The days grow colder and shorter rapidly now, and brightly coloured Christmas decorations begin to appear in the shops and along the streets of London. Not that we on the Grid get much time to enjoy the approaching festive season, as we grind our way through a never-ending series of operations, briefings, meetings, and too many late nights and early mornings to count. Arriving and leaving in darkness becomes the norm, and the air takes on a permanently damp chill that settles in the lungs. Even after having lived here for so long, I find London hard at this time of year, with the graceful plane trees stripped of their leaves, the dirty slush that any snowfall quickly turns into, and the annual influx of stony-faced shoppers along Oxford and Regent Streets, barging along six or more abreast on the slippery pavements, and unwilling to yield an inch to anyone with the temerity to try walking in the opposite direction. As I have done every Christmas since the advent of online shopping, I silently bless the internet, and happily 'add to cart' instead, for all except one gift… one, I need to choose in person.
It is a grey winter's morning, much like any other in early December, when Nazim Malik is released from gaol. Given the implicit danger, the high media profile of his case and the involvement of Liberation, the UK's foremost civil rights group (serial pests, Harry calls them), we have not been remiss in making our preparations. If it weren't for the fact that French intelligence (a contradiction in terms, Harry would add drily) had just informed us that they had intercepted an email indicating that Malik was coordinating another attack, he wouldn't be going free at all. Held without charge for two years under the anti-terrorism laws enacted by a panic-stricken Parliament in the weeks after 9/11, he had been picked up in a Special Branch operation before he was able to launch the bomb attack on Heathrow that he had come from Algeria to carry out, but he has never admitted to anything, despite some alarmingly robust interrogations by Special Branch, our lot and Six; he certainly can't expect to be left in peace now. Not when we're hoping to use his carefully staged release to round up the rest of the cell, and stop the attack, in one bold stroke – it's all so very Harry – high risk, high stakes, daring, and utterly brilliant, if we pull it off. If…always, If…
Harry, Adam, Zaf and I watch the media circus surrounding Malik's release in the briefing room, and I fill them in on the fine details as we walk back to our workspaces. "They put him in the Copeland Hotel in Bayswater; we've drilled through from the room next door and put cameras all over the hotel. The Liberation offices are a tougher call, they sweep for bugs every two weeks – you'd think they were living in a police state," I observe indignantly, and Adam adds, "We'll need full surveillance inside Liberation, he could make contact from in there." Harry nods, as I reply to Adam, "Well, they've got a sweep scheduled for this morning, I thought we could go in after that." Over his shoulder, Harry asks Zaf, "What have you got on Malik?" "Everything I've read suggests a highly intelligent, controlling figure. When Special Branch arrested him in 2003, they raided his flat in Acton; all they found was some maps with British cities circled, no computers, no contact lists, no phones, nothing they could pin on him. If the attack does happen, Malik will be nowhere near it, but nothing will happen without his say-so. "
I take a seat facing Zaf at the conference table in the breakout area; my back is to the door, and so I miss witnessing the arrival of Ms Langham from HR, with our new recruit in tow. Adam introduces Miss Portman to Harry, but neglects to include Zaf or me – very poor form, that – although I can see by the look on Zaf's face that the young lady is exactly what he has been wishing for. I rather think that any female under thirty with a pulse would fit that particular bill, going by the pile of S24 forms Zaf constantly inundates HR with. The boy's either a hopeless romantic, or Casanova. Miss Portman joins us, and Adam runs through the planned operation again for her benefit, before tasking us all and dismissing us with his trademark easy smile. Adam has charm by the bucketful, and our new colleague hangs on his every word. Wryly amused, I wonder if she's noticed his wedding ring yet…the meeting comes to an end, and thankfully I go back to my desk, keen to get on with the work I have been allocated. That's something to be said for working in Section D; no two days are the same.
