Dead in the Water (45 page)

“
Dunno,” says the AA man. “Have to look at it first, then I’ll tell you.” Surly bastard. When the car won’t start, Mark can’t hold back the mordant smile that barely conceals ‘I told you so’. He’d been half expecting an intermittent fault that they wouldn’t be able to do anything about. But the engine is completely dead. “Both engines,” says the AA man.

“
What do you mean?”

His pleasure at the speed of the AA response evaporates as the otherwise taciturn mechanic, technician, operative, or whatever it is they call themselves these days, informs Mark that he has a hybrid car with an electrical engine connected to a petrol engine. Both engines are dead. However much of a techno-phobe he might consider himself to be, Mark bridles at being patronised in this way. He lets the man get on with his work without any further attempt to engage him in conversation. After less than five minutes the guy announces that a problem with one of the fuel cells has damaged the charging circuit. “You just don’t have any power.” Smug fuck. I think I knew that, he says to himself.

“
Can you fix it here?”

The guy mutters about things taking as long as they take. Mark might as well be talking to himself; and he climbs over the gate and goes to sit down in the field and look through some of the papers he’s brought with him for the Summit. It comes as quite a surprise when, after only quarter of an hour, he hears the car start. The guy has replaced the faulty battery cell and replaced a chip in the central computer.

“
As simple as that,” says Mark

“
If you know what you’re doing.”

Using a credit card, Mark pays the guy for the materials – an excessive amount in his book. If the little shit expected a tip, he’s got another think coming. Mark thanks him politely, gets into the car and drives on his way. Bloody garage. Why do cars always go wrong just after they’ve been in for a service? He checks the radio. Brilliant: it works, though disconnecting the electrics has lost the tuning on the saved stations. He fiddles around and just catches the start of the eleven o’clock news headlines. More arrests have been made in the aftermath of the Saint Benedict’s shooting and there is a general sense of relief that an appalling atrocity was narrowly avoided. Towards the end of the bulletin there’s a minor piece about a fire at a house in Wood Green in which three members of a Kurdish family have died.

The thought quickly fades. He has plenty to occupy him – not least finding the way to Chequers. Whatever else the AA man has fixed, the navigation system is still not working. There may be signposts at every crossroads, but they seem to have been erected as heritage entertainment for tourists and urban visitors, pointing to Alice-in-Wonderland villages with bizarre names that don’t appear on his map and which, if the signposts are to be believed, get further away as you approach.

A security guard, armed with a semi automatic weapon, is stationed at the gate to the Chequers Estate, an armoured vehicle lurking none too discreetly in the background; and, no doubt, marksmen camouflaged as scarecrows and anti-aircraft missiles hidden in outhouses. Mark is asked for his identity card and vetting documents, which he produces. He knew to expect this level of security, but the reality of it still makes him uneasy. What are they expecting?

He’s given the OK; and then, as he places his identity card back in his wallet, he notices the AA membership card and realises that the crabby little shit with the fancy yellow van never asked to see it. Just as well. He’d only have found something wrong with it and kept him hanging around with bureaucratic nonsense for another half hour.

The security people ring through to somebody in SIS, one of Miss Prim’s cronies, who passes on instructions that he should park at the back of the house, by the kitchens and what used to be known as the tradesmen’s entrance, well out of sight of anyone important.

Mark’s is one of a suite of newly refurbished office-bedrooms at the side of the house; those at the back, with magnificent views over the thousand acre park, are reserved for the Heads of State, who are not due until around three. With the car breaking down, Mark has missed the preparatory meeting with Mrs W. She’s left word for him that she’ll find time to talk to him later – no doubt a coded message that she’s furious with him.

Mark enjoyed his previous visits to Chequers – the first of which had the feel of a relaxed house party. One of Angela Walker’s PR people had evidently advised her that the way to appear in touch was to be seen to be hosting celebrity parties; actors and sports people mingling with high ranking police officers; rock stars and breakfast time TV presenters with the kings and queens of enterprise and commerce; the Great and the Good sharing dinner tables with the Noble and the Nutty, the Worthy and the Weird. Angela Walker’s taste for glitz and fast-track Celebrity does not, however, match some of her predecessors; and she soon reverted to a more old fashioned use of Chequers. Mark’s second visit was as part of a small group of close advisers to formulate key policy decisions; in Business-Speak, a Blue Sky Away Day. That’s where the big She coined the phrase ‘serious informality’. Looking back to that weekend now, as he unpacks his overnight bag, he wonders if it marked the turning point in the new government’s approach to policy, indicating the shift from the postures of radicalism to the realities of compromise and gradualism; and he muses wryly that the gathering was not so much a forum for Angela Walker to consult her closest advisers as an intensive session of house training for Mark and his colleagues.

The people already here are support staff – administrators, advisers, personal secretaries – and, of course, Angela Walker. His preparatory briefing with Herself may have been postponed, but he has to jump straight into a whirlpool of informal, unminuted meetings with his counterparts from each of the other five countries attending the Summit; his job to explore attitudes, find common ground and explore possible sticking points.

If the PM still wants him to speak publicly to everyone present during the first Sunday morning session, that is the time to proclaim his newly rediscovered radicalism. It may risk being over dramatic, but it will surely be highly effective.

He had thought that Andrew Linden would arrive with the other big wigs; but, like Mrs. W, he has been here for most of the day – no doubt enhancing the charm initiative. They are both present throughout the afternoon, ever smiling and admirably gracious. Linden, as if working to a script, takes five minutes to express his delight at bumping into Mark; but there is clearly another purpose behind the impromptu encounter, a good humoured reiteration of Mrs W’s warning not to demonise the Americans. As Linden turns to go, Mark calls after him,

“
Andrew.”

