Fiona Towthorp, an attractive, freckle-faced woman of forty, worked as a senior intelligence analyst at GCHQ. She had just spotted an item she knew her masters would covet. But when she picked up the phone, the number she dialed had nothing to do with Her Majesty’s government.
The line was encrypted at a level even Echelon could not decode. This call would never be overheard. “Consortium,” a man’s voice answered.
“I have a message from the corporate communications department,” said Towthorp. “There’s something the chairman needs to know.”
Towthorp was put straight through.
2
They came for Carver in the morning. He’d got the call the night before, just as he was turning out the gas lantern that provided the only illumination in his mountain hut.
“Carver,” he’d said, not bothering to disguise his irritation as the GSM phone shrieked for his attention.
There were no formalities or introductions from the voice on the other end of the line with its flat Thames Estuary accent. “Where are ya?”
“On holiday, Max. Not working. I think you know that.”
“I know what you’re doing, Carver. I just dunno where you’re doing it.”
“Guess what, there was a reason I didn’t tell you.”
“Well, I may have a job for you.”
“No.”
Max ignored him. “Listen, I’ll know for sure within the next twelve hours. If it happens, trust me, we’ll make it worth your while interrupting your holidays. Three million dollars, U.S., paid into the usual account. You can have a nice long break after that.”
“I see,” said Carver, flatly. “And if I refuse?”