Mike Shevdon - The Eighth Court

“A mate?” asked Alex.

“With the intention of becoming pregnant and having a child,” said Blackbird. “It’s not a commitment to be entered into lightly, and if you are not ready I do not advise you take that course, but if you were to choose Tate as a mate, he could be yours.”

“Oh,” said Alex.

“Perhaps,” said Blackbird, “you are not ready for that commitment just yet. Why not consider one of the other options. All of them are less complicated than the last.”

“Oh God,” said Alex.

“Quite,” said Blackbird.

An hour later I was standing watching the London Eye turn in slow cycles. The wardings I had set made sure I was conscious of Sam’s approach, though I did not turn. He approached quietly, moving on the balls of his feet.

“What do you have for me?” I asked, without taking my eyes off the Eye.

“Is she around?” he asked.

“She could be right behind you and you’d never know,” I said, truthfully. I turned and watched him scanning the crowds for Amber. “What have you got?”

He took a deep breath. “There is no Secretary Carler. There’s no one in Whitehall by that name — not a private secretary, not even a receptionist. The name, by any spelling, does not exist. It’s another codename, probably, and it’s locked up tighter than a duck’s arse.”

“If you’re telling me you’ve wasted my time, Sam…”

“The second name, De Ferrers, sparked a reaction, though,” he said. “We got a phone call within minutes of me typing it into the system. I was immediately suspended, pending an investigation into my conduct. My access is revoked and I am on indefinite leave. You’ve trashed my career,” he said.

He didn’t sound that upset about it. Maybe it was trashed already. “You want an apology?”

“There’s no loyalty any more,” he said. “Not in this new lot. They all hate each other.”

“New lot?” I asked.

“The old guard, we look after each other. We’ve been through it together. We know it takes trust to succeed.”

“Spare me the pep talk,” I said.

“I got a call before the interview. They told me the word had come through that I was for the high jump. The short of it was that I was poking my nose into things that didn’t concern me.”

“Interesting,” I said, “but not enough.”

“It came from Cheltenham.”

“What did?” I asked.

“The call. It routed internally, over secure lines. It was encrypted to buggery and scrambled to hell because it came from the one place that cares more about secrets than anywhere else.”

“And where’s that?” I asked him.

“GCHQ,” he said. “And if they’re interested in you, they’ll know everything. Your inside leg, where you buy fuel, who you text, what you say, what you had for lunch. They’ll know what’s in your Christmas presents before you do.”

“They don’t know everything,” I said.

“I wouldn’t bet on it,” he said.

He hugged himself, beating his jacket in an attempt to stay warm. “So that’s it. I don’t have access to anything any more. I couldn’t get you information if I wanted to.”

“You don’t understand, Sam. You’re mine now. The only reason you get to walk around is because I think you might be useful. If I were you I’d try and stay as helpful as possible.”

On cue, Amber appeared at his shoulder. She grinned at his reaction.

“I’ll be in touch,” I told him.

Amber and I walked away.

“I don’t have anything any more. They’re not going to let me back in after this,” he called after me.

We vanished into the crowds.

GCHQ is not exactly a secret. It was established as a listening and intelligence agency after the code-breaking work that went on at Bletchley Park in the Second World War. It persisted as a result of cold war paranoia when some countries, including ours, started building nuclear bombs. That was about as much as anyone outside the intelligence community knew about it, including me. There was much speculation as to what else it did — it was a favourite of conspiracy theorists who alleged that it sifted through all our communications, cherry picking the streams of voice, text and email for indications of criminal, immoral or unpatriotic activity.

For an organisation based on secrecy, it’s not hard to find. There is a large building at the edge of Cheltenham in Gloucestershire with clear signposting to the entries and exits. It has car parks around it for employees and visitors, and entry gates at various points around the perimeter. It’s only when you start looking closely at it that you begin to see that careful thought has gone into its construction.

The car parks have pedestrian turnstiles which require an access card and a code to enter or exit, the implication being that people are counted in, and counted out again. Once inside the perimeter, you have to go through security to reach the building itself. There are more gates, each monitored. The building itself is a giant ring — toroidal is the term, like a doughnut, a nickname used by local people for the place. The roof of the building has a curved shield on it, it’s not clear from outside what that’s hiding, but it makes entry via the roof nigh impossible. There is an inner courtyard, within the ring, but that’s only visible from above. All this we could see from the top of the hill about a mile away, using the powerful binoculars we’d brought with us.

“What do you think?” I asked Garvin.

I’d expected him to object when Amber reported my intention of going to Cheltenham to discover who it was that was trying to kill me. Instead he’d volunteered to come along.

“Interesting,” he said. “It’s smooth, clean and has very limited points of entry. The frontage is glass, but I would expect that to be reinforced, possibly bomb-proof. It’s a literal interpretation of circles of secrecy. You see the buildings around the outside? They’ll be administration, accounts, facilities, that sort of thing. On the outward facing side of the main building will be the public areas — meeting rooms, canteen, and anything else which isn’t privileged. Raw information will arrive and will travel further inwards the more it’s analysed and correlated. In the centre, possibly underground, you would find the clever bits — the really secret stuff.”

“I think I can get inside the building,” I said. I can get past the fences and the perimeter, and once I’m there I can walk in with everyone else.”

“This is not the same as gaining free access to the Underground,” said Garvin. “There will be multiple security systems monitoring each other. As soon as you use one of the gates it will look for a record of your movements. When it finds you’ve just arrived in the middle of the building, it will raise the alarm, quietly and efficiently. The building will be locked down before you know it.”

“I can get out if I have to.”

“I believe you, but at what cost? Even if you get inside, what are you intending to do?” he asked.

“Find out who tried to kill me, and why?”

“You think they’re just going to tell you? Maybe it’s posted on a noticeboard somewhere? The information you gained from Sam has led you here,” said Garvin. “But that’s all you have. Hundreds of people work here, possibly thousands. Most of them will know about their bit, and nothing else. That’s what secret organisations are like.”

“So your real reason for coming was to dissuade me from doing anything.”

“Rash or careless action is counter-productive. I came to offer my advice, and to see if I could help. I also came because someone tried to kill one of my Warders, and I take exception to that.”