Ryder

by Nick Pengelley

  The foreign minister, now acting prime minister, looked around the chamber, which, unusually for that place, was so hushed a pin could have been heard to fall. He cleared his throat and spoke in a more forceful, Churchillian tone, which he’d spent hours rehearsing in front of a mirror. “The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland has been in existence in its current form for just over two hundred years. It has been a noble union. One worthy of a great place in the history books.” He drew breath once more, forced himself to relax. “Before the United Kingdom, there was another kingdom. England. Which also has a great and glorious history. It is time to restore and revive that history, and go forward unshackled from the cares and obligations of looking after the peoples of the other kingdoms to whom we are united. It is time for them, too, to make their own way in the world.”

  He spoke for another eleven minutes. Then he closed his folder and surveyed the chamber. “This bill has been debated over the past weeks. Our honorable colleague, Noel Malcolm, addressed it at length. He dealt with the many questions and criticisms leveled at this revolutionary proposal. Everyone here has had time to consider his or her position; to consult with the voters in their constituencies. I say it is time to put the question.” He raised his voice, not looking at his notes, but directly into the rapt faces that surrounded him. “Will this House now declare the resurrection of the Kingdom of England?” He slammed his fist on the despatch box, his chest swelling with pride as the members of the House rose, on both sides, roaring their approval.

  Balfour let the acclamation wash over him, reveling in his triumph. He waited until the applause subsided, and Members had resumed their seats. Then he turned to the Speaker. Balfour’s mouth was open to ask the Speaker to call the vote, but no words emerged. He could only stare, slack-jawed, at the black-haired woman who strode onto the floor of the chamber. She was clad all in black, although her clothing was much rent and shredded, and stained with what looked like blood. A bloodstained bandage was wrapped tightly around her right thigh. Her beautiful face, too, was bloodied and scratched, her hair disheveled. Over her left shoulder she carried a huge sword. Harold’s sword. It could be none other. This she now raised aloft with both hands in a gesture never before seen in the Houses of Parliament, where it was an offense for anyone other than authorized security officers to be armed. They were present but, for reasons Balfour was unable to fathom, they made no attempt to arrest Ryder’s progress. Then he forgot Ryder, for, several paces behind her, another woman had entered the chamber. His heart stuttered. He feared it might stop. Hoped, for an instant, that it would. Then his hand slid inside his jacket. His groping fingers found the Taurus.

  The noise in the chamber died away as the assembled MPs spotted Ryder. Gasps and exclamations and a rising tide of voices cascaded to a crescendo when they realized who walked behind her.

  The Speaker banged his gavel. “Sergeant-at-arms!” he called, gesturing toward Ryder. Unlike the majority of those in the chamber he was unable to see who followed her. Ryder. “Take her—”

  “Quiet!” Ryder’s voice was unexpectedly powerful. It was the voice of one used to command. And to being obeyed. Instantly, the hubbub stilled. Ryder took several paces toward the Speaker. She lowered the sword and pointed it across the table at him. The Speaker, an ineffectual party grandee from Lincolnshire who’d been awarded his position for raising an extraordinary amount of funds, cowered back in his chair.

  Balfour’s lip curled. Some of his courage returned, now that he’d accepted the reversal of fortune that threatened his dream. His hand wrapped around the grip of the Taurus.

  Ryder swiveled on her heel. She swung Harold’s sword in a 360-degree arc, leveling it at the assembled Members, many of whom pressed themselves back from the wicked-looking blade. Then she stepped up to the table, opposite to where Balfour stood at the despatch box. The opposition members on the front bench vacated their seats with alacrity and crowded up the nearest aisle away from her. The sword, its hilt gripped in Ryder’s two hands, was now pointed now directly at Balfour, its great length stretching nearly the width of the table.

  Somehow Balfour maintained his composure. He did not step back. He dropped the Taurus back into his pocket and used both hands to steady himself on the despatch box. He found his voice. “How dare you—”

  “Traitor!”

