Saturday, 13 March
14.00 hrs
Chelsea were at home to West Ham. Kick-off wasn’t for another hour, but I still had to park so far from the ground I might as well have walked all the way from Docklands. I still preferred it to taking the tube, especially the way I was feeling.
I passed the Vietnamese restaurant on the corner by Fulham Broadway where Jules came to be deprived of wheat and dairy practically every night. Fuck that. I went into the station and came out again with two big frothy coffees.
I walked the last couple of hundred metres up the Fulham Road and flashed Julian’s spare season ticket at the turnstiles. The concourse was buzzing with blue-shirted fans clutching plastic pint glasses of lager, and overseas visitors taking pictures of each other eating expensive hot-dog baguettes. I made my way through them to the Block A steps. The stadium gradually came into view as I climbed. It was huge and, apart from a few bored- looking stewards in fluorescent orange jackets, virtually empty.
Julian was in his usual seat in row twelve, studying the programme with the kind of concentration he’d normally save for a PhD thesis.
‘Oi, mate …’
He turned round, all smiles. I made my way along the row and handed him his coffee.
‘Nightmare parking, as usual. If you were a true friend you’d support a team closer to my home.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t use the tube.’
‘No way, mate. After a lifetime of being poor, it’s the 911 everywhere for me, including the corner shop. You posh lads think it’s good to cycle and take public transport, and I’m glad. There aren’t enough spaces as it is.’
Jules shook his head and smiled. It was the same banter every time, but he didn’t care. On the phone, he sounded like he’d shared a school desk with David Cameron. In the flesh, his closely cropped hair, clean shave, sharp suit and glowing ebony skin made him look like he should have been out there with Drogba on the pitch, not watching from the stands.
Posh lad or not, I enjoyed his company. I certainly wasn’t here for the football. The last time I’d gone to a game more than twice in the same year, I was a twelve-year-old bunking over the fences at Millwall. I didn’t really like it even then - I just went for a laugh, a pie and a can of Fanta. But it was no picnic at Millwall: it always ended with a brawl.
I fished in my pocket for the season ticket.
He shooed it away. ‘You’ll be needing it for next time.’
This was the third time this had happened. ‘How much do these things cost?’
‘Enough to make my eyes water.’
‘Another burden on the bleeding taxpayer.’
‘When was the last time you paid tax?’ Julian flashed his perfect white teeth. ‘Come to that, when was the first time?’
I gave him a 500-watt grin, even though I suddenly had a head full of pain. I palmed two Smarties and swallowed them with a gulp of Pret A Manger’s frothiest.
We both stared out over the pitch.
‘I’ve been giving that job a bit of thought.’
Julian glanced behind us. People had started to fill the nearby seats but there was nobody within earshot. His eyebrow arched towards his immaculately sculpted hairline. ‘What about Granny’s nest egg?’
‘She always wanted me to work for a living …’
Jules pulled out his BlackBerry and hit the secure speech icon before dialling. That was a good sign. His spare hand covered the mouthpiece like he thought I’d added lip-reading to my CV.
He closed down and put it back in his pocket. ‘OK, you’re on. But you’ll need to give me a lift in that penis extension of yours.’ Jules got to his feet. ‘We have an audience with the top man. He’ll meet us in three hours. The Blues will have to win without us.’
‘Not a chance. West Ham will kick the shit out of them. Three-nil, I reckon.’
5
GCHQ Cheltenham
17.23 hrs
I came off the M5 at junction eleven and followed the A40 east towards Cheltenham. Just before the town, I turned off at a roundabout. Jules switched the radio to medium wave to tune into Talksport.
They were waffling about football and, of course, I’d been way off the mark. Chelsea had won 4-1.
We pulled onto Hubble Road. GCHQ had been the most secretive of Britain’s three intelligence services since way back, and I always reckoned they chose this location on the edge of a spa town in rural Gloucestershire just to add to the mystique. While MI5 and MI6 gathered human intelligence, GCHQ’s main mission was soaking up the signals equivalent, via the interception of phone calls, faxes, emails or any other electronic means. They monitored the airwaves for any vital snippet that might stop a terrorist attack in the UK or help the military in Afghanistan. They were also tasked with protecting the government’s communications against attack by enemy code- breakers.
This was Boffin Central, where some of the world’s most powerful computers played tunes for people with brains the size of a planet. I smiled to myself as I remembered the TV commercial for Tefal. A group of white- coated boffins with extra large heads hovered over a new kettle or iron, making sure it was perfect for the likes of me. They must have filmed it right here.
The man we were going to meet was Julian’s new boss. The whole of the British intelligence community’s new boss, by the sound of it. Tresillian had been made uber-chief of all three services - MI5, MI6 and GCHQ - a position that had only just been created.
‘There’s a thread of continuity at last. If GCHQ picks up a whisper, he can give the order for SIS to take immediate action. None of the old red tape.’
‘Or the old checks and balances?’
I slowed. There was a barrier across the road ahead, manned by two guys in uniform. The first layer of security. Jules flashed his pass and we were waved through.
‘Seriously new broom. Actually - new broom, old handle. His family go back to before the Domesday Book.’
I nodded. The most powerful people the world over are the ones we’ll never hear about. Like those who are so rich they make sure they never feature on Forbes’ List or the Sunday Times Richest.
‘That’s nice for him. But is he any good?’
‘Shit-fucking-hot, if he says so himself.’
I was so surprised I took my eye off the road. I’d never heard him swear.
He directed me to the car park at the front of the huge steel building. Everyone called it the Doughnut. Viewed from above, that was exactly what it looked like.
I drew level with a black BMW 5 that was three up.
Julian nodded. ‘Tresillian’s already here.’
‘Hope he’s got the kettle on.’
The driver was still behind the wheel, in weekend clothes. The engine was running. He was watching a DVD on a windscreen-mounted player. The two in the back were in suits that looked just a little too small for them. They were waiting for their principal to finish his meeting with us so they could take him home.
The driver’s window came down and Jules said hello.
As I got out, I recognized a scene from The Transporter. I nodded. ‘Great movie.’
I got no reply. The window slid back up.
A sign by the main doors said cameras, mobile phones and recording equipment or similar electronic devices
