Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  ‘From the rest of the cabinet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘From Simon Ali?’

  ‘It was my job. Hawkes was going to carry on whether I was his aide or not. The corridor outside my office is like an open audition call for Machiavellis with their Ted Baker suits, PPE degrees, and two years’ experience on a tabloid politics desk. All willing to do whatever I’m not.’

  Stella didn’t let up. ‘I’m tracing a mobile that may have been used to contact Abbie Bishop. Did you ever source a phone for Hawkes? A burner?’

  ‘I never did anything like that.’

  Stella thought herself pretty adept at spotting lies, and she saw little trace of evasion in Charlie’s face or voice.

  Charlie added, ‘Stella, I don’t know about any phone. I never even met Abbie Bishop. I would just move his schedule around so they could hook up.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Moreton House, mostly. Never anywhere that kept records or had cameras, like hotels or anything. I tried to warn him. He was like some besotted school kid.’

  Now she had him on the ropes, Stella knew she couldn’t stop there. ‘What’s Hawkes’ connection to Goldcastle?’

  ‘You know about Goldcastle?’

  Stella kept a poker face. ‘I know enough.’

  ‘Jesus...’ Charlie put a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘I warned Nigel that was never going to stay a secret for as long as everyone wanted.’

  Stella reached for the nugget on Goldcastle that she did have. ‘Did you know Abbie Bishop was being paid five thousand dollars every month by them?’

  ‘I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Were they paying her to sleep with him? To put him in a vulnerable position? A position where he might be more inclined to help them? Or was she sent to spy on him?’

  ‘Nothing would surprise me. It’s how they do it. They have people everywhere. As I’m sure you know.’ He looked back towards the F&C. ‘I have to get back.’

  ‘OK,’ Stella said, putting her notebook away.

  As he walked away, he said, ‘If you think you’re safe because Goldcastle got the laptop from Gale, you’re more naïve than I thought. Watch yourself, Stella.’

  GTE Division, GCHQ – Thursday, 8.15pm

  Rebecca felt eyes piercing her from all sides as she walked through GTE. Word had spread of her arrest the previous night, but no one really knew why she’d been released.

  When she reached her station, Mackintosh – who been alerted by security to her presence – shut his office blinds as she went past.

  A note was stuck to Matthew’s computer screen: ‘Back in an hour.’

  Rebecca sat down at her station as Trevor Billington-Smith had asked.

  An OTR message appeared on her screen. ‘Rebecca, this is Trevor. Log into ECHELON.’

  Rebecca logged in, and navigated to its tracking tool.

  ‘Pull up phone number 07700900243.’

  She input the number, bringing up the metadata of the entire user history: every call, every text, every voicemail, when and where they occurred and who to, since the number was activated.

  In GCHQ tests, metadata alone had proven to be more accurate than message content in locating or identifying a user. By itself, metadata didn’t give too much away. But once cross-referenced with other numbers of interest it became easy to place two targets having a secret meeting together, or to form patterns of behaviour that indicate occupation, lifestyle and habit. Rebecca could see those things the way a mechanic can tell what’s wrong with a car just by the sound the engine makes.

  The first thing Rebecca noticed was how regularly the phone was switched off. Every Wednesday between half eleven and quarter to twelve in the morning, and didn’t come on again until a little after half past. Never earlier.

  Mobile phone masts in the area had picked up a lot of activity on the phone in the Westminster area. It got Rebecca thinking about something that happened every Wednesday, midday until half-past. Something that any person involved would turn their phone off for: Prime Minister’s Questions.

  ‘Done? Now bring up Sunday night’s entries.’

  Rebecca could feel a surge of anticipation as she scrolled through the endless stream of data which ECHELON had recorded in minute detail. When she reached the bottom of the page – where the most recent data was – she noticed a circled, red R next to the call log. Indicating someone operating ECHELON had activated the phone’s microphone for live recording during a set time.

  Only someone at Rebecca’s level or higher had the authority to order such an action. She knew who it was just by looking at the numerical ID, because she’d seen it hundreds of times since joining GCHQ.

