“Cups, coffee, all in those cupboards,” said Izzy, directing Bridge with a nod of her head as she manoeuvred a hot tray onto a cooling rack.
“What’s all this for?” Bridge asked. It wasn’t either Steph or Hugo’s birthday, but she couldn’t swear to Fred’s date of birth. “Are you having a party?”
“No,” said Steph, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Maman sells cakes at the patisseries in town. They put them in their window, and everyone says they’re quite delicious.”
Bridge busied herself taking milk out of the fridge, so Steph couldn’t see her trying not to laugh at the girl’s pomposity. It was quite sweet, really. When Bridge turned back, Steph was holding up a paper bag with the words Délices de la Ferme Baudin, Côte-d’Or printed in a faux-handwritten typeface.
“See? Now everyone knows Baudin Farm makes the best cakes.” She noticed the carton in Bridge’s hand, and grimaced. “Ugh, are you putting milk in your coffee? That’s so English.”
This time Bridge didn’t bother suppressing her laughter as she poured the milk. Even as a child in Lyon she’d always hated black coffee, but she didn’t have the energy to contradict Steph and get into the inevitable conversation that would follow.
“Don’t be rude, Stéphanie,” said Izzy, and held out a filled bag to her daughter. “Now give these to Auntie Bridge.” Steph took the bag and formally presented it, complete with a curtsey. “Knowing you, you’ve eaten nothing but salad leaves and walnuts since you got here,” Izzy continued. “Get something filling down your neck for once.”
“Vegetarian, not vegan,” Bridge sighed. “I’ve been eating just fine.”
Fred walked into the kitchen and nodded at the bag of cakes, now in Bridge’s hand. “Is she paying for those?”
“Don’t be silly, Fred, she’s our guest.”
“I didn’t invite her.”
Bridge placed the bag back on the table. “No, he’s right. If this is your business, I’ll pay. Let me get my purse.”
“Brigitte Joséphine Sharp, you pick up that bag right now and you bloody well keep it.” Izzy turned to glower at Fred. “We do not make family pay for food. Make yourself useful; go and chop some wood.” Fred returned the glare, but backed out of the room. A moment later, the door to the yard slammed shut.
“Why didn’t Papa invite you?” Steph asked.
Bridge couldn’t think of an answer that wouldn’t cause another argument. “I should head back,” she said. “Thanks for putting me up. I’m only in Agenbeux for another week, so I won’t see you again till you’re back in London.”
“Well, that won’t be till school starts, so have fun till then. And for God’s sake remember what I said, OK?” Izzy gestured at Bridge’s hair and face. “Just do…something.”
Bridge kissed Izzy on the cheeks, and Stéphanie on the head, then retrieved her bag. Outside in the yard, Fred was chopping wood with a heavy axe, swinging it over and down on logs balanced atop a squat block. He paused when he saw Bridge emerge and said, “You should call, next time.”
“So you don’t mind if there is a next time?” Bridge replied, surprised.
Fred planted the axe in the block and walked over, lowering his voice. “As long as you two are related, I don’t seem to have much choice. But remember: Hugo, Stéphanie, and I are Isabelle’s family now. It’s my job to take care of them, and put their welfare first.”
“Are you saying I’m bad for my sister’s welfare? Are you worried she might remember how to have fun?”
“You’re a child,” Fred shouted, and wagged a gloved finger at Bridge. “Building a family is not about fun. It’s about loyalty, and commitment. I’d die for my wife and children, you understand? But you, you have no commitments, no responsibilities; nothing. I don’t want Stéphanie to think she can live her life like you.”
Bridge turned away and climbed into the Fiat hire car. “On the bright side, Fréderic, at least I’m not bitter. You should try it some time.” She fired up the engine and drove away before he could respond.
35
GROUP: france.misc.binaries-random
FROM: zero@null
SUBJECT: new art
36
“It was posted yesterday, how the bloody hell could you miss it?”
