“Affairs of state should now be on hold. You need to focus on the final push. Unless you do, you can forget about any more ‘affairs of state’. Looks like Delahaye has the number one Tory spot sewn up. Labour is a shoo-in for number two. Which leaves you and the Lib Dem fighting it out for number three. Where, I have to tell you, it looks far too close for comfort.”
“Fingers crossed, then,” said Damian casually.
An election seemed of minor importance beside the recurring image of Salah-ud-Din’s scimitar severing a head in one clean sweep. Would more heads roll tomorrow? Would it be his head? Could he rely on safe conduct from an animal like Hamid Khan?
Damian did two more meetings before telling Alec Warbeck he’d had enough. No, he was not going to complete his schedule. He was going home to Chloe. Warbeck knew better than to argue. Something was clearly amiss and that was the end of it. Anyway, a couple more meetings would make little difference. The die was cast. All they could do now was to await the verdict of the people.
Chloe also knew something was going on and, like Warbeck, was wise enough to keep her counsel.
But she did allow herself one statement: “If you want to tell me, go ahead. If not, that’s also fine.”
Damian pondered for a moment, then: “You know my lips are sealed. But tomorrow promises to be an interesting day. All I ask is that you don’t believe everything you may hear. I’ve got an early call - need to be at the polling station soon after seven, so let’s have an evening at home. A Chinese take-away, perhaps….?”
““While watching House of Cards….?”
“Brilliant!”
They were hooked on the American version of this political murder and mayhem. Rather farfetched perhaps. Couldn’t happen in real life.
Could it?
56
APRIL 28th.
The Prime Minister was airborne, having caste his vote, shortly after 7.30. He and Chloe had put a brave face on their farewells. He didn’t know whether it was worse for her, not knowing, but suspecting; or for himself, in no doubt where he was heading, but without a clue how his maniacal host would react.
It was a fresh morning, high cloud drifting in from the west, but dry. Beneath him England was starting to turn green as winter gave way to spring. They flew low down, due south, to begin with over home territory, close to where he’d grown up. They crossed the Thames at Dorchester, the Wittenham clumps standing out like tufts on a bald pate. After that it was almost all fields, apart from the strip of M4 motorway, busy with rush hour traffic. Despite a population reckoned to be over seventy million – no one knew the true figure – it was amazing how much of England remained rural. No question of giving away even an acre of this to anyone – let alone to a guy who enjoyed removing heads.
After half an hour the chopper landed him on the lawn of a large country house he did not recognise. As the rotors slowed, two khaki-clad figures emerged from the house and walked briskly towards him: General Quilter and the Major.
“Welcome, Prime Minister”. The General shook his hand. “You’ve made good time, so there’s enough slack in the schedule for a cup of coffee.”
“I’d rather get going…..”
“With respect, sir, I think coffee might be a good idea.” From his pocket the general extracted the same black box the Major had shown him the day before: looked as though it was designed for an engagement ring, whereas in fact it held a small cylindrical object.
“Ah, yes….my tracer.”
“Goes down better with some liquid,” said the General.
“Reminds me of those suicide pills they give spies in case they’re tortured,” said Damian. “Maybe I should have one of those as well?”
““Hamid has no interest in harming you,” said the general. “You’re his one hope of getting what he wants.”
Just as long as he kept that hope, thought Damian. But if he realised the game was up…. that holding the Prime Minister was no longer of any use to him….?
They entered the house through some French windows into what looked like a drawing room. The place was obviously a home, but there appeared to be no one else around. Maybe the army had borrowed it on a one-off basis as a convenient launch point.
The general poured a mug of coffee from a thermos, which stood on a table together with some Danish pastries.
“Help yourself,” said the general. “Might be a while until lunch. Hamid has not told us about his catering arrangements.”
The Prime Minister downed his tracer pill, selected a Danish and asked: “Any more developments I should know about?”
The general shook his head. “Overnight we’ve been refining the plan. It’s now as good as we’re likely to get it.”
“Zero hour still ten this evening?”
“Within five minutes. Soon as the little celebration we’re organising reaches sufficient volume.”
“What about the surviving prisoners? Presumably they won’t have tracers?”
“Unfortunately, no. We’ve given these men a lot of thought, but it’s well-nigh impossible to guarantee the safety of hostages during a shoot-out. Just as well there are only two – although that’s small consolation if you happen to be one of them.”
“What happens now? How to I get to the fort?”
“Sergeant Brady drives you there. Into the fort, so no one can see who you are, then comes back here.”
The Prime Minister spread his hands: “The perfect plan. Can’t go wrong.”
“In theory,” agreed the general. “Trouble is practice rarely follows theory.”
57
His driver was a surprise on two counts: Sergeant Brady was female and in civvies.
It was not as though ladies in uniform were anything new. During the war the late queen had been an army motor mechanic and since then females had infiltrated almost every nook and cranny of the armed services. So why was it that if someone mentioned a rank and a name, he always assumed that name to be of male gender?
No easy answer, so Damian turned his attention to the other unexpected feature:
“I see you’re in disguise this morning, Sergeant.”
“Sir?”
“Not in uniform.”
