A Dying Breed, page 32
‘It’s more than a risk, it’s the probable outcome.’ The Ambassador stared at the top of William’s head. ‘I don’t think you should give up on the usual channels. Not yet. I know this is a horrific, horrific thing, but in many ways it is still just a negotiating position. If we can open up a channel of communication with this group, then we can bargain.’
Carver looked up from his glass. ‘Bargain with what? I thought the British government refused to pay ransoms. And anyway, they aren’t asking for one.’
‘There are other ways to bargain. If all this is about losing a contract, well, there are other contracts. Money need not be handed over. As such.’
‘Ambassador,’ William cut in, ‘you told me before that you had some involvement in the Aftel bid.’
‘A small involvement, yes, that’s right.’
‘Why? Why is the British Ambassador involved in something like that? I can see that losing a telecoms contract to a group of Afghan businessmen would be a threat to our vanity, but to our security? I don’t get that. I can’t understand why Aftel matters so much.’
Lever sighed. ‘It’s about commerce, Mr Carver. Commercial diplomacy.’ He pinched at his forehead. ‘You must have noticed. All the talk of UK plc? It’s always been a part of what the Foreign Office does, but now it seems like it’s almost all we do. Diplomatic missions like ours are judged in commercial terms. A good ambassador is an ambassador who can facilitate business, help land big contracts.’ He took a gulp of his drink. ‘Point delegations from the Confederation of British Industry in the right direction. Although quite a few of them just want to be pointed in the direction of the nearest, cleanest brothel. Dreadful.’ The Ambassador winced.
‘So don’t do it.’
Lever gave a hollow laugh. ‘It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. If you want to stay in post, you get on board.’
‘And you are that desperate to stay in post, in this post?’
The Ambassador looked away from his guest and into the fire. ‘Afghanistan is a good posting for me, Mr Carver. For various reasons, reasons you might have guessed at. I cannot leave. I will not.’ He pointed towards the coffee table, the sandwiches and William’s empty plate. ‘Please have something. Mrs Ansari will be upset if we don’t at least try them.’ Carver obliged. Roasted lamb, salted butter, fresh mint. ‘Also, and I hope you won’t consider this special pleading, but the Aftel bid had, has, a lot of good things going for it. If they win, it’ll mean good, secure jobs, properly paid. For men and women alike. That sort of opportunity is a rare prize for people here.’
‘I understand.’
‘Religious freedom, too. Part of the bid is a promise to build a Christian chapel as well as a mosque—to encourage dialogue.’
William nodded. ‘Now I see your influence, Ambassador. Don’t you think this country has enough religion already?’
‘No. Not enough religion, just too much of the wrong sort. Too much fundamentalism. Fundamentalism and ignorance, on both sides. We don’t need less religion, we just need the right sort – tolerant and kind.’ Carver was shaking his head. ‘I know we will probably disagree on this, Mr Carver, but I’ve become convinced that you can’t tackle extremism and fundamentalism with some bleak, soulless secularism.’
‘No, better you fight it with a lie.’
There was a moment’s silence. The sound of wood settling in the fire. Eventually Lever spoke. ‘I don’t believe that God is a lie. And I’m pretty sure you don’t believe that, either. Even if He was and you decide to take Him away from people, what do you offer in His place? Doubt?’
‘No, not doubt, truth. The sooner we diagnose religious belief as a neurosis, label it, treat it and get shot of it, the better things will be.’
Lever considered this position, then cleared his throat and spoke. ‘Can I ask you a personal question, Mr Carver?’
William nodded.
‘Can I ask again how you came to lose your faith?’
