Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  Someone called out, ‘Scab bitch.’

  Stella didn’t react.

  What did take her by surprise was their response to Leckie.

  ‘Awlright, Superhack,’ someone said from behind a laptop screen in a mock-Cockney accent, followed by a few cackles from nearby.

  Leckie, holding a keyring with about twenty keys on it, deflected as best he could. ‘Always a bit of banter in here,’ he said to Stella with a grin. He turned to the rest of the newsroom and announced, ‘Superhack’s back!’

  ‘I thought you said no one called you that anymore,’ said Stella.

  Some balled-up paper was thrown at him.

  He batted it away. ‘Get out of it,’ he said, forcing a laugh.

  It came across to Stella like the bullied child’s attempts to laugh along with their tormentors. He swaggered the rest of the way, making out like he was notorious.

  Leckie’s desk was at the farthest back corner, next to a long counter where extra packs of printer toner and paper had been left. He couldn’t have been further from another reporter’s desk if they’d put him on the roof. That hadn’t stopped someone from dumping a week’s worth of recycling on top of his desk.

  Leckie was no longer smiling. He swiped the desk clear, causing a clatter as dozens of empty Coke and Red Bull cans hit the ground. Chuckles broke out around the newsroom.

  All that was left on the desk was a ten-year-old PC and a landline phone. Both covered in dust. Someone had instructed the cleaners not to bother with it.

  Leckie knew exactly what was going on. ‘After I got put away management became a bit stricter with certain, shall we say, “research methods” that had become pretty routine in here.’

  ‘They’re mad at you because you got caught?’ Stella said.

  ‘The way they see it I spoiled the party. Now everyone’s got to be more careful.’

  Stella leant against the desk and turned her back to the newsroom. Word of her presence was working its way round the office, which had noticeably quietened since their arrival.

  Dan switched the PC on then crouched down to the bottom desk drawer, his keys at the ready. ‘I put the other recordings on a little memory stick in here,’ he said, then he froze.

  ‘Don’t you keep a lock on it?’ said Stella.

  Dan dropped the keys then opened the drawer. ‘There was last night.’ He ruffled through the drawer, then emptied its contents completely emptied onto the floor. No memory stick in sight.

  ‘Right,’ he said, ‘we officially have a problem.’

  Behind them, there was a rapping of knuckles through the closed venetian blinds on the Perspex window of the editor’s office. A Scotsman’s brusque shout followed. ‘Leckie! In here! Yesterday!’

  ‘Right there, Bill,’ Leckie replied soporifically. He turned to Stella. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll find it.’

  The editor’s office blinds twitched, revealing only a pair of bloodshot eyes leering at Stella. ‘You too, darling,’ the voice added.

  *

  The smoke of about fifteen cigarettes was in the air, something Patterson seemed oblivious to as he looked over the layout for the evening edition. ‘Glad you decided to grace us with your presence,’ he said.

  ‘Sorry, boss,’ Leckie said. ‘Been chasing a few things.’

  Patterson looked up. ‘What the fuck is she doing in my newsroom?’ There was a kind of lethargy to his anger, the kind only extremely powerful people can get away with and still be menacing.

  The last time Stella and Patterson had been in the same room together was in front of a Commons Select Committee hearing on hacking.

  Leckie replied, ‘She’s helping me with Abbie Bishop.’

  Patterson slowly tapped the ash off his cigarette. He said to Stella, ‘Do you feel safe because there’s a room full of people out there? Trust me, love, if I knocked you out right now you wouldn’t get one witness in that newsroom to come forward.’

  Stella replied, ‘You seem to have mistaken me for your first wife. I always wondered: the hundred grand you settled that case for, was that a hundred grand for each black eye you gave her, or for both?’

  ‘Off the record,’ Patterson said, ‘it was worth every penny. Sit down, the pair of you.’

  Behind Patterson’s desk was a hanging picture of Simon Ali at Patterson’s wedding (Patterson’s fourth and most recent earlier in the year).

  ‘So,’ Patterson said. ‘Abbie Bishop.’

  Leckie lit a cigarette and crossed his legs as he exhaled, trying, and failing, to look relaxed. ‘It’s moving. Baby steps.’

