‘Forgive me, Madam President, but I don’t see how we can. Animosity is the name of the game we’re playing right now, in its most extreme and absolute form.’
He glared defiantly at D’Arby, who pushed his chair back from the table and rose to pour himself a cup of coffee, anything to put distance between himself and the obnoxious academic. It was Harry who picked up the gauntlet.
‘You said we should be “taking out” their facilities. Can you be more specific?’
‘Taking out,’ Washington repeated. ‘As in obliterating. Destroying. Blitzing the barnacles off them. Most of these cyber-warfare ops are soft targets, in university campuses, civilian research complexes, that sort of thing. We’re not talking hardened nuclear-missile sites here, this isn’t Strangelove territory. And of course we have to use our own cyber resources to attack them, cyber on cyber, but frankly that’s entirely unknown territory. So we have to add a little muscle to the mix.’
Blythe interjected, her voice as full of soft uncertainties as her adviser’s was of confidence. She turned to Shunin. ‘And what about you, Mr President? What are your thoughts?’
The Russian rested his forehead on the tips of his fingers, as though trying to complete some electrical circuit to stimulate his troubled mind. He thought of Chernobyl, and of Sosnovy Bor that had come within moments, within a few blobs of misplaced molten metal, of total destruction. Had that happened, it would have destroyed St Petersburg, his birthplace, the most magnificent city in all the Russias. And it would have destroyed him. That’s why they’d chosen Sosnovy Bor, because of him, of that he was sure. For Shunin, this had become very personal.
His head came up. ‘A question first. For Mr D’Arby. Your little Oriental tart has put you at an advantage. Tell me, in your view, in her view, was Chernobyl down to them?’
Chernobyl. The bringer of death. It had promised eternal light yet it had cast his world into darkness. Of all the psychological burdens born by the leaders of Russia, that was perhaps the greatest.
D’Arby knew he had his moment. He was standing beside the great fireplace, cup in hand, and while they waited he put it slowly to one side. Then, as they all stared, he shook his head. ‘No, Mr President. It was too early for that. I believe that Chernobyl was nothing more than an accident–a Russian accident. But it gave the Chinese a template. Chernobyl was their inspiration.’
‘In what way?’
‘What Chernobyl did wasn’t simply to inflict colossal physical damage, like a missile strike. It went much further. It inflicted dread. It’s a name known throughout the world, and although not one per cent actually understands what went on there, everyone fears it. It’s the perfect psyops–scaring your enemy into submission. It’s the very uncertainty of something like Chernobyl that rips at the entrails, and that’s what the Chinese are so very good at, sticking pins in the right points. It’s psychological acupuncture. In the days of the early Han dynasties they’d set off rockets and beat drums to frighten the wits out of the barbarians without a sword being raised in anger. Now, a thousand years later, they want to do the same. Quite simply, they want to drown us in despair.’
Yet, even as they listened to his analysis, the Chinese were making a few other plans, too.
Saturday mid-morning. The Sizewell B reactor, Suffolk.
Ninety minutes after he had been summoned the duty physicist still hadn’t made it to the nuclear plant. Police were trying to clear an accident on the road up ahead, he couldn’t turn round, and no amount of increasingly animated mobile-phone discussions with the control room got him any nearer to the answer of what was going on within the reactor.
The instruments were indicating that the pressure in the core was still gently, tantalizingly, rising, but the rest of the system seemed in good order. Temperatures were stable, the cooling system was functioning as it should. The system was designed to adjust the flow of coolant to the core so that the reactor remained at the right temperature, hot enough to create the steam required to drive the turbines, yet cool enough to keep the process under control.
What no one could know was that the instrumentation had been, to use a basic engineering term, stuffed. It had been persuaded that it was delivering too much coolant to the core, so it had begun to cut back. That was causing the temperature inside the reactor to rise but this instrumentation, too, had been compromised.
