Mother is not at home; standing in the kitchen, looking at the set of heavy, clumsy, dark green cast iron saucepans of which she is so inordinately proud, fear clutches at my heart with icy fingers. Where is she? Where is my mother? I call Aunt Emily; she hasn't returned. I briefly consider using Five's resources to find her, but I know perfectly well that it would be a gross abuse both of my position, and taxpayers' money. I want to call the police, but it seems such an overreaction. On auto-pilot, I make myself a cup of tea, and sit down at the kitchen table to think things through logically.
My mother has chosen to leave treatment in order to attend this event, so it must mean a great deal to her. In my mind's eye, I visualise the heavy, gilt-edged card, with its elegant writing, and no hint of the sender. Next, I see Mother, wearing her preposterous fur coat, sweeping down the stairs, and I notice something new. She's smiling, and it hits me; whoever this man is, he's managed to do something I never have, for he makes her happy. Perhaps I should stop worrying so much, and let her have her secret; God knows, I have enough of my own. Mother will be seventy this year, her health is by no means certain, and although she might not have loved or respected my father as he deserved, his death left a great emptiness in her life, one I now know I will never be able to fill. If things take a serious turn, then I will insist on meeting him; but for now, perhaps the best course of action is to let sleeping dogs, or absent mothers, lie, as it were. I call Aunt Emily for a sense check, and surprisingly, she agrees.
"Your mother always did love to be the star of her own melodrama, dear. I've been thinking too; maybe you're right, and we should stop paying her so much attention. She's old enough and silly enough to do as she likes, and if she wants to run after this chap, what's the harm? If she turns up here, I'll let you know, and you do the same if she comes home there." I take a long breath, feeling calmer at my aunt's sensible advice, and decide to head in to Thames House as I had earlier told Ruth. I have some complex calculations running on one of C's mainframes, part of a test I am conducting, and I am keen to see the preliminary results; besides, I have left the Rover there, and I don't like being without my own transport. I call for a cab, and a few minutes later, I am on my way in.
C Department is where the serious scientific work is done, a place of deep thought and silent contemplation, a refreshing change after the frenetic and highly-charged pace of Section D. I spend most of my time developing and testing new ways of monitoring and linking the billions of pieces of information contained within the inter-webs of the UK financial system, trying to predict and prevent cyber-attacks in a vast 'sandpit' environment, an exact replica of the real world equivalent. It is challenging work, and yet I find it rather soothing to lose myself so completely in patterns of numbers and endless predictions and counter-predictions: they fill my head so completely that I often look around to find that I am sitting in an empty lab, long after everyone else has gone.
Today's results are not quite what I expect; I go back over my formula, looking at all the inputs, until I find the error and correct it, while wishing that all the world's problems could be solved so easily. My mobile phone vibrates with a text, from Ruth.
Is everything OK?
Yes, thanks, fine,I type back.
Are you sure?
Yes, and thank you for last night.
Which bit of it? The bit where I was being sick, or…
Or. Most definitely, or.
Ah. Right. See you tonight, then?
Most definitely!
And thus we seem to be back on an even keel once more. Perhaps the secret of successful relationships is to just let everyone have their secrets, rather than fretting and worrying about half-known things, and guessed-at truths. I turn this idea over as I work, but no matter how I come at it, or from which angle, I struggle to accept it. At heart, I am still too much my father's son; one of his favourite Bible verses had been, 'And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.' I simply cannot bring myself to abandon my most deeply held convictions, not even for Ruth; for the first time in my life, my beliefs and principles are in conflict with my desires, and it is an acutely uncomfortable sensation.
Blessedly, Mother resurfaces at Aunt Emily's the next morning, still in evening dress and wearing her fur, giddy as a schoolgirl and as obstinate as ever when I ask her where she has been. "I had an engagement, Malcolm, and I attended it. Where, or with whom, is none of your business," she tells me crisply, over the phone. Aunt Emily retrieves the receiver from her, and I say, "She's not exactly being forthcoming, is she?" "Don't worry, love. We'll have a nice cup of tea, and then we'll have a little chat, just us girls. I'd better go" – this as my mother's voice grows shrill in the background – "Do take care, love." I wish her luck, and she rings off. I had better get down to Bournemouth soon, I tell myself, looking over at the huddled form of Ruth, who had rolled over, pulling the duvet over her head, when I had sat up to answer the phone. Now, she is regarding me with one eye half-cracked, her hair rumpled on the pillow.
"Is everything all right?" she wants to know, and I lean over to plant a kiss on her forehead. "Yes, it is now." She smiles up at me, and whispers, "Come here…"as she winds her arms around my neck invitingly. "We can't, my love, not just now…" Ruth blinks, before responding tartly, "You mightn't be able to, but I can!" I know from previous experience that she isn't boasting, but still I feel compelled to say it. "We're going to be late." She glances at the bedside clock, and groans. "What if we…" Reluctantly, I sigh, "No, I'm sorry, but I have to be at work in an hour, and so do you." She lets her arms fall from around my neck. "Damn, I suppose you're right. You can have the first shower, if you like." Shrugging into my old wool dressing gown, I reply, "There are three bathrooms in this house, you know," and she smiles back, "Yes, but you can still have the first shower." I look at her, wondering why she is watching me impatiently, still curled up under the duvet, and then I understand: she wants a few minutes alone. Heat burns its way up into my face, and I hastily leave the bedroom. There are times, I remind myself, when it's best not to know; or as Goldsmith so pithily put it, Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no fibs…
Harry had been surprisingly accommodating when the secondment request to C had arrived from HR, stipulating only that I wait until Colin returned from his three days' leave in Barcelona. "It'll be good for you," he had told me as he signed off the HR request, "and you'll be good for them. Do try and help the boffins to understand things from an operational perspective, won't you?" He had scrawled his name across the temporary release form, and handed it to me with a flourish. "You'll be missed," he had added unctuously, "but I'm sure Colin will rise to the challenge." So am I, I had added silently, and so he has; on my return to Section D in April, everything is running like a well-oiled machine, on the technical side of things, at least.
Adam has recently returned from compassionate leave, and none too soon, for our American cousins in the CIA have been swamping the section with their endless, urgent requests for checks on active files, and profiles for new suspects. Everything is being pushed along by the escalation of US military activity in the Persian Gulf, and the news bulletins are full of speculation that war with Iran could break out at any moment. I know from Ruth that Section D is working eighteen-hour days, a Herculean effort that is still not enough. We barely have enough resources to meet our own security needs, let alone those of the entire United States; and tension has been rising between Juliet, as the central liaison point with the CIA, and Harry, fighting a lonely battle for British security priorities to come before those of our biggest ally. I don't envy him his task.
