Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  Willow shouted, ‘Jesus Christ!’, then the TV picture from Downing Street – delayed by a few seconds – cut to black.

  Cars on the bridge screeched to a halt as the huge cloud stretched up over the top of the House of Commons and Big Ben. Drivers got out their cars, watching with a sense of awe and horror.

  Willow stared at the black TV screen, which then cut back to the news studio.

  Sir Lloyd could barely talk. ‘They just took out Downing Street...’

  Billington-Smith shouted to the driver, ‘What are you waiting on, man? Put your fucking foot down!’

  The frantic call went out over the Downing Street police marksmen’s radios: ‘Explosion on the ground!’

  Police and paramedics ran to where the Prime Minister had been standing only seconds before. An armed officer on the roof overlooking Number Ten put a radio call out: ‘Can anyone see? Is the Prime Minister down? I need confirmation on the ground!’

  An S01 officer who had been sheltered from the worst of the blast behind a wall at the press entrance ran to the side of the Prime Minister’s bloodied body. He got on his radio as he sprinted through the smoke that was churning from overhead police helicopters. ‘The PM is down! Repeat, the PM is down!’

  The PM’s suit was ripped from around his shoulders, his torso riddled with ball bearings, unable to turn his back in time from the blast. It was over before he knew it. He never stood a chance.

  A Secret Service agent with a bloodied face – one of his eyes hanging from the socket – crawled along the rubble-strewn ground towards his principal, Secretary Snow. One of the biggest myths about the Secret Service was that they had to swear an oath to die for their charges should the situation arise. But oath or not, the agent had decided he was willing. Even now, feeling his eye touching his lower cheek – just about visible from what peripheral vision he had left in his other eye – he kept dragging himself towards Secretary Snow. He called out, ‘Mr Secretary...’

  Like a captain who survives the sinking of his ship, the agent wanted nothing more than to have made the ultimate sacrifice. He had signed up for Marine recruitment on 12th September 2001. He knew the risks, and that at some point he might have to lay down his life for his principal’s.

  In that moment, crawling in front of 10 Downing Street – its famous black door blown off its hinges, shattered into hundreds of pieces – he would have gladly given his life. But the only movement from Secretary Snow was a torrent of blood from his opened neck, sliced open down to the windpipe by blast-debris.

  Barely thirty seconds after the explosion, a code black was announced to staff in all Accident and Emergency units in London, meaning they could expect large-scale sudden arrivals, some of whom may be Members of Parliament. When travelling, the PM’s convoy had a full medical unit in tow during all trips as a matter of routine. What most people didn’t know was that Downing Street had a cutting edge operating theatre in a recently finished underground bunker – its eight-figure cost hidden away in the national security budget – with full-time anaesthetist and trauma surgeon on site at all times. For any occasion Downing Street itself was considered a danger zone, St Thomas’ Hospital (a minute’s drive over Westminster Bridge) was designated for any possible treatment of the leader of the country. At Accident and Emergency reception, the unique tone of the black phone attached to the wall – checked daily by hospital engineers cleared by MI5 – rang out, twice as loud as the other phones. The ring that staff had only ever heard in training. When the head nurse answered she was told, ‘We’re code black! This is not a drill!’ Within two minutes the entire ward would have been cleared. But the staff never made it that far.

  Back at Downing Street the S01 officer stood helplessly as paramedics pulled back from the body of Simon Ali. One medic shook his head at the officer.

  He pressed his in-ear radio to activate it. His voice was heavy, despondent. Slow. What he was about to say had been trained for many times, but never experienced. S01 didn’t have the luxury the general population took for granted: to simply hope the worst case scenario never happened. S01 had to plan for it, an.

  Now for the first time since Specialist Command’s inception in 1986 it was happening. What came next had only ever been theorised, talked about in conference rooms, read about in S01 training manuals. Reality was going to prove far, far messier.

