping deregulation laws, despite NMG also owning another tabloid and a broadsheet – amounting to ownership of a third of the entire U.K. newspaper market. The group became so powerful no potential Prime Minister could afford not to curry favour with them. Until the phone hacking scandal that brought down The Herald – where Stella and Leckie first cut their teeth with the big boys – and nearly two others.
The Post survived, though its sales took a hit at the time. The public’s memory quickly faded, and after being on the right side of popular opinion with Simon Ali’s General Election win, it was like the whole scandal had never happened. The Post was soon back to knocking out daily sales in the millions like its heyday – sales that bankrolled The Post’s gleaming, glass-fronted HQ, Streatham House, overlooking London Bridge.
The man behind it all was Bill Patterson.
Patterson’s ascendency had been nothing short of meteoric. He left school at sixteen without a single qualification, then started work
as a bicycle messenger. Now at age fifty-two, he was chief editor of the U.K.’s biggest-selling newspaper.
In the lobby Leckie asked Stella if she was sure she wanted to join him, reminding her she still had a lot of enemies in the newsroom.
Stella said, ‘I’m not leaving your side until we have those recordings.’
They shared the lift with ten other reporters – all of them men (the ratio of men to women at The Post was three to one) – returning from what was either a very early liquid lunch, or the end of a very long night. Judging by how often they brushed at their noses it appeared alcohol hadn’t been the only intoxicant consumed.
To get to the newsroom floor they passed a wall covered in the most famous Post front pages (Michael Jackson’s death, Princess Diana, MP sex scandals, Saddam Hussein’s capture), then a glass cabinet with the various prizes the paper had won over the years, Scoops of the Year, Best Column, Sports Writing...The Post had won the lot. In the centre was its most recent addition: Newspaper of the Year. The accolade was a particularly galling reminder to Stella of her failure to fully take the paper down.
The three receptionists were young blonde women, each of them on the phone, explaining why a particular reporter wasn’t available. On each side of the newsroom were tables grouped together for the various sections of the paper – Showbiz, Politics, and Sport dominated in terms of size – each overseen by a senior editor. Then beside them the sub-editors whose laborious task was to shape the reporters’ words into workable columns and write headlines for them (Patterson maintained reporters were rubbish at writing their own headlines. Always too many words, he said).
It was often said that tabloid reporters could get hoisted into broadsheet work, but never the reverse. As Stella followed Leckie down the newsroom, the long-standing enmity between tabloid and broadsheet was clearly alive and well.
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