Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  After looking at the picture Rebecca handed the phone back. She seemed downhearted. ‘She’s internal affairs at MI6.’

  Stella’s face lit up. ‘You know her?’

  ‘She came to see Abbie at GCHQ earlier this year. Now she’s helping mop up her murder.’ Rebecca paused, glancing at Dan, who was being offered help by a bookseller.

  Dan waved him off.

  ‘You can’t trust anyone,’ Rebecca said, her gaze holding on Dan. Then she put her last book on the shelf.

  ‘There’s one thing that doesn’t fit,’ Stella said. ‘That diplomatic car. If it’s so heavily implicated in Abbie’s murder, why were the people in it yesterday so eager to help Dan and I?’

  ‘There’s only one person who can answer that,’ Rebecca said. ‘You have to find that U.S. diplomat. You find them, and you find the people responsible for this. The details are on the drive. The rest is up to you.’ Before Rebecca turned to leave, she pulled out a book on cryptic crosswords, leaving it jutting over the edge of the shelf. ‘Try the one on page fifty-seven. It’s a tough read.’

  Stella watched her leave, then looked back quickly at the shelf.

  Tired of aimlessly wandering, Dan came back to Stella. ‘We good, yeah? We got it?’

  ‘We got it,’ she said, distracted.

  ‘Good. Let’s go.’

  ‘I’m going to buy something,’ Stella said. ‘It’ll look better if I buy something.’

  ‘Whatever,’ Dan said. ‘Get you outside.’

  Once he was gone, Stella took the book off the shelf and turned to page fifty-seven. Snuck on the bookshelf before she and Dan arrived, Rebecca had written a message for Stella in the boxes.

  Thirteen across, five letters:

  ‘DANIS’

  Intersecting with five down, seventeen letters:

  ‘DOUBLECROSSINGYOU’

  For fourteen across – using the C in five down – she’d written:

  ‘CHECKHISTEXTS’

  13.

  Don’s Shooting Range, outskirts of Albany, New York – Wednesday, 11.30am

  NOVAK HAD HIS window down as Sharp drove them along I-90 in his Toyota Landcruiser. The Pine Bush near the edge of Schenectady county was one of the biggest pine barrens in the world, and the smell of fresh pitch pine and bear oak mingled in the cold air with black huckleberry and sweet fern on both sides of the interstate. It only got stronger when they pulled off onto Route 155 towards Don’s Shooting Range.

  A cloud of yellow dust looped up behind them on the dirt road.

  The Landcruiser may have been one of the toughest 4x4s ever constructed, capable of charging through a deep river, but the passenger seat wasn’t giving Novak the easiest ride of his life.

  He bobbed up and down on his seat at each pothole Sharp struck. After a while he was convinced he was hitting them on purpose.

  Sharp had to shout to be heard over the noise of the engine coming in through the open windows, and the rougher terrain away from 155. ‘Between you and me. Did you ever meet your source?’

  ‘On the NSA story?’ said Novak. ‘No, never. Could be dead for all I know.’

  ‘You wouldn’t tell me even if you had, right?’ Sharp smiled at him.

  Novak smiled back. ‘No.’

  Sharp added, ‘I saw some clips of your hearing. That was a gutsy move you made there. For what it’s worth, I think it was a great story.’

  ‘It’s a good story,’ Novak insisted.

  Sharp was baffled. ‘You understand that great means better than good, right?’

  Novak laughed. ‘Journalists have this thing when they talk about a story. Good means like it’s rock solid. That it can stand up to any level of scrutiny.’

  ‘Huh.’ Sharp thought it over. ‘I kind of like that.’

  ‘So who is this guy?’ Novak asked.

  ‘A buddy of mine from sniper school.’

  ‘Is he still serving?’ Novak asked.

  ‘He quit after a few tours in the Middle East.’

  ‘Iraq?’

  Sharp paused, thinking how to phrase it. ‘A country we never officially declared war on.’

  Novak would have bet the house Sharp was talking about Yemen. Drones had taken out a lot of enemy combatants there – as well as plenty of innocent children and families, but Novak had heard whispers of Spec Ops in Yemen that went terribly wrong around 2008.

