She knew the pain Alfie held, and of his inner turmoil, but also about his determined desire to go through with a plan he had shared with her some weeks beforehand. She felt self-assured and vindicated in agreeing to help him with his escape plan and to look at details of how Alfie could release his secrets to the world. Melissa had no direct feelings for Alfie any more and she had moved on to a number of other short-term relationships since she had broken up with him. Nevertheless, she felt a real friendship and true bond with Alfie, qualities that none of her other erstwhile boyfriends had ever presented her with.
She knew of his emotional insecurities and had begun to recognise his disordered mind and fickle emotional state. But she marvelled at how Alfie, with his starkly handsome features and authoritative figure, could wear his mask and remain outwardly confident, yet vulnerable beneath it. She knew he was emotionally dysfunctional, but also knew she had a duty to help this kind soul. It was just a shame the spark was not there for her with Alfie and she winced as she reflected on her own poor judgement in men, and her despair at never finding anyone suitable in a city of millions of young professionals.
She walked across the gardens, straining in the cold air, and looked up at the clocks neatly placed around the square showing the different national and global times. The share-price ticker tape scrolled around the buildings as she cast her eyes around – she felt uplifted by the greenery and the deep blue spring sky. She tied her brunette hair in a bun before walking the few minutes to Canada Square Park to meet Alfie.
Melissa walked into the restaurant, immediately sensing other men’s eyes discreetly gravitate towards her. These were City men sitting on the leather bench-style seating of the canteen restaurant with its large ceilings and high glazing looking out into the banking world of Canada Square.
She wore a navy skirt just above the knee, her high-heeled shoes, a white blouse and a sleeveless tangerine top that accentuated her breasts. She carried her favourite blue handbag on one arm, with a white jacket draped over the other.
She spotted Alfie sitting in the far corner of the restaurant on the south colonnade of Canary Wharf – and immediately noticed how exhausted he looked.
‘Hi Alfie, crazy journey. Sorry I’m late. A right bunch of idiots on the tube,’ Melissa said, as she kissed him on both cheeks and gave him a hug. ‘You look tired, are you OK?’
‘I’m fine Melissa, come and take a seat. I’ll get some drinks. Erm, you look great by the way.’
‘Thanks, I love early morning breakfast meetings on such gorgeous days.’
‘Wonderful,’ Alfie said. ‘I’m really pleased with what you have done for me so far. You know you’re the only one I can trust with this and, to be frank, I don’t think I could do it without your help.’
Melissa sat down and leant forward, her arms on the table as they sat opposite each other. Alfie had ordered some grapefruit juice and water before they ate. He looked thin in the face but cheery, she thought.
‘You look gaunt, Alfie. Are you sure you’ll be OK with all this?’
‘Yes, don’t worry too much about me. How have you been getting on with the work?’
‘Well, I’m due to meet my primary editor in person tomorrow,’ Melissa said. ‘And I have his guarantees of no disclosure and a prepared plan to get you somewhere safe when the time comes.’
Melissa crossed her legs and drank some of the juice, looking around to ensure the area Alfie had chosen was quiet, with no prying ears. Exceptionally bright, Melissa had planned in detail the way that Alfie could expose his story and how she could also help with his escape. Wise enough to know she had to be cautious with her own career, she had mulled over the political ramifications of her own role within the Bureau as an investigative journalist.
‘The editor doesn’t know who you are, Alfie, but he’s agreed to fund the logistics and a couple of high-grade private facilitators for you. He knows you’re an anonymous source right now, and the initial documents you gave us have convinced him that the Bureau can act to protect you.’
‘That’s great Melissa – bloody good work.’
‘But remember Alfie, there’s a long way to go yet. You can go through with it, right?’
‘Go through with it? I’m nearly there,’ Alfie replied. ‘And yes of course I can – it’s just very stressful right now.’
‘OK, let’s get down to business then, Alfie. Lots to sort out now.’
