Sir Robin Algar was in the office even earlier than usual.
He had made as many discreet phone calls from home as he dared the previous day, but now he needed the security of the Whitehall machine around him before he could take things much further. There were several things he needed to do urgently, and he knew that much of his time that day would be taken up with the two special meetings the Prime Minister had called. He would be at both, although he wouldn’t be taking the minutes as he usually did at such gatherings. There wouldn’t be any minutes.
The Cabinet Secretary had to make sure, too, that no one else took any notes, and that would be tricky. He knew that he would have to personally ‘disarm’ each member of the two meetings as they arrived, and relieve them of their briefcases, notebooks and any portable dictating machines they may have. They wouldn’t like that, but it had to be done to ensure the utmost security. It had gone through his mind that he should also ask them to leave their pens and pencils in the outer office, but he had concluded that there was little point in rubbing salt in their wounded pride by going quite that far. After all, they would have nothing to write on, as they would be sitting at an empty table. He certainly wasn’t going to let the private office staff put out paper as they usually did.
He imagined Colin Carlucci would soon be going through the same sort of procedures in the President’s office. Algar knew there was nothing either of them could actually do until each side was certain that the other was totally committed to the plan and all its ramifications. But he felt certain that they would get the green light in a day or so, and wanted to be ready to put things in motion as soon as he could. He knew that Secretary of State Miles Bragan would be leaving for the Middle East later that day, and just hoped that the President would be able brief him before he went, if he hadn’t already. If not, it would be the end of the week before they had any news of the American attitude, as Bragan was planning to be away for at least two days.
In the meantime, he saw no reason why the new hot-line video conferencing link should not be set up between the two leaders. They had been pondering such an idea for some time, so now let’s do it. At the same time, the new cipher was probably worth starting work on, as he couldn’t imagine things like that were devised at all quickly.
It was also in his mind that, even if they found no support from America for the whole plan, which would mean that every aspect of it would be abandoned, it would still be worthwhile emptying the terrorist's coffers. At least that would put a severe brake on their activities for the foreseeable future, although he really didn’t know where to begin. The Prime Minister had, almost casually, given him responsibility for that aspect of the operation, and in a way it made sense, as he did have some quite good contacts in the financial world. But he had to admit that he had no real idea about where to start tracking down the accounts they used, never mind - what had the PM said? - ‘emptying them’. Algar remembered that Weaver had also said that his Army contact in Northern Ireland - Clayton, wasn’t it? - knew where most of the money was, but the Cabinet Secretary found it difficult to believe that an Army Major could know anything of the sort, even if he was part of the intelligence network. But it might be useful to meet this man at some time, not least because Weaver thought so highly of him. He knew that Clayton had been over for another briefing only yesterday, with James Anchor, and he wondered how that had gone.
There seemed to be so much to do, apart from the normal routine of Cabinet Office life, that he hardly knew where to begin. Not that there ever was anything normal or routine about life where Tony Weaver was concerned. But now the workload had been piled even higher.
Soon, there would be the normal early morning ‘prayers’, with Andrew Groves in attendance. He would have seen from the diary that there were two extra meetings today, and would obviously wonder what they were all about. Algar had no doubt that he would be kept in the dark by Weaver, although eventually Groves would have to be brought in to the picture. Groves, and his colleagues around Whitehall, would have a pivotal role to play in moulding public opinion, and especially the Ulster Unionists, in favour of the political solution once the operation started. But not yet. Other things had to fall in place first, and as long as there wasn’t a leak of any sort, Andrew Groves had no need for the time being to know what was being planned.
The first man he needed to speak to was Paul Bridges, the retired Air Commodore who ran the Cabinet Office Briefing Rooms. He dialled the number himself, as neither John Williams nor Isabelle Paton had yet arrived in his outer office. As luck would have it, Burgess himself answered the phone.
“’Morning, Paul, Robin Algar here.”
“Good morning, Robin. You’re early for a Monday.”
“I have a feeling,” replied Algar, “that it’s going to be one of those days. But I need to talk to you. Can you spare a few minutes?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll come up straight away.”
