The Lords' Day (retail)

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose—’

  ‘Then what is the basis for your confusion?’

  The civil servant could take no more. He was not a fighting man, so he retreated into the safety of renewed silence, and with him seemed to shrink the hopes of many in the room.

  She glared around the table, determined to capitalise on her victory. ‘Be assured that I wish to handle this situation in the proper manner, so . . . Does anyone here deny that the ultimate civil authority in the country at this moment is me?’

  No one moved.

  ‘And that it is the civilian authorities from whom the military take their orders?’

  As she defied them, one by one, no one would take up her challenge or even return her intimidating stare, until she came to Harry.

  ‘For what it’s worth,’ he said, sounding almost casual, ‘I don’t contest your right, merely your judgement. This Russian link – the more I think about it, the more it seems likely to be a distraction. Sure, somebody’s making a small fortune out of this, but do we really think that money is the motive? It’s a diversion, a red herring, if you will.’ He tipped his head in apology at the unintended pun. ‘I think—’

  ‘Harry, dear Harry,’ she smiled poisonously, cutting right across him. ‘I can’t thank you enough for stumbling upon the Russian connection and bringing it to our attention. But, you see, you have no official role here, no standing. Drenched in our gratitude as you are, I think it’s time for you to leave.’

  An embarrassed shuffling and clearing of throats began to ripple round the table, yet when they raised their heads, it was not Harry but the Chief of the Defence Staff who was on his feet. His head was bowed, chin on his chest, in sorrow rather than submission. As he looked up he gazed directly into her eyes, and chose his words with care.

  ‘Home Secretary, I believe your instructions to use force against the Americans are misguided. If it were up to me I would not issue such orders. But, as you say, I am a military man, not a politician, and I believe in the proper order of things. I find myself in an impossible position. I cannot deny your authority, yet neither can I accept your judgement.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should find someone else to do your job.’

  ‘Home Secretary, my grandfather lost his life in the service of this country, and my great-grandfather both his legs. And you threaten me with losing my job?’ His contempt was like a slap across her face. Her cheeks coloured. ‘I place no great value on the pursuit of office, I see others start on that race who discard every principle and friendship along the way, and I thank the fates that as a military officer it is my duty to serve others and not myself.’ Authority is held together not simply with legalisms but also with the mortar of respect, and with every one of his words, her authority was being chipped away. ‘I have breakfasted in the company of brave men,’ he continued, ‘and watched at nightfall as they have returned in body bags. So give me no lectures. This is to be a time of violence and there are those alive this morning who will die this day, perhaps captors and hostages alike, who will never see their families or embrace their loved ones again. That is as it must be, for this is not a battle of our choosing. But if you order me to use force against the Americans, that will be your choice, and I cannot support it. If I were free to do so, I would lay down my office and allow you to instruct others to take up the task, but it goes against every bone in my body to walk out on a matter that still hangs in the balance, to quit while duty is left undone. So I will do your bidding, to the best of my ability, and afterwards you may have my career, if you still have one yourself. But I will not sit here and listen to you browbeat and cajole like some playground bully. So if you will excuse me . . .’ He pushed back his chair.

  She could sense the change of atmosphere in the room and the fever of insubordination that was spreading. Others were about to follow the general, even the man from the Attorney’s office. She had tried to play them at their own game, and lost. It was time to move on. She scrabbled at the papers in front of her, gathering them together. ‘Thank you, gentlemen, we all know what to do and I suggest we get on with it.’ Already they were flooding away from her.

  Harry passed nearby; she looked up, caught him. Her frown spoke more of curiosity than anger. ‘Why do you always oppose me, Harry?’

  He stared at her, said nothing, but took in the bloodshot eyes and the subtle perfume of whisky.

  She shook her head in puzzlement. ‘You know, there was a time when I thought we’d make a great team, me as Home Secretary, you as my Minister. Thought we had real prospects, you and me.’ But slowly any trace of wistfulness was fading; the frown was gathering ragged edges. ‘Dammit, you’re always so uppity. You can never do as you’re told. That’s why you’ll never succeed, Harry, because you’ve no respect for anyone. And always so bloody rude!’

