The leading Delta 4 by 4 braked sharply to a halt, its tyres skidding on the surface of the road. Those coming up behind spread out to give cover. From all sides came the insidious sounds of weapons being made ready. It was several seconds before a British Army officer marched out from the shadows and, as he reached the first Delta vehicle, saluted smartly, his right arm as tight as a spring.
‘Captain Merrick Braithewaite, First Battalion, the Scots Guards,’ he declared before standing at ease.
The American in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle gave a gentle wave back and spat out a large wad of gum. ‘Colonel Nathan Topolski. The American Automobile Association, Phi Beta Kappa and the Sons of Cincinnati. At your service.’
The British officer cleared his throat. ‘Colonel, under other circumstances it would be my pleasure, but I have orders to hold you here. You are not needed and, I regret, not very much welcome, either.’
The American took some time in lighting a small cigarillo. ‘Don’t remember you guys saying that in 1941.’
‘Yes, you were late for that one, too.’
‘So,’ the American muttered, sucking deep on his cigarillo and exhaling a cloud of dense blue smoke, ‘what’s the punishment for trespass in these parts, captain?’
‘We normally let people off with a mild caution. If they behave and leave the property immediately.’
‘Funny thing, seems to me, you calling it trespass when the fire brigade’s come to put out your fire.’
‘Danger of getting wires crossed and hoses tangled, I’m afraid.’
‘Horse shit.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘There’s a danger of slipping in horse shit, too. Surprised you didn’t mention it.’
‘You could be stepping in a whole pile of it, colonel,’ the captain responded, his voice lower, less gentle.
‘But that’s what we do, captain. Delta gets all the mucky jobs.’
‘Colonel Topolski,’ the young captain sighed, ‘I don’t get a lot of pleasure out of this. Indeed I find it rather awkward. The fact is, I rather like Americans.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘I saw action alongside your colleagues in Afghanistan. I also watch The Sopranos and I never say no to a bowl of Baskin-Robbins. And I lost a brother in 9/11. So, yes – really. But I have my orders which are unambiguous. You may return to your Starship Enterprise and transport yourselves back to your own galaxy, or, if you would prefer, I would be more than happy to entertain you to an early breakfast in the officers’ mess. But you will not proceed any further.’
Slowly, the American flicked away his cigar butt, which performed a slow arc of death in the darkness. ‘Now ain’t that a bitch. You see, I’ve got my orders, too, which are to head on and help you out with your little situation. And since I’m a colonel and you’re only a captain, I guess my orders beat yours. And I don’t have time for breakfast. Nothing personal.’
‘No offence taken. But we have a situation and you will not be permitted to proceed.’
‘Delta don’t turn tail.’
‘Then we shall have to provide whatever degree of persuasion is required for you to change your mind.’ He turned and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Major, tell the lads to make ready!’
The American glanced out into the night. Two APCs . . . ‘I figure we outnumber you eight to one.’
The captain stiffened, rose on to the toes of his boots. ‘Nevertheless.’
‘What, you gonna light up this place like Disneyland?’
‘Like Old Trafford.’
‘Who?’
‘Those are my orders.’ It was said in a manner that allowed for no doubt.
‘Hell, captain, then you’re right. We have a situation.’
‘It is one I very much regret, colonel.’
‘Me, too. Saw myself what you guys did to the Taliban. Fought with you – fucked with you, too, when we got the chance of a little R&R. I’m part English myself, on account of my grandpa marrying one of your girls when he was over here in ’45. I’m on your side, captain – we all are. That’s why we’re here. But I guess you and me walked into one mother of a cat fight.’ He began rummaging through the pockets of his blouson in search of another smoke, but came up empty-handed. He sighed. ‘So you gonna shoot me?’
‘I might ask the same.’
They stared at each other, as best they could in the darkness, neither of them willing to take the next step in a dance that had been choreographed by others. When at last the British officer spoke once more, his voice was low, as though he wished to be heard by no one other than Topolski.