As I walk back onto the Grid, Jo sees me first; she jumps up from her desk and comes towards me quickly, her smile wide and warm. "Malcolm! You're back! Oh, it's so nice to see you" – this, as she hugs me warmly and steps back – "C Department must have done you good, you're looking great." I return her embrace, saying, "It's lovely to see you too, Jo, and thank you." She loops her arm through mine as I walk over to my workstation, which is already piled high with files, telling me how mad it's been on the Grid, the ridiculous amount of work she has been doing, and how she has finally decided to take Zaf up on his offer of a spare room, on a strictly professional basis, she is quick to assure me. "Good for you, Jo. I'm sure you'll find it easier than sharing with a civilian." Her slight blush alerts me to say no more on that head, as she bring me up to speed on the latest intel and situation reports. She explains that we have been triaging a constant onslaught of requests from the CIA, and I start to look through the files, many of them authorised for British eyes by Juliet herself… she has been a busy little bee, then, I note, wrinkling my nose in distaste; I distrust her, even though I know that Harry has a grudging respect for her as a former field officer, and, it has been rumoured, something more… I don't want to think about that, though, not when I haven't yet seen either Ruth or Harry, a fact I try to ignore, despite my growing sense of unease. I remind myself of my decision to try not to dwell on the unknown, but the problem here is not Ruth: it's Harry. When Jo gets up to make a cup of tea, I close my eyes briefly, replaying the last time I had seen him.
As he signed off on my secondment, Harry's eyes had roamed to the doorway of his office, where Ruth had just appeared to fetch him to a meeting, and I had been dismissed without a second glance. "Ruth, I'll be with you directly." Yes, won't you just, I had thought cynically at the time, exhausted and miserable; as I watched, he had hurried down the corridor after her, heedless of me, his face unguarded for once, his eyes glowing at the thought of spending a few moments alone with the object of his desires… No, I'm being silly, they're probably just in a meeting… Anxiously, I turn my thoughts into another channel, one that is just as worrying: Mother.
Stubbornly, she's insisted on staying in Bournemouth, although not at the San, for they had taken a dim view of her unscheduled departure, and she had been unhappy at their disapprobation. I had driven down as soon as I was able, to meet with the medical staff; they had explained that she refused to give an account of her actions for the twenty-four hours she had been absent, and that as far as they were concerned, further treatment would be of little help if the patient was wilfully insisting on maintaining her fantasy life. "It's our considered view, Mr Wynn-Jones, that while your mother certainly displays some very neurotic and narcissistic behaviours, she is also totally lucid and perfectly capable of controlling her impulses if she wishes. The fact is, she's here voluntarily, and there is only so much that cognitive behavioural therapy can do…" The psychiatrist's voice trailed off, leaving me to read between the lines. "Are you saying that if she had been sectioned that your approach to treating her would be different?" The man's grey eyes had held mine steadily. "Of course. But your mother doesn't need to be sectioned; what she needs, if I may be so blunt, is to grow up." I had sat back in the awkwardly-designed visitor's chair and dropped my shoulders in defeat at this discouraging diagnosis. "It would be wrong of us to insist she returns, when there are other patients with greater needs and more of a desire to get well; I'm sure you understand. I can refer you to a couple of private clinics in London, should you feel she's getting worse, but really, we've done all we can."
And so Mother had been discharged. She had promptly refused to come back to London, saying that she much preferred Bournemouth, now that Spring was here, and 'the season' would soon be underway, speaking as if she was a character in one of her beloved Regency romances. After a week at Aunt Emily's, she had taken herself back to Chalfield Manor, saying that she didn't want to be a burden, or so my aunt had informed me, before wryly adding that I could expect the hotel to start charging my card accordingly. Given this unexpected freedom, Ruth and I have fallen into a comfortable pattern of a few nights a week at her place, and the rest at mine; I could get used to it, although it's not how I envisaged how our relationship would be, this time a year ago. I had hoped for so much more…
"Malcolm?" Jo's voice breaks into my reverie, and I look up to see her handing me a mug of tea with a chocolate digestive balanced on the rim. "Ah, lovely. That's very kind, Jo." She smiles and says, "I think you're wanted…look, over there." I follow her line of sight: there's Colin emerging from the tech suite, arms waving excitedly as he crosses the Grid. We haven't seen each other at all recently, with my spare time being taken up so much with Ruth, and to a lesser extent, Mother, and I realise how much I have missed him. "Good to have you back!" he exclaims, and for a moment I think he is going to pull me into a hug, so excited does he seem to see me; he leans in close, instead, and says fervently, "Thank God you're here, things are about to kick off in a dozen different directions. Come on, and I'll show you."
As we head into the tech suite, Colin explains that he's been tasked with monitoring CIA comms channels, for they have taken to extraditing persons of interest from beneath our very noses, with or without a valid security assessment from Five; it's their way of showing us who's boss, and it's driving Harry mad. "I seriously thought he was going to have a conniption, last time. We're already working round the clock to keep up with their requests, and then they go and piss us off by snatching whoever they feel like without so much as a by-your-leave. And now this…" as he speaks, his fingers move quickly over the keyboard, bringing up audio of chatter from a group of CIA operatives talking about picking up a mutt from the pound. I frown at the unfamiliar reference, and Colin explains, rolling his eyes, "It's what they call the Isle of Dogs; they think they're so cute."
He punches a few more keys, and brings up a very recently lodged flight plan for a helicopter taking a route through central London to the almost-island in the East End. "But this is all still circumstantial…who's the target, do we know?" I ask, and Colin gives me an Oh, please look as he cues another recording. This one is an emergency call, with an anonymous male voice reporting the kidnap of a man from Conrad House, not far from the helicopter's destination. "That call came in five minutes ago, and I've just picked it up off the 999 servers. It's happening now, mate, I can feel it." I look at him, wondering what he's waiting for. "Harry…he's about ready to explode. He chucked his mug at the wall the last time I went in there to tell him the CIA was up to its dirty tricks again." His eyes beseech me, and I understand. I'm back, and I'm the senior officer. "I'll go, then, shall I?" I offer, and the sheer relief on his face tells me how difficult the last few weeks must have been.
