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  Tom arrived early at work the following day, just in time to receive a telephone call from the Professor. “Ah, Tom, thank goodness.” The Professor sounded anxious. “Tom, I’m terribly sorry but I forgot to tell you two days ago that the Defence Vetting people are coming to interview you this morning. I should have mentioned it on the telephone yesterday but it has all been a bit hectic. They said that it is a routine interview and that it is just the next step in your vetting process.”

  Tom was quite happy about that but asked, “So what is the house like and when do we move in?” The Professor sounded more relaxed, “Oh, it is pretty big, but looks a bit shabby on the outside. It is reasonably furnished although Alison felt that it was a little spartan. There’s a granny annexe at one end and we thought that you would like that as it will give you some privacy. Oh, and it has a little gate at the end of the garden leading onto a public bridleway and we are told that there are some lovely walks in the area.”

  Tom was pleased that the house sounded just right. “Do I have to start knitting if I live in the granny annexe?” he joked. The Professor’s reply surprised Tom. “I have never had grandparents. Alison and I will never have grandchildren and so you are all we can have to share our home.” There was an awkward silence, “Oh Tom, I’m sorry, it’s been a long 36 hours. How are you getting on with the packing?” Tom was relieved that the mood had lightened. “Almost everything is ready for the removal people. What about personal kit? Will we move our belongings at the same time, do you think?” They continued to cover some of the minutia until the Professor’s mobile phone began to lose its connection.

  It was not long before the telephone rang again and the college reception asked Tom to collect his visitor from the front foyer area. Tom went down to the ground floor expecting to meet Inspector Morton-Farrell. Instead there was a stocky man, probably in his early 60s and wearing a rather scruffy anorak. “Good morning Mr Brooker. I’m Phil Clark from the Defence Vetting Agency. Can we go somewhere private?” Tom escorted him back to the laboratory and they sat together in the chaos of the Professor’s small office. “I was expecting the other chap, er, Inspector Morton-Farrell.” said Tom. “Oh no, you’ve got me I’m afraid. I don’t think I know your Morton-Farrell chap.” It turned out that Clark was a retired police inspector, supplementing his pension with interview work for the Defence Vetting Agency. Completed vetting forms were sent to him by registered post and he would then interview candidates or referees as instructed. He was interviewing Tom as the candidate, but had already interviewed Angus Merchant the day before.

  Clark’s approach was pleasant enough but he had to maintain a fair pace in order to get through the myriad of questions. These covered everything from bank account details to drinking habits and even included some direct questions about Tom’s sexual habits. The main purpose of the vetting procedure was to establish that an individual was not likely to give away national secrets whether deliberately or by being susceptible to blackmail. There was one area where Clark was particularly curious. “You gave your landlord as one of your referees Mr Brooker. Why choose him? He hardly appears to be the best of people to choose if you understand my meaning.”

  Tom felt a little awkward. “It was difficult to find 3 people that I had known for over 2 years. Angus isn’t too bad when you get to know him and when he is having one of his better days he can be quite good company. I can’t really class him as a friend but we do sometimes meet up at the pub on a quiz night.” Clark made some notes. “Hmm. What do you know about his political views? Has he ever mentioned the Royal Family to you?” Tom had always assumed that Angus was an ‘establishment man’ and he had never mentioned politics or royalty as far as he could remember. “I understand that you were arrested after a fight whilst you were on duty as a night watchman. Is the matter now closed?” Clark’s question made Tom’s heart race. “The police were happy with my explanation and there was video evidence that backed that up.” Clark made a note and asked a new question.

  After over 2 hours Clark was happy and started shuffling his papers in preparation for his departure. “Is my vetting okay Mr Clark? I really love this job and I would hate to lose it due to some silly nonsense on my part.” Tom was sitting forward on his chair and was clearly anxious. “I am not in a position to tell you the final decision but you do not need to worry as far as I can see. I am sure that your job is safe Mr Brooker.” And with that he stood up and Tom escorted him out of the building.

  Three days earlier Phil Clark had received the various papers prior to the interviews with Angus and Tom. He had read through them and then, through a secure connection from his computer in his house, he had accessed one of the Home Office computer systems. He ran checks on both interviewees. He noted that Tom had received a police caution. On checking Tom’s father’s file he discovered the suicide. Angus Merchant’s file was more interesting. There was a short summary of his employment history but the notes section had a single word “Flagged” and a reference number. There was something in Angus Merchant’s past that had brought him to the attention of Special Branch or MI5. Clark made two telephone calls and was eventually put through to Inspector Morton-Farrell. He introduced himself, “I am Phillip Clark, an investigator for Defence Vetting. I was in the Met until I retired two years ago. I have something that I should bring to your attention.”

