The Ambassador (42 page)

He made a pencilled list.

‘There are links between you lot,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sure of it. But what?’ He peered more closely then drew a circle round four words. Two were the same.
PM. PM. Prime Minister.

‘Surely not.’ Colonel Thompson did not believe in luck, or in coincidence. Just because three out of the four revolved somehow around the Prime Minister, it didn’t mean that the fourth did too. On the other hand, nothing was impossible.

Could the Prime Minister have been involved in some way in the death of the young
Americans? He reopened the powerbook and used his ID to scroll through the official file. The inquiry seemed to have stalled at an early stage. That suggested a speedy decision not to track down the killers or to publish the exact nature of the outrage. Or maybe somebody knew already and preferred the information kept under wraps.

‘He’s an old rogue and I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him,’ Thompson growled. Ministry gossip placed others in the administration on a higher mental plane. His own contacts with Everidge, first at the Palace where he had been a largely silent and indifferent observer, later ostensibly for briefing, had made a poor impression. In his estimation the man, whatever enhanced genes he might possess, did not have the intellect or twisted vision to develop a plot for himself. Somebody else, another NT, was behind all this. But it had to be a senior figure with whom the Prime Minister was intimate, and who was both subtle and powerful enough to bend the PM’s will to his own. If not one man, then a bevy of them.

They had to be civilians. The grapevine of the military was extraordinarily effective; had a coup been planned by anyone wearing a Eurocorps uniform, it would have been noticed and excised very firmly indeed. Too many European regions had painful memories of tanks in their main squares, of flame-throwers directed at their own unarmed citizens. The interregnum in the West, when royal families had been replaced by quasi-elected Presidents backed by martial law, was still spoken of in hushed tones. Loyalty to due authority had been drummed into the military ever since, but tempered by a shrewd awareness of the quality and style of those holding high office. ‘Following orders’ was no longer in law a defence for mistakes. Whenever due process was at risk the hairs rose on the back of Mike Thompson’s neck. And they were rising now.

4. Acceleration project. PM sent out circular about this – limited access. What’s he trying to accelerate?

‘I don’t know the answer to that, but it’s the key.’ Thompson leaned back in his chair and sucked his teeth, his brow furrowed in thought. There had been no official announcements, but the Prime Minister had been overheard at a ministry reception boastfully outlining it to Morrison, the Defence Permanent Secretary, whose manner had been one of intense concentration. Sir Robin Butler-Armstrong had hovered nearby, looking inscrutable. The Colonel hadcaught only scraps of the conversation. As he had sidled closer the subject had been changed. That alone intrigued him.

He reached for the vidphone, flicked it on and set the scrambler. In a moment he had been connected to the number he wanted.

A pretty blonde receptionist smiled at him. ‘Porton Down Laboratories, Miranda speaking. How may I help you?’

The greeting sounded so old-fashioned that Thompson had to stop himself laughing at her. Most switchboards were automatic and simply requested the name of the person required in a flat, tinny tone.

‘Professor Churchill’s office, please.’

In a moment the Professor appeared and identified himself. Below his face on Thompson’s screen appeared the lettering
Source: Porton Down
. At his end, Churchill would know only that the caller was from the Ministry of Defence in London.

‘My name is Colonel Mike Thompson. I work for Mr Morrison, the Permanent Secretary here. He wants me to get more background on the acceleration project the Prime Minister was telling him about. Could you fill me in, please?’

‘This.’

Lisa held up the tiny metallic object with a wide smile. The amber earrings swung and twinkled in the afternoon light. It seemed to Strether, seated on the sofa in her London apartment, that everything in it was brown or gold, pure ancient colours, earthy and warm. Those honey-flecked eyes of hers were alive with pleasure. Her dark hair, brushed and loose, swung about the nape of her neck; her cheeks were flushed. Her shirt and the narrow trousers were a pale khaki shade which flattered her.

