‘That’s why I’m here,’ he said, dodging her question. ‘A chance to get Yousef for good. The truth will come out eventually, that’s all I’ve got to believe. He can play the saint only for so long. If we can pin some evidence on him, then my life can get back to normal.’
They were sitting in the branch of Pret on Brompton Road, tucked away at a corner table well out of the earshot of others.
‘And how about you? My problems are nothing. Cecil said he’d told you everything?’
She nodded, cupping her hands around the mug, steam drifting from the surface. ‘Yes,’ she said, looking out of the window. Her voice sounded far away, distracted.
Vine wondered what could possibly be going through her mind. The endless tales about Wilde’s libertine existence still wouldn’t change the trauma of knowing a man you had once loved was being broken piece by piece.
He knew he shouldn’t pry, but was unable to help it. ‘Did you have any idea?’
She looked back at him and tried to work a smile on to her lips. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He was too good for that. I knew he was preparing for something … if anything, I was almost glad when Cecil told me what it was.’
‘How do you mean?’
She seemed uneasy about the logic of her own assumptions. She tried to coat it with a shake of the head and a dismissive smile. ‘Nothing, really. There was a point when I was worried he was about to do something stupid.’ There was another tentative sip and a sigh. ‘Come back to the house with a USB stick and tell me we had to run away. So few people know what it’s like out there. What the threat of war can do to you. My nightmare was that one day I’d open the newspaper and see his face all over it.’
Vine delayed his next question, allowing a beat of silence. He felt his own suspicions consolidate again, refusing to disappear entirely. There was still something off, quietly inexplicable, about the book Wilde had sent him, needling at any sense of resolution. What better way for a true double agent to cover himself than volunteering for such a mission? Every possible action could be justified. Wilde could be passing all manner of secrets and Cecil would be playing the unwitting accomplice. It was a faultless disguise.
My name is Nobody …
‘Was that when … ?’
She looked completely unembarrassed, as if she’d had this conversation too many times to care. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Separation was inevitable, really. The affairs, the secrets. I couldn’t stand waking up every morning and wondering if I was going to make it through the day. I wanted him to try and find a desk job back in London, perhaps leave the Service altogether. I was tired of my legal work. I wanted to come back to Thames House. But he wouldn’t listen.’
Here she stopped almost completely. Her body language became frigid. Her smile was rustier, movements gummed up with some unspoken emotion. She toyed with her hair, brushing it away from her face, casting her gaze down at the middle of the table and resting her chin on her right hand.
Vine could see Cecil in his armchair relating the news about the classified operation as if it were a piece of gossip. ‘There’s nothing wrong in admitting you feel cheated,’ he said. ‘We spend our lives in a house of lies. In the end, all it does is corrode us. It stops us being able to believe that anything can ever be real. We can’t believe the happiness, so we’re always just left with the pain.’
She looked up at him, extending a warm hand and placing it over his. She smiled a sad, drawn smile. ‘You always were the wise one,’ she said. As quickly as it was offered, the hand darted back and was tucked away in the fold of her elbow. ‘So … Yousef. Our off-the-books piece of intrigue. You’re starting with the bank records?’
Her voice had changed again, flipping back to singsong brightness. He knew the agony of being exiled from the action. Perhaps being here was the only way she could cope.
‘You’re sure you’re up for this?’ he said, pushing his mug away from him. ‘Given everything you’re going through.’
All traces of emotion had been banished from her face. ‘If Yousef is connected to the kidnap of Gabriel, then the entire British army couldn’t keep me away from this operation. He may have driven me mad at times, made me sadder than I knew I could be, but I did – I do – love him. And I’ll do anything to get him back.’
Despite himself, Vine could hear that single syllable replay in his mind again and again. He nodded and locked away the feeling of her hand brushing his across the table.
‘Of course,’ he lied. ‘That makes two of us.’
