My Name Is Nobody

by Matthew Richardson

  He was sick of the vigilance. As an act of defiance, he removed a pair of earbuds from his pocket and slotted them into place, trying to fake some kind of normality. He tapped on a Radio 4 podcast, catching a section on the Syrian civil war, Valentine Amory’s voice reaching out to him: The truth is that no country is truly immune from the dangers of the secret state. I believe that Ahmed Yousef could have been any one of us: an innocent man harassed by unaccountable forces within the intelligence world. All of us fighting for his rights as a citizen must take the strongest possible stand against this secret tyranny.

  Vine considered what new plans Amory could be hatching now, before quickly changing to Handel’s Music for the Royal Fireworks and trying to calm his nerves. Secret tyranny. All he could think of as the dark shape of other cars fizzed past him was Yousef awake, walking these same streets, haunting his every move.

  He kept a close watch on other vehicles, changing his pace and taking odd diversions, anything to flush out a tail. But, as far as he could tell, he was clean. No one had followed him back from the Shard. He looped round Wellington Square twice and then let himself relax another fatal fraction as he unlocked the front door, realizing he was too restless for sleep.

  Instead, he made his way into the library and towards the safe in the far corner of the room. He crouched and entered the six-digit passcode and waited as the door clicked open. From inside, he took out the thick volume Gabriel Wilde had sent him. He carried it over to the leather reading chair beside the window and began flicking through it again.

  He felt all the fragments of this case needle him. He recalled Ahmed Yousef’s body in the interrogation room in Istanbul, waylaid by an invisible attacker; Newton’s final message at the train station before his body was found sprawled on the train tracks, and the truth he had discovered that supposedly made sense of everything; the transcript of the interrogation between Alexander Cecil and Yousef about the mole within British intelligence codenamed Nobody; the blanked-out file on the MIDAS operation; and, finally, Gabriel Wilde’s disappearance, a life vanishing cleanly without trace.

  Somehow, in some way, there was an underlying logic here which he still couldn’t quite grasp – the MIDAS operation connecting with the identity of the Nobody mole and the fate of Gabriel Wilde.

  Vine put down the book and moved over to his desk. He reached for the box by his side and started unwrapping a new MacBook Air, routing it through a pay-as-you-go dongle, knowing it was more than likely that GCHQ would be all over his old computers. Familiarizing himself with the feel of the laptop, he began searching for any news items about a body found at Cheltenham train station; nothing, however, appeared beyond the preliminary reports he had already read. Officialdom had swooped, a D-Notice hurriedly issued to the press. But what did that mean? Could this all be far bigger than paper trails and redacted files? Were things returning to the days when intelligence officials could be silenced on home soil? The world was more unstable than ever, meaning there was every chance that Newton could have been taken out for reasons much loftier than whatever investigation he was pursuing off the grid. Newton had spent a lifetime hoarding secrets and enemies. Who was to say one of those enemies hadn’t returned to settle an old score? Not for the first time, Vine wondered if he was looking in entirely the wrong direction.

  He shut down the MacBook and poured himself a large measure of Scotch. Then he stood at the window and tried to still the current of his thoughts. The harder he tried to fix the pieces into a pattern, the more impossible the task would become. The key was to let the evidence build until the pattern seemed to evolve naturally, slowly denying all other hypotheses.

  He downed the last swirl of Scotch and placed the empty tumbler on the side-table. Then he picked up Wilde’s copy of The Odyssey, glancing over the inscription, still sure that there was something else buried there. He had tried teasing apart all possible connotations in the words, yet the meaning remained as elusive as ever. Something about that last line still didn’t make sense.

  Take care of Rose for me …

  He was about to return the book to the safe when a page fell open near the middle. Vine began to scan through it, idly rolling the lines around his tongue. The leather cover was prim and solid, and the pages felt luxurious to the fingertips. It was such a handsome volume. Of all possible books, why would Gabriel Wilde send him this?

