Official Secrets

by Andrew Raymond

  Sonia sat with her hands wrapped around the front of her knees to stop herself trembling. ‘I didn’t want to come here,’ she said. ‘But Doug...’

  Robertson opened his briefcase and presented a blank white envelope to Curtis.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  Robertson explained, ‘As Simon Ali’s lawyer and executor of his last will and testament, it’s my legal duty to furnish the succeeding Prime Minister with that envelope. The contents of which are unknown to me.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Curtis. ‘What did he want me to do with this?’

  Robertson said, ‘My client offered no guidance on the matter, other than an instruction I witness your reading of the document.’

  Curtis opened the envelope and started reading the letter inside. After a few lines she recognised it as Ali’s speech.

  Sonia sat in silence.

  Robertson offered no support, sitting at the other end of the sofa.

  Halfway through Curtis let out a ‘My God...’ She had always thought it would be bad, but nothing close to this.

  When she was done she exhaled. She looked at Sonia, who couldn’t bear to make eye contact.

  Curtis held the letter limply in her hand. ‘Sonia–’

  ‘I don’t want to know what’s in it. I knew there was something wrong with him on Monday morning. He had this look. When you’ve been married as long as we have...’ She trailed off, her cheeks a veil of tears. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s pretty bad, Sonia.’

  ‘It’s about her, isn’t it? Abigail Bishop.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Curtis pursed her lips at her then said to Robertson, ‘If this ever got out...well. It would be nothing short of a disaster. For the government. For Simon’s legacy...’

  Robertson didn’t seem to care. He’d already earned his £4000-an-hour fee. ‘It’s not my place to advise, Prime Minister.’

  Curtis took the letter to the bedroom – still in Sonia and Robertson’s eye line – towards the fire. Robertson looked at his watch, checking this wasn’t exceeding his billable hours to Simon’s estate. Curtis dropped the paper in, watching it burn until there was nothing left.

  Premier Inn, Bayswater, London – Thursday, 1.00am

  Stella returned to the hotel exhausted and distressed. A day like hers might have been painful yet somewhat tolerable for a war correspondent, but she wasn’t used to covering dead bodies in city streets and having guns pointed at her. To top it all off, she now had to face a video conference with Diane Schlesinger back in New York. She’d insisted on it after Stella had texted her about the evening’s events.how

  In desperation, Stella went to her notes – while still wearing her jacket – rummaging wildly through the Goldcastle files from Rebecca, the Malik files from Novak, for something, anything, that could keep the story alive now.

  The more frantic her search became, the more her frustration and anger grew. The ability of the conspirators to reach anyone, anytime, and anywhere, was too much to take for a journalist who had become used to success, and seeing truth succeed over corruption. She raised her arms, every cell in her body wanting nothing more than to swipe the entire desk clear, then walk out, thankful at still being alive. But she couldn’t admit defeat.

  She went to the bathroom with the intention of patching up her makeup to appear more presentable. She stared into the mirror, and instead of reapplying her makeup, washed off what little was left. There was nothing that was going to hide what she’d seen. In the moment, she simply couldn’t care what she looked like. All her pain was behind her eyes anyway. Nothing was going to cover that up.

  ‘Don’t you dare cry,’ she ordered herself.

  Five minutes later, as the Darkroom connection patched through to New York, Stella took some hotel stationery from the bedside table to make notes, then waited for the receiver screen.

  Diane was at her desk, using her computer’s webcam. ‘Stella, how are you doing?’ she asked, sounding tense.

  Stella put a brave face on things. ‘I’m alright. Got a bit of a fright earlier. It’s fine, though. I mean...I’m fine.’

  Diane neglected to mention Henry Self standing across from her out of sight of the webcam, his arms folded.

  ‘Where are you? Are you safe?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m at a hotel in London I know,’ Stella said. ‘I’ve no reason to believe I’m still in any danger.’

  ‘What do we have so far?’

