by Andy Maslen
‘Thanks, boss.’
‘Where are you headed now?’
‘Vientiane. There’s a market there. My guess is some kind of wholesaling operation.’
‘Eli emailed me. That’s where she and Stella are headed.’
‘I know. I just got a text. They found the princess’s killer.’
‘So I gather. I’ve watched his dying declaration. It’s convincing. Our friends in the security services plus the Met are assessing it as we speak. At least Lieberman’s off the hook, poor fellow.’
‘I haven’t had a chance to see much news, boss. What’s happening?’
He heard Don’s breath whistling in and out through his nose.
‘Things could be better. They could be worse, too, of course. Don’t know if you heard, but Tammerlane went to Buckingham Palace for urgent talks about the royal family’s security. The official line is he’s worried for the king’s safety. He’s asked,’ heavy emphasis, ‘him to cancel all public engagements until further notice.’
‘Has he gone along with it?’
‘Apparently. And now Tammerlane’s started summoning the chiefs of staff to Number Ten individually. Seems he has some sort of strategic realignment in mind.’
‘What kind of strategic realignment?’
‘The kind where Britain’s independent nuclear deterrent gets mothballed. The kind where our armed forces are scaled back and refocused on domestic security. The kind,’ Don’s voice sounded heavier somehow, ‘where certain of my former colleagues are meeting in St James’s clubs to discuss their options.’
Even though the line was secure and double-encrypted, Gabriel knew Don wouldn’t go any further in explaining what he meant. He didn’t really need to.
Unlike in places like Cuba, Venezuela, or the multiplicity of African states that had fallen for Marxism in a big way, Britain’s armed forces would never fall into line behind an extreme left government, still less a prime minister looking for ways to defang them.
But still, Tammerlane’s confining the king to quarters troubled him. The phrase ‘house arrest’ came to mind. He didn’t like the image it suggested.
37
LONDON
The press secretary stepped forward and addressed the gathered journalists through the floor mic.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, the prime minister.’
Tammerlane smiled at the young party official and took up position at the mic. He waited for the whirring and clicking of electronic shutters to cease before speaking.
‘Thank you. As you know, this great country of ours has suffered one terrible shock already this year. And you only have to look at social media to see that the threats our citizenry face daily are swelling like a tsunami gathering force in the deep ocean. I speak not only of escalating terror threats, especially from right-wing extremists, but subversion from foreign actors.
‘In the light of these threats, and my declared aim of keeping the people who granted me the privilege of leading this country into a bright new era of fairness and equality, I am today announcing the formation of a brand-new government department.
‘As from today, the Home Office, a relic of post-colonial thinking, is no more. In its place rises a bright citadel, where the rights of the people are put before imperial ambition and warmongering. Ladies and gentlemen, as the leader of Freedom and Fairness, and your prime minister, I am proud to announce the formation of the Department of Domestic Security.’
The room was utterly silent for two seconds, then a barrage of questions erupted.
Tammerlane patted the air for silence.
‘Please!’ he barked, a harder edge to his voice than the gathered journalists had heard before. ‘Let me introduce you to the new Secretary of State for Domestic Security, Joni Last.’
He turned to his left and beckoned a young woman to join him before the media. She strode out from the wings, dark eyes flashing, her black hair cut so short her scalp was visible in the harsh lighting for the TV cameras.
‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ she said. ‘My first act as the Secretary of State at DDS is to announce a temporary suspension of the normal communications channels between the media and government ministers. We are concerned that foreign state actors have infiltrated sections of the media and while we investigate there can be no unfettered access to policymakers. However,’ she said, raising her voice above the growing chorus of complaints, ‘I am also creating a centralised Government Media Office through which all requests for information can be placed for evaluation and response.’
‘This is outrageous!’ a male journalist bellowed above the din. ‘You’re creating a police state.’
She smiled at him as Tammerlane left the stage.