As I march up the corridor towards the inner sanctum, I nearly collide with Ruth, coming the other way at a rate of knots. "Oh, hello. You're not thinking of going in there, are you? He's in an unspeakably foul mood, and throwing things around like a toddler with toothache." I explain my purpose in a few words, and her eyes widen. "I'd better go and see what Colin's got on them this time; Harry's going to want hard evidence." I nod, and straightening my tie, walk through the door of Harry's office. "There's another extradition, private chopper, Isle of Dogs," I tell him briskly, noticing the untidy spill of files on the floor before his desk, and he growls, "Oh, for God's sake!" Adam, standing opposite Harry's desk, raises an eyebrow, and Harry continues, "I've had enough of this. Take Zaf and get out there immediately." Adam turns on his heel, and strides off; Harry fixes bloodshot eyes on me and says, "You're back, then. What a time to rejoin our merry band." I look at him carefully, noting the shoulders hunched up around his ears, his blotchy colour, the almost-empty whisky decanter on the cabinet behind his desk; Harry is indeed under great strain. I have very rarely seen him like this, and in that moment I put all my personal feelings to one side, and become what he needs me to be: calm, steady, reliable Malcolm, his senior technical officer. I do it for the sake of the country, if for nothing else. "It's good to be here, Harry. How can I help?"
We barely manage to stop them this time; Harry plays his cards masterfully, beating back Alex Roscoe, the arrogant, aggressively pitbull-like CIA liaison. He and his colleagues are forced to hand over the suspect, one Lewis Khurvin, to Five, to conduct our own assessment. Twelve hours later, Harry decides that there is nothing extraordinary in the man's file, nothing that sets him apart from any of the other hundreds of disaffected radicals that live in Britain today. He gives orders to release Khurvin, but under standard static surveillance; if he steps out of line, he'll be brought back in. All standard protocols, nothing out of the ordinary, and yet the whole thing makes me very uneasy; surely we can't expect to go against the might of the UK's biggest ally without repercussions?
As it turns out, we can't. The day after Khurvin is released, he becomes Harry's worst nightmare: an active terrorist on the loose in London. He declares his intentions by cold-bloodedly murdering the two surveillance officers tasked with watching him, and it is only by sheer luck that Jo is not killed alongside them. Upon arriving back at Thames House from a routine pickup, she is distraught to hear that the men she had left not thirty minutes before are both dead, but even through her shock, she keeps working. Watching her, I realise how much she has changed in the short time that I have been away from the Grid; she is becoming tougher, growing her armour, accepting even the hardest realities of this life, but beneath it all, she's still Jo. For now.
Juliet comes barrelling through the pods, heading straight to the inner sanctum, slamming the solid-core sliding door shut behind her. Zaf and Jo lurk surreptitiously at the far end of the corridor, trying to make sense of the raised, but muffled, voices, but soon come back to the Grid, shrugging. "They're going at it like hammer and tongs, but who knows what they're saying. We'd need ears on to hear them," Zaf tells Colin, Ruth and I, and I shake my head. "Sorry, Zaf, but it's more than any of our jobs are worth to snoop on Harry's office." Shortly afterwards, I am appalled to see Harry being escorted off the Grid by two security guards, with Juliet following close behind like Lady Macbeth seeing off Duncan. I have seen officers being walked out before – anyone who has worked in the Service for any length of time has – but never someone of Harry's rank and experience, not like this. The air is thick with tension, and little murmurs of protest arise from the gathered team; but the expression on Ruth's face makes my blood run cold. She has turned as white as her blouse, her eyes are huge and grey, just as they had been when Danny died, and she stands stock-still, one hand at her throat, as he disappears through the pods. There is a distant expression in her eyes that makes my stomach flip with foreboding. Oh, no, not this again, not now...and we were doing so nicely…
Shocked and sickened, I turn and head for the server room, seeking a private space in which to think. I might harbour ambivalent feelings towards him from a personal perspective, but I don't for a minute believe that Harry has done anything to merit this outrageous treatment. Yes, he has made a poor judgment call regarding Khurvin, the tragic consequences of which he will have to live with for the rest of his life; but he has gotten it badly wrong before, without being marched out the door. It isn't hard to see that Juliet is behind it; she is ferociously ambitious, for one thing, and working with Harry must be galling for her, given their rumoured history. Automatically, I start running a system diagnostic on the nearest server stack, while mulling over what I know. I recollect that Juliet's previous posting had been to Washington D.C., and surmise that our cousins across the pond may have been skipping stones in her direction. I move on to the next stack, grateful for their near-silent, solid presence, and stop: there's a shift in the air, that peculiar, primitive feeling of being watched, and I turn around to see Ruth, very still and pale.
"They can't do this, can they? She can't just sack Harry!" she quavers; I go quickly through the stacks towards her, and gather her into my arms, holding her tight, trying to reassure her. "No; they have to hold a disciplinary hearing, but they can stand him down in the interim. I've worked with Harry for a good many years, my love, and seen him come out of tighter corners than this." Ruth, her face buried in my shirt-front, sniffs loudly, and I reluctantly release her to hunt through my pockets in search of a handkerchief. "Here," I say gently, and she seizes it gratefully, dabbing at her eyes and blowing her nose. "Sorry, I think it was just the shock of seeing him hustled off like a common criminal. The Wicked Witch wants to see us all in the tech suite," she tells me, "so I came to get you." Sighing, I drop a kiss on her forehead, and say, "Let's go," striving for a matter-of-fact tone, but beneath my surface calm, a little voice has begun to scream, damn, damn, damn it all to hell…
Juliet is abrasively unpleasant in the briefing, and Ruth sits next to me for reassurance as our would-be boss lays down the law. Neither Colin nor I say very much, but Jo, still shaken from the deaths of two of her fellow officers, is surprisingly quick to bring Harry's judgement into question; Zaf is even swifter to come to Harry's defence, and some heated words are exchanged, until Juliet's steely eye falls upon them. She glares round at us all pointedly, before making a speech not unworthy of Hamlet's uncle, effectively proclaiming her dominion over Section D. Ruth treats her with barely-concealed hatred, flinging a barbed remark about her ability to multi-task back in Juliet's face. Adam's eyebrows twitch upwards at Ruth's tone of voice, but he maintains his smooth professional mask while Jo gives a profile of Khurvin. She explains that he is of Irish/Iranian extraction, an almost perfect background for a homegrown terrorist; he is also a founder of Mushtar Islam, which Adam quickly translates as the "fist of Islam". Looking at me, Adam asks for increased security around high profile targets – Westminster, Scotland Yard and the embassies, and I make notes to increase surveillance and optimise CCTV camera placement; this is a huge task, one that will take all my experience to pull off successfully. Next, Juliet produces a photo of Khurvin at a Mushtar Islam training camp, taken last July and now conveniently supplied by one of her CIA cronies. It is an extremely clear image. "Oh dear, it doesn't look like a paintball outing, does it?" I comment, and nor does it: a group of grim, bearded men cradling AK-47s glare at us against a backdrop of bleak mountains. Ruth stares at it, before suggesting it could be part of a fake backstory, her innate suspicion of all things CIA coming to the fore; Adam orders the photo to be pulled to pieces to check its authenticity, and Colin and I know our work is cut out for us.
