My Name Is Nobody

by Matthew Richardson

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cartier.

  Vine didn’t take his eyes off Cartier’s expression, dissecting every flicker. He kept his voice steady. ‘I was under the impression from someone else that you’d been at Christ Church, Oxford together? A don called Mohammed Ressam. Some sort of mutual connection.’

  Whatever else, he had to admire the sheer nerveless confidence of Olivia Cartier. If she was acting, it was an Oscar-worthy performance: a dawning realization in the eyes, lips curving into another half-smile, a hand brushing casually through the hair. ‘I’m rather ashamed to say that I spent most of my three years debating at the Union … But, no, if you say so, I’m sure that’s correct. Always thought Professor Ressam was a bit of an odd character, to be honest.’ Her phone started buzzing. ‘My next appointment, I’m afraid. The diary is crazy today. My PA must be trying to track me down.’

  Soon they were walking back to Westminster Hall. Vine glanced around and noticed the space was buzzing with workmen slipping down a doorway on the right, banishing the throng of tourists. A notice had been placed at the bottom of the stairs: NOTE TO MEMBERS: WWII COMMEMORATION PREPARATION – PLEASE EXCUSE TEMPORARY DISRUPTION.

  As they reached the steps down to St Stephen’s Entrance, Cartier turned to him. ‘You know, I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘There was one final thing my contact said. Apparently the word is that all this has to do with that poor chap who got tangled up with your lot. The one Valentine Amory’s so concerned about.’

  Vine froze. ‘Ahmed Yousef?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cartier. ‘I don’t know the details. But my contact is certain it’s all somehow connected to Yousef.’

  31

  It was quiet on the Circle line back to Sloane Square, the usual assortment of freelancers, tourists, students and the retired, wearing school-trip smiles. Vine ignored them all as he emerged from the station and walked back towards Wellington Square. Irritation seemed to consume his body. He closed the door and headed straight for the wine rack, removing two bottles of red and drinking from the first as he treaded up the stairs.

  He let the rest of the day dissolve in a funk of wine and cigarettes. He checked the cricket scores, then his trading position, pleased to find he was still up on the week.

  He picked up his battered copy of Tristram Shandy, always the perfect book for moods like these. Only after several hours did undiluted frustration begin to energize him. He felt a whole-body craving for some form of mental release. There was one slip that Olivia Cartier had made, a slip he could use to his advantage now.

  She had mentioned trying to read Gabriel Wilde’s full file. As a security-cleared MP, a former member of the Intelligence and Security Committee and PPS to the Defence Secretary, she would have the right to see it. So far, Vine felt like he had reached an impasse. If Wilde was the Nobody mole Ahmed Yousef had mentioned in the transcript, how did that connect with the MIDAS operation in September 2011? Newton had left both those names behind in the safe deposit box for a reason. Somehow the truth lay in the connection between the MIDAS operation and Wilde’s position as the Nobody mole, a truth Newton had only glimpsed properly on the night he died. To answer that question, Vine knew he had to get his hands on Wilde’s full file.

  Flush with the drinking, he went upstairs and exhumed his best suit, one of the first fitted Savile Row pieces he had ever bought. He took a taxi to Oxford Street and purchased a new phone and SIM card, then sat in a branch of Costa near St James’s Church and used the free wi-fi to download PDFs of the Parliamentary Estate, debating how to go about breaking into the most famous collection of buildings on the planet.

  From the maps and his recent experience, he knew his best shot was through Derby Gate, the most lightly guarded entrance of all with one sleepy police box nestled alongside the back of the Red Lion pub. The entrance at Portcullis House was the most heavily guarded, followed by 1 Parliament Street and St Stephen’s. Derby Gate it would have to be. He clicked off and began flicking through the websites of various MPs. He started compiling details for his legend, learning how to inhabit the character and speak the language, pulling trivia from various different figures to tailor the disguise he needed.

