The Falklands Intercept (10 page)

‘To cut a long story short, last summer various ministers from your Coalition
government
spent their holidays in southern France, some quite close to where some of our nuclear facilities are. Two of the ministers, as far as we could tell, were required to be in touch with London and were receiving highly encrypted information for I think what you call their electronic red boxes. After some embarrassments a few years ago we do not as a rule try to intercept English communications.' His eyes twinkled. ‘But we had hardened our nuclear communications to confuse the Americans. How shall I say – one of our command and control installations is in a part of France well known for its English tourists? We began to pick up indications of what might be a technical attack. But on investigation our system was not the target – one of your minister's encrypted
communications
were. And yes it was the Americans. And we believe that they were able to read what your minister was sending and receiving. We have a more modest signals capability than you but because we don't trust the Americans we are more sophisticated at keeping them out.'

‘I am afraid it get's worse Daniel.' Celia Nevinson looked appalled.

‘Yes, Mon Colonel. Indeed it does. As a result of our findings last summer we sent a small detachment out to Afghanistan – to make sure that our communications there are secure. They are but… and I think you know what I am going to say – yours are not. Some of the messages between your generals in the field and London are being read in real time in Washington. The scale of it surprised even us wearily cynical French.'

‘But Lady Nevinson – if this is the case we should take our information to GCHQ. The third party rule would apply – we can't tell our people that the French told us, but at least we could improve our own security. A country has to have some secrets after all. Surely, Monsieur le Directeur, that is what a patriotic Englishman should do.'

Navarre stared down at the table avoiding Jacot's gaze. There was silence. Nevinson looked out of the window. Only Zaden looked at him.

After several seconds Nevinson turned her head back from the window and looked him straight in the eye. ‘Daniel, we have thought of that. And you are right that would be the correct thing to do. But there is one rather crucial detail you still do not know about. We are not sure, the French are not sure, but there are some additional
oddnesses
about the comms attacks picked up by the French last summer and a few weeks later
in Afghanistan. French technicians believe that on both occasions our systems alarmed, warned our people that some kind of attack was underway. There's a protocol for that; what an outside observer like the French should have been able to see was some kind of adjustment of the system – a change in the transmitting frequency or the levels of encryption – a defensive manoeuvre, for instance. It should be like Chess. But nothing. It's possible that we were trying to be clever – a kind of Donald Rumsfeld action – we know that you know, but you don't know that we know. But it's strange nevertheless. When our strongly encrypted stuff is attacked by the Chinese or the Russians our system behaves differently. In the case of these attacks it's as if we don't care.'

‘Or maybe you do but the people who saw the alarm don't, or maybe someone did raise the alarm', said Monica ‘and didn't live to tell the tale.'

‘That's absurd.' Jacot looked weary. ‘So in summary French spooks are telling us that the Americans are reading chunks of our strongly encrypted data and we don't seem to care.'

‘I am afraid, Daniel, there you have it. And times are changing which means we now will have to act more vigorously. Both the French and ourselves have been picking up signs in both intelligence and diplomatic reporting of increased paranoia in the Americans. Not so much the elected politicians but the officials, what some call the permanent government. We know – the world knows – that parts of the American set up got out of control post 911. Even the most sceptical minds underestimated the sheer vengeance of what they were up to all over the globe. They got mad and then tried to get even. It doesn't work. If you really want to screw your enemies you need to keep a cool head.'

‘But we know all this Lady Nevinson. What's different now?' asked Jacot.

‘I am trying to explain that. It was possible just for us to rub along, the French included. Keep a gentle eye on what the Yanks were up to and make sure they didn't get out of control. Always much easier in France even under Sarkozy. More difficult in the UK but until recently doable. But the whole Arab Spring has almost unhinged them. Black ops plans, for instance, to keep the Bahraini king in power. And of course plans for a strike on Iran – the timing to be decided by the American presidential
electoral
cycle. How crazy is that? Another driver for the tougher attitude was the whole Wikileaks affair. Why seek extradition when we could kidnap or kill seemed to be a strong view both at Langley and the State Department. These guys are on edge and it worries both the French and us. So now we need more people on side. In France as well as the UK. Who guards the guardians Jacot? Well, it's us.' She turned to Navarre, ‘Oh and Gilles, as I mentioned the good colonel has something for you.'

