I fished in my pocket for the season ticket.
He shooed it away. ‘You’ll be needing it for next time.’
This was the third time this had happened. ‘How much do these things cost?’
‘Enough to make my eyes water.’
‘Another burden on the bleeding taxpayer.’
‘When was the last time you paid tax?’ Julian flashed his perfect white teeth. ‘Come to that, when was the first time?’
I gave him a 500-watt grin, even though I suddenly had a head full of pain. I palmed two Smarties and swallowed them with a gulp of Pret A Manger’s frothiest.
We both stared out over the pitch.
‘I’ve been giving that job a bit of thought.’
Julian glanced behind us. People had started to fill the nearby seats but there was nobody within earshot. His eyebrow arched towards his immaculately sculpted hairline. ‘What about Granny’s nest egg?’
‘She always wanted me to work for a living …’
Jules pulled out his BlackBerry and hit the secure speech icon before dialling. That was a good sign. His spare hand covered the mouthpiece like he thought I’d added lip-reading to my CV.
He closed down and put it back in his pocket. ‘OK, you’re on. But you’ll need to give me a lift in that penis extension of yours.’ Jules got to his feet. ‘We have an audience with the top man. He’ll meet us in three hours. The Blues will have to win without us.’
‘Not a chance. West Ham will kick the shit out of them. Three-nil, I reckon.’
5
GCHQ Cheltenham
17.23 hrs
I came off the M5 at junction eleven and followed the A40 east towards Cheltenham. Just before the town, I turned off at a roundabout. Jules switched the radio to medium wave to tune into Talksport.
They were waffling about football and, of course, I’d been way off the mark. Chelsea had won 4-1.
We pulled onto Hubble Road. GCHQ had been the most secretive of Britain’s three intelligence services since way back, and I always reckoned they chose this location on the edge of a spa town in rural Gloucestershire just to add to the mystique. While MI5 and MI6 gathered human intelligence, GCHQ’s main mission was soaking up the signals equivalent, via the interception of phone calls, faxes, emails or any other electronic means. They monitored the airwaves for any vital snippet that might stop a terrorist attack in the UK or help the military in Afghanistan. They were also tasked with protecting the government’s communications against attack by enemy code-breakers.
This was Boffin Central, where some of the world’s most powerful computers played tunes for people with brains the size of a planet. I smiled to myself as I remembered the TV commercial for Tefal. A group of white-coated boffins with extra large heads hovered over a new kettle or iron, making sure it was perfect for the likes of me. They must have filmed it right here.
The man we were going to meet was Julian’s new boss. The whole of the British intelligence community’s new boss, by the sound of it. Tresillian had been made uber-chief of all three services - MI5, MI6 and GCHQ - a position that had only just been created.
‘There’s a thread of continuity at last. If GCHQ picks up a whisper, he can give the order for SIS to take immediate action. None of the old red tape.’
‘Or the old checks and balances?’
I slowed. There was a barrier across the road ahead, manned by two guys in uniform. The first layer of security. Jules flashed his pass and we were waved through.
‘Seriously new broom. Actually - new broom, old handle. His family go back to before the Domesday Book.’
I nodded. The most powerful people the world over are the ones we’ll never hear about. Like those who are so rich they make sure they never feature on Forbes’ List or the Sunday Times Richest.
‘That’s nice for him. But is he any good?’
‘Shit-fucking-hot, if he says so himself.’
I was so surprised I took my eye off the road. I’d never heard him swear.
He directed me to the car park at the front of the huge steel building. Everyone called it the Doughnut. Viewed from above, that was exactly what it looked like.
I drew level with a black BMW 5 that was three up.
Julian nodded. ‘Tresillian’s already here.’
‘Hope he’s got the kettle on.’
The driver was still behind the wheel, in weekend clothes. The engine was running. He was watching a DVD on a windscreen-mounted player. The two in the back were in suits that looked just a little too small for them. They were waiting for their principal to finish his meeting with us so they could take him home.
The driver’s window came down and Jules said hello.
As I got out, I recognized a scene from The Transporter. I nodded. ‘Great movie.’
I got no reply. The window slid back up.
