There were multiple takes. Miller stumbled over his unscripted lines. Jalila’s knee ached after the fifth take, but adamantly continued: the watching world might not be intimidated by a terrorist who had trouble standing.
After they finished they sat down on the sofas while Liam worked on the computer composing their first press release, which they would send to Barrett later the following day. He nodded as he finished. ‘You want a read?’ The others took turns in front of the laptop. The article received silent nods of approval.
Aiya sat behind the computer and entered an encryption code that would make their emails untraceable.
‘How do you know how to do all this?’ said Liam.
Aiya smiled. ‘My grandfather was keen I should know my way around a computer from an early age.’
In the early hours of Thursday morning, they released the video, and later that day sent the following email to Liam’s editor, Jane Barrett.
To the Editor,
Put this on the front page of tomorrow’s edition, or your employee and his three friends will be on the front page the day after.
Many thanks.
I write these words from a dirty floor in a bare, windowless room. There is a bucket in the corner. For the majority of our waking hours we lie in darkness, suffering our own personal hells, imagining the natural next steps from the beatings we received in the first few hours.
We are now the characters in those videos we used to watch with detachment. We are the dark grainy figures hoping the world will care more about our fates than we did when others were in our place. We are terrified of our fates becoming a guilty entertainment to those who could, if they wished, save us.
We don’t know our kidnappers’ motives or demands. They say the government will let us die, hiding behind its refusal to negotiate with terrorists, but that the average citizen will refuse to have our blood on their hands.
In the next couple of days they will release their demands. I pray it does not involve the release of terrorists, or betraying a cause I know is more important than our lives. I hope against hope it is a demand you conclude is worth meeting in return for four innocent lives.
Charlie sat with Michael in his office as they consumed Friday’s newspapers. Only the Daily Voice had published the article that morning, but it had since been duplicated on every international news site, and all publications were centring their Saturday editions on the story. Charlie had left his phone on silent, but a knock at the door saw an aide brief Charlie on developments.
‘And?’ said Michael impatiently, as Charlie returned to his seat.
‘Two things. First, intelligence has discovered that the area in Cairo where they were taken has had a spate of strange kidnaps recently.’
‘Strange?’
‘Yeah – with demands to mend school roofs and visit the elderly, apparently.’
‘Hmm.’ Michael paused. ‘So is this the same group?’
‘The video and article are highly uncharacteristic. Egyptian intelligence has spoken to former hostages: they don’t think it’s the same group. So we’ll take it as a coincidence for now.’
‘And the second thing?’
‘Well . . . tomorrow’s Mail runs with a picture of the four men in captivity and the headline: will the pm stand up and save these men?’
‘And do they think I will?’
‘They decided to take a poll. The good news is only 18 per cent said no.’
‘18?’ said Michael. ‘That’s the good news?’
‘Everything’s relative. 45 per cent said maybe.’
Michael looked to the ceiling as he did the maths. ‘Still, that’s 37 per cent who think I’ll rise to the challenge. That’s higher than my approval rating.’
‘A hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless. I’m pleased to see a glint of the old “silver-lining Rayburn” through the dark clouds,’ said Charlie.
Under the joking, Michael was hurting. He understood the parallels being drawn with Quest Voyager.
He forced a smile. ‘Maybe we should just agree to everything the kidnappers demand. It could be liberating. Maybe they’ll have some well-thought-through demands on running the NHS. We could form a coalition.’
‘Of the damned,’ said Charlie.
Everyone became an expert, except for the actual experts who pointed to the absence of leads. ‘Don’t you recognise the room?’ asked an MI6 operative, shocked by the expert’s unwillingness to speculate.
‘Maybe they’ve painted it,’ the expert responded sarcastic-ally.
The media gleefully accepted the news: a story tailor-made to satiate the addiction of a population drawn vicariously to horror and bloodshed.
This was tempered by Miller Carey’s sudden ascent to national heart-throb status. Blogs appeared with pictures of him out with friends. A shot on a beach in Greece with an ex-girlfriend a few years earlier would charitably be awarded ‘Torso of the Week’ in a gossip magazine. His dedication to helping those in need meant his appeal united both adolescents and their mothers. #savemiller trended with an unfortunate consequence that his supporters appeared a little apathetic to the lives of the other three hostages.
‘We need the first ransom soon. Someone else’s scandal will take centre stage before long.’ They had grown accustomed to Liam’s ability to see the potential for failure everywhere, but on this subject they accepted he was an expert.
All afternoon, the Serendipity Foundation had discussed ransom ideas. But for all their experience, most of their suggestions felt too preachy, too righteous.
‘We just need to have faith in our convictions,’ said Richard.
Jalila had not drawn attention to herself all afternoon, but now gestured to Aiya, who translated. ‘We’re in danger of turning into yet another group convinced their vision of a better world will be everyone else’s.’
‘But . . . but we are,’ said Richard. ‘Otherwise what’s the point of us being here?’
‘That’s not what we’re about,’ said Aiya. ‘We deal with means rather than ends. Let me put it like this: would you want a country where everyone has strong convictions, and nobody’s willing to compromise?’