  Balfour twisted to look at the woman who, while his attention had been riveted on Ryder, had walked to the foot of the table. Clearly exhausted. Ill. White-faced. Susannah Armstrong leaned heavily on the table. Despite her obvious physical distress, the prime minister was superbly dressed in the latest black designer suit from Burberry. Her makeup was done to perfection and her eyes were clear. They glittered with hate. And something else. Outrage. In the past, it had always been directed at someone other than himself.

  “You do not speak for the people of the United Kingdom,” the prime minister thundered. “Or even England. I do.”

  “Not for England. Not anymore.” Balfour felt the strength flowing into his veins as he spoke. This was a setback, but it was also an opportunity. He would use it to show the country what he was made of. “The people of England want a new future. Their own!”

  “Under who?” Susannah spat the question. “You?” One word, but the derision with which she invested it was powerful beyond anything he’d encountered in his parliamentary career.

  “If they so choose.” Balfour bowed slightly to the assembly. His confidence had taken a blow. But he could fight. All was not yet lost.

  “Would the people of England follow an assassin?” Ryder’s words sliced through the chamber like a hot knife through butter.

  Balfour swung back to face Ryder. One part of his brain recorded the fact that she must have incredible strength to have maintained her hold on the sword, which was still pointed across the table at his chest.

  “You’re insane!” he growled. “And, with respect, Prime Minister, you are ill. I suggest you withdraw and let us get on with the business of this House.”

  “This is the sword of King Harold.” Ryder raised the blade high, above her head. “The last Saxon king of England.”

  The murmur of voices in the chamber grew.

  “In King Harold’s name”—Ryder lowered the sword to point at Balfour’s chest once more—“and with his sword, last wielded in defense of England, I accuse you of the attempted murder of our prime minister, and of the murder of Noel Malcolm.”

  “Ridiculous!” Balfour clenched his hands on the despatch box in a vain attempt to stop their trembling. Sweat dripped from his hair. He could feel it running down his spine. “You can have no proof of such an accusation!” He swung to the Speaker, who leaned forward in his chair, his aged face showing his disbelief at what was unfolding before him. “Mr. Speaker—”

  “Everyone here will have a cellphone.” Ryder spoke to the chamber, her voice overriding his. “If you go to your Web browser you will find proof of what I have said.”

  What the fuck? Proof? Bebe Daniels. Balfour’s mind blanched. Maybe they’d taken her, forced her to speak. He said nothing, as a mass fumbling in pockets and handbags produced phones. A brief pause, then the chamber filled with the sound of Ayesha Ryder’s recorded voice, low at first, increasing in volume as MPs pressed function keys.

  “Who then? Who are you working for? Why should Malcolm be dead?” Ryder’s voice.

  Bebe Daniels’s voice answered. “Philip Balfour is my Master. I serve only him.”

  The voices continued to speak, until they were drowned out by a rising tide of anger from government and opposition benches. Balfour heard none of it. He stared into Ryder’s grim face on the other side of the table, sword still pointed at his chest. He swung to the right. Caught Susannah Armstrong’s accusing stare. Armed security officers were moving toward him now. Members had their cellphones pointed at him. Photographing him. Soon they’d have pictures of him in handcuffs. He had seconds only. He swung to the left, his glance taking in the Speak
er, who was staring at his own phone, his jaw slack. Behind the Speaker’s chair. There was a door. If he could get through it, there was a secret way out to the river. He had a hideaway in Norfolk, on the coast; funds no one knew about. There might still be a chance. Not for him, but his dream of an independent England. And if the prime minister were dead, there’d be chaos, a new leader, someone he could influence from hiding.

  His hand slid once more inside the breast pocket of his suit coat. He drew the Taurus. He swung it toward the prime minister. Squeezed the trigger. His shot missed Armstrong. Someone behind her screamed and fell. Panic erupted. The security team were cut off by stampeding politicians. The chamber was in uproar. He fired again. Someone else fell, but he neither knew nor cared who; it was a distraction, that was all that mattered. Balfour turned toward the Speaker’s chair—now vacant. He fired another shot at random. Just a few steps and he’d be through the door.

