Queen Elizabeth II’s foremost computer expert bit deep into his knuckle. It was nerve-racking enough hacking the email accounts of his bosses, but already it was 11.05 a.m., with no sign of them. That meant Waits was late. And Charlie Waits was never late.
De Clerk readjusted his earpiece, nudging up the volume. Nothing but the hiss of recorded silence. Perhaps he hadn’t mimicked his boss’s voice well enough in the emails. Or – worse – someone else had booked B19 between his early-morning slot and Charlie’s session. For all his brains de Clerk knew then that he was a fool. If Jake and Jenny fled he had no evidence of his own. They would do him for breaching the Official Secrets Act and prison was a certainty. De Clerk shoved the backpack further under his desk; the feel of the toolbox inside it did nothing to calm him. His pulse was soaring and his shirt clung to the shoulder blades with the sweat. An unsent email from Waits to the head archivist filled his screen. Serial number, date, belt3 – and a gap for the codeword. Chickening out was still an option. Just.
Keep calm, Edwin, keep calm.
A door opened in his ear and he scrabbled to readjust the volume. He heard chairs being moved, the rustle of coats. And finally: a voice.
*
Charlie Waits blew the steam off his tea. “So, how the devil are we?”
“How the devil are we?” Parr repeated. “Rather stressed, I’d say. And you?”
A few strands of hair had fallen over her eyes and she tossed them away, fixing him with the stare of an iguana.
“I’m enjoying myself,” said Waits. “This is what it’s all about, remember? This is the sharp end, the buzz. Once everything’s done and dusted I’m going to take a trip with the wife, leave the kids with the in-laws. The Amalfi Coast perhaps. Been too long.”
“Lovely. But if we could move on from your holiday plans for just a moment …”
“But of course,” said Waits.
He held up his hand and turned on his mobile, the three chimes of the start-up process loud in the soundproofed room. At once the Nace began beeping and a red light twinkled at them, like a Vulcan eye, monitoring proceedings.
“Bloody thing reminds me of 2001 A Space Odyssey,” said Waits. “Let’s hope it’s not reading our lips, eh?”
He turned off his phone, which emitted a ‘plonk’ as it powered down; the Nace ceased its racket and the agents relaxed.
“Well then,” said Waits. “Goodbye Elvis. Hello – what? Go on my dear, you choose.”
*
Yes! De Clerk slapped his knee, mimicking, though he didn’t know it, the characteristic response of Adolf Hitler to news of a triumph. He tugged out his earpiece and drilled the word into the keyboard like a woodpecker. Then he paused, cursor hovering over the ‘send’ button. Once this email was gone there really was no way back. He closed his eyes and sent the bastard.
A response came within the minute. Elvis was not in Gosport. Elvis was in the building. De Clerk half-walked, half-ran through Vauxhall Cross – an observer would have guessed at an upset stomach. A lift whisked him to the third floor below ground level and he stepped into a corridor. Signs warned that it was a restricted area, ordering him to display identification at all times. At the end of the corridor was another lift, this one guarded by security guards with MP5 machine pistols; they carried ID passes, but their uniforms bore no insignia. Beside them a young woman with horn-rimmed glasses and a Shoreditch-type haircut sat at a computer. She would be a graduate and smart, but not brainy enough for the fast track. De Clerk showed her his identity card and authorization code.
“Thank you very much, Mr de Clerk. And if you’d like to look into the camera?”
Click!
The machine studied de Clerk’s bone structure and retina and it liked what it saw. The blast-proof elevator doors rolled open, beckoning him down to MI6’s archive.
He was almost in.
The lift took an age to descend. It was made of foot-thick steel panels – the most powerful IED yet encountered by the British Army could have gone off inside and it would have contained the blast like popcorn in a saucepan. With each floor the level of restrictedness increased. De Clerk was going right to the bottom.
Keep calm, Edwin, keep calm.
The elevator stopped. The doors opened. And de Clerk stepped into what resembled an aircraft hangar, divided into corridors by steel cabinets. Stepladders set on rails could be slid along each row; his mind swam to think what secrets this room must hold.
“Mr de Clerk?” A ginger-haired archivist with handlebar eyebrows looked up from his classic car magazine and beckoned him forward, a twinkle in his eyes. “Look into the camera please. I’ll need your identification, and you’ll have to sign here, here and here.”
Seven floors up Parr suggested a new codeword.
The archivist began perusing the labels, walking to the far end of the corridor. “No, wait, that can’t be right.” His eyebrows twitched. “We must have gone right past it. Back the way we came then.”
De Clerk wanted to scream and drag him down the aisle.
“Ah,” said the archivist, coming to a halt. He unlocked a cabinet, sliding out the drawer to reveal a large metal box. When he opened the lid there was the hiss of escaping gas, and de Clerk caught the whiff of decaying paper. Two dozen files were stacked inside.
“Dum de dum,” the archivist hummed as his fingers skipped through the paperwork. “Dum de dum de dum.”
De Clerk realized he was opening and closing his fists. He forced himself to be still. This was taking too long.
Eighty feet above them the two spies reached agreement.
“Here we are,” said the archivist. “You’ll find the inspection table at the end of the corridor.”
Four pages were in his hands. Brittle; yellowed; sporting an array of ‘top secret’ stamps. De Clerk reached out to take them …