Peele coughed and picked up his fork, as if he sensed that a lot of what Strawson was saying would be going over Kite’s head. Rita also made a start on her smoked salmon. Kite put a look on his face which he hoped would convey the appearance of someone absorbing and understanding every word that Strawson uttered.
‘At the same time, British secret intelligence – that is to say its foreign manifestation, MI6, not MI5 – saw their future being curtailed, their wings clipped, by creeping bureaucracy. You won’t be aware of this, but both MI5 and MI6 have been undergoing a process in recent years of emerging into the sunlight after decades in darkness. Government oversight is the new order of the day, just as CIA is answerable to Congress in Washington.’ Strawson took a sip of water. ‘In short, the Brits couldn’t do what they used to do. They couldn’t do what they wanted to do. Intelligence was being left in the hands of the politicians – and let me tell you, if you let those guys enjoy too much operational control, to push you this way and that because of their own narrow electoral outlook, it’s bound to lead to setbacks.’
It was a natural point at which Kite might have been expected to say something, but he did not want to seem foolish by asking the wrong question. Peele saw that he was hesitating and came to his rescue.
‘What Mike is trying to tell you, Lockie, is that five years ago a small group of officers inside MI6 created a new unit within the Service which would not be bound by the same rules and regulations that applied to colleagues. They called this unit BOX 88. Allow me to explain how normal, run-of-the-mill intelligence-gathering works. It’s commonplace for the prime minister of the day to issue what are called “requirements”. Mrs Thatcher, for example, can come to MI6 and say: “Get me everything you have on Mikhail Gorbachev.” So off they go and get her everything they have on Mikhail Gorbachev. But what if she wants too much of the same thing? What if she can’t be persuaded to look at Syria, at France, at Iran with the same kind of vigour, despite our belief that individuals in those nations present either an existential threat to the security of the British people or, more often, an opportunity to – for want of a better term – make the world a better place?’
‘You mean you go behind the prime minister’s back?’
Strawson coughed behind his napkin.
‘To all intents and purposes, yes,’ Peele replied. ‘That’s exactly what we do. We go behind the backs of presidents and prime ministers, of secretaries of state, heads of the Foreign Office and so forth. BOX 88 does the things they don’t want us to do, that they don’t ask us to do, which they don’t realise need to be done.’
‘But, Mr Strawson—’ Kite checked himself. He was still at Killantringan, bringing cheese and biscuits to the guest staying in Churchill. ‘Mr Strawson is an American. You said you were in the CIA? How does that work? Have the two agencies always been tied like this?’
Strawson scratched a point behind his ear. In the time it had taken Peele to explain the origins of BOX 88, he had consumed his smoked salmon, leaving the bread triangles untouched in a neat pile at the edge of his plate.
‘I never said I was CIA, but – yes – I was CIA for a long time.’ He reached out and touched Kite’s forearm in a way Kite hadn’t expected and which he didn’t particularly appreciate. ‘Let’s say I saw the rot set in. The British came to me in ’83 and I learned about BOX 88. We discussed creating a partnership. I spoke to select colleagues who arranged for a certain percentage of the overall intelligence budget to be diverted to BOX as a complement to the minimal UK spending available. We now have a network of contacts within NSA and GCHQ Cheltenham, referred to as “Turings”, who provide us with what’s known as “signals intelligence” – satellite imagery, computer attacks and so forth – under the guise of supporting frontline services at Five, Six and CIA.’
‘If we discover things,’ Peele continued, ‘and we think the prime minister or the president of the day should know, we send that intel up the food chain, via the normal channels, so that the frontline services get a pat on the back. At any one time there have never been more than six individuals in MI6 and a dozen more at Langley who know about BOX 88. We’re a rumour, probably not even that, and we intend to keep it that way. We tend to recruit young – usually graduates in their early twenties – but there are personnel of all ages, from all walks of life, working for us here and in New York. The current head of M16 is what we call “conscious” – that is to say, he knows about BOX. The serving director general of MI5 is not, ditto Sessions at the FBI. They’d likely be appalled if they found out.’