  He bent close to her ear. ‘Never unintentionally, I hope,’ he whispered, before following the others out the door.

  Nine

  5.43 a.m.

  SHE CREPT OUT OF the bed as quietly as she could, but still he stirred. He turned, stretched for her, found nothing, forcing open his eyes.

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she whispered.

  ‘Wh-at?’ he croaked.

  ‘I have got to go,’ she repeated, more firmly.

  ‘Why? What’s the rush?’

  ‘Got a busy day.’ She was dressing, covering up the body that had afforded him so many delights, and he felt cheated.

  ‘Will I see you again?’

  ‘Would you like to?’

  ‘You kidding?’ He stretched beneath the duvet. He was sore; it would take him days to recover from this one. Of course he wanted more.

  ‘Then . . . perhaps,’ she said.

  ‘Give me your number.’

  ‘No. I’ll call you.’

  ‘Playing hard to get.’

  ‘No, just playing married.’

  He scribbled down a number on his bedside pad. ‘For future reference – if there is a future – you always get up this early?’

  ‘No. It’s a special day.’ Already she was brushing her hair.

  ‘I’d like to buy you breakfast next time.’

  ‘Wow, you eat breakfast, too?’

  ‘Look . . . I’m sorry, but I don’t think I even know your name.’

  ‘That’s because I didn’t tell you.’ She stared at him, his body laid out across the bed. ‘It’s Melanie.’

  And she was gone.

  5.52 a.m.

  Topolski eyed the young British soldier. ‘It’s been a pleasure, captain, but I’m afraid I’ve got fresh instructions. I’m ordered to proceed.’

  ‘It does seem as if we’ve run out of cigars. Such a pity.’ Captain Braithewaite blew a final, reluctant smoke ring.

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘So what do we do next, colonel?’

  ‘I guess it goes something like this. We get on our way, you get in our way and’ – he waved the stub of his cigar – ‘things get messy.’

  ‘I think not. I have a much simpler idea.’

  Suddenly Braithewaite was standing at attention and as the American looked around him, from out of the shadows in the park emerged a large number of British troops, all bearing arms, every one of which was pointed at his men. He threw away the remnants of his cigar in disgust. He watched it splutter and die, much like this mission. This was getting to be as bad as the fiasco in the Iranian desert, and his name would be all over it.

  ‘So you want to shoot this out,’ he said wearily.

  ‘Not at all, colonel.’

  ‘Then why the pointed guns?’

  The British captain shook his head, slowly and seemingly in sorrow. ‘I can imagine what’s going through your mind, colonel. Let’s just say that this is an invitation for you and your men to breakfast. In Wellington Barracks, just the other side of the palace. We can be there in less than five minutes.’

  ‘At the point of a gun?’

  ‘There are bad men abroad, colonel. I wouldn’t
want you and your men to lose your way.’

  6.00 a.m.

  It wasn’t yet light, but those fortunate souls who had managed to snatch some sleep were now beginning to stir and wake to a world that was turning to mayhem. The media were in a frenzy, desperate to find a new angle, pouncing on anyone who had been at the State Opening and who was willing to share their story. The back grounds of William-Henry and Magnus were examined in excruciating detail; their friends, their love lives, even their astrological signs. A BBC Breakfast presenter who had turned up for work in a multicoloured blouse was instructed to change it for something more demure. She chose black. They told her to change that, too.

  The mayhem spread. Transport systems ground to a halt. At Heathrow and other airports, the inevitable additional security measures were already throwing flight schedules into chaos, made worse by the no-fly zone above Central London. The London Underground system was in tatters with Westminster and St James’s stations closed and lines suspended, and many central roads blocked. There were predictions of shortages in Central London shops. Panic buying broke out, supermarket shelves were emptied and many cash machines dried up. It was traditional on such occasions for the British to embrace what they described as the spirit of the Blitz and to take all adversity in their stride, but on this day that spirit seemed to slip. Perhaps the British weren’t what they once were.

