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  Judge Ellison interrupted. ‘Mr Wellington, do you actually have a question for the witness? Or would you rather submit a catalogue of speeches in hardcopy to my office?’

  Kevin raised a forefinger and turned back seamlessly to Novak, as if it were all part of some grand oratorical plan, and he was on the cusp of a crucial question.

  Norm Winter, the government prosecutor, rolled his eyes derisively at his second-chair.

  As Kevin and the judge got into a semantic debate concerning when a question became a statement, Novak started to zone out, and wondered how the case was playing outside.

  The only courtroom that really mattered to him was that of public opinion. In a way he was rather taken with the notion of ending up in jail for disclosing classified documents. He knew he wasn’t exactly going to end up in Rikers Island, and being the first for something so huge brought its own unique cachet. Regardless of Judge Ellison’s verdict, Novak’s lawyers from Bruckner Jackson Prowse were too good to see him end up in anything other than minimum security alongside a bunch of rich white guys banged up for wire fraud.

  Then he got to thinking about Stella, no doubt pacing around outside. Their first story together three months earlier had made the front page of every major newspaper from North America to Europe to Asia. He didn’t want that partnership to end yet. To him, it felt like they were only getting started.

  Finally, Kevin got to his question. ‘Mr Novak: do you believe your source – Stanley Fox – to be the man who presented himself-’

  Norm Winter’s eyes raised from his briefing notes and he shouted, ‘Objection, your honour!’ The urgency in his voice was all too obvious.

  Kevin continued anyway. ‘-at your previous hearing in Washington? And do you believe his subsequent disappearance is related to your-’

  ‘Objection, your honour!’ Norm repeated, seemingly terrified of so much as another word being uttered.

  Judge Ellison held his palms out at Winter. ‘On what grounds, counsel?’

  Struggling for a viable answer, he replied, ‘Relevancy, your honour.’

  Ellison gave a withering look, then said to Kevin, ‘Continue, counsel.’

  Kevin said, ‘Thank you, your honour. Mr Novak?’

  Norm, still not satisfied , said gravely, ‘Your honour. May I approach the bench?’

  Kevin threw his hands up in the air, then said to his opposite number, ‘This can take several weeks if you want it to, Norm...’

  On his way to the bench, Winter said quietly to Kevin, ‘I want you to know this wasn’t my idea.’

  Winter’s shoulders hunched slightly as he approached the bench. An involuntary reaction to what he was about to say.

  As Kevin attempted to follow – as court protocol allowed - Norm said to Judge Ellison, ‘I need to approach alone, your honour.’

  Novak looked at his lawyer in concern.

  Kevin raised his eyebrows as if to say, I don’t know what’s going on either.

  It only took about thirty seconds of discussion between Ellison and Winter – but in an empty, silent courtroom it felt like much longer.

  Once Winter was through, he retreated to his table and started straightening out his briefing papers as if he was done.

  Judge Ellison banged his gavel once. ‘The prosecution rests and the case is hereby dismissed. Mr Novak no longer has a case to answer.’

  Novak flashed a look at Kevin, incredulous. ‘I don’t understand,’ Novak said.

  Ellison stood up, already mentally ordering lunch. ‘You’re free to go, Mr Novak. The government has dropped its case.’

  Norm Winter held his hand out to Kevin and said, ‘You’re young so you don’t realise it, kid. But this is what an easy win looks like.’

  Baffled, Kevin shook Winter’s hand.

  All of ten seconds later, Novak and Kevin were left in the courtroom alone.

  ‘What the hell just happened?’ asked Novak, his voice echoing around the chamber.

  ‘We won the case,’ Kevin replied, barely able to get his head around it.

  ‘But how? They just walked away from a federal case they’ve been trying to nail me on for the best part of a year.’

  ‘And now it’s over.’

  ‘What did he say to the judge?’

  ‘I’ve absolutely no idea.’ Kevin tried to lead him away. ‘Come on. When the other side walks off the field, you call it a win.’

