The Lords' Day (retail) (29 page)

She was trying too hard, being too masculine and, although they didn’t know it, she was also a little drunk, but her alcohol-fuelled energy failed to find much reflection within the room,
not even with Harry, who felt as though some wild animal had clamped its claws deep into his shoulders, leaving him numb and useless. Exhaustion. It got to them all, in their different ways.

‘So this is what we do, gentlemen,’ she continued, intent on grabbing her moment. ‘We use the Russian link against the terrorists. Try to undermine their confidence, make them
realise they’ve no chance with this one. At the same time’ – she turned in the direction of Hastie – ‘we make sure we’re ready for an assault, if it’s
needed. The moment they give us cause.’

Eyes flickered guiltily towards the screen and its two young hostages.

‘And we deal with the Americans,’ she added, making it sound like an afterthought. ‘Disarm them.’

At last someone spoke up. It was the Chief of the Defence Staff, the head of the armed forces. ‘Home Secretary, I really don’t believe that’s necessary. I understand the
situation is contained and—’

‘They’re heading home?’

‘Not quite.’

‘Then they must be disarmed,’ she repeated, quietly, but with force.

‘Consider the repercussions, Home Secretary. An armed altercation between the two greatest allies on the earth. Surely it gives the Russians – if that’s who’s behind this
plot – exactly what they want.’

But her confrontation with the President had convinced Willcocks that such an outcome might be very much to her advantage. ‘Hold on a minute, you just think of the repercussion if we
don’t! Goodness’ sake, it was bad enough being spat at for being Washington’s poodle all the way through the war in Iraq. If we give in now, you might as well rip up the rules of
cricket and start whistling Dixie through your rear ends. But that’s not going to happen. It stops. Here.’ She was jabbing the table with her bitten finger.

‘It can assist only our enemies,’ the Chief implored.

‘You’d play the spaniel?’

‘I would do anything to preserve the Western alliance, Home Secretary. It’s what I’ve dedicated my professional career to.’

‘No, general, your career’s been dedicated to serving your Queen and your country, not the Americans. That’s what you’re about – what all of us in this room are
about. The Americans – they can go hang. They’re over played, over stretched and over here!’ she exclaimed. She rather liked that, not bad for this time of the morning.
‘They’ve got – what, forty or fifty men? And you’re sitting there quaking? Time to call their bluff, general. Take them!’

‘Home Secretary, that is not an order I feel comfortable with.’

‘Shouldn’t we simply play for time?’ another voice added. ‘It’s worked pretty well so far.’

‘Are these the sons of Nelson?’ Her feminine scorn filled the room. ‘The successors to Wellington and Churchill? You could take those men with a catapult.’

‘I don’t wish to take them at all,’ the Chief responded doggedly. ‘They are our allies.’

‘So what are they doing here?’

‘As I understand it, the Americans have offered to help. In our fight against terrorism.’

‘I’d take that more seriously if American money hadn’t funded every IRA bomb that did murder on the streets of London. They want to take control. It’s the American
disease, got to show they’re in charge. Well, not here, gentlemen, not while I’m in this seat.’

She was laying down her claim to pre-eminence,
primus inter pares
, while the Prime Minister was otherwise engaged, and several around the table began to rustle in discomfort. A
manufactured cough interrupted the tension. It was the man from the Attorney General’s office, a mild-looking fellow with sparse hair and a desperately unfashionable thin moustache that he
was wiping nervously. ‘It does raise the point, Home Secretary, that lines of authority are a little confused at present. Here we are, no Prime Minister, no Cabinet, proposing to attack a
royal palace. Why, technically I don’t think that’s legal without the permission of the monarch herself and she . . . well, she can’t give it, can she?’

‘If we succeed in releasing Her Majesty, do you doubt for one moment that she will approve?’

‘Well, no . . .’

‘And if we are not successful in that . . .’ She paused while they considered what she was implying. ‘Well, sadly the problem will have resolved itself.’

‘But—’

‘A m I not the most senior Cabinet Minister in a position to issue instructions?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose—’

‘Then what is the basis for your confusion?’

The civil servant could take no more. He was not a fighting man, so he retreated into the safety of renewed silence, and with him seemed to shrink the hopes of many in the room.

