The Network (9 page)

‘Only some of them.’

‘Now they’re easy pickings for al-Qaeda, and you know what that means.’

‘Yes, I do. In Arabic it means base or capital or seat of operations. But the way you pronounce it, it sounds like
al-qa’da
, which means buttocks.’

‘I refer,’ says Seethrough, clearing his throat and choosing to overlook this impudence, ‘to the threat, not the etymology.’

The threat is an obvious one. If sufficient of the missiles are acquired by terrorists from Afghans willing to sell them, the potential for chaos and slaughter is impossible to contemplate. Governments will be held to ransom, says Seethrough. Anti-missile technologies are too costly to install on civilian airliners. The only solution is to recover the missiles themselves from the same people they were delivered to fifteen years earlier, when the Afghans were fighting the Soviets.

‘This is the update on the American buyback programmes,’ he says, turning the pages of the final section of the file. ‘There’ve been several initiatives, mostly relying on middlemen in Pakistan, and too many of the deals have come to nothing. Over the past couple of years they’ve had a final push and thrown a lot of cash around inside the country. Going rate is $100,000 apiece, sometimes more. In the north it’s been working quite well, where Massoud’s chaps have proved very willing. They get them across the border here.’ He points on a map of Afghanistan to the northern border with Uzbekistan. ‘But now that the Taliban control the rest of the country the Yanks haven’t got anyone they really trust who can move them. There’s a bloody great stash of Stingers but they can’t get them out. Somewhere down here.’ He points again to the map, north of Kandahar this time. ‘Too complicated. They need to be destroyed.’

‘Why can’t the Americans drop a bomb on them from a great height? They’re good at that,’ I say.

‘Too sensitive. The Paks won’t let them use their airspace for an offensive operation and the politics are too difficult. Imagine they hit the wrong target or the missiles are moved at the last minute. We need trusted eyes on the ground. There’s also a time factor. You’ve heard of bin Laden?’

‘Isn’t he wanted by the Americans for his role in financing the bombing of their embassies in Kenya and Tanzania?’

‘Yes. But now we’re hearing he’s looking for surface-to-air missiles. If he or his people get hold of the Stingers, God knows what he’ll try next. We’re asking you to go to Afghanistan and do the job yourself. Find a reason to be there, get a team together, verify the Stingers are where they say they are and blow the bloody things up so we can all go home.’

I don’t have to think too long. I feel a great sense of relief, in fact. The mission is a straightforward one. I have both the contacts and the know-how. I know how to move in and out of the country, and I know how to blow things up.

‘I think I can do that,’ I say.

‘Good,’ says Seethrough.

He leans back in his chair and runs his hands through his hair.

‘There’s a bit more,’ he says, then reaches for a different file, labelled TRODPINT. ‘Last month one of the Americans’ tribal int teams was approached by one of bin Laden’s chaps. Says he’s got top-grade time-sensitive CX on bin Laden’s plans and needs to get it to us. But he doesn’t identify himself and doesn’t show up for their next meet.’ He hands me a surveillance photograph taken in Afghanistan. It shows two dark-skinned heavily bearded men in conversation beside the roof of a car with a yellow plastic housing marked
taxi
in Persian letters. One wears a loose-fitting Afghan shalwar kameez, and the other an old army jacket.

‘Taken in Jalalabad last month. Chap on the left is one of bin Laden’s best mates. The other one’s our potential source, but we can’t identify him. We’ve run his face through every database we’ve got, but there’s no match.’

That’s because he’s supposed to have died nearly ten years ago
, I’m thinking as I look at the photograph. He’s almost unrecognisable. His face is half hidden by his beard, his skin is dark, his face is older and leaner. But it’s Orpheus, I’m certain of it. He’s finally surfaced and needs to come in. I pull my eyes away from the photograph. Seethrough is still talking.

‘We’ve asked around. The Europeans don’t have anyone of their own in bin Laden’s circuit. Mossad swear they don’t have an illegal out there, but you never know with Mossad. This one’s too good to get away. We need to make an approach, God knows how.’

He doesn’t need to explain where the plan’s leading.

