Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  In the public gallery even Novak’s detractors were laughing.

  Brenner stepped in. ‘I think this would be a good time for a break. Do you have questions at this time, Mr Novak?’

  Most people would have brushed off such a simple request. Not Tom Novak. Not this morning. ‘Just one, Mr Chairman,’ Novak said. ‘Does the President think going into the midterm elections as the first-ever President to jail a reporter under the Espionage Act will be a good or a bad thing?’

  As the crowd chuckled and murmured amongst itself, Kevin leaned towards the mic. ‘We retract that question, with Mr Novak’s apologies, Mr Chairman.’

  Brenner was unruffled in his response. ‘Mr Novak, I think these days the only profession the American people trust less than politicians are journalists. Whether you like it or not, your work has meant there is a traitor possibly still working with classified material, and we have no idea if they’re going to hand that information to a journalist next, or someone in Russia or China, for a very large fee. I’m prepared to go to the ends of the earth to bring that person to justice. Even if that means sending you to jail. Believe me, I’ll recommend it.’

  Novak was distracted by Brenner’s PA sneaking up to the Congressman and whispering a message. Then a number of journalists around the room started getting up and leaving the room, tapping away at their silenced phones. Decorum was abandoned and shocked responses to people’s phones sprung up around the room.

  Close behind him Novak heard a woman remark, ‘Oh my God, oh Jesus...’ as she scrolled down her Twitter feed.

  Brenner raised his hand for a pause. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘for security reasons this hearing is adjourned until further notice. The Capitol police ask that you make your way outside in a calm and orderly fashion.’

  A stream of armed police officers with helmets and riot gear on burst through the main doors to room 2141. They weren’t messing around, marching straight to the committee members at the back and leading them away with some urgency.

  A police chief with a megaphone announced, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, as a precautionary measure we are evacuating the building. This is not a drill.’

  Kevin waited for his CNN app to load while he and Novak made their way out to the corridor.

  Kevin fended off some of the press, firing questions at him. ‘Mr Novak has no comment to make at this time...’

  When they got outside the pavement was packed with people showing their phones to one another in disbelief. Twitter and Facebook had both crashed.

  Novak turned his mobile phone on, expecting a stream of pings and notifications. An hour without a phone was a long time in Novak’s world at the best of times. To have no texts or missed calls on a day like today was impossible. The only thing that had gotten through was a single encrypted email.

  ‘Abbie Bishop seemed to think we should talk.’

  Having never heard of Abbie Bishop he clicked out his inbox without giving it another thought.

  Like the aftermath of any major incident, the first person to text Novak wasn’t a relative, but his editor in New York. The text said, ‘Get back here now!’

  As people started sharing the news on their phones, groans and shocked cries of ‘Oh my God!’ rang out.

  Novak struggled through the crowd to get to Kevin. ‘What’s going on?’

  Kevin replied, ‘Something’s happened in London.’

  Entrance to Downing Street, London – Monday 2.34pm

  The bright red and orange police vehicles of the Diplomatic Protection Group obscured the entrance to Downing Street in anticipation of the press conference. Although Downing Street was still technically a public highway and police had no right to refuse anyone entry, the threat of terrorism had necessitated the erection of a secure entrance gate – rather than the line of policemen standing in front of metal barriers that was there in the eighties.

  All press with clearance for entry that morning were on a Home Office list presided over by armed DPG officers: Diplomatic Protection Group. Pejoratively called ‘Doors, Posts and Gates’ by fellow police officers, as that was where they ended up standing around. The most unglamorous of work. So much so that many had to be corralled into ‘volunteering’ as the job was generally so dull. DPG officers were now exclusively volunteers looking for overtime, or the firearms and advanced driving training that came with the job and led to the more glamorous divisions, like Special Branch anti-terror, and SOCA (Serious Organised Crime Agency) who dealt with serious drug trade, human trafficking, and the Russian mafia.