Richard shook his head.
‘So what do we want to encourage people to be?’ said Aiya.
The four men remained silent. A minute passed.
Miller looked up from the floor. ‘Pragmatists.’
Jalila smiled and nodded encouragingly.
‘Almost,’ said Aiya. ‘What the world needs are pragmatists with hearts of gold. We create ways for people from different positions to start working together.’
Richard remained unconvinced. ‘What would that look like?’
‘You’ve never held a community meeting in a place where everyone hates each other,’ said Jordie warmly. ‘The first thing you do is tickle each other’s balls – I apologise, ladies, for the analogy, but only once the nuts have been titillated will people consider rubbing them against people they hate. The goal of ransom one is to inspire taut sacs.’
The others shuffled awkwardly.
‘Moving on,’ said Richard, ‘what you’re basically saying is that we need a country-sized ice-breaker. Well, how about this . . .’
Operation Taut Sac
Monday, May 18th
The front page of every Monday daily carried the following article:
Do as you would be done by?
We have four of your citizens.
Will you stand idly by watching from the sidelines, or will you save them?
Our first demand is as follows: Wednesday is Prime Minister’s Questions. During this session, all the business of the house will be conducted in haiku poetry. All questions, answers and procedures must be expressed using three lines – each consisting of five, seven and five syllables respectively. Kireji and Kigo will not be necessary.
Failure to do so will have severe consequences. There will be no exceptions. We will respond on Wednesday evening with further instructions.
/> What do you stand for?
A COBRA meeting was called. Michael preferred these to Cabinet meetings, surrounded as he was by a range of police, army, intelligence and assorted boffins. Uniforms and badges hinted at a greater sense of discipline, if not competence. The combination of low-level lighting and large bright screens was about as sexy as government got.
The room stood up as Michael entered, with murmurings of ‘Prime Minister’, and followed Michael’s lead in sitting down.
‘So what can you tell us? Have we been able to trace roughly where the hostages are being held?’ said Michael to no one in particular.
‘Prime Minister,’ said a member of MI6 whose name Michael always forgot. ‘So far we’ve had little luck tracing the emails. They’ve been encrypted and as long as the kidnappers don’t make any mistakes, we won’t track them. The hostages’ phones have been offline for ten days. The last confirmed sighting was with their driver who dropped them off here.’ He pointed to the enlarged map of Cairo on the screen.
‘From here they were supposed to meet their translator in a café . . . here . . . We’re working closely with our Egyptian counterparts to search the area. We’re using aerial heat sensors, but as the neighbourhood is densely populated, it’s not straightforward.’
‘So the chances are that we won’t find them before Wednesday?’ said Michael.
‘That is our suspicion, Prime Minister.’
‘Do we know anything at all about the group?’
‘Nothing yet. Their behaviour doesn’t fit with established Islamist cells. Japanese poetry is inconsistent with seventh-century Arabia. And then there’s this other group, who’ve previously asked for under-16s football matches: the demand seems more in keeping with their style.’
‘But Egyptian intelligence can’t confirm this?’
MI6 shook his head.
‘And even if it was, does it mean we should be less concerned?’
MI6 added a shrug to his shaking head.
‘So . . . we know nothing,’ said Michael, hoping to be contradicted. The room remained silent. ‘We’re not seriously considering letting four men die here, are we?’
‘We wouldn’t be letting them die,’ said Rawlins, the General Chief of Staff. His uniform and medals were a reminder to others that he knew the balance between individual life and national security. He had a ginger moustache that for some reason made Michael want to call him Brigadier. His jacket buttons were resolute in the face of a growing paunch – his round face a further testament that he was a soldier who lunches.
‘Prime Minister, the greater national interest will not be served by showing potential terrorists around the world that we’re now open for negotiation.’
‘With haiku.’
‘With all due respect, Prime Minister, we don’t know where this could lead. This could be an attempt to humiliate us in the eyes of the world before more dangerous demands are made.’
‘Or our vanity could be sentencing four men to death.’
‘All great leaders need to understand the difference between blood on their hands and blood on their conscience,’ said Rawlins with vague battlefield wisdom.
‘Am I seriously the only one who has a problem with Rawlins’s thinking?’ Michael sighed as he stared at the glaring overhead shot of Cairo that remained on the big screen.
‘As I see it,’ offered Sandra Cowling, the Home Secretary, ‘the kidnappers have called directly to the public to put pressure on us. They might vote for a TV talent show, but I’m not sure they’ll care too much about saving human life. We’ll make a contingency plan, but for now we don’t negotiate and wait for the kidnappers to contact us again or get caught before Wednesday.’
The room nodded cautiously.
‘So sketch this out for me. What is a haiku exactly?’ said Michael.
‘I’d like to introduce Professor Chiyo Matsuke, an expert on Japanese poetry,’ said Rawlins.
Michael nodded her a welcome.