"Hiya, I don't think we were introduced, earlier?" Startled by the vaguely-familiar voice, I look up from my array at the tall, slender girl standing in front of me, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other, and instantly I feel as if I have been catapulted back in time, to the day that Zoe joined Section D. This girl is a willowy, beautiful blonde too, but there is a hint of mischief in the blue eyes which dominate her gamine face, and when she tosses her long hair back, my heart involuntarily skips a beat. She's so fresh, so unmarked by life…so innocent. Immediately, I fear for her, as I fear for us all; there's something fragile at the core of her, beneath the bravado and brashness of youth. I quickly rise to my feet to greet her properly, straightening my tie self-consciously. "Erm, I'm Malcolm, the Senior Technical Officer, or STO, and this is Colin, he's…" "Delighted," Colin chimes in from behind my shoulder, as he reaches around me to offer his hand; Miss Portman takes it cautiously. "Hello Colin, it's nice to meet you, too. I'm Jo, Jo Portman. " Colin beams at her, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he continues to pump her hand enthusiastically. "I do all the high-tech stuff, with Malcolm, of course. We're the go-to guys for gadgets and…"
"Geeks!" Zaf proclaims loudly as he strides towards us, grinning like a shark. "The pleasure is all mine," he says smoothly, claiming the hand that Colin has dropped in confusion. "Zaf's the name, and spying's my game…you'll be working mostly with me, and the other field officers, of course." Miss Portman looks him over from the toes up, before favouring him with a radiant smile. "Hi, Zaf. I'm Jo." Her voice becomes flirtatious, seemingly holding a world of promise, as Colin's face falls and Zaf leads her away to find Adam. "Did you see her? Malcolm, did you see that…that…goddess?" Colin sounds as if he has just been vouchsafed a vision of heaven. I give a rueful chuckle. "Yes, but I don't know if she saw us. Zaf seems to have made quite an impression." Colin looks despondent as he turns back to his screens, and I feel a pang of sadness for him; he's such a decent person, he deserves to be happy. Guiltily, I vow to ask Ruth if she might know of someone who would be interested in having dinner with him some time. Perhaps the four of us could even… I shake my head to clear it of such irrelevance while at work, and continue with the search I have been running through the Interpol databases, looking for evidence that Malik has been active in the past. So far, though, there's nothing…not so much as an electronic sausage. I smile to myself as Colin's favourite expression comes to mind, and think back over the last few weeks which have led to the arrival of Miss Portman.
None of us had been surprised when Adam had appeared on the Grid, grinning ear to ear as he had presented Ms Langham from HR with the news that he had recruited his latest officer in the old way, and never mind the psychometric psychobabble. Harry had smiled to himself as he crossed the Grid to congratulate Adam on the successful conclusion of the McTaggart op, and for a second he had carried himself more erect than usual, no doubt recalling his glory days in the field, when he had turned foreign agents and made moles of honest men; it was all part of a day's spy-work, back then, as was plucking the most promising candidates for the Service straight out of Oxbridge or from the officer ranks in the armed forces. Nowadays, we have a website, and anyone can apply to the Service… and believe me, they do.
Maintaining security for Five's public website is one of the banes of Colin's life, and when a recruitment drive is on, he becomes uptight and nervy as he repels hacker after hacker, constantly upgrading and reinforcing our security as hordes of would-be spies try to circumvent the online application system, each attempting to demonstrate by their illegal behaviour that they are the 'outstanding candidates' we seek. Our policy with such would-be queue jumpers is to delete their applications, make a note of their ISP, and add them to our blacklist of renegades and outlaws that shall never set foot legitimately in Thames House. It's just not cricket…one must maintain some standards, even in our murky line of work. I do hope that Miss Portman is up to them: a journalist by trade, it was only her outstanding amateur fieldcraft that saw Harry signing off on her recruitment. He trusts that particular profession no further than he can throw the whole lot of them down Fleet Street.
Later that day, Ruth (by extension – she had to take an urgent call from DGSE in Paris, judging by her smooth switch into French, just as we were filing into the meeting), Miss Portman, Adam, Harry and I, gather in the briefing room. We are reaping the fruits of last night's unpaid overtime, bugging the Copeland Hotel (Colin and I, of course, who else?) as we watch a live feed of Fiona, in the guise of Sarah Morris, PR consultant, attempt to connect with Malik, but he is as surly and suspicious as a wild animal, and she makes no headway with him. His lawyer, a young woman with an unflattering haircut and an idealistic turn of mind, leaves a small, flat package on the mantelpiece after Fiona has left, and when he is certain he is alone, he opens it eagerly, but we cannot see what is inside; it could be anything, anything at all. I catch a direct glimpse of his face as he turns away from the camera, and the look in his eyes strikes me as forcibly as a blow; they are full of fear, and pain, and deep suffering, long endured. Are these really the eyes of a terrorist, a potential mass murderer?
Ruth comes back into the room just then; she sees Miss Portman sitting at my side, and a tiny frown appears between her brows, as she crosses to stand right next to me, before addressing herself to Harry. "I've just spoken to DGSE in Paris, and they've picked up increased mobile activity around Gare du Nord, and the Eurostar terminus in Lyon. " Harry's eyebrows move upwards a millimetre or two, before he asks, "Is the Tunnel how they're getting in, or is it the target?" Zaf speaks before Ruth can answer, suggesting that we close it, but Adam quickly quashes that idea, in favour of continuing to play the game with Malik. Like Harry, Adam is a visionary thinker and a bold risk-taker; where the pair of them might lead the rest of us one day is something that I try not to contemplate too much. Harry asks for hourly updates from Paris, and Ruth nods her understanding as the meeting breaks up, before turning to Jo and foisting off the speech she was meant to write for Fiona in a neat little move that at once gets a tedious task off her plate, and favours the new girl…or punishes her, I'm not sure which. Ruth, it would seem, has been taking lessons from Harry in delegation.
