Authors: Alan Judd
It was insecure to do it over the phone but needs must. By the time he finished it was ten to four and not yet light. He made a cup of tea, washed, dressed, ate toast with Marmite and packed the
Bristol. His phone rang as he was walking back down the garden path to lock up. The sky was lightening to the east but overhead there was still a great bomb-burst of stars. He looked up as he
answered, wondering as always how astronomers could ever heed merely human considerations.
This time it was Joyce, the GCHQ operational night shift manager. They had details of Jeremy Wheeler’s laptop from the MI6 duty officer but it would help to know roughly where it was.
Charles gave her Jeremy’s Battle postcode. She said they should be able to pick it up if it were live now, otherwise they would have to trawl through metadata they stored to see if that
yielded anything. They wouldn’t be able to recover content but they would establish usage. She was putting the word ‘toast’ into their Star system. Charles looked up again.
They’d probably get as many hits in the next hour as he could see stars in the heavens. He briefly considered waking Jeremy and getting him to check his laptop but didn’t want to alert
him. After all, he could be part of it. Unlikely, but anything was possible.
Before six, it was possible to move on the M25 and he made good time. But when he turned into the Office underground car park, shared with an insurance company, a firm of solicitors, a
department store and a company that made porn films, the barrier stayed down. He waited, knowing he was on camera. No-one came. He didn’t want to leave the car blocking the ramp so he
reversed and parked on double yellow lines over the road.
The guard in the entrance hall was an overweight middle-aged man. He did not put aside his newspaper.
‘Have to use your swipe card,’ he said.
‘I don’t yet have one. Could you open it for me?’
‘Need it in writing from your line manager to park without a swipe card.’
‘I don’t have a line manager. I’m the boss.’
‘Still need written permission.’
‘From whom?’
The door behind the desk opened and another overweight man appeared, looking as if he had swallowed something unpleasant. ‘Got to have written permission,’ he said.
Charles was patient. It would be undignified for the Chief to get into a row with the guards. ‘Can we do it retrospectively? I’ll get someone to write it for me when the staff arrive
and send it down.’
‘Long as your car stays outside.’
He had another idea. ‘Let me just check to see if I’ve got something.’ He sat in the waiting area and took some Foreign Office headed notepaper from his briefcase. He wrote to
the effect that the bearer had permission to park pending issue of his swipe card, signed in his own name and dated it the week before. The second man had disappeared when he handed it to the
guard. ‘I found I had got this.’
The guard put his finger on Charles’s signature. ‘Who is this?’
‘The line manager. The top one.’
The guard handed it back. ‘You can lift the barrier yourself. It’s broken.’
The cleaners were still there, chatting in the open-plan area outside his office. It had been suggested that he would set a good egalitarian example by making his office part of the open plan.
He had tried to think of plausible reasons for not but now, energised by what was happening and what he was about to do, he decided he would simply say no. He would say he didn’t want it,
with no further explanation. Attlee was like that, he remembered reading. When a sacked minister asked why he had been dismissed, Attlee had reputedly replied, ‘Because you’re not up to
the job,’ and carried on writing. Charles had a weakness for grand historical comparisons.
He had brought his mobile in with him because that was the number Cheltenham would use but still he hesitated to ring Sarah. He would give her another half-hour. There was power today so he made
a coffee and turned on his computer, only to realise he could not get into the system. So far Elaine had logged him on before he arrived. He didn’t know his user name or password, though he
had an uneasy feeling he had been told them, and couldn’t access even his diary. He sipped the coffee, staring at the screen-saver and recalling Sarah’s recent scolding about his futile
resistance to the computer age. He was in fact less resistant than he allowed himself to appear but took a private pleasure in being the object of protest and concern. Now, cradling his coffee in
both hands, he reflected that if his theory was right it was no bad thing to be out of the system. He would be the only person whose thoughts and actions were unreadable.
At half past six he got out his address book. There were no numbers stored in his phone, something he could now present as a security decision. He rang George Greene first, hoping he held to the
working habits of his youth. In Vienna he always did two hours’ work before the rest of the embassy was awake, which meant he could have long lunches and give the impression of being
effortlessly on top of things.