  ‘He’s been running this place ever since,’ Sharp added. ‘Invite only.’

  Distant pops and bangs could be heard somewhere ahead at the end of a dirt road. Weeds sprouted the edges, and an overgrown grass verge lined the centre where car tyres never reached.

  ‘The thing is,’ Sharp explained, ‘Don’s a little touchy about strangers. It’ll probably be best if you wait in the car.’

  Novak replied, ‘Should I be worried?’

  Sharp pursed his lips, thinking it over. ‘He’s not a big fan of the federal government, so I’d stay away from that. I’m a rare exception because he knows me.’

  Novak didn’t exactly feel full of confidence.

  When they pulled up, Don was already on the front step and looked like he’d been sitting there for years. An old rocking chair was set up with a well-worn cushion on the seat and a scoped AR-10 assault rifle leaning against it. A sound choice when you’re looking to hit targets coming down the dirt road and get off multiple shots quickly. Don Marshall was a man very much prepared for anything.

  As Sharp got out the car – raising his hands as if under arrest – Don called out:

  ‘The President wants to find out who be best at apprehending criminals. So he sends in CIA, FBI and the LAPD to catch a rabbit in the forest.’

  Sharp started to smile. Don always started their meetings with a joke.

  Don went on, ‘CIA goes in first. They interview all the other animals in the forest and turn them into informants. They torture all the plant life, and after a month of investigations they done concluded the rabbit don’t exist. Next the FBI goes in. They don’t do no research, and after a few days they just burn down the forest, killin’ every animal and tree, but they refuse to apologise because they say the rabbit had it comin’. Last to try is LAPD.’ Don came down the steps. ‘After an hour they come out with a raccoon that’s half beaten to death and the raccoon is yellin’, “OK! I’m a rabbit, I confess!”’

  ‘I think CIA comes out that one best, if you ask me.’ Sharp said, then embraced his old friend.

  Don still had the strong frame that made him a tough Marine, but now also the slight belly that arrives on a man in his late forties who sits around the front porch of a shooting range all day. If Novak didn’t know about the military background he would have said Don was a sure-fire redneck.

  He was wearing a t-shirt with a hammer and sickle coloured by stars and stripes, under the slogan “TAXATION IS THEFT”.

  After briefly conferring out of Novak’s earshot, Sharp turned back to the car and waved Novak to come out.

  Novak opened his door reluctantly and walked towards the front steps. ‘Please to meet you, Mr Marshall,’ Novak said, putting out his hand.

  ‘You here to collect taxes, son?’ asked Don, quizzically turning his head a little.

  While Novak struggled to construct a sentence, Don’s straight face cracked into a grin. He flicked his hand at Novak’s stomach. ‘Only the feds call me Mr Marshall. Any buddy of Walt’s calls me Don.’

  Sharp winked at Novak as they followed Don inside.

  After the hallway the house opened up into a huge room that had had walls knocked through to create an unofficial survivalist’s store: there were piles of canned goods, batteries, boxes of Mayday survival bars, dynamo chargers, military fatigues. And guns. Lots and lots of guns and ammunition. All legal.

  ‘Walt tells me you’re in a hurry,’ Don said. ‘So we’ll get right to it. I got anyone’s back who’s looking to evade the federal government.’

  Out back was the shooting range, nearly five hundred yards long – the longest in
the county. Which meant Don had acquired a very loyal customer base mostly made up of local military personnel in between tours of duty. There were what sounded like four or five people shooting, but Don didn’t seem worried about any interruptions.

  Don led them to a photo booth set up in the corner of the room. ‘OK,’ he said, looking Novak up and down. ‘Lose the sports jacket.’

  Novak took off his Massimo Dutti blazer, worried at what might become of it.

  Don then looked carefully at Novak’s face, specifically his now-thick stubble. ‘When you goin’ be travellin’? Tomorrow?’

  Novak turned to Sharp for direction.

  Sharp said, ‘Later today.’

  ‘Damn.’ Don rummaged through a drawer, then produced an old pair of hair clippers with lots of loose hairs around the blades. ‘Get on it.’

  Novak took the clippers. ‘For my face?’

