Novak said, still checking both sides of the street, ‘Excuse me, sir. I have a favour to ask and I don’t have much time. If you were to let me borrow your jacket and hat, and I got you to walk once round the block, I’d give you five hundred dollars. But you need to be out of here in about ten seconds.’
Having never been a drunk or druggie, his reflexes were sharp. He passed Novak his cap, hoisted the jacket straight over his head, then held out his hand.
Novak shoved an uncounted bunch of fifties into Colonel Baker’s hands, then said, ‘If that’s short I’ll pony up when you get back. If it’s too much you can keep it.’
Without a word, the Colonel put the cash in his trousers and set off round the block.
Novak whisked the jacket and cap on – recoiling from the smell – and before he sat down knocked his shoes off and sat on them. He turned the jacket collar up, pulled the cap low and the Colonel’s blanket over his lap to hide his clean trousers. He stared down at the pavement and waited.
All he saw were pairs of shoes. One woman dropped some change into the old coffee cup.
Then a pair of shoes he remembered stomped by.
Brown boots. Unscuffed. Versatile. Go with a lot of different outfits.
Sharp had been right: he didn’t have time to change shoes.
The steps were brisk and determined as they went past Novak. One glance upwards and he could be a goner.
He counted slowly to thirty, then he got to his feet in stages.
First to see his tail wasn’t in sight – either left or right – then he stood up, slowly raising his head. He saw the silver sedan down the road. It must have passed him no more than a few seconds after he got up.
He hid himself in profile behind the shop inlet. Down the road his tail crossed at the lights, then jumped back in the sedan.
Once they were gone, Novak finally relaxed.
Rather than leave the Colonel’s jacket and cap – not to mention his cup of change – unattended, Novak waited a minute for him to return.
The Colonel sat back down on his spot, putting his jacket and cap back on. ‘You’re the weirdest son of a bitch I ever met out here,’ he said. ‘And this is New York.’
‘You’ve no idea what you did for me, just then.’ Novak put his hand out. ‘Thank you, Colonel.’
The Colonel shook Novak’s hand – even after all these years – with an iron grip. A little baffled, he said, ‘You too.’
Once Novak got on the subway to Brooklyn – on an empty car – he checked his cash. He’d given the Colonel six hundred dollars. He was glad at the thought of helping him out, but it was cash he might badly need in the next twenty-four hours.
He reached a quiet residential street lined with trees overhanging the road, and brownstone townhouses. Park Slope, Brooklyn: one of the most sought-after locations in the city.
For Novak it wasn’t about an illustrious address. He needed a safe haven. Someone he could trust.
He knocked on the door, not knowing if there would be anyone home. He hadn’t called ahead.
A man wearing a bathrobe and smoking a cigarette answered. ‘Novak,’ Fitz said, breaking into a smile. ‘You never said goodbye yesterday. I thought you’d be in London by now.’
Novak slipped off his shoulder bag. ‘I’m in trouble, Fitz.’
When Novak had brought Fitz up to speed on his morning of dead drops, secret meetings and diversions, Fitz took a long plaintive look at his empty whisky glass. ‘The problem with alcoholics,’ he explained, ‘is they spend all their time worrying about that first drink. That’s why I say get it out the way early in the day.’
Fitz freshened his own glass at the bar – which was well-stocked.
He had been there an hour and Novak still had a full glass. Lost in thought he put it down on the oak coffee table. ‘There’s one thing I can’t get my head around,’ said Novak.
‘What’s that?’ Fitz asked.
‘Malik knew of a credible threat against a U.S. target. Yet he claimed it was the President that wanted him taken out.’
‘All Presidents have kill lists these days.’
‘But why would he want a threat against the U.S. to get through? His own Secretary of Defense died in that attack.’
‘Maybe that was the President’s plan,’ Fitz said. ‘I heard that Robert Snow was going to London to announce his opposition to the Freedom and Privacy Act.’
‘Are you serious? That would be like the Secretary of Agriculture coming out against farming equipment.’
