As they reached the bottom of the tower Horatio looked up. He remembered seeing a documentary about its construction. Built by the Millennium Fund from Lottery money back in 2000, the eyesore had been described as ‘a hideous perspex shoebox on stilts’ by King William’s father. Set on four steel legs thirty metres above the ground, it consisted of a single room about twelve metres square. All the film, audiovisual electronics, amplification, cable and recording equipment for the stage and Park was operated from a huge panel covered in switches and dials. Its darkened, one-way glasspex windows facing the stage rendered the room completely soundproof against all noise coming in or out.
Usually used to record pop concerts and Euro-Youth rallies, the tower transmitted what was happening on the stage to the outside world. All the cameras and sound systems from around the Park were subject to its overall editorial control. It was thus the only place where both the cable transmission and the microphones for the speech could be cut dead. Horatio appreciated immediately why the conspirators could not be allowed to take it.
As they approached the middle-aged security guard at the bottom of the sole lift, Horatio caught sight of Penelope Aldritt standing in the crowd. She was speaking into her pager. She must be one of those covering the rally for Weaning, he thought. Taking Gemma’s place.
He ducked down behind Upham as he passed. It was definitely her, he couldn’t have missed that nose. Had she seen him though? He didn’t think so. There were three or four people between them. But the cow was easily clever enough not to let him realise if she had.
Marty gave a password to the uniformed guard, whose short hair, flat nose and boxer’s ears rang a bell somewhere in Horatio’s memory.
‘Have a man and a woman been in here anytime in the last half-hour?’ asked Marty. ‘She’s tall, dark, greeny-blue eyes. He’s taller, blond, blue eyes, well-built. Both late twenties/early thirties. They could be posing as electricians or sound technicians. They’d both have full I.D. security clearance.’
The guard, whom Horatio thought looked too old for the job, answered very definitely, ‘No one’s come in during the last hour, sir. There are two electrical engineers up there at the minute, but they’re both male and they’ve been here since 08.00.’ One would be James Longman, Horatio thought, relieved.
‘Fine. If anyone answering those descriptions should try to come up, arrest them both and call me immediately. Shoot first if necessary.’
‘Fine.’ He smiled.
‘I mean it. They’re ruthless.’
‘Don’t worry, sir,’ he said, tapping the N-series slung over his shoulder and winking, ‘so am I.’ The gesture should have made Horatio feel more comfortable, but somehow it didn’t. The man’s mouth had smiled all right, but his small eyes hadn’t.
Marty, Upham and Horatio took the lift.
‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ Upham asked Marty as they reached the control room, ‘why did you pretend not to recognise Dr Lestoq just now?’
‘I’m glad you asked me that …’ answered Marty, but before he could finish the sentence the lift doors opened and a shot punched straight between Upham’s eyebrows. The bullet’s entry hole was tiny and clean, but skull and brain were splattered all over the back of the lift as the body itself slumped to the floor.
Horatio flung himself to the ground, his hands over his head.
‘You bloody fool!’ someone screamed. ‘I told you how to deal with it.’
It was Cleo. Furious. Horatio tentatively looked up and saw Tallboys standing in front of the lift, pulse-gun in hand and a glint in his eyes as cool, hard and sparkling as the diamonds on the King’s Garter star.
‘Sorry.’ Tallboys did not look it. ‘I thought it was on “Stun”. I’d no idea …’ Then he continued, illogically, ‘Plus I didn’t know if Lestoq was armed.’ Cleo walked over, bent down and took Horatio’s gun from his pocket. He got up, ignored.
‘You’re lying. You enjoy it. If you thought it was on “Stun” why did you hit him straight between the eyes? Professional pride? Give me that.’
Tallboys handed over the gun. Cleo flicked the switch on the base of the butt and returned it. Horatio stood up.
‘You are not – repeat not – to switch this onto “Kill” without my permission.’ He nodded, crestfallen. She held out her hand. ‘Clean the lift. Get him out and use his jacket.’
Tallboys hauled Upham’s corpse out of the lift by the feet and then stripped off its check jacket. Horatio looked the other way, trying to concentrate on what was going on outside. Tallboys then stepped inside the lift and the doors automatically closed behind him.