40
In the following days, Vine became a whirl of restless activity, the rhythmic tick of day and night meaningless behind the thick blinds that drowned out all natural light. When he stared in the mirror of the poky second-floor bathroom, he saw his eyes had become terminally bleary. His forehead was lined and voice hollow. But on he went, drawn to the magnetic pulse of the screens in front of him, excavating files, chasing leads, churning the flurry of detail through his mind. Anything to find out more about where Ahmed Yousef might be planning to strike.
He could feel himself retreat into his usual monastic insularity, an air of prickliness descend on his mood, dismissive, cold even, as if attributing any merit to others proved weakness.
As the full scale of his insomniac life became public, he began to be aware of mutterings from the others, even catching Montague discussing it in the hall with Rose when he imagined Vine was out of earshot.
‘You realize he hasn’t slept for over two days,’ Montague said, voice lowered to a conspiratorial hush. ‘Not even a sleeping bag, or a kip on the sofa … I tried to raise it once, but he didn’t seem amused.’
‘I know,’ said Rose. ‘Probably better not to go there again.’
‘Understood. Is there something more to this that the rest of us don’t know about?’
‘No,’ said Rose, a certainty in her tone. ‘It’s just Solomon being Solomon, I’m afraid. He was always like this on operations.’
So commenced the period of waiting. It was one of the tests Newton and his subordinates used to devise at the Fort, scanning for signs of repressed daredevilry. New recruits were forced to conduct gruelling surveillance exercises on faceless houses along the English coast. The lack of point was the entire point, the brutal grind of tracking a person’s movements an introduction to the reality of the secret world.
While Montague worked on fine-tuning the tech-ops side back at Prince’s Gardens, Vine accompanied the two watchers – Waugh and Anderson – on physical surveillance, taking the back seat in the carousel of vehicles the team used (smart BMW, flaking Audi, battle-scarred Ford) and watched the ripple of activity from Yousef’s house on Cumberland Street. Every day he amused himself with the character he was inhabiting, the theatrical flourish learned at the hands of a surveillance expert all those years ago during training. He smiled again at the codename for the mole. The ultimate task of any decent spook was always to become just another Nobody.
It was early on the fourth day that it happened. Yousef had stayed in, as he often did, buried in research work thanks to the wonders of Google Books. Then, out of nowhere, he broke his hibernation, left the house at 9.30 and got into the Astra parked near the pavement. The clothes were different. Not his usual professorial jacket and nondescript formal trousers, but casual: a bluish check shirt, jeans and slip-on footwear. He moved gingerly – inevitable after a period out of action – but with pinpoint accuracy.
‘Let’s follow him,’ said Vine.
‘You sure?’ said Anderson. ‘He could be a decoy, in case they think they’re being watched. Try and shake us off before the real magic happens.’
Vine shook his head. ‘Where’s Waugh?’
‘Doing the rounds on Warwick Way.’
‘Tell him to keep his eyes open and inform us if anything kicks off here,’ Vine said, pausing before trusting his instinct. ‘Then start the engine and let’s see where he takes us.’
Anderson duly radioed to Waugh, then edged out to follow
the Astra.
Vine called through to update Montague and Rose at Prince’s Gardens. Then he fell back into silence. They dodged through jams and made sure they kept up a good sightline on the vehicle. He relaxed slightly as the Astra turned off on to the M4, then the M5. Anderson remained silent, not daring to flick the radio on in case it disrupted Vine’s train of thought. Instead, they endured the constant purr of the motorway, occasionally veering into the overtaking lane as the Astra sped onwards.
Just over two hours after leaving Cumberland Street, they took the turning for the A4018. They followed the Astra as it signalled and weaved its way towards a large car park littered with vehicles. Up ahead stood a vast glass edifice, customers trickling out laden with shopping bags.
‘Off for a bit of retail therapy?’ Anderson said, as he took a space far enough away from the Astra to avoid being seen, killing the engine.
‘Perhaps,’ said Vine, his voice toneless. ‘Though if he couldn’t find it in the shops in London, I doubt he’ll find it here.’