‘I saw a copy of the latest draft of the bill three days ago. It makes East Germany look like Disneyland. It was going to be my lead story until Downing Street happened. I think the President took him out.’
‘You’re drunk.’
Fitz replied in his inimitable style, ‘True. But tomorrow morning I will be sober, and I will still be right about the Freedom and Privacy Act.’
Novak laughed.
‘So what’s next?’ Fitz drained his glass.
‘I need to figure out a way to get to London that doesn’t raise any flags.’
‘My boy, your life has turned into a Robert Ludlum novel.’
‘Yeah. And when my passport flags up at the airport, it’ll be The Novak Idiocy.’
Fitz waited for Novak’s laughter to fade. ‘I was glad to see you reject Bastion’s offer.’
‘How did you know?’ Novak asked.
‘That twenty-four-year-old twerp at the Times who always wears bowties just tweeted he’s the new Bastion News security correspondent. I wonder if he knows he was second choice.’
‘Better him than me.’
Fitz slapped Novak on the top of the arm. ‘As long as you want to stay, my home is your home.’
*
Later, Fitz was in his downstairs study giving a Skype interview to early-evening Fox News on the Downing Street bombing. Novak could hear him from upstairs in the spare room. He kept the picture on but the sound muted as he signed into Darkroom.
Ever since Novak’s NSA story highlighted that both NSA and GCHQ had the ability to tap into any webcam and switch on any computer microphone, developers had been scrambling to find a more secure video chat facility. Darkroom had become the techies’ favourite, and was doing for video chat what WhatsApp had done for secure texting. End-to-end encrypted, NSA and GCHQ-proof video chat.
From downstairs Novak could hear Fitz:
‘I for one think it’s now very much in the public interest to learn what exactly Simon Ali was about to confess to. This was a very hastily arranged press conference, and until four days ago, his meeting with Robert Snow wasn’t even on the books...’
Novak closed the door over a little as the Darkroom home screen said ‘CALLING Stella Mitchell.’
Stella was on her phone, walking down a quiet London street in the dark when she came on. ‘Novak! Man, am I glad to see you.’ Thinking he was staying in a rather plush hotel, she asked, ‘Where are you?’
‘I’m at Fitz’s. He’s on Fox right now actually. He’s Skype-ing downstairs while I’ve got him on the TV. It’s pretty funny.’
Getting to business, Stella said, ‘You’re not going to believe what I’ve got over here.’
‘I was going to say exactly the same thing,’ Novak replied.
‘You first. How was your CIA guy?’
‘Pretty much what you’d expect a twenty-year vet to be like.’ Novak could make out someone lingering beside Stella. ‘Who’s that with you?’
Stella looked to her left. ‘That’s Dan.’
Leckie pushed himself into frame and said, ‘Alright, Tom.’ He then said to Stella, ‘I’m going to get some chips. You want anything?’
Stella declined.
Once Leckie was gone, Novak asked, ‘Who the hell is he?’
‘He’s an old colleague from The Herald days.’
‘The Herald?’ Novak said. ‘Hang on. That’s the one they convicted?’
‘Yep. It brought down a hundred-year-old newspape
r. And my testimony helped put him behind bars. In fact, I didn’t just testify, I left the paper and joined another paper’s crusade against them.’
‘Now you’re working together?’
‘He’s got valuable information, Novak. We need him.’
Novak raised his eyebrows, unconvinced. ‘So get this: the prisoner from the plane was called Abdul al-Malik, arrested on suspicion of terrorism. Except he was MI6.’
‘Was?’
‘A few hours after Artur’s video was taken, a black ops team showed up, and Malik ended up shot. They say suicide. Sharp says they took him out. Thing is, earlier, Malik had made a phone call to Abbie Bishop.’
‘Are you serious?’
‘She was Malik’s handler. Abbie was working for MI6. Of all the people he could have phoned, he phoned her. Think about it. They’re thousands of miles apart and they both end up dead the same night? The day before Downing Street?’
‘You think Downing Street, Abbie and Malik are all connected?’
