‘Don’t worry, we picked it up for you.’
Dixon finally took a sip of his champagne, accepting that he wouldn’t be getting behind the wheel of his car any time soon. ‘Did you at least put food out for the cat?’
‘Of course we did. We’re not savages.’
‘How long until we go?’
Murphy finished his champagne and snatched two more glasses from a passing waiter. ‘Tomorrow night. In the meantime, there’s another reception in the morning it’d be good for you to show your face at, and a couple of senators it’d be worth meeting.’
That definitely sounded like a waste of Dixon’s time. If they weren’t flying until the next night he could still get a few more hours of work done and meet Murphy at the airport.
‘Has the president suddenly stopped caring about what the Russians are up to?’ he asked.
‘Have you made any progress at all in the last week?’ Murphy countered.
‘No,’ Dixon conceded.
‘Then calm down,’ Murphy said, taking another swig of champagne. ‘What difference is a couple of days going to make?’
CHAPTER 45
The final stretch up Parliament Hill was White’s least favourite part of his Sunday-morning stroll with Stella. Even the Irish setter had started to tire of it in her advancing years. But it was the quickest way back to Hampstead and home after their walk around the heath.
White had hoped to avoid this Sunday’s walk. With the OECD conference starting the next morning and almost every delegate already in the city, all hands were needed on deck at Leconfield House over the weekend. Except, apparently, White and his staff.
On Friday afternoon, word came down from the fifth floor that with Pipistrelle bugs now in place across the city, monitored by GCHQ and maintained by a rotating team of Watchers, there was no reason for the research and development department to lose out on their weekend along with the rest of MI5.
It had been Manning’s first decree once he returned to Leconfield House after being made permanent director general, and White didn’t like the message it sent. When Peterson came down to the basement to pass on the news he exploded at him, arguing that what Manning was suggesting was tantamount to dereliction of duty. This was not the time for anyone to be taking it easy.
‘This is exactly when we need Atlas running Pipistrelle,’ White said. ‘We can’t sit around waiting for GCHQ to tell us what they think we should know.’
Peterson didn’t disagree with him, but he made it clear that while it might be unwise to be absent from Leconfield House at such a crucial time, it would be even less wise to turn down Manning’s gift. ‘And,’ he’d said, ‘if something comes up, we know where to find you.’
White had spent the whole of Friday evening and Saturday quietly seething while entertaining his wife’s relatives, who were up from the country for the weekend – another task he’d hoped to avoid.
The early morning on the heath had cleared his head, but the hike up Parliament Hill was starting to inspire a fresh sense of irritation. It was solidified when he reached the top of the hill and found Knox sitting on the bench he always rested on to catch his breath.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ White asked.
To add insult to injury, Stella happily wandered over to Knox and curled up at his feet.
‘You’re a creature of habit, Malcolm,’ Knox replied. ‘Same as the rest of us.’
‘It’s too early for amateur psychology,’ White said, giving in to his legs’ need for a break and sitting down next to Knox. ‘What do you want?’
Knox looked out over the city. He could see east past St Paul’s and west towards Battersea Power Station. All the way between, new buildings were changing the city’s skyline, and cranes glinted as they turned in the sun. And in the middle of it all was Kemp House. Knox was sure he could see the top of the tower, smudged black, even from several miles away.
‘How are things in Leconfield House?’ he asked.
‘I wouldn’t know,’ White replied, making no effort to hide the resentment in his voice.
‘Well, let me tell you what’s been going on in the outside world,’ Knox said.
Knox had decided in Schiphol that Peterson had been right about one thing at least. He should have gone to White days ago. He was the only person Knox could talk to without risking exposing Pipistrelle’s secrets because he already knew them all. There was always the chance that it was actually White who was behind everything, working with the Russians and using Manning, Peterson, and the two dead Italians as cover, but it was an extremely slim one. Knox was sure White believed in the Service, and he hoped that belief would outweigh whatever he might currently think of Knox and his own loyalty.
He relayed the events of the last seventy-two hours, starting with his visit to Dr Kaspar, then his discovery of Bianchi and Moretti’s hidden research, and ending with the kidnapping of Valera in Stockholm, apparently by British forces.
When Knox had finished, he waited for White’s response. And after a moment, White gave it.
‘Nonsense,’ White said.
‘Excuse me?’ Knox asked.
‘Total poppycock.’
‘It happened,’ Knox assured him. ‘I’ve got the bruises.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you have,’ White said, tempting Stella over to his side of the bench with a treat. ‘But I’m also sure it’s entirely within your capabilities to make all these things happen to you without it being part of some grand conspiracy. Where’s the proof?’
Knox reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the bundle of papers.
‘I don’t know if they found a way to reverse-engineer Pipistrelle, or just managed to replicate your genius by sheer chance,’ he said. ‘But these calculations aren’t nonsense.’
White flicked through the papers. His face fell as he scanned the calculations.
‘And these,’ Knox continued, handing over the passports, ‘are professional jobs. Only a few outfits that can create such convincing fakes. And we’re one of them.’
White tested the passports, running his fingers along the covers and pages, checking the subtle security features most people had no idea were there. He had to admit Knox was right – they were near-perfect forgeries.
‘I know you don’t want to think about it,’ Knox said. ‘But what if this means Pipistrelle’s already been blown?’
‘It hasn’t,’ White replied. It was a knee-jerk, protective reaction.
‘But what if it has? What if the Russians already have their own bugs in every embassy and hotel in the city? If they’re as good as Pipistrelle we’d never find them.’
White hated scaremongering, and he had no interest in getting caught up in Knox’s endless conspiracies about traitors and moles. But he couldn’t ignore the passports he was still holding, or the Italians’ equations that looked disturbingly close to his own.
‘If they’re really that good,’ White admitted, ‘we wouldn’t even know they were there.’
‘Until operations are compromised or assets are blown, and MI5 is landed with the blame.’ Knox hoped playing on White’s pride in the Service was the last push he needed.
‘So,’ White said, finally, ‘what do we do?’
‘Whatever we can,’ Knox replied.
CHAPTER 46
The CIA archives under the US embassy were as quiet as ever, just a few other clerks on the weekend shift struggling with the amount of filing the run-up to the OECD conference had generated. None of them were surprised to see another of their ranks walking around the record stacks, and none of them paid Bennett enough attention to realise she wasn’t there to file papers away but to hunt for them.