It wasn’t like Chernobyl, where the water had been turned to steam in such quantities that it created pressure so huge that it had blown the top off the reactor. What was happening at Sizewell B was more like the nightmare that had struck Three Mile Island in Pennsylvania a few years before Chernobyl. Not enough water was getting to the fuel rods to cool them. The rods themselves were beginning to melt. As they turned to liquid, they began to form a puddle at the bottom of the reactor vessel. It was double-skinned, made of steel, but even hardened steel was no match for temperatures that were beginning to resemble those found a stone’s throw from the sun.
Saturday mid-morning. Castle Lorne.
D’Arby was still holding forth, pacing up and down in front of the fireplace, a teacher before his class.
‘You see, the People’s Liberation Army are still light-years behind us. They could never beat us in a straight fight. Our bombs and missiles are so good they can reach their targets with pinpoint accuracy–we see it all, even the horror on the face of the truck driver in that fraction of a moment before he gets it right between the eyes. The Chinese are trying to do the job more subtly–and more cheaply. Instead of blowing that truck driver to bits, they want to scare the crap out of him, cutting off his fuel supplies, sending his truck on the wrong road, loading it with the wrong cargo…He ends up not knowing what the hell he’s doing or where he’s going. And for that single truck driver you can read an entire Western country–you, me, any of us. It’s all about psychological rather than physical advantage, ying instead of yang or whatever the correct terminology is. Everything straight from Sun Tzu.’
‘Hacker wars,’ Washington declared. ‘Their recent literature is full of it.’
‘Winning without fighting,’ Shunin muttered.
‘So, what conclusion do you draw from this, Mr President?’ Blythe repeated, pushing him once more.
‘I conclude,’ the Russian responded, ‘that Mr Washington’s point has significant merit. If you’re going tiger-hunting, you’d better carry a damned big stick. Or perhaps you would prefer to wait until the tiger has you in its jaws and your country is little more than breakfast, Madam President?’
She returned his cold stare. ‘Mr Shunin, I live in a democracy. It means I have to tread carefully.’
‘I understand democracy. I have millions of democrats in Russia.’
‘Not all of them in gulags, I trust.’
He lunged forward in his chair, filled with passion. ‘If we don’t show them we mean business straight from the start, get it over and done with, then we lose control. We’ll be playing into the hands of every Islamist, terrorist and rebel, all the stinking parasites that have wormed their way into our systems. Show any hesitation, any doubt, the slightest sign of weakness, and they’ll crawl out of their sewers and get on with the job of ripping our countries apart!’ His hands were clenched, his fists like clubs. ‘But open your minds. By God, this isn’t just a crisis, it’s also an opportunity. To get rid of those soul-sucking bastards once and for all. While we’re cleaning out the Chinese stables, we can clean out our own, too. You get re-elected, I get on with sorting out Russia. Why, in five years’ time we could be looking back and wondering why we ever hesitated.’
They all understood what he was suggesting. His price for getting involved with the Chinese was a free hand to deal with those little local difficulties that had proved such a distraction. China, Chechnya–it was all much the same to him. They were threats that required squashing, and he wanted no chorus of complaint from squeamish Western souls.
His performance was interrupted by the arrival of Nipper to check t
he supply of tea and coffee, but Lavrenti had other ideas. As D’Arby helped himself to more coffee and offered some to Blythe, Lavrenti Konev wandered over to the sideboard and poured a large whisky. Harry glanced at his watch. It was a little early, even for a Russian.
When they were all resettled, it was D’Arby who spoke first. He grew reflective, his voice softer, and all the more penetrating for it. ‘Let me say a few words, if you’ll allow me, about how I see our position. We have come here as leaders from our different backgrounds, bringing with us our often rival loyalties and competing ambitions. And leadership can be a harsh calling, it rarely leaves us easy options. We seek not crowns or personal enrichment, we do what we do for one reason above all else. That reason is the love of our homeland. And in her service we are little more than slaves. Our first duty is not to ourselves nor to those things we wish to be remembered by, but to our country. Sometimes that means we are required to do things we find distasteful, painful–yes, even occasionally unprincipled, because we all know that this imperfect world of ours is built of confusing colours. Those who seek a straight path to the gates of glory are either saints or more often sad failures. None of us sought this challenge which now faces us but we cannot shrink from it, no matter how much we would wish it otherwise. For my part, I can only say that I will do what I believe is right, not for my own peace of mind but for my people, whatever that takes.’ He picked out the words one by one. ‘Whatever that takes.’