A sign by the main doors said cameras, mobile phones and recording equipment or similar electronic devices were forbidden in the main building.
Jules handed the woman at Reception some ID that looked like a credit card and she swiped it through a reader. ‘Good evening, Mr Drogba.’ She passed him a form to sign, checked it, and passed me a red badge. ‘If you could hand that back in when you leave, Mr Lampard?’ She didn’t bat an eyelid.
We hadn’t even got past the main reception area before we hit another layer of security. This time it included the electronic equivalent of a full body search. We carried on and followed a circular walkway that ran inside the building. Everyone called it the Street. It felt a bit like being in an airport terminal, with open-plan offices leading off both sides. Glass cases displayed exhibits from GCHQ’s history, including the radio set used by the Portland spy ring to send messages back to Russia in the fifties and sixties.
‘I don’t know what the layout was before, Nick, but now the linguists and analysts work on the upper floor. They’ve had to squash up to accommodate CSOC.’
The cross-governmental Cyber Security Operations Centre was another new one on me. It had recently been set up to deal with any threat Britain might face from the Internet - and to carry out some cyber attacks of its own.
All the guys on the upper floor spent their time studying intelligence on everything from terrorism and nuclear proliferation to serious organized crime and counter-espionage. It was no place for the likes of me. Neither was the basement. I remembered the huge halls with endless rows of blinking computers. In all there were about ten thousand square metres of the things. They generated so much heat they needed a cooling system that used a lot of local water. During the floods in 2007, the mains were cut and special supplies had to be tankered in.
We passed something I didn’t remember from past visits: a small memorial honouring the number of GCHQ staff who had died in service. More had been dropped in Afghanistan in the past few years than anywhere else.
6
I followed Jules from the bright, fluorescent corridor into a room where the only light seemed to come from the glow of plasma screens mounted on a walnut-veneered wall.
As I closed the door behind me, the hum and chill of air-conditioning took over. A dozen solid walnut chairs sat around a huge oval walnut table. The room was carpeted with Axminster’s finest, and it smelt like it had only just been laid. I wondered if it was the fruit of some kind of government initiative to boost local industry or Tresillian cocking his leg and marking out his territory. If they’d given Anna the cheque-book and an hour in Ikea she could have saved the taxpayer thousands.
At the far end of the table, below a vibrant plasma screen, I saw the world’s most pissed-off face. There were far too many wrinkles in it for a man in his early fifties. His hair was thinning on the top and swept back. Either it was wet with sweat or he’d stepped straight from his office shower.
Charles Tresillian looked like he’d sprung from a grainy black-and-white of Shackleton’s final expedition and spent his Saturdays running from office to office, encouraging the troops. The set of his jaw certainly suggested he had a country to protect, and he expected to lead from the front.
A map of Moldova, wedged between Romania and Ukraine, north of the Black Sea, was spread across the screen behind him.
For fuck’s sake - these guys must see me as a one-trick pony.
Tresillian kept his brooding gaze on me as I crossed the carpet. He slid two files across the table at no one in particular. I went to the right and Jules to the left.
‘You’re our man, are you? Are you as good as Julian says you are?’ His voice was deep and clipped. His finger provided the punctuation. ‘He tells me you’re shit-fucking-hot.’
People expected the shits and fucks to tumble from mouths like mine because they assumed we wouldn’t know the difference between a thesaurus and a brontosaurus. But from a posh well-educated lad like Tresillian they somehow carried the same gravitas as one of Churchill’s soundbites.
I nodded. ‘Yeah, I am.’
‘Well, I’m the shit-fucking-hot man with the big picture. Sit.’
Jules and I took chairs facing each other. I leant forward and dragged one of the buff-coloured folders towards me.
‘Gentlemen, shall we?’
Tresillian opened his folder and we followed suit.
‘This is the situation, Mr Stone. It is one that you will endeavour to make good. Hector Tarasov is a friend of the UK in Moldova. Our sources in-country tell us that his daughter has gone missing. We want to find her for him, in as covert a way as possible.’
‘What does he do?’