Carver shifted his weight back into the armchair. The ice in his drink had melted and he finished the now watery whisky with a grimace. ‘I’ll tell you where I lost my faith, Ambassador, then you’ll probably be able to guess why. It took me a long, long time, but I think I finally gave up believing, once and for all, in Rwanda. During half a dozen visits there, and in the months afterwards. Some of the things I saw in Rwanda were the opposite of miracles. Healthy children disabled and made lame. Women raped and blinded. Farming communities chased off their land and left to starve.’ William’s eyes were shining now. ‘And here’s a funny thing, Ambassador – this might amuse you – the last proper theological discussion I had, until I met you, was with a thoughtful, intelligent Anglican bishop, back in Rwanda. I enjoyed our talks. It wasn’t until later I found out he’d watched six hundred and fifty of his own flock being burnt to death, locked inside his church. The key to the padlock was in his pocket as he watched.’
Lever looked away. ‘I understand.’
‘Do you? Are you sure? In the last few years I’ve been to lots of places where God should’ve been, Ambassador. Places where he was desperately, urgently needed. But I never saw hide nor fucking hair of him.’ William realised he’d spat these last words. When he looked up he saw Mrs Ansari standing in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry.’
The woman waved the apology away. ‘Do not be sorry.’
‘In the end I decided to stop believing. Better no God than a callous, uncaring one.’
The Ambassador stood. He walked to the drinks table and refilled his glass. ‘I understand, you’ve been let down by your interventionist God. But have you considered looking at it another way? Couldn’t He be working through others? Through good men and women? The likes of Bonhöffer? Romero? Martin Luther King? There are countless, countless examples.’
Carver smiled. ‘I see. Is that what you’re doing here, Ambassador? Intervening in Afghanistan, doing God’s good work because God isn’t around?’ Lever blushed red and put his glass down a little clumsily on the table in front of him. ‘No, no. I would never, ever presume.’
William believed him. Whatever else the man in front of him might be, he was sincere. ‘I know, I’m sorry. Again.’ He checked his watch. ‘I should go, Ambassador. It’s late. I promise to call you, soon as I hear anything from Patrick’s kidnappers.’
Lever looked a little shame-faced. ‘I appreciate that. But I think it’s only right to tell you, our people are already monitoring your mobile phone – all calls and messages, in and out.’
William nodded. He wasn’t surprised and he felt too tired to feign outrage.
Lever pressed on, trying to stay positive. ‘Let’s wait for them to get in touch and then try and stall them, maybe we can negotiate. Whatever their next move is, I would rather find a way forward that doesn’t put you in harm’s way.’
William managed a smile. ‘Okay.’
‘What will you do between now and then, until the kidnappers get in touch?’
Carver sighed. ‘Only thing I can do; keep working, keep plugging away at the story. Try to find the missing pieces of the jigsaw.’
‘Will you do me a favour, Mr Carver? Have one more, quick drink before you go … Please.’ Lever poured a splash of whisky into both their glasses. ‘I have a toast.’
‘A toast? Okay.’
‘To our dreadful bloody jobs. I’ve enjoyed our conversations, Mr Carver, I really have. I think if it weren’t for our respective jobs we might have got along very well. Don’t you think?’
There was a dull clunk as their glasses came together and William looked at Lever. ‘Hacks and diplomats can’t be friends, is that it?’
‘I fear not. Maybe in the future, but we are dying breeds, the two of us. It’s my job to be loyal, loyal even to wrong-headed policies and ambitious politicians. It’s your job to ask awkward questions, uncover uncomfortable truths. That’s where things get tricky for us.’
A Land Rover carrying Richard Roydon and a second man waited on the street outside the Embassy with its lights and engine off until half an hour after Carver’s cab had gone. Eventually Roydon spoke. ‘All right, then, guv’nor, are you ready to go in?’
The man in the passenger seat responded with a brief nod. He climbed out of the car silently. He was slim, a good six inches shorter than Roydon, and wore a pinstriped suit. The pair approached the guards, who stared at the suited man and the black briefcase he carried. Something about him set the Gurkhas on edge. But there was no question of searching a guest brought in by Roydon.
Lever was dozing by the dying fire. The sharp knock on the door woke him with a start and he heard Mrs Ansari’s voice, then footsteps in the hall.
‘It’s Mr Roydon again, Ambassador,’ she announced quietly, ‘and another gentleman. They are waiting in the hall.’