‘Yes, yes.' Jacot got up opened his briefcase and took out the container of forensic samples from General Verney.

Navarre nodded, took it, and pressed the buzzer. One of his staff came in opened the container peered at the test tubes and swabs inside.
‘C'est suffit',
he said and then
left.

Navarre turned to Jacot and Nevinson. ‘It's enough for two tests. We will split the samples and re-ice them. One will leave with a courier from the
Gare de L'Est
in
forty-five
minutes. It will be at the
Centre Antipoison
in Strasbourg in a few hours. We have trusted people there who will let us know the results as soon as possible. It may take a little time though. I understand that we are checking for exotics, in particular marine toxins. These can be difficult and the expertise in Europe is good in theory but few
scientists
will have experience of these things. The other sample will leave tonight on the weekly military flight to Papeete. Our people in the
Polynesie Francaise
understand these poisons. But again it will take time as you might expect.

‘I understand you are not expecting anything to be found but that you are using our scientists as a kind of independent control. I commend you for your caution, Mon Colonel.'

They drank a little more. Jacot and Monica flirted. The UK's National Security Adviser flirted outrageously with France's top spy. Some young romances ended in
marriage
. Some brought heartache. Jacot had not seen it much but sometimes old flames remained the best of friends. Their time in Saigon had obviously been intense and
dangerous
.

It all seemed so natural. The surroundings and the food and wine softened if not smothered the implications. It was a shaming experience to be told by foreigners, however civilized and helpful, that you could no longer trust your own countrymen.

The Wikileaks affair and the US diplomatic cables that were made public as a result should have made it obvious to even those, in Lady Nevinson's favourite phrase, with “a room temperature IQ” that the UK's central government machinery was heavily
penetrated
by American intelligence. The leaks also showed the treachery of the United States in revealing to the Russians the details of the UK's independent deterrent – an act worthy of Judas himself.

But if what Navarre had told them was true then the Americans had British allies on the inside. People whose patriotism and moral sense had been so dulled by years of
subservience
that they could no longer tell the difference between our own interests and those of the United States. Or worse, people who saw an advantage in allowing the US access to everything. In exchange for what – a place at the top table? That was it thought Jacot. That was the ultimate source of the difficulty – why some Englishmen were so prone to corruption by the Americans. It was all about status. Like the poor old Duke of Windsor endlessly fretting whether his friends and countrymen were going to curtsey to his duchess, a certain kind of politician and Mandarin endlessly fretted about our lost national status. The Americans could sense this, at all levels, and used it to their
advantage
. Whether it was a British prime minister happily carrying out chores for an American president or an ambitious army officer planning his next promotion, ultimately they were
all piggy-backing on American power.

Most galling of all the only way to fight back was through a different betrayal. Nevinson and he were no longer colleagues but conspirators. He felt sad and ashamed. Had it come to this? The only way to be a loyal Englishman was to conspire with the French. Navarre and Zaden were all very well – the very picture of modern Frenchmen. But what of the other side of France – the ugly side that you saw during Vichy. The
vainglorious
side that you saw during the French Indo-China war that persisted with the absurd cult of Napoleon, in many ways the author of their misfortunes. The brutal side of the Algerian war. He didn't trust the French either. It was in Jacot's view a proper country with a strong identity far removed from the drivel of political correctness. But that strong identity involved something elemental, true only unto itself. And much of that had evolved in opposition to the English. The
entente cordiale
had been such a big deal because it was so new. It was a turning against the past and an always incomplete one at that. There was another catch, another alarm going off in his mind – was the process he was going through mentally what happened to a previous generation as they were
preparing
to betray their country? Is this how Philby, and Burgess and Maclean justified it to themselves? Yes I may be doing a rubbish on my country but it's all in a higher cause. And the Islamists?

Pretentious humbug thought Jacot – nearly a bottle of Chablis at lunch meant not befuddlement but clarity – four letter thinking. It was time for a choice. How had that overestimated and pretentious American poet put it – it's a turn in the road. But for now the French would make better friends than anyone else Jacot could think of. And they were the only people available. Nelson and Wellington would be turning in their graves. But then again a previous generation of English generals and admirals had fought the Americans – Cornwallis who had found George Washington so boorish and provincial at Yorktown might smile indulgently. Perhaps we were about to return to an older world, a different order. Jacot wondered when the switch had come. Queen Victoria for instance had been very reluctant for the Prince of Wales to visit the young United States in 1860. He crossed the border from Canada having begun his visit with a re-union of Canadian veterans of the war of 1812. For the first time since 1776 prayers were said for the Royal Family in churches across the Union.

