The Lords' Day (retail)

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘The simplest one of all. We let them have what they want. Give them Daud Gul.’

  ‘Give in? Is that what you are suggesting?’

  ‘It’s an option, Home Secretary.’

  ‘Not on my watch it isn’t.’

  ‘Then, I think we must decide what we are going to do, and when.’

  Instinctively, as she did when she was faced with a dilemma, she began ironing the brown baize tablecloth with her hands once more, this time using both palms. She was interrupted by the entrance of an official. He looked harassed, and announced that the White House was on the phone asking for an update.

  ‘Tell them I’ll call the President as soon as I’ve finished this briefing,’ Willcocks instructed.

  ‘It’s the President herself on the phone,’ the official said, clearly agitated. ‘I gather she’s not in a mood to wait.’

  Her own briefing wasn’t finished yet and Tricia Willcocks’s instincts screamed that she should refuse to take the call. She wasn’t ready, hadn’t thought this one through, and it wouldn’t do to end up in a catfight with the most powerful woman in the world. Yet to refuse her call would be to turn possibility into certainty and ensure the claws came out, and there were just so many battles she could fight at one time. ‘Put her through. On the speakerphone. I might need your help with this one, gentlemen.’

  The voice with the stretched vowels soon filled the room. ‘Tricia, this is Blythe. How are you doing? I feel so very much for you right now.’ Ah, the personal, woman-to-woman approach, so much warmer than the last time they had spoken. A gesture of goodwill.

  ‘As I do for you, Blythe.’

  ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, but it’s now six hours and more into this awful situation and I really need to share with you.’ What she meant, of course, was that the other woman should share with her. ‘How are things progressing? What’s going on behind the scenes? My poor husband’s at his wits end.’ So, she was playing the family card.

  ‘I am sitting here with my advisers, Blythe, what is effectively my War Cabinet.’ It was meant to sound impressive, but to those around the table it seemed a touch pompous. ‘We are reviewing all the options; I assure you that we’re doing everything possible. We’ve secured the area, we’ve already opened channels of communication with the terrorists’ – well, a telephone link, at least – ‘and we’ll do everything humanly possible to resolve the situation peacefully.’

  ‘I am so reassured by what you’re telling me, Tricia.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But they almost shot your Prime Minister, didn’t they? It doesn’t seem like they’re hot on conciliation.’

  ‘We did resolve that situation.’

  ‘I think it was my ambassador who did that. It’s just that . . . well, can I speak to you, mother to mother?’

  Willcocks had no children, but this wasn’t the time to get sidetracked by detail.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  A pause while the President collected herself. Her voice, when it returned, had lost its soft edges. ‘The next on their list is my son, Tricia. We can’t simply sit back and wait for them to decide who they’re going to kill and how many. Surely, we have to take the initiative, don’t we?’

  ‘Initiative? How do you mean?’

  ‘Tricia, my ancestor, the first President Harrison, was an old Indian hand. Fought hard, drank hard. A decisive, no-nonsense sort of fellow. Fact is, he was something of a military hero. He didn’t go looking for trouble but when it started knocking on his door with tomahawks, he took them on at their own game. Gave ’em a taste of their own medicine. Pushed back the Indian raiders, then took on Tecumseh’s entire Indian confederacy and whipped them. That’s what won him the presidency.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, Blythe?’

  ‘How many Indians you got there, Tricia? Eight? That’s scarcely a game of craps. Just take them out.’

  ‘I think that’s premature, Blythe. We want to minimise the chances of bloodshed.’

  There was no mistaking the change that came over the President’s tone, even through the tinny distortions of a speakerphone. ‘There has already been bloodshed. From what I can see, there’s going to be more – until we can stop it.’

  The Home Secretary stared at the telephone, then with increasing urgency, at those around her, looking for support.

  ‘What’s the problem, Tricia?’ the President came back again. ‘Eight men. They haven’t got a nuclear warhead in there, have they?’