Lever looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Almost midnight. He felt a prickle of sweat on the back of his neck. ‘Will you show them in?’
Lever’s housekeeper hesitated. ‘Are you sure?’ she half-whispered conspiratorially. ‘I can say you are asleep. It is late.’
‘No. Thank you.’ He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘I had better see them.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Mrs Ansari quickly cleared the empty glasses from the coffee table and straightened the cushions on the armchairs.
Roydon’s companion was wearing the wrong clothes for the climate, Lever thought. The wrong clothes for the country. Something about the man’s dress and demeanour suggested that he’d only recently arrived and did not intend to stay long.
Roydon spoke first. ‘Good evening, Ambassador. This is Mr Jones. He’s from London.’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Mr Jones. When did you get in?’
The visitor ignored the question. ‘Good evening, Ambassador. I have bona fides from your immediate superior, if you would like to see them?’
‘Yes, please.’
Jones placed his briefcase on the coffee table and clicked open its two gold clasps. Lever could see a thin black laptop, a manila envelope and on top of those a single sheet of cream-coloured paper bearing the Foreign Office crest. Jones handed the letter over and waited while the Ambassador read it.
Lever smiled at the arcane language and extravagant signature of his Whitehall superior. ‘It seems I am required to afford you every courtesy, Mr Jones.’ He returned the letter. ‘So what will you have? Wine? Whisky? Mint tea?’
‘All I need is a few minutes of your time.’
The Ambassador sat back down and gestured his visitor to do likewise. Mr Jones sat and was about to put the letter back in his case when he noticed the open fire. He handed the letter to Roydon, nodding in the direction of the grate. Roydon grinned and set about burning the letter, feeding a bottom corner to the small orange flame and watching the white paper blacken. Lever raised his eyebrows.
‘There goes your good faith.’
Jones stared at the Ambassador. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your bona fides, your good faith – up in smoke.’
Jones closed his briefcase. ‘I will keep you for as short a time as possible. This conversation concerns Aftel and its bid for the regional telecommunications licence.’
‘I assumed as much. I believe we have everything under control.’
Mr Jones nodded his head slowly but when he spoke it was in the negative. ‘No. I’m afraid you don’t. If you did, I wouldn’t need to be here. The Afghan government will announce who has won the contract in a few days.’
‘I know.’
‘That decision is still in the balance,’ Jones declared softly.
‘That’s not the information I have. Mr Roydon?’
Both men looked at Roydon.
‘Too close to call, we reckon. The crooked bastards who’re making the decision should go for Aftel, if everything stays just like it is. The fix is in and it should hold. But it’s close. Any little thing could tip it back the other way.’
The man from London turned back to Lever. ‘I’m here to tell you that this contract must go to Aftel.’
‘We’ve been working on that basis for some time, Mr Jones.’ Lever was becoming increasingly irritated.
‘There is a lot more at stake than you think, Ambassador.’ Jones paused. ‘In the light of recent events, it’s been decided that I should apprise you of all the relevant information.’
Lever got to his feet, his face coloured. ‘This is a joke, an insult! I’m Her Majesty’s Ambassador. What sort of information have I been working with until now? Irrelevant information?’
Mr Jones was unmoved by Lever’s anger. ‘Partial information.’ He opened his case again, took the manila envelope out and removed ten or fifteen pages fastened together with a small black Bulldog clip. ‘There is a reasonable amount of detail here. You might want to sit back down.’
Lever sat.
‘The Aftel project has nothing to do with promoting British business, job creation or anything like that. Or rather, if it has, then that is purely incidental. Cosmetic.’
‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘As far as we are concerned, Aftel is an intelligence operation, pure and simple. Are you familiar with the Echelon system?’
Lever shook his head. ‘No.’
‘In simple terms, it’s a huge information vacuum cleaner. It collects around a billion intercepts each day, largely on our behalf and on behalf of the American National Security Agency. The system collates phone calls, text messages, emails, web searches, passenger lists, credit cards. Anything that contains certain triggers – words or interesting sequences of numbers – is sent to Cheltenham and a larger site in Utah, where it’s all processed. Do you know how we gather that sort of information at the moment, Ambassador?’
