Dirty Little Secret. Jon Stock
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Channel, from where he was thought to have been picked up by a Russian sub, but nobody was sure. Who said the Cold War was over?
‘One hundred per cent voiceprint recognition,’ the analyst said.
‘Salim Dhar?’ Rashid’s tentative words hung in the air. For a few brief minutes, the name had brought him fame and the promise of fortune, but now he had come to dread it. They all had.
‘On a watchlist number. Calling a cell phone in Portsmouth, UK.’ And then he added, for Rashid’s benefit: ‘Real time two-way.’ This time, in other words, a tape-recorded Dhar was almost impossible.
‘Cell IDs?’
‘Receiver handset’s encrypted. We’re working on it.’ The analyst looked across at a colleague who was crunching numbers on his screen.
‘What about Dhar’s?’
‘Sir, signature and profile of a secure hard line. So far no number.’
‘A hard line? What the hell’s he playing at? And no number ID? I thought you said it was on our watchlist.’
‘It’s got some heavy-duty masking encryption at the local level. Looks like it’s been rerouted at source. The Brits may have a better idea. Somebody call down to GCHQ?’
Rashid had seen the images of ‘the doughnut’, and the bomb damage to its central courtyard. It had been showing on the news channels all afternoon. The iconic building had stood up well to the attack, and there had only been one casualty, but its operational capabilities had been affected. GCHQ had a large contingent working on the floor below, where morale had taken a nosedive. He had been down there earlier for a chat, and had returned with one eye on the window, scanning the skies for rogue Russian jets, wondering if the NSA might be next.
‘Sir, the cell ID’s location.’
Rashid walked over to the analyst who was sitting on his own.
‘Fort Monckton, MI6 training centre,’ Rashid said, reading from the screen, which was now showing a crystal-clear satellite image of Portsmouth harbour, a pulsating blue icon radiating out from the southern end of the Gosport peninsula.
‘And we’ve got the hard-line number for Dhar. It’s presenting as the main switchboard for MI6 headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, central London. Seems like the entire MI6 phone network is on our watchlist.’
Rashid didn’t want to think about the ethics of eavesdropping on their closest ally. There were other things on his mind. He ran a hand through his hair and wondered what he’d done to deserve Dhar. It was beginning to feel personal between them.
‘Is it just me, or does anyone else sense the Brits aren’t being entirely straight with us? Hold that call to GCHQ, and get me the DCIA’s office.’
13
Marchant closed the door of his room, confident that Lakshmi was still sleeping, and walked down the corridor to the kitchen at the far end. Nothing had changed. It was here, five years earlier, that he’d first cooked Leila a meal – grilled mackerel, steamed samphire – when they were IONEC recruits, starting out on their careers. They’d eaten it cross-legged on the floor of her room like students. He pulled open a drawer, removed a kitchen knife and slid it inside his jacket before heading down the stairs and out into the courtyard.
The place was silent, except for the cry of a distant seagull. There was an archway on the opposite side of the courtyard. It was the only entrance into the Fort complex, and beyond it was a grass-roofed gatehouse with a light on inside. He knew most of the guards from his time at the Fort as an IONEC recruit. Hewn from the same granite as Oxbridge porters, they were long-suffering and had seen it all before, their manner a mix of respect and contempt.
He walked up to the gatehouse and knocked on the glass to get the sleeping guard’s attention. Marchant didn’t blame him. There were no recruits in residence, and it should have been an easy shift.
‘I need a car from the pool,’ Marchant said, glancing at the bank of flickering CCTV screens. The guard wasn’t familiar, but Marchant’s face in the window triggered something in him, recognition followed by a crude attempt to disguise it.
‘I’ve got orders to let no one in or out.’
Marchant raised his eyebrows. ‘No one? I thought everyone was in Helmand.’
‘You’re not to leave the site, sir.’
‘Says who?’
‘It’s for your own safety. Chief’s orders.’
So Fielding had sent him to the Fort for his personal protection. It was less obvious than Legoland, the staff nickname for MI6’s headquarters in Vauxhall. The Americans wouldn’t come looking for him down here. Things must be worse than he thought between Washington and London. Marchant glanced at the steel gates that rolled open and shut like a modern-day portcullis. Instead of feeling secure, he felt like a prisoner. The Fort was surrounded by twelve-foot-high MoD fencing on all sides, topped with barbed wire and security cameras.
‘OK, I’ll ring him in the morning.’
‘Anything else I can do for you, sir?’ the guard asked, glancing at the clock to remind Marchant of the unreasonable hour.
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘Good night, sir,’ the guard said, watching Marchant as he turned to walk back through the archway. There was only one way to escape.
14
Fielding had been sleeping fitfully when the phone rang. It wasn’t his mobile, but the secure landline that linked his flat in Dolphin Square with COBRA, the home numbers of key colleagues of the Joint Intelligence Committee, and 10 Downing Street. The ring tone had an urgency that made him get out of bed and walk quickly across the living room to answer the phone.
‘Marcus, I need to know what’s going on with Salim Dhar.’
It was the Prime Minister.
‘I’m not quite sure what you mean by “going on”.’
‘This is not the time for bloody semantics. The Americans have intercepted a call from Dhar to Fort Monckton in Gosport.’
Fielding’s brain began to process the PM’s words, assessing the possibilities and implications. It wasn’t in his nature to panic – that was one of the reasons he had risen to become Chief – but the multiple scenarios that were spooling through his mind made him pass the receiver from one hand to the other.
‘Daniel Marchant is currently recovering at the Fort,’ he said calmly, starting with what he knew. But he couldn’t help wondering why he was hearing about the intercept from the PM, and not from GCHQ or another intelligence colleague. It had clearly been discussed already, and he had been excluded. This wasn’t an operational call, it was political. ‘Where was Dhar ringing from?’
‘According to the Americans, Vauxhall Cross. Your headquarters.’
Fielding let out a thin, dry laugh. He knew it was impossible for Dhar to be in Legoland. In the course of a life spent in espionage, he had witnessed far more cock-ups than conspiracies. But if that was what the Americans believed, he had a problem.
‘And how do they know this?’
‘The NSA’s traced the number, and it’s presenting as MI6’s main switchboard.’
‘With respect, if I were to ring you from this line and the NSA managed to intercept and trace it, which is unlikely, the number would show as MI6’s switchboard. And Dhar’s definitely not here.’
Fielding couldn’t resist a quick glance around his flat: Oleg, his Lucas terrier, asleep in his basket in the corner; a flute resting against a sheet of Handel on a music stand in front of the fireplace; a proof copy of the new biography