‘Always told it was slightly rude to stare, Sol,’ he says, before smiling, the usual Wilde charm dispelling any hint of unease. ‘My mother. She died when I was eleven. I was sent to boarding school straight after, didn’t see my mother’s family again. What they call an English education …’ He falls silent for a minute, before continuing. ‘Though, I must say, you have landed yourself a gem with Rose.’
‘You think so?’ he asks. Somehow he craves Wilde’s approval more than he thought he would; the nearest to family he has, able to bestow some sort of blessing.
‘Gold, Sol, pure gold,’ he says, resting his right elbow on the ledge of Vine’s shoulder. ‘Not often you get a first-class mind in the same body as a demon for the washing-up. Quite remarkable …’
Vine smiles and turns back to the painting. It is only the next morning, lazily touring the library again before they depart, that he realizes it has been taken down and replaced with a different portrait of the same size. Quietly spirited away, somewhere out of sight.
24
Cosmo Newton had harboured one final secret. As Vine brought up the account on his computer, savouring the hush of Wellington Square, he couldn’t help but admire the old man. The legend of the analogue spook had been so convincing. Vine had heard the rants many times, Newton confessing plausible ignorance to anything remotely digital. He had even circulated the rumour that he had all his emails printed out at the Cabinet Office so he could go through them by hand. All of it had been a lie – one last act of shape-shifting.
Vine moved the mouse to the drafts folder and clicked on it. GCHQ and the NSA could only monitor what was sent through the ether. Unless operating in a covert action capacity, they couldn’t intuit communications that never left an inbox. The trick was simple: create a joint email account, and then communicate by saving new drafts. No email was ever sent, avoiding the possibility of being tapped. It allowed anonymous communications between two individuals both equipped with the login details for the same account.
The drafts folder had three drafts saved, each one acting as a ghostly chain of correspondence never actually sent. Whenever a participant had a new message they simply added to the previous version and saved the draft again.
Vine paused for a moment, trying to rationalize the possibilities. As Chair of the JIC, Newton had access to all the latest encryption technologies being developed at GCHQ. The only reason he would resort to an anonymous Gmail account would be if he was working off the grid, corresponding with someone he was unable to talk to through official channels. But Newton had always taken a dim view of whistle-blowers or those who deliberately betrayed the code of the secret world. Somehow Vine couldn’t quite absorb the idea of Newton ferrying documents to a journalist, or conducting an affair on the side. He looked to the pages from Newton’s safe deposit box again. If Hermes and Caesar were accounted for as the email address and password, then that just left two words: MIDAS and Nobody. Somehow this anonymous email account must relate to Newton’s investigation into one or both of those – the operation and the mole. But how?
He turned back to the screen and clicked on the earliest draft, saved on 25 February. The first thing he noticed was the different typefaces. One of the correspondents had written in normal type, the respondent in italics. Vine scrolled further down the message to see if there was any other distinguishing typographic mark, but there seemed just to be the two. That suggested there might only be Newton and one other person using this account, a simple two-way conversation rather than a group of them.
He looked up to the top of the page. Each new line was a reply to the one before, the meaning of it creeping downwards. The first line was in normal font. Vine could hear Newton’s voice behind it immediately:
We must establish some basic protocols. The most important is if you are being forced to type under duress. To signal that to me, change the font you write in to Georgia.
Agreed. You’re sure this is secure?
As good as we can manage. I take it the package arrived?
Yes.
More may arrive at some point. They will all be marked personal.
Do we ever meet?
Not for the time being.
So how does this work?
Protocol is simple: check this account each night at 7 p.m.
Fine.
There is much to discuss. More soon …
Vine read the exchange again. Newton’s impeccable tradecraft was at the fore, establishing basic protocols first before any further discussion was launched. Vine looked at the third paragraph again: I take it the package arrived? The most obvious explanation would be something delivering the handle for the email address and the password to the other correspondent. And then there was that curious question: Do we ever meet? That one comment alone widened the possible correspondents to an almost unmanageable field. Most patterns were solvable by containing the data sets; but if the correspondent was someone outside Newton’s social circle, the suspect list could be endless. The only empirical giveaway was the timing: Protocol is simple: check this account each night at 7 p.m. That line at least suggested that they were operating in a similar time zone, even perhaps within the same country.
So who was this mystery correspondent? And how could they be related to either the MIDAS operation or the Nobody mole? The prose was terse and deliberately colourless: Agreed. Yes. Fine. It did everything it could to sidestep the unconscious indicators of temperament and personality. Though the mystery correspondent seemed anxious, the firmness of response suggested some awareness of similar situations. There were no slips or idiosyncratic verbal mannerisms. Whoever they were, they seemed used to being watched.
Vine closed the first draft and moved on to the second one, hoping it would contain something to shed more light on who the mystery correspondent could be, and why Cosmo Newton was contacting them.
As he did, he heard a burner mobile buzz, the sound snapping him out of concentration. He fumbled for the device, unlocked it and then thumbed the message open. There was only one line. Two words he had been waiting to hear ever since that day in Istanbul.