  Don sighed. ‘Son, if you show up at the airport lookin’ exactly like your passport, exactly like last night when the cops saw you, with exactly the same hair, and exactly the same clothes, then I’ve gone wasted my lunchtime here.’ Don brushed at Novak’s stubble with the back of his forefinger. ‘Takin’ this off will clean you up. Then all’s we got to do is trim down that hair some and we good to go.’ Don turned on the clippers, which buzzed like a lawnmower, then passed them to Novak.

  *

  Novak emerged from the photo booth, clean-shaven, dressed down to his white t-shirt under his Oxford. As Sharp waited for the roll of pictures to emerge Don pushed Novak into a chair and started on his hair with the clippers.

  ‘You’re not going to go too deep, are you?’ Novak asked.

  ‘Deep enough,’ replied Don, carving a three-inch-wide strip from Novak’s temple to his crown.

  When he was done Novak’s hair was cropped down to about half an inch. The whole thing was over in a few minutes.

  Don handed Novak a filthy old barber’s brush, old hairs – a variety of colours – still stuck to the bristles. ‘Clean up,’ he said. Don then went to a cupboard drawer which revealed a small safe. He took out a handful of passports, all in slightly different shades and states of wear. He was careful in examining each one, picking just the right one for Novak.

  ‘College lecturer...’ he said to himself, opting for one with more wear and an earlier issue date.

  Novak corrected him, ‘Actually, I’m a journalist.’

  Sharp mumbled, ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  ‘Back in twenny minutes,’ Don said, before disappearing into his workshop.

  The door had been closed over slightly but not all the way. Novak’s journalistic curiosity got the better of him, and he snuck a look where Don was working: hunched over an old wooden workbench, with a magnifier on an adjustable arm, picking and cutting and snipping with the sort of precision tools favoured by model makers.

  Sharp pulled him back. ‘He doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

  When Don finally returned he handed Novak the passport he was about to pay one thousand dollars for.

  Upon opening it Novak had to remind himself it wasn’t the passport he had been carrying around for the last eighteen months. Until he looked at the name, DOB and everything else that used to be his own. As far as passport control would be concerned, Novak was now Jeremy Webb, born three months after Tom Novak.

  ‘Nice work, Don,’ Novak said, shaking his hand.

  ‘You’re welcome, Mr Webb,’ replied Don with a laugh. ‘The haircut’s inclusive in my charges, by the way.’

  Novak took out five hundred dollars, withdrawn from a gas station ATM on the way to Newark: a ploy to make it look like they were headed south when the withdrawal flagged at NSA later. They had then double-backed towards Don’s.

  Novak wrote out his Paypal details on some scrap paper and handed over the cash.

  ‘What exactly are you going to do with this?’ Novak asked.

  Don answered, ‘See, I sign into your Paypal account using a VPN going through San Francisco. Then I buy a bunch of survivalist goods with your account which make it look like you on the west coast and settin’ up to hide out for a while. By the time NSA works out you ain’t there, you be half way ‘cross the Atlantic under a passport they ain’t lookin’ for. That’s a little obfuscation extra in Don’s Disappearin’ service I’m throwin’ in for my buddy here.’ Don put his arm around Sharp. ‘I swear to God CIA be the only thing keepin’ this country from fallin’ apart, brother.’

  Sharp smiled. ‘If there’s one thing we still do well, it’s getting assets out of hostile territory.’

  Vauxhall Bridge Road, London – Wednesday, 1.01pm

  Rebecca made her way down Vauxhall Bridge Road towards Pimlico just as a heavy rain shower began.

  Now she’d passed on everything she had on Abbie and Matthew, she felt a sense of completion: she’d taken things as far as she could. Now it was up to Stella and Novak to finish it and get the truth out there.

  That didn’t mean she was able to relax yet. She knew the next few hours would be crucial in telling if she’d been followed to Hatchards or not.

  Most pedestrians were walking in the opposite direction to Rebecca, umbrellas opened or coat collars held up against the downpour. The pavement was at a standstill thanks to a long line of French students – all wearing the same red cap, and horribly underdressed for the weather – cowering from the rain.