‘Know what, colonel? I think it would do no harm for us both to take a little guidance on the matter. Wouldn’t do for you and me to start an international incident all on our own, now, would it? It seems that your President and my Home Secretary are calling each other’s bluff and using us as bait – that’s fine, goes with the job, but perhaps we should both report back on the operational difficulties we have encountered. Yes, operational difficulties, that’s the thing. Give them a little longer to consider the consequences, perhaps find an alternative to you and me blowing each other’s balls off. No need to rush things.’
While the American considered the proposal, instinctively he began scrabbling in his pockets once more, but no sooner had he started than the captain had taken a couple of brisk steps forward and with the skill of a magician was proffering a cigar case. ‘Havana,’ he explained, snapping the case open.
It took a while before the American stretched out a hand and accepted one, passing it beneath his nose, sniffing it with approval. ‘We don’t get these Cuban cigars. Embargoed.’
‘All condemned men deserve one last smoke.’
‘Specially one like this.’
‘I suggest we enjoy it – while we both report back?’
Already the American was striking a match.
3.38 a.m.
Harry’s phone buzzed.
‘Wouldn’t take a holiday to the Caribbean in the near future if I were you, old boy.’
‘Why do you always talk in riddles, Sloppy?’
‘In case someone realises how thick I am.’
‘But you went to Harrow.’
‘You can stuff the boy into education, but you can’t always stuff the education into the boy, old chum. Nevertheless, I seem to have my uses. Been busy. Cayman Islands. British Virgin Islands. Dutch Antilles. We’ve been flapping our towels around them all. You won’t believe the number of people we’ve had to bribe, browbeat or other wise grotesquely threaten to get to the bottom of this. I’ve promised at least four of my contacts that the Home Secretary will sleep with them.’
‘Was that the bribe or the browbeating?’
‘She’s seen as something of a sex symbol in the Caribbean, apparently. Must be a power thing.’
‘I’d rather have my toenails pulled.’
‘Anyway, these companies that have been placing bets on the Stock Exchange indices. All shells, of course. About thirty of the little blighters.’
‘Who runs them?’
‘With these sort of shell companies you’ll find nothing but names on a brass plate. By law all the directors have to be local residents, but that’s only for the sake of the paperwork. The beneficial ownership is always elsewhere.’
‘Such as?’
‘Mmmm, can’t be sure, not yet. The local boys have still got a few doors to kick down and files to ransack. But they say it’s got a very powerful whiff of Russia.’
‘What?’
‘It’s all a bit coincidental at this stage, but you can usually smell the elephant long before he treads on your toes. Now, this might not have passed by your periscope, but later today the Russians were planning to float off another huge chunk of their metal mining industry on the London Exchange – you know, copper, magnesium, aluminium. This is really big business. They were hoping to raise more than a couple of billion pounds, but they can’t now, of course, with the market fallin
g apart. So, in a word, they’ve been stuffed, as tight as a Christmas turkey. The value of their existing shares has taken a huge hammering, while those investors who were lucky enough to sell them short are sitting on a killing.’
‘And?’
‘Now here’s that magical coincidence, old boy. The companies who have been selling the Russians short—’
‘Are the same shell companies in the Caribbean who have been betting on the siege.’
‘Precisely. Hell of a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘If you believe in fairies.’
‘So it’s back to the gulag for Boris and Yuri. Come a real cropper, they have; it’ll cost them several vast fortunes. Bears with a very sore head.’
‘But who, Sloppy, who’s behind it? There are several hundred million Russians, we need to get a bit closer than that.’
‘One slice of salami at a time, old chum.’
‘Not good enough. We need the whole sausage, Sloppy. Get that, and maybe we can finish all this without a bloodbath. We need a name.’
‘It’s just not possible. The world out there sleeps, they won’t jump out of bed just because we ask them. The shell companies in the Caribbean are owned, inevitably, by other shell companies. It’s like the dance of the seven veils, goes on for ever. It’ll take days, maybe weeks before we get to the bottom of it.’