  The call soon reached St Thomas’s: their trauma unit could stand down. ‘Patient One’ had been pronounced dead at the scene.

  ‘Confirm, all units,’ the officer said, trying to summon breath. ‘The Prime Minister is dead. We are in a black crash protocol. Repeat. This is a black crash...’

  PART TWO

  Black Crash

  4.

  GCHQ, GTE Division – Monday, 2.37pm

  REBECCA’S PHONE started ringing. Then the phone across from hers. Then Matthew’s, then the one beside his, until every phone in the office was going.

  Rebecca looked at Matthew in confusion. ‘What the hell?’ she said. She picked up her phone which gave a repeating automated response: ‘Black crash. This is not a drill. Black crash. This is not a drill...’

  Every computer screen went blank – even as some people were typing midsentence – then the words ‘BLACK CRASH’ flashed up. The TV screens hooked up to Google Earth all changed to the same message too.

  A GTE tech assistant came running from the canteen. ‘There was a bomb at Downing Street...’ As he searched for a working TV channel he was immediately surrounded. Breathless, he tried to explain, ‘A guy ran towards the PM, then there was an explosion! That’s it. He just...’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ Matthew said, watching the news cut back to the studio.

  The presenters could barely speak they were getting so much information in their earpieces: it was chaos in the control room, with directors squabbling with producers about what to do next. The background shot of Downing Street changed to a test-signal screen, then was taken down altogether by the director.

  Mackintosh came running down the spiral staircase from the cryptography department. ‘What’s going on?’

  The TV presenter, who had been anticipating another rote press conference with prepared notes, now found himself having to improvise on the biggest story of his life. ‘We’re getting...I...’ he stuttered. ‘We’re trying to get in contact with someone on the ground, but there was a huge explosion...’ The producer brought in a voice from a mobile phone at the scene. ‘We have a cameraman talking to us live from the scene. Robbie, are you alright? What can you see?’

  The man could barely be heard over the screaming and sirens all around him. ‘There’s just...there was an explosion...it’s chaos down here. I think...the Prime Minister is down, Michael. He’s definitely...’ For a moment the reporter lost himself and uttered the words that would be replayed so many times in the coming days across the globe. ‘This is a scene of...the Prime Minister is definitely down.’

  Mackintosh lowered the volume and raised his hands for everyone’s attention. The office turned silent. ‘Everyone! We are now following black crash protocol. Remember your training. I want all our ears open.’ Mackintosh was the calmest person in the building. His voice even and measured. ‘Senior Intel, in my office now. Everyone else, you’re fielding requests from Five and Six, backing up credible threats and follow-ons. This is going to take a little time. For now, we’re in lockdown.’

  From the streets surrounding GCHQ it looked largely like business as usual – this was intentional. From a distance the changes were subtle, but telling: armed guards patrolling the perimeter fence and the HQ entrance were doubled (follow-on attacks – or FOAs – were more likely to come from publicly accessible roads using a 4x4 or small truck of some kind), scouting for possible ram-raid attacks; all visitors to GCHQ were immediately escorted off the premises. No other staff members were allowed in or out.

  Black crash protocol extended much further than just GCHQ – through the whole intelligence and security services. Every MI5
agent on U.K. soil was activated by a ‘BLACK CRASH’ text message, directing them to their nearest substation. All police leave was suspended, all officers recalled. U.K. airports were closed. Trading on the London Stock Exchange was suspended. Motorway CITRAC signs outside major cities switched to a 40mph limit to avoid dangerous mass evacuations.

  Armed police and soldiers kept guard at the busiest public squares and landmarks around the country; three Scimitar armoured vehicles – essentially light tanks – were dispatched outside the main terminals at Heathrow, Gatwick and Manchester airports.