It was no different now; George was at home in Pimlico, working on his red box. ‘Even earlier these days,’ he said. ‘Competition from the Prime Minister. He rises at five, into
his box by 5.30. Not one of your vices, I seem to remember. Must be world war three to have got you out of your cot at this hour.’
Charles explained. When he finished there was a pause.
‘Did I meet Peter Tew?’ asked George. ‘Name’s familiar.’
‘Not through me. After your time. You probably read about him.’
‘Got it in for you, by the sound of it. Two down and one to go, if your theory’s correct.’ He chuckled. ‘Vintage Agatha Christie.’
‘You’re the third person who’s said that.’
‘Won’t be the last, especially if he tops you.’
‘But will the warrant be okay? Will you authorise it?’
‘Suppose so, though it may not be for me. Sounds more like one for Five and the Home Secretary.’
‘That’ll take for ever, especially if it has to go up to the Prime Minister.’
‘All right, I’ll do it and square him when I see him this morning. You just make sure someone sets it in motion. Get Angela on to it. You’d better tell her what’s going
on anyway, otherwise she’ll throw all her toys out of the pram when she finds out.’
Charles wasn’t convinced that George appreciated the full import of his theory. ‘You do see that if I’m right about all this it could be the answer to our cyber attacks as
well—’
‘Interesting if true. Keep your head down.’ George Greene never found it difficult to end conversations.
Charles caught Angela as she was about to leave for work. She cut him off soon after he started. ‘Charles, can’t this wait until I get into the office? Also, should you be talking
about it over the phone?’
‘No and yes, Angela. I can’t get in to explain and we’ve got to set things in motion quickly.’
She heard him out and sighed. ‘Oh God, this is all we need. Sorry – not your fault, I know. We’d better have a COFE later. I hope to God Tim Corke is in London. Will you be
able to get to it? I take that back – you will, you’ll have to, just have to. I’ll get my office to set it up.’
‘Make it this afternoon.’
‘George Greene having a word with the PM is all very well but we’ve been here before on other matters. Neither of them will put anything in writing or even think to tell anyone
unless they’re asked. And then they’ll give wildly different accounts. It’s no way to run a country.’
‘We’re not running anything, we’re being run. Up to now we’ve been reacting, that’s the point. This is our chance to get ahead of the game, provided we act
fast.’
He next rang Sarah. There was no answer from home or her mobile. He tried her direct line at work, finally her secretary. She was baffled. ‘Can’t find her anywhere, I’ve tried
everywhere, she was to chair an early meeting that was supposed to start ten minutes ago and I’ve had to put everyone off, including two people over specially from New York about the London
Bridge project. It’s a nightmare, I can’t think where she is, I’m sure she’d have rung in, she’s so – you know – thoughtful and organised. The log at
reception says she had two visitors yesterday evening when she was working late. She saw one of them but the other left without leaving a name and didn’t come back. Then she left. Did she not
come home, then?’
Her office night guard was at home asleep and couldn’t be disturbed. The CCTV system was controlled by security who were difficult about access. Charles told her to keep trying and to keep
in touch. He meanwhile would go home to check. His unspoken thought, which he sensed the secretary shared, was that Sarah might have fallen ill, or even died. Things happened, including unlikely
things. He had an image, more vivid than he wanted, of her sprawling on the bathroom floor. His other unspoken thought concerned the mystery caller. So far the outbreak of war had been theoretical,
his own theory, not proven. But if this was what he feared, it was war.
Elaine arrived just as he was packing up. She had a black eye. He hurried out, giving her instructions as he went and saying he was off to an urgent Cabinet Office meeting. She tried to pass
messages lurking in his emails and wanted to know when he’d be back. He was abrupt, telling her he couldn’t say and that she was to sort out what she could. By the time he got
downstairs he felt guilty and rang her from reception.
‘Sorry I was short with you. It’s just that something urgent has come up and there’s not time to explain. I’ll call in later. Meanwhile, get me on the mobile if you need
me.’
‘Of course, yes, I’m so sorry, I—’
‘Don’t be. All my fault.’