  “Just a moment”, Morton-Farrell swung his chair to face the secure computer terminal in his office, “Your name again, please - When were you in the Metropolitan Police? – Okay I have you. What was the name of your last Chief Super? That’s fine, sorry I just had to check that you were who you say you are. Now what is the problem?”

  “I am doing follow-ups on a Mr Tom Brooker and one of his referees has a flagged file.” He was interrupted, “I am sorry Phil, who is Tom Brooker? I have quite a few contacts on my list these days.” Clark continued, “He’s a research assistant at Imperial College. He works for Professor Gordon. Anyway, he put his landlord down as a referee, a Mr Angus Merchant. He’s a retired journalist.” There was a long pause. Clark could hear the tapping on the keyboard from his end of the telephone connection and then Morton-Farrell asked, “Have you interviewed Merchant yet?” Clark said that he arranged to do it in two days time. “Phil, would you mind popping in to see me as soon as you can? I would rather you didn’t interview him until we have had a chat.”

  They met the next day. “Good to meet you Phil. So you spent most of your career in Cannon Row? That was where I started before I managed to get into Special Branch. Thanks for coming in so soon.” Morton-Farrell escorted Clark into his office. “Right,” Morton-Farrell opened the Black and Red notebook on his desk, “Tom Brooker and Professor Gordon are working on a project for the MoD. It is quite sensitive but far too technical for me I’m afraid. This man Merchant is a bit of a worry. Twenty years ago he had quite a reputation for investigative work and he uncovered several nasty little scandals that rocked the Westminster boat quite a bit. When he became Deputy Editor for the Guardian he ran a series of articles, some penned by himself, which became more and more Republican in nature. He then wrote a piece about a minor member of the Royal Family which turned out to be a pack of lies. By then he had an MI5 file and a watch was put on his work and his contacts were catalogued. He was supposedly preparing a significant anti establishment story when he was sacked. I don’t think he could have been a really serious risk because the Service lost track of him about twelve years ago. We are supposed to have him on the Watch List but somehow he slipped the net.” Morton-Farrell looked up from his notes. “What address is he using?” Clark gave him the address. “So Phil, to be on the safe side we need to take some care. You will have to go ahead with the interview of Merchant but make it absolutely clear that it is routine stuff and essential to, umm,” he looked at his notebook, “this chap Brooker’s background check. Do not under any circumstance raise the subject of the Royal Family, the Guardian newspaper, the Palace of Westminster or anything else that
might make him think that you know anything of his past. Is that okay?”

  Phil Clark was quite happy to proceed as instructed and would report back to Morton-Farrell should there be anything significant. He was lucky to catch Angus early and had quite a reasonable chat with the retired journalist. There was nothing in his responses to the various questions about Tom that gave any cause for concern. Angus did express surprise that Tom was now employed at Imperial College. For some reason he had thought that Tom was still working for the Kensington security company. Clark then went on to interview Tom.

  It was a remark that Tom had made during his interview that made Clark contact Morton-Farrell once more. He telephoned him and used veiled speech. “Phil Clark again, Inspector. I had nothing worth reporting from the target that you were worried about but I have just finished talking to my young subject. It appears that your chap intends to straighten himself out and feels he has one big story left in him. This is almost an exact quote of what was said when they were out for a beer together a couple of days ago.”

  “Thank you Phil. Leave things with me. I hope it is nothing to worry about. You know the rules of need to know as far as all this goes. Your report on your subject should show no intrigue – are you clear?” Morton-Farrell expected full compliance and this was evident from his voice. “Oh, no problem Inspector. No problem.” The call ended.

  Following the interview with Clark, Tom had continued with the packing. He ate his sandwich early and decided to take a short stroll through Kensington Gardens. As he walked back into the college he met Inspector Morton-Farrell in the foyer. “Hello Inspector. I was only thinking of you earlier today. I had an interview for my vetting,” said Tom trying to be chatty. “I was in the area and thought that I might drop in for a quick chat if that’s okay,” Morton-Farrell replied.

  They went up to the laboratory and once again Tom used the Professor’s office. Tom sensed that the visit was more than just a coincidence. “You’ve found out about the dropped assault charge haven’t you?” he said with his heart in his mouth. “I have absolutely no problem with that silly little episode and you need to forget it as well. Your vetting will go through without any delay. Is the Professor about at the moment?”

  Tom told him about the move to Larkhill and the house hunting expedition. “Ah, yes. I think the MoD chaps had told me about the move. I thought that I would just check that the Professor was happy about the rules for moving his classified filing cabinet. But as he is not here, I will give him a call tomorrow.”

  Tom offered to make a cup of tea which the Inspector accepted as he was able to prolong his stay without drawing any suspicion. “So you have been left to get the packing done. You have a huge amount of kit here. Will you be moving out of your flat for good do you think?” The Inspector did his best not to sound like an inquisitor.