  “Balfour!”

  Ryder.

  He turned, the Taurus raised, finger tight on the trigger. Ryder was there, above him. She was standing on the table, her legs astride volumes of printed parliamentary debates, her face bloodied, her clothes torn, Harold’s sword raised in both hands above her head like an avenging fury. Even as he fired she swung mightily. He felt the force of the blade that separated his head from his body. For an instant his eyes held Ryder’s. Then there was nothing.

  Chapter 55

  “Ghayda?” Ayesha looked into her sister’s smiling gray-brown eyes.

  “Yes, sis?”

  “Why?”

  The eyes continued to smile.

  “How could you? How could you kill our mother?” Ayesha frowned. Her sister’s eyes had changed color. Now they were just gray. “Ghayda?”

  “Ayesha? Are you awake?”

  The mists cleared. She turned her head. Not Gaza. Not the asylum. A hospital bed, though. She moved her hands over the blanket. Comfortable. Luxurious even. She saw flowers. Lots of flowers. Her lip curled. She hated flowers. She focused on Susannah Armstrong. It was her voice she’d heard. Not Ghayda’s.

  The prime minister looked very pale, but her eyes were bright, and she was smiling. She wasn’t alone. Imogen Worsely and Danforth were there. Lady Madrigal. And Joram Tate, his head wrapped in a turban of bandages. The librarian was elegant in a dark blue silk robe—definitely not hospital issue. The big American’s arm was in a sling, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear.

  “What…” Ayesha was going to ask what had happened. Then she remembered. All too vividly. “Balfour. Is—”

  Danforth grinned. “Balfour is history. Like your King Charles the First. Minus a head.”

  Ayesha winced. “Am I under arrest?” She lifted her arms. No handcuffs.

  “No,” Susannah Armstrong replied. “Although there’ll be an inquiry.”

  “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t leave the jurisdiction,” Dame Imogen added, smiling.

  “Although you’ll want to hide out for a while,” Susannah suggested. “There’s…um…a lot of press outside.” The prime minister nodded toward the window. “We could get you up to Scotland. Until things die down. I’ve a place in the Highlands. It’s pretty remote.”

  Ayesha recalled the moment when she’d raised Harold’s sword over her head. The intense satisfaction she’d felt as she’d slashed downward. The sheer animal joy she’d experienced when Balfour’s head had parted from his body. She could imagine how her actions were playing in the press. “There are photos….” Of course there were photos. Film, too. It would be all over the Net by now. “All right,” she nodded. “Scotland sounds good….Can he come?” She nodded toward Joram.

  “Ah.” Dame Imogen sounded hesitant.

  “I’d like to,” Joram said.

  “That’s settled then,” Susannah ordained.

  “The castle?” Ayesha asked. “And the treasure? Caroline Frost? Niobe? The students?” She was getting agitated, remembering everything that had taken place at Herstmonceux Castle, up to the time she and Danforth had flung themselves aboard the fleeing Zeppelin.

  “We had two fatalities: Jim Tarman and Simon Knollys.” Joram spoke softly. He took her hand. She thought about withdrawing it. Didn’t. “Five students and two castle employees are in the hospital. It was touch-and-go with a couple of the students, but they’re expected to pull through. Otherwise a lot of scrapes, bruises, and bumps on the head. Except…”

  Ayesha remembered. She’d been trying not to. “Marian?”

  “She’s getting the best care.”

  “I’d like to see her.” The girl had been magnificent. She didn’t deserve what had happened to her. At least I stopped her from being raped.

  There was something else. Something she really didn’t want to think about.

  “Bebe Daniels?” Ayesha looked at Dame Imogen. “Ghay…My sis…” Her lips trembled; she couldn’t get the words out.

  The head of MI5 held her gaze. “She got away. We’re still looking, but…” She shrugged.

  “How…” Ayesha didn’t even know where to begin. There were so many questions.

  “How was it that your sister wasn’t killed all those year ago? And how did she come to be the prime minister’s private secretary?”

