Part Two
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17
Chester Square seemed so different at this hour, empty and funereal.
It all felt surreal somehow. Not only the thin, gruel-grey mist, but the thoughts that were occupying his every minute. Was it possible? Vine desperately tried to separate his own gut feelings of hatred towards Wilde from an objective assessment of the evidence. But he knew such disinterestedness was beyond him. The facts all led to one conclusion: Wilde’s maternal family in Qatar, the association at Oxford with Mohammed Ressam, the vocal disdain for US and UK foreign policy after the Arab Spring. Now Cosmo Newton dead. He was numb at it all.
He neared the house and paused for a moment. If the police were treating Newton’s death as due to nothing more than natural causes, there would be no need to divert immediate operational resources to round-the-clock surveillance of his home. Once the information had churned its way through Whitehall, the order would go out to post someone on the door while they waited for the pathologist’s confirmation. But, until anything was flagged, Newton’s death would be treated as a tragedy, not a crime.
Vine knew that gave him a limited window of opportunity. He looked around, checking to make sure he wasn’t being observed. He could still hear Newton’s voice on the phone, the sense of dramatic urgency in his tone: this changes everything. Whatever Newton had been working on, there had to be some evidence of it here. Newton had been schooled in Moscow Rules, trained in the habit of a fallback. That was the only hope Vine had left.
He forced down a ghoulish feeling as he walked up to the front door. He had completed one lap of Chester Square. There was no immediate sign of a police presence.
He took out two gloves from his pocket and slipped them over his half-frozen fingers, trying the door handle once. But it was locked.
He removed an old field kit from his jacket pocket and then swept the area again quickly to make sure he wasn’t being watched. He crouched down further and began attending to the lock. A minute later, he felt it give.
He checked the street for a final time. There was still nothing. He eased the door open quietly and found himself entering the familiar dark porch space. A reddish dot pulsed on his right next to an alarm pad. Vine stepped across and keyed in four digits – 1791, the year of Mozart’s death. He watched as the light blinked once more before falling blank.
He turned to the surrounding view. There was an array of musty-smelling coats hanging to his left, mud-scabbed boots in an untidy row beneath. He stopped for a minute, waiting to register any other signs of movement. He listened for a creak on the stair or rustling from one of the rooms. A dull throb of silence met him.
He moved forwards through the house. He tried to summon any sense of when Newton had last been here. He was into the main hall now, the staircase to his left, the kitchen on his right.
Vine quietly moved through the rest of the ground floor. He checked the kitchen once and saw several coffee mugs piled by the sink, yet to be washed. The kitchen table was bare, cupboards all closed.
He left the kitchen and began padding up the stairs, careful to dull the creak. The main room on the first floor was fustier still. There was a chipped bookcase groaning with hardback volumes, an ancient TV showing few signs of use and a dusty brown sofa busy with faded cushions.
Vine walked up to the bookcase and began sorting through the various volumes. What could he expect to find? What was it Newton had meant?
I’ve been doing a spot more research after our conversation. I think I may have found something … If I’m right, this changes everything.
Vine started taking out random volumes from the bookcase and flicking through the pages, half-hoping to find a note falling out. He looked again on the sofa and around the TV, trying to see if there was a book Newton might have read recently, something he could have used in case the worst happened.
He left the room and began treading up the second flight of stairs. This was a part of the house he had rarely seen before. Vine glimpsed a bathroom ahead and then a bedroom on his left. He cast a glance into both, saw nothing but a half-used tube of Colgate and old editions of The Times crossword. He reached the end of the hall and pushed at the door of the last room.
He flicked on the ceiling light and saw a wooden desk with an anglepoise lamp facing him. The floor was stacked with piles of paperback books, pages fanning out with a yellowish bulge. This was Newton’s secret study, the official version on the first floor merely a decoy for unsuspecting visitors. Vine picked his way between the piles of books, trying to reach the desk. It was typically analogue, with two chipped fountain pens and then stacks of formal writing paper. Vine began picking up sheaves, looking down at the knobbly texture of the pages.
He put down the writing paper and began sorting through the other items on the desk. There were more pens and Post-it notes. A letter from the Royal Society of Arts was neatly folded on the right, a copy of The Times Literary Supplement likewise on the left.
He was just about to leave the desk when he decided to finally check the right-hand drawer. He tugged it open, expecting to find the space stuffed with tattered sheets of paper or scrappy folders moulding at the edges.
Instead, there was just a single item. It was a brown envelope, lying face down at the bottom of the drawer. The seal had yet to be fastened, as if Newton had been on the cusp of sending it. Vine reached down and picked the envelope up. He turned it round and saw the wording on the front, composed in Newton’s trademark scrawl.
It read simply: For the attention of Mr Solomon Vine.
18
Vine kept up a steady pace down the Strand. As the speckled grey of Charing Cross station rose into view on the opposite side of the road, he stopped, looking up at the slanting Coutts logos like bookends to the glass front of the building on his right, three flags fluttering busily above his head.