I hardly leave the Grid for three hours together in the next forty-eight, what with the demands of organising increased surveillance for so many targets, and the painstaking analysis of the CIA photo that I am engaged in, taking it apart pixel by pixel. None of us go home except for a modicum of sleep or to perform whatever tasks our personal lives demand. Ruth leaves to feed her cats; Adam checks in on Wes, and then they return. Jo and Zaf are busy in the field, and Juliet installs herself in Harry's office like a queen on her throne, and doesn't stir except to go to meetings at Whitehall, or in Grosvenor Square. Colin and I take it in turns to kip on the camp bed on the utility space while the other monitors surveillance feeds of targets all over Central London and keeps an ear out for CIA chatter.
When next we reconvene, Jo and Zaf have drawn a blank on finding the person who called 999 to report the kidnap, although we have confirmed that it was made from a cheap PAYG mobile. Even Ruth's Special Branch contact, the hapless Gordon Hopkins, has drawn a blank on Khurvin; and I dread having to tell Juliet what Colin and I have learnt from the photo, so I take a deep breath and plunge in as soon as we arrive at the briefing. "We've completed the preliminary analysis of the training camp photo. D'you want the bad news first? We cross-matched the topography of the mountain range in the background." The faces turned to us are blank; Colin adds, "It's near Farah, close to the Afghan-Iran border, a Mushtar Islam stronghold." Adam asks, "Do we know when it was taken?" Yes, and no, I think, before replying, "Ah, well, using the date on this newspaper, and the position of the sun, we have a time and a rough date of when the shot was taken…" Juliet snaps, "Which was?" and trying to keep my composure, I continue, "July the 28th of last year – give or take a week because we can't be sure that this newspaper was of that same day." Jo nods, "Well, that fits with the months that Khurvin was missing," and Adam adds, "If he was at the Farah camp then he was –" Juliet cuts across him rudely, "Extremely highly trained, and he was released." There is a tiny, glum pause, and then Adam says, "Good news," brightly. Oh, I was hoping you wouldn't ask… "Actually, it's just worse news. The photo's genuine. We looked at matching the resolutions of the shadows and the areas around the ears and the neck – these are the usual weaknesses when people are photoshopping – but there's nothing out of place." Adam asks, "So he was definitely there?" and I have no choice but to answer, "Either he was there, or this is an incredibly well-made fake." A sense of gloom settles over the gathering, and then Colin speaks into the dead air.
"Why don't we run his file through link analysis? I'm just saying…I mean I know it's a big file, but it's a radical new way of accessing and organising data, it's known as the Waterfall."
Juliet stares at him, before saying snidely, "Look, Kevin, I know exactly what it is…"
Ruth opens her mouth for the first time; unfortunately it is to say, "The problem is that throws up too many links. Khurvin knows we'll be chasing him, he'll be looking to strike quickly. We just haven't got time." Juliet looks at her, surprised, and then tells Colin, "In the absence of the forty-odd thousand analysts that they have at the NSA, I have to say that I agree with Ruth." Colin rejoins, "I agree, of course, you're right, only, you see, we've managed to tweak their software somewhat." I am surprised that Colin is making a stand, and against Juliet, too: what a time to decide to be brave. I notice the quiet determination in his eyes, and admire him for it.
Suspicious of any idea that isn't her own, Juliet asks, "Tweak it?" and Colin says," Yes. We've layered a weighting algorithm onto it so it doesn't just throw up a tonne of links for us to check out, it lists them according to importance, relevance, if you like. And, it's Colin." Inwardly, I cheer him on as Juliet tries a somewhat more conciliatory approach. "Oh. So, er, what are you waiting for, Colin?" He hears his cue to leave the briefing; there is nothing more for me to add, so I follow him as Ruth says, "So the Americans were right about Khurvin and we let him go…" Don't you mean, Harry let him go? I think, irked at her willingness to include us all in the blame, and then I am out of earshot. As I join him in the tech suite, I clap Colin on the shoulder, impressed at the way he has handled Juliet. "Well done, back there. Keep this up and they'll soon be offering you a promotion!" He gives me his lopsided grin as he keys data into the Waterfall. "About that..." he pauses as he checks the search parameters and then sets the program running, "There's a STO going in Section G, and Harry thinks I should put my hand up." My heart clenches as I contemplate Section D without Colin: after more than seven years working together, it seems unthinkable, even though I know he is capable of so much more. Despite the sudden tightness in my chest, I return his smile. "That's wonderful, Colin. Of course you must apply, and I'll be happy to give you an excellent reference. I'm sure Harry will, too."
Colin keeps his eyes on the monitors, where hundreds of links are now cascading down the screens, as he replies, "I already have; and I know you will." I exhale slowly, taking in this extra bit of news. Colin glances sideways, concerned. "Don't worry, mate, you know how long this stuff takes. I won't even hear if I've got an interview for months, probably." He's right; the Service is notorious for dragging out even its internal recruitment processes, but still, the idea that my best friend will one day move on from the Grid is a bittersweet one, even if it's also inevitable. Colin is far too brilliant to spend his entire career in a junior technical role; he should be running an IT division in a major enterprise, or heading up an Oxbridge research department. "Well, there's no-one more deserving; I'm delighted for you, and I'll do all I can to help." And then we turn our full attention to the tasks at hand. Colin will take the technical lead on this operation; he is more than ready for it, and the enhanced Waterfall algorithm is all his own work, besides. I have the photo to analyse, an entire city's worth of surveillance to plan, and Ruth to worry about; she has been withdrawn and largely silent since Juliet took the helm, but there is no time to talk to her about it, not with Khurvin on the loose and the most experienced counter-terrorism officer in Five out of action.