She glared around the table, determined to capitalise on her victory. ‘Be assured that I wish to handle this situation in the proper manner, so . . . Does anyone here deny that the
ultimate civil authority in the country at this moment is me?’

No one moved.

‘And that it is the civilian authorities from whom the military take their orders?’

As she defied them, one by one, no one would take up her challenge or even return her intimidating stare, until she came to Harry.

‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, sounding almost casual, ‘I don’t contest your right, merely your judgement. This Russian link – the more I think about it, the
more it seems likely to be a distraction. Sure, somebody’s making a small fortune out of this, but do we really think that money is the motive? It’s a diversion, a red herring, if you
will.’ He tipped his head in apology at the unintended pun. ‘I think—’

‘Harry, dear Harry,’ she smiled poisonously, cutting right across him. ‘I can’t thank you enough for stumbling upon the Russian connection and bringing it to our
attention. But, you see, you have no official role here, no standing. Drenched in our gratitude as you are, I think it’s time for you to leave.’

An embarrassed shuffling and clearing of throats began to ripple round the table, yet when they raised their heads, it was not Harry but the Chief of the Defence Staff who was on his feet. His
head was bowed, chin on his chest, in sorrow rather than submission. As he looked up he gazed directly into her eyes, and chose his words with care.

‘Home Secretary, I believe your instructions to use force against the Americans are misguided. If it were up to me I would not issue such orders. But, as you say, I am a military man, not
a politician, and I believe in the proper order of things. I find myself in an impossible position. I cannot deny your authority, yet neither can I accept your judgement.’

‘Then perhaps we should find someone else to do your job.’

‘Home Secretary, my grandfather lost his life in the service of this country, and my great-grandfather both his legs. And you threaten me with losing my job?’ His contempt was like a
slap across her face. Her cheeks coloured. ‘I place no great value on the pursuit of office, I see others start on that race who discard every principle and friendship along the way, and I
thank the fates that as a military officer it is my duty to serve others and not myself.’ Authority is held together not simply with legalisms but also with the mortar of respect, and with
every one of his words, her authority was being chipped away. ‘I have breakfasted in the company of brave men,’ he continued, ‘and watched at nightfall as they have returned in
body bags. So give me no lectures. This is to be a time of violence and there are those alive this morning who will die this day, perhaps captors and hostages alike, who will never see their
families or embrace their loved ones again. That is as it must be, for this is not a battle of our choosing. But if you order me to use force against the Americans, that will be your choice, and I
cannot support it. If I were free to do so, I would lay down my office and allow you to instruct others to take up the task, but it goes against every bone in my body to walk out on a matter that
still hangs in the balance, to quit while duty is left undone. So I will do your bidding, to the best of my ability, and afterwards you may have my career, if you still have one yourself. But I
will not sit here and listen to you browbeat and cajole like some playground bully. So if you will excuse me . . .’ He pushed back his chair.

She could sense the change of atmosphere in the room and the fever of insubordination that was spreading. Others were about to follow the general, even the man from the Attorney’s office.
She had tried to play them at their own game, and lost. It was time to move on. She scrabbled at the papers in front of her, gathering them together. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, we all know what
to do and I suggest we get on with it.’ Already they were flooding away from her.

Harry passed nearby; she looked up, caught him. Her frown spoke more of curiosity than anger. ‘Why do you always oppose me, Harry?’

He stared at her, said nothing, but took in the bloodshot eyes and the subtle perfume of whisky.

She shook her head in puzzlement. ‘You know, there was a time when I thought we’d make a great team, me as Home Secretary, you as my Minister. Thought we had real prospects, you and
me.’ But slowly any trace of wistfulness was fading; the frown was gathering ragged edges. ‘Dammit, you’re always so uppity. You can never do as you’re told. That’s
why you’ll never succeed, Harry, because you’ve no respect for anyone. And always so bloody rude!’

He bent close to her ear. ‘Never unintentionally, I hope,’ he whispered, before following the others out the door.

5.43 a.m.

S
HE CREPT OUT OF
the bed as quietly as she could, but still he stirred. He turned, stretched for her, found nothing,
forcing open his eyes.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she whispered.

‘Wh-at?’ he croaked.

‘I have got to go,’ she repeated, more firmly.

‘Why? What’s the rush?’