‘We can put you onto the source while you’re out there and you can do some fishing to see who bites. Could be a bit risky, but if you run a tight ship we should be alright. You feeling OK? It’s a lot for one session, I know. I thought I’d give you a little tour to cheer you up. There’s just one more thing. It’s alright, this is the fun part. Gadgets. Back in a minute.’

He gathers up the files and leaves the room while the image of Orpheus floats stubbornly in my vision. Then he returns with two small white cardboard boxes, which he opens on the table.

‘Let’s have a look at what the tossers have got for you. Sorry – another in-joke, I’m afraid. Technical and Operations Support. They decide on the kit for an op.’

From the first box he takes out a Motorola mobile telephone with a stubby antenna. ‘Identical to the real thing but there’s a chip inside that screens the call with white noise,’ he says. ‘Even the NSA can’t get their grubby hands on the signal. It’s GPS-enabled so we can keep track of it even if it’s switched off. It’ll also record a conversation up to sixteen hours.’ He shows me the keypad configurations for each instruction. ‘Now this is good. Have you ever used a firefly?’

I’ve heard of the small infrared strobes called fireflies being used by special forces, but never actually seen one.

‘It’s the next best thing to the military version. There’s no visible output, but to anyone with night vision gear it’ll look like a searchlight. Land a heli with it if you need to.’ I don’t know if he’s serious. ‘There’s an ultraviolet function too. Use it with this.’ Opening the second box, he takes out an ordinary-looking gel-ink pen with a retractable tip. A single click causes it to produce visible black ink. A second activates a flow of ink that’s only visible under a narrow frequency of ultraviolet light. To demonstrate, he draws an invisible line from the back of his hand to the surface of the table, then keys a sequence on the keypad of the phone. As he holds the phone over the table, a bright white streak appears on the table, merging with the streak on his hand as he draws it closer. The slightest movement of an object marked with the ink, when viewed under the light from the phone, will be immediately obvious.

‘Use it for security when you’re out and about, and you’ll always know if anyone’s been in your stuff,’ he says. ‘You need to sign for these, by the way.’ He leaves the room again and returns with a final folder containing the release forms, carrying a long dark-blue overcoat and elegantly battered leather briefcase. He drapes the coat over the back of a chair, then notices a bulge in the fabric and removes from the inner pocket some envelopes and a chequebook. I just make out the Coutts emblem embossed on the black outer cover before it disappears into his briefcase.

Our briefing is over. I stand up and wander over to the windows. The river looks grey and sullen. Closer to, I can see the chequerboard pattern in dark and light tiles of the veranda below us.

‘Don’t do that, please,’ says Seethrough.

‘Don’t do what?’

‘Stand by the windows. We don’t do that.’

I return to the table and ask him why the windows are so thick. They’re not as green as they look from the outside, but they’re visibly thicker than normal windows.

‘Something called TEMPEST. Can’t remember what it stands for. It’s to stop people listening to our computers. If you’re very clever you can actually detect the little bits of radiation coming out of the screens and piece them all together somehow. That’s it,’ he remembers. ‘Tiny Electro-Magnetic Particles Emitting Secret Things.’

I’m never entirely sure when he’s joking. He gathers up his coat and case and we walk back along the corridor to the lifts. As we’re waiting he turns to me with a smile and says: ‘Welcome to the wonderful world of deniable operations.’

‘I’ve always wondered what exactly that means.’

‘It means,’ he explains thoughtfully, ‘that if the whole thing goes pear-shaped and you get yourself killed in Afghanistan, then the nice people in I/OPS upstairs will make sure there’s a story in the papers about a careless British tourist beheaded by a loony Afghan mullah.’

‘They don’t actually behead people in Afghanistan,’ I correct him. ‘But I agree it’s certainly evocative.’

‘Yes,’ he muses, ‘I/OPS are very good at that.’

The lift falls gently but swiftly; I imagine it will stop at the ground floor, but there are several subterranean levels and we descend to the final one. Leaving the lift, we pass through another set of double glass doors like the airlock of a high-security laboratory. On the far side we emerge in a stony-grey corridor resembling one of the passageways of the Heathrow Express. Everything is grey; it’s an appropriate colour for all the grey people who move along its secret grey spaces.

‘Nobody uses the main entrance,’ says Seethrough. ‘If we did, we’d all be famous within twenty-four hours.’