The Waterfall works; or rather, Colin's refinements work, and he pulls out some very interesting information that shows Khurvin has been making some unusual visits to an ATM in Paternoster Square in the City. When Colin cross-matches the ATM's CCTV records with Khurvin's travel pass use on the same days, he finds that Khurvin has been taking some very circuitous routes, and never the same one twice. It is an anomaly that Adam deems worthy of further investigation in situ, and somewhat to my surprise he decides to take Ruth with him. She joins him with alacrity, and I realise that she is eager to get away from the Grid and the Wicked Witch, as she refers to Juliet. Colin will oversee their visit to Paternoster Square on local CCTV, and the risk is low. A little field trip might do her good, I decide, watching them go through the pods, before I turn back to my desk and my myriad surveillance tasks.
My RSS feed is full of news about the US buildup in the Gulf, mostly beat-ups and propaganda, of course, but there is a sense that we have begun the march to war, and I can only hope that the powers that be will not have the appetite, or the stupidity, to go through with it. Sometimes, I think that the powers that be would benefit from a few minutes with my mother… And just because all the other countries want to invade, does that mean you should do it too? If all the other countries jumped off a bridge, would you do the same? I can practically hear her now, lecturing the UN as if they were a lot of naughty seven year olds. "What's so funny?" Colin's voice breaks in on my thoughts as he walks past, and I shake my head. "Nothing, I was just having an odd moment. Are you going to the tech suite?" He nods, and I get up and join him; I really ought to work on an array with more monitors and faster feeds, anyway. "Yeah, gotta babysit Adam and Ruth while they're checking out Paternoster Square…the last thing we need is for Khurvin to turn up there and set off a bomb, or whatever."
We settle into workstations opposite each other, and the companionable silence that exists between us is broken only by the rapid tapping of keys or the click of a mouse as we each become engrossed in the little worlds displayed on our screens. Juliet puts her head in shortly after we sit down, but seeing that it's only the geeks, decides to leave us alone for the time being. Colin has Adam and Ruth onscreen now, and is quietly acknowledging Adam's requests as they come through his earpiece. I can just see the top half of his face above his screens, and when he makes an odd sound, I instinctively glance across at him, to see confusion flicker across his features, before they settle back into his 'monitoring' look. I think I hear him mutter under his breath, "What's she smiling about?" and I ask mildly, "Is everything all right?" He nods, before breathing out hard, always a sign that he's not happy about something. "Adam had a call on a PAYG mobile, while they were in the Square. I'm trying to trace it now. And he's asked for the details of every office within a hundred metres of the Square, so that's not half going to keep me busy - there's loads!"
Looking back at my own system, I reply, "Well, I'm happy to help – how about you take the north-west side, and I take the south-east? We'll get through it quicker that way."
Colin agrees, and we spend an hour sorting through dozens of business registrations. "Did you know that Ruth got me to hack Waitrose the other day?" Colin asks, as we compile our lists; I stop what I'm doing to stare at him in amazement. "She did? Why?" He shrugs, "It's the closest supermarket to Harry's house, apparently." Well, that's not so strange, I reassure myself, she did the same with Sainsbury's when Adam was off on leave, and she was worried that he wasn't eating properly. Besides, Harry's idea of a square meal is a bloody steak and half a bottle of a decent single malt… Aloud, I ask, "What did she send this time?" Colin sits back, stretching his unfeasibly long arms overhead, before ticking off each item on his fingers. "Milk, bread, PG Tips, Alpen, but I doubt he'll eat it, a lot of ready meals, a pound of apples, a pot of Stilton, a box of cream crackers and two bottles of Bowmore. Oh, and some Cesar Classics, and a value pack of Andrex." Grinning, he adds, "I didn't know Harry had a dog!" Hesitantly, because I am still thinking through the implications of Ruth sending Harry liquor and lavatory paper, I return his smile. "Yes, a Jack Russell, I believe." Colin rolls his eyes. "I bet it's gruff and snappy, just like its master." I make a vague noise of agreement, just as a series of links with the same name comes up onscreen: Cardassia Financial Services, a new-ish debt recovery company. Ah, we might be onto something here… And indeed we are.
At the next briefing, Adam leads off with Cardassia Financial Services, which has proven to be the strongest link found in the multitude of businesses located in the vicinity of Paternoster Square. Colin's eyebrows had shot up at the name – "Someone's a closet Trekkie!" –and then, as we had begun to dig deeper, the company had begun to look more and more like something out of science fiction. Straight off the bat, Zaf wonders why Mushtar Islam, with all its wealthy sponsors, would leave one of its leading lights with a lot of bad debt, and Adam acknowledges that it is unusual. While Five likes unusual, we hate impenetrable, which is exactly what Cardassia Financial Services has proven to be; Colin explains it to Juliet. "They've got state of the art firewalls," he begins, and she interjects, "Well, which you'd hope for from a company which has personal and financial details of maybe thousands of people!" as he continues, "Yes, but you wouldn't really also expect them to have E-Bing." She stares at him. "Oh, well, you've lost me there." Patiently, Colin elucidates, "A computer which isn't linked to the outside world via a phone line presents certain problems for us to hack into. We tried using Transient Electronic Magnetic Pulse Emanation Surveillance Technology, TEMPEST, a technique which recognises the pattern of characters on the screen by the tiny amount of radiation they give off." Jo looks at him with interest.
"TEMPEST can read through walls?" she asks, and he gives her a shy smile as he replies, "It can read through pretty much anything." Juliet brings him back to the main point, "But it couldn't read Cardassia's computers?" "No," he admits, "because they have E-bing, which
disguises their screens with a cloud of electronic radiation, a bit like a plane firing out chaff to deter a missile. Ruth, seated on my left, adds, "Somewhat over the top for a debt recovery company," as Juliet asks who is Khurvin's bailiff at Cardassia; Adam answers her. "This man, Mr Nick Pollard. He's American, been in the country nine months; he came here to set up Cardassia. We're running background checks on him and GCHQ are monitoring his calls, but seems clean." Adam goes on to say that Pollard is now the focus of all our interest, and that he and Jo will break into Pollard's office to see what they can turn up; she smiles to herself at the prospect. Oh, Jo…she's changed so much, become more like the other fearless warriors in the room, loving the excitement of running on adrenaline in the field, but I fear for her, as I fear for them all…what will become of her if she stays at Five? Refocusing on the present, I make notes; I will need to prepare IDs for Adam and Jo, map out a route through the Cardassia office for them, and plan emergency exit strategies if things go pear-shaped. Juliet dismisses us soon after, and I head back to the tech suite to get started. I know that Adam doesn't intend to go in today, so I have time, but if I've learnt anything in this job, it's that the technical staff are frequently expected to deliver the impossible in the blink of an eye.