‘Got a busy day.’ She was dressing, covering up the body that had afforded him so many delights, and he felt cheated.

‘Will I see you again?’

‘Would you like to?’

‘You kidding?’ He stretched beneath the duvet. He was sore; it would take him days to recover from this one. Of course he wanted more.

‘Then . . . perhaps,’ she said.

‘Give me your number.’

‘No. I’ll call you.’

‘Playing hard to get.’

‘No, just playing married.’

He scribbled down a number on his bedside pad. ‘For future reference – if there is a future – you always get up this early?’

‘No. It’s a special day.’ Already she was brushing her hair.

‘I’d like to buy you breakfast next time.’

‘Wow, you eat breakfast, too?’

‘Look . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I even know your name.’

‘That’s because I didn’t tell you.’ She stared at him, his body laid out across the bed. ‘It’s Melanie.’

And she was gone.

5.52 a.m.

Topolski eyed the young British soldier. ‘It’s been a pleasure, captain, but I’m afraid I’ve got fresh instructions. I’m ordered to
proceed.’

‘It does seem as if we’ve run out of cigars. Such a pity.’ Captain Braithewaite blew a final, reluctant smoke ring.

‘You bet.’

‘So what do we do next, colonel?’

‘I guess it goes something like this. We get
on
our way, you get
in
our way and’ – he waved the stub of his cigar – ‘things get messy.’

‘I think not. I have a much simpler idea.’

Suddenly Braithewaite was standing at attention and as the American looked around him, from out of the shadows in the park emerged a large number of British troops, all bearing arms, every one
of which was pointed at his men. He threw away the remnants of his cigar in disgust. He watched it splutter and die, much like this mission. This was getting to be as bad as the fiasco in the
Iranian desert, and his name would be all over it.

‘So you want to shoot this out,’ he said wearily.

‘Not at all, colonel.’

‘Then why the pointed guns?’

The British captain shook his head, slowly and seemingly in sorrow. ‘I can imagine what’s going through your mind, colonel. Let’s just say that this is an invitation for you
and your men to breakfast. In Wellington Barracks, just the other side of the palace. We can be there in less than five minutes.’

‘At the point of a gun?’

‘There are bad men abroad, colonel. I wouldn’t want you and your men to lose your way.’

6.00 a.m.

It wasn’t yet light, but those fortunate souls who had managed to snatch some sleep were now beginning to stir and wake to a world that was turning to mayhem. The media
were in a frenzy, desperate to find a new angle, pouncing on anyone who had been at the State Opening and who was willing to share their story. The back grounds of William-Henry and Magnus were
examined in excruciating detail; their friends, their love lives, even their astrological signs. A BBC Breakfast presenter who had turned up for work in a multicoloured blouse was instructed to
change it for something more demure. She chose black. They told her to change that, too.

The mayhem spread. Transport systems ground to a halt. At Heathrow and other airports, the inevitable additional security measures were already throwing flight schedules into chaos, made worse
by the no-fly zone above Central London. The London Underground system was in tatters with Westminster and St James’s stations closed and lines suspended, and many central roads blocked.
There were predictions of shortages in Central London shops. Panic buying broke out, supermarket shelves were emptied and many cash machines dried up. It was traditional on such occasions for the
British to embrace what they described as the spirit of the Blitz and to take all adversity in their stride, but on this day that spirit seemed to slip. Perhaps the British weren’t what they
once were.

The Chairman of the London Stock Exchange hadn’t slept, besieged by uncertainty as he watched the chaos spread and infect overseas markets, where British-connected stocks were collapsing
like victims of an ancient plague. So jumpy were investors that even a Florida-based company named Sovereign Enterprises Inc., whose interests extended no further than the manufacture of stair
lifts for elderly people, had been hammered. And it was about to get worse. The London Exchange hadn’t been closed for business for more than sixty years, not since the day of monumental
socialist upset when at a stroke Prime Minister Attlee had devalued the pound by forty per cent. It hadn’t shut for 9/11, 7/7, nor any other emergency; it had battled on through bomb, bullet
and every kind of banditry. But not today. The rules had changed. The chairman consulted his colleagues on the board and they were of one reluctant mind. The Exchange, which had closed early
yesterday, wouldn’t open today. Russian metals wouldn’t be the only victim.