I force myself to walk quickly past her, without making eye contact, for the temptation to kiss her right there, in front of everyone, is nearly overwhelming. I can barely credit it, but she actually looked jealous just then, and her possessive body language would certainly seem to confirm this; secretly, I'm both pleased and flattered that she would so overtly declare Hands off, he's mine! to another woman, even if Miss Portman seemed oblivious to her unspoken statement. Ruth has been cool where Harry is concerned lately, businesslike and professional, but no more, whereas we have been enjoying a renaissance; several nights a week, I've been staying over at her house, now that Mother is back home, and Ruth has made some further noises about me meeting her own mother. I'm not yet ready to do more than that, strange though it may seem; for one thing, I've actually grown to like the secrecy surrounding our affair, it adds a certain dimension of… of excitement, while safeguarding us from the wider world; and then there's the risk inherent in announcing its existence, and in conducting our relationship in the open, right under Harry's nose. I still occasionally wake up sweating and shaking from nightmares about how he might reasonably be expected to react to the news... let alone unreasonably! Furthermore, I still have unanswered questions, and have not yet found the right time or place to put them to Ruth, for they are hardly the stuff of dinner conversation or pillow talk: Could you please pass the salt, and by the bye, what have you been doing with the Tessina? Or, Oh darling, that feels marvellous, please don't stop, but I have to know, are you a double agent, or a mole, or both? No, no, I said DON'T stop…
...I think not.
More questions ricochet around my brain: Why did Harry really send her back to GCHQ during the British Way operation, and why won't she talk about it? What has she been doing with the Tessina? Why does she want to announce our relationship to the world now, after having been at such pains to keep it clandestine for so long? And then there's the question I have been afraid to ask; the one that really matters. I don't think I'm quite ready for that, yet. When we are together alone, she is everything I have ever dreamt of: brilliant, engaging, passionate, and yet at some level in my psyche, I still have doubts. 'Listen to your gut, lad, it knows more than your head does,' Grandfather used to tell me when I got myself in knots about a boyhood problem; whether to let on to the headmaster that I knew who was bullying the first formers (I did, and paid the price by being ostracised for the rest of my time there), or which university to choose, after a veritable sheaf of offers arrived (Cambridge, of course). Somewhere along the way, I got out of the habit of listening, but for months now I have felt ill-at-ease, and Grandfather's words, as well as much more immediate advice from Colin, have made me hesitant. Once something has been said, it can't very well be unsaid, and so I have decided to keep my own counsel for a while longer. I'm happy to meet her mother, but when I offered to take her out to Cheltenham one evening for just this purpose, Ruth immediately demurred, replying that the lead-up to Christmas was never a good time for her mother… perhaps in the New Year; she'd just have to see. My gut had twitched uneasily, but I had said nothing; after Christmas, things might be very different… I fervently hope so. We have, after all, been together almost a year…
In the briefing room, I had felt rather than seen Harry's attention shift as Ruth walked in and stood next to me, but I had been afraid to meet his eyes, hooded and dark though they may be, and as impenetrable as the innermost keep of the Tower of London. Back at my desk now, I take a moment to wonder what, if anything, he makes of the recent change in her attitude towards him, and then I have no time to wonder about anything at all, as I begin making preparations for the evening's task of breaking into, and bugging, the Liberation offices. Ah, the joys of life on the Grid are manyfold and various… and speaking of which, an email from Adam has just pinged into my inbox.
Let's take Jo tonight, get her feet wet with a bit of real fieldwork. Colin can do obs from the van, and the three of us will hit the offices.
Are you sure? I reply, she hasn't been through my technical induction for new members of Section D yet.
I'm sure. She'll be fine. You can induct her on the job, if you like. Better than having to wade through a whole lot of protocols and procedures for an entire day, and then do an exam at the end.
Those protocols and procedures are there for a reason: they save lives.
Yeah, but they're also the dullest things EVER to have to sit through a briefing on.
I see. Very well, then. Obviously all the time and effort I put into running that induction has been for nothing.
A long pause ensues, and then:
Sorry mate, no offence intended. I mean, you're very thorough, it's just that some things might be better learned in the field, you know?