When Bridges arrived, he shut the door firmly behind him, and sat in front of Algar’s desk.
“How can I help?” he asked.
“We need another secure hot line to Washington,” said Algar, without beating about the bush. “and I wondered how quickly one could be set up, and whether it was possible to have a video conference facility with it. But it must be really secure - latest scramblers, everything.”
“Shouldn’t be any great problem,” replied Paul Bridges. “But could I ask what’s suddenly brought this on? Is anything wrong with the present link?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with it at all, and we shall keep it in use for routine and regular contacts between the Prime Minister and the President,” replied the Cabinet Secretary. “But we’ve been thinking for some time that a second direct link between them would be very useful, particularly with a video link, but with access available only to the two men. As you know, the present hot line has links to the Foreign Office and God knows where in the States. But both men agreed over the weekend that future discussions between them on a particular topic needed to be much more secure than at present and with a much more restricted access. I can’t tell you now why the need has suddenly become urgent. Very strictly ‘need to know’ at the moment, I’m afraid.”
“Understood,” replied the Air Commodore, who had one of the highest security clearances possible. “It so happens that we have already set up a few video conferencing links to the States recently, including one to the Secretary of State’s ops room, so it will be no real problem to set up another, providing we can find the satellite space. If we can’t, we’ll have to give up one of our existing links.”
“That’s very encouraging,” said Algar. “I must emphasise, though, the need for the highest possible security.”
“You shall have it,” replied Bridges. “The difficult bit is scrambling the video, although that’s becoming easier with agile digital data links.”
Sir Robin Algar looked puzzled.
“The picture needs to be coded too,” explained Bridges,” because some hackers can lip read if they should intercept it.”
“Ah,” said Algar, as the penny dropped.
“I do suggest, though,” continued Paul Bridges, “that even if the link is to be discreet between the two Heads of State, this end of it should be in one of the emergency rooms downstairs, rather than in the PM’s office. I’m quite sure the American end won't be in the Oval Office, either. Too easily bugged and too many people in and out all the time.”
“Sounds very sensible,” replied Algar. “I’m sure the PM will agree to that. How long will it take to set up?”
“Allowing time for a few test transmissions, I would say by the end of this week, if all goes well. I’ll get my people on to it right away.”
“That’s excellent, Paul. Thank you.”
“If this is all so hush-hush, will the White House know what I’m talking about when I get on to them?” he asked.
“Talk to my opposite number. Colin Carlucci is the President’s Chief of Staff, and may well already be making similar moves. He’ll certainly know what it’s all about,” replied Algar.
Air Commodore Bridges stood to leave.
“Could I ask your advice about one other related matter, while you’re here?” asked the Cabinet Secretary.
Bridges sat down again. “Of course.”
“You will have gathered from what I’ve already said that the two leaders are embarking on something of quite unusual sensitivity. So sensitive, indeed, that I can’t even tell you about it yet, although I’m sure I shall be able to soon.”
Bridges nodded. “I’m not in the least offended,” he said, with a smile.
“At the moment, nothing at all has been put in writing or committed to paper by either side as an additional precaution against leaks, and only the minimum possible number of individuals are in the loop,” continued Sir Robin. “But the time will come, and soon, when communication between the two sides will have to be on paper rather than verbally. For that, I think, we shall need a special code or cipher. How do we go about setting that up? Any ideas where I might start?”
“You just have started,” replied Bridges. “There are several wizards with codes, especially in MI5, and I know quite a few of them. Our own codes and ciphers are always being changed, of course, both the diplomatic and defence ones, so there are plenty of experts about. Will this one just be for use between the two Heads of State, or will lower mortals also need access?”
“Wider access than just the two of them, including perhaps Northern Ireland, but still very restricted indeed,” replied Algar. “But I don’t want it universally available - just for those involved on this particular project.
“I’ll dig up someone for you, and bring him along to see you, if that’s all right.” offered Bridges. “You can then brief him yourself as much as you can, and leave it to him to deliver.”
“Sounds good,” replied Sir Robin.