‘Not at all, Philip. Although I am glad you brought up the subject of law enforcement. It has come to our notice that the current policing protocols are not fit for purpose. Yes, for everyday crimes against the person and property, there is a role for traditional policing.’ She paused. ‘But as Joe has said, we live in an era of unprecedented threats to the state. Therefore, and also effective immediately, I am announcing the creation of a new force: The Internal Security Directorate. Its operatives will report to me, and through me to the prime minister. Their remit is to police matters of state security within the boundaries of the rep—’ She stopped, glanced at Tammerlane. He shook his head, a minute gesture.
‘Within our borders,’ she continued. ‘That means counter-terrorism, which is now removed from both the Met and MI5, intelligence gathering on subversives, and agents of destabilisation. They will have additional powers of detention and investigation beyond those of the police, but—’
‘You can’t be serious,’ another journalist, a woman, called out. ‘You’re talking about secret police! Parliament will never permit it!’
‘Parliament doesn’t need to permit it, Jacqui. It’s happened. The senior management team is in place, and we have already recruited a cadre of operational officers and staff to begin work immediately.
‘Look, I know some of you, especially from the right-wing press will be eager to paint this as some sort of internal coup, but nothing could be further from the truth. As Joe has said all along, our goal is to create and maintain a stable, secure and fair state in which the people’s will is respected, and the people themselves are protected. I can’t for the life of me see what’s wrong with wanting to protect the people, can you?’
Fifty-three miles northeast of the press conference, Don turned off the TV in his MOD Rothford office. Beside him, Nick Acheson blew out his cheeks.
‘Did we just see what I think we saw?’
Don steepled his fingers under his nose, breathing heavily.
‘I believe we did. He’s really going to do it.’
‘But we can’t let him, Don! I mean, this is a coup. Pure and simple.’
Don’s answer was forestalled by the phone on his desk, which had started ringing. Staring at Acheson, he lifted the receiver.
‘Yes, Molly.’
The woman on the other end, his secretary of a year and a half, sounded nervous.
‘Colonel, it’s, well, it’s the prime minister.’
Heart thumping, Don straightened in his chair, shooting Acheson a look and mouthing, ‘Tammerlane’.
As Acheson’s eyes widened, Don cleared his throat.
‘Prime Minister.’
‘Why so formal, Don? Call me Joe. And there’s no need to be nervous.’
Cursing himself for not clearing his throat before answering, Don tried again.
‘I think I’ll stick with Prime Minister. Old habits and all that.’
‘Fair enough, Colonel. Though it’s an honorific, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not serving anymore, are you?’
Bastard! Such a simple question, but booby-trapped just as surely as an IED beneath a dead body. But Don Webster, late of the SAS and the Parachute Regiment before that, hadn’t survived thirty years in uniform by rolling over corpses and taking a face full of shrapnel.
‘What can I do for you, Prime Minister?’
‘Surely you can guess?’
‘Not sure I can, actually.’
‘Very well. I’ll spell it out for you.’ A beat. ‘Dobbin.’
As his nickname left Tammerlane’s lips, Don knew the jig was up. Tammerlane had been digging. Deep. And someone had spilled their guts.
‘All ears,’ he managed.
‘This little outfit of yours. What was it called? Ah, yes. The Department. Such an innocuous-sounding moniker,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Makes one think of IT. Or HR. Anyway, you’re cancelled.’
‘What?’ Don said.
He’d known what was coming. Nevertheless, hearing it brought him to a peak of anger he hadn’t felt for a long time.
‘You heard, Webster. I’m shutting you and your evil little death squad down.’
‘You can’t. We report—’
‘To the Privy Council. Yes, I know. Hey! I have an idea. Why don’t you call your handler there and ask her what’s going on. Then call me back. Your secretary, Molly, was it? She has my number.’
The line went dead.
Don had to squeeze his eyes shut to dispel the mounting sense of unreality that had built during the short conversation with Tammerlane.
‘What is it?’ Acheson asked, sitting forward in his chair, his forehead creased with concern.
