My Name Is Nobody

by Matthew Richardson

Once clear of that, Vine would have free passage down the tunnelling of the colonnade straight ahead into New Palace Yard. Though there would be a sprinkling of security, he could pass as a Member of Parliament for long enough to clear the barriers directly outside the entrance to Westminster Hall. The last part would be the riskiest. Westminster Hall was a barn-like space, riddled with DPG guards further on in Central Lobby. The one slice of luck he needed was space enough to disappear right through the wooden doors of St Stephen’s Entrance and out in the direction of the House of Lords.

  As he reached the final flight of stairs at Norman Shaw South, he tried to calculate how long it would take to send an alert to all DPG guards currently in the Palace. During the day, the lines would be continuously staffed, any message relayed with pinpoint speed. But he had to hope that the time of night would work in his favour. The DPG guards would be lured into complacency by the hour, Olivia struggling for an extra minute or two to locate the lead officer on duty. An extra minute was all he needed.

  He knew there was no time to question the plan. Speed was the only thing that would save him, trusting the bureaucratic sludge of alerts and authorizations to slow down any response. He flew through the double doors towards the side entrance to Portcullis House and then gently slowed his pace. There was a chance he could encounter a member of staff still packing the place up for the night.

  As he entered the main atrium of Portcullis House, Vine glanced left then right. It was empty apart from one figure at the far end steering a mop in circles around the floor. He made himself slow further, keeping his tread light to try and slip past without giving away his position. He kept a close watch, waiting for her to turn at any moment. But the figure remained fixed on the task. As he reached the edge of the escalator, he saw a thin trail down the figure’s right-hand side. She was wearing earbuds and listening to music, cut off from the world.

  He took the escalator two steps at a time, balancing his weight on the front of his feet to dampen the noise. He fastened his jacket tighter and then marched forwards at a brisk tempo, not even turning to check whether there was a DPG guard in the booth on his left monitoring any final departures for the Tube.

  It was as he reached the gloomy colonnade leading towards Westminster Hall that he heard the first stirrings behind him. There was the sound of multiple footsteps on the tiled flooring above the escalator, soon followed by the crackle of a radio and a man’s voice closer by asking for the information to be repeated.

  Vine pressed forwards, moving to a quicker pace as he neared the end of the colonnade. Ahead he could see two DPG guards at the exit on to St Margaret Street. He began to veer right across the cobbles of New Palace Yard towards the barriers in front of Westminster Hall.

  Voices spilled out behind him, the contours of the sound fragmenting down the long distance of the colonnade. Vine knew he didn’t have enough time to consider a back-up plan. He broke into a run now, vaulting over the waist-high barriers in front of him and bounding forwards towards the heavy wooden double doors leading into Westminster Hall.

  He pulled the right-hand door open and spotted three DPG guards narrowing in from his left. Already, he could hear more voices from his right. The alert must have been confirmed. Every DPG guard was now looking for the suspect who had breached Palace security.

  Vine slipped through the thin doorway. The acoustics of Westminster Hall were different from elsewhere in the Palace. There was no hope of muffling footsteps here, every movement reverberating with a watery echo. He could see the two flights of steps at the far end of the hall. Further up to the right was his escape – the door leading towards St Stephen’s Entrance. He pelted forwards now across the deserted space, pushing his body as hard as it would go. He needed ten seconds more grace and he could do it. Once he was out on to the street, he could lose himself in the mix of cars and foot traffic up towards Millbank. All he needed was one second of hesitation on the part of the DPG guards patrolling the space from Central Lobby.

  He had his foot on the first step, the door through to St Stephen’s no more than a few metres away. Then the space above him began swarming with armed members of the Diplomatic Protection Group, Glock 17s prepped and ready to be used. They seemed to spill in from both right and left, bearing down on him like an invading army. Undone by drink, he had committed the cardinal sin of underestimating them. They had lulled him into a false sense of assurance, letting him through Westminster Hall unscathed so they could regroup and corner him at the end.

