My Name Is Nobody Read online

  Matthew Richardson

  * * *

  MY NAME IS NOBODY

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One: November 2016

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Two

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part Three

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Part Four

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Part Five

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  To all my family

  Prologue

  Istanbul, August 2016

  ‘I know a secret,’ he says. ‘A secret that changes everything.’

  Solomon Vine pulls out the rickety plastic chair and sits down on the opposite side of the table. The room is stark and empty. Dust clings to the walls.

  ‘That wasn’t my question,’ Vine says, holding the man’s gaze. His voice is without colour, bare of any emotion.

  ‘No. But it is my answer.’

  ‘I don’t want your secrets, I want names.’

  There is an interruption as the door screeches open. Gabriel Wilde fills the space, offering a slight nod of apology. He pads across the concrete flooring and takes the chair on Vine’s left. He slides over a manila folder. Vine doesn’t look at it immediately, as if he has already memorized its contents. Instead, it sits there, free of any official marking or classification, anonymous and deniable.

  Vine lets a beat of silence fall. He needs to make the suspect hear the full, noiseless force of it. There is no one else here to save him. This isn’t official embassy territory, softened by rules and edicts. There are no platoons of lawyers ready to ambush the interrogation. He is theirs, to do with what they will.

  ‘You don’t understand,’ the man says now. There is a spike of volume in his voice. He leans forwards so his upper-body weight pivots on his elbows. Despite the handcuffs, he fights for dexterity with his hands, prodding his index finger at the table top in rhythm with his voice. ‘What I know changes everything. Whatever you think you can do, you are mistaken.’

  Vine reaches for the file and brandishes it. He opens the cover and scans the first page.

  ‘Mobile-phone records show recent contact with five British citizens who have travelled to Syria,’ he says. ‘We have evidence confirming the supply of fake passports and illegal arms. Her Majesty’s government has an isolation cell prepared specially for your return home. With the material we have in this folder alone, you will be sent down for life … Write down the names of your contacts, and we can talk.’

  The man looks up, lips creasing into a smile. It is not a reflex, but a carefully calibrated action, the jaw wounded with amusement.

  ‘There will be no trial, no sentence, no cell,’ he says.

  ‘No one will save you, Dr Yousef,’ says Vine. ‘No one even knows you’re here. You have disappeared off the face of the earth. You’re lucky you ran into us before the Americans. Though if you would like to be transferred, I’m sure that can be arranged …’

  He shakes his head. This time the smile thickens into laughter. ‘One word from me and they will let me go … Trust me, they will call.’

  ‘Who will call?’ says Gabriel Wilde, breaking his silence. He gets up from the chair and starts roaming the boxy parameters of the room.

  ‘The people who matter,’ says Ahmed Yousef. ‘They always do. If they want my secret, they will pay the price. It is the terms of business. Nothing more.’

  ‘A secret that changes everything?’ says Wilde. He stops behind Yousef’s chair and dips his voice to a whisper. ‘It better be a bloody good one. A grass can never be too careful …’

  ‘It’s the best,’ says Yousef. ‘They will call. You will see.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  Yousef doesn’t answer. He looks to the closed door. As if on cue, there is the flash of the alert light, a throb of red that upsets the blankness of the room. Vine feels the first cramp of unease as he gets up from the table and makes his way to the door.

  It is cool outside. There is another sound behind, and Vine turns to see Wilde following him down the long line of grey corridor to the control room. An RMP guard – all fidgety eyes and nervous speed – waits with the phone.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘The switch at HQ,’ he says, handing over the red receiver. As Vine waits to be connected, the guard turns to Wilde.

  ‘Your wife also called, sir. She needs you back at base. She said it was urgent.’

  Wilde doesn’t display any twinge of anxiety. Instead, he says to Vine: ‘You OK to finish this? I’ll be back as soon as I can …’

  Vine nods, careful not to react at the mention of Rose. The control room is full of monitors, a glassy panorama of concrete floors and airless turnings. He sees Wilde make his way down the hall and in the direction of the car park. A voice emerges through the crackle on the other line.

  ‘Please hold for the Chief …’

  One burr later, the gravelly tones of Sir Alexander Cecil fill the speaker.

  ‘Is it true?’ the voice says.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Is it true, Vine? You have Ahmed Yousef in custody?’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘He’s not talking at the moment. But we’re getting there. The product he was carrying should be enough to put him away this time.’

  There is no response on the end of the line. Vine can feel the weight of it, like a silent throat-clearing. ‘I never said this, Vine. Are we clear? This never came from me.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’re to release Ahmed Yousef immediately. I don’t care where you drop him, but see that you do so within the next half hour.’

