Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  ‘Man, that’s prime candidate material right there,’ Sharp said.

  ‘He sure was. Malik was out into the field as a case officer at twenty-four. He had station chief written all over him. Maybe even a council associate or diplomat. Top brass were grooming him for political positions. Instead he turned down two promotions to stay in the field, because he knew his knowledge of the Levantine dialect of Arabic would be crucial to the success of MI6 black ops in Western Syria. He went to places no one else in their right mind would want to go. He did it out of a sense of duty.’

  Sharp had stopped stirring the eggs. ‘What was his name?’ he asked, looking away.

  Novak said, ‘Abassi. George Abassi.’

  The only sound in the kitchen was of food sticking to the pan.

  ‘You think the President has the right to order the murder of someone like that?’ Novak asked.

  Sharp went back to the eggs. ‘It’s not for me to say.’

  Novak couldn’t work out if Sharp was uncommitted or being evasive.

  Novak said, ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I swore an oath to defend the United States constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic. And to obey the orders of the President and the orders of officers appointed over me.’

  ‘What happens if a person you believe to be a domestic enemy is also the President?’ Novak asked.

  Sharp plated up the eggs for the pair of them and slid Novak his plate across the marble counter. ‘It’s not for me to say. That’s why the constitution protects a free press.’

  ‘If you went on the record with me,’ Novak could already see what Sharp thought of the prospect, ‘as an unattributable source. To keep me on the right track...’

  Sharp said, ‘I’ve given you deep background already. You’re on the right track.’

  ‘I can’t go to press with deep background, and you know it. You’re the only person who can confirm Malik existed. MI6 have total deniability.’ Novak was only mad because he knew he’d rushed into it. Now he might never get Sharp onside. He picked at his eggs with his fork.

  ‘You can’t always get what you want, Mr Novak,’ Sharp said. ‘The Rolling Stones wrote a whole song about it.’

  ‘Either way I can’t stay here,’ Novak said. ‘I need to find Artur.’

  ‘Isn’t the video enough for your story?’

  ‘It’s not about the story. It’s about a kid from Poland who’s risked his life to tell the truth against the most powerful country in the world. It’s more than I ever did.’

  ‘Semper fi,’ Sharp muttered.

  ‘What’s that?’

  Without realising it, Novak had spoken to that part of Sharp, he – and everyone else who ever served as a U.S. marine – valued most.

  ‘Semper fidelis,’ Sharp said, ‘always loyal, always faithful. It’s the Marine motto. We shorten it to semper fi. That’s why you want to find Artur?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘How are you going to find him?’ Sharp asked in such a way that Novak could tell he was already on-board.

  Novak said, ‘I got an OTR message this morning from a buddy of his. He’s going to be at the Berlin Pariser Platz every day at midday until I get there.’

  ‘Pariser Platz. Shit.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s a bad place to meet undercover.’

  ‘Isn’t it a busy square full of tourists?’

  ‘It’s also surrounded by overlooking buildings with a ton of windows that can see all points of the square. A busy taxi rank from what I remember. Plus the square full of tourists isn’t a good thing. It’s very easy to blend in to that if you’re tracking someone. For our purposes, Pariser Platz is about the worst you could do if you’re being followed.’

  ‘Our purposes?’

  ‘I didn’t bring you out here for some country air, Tom. We’re in this together now.’

  Novak said, ‘I can’t get a message back to him. If I want to save Artur, Pariser Platz is all we’ve got.’

  ‘Then we’d best figure out how to do this thing without being followed.’

  ‘How do we do that?’ asked Novak.

  Sharp went to his pantry cupboard and took out a cheap phone with its battery detached. After sliding the battery back in, he said, ‘I call in a favour from an old friend.’

  Piccadilly, London – Wednesday, 12.03pm

  Piccadilly at midday two weeks out from Christmas was as busy as Rebecca expected. An entire workforce all seemingly given the same hour to run out and buy a sandwich and a coffee, then with the added hassle of a never-ending stream of Christmas shoppers and tourists, lost in their maps and cameras and phone screens, or staring slack-jawed at the famous video billboards standing three-wide in the middle of pavements.