“
Yes.”

“
My daughter, Rachel ––”

“
Not now. Sorry. Lets talk on Monday.” He smiles and has already greeted the German Foreign Minister. Not Monday, thinks Mark.
Tonight. I’m going to bloody collar you, Linden, if I have to come to your bedroom at two in the morning.

At about quarter to three the official cars start to arrive, pulling up in front of the house and disgorging their VIP occupants before being whisked away to keep the grand nineteenth century drive looking splendidly unblemished by twenty first century intrusions.

Although the atmosphere may be styled as ‘relaxed’, there is no such thing as ‘personal time’ for the likes of Mark on these occasions. The reception takes place in what was once the ballroom. Mark is usually good at this kind of socialising, even if he’s not in quite the same league as Linden. Today, however, as so often in the past week or so, he finds himself drifting and unfocused; worried about Stephen.

To his amazement, Angela Walker introduces him to the American President. He has never met her before; and is caught completely off his guard. She’s renowned for her ferocious intellect, but it’s the blend of grace, power and charisma which overwhelms Mark.

“
Angela was telling me, Mark, of your concerns about Venezuela.” She flatters him with her total attention, encouraging Mark to tell Rachel’s story; to share his belief that the
Angels of Light
are connected to the violence and instability in Venezuela. She is even warmly sympathetic with Mark’s view that they should be discussing this connection at the Summit.

“
Believe me, Mark. It’s high on our agenda. Instability in Venezuela is not in our interests, not in anyone’s interests in the civilised world. We have sent troops in to Caracas to calm the situation, but it would not be good for American troops to be seen to be acting against American citizens, even if they are rogue elements – so that is a covert operation; and it needs to remain so. I think it was your Winston Churchill who said that America can be relied upon to do the right thing – but only after it has exhausted all other possibilities!” She smiles and they laugh together. In spite of himself, Mark basks in the glow of sharing a private joke with the American President.

From the other side of the room, Mrs W asks them all to raise their glasses and they drink to the success of the Summit. As he joins in, Mark notices Robyn Westacott standing by the door to the entrance hall. She’s looking straight at him; and wants him to join her. He’d not expected her to be here in person. At the end of Mrs W’s speech he slides out of the room and she ushers him into a small office.

“
I thought you’d want to know. Your son, Stephen, has been arrested. I assure you he’ll be alright. He’s being questioned right now. That may take a couple of days. They won’t hold him longer than that. I’m sorry that sounds as if I’m the bringer of bad news.” She lays her hand on his forearm in consolation. “But believe me. I think it’s for the best.”

“
Thank you for telling me.”

“
How’s Rachel? After her ordeal?”

“
Very distressed I think. But coping. It’ll take a while; but she’ll be alright.”

“
Where is she now?”

“
Clifton Hamden. With Joanna. I’d have thought you’d have known that. I took her there myself. In the car. I drove her there this morning. You didn’t know that? I thought I was supposed to be under surveillance ––”

“
Mr. Boyd, since we had it checked over, your car’s been under constant surveillance. It’s not a security risk. And you are not a security threat.”

“
Not to anybody else; but my security’s threatened alright. You bloody told me that. You told me that I was being watched.”

“
Your drove her to Clifton Hamden?”

“
Yes. It’s not exactly on route; but it’s not that much of a detour. She wanted to see her mother and I thought that would be the safest place for her. I drove her to Clifton Hamden. She rang her mother, and I stayed with her until Joanna turned up. I didn’t want her in the house on her own.”

“
And then you drove here?”

“
Yes.” She looks worried. “Is that a problem?”

“
Tell me about it.”

“
Tell you about what?”

“
Driving here.”

He tells her as calmly as he can about the journey. About the break down. About the detour because of the congestion in Aylesbury. About the AA. Even about the little shit not checking the membership card.

“
What time?”

“
Must have been about ten o’clock the car broke down because until then I was on time and ––”

“
I drove through Aylesbury. There was no congestion.” Mark would rather not hear the tremor in her voice. “Where’s your car?” She already has her mobile out. “Stay here,” she barks, and she’s out of the door.

Alone in the room, adrenaline pumping, hands trembling, but clueless as to what the fuck is going on, Mark gets his own mobile out, wanting to ring home, to check that Joanna and Rachel are OK. He has barely flipped it open before two armed guards burst into the room, machine guns aimed directly at his heart.

“
Drop the phone. Put your hands in the air.”

One keeps a machine gun trained on him, while the other picks up the phone, then handcuffs him and leads him out of the front door into an armoured vehicle.

Inside the building, the six Heads of State, including Angela Walker and the American President are taking their places for their first private meeting in the fine lounge at the back of the building, with its high and expansive windows set in beautiful mullioned stone, looking over the terrace to the formal garden beyond.

Not all of them have yet sat down when plain clothes Special Forces enter the room and tell them that the building is about to come under terrorist attack and that they must evacuate it immediately. There is no panic, no rush – these people are used to security alerts – and it is to the great credit of everyone concerned that the room is empty when the blast occurs.

Whether it has been timed to go off at five thirty five, five minutes after the start of that first private meeting, or whether it is in some way triggered remotely will be the focus of the investigation in the weeks to come; but what is quickly established is that the source of the massive explosion, which virtually removes the back of the building, is Mark’s car, parked about 50 metres from the lounge – and, more precisely, as is revealed through painstaking forensic examination of the wreckage, a false battery cell containing an extremely powerful industrial explosive.

The only deaths are Angela Walker’s two Belgian Shepherd dogs, kennelled in a former stable block near the kitchens.