With no one at the helm of GTE or the directorship, the entire building felt rudderless. Compounded, too, by the arrest of Sir Lloyd Willow in the previous minutes.
It wasn’t the way Rebecca had wanted to leave the place that had given so much to her. Now it had taken from her. Trevor, Alexander and Abbie were all gone, and Matthew was missing.
When she looked around her, she hardly knew who anyone was anymore.
Now, leaving was all that was left.
She was about to switch off her computer when a message came from an unknown user through her OTR:
User: ‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’
Rebecca scanned the office, looking for anyone watching her.
Another message came through:
User: ‘What about Abbie’s encrypted files?’
Rebecca sat back down and dragged her keyboard nearer.
RGWood: ‘The decryption code is gone.’
User: ‘So you’d agree if I could open it, that would impress you?’
Rebecca had only one response to such a statement:
RGWood: ‘Troll.’
She would have shut down her computer if it wasn’t for the attachment that came with the next message: it was an .exe file – some kind of program it wanted her to run. Thinking she was talking to a sophisticated bot, she was intrigued about its next step.
RGWood: ‘That would impress me.’
User: ‘Open the Goldcastle file via the .exe, then decrypt.’
Rebecca looked around her once more. She was certain that either way she was getting played. If it was someone internal at GCHQ, she wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction of reacting. If it was external, Rebecca would be able to walk back any damage herself in a few minutes.
She clicked on the .exe which opened the program, then she opened the Goldcastle file.
A final message came through.
User: ‘Answers don’t come to you, Rebecca. You have to find them.’
Then the messenger logged out.
Rebecca stared incomprehensibly at the screen. It had been a long time since she’d seen or heard that phrase. Now she was more sure than ever that someone was playing a cruel joke on her.
But it appeared that the .exe had actually worked. As soon as she saw it she knew it was the real deal: it was the original classified file on the fire at Bennington Hospital.
It was headed: ‘NOFORN, STRAP 3 EYES ONLY.’
It detailed a covert operation, instigated by Goldcastle, led by MI6, to raid Bennington Hospital with a view to stealing Stanley Fox’s research on breaking encryption. Whether the ensuing fire and death of Stanley was part of the mission was unclear from the report. The result was that Goldcastle ended up with Stanley’s complete research records. Research that would now inform their own efforts to recreate his system of breaking encryption.
Rebecca did her best not to react outlandishly. Which given what she had just read was a big ask.
She went back to OTR, pulling up everything she could about the last contact. As was the nature of OTR, there was no trace. In desperation she wrote,
RGWood: ‘Are you there? Please write back.’
But she knew that wasn’t going to happen.
Once her station was packed up – everything personal that belonged to her fit in a small backpack – Rebecca made her way to the swing doors marking the GTE exit. When she looked out, all she saw was empty desks. Now on her own again, it felt like she was walking once more with ghosts.
News Office Building, London – Friday, 7.51pm
Both Novak and Stella had imagined what they would do when the story broke. In the end it happened over a few tepid beers in their cramped News Office room. They pulled up therepublic.com/uk on Stella’s laptop after a text from Henry: “Big plays made, alright.”
At the top left corner of the report were the social media and email links. Underneath was a share counter. Within a few minutes of the story going live the shares began.
Each time they refreshed the page, the shares jumped up.
Reading through the article, just Tom and Stella in the room, it was hard to imagine the impact the story was having worldwide.
After just half an hour, the story had been shared more than one hundred and seventy-five thousand times.
That evening Twitter’s top five trends were:
#Goldcastle
Nigel Hawkes
Abbie Bishop
#TheRepublic
Angela Curtis
For the website, Kurt had helped redesign the front page so its entirety was taken up by what Diane had christened The Goldcastle Papers.
The strap underneath:
“British Foreign Secretary and MI6 Chief implicated in Downing Street terror attack”.
One of the main inset pictures showed a snip from a mobile phone video, of Abdul al-Malik standing at the top of a plane stairway. His hood removed. His face finally revealed to the world.