It was a powerful performance. Shunin was nodding, Blythe Edwards shifting in discomfort. They were on the edge of a momentous decision, one that would change the nature of their world, whatever they decided.
‘Whatever that takes,’ Blythe repeated, trying out D’Arby’s words for size. ‘Which in this case means—’
Yet before she could finish her thought there came the most extraordinary sound as Shunin pushed a tray from the table and cast it to the floor. Everyone jumped, their concentration shattered.
‘Clumsy of me,’ Shunin confessed as Nipper bounded across the room to retrieve the tray. ‘Young man,’ he continued, ‘why not take the dirty cups to the kitchen before I knock them all over? We’ll call you if we need anything else.’
As a smiling Nipper disappeared through the door with the crockery, Shunin tapped his ear and pointed after the boy. ‘You can’t be too careful who’s listening. Not when you’re about to go to war.’
Lunchtime, Saturday. Castle Lorne.
Blythe Edwards called a pause to their discussions. She wanted time to think. D’Arby protested, in a gentle but persistent fashion, suggesting that their time was too short and they should continue with the matter over lunch, but she insisted. ‘Lunch can wait, Mark, the next hundred years won’t be so patient.’ She retired to her room, instructing Washington to remain at hand in his own room. Away from the others. To isolate the infection, perhaps.
Lavrenti Konev also disappeared. He had remained remarkably silent during their discussions, almost morose, drawn in upon himself and no sooner had he made it to the top of the stairs than Shunin decided to follow. Harry, too, made his excuses to D’Arby. He needed fresh air more than food, he would stretch his legs along the cliff.
Harry was sitting on his bed, changing into stouter shoes, when he heard the raised voices escaping from Konev’s room a little further down the passage. The exchange quickly grew to a quarrel of extraordinary ferocity. Konev and his father-in-law were having the sort of fight that would leave scars. It was in Russian and Harry couldn’t understand a word, but venom needed little translation. Shunin seemed to be on the point of losing his self-control while Konev was struggling to force his own views into the torrent of fluent Slavic curses.
Then it grew physical. Something was thrown, a brush, a shoe, perhaps; it hit the bedroom door and clattered onto the floor. Harry, unable to resist his curiosity, took up position by his own door. He heard what sounded like a drawer being emptied and luggage tossed around, as though the room was being ransacked. Konev was protesting, but to no effect. There came ripping, as though clothing was being torn, then an abrupt silence, filled with exquisite menace, followed by a single word, a name–Katya. After that came the distinctive sound of violence, of a punch–no, more likely a full slap, landing across a cheek, one so sharp that it must have inflicted intense pain.
A few seconds later Shunin emerged onto the landing. His face was flushed, a dark spot of fury glowed on his brow; he was wheezing, and his arms hung heavy and leaden by his side. And his hand, the one that bore his presidential ring, was covered in blood.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Saturday lunchtime. Castle Lorne.
Harry bumped into Nipper in the hallway by the front door.
‘Are you going out, Mr Jones?’
‘For a walk.’
‘Can I come?’
‘Will you be allowed? It’s lunchtime.’
‘Luncheon,’ he declared grandly, ‘has been cancelled.’
‘So has the Mr Jones thing. If we’re to be fellow travellers we’d also better be friends, so you must call me Harry. A deal?’