  Novak pulled his arm back. ‘We don’t want it to be over!’

  Kevin laughed. ‘You’re actually mad about this?’

  ‘We want to win the argument.’

  ‘There is no argument. Not anymore.’

  Novak pulled out his phone and saw that he had nearly twenty missed messages and calls – which, considering he had been in court for less than thirty minutes, was considerable even for him on a Friday morning. He had Facebook and Twitter notifications, texts, and emails from colleagues and news anchors:

  ‘Fox is killing you. Come talk to us. You already know we’ve given you the most sympathetic coverage out there.’

  ‘Hey Tom. Update on our offer: my producer says if you’re convicted I can get you 100k for an interview.’

  ‘Hey buddy, it’s Seth at WNBC. When it’s over we want to do an hour special. But we want to ramp up pressure on the Republicans this week, so if you’ve got anything juicy for an exclusive we could talk $$$. Sound good?’

  Novak couldn’t believe these were the people at the top of their profession. A profession that had produced reporters like Edward Murrow, Katharine Graham, Ben Bradlee, Woodward and Bernstein, Dan Rather, Diane Sawyer...

  As Kevin led him to the courtroom doors, word had already leaked that the trial had collapsed. The press assembled noisily in the public corridors outside, kept at bay by a dozen cops.

  On the move, Novak said to Kevin, ‘It’s not news. It’s sports.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Kevin said.

  ‘These producers sending me messages. It’s not about issues, or the truth to them. It’s about winning. It’s about beating the other side. And if your side is wrong, screw it! You just spin it like your side is right anyway. They’re stoking outrage. You know why?’

  ‘Because outrage gets more clicks, and that means more ad revenue. I get it, Novak. But what’s your point?’

  ‘What if you don’t fit on the right or the left? What if your only agenda is finding the truth?’

  Kevin said, ‘You might want to think about that another time.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because right now you need to deal with this.’

  Kevin opened the courtroom doors, revealing a baying mob of reporters, barking questions like their lives depended on getting an answer.

  Kevin spoke on Novak’s behalf. ‘Mr Novak is very happy at this complete exoneration. I would like to point out that the government has shown more desire in its pursuit of Mr Novak than the criminally corrupt who turned the National Security Agency into nothing short of an American Stasi. At every turn the Justice department has shown that it have a vendetta against Mr Novak for exposing illegal, criminal actions in last year’s NSA Papers. Mr Novak has no further comment at this time, but as you might have noticed I still have plenty to say, so give me your best shots...’

  Novak grinned. It felt good having someone like Kevin Wellington on his side.

  The cops weren’t much good at keeping the press back. Stella Mitchell managed to fight her way through the crowd, but a side-on embrace with Novak was all that was physically possible. She was wearing a long black coat, and also a woollen winter hat. Not just because it was freezing outside, but to stay as far under the radar as possible. A task made considerably harder thanks to Republic’s exploits since December. She herself had faced constant questions from the press while waiting with them in the public hallway.

  Stella was distracted by the sound of an English voice somewhere in the throng of reporters:

  ‘Stella, do you have any reaction to Lloyd Willow’s daughter blami
ng you on Twitter for driving her father to his death?’

  Novak heard the question too. He said to Stella, ‘You know, you Brits might drink tea and come across so polite, but some of your reporters are only marginally removed from pond life.’

  ‘Don’t be too judgemental, Novak,’ she replied. ‘It wasn’t long ago I was stuck in a pond with them.’

  The police yelled at the press to get back and speed up the glacially slow pace towards the main entrance.

  Novak guarded his eyes from camera flashes. ‘I just don’t know why you let them get away with it,’ he said to Stella.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ she replied.

  ‘At least deny it.’

  ‘Then they get their clickbait headline: “Stella Mitchell denies driving Lloyd Willow to his death.” I get more satisfaction when they have to take a non-quote to their editor, who then bins the story. As soon as you open your mouth you’re giving them what they want.’