  Stella broke eye contact. There was no getting around it. ‘Well, let’s see...I had been working with a journalist called Dan Leckie, who had phone recordings that proved Nigel Hawkes was having an affair with Abbie Bishop. Dan has now disappeared and I only have copies of some of the tamer, inconclusive recordings. The U.S. diplomat who had a laptop belonging to Abbie which could have unlocked highly damaging intelligence documents was shot tonight before he went on record with anything incriminating, and the laptop has since been destroyed by what I can only assume is some British black ops team. The CIA agent with Novak isn’t talking. Novak hasn’t established contact with his source of the rendition video. And the only paper trail I have could land me in jail for violating the Official Secrets Act.’ Stella moved slightly out of picture to open a minibar white wine while Diane digested the full direness of the update. ‘There might be a clue in Simon Ali’s speech, but we don’t have it and we have no way of getting it.’

  ‘So basically we’re nowhere?’ said Diane.

  Stella necked the miniature before replying, ‘Basically.’ Having baldly stated the facts, she no longer cared much about appearing brave. ‘Have you heard from Tom?’

  Diane said, ‘Last we heard he was with Walter Sharp in Albany and was attempting to fly to Europe to track down this kid, Artur Korecki. But we don’t know where he is.’ She glanced up at Henry, who was making a ‘keep going’ gesture. ‘Stella,’ Diane went on, ‘what do you think has been going on?’

  Stella slowly drew her eyes back up from the empty bottle in her hand to the screen. ‘What I know for sure – what we can print – is that Abbie Bishop was having an affair with Nigel Hawkes that had been going on for several months. During that time she was being paid five thousand dollars every month by a political consultancy firm called Goldcastle, to steal data from GCHQ. During this time another MI6 agent on deep cover, called Goran Lipski, had infiltrated the Downing Street cell. When his superiors failed to act on his warnings, he went to the Americans – Jonathan Gale at the U.S. embassy in London. Lipski was shot in the early hours of Monday morning and thrown into the Thames. Jonathan Gale was shot earlier tonight. We also know that Abdullah Mufaza gained access to Downing Street with a genuine press card issued to him by someone senior in GCHQ. Which gives us a solid connection between a rogue GCHQ operative and the Downing Street cell. That’s what we have.’

  Diane looked over the lid of her laptop at Henry, who shook his head.

  She nodded thoughtfully, pushing her lips out. ‘I think...’ She wanted to be careful with her wording, being as charitable as she could. ‘I think you need to come home, Stella. The story’s over.’

  In desperation Stella said, ‘I can’t come back to New York. I’m so close on this, I can tell...’

  As soon as she said it she regretted it. They were the words of a fledgling journalist, not a seasoned pro.

  Diane said, ‘We tried this. But we’ve got to get together a solid Downing Street piece now. OK? We’re out of time.’ Then, while Henry looked down at his phone, Diane flipped up a notepad that had been sitting face down on her desk. It had ‘Stay online’ written on it. ‘Get on a flight later and you can get back to New York for print.’ Checking Henry’s movements in the reflection on the screen, Diane dropped the notepad, then winked. She clicked her mouse, but only to minimize the Darkroom window rather than close it down.

  All Stella saw at her end was a black screen, but was still picking up audio.

  Henry hadn’t noticed Diane’s trick. ‘It’s fo
r the best,’ he explained. ‘There’s something ugly going on over there, but she hasn’t got it.’

  Knowing Stella could still hear her, she said, ‘She’s young. She’s ambitious. She wants the big stories. That’s why I brought her here.’

  Henry said, ‘But not at any cost. A couple of hours ago someone had a gun to her head. I’ve got Martin Fitzhenry in the hospital, Tom Novak limping around God knows where, and we can’t save a magazine with dead writers. You told me she was better than this, Diane.’ He made for the door. ‘She lost this one.’

  Stella felt like she’d been punched in the gut.

  ‘I know,’ Diane replied.

  The second Henry was out the door Diane brought up the Darkroom screen again. ‘OK, look Stella. Either way, we go to print on Friday, so whatever you can get I need it by Thursday ten p.m. New York. You have – at most – twenty hours to close this thing. Now it’s my behind on the line too. Don’t think Henry won’t flip when he finds out what we’ve done here. So you need to find a way to bring this home.’

  Stella asked, ‘What if I don’t? What if I can’t?’