  The Martyr waited in line behind his soon-to-be-colleagues, the press credentials for Riz Rizzaq round his neck. His Birmingham accent brought no hint of suspicion to the DPG officer at the gate, and his camera bag was given an intensive check by the Police Search Advisor who handled such duties, but that wasn’t where the danger was to all on Downing Street that morning.

  Strapped to the Martyr’s chest under his photographer’s jacket was a vest filled with plates of explosive, surrounded by a fragmentation jacket. It was this, rather than the actual explosion that caused the majority of deaths in suicide bombings. Effectively turning the man into a walking, six-foot-tall claymore mine. The shrapnel inside consisted of ceramic baubles. Although they were lighter than metal ball bearings, they were harder, and – most crucially – evaded metal detectors.

  An anti-terror officer walked down the queue with a sniffer dog, the dog being stopped at each person. The Martyr wasn’t nervous, even when the dog sniffed around his upper leg, just inches away from the explosive packs. The explosives had been vacuum-sealed behind the ceramic ball bearings for exactly such an eventuality.

  After a quick matching of his ID against the records the Downing Street media centre had given the police, the Martyr was waved through the gate. In a matter of minutes, he would be just a few yards away from two of the most powerful men in the world.

  The press conference had been due to take place at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office building right across the street – as was standard for press conferences with foreign dignitaries such as the U.S. Secretary of Defense. So the PM was confused as to why his aide was stopping him in the hallway of Number Ten behind the front door instead of walking on out.

  ‘Sorry, Prime Minister,’ the aide said. ‘There was a late change of venue for the press conference.’

  ‘Changed by who?’ the PM asked.

  The aide turned over a piece of paper on his clipboard. ‘I think someone in the Foreign Office...’

  Ali’s chief of staff, Martin Bullock, interjected to spare the aide’s blushes. ‘It’s OK, Simon. The Americans wanted something in front of Number Ten. Everything’s set up. Secretary Snow is just on his way in.’

  The front door opened up, letting in an eruption of reporters’ questions. Hundreds of camera flashes bounced off the door’s glossy paint as the doorman closed it over again.

  The two men shook hands, enjoying a brief moment away from the press and any microphones.

  ‘How are you doing, Robert?’ the PM asked.

  ‘Just fine, Simon. Thank you,’ Secretary Snow replied, noting the PM’s pallor – he was practically grey. ‘You sure look like you could use some coffee.’

  The PM gave his chief of staff The Look.

  Bullock knew exactly what that meant. He announced nice and loud to the various staffers milling around and lining the hall, ‘OK, everyone, back to your desks.’ He said quietly to Ali, ‘I’m in the other room if you need me, Prime Minister.’ Bullock might have been allowed to call the PM by his first name but he wasn’t going to do it in front of Secretary Snow.

  Snow signalled to his staffers to follow suit.

  Once the hall had cleared he said to Snow, ‘Are you sure you want to do this? It’s not too late to back out.’

  Snow, ex-military, was resolute. ‘The Freedom and Privacy Act, if it goes through, will be the most authoritarian law any Western democracy has ever acted into law. It belongs to the days of the S
tasi. It’s sickening.’

  ‘Are you really prepared to be despised within your own party, Robert?’ Ali asked. ‘By your own President?’

  Snow replied, ‘I’ve been making powerful enemies my whole life.’ He laughed, then put his arm around Ali. He looked deep into his eyes, the way he used to with scared marine recruits back in the day. ‘Are you sure you’re alright, Simon? You look like shit.’

  ‘I’ll be better when this is over,’ Ali replied. He took out his speech so it was ready to hand.

  ‘You going with hard copy?’ Snow asked. ‘They had to stick a fork in me when we landed at Heathrow – my head’s still in Washington. I’m going teleprompter. I can barely give a lunch order without one these days. Do you know the last time I even read a book...’ Secretary Snow continued on for another minute, but Ali had zoned out.

  He ended up talking right over him. ‘Robert,’ Ali said, ‘you should know I have some things to say out there that are unrelated to our other business.’