The caption underneath: “MI6 agent George Abassi.”
Epilogue
Al’s Burger Joint, New York – Three days later
SHARP HAD HIS arms out when he saw Novak walk in. The pair embraced at the booth, slapping each other’s backs in the way men uncomfortable with sentiment often do.
Artur, wolfing into a multi-storey, oozing burger, quickly wiped his mouth and gave Novak a bear hug. Wally sat opposite, already looking a little emotional at meeting Novak for the first time.
Novak put out his hand to shake, but Wally swatted it aside and threw himself into a long, tight hug. When he eventually let go he held onto Novak’s cheek, squeezing it.
Wally exclaimed, ‘It is so nice to see this face.’
Novak managed to pull himself away. ‘OK, OK, Wally. It’s nice to see your face too.’
All four sat beaming through their lunch, sharing fries and wedges and talking about the future.
Novak said, ‘Artur, I saw your video’s gone viral, man.’ He pulled up the YouTube page showing the video stats on his phone.
The video entitled, ‘CIA abduction of MI6 agent George Abassi’, had collected over a million views in under twenty-four hours. After re-uploading his previous videos overnight, Artur’s subscribers had rocketed from three hundred and sixteen to ninety thousand.
‘I got both your I-589s through from Citizenship. You all set?’ Novak asked.
‘Man, I can’t wait to be American,’ Wally exclaimed.
Artur wasn’t quite as enthusiastic. ‘Do you think they will let my mother come?’ he asked.
Novak looked at Sharp.
‘Let’s wait and see, son,’ Sharp said. ‘The most important thing is your mother knows you’re safe here.’
‘And how you doing, Officer Sharp?’ Novak asked.
Sharp nodded. ‘I’m good. My lawyer thinks the State Department’s going to drop the case against me pretty soon. I think they’ve had enough of their dirty laundry aired in public recently. They’re giving me till the end of the month, let the wound heal up good.’
‘What’s CIA saying?’
‘They’re basically home free,’ said Sharp. ‘The Brits are taking all the flak for this one. How about you? When’s your next hearing?’
‘A few days.’ Novak shrugged. ‘They could spin it out for weeks. There’s nothing a congressman loves more than getting on TV.’
‘How does your lawyer figure your chances?’
‘I could be going down. Probably eighteen months, minimum security.’
Artur tapped Wally on the arm, pointing out a cute girl standing on the sidewalk, looking at her phone. The pair squabbled over who was going to go out, then both ended up getting up together and racing to the door. After some small-talk with the pair, the girl typed something into her phone, looking sceptical. A moment after her internet search came back she exclaimed to Artur, ‘No way! You started TruthArmy?’
‘Me and him,’ Artur corrected her. ‘We’re a team.’
Novak, grinning, said to Sharp, ‘Th
ey’re gonna be alright here.’
Quiet came over the table, as the two men realised it was the first time they’d been alone since they got back.
‘There’s something I’ve been wondering since Berlin,’ said Sharp.
‘What’s that?’ asked Novak.
‘You could have just left Artur there. You didn’t need him for the story. You already had his video.’
Novak threw out his bottom lip and gave a very Brooklyn, nonchalant shrug.
‘You couldn’t leave him out there, could you. High and dry.’
Novak shrugged again.
Sharp said, ‘That’s all you gotta say, huh.’
Novak thought for a moment. ‘You used to be a marine. What is it they always say...Semper fi.’
Sharp held out a fist.
When Novak bumped knuckles with him, Sharp said, ‘Semper fi, brother.’
GCHQ, Cheltenham – Six weeks later
Angela Curtis stood at the lectern set up in the basement under GTE Division. Only a dozen or so people had been invited to the talk, and, except for two, no one really knew what it was about.
Curtis said, ‘I expect you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you all to come here on a Monday evening, and to lie whenever anyone asked what you’re doing.’
To her right stood Roger Milton and Rebecca Fox.