‘Agent Frobisher. Come here.’ Cleo signalled Marty over with her gun. He walked toward her slowly. She kept it pointed at his heart. Even Horatio knew that a direct shot at the heart, even only a stun, could induce a coronary. ‘Closer,’ she said, ‘closer …’ She took a swift look behind her to check the lift doors were shut, then a short step forward and, putting her gun hand behind his head, drew his face to hers.
They kissed. Passionately.
Horatio closed his eyes. Think logically. Fear, bewilderment, anger and frustration were all vying for the upper hand, but right now he just needed pure thought. He scanned the room. A lone soundman wearing headphones was flicking switches and busily organising the lighting and sound on the stage in front. Horatio could not tell if he was a conspirator too. Then the soundman turned round and locked eyes with Horatio. Hardly more than a boy, he was clearly petrified. From the scarcely comprehending look of terror on his face it was obvious he would do anything Cleo told him.
A man was lying sprawled on the floor in the corner. James Longman. Either stunned or dead, Horatio couldn’t make out which. It didn’t much matter. He had been Horatio’s last hope.
‘So tell me,’ Cleo asked Marty after they had at last disentangled. ‘What happened?’
‘You wouldn’t believe it. I’d been there for hours when Fatso arrived, but as soon as he did, Glory Boy there’ – Marty gesticulated with his thumb towards Upham’s corpse – ‘took him off me and in to see Rex. There was nothing I could do.’
‘So Rex has it?’
‘I suppose so. Probably in micro form. I asked the guards. He had nothing on him.’
‘Shit!’
‘I know.’
‘Couldn’t you just have taken out Fatso and Glory Boy together?’
‘There were two other guards there. I asked to go along with them so that I could try something like that in the corridor, but he ordered me to stay there on the lookout for you and Bonehead. How is he, by the way?’ Cleo smiled and kissed Marty on the end of his nose. The lift doors were still closed.
‘Jealous as ever.’
‘How did Fatso get here so quickly? I thought you were going to detain him in Commission Square.’
‘He went to the Embassy instead. By the time Bonehead, as I wish you wouldn’t call him as he is still my husband …’
‘Not for much longer …’
‘… got Riley to tell him what was going on, I was still at the Santer Statue. Needless to say, Alex caused maximum mayhem in Haymarket and we had to follow Fatso and the junior Glory Boy, who were in the same auto that you delivered to the Kiwis on Sunday.’
‘So where’s he?’
‘After I stopped the chase to head off here, I sent Alex off in search but he couldn’t find him. We’ve just heard from Sigint that he died in the auto.’ Marty whistled. Horatio felt nauseous again. Poor Lyle.
Marty, thought Horatio. Marty who had had the gloves and torches ready in his auto. Marty who wiped the Percival conversation from his pager. Marty at whose party he’d been picked up by Cleo. Marty who’d advised him to ‘drop it’, or to flee to Norway. His best mate ever since his first day at school. Judas.
Cleo turned to Horatio.
‘Come here, you.’ She frisked him, removing the Admiral’s letter from his inside pocket. She continued frisking under his armpits. Then around his belly. When
she got further down she grabbed his crotch and gave it a savage twist and then a tug. He yelped. She laughed exactly that happy, innocent laugh he’d loved hearing only a week ago. Then she took his inhaler from his pocket, held it up for a second between her thumb and forefinger and dropped it on the floor. She made as if to grind it beneath the heel of her knee-length black suede boot. Death leered in Horatio’s face. Just as her foot was about to descend, she asked, ‘Did you give the Memorandum to the King?’
‘No.’
‘You’re lying, of course.’ Her heel nudged the top of the inhaler. Even so much as a crack would render it useless. And him in mortal danger. ‘Because otherwise it’d be on you.’
‘It’s being brought up here by someone, to be played over the sound system when the King gives the signal.’
‘Who?’
Horatio thought quickly. Knowledge gave him a chance of survival. Ignorance none at all.
‘JACOBITE.’
A flash of recognition crossed her face. She nodded to Marty, ‘Tenth May code for the P.I.D. traitor who works for the nats. The one the Kiwis think is you.’ She turned back to Horatio.