  Rebecca’s meeting place was Hatchards: Britain’s oldest bookshop. Founded in 1797, it was a testament to the endurance of books that it still flourished while countless other book chains had fallen by the wayside over the years. If anything, the internet and e-books had driven more people than ever through its doors.

  Rebecca had chosen it for her fond memories of browsing the cavernous corridors with her dad. She had been too young to know the difference between a good book and a bad one. She just loved the smell, and the tactile difference between all the old hardbacks. The carpets felt like walking across someone’s living room.

  When she got to the crossword books she immediately recognised Stella and Dan from the pictures she’d pulled online. There weren’t many of Stella, but there were plenty of Dan: infamy always brought more search results online.

  The pair were doing a decent job of being inconspicuous, Rebecca thought. Although Dan looked like he’d been dragged in there against his will: hands stuffed in his jacket pockets and not a hint of interest on his face.

  Rebecca stood next to them for a moment, then took a book off the shelf, flicking through the pages. ‘Did you take the battery out your phone, like I said?’

  ‘Before we got the Tube,’ Stella answered.

  ‘Show me.’

  Stella showed her the separate pieces, thinking that was that. Instead, Rebecca took them from her and put them in her pocket.

  ‘What about him?’ Rebecca asked, indicating Dan.

  ‘He didn’t bring his phone,’ Stella said.

  Rebecca shelved the book and continued to browse. She kept her voice low. ‘Everything we talk about here is off the record.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Although the shop was busy – Christmas book-buying was well under way – the corner Rebecca had chosen left them in peace and free to talk.

  Stella took a book down and said, ‘This is Dan. He’s helping me with the story.’

  ‘That’s lucky,’ Rebecca said. ‘He seems to know more about all this than anyone at GCHQ.’

  ‘I have my ways,’ he said, grinning.

  Rebecca looked him up and down. ‘Don’t think because you managed to crib some intelligence from a phone hack that you have any idea what you’re dealing with.’ She rummaged in her pocket, then placed a memory stick into the open pages of the book Stella was holding.

  Stella calmly pocketed it. ‘What’s on it?’ she asked.

  Rebecca waited as an old woman walked past holding a basket of books. When the woman was gone, Rebecca said, ‘I’ll give you the short version, but if you’re going to print any of this you’ll need the documents to back it up.’

  Rebecca shelved her book then wandered to the more secluded corner at the Drama section.

  Stella gently followed. When Dan came as well, Stella put her hand to his chest and said, ‘Wait here.’

  He stayed where he was, grumbling to himself.

  Rebecca waited for Stella to join her, then gave her back the pieces of her phone. ‘By all appearances,’ Rebecca said, ‘Abbie Bishop was employed by GCHQ. Even down to her income tax and national insurance records. But two years before she joined GCHQ she was hired by MI6.’

  ‘To do what?’ asked Stella.
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  ‘As far as I can tell from her documents, MI6 sent her in to spy on GCHQ.’

  ‘Why would MI6 want a spy in GCHQ?’ Stella asked.

  ‘That’s the question. She was being paid each month by something called the Goldcastle Group. I think it’s related to the political consultancy called Goldcastle that did work for Simon Ali in the last General Election.’

  Stella said, ‘I remember reading a Politico article on Goldcastle. They were using computer algorithms to target political ads on social media in American senate campaigns. But I thought they were a British firm.’

  ‘They are,’ Rebecca said. ‘They seem willing to work anywhere provided it’s for a right-wing candidate. They’ve focussed mainly on the U.S. so far because that’s where all the money is. But they’ve helped get right-wing candidates elected in Italy, Hungary, Argentina and Australia.’

  ‘Using online data to target voters has been going on for a few years now. What’s different about this?’

  Rebecca did a quick shoulder check to be sure no one was close by. ‘This isn’t just mining publically available data, or filling out online questionnaires voluntarily. They’re using data on U.K. citizens’ internet browsing histories and non-public social media posts and messages without their knowledge, all collected illegally by GCHQ, and passed on by Abbie to Goldcastle.’