“The general thought it best not to advertise the service angle.”
Damian had only managed a brief look at Brady before being bundled into a white saloon that had been manufactured somewhere east of Singapore. He had the impression of a solid-looking lass in her thirties, middling height, brown hair, experienced enough to be on Quilter’s staff; white blouse and jeans, standard stuff so as to not stand out in a crowd Now, with plenty of time to study the back of her head, he could only register the female equivalent of the army’s coiffeur rules, which appeared to be not-too-long-back-and-sides.
“They’re hoping Hamid will be less suspicious of a lady driver?” asked Damian.
“That’s the idea.”
“And especially if she’s not in uniform?”
“Yessir. So when we arrive it would be helpful if you could avoid addressing me as ‘Sergeant’. Miss Brady will do nicely.”
“Understood Miss Brady.”
“General Quilter has tasked me with keeping my eyes open and reporting back on anything of interest.”
Damian rolled his eyes: ‘tasked me’. Why did the army have to turn nouns into verbs? Politicians were even more guilty of jargon…. But what was he doing worrying about such irrelevancies? Must be getting jittery.
“How much longer ‘til we’re there?” asked the Prime Minister. He was getting jittery.
“Base are keeping a running check on traffic density and our progress through it. Reckon we’ll reach Fort Brockhurst at six minutes to nine.”
“Excellent.” He sat back, tried to relax. And failed. Started biting his nails. Hadn’t done that since he was about twelve.
It was stop-start, with endless traffic lights and roundabouts, through urban scenery that had seen better days. Eventually they came to a roundabout where
they did not carry straight on. Took a left, bringing them face to face with a low redbrick structure hiding behind a water hazard: Fort Brockhurst. His watch showed 8.55.
In fact, the low redbrick structure was only partially visible through a forest of gawpers, with nothing better to do this Sunday morning than watch what was going on in their real-life drama. The police had the mob well under control, having cordoned them back to allow vehicle access and keep them clear of the army - the British army - who had mounted a very public encirclement of the fort.
Brady was guided through, while Damian cowered in the back behind darkened windows. Although he had accepted the need for anonymity, he had spent his life playing to the gallery and hated the idea of skulking.
“Now we wait until someone shows,” announced Brady, coming to a halt.
The Prime Minister tried to relate what he was looking at with the Major’s map. Across the bridge spanning the moat was the main gate, which led into a small circular keep. On either side, shaped like an irregular rectangle, stretched the main part of the fort. Facing them was the aspect with windows and narrow vertical slits, so it was a dead cert that critical eyes were even now giving them the once-over. But not a single face could be seen.
At 8.58 the large main gate opened and three figures in battledress appeared. Two carried rifles at the ready, the third, with sergeant’s stripes, was unarmed. Damian was almost sure this was the man who had cleaned Hamid’s bloodied scimitar after the execution.
They marched across the bridge to the landward side gate, no longer padlocked, because the moat was like a WW1 no-man’s-land: anyone venturing into this zone risked a bullet in the head. Here the United Kingdom ended. Beyond lay the Islamic Republic of Hattin.
While the two armed privates kept a watchful eye, the sergeant approached their car. He was a tall fit looking man in his thirties, skin colour much like Damian’s, so his folks would originally have come from somewhere south of Dover.
With the driver’s side window down, the sergeant poked his head in.
“Well, well, there’s a turn-up for the book!” He couldn’t hide his surprise at finding himself looking at the Prime Minister.
Damian reckoned Hamid’s sergeant was a native English speaker from north of Watford, closer than that he wasn’t prepared to say. During his West Ham days, when visiting the footballing fortresses of Old Trafford and Anfield, it had sometimes been easier to find the back of the net than to understand what they were talking about.
“Out you come, then,” said the sergeant, almost genially.
“We’ve been told we can drive in through the gate,” said Brady.
“Told what!”
“These talks are confidential, so I am not getting out here,” said the Prime Minister.
“My orders is to escort you in on foot,” said the sergeant.
“Well, you’d better go back and get those orders amended,” said the Prime Minister.
The sergeant hesitated then said: “Stay here.” And marched back into the fort with his escort.
“No plan ever survives first contact with the enemy,” murmured Damian.
“Do you think they’ll eventually let us drive in?” asked Brady.
“Doubt it. This is all a game and if hanging around here wastes some time that’s fine. My only job is to keep Hamid occupied.”
“Might also annoy him.”
“He’s expecting to be annoyed. If I roll over too easily it’ll make him suspicious. It’s a delicate balance: I need to be a bit bloody minded, but not so much that it tips him over the edge.”
“If you have to walk in, the whole world will know it’s you talking to them,” said Brady.
“True. But I never did really buy into the anonymity angle. If I have to ditch it, I won’t be that upset.”
“Might even turn out to be a good thing,” mused Brady.
“Might indeed,” agreed the Prime Minister. “Life’s a lottery.”
Damian’s watch showed 9.18 before the escort detail reappeared and marched briskly towards them. There was a buzz of anticipation from the crowd.
“The general don’t know what you was talking about,” said the sergeant, bending down at the open car window. “No foreign vehicles allowed inside. That’s the rule.”