‘There’s a message for you from Sussex Police, a DI Whitely wants you to ring her.’
‘Good, thanks. Bye.’
‘And your car keys are on your desk. At least, I assume they’re yours. I’ll bring them down.’
She was still flustered and concerned when she arrived. He put down his briefcase. ‘Elaine, this just proves I wouldn’t get anywhere without you, not even out of the
building.’
‘Michelle Blakeney – director HR – has been back to me already about the OFRA meeting – Open Plan For All. I said you’d had to postpone again this morning. She
sounded quite cross, actually – well, it is the third time – and wants to know when there’s going to be a decision.’
‘Tell her it’s just been made: no more open plan.’
‘She’ll be awfully cross.’ Elaine couldn’t hide her smile.
‘I know. And meanwhile you and I will just have to cope with our mutual distress at this announcement. Tell her I’ll discuss with her later.’ He picked up his briefcase.
‘I hope everything’s all right?’
‘Thanks, so do I. I’ll explain as soon as I can. If by any chance Sarah should ring, let me know straight away. Keep in touch. And Elaine – the eye. You’ll have to say
something about it.’
‘I box.’
‘Of course.’
‘I won.’
Charles nodded. ‘Good. We’ll go into this later.’
It would have been quicker into Westminster by train but he reckoned he might need the car. When eventually he turned off the Embankment he idled into Cowley Street, postponing in the last
minute what he had raced for in the last hour.
Her car wasn’t in sight and the door was locked. He closed it quietly and walked from room to room, as he had in Viktor’s house. There had been no more unpacking, the bathroom was as
he had last seen it, her clothes were hanging as he remembered, the dishwasher was still only half full from when they had last eaten.
There was a message on the phone from 2.14 that morning. For a few seconds there was silence, then her voice, speaking slowly and sounding flat. ‘Charles, it’s me. I’m all
right. I’m with Peter Tew. He wants to meet you, to exchange me for you. I’m on my mobile but there’s no point ringing it. We will call you again on yours.’ There was a
pause, murmuring in the background, then, rapidly, ‘If you try to involve the police or anyone else, he says he will kill me.’ Then a click and silence.
He listened again, saved it and stood staring at the receiver. He was calm. Not the calmness of detachment, still less of indifference, but of calculation; so long as he could see a way to act,
he would focus on action. Everything else would come later.
His mobile rang. DI Whitely sounded excited. ‘Prisoner friends of your friend,’ she said. ‘Three names stand out. One’s still inside, another was released early eighteen
months ago because of health problems and may be dead but the third is on our doorstep, just up the road from here. Michael John Swavesy, aged forty-seven, fourteen years for armed robbery, supply
of firearms, possession of a firearm, receiving stolen goods, got off a murder charge on what sounds like a perverse jury verdict. Said to have been a professional hitman. Good behaviour, trained
as a clock and watch repairer, released after eight years three years ago, so out well before your friend. No indication whether they kept in touch. Sounds promising. Took a swing past his shop
this morning, doesn’t look as if he does much business. Want us to have a look at him?’
‘Thanks, Louise, that’s very helpful.’ Charles thought. ‘We don’t want to alert him. We want to watch him. I don’t suppose you’ve got the resources
to—’
‘Not without my super’s say-so and even then only for a short time for something specific. I dare say the Met—’
‘Let me get back to you. Meanwhile, find out everything you can about him – cars, phones, family, contacts, habits, everything. Take your watch in.’
‘So long as you get me a new one if I don’t get it back.’
‘Two for a conviction.’
‘Deal. Oh, and your friend – he’s got cancer. Terminal, they say.’
‘Does he know it?’
‘Think so, yes.’
Hence Peter’s urgency, why he was doing it now, why he had absconded. ‘Anything else?’
‘That’s enough to be going on with, isn’t it? I mean—’
‘More than enough, it’s very helpful. I was just – where was it, his last prison? Open prison.’
‘Not far from here. Old army camp. Holiday camp now, they come and go as they please. Do courses to prepare for outside, bed their visitors if they can. Live pretty much as if
they’re out already except they don’t have to pay the rent.’