Later, I IM Ruth from the tech suite to see what her evening plans are; she doesn't reply, and an hour or so later, I go in search of her. Since Colin told me about the Waitrose order for Harry, I've been uneasy, even though she's done the same thing for Adam and would do it for any of her colleagues. There's something strangely… intimate… about her choice of items, though; they're not just the basics. A particular type of whisky, an incredibly strong blue cheese, a certain brand of pet food, as if she's been in his house, and seen what he buys for himself…just as I've managed to convince myself that I'm being ridiculous, I spot her across the Grid, talking to Adam, and the expression which passes across her face as the conversation comes to a close is most discomfiting. It reminds me of something that I can't quite recall at present; I feel unaccountably apprehensive as she turns and walks away. She doesn't notice me as I hover just inside the entrance to the tech suite, and it is not until Colin comes loping towards me that I realise I have been standing there for some time, pondering what I have just observed. "Everything all right?" he asks as he draws level, and I shrug uncertainly. "I suppose so…I'm just a bit tired."
He looks sharply over his spectacles at me. "What say we stretch our legs, grab a bite to eat over at the Cricketers', and breathe some air that isn't filtered and recirculated for once?" I glance at my watch: nine-twenty p.m. Why not, indeed? Just as I am about to reply, Juliet comes striding out of Harry's office. "Colin? With me, now," she barks, and he rolls his eyes apologetically as he turns to go. Juliet appears to have taken quite a shine to him, or as much of a shine as someone like her is capable of taking to anyone. I slink back into the tech suite before she calls for me too, and start working on the finishing touches for Adam and Jo's cleaners' ID passes. They must be perfect, if we're up against who I think we are. Many hours later, I turn in for the night, taking my turn to stay on the Grid while Colin, exhausted from the late-night Ministerial briefing with Juliet, goes home for a well-earned rest in his own bed. I know I need to be up early in the morning, ready for Adam and Jo, and in spite of my immense tiredness, I lie awake for a long time, trying to recapture the elusive memory that had been teasing me earlier, but nothing comes, and finally I fall into a fitful half-sleep, turning restlessly on the narrow camp bed.
Too soon, I am wakened by Adam's disgustingly cheerful greeting; it's five a.m. By the time I've performed my morning ablutions, Jo has arrived, bringing coffee and bacon sandwiches with her for the three of us, and I begin the operational briefing. They will have to get into the building, and then make their way towards Pollard's office, ensuring they stick to their route and don't trip any alarms on the way. I will be monitoring them from the tech suite, and Jo beams at me as I hand over their kit for the morning. "Tracey Mills," she reads on her pass, and checks Adam's, "Ooh, Terry Waters… very nice, Malcolm, very professional." I hand her the route map. "Yes, well, now I want you to be very professional. You need to memorise this, Jo, it's the only safe way in and out. Do take care, won't you?" She folds the map carefully. "Always. Besides, you'll be watching over me…what can possibly go wrong?" Oh, Jo, you don't want to know, I think but do not say; I'll let her enjoy the confidence of youth for a while longer.
The atmosphere in the tech suite is more than usually tense for an operation of this sort; Juliet's pacing is putting me on edge, and Ruth shoots evil looks at our erstwhile boss from behind her screens whenever her back is turned. Things go smoothly at first, with Adam and Jo easily gaining access to the Cardassia offices. Their arrival has been timed to coincide with Pollard's regular break, and Zaf has a team of officers on surveillance duty in Paternoster Square, ready to cover Pollard's every move; and then the American does something so unexpected, that Juliet is the first to react, her field officer's instincts coming to the fore. "He's had counter-surveillance training!" she announces, just as I pick up what she has seen. "You can tell by the way he ties his shoelace," I concur, as I rewind and zoom in on the footage; in fact, his shoelace isn't untied at all, and Juliet alerts Zaf. "He's on the lookout for a tail, don't let your people get too close."
Things start to go downhill from that point on; while Ruth keeps an eye on Zaf and Pollard, I take over monitoring Adam and Jo, who have gotten as far as Pollard's office before running into difficulties. The wretched man has changed the door code, and as Adam swipes his card for a second time, I am terrified that he will set off an alarm. An alarmed "Ahhh!" escapes me, even as my fingers fly across the keys, seeking the correct sequence. "Try that," I tell him, but to my utter mortification, with both Ruth and Juliet in the room, I can't get the door open. Fortunately, Adam is prepared, with the resourcefulness that seems to come so naturally to him. "Thank you, Malcolm, I think we'll take it from here," he says, and quickly dismantles the swipe terminal with a screwdriver. Under his breath, he says to Jo, "When the future lets you down…" as he works, and although I know he doesn't mean anything by it, I feel as if I have let them down badly, and it worries me; I can't afford mistakes in this job. Mistakes can cost lives…
It doesn't take Adam long to load the file rip program onto Pollard's PC once they're in the office, and all is well until the wretched man decides to head back early. I keep Adam updated, beginning to feel seriously worried as Pollard appears to be speeding up. Adam's nerve is legendary, and his determination even more so, but my heart is in my mouth when he slips into one lift car just as Pollard exits the other. Adam grins cheekily into the CCTV, and I exhale slowly as he and Jo leave the building; unconsciously, I have been holding my breath. I look across at Ruth, hoping to share my relief at our field officers' narrow escape, but her eyes are fixed on her monitor, and after a moment I turn back to my own screens, disappointed that her attention is so obviously elsewhere, it's almost as if I wasn't even in the room…
After spending last night on the Grid, I am looking forward to going home, but the work is relentless; just keeping track of hundreds of live feeds from all the embassies and other major targets around London is more than enough to keep both Colin and I fully occupied. Eventually, my eyelids start to feel as heavy as lead, and I fight to keep them open as I stare at dozens of thumbnail-sized live images. When Juliet high-handedly demands field officers from another section to cover the night shift, I send Ruth an IM.
