Майкл Ридпат - Launch Code

‘On that subject,’ Prestwitch interrupted. ‘The events on the USS Alexander Hamilton remain secret, and you should not divulge them at the inquest, or to the police, or even me. Is that understood?’

Creswell frowned, and pursed her lips in something very close to a grimace. MI5 had not made her murder investigation any easier.

Everyone around the table nodded. Apart from Bill, who looked straight at Prestwitch with something close to disdain.

‘My understanding is that the FBI will want to debrief you thoroughly when you get back to London, Mr Guth,’ Prestwitch said.

‘I have an appointment with them tomorrow morning,’ said Bill.

‘So what happened?’ asked Toby. It would be good to finally hear what the police had discovered in their investigation.

The detective inspector answered him. ‘Sam Bowen had been rooting around for months asking a number of officers and crew of the Alexander Hamilton what happened in November 1983 on the submarine, and also what happened afterwards. I’m not aware of the specifics of this; I could guess, but I won’t.’ Here she glanced at the MI5 officer sitting next to her. ‘But it was enough to worry Lars da Silva, and Robinson.

‘So they both flew to England. Da Silva stayed with you, and Robinson stayed in a hotel in Ely, which, as you know, is about an hour from here. We think Lars told Robinson that Sam Bowen had discovered something important that would incriminate both of them — whatever that was you will know better than me — and told him where Sam was staying. Robinson then went to the King William. We have a witness who saw a man waiting in a car outside that evening; we think that was probably Robinson. We think he saw Alice enter the pub and then leave about half an hour later. Soon afterwards he went up to Sam Bowen’s room, knocked on the door, Sam let him in and Robinson stabbed him. He stole Sam’s computer and his notes, and arranged for his back-ups in the Cloud to be deleted.’

‘How did he do that?’ Toby asked.

‘We have discovered he had a bitcoin account,’ DC Atkinson said. ‘That’s unusual. He could have been speculating; more likely he was paying someone on the dark web to do his hacking for him.

‘When Mr Guth called the admiral after Sam Bowen’s death, Robinson was actually already in England. He pretended to fly to the UK right away, then got in touch with MI5.’

Prestwitch interrupted. ‘As the senior surviving officer on the Alexander Hamilton , he had been in regular contact with the FBI and the Office of Naval Intelligence to ensure that secrecy was maintained. He had told them he was coming and they told me. He didn’t tell anyone he was already in the country.’

‘At some point Lars must have realized what had happened,’ Creswell went on. ‘We know he and the admiral met at The Pheasant in Thurstead at lunch time on Saturday, just before Lars was shot. We don’t know exactly what Lars said — whether he threatened the admiral, or just wanted to talk to us — but the admiral decided he had to be killed, and quickly. We found the rifle the admiral used. It was a SIG Sauer, once again bought off the dark web.

‘Now, Robinson must have realized that sooner or later he would be suspected. So he decided to shift suspicion on to Mr Guth, and then fake his suicide to seem like an admission of guilt. Given the British and American security services’ obsession with keeping whatever happened on that submarine secret, he thought difficult questions wouldn’t be asked.’ Another glance at Prestwitch. ‘He was probably right.’

‘We will be raising this with the Americans,’ Prestwitch said. ‘Security breaches like this over such a long period of time are totally unacceptable.’

That was the sound of a buck being flung far over the Atlantic.

‘Totally,’ said Bill, drily.

‘Toby?’ Bill said after the police officers and the MI5 man had left. ‘Before we leave, do you want to take Rickover for a walk with me?’

‘Sure,’ said Toby.

They set off, with Rickover at their heels. The marsh was twittering, rustling and gurgling. The big bull and the black-and-white cow stared at them.

‘This reminds me of walking down to the beach with Lars,’ said Toby.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘Are you OK with this? Going back to where he was shot?’

‘No, it’s good,’ said Toby. ‘I love this walk. I refuse to let it become a place I can’t go.’

Bill smiled. ‘I like it too. I’ll miss Lars.’

‘He always said he was grateful to you.’

‘We shared something, him and me.’

‘Whatever else he did, he did do his bit to stop us all getting blown up.’

They reached the dunes and threaded their way through them to the beach. Bill stopped and surveyed the sand and the shifting sea beyond it. All signs of a crime scene had been removed, including the little green boat.

Empty.

Bill bent down to pat his dog, who seemed uncharacteristically worried, circling their legs. Toby hoped the walk wouldn’t be ruined for Rickover either.

He drew the clear Norfolk air into his lungs. By mid afternoon he would be back in London with its small sky, its channels of metal and fumes and its walls of concrete and brick.

‘Toby?’

‘Yes?’

‘What do you think of them keeping the near-launch quiet all these years?’

Toby answered immediately. ‘I think it’s wrong.’

‘You know what? So do I. They are just trying to hide a screw-up. If our enemies, whoever they may be, knew about it, it wouldn’t help them at all. How could it help them? That’s a question I have been asking myself all these years. How could it help them? I’m just covering other people’s asses.’

‘I agree.’

Toby waited. This was what Bill wanted to talk to him about.

‘I have a suggestion for you, Toby. When you get back to London.’

Wednesday 11 December 2019, London

Toby emerged from Baker Street tube station and made his way north to Regent’s Park. The good thing about Regent’s Park in December was that there were loads of empty benches. The bad thing was they were all very cold.

It was three o’clock, morning in Washington and well after lunch in London. He had had to fib to his co-workers at Beachwallet about where he was, co-workers who now included Megan. She was on her third day at the company as a temporary employee. The firm was desperate for warm bodies to do administrative and data-related crap, and Megan was proving surprisingly effective. She was smart, she was enthusiastic and she could figure out unfamiliar systems almost instantaneously. Piet thought she was great.

And Toby thought it was good to have her around.

Alice had been pleased too. For a moment it had looked as if the Guth family would shatter, but it had held together, thanks in great part to Megan. And Toby.

Also, her client had postponed its stock-exchange announcement, so her deal was still live. There were plenty of legal documents to get stuck into, which meant she was happy.

Toby found a bench opposite the little Japanese garden island near the dormant rose beds, and took out his ancient long-retired Nokia phone and his brand new pay-as-you-go SIM card. The website had suggested it was best to use a payphone, but there were scarcely any of those in London anymore, so his plan was to use an old mobile, and only switch it on when he was well away from where he lived or worked. That way it shouldn’t be possible to trace it to him.

With cold fingers, he slid the card into the phone and turned it on. He had charged it the day before, and it seemed to work.

He pulled out the Washington phone number he had printed off from the website and stared at it.