It’s happened.
25
The taxi squealed to a stop outside Guy’s hospital. Vine paid the driver and then ran inside the main entrance, careless of the surprised looks as he made his way to the bank of lifts. He checked his phone again to see if there had been any further message from Becky. The lift doors pinged open. He entered the lift, pressed for the third floor, doing everything he could to quell his frustration as he waited for it to hum upwards.
I know a secret … A secret that changes everything …
This could be it. Finally, Ahmed Yousef would begin to pay for what he had done. The truth would be known and logic restored, the identity of Yousef’s attacker confirmed.
Vine slowed his pace as he entered the corridor, determined not to give himself away at this last moment. He pushed through the set of double doors and reached Ward 9. He scanned the way ahead for any sign of police, but there was no one. He walked forwards and glanced in the direction of Yousef’s room. The view was unrecognizable, just an empty bed, the covers and sheets neatly tucked and secured.
Vine checked his phone again. Becky must be around here somewhere.
He texted her: Where r u?
A message pinged back almost instantly: Can’t speak here. Outside.
Vine pocketed the phone and then took one final look back at the empty room. Ahmed Yousef would have been transferred when he woke up, shifted to another part of the hospital straightaway. But he would be conscious enough to be questioned, the truth wheedled out of him at last.
Vine retraced his steps back to the lift and out through the main reception. He waited uneasily in the cold, scanning the surroundings for any sign of Becky.
She emerged two minutes later, a thin zip-up hoodie wrapped hastily around her bony frame. She looked thinner in the evening gloom, the spindly architecture of her face more prominent in the half-light from th
e hospital windows behind her. She had her hands stuffed into the hoodie pockets worn over her uniform, sloping towards him reluctantly.
Vine stepped forwards, trying to interpret the graze of suspicion on her face.
She didn’t look up. Instead, she inspected the scuffed ends of her shoes, head bowed. ‘I shouldn’t have texted you,’ she said, her voice thin and whispery.
‘What do you mean?’
She was breathing heavily now, her head twitching round as if she were being watched. Vine tried to follow the dart of her eyes, glancing at the windows for any sign of surveillance.
‘You shouldn’t have come.’
His excitement started to dilute, unease growing in its place. It was hard to believe this was the same person who had texted. ‘But he is awake? You said in your message that it had happened.’
She stared up at him. For the first time, Vine saw the shake in her eyes, the tremor on her lips. ‘I was wrong,’ she muttered, moving her legs to regain some heat, staring back down at the ground. ‘It was all a mistake …’
Vine felt any hope of seeing Yousef evaporate, just the slow grind of half-understood predictions. Desperation began creeping into his voice. He tried to calm himself. ‘But you can’t have been …’
She shook her head and moved closer, still scanning around as if someone were listening to every word they spoke. ‘I can’t do this,’ she whispered. ‘I wish you’d never asked me to do this …’
‘Why?’ Vine said, his voice louder now. ‘What’s happened?’
Her breathing was quicker, face trembling. ‘Who the hell are you anyway? They asked me about anyone, told me to keep away … I can’t do this any more. I’m sorry, but I can’t …’
Vine was fidgety now. ‘Come on. I’m sorry I raised my voice. I’ll wait until the end of your shift. All I need you to do is tell me what you know. As you have done before. Nothing different. There’s no danger to you in this.’
She was shaking her head, tears oozing down her cheeks. Her voice cracked as she tried to bottle them back into place. ‘You don’t understand …’
‘What?’ said Vine. ‘What don’t I understand … ?’
There are more important things going on here than you can possibly imagine …
She could barely get the answer out, lost in a haze of tiredness and fright. ‘They told me to alert them if I ever saw you again. You’ve been lying to me, haven’t you? You’ve lied to me all along …’
Part Three
* * *
26
Together they could have done it. With two, any numbers could be duped. Vine would have veered off right, Wilde left. They would have divided the hostile force, then begun segmenting each section further. Soon they would have only one or two directly on their tails, while others branched off to cover exits and entrances, and others still were keeping guard at previous locations where there had been a definite sighting. Once they’d finally shrugged off their direct pursuers, they would go underground for days. Weeks sometimes. Vine could feel the legacy of all his near escapes in his shins now, worn down by years of foreign soil under his feet. Yes, with two of them they would have shredded these streets.
But working alone was different. There was no way to split the hostile force in two from the start, meaning you had to then fragment twice the number of hostiles. Meets and dead drops were timed for the busiest moment of the day, always in an area that was reliably crowded. You needed alleyways and narrow streets, bustling markets and wedges of people.
The streets around him were too quiet. The hour was wrong. And he still had no read on the number of hostiles there might be.
He knew he had taken a risk going to the hospital at all. But none of this was making sense. Who had told Becky his real identity? A team from MI5 or MI6? Or was this something else altogether, a false flag operation by the ISI, SVR, Mossad, even CIA? Ahmed Yousef had spent years in the company of some of the most renowned terrorists in the world. Any number of countries would relish the chance to question him, given the opportunity.