Juliet's conscripts have finally arrived, and I'm about to leave; would you like a lift home?
There is a long pause, and then she replies: No thanks, I'm going to work a bit longer and take the last bus.
Are you sure? It's no trouble, and it is raining out, according to the Met.
I've still got masses of security checks to do for the cousins. The WW has been saying Yes to all their requests, as if she's got the whole of Five at her disposal. You should go though, and get a good night's sleep.
At the risk of sounding terribly old-fashioned, I don't think the bus is the safest mode of transport, at this time of night. There are some very odd people about.
You're sweet to worry, but I'll be fine. I like the bus.
Please, take care. You are so very dear to me.
Truly, I'll be OK! she replies, before signing off abruptly, leaving me to worry all the way home. Thoughts of her chase through my tired brain, and the windscreen wipers move in a dangerously hypnotic rhythm as I drive through the wet streets towards Hampstead.
I do not sleep well, despite my bone-deep weariness. Something is going on, I'm sure of it; something she doesn't want me to know...oh, Ruth...
As I arrive on the Grid early the next day, Colin bounces up to me like Tigger; he has evidently been waiting for me to arrive, as without a word he signals me to follow him to the tech storage cage. Once inside, he reaches up to the top shelf and lifts down the box that the Tessina normally reposes in; it is empty. I gaze at it in dismay, and then look at Colin. "That's the bad news," he says, practically rubbing his hands in glee; I raise an enquiring eyebrow, and he says, "Yes, the tracker in the shutter button works. I still don't know how she got in here, but we know where she went after…" Before he can say any more, Jo appears, summoning us to the morning briefing; as he passes me on his way out of the storage cage, Colin breathes the single word, "Claridge's", and my blood freezes in my veins: Claridge's …so it was her I'd seen in the foyer on Christmas Day. What the devil is she playing at, and why do I feel as if my world is about to come crashing down around me?
Once more, I visualise the shock on Ruth's face as Harry had been escorted out, followed by the extraordinary expression that had flitted across her features as she spoke to Adam yesterday; and then I see something else: the look on Harry's face as he had followed her down the corridor, the day he approved my secondment. Everything is connected to everything else…Shaking my head in a vain attempt to clear it of these insidious thoughts, I follow Colin and Jo as if I am in one of those dreadful dreams where one is stuck in slow motion while the rest of the world races past at twice its usual pace. With an immense effort, I refocus on the task at hand; stopping Lewis Khurvin before he can carry out whatever act of terror he has planned.
It is all I can do to get through the day, trapped in the tech suite with Juliet hovering like an angry hawk. Why can't the wretched woman just leave us to do our work for once, instead of supervising us like recalcitrant first-formers who won't do their prep? When Adam comes in, his presence is a welcome relief. "How are you getting on with Pollard's computer?" he asks, and Colin responds, "Not so good, there's one file we can't crack yet, the encryption is highly sophisticated. Unusual for a civilian." From her observation post just behind Colin's shoulder, Juliet says, "I have got GCHQ on it." Colin adds, "The rest of his files are just personal information needed for credit cards." His interest piqued, Adam enquires, "Including information on Khurvin?" and Colin nods, "Yes." Juliet, sounding for all the world as if she knows what she's talking about, tells Adam, "You can get a pretty good idea about somebody with all this information." Colin expands on her statement; the two of them have apparently found their balance point. "Spending habits, where and when he's been to certain places, plus credit card companies share data with different agencies, it's all here." Adam, thinking aloud, suggests, "This debt collection agency's a great way to recruit potential candidates."
Juliet snaps incredulously, "What, you think Pollard's CIA?" She's been too long in Washington, I think to myself, only too pleased to keep out of this discussion. Adam counters calmly, "Well, it would explain all this high-tech wizardry. You said yourself the guy was using counter-surveillance techniques." Indignantly, Juliet replies, "Why would the CIA recruit Khurvin and then ship him off to Guantanamo?" Adam gives her a very direct look. "Why don't you ask the CIA?" he shoots back, before heading out as abruptly as he had arrived, to my very great relief, for I hate the atmosphere between them; it is disruptive and unpleasant. I turn my attention back to the surveillance feeds on my screen, and try to concentrate again. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Juliet leave shortly after Adam, without a word to anyone. Sometimes I wonder who she thinks she's working for…
The breakthrough comes the next day, thanks to Colin's enhanced link analysis program, and Ruth, who uses it to establish that Khurvin can't have been in Farah when the photo was taken. She has discovered that he was prescribed painkillers last year for an infected tooth that had required several treatments over a three week period, which just happened to have occurred last July, ruling him out of being in Farah on a terrorist boot-camp. I am so embarrassed when I realise that the training camp photo is a fake, even if it is the best I've ever seen; after Kharkov's Faraday cage, and then the little difficulty the other day at the Cardassia office, I have begun to wonder if I am losing my touch… perhaps I would be better suited to the research-based work in C Department, away from the constant stress and adrenaline of the Grid. Perhaps I need a permanent change of pace; perhaps I should step aside, and let Colin take my place. He's earned it, with the way he's managed both Juliet and the technical aspects of this operation…and once it's over, I decide to spend some time thinking seriously about the future, and my place in it.
Section D's focus seems to sharpen now; if Khurvin is being played, we want to know by whom, and why. Judging by the quality of the faked photo and the complexity of the plot, my money's on the CIA. Adam spends a lot of time off the Grid, both figuratively and literally, and it wouldn't surprise me if he's been liaising with Harry, who has irritated Juliet immensely in absentia by giving his security detail the slip… I offer to run some scenarios of likely targets, utilising the skills I have honed during my time in C Department; this necessitates me working from my makeshift desk in the server room, in order to have direct access to the mainframe, and so I am not on duty in the tech suite when Khurvin finally makes his move.