He felt his soul sigh; she had a bloom about her, something new and womanly. It came achingly to him then, as he observed her, so excited and queenly, how much he had lost when she followed Marius out into the hangar. She was more than a remarkable woman: she had been the woman he loved. And still did, though never again as a lover.

‘It’s a minidisk,’ she explained. ‘A back-up. We used to use them a lot when systems were less reliable. It has everything we need – chapter and verse.’

She pointed to the chocolates. The elaborate box was nearly empty, with silver and red foil scrunched up inside. ‘Only one person was privy to that secret vice. I hadn’t even told you, Marius. And that’s how Winston got the material out.’

Marius was seated on a low chair on the opposite side of the room. He brushed a hand wearily over his hair. To Strether he appeared exhausted, though after some persuasion the silvery gun had been returned to its hidden inner pocket.

The Prince’s voice was barely more than a croak. ‘What do you propose to do with it, Lisa? You can’t leave it lying around.’

‘Absolutely. But we have our own diplomatic bag sitting right here.’ The potential insult made her giggle. She laid a hand on Strether’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, Bill. I didn’t mean it like that. But you will work with us, won’t you?’

Mistily, the Ambassador recalled those minutes in the dimly lit hangar when,
voyeur-like
, he had observed Lisa and the Prince together. She had been arguing furiously with him, pleading, haranguing him. Marius had tried to disengage himself and had protested his unsuitability for the role she and others wished to foist on him. Given the waves of despair that seemed now to emanate from his slumped figure, perhaps he had been right first time.

But on that occasion, Strether recalled forcefully, as he had felt slip through his fingers a future with the slim woman who now half bounced, half danced about the living space, he had made a promise. That, loving them both, he would help them in whatever way he could.

‘It seems to me,’ he suggested quietly, ‘that we have to remove that disk to
safe-keeping
in the United States of America, pronto. You can leave that to me. We can analyse the material, publish excerpts, and ensure, through CNN and elsewhere, that the news is spread world-wide. That should stop the Énarchy in their tracks, make ’em think twice. At least, those who are attempting to take the Union into a minefield.’

‘What they’re up to is madness,’ came from Marius in a low growl. ‘You see bits, then when you put the whole picture together you’re appalled. I wish we’d never started on
this genetic programme game.’

‘No, Marius, you can’t say that. It’s done such a lot of good,’ Lisa began, but he waved away her objections with a dismissive hand.

‘I haven’t benefited from it. Neither has Bill here. Nor Winston, who slaved away to get us this disk and paid for it with his life, poor sod. Nobody’s shoved our chromosomes about and told us at the microscopic stage to do this or that. We’re different, and it’s a blessing somebody is.’

His speech had an edge of belligerence and anger. Lisa put a restraining hand on his arm, and spoke more calmly. ‘Your abilities occurred naturally. Don’t you want everyone else to have the same chance?’

‘Oh, don’t, Lisa. There’s no black or white about this. Nature does a pretty good job on her own, you know.’ He started to bite a fingernail, a new habit, until her eyes caught him in sweet reproof.

‘Yes,’ she smiled, ‘I do know.’ And she circled her hand on her belly, then her face broke into a delighted, girlish grin. Her eyes were for Marius alone: Strether felt completely superfluous, yet privileged to be allowed to stay. ‘And you will too, soon.’

‘You’re talking in riddles, Lisa. What do you mean?’

‘I’m pregnant.’

The Prince jumped up in astonishment. ‘You are?’ His face was a tumble of emotions; Strether recognised panic, then doubt, then wonder. ‘But I thought – I mean, you said you were safe!’

Strether smothered a chuckle. She had been so in charge, the Lisa he once knew, in the embassy, on 4 July, upstairs in the private room as dusk fell outside. If this young woman was pregnant, there was only one explanation. It was because she intended it.