  Bullock returned to Ali and Snow just as he was wrapping up a phone call. ‘...I’m sorry, Sir Lloyd, the Prime Minister is unavailable right now. I’ll have him return as soon as possible, sir.’ He hung up, then asked Ali. ‘All set?’

  Ali nodded.

  As the doorman opened the front door to another lightning storm of camera flashes, Snow slapped the back of his hand against Ali’s chest.

  ‘I’ll be honoured to stand right next to ya out there, Mr Prime Minister,’ Snow said, taking the lead down the front step.

  Ali held back from view of the press, taking hold of Bullock’s forearm. Ali had to speak up to be heard over the journalists’ shouted questions. ‘You’ve been my closest aide since I became an MP, Martin. So I’ll apologise to you now for not telling you what I’m about to say out there.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Bullock asked.

  Ali passed Bullock an envelope – blank on the front, sealed. Gripping Bullock’s arm, Ali said, ‘Make sure my lawyer Douglas Robertson gets this.’

  Confused, Bullock put it into his pocket then watched his boss walk out to Secretary Snow’s handshake for the cameras.

  The Martyr made his way to the banks of photographers and TV journalists already assembled in front of a lectern in the middle of Downing Street. The lectern – adorned with the Royal crest – was set up with two microphones, about five paces from the front steps of Number Ten.

  The press talked amongst themselves, expecting another routine press conference. Despite all being in competition, there was much friendly chat and gossip between the various news agencies’ political correspondents. Rumours centred on just what Simon Ali was going to announce, given his highly unusual step of not leaking details in advance.

  Despite his training, the Martyr fumbled a little clumsily with his camera and tripod, drawing some looks from the other cameramen nearby. Only a few feet away, BBC News correspondent Sophie Barker was in bemused consultation with a sound assistant, a mobile clamped between her cheek and shoulder while she texted on another phone. She said, ‘I’ve been texting and calling him all morning but his phone’s off. So what the fuck am I supposed to do without a cameraman?’ The swearing looked strange coming from a reporter who was so refined on-air.

  A correspondent from a rival network elbowed Sophie. ‘Why don’t you use the camera on your phone?’

  Sophie retorted unfazed, ‘That’s funny, Robbie. Why don’t you go fuck yourself?’ She told the assistant, ‘Screw it. We’ll record audio now and fix it in post. I’m going to kill Riz.’

  The Martyr readied himself behind the camera – looking into the viewfinder as if making final adjustments – fingering the remote trigger in his jacket pocket.

  Don’t go too early, he told himself.

  The front doors to Number Ten opened up to a barrage of camera flashes and yells of, ‘Mr Prime Minister!’ from every paparazzo in the three-deep rows. As Sophie turned away in frustration from the great shots they were missing, she caught sight of her cameraman’s ID – Riz’s unmistakeable name on it, but not his photo – hanging round the Martyr’s neck. She tapped her assistant in the side as the other press jostled for position. ‘That guy’s got Riz’s name on his ID.’

  The Prime Minister’s security detail from Specialist Protection (SO1) and Secretary Snow’s Secret Service agents flanked their men on each side as they approached the lectern – without intruding on the press’s photos – eyes flashing from one side of the street to the other.

  Sophie pushed towards the Martyr, struggling to get through the crowd.

  Ali gripped both sides of the lectern in the manner taught to him by his media team several years ago when he was still a junior minister. He looked down for a moment before speaking. ‘Normally a speech like this has to be cleared by the Foreign Office, the Treasury, and the intelligence agencies, to check for unforeseen consequences. Whether that be promising to spend money the country doesn’t have, or accidentally leaking state secrets. Let me assure you, I am fairly certain what the consequences of this speech will be...’

  The press appeared to lean forward as one, collective breath held. The only one not listening to the speech was the Martyr, eyeing Sophie Barker, now pointing him out to a policeman and whispering he was a possible imposter. The killer slid his way down the press pack, behind the print photographers away from Sophie, pursued covertly by the policeman.

  He put a call out on his radio, ‘Be advised, we may have a two-twenty entry breach.’