  I know a secret … A secret that changes everything …

  Vine halts, unable to reply immediately. Sweat begins to gather on his forehead, a tightness pressing on his gut. ‘The line’s bad. Repeat please.’

  ‘You caught it perfectly well, Vine. Just do it.’

  Vine waits for another moment, topping up the composure in his voice. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on,’ says Cecil. ‘Drop him a
nd continue with whatever you were doing. Don’t ask questions. Not this time.’

  ‘Sir, we have direct evidence implicating Ahmed Yousef in the cases of at least five British citizens arriving in Syria. He is a priority-one target on the NSC and CIA Most Wanted lists. We have more than enough material here to prosecute. This makes no sense.’

  Cecil’s voice frosts over now, the words newly brittle. ‘This isn’t a discussion, Vine. There are more important things going on here than you can possibly imagine. Carry out this order or I’ll damn well get someone else to.’

  With that, the line cuts off. Cecil’s voice is replaced by a scratchy monotone. Vine hands the receiver back to the RMP guard. He glances at the monitors.

  He turns to the guard. ‘Is there anyone else in the building?’

  ‘No, sir,’ he says. ‘Just you, me and the prisoner.’

  Vine waits. Once said, the words can’t be unsaid. ‘Good. I want you to go dark until I say so. If anyone asks, blame it on a power cut.’ He notices the scrunch of concern on the man’s face. ‘Refer any questions to me.’

  He looks up at the monitors for a final time to see Gabriel Wilde’s car inching out of the driveway – escaping all consequences with immaculate timing. He watches as the guard begins methodically turning the cameras off, each screen blinking fuzzily and then blank.

  Then he leaves the building and walks into the blast of heat outside. He unfurls a lighter and a cigarette. The sun bruises his face. He can already feel the pincers moving towards him. Cecil will have engineered things in London to make sure the call was never logged. If it goes wrong, Cecil will be able to plausibly deny he ever gave instructions to let Ahmed Yousef free. But, if Vine doesn’t follow through, he will find the full might of the fifth floor against him. The game demands a scapegoat, and he is now theirs.

  He keeps on smoking, letting the minutes drift away, trying to will things clearer. Eventually, he douses the final one and turns. As he walks, the words repeat, tumbling over themselves.

  There are more important things going on here than you can possibly imagine …

  Curiosity compels him forwards now. The secret looms like a challenge. He treads back through the dour hallways, not yet sure what he will do. But he finds himself suddenly longing to be away from here, tired of patrolling the huts and compounds, starved of oxygen and scenery; tired of the decisions and the choices.

  He buzzes back into the secure area and makes his way down the thin final corridor. The interrogation room lies at the end, aglow with a harsher whiteness. Vine wonders again what hold Yousef has on London. What does he know? What grubby deal has he engineered that sees him immune from further questioning? Why would the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service intervene personally to demand his release?

  I know a secret … A secret that changes everything …

  Vine reaches the door and pauses for a moment. He feels a new anger begin to work its way up from the pit of his stomach until it fills his throat.

  He presses his card against the scanner and hears the door click open. He tries to brush aside any final doubt as he steps into the brighter light. He knows what he will do, what he must do.

  It is then that he stops. In front of him is an empty chair, a hollow space where Ahmed Yousef should be. But that isn’t it. There is something else wrong. He looks down at the floor and sees the first splashes of colour against the greyness. It seems to ooze and wander according to a logic of its own. Slowly, he traces the source, a lump of shadow behind the table.

  Ahmed Yousef is lying on his back, blood haloing around him. It looks like a gunshot wound. Without stopping to calculate the consequences, Vine finds himself pressing the alert button. A keening noise smothers the building.

  Soon the steps of the RMP guard sound outside. The door opens with a ponderous click.

  He knows they have minutes at best. With the amount of blood loss, they could already be too late. He strains to feel a pulse. But there is just flesh, slippery and raw.

  ‘Call for an urgent medical team,’ he shouts. ‘We need to evacuate him now.’ As the guard turns, Vine says: ‘Find out who’s been in here and how the hell this could have happened.’

  The delay seems to last for ever. He takes out the emergency medical kit and begins doing everything he can to stem the blood loss. But the blood spatters his fingers and up his arms. His clothes become damp and sticky. He tries again to find any signs of consciousness, feels just the fading echo of a pulse.

  Minutes later, the guard returns. ‘Evac team on their way from base, sir. ETA five minutes.’ He starts to walk further into the room then stops and hovers.

  ‘What is it?’

  Vine turns. He realizes what he must look like – a butcher, or a surgeon.

  ‘I’ve found the card that was used to enter the building, sir,’ he says. ‘Ten minutes ago. With the CCTV down, that’s the only identifier we have.’

