Stella plucked her notepad out of her jacket pocket and scribbled it down in shorthand. ‘It’s interesting. This speech is going to take down some heavyweights in your party. Once it comes out it’s going to clear the path for you come the General Election.’
Curtis tried to feign ignorance. ‘I...have an idea how it might be interpreted, yes.’ Noticing her tea had gone cold, she topped it up with more hot water. ‘Just as I have an idea how one of your competitors might interpret it if I invite them down here instead.’
‘You’re threatening me with what will happen if I don’t run this?’
‘I’m just a fan of clarity, that’s all,’ Curtis answered.
‘If I run this, Doug Robertson will know it came from you. He won’t rest until he lets the entire world know that fact.’
‘Who do you think the public’s more likely to believe is the leaker: the Prime Minister who’s carrying the nation on her back after a national tragedy, or the lawyer who specialises in hiding celebrities’ money in offshore tax havens?’
Stella had to concede the point. ‘What about the men who brought me here? They’re going to put this together when the story comes out with my name on it.’
‘Those men keep secrets for a living.’
Stella smiled ruefully. ‘It’s so easy for you, isn’t it? This. The plotting, the machinations. Don’t make out like you’re doing me a selfless favour giving this to me.’
Curtis said, ‘I can’t make changes to this country without power. Without power I can’t lead. And if I can’t lead, then I might as well go home. Or do we just leave governing to the same people who got us into this mess? The people want change. They just haven’t been given any options until now. They need someone who’s strong.’
‘Once I print this, there’s no going back, Prime Minister.’
Curtis stared her down, daring her. ‘Look into my eyes and tell me I’m not ready.’
Stella folded up the speech and put it in her inside coat pocket. ‘I have a deadline.’
‘You’re not leaving yet, are you?’ Curtis passed across a further piece of paper. ‘This, you don’t get to take with you. You take notes here, and you cite it purely as background material. If you want to prove this side of things, you’ll need to do it elsewhere.’
‘Why can’t you let me cite the material?’ asked Stella.
‘Because if you print it, the entire country will know it came from me.’
Stella realised the front of the letter was addressed “To my successor”.
Curtis held up three fingers. ‘You have three minutes to make notes.’
After a minute Stella observed, ‘I can see why you needed someone to leak this.’ She looked Curtis in the eye. ‘This letter’s going to win you the General Election.’
‘Yes.’ Curtis took a drink of tea with much satisfaction. ‘Yes, I believe it will.’
The News Office, London Bridge – Thursday, 7.34pm
Novak had been deep in the zone for most of the day: his notes laid out in front of him, the structure he wanted clear in his mind. He had the three things essential to every reporter: purpose, coffee, and a deadline.
The intensity of the experience – being back on the home straight on a major story – reminded him of the days of the NSA papers. When no one really knew who he was, and he was just some guy writing at his desk like thousands of other reporters. He’d find himself on a crowded street or the subway, and to everyone else he was just another random guy in New York. They had no idea about the story that was about to catch the entire country’s attention – indeed, much of the world – for months to come.
A lot of the time, the public couldn’t even tell you what publication a major story originated from, let alone which journalist wrote it. But everyone knew who Tom Novak was.
What had propelled his celebrity was that he’d provided the only face – and voice – of the story. But behind his strident opinions on what he’d brought into the public domain – the massive overreach and infringement of privacy by U.S. and U.K. intelligence agencies – he couldn’t deny that he had rather enjoyed being the media’s most sought-after interviewee.
It was in that moment, reliving past glories, that a single pop-up on Novak’s laptop was about to change everything:
“IronCloud has received a new file ready for download for [email protected]. Enter your key to decrypt file.”
Thinking it was Fitz sending over Sharp’s transcript, Novak decrypted the file, eager to get to work plugging Sharp’s quotes into the story. So he was perplexed as to why it was an audio file that had decrypted. Reckoning Fitz had sent over the raw audio of the interview instead, Novak put in his earphones expecting to hear exactly that. At first he thought Fitz had bungled the recording. He skimmed through the first twenty minutes and got only the same rustling noises. He wrote a quick email to Fitz asking him if he had checked the microphone before recording.
Fitz wrote back minutes later: ‘I’m still talking to him. What are you on about?’
Novak returned to the playback screen and scrolled through the recording until he heard voices. He didn’t recognise them and so had no context of what was going on. All he heard was muffled conversation. Seeing as someone had taken the not inconsiderable time to send it via IronCloud rather than basic email, Novak thought it worth taking a few minutes to clean up the audio.
He opened a simple equalizer program, and with a few careful adjustments to certain frequencies, the conversation taking place in the background became audible. The tinkering caused a slight fuzziness which only made him listen more closely.
When the recording was over he got straight on the phone to Diane. Something about the adrenaline rush of the discovery sent him to his feet.
‘Diane!’ he burst out. ‘We’ve got it!’
Parliament Street, London – Thursday, 7.40pm
Stella emerged from the MOD building still a little shaky in the knees. She held her bag close to her side, desperate to get back to News Office to scan a digital copy of Ali’s speech and secure it. Until then she looked at every passer-by as a potential mugger who could rob her and The Republic of the most important source they’d ever found.
