ACT ONE

Darkness.

A computer cursor blips into life, projected against the back wall. Blinking silently.

A circle of light fades up on DENISE (smartly dressed), standing, looking out at the audience. She waits. Nothing happens. The cursor blinks. Finally she speaks –

DENISE. I’m here.

The cursor zips to the right, typing out: ‘I’m here.’

DENISE waits. Nothing happens.

Hello? I’m here. We said eight o’clock.

Again the cursor zips across, typing out her words: ‘Hello? I’m here. We said eight o’clock.’

DENISE waits. Nothing happens. The cursor continues to tap out DENISE’s words.

I’ve set everything up exactly as you asked. This is a brand-new computer, purchased off the shelf this afternoon – using cash, not credit card – from a shop I chose at random. I’m running Tails from a USB stick. I’m using wifi at the house of an acquaintance of a friend of a friend. I’ve authenticated the… thing, the encryption thing, with the phrase we agreed. I’m here, I’ve done what you asked. Are you there?

DENISE waits. Nothing happens.

NEIL appears in his own circle of light, across the stage. He wears jeans and a hoodie, the hood pulled low over his face.

NEIL. The red button.

The cursor changes colour – in green text, it types out the words NEIL spoke (‘The red button.’) For the next few moments, DENISE’s words will project as white text, NEIL’s words as green text.

DENISE. What?

NEIL. The red button. Bottom right-hand corner of your screen.

DENISE. Shit. Forgot. One second.

The projected text and blinking cursor disappear. The lights on DENISE and NEIL change colour – acquiring a reddish tinge. DENISE and NEIL continue to face the audience as they speak to each other.

It says ‘private chat enabled’. That’s right, isn’t it – we’re secure now?

NEIL. More than we were.

DENISE. That doesn’t sound reassuring.

NEIL. Our messages are encrypted in transit. But encryption’s irrelevant if the end point is compromised.

DENISE. Can we speak freely, or can’t we?

Beat. NEIL considers his answer.

NEIL. We can try.

DENISE. Before we start, I have to ask: why me? This is a long way outside my usual ‘beat’…

NEIL. I know.

DENISE. Plenty of journalists who cover this stuff for a living. Some of them work for me.

NEIL. It has to be you.

DENISE. Why?

NEIL. Because she liked you.

DENISE. Who?

NEIL. Cora. (Then.) Cora Preece.

The name shocks DENISE.

DENISE. Do you have information? About what happened to Cora?

NEIL. I think it’s probable that I know more about Cora Preece than anyone else on this planet.

DENISE. And what do you want in return? How much – ?

NEIL. I don’t want money.

DENISE. Then what do you want?

NEIL pulls down the hood, uncovering his face. He looks up.

NEIL. I want to confess.

The sound of a roaring car engine booms out – as the circle of light fades on DENISE.

A colourful computer game projects against the back wall: Rocket League, a rocket-powered car flying through the air, hitting a gigantic football.

ZEF. Are we playing, or what? Come on, I’m inviting you.

Lights up on ZEF (dressed in urban-ninja casuals, immaculately groomed, with the kind of hair that takes time, gel and practise to achieve), sitting across the stage from NEIL, holding a wireless gaming controller.

ZEF’s computer screen is projected behind his head for the audience – playing Rocket League in ‘Free Play’ mode, warming up.

NEIL (to ZEF). Shouldn’t we be working?

NEIL steps into the scene – a small office, NEIL and ZEF at their respective desks.

NEIL’s computer screen flickers to life, projected behind him – a ‘bloop’ sound as an alert pops up: ‘ Party invitation from CASANOVA_BOMB_3000’.

ZEF. Can’t.

NEIL. We could, technically.

ZEF. You saw Mike’s email. As of this morning, we work exclusively on the MOD leak. And we’re forbidden from starting work until we’ve received our initial briefing. Have you received your initial briefing?

NEIL. No…

ZEF. Neither have I. So we can stare at the wall for an hour, or…

NEIL picks up a wireless controller of his own. Taps a button and joins the game.

Yes, mate! Prepare to get scored on.

The game counts down to kick-off – NEIL vs ZEF, one-on-one. Their cars race towards the ball, collide and… the ball ricochets off a wall, straight into ZEF’s net. ‘NEIL_B4_ME scored!’ displays on the screen.

What the –

NEIL. If you don’t flip, you get dunked on.

ZEF. Jammy bastard. Don’t even pretend you did that on purpose.

They kick off again – ZEF doing better this time. The game begins in earnest, NEIL and ZEF mashing their controller buttons through what follows.

… HANNAH (smartly dressed, hard-edged, in a hurry) strides into the room behind them, a slim laptop slung under one arm. She takes in the room –

Glaring first at NEIL, then at ZEF –

HANNAH (under her breath). Fuck’s sake.

HANNAH exits, pulling a phone out of her pocket as she leaves. NEIL and ZEF glance at each other for a moment (‘Who was that?’) before resuming their game.