Affronted that Adam has just dismissed my carefully prepared all-day induction on field tech – the importance of using call signs, the correct frequencies to transmit on for our team, the care and use of earwigs (all to be returned to the technical officer in charge at the end of the operation, please), among other things, I ignore his last message, and get up to fetch what we need from the tech cage.
Swiping and unlocking my way into the secure storage area, my heart begins to beat faster in anticipation of what I might find: will it be there, or will Ruth have somehow spirited it away again? My eyes go straight to the highest shelf, where Colin has placed all our imaging tech, and it is with relief that I note that his nanotransmitter camera strap is just visible on the edge of the shelf. It's here then, I think in relief, and get on with my official task of collecting and signing out the bits and bobs and bugs for tonight's op. I soon gather what we need, and stow it all carefully in pouches designed to shield the delicate electronics from detection, before tucking the pouches into a black Kevlar-reinforced gear bag – to all intents and purposes, it looks just like a standard sports hold-all – and turning to leave. As I do, something makes me look back at the shelf where the tiny silver spy camera, the size of a lady's cosmetic compact, sits, and on impulse, reach up to take it off the shelf. The camera strap slides into my hand, unattached to anything at all: the Tessina is gone. Like a cat, suspicious of a new addition to a familiar toy, Ruth has cannily evaded detection once more. My heart flips over slowly as I try to think what to do; if it were any other member of staff, I would have long gone straight to Harry with my concerns, but this is Ruth, Ruth whom I love, Ruth whose bed I share, Ruth who wants to introduce me to her Mum. My Ruth. And besides, I don't know whether Harry has sanctioned all this or not; I am wading in muddy water, trying to feel my way through.
Setting the gear bag down carefully, I search the cage for any foreign devices, any counter-surveillance, anything at all that might explain how she does it, but there is nothing that shouldn't be here. Next, I turn my attention to the door itself: might it have been tampered with? But it is set as securely as ever in the 20-centimetre wide, carbon steel doorframe, without so much as a missing speck of paint. Defeated, I finally grab the gear bag and stride back to my desk. Colin looks over his screens as I approach and whistles silently; I must look as annoyed as I feel, and I hastily rearrange my face into a semblance of its usual calm expression. Colin's eyebrows rise, and he shakes his head as I set the bag down gently, and drop back into my seat. "It's gone again, hasn't it? But that's good, we can tra…"His voice trails off in shock as I hold up the camera-less strap accusingly. "Ah. Right. Maybe not, then. I didn't think she'd…" "Lower your voice!" I hiss softly, "we have to sweep for bugs right now!" As STO, I can authorise a sweep of the Grid without Harry's say-so, and so the pair of us begin, somewhat to the bemusement of the other staff. It comes up clean, for which I am unspeakably grateful; the idea that Ruth would stoop to bugging me, or indeed any of her colleagues, is one that makes me sick to my stomach. Colin begins to review the CCTV footage showing access to the cage, for there is nothing on the swipe-card log to indicate that anyone other than us has been in or out of it in the last month. Nothing; there is nothing to be seen.
It is incredibly frustrating.
Adam comes over then, wearing a slight frown of puzzlement. "Is there anything I need to know about? Why have you just swept the Grid?" I look at him blankly for a moment, and then I think, so procedures and protocols are boring, are they? Let's see… "Section twenty-seven, paragraph six, sub-clause B part (iii): the Senior Technical Officer shall, from time to time as s/he sees fit, randomly conduct security checks of the primary workplace, including but not limited to…" Adam rolls his eyes, grinning, and holds up his hands in mock-surrender. "Okay, okay, point taken. I should pay more attention to this stuff. Sorry, again." It is hard to stay angry with Adam for long, he's too easy-going and self-deprecating to hold a grudge against, and despite myself I smile back. "Apology accepted. And no, there's nothing for you to worry about, the Grid is as secure as it ever was." At least that statement isn't an outright lie…
Adam's eye falls on the bag tucked neatly beneath my desk, and he asks, "For tonight?" I nod, and as I spot Miss Portman walking towards us, I add, "With three of us doing the bugging, we should be in and out in record time…Miss Portman!" I greet her, and she shakes her head, amused. "I thought I told you, it's just Jo. None of this Miss business, it makes me feel about a million years old. I was actually wondering if you might have time to look over the draft of the speech Ruth asked me to write, before I hand it in…Zaf said you're a bit of a genius, and I really want to get it right." Her blue eyes are honest and appealing, and I am reminded once more of how very young she is, and that this is her first proper job. "I'd be happy to. Just email it to me, and I'll send it back with my changes marked up." Miss Port…Jo's eyes sparkle at this, and she says happily, "Oh, Zaf was right!" I look enquiringly at her, and she explains, "He said that you're a very kind man…and you are. Thank you, Malcolm." She turns and follows Adam towards Harry's office.