If Bridge hadn’t been wearing headphones, she might not have heard Lisa Hebden’s barely audible sigh in response. But she was calling GCHQ from her room in the guest house, on secure VOIP via the Dell’s encrypted partition, and so was trying to keep all noise to a minimum.
That became an order of magnitude more difficult when Lisa admitted she hadn’t seen the new ASCII post yet. It had been sent early on Sunday, while Bridge was still driving back from Izzy’s farm, and when she arrived at the guest house she hadn’t thought to check the newsgroups herself. After all, Lisa was supposed to have that covered back in England.
“I’m sorry, Ms Sharp, but I wasn’t here yesterday, and when I got in this morning I prioritised my own work. Your newsgroup check just hadn’t made it to the top of my pile, yet.”
“You didn’t brief anyone to watch over the weekend?”
“GCHQ business takes priority.”
Bridge’s hands trembled. She and Ten had a running joke that her get-rich-quick scheme was to invent a machine that allowed you to strangle people over the internet. Right now she would happily use that machine, and was glad the call was audio-only so Lisa couldn’t see the anger in Bridge’s face. On the other hand, maybe then she wouldn’t be so bloody relaxed about the whole thing. “Leave it with me,” Bridge said after a deep breath. “Giles Finlay will be in touch.”
She ended the call, immediately switched to Giles’ profile, and hit the button for his mobile. He answered after one ring.
“Yes. Line?”
“Secure. Giles, it’s Bridge. We may have a problem.”
“You’ve been blown?”
“No, my position’s good. I spent most of today talking to senior staff, making progress. But there’s been a new coded post, and GCHQ missed it.”
“How?”
“Didn’t prioritise. To be honest, I don’t think they ever took it seriously. But listen, the post was made twenty-six hours ago.”
She heard Giles curse at the other end of the line. “What day was the paper? I’ve still got Friday’s Times at the office.”
“No need. They put the answers on the website the day after, and I already decoded it. It’s for a meet this evening, in fifteen minutes’ time.”
“Shit. What does it say?”
“Just today’s date, location, and time: Myddelton, 2130.”
“Twenty-one? Half nine, you’re sure?”
“Yeah, it’s —” Bridge realised what Giles was asking, and sighed at her oversight. “Oh, I’m on Paris time. So you’ve actually got an hour and a quarter.”
“Brilliant. Now what on Earth is ‘Myddelton’?”
Bridge smiled. “Oh, that’s an easy one. Hugh Myddelton, there’s a statue of him on Islington Green.”
“Are you sure? No chance it could be something else?”
“Trust me, he’s the only Myddelton with a statue.”
“Then leave it with me.” She heard the scratch of his pen as he made a note. “Bloody good work, Bridge. And I’ll put a rocket up GCHQ’s arse in the morning.”
“Anything I can do right now? We have no idea what the target looks like.”
“No, but there’s no way you can chase that down inside the next hour. Relax and get some sleep. Tomorrow, try to find out if anyone from the project left town at the weekend, and I’ll update you on tonight’s events.”
She ended the call and removed her headphones, wishing she was back in London. She knew Islington well; what she hadn’t told Giles was that she’d spent many a night drinking at the feet of Hugh Myddelton’s statue with her frie
nds, after leaving the local goth club and waiting for the tube to resume morning service. If there was reconnaissance to be done, she could be valuable. But it was impossible. There was no way to get back to London in time, and even if she could, doing so would completely blow her cover here.
Besides, whoever was meeting in London tonight, it wouldn’t be the mole themselves. They were still in Agenbeux, right under Bridge’s nose and laughing up their sleeve.
She opened the interview spreadsheet and began reading it over, to refamiliarise herself with everyone she’d spoken to so far. Tomorrow and Tuesday she was scheduled to finish the project leads, then on Wednesday she’d do Voclaine, Montgomery, and their secretary. After that, it was all down to her own instincts and judgement.
She made some coffee, set Radio 3’s online feed playing on her iPhone, and settled in for the evening.