  In case the authorities later tried to ID him through tracking his movements on CCTV, he walked back to Victoria and began some light counter-surveillance, losing himself in the concourse of the station. Then he took the Victoria line to Oxford Circus and doubled back to Green Park, before taking the Jubilee line to Westminster. By the time he emerged from the Parliament Street exit at Westminster station, he was confident he would delay anyone scrolling through the tapes.

  He approached the Derby Gate turn from Whitehall and the sight of the Red Lion pub, the hardened members of the parliamentary drinking corps packed noisily on the pavement outside.

  It was the perfect time for a simple distraction exercise, straight out of the Fort handbook. Unexpectedly, he felt a trace of anxiety settle on him, like a bruise midway through healing. It had been a while since he had done this properly and the cost of a mishap here could be fatal. He rubbed his palms dry and tried to shrug off the effect of the booze.

  Then he started. He elbowed his way among the groups and spotted a foreign trade contingent clustered on the pavement, on to their sixth pint of London Pride. All it took was two moves: the drink was spilt with the left hand and the first punch simultaneously swung with the right. He ducked out as the shock gave way to recrimination and more punches started flying. A flutter of concern spread from the other drinkers on the pavement, the policeman only stirring from his booth when one man fell to the floor.

  As the policeman began physically restraining two inebriated bureaucrats from further lunges, Vine took the opening. He disappeared through the heavy iron gates and vaulted over the metal barrier only ever lifted in the event of the Prime Minister walking across from Number 10, then scurried past the overweight time-servers in the security booth on his right. Both were laughing. There was the crackle of the TV in the background. They were oblivious.

  He found himself in a deserted car park with the two flights of stairs to the back of the Norman Shaw South building ahead. He calmed his breathing and paced his stride.

  This was the moment to test the first part of the plan: the strength of his legend. It was a convention that doorkeepers in the Palace and the police memorized the faces of all 650 Members of Parliament, never asking for their passes. Vine had duly created another legend for himself while sipping his coffee – Sam Henderson, MP for East Norfolk, first elected in 2015, recently voted on to the Health Select Committee. It wouldn’t fool anyone with a computer, but it would get him out of a tight spot with a tired police guard.

  He walked on, seeing one police officer, then another. He strode past without flinching, daring them to insubordination. If he could survive this, he was through. He waited for the pause, the throat-clearing, the request to see his pass.

  Both nodded. Neither asked him for anything.

  Timing was key to the plan working. The Palace was alive at night Monday to Thursday. From Thursday evening to the weekend it died a slow death, MPs wheeling their cases out to the Tube and back to the constituency for a long weekend of visits and engagements. The Diplomatic Protection Group tasked with guarding the Palace shed half its number. If he could ever get away with this, it was now.

  He walked up the two flights of steps into Norman Shaw South and along the tiled entrance. His chest was still thumping, a film of sweat on his forehead. A voice told him this was wrong. He should turn back now, lessen the possible charges if he was caught. The press would have a field day. Parliament was itchy about its independence. Any suggestion the intelligence services were snooping without permission would cause panic in the corridors of Whitehall. What he was about to do was reckless in the extreme. Yet he kept going, through another doorway and up a winding staircase seemingly without end.

  There was no other sound. He didn’t stop moving until he reached the fourth floor. With every
turn, he expected a door to creak open behind him, a rush of voices and questions. But there was just more silence, dead and tuneless.

  He walked along the main corridor until he found Room 406 near the end. Now he was beyond the point where he could turn back, too far in to escape his decision. He ducked down and checked for any signs of light underneath the doorframe. But there was nothing. Olivia Cartier would surely have left by now, back to Kensington ready to put in a long Friday trying to increase her majority. He checked the two offices either side. The lights were off too. It was perfectly still. There was nothing but the dull red blink of the TV monitor in the hall.

  He allowed himself a second of thought before he made his final decision, waiting for any new sound. Then he stepped back, tensed his upper body and charged forwards. With a surgical thud, the door gave slightly but held fast. Two tries later, it opened, springing forwards with a sudden lurch and throwing him head-first into the room.