  The Chairman of the London Stock Exchange hadn’t slept, besieged by uncertainty as he watched the chaos spread and infect overseas markets, where British-connected stocks were collapsing like victims of an ancient plague. So jumpy were investors that even a Florida-based company named Sovereign Enterprises Inc., whose interests extended no further than the manufacture of stair lifts for elderly people, had been hammered. And it was about to get worse. The London Exchange hadn’t been closed for business for more than sixty years, not since the day of monumental socialist upset when at a stroke Prime Minister Attlee had devalued the pound by forty per cent. It hadn’t shut for 9/11, 7/7, nor any other emergency; it had battled on through bomb, bullet and every kind of banditry. But not today. The rules had changed. The chairman consulted his colleagues on the board and they were of one reluctant mind. The Exchange, which had closed early yesterday, wouldn’t open today. Russian metals wouldn’t be the only victim.

  And the Bank of England let it be known that in order to protect the value of sterling they would be doubling overnight interest rates from ten o’clock and would double them again if necessary. Homeowners everywhere wept as they watched.

  It was estimated that more than eighty per cent of the entire adult population of the country tuned in that morning to what was going on in the House of Lords, and it wasn’t far short of that in many other countries, particularly the United States. In living rooms, at their places of work, on portable radios, on mobile phones, on podcasts, in high streets, pubs, clubs, on screens that seemed to have sprouted from nowhere, they watched, and they waited. Britain ground to a halt.

  6.12 a.m.

  As the approach of dawn began to flush colour through the night sky, a change began to occur inside the House of Lords itself. It was astonishing how many hostages had managed to snatch a little sleep, yet as the bells of the clock tower struck six and the air about them began to vibrate, they opened their eyes and tried to prepare themselves for the most difficult day of their lives. It was also the time when Masood was roused from his two hours off watch. He had slept soundly, but with his hand on his gun. He began to stretch the life back into his limbs, walking in front of the throne, and as he did so the Archbishop of Canterbury watched him carefully, attempting to peer inside his soul. He found nothing but darkness. Awkwardly, for he, too, had grown stiff through the night, the archbishop fell to his knees upon the claret carpet and began to pray, silently, his hands clasped in front of his face. He hadn’t asked permission for his act of faith, he knew it might spark outrage amongst his captors and even lead to his death. He didn’t think he was a brave man, and certainly he had no wish to die, not here, not in this sordid manner. He’d always rather hoped to pass on rather late in life, on a couple of soft pillows, surrounded by his family and with a game of cricket somewhere in the background, England thrashing the Aussies. Yes, he was willing to wait that long. But he would die, sometime, and if this were to be his moment then he wanted to be in direct contact with his Saviour and show no fear in it. So he eased himself on to his knees, his hands gripped in prayer, and waited. Masood strode by, hesitated for a moment, wondering. Then he moved on. He wasn’t a fundamentalist, he could live with other people’s faith, if they were willing to die with it. And soon others were on their knees, even the Chancellor, who was a well-known atheist.

  The Queen did not kneel. She remained seated in her throne, as she had done all through the night, but she bowed her head, joining with them. And when she had finished praying, she nodded to one of her captors, who nodded back, and she rose to attend to her morning toilet, accompanied as ever by the gunman with the explosive jacket. And even as Archie Wakefield remained on his knees, he watched her every step, chewing at the inside of his cheek, making his calculations.

  ‘Didn’t realise you were God-fearing,’ Celia Blessing whispered to him.

  ‘Try anything the once, excepting your party, of course,’ he muttered back. ‘Now help me up, woman. Me knees are so stiff I can scarcely move.’

  ‘And you so keen to play Robin Hood.’

  ‘You make a pretty ridiculous Maid Marian yourself. Just shut up and haul away, will you?’

  She held out her hand and tugged, and tugged some more, and between them they managed to hoist him back into his seat. But still they held hands, neither wanting to let the other go.

  6.18 a.m.

