No.
No, it can't be. Of all the places they could have picked to hold the Addressing Africa summit, why did it have to be Havensworth House? I can't believe it…
Except that I can, only too well. I know exactly why it has been chosen, for it was thoroughly vetted before last year's Security Services ball, and given the highest level of clearance. Havensworth, where all my dearest hopes and dreams were dashed; Havensworth, and one of the most extraordinary nights of my life… Havensworth, and Ruth, in a gown that shimmered like the sea…and Ruth…and Ruth… "Malcolm?" Startled by the sharpness of Harry's tone, I look up to see him glaring at me. Oh, Lord. What vital piece of information have I just missed? Jo, bless her, mouths the word 'bugs' from across the conference table. "I take it you'll want blanket surveillance across the venue and grounds?" I venture, and I know I'm on the right track when Jo nods her head almost imperceptibly. Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, unless you've got some new-fangled way of keeping tabs on a hotelful of politicians?" he says sarcastically. At that I smile and sit up a bit straighter. "Actually, I do," I tell him, and pause as a low murmur of interest ripples around the briefing room. It doesn't happen very often, but every now and then I manage to surprise Harry; I wish Colin was here to share the moment, and a sudden surge of grief washes over me. I miss him so much…
Harry's eyebrows twitch upwards in involuntary surprise, before his professionally blank countenance drops back into place. "Come on, then," Adam urges, and all eyes turn to me. All eyes, that is, except Ruth's, which remain focused on the thick sheaf of papers she has been shuffling and reshuffling mechanically, ever since the meeting commenced. "Right, well, it's called Diaspora," I begin; Ms Meyers stiffens slightly, as I go on, "It's a programme that Six has been trialling for some time. It traces GPS and EM signals from mobile phones, their unique electronic signature, in layman's terms. It's like planting a virtual tracker on anyone with a mobile phone in the area of operations. I think it will be a useful adjunct to our other surveillance methods." Harry nods once, unwilling to delve any deeper into a discussion of technology that holds very little interest for him. "Fine, as long as we're getting everything on AV as well; we should be coming away from this thing with enough intel to keep us busy for months." Or enough dirt to give you the upper hand in any number of tricky situations, I add silently; Harry's as much a political beast, in his own way, as any elected representative in Whitehall, and ten times more dangerous. I nod assent, and we move on to other matters.
As the briefing concludes and people begin to leave the room, Ms Meyers stops me by the simple expedient of planting herself squarely in my way, her pale green eyes glittering like a cranky cat's. "I know Diaspora," she states flatly, "I've used it in the field, and it's nowhere near as ready as you've just made out." Shrugging, I reply calmly, "It's still in beta, granted, but I think you'll find it's come a long way since you were last operational at Six. When was that, anyway? Seven, eight months ago? Technology's evolving all the time, you know. It's wonderful, really." She glares at me, narrowing her eyes, heightening her resemblance to a fractious feline, before turning on her booted heel and striding off without another word. All that's missing is a long, sinuous tail whipping to and fro irritably to complete the impression. Our latest recruit really does despise me, a feeling which is very much mutual, and again I wonder just how much she knows about my mother and her father. She's been even more prickly than usual, lately. From my mother's morbid obsession with every scrap of news connected with the Jocelyn Meyers case, I am aware that he is due to be sentenced shortly; it's not hard to infer that one is the cause of the other, where the supremely unlikeable Ms Meyers is concerned. In my mind, she is inextricably linked with Colin's murder, and I have not one iota of pity for her, or her wretched father; indeed, I wish most heartily that I had never heard the name of Meyers. Harry, of course, loves her cold efficiency, her emotionless approach to spywork, and the fact that he has her on a leash of her own making: I suspect that he loves that part most of all.