  He regained his balance and stayed motionless for a second. Had anyone heard him? The building wasn’t equipped with motion sensors or any form of advanced inbuilt security. He waited for the scrape of approaching footsteps, sweat oozing from his forehead to his neck, dripping into the collar of his jacket. He turned and found himself looking round a barn-like office peering across the Thames. Allowing his eyes to fully adjust to the darkness, he saw four desks spread throughout the room and a variety of chairs that leaked foam. He shouldn’t be here. And yet, somehow, he still couldn’t leave.

  He would give himself no more than five minutes. Pushing the door closed, he took a deep lungful of air, his brain threatening to cloud over. He had to keep moving.

  He worked his way round to what he presumed was the PA’s desk with the spray of pens and Post-it notes. Turning on the PC, he began sorting through the various sheets of paper nearby. Every few seconds he paused, the rattle of the old windows in their frames sounding ominously like movement. He forced himself to continue. Minutes later he spotted a single A4 sheet with KEY CONTACTS written in a bold title across the top.

  The A4 sheet listed everyone’s email address and phone number. Vine turned the page over and saw with relief a scrawl of loopy blue biro: USERNAME (jenkinssd) PASSWORD (sept2888). The Lenovo PC jolted to life. He replaced the CONTACTS sheet and typed in the username and password. Once in, he loaded up Outlook and checked through the account. The inbox showed not just the PA’s account but a main MP address as well. As he began scrolling through, he could already hear the list of charges: breaking and entering, illegal surveillance, espionage against his own government. The evidence would be laid out clearly, the fruit of days spent tapping his every move and conversation, the judge gleefully weighing up sentence.

  Vine refocused his attention on the screen. There was an array of press releases and diary appointments. He had hoped that it might be linked into another email account used for Olivia’s personal correspondence. But there was nothing.

  He looked at the round white clock on the wall, watching the minutes slip away, knowing he couldn’t stay here much longer. And yet all this couldn’t be for nothing. He scanned the other desks, picking his way through piles of magazines, press cuttings, headed stationery and envelopes. He was getting careless of the sound now, feeling his breathing become heavier. The drink was pulling him down. He had to keep sharp for just a few more seconds.

  He walked over to the desk closest to the window at the end. It was tidier than the others with a bookshelf behind. This had to be Olivia’s desk for constituency work, odds and ends when waiting for a vote and too tired to bother dragging her way back to the Ministry of Defence. The desk was ordered, dusty at the edges but clear of paper. The PC wasn’t switched on, pens and photos cluttered either side. He turned and tried to battle free of disappointment. Then he saw the bag on the green sofa by the mini-fridge near the coat hangers at the entrance.

  He cursed himself and the drink for not spotting it earlier. It was a nondescript shoulder bag, roomy enough to haul around files and papers for constituency work.

  A sound echoed outside, like a door creaking. He paused, waiting for a second noise – a cough, the scrape of shoe leather on worn carpet, the sound of a voice.

  Then he moved towards the bag and zipped it open. Inside, he found three files fat with paper. He pulled them out, reading the labels on the top of each: CASEWORK, KENSINGTON ASSOCIATION, PARLIAMENTARY. He flicked through the first two and found nothing more than email printouts and draft flyers. Next he reached for the Parliamentary folder, knowing there was a chance that any further clues could be hidden in here. Surrounded by phalanxes of armed police, it was all too easy for many MPs to be careless with operational security.

  Vine flicked through lists of votes and messages from backbenchers until he found one note tucked away at the back, dated the previous day. He unfurled it carefully. It was on headed notepaper from the Prime Minister’s PPS and sent with a compliments slip through the internal parliamentary postal service.

  He opened it fully and began to try and decipher the spidery hand:

  Olivia,

  PM asked me to arrange a meeting. Needs to be in person. Late tomorrow (Thurs) looking best, before she heads off to Chequers. Commons Office, not Number 10. Slightly delicate – about an application to see a file? – so instructions not to text, email or phone.