‘Bloody hell, Nick. He’s shut me down. Hold on, I need to make a call.’
He pulled out his own phone and swiped through the contacts until he reached the woman he wanted. She answered before he’d even heard the first ring in his ear.
‘You heard, then?’ was all she said.
‘Hattie, tell me you have some sway in this. The Privy Council—’
‘Is no more. He disbanded us, Don.’ Her voice caught, and for the first time since Joseph ‘Call me Joe’ Tammerlane had swept to power, Don felt something he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Fear.
Don gripped the phone tighter.
‘What?’
‘There is no Privy Council. It’s been advising the monarch since the thirteenth century and Tammerlane drew a red line through it like an unnecessary item in the budget.’
As she explained Tammerlane’s brutal action, Don listened with half an ear. But his mind was on other matters. The assassination. The BBC interview just after his election victory. The press conferences. The fawning newspaper headlines. The postponement of the Defence Spending Review. The interviews on breakfast TV. Nick’s mauling at the hands of Tracy Barnett-Short.
Britain was sleepwalking straight into a coup, just as Acheson had said. And unlike the ill-fated attempt some years earlier by the blonde billionaire, Sir Toby Maitland, this had been achieved with the ballot, not the bullet.
‘Hattie, I have to go. I’m so sorry. I’ll be in touch.’
He called the number Tammerlane had given him.
The reply spoke volumes. Calm. Confident. And with an amused undertone. Like a cruel child caught out pulling the wings off flies and not caring.
‘This is Joe.’
‘What have you done, Tammerlane?’
‘I see respect has left the building. No “Prime Minister” this time, Don? So much for old habits.’
‘We’ll stop you. You won’t get away with this.’
Even as he said it, Don realised how much his threat rang hollow.
‘Won’t get away with this?’ Tammerlane echoed, clearly amused. ‘Don, this isn’t Scooby-Doo. I’m re-fashioning this country to be fit for the people. And, purely out of interest, who is this “we” you’re talking about?’
‘The heads of the armed forces. The intelligence community. The people who are true patriots, loyal to the Crown and to this country.’
With a heavy feeling in his gut, Don realised that he already knew the essence of what Tammerlane would say next.
‘You’re an old soldier, Don. And I respect you for that. But I cut my teeth in business. And the one thing I learned was that the man who holds the purse strings has all the power. In this case, that would be me,’ he said. ‘How long do you think those people you speak of will stay loyal once their wages stop arriving in their bank accounts, hmm? Because the chancellor of the Exchequer has just made one or two adjustments to the Government payroll. I think you’ll find you and your cronies in your gentlemen’s clubs may have the fire in your belly, but those you control…well, let’s just say I can hear them asking which way to the nearest Job Centre.’
Tammerlane’s mocking tone was replaced by the steady hum of a dead line.
Don looked straight at Acheson.
‘It’s over. He’s won.’
38
VIENTIANE, LAOS
Gabriel stepped out of the air conditioned arrivals lounge ready for, but still knocked back by, Vientiane’s soupy air. The airport information board had declared that the outside temperature was 32 Celsius. The humidity, approaching one hundred per cent, made it feel hotter still. Each breath was like drowning on dry land, so thick and wet was the atmosphere outside.
Palm trees grew in a long avenue leading away from the terminal. Everywhere, lush green plants competed with each other, and their human neighbours, to take up as much space as possible. The sounds of the city assailed Gabriel’s ears just as the heat had attacked his skin. Mopeds buzzed, high-mileage diesel engines clattered, dogs barked and pavement hawkers yelled.
He walked towards the end of the queue for taxis, unfastening another button on his shirt. Before he’d righted his suitcase, a uniformed attendant in a hi-vis vest and peaked cap rushed over.
‘Sir! Sir!’ he called from two paces out. ‘You need taxi? You are American?’
‘English. But yes, I do need a taxi. Is this the right queue?’