I'm gathering up my papers, ready to leave, when my eye falls on Ruth, still sitting huddled at the far end of the table, poring over her notes. I hesitate: she has been behaving so oddly lately, leaving rooms precipitately if Harry enters them, avoiding eye contact with him, not working back late unless she has to, and generally spreading misery and gloom wherever she goes, that I really don't want to be drawn into whatever is going on. And yet, there is something in me that cannot bear to see her so unhappy; before I can help it, I hear myself say, "A penny for your thoughts?" She starts slightly as she looks up. "Oh, it's you." The disappointment and hostility in her tone is palpable, and I very nearly leave it at that, if it wasn't for the dark circles under her eyes and the haunted look in their grey depths. It's only out of professional courtesy, I tell myself, and persevere with a polite, "How are you, Ruth?" She stacks her files together and snaps, "I'm fine, thanks. Why does everyone keep asking me that?" Because you've been going about like a condemned soul, I think, but have the sense not to say. "I suppose they've noticed that you haven't been your usual self, lately." She clutches her papers against her chest. "Why can't people just mind their own business," she mutters, more to herself than to me, pushing her chair back aggressively; taking the hint, I stand back to let her pass.
One advantage of the government booking out Havensworth for an entire week is that I can bug it to my heart's content. It's the sort of job that Colin and I used to relish, a real chance to show what we could do, given unfettered access and enough time, but now I will have to do everything by myself. I'm dreading going back there; in my memory it has taken on a mythical resonance, like the elfin grot of La Belle Dame sans Merci, a place of midsummer magic… or madness. I spend the next two days making my preparations, going over blueprints of the location, checking that I have enough stock of listening devices and fibre-optic cabling, cross-referencing satellite trajectories, and uploading information into Diaspora, which is coming along very nicely and should prove to be a useful tool in keeping track of all the delegates, no matter which dark and cosy corners they might rendezvous in. And then, there is nothing left to do but load everything into the van and trundle out beyond the M25, and into the countryside. As I am contemplating all this in the relative safety of the car-pool under Thames House, while trying to pluck up the courage to start the engine, the passenger door opens, and with a swift movement, Jo swings up into the van. She is carrying a little brown cardboard tray containing two takeaway coffees, and with a bright smile, she hands me one, balancing the tray on the dash as she fastens her seatbelt. "Just what do you think you're doing?" I ask her in a mock-disapproving tone, even though secretly I'm very glad not to have to face Toad Hall – Havensworth, I remind myself– alone.
"I could do with some more practice installing surveillance kit, I haven't really done it since I finished training, and who better to learn from than the master himself," she grins, and I find myself smiling back at her as I ask, "Did you clear it with Adam?" Jo nods, "Yes, he's happy for me to work the surveillance side of this operation, that is, if you don't mind?" I look at her carefully as I consider my answer: if my instinct is correct, there seems to be a little bit of engineering going on. Adam must want to keep Jo out of the field for this operation, after her traumatic experience with Kallis, and Jo doesn't want me to have to do everything that Colin and I would have done, all on my own. There is very rarely anything in our line of work that could ever be called a random coincidence… Jo is still looking at me expectantly, and I realise I haven't yet given her a reply. Well, and why not? I could do with the company, and she will certainly get all the bug-laying practice she could want, with the entire hotel to cover…"I'd be delighted to have you along," I reply, and turn the ignition key. "Berkshire, here we come!" Jo announces happily, clutching her coffee, and so we set out.
Jo is as good as her word, working steadily alongside me as we move through the elegantly appointed rooms of Havensworth House, and she proves to have a knack for placing the tiny devices in hard-to-find places, as well as the more usual locations. "Don't be too clever," I tell her as I reattach a light switch cover in one of the guest bathrooms, "We have to make sure that our foreign counterparts find enough of them to feel that they've done their job properly, while leaving just enough for our purposes." Jo rolls her eyes. "It's all such a silly game, when you think about it, isn't it?" With long tweezers, she carefully places a device inside the shower rose, before screwing it back into place. "Be careful, Joanna, your cynicism is showing," I say in a mock-stern voice, "Silly it may seem, but we'll still gain a lot of useful intel over the next week, even if they find most of these, which they won't." She puts the lavatory cistern lid back in place, having secreted yet another bug underneath. "That's nine rooms down, and twenty-six to go. Come on, slow-coach…" She gathers up our kitbags as I give the surfaces we've touched a wipe-over with rubbing alcohol to eliminate any trace of powder from the surgical gloves we are wearing, and follow her into the next room, smiling at her youthful enthusiasm. Once, I had been just like her, so keen, so eager to please… I never had the advantage of Jo's sunny personality and easy way with people, though, and not for the first time I marvel that we should be friends.