  The only view of the chamber given to the outside world was provided by the camera set high at the far end of the chamber, the one that had been hastily abandoned by its operator. He had jumped down his ladder so fast that he’d sprained his ankle rather badly; he would, in time, apply for extensive sick leave from the BBC, but only after he had milked his sudden notoriety for a fistful of fifties in appearance fees on rival channels. The other remote cameras were still operating and controllable from Daniel’s den within Black Rod’s Garden, but there was no basis for switching the television coverage from one angle to another. This wasn’t a game of football, and any sudden changes so beloved of directors ran the risk of arousing the suspicions of the gunmen. Anyway, Daniel was too tired to make decisions; he, like so many, had been at his post all night and the police wouldn’t let anyone else in to relieve him. So the one view stayed. It was only by chance that the abandoned camera had been left on a shot that was a little like looking out of a bedroom window on to the street below, giving a reasonable view of what was going on, although individual figures in the picture were indistinct. The Queen could be seen clearly, but at a distance, and viewers couldn’t see the expressions of her face, which after a night of misery on her throne was a blessing to all concerned.

  It was as the hostages took their turns to set about the slow process of their morning toilet that two important changes occurred to the picture. The first was when the SAS sniper, cocooned inside the tiny television tower, decided he needed to take his own leak. Normally he would have been rotated every two hours but they daren’t run the risk of being spotted as they clambered up and down the ladder that gave them access to the tower. They’d been lucky once but they couldn’t stretch the elastic of fortune any further. So he had stayed. He had brought with him water containers and a little high-energy food, mostly Mars bars, and one of the water bottles now did service in the other direction. It was as he was peeing, very cautiously, in the confined space, that his cramped muscles momentarily seized and he lost his balance. He knocked into the camera; it shuddered, and for a moment the picture wobbled for the entire world to see, a telltale sign that something was going on in the television tower. It might have been the end of it all, but no one in the chamber was watching. By s
ome chance or delightful miracle the moment passed unnoticed. Perhaps someone had been listening to the archbishop’s prayers.

  The other change was taking place on the floor rather than up in the rafters. As William-Henry and Magnus walked back from their turns in the closets towards their seats, they were stopped by a gunman. They were prevented from taking their place amongst the other hostages, instead they were forced towards a place on the benches set away from the others. They were being taken to their dying place. Prayers only reached so far, it seemed.

  There had been those who, after a snatched sleep, had hoped that the world had turned and yesterday was simply another piece of the planet’s bleak history, a nightmare that would dissolve with the fresh breezes of day, but the nightmare was still amongst them. The gunmen were declaring their intent. Death still called.

  6.23 a.m.

  Harry didn’t want to go back in. He had no choice, of course, but he was filled with a sense of foreboding, aware of what he was likely to find. There was no Stockholm Syndrome here, that condition where hostages wrapped up in sieges begin to identify with their captors. There hadn’t been time for that, and the separation of Magnus and William-Henry from the other hostages had changed things, drawn the life out of the rest of them like the gutting of a chicken. He pushed his cart into the chamber but they had little appetite for food or drink; instead they sat, the men unshaven, the women untidy, the pallor grey, the spirit sagging, all of them in their turn casting furtive glances towards the boys. In every corner, on every bench, expressions told the same story, of how fear had eaten through their hopes and left nothing but dust. These were faces Harry had seen before, in war zones around the world, where Moslems had found themselves surrounded by Serbs, or Tutsis by Hutus, inside African villages stripped by AIDS where the oldest surviving inhabitant had been a twelve-year-old girl, and amongst the rubble in Iraq and Afghanistan. The previous day some of the hostages had caught his eye with a look that spoke of continued defiance; now most seemed lost within an inner world that shut Harry out. There was, however, a few who left an impression. That madman Archie Wakefield was still tapping his forehead and gaping at Harry with a ferocious glint, as though demanding the keys that would let him out of the asylum. On another bench, the arch bishop behind his beard seemed to have found his peace, as if he had battled with private fears and found the means to overcome them. Behind the archbishop sat the Japanese ambassador, and for a second Harry thought he had winked mischievously at him, but it turned out to be no more than a nervous tic. The ambassador glanced away, embarrassed.