  The silence was shattered by a volley of barked orders. For a moment, Vine remained standing where he was, a part of him entranced by the thought of four or five shots being slugged into his system. It would be a better way to go than spending the rest of his days in exile or rotting for his sins at Her Majesty’s pleasure. But as he saw the trigger finger of the lead DPG officer twitch slightly, Vine found his legs folding obediently, his knees cracking on the hardness of the stone floor, his hands raised behind his head and then the heat and bustle of other bodies crowding him into submission.

  There was the pinch of handcuffs being applied, and then a jolt of pain through his body as he was hauled to his feet. Outside, his senses were assaulted by the skirl of blue police lights.

  As he was jammed into the back seat of the waiting car, he turned and caught Olivia Cartier standing outside the doors to Westminster Hall. She had her arms folded, silently watching the scene play out.

  Before he had a chance to read her expression, the car drifted forwards and then accelerated away, shrieking through the darkness.

  33

  The cell mattress at Charing Cross police station was lumpy. Vine held his head in his hands, terrifyingly sober. The place hadn’t seen a cleaner for weeks, reeking of alcohol and sweat. He realized, looking around, that he was no longer protected by the all-forgiving embrace of Vauxhall Cross. There would be no nods and winks on matters of national security. No plainclothes men having quiet words with the Commissioner. He was an outcast, as good as a private citizen.

  He needed a gulp of fresh air, to get away from the stale smell of this place. Instead, he lay back and closed his eyes, the time seeming interminable, minutes as heavy as days. As his head rested against the mattress, the interview replayed in his mind. The blinking eye of the recording machine, the sour smell of the detective inspector with three-day stubble, the rickety table.

  ‘You say you knew Ms Cartier?’

  ‘Not really, no. I’ve met her twice.’

  ‘Twice?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And why did you first contact her?’

  Vine paused. He found himself suddenly aware of all the ways his answers could be interpreted. What had once seemed like common sense was now fanged with doubt. ‘I was following up some leads on a friend of mine.’

  The DI stifled a grin at this point. ‘Following up some leads?’

  ‘Which is not how it sounds.’

  ‘How do you think it sounds? Like you’re some sort of private detective?’

  ‘Not quite.’

  ‘What are you then?’

  Vine had been forced to sign a document when he arrived: name, occupation, address.

  ‘Says here you’re an analyst. Foreign Office. Very grand. Why does an analyst need to follow up leads with a Member of Parliament?’

  Vine was tired of the half-truths. ‘You don’t understand.’

  ‘Enlighten me …’

  Vine folded his arms and leaned back in the seat. To hell with it all. For years he had been governed by an intense fear of what he was about to do, abided by the strict rules of Service secrecy. But loyalty had found him on the scrapheap. He owed them nothing.

  ‘I’m waiting …’ said the DI.

  ‘The truth is I’m not an analyst from the Foreign Office,’ said Vine. ‘I’m an intelligence officer from the Secret Intelligence Service. I was consulting Ms Cartier on a matter of national security.’

  The DI’s grin widened. ‘Wonderful. A petty crimi
nal and a fantasist. Not what you usually get on the night shift, I’ll tell you that.’ He signalled to the PC by the door.

  Vine felt a mounting unease as he was ordered to stand, handcuffed again and led away. Back in the cell, he addressed the back of the departing PC: ‘Call Vauxhall Cross. They can confirm.’ As the cell door shut on him again, he realized with a shudder that they might not.

  A petty criminal and a fantasist. Vine wondered whether that would now be his epitaph.

  34

  2013

  There is something about the night that hides sins. But now, in the first hopeful hours of a new day, the city seems to revitalize itself, to suggest this one could be different. Soon it will evaporate, of course, the dawn rising and shattering the illusion of newness. It will be a day like all the others, spoiled by the wrong temperature, the clouds heavy with intent. Yet the moment is enough, thinks Vine, as he stares along Westminster Bridge; hinting at some nameless perfection always just beyond reach. Enough to keep the world ticking over, refreshing the quest each day.