At the end of the day from Winston Churchill onwards the deal had always been that to be a loyal Englishman you had to be pro-American. Not any more. He looked at Lady Nevinson sitting opposite. She must have been very good looking in her day and
energetic
in a way that women coming into professional life in the 1970s and 80s had to be to get ahead. Anyway he trusted her and her judgment. They sat opposite each other in the Eurostar on the way back, drinking more wine. She made no reference to the events of the day but instead asked him about the events of thirty years before. Despite working for her for over two years she had never asked him about his experiences in the Falklands. She kept the conversation in the past, mostly, but it was clear on occasion that she was
desperately worried about the security of the islands in the present day. Just before they got to London she came to the point: she wanted him to visit the islands on her behalf, just to re-assure her that everything that needed to be done was being done.

Jacot stepped forward to be searched by a US Marine. The American Embassy was getting more and more difficult to get into. After 911 and a series of attacks on American embassies across the world, it was hardly surprising. Security everywhere. Barriers
everywhere
. No wonder the local residents were up in arms. But it had certainly outgrown the Grosvenor Square site.

Apparently there was a plan to move the whole operation south of the River Thames to Nine Elms. He wondered whether the codename for the CIA station in London, “Grosvenor”, would change as well. The head of the station sat ex-officio on the British Joint Intelligence Committee behind a neatly typed place card which said “Grosvenor”. “Nine Elms” did not have the same ring to it.

The Embassy itself was hideous and made no concessions to the surrounding area and architecture. Grosvenor Square had always struck Jacot as an odd place. It was
essentially
a piece of the United States of America in the middle of London. During the war General Eisenhower had established his headquarters in the square, promptly nicknamed “EisenhowerPlatz” by irreverent Londoners. The square was filled with reminders of American power and how it rose at our expense. The statue of General Eisenhower in the north-east corner certainly looked like the “Ike” of the newsreels, but which “Ike”? The one who led the allied forces at Normandy, or the “Ike” who became president and then pulled the rug from beneath us at Suez?

Jacot was escorted to the grand staircase through the grand entrance hallway. The walls were filled with paintings and various items of Americana. It was a curious
experience
walking through the hall – half reading a comic book and half walking down the nave and aisles of a medieval cathedral. There were simple messages embedded in the décor, statues and decoration. Like every other US Embassy in the world the room was dominated by a copy of the famous Lansdowne Portrait of Washington. It showed the first president renouncing the possibility of a third term in office. It was huge, eight feet by five feet and filled with symbolism. As with so many things American it was seventy percent magnificent, twenty per cent ridiculous and ten per cent total absolute lie. Washington was a great man no doubt about it. And like Cromwell before him in England he could have been a King if he had wanted. But just before the portrait was painted Washington had received a new set of false teeth. It made him look faintly
ridiculous
, like a child trying to pretend that it’s mouth isn’t full of sweets.

Jacot admired George Washington hugely. Unlike, say, Napoleon or even Wellington,
the more anyone read about Washington the more impressive he became. This came across in most of the official representations of his image which did homage to his strength of will and essential nobility. The face, whether in portraits or statues, radiated his patriotism. This seemed to Jacot his most powerful legacy to the American people and spirit. They, like their first president, were never afraid to display their patriotism. It sometimes took some distasteful forms but love of country was never sneered at on the other side of the Atlantic.

The Lansdowne Portrait still loomed large as Jacot climbed the stairs. It was this
portrait
that was supposed to have been rescued by the fourth First Lady, Dolley Madison, as the British closed in on the White House just before the end of the War of 1812. And that was where the lie came in, a characteristic lie for the Americans. The portrait had indeed been rescued from the advancing British who attempted to burn the White House down. But it wasn’t the First Lady who did the deed. The rescue was in reality organized a by one of the Madison’s slaves, a certain Paul Jennings, who was lucky enough many years later to be able to buy his freedom for the then colossal sum of $120. Presumably he made a lot from tips mused Jacot, as he was ushered into the office of the head of the CIA Station on the second floor.

