Accidental agent, p.13
Accidental Agent, page 13
‘In National Security Council meetings. We’ve had only one bilateral.’
‘She might agree. Might.’ The foreign secretary jerked himself upright, hands clasped before him, staring directly at Charles. ‘Thing is – your crucial link, this Horley chap, is also your weak link. You admit you can’t trust him so you have to find some complicated way of getting him to do it without realising he’s doing it. Not a prospect guaranteed to win prime ministerial confidence. But what might work with her is if you do it yourself. You’ve met the Wolf chap, you got on with him, you reckon. If you can get him to take the bait in another meeting we’ll at least know he’s taken it and that it’s the right bait. You become your own agent, as it were. What do you think, Robin?’
‘Improvement of sorts, I suppose.’
Charles hesitated. The foreign secretary’s stare was unyielding and calculating. ‘Well, it could be me but it would surely be better, more natural—’
‘I can see it might make for awkwardness with your Horley bloke when you hoof him off the case. But the whole thing is so chancy that it needs whatever level of reassurance we can give it. So that’s the deal. It’s that or no go.’
He was back in Head Office with minutes to spare before the monthly A&S – Admin and Support – meeting. He summoned Sonia to brief her on the revised submission.
‘How do you think Gareth will take this?’ she asked.
‘Badly.’
‘He might do something.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘I don’t know. I gather from a friend in HR that he’s under more pressure about bullying, with a bit of groping thrown in now. Historic cases but more’s coming to light. Can’t be a very happy bunny. How much time do I have? When does the sub have to be over the river?’
‘About ten minutes ago.’
‘Thanks.’
He was tempted to delegate chairing the A&S meeting but he had done that the month before and was aware that he had a reputation for focusing on operational and Whitehall political matters at the expense of anything administrative and financial. It was another manifestation of what he now acknowledged to be a career-long professional failing and a lifelong character flaw: attending to what interested him and ignoring what didn’t. Sarah, far more conscientious, pointed it out with increasing frequency. There had been periods in his career when personal preference and professional requirement coincided but as he became more senior they became less frequent. For the next hour, therefore, he strove to make amends by concentrating on BEE (Building Evacuation Exercise), HOSIP (Head Office Signage Installation Programme), on the venue for the APR (Annual Pensioners Reunion), on the monthly EDA (Equality and Diversity Assessment) and on the long-running issue of the provision of armoured cars for heads of station in dangerous parts of the world.
The latter had been running since well before he became chief and seemed likely to outlast him. Cath, director A&S, outlined progress since the last discussion. ‘The MOD say that nothing, not even a tank, can be made fully bombproof but we know from work on ministerial and royal cars that worthwhile explosive mitigation and projectile resistance – blast and bulletproofing – can be installed on sound everyday vehicles. It wouldn’t stop large bombs, of course, nor armour-piercing ammunition, but it’s not bad with lesser stuff. The problem is, all the cars we use have to be UK-sourced. Made here, in other words.’
‘Why is that a problem?’ asked Charles.
‘Well, as you know, CSS, most of our heads of station have diplomatic cover and therefore have to be seen to be driving British or British-made cars. It’s a problem because when they’re trying to blend in locally or do anything clandestine they don’t want to use obviously British cars with diplomatic registrations. They want to use local cars with local registrations. In fact, they hardly ever use diplomatically registered cars, for obvious security reasons.’
‘So what’s the point in having them expensively armoured?’
‘That’s what they say. But the MOD will only armour cars made here because in order to do it properly they have to intervene in the manufacturing process. Also, there’s another problem.’ She paused to see that she had everyone’s attention. ‘The cars are intended only for stations at regular risk of terrorism – the Middle East, Cyprus, Islamabad, Kabul and so on – and the MOD doesn’t want the materials and techniques they use to become known. Also, it’s important that no one gets to the cars to bug or booby-trap them during production or en route. Therefore, they have to be flown out by RAF transport aircraft rather than commercial carriers. Now, if the cars are FAP – Fully Armour Protected – they weigh a lot more, heavier metal, glass, suspension, steering, everything. That means they weigh too much to go on standard RAF flights and have to be flown out by specially adapted planes at enormous expense. The alternative is PAP – Partially Armour Protected – which means that only the driver’s window, door, floor and the windscreen are armoured. The stations say that’s pointless because anyone can fire a bullet through any of the other windows.’