“I’ll be in touch later today, hopefully. If that’s all, I’ll toddle along,” said Bridges, standing again.
“Thanks for your help.” said Algar.
John Williams, Algar’s SPS, put his head round the door as the Air Commodore left.
“Thought I heard voices, but didn’t like to interrupt,” he said. “Is everything all right?” he asked. “You’re in early.”
“There are two extra meetings this morning, John, so I thought I would try to get a few things done before ‘prayers’.”
“You should have said, and I would have come in early too,” responded Williams. “How was the trip to Washington?”
“Very satisfactory, but a lot of extra work is flowing from it, I fear, and not all to do with the Middle East, either,” replied Sir Robin. “But I can’t tell you much about it, I’m afraid - something the two Heads of State are cooking up between them at the moment. I’ll brief you as soon as I can, but in the meantime, say nothing to anyone, please.”
“Very good,” replied Williams, thinking that he really had nothing to say to anyone even if he wanted to.
“The Air Commodore will be in touch with you soon to arrange another meeting. Make sure you fit him in as a priority when he rings. We’re setting up another hot line to the White House. And when you’ve settled, could you try to get Alistair Vaughan on the phone? He’s Head of Security at the Bank of England. I’d like a quick word with him before ‘prayers’, if that’s possible, and then probably a meeting with him soon. With any luck, he’ll offer me lunch somewhere!”
They agreed that Simpsons, in the Strand, was about half way between them, so that’s where they arranged to meet the next day.
The morning meeting went off smoothly enough. As expected, Andrew Groves’ curiosity about the extra two meetings scheduled for afterwards went unsatisfied, and he was asked not to probe any further. Having dealt with the weekend’s media, he contented himself with a dissertation about straight cucumbers, and left.
The first of the special meetings, with the carefully selected Cabinet Ministers, went rather better than either Sir Robin or Tony Weaver had expected. They immediately got whiff that something was in the wind when they arrived and were ushered into the Cabinet room having had their brief cases confiscated. They all signed up readily to the Prime Minister’s demand for total loyalty, dedication and secrecy, even though they had no idea what they were agreeing to. But they knew it was either a case of that, or find something else to do while on the backbenches. And they had worked with Weaver long enough to know that he was unlikely to ask them for any greater sacrifice than he was himself prepared to make. Until, that is, he started to brief them about the first phase of his plan for Northern Ireland. Then the discussion became quite lively, especially when they were told that, if phase one was successful, there would be a second, even more dramatic proposal to put to them, but that they were not going to be told about that until later. Sir Robin Algar was able to report that he had already set in train plans for a special video link hot line and a one-off cipher for use during the operation, and that he was meeting a top official from the Bank of England tomorrow. Even the Prime Minister looked impressed, and eventually all those present undertook to support the project, on the understanding that it would not go ahead without the unqualified support and help of the United States.
As they left, the Prime Minister motioned to Algar to stay behind.
“Well,” said Weaver, “so far so good. We eventually got the support we needed, but I would hardly say they were enthusiastic about the project.”
“Understandable, I suppose. It’s going to make life difficult for all of them, especially as they are not yet authorised to consult within their own Departments, and they can see the risks which will accompany failure.”
“At least we all sink together, so I suppose they took comfort from that,” said the Prime Minister. “I’m glad you’ve already made a start - that helped to get them on side, I’m sure.”
“I’m not all certain where to start with my colleague at the Bank of England though,” said Algar, “but I couldn’t think of anyone else to give me a lead.”
“Perhaps this will help,” said the Prime Minister, handing over the package from Bill Clayton.
“And who, may I ask,” queried Algar, looking at the grubby envelope, “is Edward Benbow from Fittleworth in Sussex?”
“Major Bill Clayton’s uncle, as it happens,” replied Weaver. “But the envelope isn’t important. Look inside.”
“Good grief!” exclaimed Algar, as he skimmed the list of terrorist bank accounts. “If this is only half accurate, it’s going to save an enormous amount of time and effort.”
“Most of what Clayton does is on the ball, so I hope that is, too. He handed it to me yesterday, when I was briefing him and James Anchor about our visit.”