  It was Trevor Billington-Smith’s ID.

  Rebecca slipped her headphones on – closed back, as stipulated by GTE protocols, so recordings of classified material didn’t leak and could be overhead by any unauthorised persons nearby.

  Trevor: ‘Download all recorded calls from 23.00 – 00.30 Sunday night.’

  Rebecca: ‘What does this have to do with my dad?’

  Trevor: ‘Everything about what Goldcastle want goes back to your dad. Patience.’

  The date and time of the recordings had Rebecca worried as to what was on them. The location of the phone moved around Westminster throughout.

  She downloaded all the calls to her personal drive as Trevor asked.

  Rebecca: ‘Done.’

  Trevor: ‘Make backups and send them to Stella Mitchell and Tom Novak at The Republic.’

  Rebecca: ‘That’s classified intelligence. I can’t do that.’

  Trevor: ‘Why not? You’ve done it already. I already sent them a cache of files on Goldcastle. Everything they still need to make their story.’

  Rebecca got a lump in her throat. But it also meant Trevor knew she’d stolen files and hadn’t done anything about it.

  Rebecca: Then why can’t you just do this yourself?

  Trevor: ‘Goldcastle are cleaning up shop. I’m in Westminster until later tonight and can’t access the files where I am. If this waits until I get back the files will be gone. This is our last chance.’

  Rebecca: ‘Whose phone is this?’

  She waited for a reply.

  Rebecca: ‘Hello?’

  A pop-up informed her Trevor had logged out.

  Why would he log out before he told me what to look for? she thought.

  She had a bad feeling about staying visible at Trevor’s end any longer. She logged out and sent all the ECHELON recordings for the number on Sunday night to Novak’s Republic dropbox.

  Greenhills Road, Cheltenham – Thursday, 8.15pm

  Trevor Billington-Smith was in his five-bedroom Edwardian villa on his own, typing messages to Rebecca in his study.

  It had been a few minutes since he had first heard what he thought was the familiar creak of the front door. But he knew he’d locked it from the inside, so he had paid it little mind.

  Then he heard a creak on the old oak staircase leading to the study.

  ‘Hello?’ he called out.

  The creaks grew louder, then a shadow stretched under the bottom of the door.

  Trevor reached for the panic alarm attached to the underside of his desk – a traditional banker’s desk with leather top cover.

  A man spoke from the other side of the door. ‘I wouldn’t bother if I were you. I cut the connection to that outside.’

  Trevor moved his Anglepoise lamp to see towards the door.

  The door slowly opened.

  ‘You’re no James Bond, that’s for sure.’ He held his keys up. ‘I let myself in.’

  Trevor sighed in relief, reaching towards his heart. ‘Matthew! You nearly gave me a heart attack. What are you doing sneaking in here?’

  He walked towards his father, holding something Trevor couldn’t make out.

  ‘And what are you talking about cutting the panic alarm?’ Trevor asked.

  ‘I tried to warn Becky,’ Matthew explained
. ‘I told her to be careful. I gave her every chance.’

  Trevor’s heart started pounding as he realised what Matthew was holding: a length of thick rope.

  Trevor said, eyeing the rope with the purest fear. ‘Matthew. Son. What are you doing?’

  Matthew shook his head. ‘I hate that you’ve put me in this position. You’ve risked everything we’ve built.’

  Trevor backed up in his chair until it met the wall. Then he stood up.

  Matthew lunged for him, catching him by the arm and twisting him round.

  While Matthew struggled with him he managed to say, ‘I’m sorry. But I’d rather it was me who did this, instead of Goldcastle’s people.’

  He closed his eyes as he wrapped the rope around his father’s neck and pulled.

  Through flashes of childhood memories – hundreds of snapshots flitting through his head like a strobe light – he grunted at the strength required to stop his father wriggling free. As he pulled the rope as tight as it would go, Matthew managed to say, ‘God forgive me.’

  18.