Jacot shook hands with John Dixwell, the third or perhaps it was the fourth – Jacot could never remember. Dixwell was tall and rangey. Dressed in a dark grey Brooks Brothers suit with a button down shirt and horizontal striped tie, he was the epitome of the successful preppy American. Anglophile, fond of opera and with an encyclopedic knowledge of the James Bond books and films, he was precisely the sort of man to be in charge of the CIA’s large and formidable London Station. The UK intelligence
establishment
loved him. He had a pretty wife and twin, very handsome, teenage sons who spent their vacations from Duke in London charming all the English girls. He and Jacot got on well enough but Jacot never forgot for a moment that Dixwell was an
accomplished
intelligence operative for a foreign power. And for all the charm, genuine charm in a way, there was something about the man’s eyes that made Jacot uneasy. Dixwell knew that Jacot was a man on whom his blandishments and old-fashioned Southern manners cut little ice, but he kept trying anyway.

He asked Jacot to sit, filled two shot glasses, embossed with the CIA’s ubiquitous logo of an eagle atop a compass rose, with a fiery bourbon and pushed one over. They downed them in a single gulp and Jacot pushed his glass for a refill. The etiquette of bourbon drinking was as subtle as the Japanese tea ceremony. Jacot enjoyed it. For all the hatchet faced women in the boardroom and in senior positions in the government, under the surface American society retained a kind of frontier masculinity. Jacot even enjoyed watching American Football occasionally. Dixwell’s team loyalty was on display in his office – the light blue colours of the North Carolina Tar Heels were omnipresent.

Dixwell cottoned on. He grinned. ‘Yep, I played college football. I was a quarterback. Actually it was my footballing prowess that got me a college education in the first place.
But I wasn’t good enough to turn professional. I was disappointed at the time but there you go. Nevertheless, I follow The Tar Heels still. One of the great, perhaps the great effect of the internet revolution for me is that I can watch them live every week in season – wherever I am.’

‘Why Tar Heels?’ asked Jacot. He could turn on the charm as well, when it suited him.

Dixwell warmed to the theme. He wasn’t a fan of Jacot’s but the question had carried with it a genuine inquisitiveness. ‘Something to do with tar from the pine forests of North Carolina which was the state’s main export for many years. It’s a nickname for all North Carolinans. To begin with it may have been semi-insulting but it was adopted enthusiastically after Robert E Lee put a glorious gloss on it. Dixwell pulled a small card from somewhere on his desk and read aloud:

‘“During the late unhappy war between the States it was sometimes called the “
Tar-heel
State”, because tar was made in the State, and because in battle the soldiers of North Carolina stuck to their bloody work as if they had tar on their heels, and when General Lee said, “God bless the Tar-heel boys”, they took the name.”’

Oddly, all senior Americans, whether in government service or the private sector tried to reproduce elements of the presidential Oval Office in their own offices. The shape was difficult to replicate but the fittings could be imitated easily enough by all budgets. Dixwell’s office was no different. The reproduction Federal furniture with its striped upholstery was straight out of an episode of
West Wing
, another cultural reference point that seemed universal in American government circles. And like the characters in that series many US officials seemed to hold most of their conversations while on the move. They didn’t walk down corridors, they strode. Always in a hurry. Always making
decisions
. Jacot usually found it a little exhausting. He wondered how anyone could watch
West Wing
. Even the poor old president of the United States seemed always to be on the move. Dixwell had the habit when he visited the Cabinet Office but Jacot was relieved that this meeting at least would be held sitting down and in an office.

‘Hell, I am sorry to hear about General Verney. It’s a bad business and anything we can do to help of course we will. I gather the Feds are having a look at some stuff. Since the Russians started killing people we have had to be extra careful. I understand the British police have run a Geiger counter over the room and so nothing radioactive is
suspected
. But there are other things the Russians may have been up to we need to check out. And of course there are the Islamists. Any senior British official is at risk from some of those guys. I don’t want to be unkind to you Brits but your borders are a joke. You just don’t know who you have got here.’

Jacot agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment but it was not why he was there. ‘There are always the Islamists. But to be frank I can’t see someone going for Verney at Cambridge. He’s been a much easier target on his travels around the world and
numerous
visits to Afghanistan.’