‘I know GCHQ’s had a rough ride lately,’ Curtis went on. ‘You’ve all heard the public outcry. We can be supportive and reassure each other that it was just a few bad apples, and when it comes down to it we’re all honest, committed patriots.’ She glanced down at her notes, remembering the beat Roger Milton told her she needed. ‘But we also have to be honest with each other. More honest than we can afford to be in public about such things. For months – possibly years – GCHQ had an intelligence leak. About as major as one can imagine. That’s why I’m making it one of my first priorities to equip GCHQ with the sort of investigative powers it’s so desperately needed. Of course, this isn’t the kind of initiative that I can talk about on the election trail. So I want to assure all of you here, I won’t rest until GCHQ is given every resource to go on keeping this country safe. When it came to creating the role I’m about to announce, there really was only one candidate I wanted. I’ve got to know Rebecca Fox very well recently. She has proven not only her talent and dedication, but also her commitment to the ideals of GCHQ: to protect this great country, in real life and online. So it is with great pleasure I introduce the first ever Director of GCHQ’s Internal Affairs Division, Rebecca Fox.’
Everyone applauded as Rebecca shook Curtis’s hand.
Once she’d managed to carry off her fairly workmanlike speech – sorely lacking in adjectives – Rebecca stole a moment with Angela Curtis.
She swapped hands to hold her wine glass and shook Curtis’s hand. ‘Thank you for coming, Prime Minister,’ Rebecca said. ‘I saw the polls this morning, you must be pretty happy.’
‘This is the bit where I play dumb and say something about there being a long way to go, and it’s never over until the last vote’s counted...’
Rebecca said, ‘Of course.’
Curtis looked round, checking no one was within earshot. She turned her back slightly to the rest of the room. ‘It’ll be nice to be able to call each other without using a Hannibal.’
‘I don’t know,’ Rebecca said, looking around the basement. The new office was still under construction, with metal beams and ventilation shafts exposed where the ceiling tiles had been taken away. ‘I think talking to you in future will likely mean something bad has happened again.’
‘I suppose so,’ Curtis said. ‘I’m told the CPS has strong cases against Hawkes, Alexander and Matthew thanks to you.’
‘It’s mostly thanks to Abbie,’ Rebecca said.
‘It’s not mostly thanks to Abbie that Goldcastle has gone into administration. Jarrod Warner’s looking at twenty years. The next summit I have with the American President isn’t going to be too cosy.’
‘How’s Alexander holding up?’
‘He’s doing OK. He and his lawyer assure me he knew nothing about the Downing Street attack or about Abbie. He said he was ordered by Nigel Hawkes to cover it up after the fact. He wanted to extend to you his regret over what happened. As well as his thanks.’
‘Thanks?’
‘If it wasn’t for you, he’d be facing a conspiracy to murder and commit acts of terrorism. And Matthew would have got away with it.’
‘I still think it was him who killed Trevor.’
‘I spoke to John Pringle at the Met about that. They can’t make the case. Anyway, with the conspiracy and terror charges, he’ll be going away for long enough. John says they can at least demonstrate it was him who hacked the UKPCA and sent the press pass to Alexander’s computer.’
‘Everything leaves a trace.’
‘Did you get Roger’s memo on your title?’
‘I did.’
‘You don’t like it?’
‘I know Ghost Division was Goran Lipski’s idea. It’s a bit Tom Clancy, don’t you think?’
Curtis laughed. ‘You think GCHQIA is catchier, do you?’ She offered her hand. ‘Congratulations, Director.’ She leaned in a little closer. ‘I wouldn’t be in this position without you. You still have that phone, right?’
Rebecca said, ‘Always on me.’
As Curtis drifted off to take a call Roger Milton had been fielding, one of Rebecca’s new team members approached tentatively.
‘Sorry, boss,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt.’ He handed Rebecca an A4 envelope. ‘That’s everything I could find on the OTR contact.’
Rebecca took out the analysis.
