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Authors: Alexander McNabb
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rapacious palm, now would we?’
The bedroom door opened and Buddy stumbled out barefoot, towelling his lank hair. He wore a water-splashed Mickey Mouse t-shirt and tatty jeans. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Food’s on the way.’
He paused, blinking at Kingsthorpe. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Alan, meet Buddy. Buddy, this is Alan Kingsthorpe. He’s 3shoof’s editorial director.’
Buddy shook hands, his head to one side sizing Kingsthorpe up, his face wary. He reminded Mariam of a wild animal, always jumpy and watchful.
Kingsthorpe sat at the table. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind?’
Buddy threw his towel on the sofa and shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He pulled up a chair, staring suspiciously at Kingsthorpe’s mobile on the table. ‘You’re recording.’
‘Of course. First question, can you please confirm your full name and age?’
‘I’m Buddy Kovak, 23, from Baltimore. I’m currently serving in a US army signals intelligence unit.’
‘May I ask which unit?’
‘No.’
‘Are you the provider of the information shared with our reporter Mariam Shadid?’
‘I am.’
‘Could you confirm that information consists of twenty-four folders detailing US military procurement, ELINT, experimental weapons and CIA-driven regime change programmes in the Middle East.’
‘It does.’
‘Can I ask where you came by this information?’
‘Some of it sort of came across my desk. Some was drill-down into stuff that seemed wacky or different in the material I was handling. It’s mostly hacked out of networks I got access to, maybe at a different clearance level.’
‘So some of this material you were not cleared to handle?’
Buddy barked a laugh. ‘I wasn’t cleared to handle none of that shit.’
The doorbell rang and Mariam leapt to the spyhole, pulling open the door to let the waitress push a trolley into the room. She signed off the bill and saw the waitress out of the room.
‘Breakfast.’
Kingsthorpe switched off the recorder app on his mobile. Mariam handed out cups and plates, covered baskets of pastries. Buddy acted as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, eating with a focused intensity that had Mariam asking, ‘You starving or something?’
‘Something you learn in the army. You eat what you can when you can.’
Which, she managed not to say out loud, judging from his skinny frame, wasn’t very often, then.
Heather came out from behind the reception desk and hugged Robyn. She was wearing a blue cardigan, a lime blouse and a long burgundy skirt. ‘You look a million dollars. The country air’s put a glow in your cheeks.’
‘That’s probably just the cold.’ Robyn laughed.
‘Simon’s ready to meet you. I’ll take you up. You up for drinks tomorrow night? We usually meet at the Sloop around the seven o’clock mark. The staff, I mean.’
‘Sure. But isn’t Thursday a school night?’
Heather was taken aback for a second, then laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure Simon will tell you all about that. We usually grab a bite down there, the food’s good and they change the chalks every week.’
‘Chalks?’
‘Yes, the board thingy they put the guest beers and daily menus on.’ Heather gave her an odd look. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to Simon.’
Robyn followed her up the carpeted staircase, noting her brown brogues. Heather was really writing her own fashion rulebook. She knocked on the wood-panelled door, opened it and stood aside for Robyn to brush past into Archer’s study.
He was standing at the bookshelf covering the back wall of the study. He slipped a volume back and paced over to her, his hand out. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ She had the feeling he’d been posing for effect. In his late thirties, Archer’s frame was slight, tortoiseshell spectacles on a freckled snub nose, a square jaw. He dressed older than his age. They had last met at her interview in London, in the grandeur of a meeting room in the Berkeley. ‘Have a seat. Can we
The bedroom door opened and Buddy stumbled out barefoot, towelling his lank hair. He wore a water-splashed Mickey Mouse t-shirt and tatty jeans. ‘I’m hungry.’
‘Food’s on the way.’
He paused, blinking at Kingsthorpe. ‘Who’s this?’
‘Alan, meet Buddy. Buddy, this is Alan Kingsthorpe. He’s 3shoof’s editorial director.’
Buddy shook hands, his head to one side sizing Kingsthorpe up, his face wary. He reminded Mariam of a wild animal, always jumpy and watchful.
Kingsthorpe sat at the table. ‘I’d like to ask you some questions, if you wouldn’t mind?’
Buddy threw his towel on the sofa and shrugged. ‘Sure.’ He pulled up a chair, staring suspiciously at Kingsthorpe’s mobile on the table. ‘You’re recording.’
‘Of course. First question, can you please confirm your full name and age?’
‘I’m Buddy Kovak, 23, from Baltimore. I’m currently serving in a US army signals intelligence unit.’
‘May I ask which unit?’
‘No.’
‘Are you the provider of the information shared with our reporter Mariam Shadid?’
‘I am.’
‘Could you confirm that information consists of twenty-four folders detailing US military procurement, ELINT, experimental weapons and CIA-driven regime change programmes in the Middle East.’
‘It does.’
‘Can I ask where you came by this information?’
‘Some of it sort of came across my desk. Some was drill-down into stuff that seemed wacky or different in the material I was handling. It’s mostly hacked out of networks I got access to, maybe at a different clearance level.’
‘So some of this material you were not cleared to handle?’
Buddy barked a laugh. ‘I wasn’t cleared to handle none of that shit.’
The doorbell rang and Mariam leapt to the spyhole, pulling open the door to let the waitress push a trolley into the room. She signed off the bill and saw the waitress out of the room.
‘Breakfast.’
Kingsthorpe switched off the recorder app on his mobile. Mariam handed out cups and plates, covered baskets of pastries. Buddy acted as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, eating with a focused intensity that had Mariam asking, ‘You starving or something?’
‘Something you learn in the army. You eat what you can when you can.’
Which, she managed not to say out loud, judging from his skinny frame, wasn’t very often, then.
Heather came out from behind the reception desk and hugged Robyn. She was wearing a blue cardigan, a lime blouse and a long burgundy skirt. ‘You look a million dollars. The country air’s put a glow in your cheeks.’
‘That’s probably just the cold.’ Robyn laughed.
‘Simon’s ready to meet you. I’ll take you up. You up for drinks tomorrow night? We usually meet at the Sloop around the seven o’clock mark. The staff, I mean.’
‘Sure. But isn’t Thursday a school night?’
Heather was taken aback for a second, then laughed. ‘Oh, I’m sure Simon will tell you all about that. We usually grab a bite down there, the food’s good and they change the chalks every week.’
‘Chalks?’
‘Yes, the board thingy they put the guest beers and daily menus on.’ Heather gave her an odd look. ‘Come on, I’ll take you up to Simon.’
Robyn followed her up the carpeted staircase, noting her brown brogues. Heather was really writing her own fashion rulebook. She knocked on the wood-panelled door, opened it and stood aside for Robyn to brush past into Archer’s study.
He was standing at the bookshelf covering the back wall of the study. He slipped a volume back and paced over to her, his hand out. ‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning.’ She had the feeling he’d been posing for effect. In his late thirties, Archer’s frame was slight, tortoiseshell spectacles on a freckled snub nose, a square jaw. He dressed older than his age. They had last met at her interview in London, in the grandeur of a meeting room in the Berkeley. ‘Have a seat. Can we
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