Melissa leant back and placed her handbag to the side as she watched Alfie remove an A5 black book containing an immaculately written plan. He passed the book to Melissa and started to describe his exit plan in detail, including the precise locations and timings. Alfie had been spotless in crafting the minute-by-minute stages of his exit plan from the country.
Melissa had read many of the main exposés that Alfie had researched – and had remembered falling back on her sofa in utter astonishment at the shameless facts Alfie had unearthed when she first read them.
As an investigative reporter, she felt her stomach churn as she read the revelations he was about to release to the world. Feisty, and with an edge, Melissa was a straight-talking and respected journalist following a short career as a financial forensic investigator. She loved investigative work and had become fascinated after reading the documents Alfie had given to her some weeks previously. She had gone through a whole bottle of white wine the first night she read them, intrigued by the carefully crafted résumés and historical facts of what she could see were dark forces in operation. She awoke with a hangover and a new drive to help Alfie, who had clearly mulled over for many months how to expose all the secrets he had uncovered. Her love of risk had surfaced again. And she saw her opportunity to rise to the top.
‘I have to expose all of this – no matter what it takes,’ Alfie quietly mentioned, looking her straight in the eye. She sensed his anxiety but remained quiet.
‘I can’t wait to go through with it,’ Alfie continued, putting his hand to his mouth to cough. ‘Erm, but we must keep this very tight, Melissa, I can’t have anyone knowing my identity at all until the exact hour. It’s too risky with the security service connections in the press world. Make sure you erase your tracks, and keep alert to your digital footprint, for God’s sake,’ Alfie urged, clearing his throat. ‘It only takes a small sniff from anyone on the inside and I’m toast.’
‘You know very well that I know what I’m doing,’ Melissa said sharply. ‘You have nothing to worry about from me on that score.’
‘I know, but it plays on my mind a lot – I really don’t want to end up in some stinking jail to rot.’
‘Alfie. You won’t. Get a grip now.’
Melissa watched Alfie sit up straight, as if affronted by her hardness. ‘Snowden fucked up his escape plan because he didn’t think through the detail, Alfie. You have.’
‘Thanks.’
‘That’s why he ended up floating around the world as a wanted fugitive before the Russians agreed to let him hole up there. Look at how some of his data was lost by the arrest of the reporter at Heathrow. Sheer amateur fuck-ups. This is different. We’ve planned this tightly.’
Melissa watched Alfie’s face tighten. ‘I know how I want to store and hide the data in case anything happens to me, and the failsafe plan to expose it is in good shape too if I’m arrested or, God help me, if I’m kidnapped by the intelligence agencies.’
‘This is all very obvious Alfie – but you need to keep calm, it’s all OK. I’ll make sure my side goes perfectly but you need to let me know what some of these failsafe plans are. You have to bloody well trust me you know.’
Melissa began to write down the dates when she could meet up with Alfie to go through their exact plan with a fine-toothed comb. She had an edge for risk taking and didn’t take any nonsense – even from a military officer.
‘Now have a look at these dates Alfie, and don’t worry. This is very, very, complex and worrying but I won’t let you down and the Bureau is right behind you. It’s the right thing t
o do and our planning is meticulous.’
Alfie looked calmer, she thought.
‘I know,’ Alfie said. ‘Thanks. You will be fine. It’s the others who will get me, and just one slip, one tiny slip, of our tongues or amongst our online activity and they will tail us, track us and the net will close in. I have 68,000 files and five huge revelations about government secrecy and cover-ups. I can’t release it all to you until the time is right. And the trail we leave must be watertight.’
Melissa noticed the beads of sweat on his forehead and she wondered if he’d been taking drugs to keep his traumas at bay. She was alive to the risks she was taking and savvy on how to operate clandestinely, knowing full well the gravitas of the secret world she was dancing with. She kept her irritations with Alfie at bay for now, noticing how he wanted to keep talking.
‘There is something else I want to tell you,’ Alfie said. ‘This is very sensitive and could mean someone losing their livelihood, and their life, if it gets out. But before I leave for good, only you will know the full extent of what I’ve been doing, and how.’
Melissa perked up. ‘Sounds intriguing – go on.’