  He looked back up at the top of the page and then stopped, feeling a wave of tiredness mix with the effect of the Scotch, momentarily numbing his reflexes. He closed his eyes and looked at the line again, sure he was imagining things. But there could be no doubt.

  He cursed himself for being so dismissive. His world was logic, patterns, proofs and theorems. Though he could fluke an answer on art and literature, he had always been in no doubt about Wilde’s greater depth of expertise. There was only so much time on earth to read, and he had concentrated his powers elsewhere.

  But as he stared at the line again, he wondered if that would now be his downfall. He began to try fitting the line into context. The passage revolved around arguably the first black ops mission in recorded literature. Odysseus is trapped in the cave of Polyphemus. Faced with certain death, he pioneers an escape through a textbook act of misinformation, lying his way to freedom.

  As Vine read the line again now, he could feel the first suggestion of a pattern fix into place. It was far beyond logic. It was an act of flawed humanity – a boast, a taunt, a confession. From the riddle of information and names, a truth was starting to emerge, helping everything else fit into a new kind of order, a truth that Cosmo Newton had only fully grasped before he died. Gabriel Wilde was assuming the mantle of the first secret agent. Like Odysseus, he was proclaiming to the world a truth about who he really was.

  For when asked for his name by Polyphemus, Odysseus replies: ‘My name is Nobody’.

  28

  2013

  For some reason, he always remembers the flowers. At Heathrow, there was someone setting up a flower stall at the arrivals gate, one man with his row of brittle bouquets.

  ‘Any red roses?’ Vine asks, trying to juggle his wallet amid the plethora of luggage.

  ‘One bunch left, I think,’ he says. ‘Someone special, is it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Vine says. He realizes for the first time he is not saying it ironically, feeling both pleased and compromised at once.

  He is a week early and he will surprise her. There have been no texts as forewarning. He will just show up at the door and see the look on her face and the dance of surprise in her eyes. He has called in a favour and rolled some leave time together so he can have an extended break back in London debating with Rose what to do next. There are so many details to fix: a date for the wedding, a venue, a guest list. And then the reality of life beyond. Should he try and get another job in the private sector, one that doesn’t involve so much travel, allowing her to stay at Thames House while he earns some proper money?

  Yet, as Vine collects the flowers and wheels his suitcases out towards the taxi rank, he realizes how much he has come to enjoy these details. During every interminable meeting, every new horror he is faced with, he has treasured the calls with Rose. Amid the squalor of life on the frontline, she is a reminder that there is something worth fighting for.

  He waits for a taxi, gives the address of Rose’s flat in Vauxhall and then sinks back. He wants a proper bath, to watch good TV and to relish the comforts of his own bed, of his own fiancée. A few weeks away from the agonies of conflict and he will be ready to face it again, be able to view footage of convoys blown up, soldiers with limbs missing, the tear-stained faces of grieving families. But for now he cherishes the illusion of peace.

  He gets the taxi to drop him off a few minutes away, savouring the walk, inhaling the smell and the chirp of voices and the calm of it all. He debates what he will say when he sees Rose, the shock of surprise on her face and the delights of the evening that await him.

  He turns left, back rigid from the loa
d of the rucksack and hands sore from dragging the too-heavy cases behind him. The monotony of a sleepless flight aches at him now.

  Taking out the key Rose has given him from his jacket pocket, he unlocks the front door and forces his way in with the cases. He treads lightly up the stairs to the first-floor flat, careful not to make too much noise and eliminate the element of surprise. Once up, he pauses before knocking.

  He stands, feeling his heart juddering hard, the adrenaline breaking through the tiredness from the flight. Feet are heard, then a voice, or voices. He wonders for a minute if she has workmen in, the landlord finally sending someone to fix the ceiling light in the main room. The sound moves closer, the door swishing open.

  He looks up, smile at the ready.

  There – hair still wet from the shower, towel in hand, blocking the door of the flat – is the unlikely figure of Gabriel Wilde.