Harry banged the table with his fist. ‘Those poor bastards in the Lords only have a few hours!’
‘Yes, I know. I feel wretched. I can only do my best.’
Harry hauled back hard on the anger that was threatening to overtake him. It wasn’t his friend’s fault. ‘Thanks, Sloppy.’
‘I’m so bloody sorry, Harry.’
As he closed his phone connection, Harry felt overwhelmed by exhaustion and hopelessness. His shoulders hunched and he seemed physically to shrink in his chair.
‘You still chasing shadows?’ Tibbetts asked, sipping at yet another mug of coffee.
‘Yes. But we think they’re Russian shadows.’
‘Sounds like progress.’ He looked up sharply from his steaming coffee. ‘But it has to be a Russian with a British connection.’
‘Narrows it down from a few hundred million to a few hundred thousand, I suppose. More progress.’ Harry sighed sardonic ally.
‘But what are the bloody Russians doing wrapped up in all this? Doesn’t make a bit of sense that I can see.’ The policeman bit his thumb and winced, hoping the pain might help bring some order to his thoughts. When he opened his eyes once more, he found a young detective constable standing in front of him. The young officer was hesitant, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other.
‘Sorry, sir, for interrupting. Couldn’t help overhearing. Something about the Russians.’
‘DC Witherstock, isn’t it?’ Tibbetts enquired.
‘Yessir.’
‘Well, Witherstock, what about the Russians?’
‘It’s just that . . . something strange has been going on up in Highgate. There’s a tramp in the local nick who’s walked in with a coat stuffed with fifty-pound notes. Several thousand pounds sewn into the lining, apparently. Clearly not his.’
‘So?’
‘Also inside the lining were three passports. They were in different names but evidently of the same man. A chap they think is actually Russian. Called Bulgakov.’
‘Lavrenti Bulgakov?’ Harry snapped. ‘He’s one of the Russian exiles we let squander their money around London.’
‘Seems so, sir. I just thought there might be, you know, some connection.’
‘Yes, but what?’
‘Dunno, sir.’
‘Then we’d better find out. And sharp. Get Bulgakov brought in,’ Tibbetts ordered, ‘wherever he is.’
‘Oh, we can’t do that, sir.’
‘And why the bloody hell not?’
‘Seems he’s dead. They just found a body. Matches the passports.’
‘Bugger!’ Tibbetts snapped in frustration.
‘But that’s wonderful!’ Harry interjected, leaping to his feet, his energies suddenly restored.
‘That the man you’ve been searching for all evening is dead?’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences, Mike. Like one of those Russian matryuoshka dolls – you know, you take the lid off and there’s always something hidden inside it. I’ll bet what’s left of my pension fund after this miserable day that Bulgakov is mixed up in the siege. A man of many passports could surely find a few fake IDs for Masood and his chums and—’ Suddenly the outburst of enthusiasm drained into the sand and he froze. Reluctantly, he let slip a curse. ‘It only leaves us with one question, Mike.’
‘Which is?’
‘Who the hell killed Bulgakov?’
‘A mystery that must wait, my friend,’ Tibbetts replied, reading from the pager that had begun vibrating on his belt. ‘La Tricia calls. The royal summons.’
‘I don’t think there’s a vacancy for Queen, yet.’
‘No. But I suspect she thinks there may soon be one for Prime Minister.’
3.53 a.m.
The war council had gathered in the COBRA briefing room. It included the intelligence services, defence chiefs, junior ministers from several ministries, a handful of the most senior civil servants, including one from the Attorney General’s office to ensure fair play while they figured out how they would kill the terrorists. Every one of them looked drained and most were in various stages of dishevelment, even Tibbetts, as he searched for a second wind. Harry still had ketchup on his shirtsleeves, and no tie. The police commander had smuggled him in; Willcocks pretended not to notice, at least for the moment. She had other battles to fight.