“Hmmm.” The Prime Minister pretended to ponder. “Then I’d better go back and consult my colleagues. The agreement was that I could be driven in. If Hamid changes his mind on that, I can’t trust him on anything.”
“I’m just obeying orders,” said the sergeant. “But I’ll tell you this for nothing: the general ain’t the sort of man you’d want to cross. Enjoys giving his sword a bit of exercise.” The sergeant grinned. “And I don’t mind cleaning up after him.”
Damian decided to chance his arm. It was a risk, but this election day was teetering on the brink in every way. So he said:
“Tell this Hamid fellow I’ll come in on foot if you announce, loud and clear, so everyone can hear, that I’m promised safe conduct. You might also remind him that by tomorrow I might no longer be Prime Minister. At least I am prepared to talk, but my most probable successor is a chap called Tichbold, who likes to whack you first and ask questions later.”
The sergeant nodded and for the second time led his men back into the fort.
“That was rather strong,” said Brady, when they were out of earshot.
“It’s called negotiation,” said the Prime Minister. “Let’s hope it wasn’t too ‘strong’.”
“And he didn’t like you calling his general ‘that Hamid fellow’.”
“Tough. I want to make it clear that the British government considers all talk of armies and generals as a load of rubbish. They’re criminals and I’m only consorting with them because I have to.”
“Hope it doesn’t push him to swing his sword again.”
“So do I. I doubt it, but can’t be certain. I’ll be walking the tightrope.”
This time the wait was even longer, nearly 9.50 by the time the trio from the Army of Hattin reappeared.
Through the open window the sergeant told them: “The general said yes.”
“Excellent!” The Prime Minister did not move.
Neither did the sergeant.
“Off you go then,” said Damian. “Tell them what we’ve agreed. Best parade ground voice.”
The sergeant turned to face the expectant crowd: “General Salah-ud-Din, commander-in-Chief of the Islamic Army of Hattin, announces that he grants safe conduct while in Hattin territory to the British Prime Minister.”
These words were received with puzzlement by the waiting throng. While there had been a media deluge about the Islamic Army of Hattin, the reference to the Prime Minister was far from clear.
Then Damian stepped out from his back seat purdah.
There was a gasp from the crowd. The Prime Minister in person!
He gave them a cheery wave before strolling with his Hattin Army escort across the no-man’s-land of the moat into Fort Brockhurst. Into enemy territory.
58
As the main gate clanged shut behind him, the Prime Minister realised he was now a prisoner, dependent on the whim of a man whose favourite pastime was relieving people of their heads. Hamid might honour his promise of safe conduct. On the other hand…
They walked through the small circular keep and entered the parade ground, where the world had watched the execution of Corporal Smither. In the centre of the square, but occupying less than a quarter of it, lay the low building he knew from the map to be the museum. Round the periphery, built into the walls of the ramparts, were rows of rooms that could hide an army. Actually, they must hide an army, because the square itself was empty except for a handful of soldiers, one of whom was walking up a ramp that led to the top of the ramparts, probably to relieve one of the men on prone sentry duty: Hamid’s eyes on the outside world.
The sergeant led the way towards the left hand area of the inner rampart. Damian glanced at his watch: coming up to 10 am. Tw
elve hours to keep Hamid at bay: keep him from executing any more prisoners. Twelve hours until General Quilter would hopefully obliterate him.
As they approached one of the rampart rooms that had a large window area, a door opened. A man in standard camouflage dress emerged. Even without the green beret or dangling scimitar, he was unmistakeable.
“Welcome to my country.” Salah-ud-Din held out his hand. ‘My Country’ obviously meant the Islamic Republic of Hattin, not Britain.
The Prime Minister ignored the outstretched hand and looked his opponent up and down: well built, wavy black hair, hawk-like features that probably originated in Pakistan’s northwest frontier. On his lapels the crossed sword insignia of a general. But his most arresting feature was the eyes, which were a disconcerting milky blue.
“At least accept a cup of chai,” he said, withdrawing his unaccepted hand and inviting the Prime Minister in.
“That would be nice.” Damian followed him into the room, where the big windows gave the feeling of a conservatory.
Inside was a sofa, a low table surrounded by four white metal chairs; and half a dozen etchings of Nelson-era naval battles on the walls.
One of his men started filling two cups from a samovar-type tea dispenser. Hamid indicated Damian should take a seat.
Choosing to remain standing, the Prime Minister said: “Before we even start talking there’s one essential preliminary: I must see with my own eyes that the two prisoners you have so far not murdered are alive and well.”
Hamid nodded to the sergeant, who departed on his mission, then turned to Damian:
“You don’t seem to understand, prime minister: in war there will be casualties.”
“And you don’t seem to understand, Hamid Khan, that wars are normally fought under the rules of the Geneva Convention, which specifically prohibits the murder of prisoners.”
“A rule regularly ignored. Even, on occasions, by your country.”
Continuing this argument would be fruitless and probably counter-productive, so Damian accepted the cup of tea and wandered back outside. The armed minders eyed him warily, but Hamid made no sign for them to interfere.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 21