  While she waited to pass them, Rebecca noticed a man in a smart tan mac about a hundred yards away. Even from such a distance he appeared to be holding Rebecca’s gaze.

  He seemed to only have eyes for her, and unfazed by getting soaked.

  As Rebecca passed the French students, the pavement cleared and there was no one between her and the man. She shifted to the left side of the pavement to move away from him, but he gradually drifted over to the same side too.

  He made no attempts to avoid colliding with her. Rebecca braced herself and closed her eyes momentarily. Would she be stabbed? Shot with a silencer? Or bundled into the white van idling across the street on a double red line?

  He gave way slightly at the last moment, gently brushing her shoulder. Enough to knock her off course a little.

  ‘Pardon me,’ he said politely, barely looking at her.

  Rebecca recognised him. It was Roger Milton.

  She kept walking, seeing the van across the street drive off in the opposite direction. She was still turning the encounter over in her mind when she reached Belgrave Road, marking the start of plush Pimlico: white and cream Georgian terraces with pillared doorways lined both sides of the road.

  The rain had subsided when Rebecca heard a ring coming from one of her coat pockets. Except her mobile was in her bag with the battery taken out.

  The ring was unfamiliar to her, too. A basic early-Nokia tone. She reached into her right pocket where inexplicably there was a mobile phone. It was no ordinary phone. It had no keypad, and there were only two buttons: a green one for answer, or a red one to hang up.

  Rebecca had heard of but never seen one before. A Hannibal phone, that protected voice and data up to the level of Top Secret. It looked like the sort of old mobile you might find in a cash converter store, but the ISDN card inside, that scrambled and encrypted the voice of the user, cost around £2000.

  Rebecca answered it. ‘Hello?’

  A woman said, ‘Rebecca. I’m glad to have found you. It wasn’t easy.’

  ‘I’d have questioned how it was even possible,’ Rebecca replied.

  ‘You know who this is, I assume?’

  ‘I do.’ Rebecca looked around once more. There was no one nearby. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what I should call you.’

  ‘Call me Angela,’ she replied. ‘I’ll keep this brief because this isn’t an ideal situation for either of us.’

  Rebecca couldn’t concentrate being out in the open. It wasn’t the sort of conversation she wanted anyone else hearing. She ducked down a staircase to a windowless basement to get off the pavement.

/>   ‘You can believe me when I tell you the phone you’re holding is untraceable,’ said Curtis. ‘We can both speak freely here. I’ve seen the files on Miss Bishop – there’s only so much they can keep from me here. Do you believe MI6 was involved in her death?’

  ‘I do.’ Rebecca relished the opportunity to say it out loud without fear of reprisals, and to someone in a position to act.

  ‘That was what I feared. I’ve seen evidence that GCHQ is involved too.’

  ‘The press pass?’ Rebecca asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve seen it. I have the original documents it was created from.’

  ‘Rebecca, I need to know who created it.’

  ‘Alexander Mackintosh.’

  ‘Does he work for Goldcastle by any chance?’ Curtis asked.

  Rebecca hesitated. ‘I’m afraid he’s GCHQ.’

  ‘So he’s the mole,’ said Curtis, more to herself than Rebecca.

  ‘You know about Goldcastle, too?’ asked Rebecca.

  ‘Not very much, actually. My chief of staff is the most well-connected man I know in Westminster and he can barely find anything. I did find records that show Abbie was being paid five thousand dollars every month by Goldcastle into a secret bank account.’

  ‘How did you find that out?’ Rebecca asked.

  Curtis smiled coyly. ‘I’m the Prime Minister, Rebecca. I still have some access.’

  ‘What else did you find?’

  ‘She was stealing user data from GCHQ’s systems. Personal data on U.K. citizens collected from social media sites and web browsing. Which I’m sure could have proven very useful to a firm like Goldcastle.’

  ‘You don’t need me, then.’

  ‘I might have the security clearance, but I don’t have physical access to the systems necessary to find out what I need to know. I need you to investigate for me.’

  ‘Prime Minister, I’m not in a position to–’

  ‘I just updated the BIGOT list. As of ten minutes ago you have been granted STRAP Three clearance for all British intelligence systems.’