From this side tunnel we come into a broader older-looking tunnel equipped at intervals with red fire hoses and alarms. High-pressure sprinkler pipes run overhead, and the walls are criss-crossed with metal cable conduits, junction boxes and switches. Nearby is a line of half a dozen small open carriages resembling golf caddies. They must be electrically powered. At the front sits a driver wearing the same dark uniform as the security guards above us. Behind him, each doorless carriage has a single seat, large enough for two passengers.

‘All aboard,’ says Seethrough, indicating one of them. After a minute’s wait we begin to move forward at a speed slightly faster than walking pace. ‘There’s another London under here,’ he says, looking lazily at the gently passing walls. Tributary tunnels and doorways, marked with acronyms above their entrances, lead away at right angles. Occasionally we pass giant blast- and flood-proof doors hanging from hinges the height of a man. At each of the main intersections the train comes to a gentle halt, and passengers get on and off; twice an identical train passes us in the opposite direction. We must be heading north because a few minutes later he points out a sign indicating the Security Services building, which lies across the river on Millbank. There are many other tributary tunnels, and I realise the hidden network beneath London is far more extensive than anything I’ve imagined.

‘God, this is nothing,’ he says. ‘Half of Wiltshire’s a bloody great Emmental.’ He points out a cryptic sign on the wall. ‘There’s a C4 facility through there where we can run a whole war from. Can’t take you there, I’m afraid. Or there.’ He points to another sign bearing the acronym of the subterranean Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms. We’re somewhere under Whitehall now. The train draws once more to a halt and Seethrough adjusts his coat. ‘Come on,’ he says. ‘I’ve got an appointment topside.’

We leave the carriage, turn into a tributary tunnel and come to a lift entrance, where he swipes his card and enters a number on the keypad by the doors. The lift glides up and we emerge in the lobby of an older but grand official building with an alert-status board by the entrance. It reads
yellow
. A grey-haired guard at the security desk looks up from his newspaper, then down again. Beyond him, I can make out traffic in the street, but I’m not sure where we are.

‘I won’t see you out,’ says Seethrough. ‘Cross the river and head down Albert Embankment. The walk’ll do you good.’ I’m still trying to take in the substance of our meeting, and perhaps it shows. He detects my feelings and, in an unexpectedly avuncular gesture, switches his long overcoat into his left arm and puts the other over my shoulders. ‘Let it settle,’ he says in a near whisper. ‘Get your stuff tied up so that you can do some travelling, and I’ll have some briefings organised. I’ll contact you in a week on the mobile. Look after the things I gave you.’

I walk outside. It’s overcast and has begun to drizzle. I’m at the south-east corner of St James’s Park, looking along Horseguards Road and a stone’s throw from Downing Street. I don’t mind the walk. I can’t help thinking how confident and grown-up Seethrough seems. I picture him retiring at fifty-five to sell his expertise to big businesses from his Home Counties mansion, dividing his time between Glyndebourne, charity balls and unofficial meetings with heads of UK industry.

I reach Gerhardt half an hour later, remove the parking ticket from the windscreen and, resisting a momentary urge to weep, start up and head for home.

5

For days I’m hoping to continue with life as if nothing’s really happened, feeling all the while like a man condemned. My meeting with Seethrough has stirred up memories I’ve preferred to forget, and now they return to me like ghosts, visiting at unexpected moments. From time to time I wonder whether Seethrough’s proposal is no more than an elaborate hoax, and imagine him jumping out at me one day in his long coat, waving his chequebook from Coutts and declaring the whole thing a joke.

My sleep grows disturbed, and I have strange dreams in which I’m wandering along the secret corridors of Vauxhall Cross. In one I’m walking under a giant portrait of the Duke of Edinburgh that hangs in the main atrium, but the face is Seethrough’s, grinning cynically at me. Recalling our meeting gives me a jittery feeling akin to panic. It’s as if the visible events of ordinary life are now no more than a stage set that ordinary people believe is real, but behind which I alone know what’s going on. I tell myself I’ll get used to keeping things secret, and push thoughts of the future aside. But I know too that a secret can enliven one’s life or poison it, and I’m wondering which way things will eventually turn out.