  ‘They have our Queen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘They have all sorts of people in there, Tricia. Monarchs, statesmen, ambassadors, politicians. Young boys, even. You telling me you’re putting one life above any other?’

  ‘She is the Queen.’

  ‘And she’s eighty-how much? One dear lady, for sure. But there are other lives at stake here, just as important. And surely the point about monarchs is that the system goes on, no matter what. I hate to put it so bluntly, but what is it you say? The Queen is dead, long live the King – words like that? I don’t want to sound harsh and uncaring here, Tricia, but you’re not going to risk the lives of nearly a hundred people for the sake of one elderly woman.’

  ‘She’s not just an elderly woman, she’s a national symbol.’

  ‘And so is a President’s son. He represents the youth of all America.’

  A cold gale had begun blowing through Downing Street. Willcocks was growing tense, leaning forward in her seat.

  ‘We have to try all means other than force first.’

  ‘Sure. And if jaw-jaw doesn’t work, you just make sure you’re ready to make war on those bastards.’

  ‘As I have said,’ Willcocks insisted, struggling not to raise her voice, ‘we are reviewing all the options.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m not sure what deadline you’re working to, but I think the terrorists gave us . . .’ – a slight pause for consultation – ‘sixteen hours and thirty-five minutes.’ Another pause, this time to allow the settling of ruffled feathers. ‘Look, Tricia, we’re in this together, you and me. Side by side. It’s going to be fine. You talk them out, or we blow them out of business. Either way, we’ll show the world that we’ll never allow terrorism to win. They’re going to be grateful, Tricia, I’ll make sure of it. I can see a Nobel Peace Prize in this for you. So let’s hope these Indians crawl back to the reservation, but just in case they don’t, I’ve got a Delta force unit on a joint NATO training exercise in Germany. They’re like your SAS. I’ve mobilised them, they should be in the air very soon.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘To come and give you a little support. Like I said, you and me, side by side.’ She was pushing, hard.

  ‘We don’t need Delta—’

  ‘Of course you don’t, Tricia. But it’s vital at a time like this that America be seen to support you with more than words. And what message could be more powerful to the terrorists than to be facing British fire and American steel?’

  ‘This is a British operation, Madam President.’

  ‘And American, too, Tricia, never forget that. They have our ambassador. And my son. We’re in this with you. Why, they’ll be talking about you as the next Winston Churchill, sure they will. And we will talk again, Tricia. Very soon.’

  Then the phone connection was cut.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ whispered the Home Secretary, ‘they’re going to invade.’

  Six

  7. 35 p. m.

  IT WAS LESS THAN AN hour since Hastie and his SAS had arrived, and already things were changing. The surveillance helicopter that had been banging through the air above the parliament buildings was brought lower, and gradually, over the ensuing hours, it would be brought lower still. Light tanks began to parade imperiously around Parliament Square and also along the road that passed directly outside the House of Lords. They were mostly Scimitars, nearly eight tonnes of metal, and their six-litre diesel engines and segmented track
s kicked up a hell of a racket. From this point on they would manoeuvre on a frequent basis. It wasn’t that they were likely to need their machine guns or smoke grenades, let alone the armour-piercing shells, but all the to-ing and fro-ing combined with the pounding of the helicopter created a thick jungle of noise that would provide cover for the SAS when they went in, if they went in.

  Yet already it was clear to Hastie that the House of Lords posed formidable problems. Under cover of the noise they might attempt to put around a few snipers, in fox-holes carved out behind the wood panelling or stonework, but the galleries that ran all the way round the chamber obstructed the line of sight, and if they tried to creep up on the doors they were likely to be spotted. In any event, the SAS preferred to blast their way in through the windows, pouring down on the enemy from above, throwing flash-bangs and confusing the crap out of them, but the windows here were a daunting forty feet high, built not just of ornate glass but solid bone-crunching stone and entangling lead – nothing that a frame charge couldn’t take care of, but that would still only get them down to the galleries, not on to the floor where the hostages were being held. Actions like these depend crucially on the element of surprise and in these circumstances, with so little time to plan, the surprises might well lash out in both directions.