  ‘The government has repeatedly said GCHQ only collects data on terror suspects.’

  Rebecca tilted her head at what she saw as Stella’s naivety. ‘GCHQ hasn’t stopped. NSA hasn’t stopped. They just lobbied for new laws to legitimise it all. Laws passed by Simon Ali’s government this summer. Last year Trevor Billington-Smith, director of GCHQ, told a closed-doors Commons Select Committee he wanted to quote “collect it all. Every click. every search”. At my station in Global Telecom Exploitation, that’s exactly what they let us do. I can own your entire life in under an hour, and I don’t even need a warrant.’

  Stella asked, ‘So what was Abbie actually doing for MI6?’

  ‘She was assigned as handler to an agent called Malik, whose job was to root out potential threats from Syria bound for the U.K., and report back to their MI6 superiors: William Blackstone and Sir Lloyd Willow. Then Abbie discovered neither Blackstone nor Willow had followed up on what Malik had termed a credible threat.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t they follow up?’

  ‘I don’t know. But Malik couldn’t have been clearer about the threat the cell posed.’

  ‘You’re talking about a massive intelligence failure, the likes of which the U.K. or any other major Western country has never experienced before.’ Stella felt like she needed a moment. ‘Can I see those documents?’

  Rebecca did a shoulder-check on both sides. ‘It’s all on the memory stick. Speaking of which: don’t put that into any computer you own or work with. You need an air-gapped laptop to look at those files. Brand new, never connected to the internet, and will remain that way until you’re done with this story. I’ve given you more than enough so far, so let’s get to it.’ Rebecca rolled her wrist in a discreet “hurry up” gesture.

  Stella said, ‘I’m going to list a number of details Dan and I know. You don’t have to confirm anything verbally. If you’re familiar with them, say nothing. If you’re not, take a book off the shelf.’ Stella took a subtle look round to check no one was nearby or approaching. ‘Abbie was having an affair with Nigel Hawkes.’

  Rebecca slowly took a book down off the shelf. ‘Go on,’ she whispered.

  ‘Abbie’s last words were “hell is empty. All the devils are here.” A warning code that she was in danger.’

  Rebecca took another book off the shelf.

  ‘An ex-GCHQ agent, Goran Lipski, was murdered the same night as Abbie. He had fragments of Abbie’s blood on him.’

  Rebecca took another book.

  ‘Last week, Lipski made several phone calls to members of the Downing Street bombing cell.’

  Rebecca stared at the shelves, stunned.

  ‘Shall I move on?’ Stella asked.

  Rebecca took another book.

  ‘That’s it,’ Stella said. ‘That’s everything we have so far.’

  Rebecca kept looking at the shelves. ‘Abbie wrote that phrase to me. Hell is empty. It came up with her files on Tempest.’ Rebecca put one book back on the shelf. ‘Do you have any reason to suspect Abbie was killed because of her affair with Hawkes?’

  Stella said, ‘I’m sure he would have been eager to keep it out the papers. But I haven’t seen anything that suggests Hawkes is involved with Abbie’s death.’

  ‘The money she was receiving each month,’ Rebecca said. ‘If she was blackmailing Hawkes, he might have been rinsing the money through Goldcastle. To keep his fingerprints off it.’

  ‘Or maybe someone was paying Abbie to stay close to him.’

  ‘Either way, someone could have wanted rid of her.’ Rebecca put another book back. She still had two.

  ‘Are you familiar with this guy Lipski?’ Stella asked.

  ‘We never worked together,’ Rebecca replied, ‘but I talked to him a few times. If you ever had a technical issue you were always sent to Lipski. It amused him, how much smarter he was than everyone. He loved getting one over on the guys at Five and Six. He said they didn’t respect his work. That they were too busy breaking down doors, wanting to save the day.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘He was fired six months after I started. There’s been a lot of cases of GCHQ officers spying on boyfriends or girlfriends, small stuff.’

  ‘That’s small stuff?’

  ‘In comparison, Lipski had been using the ECHELON system to spy on politicians, finding out they got the Met to drop drink-drive charges or something, then blackmailed them afterwards.’