Adam and Jo have been keeping tabs on Khurvin, now hiding at a cottage somewhere in the leafy suburbs of Surrey, and at about 4:50am in the morning Khurvin unexpectedly leaves his cottage hideout. Colin, in the tech suite, sends me a brief IM – The game's afoot – and I access the comms frequencies to provide assistance if needed. Shortly after Khurvin leaves the cottage, with Adam and Jo tailing him, I hear Zaf's voice, saying in response to Adam's surprised-sounding enquiry, 'I was bored, there's nobody at home to play with'. From the sound of it, Adam is driving without lights so as not to attract Khurvin's notice; I can hear Jo's tense instructions and can only imagine how frightening it must be, hurtling along in a darkened vehicle. I check the Met site; sunrise is due at 5:20 am, and with that thought comes an even more terrifying realisation. Heathrow's flight curfew will lift at around the same time, now that that the sun is rising earlier. Just as this thought forms, Colin's IM flashes up on the screen. GCHQ decrypted final file – K target is commercial jet LHR
Oh, dear God, no… horrified beyond words, I close my eyes for an instant, praying with every shred of faith in me, before opening them and remoting into Colin's array; he has hacked into Heathrow ATC, and even now I can see the early-morning traffic beginning to stack up, waiting for the curfew to lift. The very earliest arrivals into the UK's busiest airport are the long-hauls from Australia, New Zealand and Asia, with a phalanx of trans-Atlantic flights hard on their tails. Despite the desperate situation, part of me listens with professional pride as Colin keeps his cool, giving flight status updates, correctly identifying the radar flash of a STA missile powering up, intoning a precise timeframe to disaster, if Khurvin is not stopped: 53 seconds. I hold my breath, for there is nothing more I can do, even with all of Five's vast resources at my fingertips. And yet I am still my father's son…
50 seconds…
O God, the Father of heaven, have mercy upon us…
40 seconds…
That it may please thee to give to all nations unity, peace, and concord,
30 seconds…
That it may please thee to have mercy upon all men,
20 seconds…
Son of God, we beseech thee to hear us…
10 seconds…
Lord, have mercy upon us…
I close my eyes against the obscenity of it all, and then the miracle happens: a well-known voice rings out over the comms. "Khurvin! I wouldn't!" Zaf shouts, and then there's a flurry of voices, followed by the sharp report of automatic gunfire, before the roar of jet engines in full reverse thrust fills my headset: it is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard, and I gasp in relief. This op came far too close to catastrophe, as the stunned silence from the tech suite attests. It is not until all of the field team has checked in on comms, confirming that Khurvin is dead and they are not, that my heartbeat returns to something resembling a normal sinus rhythm, and I breathe my thanks.
O, Almighty God, we yield thee praise and thanksgiving for our deliverance from those great and apparent dangers wherewith we were encompassed. Amen.
Over a hasty lunch at Café Crud, Colin explains what he has pieced together from bits of intel and snatches of chatter; the whole thing was a CIA operation, designed to drag Britain into a US war with Iran, and Pollard was one of their deniable agents. "They knew that we weren't willing to commit, not after the last time in Iraq; so what better way to get us on board than by manufacturing a terrorist act so heinous, then attributing it to an Iranian terrorist, that the government would have no choice except to take up arms in response to public outrage, or be hounded out of office?" I set my dry-looking roast beef sandwich back, untouched, in its triangular plastic box, any remnant of appetite shrivelling in the face of such breathtakingly cynical manipulation from what is meant to be our country's best ally. "What sort of world is this, Colin? What sort of people would even be able to contemplate perpetrating such an atrocity against innocent civilians, and for such a purpose?" Colin takes a sip of his very sweet, very strong tea, and regards me thoughtfully. "Desperate and wicked ones, I suspect," he offers, after a long pause, but it is not enough. It is nowhere near enough to even begin to come close to trying to understand; and in any case, I don't think I want to. I would rather retain the vestiges of my faith in humanity, than gaze too long into that particular abyss, and have it gaze back into me. With a shudder, I change the subject.
"So, where's the Tessina now?" Colin blinks, nonplussed, before answering, "It's in the cage; she snuck it back in a couple of hours ago." "And?" He leans across the table towards me. "The tracker data indicates it left the cage at 22:30 last night. She caught the bus – her usual route number 59 – at 22:45 from Waterloo Bridge. Then things get really interesting; she doesn't complete the journey at Kennington Park Road, the closest stop to her house, but gets off at Lambeth North station and apparently catches a cab back to Claridge's, but I can't find any record of the pick-up…anyway, it looks like she was there until just after one a.m., when she takes another cab home." I look down at my hands, clenched tightly together in my lap, and feel nothing, and everything, at once. "Malcolm?" When I look up again, Colin's eyes are kind, but there is something else hidden there too: dread. He knows, I realise dully, he knows. But then, he's always known; I just chose not to listen. "What should I do?" I ask in a small, choked voice. He sighs. "I wish I knew, mate." So do I…
Much, much later, I stand at Ruth's desk, trying to persuade her to come home with me. We are the only two left; everyone else has gone, dog tired and ready to sleep the clock round. I want nothing more than to eat a good meal, enjoy the longest, hottest shower I can stand, and then fall asleep with Ruth tucked safely in my embrace, but it is not to be. She gently rebuffs me, pointing at the precarious piles of files stacked high around her. "These have been building up over the last week, and I want to sort through them, try and get ahead. You know how it is…the daily grind doesn't stop just because we're off saving the world." She smiles at me as she speaks, her eyes shining, although the skin beneath looks bruised with exhaustion. "Ruth, please. We haven't seen each other outside of this place for almost a week, and I…I need you, just to be there." She reaches out and lightly touches the back of my hand; the tiny, reddish-gold hairs rise, tantalised. "I know, but there's so much to do here… I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I wouldn't be able to relax knowing all this is hanging over my head." She speaks softly, but there is determination in her voice. I hesitate at my own workstation for as long as seems feasible, but when it becomes apparent that she is not going to change her mind, I bid her good night, feeling as if I no longer know who she is. Perhaps I never knew...
After I have traversed the pods alone, I look back; although she is working, there is something about the way she's sitting, a certain air of anticipation…and the lighting only serves to emphasise it. The whole place is in semi-darkness except for her workstation, which is a little island of brightness in the cool blue gloom of the Grid. And then I understand: she's keeping vigil for him, like a loyal spaniel patiently waiting at the door for its master's return.
This can't go on.
A/N: Apologies for the long wait on this update; there's a lot happening, both in RL and in this chapter! Malcolm's father's favourite Bible verse is John 8:32 (KJV), and the Oliver Goldsmith line comes from the play, She Stoops to Conquer. The quote about everything being connected to everything else is attributed to Lenin, and the reference to staring into the abyss is, of course, from Friedrich Nietzsche. Malcolm also refers to the (Anglican) Common Book of Prayer.