  29

  Vine stood motionless for a second. It had been staring him in the face all along, and yet he had missed it. He looked at the line again and then repeated Ahmed Yousef’s words from the transcript in Newton’s file.

  I know for certain that there is a mole somewhere within the intelligence services … His codename is Nobody …

  He thought back to his own interrogation with Ahmed Yousef. He had been so sure he had seen Gabriel Wilde’s car drive away from the compound on the CCTV screen. Yet what if it had all been an illusion? Wilde was meant to be the only one on duty that day, handling the interrogation alone. He must have panicked. Once the truth about the Nobody mole was exposed, it would be the beginning of the end.

  He looked down at the copy of The Odyssey again, the inscription charged with a fresh energy.

  Dear Solomon,

  In case we don’t meet again, I want you to have this. All wisdom lies in this book. Take care of Rose for me.

  Yours,

  Gabriel

  The words made a new kind of sense. The first line confirmed it: Gabriel Wilde had known exactly what he was about to do, the snatch job executed to fool the world, every detail of the crime scene planned with forensic precision. Now the book contained Wilde’s final confession and boast.

  As Vine felt the first part of the pattern begin to cohere, his thoughts turned to Newton’s body on the tracks. Even Wilde wouldn’t be foolish enough to smuggle his way back into the country he had betrayed so thoroughly. If Newton’s death was suspicious, where did that leave him? Moving over to his desk and picking up his jacket, he thought back to his interview with Professor Turnbull at Oxford and the Prophets group at Christ Church. He plunged his hand into the right-hand pocket and felt his fingers shape around crumpled card.

  He took it out and stared again at the decorative portcullis symbol. There was one part of this that was still shrouded in mystery, perhaps the key to finding out the truth about Newton’s death. Outside the system, Vauxhall Cross wouldn’t give him the time of day. Only one contact still had access to the product he needed, the poisoned chalice of the Parliamentary Private Secretary. He had to try and find out more about Operation MIDAS and probe for any further links with the Prophets group at Oxford.

  Vine got out his mobile and opened a new email account he had just set up, tapping out a quick message.

  Olivia,

  Forgive the intrusion, but we spoke recently about Gabriel Wilde. I’ve been keeping my ear to the ground, and I think I may have some news for you.

  Yours,

  Solomon Vine

  He added the address and pressed send. Then he pocketed the phone, poured another measure of Scotch and waited.

  30

  Despite the busyness, Central Lobby nevertheless remained hushed, an almost churchy quality to the silent statues guarding each corner. From the Chamber to their left, MPs darted out, clutching papers and trailing staff. Faces Vine vaguely remembered shuffled towards the entrance to the House of Lords on their right, features obscured by tufts of snowy hair and tinfoil skin. A BBC reporter was pacing back and forth nervously with his earpiece in, ready to deliver his verdict straight to camera.

  Olivia Cartier led on as they moved through the East Corridor and into the Lower Waiting Hall, then right towards the Pugin Room. The CCTV cameras here were subtle but visible, Vine noting the exact positions. He wondered now whether an analyst in Cheltenham was getting a flag on his facial recognition software. Physical watchers like the team around Guy’s hospital worked for intimidation these days, rattling a suspect and forcing them into easy errors. Tabs could be kept largely through digital means. Despite his precautions, there was no sure way of evading the blinking eye at every street corner. Did they already have an active file on him? How much had they clocked and what would they do with it? They wouldn’t play their hand immediately, but bide their time instead, watching and waiting.

  He tried to dismiss the thoughts as Olivia moved towards a table in the far corner and ordered tea for two. It was quiet, only one other party on the opposite side of the room sipping at an orange juice and mineral water. Vine enjoyed the heavy colouring and golden shimmer, the sense of solidity to it all, like some sort of establishment copyright, echoed across the grander quads, colleges and dining halls of England.

  ‘So … it was good to hear from you,’ said Cartier, crossing her legs and gesticulating with her finely decorated teaspoon. ‘I was very sorry to hear about Cosmo Newton’s death.’