  ‘Baby steps,’ Patterson mumbled to himself. ‘You know why I want you? Because Dan Leckie always knows what the punters want. They like watching the football down the pub with a nice cold pint; they don’t give a fuck about Africa, the markets, or their wives; and they think anyone who doesn’t look or sound exactly like them is either a poof or a terrorist. The punters don’t give a fuck about some posh bird who topped herself. They want to read something that makes them proud to be British. They want to read about politicians putting Britain first. Downing Street’s on fire, the government’s on its knees. Why the fuck would I pay you for baby steps?’

  Dan said, ‘The story is solid, but if I’m going to bring it all together I need my memory stick back.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘Come on, Bill. Let’s not do this.’

  ‘This? What this?’

  ‘It was in a black metal box in my desk. Who has it?’

  ‘Well, fucking hell, let’s see. You left it in your desk, where you never are, surrounded by bloodthirsty tabloid hacks who would do anything for a story, and who blame you for them being treated like criminals for the last year.’ He paused. ‘They blame her mostly, but you’re up there too.’

  ‘Look...’ Stella began, trying to rescue the situation.

  Before she could, Patterson interrupted. ‘He said you were covering London now. So you must be working for a foreign paper. What is it?’

  ‘The Republic,’ Stella said.

  Patterson applauded. ‘The fucking Republic, ladies and gentlemen. Now there’s a publication absolutely no one gives a fuck about. Where can you even buy that over here? What does it sell a week? Oh, I’m sorry. You don’t count sales, you measure on a fucking moral compass, don’t you.’

  Stella couldn’t resist taking the bait. ‘The Republic is probably the most influential news magazine in the States. How many world leaders do you see reading The Post?’

  ‘Oh fuck off, darlin’,’ Patterson said. ‘They don’t read The Post, but when I call them at ten o’clock at night they fucking well answer. You and your sanctimonious muckraking for months on end: you might have the snarl of a T-rex, but you’ve got as much reach. We fucking entertain people at this paper. What have you ever done? Except bang on about a bunch of pompous arseholes’ right to privacy, but they’re not complaining about their privacy when their new film’s coming out, do they? No, they don’t give a fuck about privacy then. I get their agents on the phone trying to get their fucking clients’ mugs into my Showbiz section and make it look like it’s not a paid advert, which it fucking well is. Go on, get out of here, the pair of you.’

  Stella didn’t move.

  Leckie too. ‘What about my memory stick, Bill?’

  He went back to his emails. ‘Go fill out a form at lost property, like I give a fuck.’

  ‘He’s bullshitting, Dan,’ Stella said, holding firm. ‘He’s listened to the recordings, but he wants them himself. Right, Bill?’

  Patterson completely ignored her. ‘The things is, Dan – it’s not working out. I don’t see this story coming together without the recordings.’

  ‘You’re firing me?’ Leckie asked.

  Patterson took out a piece of paper from his drawer without having to search – it had been prepared earlier with the help of some NMG lawyers. He put on his glasses, which still failed to give him any sense of sophistication. ‘Quote, “you the Autho
r, Daniel Leckie, warrant that the work submitted under this agreement may be terminated at any time.’ He peered over his glasses. He knew the rest well enough to recite from memory. ‘Any violation of this renders the Author’s contract with News Media Group null and void. And all materials collected during said contract shall belong to News Media Group.” Your own contract, Dan. Which you signed.’ He slid the contract across his desk for Leckie to see.

  The air had gone out of him. Dan’s shoulders slumped. ‘You sat in that chair a few weeks ago and told me you could get me my old job back if I brought in a big story. Something juicy. Your exact words. And that I should use any means at my disposal.’

  ‘Did I tell you to hack someone’s phone?’ Patterson asked.

  As much as Stella knew it was still going on, she couldn’t believe it was playing out right in front of her. After all the headlines, all the scandal, the public outrage, the angry MPs, the committee findings and hand wringing: nothing had changed.

  ‘That’s what I love about the hypocrisy of liberals,’ Patterson said. ‘You rail against phone hacking but as soon as it’s a story you want like Abbie Bishop then suddenly it’s OK. You,’ he directed at Stella, ‘actually teamed up with the very guy that you helped send down. Welcome to the darkside, Miss Mitchell. You’re officially a hypocrite like the rest of us.’

