The Lords' Day (retail) (42 page)

‘Foxhunters and feminists break into Parliament to stage their demonstrations; I don’t see why it should be so different for trained terrorists.’ Paine’s fingers were
drumming in impatience. ‘And as we were discussing, it brought our two countries to the point of total rupture. That’s a Russian plot if ever I saw one. Lenin would be proud of
him.’

‘But it was more than that, and yet not quite that at all,’ Harry persisted. ‘This seemed to be as much about the sons of Britain and America as much as the countries
themselves – as if they needed to be punished, too. Magnus and William-Henry.’

‘For what?’

‘For being the sons of important and powerful people.’

‘But who would do something like that? What could possibly be their motivation?’

‘A sense of overwhelming injustice, of a great wrong that needed to be put right. That’s what we were talking about, weren’t we? Perhaps a sense that these people had no right
to their sons.’

‘You have lost me utterly,’ Paine remarked, in a tone that indicated he was beginning to find the conversation tedious.

‘This plot wasn’t really political. The terrorists in the chamber wanted the release of their leader, of course, and the wobbling of the Western Alliance was an added extra, a bonus.
But at its heart, this was something desperately personal, about two boys, and two sets of parents.’

‘It was about the Queen.’

‘Yes, I wondered about that for a while, but if it was about her then why wouldn’t they take Charles when he had offered himself in exchange for the two boys? It was because he was
the
wrong
son. This was about taking revenge on the President and the Prime Minister.’

Paine’s fingers had stopped dancing, his body grown still and tense; the dog, sensing the change, slunk away, its tail curled between its legs. The ambassador’s gaze wandered back
and forth between the two Englishmen, wondering who would strike next. It was Tibbetts.

‘How long ago did your own son die, ambassador?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your son. He was a Robert T, too, wasn’t he? When did he die?’

The American took his time before he replied. His features had frozen into a rigid mask but behind the eyes they could sense that some extreme and unremitting form of emotional warfare was
taking place, a civil war, a war within that involved no one but himself, and different parts of himself, one that had been going on for a very long time. When at last he spoke, the voice came like
a creeping frost. ‘Do you mean, how long ago was my son’s life wasted? Thrown away? That was almost two years ago.’

‘Is that what you think – that his life was wasted?’

‘He died for his country, fighting for a cause. Then his country forgot about him – your country, too. Their leaders washed their hands of the cause for which he had given his life
and wandered off to other things, while their own sons were pampered, sent off to the glittering spires of Oxford where the greatest challenge they ever faced was a deadline for the weekly
essay.’

‘I suspect they must know what it feels like now, the agony of watching their child suffer.’

‘They didn’t do too well, did they?’

‘You sound almost pleased.’

‘Pleased? What the hell have I got to be pleased about? Our governments begin these half-brained wars from the comfort of their armchairs, sending the best and the brightest of our young
men to die, while the rest of the population reach for their remote controls to wipe away the last trace of any embarrassment.’ He all but spat in disgust. ‘They don’t suffer,
they make no sacrifice, they never come down from their pulpits to mourn their dead. They simply wash their hands and look the other way. That should not be.’

‘But you are an ambassador, Mr Paine, committed to defending your government’s policy,’ Harry prodded, sensing the inconsistency.

‘And you, Mr Jones, are a politician who, like all of your kind, are committed to the highest standards of public integrity. So perhaps you can explain to me why politicians everywhere are
despised and always seem to end up in the shit.’

‘Ambassador, we have this little difficulty, you see. Bulgakov needed help, and he was also murdered. And you are the only one we can find with anything that looks like a motive,’
Tibbetts said.

‘Motive?’

‘I think you have just set out a motivation very clearly.’

‘Being an ambassador with a private conscience is not yet a crime.’ Paine offered a smile of ill-disguised contempt. ‘You try to peer into a man’s soul, commander, and
you will lose your way. This is nothing but idle speculation.’

‘Then let me speculate a little more. I’m pretty sure we’ll discover that you knew Bulgakov of old. That we can establish as fact. And what we believe is that you formed the
idea and gathered all the insider information, while he found the resources in Masood and his merry men. A pretty lethal combination – not just for the gunmen in the chamber but also for
Bulgakov. And you were the only one to leave the chamber, the only one with the time to kill him. You had both motive – and opportunity.’