  ‘Then you’re a bigger person than I am.’

  ‘No. Just smarter.’ She flashed him a smile.

  Novak smiled back.

  A reporter shouted, ‘Tom, do you think your involvement in the Goldcastle story made the government more eager to prosecute?’

  Novak pretended to be confused. ‘I was never involved in that. The reason I know is because my name wasn’t on the byline. Stella Mitchell was the lead reporter, but she assures me she doesn’t talk to the press.’

  ‘Come on, Tom,’ the reporter replied. ‘Everyone knows you worked that story.’

  Novak was relieved to hear his phone ring. ‘Excuse me.’ It was a withheld number and he couldn’t make out the voice at the other end when he answered.

  They went through the main courthouse doors, where dozens of protestors and supporters had gathered. There were signs demanding a ‘FREE PRESS NOW!’ and cheering Novak’s verdict, while others wearing stars and stripes outfits yelled ‘traitor’ and ‘fake news’ at Novak.

  As a quick aside to Stella, Novak said, ‘I can’t work out if I should sign autographs or put on a bullet-proof vest.’ He went back to the call. ‘No, look, you’re going to have to speak up,’ Novak shouted, raising his forearm at the jostling crowd.

  The press stayed with the trio all the way to Tillary Street, where a Lincoln with dimmed windows was waiting for them.

  ‘Sorry,’ Novak said, climbing into the backseat. ‘I can finally hear you.’

  The voice at the other end said, ‘It’s Natalya, Tom.’

  Novak didn’t respond.

  Stella thought from Novak’s expression he’d just been told terrible news. She flicked her head up slightly to ask ‘What?’

  Novak shook his head that it was OK.

  ‘I’m sorry to call you out of the blue,’ Natalya said.

  Novak replied, ‘It’s been four years, Talya. Is that out the blue? More like a slight mauve. Or possibly teal...’

  ‘I need to see you.’

  He squinted, thinking she sounded far away. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Still in Moscow.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you to think of me, but I’m going to have a lot of interviews in the next few days. I don’t know if you’ve been following-’

  ‘Of course I’ve been following. You were on Russia Now a few seconds ago.’

  Novak looked out the back window as their car cleared the last of the news crews. ‘Wow,’ he said with mock-pride, ‘I’m even making headlines on Russian state news. I hope I was the lead.’

  ‘I know I have no right to ask, but I need your help.’

  ‘Help? Why exactly would I help you?’

  ‘It’s Andrei. He’s in Washington.’

  ‘What’s Andrei doing in Washington?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now. But he has a file from a source. I need you to get the file. I can’t tell you how much depends on it.’

  ‘Talya, I’m in New York. My trial’s just over, I’m going to have a million-’

  ‘Tom.’ She took a beat. ‘I know I’m probably the last person you care about right now. But my life depends on you finding that file.’

  Novak sat up a little. ‘What the hell’s going on, Talya?’

  ‘We shouldn’t talk on the phone about this.’

  Novak said, ‘OK. Look. Stay calm. Just hang tight. Call someone there. In Moscow. Get Aleksandr to come over. Someone you trust.’

  ‘Right now, Tom...you’re the only one I trust.’

  Before he could think what to say she’d hung up.

  He lowered the phone. He didn’t want Stella or Kevin to see, but he was in pieces.

  ‘Who was that?’ Stella asked.

  Novak replied, ‘Someone from long ago.’

  Rebecca Fox residence, Central London – Friday, 3.52am

  The corner penthouse of the 24 St James building afforded some of the most impressive views in London from its floor to ceiling windows. To the north was St Paul’s Cathedral. To the west, Big Ben and Parliament. And to the east, the towering Shard - all gleaming mirrored windows, and a beaming white crown on the top five floors – amongst the other skyscrapers in Canary Wharf.

  The skyline was set against a dark-blue twilight, punctuating a thin haze enveloping the tallest buildings - as if something malevolent was taking hold of the city.