  Diane replied, ‘You must have something.’

  Stella could sense her entire future hanging in the balance. ‘Hawkes. Charlie Fletcher and I go way back. If I can get a sit down with Hawkes I can nail him.’

  Diane didn’t seem overly taken with the idea. ‘If he doesn’t fold on you, you won’t be able to go back to him.’

  ‘I can nail Hawkes, Diane.’

  Diane didn’t look so sure. ‘Get him on the record with something. At least work the affair angle, but aim higher if you think you can take him. Take him like a New Yorker.’

  Stella wasn’t sure she knew what that meant, but she said, ‘I can take him, Diane.’

  Stella marched out the hotel with her mobile out, looking up and down Bayswater Road for a taxi to hail. The street was deserted. Somewhere in the distance the shutters of a late-night kebab shop were slammed shut.

  It was a crisp night. It would also be a long one.

  Stella got a tired ‘Hello?’ at the other end of the number she’d called.

  ‘It’s Stella, Charlie. I need to speak to the minister.’

  Charlie replied, ‘Are you drunk or stoned or something? It’s the middle of the night. The only thing that’ll get the Foreign Secretary out of bed at this hour is a North Korean missile.’

  ‘Do you want a bet?’ said Stella. She flicked to an audio file on her phone and pressed play.

  Charlie held his breath while he listened to a recording of a voicemail left by Hawkes for Abbie Bishop. The kindest thing Charlie could think of was that it wasn’t exactly Prime Minister-type content.

  Charlie didn’t even wait for it to finish. ‘OK, OK. Enough. Where are you now? I’ll meet you and we can work something out about this.’

  Stella said, ‘I don’t want to meet you. I want to meet Hawkes.’ She flagged down a taxi. ‘Tell him if he isn’t waiting for me at Admiralty Arch, alone, in half an hour I’ll tweet the recording you just heard.’

  Grosvenor Crescent, London – Thursday, 1.12am

  The sight of a Jaguar Sentinel XJ parking up on one of the most expensive streets in London wouldn’t normally have been too surprising. Visitors’ cars were a common sight on the historic terrace (residents used the underground secure parking facilities), but not this Jaguar.

  Angela Curtis, against the wishes of her Royal and Specialist Protection detail – the part of the Metropolitan Police’s Specialist Operations unit that protected the Royal Family and the Prime Minister – had demanded minimal presence from them.

  On the way up the front stairs she was flanked by two discreetly armed RaSP officers – who had travelled in the Jaguar with her rather than behind in their usual convoy of armoured BMWs and Land Rovers – to the door of Nigel Hawkes. A third who had been in the front passenger seat guarded the Hawkes’ front door.

  Sheila Hawkes had the door open for Curtis before she reached it. Her husband was expecting her.

  ‘Sheila,’ said Curtis on the way in.

  ‘Good evening, Angela,’ Sheila answered. That she had failed to call her Prime Minister was no innocent slip up after years of barely friendly acquaintance. Her only relationship with Curtis was as her husband’s political enemy.

  Sheila closed the door and wrapped her cashmere cardigan a little tighter around herself. She asked the RaSP officers, ‘Would you gentlemen like some tea or coffee?’

  On her way into the drawing room, Curtis answered for them. ‘They’re fine.’

  The two men stood in the hall, one facing the front door, one facing the kitchen at the back of the house.

  Nigel was sitting on a leather chesterfield sofa. He had managed to throw on some casual weekend clothes after Curtis’ abrupt phone call – ‘I’m coming over. We need to talk.’ – approximately nine minutes earlier. He didn’t get up when Curtis entered. Like his wife, another purposeful slight.

  ‘The sort of welcome I’ve come to expect from the Hawkeses,’ Curtis said, remaining standing in the centre of the room.

  Nigel was now regretting his sitting position. He felt weak being lower down.

  He was too exhausted for anger or volume. ‘I swore my allegiance to the crown, not your temporary office,’ he said quietly.

  Not rising to the remark, Curtis stayed on topic. ‘Have you heard about this Jonathan Gale fellow?’

  ‘It was in my evening security memo,’ Hawkes replied.

  ‘Do we have any leads?’