‘I can see why you need to cover your own incompetence, commander, but this is all not only desperately circumstantial but also utterly implausible. I’m the United States ambassador,
for God’s sake.’

‘You changed your clothes,’ Harry intervened. ‘After you left the chamber.’

‘Yes, I plead guilty to that and throw myself upon your mercy, gentlemen.’

‘Might we be allowed to see the clothes?’ Tibbetts asked. ‘Let forensics take a look.’

‘I would be more than happy,’ Paine replied, ‘but . . . I see a problem with diplomatic immunity. It would set an unfortunate precedent.’

‘No matter. I expect CCTV cameras will put some meat on the bones of our hypothesis. And forensics have found footprints by the bridge. Size ten.’

‘I’m size twelve.’

‘That’s size ten UK, ambassador – size twelve American.’ Tibbetts was staring at Paine’s feet.

The ambassador shifted uncomfortably. ‘Me and around five million others,’ he suggested.

‘But only one with both motive and opportunity. And size ten feet.’

Paine rose to his feet, letting forth a sigh of impatience. ‘Then I look forward to my day in court, gentlemen. In the meantime, I think it’s time you took your fantasies
elsewhere.’

Tibbetts rose reluctantly, but Harry stayed stubbornly seated. ‘Oh, it’ll never come to that, ambassador,’ he said. ‘They’ll never give you your day in
court.’

‘They must. If they share your fantasies.’

‘You present the authorities with a formidable quandary, Mr Paine. Look, may I talk to you man-to-man? I have no official position in this, I’m little more than . . . I think the
Home Secretary called me a passer-by.’

‘An astonishing woman,’ Paine said. But Harry had intrigued him; he sat down once more. Tibbetts stood quietly by the door.

‘There will be no public platform for you, ambassador, either in court or outside. They won’t charge you, that would simply be too humiliating. It would give Daud Gul and all the
enemies of the West too much gratification, do their job for them. And they won’t let you go, either, because that would cause just as much embarrassment. Yet the truth will come out
eventually, no matter how deep they try to bury it.’

‘I will insist!’ Paine barked.

‘Of course. And when the truth does emerge, they will simply say that these were the acts of a madman.’ He hit the last word softly, like the burying of a blade.

‘Ridiculous!’ the American snapped in exasperation.

Harry twisted the knife. ‘They’ll say it, nonetheless. They will cast you down as delusional, put you away quietly, secretly. Your own very personal form of extreme rendition. You
will disappear, no one will know. A padded cell made of silk. That’s what they’ll do, they’ve done far worse.’

‘I shall speak out!’

‘The screams of the lunatic asylum,’ Harry mocked. ‘Who will listen?’

‘Even they can’t cover up an act such as this.’

‘So you admit it.’

‘I admit nothing!’ the ambassador shouted, banging the arms of his chair.

The two men were locked together like gladiators in an arena, eyes held fast, watching each other’s every move, oblivious of the outside world and bound within their own very private
battle as they pushed each other to extremes.

‘So, you are the God,’ Harry said quietly.

The American cocked his head slowly in puzzlement, thrown off balance. ‘What?’

‘It’s how I knew you were responsible. It was never just about Masood and the others – couldn’t be, they were just the choirboys, as I called them, singing to a score set
for them by the cardinal. Bulgakov. But behind a cardinal stands God – God the Father, whose son died for others. That’s the role you’ve been playing, isn’t it?’

‘If I were guilty, why wouldn’t I admit it? I have nothing to hide, nothing more to lose.’

‘I wonder what your son would be thinking now, if he were here. He was a brave man, one who was willing to lay down his life for his country. How do you think he would feel about the
father who betrayed it, and him?’

‘I would never betray my son!’

Harry shook his head dismissively. ‘You said you had nothing more to lose, ambassador, but you do. You have your good name, which is also your son’s good name.’

‘He was the last of the line . . .’

‘Don’t you understand what you have done? You’ve destroyed the only thing that was left of him – his memory. Because of you, the name of Robert T. Paine will stand for
nothing but treachery, and because of you, his death will truly have been in vain.’