‘And who, if I may be the one to ask the bleeding obvious, is JACOBITE?’
‘I don’t know. I was also led to believe it was Marty.’
‘Who did you meet on Thursday at the safe house?’
‘No one I knew.’ How could she know about that?
‘I’d tell her if I were you,’ said Marty sardonically, ‘as there’s a good chance she might hurt you otherwise.’
‘Oh no, I’m not going to hurt you my love.’ She paused, theatrically. ‘Alex has asked whether he can. I think this time I’ll indulge him.’
As if on cue, the lift doors opened and the cretin reappeared, grinning. Horatio again experienced the same brain-freezing terror he’d felt in the Embassy garage.
‘Alex, the memorandum might be being brought here. It’s probably in tape form. Go back down and tell Frank to let the person up, so long as he gives us plenty of warning like last time.’ Even through his terror Horatio could still feel Cleo’s sexual allure. And her intelligence. She had outwitted him every single time.
‘Cover Fatso will you?’ she said to Marty as she opened the Admiral’s letter.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Horatio wanted to end the sentence ‘Judas’, but it was Marty who was holding the gun.
‘Duty. Patriotism. We’re trying to build a country here. You used to understand about those things before you started getting mixed up with nats and conspiring against the Union.’ No point arguing then.
‘Why get me out of jail and take me to the Rectory if your boys had already searched the place?’
‘Because we hadn’t found anything, for all the fun we had. I needed you to trust me enough to give me the Memorandum once the Admiral had got it to you, by whichever means the crafty old bugger had thought up.’
Cleo finished. She handed the letter to Marty.
‘Interesting as a historical footnote I suppose, but it alters nothing. Except of course that we’ve committed incest, which sounds gloriously decadent, doesn’t it? A new one that, even for me!’ The giggle struck Horatio as satanic. Marty looked up, galled. She continued, ‘Of course, it also means I’m soon going to be committing fratricide if you don’t tell me who you met on Thursday.’
Both rooms filled with the opening remarks of the Chair of the V.E. Day Centenary Commemoration Committee, spoken in a crisp, pre-Classlessness Queen’s accent.
‘Ladies and gentlemen’ – a phrase not often heard – ‘It is hugely gratifying to see so many of you here today. Europol, never very keen to exaggerate our numbers’ – the crowd laughed good-naturedly – ‘estimates us at around a hundred and fifty thousand. You can therefore assume we really number at least a quarter of a million. Not bad for a rally which, courtesy of the Information Commission, has received virtually no coverage in the national media.’
There was a burst of applause, probably more at the sound of the severely discouraged word ‘national’ than the King’s predictable sentiments. This was clearly going to be as subversive a mass meeting as any of the recent ones in the North. There were Union Jacks flying in the middle of the crowd, which the authorities did not seem to be doing anything about, beyond photographing the culprits from the Europol choppers hovering overhead. Some helium-filled Union Jack balloons had been released and were floating merrily above the crowd, a standing rebuke to the police who could do nothing about it. The number of people was simply too great for the Interior Commission to want to cause ad hoc trouble, as opposed to the premeditated, agent provocateur kind which might reasonably be expected after the rally. The massed blue and gold ranks of armed riot police at strategic spots around the Park added to the atmosphere of expectancy, excitement and incipient danger.
‘What do we do now?’ Tallboys was looking rattled. ‘You heard him say “national”? The old bugger’s reneging on the deal already. Do we cut it or what?’
‘We obey our original orders.’ She spoke with such contempt. ‘Allow the King to speak and only cut it if he looks like making a reference to the Referendum or Ratcliffe. Then we cut his mike and the cable transmission. If Sigint Control gives the order we might also cut him, too. We’ve gone over all this twenty times, please don’t get jumpy on me now.’
‘Surely there’d be a riot.’
‘The Commission have enough police here to contain a revolution. Now get back to the control panel.’ Cleo turned to Horatio and pointed the gun at his nose.
‘Who’s coming here with the tape? We need to know your contact.’
‘I don’t know. He only spoke to me over the phone.’
