The Aachen Memorandum

by Andrew Roberts

  He fast-forwarded to the next flash. This one, once he’d isolated the individual frame again, had a message. ‘EURO – GREAT! ANGLO – GUILTY!’ it stated boldly, in gold letters against a navy background. After a few minutes’ work with the clicker, Horatio was also able to read ‘ENVY IS GOOD’, and later, ‘BERLIN. BRUSSELS. AACHEN’. Every channel had the slogans, even the children’s. ‘UNION IS HOME’ read one on Jackanory.

  Once he was watching out for them he noticed how the messages came up every fifteen seconds or so. At least four or five times a minute. They passed so quickly they were barely perceptible to the eye or consciousness. It certainly didn’t affect viewing in any way, but the brain took in the message without any critical faculties being activated to question the crude political and social propaganda.

  JobsChannel 88 amused him. It said much about where the Union was going. Since England had been emasculated as a global-trading nation by the trade wars of the last decade, the only real growth industry had been in regulation. No less than the first forty pages of the employment channel’s ads were for jobs in the various bureaucracies.

  Horatio watched Situation-Vacant ads for the Euro-Rivers Authority, the Health and Safety Harassment Bureau, animal welfare, child welfare, minority welfare, immigrant welfare, illegal-immigrant welfare, plant welfare, the Regional Relations Commissariat, the New Common Agricultural Policy police, the Citizens Charter Complaints Council, Nationalist Symbols Squad (Flags Division), the Directive Implementation Commission, the Family Policy Enforcement Agency, Customs & Excise, the Sexual Hygiene Inspectorate, the Milk Inspectorate, the Differently-Abled Entitlement Bureau, O.F.W.A.T., O.F.A.T.G.A.S. (that one made him spit) and of course O.F.S.E.X.

  CourtroomChannel 44 were showing a repeat of Snell of the Yard: His Finest Moments, clips of the bewigged flic solving crime after crime and invariably employing his moronic catchphrase, ‘I’m thinking aloud here.’

  Horatio switched back to JobsChannel 88 and saw yet more ads, this time for the Common Language Commission, the Five-Year Plan Office, the Sandhurst Military Academy Gay and Lesbian Awareness Course Instructor Unit, the Cholesterol Curtailment Commission, the Private Roads Ombudsman, the V.A.T. Inspectorate, the Welsh Relations Bureau, the Blood Sports Vigilance Unit, the Competitive Sports Abatement Department of the Education Commission, the Neighbourhood Watch Denouncement Scheme, and so on and so on and so on.

  The next channel was entirely devoted to America’s Death Row. Televised executions had proved so popular that the Cultural Defence Directive had to be amended to permit the import from A.F.T.A. of these gruesome vids. Long interviews with the condemned man’s families, then the victims’ families, the pastor, the electricians and so on, were the stock in trade of SnuffChannel 666.

  Switching over quickly, Horatio found it quite hard to understand how a show on one of the porntainment channels could have passed the rules prohibiting fornication before the 18.00 watershed. It featured powerful, semi-nude superwomen wrestling with each other to the lascivious cheers of a huge crowd in the Birmingham Velodrome Centre’s teeming stadium. The show combined blatant lechery with exquisite sadism. Horatio was both bemused and titillated. He assumed the programme-makers were bribing the censors to let it on so early. Then he realised he was watching the popular show Gladiators 2045. It had changed a lot since he was a boy.

  AdsChannel 104 was a revelation, too. He particularly enjoyed the one for the Kylie Minogue Clinic in Palm Beach. If you could somehow wangle an A.F.T.A. visa and a flight to California you were promised, for a mere seventy-five thousand dollars per week, courses which included (in alphabetical order): Anger Release Therapy, Clairvoyancy, Colonic Irrigation, Crystals, Hypnotherapy, Female Assertion, Kick-Boxing, Liposuction, Mind Irrigation, Reflexology, Séances (ouija board supplied), Sexual Abstinence Therapy (optional), Tarot Card Reading, Telephone Assertion (costs extra), Thai Boxing and, the most popular, Zen Buddhism. The whole twelve-volume Cheryl Cole Workout and Homoeopathy Vid Collection was thrown in free.