  Yrs,

  EW

  Vine paused on the last sentence: application to see a file. Surely it had to be the file on Gabriel Wilde. He took out his phone and snapped two photos, then stowed it back in his pocket.

  His reflexes slowed for a minute as he tried to analyse the implications. By the time he began to consider the full weight of the other sentences – Late tomorrow (Thurs) looking best … Commons Office, not Number 10 – the sudden drumbeat of sound outside had already grown too near. Vine willed it to be his own paranoia, evaporating on closer inspection. But the sound was unmistakable: a rhythmic tap of movement, building slowly.

  There was a fatal semi-second delay in reaction, the booze gumming up his reflexes. He barely had time to replace the note or the folder before he heard the door being shoved ajar. Light pitched through from the hallway. Olivia Cartier’s voice, newly returned from serenading the Prime Minister, sounded behind him.

  There was a moment of astonished silence, then an accusatory bleat of shock: ‘Vine … what the hell are you doing here?’

  32

  The Fort training manual treasured one clear principle. Running was a last resort. The adroit move as an intelligence officer cornered in hostile territory was to scope the surroundings – elegant tradecraft usually dictated this was done well before any operation – and then try and talk your way free. The cover story had to be watertight and the explanation fluent. If that failed to work, the second option was to seek cover as a member of the British Diplomatic Service and invoke the power of the embassy and the threat of inevitable geopolitical upheaval. Only the most self-confident of FSB and MSS recruits wanted to claim responsibility for sparking a diplomatic incident and incurring the wrath of NATO. Only if either of the first two moves were impossible did you think about a third – trusting your legs to outrun a bullet.

  As Vine assessed his options now, he tried to remember these lessons. But he knew they were no use. It was not so much the act he had committed, but the implications that would be drawn. He was already on the brink of expulsion from Vauxhall Cross. Continuing Newton’s quest off the books would be considered intolerably bad manners; breaking into the office of an aide to one of the most senior members of the British government would be borderline treason. It could be shaped into evidence for any number of maladies – a psychotic episode, a nervous breakdown or, worse still, potential evidence of working for a foreign power, smuggling secrets as an agent in place.

  There was a split second as Olivia Cartier reached for the light switch behind her. Vine had already discounted the idea of trying to escape via the windows that panelled the right-hand wall. Behind him
was a door that led directly into another large open-plan office. But it would be bolted shut now, and the effort to unbolt it would allow Olivia time he didn’t have. If he wanted to escape from this, he knew there was only one option.

  As he saw her attention flicker momentarily towards the light switch, he moved. There were only a few metres between them, allowing him to reach the door handle in three steps and bundle into the hallway in another two. The light was better here. He had memorized the floor-plans from the PDFs and let his mind skim the possibilities. The distance was less important than spotting the gap in security. Norman Shaw South was on the edge of the Parliamentary Estate. The Derby Gate entrance he had come in was the most sparsely guarded, but the crowds outside the Red Lion pub would be able to spot the exfil more easily than the arrival. The main Portcullis House entrance, meanwhile, was limited to passholders.

  That left two options. The 1 Parliament Street exit would be the shorter, but it meant navigating the echo-chamber of Portcullis House and then the potential snare of the police monitoring station near the Parliament Street doors. One glance by the DPG guard on duty, and the doors could be locked automatically.

  So to the final option. As Vine dipped left, he visualized the rest of the route in his mind. There were four flights of stairs down to the ground floor of Norman Shaw South, then a further flight and a walkway across to the right-side entrance to Portcullis House. That was a simple swing door, not limited to passholders only. Straight ahead lay the second most dangerous part, an exposed line straight ahead to the escalators that purred downwards to a glassy exit on the left functioning as a hidden thoroughfare directly into Westminster Tube station. There was a chance it would have one member of the Diplomatic Protection Group still patrolling it. But it was a risk he would now have to take.