‘I’ve been getting information from another whistle-blower. He has been one for many years and has been a thorn in the government’s side ever since he left Russia.’ Alfie explained how he had met his main source of classified information and what they had done together over the last twelve months across the dark net, a hidden place of internet encryption that allowed them to exchange secrets, and where no one else was likely to monitor or trap them.
‘His name is Jonathan Hirst,’ Alfie explained.
‘OK. So, who is he?’ Melissa asked. ‘What does he do?’
‘Hirst is a renegade. At least to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. He was the British Ambassador to Russia during the early 2000s. He was very popular in the British Embassy in Moscow and across the regions in Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Melissa chipped in. ‘An ambassador who’s gone rogue then?’
‘Exactly that.’
‘But what happened to him then – why did he go off-piste?’
Alfie described how Hirst was an unconventional ambassador, youthful and exuberant but shrewd and pragmatic. He loved a drink. He loved a party. He enjoyed the company of good-looking women and had a reputation amongst the staff for being a bit of a lad.
‘The trouble was that Hirst was not toeing the party line,’ Alfie explained, coughing again. ‘The FCO expect their ambassadors not to cause any turmoil or rock the boat and, in those dark heady days, anyone who missed a beat on the government’s stance would be fair game for political assassination. Hirst was politically slayed for not remaining on message and was sacked by the FCO. They had saddled up their first ambassador whistle-blower, with ramifications lasting for years – he’s leaked a lot of information to me.’
Melissa was hugely excited about this new revelation. ‘Absolute dynamite,’ she thought, wondering how she could profit from this.
‘Hirst had first-hand knowledge and detailed reports on yellowcake uranium that was supposedly being sold to Iraq by Uzbekistan in 2003.’
Alfie touched his forehead, as if comforting a headache. ‘Hirst exposed this as being thoroughly false and showed evidence that these sales were never destined for Iraq, but in actual fact were being negotiated with Iran. Exposing this scam got him the sack and the government hushed it all up.’
‘Bloody hell, Alfie,’ Melissa said. ‘This is stunning stuff. When can I show this to the editor? How will we get this out there?’
‘All in good time, Melissa.’ Alfie went on to describe the extent of the subterfuge perpetrated by the UK’s Secret Intelligence Service and someone known as Dominic Atwood, an MI6 field officer. ‘It was Dominic Atwood’s intelligence that had been spun and woven to provide false evidence to support the aim of invading Iraq.’
Melissa, fascinated by this turn of events, took a sip of her coffee and sat back, feeling an adrenalin surge as Alfie went further into the detail.
‘So, what else has Hirst exposed then?’ Melissa asked.
‘Well, the other case he has helped me on is that of Professor Margaret Wilshaw. She is said to have taken her life in 2003 as a result of exposing dubious intelligence that emanated from a very secretive clique in MI6 called Operation Cloud-Hawk.’ Alfie looked down and paused.
Melissa sensed his tears.
‘I’m still working on the case,’ Alfie said. ‘But effectively it looks like she was probably murdered.’ Alfie was clearly shaken by this tragic death and Melissa put her hand on his shoulder.
‘That’s a horrible thing to find out. I remember the case well. She was hounded by the MOD and all because of the despicable warping of intelligence by the government to justify war. Makes me sick,’ Melissa said.
They both sat in silence for a short period before Melissa asked what else the Ambassador had revealed.
Still slightly stunned, Melissa watched as Alfie collected himself before answering. ‘He’s been pretty active actually – with newer stuff. He’s started to feed me some puzzling information about the UK Brexit referendum and the US presidential elections coming along later this year.’
‘You mean Britain exiting the European Union?’ Melissa queried.
‘Yep – well, the vote to remain or leave, at least. Looks like there has been some underhand Russian meddling there too – as well as the Russians trying to destabilise the US elections in November. Hirst has good connections with the Russians you know.’
Melissa took a spell to breathe and think a little. She looked around the restaurant nervously. ‘Wow. Be careful Alfie. If the Russians are all part of this puzzle, there’ll be lots of nasty vultures hovering about.’