‘What do you reckon then? Brush pass? Dead drop?’
Vine got out of the car. He looked at the building and the revolving glass doors leading into the glow of a department store. ‘Some sort of dead drop,’ he said. ‘Good location. Plenty of places to lose yourself. Poor CCTV coverage. I couldn’t have picked it better myself.’
Anderson shut the door, locking it with a bleep of the key. He followed Vine’s lead in pursuit towards the entrance. ‘How many floors do you reckon?’
‘Two levels, three at most. Quiet time of day, so the only other customers are the elderly and students.’
‘How long?’
‘Not more than an hour. Service the drop and head back to London.’
They were fifty metres behind Yousef now. They pushed through the revolving doors into the department store, bathed in a kitschy gold. The target didn’t pause, walking straight through until he emerged into the main shopping mall, an airless rectangular strip with shop windows lined up either side. It was busier than Vine had thought, the crowd a mix of the snowy-haired and middle-aged, mothers pushing buggies and jacketed men browsing the latest smartphones. There was something so greyly anonymous about such a building, the dull overhead lights, music piped through tinny speakers, recycled air with no sense of temperature. Everyone became the same, the swell of forgettable faces and forgettable clothes. The dead white light of a shopping mall was the perfect place to lose yourself.
Sure enough, the target spent the first half hour dissembling. Yousef started wandering through the aisles of a clothes shop, then wasted a bored handful of minutes in a bookshop, leafing through a cookery book with evident lack of enthusiasm. The final part of this initial period he spent perched on a stool in Starbucks on the upper floor, sipping timidly at a latte in a tall, thin glass. Vine kept up contact while scanning a magazine in the newsagents opposite. Anderson patrolled the corridor outside.
Lulled as they were by the gentle pace, they almost missed him. Anderson had finished an approach and was wearily treading back in the direction of a cosmetics store. Vine was on the verge of letting tiredness take him, stifling a yawn. It was only muscle memory, an eternal vigilance, which caught the empty seat and the haze of blue disappearing down the escalator.
Breaking protocol – Anderson leading, Vine hovering to protect his identity – Vine began pursuing. He let Yousef establish sufficient distance, then he dropped the magazine and followed. He left it to Anderson to spot the move and change into a support role while Vine quickened his pace towards the escalator to keep eyes-on.
He watched Yousef descend towards the lower floor and get off at the end of the escalator. The pace slowed. Yousef strolled over to the glassy expanse of the large Gap store window below. Then he stopped to stare at the display. Yousef looked relaxed, hands resting loosely near his jean pockets, eyes locked in a seemingly formless browse.
Vine felt his insides curdle. He quickly angled his body away from the reflection just in time and reached for the phone in his pocket, putting it to his ear and seamlessly climbing back up. He kept on walking without so much as a glance behind.
Only when he was out of the frame did he risk another look. It was harder here, the view obscured by fake shrubbery and kiosks below cluttering his line of sight.
He walked faster, still keeping a read on the ripple of shirt collar now dissolving in the sea of similar jeans, t-shirts and overcoats. Vine reached the entrance to the newsagents again. He saw Yousef stop below and conduct another lengthy session of window-scanning, then retrace his steps back down the mall.
Anderson was behind him. ‘What happened?’
‘He’s not shopping, that’s for sure,’ said Vine.
‘A drop?’
Vine shook his head. He was both annoyed with himself and yet quietly satisfied. It was the first concrete sign of intent, calculated tradecraft. After this, there could be no doubt that Yousef was planning something. Every move confirmed it – the change of clothes, leaving London, choosing the perfect place to draw out a tail.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We got it wrong. This isn’t a brush pass or a drop. This is basic counter-surveillance. That’s what it was all for. Yousef suspects he’s being followed. He was trying to isolate us so he could confirm it.’
‘Did he see you?’
There was a stony silence. Anderson caught Vine’s expression.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Stupid question.’