  Westminster, London – Thursday, 6.53pm

  PARLIAMENT STREET WAS at a near-standstill, the pavements crammed with people looking for their first view of the newly opened up Downing Street. Stella, on her tiptoes, could see nothing but a solid mass all the way down to Westminster underground station, so she doubled-back through Derby Gate, the small lane bisecting Parliament Street and Victoria Embankment next to the river.

  She was momentarily distracted by a notification on her phone:

  “IronCloud has received a new file ready for download for stella.mitchell@therepublic.com. Enter your key to decrypt file.”

  On an evening like this, it was extremely welcome news. Still on a high after her meet with Charlie, her mind raced with the possibilities of what was in her IronCloud.

  In that brief moment of looking down at her phone, then back up to realise the gate wasn’t a throughway to Embankment, she didn’t notice the black Land Rover pulling into the lane behind her. By the time she clocked the four men in suits marching towards her, it was too late. One of the abductors slid a hood over Stella’s head and covered her mouth with his hand. The other three bundled her into the back of the car.

  Some men smoking outside the pub on the corner of the main road took a few steps towards the melee, but seemed unsure of what they had really seen in the gloom.

  The last man into the Land Rover flashed his badge at the men on the corner.

  ‘Metropolitan Police Specialist Protection,’ he shouted. ‘Back away.’

  The driver lit up a blue flashing light on the dash and one in the back window, then raced out into the middle of Parliament Street, siren blaring.

  The Land Rover was on the road barely a minute before pulling into the Ministry of Defence.

  The guard at the MOD security gate had been briefed ahead of time and was expecting them. He had the barrier lifted so when SO1 approached it didn’t even have to slow down, let alone stop.

  Stella knew she hadn’t travelled far. At a guess she thought she was at New Scotland Yard – a stone’s throw away from the MOD – as the only other possibility would have been MI6, which would have been at least another minute or two away, sirens or not.

  They descended a ramp into an empty underground car park, the tyres squealing on the waxy tarmac.

  None of the men had spoken once Stella was put in the car. When the car stopped she felt a gust of wind as the door opened. It was already below freezing out.

  They had stopped outside a set of what looked like decrepit services lifts. Stella didn’t fight as she was pulled from the car: from her captors’ arm strength alone she knew it was pointless. It was an extraction carried out by professionals. Wherever she was wouldn’t be the kind of place she could escape without alarms blaring and camera tracking her every move.

  One of the men called a lift which opened immediately, revealing a dazzlingly modern interior – brushed silver walls on one side, glass panels on the other, and a 4K-resolution touch-screen.

  Two of the men stayed with the car, while the other two led Stella into the lift. The senior of the two men placed his hand on the screen, which scanned his fingerprints, as well as the dimensions of his hand.

  The men said nothing the whole way down. When they reached the only floor available – the equivalent of five storeys below ground – the glass panels on the left side opened with a clean swoosh, revealing a long corridor.

  The senior SO1 put a guiding hand on her lower back, pushing her out.

  The corridor was lit by rows of LED lights down both sides, going past all kinds of offices, briefing rooms, a decontamination suite, a crisis control room with full media suite, a store room (filled with canned goods, blankets and bottled water), and several bunk suites. At the end was a glass cubicle. Through it and to the right, stood a soldier in a uniform no civilian would recognise: the Royal Army Pindar Corps. A unit set up solely to guard a facility very few people knew existed.

  At the cubicle, the SO1 officer placed his hand on another screen by the cubicle – the same kind as in the lift. When the doors opened he led Stella inside. When they came out the other side the RAP officer opened the door he’d been guarding for the past three hours. Inside was a conference room with a video wall that ran almost thirty feet wide and ten feet high. It had the ability to break down a national emergency to every essential facet. Today, it was all black. On standby, ready to go at any second.

  The SO1 officer let go of Stella – the feeling of not being manhandled anymore coming as a relief – and removed her hood. The room wasn’t brightly lit, but it still took a moment for her eyes to adjust.

  The SO1 officer left the room without a word.