As Marius floundered Strether rose and, in as avuncular a fashion as he could manage, held Lisa’s hands clasped in his own. ‘My warmest congratulations, dear girl,’ he boomed, and kissed her on both cheeks.

‘Oh, my God,’ was all Marius could offer for some minutes, then ‘Oh, my God’ several times more. Then he whooped with animal joy, swept her into his embrace and held her, then walked her round so he could look at her, shyly as if she were a precious work of art instead of a robustly healthy young female. At last he stopped, his expression a daze mingled with pride and happiness.

‘I’ve never touched a pregnant woman before. What happens now? Will you be okay? Will it –?’

‘The midwifery manuals say so. I looked them up – fascinating stuff. I’m supposed to feel sick when I wake for a couple of months, then we should start noticing the bump. And it will start to kick around sixteen weeks.’ All this was delivered matter-of-factly, though Lisa could not keep a shaky tremor entirely out of her voice.

‘It?’ Strether murmured. ‘Boy or girl? What do you think?’

The putative parents stopped their gyrations. Lisa laughed. ‘Goodness, I haven’t a clue. And no way of finding out. Unless I go to a non-NT clinic. That’d be an adventure in itself.’

‘Does it matter?’ said Strether. ‘You’d welcome it, boy or girl, wouldn’t you?’

‘Of course it matters,’ Lisa said instantly. ‘Some genetic defects are carried by male
gametes only …’ She stopped dead and her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, heavens, I can’t talk like that any more. We’ll never know. That checking and cleansing should have been done already. It’s a bit late.’ She became crestfallen. ‘And I was so damned thrilled at getting into this interesting state.’

Strether pushed home his advantage. ‘But, Lisa, it might be better this way. You wouldn’t terminate. Not if you’re the person I think you are. My wife and I were never lucky, but we’d have been grateful for whatever bundle of creation came to us. The baby will be strong and fit, boy or girl. But even if it had any problem, you would love it dearly.’

She gazed at him, her eyes enormous. ‘What do you mean?’

‘It will be your baby. Yours and Marius’s. Untouched by human hand, unseen by human eye. Until your little boy – or girl – is born and placed in your arms. And you will adore him for the rest of your lives, whatever he is. Blond or dark, blue-eyed or brown, tall or small, whatever, he’ll be a unique production with no copies, no blueprint. Except what you already have in the two of you. And to me, I must say, that’s a magnificent combination.’

And Strether took their hands, and held them tightly, and could say no more, though his heart was full to bursting with the realisation of what might have been: his child, his own, a son. But then he let them go, as Marius and Lisa clung together, their bodies entwined, with the tiny life to come pulsing and growing between them.

The DNA detector in the metal binding had registered its main target twice. Minute flakes of skin, a hair, droplets of breath were all it needed. But its processes were more intricate, the inadvertently revengeful fruit of a dead soul: that of the murdered records clerk. But not until the DNA of a second target was present, with both men in the vicinity, was the fuse to be activated.

The bomb used a refined form of Semtex. An anonymous blob no larger than a fingernail could be disguised as a piece of chewing-gum or, in this case, as a scrap of blu-tack apparently left over from a previous use, stuck inside a file-box.

A blue file-box which, at the split-second of ignition as the second man entered the room, was sitting neglected on a chair in the corner of Sir Lyndon Everidge’s office in the House of Commons.

Lisa and Marius clung together. She was shaking, her arms bent double before her body, her eyes wide with terror. He grasped her by the elbows tightly to steady her and stared closely into her face.

‘We have no choice. Get packed. Fast as you can.’

‘What’s happened – and why us? You’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘No, I don’t think so either, but it won’t stop them. They’ll grab it as an excuse. They’ll round up everyone. Get cracking – just what we can carry, mind. Do you have your passport?’

‘Passport? No. Why would I need a passport? It’s in Porton Down. I only use it for scientific conferences. Where are we going?’

‘Not sure. But we can’t stay here.’