A voice from the corridor – HANNAH talking angrily into her phone.

(Off.) Dom, what the fuck is this? I was promised a task force.

NEIL and ZEF pause their game, panicked.

ZEF (quietly). Who’s that?

NEIL shrugs. (‘No idea.’)

HANNAH (off, into phone). No, Dom. Two pyjama-clad adolescents playing video games in a cupboard does not constitute a bloody ‘task force’.

NEIL and ZEF look down at their clothes.

ZEF (quietly). D’you think she knows we can hear her?

NEIL (quietly). I suspect she knows, but doesn’t care.

HANNAH (off). Well, I’m starting to question Mike’s judgement. There must be a more experienced team – (Beat.) No, not yet, but I’m not going to waste my time – (Beat.) With all due respect – is that a request, or an order? (Beat.) Fine.

HANNAH re-enters the office, stony-faced. NEIL and ZEF alt-tab away from their game – both their screens showing a bland computer desktop with a corporate logo – a red ellipse orbiting a blue crown – in the centre.

This is three-two-four-C?

ZEF. Er – yes, ma’am.

HANNAH. National Defence Info-Sec?

NEIL. Yes, ma’am.

HANNAH. Are there more of you? (Off their confused expressions.) Fine. Let’s get this over with. I’m Hannah Barker, Deputy Director, CTD. (Indicating a screen on the back wall.) Does that screen work?

NEIL and ZEF gawp at HANNAH, awestruck, as she flips open her laptop.

ZEF. Counter-Terror?

NEIL. Mike never said anything about –

HANNAH. Turn on the screen, please, I don’t have all day.

ZEF (scrambling into action). Yes, ma’am. Course, ma’am. The remote’s… (Shovels aside detritus on his desk.) around here… somewhere… it’s…

NEIL grabs a TV remote from his own spotless desk – tosses it to ZEF.

(Catching the remote.)… here.

ZEF turns on the screen, offers the remote to HANNAH. She takes it reluctantly, as if it might harbour an infection. The screen flickers to life, displaying a PowerPoint title slide:

‘OPERATION NYX GAMMA’.

Smaller text at the top of the slide reads: ‘TOP SECRET STRAP2’.

I’m Zef, this is / Neil –

HANNAH (ignoring him). Let me start by warning you both, in the plainest possible terms, that the information you’re about to hear is –

NEIL puts up his hand.

How can you possibly have a question already?

NEIL. Have we started yet? The task force?

HANNAH. Of course you haven’t started – I haven’t told you what you’re doing.

ZEF. We’ve read the briefing – Ministry of Defence has a leak. Someone’s been sending stories to The Sun and the Guardian, about the state of Britain’s armed forces – equipment shortages, troop morale, sexy misconduct –

NEIL. – sexual misconduct –

ZEF. – among senior officers, plus some tasty details about arms deals with Saudi Arabia. MOD wants to know who’s leaking, Special Branch and BSS investigated –

NEIL. – but since they don’t know one end of an ethernet cable from the other –

ZEF. – they came crawling to us for help.

HANNAH. That… is an absurd simplification of a complicated situation. As I will explain if you’ll –

NEIL. So we have started, then? This is the briefing?

HANNAH. Yes, the task force has started.

NEIL nods. He and ZEF start typing – their screens blasting into life, a cascade of database queries, network maps, spreadsheets, email accounts and phone logs piling up at dizzying speed.

As I was trying to explain… The first story appeared over three years ago, under the byline of the Guardian’s veteran defence correspondent, Fergus Kay.

The byline photo of a grey-haired journalist appears on the projector screen.

If you turn to page two of your… (Noticing the typing.) For God’s sake – can you not type while I’m bloody talking!

ZEF and NEIL barely seem to hear her – their fingers still flying across the keyboards, their screens bouncing with new windows, coding scripts and charts.

That’s it. (Snaps her laptop shut.) I tried. (Heading for the door.) I’ll be reporting your complete lack of / professionalism to –

NEIL and ZEF (simultaneously). Found her.

Pause.

ZEF grabs the TV remote, taps a button – switching the input. A new image appears on the screen – a staff photo of a woman in her forties.

HANNAH. Pardon?

NEIL. The leak – we found her. Her name is Alissa Clifton-Ford, she’s the Senior Strategy Consultant to the Minister for Defence Procurement, before that she was –

ZEF. … Secretary to the Communications Director. We’ve got her red-handed for… eleven…

NEIL. … Twelve…

ZEF. … twelve of the fourteen leaked stories. Probably all of them – we’ll double-check.

HANNAH. That’s… ridiculous. How could you –

NEIL. Simple cross-matching algorithm. An eight-year-old child could have done it.

ZEF. Which is probably why MI5 had so much trouble.

NEIL. She leaked the first three stories by email, from an account she set up under a fake name, but then linked to her personal Hotmail account when she set it up. Schoolboy error. We’ve got the text messages arranging their meetings – which they didn’t even encrypt. Plus the fact that Fergus Kay drafts all his articles