  All this they had to consider, and somehow to overcome, yet still they were no nearer resolving the problem of how to save the Queen.

  7. 5 2 p. m.

  Robert Paine crossed the room and greeted the Home Secretary, holding her hand longer than was decreed by formality.

  ‘I appreciate you coming in, Robert. What you have been through is terrible.’

  ‘Not easy for any of us, Home Secretary.’

  They were standing in the White Drawing Room in Downing Street that looked out over the park. Spotlights played on the branches of the trees and a fountain gushed into the lake. All seemed so deceptively peaceful.

  It had been a bruising hour for Willcocks. The Queen’s private secretary had been on the phone, demanding an audience, growing increasingly irritated and unpleasant when he was put off, while Frances Eaton was upstairs under sedation after breaking into their briefing meeting in the Cabinet Room close to hysteria. If that weren’t enough, Tricia’s husband couldn’t be found; he wasn’t answering his phone, and as she thought about it, it suddenly struck her that he often went missing on a Wednesday evening. It was becoming a little too regular for comfort. She wondered if he was taking care of more than simply his law practice. Then that intellectually challenged dwarf who had recently been elected as Mayor of London had appeared at the front door of Number Ten, demanding to be included in the strategy sessions. They had only let him in to avoid a public fuss in front of the cameras, and to throw him rather more quietly out of the back. And, inevitably, the media were feral.

  She had nothing to say, not yet. It was too early. Perhaps she might offer them a photo opportunity later. Walk down to Trafalgar Square for a few minutes. She’d heard that a prayer meeting had started in the church of St Martin’s in the Fields and had grown to such a size that it had spilled out into the square. They were gathering beneath the feet of Nelson, their ancient saviour, and had started a candle-lit vigil, thousands of little pinpricks of hope that danced in the night as they knelt and gazed in apprehension down Whitehall towards the parliament buildings illuminated in the distance. These people represented the conscience of the nation, and Tricia thought she might join them, not to say anything, she wasn’t much of a religious person, but simply to reassure them with her presence and through them, perhaps, give comfort to the country at large. A simple act of faith and national unity, carried out before the cameras of the world.

  The siege had become a global sport. Prime Ministers from every corner had been calling, offering their support while gently but persistently enquiring about the fate of their ambassadors; Japanese, German, French, and so many others. But she had to deal with the Americans first. She gazed out of the windows as she spoke; no eye contact, not yet.

  ‘Robert, neither of us have time for the diplomatic pleasantries, so I’ll be blunt. Your President seems to have the bizarre idea that she should send American troops to assist us. Let me assure you – and through you, your President – that we need no such assistance. We can deal with the matter ourselves.’ She turned, her face set hard. ‘This is British turf. Your troops are not invited to tread on it tonight.’

  ‘Home Secretary . . .’ He spread his hands wide, as though clutching for something that might bring them together. ‘My President sees a most valued ally under attack, its government shorn of most of its leaders, its decision-making processes under extreme duress.’

  ‘They are working perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘And we are under attack, too. If an American stands threatened anywhere in the world, we have a duty to protect him. International law grants us that right of self-defence, and the many mutual defence treaties between our countries give us a duty to respond in these extreme circumstances.’

  She gave a dismissive snort. ‘That’s a barrel of bullshit, Robert, and we don’t have the time to waltz our way delicately around it. This is about your President and her son and I will not allow personal entanglements to run roughshod over the facts.’

  His face clouded. ‘I see. President Edwards was hoping that you and she might see this through together – yes, woman to woman, if you like. I must admit to you, Home Secretary, that she had come to the conclusion you would need her support.’

  ‘And how is that?’

  ‘If we are to talk of personal entanglements, your own involvement in the matter scarcely makes you impartial.’

  ‘What?’ she snapped, startled.