  Stella didn’t know whether to expect a gun to be pointing at her. When she realised she was in a safer place than she first thought, the relief washed over her. All she could think to say to the person who had brought her there was, ‘You scared the shit out of me.’

  At the end of the conference table sat Angela Curtis, eating a salad with a crescent of briefing papers spread out in front of her and a cup of tea.

  ‘Forgive the dramatic precautions,’ Curtis said, still chewing. ‘You’ll understand when you see what I have to give you.’

  Stella couldn’t see a jacket or a bag for Curtis anywhere, suggesting it wasn’t a long trip for her to get down there. A lift within Downing Street itself? The length of the corridor outside made it highly likely.

  Stella said, ‘I heard rumours about this place a few years ago.’

  ‘Secrecy is still one of the things we do well.’ Curtis sounded effortlessly powerful. ‘You can’t imagine the things they tell you when you get this job. Unrepeatable, of course.’

  ‘I’m not eager to test that,’ Stella assured her.

  ‘They called this place Pindar after the Greek poet. When Alexander the Great raided the city of Thebes in the fifth century BC, out of thousands of houses razed to the ground, Pindar’s was the only one still standing.’

  Stella said, ‘So when the world burns in a blaze of nuclear explosions, or whatever apocalyptic war games you train for down here, Britain, like Pindar’s house, will still be standing.’

  ‘Britain must march on, Miss Mitchell.’

  Stella smiled at the soundbite answer. ‘Except, Prime Minister, the reason Pindar’s house wasn’t burned down like everyone else’s wasn’t because he had access to a few million pounds of military and technological hardware. It was out of respect. For Pindar’s reputation. His legacy. Alexander knew that if word reached the other territories that Pindar’s house had been desecrated, the backlash against him would be so great, so monumental, he’d regret the day he ever set sail for Thebes. Do you really think that’s how the rest of the world sees Britain? Twenty, maybe even fifteen years ago perhaps. But now?’

  Curtis said, ‘There’s still greatness in this country. I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t.’

  ‘There’s not
a single issue the rest of the world looks to us on. The only thing America needs us for is unpopular wars and chat show hosts. So is this,’ Stella gestured at the surroundings, ‘the only thing our country builds now? Is this our great endeavour? Expensive places to hide?’

  Curtis smiled in a restrained way that suggested she knew Stella was right. She pushed her salad aside and reached for a document in front of her. It had clearly been badly crumpled at some point. From when she’d cast it aside – with faultless sleight of hand – and thrown only the envelope into the fire, as Doug Robertson and Sonia Ali sat in the next room. ‘You have to understand I only chose to give this to you because I trust your integrity. And most importantly, so do the public.’

  ‘You’re leaking me something?’

  Curtis held out the paper. ‘If you want it.’

  The headed paper threw Stella immediately: “From the desk of the Right Honourable Simon Ali MP”.

  After a few lines, the words seemed familiar. It wasn’t until the end of the second paragraph that she realised what it was she was holding: the complete version of Simon Ali’s speech.

  Stella jumped to the parts that he had not reached. She knew immediately the impact the speech could have had.

  ‘How do I know this is genuine?’ Stella asked, still staring at it.

  Curtis replied, ‘It came from Simon’s lawyer.’

  ‘Right, but...OK...’ Stella exhaled.

  ‘Do you need a moment?’

  ‘I’m fine.’ Once she made peace with the hardest content of the speech, she asked, ‘Do you believe what Simon Ali says in this? Is it true?’

  ‘I’m afraid to say I’m in absolutely no doubt.’

  Stella kept reading. ‘This also says that he was going to come out against the new Freedom and Privacy Act.’

  ‘Robert Snow would have, too,’ Curtis added.

  ‘Ample reason to want rid of them?’

  ‘Then we’re on the same page.’

  Stella said, ‘You do realise the impact releasing this document will have on your government?’

  Almost over-eager, Curtis said, ‘I’ll go on the record. You can quote me as a source close to Simon Ali. That can confirm the veracity of the document.’ Curtis waited for answer. ‘What are you waiting for? Write it down in your notes.’