He thought that I was bending it a bit to interpret the word ‘authenticate’ as ‘terminate’.
LJ’s department was responsible only to the Partners, and they were responsible only to Sir Lucius Stagg, former Prime Minister, and the firm’s benefactor; you could see why he was being hesitant to go against their will.
Crossing swords with a member of the cabinet was not a wise thing to do even with their blessing, and this was a very powerful member of the cabinet and a client of the firm.
Finally, four cups of tea later, LJ leaned well back in his chair and said, “I’m convinced that you are quite wrong.” He was staring up at the ceiling.
“Convinced,” he said again.
Tats caught my eye. Zara was taking notes, “And therefore it is…” he paused, “of the utmost importance to continue with the assignment, to protect the Government and our client’s position.”
That’s what LJ said to the corner of the ceiling, and while he said it I raised an eyebrow at Zara, who responded with the faintest smile.
I got to my feet. “Please do not take advantage, Mr Dillon,” LJ said anxiously, “The Partners will only tolerate your maverick behaviour for a short while.” He swivelled round to his screen again and continued with the new network plan.
“You’ll overbalance one day,” I heard him mumbling to the computer screen as we left. I suppose he was bored with talking to the ceiling.
Chapter 22
After dropping Tats off at her place around 3.00 am, I decided to drive across town, and unofficially find out a little more about our friend Oliver Hawkworth.
Deep down on the lower fourth floor of the Government building the air is conditioned, filtered and purified from all outside pollutants. Two armed guards; body searched and scanned me for anything concealed. A passport-sized photograph was produced inside a laminated pouch with the words VISITOR printed on it. The double steel door slid back silently and on the far side was yet another security check waiting. I asked for Mr Vass and it was five minutes before he came to sign me in.
After shaking hands he led me through a maze of corridors eerily lit with blue coloured lamps, which eventually led to a large open plan room. The unusually high ceiling was a complex grid of piping hidden behind a suspended matrix of mesh panels. Every so often water sprinklers protruded through the panels; below the false ceiling, lined up in orderly rows, were computer terminals, each with someone observing intently the information on the screen in front of them. Everyone wore a headset clipped over one ear complete with microphone.
We were standing in the middle of the ‘Arena’, so named by those who worked at the secret establishment of the Central Archive and Intelligence Bureau, located underground near to the Houses of Parliament. Where information received from Commercial Espionage or Government departments is collected and deciphered by the men and women sitting at the computers.
I watched as a young woman spoke into her microphone. A moment later a supervisor went over and together they checked and compared how the un-coded version compared to the original that had been received.
He or she then explained why certain items of text had been left out and why others had been inserted. Once this had been completed the supervisor keyed an authorisation code into the terminal and the original coded message was deleted. A hard copy was then printed off at one of the many printers lined up along one wall. The room held an air of expectancy, as if something big was about to happen, but strangely, there was no feeling of hurry; in fact it was a very calm place.
Adrian Vass’s office was a glass-walled eyrie reached by a lift. From it, we could see the entire room. Columns of stainless steel were positioned here and there. A sobering reminder that we were deep underground.
“What, no Bournemouth rock?” asked Adrian. “Very funny, and it’s Brighton rock by the way, Bournemouth’s far to posh for sticks of rock. Word soon gets around doesn’t it?” I said.
“Yes, I’m afraid it does, but not much gets past us down here, you know.”
Adrian smiled expectantly. His moon-like face was much too large for his short slim body, and was made even larger by his receding hairline. He motioned me into a bright red chair. “You’ve put on weight, you old dog,” he said from the other side of his desk.
“This must be the first time you’ve been down to see us since Charlie McIntyre…” He didn’t finish the sentence. We had both liked Charlie.
Adrian looked at me for a minute without saying a word, and then said, “Somebody put a firecracker under Levenson-Jones’ Range Rover, I hear.”
“Yes, we have a pretty good idea who it was — just have to prove it,” I said.
“Well, you’d better watch your back. Whoever it was, is most definitely a nasty piece of work.”
I said, “It was Levenson-Jones they were after, not Charlie or me.”
“Famous last words. Personally, I’d wear a cast iron jockstrap for the time being if I were you.”
He reached inside his blazer and pulled out a small notebook with a cheap pen pushed through the spiral ring binder down the side.
“I’d like you to tell me something and then forget that this conversation ever took place.” In tacit agreement Adrian slid his pen back down the side of the notebook and placed it back in his pocket.
“What is it you want to know? Who’s fiddling their expenses in Whitehall or which Junior Minister is sleeping with hookers?”
“Perhaps I’ll save that for next time,” I said. “What I want to…” I paused.
“Here, come into my other office, it will make you feel much more relaxed.”
He pushed a button on his key-fob and a concealed door behind him slid back revealing another room, a little smaller than the one we had just come from. No listening device on earth could break through the specially formulated linings to this area. Known only as Fort Knox, it was the depository for all information received and sent by spooks and their agencies over the last fifty years. It took Adrian only a few seconds to locate the correct database and files relating to the information I wanted to see. I glanced through medical records. All information was included; height, weight, scars, birthmarks, blood group, reflexes as well as full dental records and any medical treatment received since the age of ten.
I opened up the main content of the file.
HAWKWORTH, Oliver S.R.
File renewaclass="underline" six months.
Birth: Born 1950. Caucasian — British National —
UK Passport — UN Passport.
Background: Cambridge/Sandhurst Military
Academy/Blues and Royals Regiment/Member of
Parliament. Married S. Hamilton/1 daughter — Elizabeth
— aged 18 years.
Property: London — Penthouse/Winchester —
Country House/Tuscany — Small Wine Growing Estate. Assets: Shares (disclosed) in various multi-national
Companies. Two bank accounts — one Italian and anther in
the UK. Also undisclosed deposit account in Switzerland. Personaclass="underline" Mistress (see file X9D100). Alcoholic —
has undergone rehab — five years ago (never made public)
— no relapse to date.
Interests: Boating — owner of power cruiser the ‘Gin
Fizz’. Shooting — pheasant/grouse — excellent marksman. No recorded homosexual activities.
Travels throughout Europe on behalf of the British
Government — Tuscany Villa/Italy.
He holidays with family four (4) times a year.
Chapter 23
Adrian walked across to the sheer wall of glass, thoughtfully looked down upon his minions before slowly turning back to me and answering my question.