  ‘I’d like to find a delicate way of putting this, but given the circumstances . . .’ He scratched awkwardly at the back of his hand. ‘It’s not simply that the British allowed these terrorists to walk in, when you are the minister responsible for security—’

  ‘Even for a diplomat that’s a bloody disgraceful thing to say!’ Her words flew like pellets from a shotgun.

  ‘It’s also the fact that Masood, their leader, was trained by you, the British.’

  She was about to give him the second barrel when she caught the weight of what he had said. There was no explosion. Instead, when the voice reappeared, it seemed to be stumbling in the dark. ‘Explain yourself.’

  ‘Masood is one of your boys. Didn’t they tell you?’ A frown of sympathy burrowed across Paine’s brow. ‘A few years ago the British government began a programme to educate some of the elite members of the mountain tribes in that part of the world – to bring them here, befriend them, educate them, and pack them off back home as leaders you could trust. Agents of Western influence, opponents of al-Qaeda and all the other Islamic rabble. What you’d been unable to gain by force of arms over several centuries, you sought to gain by flattery and education. A perfectly sensible idea. Except it didn’t work. All you’ve done is create a better breed of mountain warrior. And Masood is one of the best.’

  She let forth a most undiplomatic curse.

  ‘He was here in Britain for two years. Under a different name, of course. Got himself an accent, then went back to the tribe.’

  ‘It isn’t on our computers,’ she whispered lamely.

  ‘Oh, it probably is. It’s just that the CIA has bigger computers than your security services, got to it quicker. Or perhaps . . .’ His voice softened as it trailed away, tantalising, like an angler’s fly. ‘Perhaps they decided it was better not to tell you, just yet. Keep it quiet. Locked away from the public eye.’

  She looked at him, bemused and suddenly deeply anxious.

  ‘Maybe they were never going to get around to letting you know – letting anyone know – that Masood is Daud Gul’s son.’

  She was speechless.

  ‘You’re right, Tricia. This is about personal entanglements. That’s why the President thought you’d understand, and agree to meet this thing to
gether. You see, you were the Education Secretary when these things happened. Masood, the terrorist’s son, was trained on your budget and during your watch.’

  The room was filled with the sound of her career shattering into a million irretrievable fragments.

  ‘I guess you’d like to reflect on this a while,’ he continued. ‘We’ve all got a lot to ponder. I think I’d like to go to my church, pray a little.’ He gave her a respectful nod. ‘With your permission, I’ll come back later this evening for your answer.’

  8.25 p.m.

  The will to survive is extraordinary and at times overwhelming, capable of fashioning some form of normality even out of the darkest hour. Inside the House of Lords the hostages were beginning to prepare for the long night that lay ahead. They were confined to a small part of the chamber so there was little room, but they found comfort on each other’s shoulders and in each other’s arms. It wasn’t the first time many of them had fallen asleep on these benches.

  Harry had made another food run – not just sandwiches this time but salads and hot soup. The captors frisked him once more, not only on the way in but again on his way out, even though he was still dressed only in his underwear. They, at least, weren’t relaxing. They knew that it was in the night, during the small hours when a man has to fight to keep his wits, that any attempt to snatch back the hostages was most likely to occur. They would be prepared.

  As Harry walked back towards the small post office, pushing his trolley before him, he found the adrenalin that had been sustaining him draining away with every step. His legs were heavy, the cold tiles were now attacking his feet, he felt exhausted, and he knew he was afraid. Sometimes people assumed that brave men feel no fear; it is only because they are afraid that they are brave.

  It was as he was climbing wearily into his clothes that his phone fell from the pocket of his trousers. It had been switched off these past hours and only now, out of habit, did he switch it back on. It was an unthinking gesture for immediately it started whining in protest; dozens of unanswered voicemails and texts had been left over the preceding nine hours. With a low sigh he stabbed a finger in the direction of the power button, intending to switch it off, but before he could do so it rang yet again.