  As they made for the door, Patterson called out, ‘Let me know if your memory stick shows up. It would be terrible luck to lose anything important on it. Or indiscreet.’

  Only then did Stella notice it wasn’t just Simon Ali that was in Patterson’s wedding photo. Nigel Hawkes was there too.

  ‘You made back-up copies, right?’ Stella asked as they walked back through the newsroom.

  Leckie just exhaled heavily. ‘The last recording happened barely two nights ago. I’ve not had a chance.’

  ‘Good move,’ Stella said. ‘Smart.’

  Before they reached reception, someone shouted, ‘Hey, Dan! I thought we could get a beer sometime. I left you a message on Hugh Grant’s phone but you haven’t replied yet.’

  The entire newsroom erupted in laughter. For once, Dan didn’t laugh along.

  In the sanctuary of the lobby, Stella and Dan took a timeout by the lifts.

  ‘What do you think he’s up to?’ Stella asked.

  Dan had his hands on his hips, staring at the marble floor. ‘Sitting on it so he can do its own story? Or maybe Hawkes got to him.’

  ‘How though?’ Stella asked.

  Dan had nothing. He looked bereft. ‘This story is all I’ve got, Stel. I’m not quitting. Not yet. They’ll have to kill me.’

  Stella set off for the exit. ‘Come on,’ she said.

  He chased her through the carousel door. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Westminster Mortuary,’ Stella replied.

  As they crossed Lambeth Bridge, Stella checked her side mirror. Immediately she got a sinking feeling. A black Audi snaked out from behind a taxi, nearly colliding head-on with a double-decker bus in the opposite lane.

  Stella said, ‘Shit. That car’s back again.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s following us?’ Dan asked.

  The Audi accelerated suddenly, tailgating Leckie’s Escort with a threatening rev of the engine. Close enough to give a nudge at any time.

  ‘Yep,’ Dan said, looking into the rear view mirror, ‘they’re definitely following us.’

  Stella grabbed her seatbelt as Dan jumped a gear to accelerate.

  The Audi followed easily, purring in comparison to the Escort’s clapped out engine. The end of the bridge was on them in no time, and Leckie prepared to dive right down Embankment.

  ‘Go left,’ Stella said, raising her voice to be heard over the engine’s effort.

  ‘Westminster’s right!’

  ‘We have to lose them first.’

  ‘Fuck it.’ Leckie lurched left, diving through an amber light. The Audi followed, busting through a clear red, nearly poleaxing a motorbike coming from Millbank.

  Seeing traffic stalled up ahead, Leckie swung left into the bike lane, blasting his horn at the cyclists who had to take evasive action towards the pavement.

  Both cars tore down Millbank beside the Thames, half on the pavement, half in the bike lane. To the left, MI6 headquarters loomed over the other side of Vauxhall Bridge.

  Leckie knew there would be little scope to lose a tail around the busy Wandsworth Road, and the next set of lights at the crossroads ahead were red. Traffic from the right was just setting off, led by a red double-decker bus.

  Leckie floored it, shouting, ‘Hold on!’ as they charged out, squeezing ahead of the bus. Their rear bumper glanced the side of the bus as its driver somehow managed to get out the way.

  The nudge gave Leckie the help he needed to make the ninety-degree turn at speed. The Audi had tried to follow, but the bus now blocked its passage. As the Escort screeched onto the much quieter Bessborough Gardens the Audi was boxed in, a cacophony of car horns coming from all angles. The Audi barrelled backwards, shunting the car behind out the way, then did a three-point turn and followed the Escort. With its superior acceleration the Audi made up the gap in no time.

  Leckie scoured for a turnoff but there was nowhere to go. The Audi kept accelerating, and barged the Escort’s bumper at an angle, trying to knock it off the road.

  ‘Christ. Just pull over, Dan!’ Stella shouted, clinging onto the handle above the door.

  Leckie spotted a left turn coming up, but it was signposted one-way: No Entry from Leckie’s side. A taxi coming towards him blocked the street. ‘Hold on,’ Leckie shouted, preparing to swing the steering wheel sharply. Before he could, a black Mercedes 4x4 M-Class with blacked-out windows came haring up alongside the Audi.