Kite was baffled. If what Peele was telling him was true, he was one of only a handful of people on the planet who knew about this organisation. Why the hell were they letting him in on a secret of that magnitude? What had he done to land himself in this predicament? It occurred to him that Peele must have been preparing him for this moment for months.
‘I have a lot of questions,’ he said.
Everyone laughed. ‘I’m sure you do, young man!’ Strawson replied.
‘Do you all have normal jobs? Like Mr Peele is a teacher?’ He looked at Rita. ‘What do you do?’
Kite realised that he had not touched his food and wolfed the salmon in four quick mouthfuls as Rita explained that she worked at ‘The Cathedral’, the London headquarters of BOX 88, telling her friends that she was a secretary when in fact she worked in intelligence.
‘And you, sir?’
‘Call me Mike,’ Strawson replied, encouraging Kite with a brisk nod. ‘To my friends in the United States, I work for an American policy unit based here in the UK. To my friends in the UK, I’m advising an investment bank in the City on growth in the North American sector.’
Kite didn’t know what a ‘policy unit’ was but understood that this probably wasn’t the time to ask. Instead he fired more questions at his hosts, receiving what he considered to be logical, comprehensive answers. He learned that, contrary to popular belief, mainstream MI6 and CIA officers were not ‘licensed to kill’, but that the ranks of BOX 88 were filled with former Navy SEALS and ex-SAS who carried out targeted kidnappings and assassinations to order. He was told that approximately 230 staff worked at BOX 88 headquarters in the World Trade Center in lower Manhattan and a further 135 at The Cathedral. The bulk of the work carried out by BOX 88 was conducted overseas by a network of undercover agents operating under what Peele described as ‘non-official cover’.
‘In other words,’ he said, by now tucking into a hearty-looking fish pie, ‘these individuals present themselves as bankers, businessmen, journalists and so forth, but their deeper purpose is to conduct operations on our behalf.’
Those operations, Rita explained, had included plots to destabilise Communist dictatorships behind the Iron Curtain; to foment opposition to the Politburo among the Chinese student population in Beijing, leading directly to the protests in Tiananmen Square; helping to overthrow Haitian president Jean-Claude Duvalier and preventing numerous terrorist attacks around the globe.
‘But we can’t stop everything,’ said Strawson. ‘We don’t have the range. We didn’t stop Lockerbie.’
By this point they had finished eating their main courses. Peele had asked the restaurant staff to leave them undisturbed. Kite remembered the night of the Lockerbie bombing. He had been working at the hotel. His mother had switched on the news, seen a graphic of the flight path and commented that it would have blown up over Killantringan just a few minutes later. To his surprise, Strawson revealed that he had discussed the tragedy with Cheryl while staying at the hotel.
‘We lost someone on the flight,’ he said. ‘A colleague from the New York office. Buddy of mine in London, banker named Tom Martin, also knew three of the victims personally. A mother and a father in their thirties and their little girl, Gaby. She was only eight. Used to come by their house and play with his daughter.’
The American leaned over. He picked up an envelope from the ground. Kite sensed that he had arrived at a critical juncture in the long m
eeting. From inside the envelope Strawson produced several colour photographs which he passed across the table.
‘I gotta warn you, son. You’ll need a strong stomach.’
Kite looked at the top photograph. It was the now-famous image of the nose cone of Pan Am 103 resting on the ground near Lockerbie. What followed was a sequence of images as horrifying and distressing as any Kite had ever seen: a body hanging from the rafters of a house; another ensnared in a tree. He saw men and women still strapped into their aeroplane seats sitting in a row on the ground. Kite knew that this was another test – they wanted to see if he was tough enough to absorb such horror and to emerge from it unscarred – so he moved painstakingly through to the last of the photographs – a ghastly image of a man standing almost upright in a field, having plunged from the sky and become embedded in the Scottish soil – and put the pictures down on the table. He could not help himself letting out a heavy sigh and felt their eyes on him, judging him, as he leaned back in his seat.