With leaden movements Lisa started to open cupboards and drawers and pulled out a suitcase. Suddenly Marius slumped down on the bed.

‘Oh, my dearest. You ask what’s happened. I haven’t the faintest idea. How did that bomb get planted? Who else in Solidarity could gain access to the House of Commons – to Lyndon Everidge’s own office? Is there an insider? Maybe it was another group. Nobody’s claimed responsibility. I was there myself only a few hours before …’

‘Maybe it was you,’ Lisa said, without thinking, clothes clutched in a jumble to her breast like protective armour. Marius seized her arm and whirled her round.

‘What did you say?’

‘You were there. You just said so, Maybe it was you. The best courier is one who isn’t aware he’s carrying something. Did you take anything with you? Leave anything behind?’

Years of travelling as a small boy returned to Marius, who lifted the pile of garments from her and began methodically to place them in the suitcase. He thought hard before answering. ‘No, not that I’m aware of. Only some papers for the Prime Minister. I shouldn’t think he glanced at them twice.’

Their eyes met. ‘Oh, Lord. That’s it. Timed to explode after I left.’

Lisa’s voice was toneless and almost devoid of emotion. ‘Could have been more sophisticated than that – some detector fuses can sniff their targets. They can wait till the right people are in the neighbourhood. Then they’ll go off. Not before.’

‘How do you know?’

She shrugged. ‘I heard Winston talk about it once. He said the problem was to get the explosives close enough to the chosen victim.’

‘Which they managed. Spectacularly. Three people blown to pieces – the cleaner in the corridor outside, the junior secretary and Sir Robin.’

‘Sir Robin must have been the one for whom the bomb was primed. His DNA would be on record at Porton Down from his visits. The others were probably accidental: in the wrong place at the wrong time, I suppose.’ Lisa frowned. ‘Not that that’s any excuse. I worked with Winston all those years. I never thought he had murder in him.’

‘Maybe no one realised how much he hated the system. And what it did to him.’

‘That’s no excuse either. Not in my view.’ She stood quietly, her hands loose at the
sides. The glow Strether had noted had vanished, replaced by a dull listlessness.

Marius wanted to agree with her, but any chivalrous sentiments had been destroyed for ever during the altercation with Everidge. Rather than argue he stroked her face tenderly. ‘The Prime Minister escaped. I’m not sure whether that pleases me or not.’

‘Goodness knows why he was spared.’ A mild animation returned; now, she moved round the room quickly, almost throwing items into the open case until it overflowed. ‘Charmed life, that man. Maybe it was aimed at his DNA too and he was simply on the other side of the room.’

‘Like Hitler.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

She stood, hands on hips, contemplating the packing. ‘Will that do?’

He tidied the top layer and closed the clasp. He tested its weight then, with shoulders humped and head bowed, turned towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Where to?’ She picked up her tunic, carried his. It would be sunny outside. Elsewhere, it might be much colder.

‘I don’t know, Lisa. God help us, I wish I did.’

Maxwell Packer ran a finger round the close-fitting neck of his tunic. Black, a silk and linen mixture, suitable for a solemn day, though a trifle warm for the studio. He stood bolt upright at his desk, another well-manicured fingernail poised over the
Off
button.

‘Lady Butler-Armstrong,’ he was saying, in a voice oiled with sympathy, ‘I do totally understand. Normally, of course, I would do what you wish. Far better to keep these tragedies private. Nobody’s business. Absolutely.’

His finger hovered; a closer examination would have detected impatience on his taut features. On the vidphone the old lady’s mouth was contorted in distress. At Packer’s end the sound was lowered so that only a squawky burble emerged. He nodded gravely.