  ‘There’s two of them now!’ Stella cried, noticing the distinctive registration plate of the Mercedes.

  It turned sharply right then back left, ploughing into the back of the Audi, sending it into a tailspin.

  Dan let out a euphoric laugh at their fortune, looking in his rear view mirror as the Audi sat stricken across a traffic island. The driver tried in vain to get going again but the wheels were lodged under a bollard.

  The Mercedes then sped off in the opposite direction, tyres squealing.

  ‘Jesus...’ Leckie gave a burst of terrified laughter as he realised they were safe.

  Stella turned round in her seat, grabbing a picture of the Mercedes’ registration plate on her phone.

  Leckie alternated quickly between the rear view mirror and the side. ‘I thought we were toast. Who the hell was that?’

  Stella checked the photo she’d taken. ‘The Merc was a foreign plate. The Audi was definitely U.K..’

  Leckie dropped a gear, turning down the nearest side street off the main road. ‘Looks like someone’s decided to help us.’

  10.

  Little Italy, New York – Tuesday, 1.01pm

  NOVAK WAS WALKING briskly down Mulberry Street – trying to ignore his hunger pangs from the smell of fresh pizza emanating from the deli windows – when he clocked a silver sedan puttering by across the road. Far too slow a pace for New York midday traffic. Novak slowed, then stopped a passer-by for directions to Grand Street subway, knowing he’d be pointed in the direction of the sedan. Now he had an excuse to look over at the sedan when he followed the man’s pointing arm. The passenger flicked his head away too late. He knew Novak had made him.

  It was the guy who had worn the NYU sweater. Now wearing a white shirt and tie.

  Novak thanked the man for directions. The man shook his head as Novak took off in the opposite direction to where he’d just been pointed. With some luck Novak thought the NYU guy might back off now he’d been spotted, and might even drive in the direction Novak had been pointed. It was worth a shot.

  As he continued on, every person within a twenty-metre perimeter seemed like a possible threat. The twenty-something woman in an executive’s power-suit: too well-dressed for this neighbourhood? A scrawny you
ng guy on the bench in a Nets jersey: why was he texting so cagily? Or the sixtyish man with the pot belly: was that an earpiece or a hearing aid? And what about all the middle-aged guys in grey suits and wearing sunglasses. Were they a dolphin team?

  Remembering Sharp’s advice, Novak stole glances at their shoes, but couldn’t remember any of them. And he’d never noticed how many people there are just standing around on the sidewalk during the day.

  Novak’s gaze darted from one side of the street to the other. As his paranoia grew Sharp’s advice receded further into the background. Sharp could single people out to focus on, but Novak didn’t have that talent. It took years in the field to learn what to look for. Novak’s mistake was in trying to keep tabs on anyone and everyone. His mind became a fog of one-liner physical descriptions, and an endless stream of images of shoes.

  Then it happened. A familiar face from a few minutes ago. The man had been in a dark-green army surplus jacket, but his brown boots had looked too clean for the rest of his outfit. Unscuffed. And there they were again.

  Novak kept on walking. He felt he had the upper hand if they didn’t know he’d made them.

  His forehead broke out in a panic sweat.

  Figuring he needed to be out of sight to make a move, he turned onto a rundown stretch of Grand Street. As soon as he was round the corner he ran as fast as he could, zigzagging through the lunchtime crowd. He had no idea what he was going to do, but when he saw a homeless man sat in front of a disused hardware shopfront he decided to take a shot at something.

  Crouching down in front of the man, Novak figured he had about thirty seconds tops.

  The homeless man was in his sixties. His face tanned with deep forehead cracks, like his years on the street were being marked like rings on a tree. He had rolled his socks up over his trouser bottoms to stop rats crawling up them in his sleep. After that happens the first time, you never let it happen again.

  He had an oversized filthy denim jacket and a trucker hat with ‘Betty’s Diner – Georgia, USA’ on it. His handwritten sign on a bit of cardboard read, ‘Colonel Michael J Baker. 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. Vietnam vet on hard times. Any and all help appreciated.’