Nipper nodded enthusiastically. So they set off across the causeway, but they didn’t follow the road, instead taking a path that emerged faintly from the heather. It led them up towards the cliffs, weaving way through the gorse and scrub that hugged the coastline. They didn’t talk as they climbed–or, in Nipper’s case, skipped. Harry stretched his legs and fell into the long, even paces that he could maintain for many miles when he’d had to. He’d once done that across the Iraqi desert. Three nights. With a bullet in his back and a friend’s body across his shoulders. The other soldier died after the second night, but still Harry had carried him. Harry was stubborn that way. They’d been on a mission that nobody was permitted to talk about, one that had been undertaken before the war started. He had known those desk generals at the Ministry of Defence would never tell the wife what had happened; left up to them, she’d get neither the truth nor her husband’s body. Thanks to Harry, she got both.
Now, along with Nipper, he came to a crevasse in the cliff top, not much more than a yard wide; Harry stood ready to jump, holding out his hand to give Nipper his support, but Nipper wanted to do it himself.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve done it a million-zillion times before,’ the boy exclaimed as he stood on the edge, yet despite his determination he looked a trifle apprehensive. Harry remembered the story of Nipper’s fall. The boy was still protesting when a razorbill, startled from its nesting place, burst from the crevasse directly beneath his feet in a flurry of feathers. Nipper screamed in alarm, then slipped. He toppled backwards.
It was nothing short of a miracle that Harry was able to catch the boy’s flailing hand and heave him back to safety. Nipper stood shaking, gulping for air, yet when at last he looked up his face was filled not with childish fear but with determination. Then, with one bound, the boy skipped across the crevasse.
A little further on they stopped to rest in the thick heather at a point overlooking the castle. From here they could see how the granite cliffs swept in an arc like an audience before a stage on which stood the towering figure of Castle Lorne. The ruined chapel looked down from its perch amongst the gods while a thousand gulls beat their wings in applause. This was an enchanting spot, and Harry knew why Flora MacDougall wanted to spend the rest of her days here.
‘Mr Jones,’ Nipper began, ‘do you live in Heathen?’
‘In where?’
‘Heathen,’ the boy repeated, his face set in earnest. ‘Where the Heathens come from.’
Harry bit his lip, desperate to control his desire to be engulfed with laughter. ‘Why do you ask, Nipper?’
‘Granny said you are all Heathens. She was upset because you’d walked out on her lunch. But I don’t know where Heathen is.’
Now Harry could resist no longer and the laughter burst forth. He tousled the boy’s brilliant mop of hair. ‘A little part of me is English, Nipper, and that might make me a Heathen in your grandmot
her’s eyes. And I’m sorry for her lunch. One day, if I’m allowed, I’d like to come back. We can do everything properly then.’
‘I’d like that, too. When I get my pilot’s licence I can fly you here myself.’
Suddenly the laughter had blown away with the wind and Harry’s heart ached for the disappointment that was waiting for the child. ‘Heathen,’ Harry said, ‘isn’t a place, it’s a description. Of those who don’t believe in God. But I think your granny was using the word in a looser sense to describe those who don’t believe in her cooking, and if it comes to that, I’m no Heathen.’
‘You missed her lunch.’
‘I just needed to let the sea wind blow the cobwebs away so that I could do a little thinking.’
‘It almost blew me away, too.’
‘I think your granny will be unhappy that I brought you here. You’ve had bad experiences with these rocks, I believe.’
Nipper’s brow formed a perfect single furrow. ‘No, Mr Jones, she wouldn’t be cross. Granny’s very clear about it. She says that living in fear isn’t living at all.’
‘She is a very wise woman, your granny.’
‘When my Grandda’ died, I was unwell for a little while. But as soon as I got better she took me back to the place where we had fallen. We threw some flowers off the cliff, then we sat down and had a little picnic. Grandda’s favourite, Marmite sandwiches. She hates Marmite but still she ate them, and she cried. I asked her why she was so unhappy, but she says she wasn’t unhappy, she was simply giving thanks for having met Grandda’, and for having me. That’s when she told me I must never be afraid.’
‘And that’s why you had to jump across the rocks.’
As they sat there, the wind picked up and began to ripple through the heather.
‘We should go back, Nipper.’
‘But I thought you came up here to think. Have you done your thinking?’
‘Somehow I think you and your granny have done it for me.’
The Edge of Madness Page 18