  Beneath him he can see a boat still chugging dutifully along the Thames, the wind-ruffled water frothing at the edges, a wrapping-paper crinkle in the middle. There is the odd glint ahead, a lone walker, some figure of the night seeking out the dark to cover his trail. Pale-yellow light leaks from buildings along the South Bank, casting a faintly sinister echo of a spotlight, as if any one of these figures is on the brink of exposure.

  For a minute, he experiences a brief rustle of sympathy for those he has spent a lifetime fighting. The same nihilistic drive, the intolerance of boredom and the everyday. As he looks out at the humdrum picture of the city, he has an urgent desire to do away with it all, to start over. He wonders whether another day merely repeating the rhythms of life, the mindless cycle of daily chores, will be the end of him. That the centuries-long smoothing-out of human existence – the elements giving way to the cocoon of the city – is not enough. Anarchy or chaos would be better than such chlorinated nothingness.

  Behind him, Big Ben chimes three in the morning. Vine knows he has no chance of sleeping, too troubled by memories of Gabriel Wilde’s face in the doorway of the flat, of Rose’s passionless apologies. He has already filed his application for a promotion within the counter-espionage team, ensuring he roves the world. He can lose himself in sniffing out security breaches and hunting moles, patrolling the gutter of the secret world, escaping clear of all this.

  He can feel the last traces of optimism fade, the old certainties scab over. For now, he remains there, staring, cast out of the daylight, condemned to be a creature of the night.

  35

  Dim scenery whipped by outside, a colourless swish of activity. Though his body ached with tiredness, he felt energized as he sat staring out of the back of the Range Rover. He was no use padding around police cells or waiting for verdicts. He longed to be back in the action, to savour the beauty of logic and cold, hard reason. Back in the game where he belonged.

  He must have slept for several hours at least, before he heard the clank of the cell door opening. He was bleary-eyed as he saw two plainclothes men standing outside the doorway, asking him to accompany them. For a minute he thought he was still dreaming, until he signed out at the main desk and walked past the same DI shaking his head and muttering something about going to the papers. Ahead was a black Range Rover, the back door open. As he heaved himself in and felt the dip of the leather seats, he realized for the first time that he had no idea where he was being taken.

  They drove for over an hour, the roads uncluttered this early in the morning. There was no way he could be sure, but he didn’t doubt that his captors were MI6, and his destination one of the many safe houses located around the country for agent debriefs and other emergency security protocol. He wondered whether the DI had told them about his outburst. He would be reprimanded, moved from suspended to sacked.

  Only as the car slowed and began winding through thin, muddy country lanes did Vine realize his destination could be far more august. He began to make out the manicured lawns of cottages, the place wrapped in a medieval hush with barely another vehicle to be heard. This wasn’t safe-house country; this was long-weekend territory for Whitehall barons eager to get away from the London rush.

  They turned again, headed left, then indicated. It was as they stopped at a makeshift guard post outside two heavy metal gates that Vine appreciated the full importance of his dawn visit. The driver’s window purred downwards, a pass was flashed, and the gates began whirring open. They taxied forwards gently, crunching over gravel, until the car stopped outside what looked like an old vicarage. Two DPG officers stood either side of the entrance, both armed.

  As the passenger door opened and Vine stepped out, he knew only a handful of figures within the British state were afforded such security: members of the Cabinet with national security portfolios (Foreign Office, Defence, Home Office as well as the residents of Numbers 10 and 11 Downing Street), the Chief of the Defence Staff and the heads of the two London intelligence agencies. He suddenly felt exposed, his suit stained with sweat from the attempted escape, crumpled and tatty from the cell. It usually paid to be smartly dressed when in the presence of ‘C’ himself.

  Vine followed his nameless captors inside the brown door, marvelling at the plush interior. A chandelier swayed above them, the hallway covered in black-and-white tiling. It looked as if it had been cut and pasted from the inside of a glossy magazine. A wide staircase wound upwards to the first floor straight ahead, while several rooms opened up on the right. From one of these came the newsreader baritone Vine had heard more times than he cared to think, deep yet with a hint of a smoker’s rasp. Sir Alexander Cecil filled the doorway in the remnants of a suit, the tie long since abandoned, cuffs curled midway along his arms, right hand brandishing a lit cigar.

