Ben Morgan had been unsurprised to discover that as well as a British Airways ticket to Dulles Airport in Washington – predictably enough in economy class – he was also handed an A4 size manilla envelope emblazoned with a red cross on both sides, his name typed on the front and the flap sealed with wax. He guessed from his previous experience that inside would be a briefing document, most probably with a Secret classification if the envelope was any indicator. He had to produce his passport and sign a classified document register before the unsmiling man in the dark suit, presumably a courier sent out from either Millbank or Vauxhall Cross, would hand it over.
A few seconds later Natasha Black, standing right beside him at the desk, was given an apparently identical envelope in her name and was also required to sign for its receipt.
The anonymous courier nodded at them both, turned and walked away. Morgan and Natasha exchanged glances, both clearly thinking exactly the same thing, and looked at the British Airways official who had witnessed the proceedings.
‘I think,’ Morgan said, ‘that we would be more comfortable in premium economy or business class if that’s available, so can you please arrange an upgrade for us? We’re on official government business and we’ll also need access to a private lounge or office where we can read the documents that we’ve just signed for.’
The BA man – tall, slim, fair-haired, meticulously shaven and immaculately dressed – looked at their two economy class tickets still sitting on the desk in front of him.
‘A business class ticket includes lounge access,’ he replied.
‘That’ll do nicely,’ Natasha said, effortlessly taking control of the conversation. ‘We’ll leave you to sort out the tickets for us and we’ll go to the lounge now. We’ve got a lot of work to do.’
The man from BA didn’t look entirely happy at this turn of events, but he probably realised he’d to some extent been backed into a corner.
‘You need a business class ticket to get into the lounge.’
‘No problem,’ Natasha said breezily. ‘In that case we’ll wait here while you sort them out, but be as quick as you can about it.’
Slightly to Morgan’s surprise, about ten minutes later they found themselves seats in a corner of one of the restricted-access lounges. While Natasha used a nail file with a two-inch ceramic blade – an obviously highly dangerous and potentially lethal weapon that would no doubt be confiscated by airport security before they were allowed anywhere near the aircraft – to open up her envelope and extract the contents, Morgan organised coffee and a couple of plates of pastries and biscuits from the counters in the lounge.
‘These should plug a small gap until we get fed on the aircraft,’ he said. ‘Neatly done back there,’ he added. ‘I was convinced we were going to get the bum’s rush and end up sitting in economy with our knees around our ears all the way across the Atlantic.’
Natasha nodded. ‘Sometimes turning on the charm does the trick, but usually I find that the steamroller approach works rather better. Just make it perfectly clear that whatever you want to happen is going to happen, and don’t take no for an answer. I was half expecting him to refuse the upgrade, in which case I would have demanded an immediate audience with the highest-ranking BA official in the building. I can be very persuasive.’
Morgan pointed at the open envelope on the leather couch beside her. ‘So what have our lords and masters given us to keep us awake all the way to the United States?’
‘As you probably guessed, it’s a briefing document and it’s classified Secret, which I frankly think is a bit of a stretch. I reckon it’s Confidential at best and it looks like most of the stuff in it is already in the public domain. I’ve not read it properly yet, but I’m quite good at speed-reading so I’ve got a good idea about the data. I’ve scanned the contents list and some of the material that looked interesting. The short version is that the Yanks have seen the same sort of attempted intrusions on the websites of some of their utility companies, but there’s very little hard information in the briefing notes about how the attacks were carried out or how successful they were. It’ll obviously be your part of the ship to analyse what happened and what needs to be done about it.’
‘What authority have we been given to let us do that? We can’t just stick our noses into stuff like that in a foreign country.’
‘I think,’ Natasha said, ‘that you’ve probably been seconded to either the CIA or the FBI – and my guess is to the Fibbies – as a specialist adviser. That’s all on the first page of the document. My extensive knowledge of all matters GCHQ-ish is for some reason much in demand at Fort Meade in Maryland, where I am apparently expected to report for duty no later than tomorrow afternoon.’
‘You’ll be at the National Security Agency?’ Morgan asked, sounding surprised. ‘But I thought with GCHQ—’
‘You thought right,’ Natasha interrupted. ‘Cheltenham and the wizards at No Such Agency can communicate seamlessly over the NSANet encrypted network, so whatever they want me to do at Fort Meade I could have done just as well sitting in my slightly pokey office at GCHQ. On the other hand, I’ve got something of a weakness for hamburgers and Coke and steaks the size of a bath mat, and it’s nice to get out of the office for a while, so I’m certainly not going to complain.’
While she’d been talking, Morgan had opened his own sealed envelope. He pulled out a red Secret file folder and opened it up.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘My reporting address is 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, right in the middle of Washington and just along the road from the White House, which means I’ll be getting into bed with the FBI. I’m glad I packed a suit and tie.’
Natasha shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. I’ve already checked on the Internet and these days FBI agents are supposed to wear clothing that matches their environment or the crime they’re investigating rather than standing out as obvious G-men in their eponymous black suits, white shirts and dark ties, like the original Men in Black. So if you’re there to look at white-collar crime you would still need the suit, but for cybercrime and counterterrorism they tend to dress the same way as the people they’re after. So as you’re probably looking for computer nerds that means torn jeans and a T-shirt with a vulgar message printed on it and pizza stains down the front. Which is more or less what you wear at home, and I know that because I’ve seen you there.’
‘And you?’ Morgan asked.
‘I’ll wear whatever I like, the same as I always do. If somebody doesn’t like it, that’s their problem not mine. Now shut up, read your briefing notes and then get me another cup of coffee and some more of these rather yumsy shortbreads.’