37
Andrea Thomson kissed Giles when he joined her at the window table of the pub, which was something of a surprise. “Just pretend we’re together, I think I’ve got them,” she said quietly in response to Giles’ raised eyebrow. “Corner of the bar, having a quiet wee argument. Get yourself a drink, see what you can hear.” She raised her own glass, barely touched, indicating she didn’t need another herself.
Giles had phoned Andrea the moment his call with Bridge ended, and asked if she could help him with a surveil and potential shadow. She wasn’t impressed. “I’ve just finished eating, Joan’s putting the boy to bed, and we’re halfway through the last Downton box set. Can’t one of your own help?”
“There’s potential for arrest, and you know how bad that looks on the Service. Besides, this is almost certainly linked to…the other matter.” Giles was hesitant to say too much on an insecure line, but knew she’d understand. “And there’s nobody I trust more for a shadow in London.”
Andrea sighed. “Yeah, yeah, butter me up. But I’m telling Joan it’s you who owes her dinner for this one.”
“Promise,” he said, and gave her the details as he left the flat. Even with that head start Andrea had beaten him to it, texting him as he exited the turnstiles at Angel to say she was in a pub, across the road from Islington Green and the statue of Hugh Myddelton. Giles kept an eye on the roads as he walked, just in case, but there was almost nobody around, and certainly not two shifty people having a shifty meeting.
That wasn’t entirely surprising. After Bridge had decoded the posted messages, Giles ordered Monica to collate and scan all the CCTV they could find for the known meeting locations and times. It had taken her most of the past week, and at first they’d been hopeful. With more security cameras per capita than anywhere else in the world, London was the most surveilled city in history. But many of the city’s statues were in parks, with limited camera coverage, if any. Much of the footage Monica had been able to find was from nearby streets and businesses, with only limited views of the locations they wanted. And when there was coverage, the places and times of day lent themselves to crowds of tourists, drinkers, or lunching office workers, making it hard to isolate a particular face. There was also no guarantee the people they were looking for were in those crowds; some footage showed nothing — empty spaces devoid of people — meaning either those meetings had failed to take place, or the people holding them knew exactly how to stay out of sight of the cameras. The whole thing had been an exercise in frustration, and a grudging respect for the culprits.
But now, inside this pub, Andrea may have found those same culprits. After greeting her, Giles dropped his jacket on the seat and walked to the bar, standing a couple of stools down from the men. There was quite an age difference between them. The older man was of average height but thick build, a combination of muscle and weight that spoke of a man still capable of intimidation, but relying too much on past glories. His face was thick and fleshy, with eyes set among deep lines of hard experience that ran all the way to his thinning silver hair.
The other man was younger, tall and slim. He kept in shape, but unlike his acquaintance, didn’t hold himself with the air of a man trained to fight. He wore a cream coloured woollen cap which, judging by the stray curls escaping at various places, struggled to hold a mass of hair in place. The hair was the same sandy blond colour as his beard.
The men stopped their quiet, urgent discussion when Giles reached the bar. He ordered a beer and made a show of checking his phone, hoping they’d resume, but instead they chatted much more amiably, with the younger man asking the other how France had been on his last trip. Giles resisted smiling as he put away his phone and carried his beer back to the table. To anyone else, chatting about a recent trip to France would mean nothing; just innocently passing the time of day. But in the context of Exphoria, it spoke volumes. He sat next to Andrea and asked, “How did you spot those two in here?”
“They weren’t in here at first. I got to the location in time to see them crossing the road together, away from the park and heading for the pub. Nobody else looked likely, so I figured I’d give it a chance. And there’s been no-one around since.” Giles noticed that she’d chosen a table window, affording a view of the green space across the road, to keep watch.
“Bloody good work,” he said, sitting down. “If these really are our guys, it sounds like the older man was recently in France, so could be the mole’s contact. I wonder who the other chap is?”
“He looks like a computer type. Maybe he’s the mastermind, and the bruiser’s just a merc.”