‘We’ve already gone over this,’ she said resignedly, jabbing the muzzle into his cheek. ‘Alex got out of Riley that you met someone high up in Tenth May. Sadly either Riley didn’t know who, or he was being very brave. All Alex got was a rough description. My idiot husband’ – Alex was busy talking to the soundman but Horatio doubted she’d have been any more flattering had he been listening – ‘let him die too early to be able to fill us in any further. He’s a rabies statistic now and unless you tell me, you’ll soon be joining him. For one last time,’ her voice suddenly rose in pitch, ‘WHO IS JACOBITE?’
‘He was an old guy. I’d never met him before. He didn’t tell me his real name.’
‘Let’s see if your description matches Riley’s then. It’ll go hard on you if it doesn’t.’ Not as hard as if it did, he thought. The only thing keeping him alive now was this information. Marty was listening intently.
‘We are immensely fortunate to have with us today, on his first visit to this country since his family were forced into exile, His Majesty King William the First of New Zealand….’ Long and loud applause greeted the announcement, but through it was easily audible the flagrantly illegal punchline, ‘and Fifth of Great Britain.’
‘You’re right,’ Cleo called over to Alex. ‘We might have to close this down. I’ll let you know once I’ve spoken to the boss. If so, we’ll have to get out of here fast. Can you help Alex set it up?’
Cleo asked Marty, who nodded and walked over to the control panel. Horatio heard Marty ask Tallboys who’d shot Longman.
‘My wife did the housecleaning while I tried to find Fatso and the Junior Kiwi. Recognise him?’ Tallboys booted Longman in the ribs. ‘His name’s James Longman. Remember him from Oxford? Sound boffin. He’s on a four-hour stun. So far. Apparently he didn’t see her, so she hasn’t decided whether to let him live.’ Tallboys’ emphasis on the first two words of his answer left Horatio in no doubt that he suspected Marty and Cleo.
Unmistakeably regal vowels filled the Park.
‘My fellow Britons’ – a collective intake of breath from the audience at the use of the severely discouraged and now almost obsolete word by the King, who was standing in the transparent security box on the podium. On either side of the stage, on ten-metre-square screens, his somehow still-youthful smile
was projected to the multitude. Cleo ordered the soundman to get her an outside line, ‘No vid link though.’ Horatio watched her fingers tap out the numbers. The five twos in a row gave the exchange away. Brussels.
‘One hundred years ago this morning my great-grandfather, King George VI, the King-Emperor, along with his daughter, my beloved grandmother Queen Elizabeth II, and Sir Winston Churchill, acknowledged a crowd of a quarter of a million people from the balcony of Buckingham Palace. They were celebrating the Allied victory over Nazi Germany in the Second World War.’
Horatio counted about six completely politically incorrect statements in that sentence alone. From the look on her face, so had Cleo.
She got straight through. A direct line then. As she did so, Horatio noticed her press the Record button next to the Scramble switch on the panel next to the phone extension.
‘Hi. You’re watching it … Yes … As I said, we’re in place to cut sound and vid links. Soon we’ll be in a position to cut Rex too if you want. Don’t worry, this line’s safe, you’re on Scramble … How about “Britons”? … Yes … all right, and same for “national”? … Yes … OK, let me know what you want. Everything else’s going fine … yes. Hang on, here’s some more …’
‘Our great-grandparents were right to celebrate V.E. Day in the way they did, having gone through six terrible years of sacrifice and slaughter to preserve world liberty. They had saved these islands from the incursion of foreign institutions and systems of government after a thousand years of British sovereign independence.’
‘He’s going to try something on. Fatso says he’s going to be sending someone here with the tape. We should intercept him easily enough, assuming F.E.’s on the ball. I can’t understand why they’re not here already though … What do you mean? … Yes, she told us when he’d be leaving the safe house. We followed him … Yes … Well, Alex saw Riley and grabbed him. I lost Fatso in the commotion … He must have picked it up and made his way to the Embassy … I went to Commission Square as arranged … Well if she bloody well knew he wasn’t going there, she didn’t tell me! … As it was, Alex only phoned to say he’d got Fatso’s destination out of Riley in time for me to sprint to the Embassy and find Alex strafing traffic and generally acting as though it was the Gunfight at the bloody OK Corral … All right … Yes … Let me know what you think. Bye.’
The Aachen Memorandum Page 24