‘Those are awful,’ he said. ‘Those poor people.’ His skin was fizzing with revulsion but he managed to compose himself enough to ask: ‘Why did you show them to me?’
‘We think there’s a chance it might happen again,’ said Rita. ‘Investigators have been looking at a link with Iran. Specifically, an individual who may have helped to finance the Lockerbie bombing by funnelling money from Tehran to Gaddafi.’
Kite touched the pile of photographs. Tehran. A sixth sense made a link in his mind between Xavier and the Iranian man who was coming to stay at the villa in France. He remembered Xavier mentioning him back in February. My godfather is coming to stay … I call him the “ayatollah”. Why else had Peele brought up Xavier’s name at the start of lunch?
‘Another Lockerbie?’ he said. ‘They’re going to blow up a plane?’
‘Worse than that.’ Strawson looked up at Windsor Castle. ‘A chemical weapon released onto the New York subway. Sarin. That’s the chatter from Tripoli. That’s what we’ve been trying to understand.’
Kite knew nothing about chemical weapons, only what he had seen in movies and read in comic books.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, ‘but what does all this have to do with me? You said you wanted to involve me in an operational capacity?’
‘We do,’ Peele replied. ‘Very much. Strange as it may seem, you’re in the perfect position to be able to help us.’
Kite looked at him. He recalled a dozen different moments from their relationship: the Test match at Lord’s; conversations at Peele’s flat on Alford High Street; history lessons in the classroom beside the racquets courts. All that time, his tutor had been watching him, weighing him up, preparing to throw him into this secret sect. The realisation confirmed something that Kite had believed about himself for as long as he could remember: that he was somehow different to other people, not superior, but separate from the mainstream. He had often felt as though he was standing at the edge of a fast-flowing river watching all of life rushing past. Peele was encouraging him to jump in.
‘It involves your friend Xavier,’ said Rita. ‘It involves your holiday in France.’
Xavier’s name clicked into place like the last few turns of a Rubik’s cube. Kite had known that it was coming. The Iranian. ‘The ayatollah.’ He was the key.
‘The businessman who will be staying with the Bonnard family,’ Rita continued, ‘is a man named Ali Eskandarian. All of our intelligence suggests that he is a prominent individual at the centre of the terrorist network. Either he has the power to facilitate this attack or he has the wherewithal to put a stop to it. We mean to find out. And we need you to help us do that.’
27
The driver continued to point the gun at Cara as she climbed into the back seat of the Skoda. The American reached across and closed the back door.
‘What’s going on?’ Cara asked.
The American did not respond. He smelled of stale tobacco and cheap aftershave. The black woman, who was at least fifty, passed him the gun and drove off along the lane. She did not drive fast. She did not seem anxious or in any way concerned about what had just taken place. It was as if grabbing lone female ramblers on quiet country lanes was something that she did all the time.
‘How did you know my name?’
The American was about thirty-five, obviously military. Lean, tanned, scarred. Strong hands, hair cropped close, pale blue eyes as clear as topaz. Even in her frightened state, Cara was conscious that he was attractive. The car turned onto a muddy track, passed over a cattle grid and came to a halt behind an abandoned farmhouse.
‘We get out here,’ he said.
She knew, without being told, that he was BOX 88. It was the only plausible explanation.
‘Not until you tell me what’s going on.’
The American took a beat before seizing her by the arm. The force of his grip was so overwhelming that Cara cried out as she was dragged across the back seat. He pulled her from the car until she said, ‘OK, OK, I’m coming, let me go.’ After that she walked in front of him towards a barn where two men were hunched over laptops. They did not look up. There was a smell of spilled oil and manure. The woman drove off in the Skoda without a word. The American told Cara to sit down on a hay bale and put the gun on a rusted tank onto which someone had graffitied a smiley face and the words ‘Tanks for the memories’.
‘My name is Jason,’ he said.
‘Good for you.’