‘We have eight hours left before the deadline,’ she announced, rapping the table with a pen to gather their attention. ‘We have to decide on our course of action. I’ve asked Brigadier Hastie to give us another briefing.’
The Commander of Special Forces stood up and walked to the screen on the wall at one end of the room with its picture from inside the chamber. His red hair stood out incongruously against the claret of the leather benches. ‘This is an interesting situation, Home Secretary,’ he began in typically understated military fashion. ‘As I told you earlier, we have difficulties with the exceptionally high windows, the overhangs of the balconies and the fact that the doors are all booby-trapped. But we can get round those. The camera feeding the television pictures is mounted in a specially constructed platform set high in the public gallery, which is at the opposite end of the chamber to the throne. It’s inevitably compact, only room for one man, but in the last couple of hours we’ve managed to get a sniper inside who has a full view of everything. Took a risk getting him there, but it’s paid off. And the Victorians were wonderful craftsmen; Barrie designed this building with all sorts of shafts for ventilation and heating. We’ve managed to get another couple of snipers inside these, which gives them visual over different parts of the chamber through access panels. It’s a problem that much of the rest of the chamber is extremely stoutly built, so we’ll have to go in through the doors, blow them. Follow up with grenades – we call them flash-bangs – designed to create maximum confusion. There is, of course, also a royal protection officer still inside, but it’s possible he might be as disorientated as we hope the enemy will be, so we can’t rely on him. We estimate the entire operation will be accomplished in no more than forty seconds.’
‘And casualties?’ Willcocks asked.
Hastie sucked his lips. ‘Earlier you will recall I estimated a ninety per cent survival rate.’
‘But that will have improved now you have your men in position.’ She made it sound like an instruction.
‘Indeed, Home Secretary. However, there’s still a problem. The enemy appears to be not only well armed but also well trained. Established excellent firing positions here, here, here and here,’ he said, pointing to the screen. ‘We can’t assume they’re amateurs. If we also assume that they are dedicated, willing to give their lives and ready
to act with maximum prejudice . . . well, it makes it much more difficult.’
‘How many will die, brigadier?’ she pressed.
‘There are too many imponderables to be specific. If we could use the windows, or have more men in position, or knew we could rely on the protection officer . . .’
She leaned forward, waiting to pounce. Everyone else in the room shifted uncomfortably, coming to the edge of their seats.
‘Brigadier, I haven’t asked you here for a description of how to dance a waltz. I want to know your best estimate, and I want to know it now.’
He returned her fierce stare, but his voice had dropped. ‘I believe the survival rate might be slightly higher than ninety per cent, Home Secretary. But that is unlikely to include Her Majesty.’
‘That is unacceptable!’ She banged the table in irritation. ‘Have none of you found a way of saving the Queen?’
‘There is still no way around the problem of the explosive jacket. If the terrorist holding it is willing to die, then so will the Queen. It’s as simple as that. If she could manage to escape, even for a few seconds . . ’
‘She’s eighty-four years old, for pity’s sake.’
‘We can take the terrorist out, but that action in itself will in all probability trigger the device. We have to assume it’s likely to work.’
‘Then find another way.’
‘I cannot, Home Secretary.’ He stood in front of the screen, defiant. ‘And because of the unique circumstances, and particularly the risk that any action will pose to the safety of the Sovereign, I’m sure you will understand that I will require a written order before I proceed.’
Along the table, the Chief of Defence Staff was indicating his agreement.
They all turned their eyes on Tricia. She had known it would come to this, the blame game, the parcelling out of responsibility, allocating guilt for what was to happen. Someone would have to pay for the killing of the Queen, and if they had their way, they would leave her to swing on her own. The sacrificial lamb.
But they underestimated Tricia Willcocks. She was a survivor, and even if she couldn’t save her Sovereign, there was a chance she might yet save herself. She was one step ahead of them all. Slowly she began shaking her head. ‘No. You cannot.’
The Lords' Day (retail) Page 20