Fourteen hours later, we are almost finished: all the guestrooms have been bugged, and we have done the hallways and corridors along the way. All that remains is the boardroom, where the negotiations will take place, and the ballroom, which is being used as a central gathering place. The boardroom doesn't take long to do, and then the moment I have been dreading since I learned that Havensworth was the location for this op arrives. "C'mon, Malcolm, last one!" Jo says cheerfully, and pushes open the great double doors to the ballroom. I walk after her on leaden feet as she strides into the room, where she pauses in the semi-darkness. I bring up the lights slowly, the fine old crystal chandeliers first glowing faintly, before sparkling, then filling the room with radiant light, dozens of prisms throwing tiny rainbows that are reflected in the tall mirrors lining the walls. Jo gasps in wonder, turning, as she takes in the beauty of the classically proportioned eighteenth-century grand ballroom. "What an amazing place!" she calls out, as I lug in our kit and set it down next to the scissor lift that Zaf had spotted on his earlier reconnaissance, and thoughtfully relocated from the ballroom storage space. "Malcolm, look!" Jo insists, but I am already looking, back through time, to another summer evening when I had walked into this room with Ruth on my arm, so proud and happy, my heart had been full to bursting. Oh, Ruth…was any of it ever real?
It is not until Jo's hand lightly touches my arm that I remember her presence. Blinking away treacherous moisture, I refocus on her worried face. "Are you OK? I thought you'd gone into some sort of fugue state!" she says: I must have been standing here for considerably longer than I thought. "I'm sorry, Jo, I'm just a bit tired, that's all. Shall we get on, then?" I indicate the scissor lift, which will allow us to run fibre optics from the chandeliers. "How are you at operating one of these?" Jo's answering smile is dazzling.
Addressing Africa Summit, Havensworth Hotel, Day 1
As the delegates begin to arrive, filling the hotel with their entourages, Jo and I are running our final checks. From satellite coverage to bugs in mini-bars, we have eyes and ears everywhere, and all systems are go. Switching to another monitor, I bring up Diaspora, smiling with satisfaction as I see dozens of little icons moving around the onscreen layout of Havensworth; it's working like a charm, as our test on Zaf, currently in the breakfast room, proves. For the next few days, the two of us will live in the tech suite, which will become the nerve centre of the entire operation. It's the only place with enough computing power to cope with it all, as I had patiently explained again, and again, until Harry finally deigned to agree that I should work from Thames House, rather than onsite.
Not everyone is getting their own way though: Ruth has suddenly appeared at the door of the tech suite, radiating annoyance. I catch her reflection in one of my monitors as she scowls at my back, before focusing her gaze somewhere over my shoulder. "Ruth. What can I do for you?" I ask in a carefully neutral voice, the same voice I use when speaking to her about operational matters. "Adam wants me at Havensworth," she informs us tersely, and I note that her eyes meet neither mine, nor Jo's, as she speaks. Ah, so that's it. She doesn't want to go back there either; and while I'm not quite so great a fool as to think that her memories of that night might have anything to do with it, I can understand that she doesn't want to be subject to constant surveillance while under the same roof as Harry. Well, no-one said this job was easy…
Leaning back in my chair to observe her more closely, I say curiously, "I thought you asked not to go?" Her face changes, taking on a hunted look, and she mumbles, "I did, but, erm, I was overruled." There's a strange expression in her eyes, a sort of latent hostility that I can't quite account for, until I realise that this is the first time we have spoken to each other properly since the unmitigated disaster which was my last attempt at making small talk. Ah, of course, she's waiting for an apology… mea culpa, naturally... Jo, picking up on the strained emotional atmosphere, slips silently out of the room, and I look back at my array, unwilling to take my eyes off my work any longer.