‘Maybe you are right’, said Dixwell. ‘The bad guys on the ground in Helmand soon
got wind of the new prime minister’s first visit didn’t they? Jeez, I know the Secret Service are constantly having kittens anytime POTUS visits the troops. Another thing, I know your universities appear to be hotbeds of Islamist radicalism but mainly the third grade ones, not Cambridge, surely. Those colleges are closed societies. It would be difficult to get someone on the inside. Anyway I hear it’s natural causes. Sad, but it does happen to men in their late fifties, particularly on the squash court.’

Jacot took all this in and knocked his Bourbon back. Was Dixwell saying a little too much? ‘You could be right’, said Jacot. ‘Verney died in bed though, not the squash court. The police and military police are covering most of the angles and as you say the money’s on natural causes. Nevertheless, I am the guy who has to look at the areas that are too sensitive for the police. One of those areas is you and your colleagues. I am interested in who exactly was there that night from Langley?’

Dixwell looked out of the window. ‘Me, obviously, and Johnny Downes, the Deputy Director of the Agency. He was going to be in town. Comes from a dirt poor
midwestern
background and I thought he might like to taste the glories of Cambridge.’ He added, conspiratorially, ‘To be honest Jacot we are from different backgrounds entirely but we have always got on. America is more class-ridden than you think or we like to pretend. There is a place for everybody. Ivy League is Ivy League. The Midwesterners tend to stick together. We Southern gentlemen get on well as long as we don’t fly the Confederate Flag at home or whistle Dixie too much or too loud at the office. The cowboys do their own thing. But it’s still difficult if you’re from a really poor background. And when they do make it they tend to have a kind of difficult brashness. Even if their success means that they can handle the Yalies their wives can be tricky – first wives that is.’ Dixwell grinned. ‘But Downes and his good lady fit the scene like a glove. He has done me a lot of favours. We get on. Hey, he loved Cambridge. And you know what Jacot, Downes is very welcome at the White House. The CIA gets to see a lot of the president but there aren’t many of us who get invited to the presidential weekly cocktail parties in the family quarters. Downes and his wife do. Yeah, the Martinis are fabulous and the finger food out of this world. Sometimes there’s a little US Marine string quartet.’ Dixwell looked wistful. ‘Johnny could easily be the next director. And if that happens I am going up with him.’

This seemed to Jacot an awful lot of personal information from an intelligence
professional
. Sure, Dixwell’s apple pie family was helpful in creating the right impression in London but this was a layer of detail too much. The art of human intelligence is to get others to give information away. Sometimes it’s the intelligence information an agent has been specifically tasked to collect – where the chemical weapons are hidden for instance – or if there are any chemical weapons at all. Sometimes, an agent is on a general trawl for personal information that can then be exploited to turn the target into a source. Very often the opening into exploiting a target can be very simple – some aspiration that can be fulfilled – a child that could do with some help to get into a good American
university 
and a visa. Or a career disappointment that can be put right by a strong American endorsement in the right ears. Or a personal vulnerability like debt, or gambling or girls or boys. Very often it was just plain vanity that gave the intelligence people the opening. As always when dealing with professional spies, even our own professional spies, Jacot felt he was being manipulated in some subtle way. If the manipulation involved so much personal information about Dixwell himself was he trying to hide something behind that? If he was prepared to admit to a foreigner the importance, personal importance, of his relationship with such a senior CIA figure there must be a reason.

‘And Mr. Downes came straight back to London that night by car?’

‘Yes. It’s an easy ride late at night. Johnny would have been back in the Connaught by one thirty or two.’

‘The Connaught Hotel?’

‘Yes. That’s where our really senior guys like to hang out. Good bar too. It was Nixon’s favourite hotel if I remember accurately. Incidentally Jacot, never spill the beans in the bar of the Connaught Hotel, the CIA could just be listening.’

Jacot was finding Dixwell less convincing by the minute. ‘And you went with him?’

‘Yes, absolutely. We went straight from the Fellows’ Combination Room, wow what a name, to the Great Gate where our limo awaited. We were let out by the head porter. We did have a couple of night caps on the way down the motorway.’ Dixwell smiled again.

‘Did you say good night to Verney?’

‘Yes, in the Combination Room in the usual way. I know him reasonably well. Johnny Downes went big on the Combination Room. For him candlelight meant a power cut when dad couldn’t pay the utility bill. That someone would still want to light an entire room that way wowed him out.’