‘Your name is Cara Jannaway. You were born in Norwich in 1994. You had a Thai meal delivered to your apartment last night. Stir-fry chicken. You have a brother called Jude, a sister who died when you were six. You’re on Tinder and had a date last week with an actor called Nick. Swipe for long enough and you’ll probably match up with your colleague, Matthew Tomkins. You’ve worked for the Security Service for almost a year. Your boss is Robert Vosse. Yesterday you went to a funeral pretending to be “Emma” and gave your card to a man named Lachlan Kite. Any of this sounding familiar?’
Cara tried not to look as shaken as she felt. Unwittingly a smile appeared on her face as she realised that her hunch had been right: Kite had known she was phoney. He had handed her the card so that BOX 88 could investigate ‘Emma’ as soon as she was dumb enough to ring the number. The rest would have been easy: Tinder, Deliveroo – it was all on her phone. The DG’s whistle-blower had said that BOX had personnel working for them in all the services, on both sides of the Atlantic. Finding out how long she’d been operational would have been as easy as frogmarching her into the barn.
‘Sounds familiar,’ she replied. ‘But leave my sister out of it.’
‘Drink?’ said Jason.
‘What are you offering? Champagne? Lucozade Sport?’
Cara saw the edge of a smile on one of the laptop boys, but Jason remained stony faced.
‘I meant water,’ he said.
‘I know you did, handsome.’
Jason took a step towards her, a warning not to get too smart. Cara felt herself tense up. She knew what sort of man he was. She had met his sort before. Back home in Norwich there had been boys who had left school at sixteen, dealt drugs and broken hearts for a few years, gone to prison for a stretch, joined the army as a last resort. Iraq and Afghanistan had given their lives meaning, handed them a chance to channel their rage. She reckoned Jason was their American doppelganger, signing up after 9/11, tours of duty in Baghdad and Fallujah, now ex-Special Forces on call to solve whatever problems BOX 88 needed solving, violently or otherwise. He dragged a hay bale in front of Cara and kicked it into position. His legs were so strong it was as though the bale was filled with air.
‘Keep joking around and this goes badly for you,’ he said.
‘Easy, Jase,’ muttered one of the laptoppers. He was in his late twenties and had a northern English accent. ‘All friends here.’ Cara looked up and saw what looked like a sequence of messages scrolling on the screen of his laptop.
‘What was MI5 doing at the funeral?’ Jason asked. Cara ha
d opened her mouth to respond when he added: ‘Don’t lie. We have a clock ticking.’
‘Tell me who you are and I’ll tell you what you want to know.’
‘We’re on your side. The same side. I work with Mr Kite. I look after him.’
Cara was about to say: ‘You’re not doing a very good job,’ but thought better of it. Instead she said: ‘You’re BOX 88?’
Jason flinched. One of the laptop boys stopped typing for a split second, then resumed.
‘We’re British intelligence.’
‘And American intelligence all at the same time?’
‘There’s a clock ticking,’ Jason replied.
The answer was in their silence and evasions. Cara felt her stomach flip over.
‘Fair enough,’ she said.
‘So – again, Cara – what was the Security Service doing at Xavier Bonnard’s funeral?’
‘I’m not permitted to tell you that,’ she said. It amused her that he had pronounced ‘Xavier’ in the American way, as if Bonnard was a character on X-Men. ‘You need to ask Robert Vosse.’
‘I don’t have time to ask Robert Vosse. I’m asking you. The people who have Lachlan took his wife as well. Isobel is inside that house, pregnant, with a gun to her head. She’s a friend of mine, they both are, so I kind of want to get her out in one piece. Understood? Help me join the dots. Forget due process. Forget what you think is the correct thing to do.’
Cara was shocked that the Iranians had grabbed Isobel, but not surprised. It was the right move in terms of getting Kite under control.
‘I’m part of a very small team looking at Kite’s links to BOX 88,’ she said. Giving up her cover was like confessing to a lie as a child. ‘It’s an internal MI5 investigation prompted by a whistle-blower in SIS. If you guys are as good as everyone says you are, then you probably already know this.’
Box 88 : A Novel (2020) Page 21