Zero Hour Read Online Free PDF Page B

In the flesh, his closely cropped hair, clean shave, sharp suit and glowing ebony skin made him look like he should have been out there with Drogba on the pitch, not watching from the stands.
    Posh lad or not, I enjoyed his company. I certainly wasn’t here for the football. The last time I’d gone to a game more than twice in the same year, I was a twelve-year-old bunking over the fences at Millwall. I didn’t really like it even then - I just went for a laugh, a pie and a can of Fanta. But it was no picnic at Millwall: it always ended with a brawl.
    I fished in my pocket for the season ticket.
    He shooed it away. ‘You’ll be needing it for next time.’
    This was the third time this had happened. ‘How much do these things cost?’
    ‘Enough to make my eyes water.’
    ‘Another burden on the bleeding taxpayer.’
    ‘When was the last time you paid tax?’ Julian flashed his perfect white teeth. ‘Come to that, when was the first time?’
    I gave him a 500-watt grin, even though I suddenly had a head full of pain. I palmed two Smarties and swallowed them with a gulp of Pret A Manger’s frothiest.
    We both stared out over the pitch.
    ‘I’ve been giving that job a bit of thought.’
    Julian glanced behind us. People had started to fill the nearby seats but there was nobody within earshot. His eyebrow arched towards his immaculately sculpted hairline. ‘What about Granny’s nest egg?’
    ‘She always wanted me to work for a living …’
    Jules pulled out his BlackBerry and hit the secure speech icon before dialling. That was a good sign. His spare hand covered the mouthpiece like he thought I’d added lip-reading to my CV.
    He closed down and put it back in his pocket. ‘OK, you’re on. But you’ll need to give me a lift in that penis extension of yours.’ Jules got to his feet. ‘We have an audience with the top man. He’ll meet us in three hours. The Blues will have to win without us.’
    ‘Not a chance. West Ham will kick the shit out of them. Three-nil, I reckon.’

5
    GCHQ Cheltenham
17.23 hrs
    I came off the M5 at junction eleven and followed the A40 east towards Cheltenham. Just before the town, I turned off at a roundabout. Jules switched the radio to medium wave to tune into Talksport.
    They were waffling about football and, of course, I’d been way off the mark. Chelsea had won 4-1.
    We pulled onto Hubble Road. GCHQ had been the most secretive of Britain’s three intelligence services since way back, and I always reckoned they chose this location on the edge of a spa town in rural Gloucestershire just to add to the mystique. While MI5 and MI6 gathered human intelligence, GCHQ’s main mission was soaking up the signals equivalent, via the interception of phone calls, faxes, emails or any other electronic means. They monitored the airwaves for any vital snippet that might stop a terrorist attack in the UK or help the military in Afghanistan. They were also tasked with protecting the government’s communications against attack by enemy code-breakers.
    This was Boffin Central, where some of the world’s most powerful computers played tunes for people with brains the size of a planet. I smiled to myself as I remembered the TV commercial for Tefal. A group of white-coated boffins with extra large heads hovered over a new kettle or iron, making sure it was perfect for the likes of me. They must have filmed it right here.
    The man we were going to meet was Julian’s new boss. The whole of the British intelligence community’s new boss, by the sound of it. Tresillian had been made uber-chief of all three services - MI5, MI6 and GCHQ - a position that had only just been created.
    ‘There’s a thread of continuity at last. If GCHQ picks up a whisper, he can give the order for SIS to take immediate action. None of the old red tape.’
    ‘Or the old checks and balances?’
    I slowed. There was a barrier across the road ahead, manned by two guys in uniform. The first layer of security. Jules