  Ali continued, ‘None of my advisors know what I’m about to say. If they did, they wouldn’t let me say it, because they know it’s career suicide. Too often in this country career suicide and telling the truth appear to be one and the same.’

  Secretary Snow looked on, as intrigued as everyone else about where Ali was going with this.

  Ali’s knuckles were white from gripping the lectern. ‘I stand before you today as the Prime Minister of Great Britain and Northern Ireland...’ He broke off for a moment.

  The Martyr moved to the end of the bank of photographers, where he had a clear run. He took one last look at the policeman, fighting his way through the cameramen and journalists. The cop wasn’t going to make it. Now was the time. The gates of Paradise were opening.

  Ali regained his composure. ‘...so it is with a heavy heart that I must make a confession–’

  The policeman now saw the remote in the Martyr’s hand, and knew what was about to happen. Too far away to stop him, he called out on his radio, ‘Suspect! PM’s two o’clock.’

  The press near the cop turned to look just as the Martyr started his run. As soon as the call went out the police marksmen on the surrounding roofs all turned their sights on the suspect, who looked strangely isolated in the mere thirty feet of empty space between the press gang and the lectern. The call over their radios changed to, ‘Takedown! Takedown!’

  The U.S. and U.K. security details on the ground all leapt towards their principles. First priority was to get Ali and Snow as low to the ground as possible.

  Those on the perimeter called into their sleeve radios, ‘Brace brace brace!’

  Ali whipped round to see DPG and SO1 officers lunge towards him from both sides. The press stampeded towards the main gates – they knew what was coming – but it was too late to get any distance away from the imminent blast. Ali, covered by his security detail, saw the running man just as he cried out ‘Allahu Akbar!’ Knowing he had got more than close enough for the plan to work, the killer smiled.

  The Martyr made it only two further paces before several gunshots hit him. Five were direct headshots, two from the left, one from the right, and two from behind. He was like a pinball bouncing rapidly between two bells.

  He had already triggered the detonator. The plan had been to detonate behind the press corps, as anything within fifty metres of the target would have a ninety per cent chance of fatal injury. But the Martyr wanted the spotlight as well as the kill.

  The blast sent the p
ress flying backwards, the initial orange explosion lasting a second or two. Then a brown cloud mushroomed up the face of Number Ten, blowing out the windows on the entire block. The cloud seemed to swell for a whole minute before reaching its apex, breaking open towards the sky. The camera covering the live feed of the press conference went black, the hosts back in their studios reeling at what they had just seen.

  The armed officers on the roofs threw themselves back to safety. More officers raced down from the main entrance, terrified tourists and onlookers behind the metal gates fleeing onto Parliament Street for cover. The smoke was thick and seemed to be taking forever to clear. Was it over? Were there still suspects on the ground? Their training told the armed officers to train their sights on the edge of the smoke where it would clear first. If the blast was a screen for a further armed attack breaching the gated entrance then it would come in the next few minutes.

  Millbank – 2.43pm

  Trevor Billington-Smith, director of GCHQ, was in the back of his chauffeur-driven Jaguar XJ, being rushed through the London morning traffic by a police escort. Sitting next to him was MI6 Chief Sir Lloyd Willow.

  Billington-Smith was in mid-conversation with Alexander Mackintosh back at GCHQ. ‘No, I’m with Lloyd right now. We’re on our way to Legoland for a briefing... Don’t worry about Tempest. The Americans are tidying up as we speak...’

  The iconic Secret Intelligence Services building – Legoland to those in the intelligence community – loomed large in front of them as the car sped down Millbank beside the River Thames.

  As they crossed Vauxhall Bridge, Willow turned his attention to the press conference on a TV screen set into the driver’s back headrest. He leaned towards Trevor. ‘The hell is he doing?’ Willow asked. ‘He just said he had a confession to make.’

  Before Trevor could reply, there was a flash behind and to their left, followed by a short, deep explosion that seemed to come up from the bowels of the City. A long boom reverberated off the nearby buildings, by some way the loudest thing the men had ever heard.