  ‘Politicians actually do that?’

  ‘You wouldn’t believe what these people get away with. They were doctoring friends’ kids’ exam results, fast-tracking relatives up NHS waiting lists, that kind of thing. With Lipski they could never prove the money trail. So they cut him loose for misappropriation of intelligence software. A fireable offence, but nothing criminal. I haven’t heard his name since.’

  Stella looked round to check Dan wasn’t drawing attention to himself. He was wandering the aisle, head down like a bored child.

  Stella wondered aloud, ‘What if Lipski found out Hawkes was having an affair, then tried to blackmail him?’

  Rebecca seemed bothered by something else. ‘Lipski might have been a crook but I don’t buy that connection between him and the Downing Street bombers. Bent? Absolutely. But he wasn’t an ideologue. And he certainly wasn’t a mercenary.’

  ‘Does GCHQ have anything on the bombers that would explain it?’ Stella asked.

  ‘This won’t get leaked to the papers until tomorrow, so the information’s embargoed until then: two are from Birmingham, and three others are from Manchester, all in their early twenties, all British-born. They corresponded largely through dark web chat rooms used by European jihadis. All cleanskins.’

  ‘No zealot like a convert,’ Stella said.

  ‘In Islamic terrorism, converts are always the most keen to impress,’ Rebecca explained. ‘They might not be able to recite as many of the hadiths, but give them some Claymore mines, a bag of nails and a remote detonator and they’ll show you how much they believe.’

  Stella said, ‘Lipski’s blood on Abbie’s clothes and his phone calls to the bombers...that’s a connection between Abbie and Downing Street.’

  Rebecca could see the bigger picture now. She put another book back on the shelf. ‘Lipski isn’t GCHQ’s only link to the bombing.’

  Stella unconsciously leaned a little closer.

  ‘I have files that prove a rogue senior officer at GCHQ created the ID necessary for Mufaza to gain access to Downing Street.’

  ‘Rebecca, are you saying someone in GCHQ has worked to facilitate the murder of the British Prime Minister?’

  ‘Yes.’ She said it so ca
lmly. She’d had much more time to get used to the whole sordid idea. ‘I also have a contact – someone senior in Downing Street – who will only discuss Abbie with me, rather than the director of GCHQ or anyone else there.’

  ‘Could I talk to your source?’

  Rebecca smiled, and put another book back on the shelf. Leaving her holding one.

  Stella thought she’d try her luck again. ‘When you say senior at Downing Street, how senior?’

  ‘Very senior,’ Rebecca replied. ‘With the files I’ve given you you’ll have nearly everything I have.’

  ‘Nearly?’

  ‘There’s one file Abbie thought was too dangerous to send unencrypted. She put the decryption code on her laptop, which was stolen before she could get it to me. If we get the laptop, we can crack this whole thing wide open.’

  ‘The other files. They’re classified?’

  ‘All of them are STRAP Three. You’d be wise to only publish this in the States where there’s no law against publishing classified material. You could end up doing more jail time than your new partner.’

  ‘We’re a long way off thinking about printing anything yet,’ Stella said. ‘Frankly, if we all survive the week we’ll be doing well.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Last night a shooter broke into Martin Fitzhenry’s house where Tom was staying. It seems he managed to escape – where to no one knows yet. But Fitzhenry’s in intensive care.’

  ‘Has something happened to you and Dan too?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘Someone tried to run us off Lambeth Bridge yesterday. We only got away with the help of another car.’ Stella showed her the picture on her phone. ‘It had a foreign plate.’

  Rebecca only needed a glance at it: 273D101. ‘That’s not a foreign plate. It belongs to someone diplomatic in the U.S. embassy. I tracked that car to the safe house on Sunday night.’

  Stella said, ‘That makes sense....Dan found the police constable who was first on the scene at Pimlico. He saw that same car speed away moments after he found Abbie. He’s convinced the only witnesses were planted there by British intelligence.’ Stella passed Rebecca her phone which showed the picture of the witness. ‘This is one of them. Do you have a way of identifying her?’