‘We do, Lady Butler-Armstrong. We can usually reassure the authorities that troublesome incidents are not highlighted. It is in no one’s interests to do so. Far better to ignore them. Keeps the peace, avoids alarm. Viewers prefer it, I quite agree. But these are not normal times. In this case I regret – difficult to deny – big explosion – such a public place…’

The producer stuck his head round the door anxiously. If the station owner really did want to make the opening announcement for the flagship programme he had only forty seconds to take his place before the camera. Packer grimaced. He was still speaking as he pressed the control.

‘I apologise. Sincerely. A tribute programme. Then that’s it. Goodbye.’

The red light over the automatic camera winked. Packer slid noiselessly into the seat, adjusted the desk microphone and furrowed his brow. It took him back to his early days as a tyro reporter on local television in Australia. He had bought that station, and others, and had kept on buying until his empire’s annual turnover now exceeded fifty billion euros. Those Hong Kong and Malaccas backers had been generous. His friends in high places had been hugely supportive; he had reciprocated whenever possible, with a broadcast entertainment and sport service second to none. But, despite those pleas for a complete blackout, this was rare news, which made his pulse race. Moreover, the ten-second slots in the commercial
break had been sold for a quarter of a million euros each; an opportunity not to be missed.

Packer’s pale eyes narrowed on the rolling autocue. He had written the script himself. Behind him swelled the sullen boom of the Death March from
Saul
; the usual credits with their plinkety signature tune had been abandoned for this special edition.

‘
Good evening. Welcome to
Speak to the World,
your nightly news and reviews round-up. This is – Maxwell Packer
.’ He let the enormity of that name sink in, then pulled down the sides of his mouth and shook his head slightly. As a young trainee he had seen videos of Dan Rather and Sir David Frost: it was a style worthy of imitation.

‘
Barely twenty-four hours has passed since the bomb outrage at Westminster. Later in the programme we bring you live interviews with the relatives of the tragic victims, who’ll tell us how they are feeling now, and with the police chief charged with catching the perpetrators of this monstrous crime. Here in the studio our political correspondent, Harold Docherty, will be assessing the life and career of the murdered head of the home civil service, Sir Robin Butler-Armstrong. May he rest in peace. We have exclusive footage from inside the damaged room, showing where the ceiling fell in and trapped the survivors including Prime Minister Sir Lyndon Everidge, who I hope will be well enough for me to talk to. But now, ladies and gentlemen, viewers, I beg you all to join me in a moment of prayer
…
’

Strether’s vidphone had been a battleground the entire afternoon. Anxious not to lose any transmissions he had grabbed a double-user connection from a nearby office and had been taping anything that showed, even the scrappy emergency bursts that interrupted more sedate items. It seemed wiser for the moment to remain in
Accept
mode and listen to everything, rather than try to send any messages himself. In any case, he was as yet unsure what line to take, other than to express condolences to the families. With the scrambler and filter both switched off in order not to interfere with any fainter fragments, normality intervened bizarrely from time to time with junk mail and invitations to dinners and seminars. It made his head reel.

‘Ambassador Strether and two guests are invited to a preview of the spring collections at Saks Fifth Avenue, Thatcher Square, SW1
…
’

‘Christmas shopping by computer! All your requirements at the push of a button, delivered direct to your door! Ten euros off your first order
…
’

‘Mayday – Mayday – Solidarity – all friends please – help us – our headquarters are being raided – troops of the First Division, Eurocorps – unauthorised entry – Rottweiler SS in attendance – arresting everyone – our situation is desperate – Mayday, Mayday – assistance needed –’

‘Ambassador, scramble your phone please. Incoming message from the Secretary of State …
’

‘We appeal to our friends – for God’s sake don’t abandon us – Mayday, Mayday –’

‘Bill I have to speak to you – Bill – please –’

The last voice was female and sounded strange and wobbly, almost but not quite unrecognisable and nothing like the breathy drawl he had learned to adore. Quickly he pressed
Transmit
but she had gone. Cursing his slowness he leaped to the door and yelled down the corridor.

‘Somebody come help monitor these contacts! Keep all lines open! People are trying
to get through. It’s mayhem in here. What the fuck’s going on?’