‘Good old-fashioned bugging and burgling, I assume? Satellite stations, Nimrods, submarines?’
‘That’s right, but it’s increasingly old-fashioned, inefficient. Last year over sixty billion text messages were sent in Britain alone. You can’t expect a Nimrod or SIGINT station to collect all those. But imagine you owned the platform through which those messages were sent.’
Lever saw where this was going. ‘If you control the telecommunications provider,’ he ventured, ‘then you can listen, see or hear as much as you like.’
‘Yes. It’s easier and more effective than snooping on other networks. If you own the company, you can do as you wish. You can place chips directly inside the fixed line or mobile phone system, if you want to.’
Roydon was still standing, back to the fire but shifting from foot to foot and obviously keen to be part of this conversation. ‘“Deep packet sniffers”, they’re called. I’ve helped bust in to a couple of places so the geeks could set them up on the quiet.’
Jones ignored the interruption. ‘They are basic black boxes that hoover up all content, then cross-reference phone calls, texts and emails. Look at who’s talking to whom. You can plot that against credit card activity or flight details or any other data you choose. It’s immensely powerful.’
Lever nodded. ‘And Aftel will do all of this for you? For us?’
‘Aftel is, one way or the other, a front. It belongs to us. Setting up here will be like having our own little GCHQ right in the middle of the most dangerous, unstable and interesting region in the world.’
Roydon could not contain his enthusiasm. ‘Inside the belly of the fuckin’ beast. How about that?’
‘And what would you do with all that information?’ Lever asked, genuinely fascinated. ‘Won’t you simply be deluged by data? No computer could process it all.’
‘We will mine it. We’re generating new and better algorithms all the time. Our computing power doubles every three years. Every person in the wired world leaves a digital trail behind them, like a snail trail; you just have to know how to follow them.’
‘And you follow who? Everyone? Doesn’t that raise some ethical questions?’ Lever observed.
Roydon dragged a chair closer to the two men and sat down. ‘It’s the old story, isn’t it? If you’ve done nothing wrong then you’ve got nothing to worry about. If you have, then it’s a night flight to Poland for a little light water-boarding.’ He laughed.
Lever and Jones looked at each other, seemingly oblivious to Roydon’s presence.
Jones spoke first. ‘So now hopefully you understand just how important the next few days are – how critical it is that the decision goes our way. Everything that can be done, must be done. Everything.’ He put the papers back inside the brown envelope and the envelope back in his case. He snapped the locks shut and stood up to leave. ‘I am going to absent myself now, Ambassador. You and Mr Roydon need to discuss some of the contingencies, actions that may or may not prove necessary.’
Lever smiled. ‘You’re welcome to stay for that, Mr Jones. I have no objection.’
‘No. I don’t need to know the details.’
‘I understand. Well, thank you for the briefing. Will I see you again, before you leave Kabul?’
Jones put out his hand. ‘Good evening, Ambassador. I think it’s unlikely that we’ll need to meet again.’
As soon as Mr Jones had left, Roydon rose from his seat, headed for the drinks table and poured himself a glass of the first spirit that came to hand. It was clear in colour and he drank it quickly. He turned to Lever. ‘You should be feeling very fucking flattered, you’re in on the biggest secret there is right now. That stuff he told you is highly classified, the highest in fact. You need oxygen at that level.’
Lever was exhausted. ‘Can you just tell me what you need to tell me, Mr Roydon, and then allow me my bed?’
‘Fair enough. So here’s the plan …’ Roydon poured himself another vodka. ‘As soon as the mob who’re holding Patrick Reid get in touch with Carver, we say yes to the rendezvous.’
‘I just told William that Plan A was to bargain.’
‘Then tell William Plan A didn’t work. It was never going to anyway.’
‘And how do you propose to manage the meeting?’
‘Manage it?’
‘I’m too tired for euphemisms. How will you make sure it doesn’t end in a ruddy great firefight, everyone dead, including Reid and Carver?’