  “Among other things.”

  Ayesha caught the swift glance Dame Imogen exchanged with Danforth.

  “All I can say is we’re looking into it.”

  Ayesha knew she’d get no answers. Not here. Not now. She wasn’t even sure she wanted answers. She was still having a great deal of difficulty accepting that Ghayda was alive. She changed the subject. “The treasure?”

  “Under very capable supervision.” The prime minister beamed. “I believe you know the delicious Niobe Bagot?”

  “Delicious?” Ayesha’s brow cleared. She almost smiled herself, but that was an effort beyond her. “You don’t mean…”

  Susannah raised her hands in surrender. Then she laughed and put a finger to her lips.

  Susannah and Niobe. Who would have thought? Ayesha caught Joram’s gaze; saw the twinkle in his eye. She was absurdly pleased. Despite everything, maybe Scotland could even be fun.

  “Haven’t you forgotten something?” Lady Madrigal, perched on the end of the bed. She looked lost without a cigarette or martini.

  “Um?”

  The old lady jerked her head in the direction of a table beneath the room’s one window. It held a vase of flowers. It held something else, too. The Maltese Falcon looked very much out of place.

  Ayesha stared at the golden statuette. Had it only been weeks since she’d started searching for it? And hours since she’d first seen it? “Can I keep it?” she asked. Her feeble attempt at humor.

  “You really want it?” Susannah asked. “You’ve probably got as good a claim—”

  “Kidding!”

  “When can we go?” Ayesha asked the prime minister, when the laughter had died down. “To Scotland?”

  “As soon as the doctor says so.” Susannah glanced at Dame Imogen. Her expression had turned serious. “There’s something Lady Madrigal…”

  Ayesha waited. Joram still grasped her hand in his. She squeezed it, hard. He squeezed back, harder.

  “Do you remember reading about the atrocity the Germans committed back at the start of the First World War? Leuven, in Belgium?”

  Ayesha frowned. “Yes, of course.” What scholar didn’t know about the destruction of Leuven, especially its magnificent university library, home to thousands of unique treasures?

  “Well, something’s turned up….”

  Ayesha listened as Lady Madrigal explained. After a while she turned her head. Joram was looking at her, his lips parted in a smile. So many questions. First and last among them was everything to do with her sister. Answers to those questions, she knew, would not come easy, if at all. She raised an eyebrow. Joram nodded.

  “Prime Minister?” Ayesha asked. “Perhaps Scotland could wait awhile?”

  For Pamela and Declan />
  Acknowledgments

  Herstmonceux Castle is real. Once the home of Greenwich Observatory, it is now owned and run by Queens University as an international-studies center. I was fortunate enough to teach there (not, unfortunately, medieval warfare, but international law)—a delightful experience that introduced me to the rich history of East Sussex. The castle really does have its own pub, but, as far as I know, the treasure of the Templars is not buried beneath it.

  As always, I would like to thank my wife, Pamela, for her forbearance and support—and critical eye—during the writing of Ryder: Bird of Prey. My agent, Sam Hiyate, has been his usual magnificent self in all that he has done, and continues to do, to promote the continuing adventures of Ayesha Ryder. Kate Miciak, my editor, knows that she has my undying gratitude. A special thank-you to copy editor Tom Pitoniak, whose eagle eye has saved me from many a faux pas—grammatical and otherwise.

  BY NICK PENGELLEY

  Ryder

  Ryder: American Treasure

  Ryder: Bird of Prey

  PHOTO: NEW PARAMOUNT STUDIOS, TORONTO

  NICK PENGELLEY is the author of the political thrillers Ryder, Ryder: American Treasure, and Ryder: Bird of Prey. Australian by birth, he has had careers in Australia, Canada, and the United Kingdom as a law professor, legal consultant, and analyst on Middle East politics, which is his passion. Pengelley lives in Toronto with his wife, Pamela.

  www.nicholaspengelley.com

  Facebook.com/pages/Nicholas-Pengelley/153137578133508

  @Nickpengelley1