“Have you informed the police about this?” Mackenzie asked. “With regards to the current situation?”
“About GCHQ operations? No.”
“That he was a sex offender.”
“No.”
“You need to go back and inform New Scotland Yard. Then tell GCHQ to freeze any new activity on the island until this Petra Wade situation has resolved itself.” He took a deep breath. “It was ill conceived in the first place. That was my mistake—to give you the green light.”
“Freeze everything?”
“This is a potential disaster. The fallout if he killed her is unimaginable. The press wouldn’t stop digging until they knew what he was doing there. The island would be thrust into the spotlight. What is the situation now, with regards to the police investigation?”
“They’ve requested interviews with Rory Bannatyne’s colleagues, details of his career history. I’ve suggested we might coordinate via SO15, for security reasons. But there are a lot of question marks, and it’s an evolving situation.”
“And the Americans? What do they know?”
“Only the cover story, as far as I’m aware: that he was over there to consult on broadband.”
“This has potential to cause real damage in multiple directions. Suspend Ventriloquist with immediate effect and begin sharing relevant information about Rory Bannatyne with Security Branch. We’re going to have to contain this somehow, and that’s going to need cooperation.”
“This is Gabriel’s doing,” she said, gesturing at the Omani document. When Mackenzie didn’t respond, Taylor continued. “Why is he interfering?”
Mackenzie stared at her. “This is me,” he said, finally. “I’d like you to take care of all loose ends by the end of tomorrow, please. Then we’ll speak again.”
He looked at her with some sadness in his eyes. Not pity, she thought. Please, not pity.
“Okay.”
“I spoke up for you. To keep you in the service. Give you a second chance.”
“I know.”
“You’re making me wonder if that was wise.”
Taylor returned to her office. She felt she was already fired, that her status had evaporated in an instant and she may as well pack up her personal possessions and leave. How would she phrase it to Bower? How could she break the news that his dream had collapsed? There’s been a complication. It’s me, my life. That would be her farewell to the immense power of GCHQ. Power that seemed wedded to the world’s future, and thereby to her own, to an aggressive kind of progress.
She picked up the phone. Call Bower. Tell him it’s off. She dialed. He wasn’t at his desk, which felt like a temporary reprieve. She left a message.
“Dominic, it’s Kathryn. We’ve had some major hiccups at this end, and I need to speak to you asap.”
Hiccups, for Christ’s sake. Kudus appeared, holding his laptop.
“You okay?”
She tried to think what to say. He saw her expression and frowned.
“Got a minute?”
“Why?”
“Look.”
He showed her the laptop screen. It contained a photograph of Kane: Kane in a T-shirt with the unmistakable black rocks of Ascension behind him. He held a pair of sunglasses. There was a small rucksack at his feet. The picture was clearly taken without his knowledge, from a distance, going on the basis of the quality. Someone had been waiting for him to remove the shades. They wanted his face.
“Where did you get this?”
“It was sent to a facial recognition company called Percepta Biometrics a couple of hours ago. We keep tabs on them—they’re used by a lot of interesting players, some less reputable than others. Because I put out an in-house alert on Edward Pearce, including Kane’s face, this got picked up, passed through to me.”
“Any idea who sent it to the company?”
“No.”
“Do we have a client list for Percepta Biometrics?”
“No client list. We’re in their bank accounts, but that’s a heavy trawl.”
Her phone flashed: Bower calling back.
“Did Percepta get a result?” Taylor asked.
“I don’t think so,” Kudus said. “There’s no other images of him in their database that I can see. I can’t find another image of Elliot out there under his own name. He has no social media. Any search is going to be directed to the Edward Pearce front.”
“Get me data for this company: phone numbers, email addresses, anything.”
“It’s here.” He passed over a sheet with the relevant information, including the encryption technology they were using. She lifted the phone.
“Dominic.”
“Kathryn, you said there was a problem.”
“Yes.” She took a breath. “I need you to do me a favor. We’ve got what looks like possible countersurveillance on the island—someone checking on Kane. I don’t know who, but I know that they’ve taken photographs of him and sent them through to a facial-recognition company called Percepta Biometrics.”
“Your message sounded like there were internal issues.”
“I’m managing those for now, but it does mean we need a result on this fast. People are developing anxieties about Ascension. They could throw a real spanner in the works.”
She gave him the details they had for Percepta. The company used various encryption tools but none of these were invulnerable. If you had a lot of time and expertise they could be hacked, or you could simply steal the keys, as GCHQ had been doing for two decades now by various means.
“I can explain more later,” Taylor said. “But I’m not in a position to put in a formal request. That would draw attention to Ventriloquist.”
“I would have to go through appropriate channels, Kathryn.”
“You’re the UK head of Echelon, Dominic. You don’t have to go through anyone. We’ve got a few hours, then I’m going to have to consider reporting that the island’s insecure and future operations are inadvisable.”