‘Prime Minister,’ she said, with a quiver in her voice. ‘As you might remember from school, haiku is a three-line poem, with the first line having five syllables, the second seven, and the third five. In most British classrooms that’s as far as it gets. But it’s a form with deep traditional roots that would have to include kireji: a juxtaposition of two different images or thoughts; and kigo, which gives a seasonal context. Indeed, haikus don’t always maintain the five–seven–five syllable structure. Also, in Japan a haiku is not structured by syllables, but by om, which are often parts of syllables.’
‘Comforting,’ said Michael. ‘This all sounds a little complicated.’
Chiyo smiled. ‘I understand, Prime Minister. But the demand says you don’t have to worry about kireji or kigo.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Kireji and kigo transform haiku into art rather than just counting syllables on your fingers. Without them, they’re the haikus you did when you were eight.’
‘So . . . ?’
‘This is a guess . . . but most eight-year-olds do it at school because it’s fun. I think the demand is less an intellectual riddle than an excuse for parliament to have some fun together.’
‘Or for the world to have some at our expense,’ said Michael.
Chiyo smiled. ‘Laugh and the world laughs with you.’
‘Seven syllables,’ Michael said, repeating Chiyo’s maxim to himself, returning her nervous smile from across the room.
‘Shirta! Shirta!’ called voices accompanied by a banging on the door upstairs.
The four men looked up nervously. ‘It’s the police,’ Aiya said. They stood up and looked anxiously around the room, evaluating routes of escape.
‘Is there another exit?’ said Richard.
‘You expect a fire escape in a hostage cell?’ said Aiya.
‘Can we climb out of an upstairs window?’ said Richard.
‘Some of you may struggle with that option,’ said Aiya.
‘Why are you looking at me?’ said Jordie.
‘Go and hide in the bathroom. I’ll see what they want. Do I look like a kidnapper?’ she said nervously.
Aiya picked up a scarf and fixed it over her hair as she walked towards the door; the four men went to the bathroom. Jordie sat on the closed toilet seat, the others squeezed in tightly alongside. The atmosphere combined the gravitas of a police raid with the awkwardness of a crowded elevator.
Upstairs, they heard Aiya open the door. For the next minute they listened to muffled voices, alternating between police bass notes and Aiya’s higher frequencies. They heard the door close and footsteps returning downstairs.
‘You can come out now,’ said Aiya.
They shuffled towards the sofas, waiting for their adrenalin to subside.
‘So what did they want?’ said Miller.
‘They wanted to find four European men.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I said my mother was out, but they could call back later. They then moaned about having to be out in the sun all day and said it wasn’t important.’
The Foundation sat in silence for a minute.
‘That’s it? That was our SWAT team?’ said Liam. ‘We’ve evaded the intelligence of two countries with the line “Mum’s not in”. Thank Christ we don’t want rescuing.’
‘I understand . . . really . . . mmm-hmm . . . yep . . . OK . . . thank you anyway.’
Charlie stared at Michael, as he hung up the phone. ‘That was Rawlins. He says the Egyptians found nothing. It looks like I’m going to have to make a decision.’ Michael curled his bottom lip. ‘What are you hearing?’
‘It’s not great. I’ve spoken to a few of the rally organisers and they’re expecting up to 100,000 out tomorrow, not including people who may travel in to London.’
Barrett’s paper led a united front including all the print media in demanding government action to secure the hostages’ release. An inside source claimed Michael was set to ignore the demands.
Analysts were war
y of supporting the idea that a man’s life was not worth a haiku. Even Michael’s few remaining supporters created distance between themselves and the potentially fatal decisions of a government on its way out. The rally had widespread support across the political spectrum.
Michael’s every instinct was to follow the will of the people. He could be at peace with his conscience, and for once be the leader he had dreamed of being. But throughout Tuesday his senior advisers lobbied heavily for resolve against what they saw as weakness.
‘What are you going to do?’ said Charlie.
Michael sank into his chair and flicked a pen around his thumb a few times before throwing the pen across the room.
‘Do you think evil prevails when good men do nothing, Charlie?’
Charlie rubbed his face and let out a sigh. ‘At the very least, when they believe everything’s futile and no longer roll the dice.’
They both remained silent as Michael’s face adopted a solemn expression.
‘Well, let’s go roll some dice, then.’
Parliament Square was a sea of heads, snaking down Victoria Street, Great George Street and Whitehall. The crowd were packed in along Westminster Bridge and the South Bank, directing their discontent across the Thames. Vans sponsored by tabloid newspapers were parked, armed with speakers and broadcasting live TV images from inside the House of Commons. Independent experts estimated the number of protesters had reached upwards of 150,000. Central London had shut down.
But they were not protesters yet, and that somewhat confused the atmosphere. Even now, with ten minutes to go before the start of Prime Minister’s Questions, there was no announcement on the government’s stance. Michael felt the decision was not his to make alone, and had met with opposition leaders, chief whips and the Speaker that morning.
The crowd had tried its best to lead by example, substituting grammar for a strict syllable count with chants such as ‘What we want? Haiku/ When do we want to hear it?/ Now now now now now’.
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