He glanced down at the small gold key in his palm again, feeling the jagged edge press against his skin. It was the only item he had found in the envelope – Newton’s last will and testament. With Newton dead, it was perhaps the only means he had to find the truth. The JIC laptop was useless now, unable to sneak into the system under disguise, a gradual narrowing of options.
He walked inside. He took the escalator and found himself in a spotless reception area, a mix of glass and polish, the percussive hum of heels on the glossy flooring. At the desk, he produced the key and was asked to wait. Drinks were provided and he poured a cup of filter coffee, looking at the envelope again and feeling sadness gnaw at him. In the unforgiving light of day, none of it had been a dream.
Ten minutes later, he was guided through to a viewing room, decked out with corporate niceties. The door sighed closed. Vine looked at the cameras in either corner. He wondered what would happen if he grabbed the box and ran. By this point, the Whitehall machine would have started putting appropriate measures in place, a police guard stationed outside Newton’s house. A forensic team would sweep the premises. Vine had been careful to leave no trace. He just hoped he had been careful enough.
He looked down at the safe deposit box, and then back at the gold key. What had Newton left him? And why? Was this related to the cause of Newton’s death? All of which begged the larger question: was the heart attack merely a cover for something far more sinister?
Vine paused for a moment. Then he slotted the gold key into the safe deposit box and turned. He heard the click as the lock gave way. He clasped the sides of the box and gently tilted the lid upwards, trying not to upset the contents.
At first, he imagined they had the wrong box. It seemed so unremarkable, merely a single dull-green cardboard folder. Paper jutted out at the top, the whole thing kept together with the aid of a rather soiled elastic band. He picked it up, undid the elastic band and opened the cover.
Inside there were just two pages. The first was empty except for a smattering of handwritten words; the second was more formal, typed and ordered, the whiff of officialdom.
He was thirsty again. He walked back up the Strand, took a left to Aldwych, past the Waldorf on to Drury Lane. The Delaunay was quiet this early in the morning. He found a table tucked away in the corner, ordered an orange juice and a full English breakfast and then inched the file out of the bag. He checked the restaurant, noting the camera positions.
He opened the file again. The layout was trademark Cosmo Newton. Newton had been the last cold warrior, unable to stand the management speak and corporate jargon, the lamentable PowerPoint presentations and team-bonding exercises of modern-day Whitehall. Newton worked through mountains of files and paper, unable – or perhaps unwilling – to change.
The first page of the file simply had three words on it, all written in black ink. Vine tried to decipher the letters:
MIDAS
Hermes
Caesar
Vine read the words again, checking to make sure he hadn’t missed a letter.
He turned the page and then stopped, looking down at the second sheet of paper. TOP SECRET was emblazoned across the header. It appeared to be part of an interrogation transcript, dated 5 January 2016.
I know a secret … A secret that changes everything …
Vine shook off a feeling of déjà vu and began to read:
CSIS: You say you have heard information from others?
AY: I’m saying that I know for certain that there is a mole somewhere within the intelligence services. I know this for a fact and am willing to help the British government with their investigations if they provide unconditional immunity from prosecution.
CSIS: Tell me more about what you heard.
AY: I need first to have confirmation that the British government and the Prime Minister will provide the immunity I seek.
CSIS: So you are telling us you have information about a mole within British intelligence?
AY: I am willing to help the British government with all the information on condition of guaranteed immunity. That is what I am telling you.
Vine turned the page over, hoping to find more. But the other side was blank. He looked back to the text and saw Newton’s scribbles in the margins. Next to the mention of ‘intelligence services’, he had annotated: ‘MI5? MI6? GCHQ? DI?’
He glanced back down at the transcript and began to read the final line.
CSIS: And what name does this mole go under?
AY: His codename is Nobody.
19
2012
Her flat is everything he expected it to be: ordered, precise, and yet somehow beguilingly individual. She has guarded it closely, always keen to meet at Wellington Square instead, claiming her place is small and cramped, unfit for company. Far from feeling rebuffed, Vine flatters himself that he can see beyond the excuses. Both of them are private people, content with their own company. There is something almost courtly about the way they behave around each other, watchful and polite. Others may burn themselves out on drive-by emotions; they are happy instead to let their guards drop slowly, trading confidences with care.
Vine takes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket. He lights one and watches the smoke funnel out, then remembers the task he has been set. The kettle rumbles to a boil behind him, and he begins to scatter instant coffee in the bottom of the mugs before rattling around the fridge for milk. Rose is still changing, so he decides to display his talent for domesticity with a bold exploration for coasters. As the coffees continue to steam in front of him, he pulls out a drawer with cutlery, a second full of folded tea towels, another cupboard crammed with cereal and bowls, yet another filled with wine glasses and mugs. He looks around the rest of the tiny main room, the sofa at the furthest point on his right with a small flatscreen TV, and a desk straight ahead.