41
Vine nodded to a member of the security detail and slid into the back seat of the armoured Jaguar XJ, catching a waft of expensive aftershave. The door shut behind him.
‘This will have to be quick,’ said Cecil. He flicked through another email on his phone and then tucked it away in his jacket pocket. ‘I’ve got half the Cabinet waiting for me at Banqueting House, most of whom think Ahmed Yousef should be given a knighthood in the New Year’s honours list for services to martyrdom. What do you need?’
Vine had spent most of the day debating how to frame this, sugaring an admission of failure. ‘We’re running at maximum capacity but not getting anything. We’ve gone into every record we can and found nothing.’
Cecil was moving impatiently in his seat. ‘So what do you want?’
‘Step it up. Access to all public surveillance equipment.’ Vine tried to keep his voice calm. ‘I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t vital. Unless I am allocated a larger team, then any other surveillance exercise is going to get burned eventually. This guy has spent years of his life dodging watchers. If he really is planning an attack as we speak, then it’s the only way.’
‘Do you have any product yet?’
‘I might have something on a mobile number. But to find anything more we need a proper run at it. With only two watchers, that means a hell of a lot of changes. Eventually, Yousef will catch us. We have to get into the CCTV.’
Cecil sighed. He stroked away a crease on his shirtfront, then turned his gaze to Vine. ‘There’s no way I can get a warrant, if that’s what you mean. As I told you, ministers would hang me out to dry.’
Vine waited. He watched Cecil’s face, letting the silence goad him.
‘Cover your tracks and make sure you give yourself a reason to be inside the system,’ said Cecil, staring straight ahead. ‘If you end up sitting in a police interrogation room, I won’t be there to get you out this time. Understood?’
Vine nodded. ‘Perfectly.’
He was halfway out of the car when he heard Cecil’s voice behind him. The tone was different, less brash. ‘And make sure Rose is fully briefed on everything you’re doing,’ he said. ‘If something happens, we need another pair of eyes. Someone who knows their way around all the material. Team work, if you know the meaning of the phrase. I want her and Montague in the room on everything.’
Vine tried not to let any anxiety infect his voice. ‘Why … something the matter?’
Cecil adopted his diplomat’s face, an uneasy softening of the brow. ‘Just
politics, Vine,’ he said. ‘Always the bloody politics.’
42
Back at Prince’s Gardens, he buzzed, gave the password, pushed the door open and began tramping up the stairs. There were some old leads he wanted to check again, trawling for a clue he might have missed. He reached the main ops room, saw a light on and was about to try and force himself into a display of bonhomie by asking Anderson if he wanted a drink. Then he opened the door to find Rose sitting alone in the middle of the spider’s web of cables.
The room seemed vaster than usual somehow, the screens speckling the view with flashing greens and reds.
‘I told Anderson to have the night off,’ said Rose, holding a remote in her palm. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’
Vine took off his jacket and sat down next to her, the BBC News channel mute on the first big screen up ahead. He remembered Cosmo Newton’s comments what seemed like a lifetime ago at Cambridge during his recruitment interview: New modes of warfare. This is what twenty-first century spying looked like.
‘Don’t you find it funny sometimes,’ said Rose, stifling a yawn. ‘The amount of power we have. A whole city at the click of a button.’
Vine sat back, allowing himself an inch of relaxation. ‘Did you ever check anyone out?’ he said.
Rose laughed. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘At the start. Friends, enemies from university, family members …’
‘A firing offence.’
‘It was Gabriel’s favourite trick for new dates. Get a contact at Five to find him something juicy and then slip it into conversation.’
‘That sounds like him.’
‘Used to scare the hell out of people.’
Rose laughed again. She pressed a button on the remote, and the second big screen burst into colour, the wall filling with the face of Ahmed Yousef, an older photo from his MI5 file, when he was under surveillance in Finsbury Park.
My Name Is Nobody Page 16