  ‘You seem to have me confused with your Home Secretary.’

  ‘So you wouldn’t know why a reporter and a GCHQ officer were at the scene at the time?’

  Hawkes raised his hands then dropped them on his thighs. ‘Why on earth would I know? Is this what you got my wife and I out of our beds for, Angela?’

  Curtis went over to the bar and poured a whisky. ‘I’m here about Simon Ali’s speech.’ She handed the whisky to Hawkes.

  ‘You’ve got the speech?’

  ‘He left a copy with his lawyer to be given to the next PM. Should anything happen to him. Doug Robertson delivered it to me earlier.’

  He nodded a few times then downed the whisky. ‘How bad is it?’

  Curtis said, ‘Worse than you could ever imagine.’

  Hawkes held out his glass. ‘Could I have another, please?’

  Curtis turned away. ‘Get it yourself.’

  After downing his second glass, Hawkes slumped at the bar. The assortment of wines and whiskies and vodkas on display were worth more than many peoples’ houses.

  ‘If you came here to tell Sheila, you’re wasting your time. I already told her. Or are you going public with it?’

  ‘Public with what?’

  ‘About the affair.’

  ‘What affair? Nigel. What affair?’

  ‘Dear God,’ he said. He walked to his snooker table and rolled the black ball to the other end. ‘Abbie Bishop and I were involved. It wasn’t serious.’

  ‘How long had it been going on?’ asked Curtis.

  ‘Six months.’

  ‘Six months wasn’t serious? Interesting to note that that’s how long she’d been getting paid by Goldcastle. And that the very consultancy firm you hired four weeks ago to run your election campaign should become embroiled in this. My source in GCHQ has shown me exactly what Goldcastle has been up to: hacking referendums and elections using illegally acquired online data on U.K. citizens. Do you think Goldcastle have enough to clinch the election for you?’

  ‘Come on, Angela,’ Nigel said. ‘There are no cameras in here. Who are you trying to impress? I didn’t get into this job to privatise the prison service, do nothing about carbon emissions, and let bankers get away with daylight bloody robbery. But we let those things happen because it’s what the people who keep us in our jobs want. Those people who finance our campaigns and run them: they’re the ones in charge. Every day we say things we don’t mean because we know it will play we
ll. That’s what we do. We win elections, then we find ways to stay in power. You’re like one of those people down the pub carping about millionaires hiding savings in offshore tax havens. Give that same person a million pounds and a creative accountant, I guarantee they’d do the exact same thing. Because that’s what people do: they protect their own interests.’

  ‘That’s not what I’m doing. I want to see this country prosper. And politicians like you be held to account.’

  Hawkes laughed. ‘A party political broadcast from Angela Curtis...’

  Curtis asked, ‘Do you admit you have no compunction about Goldcastle’s methods and lying to the public?’

  ‘If a bit of imaginative news and targeted advertising is enough to swing an election or a referendum, then what does that say about the electorate? Do they deserve my respect? Still, I suppose you’ll go public with the Abbie story in a few days. Try to sew up the election early for yourself. Trust me, Bannatyne will eat you up in the debates–’

  ‘Look at me, Nigel,’ she said.

  He turned around.

  Curtis moved towards him. ‘I wanted to look into your eyes when I asked you.’

  Hawkes braced himself.

  ‘Did you move the Simon Ali press conference from the F&C building?’ Curtis watched him carefully, gauging his reaction.

  ‘Why would I do a thing like that?’

  ‘Roger Milton’s been looking into it for me. The Foreign and Commonwealth Office had new scanners installed last week. Scanners that would have flagged the ceramic balls in Mufaza’s suicide vest. Whoever moved the press conference wanted Mufaza to get in.’

  After a pause, Hawkes said, ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘We’ve got a mole in GCHQ handing out press cards to terrorists, credible threats being covered up, and I’m telling you whoever moved that press conference is involved.’

  Hawkes’ phone started ringing, breaking the icy silence.

  He answered, ‘Not now, Charlie. I’m–’ He rubbed his temple. ‘Tell her I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  After he hung up, Curtis said, ‘You’re in demand tonight.’