"I apologise if I was insensitive before. What goes on between you and Harry is none of my business," I say quietly, and she replies, equally evenly, "Nothing's going on," as she turns on her heel. That's a porky pie and a half, Colin would have said, but Colin is not here; there's just me, and the tech suite, and the biggest logistical op to get through since his death. A heavy silence hangs in the air after she has departed, the silence of things better left unsaid, and when Jo comes back a short while later, carrying takeaway coffees – her second for the morning, and my first – she wrinkles her nose as if catching a whiff of something unpleasant. "So, that just leaves us on the Grid, until the rest of the day shift gets in. Does that mean we're technically in charge of Section D, then?" she asks playfully, and I smile back at her, nodding at two little icons on the Diaspora screen. "Not if those two have anything to say about it," I observe dryly, watching as the Harry and Adam icons move along a corridor and turn into a corner suite which will be the base of operations for the field staff at Havensworth. Jo sits down at the array opposite mine. "What do you need me to do first?" I give her instructions, and we settle down to the work of watching all that goes on at Toad Hall, or Havensworth, or whatever the wretched place's name is.
I don't believe Ruth's last statement, even though I wish I could. Tongues have been waggling avidly around Thames House for weeks now, and while I do my best to avoid the gossip, it's impossible to be completely unaware of it in an organisation which lives and breathes secrets. One of the stranger, but more persistent, rumours is that Ruth – Ruth! – had thrown Harry over after only one date. Certainly, the atmosphere whenever they're in the same room has been strained of late, Harry has been more curt than usual, and he has stopped whistling... as for Ruth, she has withdrawn into herself, avoiding eye contact, giving monosyllabic answers wherever possible. I had attributed this to her horror of being talked about, her latent depression, or some other unknown reason, but if Ruth really has turned Harry down after years of mooning after him, then she's even more inscrutable than I could ever have imagined. Either that, or… but this thought goes unfinished, as Ruth herself comes into view on my monitor, head down, shoulders hunched as she hastens up the stairs, up the stairs that had once led to one of the most remarkable nights of my life, if not hers. I watch her go barrelling along the corridor towards the operations centre, where Diaspora indicates that Harry and Adam are waiting for her, before minimising the window and returning my attention to the other twenty-three live feeds on-screen.
A movement catches my eye, and I maximise the window for that feed to see Ms Meyers – or Ros, as she has repeatedly told me to call her, for the sake of keeping comms brief ("it's one syllable instead of three, Einstein") – step out from the negotiating hall where the delegates are now sequestered, onto the wisteria-covered terrace where Ruth and I had once danced to Cole Porter by moonlight. Leaning against the wall, she lights a cigarette, closing her eyes in appreciation as she drags carcinogenic smoke into her lungs. Switching to her comms frequency, I clear my throat in disapproval; the sound, I know, will be transmitted clearly into the tiny earwig she is wearing, as are all the members of the field team. She cracks open one eye slowly, looks straight into the little camera hidden high in the twisty branches of the wisteria, and raises her middle finger in a very unambiguous response to my unspoken censure. I look away for a second, and when I look back, she has been joined by a tall man wearing a broad-brimmed hat that obscures his face, with his coat collar turned up; I check Diaspora, wondering which of the delegates this could be, but there's nothing. Anxiously, I wonder whether to tell Adam, but Ros seems to know the stranger, for she half-smiles at him as he lights up, keeping his back to the camera. Not one word is spoken: they simply finish their cigarettes, and then go their separate ways.
Ms Meyers turns back into the hotel, and he walks around to the front drive, where a sleek black car is waiting to whisk him away. He never looks up, and from the way he moves I deduce that he has been trained in counter-surveillance. I zoom in on the car, but the windows are heavily tinted and the numberplates, as I find when I run them through the DVLA database, are from the largest hire-car firm in the country. Going further, I find that the hire car booking was made by the hotel concierge, a few days ago, but no guest name was given. There's no other way round it; I'll have to ask her. "Ms Mey…Ros. I'm sorry, but who was that? He's not on Diaspora." Silence. "Ros? I really do have to ask." More silence, then, in hostile tones, "It's none of your business." I sigh inwardly. "I'm afraid it is my business, if a field officer is meeting with unidentified personnel on an operation." She says silkily, "If you needed to know, I'd tell you. Ah, Mr Ambassador, I'm Deborah Soames, the summit organiser. Are you finding everything all right?" According to Diaspora, she is speaking with the Zimbabwean representative, who immediately launches into a litany of complaints about everything from the English weather to the fact that the mini-bar in his room is out of Scotch, while Ms Meyers makes placating, if disinterested, sounds. Somewhere in the background, loud laughter erupts from the negotiating hall: the great and the good are making merry at the British taxpayer's expense, and never mind the starving millions in Africa. The tiny cameras set into the miniature flags on the negotiating table are recording their every word and expression, following the sound of voices from around the table; Ros also has access to these from the concierge desk to monitor progress.