  ‘Ah, the thief has returned,’ he said, walking towards Vine, a semi-amused glint in his eyes. ‘Let him be, gentlemen. I can handle the criminal from here on in, I think. Follow me, Vine.’

  Vine saw his entourage back off, condemned to wait for further instructions. He followed Cecil through to a roomy drawing room, full-length windows covered in thick curtains, two large sofas and a weathered armchair set in front of a crackling log fire that hissed and popped in the background.

  ‘Please, please, have a seat,’ Cecil said, settling himself in the brown leather armchair and crossing his legs.

  Vine sat on the far end of the nearest sofa and stared across at Cecil, remembering the last time they had met. Looking at him this close up, he could see why Newton had always resented him. The silvery mane swept back and the thespian brood of the eyes. Newton couldn’t have been more different: reserved, intolerant of flamboyance, dedicated only to the facts of the case and the logic of assumptions. Cecil could back-slap, buy a round, do a turn at the Christmas revue and bring prime ministers and presidents into his confidence. Newton would grow itchy at poor questioning, irritable at flimsy reasoning. Cecil had ascended to be ‘C’ himself, no doubt soon to be elevated to the peerage and, when the moment came, a glowing obituary in The Times, memorial service at Westminster Abbey and eulogies from the brighter lights of the political establishment on either side of the Atlantic. Newton, meanwhile, had died still hunting down a lead, his passing garnering little more than relieved sighs from the few who had known the sharper end of his tongue. Such, as Newton would have said, was the way of the world.

  Vine tried to remain calm, not give away any sign of unease. He could still hear Cecil’s voice on the phone that day in Istanbul.

  There are more important things going on here than you can possibly imagine …

  Here, now, Vine felt a curious mix of emotions. He had been naive to ever think he could leave this life behind.

  ‘So …’ said Cecil, at last. ‘You have been busy, then, haven’t you? Running secret errands for Cosmo Newton, chatting up former contacts. Fergus Goodwin and Olivia Cartier. Cease and desist, I see, doesn’t seem t
o be part of your vocabulary. Now breaking into one of the most highly guarded buildings in the world …’

  Vine cursed himself for being surprised as Cecil reeled off the list in that languorous drawl. The knowledge of secrets was the currency of this trade. He thought back to the watcher pursuing him through the streets of Oxford, and the team at Guy’s hospital. Cecil had been shadowing him all along.

  ‘I’ve been using my skills where they are wanted,’ said Vine. ‘You didn’t really give me much choice.’

  Cecil laughed, raising his eyebrows. ‘Fair enough, I suppose. Not that I had many other options. The world is changing, Vine. We are no longer fighting a battle solely against the enemy, but against ourselves. The thirty-year rule, Valentine bloody Amory and his tribe at the ISC. Make one wrong move and we might not even have an intelligence service in ten years’ time. The pressure on me to act was enormous, from all sides of government. I did what I thought was best.’

  ‘You did what you thought was politically convenient.’

  ‘I often find them to be the same thing …’ He leaned forwards, taking another puff on the cigar. ‘So, tell me … what is it you think you know?’

  Vine debated how much to say. He thought back to Newton’s file, Ahmed Yousef’s accusation of a mole inside British intelligence codenamed Nobody and Professor Turnbull’s information about the Prophets group at Christ Church. He looked up at Cecil and saw the expectancy in his eyes. There would only be one chance to say it.

  ‘I think Cosmo Newton was right to follow up the Yousef lead. There is a mole somewhere inside MI6.’

  Cecil’s face puckered with distaste. ‘How the hell do you know about the Yousef interrogation?’

  ‘Newton told me.’

  Cecil looked almost beyond anger, shaking his head as he stared across at the fire. ‘The greatest threat to Western security. Cosmo sodding Newton … Go on …’

  Vine resumed. ‘And, as I think Newton discovered before he died, the evidence shows that there is really only one person it could be.’