  There were also some subtler elements involved: as in times of national mourning, radio station producers turned on their studios’ blue ‘obit light’ – tested once a week like a fire alarm – to indicate to the DJ some kind of national emergency, or the death of a major public figure. The DJ then cut to the news – interrupting the on-air song if the producer deemed it worthy. For those stations without a news desk or the logistics to run a constant news feed, they cut to pre-approved playlists of middle-of-the-road music, neither too loud nor buoyant. The major TV stations interrupted live programming whenever they were ready, making sure whoever was going on air wasn’t wearing bright colours.

  Even those on planes weren’t left out of the breaking news. Pilots were made aware by U.K. air traffic control of what had unfolded, and made the announcement to passengers.

  What black crash planners had reconfigured in recent years was the social media aspect. News – whatever it was that had happened to the PM – would travel fast. Even when Princess Diana had died at four a.m., the then Foreign Secretary, who was in the Philippines at the time, got a question on Diana’s death within fifteen minutes. And that was in 1997. News, rumour and hearsay spread even more quickly. There was no plan to pull the plug on Facebook or Twitter. In fact, everyone from GCHQ to MI6 was convinced keeping such channels open could be crucial to intercepting FOAs.

  No one was in favour of announcing the death of the Prime Minister with a Facebook post or a tweet, but it was clear any official announcement should be made as soon as possible. There were many draft press releases depending on the situation: terrorism, heart attack, plane crash. The finer details were finessed, then it was sent out to the Press Association. All the major news organisations, TV stations, websites, took their cue from this, confirming the Prime Minister’s death.

  Anyone standing outside Buckingham Palace at the same time saw the Master of the Household – clad in black jacket, white shirt and black tie – make his way across the red gravel and pin a black-edged notice to the gates. Without a word he returned to his post inside the palace.

  In a world where news was beamed into phones and homes, there was something noble and genteel about the act. Of course, within seconds the notice was snapped and uploaded to Instagram, Twitter and Facebook. Nobility and gentility had a shelf life these days.

  As the news had broken before four p.m. the National Theatre would close that night. All major sports fixtures were cancelled. Cinemas and concerts remained open but were poorly attended.

  Several hours after the attack – once the smoke had cleared, and Downing Street had been completely tented off from the rooftops down by forensics – the Queen appeared on a live television broadcast from Buckingham Palace. She confirmed the news from behind a lectern in the Throne Room, against a backdrop of red and gold velvet drapes above two red thrones on a dais: the black crash planners hoping the image would portray a country held together by its monarchy. Some commentators and op-ed columns would opine in the days following that if anything it only drew attention to the fact that – for the moment – the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was without an elected leader. Hardly the sign of a strong and stable democracy.

  Without any break in her voice or visible signs of distress, the Queen relayed the details mentioned in the press release – sticking to the facts, using few adjectives – then made assurances the country would grieve, survive, and continue, in that order.

  Although the United Kingdom had no clear line of succession for Prime Minister the way the United States did for their President, there had always been an idea that Parliament would be able to decide fairly swiftly on an interim Prime Minister.

  At least, that was the plan.

  *

  The government’s emergency committee, COBRA, was chaired by the Home Secretary Ed Bannatyne. Once the immediate threats appeared contained, and the attack definitely over, talk turned to who would be interim Prime Minister. Bannatyne would normally have been the obvious choice: a senior Party figure who held high office. Years of experience. But then so had Foreign Secretary Nigel Hawkes. Simon Ali had already announced a General Election for the coming May.

  Any thought of a May election was now over.

  Bannatyne and Hawkes knew it would have to be brought forward. Meaning anyone who had been guiding the country through a period of national mourning and inevitable patriotism would be in pole position to lead the party into the election. With neither Bannatyne nor Hawkes willing to budge, it became clear a vote would have to take place. If for nothing else to reassure a panicking public. The spin doctors knew too that with polls predicting a potential hung parliament at the General Election, any sign of weakness at such a critical time could cripple the party for years.