  At least the cable, however proley and ghastly it was, took Horatio’s mind off what was going to happen the next day. He knew, though, that he was going to be tested as never before in his life. He had gone over it again and again as he lay in the dark at night and during the power cuts. He would show his mother how wrong she had been about him. He would do this himself. She’d opposed the plan point blank when he’d first suggested it, but he’d insisted, called Cradock at the Embassy and arranged the rendezvous. If his life was going to be on the line he would organise things his way. He had refused to let Tenth May collect the Memorandum for him. He had told them he was going to pick it up himself on Saturday morning and put it to its greatest possible use. It was the right, the only, thing to do. But the knowledge still left him with a fetid, incontinent fear.

  CHAPTER 25

  09.40 SATURDAY 8 MAY

  As arranged, Horatio left Brunswick Gardens and made his way on foot, neurotic as ever that the cameras had picked him up or that he was being followed by someone other than Riley, towards the Brompton Oratory.

  The 10.00 service had just started. As soon as he entered the church he saw that an old man was already occupying the seat in the twelfth pew. There was plenty of space around, so he could hardly ask him to budge along. Anyhow, the old boy was praying.

  A priest standing at the altar was intoning the Vatican Three Liturgy: ‘Jesus the Significant One, who sits at the mighty hand of GOD, the Father-Mother,’ he said, in a voice which implied that he did not like the new language at all, ‘and who has a very real and significant status in our hearts …’

  Horatio genuflected before the thirteenth pew, slid in and knelt directly in front of the man. He put his hands behind his back and felt around for the tape.

  It wasn’t there.

  He felt again. Nothing.

  Desperation mounting, Horatio dropped a two-euro piece on the marble floor and, ostensibly to retrieve it, crouched down and looked under the pew.

  There it was, slightly to the left of where he had been groping.

  Detaching the chewing gum proved messy but not difficult. By the time he left the pew and genuflected again, the old man, disturbed from his devotions, was staring with a mixture of hauteur and quizzical interest. Entering an antique confessional in the ante-chapel on the right, Horatio checked it and slipped the tape over into his jacket pocket, still sticky with detox gum.

  Before leaving the church Horatio said a short prayer along the lines of Sir Jacob Astley’s before the Battle of Edgehill: ‘O Lord, thou knowest how busy I must be this day: if I forget thee, do not thou forget me.’ It felt appropriate. Pausing only to nod to the altar when he reached the door, he walked out.

  Moving fast down the Brompton Road on the opposite side from the Harrods Ultra-Shopping Experience & Al Fayed Mausoleum, Horatio saw an old lady bent double with shopping. She was trying to cross Montpelier Place, but the autos weren’t stopping. The Euro-Youth Leaguer in him took over. Without thinking, he asked her whether he could be of any assistance. As soon as he spoke he regretted it. She flung back her head and screamed at the top of her (astonishingly loud) voice, ‘Proud to be a Golden-Ager! Ageism alert! Proud to be a Twilighter! Help! I’m being patronised! Help!’ Passers-by started looking across at them.

  Horatio dashed across the Brompton Road traffic, turned right at Harrods and didn’t stop running until he reached Herbert Crescent, where he had to take several long pulls on his inhaler. He thanked his stars no communitarian-minded citizen had chased him. Instead, there had been a stream of foul-mouthed abuse. What an idiot he’d been! Had he been arrested, or even cautioned, under the Ageist or Minority Patronisation legislation he would have been recognised and the entire, minutely timed plan would have been hopelessly compromised.

  The way he took to the Haymarket was convoluted. He assumed he was being followed as arranged, but he couldn’t spot Riley. After five minutes he began to worry that he might have lost him, then that he�
��d been captured, then that he was really a P.I.D. informant and was only waiting for him to pick up the tape before destroying it. And him.

  He went into a Boots apothekari in Sloane Street for another Salbutamol cartridge, pausing by the pill counter. Should he get something to help steady the nerves and keep his adrenalin under control? A little Minuszac perhaps?

  No. Those days were over. He was on his own now.

  When all this was behind him, he promised himself once more, he would go back to All Souls and study quietly for his biography of Henry Percy, the seventeenth-century ‘Wizard Earl’ of Northumberland, and never even so much as venture forth into the High or the Broad.