Only an hour into negotiations, a recess is called as the American Trade Secretary, Styles, cites illness and leaves the room, trotting back to their wing of the hotel purposefully, with Zaf shadowing him at a discreet distance. As the CIA has removed all our bugs, we are going to have to be resourceful: fortunately, Zaf is exactly that, and drills into their main suite from the room above, dropping a small microphone into the ceiling cavity to get sound, if not visuals. It's no good though, for there's a loud sports match – ice hockey, Jo tells me – blaring on the plasma screen in the background, and when President Sekoa of West Monrassa, one of the key players in getting the summit off the ground at all, arrives in Styles' suite, we're unable to hear what is being said. My headset crackles: Ros and Ruth are speaking to me simultaneously, demanding that I come up with a way to see what's on Traynor Styles' laptop. It's times like this that I miss Colin the most, for no-one else appreciates the skill and technical expertise that goes into improvisation of this sort. I tell them that I'll see what I can do, and Ros drops out of the call, leaving Ruth rambling on about Kansas City in flames, or so I think, until I hear the word 'spyware' and tune back in. "I see. Good. I'll do my best," I assure her, and ring off, already beginning to think about how best to achieve this particular goal.
Ruth rings back, sounding miffed. "Yes? Pardon, Adam said you need what? By when? Right, leave it with us." Looking across at Jo, I explain what Adam wants: her eyes widen momentarily, and then she starts making calls. An hour later, just before lunch is served, a mini-bus full of school children pulls up and the youngsters rush inside, cheering the French foreign minister excitedly as he wanders into a media conference, directed there by Zaf on the pretext of taking a private phone call. "Now, get out of that, mon vieux," I tell the bewildered looking Becker as the children swarm around him; one has actually launched himself into the politicians' arms, to the man's immense confusion. "Well done, Jo, but how on earth?..." She beams back, "I've got a friend who works with a children's charity, so it wasn't hard to find a local primary school with a high enrolment of the demographic Adam asked for, and …"she gestures at her screens, "voilà!" Smiling at Jo's triumph, I drag the Diaspora display onto my central screen, just in time to spot that the icons for the Japanese and American delegates appear to be meeting. This is interesting… let's see what two of our biggest allies are up to when they think no-one's looking. "Adam, Traynor Styles is meeting the Japanese minister of finance." Our section chief muses, "Why would they be having a bilateral?" and I reply, "I doubt very much it's about Africa." We still can't hear what's being said in the room, with the blasted hockey turned up high in the background, so Adam instructs me to cut power to the entire corridor, which quickly drives them from cover and out into the grounds; my fingers fly across the keyboard, typing long strings of code as I tap into the UK military satellite network, and locate the nearest one. We now have visuals, and thanks to Zaf, crouching in the carpark with his trusty directional microphone, we soon have sound. And what a sound it is: nothing less than the US ordering Japan to throw the summit, in return for a bargain basement price on much-needed American mineral resources. "Touchdown," I murmur, pleased, as the audio signal comes in loud and clear. There's no time to rest on my laurels, though: I have coding to do, spyware to create, and an archive of ice hockey games to peruse. It's times like this that I miss Colin the most, for no-one else appreciates the skill and technical expertise that goes into improvisation of this sort.
