My Name Is Nobody

by Matthew Richardson

  Vine sat back, barely noticing the force of the sofa against his body. As the truth began to work its way into his system, he felt suddenly unclean, momentarily overwhelmed by the idea of Gabriel Wilde’s face, that confident humour, torn to shreds in an airless cell somewhere, welcoming the prospect of death. That single line played through his mind once again.

  My name is Nobody …

  His reverie was broken only by another pang of understanding, memories of his second conversation with Olivia Cartier in the Palace of Westminster: it’s all somehow connected to Yousef. His head shot up, gazing at Cecil, who watched him patiently, as if waiting for him to reach the obvious conclusion.

  ‘But, that means …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘Yes, it does. It means that there is only one way our troublesome Dr Yousef could possibly know there was a mole working in the region.’

  ‘If he was, in fact, in contact with Islamist groups in Syria.’

  ‘Quite so. Not just an academic sympathizer, but in touch with the top brass.’

  Vine flicked through the list of names Cecil had told him: C, Prime Minister, Foreign Secretary, Defence Secretary. ‘So Newton knew nothing …’

  ‘No. And he damn well nearly blew the entire thing. Running rogue investigations even though we had put a ban on anything to do with Yousef. Fate, thankfully, intervened on our behalf.’

  Vine thought of Newton’s body on the train tracks, the fallback in the safe deposit box and the note buried at the station café. Was that all Newton’s death had been – fate? ‘So that was why you told me to release Yousef?’ he said.

  Cecil seemed almost annoyed with Vine’s naivety. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Ahmed Yousef thought he was buying himself immunity by telling us about the Nobody mole. In fact, he was telling us about our own operation and inadvertently condemning himself. We needed him out in the field to lead us to his superiors. That’s why I ordered you to release him … It was our chance to reel in the catch of the century …’

  Despite himself, Vine could see the reasoning. ‘So … if this remains highly classified, why are you telling me?’

  Cecil rose from his chair, stretching out his arms to regain some feeling and pacing towards the curtains. He peered out at the gravel driveway. ‘Because recently we’ve been picking up a surge in chatter about new threats to London.’

  ‘A revenge attack?’

  Cecil closed the curtain and walked back towards Vine. ‘I think that the kidnap and murder of a British double agent won’t be enough for them, no matter how much publicity they get out of it. They will want to launch a retaliatory strike in the country that devised the operation. If Ahmed Yousef heads up a cell in Britain, then he is the perfect person to do it. Branded a saint by the high priests of the liberal elite, vouched for by Members of Parliament. He is beyond reproof, beyond suspicion. Who better to take revenge upon the country that dared to infiltrate your organization? Anyone who tried to stop him would be a social outcast.’

  ‘You think a plot is imminent?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Wilde?’

  Cecil sat back down in his armchair and crossed his legs. For once Vine thought he saw the thespian mask slip – eyes bloodshot and rimmed with grey, wrinkles decorating the mouth. Cecil looked exhausted with the depravity of the world. ‘These groups have always been masters of publicity. My best guess is that they will time Wilde’s execution at the precise moment they launch the attack, gaining maximum airtime and maximum terror.’

  ‘So that is why I’m here?’

  Cecil looked up at him. He fished out a white handkerchief and blew loudly. ‘Now he is back in the land of the living, there is no way we can run ongoing surveillance on Yousef through official channels as we have done in the past. You are only the second person beyond the initial eight to have been inducted into the truth about Wilde, and it will remain that way for the time being. I need someone who knows the terrain, is outside the system and has nothing to lose. You are the only person who fits that brief. I can give you a small team, whatever reasonable leftover technology we have and the use of a safe house in Kensington we have managed to keep out of the gaze of the Treasury. No one knows Wilde and Yousef like you do. There is no one else I can ask, no one else in your situation. This is outside Five, GCHQ, the National Security Council, Number 10. Completely deniable.’

  Vine tried to hide his sense of shock and elation at the request. He had expected an unofficial advisory role, perhaps, nothing on this scale. ‘You said I was one of two to know the truth? Who is the other person?’