  “No way. My rent is amazingly low for London.” He lowered his voice, “it’s cash in hand for my landlord and very, er, tax efficient.”

  “You would think that someone with their own house in London would be sitting pretty and not need to dodge the tax-man”

  “Ah but he’s been retired for a while and has a bit of a drinking habit. Last week he put at least 3 empty whisky bottles in the recycling bin and he usually spends lunchtimes in a pub somewhere and so he must need a fair income to support all that.”

  “My old boss used to have a few at lunchtime. They made him retire early.” He took a sip of hot tea. “What did your landlord do before he retired?”

  “He was a Fleet Street reporter. I’m not sure which newspaper but it was definitely a broadsheet as he really hates the tabloids – too much tit and bum for him, so he says.”

  “This is a lovely cup of tea Tom.” Morton-Farrell cast his eye around the piles of boxes and crates. “Does this move to Larkhill mess you around at all?”

  Tom had clearly relaxed and had no difficulty being candid with the Inspector. “To be honest I think that all of this could have been avoided. Professor Gordon is a great guy, but he does seem to lack the ability to do forward planning. I am sure space could have been found in London if we had given the MoD more notice. Still, it will be a change of scenery.”

  Morton-Farrell was finding it difficult not to be more direct, but he persevered. “I see that there is another debate going on about how much money we spend on the Royal Family. There are too many spongers and hangers-on for my liking. Perhaps it will get sorted out this time.”

  Tom was taken aback by the sudden change of subject. “I think that too few people understand just how hard most of them work. My dad met the Queen a few years ago and he said that she was lovely. Dad had a long chat with Prince Philip and he was either very well briefed, or had a good working knowledge of aircraft engineering. Anyway they do a lot for our country so I am afraid I do not share your view, Inspector.” Tom had surprised himself and took a long swig of tea.

  “Okay Tom. It is time for me to be a little more honest with you. I too am a great supporter of our Royal Family. I was just testing you. I know that you have signed the Official Secrets Act but I need to get you to sign a second copy. It is needed by another department and must be signed before we are allowed to talk about some sensitive stuff.” The Inspector reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out several sheets of paper. Tom was too surprised to make any comment and just listened. “Tom, you already have access to some classified information here but I need to make you aware that under the Official Secrets Act, you undertake to protect and never divulge any classified information, if by doing so it is deemed to be prejudicial to the national interest. If you do contravene this statute, then you may be liable, on prosecution, to a substantial term of imprisonment. We are about to talk about some sensitive matters, separate from your work here at Imperial. Do you understand?”

  Tom was still a little taken aback. “Yes I, er, understand but I don’t quite follow what is suddenly happening. That bloody police caution is behind this, isn’t it?”

  “For goodness sake Tom, you have to forget about that silly episode. This is about something that may affect our society and perhaps even undermine one or more of our democratic institutions. Are you prepared to sign?” The Inspector held out an official looking piece of paper with Tom’s name already typed in below the space for a signature. Tom looked directly at the Inspector and could see in his eyes the importance of this token of loyalty to the Establishment. He signed and Morton-Farrell carefully folded the paper and placed it into a buff coloured envelope. “Right, now I can tell you a little more and I must stress that this is classified information that you may not discuss with anyone, not the Professor, not your MoD chaps, nobody but me. Is that clear?” Tom nodded and did his best not to show the excitement that was inside him.

  “Your landlord is a known Republican and has attracted the interest of both Special Branch and MI5. He was sacked from his newspaper after making up a series of mischievous anti-establishment stories - he very nearly went to prison. It now appears that he intends to resume his mischief making and that may be deemed to be not in the national interest.”

  Tom put his tea mug down. “You didn’t come here to try and find the Professor really did you?”

  “No Tom, but I had to sound you out a bit to make sure that you weren’t a republican sympathiser. I need you to meet someone else who is in a similar line of business to me. If after that you need to contact me, then use my office number, here.” He handed Tom a card on which his telephone number was written in pencil. “Now we must get going. My friend will be waiting for us just up the road. Come on.”

  Tom and the Inspector left Imperial College and went north along Exhibition Road and then entered Hyde Park. They walked to a bench, not far from the main road, which was occupied by an average looking man, probably in his mid-forties. He was wearing a grey overcoat, had beautifully polished black shoes and had a mobile phone in his hand. The man stood up, The Inspector went across to him and handed him the buff envelope which had b
een in his inside pocket. “Tom, this is a friend of mine,” said Morton-Farrell. “Call me Alfred,” said the man, “let’s walk down here.” Tom walked beside Alfred and Morton-Farrell followed two steps behind. All three of them were braced against the cold northerly wind.