  Vine nodded, still feeling the reality of the words press on him. Cartier’s tone was calm and measured; the gossip in Whitehall must still be of a heart attack, an accident of some kind. ‘Yes. Very sad.’

  ‘Given the previous conversation we had about Gabriel, I hope it’s slightly better news. One hears all sorts of rumours. His file was, well …’

  ‘You’ve requested to see Wilde’s file?’

  ‘Probably not something to admit,’ she said, quickly brushing the indiscretion aside. ‘So is this better news?’

  Vine placed his cup down. ‘Not exactly,’ he said.

  Cartier uncrossed her legs and shuffled forwards in her seat. She looked at Vine, before finally sweeping the room to make sure she couldn’t be overheard. ‘You haven’t discovered any operation Gabriel was conducting, then? Anything that might explain things? Have you talked to Cecil?’

  The four words from Wilde’s book continued to bellow at him: My name is Nobody. If Wilde really was confessing, then he would have others in place to help him with his cause. People he knew and trusted, their friendship of a decent vintage. Vine could still hear Professor Turnbull sitting in a room similar to this, merrily ripping apart Olivia Cartier’s account of her own history. Was it possible that she was involved; had, in fact, been quietly playing him all along?

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘The Defence Secretary got a briefing yesterday from the Director of Global Operations at Vauxhall Cross. The National Security Council is thinking of raising the threat level from severe to critical. They’ve been picking up more chatter from Islamist cells about another attack on London, some major financial or political target.’

  Vine didn’t betray his surprise. ‘You think it might be somehow connected to Wilde’s situation?’

  ‘You tell me,’ said Cartier. ‘But Number 10 is nervous.’

  ‘And the attack itself?’ said Vine. ‘What does Defence Intelligence make of it? You must liaise quite closely on behalf of the Secretary of State.’

  Cartier laughed. ‘Defence Intelligence doesn’t like political interference, that’s what they make of it. But I like to keep my contacts fresh, people I knew when serving on the ISC.’

  ‘You have contacts in all three services?’

  Cartier was still sitting forwards. ‘Yes. But a very good one in MI5. Makes sure the Secretary of State isn’t getting set up by the top brass.’

  Vine couldn’t help but feel himself drawn in by Olivia Cartier. She had a magnetic confidence to her, almost an imitation of Wilde. Each anecdote was plotted with storyteller precision.

>   ‘What has your contact told you?’

  Cartier wiped something from her eye, shifting slightly in the seat, as if nervous about what she was going to say. ‘The working theory is sometime in the next few weeks. For all we know this isn’t just coming out of the usual places any more. If this is IS or AQSL opening up another front in Western Europe, we may have to consider military action again.’

  Vine nodded. He tried to concentrate on the present and stop his mind spinning. ‘And do you think that timeline is credible?’

  Cartier tamed a loose wisp of hair back into place, then relaxed into her chair again. ‘Doesn’t matter if it’s credible, does it? If it’s even plausible, we have to be seen to act. The key question is what happens after an attack. No one wants more names recited at the start of PMQs. Number 10 will do anything to avoid that.’

  Vine looked around the room and saw that the two other drinkers had left the table and were paying at the counter. He knew his next question would be a futile one, but he had to ask it all the same. ‘And does your contact at MI5 have a name?’

  Cartier smiled. ‘A good politician, like a good spy, keeps her counsel. For their sake, as much as mine. I know what you lot are like. But I make no apology. We either have an informed democracy, or we don’t. It’s that simple.’

  Vine reflected her smile in acknowledgement. All the while his mind hurt with questions, still unable to see how all the strands might connect. Some part of him wasn’t sure they ever would.

  The room was now empty apart from the waitress rearranging cutlery at the serving counter to their right. ‘Going back to our previous conversation, I remember you saying you only got to know Gabriel Wilde when he was seconded to Whitehall liaison.’