He checks that there is no sound from the hall, and then walks over to the desk. It is clear on top, free of the usual clutter. There are two drawers on the left. He pulls the first one out and finds it full of cardboard folders, TAX scrawled in biro on the top folder, fringed by elastic bands and paper clips. He bends down to pull out the second drawer but finds it jamming slightly. He looks closer and sees a small keyhole at the top. It has been locked in a hurry, the catch not quite holding. He casts another quick glance behind him, then tugs at it harder, yanking the drawer fully out of its slot. Inside is another collection of domestic confetti, stuffed here in order to preserve the illusion of neatness: a half-empty packet of printer paper; another folder with the title FLAT RENTAL INFO; a clear plastic wallet with what looks like a university certificate. Just as he is about to push the drawer back, jolting it into place, a smaller item flutters to the floor. He reaches out and picks it up. On the back is scrawled the words ‘Pakistan 2005’. He turns it over and finds himself staring at a much younger-looking Rose. She is casually dressed with a backpack and a bandanna tied around her forehead, flanked on either side by what look like beaming members of the same family. Snippets of a house are just visible in the background.
Vine ignores the open drawer for a moment and continues to stare at the photograph. He inspects each detail, wondering what it is that surprises him. She has talked vaguely about her past, entertaining him with tales of Harvard, her legal training, gossip from the Attorney General’s Office. But that is not it, somehow. There is something different about the way she looks, a beautifully weightless smile. For the first time Vine feels oddly jealous, realizing that he has never seen that smile first-hand; eroded, perhaps, by time or circumstance.
He is about to replace the photo and slide the drawer back into place when the door opens behind him, creaking slightly.
She doesn’t say anything at first, moving beside him and crouching down on her bare feet, hair still wet from the shower. ‘What are you doing?’
He can hear the faintest edge in her voice, trying her best to mask it. He feels embarrassed suddenly, as if he has broken an unspoken rule between them, snooping on her like this.
‘I was trying to find coasters for the mugs,’ he says. He looks at her for a moment and can see the struggle in her face, unease crinkling her brow. Then her face softens, and her lips are forced into a smile, the moment of discomfort banished. ‘A prize-winning first and you can’t find the coasters?’
‘They never taught us that on the Tripos,’ he says. ‘Unforgivable, really.’ Just before they move on, Vine nods towards the photo. ‘You never told me you’d been in Pakistan.’
She doesn’t glance at the photo, just stares straight at him. ‘You never asked. I spent a year out there after Harvard, volunteer work.’
‘Who are the other people?’
‘The family I lived with. They practically adopted me. Grandmother, parents and eight children. An entire cricket team.’
‘Do you still keep in touch?’
Her smile fades slightly, eyes dipping away from his, spotting something on the kitchen counter. ‘Is that coffee over there meant for me?’
Vine nods, turning away to slot the drawer back into place and letting Rose direct him to the cupboard where the coasters are kept. They sip at their drinks in silence for a moment, existing without the need to fill every second.
Still he wonders when that missed beat of surprise will fade. He can’t imagine a time when the musical depth of her voice will dust over into the everyday. Nor the peculiar charm of the incidentals: the way her hair threatens to curl at the merest sign of rain; the habit of massaging the lobes of her ears when thinking; even the volume of her silence when annoyed, radiating polite aggression. He would trade none of it.
Today, ind
eed, she seems anxious, looking around the flat as if trawling for external support. Eventually, she breaks the silence. ‘Though while we’re on the subject of confessions … there is something I need to tell you.’
‘I’m intrigued.’
‘You have to promise not to be angry with me.’
‘I promise.’
‘It’s about my work. My new job.’
Vine experiences the first real tug of unease, covering for it by stubbing out his cigarette. ‘A new job?’
‘Yes.’ She pauses, then says: ‘I’m still working as a lawyer, just not quite the same type any more.’
Vine doesn’t answer at first. He has suppressed this doubt so well it feels almost new. ‘So you’ve been lying to me?’
‘I’m afraid that appears to be the case.’
Her expression has changed. The unease of moments earlier seems to have given way to something lighter, freer.
She moves closer. Her voice is hushed to a whisper. ‘It seems I’ve been picking up all sorts of bad habits from you.’
Vine feels himself smile with surprise as the words leave her mouth. All his rehearsed evasions suddenly feel fake and brittle, like leftovers from a past life. The pitch of anxiety dims. ‘You’ve lost me.’
She nudges her toe against his leg. ‘A Foreign Office analyst, with a flair for mathematics, who struggles to name a single civil servant in King Charles Street.’
‘Perhaps I’m just not the sociable type.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘And a member of the Attorney General’s Office who now never answers her phone during the daytime.’
‘Bravo, Mr Holmes.’
He can see now what her smile means. To be with her, he will have to be without his secrets. He will have to surrender to this new world without reservation. ‘How long have you known?’
‘I’ve always had an inkling … You?’
My Name Is Nobody Page 7