‘They have a point, don’t they?’
‘But Marigold who does Health & Safety says it’s better than nothing and it would cover our backs as far as they’re concerned.’
‘So it’s really all about back-covering?’
‘Well, no, not – I mean . . .’
Cath looked uncomfortable, glancing at the others in an appeal for support. Charles had no wish to make her suffer; it was not her fault that almost everything she had to do with exasperated him. ‘But, leaving that aside,’ he said, trying to sound conciliatory, ‘would any of these vehicles, fully or partially armoured, withstand – say – a drone attack?’
Cath shook her head. ‘No. Apparently even tanks won’t.’
‘What sort of cars are we talking about?’
‘That’s another problem. They’re supposed to be grade-compatible, you see, appropriate to the FCO cover grade of the head of station, no ambassadorial limousines or anything. That means smaller eco-friendly engines, which aren’t as powerful as bigger engines, and the two trial ones sent out to stations have been sent back as unusable.’
‘Why?’
‘Too heavy with the weight of armour. They won’t go up hills.’
‘Couldn’t they have found that out before they sent them?’
‘That’s the MOD for you.’ That at least brought smiles to the faces of the meeting. ‘The thing is, CSS, we need a decision because if we’re going to order any we have to do it before the end of this financial year.’
Bureaucratic decisions came easily to Charles, sometimes too easily; he could be flippant. He was anxious to bring the meeting to a close while trying not to make it too obvious. ‘We say no, then. Tell the MOD that if they produce a car that is FAP, transportable, grade-compatible and goes up hills we’ll look again at our decision.’
Cath looked surprised but not displeased. ‘Well, yes, CSS, if you’re – but there’s still the question of H&S. Marigold has signed up to saying we’ve got to have them.’
‘And so we shall, tell her, when they produce something that’s fit for purpose.’ That was a popular phrase with contemporary resonance. He had surprised himself by coming up with it. ‘Must be FFP,’ he added. ‘And ask her to liaise closely with the MOD on lightweight materials research and possible drone countermeasures.’ That should keep Marigold and her staff busy for the foreseeable future. ‘Any other business?’
Stephen, Cath’s youthful new deputy, a transferee from Work and Pensions, said that the report on the marauding exercise at Hyde Park that Charles had witnessed with Gareth Horley was still in draft. ‘Main points?’ asked Charles.
‘The attack side of it went well. We estimate that, given seventy to eighty per cent building occupancy on the day, which is about normal for Head Office, there would have been between thirty and forty-five per cent casualties.’
‘Alarm and evacuation procedures?’
‘Not quite so well. Hence the casualties.’
‘And the intervention force?’
‘They achieved their object, which was to halt the attack. But they would also have caused quite a few of the casualties themselves, we think. And they would have suffered a few, which has H&S implications for future police deployment. The police aren’t supposed to expose their staff to serious risk of harm without signed-off risk assessments. Which means we may not be able to call on them.’
‘So who would we use?’
‘The army, I suppose.’
‘But they wouldn’t be there.’
‘No. Unless we knew about the attack in advance.’
‘Bit of a shambles, then?’ Charles smiled, to spare Stephen embarrassment. ‘Useful because it proves what we’ve long suspected, so we can now make a case for better arrangements on the basis of evidence. No doubt the same would happen if there was an attack on this building now. Will the report suggest ways of improving our defences and procedures?’
Stephen made a note on his pad. ‘I’m not sure. I’ll ask.’
‘Tell them if it doesn’t, it must.’ He looked around the room. ‘Anything else?’