  Cecil fixed him another mercurial stare, eyes still glinting through the tiredness. ‘Rose Wilde, or Spencer as she is now calling herself, since the separation.’

  ‘She didn’t know already?’

  ‘She knew Gabriel was doing something, never the full contents. It was too dangerous.’

  Vine thought of Olivia’s allusion to Wilde’s marital difficulties. He tried to imagine the strain such work would put on a relationship, the sheer pressure of juggling so many selves.

  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 …

  ‘You’re not telling me that she is …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cecil. ‘That’s exactly what I’m telling you. She’s been filling in back at Thames House. But there is no keeping her away from this. She’s currently on compassionate leave. She did a lot on the legal side of this back in the day and knows this space better than most. I can’t afford to let her sit silently on the bench. If we are going to stop Yousef, then I need her in on the operation. The only question is whether you can work with her.’

  Vine felt hollowed out at the idea. Yet with every twitch of concern he thought again of Wilde, mutilated beyond recognition, tortured for every secret he had ever known. Now was no time for petty personal grievances.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, the lie flowing easily.

  ‘Good,’ said Cecil, getting up again and poking at the charred aftermath of a log. The room had become decidedly chilly, a bitter draught filling the space around them. ‘Let it remain that way. I need a few more days to make some calls, then the safe house is all yours.’

  ‘And what about trying to find Wilde? I presume there is something underway?’

  Cecil continued staring at the fireplace, lost in his own thoughts. ‘That I really can’t tell you, I’m afraid. But, yes. On both sides of the Atlantic, we are doing everything we can to find him before it’s too late.’

  Vine felt the conversation fizzle away. The end had been signalled. Daylight was already beginning to leak through from outside. He got up and tried to move his feet to ward off pins and needles.

  Cecil moved towards the door, and Vine followed him out into the hall. ‘Get some sleep,’ he said. ‘You won’t be getting much for the next few weeks, that’s for sure.’ He stopped, looked down at the tips of his shoes, then back up at Vine. ‘I know we’ve had our differences. But you and Wilde were two of the best intelligence officers I’ve ever had the privilege to see. If anyone can sort out this mess, I know you can. Succeed in this, and miracles can happen. We can put Yousef away for the rest of his life. No more tribunals, investigations, reports. You can be back where you belong.’

  ‘And the police charges? Breaking and entering at the Palace of Westminster?’

  Cecil looked half-amused. ‘We’ll deal with it. A misunderstanding, that’s all.’

  Vine didn’t answer. He just acknowledged it with a nod. It was what he had been longing to hear ever since the suspension – a way back and the chance for redemption.

  He saw Cecil stare at him, as if there was one final test before he was allowed to return to the fold. ‘By the way … when Newton died, I don’t suppose he left you anything, did he?’

  ‘No,’ said Vine, without missing a beat. ‘Nothing at all.’ He looked at Cecil, wondering for a moment if he should tell him about the other parts of Newton’s quest: the hunt for t
he truth about the MIDAS operation and the anonymous Gmail account. They were the only remaining parts of the puzzle he had still to solve, but parts that Newton must have thought explained the whole. Curiosity almost forced the words out, before he stopped himself. Newton hadn’t trusted Cecil with the information; he couldn’t afford to either. And yet the truth about the MIDAS operation haunted him still – the redacted file, the involvement of the CIA, the calculated absence from the computer database. Something had happened on 2 September 2011 that cast fresh light on the Nobody mole and Gabriel Wilde’s disappearance, something that might explain what really went on that day in Istanbul.

  He heard the door shut behind him and saw the Range Rover waiting to drive him back. He walked across the gravel front, trying to analyse the implications of all he had learned and all that remained cloaked in mystery.

  Soon, however, he found all thoughts were colonized by one person, the memories to whom everything inevitably returned.

  Rose.

