“Ah, you’ve been expected, sir. Please wait here.” With a small smile, the porter vanished in search of Edward’s host.
Left with nothing better to do, Telford took to studying the black-and-white photos of SOE agents that lined the walls of the entrance hall. In pride of place a posed picture of a stunning young woman with dark hair and haunting eyes drew his attention. Beneath it, a discreet brass plaque gave little more than the beauty’s name, Violette Szabo, and then two simple letters, GC.
“I expect you know her story,” a soft-spoken voice just behind his shoulder mused, causing Telford to nearly jump.
After managing to settle himself, Telford turned and offered his hand to his old friend Andy Webb, a man who, despite his age, still had the ability to move with a feline subtleness. Telford concluded as he reflected ruefully upon his own receding hairline and spreading paunch that other than a few more lines at the corners of his eyes and a touch of gray around the temples, Webb had changed little over the last thirty years.
“I’ve heard some of the stories concerning her,” Telford admitted.
“She put our little adventures firmly in the shade,” Andy replied as he took a moment to glance at the photo with the sort of reverence a soldier affects when reflecting upon a comrade. After a moment of silence, Andy turned his full attention back to Telford, sporting a gentle smile that reminded him of some of the more entertaining instances of their shared past before he was gripped firmly by the arm and escorted into the bar.
Within a few minutes, the two men had settled in a quiet corner under the stern gaze of “Wild Bill” Donovan. Both took a moment to savor the large Bushmills in front of them before Andy decided to cut to the chase. “So whilst it’s always lovely to see you, Edward, what has led a senior Whitehall mandarin to seek me out in the middle of the day and honor me with his company?”
Telford toyed with his glass for a moment before posing his question. “I gather you’re now something of a specialist in dealing with cybercrimes and hackers.”
Andy stared for a moment before bursting out laughing. “Cyber? Do you mean that someone in Her Majesty’s government is actually becoming interested enough in finding out what it really means, rather than just trotting out the word cyber like some magic talisman with a budget attached?”
Telford failed to share Andy’s laughter. Instead, he paused uncomfortably, still staring into the depths of his glass. “My minister has a little problem we need some help with.” He paused, struggling to overcome the ingrained habits he had developed over the years to protect and serve politicians and senior government officials, often from their own miscalculations or stupidity. “It’s of a personal nature.”
The look on his old friend’s face abruptly stilled the mirth that had been bubbling in Andy Webb’s eyes. “Tell me about it.”
For the next ten minutes, Telford haltingly revealed everything he knew whilst Andy sat silent and still before him. When at last he came to a shuddering halt, he paused, gulped down the rest of the fiery liquid he had been cradling, and asked a question he was not sure he wanted to hear the answer to. “Is it feasible?”
Unsure, Andy asked a question of his own. “That he did it?”
“No! That he’s been set up.”
“God yeah!” Andy proclaimed louder than Telford cared for before launching into a description of the most likely attack vectors, stopping only when he noticed Telford’s eyes were glazing over. Pausing, he took a moment to recalibrate his pitch, switching to nontechnical phraseology he expected even a former Guards officer like Telford would be able to follow. Only after seeing his renewed efforts were still not gaining any traction, Andy sighed as he abandoned the effort and turned his attention instead to more practical matters. “If we’ve any hope of sorting this out, I’m going to need all his home computers, laptops, tablets, and personal phones. In fact, everything he touches that has a processor, every storage device, every login, and every password for every account.”
Telford frowned. “He’s not going to like that.”
Leaning forward, Andy locked eyes with Telford. “Got a better idea, mate?”
Telford’s shoulders drooped. “I’ll persuade him.”
“I also want a letter of authorization,” Andy added as his voice took on a more ominous tone while he was easing back in his seat.
“Why?”
“Protection. People tend to get a bit twitchy about ministers’ computers. There’s the Computer Misuse Act, RIPA, and a host of other bits of legislation that any god-fearing investigator can swiftly fall foul of, especially since the Leveson inquiry. I’ll send you a draft for him to sign.”
By now, Telford’s shoulders were slumped in utter defeat. Then a thought occurred to him. “I don’t want anyone else to know what you’re up to.”
“Sorry, mate. I’m going to need some help on this if you want it done right and you want it done fast,” Andy snapped even as he was holding his hand up to forestall the objection he saw forming on Telford’s lips. “You’ve no need to worry about Tommy. He’s cleared, and I trust him.”
Realizing he was in no position to object, Telford conceded the point before moving on to his next concern. “How fast can you complete your investigation?”
“Give me a week. Oh, yeah, and as to my fee, it’s eleven hundred a day and a future favor when I need it. Do we have a deal?”
Telford sighed as he nodded reluctantly, too battered to even try to bicker over the day rate. “Seeing as I’ve little choice but to say yes, the least you can do is treat me to another Bushmills, a large one this time, if you please.”
3
Edward Telford was not in the habit of visiting the offices of second-tier staffers. Whenever he had the need to discuss something with them, they trooped into his office like obedient schoolchildren summoned by the headmaster. So when, almost a week since his meeting with Andy Webb, he nonchalantly wandered into the cubbyhole Bryan Morton thought of as an office, the young director of communications knew he was about to be treated to a right royal bollocking.
After closing the door and settling into the only other chair in Morton’s office, Telford fixed the nervous young man with a stare that would ordinarily have caused him to fidget. He didn’t, however, for he knew why the minister’s chief advisor was there and was more than prepared to stand his ground.
“I’m not going to ask you why you chose to set up an interview for the minister with the BBC without first going through me,” Telford declared with a strained airiness.
Determined to defend his decision to talk the minister into launching a preemptive media strike, Morton drew himself up. “The minister happens to agree with me.” Wisely, the young man stopped short of adding, for a change.
“Sue Oliver’s story isn’t a story — not yet, at least,” Telford countered. “Even if her editors do decide to run with it, it won’t be on the front page. Oliver is a hack. She’s the kind of journalist who makes the paparazzi look good.”
“While that may be true, if we don’t get out there ahead of this before it’s a story, the opposition will hammer us once the Sun runs it. When that happens, we’ll be on defense, which these days, with 24-7 media and bloggers, is not where we want to be.”
“Respond is the operative word here,” Telford growled in the menacing tone he used to cow errant staffers. “We respond with the full story, one that not only provides the public with the facts but presents the minister as the victim of a vicious attack orchestrated by his political foes using a fraudulent Web account.”