The attendant nodded, but then scowled at the fat woman in front of Gabriel who was regarding them both with barely concealed interest.
‘These are peasants here from the country. You do not queue with them, Sir. Here.’ He grabbed the handle of Gabriel’s suitcase. ‘I take this for you. Follow me, Sir, follow me.’
With head held high and shoulders back, the attendant swept imperiously past the queue, ignoring the shouts and what Gabriel imagined must be fairly salty Laotian curses.
Feeling a mixture of guilt and relief, Gabriel followed him, shooting the odd apologetic glance and shrugging his shoulders. What can I do? He took my bag!
At the head of the queue, the attendant blew ferociously on a silver whistle. The next cab trundled alongside him. The attendant turned to Gabriel.
‘Where are you staying, Sir? Crowne Plaza? Hilton? InterContinental?’
‘Beau Rivage.’
The attendant beamed.
‘Ah, Beau Rivage. Beautiful hotel. Very good choice.’
He turned to the driver who was waiting with his window rolled down, a hand holding a cigarette dangling out.
‘Beau Rivage. Il est Anglais. Conduit prudemment!’
Gabriel smiled to himself. Whether the attendant told all the cabbies to drive carefully, or just those carrying ‘les Anglais’, he didn’t know. But he was grateful, just the same.
With his suitcase loaded into the boot, and a five-dollar bill passed discreetly to the parking attendant, he slid into the car’s stuffy interior. In the absence of working air con, the driver had opted for an incense burner on the dashboard, which emitted the fragrant smell of frangipani into the cabin.
Gabriel paid the driver, retrieved his suitcase and stood on the pavement as it roared away into the traffic, horn honking, all thoughts of ‘conduit prudemment’ clearly forgotten.
Behind him, the Mekong stretched away in a graceful curve. A few fishing boats and pleasure craft plied the wide brown waterway. On the far bank, the Thai bank he reminded himself, nothing but jungle, stretching down to the water’s edges as far as the eye could see.
Before him, the hotel entrance, a pagoda made of thick bamboo logs painted a deep blush pink. A matching sig
n proclaimed Hotel Beau Rivage Mekong in purple type on a paler-pink background.
Gabriel passed beneath humming power lines that dangled dangerously close to the ground. His scalp prickled and he caught the after-lightning smell of ozone.
He checked in and made his way to the room Eli had booked for them. Standing outside, he felt a delicious squirm of excitement in the pit of his stomach. Jesus! Haven’t felt like this since going on teenage dates. He raised his right hand and knocked with his knuckle.
He heard footsteps, then the door opened inwards and there was Eli, grinning from ear to ear. She’d put her hair up, a style she knew he loved. And she was wearing makeup: sooty kohl around those grey-green eyes, and mascara to emphasise them still further.
‘Hello, beautiful,’ he said.
‘Hello, handsome.’
She threw her arms around him and squeezed him so tightly he felt the breath leave his body.
‘Whoa! Let me go, I can’t breathe.’
He managed to struggle inside and closed the door behind him with his heel.
Eli kissed him, hard on the mouth, then again, more softly. She smelled of sandalwood and lemon. Gabriel closed his eyes and let himself be lost in the moment, savouring the taste of her, the feel of her body pressed flat against his. Felt the stirrings of an erection. She pressed against him harder and brought his ear close to her lips.
‘I want you. Right now.’
Afterwards, Eli propped herself up on one elbow. Her up-do had turned into a half-up-half-down-do, auburn spirals sticking to her neck. Her eyes were shining.
‘You OK?’ Gabriel asked.
‘Yes. Actually, no. I’m not OK. OK is for ordinary people. I’m…’ She looked up at the slowly revolving ceiling fan, ‘…nifla!’
‘Nifla? That’s Hebrew, right?’
‘Duh! It means awesome. That’s how you make me feel, Gabe.’ She leaned down and kissed him. Not with the fierce passion of their lovemaking. This was soft, her lips yielding to his.
