Games Traitors Play

75

Myers had taken every possible precaution when he phoned Fielding. The GPS chip in his SIM card had been disabled, making its location harder to trace. It also incorporated triangulation scramble technology, first seen by GCHQ’s technicians in a handset seized in Peshawar’s Qissa Khwani Bazaar. By altering the broadcast power, it confused network operators about the handset’s proximity to base-station masts.

He didn’t want anyone to know that he was phoning MI6, least of all Marchant, who he felt he was betraying by making the call. It wasn’t that he doubted Marchant’s story. He knew there was an unspoken pact amongst the intelligence services whenever a new government arrived. Chiefs would stick together, wary of their new political masters as they established themselves. But his request to embarrass the National Security Council by allowing Britain’s airspace to be breached made Myers uneasy. Marchant was on the warpath, which meant fat arses like his own had to be covered.

Myers looked around his untidy bedroom in Cheltenham as he waited to be connected: an empty pizza box on his unmade bed, dirty clothes on the floor, a half-built remote-control plane on top of an open wardrobe, and the bank of computer screens. He knew that some of what was on the hard drives should have stayed within the circular confines of the Doughnut, but at least he hadn’t left his office laptop on a train. At the last count, thirty-five had been lost by GCHQ staff.

Myers justified his own software breaches on the grounds that he liked to work late, often through the night. And 99 per cent of the work he did on his home network was in the interests of the taxpayer and national security. Just not this particular request. He switched the phone to the other hand while he wiped the sweat off his palm. He never liked calling Fielding.

‘This is starting to become a habit,’ Fielding said. ‘I trust the line is secure.’

‘Untraceable. I’m sorry to ring you again, but I thought you should know.’ Slow down, he told himself.

‘Know what?’

‘Daniel Marchant came to see me yesterday. He’s asked me to do something, said it was your — ’

Myers looked at the phone. Fielding had cut him off.