‘Stella, I’m ready to take this to Diane already.’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’
‘What have you got?’
‘More confirmation that Abbie Bishop was not entirely who everyone thinks she is.’
‘How so?’
‘Dan has some voicemail recordings.’
Now Novak understood why Leckie was involved. ‘Stella we can’t use hacked voicemails for this–’
‘Hang on...’
‘For anything. Are you mad?’
‘But as a means of getting us on the right track. We don’t have to use them. Without them we’d never have known she was having an affair with Nigel Hawkes.’
Novak froze as the name sank in. ‘Are you serious?’
‘There are messages between them going back six months. Dan says there are other recordings, but his editor won’t give them up.’
‘Why not?’
‘He’s friends with Hawkes. He’s not going to let them get out.’
‘What are you going to do?’ asked Novak.
Stella said, ‘We’re working on it.’
‘What about Abbie’s post-mortem?’
‘The police are still treating her death as accidental.’ Stella put on her editor hat. ‘What’s solid is I’ve got both tox reports on her. The first said she was stone-cold sober, and the second said she could barely stand up. And I ran the doctors’ names on the second report. They’re in-house MI5.’
‘MI5 verified their identities?’
‘I didn’t need to. Even MI5 doctors need U.K. medical licenses. Their names are on public record on the General Medical Council’s website, which lists them as Classified.’
‘Nice catch.’
‘Before Dan gets back, should I float some things that might be a little outside the box?’
‘How far outside the box?’ Novak asked.
Stella said, ‘Foreign Secretary has affair with intelligence analyst, perhaps shares more than he should have, then has her killed.’
For once in his life, Novak felt like he had to be an editor. ‘OK, I think we need to start a little bit closer to the box.’
Like any reporter worth a damn, when Stella was told no, all that meant was that she hadn’t convinced him yet. ‘What little we have so far has to be the start of something much bigger. A car tried to run us off the road earlier.’
Novak sighed in anger. ‘Stella, next time, if someone’s tried to kill you, put that at the top of the conversation... Are you alright?’
‘We’re fine. Whatever we’re onto is clearly sending up flares. Novak, I need to tell you about a lead at the mortuary from earlier. Seems like an old colleague of Abbie’s was fished out the Thames the morning after she died.’
‘What’s going on at GCHQ? They’re dropping like flies over there. Speaking of which. I’m going to send you an OTR. There’s a source inside GCHQ who wants to meet tomorrow.’
‘That’s good news.’
‘Is Dan back yet?’
Stella craned her neck to see the fish and chip shop across the road. ‘Not yet.’
‘It’s just...has he been cooperative? Sharing information?’
‘Yeah, he’s been pretty great so far. Why?’
‘You said you helped put this guy away. Now he’s just out of jail and he’s handing you sources for free?’
Stella hesitated. ‘He really needs this story. You think he’s up to something?’
‘Possibly.’
‘OK, he’s coming back over. Ask me about the mortuary.’
‘What about the mortuary?’
‘The police found a phone along with the body in the river. There was a number in the call history the guy called several times last week. I still can’t get my head around it.’
Novak was distracted by something on the TV, so much so, Stella had to say his name a few times to get his attention. ‘Sorry, Stella,’ Novak said. ‘One second.’
The right half of the screen where Fitz had been had gone black, as if the studio had lost the connection with him. Except Novak couldn’t hear Fitz talking downstairs. The anchor was struggling to get a response. ‘Martin? Are you still there?’ she asked, pressing her earpiece. ‘OK, we seem to have lost Martin there...’
Novak lowered the phone, not hearing Stella asking, ‘Novak, did you hear me?’
He wandered out onto the landing but didn’t want to call out in case Fitz was still on air.
‘Novak?’ Stella repeated.
As he peered over the staircase banister, he whispered, ‘I’ve got to go...’
Stella tried again. ‘I said the calls were made to–’
Novak hung up, just as he saw a man wearing brown boots and dark clothes striding out Fitz’s study towards the living room. He was holding a handgun by his side.