She tried Diane’s number constantly but could only get a busy signal. Before she knew it she was at Westminster underground.
She came into the office to find the room in significant disrepair compared to when she left it. Novak had strewn notes all over the floor, trying to form a timeline of events. He had covered the desk with polystyrene cups of coffee from the vending machine down the corridor outside. It looked like he’d been in there for days.
As soon as he saw Stella come in he finished up the call.
‘OK, I gotta go.’ He tossed the phone aside. ‘Well?’
‘Well, what?’ said Stella.
‘You haven’t heard it yet, have you?’
The release of the tension of her journey with the Ali document – not to mention what had come before it – made Stella seek out a chair. She finally let go of her bag and handed Novak the paper. ‘I haven’t heard anything. I’ve been too busy getting this.’
‘What is it?’ he asked. After a quick scan he realised. ‘Simon Ali’s speech...’ It took a few seconds for it to sink in. He could barely speak. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Angela Curtis.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I was just lifted off the street by SO1 and taken to her. She said Simon Ali’s personal lawyer was sent that on Monday morning.’
Novak didn’t have to read much to get a sense of its importance. ‘This is unbelievable.’
Stella chipped in. ‘The President’s own defence secretary coming out against a defence bill the President drafted.’
‘Malik was right,’ Novak observed. ‘He told Sharp the threat against the U.S. target was from the President. This gives us motive.’
Stella paced back and forth. ‘You really think he’d order a hit on his own defence secretar
y for failing to support a bill?’
‘No.’ Novak paused. ‘I think Goldcastle would order a hit on him for endangering hundreds of millions of dollars in private contracts when the bill is passed. The President knows Goldcastle’s data mining is what got him elected. The same as Simon Ali.’ Novak scribbled down “Ali” “Snow” and “F&P” then circled them. ‘That’s what I think we should start with.’
Stella stopped pacing. ‘Hang on. How did Goldcastle know what Simon Ali was going to say? They would only order the hit if they knew that.’
Novak cued up one of the files from his IronCloud, pointing to the source phone number that came with the recording Rebecca sent. ‘Recognise this?’
Stella came closer. ‘The number from Abbie’s voicemail.’
‘This is an outgoing phone call from that number that took place on Sunday night at eleven twenty.’
‘Where did this come from?’ asked Stella.
‘It came through IronCloud, but I think it was Rebecca. I think it’s an ECHELON recording.’ He was about to hit play. ‘I really think you should sit down before I start this.’
Stella, a little sceptical, sat down anyway. ‘OK...’
Novak hit play.
Male One: ‘We need to talk.’
Male Two: ‘I can’t right now. I need to finish this speech.’
Stella said quickly, ‘That’s Simon Ali.’
Novak nodded.
Male One: ‘We have a problem with Bishop. She’s gone off the reservation.’
Male Two: ‘What does that mean?’
Male One: ‘She wants out. She says she’s done.’
Male Two: ‘Then talk her round.’
Male One: ‘I’ve tried. She won’t listen.’
Male Two: ‘Why? Goldcastle are paying her like the rest of us.’
Male One: ‘It’s complicated.’
Male Two: ‘Have you spoken to anyone at Goldcastle?’
Male One: ‘I met with Jarrod earlier on.’
Male Two: ‘How mad was he?’
Male One: ‘He was fucking...black with rage, Simon. I’ve never seen him like that.’
A long pause.
Male One: ‘We need to bring her in.’
Male Two: ‘Bring her in?’
Male One: ‘If we bring her in we could still save this.’
Male Two: ‘Do it.’
Novak clicked out, then into another recording. ‘Then an hour later, the number receives a call.’
Male One (shouting): ‘You fucking killed her! What the hell did you have to do that for? You said you were just going to bring her in.’
Male Two: ‘Simon, calm down. Calm down. There was nothing we could do. It’s done now. It’s over.’
Male One: ‘You did this, didn’t you. You told them to take her out. I can’t do this anymore...’
Male Two: ‘Stop blubbering, you bloody fool. Keep it together, man.’
Male One: ‘I don’t care anymore. I’m done.’
Male Two: ‘What do you mean you’re done. You can’t be done!’
Male One: ‘We can’t carry on like this. We’re sanctioning murder. For what?’
Male Two: ‘You know as well as I do it’s more complicated than that.’
Male One: ‘If I went public. What could Goldcastle do about it?’
A pause.
Male Two: ‘Simon. I shouldn’t have to tell you how bad an idea that would be. You know they would never let that happen.’
Male One: ‘Watch me.’
End of call.
Novak waited to try and gauge Stella’s reaction but she wasn’t giving anything away.
After continuing to stare at the screen, she eventually said, ‘We can say for sure that one of them is Simon Ali.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What about the other?’
‘That’s where it gets a little trickier.’ Novak moved the mouse to another file. ‘There’s one last call you need to hear.’ He handed her a pair of headphones. ‘You’ll need these, though.’
Stella put them on.
He clicked play.
