Bridge never saw Century House, SIS’ old headquarters. She was recruited after the service moved to the purpose-built premises at Vauxhall, a furiously modern building that acquired the nickname ‘Legoland’ even before it was completed. Some of the veteran officers and staff assured her she should be glad; despite the mythology surrounding it, Century House was a cold, damp, crumbling shambles of a building by the time they left. Still, she couldn’t help but think of it again as she entered Thames House with Giles, admiring the traditional classic London façade of the place. Five had moved in here the same year SIS moved to Vauxhall, but it was somehow fitting that SIS should move on, into a building of the future, while the home service came to a place that looked like it was constructed a thousand years ago.
Her expectations of leather-backed chairs and wood-panelled corridors, however, were quickly dashed after they passed lobby security. The second security check was more like an airport, the corridors began to lose their classical charm, and when they were finally escorted into the headquarters proper, Bridge thought they might as well have been visiting an accountancy firm in Docklands. Grey carpet, grey aluminium-legged desks, Aeron chairs, gridded strip lights, stale air conditioning, and the omnipresent hum of computers. The air was recycled, thin and stale. Aside from the colour scheme, it wasn’t so different to SIS’ place over the river, and Bridge felt an inexplicable disappointment.
Andrea Thomson’s office was a little bigger than Giles’, which Bridge guessed probably annoyed him endlessly, though it was just as tidy and organised. Andrea received them with a smile, dismissed their escorting officer, and closed the door behind them as they took seats at her desk. “I’ll get straight to it,” she said. “We got DNA from the startup offices.”
Giles, languid until now, perked up. “Nigel Marsh?”
“We assume so, although we’re going from old photographs.” A large screen was fixed to one wall, and after a few mouse clicks Andrea’s computer desktop appeared on it. She pulled up a file that had been scanned from an old analogue record. An old photograph of a young boy with a mop of tousled blond hair, against a tropical background. Underneath, a name: Bowman, Daniel Christopher.
“You think that’s him? Where did this record originate?”
“The Hong Kong archives, would you believe. Now look at this.” She opened another photograph, and Bridge recognised Marko Novak sitting at the bar of a pub. Novak was talking to a thin man about Bridge’s age, with a sandy beard. “This was taken at the Islington rendezvous, the one you decoded while you were in France. Pretty close, don’t you agree, Bridge?”
“Yeah, that could be him,” agreed Bridge, noting the resemblance between the boy and the man. “Why Hong Kong?”
“Because that’s where Daniel Bowman was born and raised. His father was a minor civil servant for the FCO, hence there’s a record of him, and his family. And unlike most of our people over there, they chose to stay on after the handover to the Chinese.”
“Where are they now?” Giles asked.
“That’s a very good question, and one we haven’t been able to answer. Post-handover there’s almost no record of them for a couple of years, and nothing at all after that. We’re hoping your lot might have more luck, because we’re pretty sure they’re not here in the UK.”
Bridge frowned. “Are you sure? We didn’t know Daniel Bowman was here until now.”
“True, but we have much more comprehensive domestic records on his parents, and they’d be in their late sixties by now. Bowman Senior retired from the civil service the day before the handover and became a hairdresser.”
Giles was taken aback. “Come again?”
“Well, his wife held the scissors. But he started and owned their hairdressing business in Hong Kong, which lasted a couple of years before folding. Like I said, after that we have nothing.”
Bridge looked from Giles to Andrea. “So they must have been spies, right? I mean, hairdressers? Really?”
Giles shook his head. “If they were, it wasn’t for us. I’ve never heard of the Bowmans, and I wouldn’t forget a cover story like that.”
“You should check your files anyway,” said Andrea. Giles opened his mouth to object to the obvious, but Andrea continued before he could speak. “But yes, you’re probably right. From the few records we could dig up, the Foreign Office assumed they were ‘Peking Ducks’, spying for the Chinese. But there was no evidence, it was all a very long time ago, and they’re probably dead anyway. Before this week, the last time anyone accessed their files was over a decade ago.”
Bridge groaned. “And there’s your false flag. If Marsh’s — sorry, Bowman’s — parents were spies for Beijing, it’s a safe bet he is too. He would have grown up surrounded by Maoist propaganda, completely indoctrinated and taught to hide it from an early age. A native English boy, loyal to the red state.”
“That would be quite an asset,” agreed Giles, “but it still doesn’t explain why he’s doing this, or on whose orders. Would Beijing really need us to think the Russians are behind this?”
“Maybe they’re just playing for time, hoping to misdirect us long enough for Bowman to complete his mission. Once it’s done, they won’t care if we know it was them, because the only evidence is Bowman himself.”
“And he’ll be completely deniable,” said Giles, rubbing his beard. Bridge wondered if Andrea would appreciate the scent of hazelnuts. “Then it’s down to Five to locate him before he acts, and fast. You’re focusing around the airfield, I assume?”
“Yes, although we’re not ruling out Bowman remaining in London and using an agent in Lincolnshire for the attack. Patel’s team at GCHQ is all over it, and trying to find this bloody radioactive material too. How’s your lad getting on in France?”
Giles stood and offered Andrea his hand. “Nothing yet. You’ll be the first to know.”
Andrea shook his hand and smiled sceptically. “Don’t fib to me, Giles. Second or third will do just fine.”
Bridge waited until they were escorted back through the layers of security and out of the building before asking, “Radioactive material? What’s Henri doing in France?”
Giles was confused, then gasped like a man remembering he’d left his car lights on. “Sorry, this all happened after you left Agenbeux. There’s the small matter of a suspected dirty bomb attack. The material was shipped out of Saint-Malo, and Mourad is trying to track down the men who transported it to find out where it was headed.”
“We could contact Voclaine, ask the DGSI to help.”
“Who? Oh, you mean Tolbert.”
Bridge laughed. “So that was his real name, after all?”
“Well, it’s the one they gave us. But no, I think we rather need to keep this on the QT for now. Besides, Mourad told Ems that he’s close.”