“I suppose, even if nothing else happens, cutting off the terrorists’ supply of cash would do no harm,” said the Cabinet Secretary.
“Exactly,” agreed the Prime Minister. “As you’ve already made a start, keep going!”
By then, the Police Chiefs and CDS had arrived for the second crucial meeting to be held that day. General Sir Giles Guthrie, the Services chief, had thought to bring his ADC with him, an elegant-looking captain from the Grenadier Guards, whose mission was to take the notes. In the end, he stayed in the outer office with the briefcases. Apart from that, the meeting was a good one - indeed, those present even showed some enthusiasm for the task in hand. Getting rid of the terrorists was going to save them all a good deal of manpower and effort.
There was token resistance from the NIPS Chief Constable. “It’s our job to uphold the law, of course,” he said, “and I would find it difficult to live with some of what you propose, Prime Minister. Murder is murder, after all”.
“It’s also your job to prevent crime,” responded Weaver. “Regard this as an exercise in long term crime prevention.”
The two policemen looked at one another, nodded agreement, and grinned. From then on, the operation had their complete support.
“I am sure all of us totally accept the need for secrecy if this plan is to succeed,” said Sir Giles, “and I applaud what you are already doing, Prime Minister, to set up discrete secure systems. But I wonder if I could ask a question, without in the least wishing to appear impertinent?”
“Go ahead,” said the Prime Minister, wondering what was coming. Guthrie was nobody’s fool.
“I know you have weekly audiences with the Sovereign,” said the General, “and I suppose at some time you will have to brief on this subject. But, - ahem, - we all know that the King is something of an, - um, er, - how shall I put this - eccentric? Writes letters to all sorts of people with all sorts of sometimes - ahem - odd views. Could be a risk here, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“The thought had already occurred to me, General,” responded Tony Weaver. “I plan to brief the King only about the political scenario, and even then not until the establishment of peace in the Province, if that is achieved. I shall brief you, gentlemen, my Cabinet colleagues, and Parliament all at about the same time. He will not be told about our role in ridding the Province of the terrorists, only that they seem, in some way, to have ceased operating and left the country.”
“Excellent,” said the General, and went to gather up his papers - except that there weren’t any. “I can assure you of my total support”.
“Good.” said Weaver. “When I know that we have the support of our American allies, I will let you know. Until then, no one else is to be briefed by any of you. If I had wanted any of your subordinates briefed, they would have been here today, and I would have done it myself.”
They shook hands and left, collecting brief cases, notebooks and ADCs on the way. The Prime Minister and Cabinet Secretary made their way to the PM’s office, and sank into armchairs.
“We’ve made good progress, Robin,” said Weaver. “Let’s hope they can all be trusted to keep their mouths shut until I tell them otherwise.”
“I’m sure the military will be no problem,” responded Algar, “and I think you put enough of the fear of God into your Cabinet colleagues to ensure that they toe the line, too.”
“Do you realise that we now have all the initial support we need, on this side of the Atlantic? I wonder how things are going in the White House.”
“I wonder.”
“I’m very tempted to get on the blower to find out,” said the Prime Minister. “but I shan’t. It would be better for them to ring me, but I hope they’re not too long about it. The suspense is killing!”
In Northern Ireland, James Anchor was also going through the motions of dying. He had not been having a bad day, really, all things considered. Plenty of paperwork, of course, and the odd meeting with officials seeking his views about this and that, but nothing really taxing for a man of his capabilities. He had lunch at his desk, because there was no official luncheon for him to attend that day, and he preferred his own company anyway. If he hadn’t been divorced, he might have been able to slip away home for lunch, like most people who lived within range, but there was nothing in his flat, comfortable though it was, to attract him there for lunch on his own. So he stayed where he was, making the best of a sandwich from the canteen that his secretary had fetched for him, and read the Times.