A young woman staffer trotted down the hallway, paper in hand. Strether recalled her tearstained face in the downstairs hall when Matt and Dirk had been killed. ‘Sir, it’s under control. But a message is arriving for you direct on the scrambled phone.’

She handed the paper to him with a slight smile. ‘The operator said he couldn’t get through to you because your girlfriend was on the line. Sir.’ She paused while Strether read the message, which he then showed to her without a word. She tilted her head, and abandoned the coquetry. ‘I’ll go see if there’s any more, sir.’

Back in his own office the vidscreen was a virulent oblong of zizzing lines, black and white, rainbow flashes. Then a face he knew, a blue turban, wild hollow eyes.

‘This is Spartacus. To all allies and supporters. Mayday, Mayday. We are under attack –’

A burst of – what? – machine-gun fire, or a laser gun which, at short range, sounded much the same, and a noise of shattering glass. The image blipped from the screen. Strether swore, twiddled knobs, crashed his fist down on the table. But the monitor had gone blank.

He waited, panting, an artery thrumming in his temple. Then the emptiness resolved itself into blue skies, trees laden with blossom and mood music.

‘New improved Levi’s – made from genetically modified cotton with natural in-built colour, environmentally friendly, no toxic dyes, no waste. Available in your size, William Strether. Call this number now …’

The expletive he used surprised even himself. Then he examined the flimsy pink paper on which the staffer had printed out the scrambled message from State.

‘The uprising to be monitored with the greatest care. No public statements. Explosions reported in central Paris, Berlin, Prague – small-scale, sporadic but coordinated. Satellites show street action in Gdansk and Warsaw. Troop movements around Brussels but quiet. Use your own judgement about asylum seekers …’

Spartacus had said little about continental contacts. In fact, Spartacus had said precious little, it transpired, on anything except what suited him. Though the Sikh’s sincerity was not in question, his tactics were distinctly devious and had probably served the cause ill. With a sinking sensation at the pit of his stomach Strether realised that the Prince equally might have been kept in the dark.

The Ambassador ran to the elderly television in the corner of the room and set it to CNN. The picture was fuzzy; someone was trying to jam the broadcast and almost succeeding. But the commentary was loud and clear and appeared to be coming from Hamburg where part of the waterfront was alight.

The girl hurried in with another pink sheet, tapping briefly on the door as she entered. ‘I thought you’d like this straight away, sir,’ she added. He read it, and passed a heavy hand over his brow.

‘You should know that the last of the boat people has just died here. Whatever was done to them, it’s not reversible. Take all care.’

He turned to the young woman. ‘Anyone knocks on our door asking for help, we let them in. Anyone. Understood?’

Instantly she was the consummate professional. ‘Consider it done. And, sir –’

‘Yes?’ He was impatient and upset.

‘That’ll be a popular move here. The best response by far. Thank you.’

Sir Lyndon hitched the sling higher over his shoulder and forced himself not to wince. He had insisted on being fully dressed for his first appearance since his discharge from hospital. The television makeup made his skin feel sticky, but it concealed the minor lacerations and mini-dressings. When he had been found under the rubble, his head covered in gore, the paramedic had screamed; survival at first had seemed unlikely.

Across the interview table sat his old crony and drinking partner Max Packer, looking disgustingly spruce and sober in trim black. For nobody else –
nobody
– would the Prime Minister have given a live interview. The favour would have to be returned, sooner or later: a plum job for a grand-daughter, perhaps, or an adulatory documentary on governmental achievements on the eve of the election. The producer, a slim youth, treated his proprietor with due awe and flitted about like a fussy sparrow. Everidge’s shoulder ached viciously. But the interview had to be done, as Packer had urged, in order to reassure the nation.

The injuries,’ Packer empathised. He motioned at the sling. ‘Prime Minister. You have been seriously hurt.’