Eric, head of physical security, half-raised his hand. ‘Just one thing, CSS. Not a big issue, or not yet. It’s another of these LBGT – LBGT issues. I’m not sure whether now is the—’
‘Don’t worry, Eric, go on.’ Eric was a lugubrious figure nearing retirement, not over-endowed with imagination or subtlety but solid and reliable. He was often uneasy in meetings and Lesbian, Gay and Transgender rights was a subject he found particularly awkward, shifting in his seat as he struggled with the conflict between his natural openness and a newly imposed bureaucratic culture.
‘Well, it’s – one of them, the latest person to declare that he or she is – is one of them, has said he or she – they – want their security pass to have two photos on it, one as a man, one as a woman, so that she – he – can choose whichever identity they want that day. We have had the same request before, once or twice, and we’ve said no but now I wonder – I don’t know what the latest . . .’
Pauline, head of HR, turned to Charles. ‘I think what’s at stake here, CSS, is the question of whether the person’s human rights are infringed by the denial of gender recognition, which would imply denial of gender choice.’
‘What do the lawyers say?’ No one knew. ‘See that they’re consulted, Pauline, and then we’ll discuss again.’ He turned to Eric. ‘Thanks for raising it, Eric. Quite right to do so. Until we’ve had a chance to discuss again, carry on as you were.’
‘Just say no?’
‘Just say no.’
‘There’s also been a request from Stonewall,’ continued Pauline. ‘They’ve asked if we would like a representative on our board so that we can demonstrate that we’re a fully inclusive employer. MI5 have one.’
‘I think that’s one for my successor,’ said Charles. ‘Whoever that may be.’
Back in his own office Jenny said that Michael Dunton wanted him to ring urgently on the secure line.
‘He’s disappeared, buggered off,’ said Michael. ‘Your young man, that is. You remember you said he was going home to hand himself in after leaving your place last night?’
‘I thought that was what he was going to do – it was the impression he gave. It’s what I advised him to do.’
‘Well, he hasn’t, I’m afraid, so there’s now a hue and cry and his parents’ place is being searched and her parents’ place. The police will probably want to interview you and Sarah, too, since you seem to have been the last people to see him.’
Sarah rang a few minutes later. ‘I’ve just had Deborah on the phone. The police are searching her house now, turning it upside down, taking her computer away and her mobile. She’s distraught, she’s had a great row with them and they’ve been really nasty, she says. She didn’t even know Daniel was missing. She rang me to see if I could ask you to get them to call it off. I tried to tell her that you don’t have that kind of authority but I think she thought I was just being unhelpful. I promised I’d speak to you and ring her back. What can I say?’
‘Tell her there’s nothing I can do and that we’re in the same boat, almost. They’ll probably want to interview us as we were the last to see him.’
‘She’ll want to know what he was doing at our house.’
‘Tell her he came round for further discussion of the work he’s supposed to do for us.’
‘God, I wish we’d never – where on earth do you think he can be? Surely he’s not about to go berserk in some crowded place, is he? Didn’t he say they’d taken his knives away, anyway?’
‘I’ve no idea what he’s doing. Maybe he’s run away to think about things. Or maybe he’s trying to leave the country. Not to become a jihadi, necessarily, but maybe to join one of those Islamic aid charities. He mentioned something about that, didn’t he? But wouldn’t say which. Just hope it’s a good one, a real charity and not one that finances terrorism.’
‘You really don’t think he’s a terrorist, then?’
Charles sighed. ‘Well, he could be, of course. Anyone’s capable of anything—’
‘You believe they are? You really believe it?’
‘Depending on context, yes.’ In the pause that followed he sensed that he had unwittingly exposed a fissure between them, a fundamental disagreement about human nature, about what people were, that neither had suspected in the other. Now was not the time to explore it. ‘But my feeling about Daniel is that he’s not terrorist material, as I’ve said all along. He’s enthusiastic for the cause and naïve about it, probably motivated by a strong sense of injustice and maybe, who knows, by some personal grievance.’ Just like some of those who do become terrorists, he did not add.