  It was 10.29 before, by a combination of tram, taxi and walking, including several visits to large department stores and back-door exits – once via the kitchens of the vast Trocadero Sauerkrautorium where the smell of onions had him salivating like one of Dr Pavlov’s spaniels – Horatio finally reached a huge glass-fronted building on the corner of Haymarket and Pall Mall.

  Just as he was about to push open the Embassy’s vast doors a voice he recognised called to him from across the street.

  ‘Horatio! Stop!’

  Cleo was running towards him. She was waving and shouting. She was wearing black, and even at fifty metres she looked sexier than anyone he had ever seen before. She was gesticulating vigorously and yelling ‘Stop! Horatio! Stop!’ at the top of her voice.

  In the split second in which Horatio hesitated, a tall blond man stepped out from the shadow of the doorway of the Berliner Bank across the street. He raised a machine pistol to eye level and fired.

  A woman’s scream from close by told Horatio that Tallboys had missed him but hit a passer-by. Her shriek of shock and terror galvanised even Horatio’s torpid physical faculties.

  A second later a tram came around the corner of Pall Mall. Its windows were strafed with bullets. Horatio pulled the Embassy door open. A series of shots smashed into it at head height. One slammed into the glass ten centimetres from his ear. Amazingly it didn’t shatter, but ten-foot cracks forked down it like Mediterranean midsummer lightning.

  Horatio flung himself inside, sprawling onto the marble floor. There was commotion in the lobby. Two armed guards who had seen what had happened had already cocked their N-series machine guns.

  As he looked up, Horatio saw they were pointed at him.

  Visible through the glass to everyone in the foyer was the mayhem in the street. The gurgling shopper lay on the pavement, blood coursing from her mouth. The tram had slammed to a halt outside, its passengers lying in broken glass on the floor, screaming.

  Horatio saw Cleo standing by Tallboys. They were both shouting. Then they ran off towards Pall Mall.

  No one in the foyer moved. Least of all Horatio, who was sitting on the floor with his hands on his head. Then an authoritative voice was shouting, ‘Make way! Get out of my way!’ A burly, fair-haired man in his early thirties was pushing through the mob of frightened visa applicants, secretaries and attaches. He walked over to Horatio and asked, in a broad antipodean accent, ‘Password?’

  ‘Monty.’ Horatio’s idea.

  ‘We’ve been expecting you. Follow me.’ The guards reluctantly raised their guns. Horatio got up and trotted off at the New Zealander’s heels down a series of long corridors.

  ‘Lyle Cradock, second i/c Security,’ the man called over his shoulder, striding forward at speed. ‘You’re late. We waited as long as we could but H.M. had to leave.’ Horatio started to burble. ‘Don’t bother explaining a thing, I know exactly what’s going on.’

  ‘But I thought ten-thirty was the agreed time.’ Cradock checked his chunky diver’s watch. A real H.R.G. at last, thought Horatio with relief.

  ‘It’s ten thirty-six. His Majesty couldn’t wait any longer. For cable tie-in reasons he’s got to begin his speech at eleven hundred sharp.’

  Horatio, skipping along at Cradock’s heels, was already out of breath. He couldn’t get out of his mind the sight of the shopper clutching at her neck, the blood spitting from between her fingers, from the bullet which was meant for him. At least he was safe now.

  ‘Has he read the memorandum?’ Cradock stopped by some lift doors and pressed a button.

  ‘Yes, and he’s shocked. He’s agreed to play it in his speech. If you can get the tape to him. He doesn’t see there’s any proof or point otherwise. Unsubstantiated allegations would do more harm than good in this political climate.’

  ‘But how can we do that?’ Horatio assumed that he was not expected to leave the safety of the Embassy after everything that had just happened.

  ‘By driving bloody fast.’

  ‘What? Where? To Hyde Park?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Now?’

  ‘When else?’

  ‘I don’t drive.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But there are two people outside – at least two, there may be more – who want to kill me. This wasn’t mentioned in our agreement. You’re supposed to get me to Auckland by diplomatic container. That was meant to be the end of it all.’