‘It’s weird,’ Nick said. ‘They didn’t fully encrypt their IP. I mean, what’s the point in using OTR if you don’t want to hide?’
Something in the analysis notes seemed to strike a chord with Rebecca.
Nick asked, ‘Is there something here?’
Rebecca handed him her glass. ‘Our first case.’
E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse, Washington, D.C. – The next day
Novak sat alone on the front steps of the courthouse, its vast windows capturing the full power of the morning sun. From there he looked out across Constitution Avenue, watching a thin haze unfurling around the Capitol Building’s iconic dome.
Novak had on his winter coat and a pair of Persol sunglasses, managing to remain – for now – incognito. There were still few people around: he was over an hour early for his hearing. For Washington D.C., with the President at Camp David with Bill Rand his new defence secretary, Novak was the main show in town.
Stella rounded the corner, wearing her brown mac and a thick scarf wrapped multiple times around her neck, carrying two coffees. She too wore sunglasses – slightly oversize – her hair up for once.
‘This might be my last decent cup of coffee for quite some time,’ said Novak from a distance. He took his sunglasses off. ‘I hope it’s good.’
‘What are friends for,’ Stella said. As she handed him his cup she stifled laughter, turning away slightly with her hand to her mouth.
Novak looked at the cup top then gave her a withering look. ‘What’s that?’
She’d had the barista write the customer name as ‘Jeremy Webb’.
‘That’s funny to me,’ she replied. She sat down beside him, taking her sunglasses off. ‘Cold today, isn’t it.’
His mind on the proceedings that awaited him, Novak said, ‘I guess.’
‘Must be close to zero out here.’
‘Thirty.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s Fahrenheit over here. Zero is thirty.’
‘Oh, yeah.’ She paused. ‘Must be close to thirty.’
‘Uh huh.’
She paused again, longer this time.
Just when Novak thought she’d move onto something else, Stella added, ‘Did you know the coldest ever day in Washington was minus fifteen? Which is about...what�
��s that in Fahrenheit–’
Novak snapped, ‘Oh dear Lord, what are you? Weather woman, or something–’
‘Don’t do it,’ Stella replied quickly.
Novak knew perfectly well what she was talking about. ‘Stella...’
She shuffled closer to him. ‘You’re telling me I can’t make one last attempt at convincing you?’
‘You absolutely can. But my lawyer, Diane, and Henry have already tried, and failed, this morning too.’
‘I believe my argument will be more substantive.’
‘More substantive. Than a lawyer, your boss and your boss’s boss?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And will this substantive argument involve simply repeating your existing arguments to me, but with some additional adverbs and a more desperate tone?’
‘No.’ She reconsidered. ‘Maybe. Possibly.’
‘Then no, you can’t convince me.’
‘Novak, don’t do it. It’s a bad idea, and it gets you nowhere. Also did I mention it’s a bad idea?’
‘It’s not a bad idea. I’m not who people think I am.’
‘Are you an accomplished journalist, who writes for one of the last great Fourth Estate establishments, who broke a massive story that started an entire debate over online privacy and NSA overreach, and who is about to make the biggest mistake of his life in owning up to something completely irrelevant to the facts of a story and that will potentially send him to prison for the better part of a year?’
‘I guess.’
‘Then you’re exactly what people think you are. Someone I’m proud to say I work with. Yeah, you messed up. But you also forget that you did some amazing reporting after the NSA papers leaked. On a purely selfish level, I don’t want to lose you. Because it feels like we’re only just beginning.’
Novak said, ‘If I say nothing, it’s a lie of omission. I don’t want to live with that. And I’m not handing over my laptop.’
Stella groaned. ‘God, man... Do you think this is an Arthur Miller play or something? You’re not ratting out “the guys from back home”, you moron. No one is going to remember your ideals in sixteen months. You give up your laptop, which they won’t be able to decrypt anyway, and that’s that. You go home, Novak.’
Official Secrets Page 42