  Conservative Party rules stipulated that party members vote on a leader from a shortlist. Once the party whips realised the vote could go to the wire – literally by a vote or two – party elders started to worry about the optics of the Tory party squabbling over their leader while the country went to bed without a Prime Minister for the first time since Lord Palmerston died in office of natural causes in 1885.

  A compromise was sought with Bannatyne and Hawkes’ people: a third contender would be brought onto the shortlist, and they would each whip their supporters to back this third candidate. A neutral, steady pair of hands with no ambitions for the election. A moderate yet respected backbencher with previous Cabinet experience. Someone respected by both sides of the House of Commons. Who, then come the General Election, would step aside and let Bannatyne and Hawkes fight out a proper leadership election.

  Nigel Hawkes asked, ‘And what if they don’t step aside?’

  No one had an answer to that.

  5.

  The Republic offices, New York – Monday, 12.01pm

  BY THE TIME NOVAK reached The Republic offices – halfway up a ten-storey sandstone in midtown Manhattan – he felt like he had been on a desert island for the last five hours. His phone had ceased working altogether an hour out of Washington. No texts, calls, email or internet. The airline crew at Dulles Airport almost had to drag him on-board as he sucked up the last dregs of cable news from the TV screens dotted around the gate. The cab driver from JFK had filled Novak in on developments in the hour he’d been in the air. Secretary Snow and the British Prime Minister had been confirmed dead.

  The Muslim driver – who had an American flag pendant dangling from his rear view mirror – told Novak, ‘Like this job wasn’t difficult enough after nine eleven. These maniacs are going to get me killed out here.’

  Having pocketed his now useless phone, Novak’s hands felt like they were missing something vital. His right thumb twitching every so often from not scrolling down his Twitter feed.

  On his way into the lobby Novak looked up at the building front across the street from The Republic. Bastion News – the alt-right website – had unfurled another billboard. Their biggest one yet. ‘Bastion News’ and their iconic ‘B’ logo down one side, the words “Honest news for ordinary, decent Americans” underneath. On the other side was The Republic’s logo, and under it, “Mainstream media. Fake news.”

  On any other day the billboard would have caused a stir in the press. Not today.

  The office was full, all fifteen staff writers rushed in to file copy for the most up-to-date news for Republic Online. It seemed almost everyone on the floor was on the phone – even the ones ty
ping. The atmosphere more like the frenzy of a stock traders’ than an upmarket news weekly.

  The receptionist was on the phone too. She covered the mouthpiece as Novak rushed past, telling him, ‘Mark’s looking for you.’

  Novak, still wearing the suit from his Congressional hearing, tie now loosened, dumped his carry-on case at his desk. Unlike his colleagues, whose desks were covered with books, research papers, random notes written on bar napkins and coffee receipts, Novak’s desk was practically empty. If it looked like he hadn’t been there for weeks it was because he hadn’t.

  Above the desk was a sign that said, ‘FACTS or GTFO’. Beside that was a picture of Novak as a six-year-old sitting behind the NBC Nightly News desk.

  A two-tier plastic tray sat to one side. The top level was marked ‘Fan mail’, the bottom ‘Death threats.’

  Novak whipped a sticky note off his computer screen that said, ‘Walter Sharp called again – Mark’ with Sharp’s number underneath. He tossed it in the bin. His attitude to missed calls had always been: if they’re important enough they’ll call back. He was distracted by the TV at the end of the room, the London correspondents for U.S. networks already on the scene. Westminster looked like a war zone in the background, with fleets of armoured police vans sealing off Whitehall all the way from Westminster Station past the Cenotaph to the Old War Office Building, which Churchill had used as headquarters during the Second World War.

  Novak’s editor, Mark Chang, appeared behind him, seemingly in shock. ‘We were watching the hearing on C-SPAN earlier,’ Chang said. ‘You seemed to make a splash. You know, before...’

  Novak kept looking at the TV screen, the news ticker scrolling across: ‘DEATHS ESTIMATED BETWEEN 50-75’.