“Certainly possible. Idealism is the province of the young.”
“Speak for yourself, gobshite,” Andrea laughed. She took out her iPhone and switched to the camera, casually holding it up with one hand. “Lean in. Pretend I’m showing you a photo album. Smile, for God’s sake.”
Giles did as ordered, and saw that Andrea was pointing the camera in the general direction of the two men at the bar, who had resumed their argument, although in a calmer fashion than before. He smiled, said, “Oh yeah, that’s great,” in the most vacuous tone he could muster, and pointed at the screen. His finger touched the on-screen shutter button, snapping a photo. They continued the charade for a while, taking subtle photos where it would seem natural, even taking a selfie at one point to maintain the illusion.
“Pity these things don’t come with boom mics,” said Andrea. “You should get your tech boys on that. They all like to think they’re Q.”
“And here I thought you people could hack someone’s phone mic from across the room,” said Giles. “Or do you have to call in GCHQ for that?”
“Cheeky bugger.”
“Yes, well, don’t look now.” The older, thickset man was gathering his coat, preparing to leave. He checked his watch, said something to the younger man, then headed out of the door. Giles took a sip of his beer and said, “Quick, call me.”
Andrea still had her iPhone out. She dialled Giles’ number, while pretending she was still looking at photos.
Giles answered his buzzing phone and conducted one side of an imaginary ‘work emergency’ conversation for the benefit of anyone within earshot, particularly the younger man at the bar. He didn’t seem to be paying Giles and Andrea any attention, but neither would anyone trained in surveillance.
Giles ended the fake call, said, “Sorry, love. Emergency, I’ve got to go in,” and kissed Andrea goodbye.
38
The thickset man had left less than a minute before. Giles stepped onto the street, still carrying his Samsung phone, and pretended to make a call while scanning the street for his quarry.
The first surprise came when the man set off walking west, towards King’s Cross, instead of making a beeline for Angel tube station as Giles had expected. He was going at a fair clip, too. Keeping his phone pressed to his ear, Giles turned in the same direction and followed.
Monday nights were quiet around this area, but the weather was good, and the street became busier as they drew closer to King’s Cross
. Giles crossed the road several times, sped up and slowed down to put more or fewer people between him and the target, and occasionally made fake calls on his mobile, all in an attempt to blend in with the crowd and look like any other Londoner on the street, in case the target was looking for a shadow. It was routine, the result of years of training and OIT work before he moved up the Service ladder, and he did it almost automatically. But was it really necessary? Not only was Giles pretty sure the thickset man hadn’t made him, but the man didn’t seem to care. He wasn’t changing direction, didn’t stop to check for a tail, and at no point did Giles see him look from side to side, let alone behind him. None of the usual tradecraft one would expect from a trained espionage officer.
Had they got it wrong? Was this an innocent man who just happened to look like he’d stepped off an FSB production line in Moscow? Then again, even on a pleasant night like this, why would an innocent man spend fifteen minutes walking from Islington to King’s Cross, rather than catch a bus or train?
The second surprise came when the man continued walking straight past King’s Cross. Giles had assumed he’d catch a train or bus from here.
And then he vanished from sight.
Giles had been waiting to cross the junction under the clock tower, where the crowds and corner walls made visibility poor. He knew he’d lose sight of the target for a moment, but expected to see the man ahead of him when he crossed the road, on the pavement. Instead, he was nowhere to be seen. Giles scanned the other side of the road, but quickly discounted it. To cross the road here without causing a fuss or being seen was impossible. And there hadn’t been enough time for the thickset man to walk up to the hotel, above the road. So where was he?
Giles saw the street entrance marked Underground ten feet away, and groaned at his oversight. So obvious he’d almost missed it. He ducked in, quickly scanning the entrance hall, but still there was no sign of the man. He jogged down the ramp to the ticket hall, passing by the entrance to St Pancras International…
The Exphoria Code Page 16