  Although it was getting on for four in the morning Rebecca Fox was still working hard. Since her promotion out of GCHQ to Ghost Division, which brought her to London just six weeks ago, she’d been on a consistent run of twenty-hour days. Despite her newfound seniority, significant salary bump, and comfortable surroundings, she still thought of herself as that GCHQ junior analyst with a particular talent for crosswords.

  Her involvement with The Republic’s famous Goldcastle story – covering the Downing Street bombing - had changed all that, of course. Now she was at home amongst City high-flyers, bankers, and lawyers.

  The penthouse wasn’t about status to her. It was simply the most remote living space she could find in the City: high up, and severely private. She had a video door entry system, and a long hallway before even reaching a neighbour’s door. Whenever she took the long elevator ride downstairs, she had her noise-cancelling headphones on, listening to podcasts about obscure data analysis and science.

  Friends didn’t play a role in her life, as she didn’t have any. She had never sought any out either. From a young age she was always happiest on her own. The one person whom she thought of most like a friend was Stella Mitchell, and they had spent all of a few days in each other’s company. Most of it on the run for their lives.

  The only thing that mattered to Rebecca Fox was work: uncovering the truth, solving the puzzle.

  And she had become totally consumed with solving one particular puzzle.

  She sat at her glass-top desk, hair scraped back in a ponytail as it had been since having a cold shower around midnight. Her slender face was illuminated by the white/blue light of her email inbox on the screen.

  Three emails had arrived at 00.01am: one from her bank; one from Facebook (an inactive account she’d been using to test a new GCHQ data-scraping tool); and one from her old gym in Cheltenham. The subject lines all wished Rebecca variations of ‘Happy Birthday’.

  Without reading any of them, Rebecca deleted them all. The fact that she had been born exactly twenty-six years ago to the day was of no fundamental interest to her.

  She clicked on the newest message which had just arrived. 3.52 a.m. London time. Nearly one p.m. Tokyo time where the sender was.

  The subject line read: ‘Photo enhancement results’

  The email showed a JPEG taken from a mobile phone. The picture was of an older man – in his sixties – in a packed courtroom, wearing a blue tweed suit, being led away by police. The man had turned half in profile, but the motion had caused a slight blurring of his face.

  Rebecca had been able to speed read since she was a child. Her above-average intelligence and sky-high IQ were not just the result of blessed genes
(although her cryptographer father, Stanley Fox, had certainly helped with that) but also hours and hours of reading.

  Her eyes scanned down the centre of the passage, extracting the most salient words and phrases in a smooth motion.

  The email was from Kei Yamamoto of the Fuji laboratory in Tokyo. Kei was widely regarded as one of the most gifted photo technicians in the world, with access to equipment worth millions of dollars.

  His results were in: even with some of the most complex digital compositing, and reversing the motion flow of pixels, the face of the man in the photo could not be cleared up significantly enough to make facial recognition possible. Yamamoto had, however, provided a slightly clearer – but inconclusive - image.

  Yamamoto’s expertise didn’t come cheap. The two hours’ work had cost Rebecca nearly £3000.

  She printed it out and attached it to the wall.

  She stood back admiring it whilst finishing the dregs of her coffee from a mug that had a picture of Data from Star Trek on the side. She recoiled from the cold taste: after checking the time she realised she’d made the coffee nearly an hour ago.

  Yamamoto was the fourth photographic expert she had tried, and they all said the same thing. The motion effects of the photo couldn’t be fully reversed. The original image from Stella Mitchell’s mobile wasn’t high enough resolution.

  Beside Rebecca, pinned on the white wall, were several blow ups of the photo in difference sizes, all of them treated in different ways by various experts around the globe in attempts to clear up the image.

  Rebecca stood up and stretched by the window, looking out at the gathering haze. A city of eight million, and the only motion in evidence was the slow blinking of aircraft warning lights on top of the taller buildings.

  ‘I know you’re out there somewhere,’ she said.

  Whitehall, London – Friday, 6.59am