As soon as Becky had said the words, Vine had turned and started walking. There was every possibility they were using her to draw him out and give themselves a chance to bring him in. His first move was counter-intuitive, making straight for an entrance next to the Shangri-La hotel and into the queue for the lift. He felt the doors close around him now. He had checked his surroundings as he left the entrance to Guy’s hospital. There was no way of knowing how large the team might be. If this was a full A Branch op from Thames House, there could be anywhere up to a dozen plainclothes stationed around the area. He thought back to the watcher trailing him in Oxford and wondered whether they had been monitoring him ever since his suspension, waiting for him to arrive at the hospital and use the evidence against him in court.
A Branch were good, though mainly culled from the police. They were efficient and methodical, but had never developed that extra gear that came from doing this under mortal danger. No matter how intense the pressure felt on the streets of London, it couldn’t compare with Jerusalem, Riyadh or Tripoli. Every muscle locked into rhythm now, his senses heightened. He had allowed himself this risk only because he was sure he could get himself out of it. He still was.
The lift began to whirr up. As soon as the doors opened at level 33 of the Shard, Vine knew he would have a matter of seconds to act. He tensed now, rehearsing his strategy. As the doors pinged apart, he disguised himself behind the huddle in front. He had scoped this place before he recruited Becky, just for such an eventuality. He took a second to acclimatize to the geography of it again. There were cloakrooms straight ahead, a desk where guests could leave coats and belongings on his left and then the entrance to the restaurant further up on the right.
Vine quickened his pace as if heading straight on and then dipped left. This next piece of choreography was the most essential. He waited until the attendant at the desk turned, and then shrugged off his dark-blue jumper and let it fall to the floor, while simultaneously scooping up a long overcoat from a rack nearby and a brown cap hanging from the adjacent peg. By the time the attendant looked back round, Vine was already at the emergency exit leading down to the service entrance on the ground floor.
As he treaded noiselessly down the endless flights of stairs, Vine listened for the sound of any movement behind or in front. If a watcher had spotted him entering the lift, they would now be spilling out on to the restaurant floor.
Vine began taking two steps at a time. There was still a chance A Branch could have operatives placed outside, but it would be too difficult for any watchers to track him by his facial features alone. They relied on the generic markers of clothing, height, weight and stride pattern. Two of those he could alter, first with the costume change and second with a subtly altered gait, helping confuse them further.
He reached the end of the staircase now and eased himself through the double doors ahead. He angled his face down and continued at a reasonable speed through a series of snaking corridors until he found himself in a patchily carpeted hallway leading to the exit. He reached the door and checked for any obvious watcher mistakes: newspaper pages being reread, monotonous body movement, a finger unconsciously drifting towards an earpiece.
He saw two possible hostiles in a position that gave them a reasonable sightline. He waited another minute until a couple strolling down the street moved in front of him.
Vine used the opportunity to shadow them towards the row of taxis outside the Shangri-La. With the vehicles blocking the watchers’ view, Vine escaped to his right and began walking down St Thomas Street.
It was too risky taking a taxi so near to the Shard in case A Branch had planted one of their own as a driver. Instead, he walked on for several minutes, waiting until one emerged from the opposite direction on Borough High Street. He hailed it and, with one final scan of the area, disappeared inside.
‘Chelsea,’ he said, holding two twenty-pound notes and slipping them across to the driver. ‘Take the
scenic route.’
27
There was something calming about routine. Masks were dropped for a second, all artifice redundant. Up ahead, a cleaner was inspecting the bins, trussing up bags fat with stained cups and wrappers. Vine sipped again at his takeaway Starbucks filter and dipped into the McDonald’s carton, chewing down the last of the lukewarm fries.
He crunched the carton in half and drained the rest of the coffee. He was tired and weary of the procession of disappointment. But it was more than that. He had hoped to stare Ahmed Yousef in the face. He had wanted justice and revenge. But, far more importantly, he had wanted the truth. Now order seemed eternally splintered, chaos taking its place.
As he stood, he tried to resist the sharper fears that suggested themselves. He knew he had been reckless recruiting Becky and visiting the hospital while the investigation continued. It was enough for him to be chucked out of the Service. Guilt began to percolate through him. Would they try and get to him via her? Either way, all contact would now have to end. Deep down, Vine knew he had used her. She deserved better than to be tarred with his own disgrace.
He scanned down the street and memorized the vehicles he could, then started the walk back to Wellington Square. He checked around for any remaining signs of physical surveillance. There was one figure near a pub on his right, loitering with a pint in his hand; a woman was walking her dog up ahead. Behind him, he caught an elderly couple shuffling down the street. He knew the tricks. There was no end to potential paranoia. The more innocuous they looked the more dangerous they could be. He was almost sure he had shaken off the watchers from the hospital, careful to duck every camera he knew of in the area. But if they had a full team on him there was still a chance they could have picked him up somewhere. There was no way of ever knowing for sure. Instead, the suspicion metastasized inside of you, killing off all healthy thoughts until you were left with nothing but a lingering dread.
My Name Is Nobody Page 10