Novak crouched by the banister, looking back at the TV that was still playing. Had the man downstairs heard it?
A cacophonous blast started from the stereo in the living room. Stravinsky’s “Rites of Spring” that Fitz was listening to earlier. Its tense chugging strings put Novak even further on edge. Whatever the man was going to do next he didn’t want the neighbours hearing.
The man strode back into the study, then dragged Fitz – with a clear plastic bag over his head – under the arms into the living room. Fitz kicked his heels at the parquet floor, trying to get a grip, but he was running out of oxygen and losing strength.
Novak dialled 911. He whispered, shielding the mouth piece. ‘There’s an armed man in my friend’s home. It’s 23477 Hawthorn Avenue, Park Slope. Repeat, he’s armed.’
The operator paused. ‘Sir, we got a call already for this address. The ambulance and police are on their way...’
What the hell? Novak thought. Who called that? And why an ambulance?
There wasn’t time to discuss it. He hung up, then grabbed his backpack with his laptop and the files Sharp had given him earlier. He clung to the wall as he edged down the hall, keeping the backpack tight to his chest.
Some loose papers and books and a drawer were tossed towards the living room doorway. There was no exit on Novak’s side of the building: the only way out was through the kitchen or the front door. Both of which the intruder had covered. And anyway, he couldn’t leave Fitz behind.
The man was shouting at Fitz, ‘Give me the asset’s location and I give you oxygen!’
Novak crept down the stairs. He could only see as far as the hallway by the front door. Peeking into the living room he saw the intruder – the NYU sweater guy who had been following him earlier, now plus a baseball cap, and a scarf wrapped across his face – tearing Fitz’s drawers and cabinets apart. He went back to Fitz to let air in, then tied the bag back up. Fitz was prostrate in the armchair, legs stretched up, hand clasping fruitlessly at the bag to get air in.
Novak felt torn on what to do: if he tried to be a hero, he could end up getting Fitz killed, but he also couldn’t just stand by and watch his friend be tortured for somethin
g Fitz knew nothing about.
The intruder called out, ‘Tom Novak! I know you’re up there. Tell me where the asset is and your friend lives.’
Novak was almost relieved that he could bring about an end to Fitz’s suffering.
‘Please,’ Novak answered, holding the bag out first from around the doorway. He had to shout to be heard above the music. ‘I’m unarmed.’ He kept his eyes down as he entered the living room. ‘I haven’t seen you. Just take the files and leave my friend. Please. He’s not involved in any of this.’
The intruder stepped towards him, pointing his Glock semi-auto at Novak’s face. ‘I want the asset. Where’s the asset?’ He was American.
‘I don’t know about any asset. There’s no one else here, I swear.’ Novak threw the backpack over to the intruder and put his hands up.
He dragged the backpack closer with his foot, but wasn’t satisfied with just that. ‘Tell me where the asset is and this is all over.’ He turned the gun on Fitz. ‘Or he dies.’
Fitz was no longer kicking his feet, he drifted into unconsciousness.
At a loss at what else to do, Novak put his hands up higher. ‘Please! I don’t–’
As the intruder prepared to fire, the lights went out and the stereo shut off. The entire house was thrown into darkness and silence. A flurry of heavy running steps came from the kitchen, then a scuffle broke out next to Fitz. The intruder groaned as he was knocked back against the bookcases, sending books falling all over him.
The man had the intruder held from behind, arms locked around his neck, cutting off his airway. The intruder dropped his gun to pick up a hardback book, then sent it whirling into the man’s face. Now the two men faced each other. With the gun out of sight in the darkness the intruder grabbed a wrought iron fire poker, and swung it viciously at the man. Novak tried to get to Fitz.
The man warned Novak, ‘Stay back.’
Novak knew the voice. It was Walter Sharp.
Instead of backing off, Sharp grabbed a cushion then marched towards the intruder. Sharp knew the safest place to be was inside the weapon’s swing, where the intruder had no leverage.
Official Secrets Page 23