Later that afternoon, he had to chair a rather irksome meeting with a dozen or so officials, all of whom had a view and wanted to make sure that everyone else knew what it was. Housing policy was not his favourite subject, but the people before him were being paid to take an interest and to ‘do something’ about it. So he listened patiently, rather wishing he’d had a better lunch. Sandwiches two days running were probably not a good idea. Which was really why he had already taken two glasses of water, and had surreptitiously rubbed his chest a couple of times. Eventually, he excused himself from the meeting, his right hand firmly clasped to his left rib cage.
He returned a few minutes later, full of apologies. Yes, of course he was all right, really - kind of you to ask. Touch of indigestion, he was sure: nothing more than that. Too many sandwiches for lunch, probably. He took another glass of water, and sat under the worried gaze of officials, still clutching his chest.
On the other side of Belfast, Major Bill Clayton called in one of his staff.
“Off hand,” he asked, “how many weapons have we captured that have been used in terrorist killings?”
“Off hand,” replied his second-in command, Captain Brian Foley, “I’ve no idea. But I could find out.”
“Please,” said Clayton. “And find out where they are and whether I can borrow them.”
“Now what are you up to, sir”, quizzed Foley. “Or are you not going to say.”
“Right as usual,” agreed the Major. “But I shall want a couple from each side, Republican and Unionist, and the more they’ve been used the better.”
Captain Foley left, shaking his head. It was so often impossible to work out what the boss was up to, but in the end, there was always a good reason for his often-bizarre demands.
“And while you’re at it,” Clayton called after him, “get some captured ammo to go with them.”
Foley thought there might be a clue in there somewhere.
“And get the Chief Clerk in here,” Clayton shouted after the retreating figure. So loudly, in fact, that the Chief Clerk heard him from two offices away, and scurried in without further bidding.
“Ah! Sergeant Wilson - just the chap I wanted. You must be psychic!”
Sergeant Catherine Wilson was just about getting used to everyone being a ‘chap’ so far as Clayton was concerned.
“I’ve got a little job for you, Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to dig out all those dossiers we’ve built up about the villains of this parish - you know, the ones which try to list all the evidence against them - and trot across to the NI Police HQ at Knock with them,” said Clayton. “Go through them with one of your chums in special branch or the anti-terrorist squad, or both, and make sure they’re all as complete as we can make them. Then I want a duplicate of each folder. They must be classified at least Secret, so I’ll sign the authorisation when you’re ready, and then sign for possession of the duplicates. I shall be taking them to London later, but nobody needs to know that. Any questions?”
“Only the usual one, sir,” replied Sergeant Wilson, “but I expect I’d get the usual answer, so I shan’t bother asking.”
“Good man,” said Clayton. “On the button as always! Off you go.”
He watched her disappearing figure. As Sergeants go, she wasn’t a bad looking one, even in uniform, and he had once seen her out of uniform, jogging. Even better. She was damned good at her job, too.
By close of play on Monday, there had still been no contact between Washington and London. Surely they would hear something on Tuesday? The five-hour time difference really was a nuisance. It would be the afternoon before they heard anything, whatever day the news came through. But it was obvious to both the Prime Minister and his Cabinet Secretary that Tuesday was going to be yet another long, and anxious, day. A day when they could do nothing but wait patiently for America to catch up with them, and pass on their decision - go or no-go. But there was plenty of routine Government business to keep both men busy while they waited. And at least, so far as they could see from Andrew Groves’ morning briefing, there had been no whiff of a leak about their grand strategy. In fact, there was almost encouraging news, in that the President of Sinn Fein, Martin McFosters, had announced that he was to pay yet another visit to America the following week. This could just present a golden opportunity to take some action in pursuit of their long-term objectives.
Sir Robin Algar was able to punctuate an otherwise terrible day, during which some unpleasant decisions had been taken, with a pleasant lunch with his old colleague, Alistair Vaughan. They sat quietly at one of the small alcove tables upstairs at Simpsons, and chatted amicably until they had tipped the carver who had served them from the trolley, and were tucking in to their rib of beef.
Vaughan’s role at the Bank of England was to oversee and protect all the Bank’s operations, from the physical security of cash and bullion to the security of its many complex and highly sensitive computer systems. But to protect them, he had also to know how they could be compromised, and this was where Algar needed to probe. Normally fool proof and impenetrable procedures would have to be thwarted if he was ever going to be able to siphon off the vast reserves of cash built up by all the terrorist organisations operating in Northern Ireland.