  Part Four

  * * *

  38

  It was just after rush hour, a desultory trickle of commuters and shoppers still picking their way past each other, beeping themselves through the ticket barriers. As Vine walked out of South Kensington station, he felt strangely calm. He slowed to watch the routine scenes outside the touristy cafés, walking up past the Natural History Museum and the campus of Imperial, letting the sugar-rush of anticipation claim him.

  As he approached the safe house, he knew it must be an anti-climax. After what had happened, Rose had come to acquire a sort of mythic status in his mind. She was the woman who got away, carrying with her the promise of a life he had never had the chance to live. Only months after the betrayal, the newly minted Rose Wilde had left for Istanbul. Vine had spent too long encasing a version of her with regret at all he had lost. As he continued up Exhibition Road, he knew his ideal couldn’t sustain prolonged contact with reality. He would be forced to acknowledge that the fault lay not in the stars, but within himself.

  The house in Prince’s Gardens was suitably anonymous, with similar buildings either side. It had three floors, two neo-classical pillars framing a nondescript black front door. The street was half-busy, mostly students on their way to and from lectures. It was the perfect place to lose yourself, neither dingy enough to attract attention nor lavish enough to look like anything other than the home of a high-up in the City.

  Vine buzzed, gave the agreed password – ‘Tennyson’ – and opened the door. Downstairs everything looked normal: a spotless kitchen on the left, a laundry room with a washing machine and tumble dryer straight ahead. There was even a collection of boots and coats on the pegs for show. To the burgling or door-knocking classes, this was a house like any other.

  He walked up the stairs to the first floor, where he could hear music seeping out from the main room down the hall. The door was ajar and he pushed at it. The curtains were open, though the windows were all covered with thick blinds finely tailored to the perimeters of the frames. The sepulchral gloom only served to highlight the plethora of screens and IT equipment. There were two giant screens on the wall to the right. Leading up to it were desks busy with computer monitors, most of them currently blank. Around him, wiring dribbled over the wooden floorboards. From a small pair of speakers blasted tinny strains of Beethoven’s Fifth.

  Hearing the tread on the floorboards, a large bespectacled man in a tweed jacket and green cords hurriedly dived to turn the music off. Having done so, he stood up and approached, moist, fleshy palm outstretched.

  ‘Sorry for the accompaniment,’ he said. ‘Still trying to get the kit all set up so we can crack on at midday. Eliot Montague, nerd in residence. You must be Solomon Vine?’

  ‘The very one,’ said Vine, shaking Montague’s hand. ‘Anyone else arrived yet?’

  ‘No. We’re expecting the others by eleven.’

  ‘Good.’ Vine closed the door, stepped over another tangle of cables and drew up a swivel chair near to where Montague was working. ‘So how did you err?’ he asked, crossing his legs. ‘Why have you been condemned to type code for me rather than in the thick of it at Vauxhall Cross?’

  Montague adjusted his glasses. ‘GCHQ, actually,’ he said. ‘Slight run-in with the Official Secrets Act. A few things I disagreed with during an operation, had a glass too many with a university friend from The Times. It was this or a spell inside.’

  Vine smiled. ‘I warn you, the food here will probably be worse.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances.’

  ‘So what am I looking at?’ he asked, casting his eyes round the second-hand IT equipment they would have to use. ‘How close can we get to Yousef?’

  Montague’s eyes widened as he turned towards Vine. ‘Depends how many questions you’re going to ask,’ he said. ‘I am correct in thinking this is off the books?’

  ‘Completely,’ said Vine. ‘And don’t worry. Don’t ask, don’t tell as far as I’m concerned, though stay out of GCHQ territory as far as possible. We’ll avoid trying to hack CCTV systems to begin with. But nailing Yousef is all I’m concerned about.’

  ‘All the better, then,’ said Montague. ‘Plugging into the CCTV systems around his house would have been ideal, making it much easier to locate his movements. But we can establish a decent profile through other channels.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘By this afternoon, I should have been able to do a general sweep of his digital footprint.’

  ‘And what about the comms side?’ asked Vine. ‘If he is plotting something, there’s got to be people he’s working with in Britain. Some sort of sleeper cell.’