‘But where can he have gone? Akela must be worried sick. Quite apart from the hurt of being left like that, without a word.’
Jenny hovered in the doorway. ‘I’ll let you know if I hear more,’ said Charles. ‘Meanwhile, tell Deborah we’re doing everything we can. Which is little enough but we’ll keep her informed.’
‘Sonia,’ said Jenny as he put down the phone. ‘Wants to talk urgently.’
‘Show her in.’
Sonia clutched a clipboard to her breast and looked tense. She shut the door behind her. ‘He’s gone,’ she said.
Charles hesitated. ‘How do you know?’
‘His wife rang in this morning.’
‘Wait a minute. Who’s gone?’
‘Gareth, Gareth Horley. Whom d’you think I meant?’ She sat. ‘Missing, I mean. Gone missing. Can’t be found.’
‘Hasn’t turned up for work?’
‘Nor at home. His wife rang in this morning, as I said. He didn’t come home from work last night and she thought there must be some urgent travel he hadn’t told her about – which has happened before, apparently – but when he didn’t turn up this morning or send any messages she rang the office. His assistants say he left yesterday afternoon a bit early for him and without saying where he was going. Security pass records show him swiping out at 4.53. Since then nothing. He’s not answering either his office or his personal mobiles and their location trackers are switched off. Nor is he responding to emails. Suzanne, his wife – I haven’t spoken to her myself – is desperate, apparently. Fears he may have thrown himself into the Thames. She says he’s been anxious and tense recently, uncommunicative.’
Charles glanced towards the river. ‘If he’s gone in there it won’t be long before we see him again.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A river policeman told me that bodies go out with the tide and are brought nine-tenths of the way back by the next incoming tide. So it takes a long time to leave the river.’
Sonia stared. ‘Cool, Charles, bordering on frigid, even by your standards. No matter what he’s done, he was your friend, wasn’t he? Not to mention possible successor.’
‘I’m only saying it because I can’t believe that’s what he’s done. Gareth goes for things, he doesn’t run away from them. If he’s gone into hiding it will be to do something, not to end it all.’
‘Such as?’
‘No idea.’ They both paused. ‘Is his passport . . . ?’
‘In his safe in his office, where he always keeps it in case of urgent travel. Ditto overnight bag with spare clothes, shaving kit and so on. No one’s checked his credit card yet nor got on to Cheltenham to see if they can locate his phones. His car is at home, ditto Suzanne’s.’
‘Alias passports?’
‘He has two, according to Docs & Ids – Documents and Identities. Used to have more, of course, when natural-cover ops were more feasible than now. Ditto driving licences, bank cards and all the other alias paraphernalia. His secretary – sorry, assistant – is searching for them at the moment.’
‘Have you done the submission?’
‘I sent it to you twenty minutes ago. Suppose I’ll have to redo it now to include this latest development. We can’t very well not tell them, can we? Officials will be even less keen regardless of what the foreign secretary thinks. Won’t go down very well with the PM, either, I’d have thought.’
Charles nodded.
Sonia sighed. ‘I mean, for all we know he could be holed up with some journalist somewhere who’s about to blow the whole story and bring the negotiations crashing down.’
‘Why would he want to do that?’
‘To get his revenge in first. That’s the kind of man he is, I’ve always thought. I know you haven’t.’ She shrugged. ‘But they ought to know, oughtn’t they, in Whitehall? We can’t not tell them.’
‘They ought, yes.’ Charles looked again in the direction of the river. Most of it was blocked from sight from Smith Square but there was a sliver just visible between St. John’s and the buildings on the Embankment. Life would be simpler if Gareth took that option. But he wouldn’t, he was sure. He’d have an agenda and somewhere, somehow he’d be pursuing it. It would no longer include rising to the top of the Service, of course, nor any other Whitehall plum. He’d burned his boats now. Maybe something financial, somewhere abroad. ‘But later,’ he continued, ‘we’ll tell them later. Important thing now is to get the EU negotiators to believe what we want them to believe. Which means getting the sub signed off a.s.a.p.’