“Let me try,” he said.
Taylor hung up. That wasn’t the conversation she’d meant to have. She researched Percepta Biometrics, without uncovering much other than it was registered in Montserrat and boasted a database of three billion faces. She studied the photo and wondered where in the island Kane was when it was taken. If she sent it through, he might be able to identify the moment and therefore the camera operator.
She messaged Kane with the image attached, then waited for his reply, refreshing and reconnecting the system. There was still no word by the time Bower called back an hour later.
“I can’t see any direct communication between Percepta Biometrics and Ascension Island, but I’ve got something.” Taylor felt a jolt of electricity.
“What have you got?”
“Percepta’s European office received seven emails from a computer in London this month, and this same computer has been contacting a device on Ascension for the last two weeks.”
Yes, Taylor thought. She savored the sweet rush of a result—of knowledge, meaning power; meaning the correction of a power imbalance. Her heart raced.
“Any details?”
“I’ve got a physical location, some search history. But the computer concerned isn’t used much, and a lot of what it does is encrypted.”
Bower sent through the data: seven pages of contact information. But the bit Taylor cared most about was up front. The computer communicating with both Ascension and Percepta was housed at 9 Russell Square.
Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t that. Russell Square, Bloomsbury: traditionally home of intellectuals, now split between tourism and academia. She’d spent a happy postgraduate year at the University of London, but the address didn’t mean anything to her. On Street View it was a part of a gray stone terrace. Glossy black door, no sign visible. A prestige address, but unrevealing. Yet from Bower’s data, she knew that a computer there had had contact with a device on Ascension Island at eleven a.m. today, and with Percepta three times between mi
dday and four p.m.
She searched through the rest of the data he’d sent for any other clues. As well as the IP address, he’d established a landline phone number at the Russell Square property. Last call made from the number was to Oman.
Kudus saw her staring.
“What’s the significance of Oman?” he asked.
The bare reality of that call was like a punch in itself. A punch from an anonymous attacker.
“Something I can’t talk about right now,” Taylor said. “What can we get on this address?”
Kudus ran a search.
“According to Land Registry, Nine Russell Square has been owned outright since September by a company called FSF Holding Limited, registered in Guernsey. Dead end, as you’d imagine. Not on any of our records. No idea what, if anything, FSF stands for. What do we do?”
Taylor needed to know who was there, why they were targeting her.
“Nothing,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I want you to step away from this.”
“Step away?”
“Let’s get a drink.”
The HQ’s Terrace Bar offered the possibility of a discreet conversation. It was also the only place you could smoke, overlooking the river, underused in winter.
“What are you having?” Taylor asked. “These are on me.”
He asked for a lemonade. She got one lemonade and one soda and lime. They took their drinks to a far corner of the outdoor terrace with a view of Parliament across the river.
“Not very wild, are we,” she said.
“Not in this way, I guess.”
“They used to make us drink on training,” Taylor said. “Tell us we had a night off, hand out free booze, then suddenly announce we had to do memory tests, things like that, see how we performed drunk. Did you have anything similar?”
“No.”
“I imagine they’ve had to tone it all down now.”
“Is there a problem, Kat?”
“Not with you, no. With everything else, yes. That’s the problem.”
“Can you explain?”
“Rory shouldn’t have gone to Ascension. I made a mistake, and it’s caused a lot of complications. There’s trouble behind the scenes—trouble for me—and I want to keep you out of it. It’s not your fault, and it shouldn’t have to damage your career.”
“What’s happening?”
“I took a risk and I don’t want you exposed to the consequences. You might be called in to answer some questions very soon. About me. If they ask what you’ve been working on you don’t need to mention Ventriloquist.”
“I didn’t come here to duck and run at the first sign of trouble.”
“There’s a difference between a challenge and a fuckup. There are moments for heroism—this isn’t one of them. Trust me.”
“And you won’t read me into what’s happened?”
“No.”
He stared out toward the river.
“Do you think I don’t fit in here?”
“Do you want to fit in here?”
“Yes.”
“I think you fit in fine. You’ve been incredible over the last year. I want you to stay in the service, that’s the point.”
“If you’re in trouble, Kat, let me help.”
It made her smile.
“You’ve been through some things in your life,” she said, after a moment, carefully.
“Have I?”
“I’m not asking you to talk about personal stuff. I’m saying, I admire you. The fortitude. It will see you well.”
“Thanks.”
“How did you get through it? The tough times?”
Now it was Kudus’s turn to consider. He turned the bottle of lemonade on the table, picking at the label.
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I guess not.”
“That was how it felt. I had to keep going or it would have all been for nothing.”
“That’s the worst, isn’t it,” Taylor said. “That things might be for nothing.”
“Yes.”
Both watched the river and the floodlit Houses of Parliament, floating amid the darkness like a hallucination.
