screens went blank.
At first he refused to accept this simple truth. He pulled on his night-vision glasses, took them off, then put them on again and roamed the computers’ keyboards, willing the screens back to life. They would not be willed.
A stray engine barked, but it could as well have been a fox as a car or the outboard of an inflatable. On his encrypted cellphone, he pressed ‘1’ for Quinn and got a steady electronic wail. He stepped out of the hide and, standing his full height at last, braced his shoulders to the night air.
A car emerged at speed from the tunnel, cut its headlights and screeched to a halt on the verge of the coast road. For ten minutes, twelve, nothing. Then out of the darkness Kirsty’s Australian voice calling his name. And after it, Kirsty herself.
‘What on earth happened?’ he asked.
She steered him back into the hide.
‘Mission accomplished. Everyone ecstatic. Medals all round,’ she said.
‘What about Punter?’
‘I said everyone’s ecstatic, didn’t I?’
‘So they got him? They’ve taken him out to the mother ship?’
‘You get the fuck out of here now and you stop asking questions. I’m taking you down to the car, the car takes you to the airport like we planned. The plane’s waiting. Everything’s in place, everything’s hunky-dory. We go now.’
‘Is Jeb all right? His men? They’re okay?’
‘Pumped up and happy.’
‘What about all this stuff?’ – he means the metal boxes and computers.
‘This stuff will be gone in three seconds cold just as soon as we get you the fuck out of here. Now move it.’
Already they were stumbling and sliding into the valley, with the sea wind whipping into them and the hum from engines out to sea louder even than the wind itself.
A huge bird – perhaps an eagle – scrambled out of the scrub beneath his feet, screaming its fury.
Once, he fell headlong over a broken catch-net and only the thicket saved him.
Then, just as suddenly, they were standing on the empty coast road, breathless but miraculously unharmed.
The wind had dropped, the rain had ceased. A second car was pulling up beside them. Two men in boots and tracksuits sprang out. With a nod for Kirsty and nothing for himself, they set off at a half-run towards the hillside.
‘I’ll need the goggles,’ she said.
He gave them to her.
‘Have you got any papers on you – maps, anything you kept from up there?’
He hadn’t.
‘It was a triumph. Right? No casualties. We did a great job. All of us. You, too. Right?’
Did he say ‘Right’ in return? It no longer mattered. Without another glance at him, she was heading off in the wake of the two men.
2
On a sunny Sunday early in that same spring, a thirty-one-year-old British foreign servant earmarked for great things sat alone at the pavement table of a humble Italian café in London’s Soho, steeling himself to perform an act of espionage so outrageous that, if detected, it would cost him his career and his freedom: namely, recovering a tape recording, illicitly made by himself, from the Private Office of a Minister of the Crown whom it was his duty to serve and advise to the best of his considerable ability.
His name was Toby Bell and he was entirely alone in his criminal contemplations. No evil genius controlled him, no paymaster, provocateur or sinister manipulator armed with an attaché case stuffed with hundred-dollar bills was waiting round the corner, no activist in a ski mask. He was in that sense the most feared creature of our contemporary world: a solitary decider. Of a forthcoming clandestine operation on the Crown Colony of Gibraltar he knew nothing: rather, it was this tantalizing ignorance that had brought him to his present pass.
Neither was he in appearance or by nature cut out to be a felon. Even now, premeditating his criminal design, he remained the decent, diligent, tousled, compulsively ambitious, intelligent-looking fellow that his colleagues and employers took him for. He was stocky in build, not particularly handsome, with a shock of unruly brown hair that went haywire as soon as it was brushed. That there was gravitas in him was undeniable. The gifted, state-educated only child of pious artisan parents from the south coast of England who knew no politics but Labour – the father an elder of his local tabernacle, the mother a chubby, happy woman who spoke constantly of Jesus – he had battled his way into the Foreign and Commonwealth Office, first as a clerk, and thence by way