Late evening, Day 1
I'm checking the live surveillance feeds again: some, like the one from the French foreign minister's suite, or those for the American contingent, show only snowy static, which means the cameras have been disabled; others show roomfuls of drunk officials carousing with very beautiful, if scantily dressed, women; some show empty spaces, others show African leaders in every variety of traditional ceremonial garb, meeting together, talking in a dozen different languages. An odd movement catches my eye, and instinctively I follow it: in the long summer dusk, under trees at the far side of the grounds, two very distinguished representatives of their respective governments are engaged in what appear to be the preliminaries to sexual congress. Shuddering, I wonder what their wives would think, even as I hastily minimise that window, and turn my attention to the party starting in the Italian trade minister's quarters. Harry's room is empty; he is in the ops suite with Adam, according to Diaspora. As for Ruth, she is sitting alone, hunched over her laptop in the hotel's lounge bar, where Zaf is posing as a waiter and no doubt chatting up all his female co-workers. Just as this thought strikes me, I spot him in the service corridor, locked in a passionate embrace with one of the aforementioned co-workers. I tsk into his earwig, hoping to remind him that he is on duty, but his only response is to shuffle his partner into a dark alcove, his lips never leaving hers. On the other side of the tech suite, Jo snorts, whether in amusement or disgust I can't tell, and standing up, she arches backward, her hands pressing the small of her back, easing the kinks caused by hours of sitting still for too long.
"Coffee?" she asks, and I nod, even though it will be my third for the day: onscreen, the fun and games continue all over Toad Hall. Havensworth, I correct myself. In the drawing room, Ruth stands up abruptly, hugging her laptop to her chest. Harry, who has just walked in, reaches out, apparently to stop her from leaving, but she brushes past him and bolts for the stairs. He watches her go, his face unreadable, before crossing to the bar, where Zaf, back on duty now, pours him a double whisky; he drains it in a single swallow, before pushing it straight back for a refill.
Upstairs, Ruth has reached her room; she hesitates in the doorway for a moment, looking across the hall at Harry's room, four doors down, before flinching away as a bevy of scantily dressed beauties goes teetering past, heading for the party in the Italian suite at the end of the corridor. Working girls, I surmise, unless they're field agents from one or more of the nations at the summit; with today's fashions, sometimes it can be hard to tell.
Jo comes back, carrying not only coffee, but two fragrantly steaming parcels of fish and chips, the pungent scent of malt vinegar making my mouth water, reminding me that I haven't eaten since breakfast. "You know the rules, no food in the tech suite," I remind her, and she shrugs, drops into a chair, and rolls backwards out into the corridor, where she tears the wrapping off her supper and tucks in with gusto. My stomach rumbles in protest, but I'll just have to wait my turn to eat; I can't leave the tech suite unattended.
Onscreen, Havensworth is rapidly beginning to resemble one of the wilder parties at Nero's Domus Aurea; sighing, I sip my coffee and ponder the seemingly endless capacity of politicians the world over for mendacious and self-serving behaviour on the taxpayer's coin.
Wild shrieks of laughter and bursts of incomprehensible pop music issue forth from the Italian suite as yet another troupe of leggy girls arrives in little more than their lingerie, to loud wolf-whistles and applause. The noise is enough to bring first Harry, then Ruth, out of their rooms; they exchange a sentence or two, before she turns, eyes downcast, and retreats back into her room, and he goes back to his, face set. A line from Shakespeare's Measure for Measure pops unbidden into my head. "Oh, Ruth. 'Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.'" Yes, and I'm a fine one to talk, I add silently, thinking of Doctor Chapman. Embarrassed at having witnessed such a private moment, I switch focus and check on the Russians, who are roaring drunk on vodka and improvising new, and extremely lewd, lyrics to old revolutionary songs while entertaining their own skimpily-clad contingent of femmes fatale. Blushing, I switch again: almost anything is better than dwelling on the fleeting wistfulness on her face as she had closed the door, or the rare look of concern on his as she had stared at his feet and mumbled her replies with the air of a prisoner resigned to her fate.
On the third floor, the CIA has electronically blacked out the Americans' rooms completely; they could be getting up to anything in there, and probably are. This is shaping up to be a very challenging operation, all things considered; and then, there are the things that we haven't considered, the things that we won't know about until they're happening under our noses, the things that could go from minor matter to major incident in an instant, with the world press on hand, avidly reporting every last detail. These are the spectres that keep Adam working until midnight, and the light in Harry's room burning into the wee hours; these are the phantoms that haunt what little sleep Jo manages to snatch on a camp bed in a corner of the Grid, as I watch on through the night.