‘I know. But with all these revelations, the public really deserve to know – people will be culled or neutered for all this, Melissa. It’s just a matter of time. What’s more, my biggest investigative case is going to bring even more eruptions to the very heart of Westminster – I can’t tell you all about that one yet. It’s very powerful stuff. And involves a list of Russian moles in the country.’
‘Wow.’
Melissa’s thoughts were now fine-tuned to the success she could achieve with Alfie’s astonishing secrets. She knew he had turned – forever. And for her, there was no going back.
Canary Wharf life passed them by as they went into the details of the carefully written out plan that Alfie had crafted. Melissa was excited by the full extent of what she had heard that morning. Excited about how this could propel her journalistic career into the big time.
An hour later they left, and agreed to meet next time at Tate Modern to avoid being seen together at their homes.
Neither of them noticed the suited businessman sitting on a bench in the park reading his Kindle as they left.
Chapter 8
Kabul, Afghanistan, 4 April 2016
Warren Blackburn, known as Swartz to his friends, watched the ground crew take their positions from the shade of the terrace located in the discreet terminal compound for VIPs and dignitaries. Swartz had not aged well. Life at the very edge of living had taken its toll, emotionally and physically, and he wore a face that would not welcome chance or opportunistic conversations with strangers. His pockmarked face, short grey hair and steely gaze projected a man who had seen and tasted life to its fullest, whether it was hard partying or gritty and deathly combat.
Swartz watched the Gulfstream G550 long-distance jet struggle with the fierce Kabul crosswinds as it lurched and swayed before landing with a heavy thump at Afghanistan International Airport. A recent sandstorm had left an orange fog swirling in the air and it was hard for him to make out the small craft as it taxied to the decrepit terminal building and its VIP parking zone.
He smiled assuredly to the petite VIP stewardess, who followed him with her eyes, he was sure, as he walked through the sliding terminal doors onto the secure area of the tarmac. Had she looked closer, sh
e’d have seen his left hand only had one finger and a thumb.
Swartz was dressed in a black T-shirt, tan fatigues and desert boots. He was wearing a thigh holster with a Sig Sauer P226 pistol and had body armour slung over his shoulder. He was a seasoned hand with twenty-six years of army experience, hugely respected within the Special Air Service, and deadly at executing interdiction missions on terrorist targets. He had been on major operations across the globe virtually non-stop over the last ten years – and had dozens of house assaults to his name, each one resulting in terrorist kills.
He slipped on his wraparound sunglasses, walked a few metres to the security barrier and stood awaiting the arrival of his charges. His mind wandered back to the encrypted signal he had received the day before. Swartz pondered why he was being tasked to collect his old SAS commanding officer, JJ Jones, and a civil servant from the UK. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ he thought curiously, especially as he knew that JJ had left the SAS some years ago.
Swartz watched the small jet taxi very close to the small building before being directed to turn right by the ground marshal, who was waving his table-tennis bats with metronomic precision. ‘I feel a bloody big ruse coming on,’ Swartz thought, watching the two men walk the few steps from the plane to the tarmac. He recognised JJ Jones immediately as the taller of the two. JJ gave a short wave, accompanied by a big beaming smile, and walked towards the security barrier to greet him. ‘Here we fucking go,’ Swartz murmured. ‘Another day living the dream.’
JJ Jones was a former commanding officer of the SAS who had masterminded the British special forces’ black ops across Iraq and Afghanistan – taking out terrorists on an industrial scale. Swartz and JJ had been part of an enduring US-led strategy of black ops across Central Asia and the Middle East that had been hugely successful in carrying out precision strikes on the leaders of major terrorist cells. Shrouded in public and diplomatic secrecy, the strategy had been the master plan of the American general Stanley Beeton, before his ultimate demise after being caught libelling the US Vice-President in a press article. The British SAS had played a major role in striking at the heart of these terrorist groups and, for years, they were propelled into the toughest of killing assignments in Baghdad and beyond – Beeton had an almost empirical love of the SAS and had become good friends with JJ.
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