Harry put the suggestion with force, and it seemed to shake the ambassador. The war taking place inside was slowly twisting out of control, tearing him to pieces. ‘I keep his photograph by
my bed. I have his medals in my drawer. His sword and service pistol on my bookcase. I have the flag from his coffin. I talk to him every night. His memory means everything to me . . .’ Then
he sobbed, a hoarse, dry sound, like the sputtering of a damp fuse before it dies. For the first time, doubt crept into his eyes. ‘Is it possible to love a son too much, Mr Jones?’

‘A friend of mine, last night, told me that fatherhood is a form of madness.’

‘I think perhaps he was right,’ the ambassador gasped. Then he fell to silence, retreating to a place deep within himself, his haunted expression suggesting he was finding nothing
but ghosts. He stayed there some while. ‘What will happen?’ he asked eventually.

‘We can’t touch you,’ Tibbetts replied from the doorway. ‘You have diplomatic immunity. You will be recalled home. I suspect all that Harry has said is right. You will
disappear for a while. If ever you are heard of again, it will only be to drag you out through Traitor’s Gate.’

‘What have I done?’ he gasped.

‘Done?’ Harry replied. ‘Why, you have lost, ambassador. Lost everything.’

‘I wanted nothing for myself, not like the others. I wanted nothing but—’

‘But to see those who had wronged you suffer, like you have suffered.’

‘I longed for my own death, not that of the others. Do you understand that? An end to it all.’

‘I think so,’ Harry said. ‘That was why you went back into the chamber. A stray bullet. A simple conclusion. It would’ve been seen as an heroic sacrifice, one fit for the
long tradition of the Paines. And with you dead, none of this would have come out.’

‘A neat solution.’

‘For you. And your son. I would hate to see his name dragged down. He was a brave young man. He deserves none of this.’

Paine moistened his lips as he tried to fashion the words. ‘If only I could turn the clock back, just a day. Finish things off properly.’

‘It’s never too late, ambassador.’

Tibbetts flashed a look of alarm, but Harry’s own eyes lashed him into silence.

‘A soldier’s death, Robert. No shame in such things. So much better than what is to come.’

‘I have a choice?’ the American asked quietly.

‘I think so.’

‘Thank you.’ The American stood from his chair, stiff, like a puppet. ‘If you’ll excuse me.’ Awkwardly, as though his joints needed oil, he turned and walked from
the room. The red setter refused to follow.

The policeman did not speak – there were many things best left unspoken at a moment such as this – but there was agitation in his eyes.

‘It’s better this way, Mike, believe me. For everyone,’ Harry whispered as he busied himself making a fuss of the dog.

It was a few minutes later when, from somewhere upstairs in the great house, there came a sharp sound they both recognised. The dog lay down and whimpered.

‘I’ll take a guess he used his son’s service pistol,’ Harry said.

‘You pushed him into it.’

‘I gave him a choice, Mike, which is more than he gave others. Believe me, it was the only way.’

‘For who? The politicians?’

‘For his family, his son. But mostly for himself.’

‘I’m a policeman, Harry, this isn’t the way I work.’

‘Tell you what, Mike, if it happens again next year, we do it your way. In the meantime, I need a drink.’

‘And I’ve got a million forms to fill out.’

‘That’s fine, then. Business as usual.’

I
T WAS REMARKABLE HOW QUICKLY
the British Establishment regrouped and repaired the hole that had been blown in it. A Royal
Commission was set up to inquire into the siege and came up with two main conclusions. The first was that the security surrounding the State Opening was woefully lax and based on assumptions that
were at least a decade out of date. The second conclusion was that no one individual was to blame for this state of affairs.

The man who shouldered most of the responsibility was, inevitably, John Eaton. The following weekend he declared that he was resigning as Prime Minister and retiring from the House of Commons
with immediate effect. It seemed ironic, after all that had happened, that after a period of grace no longer than six months he should be offered a peerage and became a member of the House of
Lords.

When the contest to succeed him began, Tricia Willcocks threw her hat into the ring. However, within days of her announcement a Sunday newspaper revealed that her husband, Colin, had been
leading a double life and had fathered a daughter with one of the younger partners in his law firm. It seemed not only deceitful of Colin but also very clumsy of Tricia not to have known. Privately
she blamed the leak on what she referred to as ‘that stick-sucking bastard at Five’, while publicly withdrawing her candidacy with as much grace as she could muster, declaring that she
would fight another day.