“I’m out of here,” Taylor said. “Out of Vauxhall Cross, I think. I’m going to assign you to the Argentine oil exploration job. Clive has the file. Give it a read. Let’s say you’ve been working on it for the last couple of weeks. Okay? This is serious. This is how the service works. We’re dominos: I fall, you fall.”
“I think I could help if you told me,” he said.
“I’m sure you could.”
He met her eyes a final time, as if they might contain a more promising message, and when he didn’t see one, he got up.
“If there’s nothing more I can do, good night, Kat.” He walked away. Taylor finished her soda, went back to the office, looked at the Russell Square address. She had a sensation of cold clarity that was familiar; it was the feeling when she was about to drink. To dive into her self-destruction. The sense of a decision being taken on her behalf.
19
Russell Square looked elegant in the darkening evening. The street lamps had come on but the air was mild, and students and tourists hurried along the pavements. Taylor found the address.
Number 9 Russell Square looked entirely anonymous, sheltered among buildings now used by the universities. The academic side of the area had expanded since her time here. Being in the center of London, expansion meant filling in cracks and crevices, taking over the existing real estate of mansion blocks and terraced townhouses. Number 9 stood between a Bureau de Change and the International Programmes Office for the University of London. Its single black door was newly painted. No identifying sign, but lights on inside. It had the security camera you’d expect covering the entrance, a video door phone system with electric lock, and a discreet infrared motion sensor beneath a security lamp. There was nothing whatsoever to give any indication of what went on in there. Blinds had been drawn over the windows. So that was her game plan exhausted. Was she meant to approach? Ring the bell? What did she have to lose?
That was always a stupid question in the spying business. She was still alive, for one thing. She thought back through old training exercises: Get inside this house, that office, that club. Challenging but artificial because they missed one factor: the possibility that the object of your interest might be willing to hurt you very badly.
She was pondering her options when a pair of workmen in overalls brushed past her and opened the door. It was unlocked. She glimpsed protective sheeting inside.
Taylor followed them in.
Her heart thumped. To the left of the entrance was an empty reception desk, to the right a waiting area with a blank pin board and empty pigeonholes. She couldn’t see where the workmen had gone, but the whole place was being refurbished, with ladders stacked at the side and a smell of fresh paint. She could always say she was looking for the university office next door, Taylor reasoned. Simple mistake. And if that didn’t work, she was a government employee. She wasn’t the one hiding behind a front. If whoever was here wanted to cause her trouble, let them try. They’d picked the fight. Taylor needed to know who she was up against.
She continued deeper inside, past open doors revealing empty offices and the occasional larger room with stacks of new furniture still wrapped in plastic. She looked for post, paperwork, anything that might give her a lead, but it was bare. Then she saw a steel security door blocking the corridor ahead of her. It looked out of place, as did the discreet surveillance camera fixed to the wall beside it.
Kathryn suspected the real business of 9 Russell Square, whatever it was, began on the other side of that door. But this was as far as she was getting today. Taylor was making a final appraisal of the security when she heard voices coming closer. People were approaching from behind the door.
She backed into an empty office just as the door opened and they came into view. She had seen them, though, which meant they mi
ght have seen her. Taylor swore silently to herself. It had been three individuals: a middle-aged woman in a black skirt, a gangly, bespectacled man in a blue jacket, and a shorter, slightly older man in a gray suit. Their voices continued, jovial.
“Well, you must join us another time,” a man said.
“This is your night,” a woman said. “You enjoy it.”
“I hope you will celebrate somehow.”
“Indeed.”
“Right. Showtime.” Someone clapped their hands.
“See you later.”
Taylor watched the two men pass the office doorway. It appeared they had left the woman to whatever went on behind the security door. The older man swung an umbrella. He had neat gray hair. She tried to recall their faces again. The men had looked an odd couple. Both in high spirits, though. Taylor thought she recognized the older man. A public figure of some kind.
“She’s great,” one of them said as they passed.
“One of the best around.”
“Knows her stuff.”
“And no shrinking violet. You’re okay to walk?”
“It’s barely a minute away.”
Taylor stepped slowly into the corridor. The men were almost at the front door now, about to leave. She wondered what showtime involved, wondered if it would throw some light on this setup. Taylor waited for the door to close, then left the building a few seconds behind them, in time to see the two men enter the square itself. Barely a minute away.
She followed them.
The man she had recognized was a politician, Taylor felt sure now: Geoffrey Payne, secretary of state for Business, Energy, and Industrial Strategy. Who was he with? What were they up to here? This is crazy, Taylor thought. They crossed the square diagonally, and she checked her pace so as not to get too close. First rule of tailing: Never do single-person mobile surveillance. The idea of successfully pulling it off without being noticed was a joke. But it was a winter evening in busy central London. Neither of them was conducting any countersurveillance. She could potentially follow them for miles without becoming conspicuous.
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