  ‘I know. But now we’ve no other course.’ The lift doors opened. They stepped inside. Horatio saw Cradock jab “G” with his forefinger. As they went down a pulse gun appeared from Cradock’s shoulder holster. Horatio saw his thumb flick the switch on the butt from ‘Stun’ to ‘Kill’. His resolution turned to water.

  ‘Why am I needed? Must I come?’

  As soon as he’d said it, Horatio realised how cowardly it sounded. How cowardly it was. Almost before the last word left his mouth he wanted to correct himself. But he didn’t. His fear was talking. Loud and clear. But Cradock didn’t seem to be listening.

  The lift doors opened and they walked out into an underground garage. Cradock turned around. His innocent-abroad blue eyes stared straight into Horatio’s conscience, ransacking it. He counted the reasons off on his fingers.

  ‘One, only you can identify the enemy. Two, I can’t get to Hyde Park on my own in the time. I don’t know this city well enough yet. Three, someone has to find the right passage in the tape. You can do that on the stereo. Four, we need a bloke up in the control room to make sure the speech isn’t simply switched off. Tenth May have got one of their people in there, but every extra counts. It was down to you that my boss Colonel Upham moved H.M. to safety during the Entente incident. Now we’ve got to finish the job.’ He looked at his watch. ‘It’s gone 10.37. Let’s move.’ Horatio moved nowhere.

  ‘Who’s their man? Do you have his real name? I’ll need it once I’m there.’

  ‘James Longman.’ Wadham College, Horatio remembered.

  ‘I know him.’ He was at the party on Friday night. The one Mike Hibbert said had lain doggo ever since getting married to a Spaniard.

  ‘Well, he’s one of us and he’ll be in the control room.’ That, thought Horatio, was the very first piece of good news today. He skipped behind Cradock’s fast stride into the under-lit garage.

  ‘We need surprise,’ said Cradock, ‘and speed. Half of Europol will be on their way here after that performance upstairs. I’m going to drive straight up that ramp onto Pall Mall. You direct me after that. We’ll be going very fast.’

  Horatio nodded miserably. His conscience and courage, which should have been throbbing, healthy, full-blooded organs, were, he realised, just shrivelled, yellow little walnuts. He despised himself.

  It was as they approached the auto that Horatio recognised the grey grade 2 petrol.

  ‘Whose auto’s this?’ he demanded.

  ‘What? Never mind that. Get in.’

  ‘I said, whose auto is this?’

  ‘One of your operatives,’ answered Cradock. ‘Come on, for Chrissake, or we won’t make it!’ Horatio stayed stock still. His mind was whirring. The right-side wing mirror even had a slight dent in the front.

  ‘Who? Whose operative?’

  ‘Tenth May, of course.’

  ‘Who in Tenth May? I need a
name!’ He was shouting, surprising himself with his ferocity.

  ‘Code name JACOBITE. Don’t know the real one. Come on!’

  ‘No way. I’m not getting in. Someone driving this car has tried to kill me. For all I know it might have been you. I want some answers.’

  He slipped his hand into his pocket and his finger into the trigger ring of Jean’s gun. Rivulets of sweat were running down all the way down from his armpit to the gun.

  ‘It was brought here last Sunday. We were asked to take it on. It was hot. We were going to dismantle it and lose it in pieces around the city. As you can see, it’s the only halfway fast auto here. Now get in.’ Not an entreaty, still less a threat. Just an order.

  Horatio did. Fearful and suspicious, he took a look in the back. No clues.

  Cradock pressed a switch to open the Embassy garage gates. Shoving his feet hard down both on the brake and the accelerator, he revved the engine hard and loud.

  As the garage doors swung up, a man dashed in under them. Tallboys. He stared around the garage, machine pistol in hand. His eyes accustomed themselves to the dingy garage from the bright sunshine outside. Swinging around in the direction of the revving car engine he caught sight of Horatio in the front seat. He smiled.

  Horatio realised he was locked with a stranger in an enemy’s auto in a deserted basement garage carrying the Memorandum, while a homicidal maniac was taking aim at him with a machine pistol.

  ‘That’s him!’ he shouted, pointing. Cradock let off the handbrake and screeched the ten metres straight at Tallboys, who had time only to fire a short burst before flinging himself against the garage wall. He shot out the lights, but the radiator and windscreen were unscathed.