  ‘And?’ Vine says impatiently. ‘Who was in here? Who did this?’

  The guard doesn’t answer at first. He looks nervous, as if unable to summon the words.

  ‘It was you, sir.’

  Part One

  * * *

  NOVEMBER 2016

  1

  Solomon Vine took another sip of coffee and pushed his plate away. He signalled for the bill, flashing his debit card. Perhaps he should just make a run for it now. He could be at an airport within an hour, stay over in Paris or Berlin, even deploy some elementary tradecraft if anyone had bothered to notice he was gone. He had often imagined all the lives he could lead – a teacher, labourer, nomad. Anywhere as far away from this as he could get. From England, the establishment, Westminster, Whitehall and, above all, the Secret Intelligence Service.

  As he waited for the bill to arrive, he took the postcard from his jacket pocket again. It had landed on his doormat early this morning. He turned it over and read the single line of text on the back, scrawled in biro. It read:

  11 a.m. St James’s Park. CN.

  Cosmo Newton, Chair of the Joint Intelligence Committee. Newton still had his number and could have texted. But the card meant he didn’t want GCHQ or, worse still, the NSA picking it up. There had been a drip-feed of scandals in the last few months from former Whitehall veterans claiming they’d been bugged by the intelligence fraternity. Since then, most ministers had ditched the phones and gone back to whispered asides in the Members’ Dining Room.

  Vine paid the bill and then grabbed his coat. He walked slowly, trying to focus on his surroundings. The breeze stabbed at his cheeks. The air smelled of fumes, tangy and raw. He wondered what Newton wanted to tell him. Ever since his suspension, he had been exiled from all meaningful contact. His days were filled with waiting, the rare messages heavy with potential consequences. Perhaps they would grant him one final dignity and send Cosmo Newton to deliver the worst news of all. As Vine walked, he felt his body ache with an old frustration. The illogicality of it all strained at him. He had entertained every possible hypothesis over the previous three months, but still the impossibility of it haunted him like a curse. Ahmed Yousef had been silenced by a ghost. He could hear the interview with Cecil on his return, each moment of hesitation dooming him.

  You ordered the RMP guard to disable all CCTV coverage?

  Correct.

  Only you, Yousef and the RMP guard were in, or near, the building at the time of the incident?

  Correct.

  The RMP guard’s movements were accounted for by digital forensics on the computer system of the premises?

  Correct.

  Your card was used to enter the secure area during the time of the attack?

  Correct.

  There are no witnesses to your movements between 1710 and 1730 on the day of the incident?

  Correct.

  Why did you try to kill Ahmed Yousef?

  Vine considered the question again now. He had thought many times about what he would do if left alone with Yousef. The ethics had been juggled, bu
t no answer ever found. Sometimes he wondered if his own memories were deceiving him. In the half-alive moments between sleep and wakefulness, he saw himself tread the hallway to the interrogation room. He could see the splinter of shock on Yousef’s face as he aimed and fired. He could hear the thump of sound as his body collided with the stone floor.

  Vine tucked those thoughts away. He soon arrived at St James’s Park. Cosmo Newton was seated on a bench straight ahead, insulated from the weather in an overcoat, hands snug in brown leather driving gloves, both clasping the handle of a furled umbrella.

  Vine slipped into the gap beside him. There was no formal greeting, not even a flicker of recognition.

  ‘How is exile treating you?’ said Newton, after a beat.

  ‘I can’t complain.’

  ‘You always were a good liar.’

  ‘I take it this isn’t just a social call?’

  ‘Well deduced.’

  ‘So?’

  The shadow of a smile crept to the edge of Newton’s lips. ‘Trust me,’ he said, rising from the bench and prodding his umbrella at the ground. ‘This is something you’ll want to hear.’

  2

  2000

  ‘So why do you want to be a spy?’ he asks.

  Vine pauses, looks again at the strange figure in the tweed jacket, tufty hair, red cords. ‘I wasn’t aware I did.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Professor Donaldson told me this was an interview for the Treasury.’

  A gale of laughter, five seconds long at least. Cosmo Newton clenches his pipe between his teeth. ‘She did always have a very droll sense of humour. You would prefer the Treasury?’

  Vine pushes himself further into his seat. ‘Can’t say I speak from much experience of either.’

  ‘No, quite.’ Newton looks down at the sheet of paper in front of him. From the back, Vine can just about make out Professor Donaldson’s sloped handwriting, the trademark red ink. ‘Good with numbers, I see.’

  ‘I can muddle my way through, yes.’

  ‘Any languages?’

  ‘I’ve just about mastered English.’

  ‘But not much foreign experience?’