Understandably, Vaughan initially refused any help whatsoever, although he had been impressed by his quick look at the contents of Clayton’s envelope.
“What you propose is quite illegal, as I’m sure you know,” he said. “If I should help you to breach the accounts you say you have details of, then you or your staff would be able to use that information to breach almost any account you wanted, or pass the information to an accomplice who could do the same.”
“That isn’t actually what I’m seeking from you,” corrected Algar. “I don’t need your direct help or involvement, now or at any time. What I need to know is whether what I have in mind is possible, given all the countermeasures which I'm sure you have in place to prevent such a thing, and secondly whether you know of any genius anywhere who might be able to achieve such a thing. At worse, you might have to turn a blind eye in an effort to assist the Government in achieving what I’m sure even you would agree is a worthwhile objective - denying terrorists the wherewithal to carry out their murderous activities.”
“Well,” replied Vaughan, helping himself to another glass of excellent Claret, “I suppose that is a bit different. But I can tell you that I wouldn’t be prepared to go even that far unless the Prime Minister personally discusses this with the Governor, and I get the green light from him. It’s my career we’re talking about here as well, you know.”
“Of course, I quite understand that, and what you ask can easily be arranged. Do I take it, from what you’ve said, that there is someone, somewhere, who could help us achieve this?”
“Well,” replied Vaughan cagily, “I think there could be, but whether you'd want him to act as your agent is another matter. And getting through all the accounts on your list would take some time, especially those in the States and Switzerland.”
“Are we talking about days, weeks or months?” asked Sir Robin.
“Certainly a week or so, working full time,” replied Alistair.
“We could live with that,” responded Sir Robin. “But any longer would allow the opposition to gather their wits about them and start moving cash around, which would then make the task even more difficult.”
Vaughan nodded.
“Who is this man, by the way?”
“He used to work for the Bank, in our computer organisation. Only young, but a real wizard and an expert programmer,” replied Vaughan.
“So why do you have doubts about us wanting to use him?” asked Algar.
“Because he’s already in gaol. Serving eight years for fraud, doing exactly what you propose - lining his pockets by hacking into our own computer systems and transferring cash from other people’s accounts into his own.”
Sir Robin Algar grinned. “I’ll let you know. Can I offer you a glass of Port?”
The two men arranged to meet again in a day or so.
Two things that happened later that afternoon caused a flurry of excitement. First of all, Sir Robin Algar had a meeting in his office with Air Commodore Paul Bridges and a cipher expert, and, much later, Tony Weaver had word that the President would want to talk to him on the hot line tomorrow afternoon, at about nine o’clock Washington time.
Isabelle brought in Paul Bridges, and introduced a tall, rather bent man, with a shock of grey, unruly hair.
“This is Mr Ernie Stevens, from GCHQ,” said Isabelle.
The two men shook hands. Stevens somehow looked like a scientist, rather than a civil servant, although he was that, too, of course. He wore a check jacket with leather patches at the elbows, and a shirt that was obviously not used to having a tie tied at the neck. Although he had no papers with him, Stevens had a pair of half glasses perched on the end of his nose.
The three sat at the coffee table, as Isabelle brought in a tray.
“I thought it might be a good idea, Robin,” said Bridges, “to bring you up to speed first with a slice of modern technology that you probably won’t often come across in your job. Otherwise, you won’t have a clue what Ernie’s talking about. As you know, experts tend to forget that not everyone shares their knowledge, and Mr Stevens is one of our top cryptanalysts.”
“Thoughtful of you,” replied the Cabinet Secretary. “And although I am, I suppose, responsible for all of them as Head of the Civil Service, I never seem to have the time to meet as many of the scientific members of it as I should. So it’s particularly nice to meet you today, Mr Stevens. Are you based in Cheltenham?”
“No,” he replied. “One of the outstations - Eastcote, in fact. It’s easier to get to other places from there, including Heathrow. I travel quite a bit.”