‘He’s an industrialist.’ He tapped the printout of the map. ‘Here, in Transnistria.’ His finger stayed on the narrow sliver of land to the east of Moldova. ‘When it was part of the Soviet Union, Moldova had its share of factories, many of them military. With independence, in 1991, the eastern strip of the country, known as Transnistria, east of the Dniester River, seceded.’
I tried a smile. I wasn’t comfortable with the Mr Stone business, and even though my head was starting to pound again, I wanted to see if I could lighten the tone a bit. ‘Sounds like one of those lunatic names the head sheds give a country during battle training.’
It wasn’t going to happen.
‘If only, Mr Stone. Transnistria was Moldova’s most industrialized region, as well as its most Russified. Moscow intervened to stop a civil war over the secession, and since 1992 Russian troops have watched over what is being termed a “frozen conflict” that has left Transnistria isolated, unrecognized by any nation but Russia, and Moldova divided.’
He raised a finger at the plasma screen. ‘The reason our friend is very important to us is because this strip of land is a major producer of Russian arms for worldwide export. It has the largest steel-production plant that the Russian Federation has access to.’
‘What does Tarasov’s factory make?’
‘Tons of mind-your-own-fucking-business.’ His lips pursed and his frown added another ten years to his age. ‘This operation is about the daughter.’
I looked down at an eight-by-five colour picture of a young woman with dyed blonde hair that reached her shoulders. The roots showed through in the centre parting. She’d gone for the Goth look; her pale, almost translucent skin made her look like she belonged in a teenage vampire film. A bare male arm hung loosely round her neck. She was trying hard to smile into the camera, as you do at family events when you’re having a shit time. The image almost filled the page. There was no information about where or when it might have been taken.
‘Her name is Lilian Edinet. She’s twenty years old. This picture was taken approximately seven months ago. We have, of course, checked on all social networking sites to see if we could get any information on her whereabouts or any more recent photos.’
Another image was pasted over the map on the screen - the wide shot her face picture had been lifted from. She stood in front of a T55 tank mounted on a stone ramp surrounded by plaques: a monument to the great wheat harvest or whatever. The arm belonged to an older man, who looked a lot happier than she did. He was in his mid-forties and had very dark, almost jet-black hair and a dental plan that only money, not God, could give you. Peas out of the same pod, they looked like a double act. Behind them was a massive chunk of boring grey factory. Red signage proudly covered the top third of the building.
Tresillian looked up. ‘That is Hector Tarasov.’
He turned to Jules. ‘I don’t care too much for Facebook myself. I can’t see why anyone would want to make so much information freely available. It’s out there for ever. Good for us, though, eh?’
My head filled with questions. ‘Can I make contact with Tarasov? Find out what he knows? What about her mother?’
‘On no account must there be any contact with Tarasov.’
‘He must be taking steps of his own to—’
Tresillian was dismissive. ‘More from Julian later. As I said, it’s the girl we’re interested in. She is the sole reason you’re here.’ His eyes searched mine to make sure I was getting the message.
I nodded. ‘Lilian - she doesn’t look that happy, does she?’
‘On the contrary. By all accounts this young woman is quite a feisty little piece. However, she is missing, and you will find her at all costs. UK plc does everything within its power to help its friends.’ He paused. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Of course. You want leverage to score some big Brownie points off the Dadski.’
He didn’t answer or smile. Nick Stone was too far down the food chain to make funnies. He reminded me of some really good officers I’d come across in the army. They weren’t your best mates, but you knew where you stood with them, and exactly what was required. If you didn’t fuck them over, they might not fuck you over. But it still all depended on what side of the bed they got out of that morning.
‘Exactly, Mr Stone. We’re not a fucking charity, are we?’ He turned his head. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘Exactly, Mr Tresillian.’ Julian’s teeth gleamed in the subdued lighting. ‘We have a job to do.’
He turned back to me. ‘I cannot impress on you enough, Mr Stone, that this matter is of national and international importance. It is critical that this young woman be found and delivered to us. When you find her, a contact and safe-house will be available until arrangements are made to bring her back to the UK. She will never leave your sight, and only when she is physically under the contact’s control will the task be complete.