The first thing that struck any visitor to the office was the wall behind the desk. The framed certificates were a visual journey through a truly exceptional career: distinguished service medals and commendations from ten years at MI5.
The chair behind the desk was empty, and Waterman could hear the sound of a phone call being conducted from behind the sliding patio screens.
Waterman walked through the doors into a small garden enclosed by high walls.
A tall, urbane-looking man in his fifties sat on a bench holding a mobile phone. He did not look up when Waterman entered.
‘Not yet … no …’
Without waiting for an invitation, Waterman handed him a briefing note.
The man took the paper and looked at it absently as he talked.
‘No, the government won’t,’ he continued into the phone.
He lifted the page as he read it, then looked up at Waterman, who nodded once, emphatically. The man’s voice remained an aristocratic drawl as he spoke into the phone.
‘I’m going to have to call you back.’
Sir Charles Salt, operational head of GCHQ, regarded Waterman for a long moment.
‘Has anyone claimed responsibility?’ asked Salt.
‘No,’ replied Waterman. ‘Other than the warning on the website, there’s been no direct communication.’
‘Let’s talk as we walk,’ said Salt, standing purposefully and walking through the patio doors and out through the front door.
They walked down the main corridor that ran the length of the circumference of the building affectionately known as the Doughnut. The inside wall was floor-to-ceiling glass, through which Waterman could see sunshine bathing the inner courtyard. He was underground so much these days, the sight of the sun had a powerful effect on him, buoying him despite the circumstances.
‘Spokes?’ asked Salt.
Waterman shook his head. ‘He took half of F Squad with him. They’re all missing, presumed dead.’
Salt shook his head several times mutely. His step faltered, and he found himself looking through the window into the courtyard. Outwardly, his composure was unchanged, but Waterman could tell he was deep in thought. Salt pulled a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed one, placing it between his lips.
‘I haven’t lapsed, if that’s what you are thinking. Just like the taste,’ he said, by way of explanation.
Salt began to resume his walk along the corridor before stopping abruptly and turning back to Waterman, his piercing blue eyes holding him in their gaze.
‘You know what’s happening here?’ he asked, as if the thought had just occurred to him.
Waterman shook his head. It was not for want of potential answers. But he knew his boss better than anyone else and learned long ago not to try to read his mind.
‘Someone’s declared war on British military intelligence,’ said Salt, his voice incredulous.
He turned back without waiting for anything more from Waterman and led them through the circuitous route to the private lift that took them to the Agency.
‘Spokes’ theory was this was a Code Blue,’ said Waterman when they arrived at the lift. ‘Whoever did this had knowledge of Ultra’s location, a cloaking device and dirty bombs. There’s only a few state actors who could pull off something like this.’
‘And all of them are meant to be our allies,’ said Salt.
They stepped into the lift. There were three floors below them: computer systems, housing and an underground access road wide enough to accommodate large trucks. Their destination was even further below the access road, a floor only accessible by Salt and members of the Agency.
Waterman pulled a handheld device from his jacket.
‘We do have a visual image. Five seconds of satellite footage that we managed to clean up.’
Waterman held the video player up so Salt could see it clearly. On screen, a black-and-white image of a vehicle ploughed through the army base’s fence. Amidst flashes from explosions, the picture contrast shifted, and a lone figure dressed in black became distinct. It emerged from the vehicle and for a few seconds could be seen moving rapidly, an extended arm taking aim and firing even as it darted and rolled.
The lift trembled slightly, and a second later the doors glided open.
‘Can we magnify it enough to make an identification?’ asked Salt as he walked along the corridor under a brilliant azure-blue ceiling.
‘Whoever it was wore a mask,’ said Waterman. ‘But I think I have someone who could help.’
Salt stopped in front of the doors of the Arena.
‘One of ours?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Waterman. ‘An old college friend. The best profiler I know. If anyone can tell us about this attacker, it’s him.’
‘Is he reliable?’ asked Salt.
Waterman smiled ruefully. ‘Reliability isn’t the problem.’
‘Then what is?’
Waterman scratched his beard.
‘He hates my guts.’