  Montague nodded. ‘Depends if they’ve gone completely Moscow Rules on us and are back to pen and paper. Most likely using burner phones. If I get enough time, I can trace calls. We should be able to get something at any rate.’

  Vine got up and walked around the electronic debris in the room. He thought of Wilde holed up somewhere in Syria, being tortured for every secret he knew and the scale of a possible revenge attack. If there was going to be another major strike on UK soil then money would have to be transferred somehow.

  ‘I need everything you can find me on Yousef’s finances,’ he said. ‘Bank account, tax records, recent expenditure. See if there’s anything that can’t be explained. Whatever he’s planning, there will need to be equipment and logistical back-up. That’s the first place to start. Once the others arrive, we can try and put some surveillance on him and begin tracking movements.’

  ‘Sure thing,’ said Montague, getting up and prodding screens into life.

  ‘And one thing,’ said Vine. ‘If we’re found out, then we all go down. Don’t advertise yourself when hacking into these systems. If anyone finds out what we’re doing, prison food will be the least of your problems.’

  Montague smiled. ‘You haven’t read my file, have you?’ he said.

  ‘Should I have done?’

  ‘I designed most of these systems when I was at Imperial, a nice earner on the side. I know how to get in and out of them better than anyone else on earth.’

  Vine turned back towards the blanked-out windows. ‘Which is why I know you weren’t thrown out of GCHQ for indiscretions to The Times,’ he said. He caught a guilty frown on Montague’s face. ‘You were granted a reprieve from extradition by the Home Secretary. Which must mean you did something pretty phenomenal. My guess is hacked into the Pentagon’s system.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Montague, all the computers now shuddering into action, the room partially lit by the glow of the screens.

  ‘As I said, be careful. I’ll ask no questions but I expect no surprises either. Do we understand each other?’

  Montague nodded. ‘Well enough, I think.’

  ‘Good.’ The buzzer on the intercom sounded, a shrill, nasal blast. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Vine, wandering out to the hall and towards the handset on the landing. He stopped in front of it, praying that it would be either one of the pavement artists. But
somehow he knew it wouldn’t. As he picked up the phone, he felt his long-tended composure begin to crack.

  ‘Tennyson,’ she said, her voice somehow more completely hers than he remembered.

  He put the phone down, pressed the key symbol and heard the door – to the past, or the future, he couldn’t be sure – push open.

  39

  ‘So how have you been?’

  Vine took a sip of his black filter coffee and wondered how on earth he could construct a satisfactory answer. He looked across at Rose, struggling to believe after all this time that she was actually sitting opposite him, alone. Up close, she looked barely changed from when he had last seen her: the hair was slightly shorter, styled sideways across her fringe; but the cheeks, lips, the warmth of her eyes caused the same flutter in his stomach as they always had. She was wearing a red dress with a black tailored jacket, more formal than when she would tramp into Thames House in a favourite baggy green jumper, the eternal student. It was different too from the expat look she had perfected in Istanbul. But she still retained that impish smile, more seductive by its very artlessness.

  ‘I’ve had my ups and downs,’ he said.

  ‘I heard about your suspension and Yousef. That must have been tough … What happened?’

  It was the question that still haunted him. Someone had set him up that day in Istanbul, someone with access on the inside. It was the one detail Cecil had refused to discuss, as if embarrassed by his own ignorance. Even four months later, Vine could still remember every detail of those moments: seeing Wilde’s car pulling away, the number of cigarettes he’d smoked, the precise choreography of it all. Was it possible that Wilde had returned that day and taken out Yousef before he let slip the truth about the existence of the Nobody mole? Had Wilde set him up in order to keep his operation alive, an operation he had given everything for?

  Vine dragged himself back to the here and now. As he took another sip of coffee and felt the normality of the café around them, he was newly beguiled by her eyes. He wanted to somehow apologize again for the scene at their house, Wilde felled on the steps. But he couldn’t. He found himself still unable to form the words.