And just like that, Jo is not only a new colleague for me to watch over and protect, but a friend too, and her joining the team suddenly feels right. Behind me I can hear Colin muttering darkly, "Zaf says this, Zaf's right about that…please, she's only been here half a day!" Turning to face him, I interject, "You're sounding rather too much like the fox, my friend." He frowns, and I recollect that he is not a classicist. "In Aesop's fable…you know, the fox that can't reach the grapes, so he decides in the end that they must be inedible." Colin stares at me, face set in uncharacteristically dour lines. "Like sour grapes, d'you mean?" I nod, pleased that he has made the connection, and he sighs in exasperation. "Then why not just say that to begin with? Sometimes you're your own worst enemy, you know." Surprised at his tone of voice, I am about to ask him what's wrong, when I see his face harden as he looks towards the pods. I follow his gaze, and understand immediately: Zaf and Jo are walking through the pods together, no doubt en route to one of the flashy new South Bank bars Zaf favours for his meals. I look at my battered old Omega Constellation wristwatch, a graduation present from my father, and see that the sun is well over the yardarm, or it would be, if it were to come out from behind the persistent low cloud that blankets the city in winter. My gut rumbles, and for once I decide to act on it. "Come on," I tell him, securing the gear bag in my bottom desk drawer and locking my screens. "Where?" he asks grumpily as he gets up.
"The Cricketers, I think," I tell him, "My shout. Let's get out of here for once." As we walk down the Embankment, he suddenly stops short, peering across the river at two familiar-looking figures perched at an outside table near the Festival Hall, and I shiver, despite the heavy overcoat I'm wearing. "Rather them than me, sitting out there in this weather. Let's get into the warm, instead, and remember, faint heart never won fair lady." Colin nods absently, his focus still on the pair across the river, and says, almost as if he is unaware that he is speaking aloud, "Yes, well, I suppose you'd know." I don't quite know how to take that, but I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt – he's not his usual self today, after all – and swiftly bundle him through the door of the Cricketers' before he can fixate any further on Zaf and Jo. That's what best friends are for, isn't it? And Colin is my best friend; he's like the brother I never had, and the colleague I always wanted, and the mates I never met at school, all rolled into one. Long before Ruth or Lucy or Jo came along, he was there for me, and we'll be there for each other long after they've gone, if that is what the unthinkable, unimaginable future should bring. I steer him towards our regular table, and head towards the bar, humming the familiar refrain from Iolanthe…If you go in you're sure to win/yours will be the charming maidie/be your law the ancient saw, faint heart never won fair lady! There's nothing like a little G&S for lifting the spirits and lightening the mood, and I feel cheerier immediately, although precisely who is the fair lady in question, and who's to win her, remains a matter for conjecture…
Handing Colin a pint of his usual, I sit down opposite with my more moderate half-pint of the same, and we chink glasses. "Cheers!" he says, and I reply, "Lechyd da!" holding his gaze as I wish him good health, just as Grandfather taught me all those years ago. Good health, my friend, and many more years to enjoy it in, I add silently in Welsh, as I always do. Colin drains half his glass at one swallow, and then thumps it down on the polished wood of the table. "Now, about that little problem, the one with the camera strap… I've been thinking," he begins, and I settle in to listen, pleased that my diversionary tactic seems to be working. For now, a small, stern voice in my mind reminds me, but I ignore it, and concentrate instead on Colin, his face animated as he describes his latest idea. How did Whitman put it, this friendship born out of the struggle against great odds? He was writing of soldiers in the American Civil War… ah, yes. Comrades mine, and me in the midst… yes, and Colin and I are in the midst of it too, there on the Grid every day, in our own keeping-well-out-of-danger way. I raise my glass once more in salute to the genius of his latest suggestion for keeping track of the Tessina, and he grins back at me, Zaf and Jo temporarily forgotten in the rush of excitement over his new plan; it does my heart good to see him happily engaged with what he, and we, do best: thinking, inventing, problem-solving. Colin, comrade mine, how very dear to me you are. Whatever would I do without you, my brother in all but blood? It simply doesn't bear thinking about.
So I don't. Some ideas, in this line of work, should never be entertained, lest one brings the wrath of the gods down from Olympus; if their ire is aroused, one will never know where the thunderbolts may fall, only that devastation is sure to follow.
A/N: Malcolm is recalling a line from When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd, by Walt Whitman. And he's inordinately fond of a spot of Gilbert and Sullivan, unashamedly so, in fact ;)