Halfway through the call Stella put her hand to her mouth. A few moments later she gasped. When it was done, she slid the headphones off. All she could do was shake her head. ‘I can’t believe it.’
‘It’s definitely him, though, isn’t it?’ Novak asked.
Stella nodded gravely. ‘Yeah. It’s him.’
‘So we still have a question of why Goldcastle wanted Abbie killed,’ said Novak.
‘She wanted out. The first call says so.’
‘Then why did she want out? We know she never touched any of the money Goldcastle gave her. I think she couldn’t handle where the cash was coming from.’
Stella added, ‘There’s also the question of why everyone is so terrified of Goldcastle?’
Novak turned his palms up in agreement.
‘And this is all well and good, Novak, but how can we use it?’ Stella asked.
Novak didn’t see any problem. ‘The recording is admissible and usable.’
‘But how? It’s stolen.’
‘No it’s not.’ Novak handed over a printout of the legal framework that came attached with the recordings. ‘It was authorised by GCHQ. According to the government and anti-terror legislation, that is a legal wiretap on a phone call. And it was leaked to us by an anonymous source. It’s as legal to use as a printed email.’
‘My God, Novak,’ said Stella. ‘I think we’ve nailed them.’
Novak ruffled his hair then put his head in his hands. As badly as he needed sleep, he knew now he wouldn’t be getting any for at least another twelve hours. ‘We gotta take this to Diane,’ he said.
‘OK.’
‘You’ve worked tough stories before. I know you’ve been in tough editorials before. Believe me when I tell you, nothing can prepare you for how brutal this editorial is going to be. They’ll need to send this to a red team.’
Stella groaned. ‘The red team on my phone hacking story made me doubt my own name.’
Novak said, ‘If we get this wrong legally – and I mean even a little bit – GCHQ and the British government will end up owning Republic. One of the most respected figures in the British establishment will have gotten away with murder, and the biggest conspiracy in political history will ensure that every single person involved gets away scot-free.’
Being ironically rosy, Stella said, ‘OK. So nothing much at stake, then.’
19.
The News Office, London Bridge – Thursday, 9.51pm
SOMETIMES STORIES EMERGED that, if true, could have profound consequences for those involved. Sometimes public disgrace, financial penalties, or – in the case of Goldcastle – criminal charges. Ruining someone’s life with a story was easily and quickly done. Putting it back together was not so easy. Corrections were never as prominent as the stories that necessitated them. And sometimes legal cases, even if you ended up winning, could be so expensive you’d wish you never contested it to begin with. Which was why red teams existed.
At Republic, a red team was a group of journalists, editors, or respected figures in the magazine who had no prior knowledge of a story. They hadn’t been briefed and hadn’t sat in on editorials. With their fresh eyes, it was easier to appraise the veracity of sources, or see where a journalist might have been tricked or blindsided.
Diane believed sometimes you can want a story too badly. That’s when you can overlook something obvious. That’s when lawsuits happen.
For the red team, Mark Chang had brought in three other senior staff writers, from the finance, culture, and politics desks. She also brought in Vincent Bruckner from Bruckner Jackson Prowse (and their four other junior partners), as well as Henry Self, who had only absorbed what few details of the story Diane had passed on in their late-night rundowns.
They gathered round the Republic’s conference room table in front of a camera linked to a Darkroom feed sent back to London, where Tom and Stella answered question aft
er question. For nearly two hours they’d gone back and forth over the details of the story: the sources, the recordings, the chronology, the links between the various strands.
Bruckner might have had four junior partners with him, but he did all their talking. ‘The plane used for Abassi’s rendition,’ Bruckner said. ‘What do we know about that?’
Novak raised his pen to show he’d field it. ‘The FAA has a Gulfstream registered under the tail number N511GA. It came off the line eight months ago, and was sold to a CIA contractor three weeks after. The paperwork is in your folders under tab four B.’
Bruckner asked everyone, ‘How’s the room with Walter Sharp?’
‘Something feels a little off with him,’ said one of the staffers.
‘What’s off about him?’ Novak fired back, a little too defensively.
Out of shot Stella tapped him on the foot with her own.
What Novak resented was the senior staffers using their red team status to throw their weight around, trying to impress Diane. Not to mention scoring some points against Novak. Journalism wasn’t like the book industry where many were glad to see another’s success. Books weren’t a zero sum game. But there were only so many news stories going around, from finite sources. For every story that broke out, there was an editor across town yelling at a reporter, demanding why they hadn’t brought it in. Much of the public might have loved Novak, but there was more than a little simmering resentment among some of the Republic staff at the disparity between how much coverage he received, and how much work he seemed to put in. For some on the red team it was the first time in months they had seen Novak anywhere other than on TV.
Novak corrected himself, ‘Sharp’s worked his whole life to keep the bad guys out. The bad guys are now living in his house and he wants them out. He knows what they did to Abassi and he wants someone somewhere to pay.’
The staffer winced. ‘Vengeance is not a good angle for a source. This is what I’m saying: he so much as confirms a black op even exists and he gets sent down to Leavenworth.’
Official Secrets Page 39