Seventy-Two Virgins

by Boris Johnson

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  1058 HRS

  As a TV spectacle, the events in Westminster Hall had lost some of their appalling fascination, after the departure of the President and Jones the Bomb. No one was really sure who the lady peeress was, though quite a few watchers agreed vehemently with what she said. The TV networks responded magnificently, however, to the shortage of more decent pictures of the President being humiliated.

  At quite senior level in the BBC, it was decided they could cut away from the live coverage of Chester de Peverill and Old Ironpants. To the joy and distress of billions — still replicating at a Maithusian rate — they showed, again and again, the money shot of Jones clobbering the leader of the free world over the back of his head. They showed Jones firing at the Dutchman; they showed him holding up the enigmatic turd object that had dropped from the roof, while the President looked dumbly on.

  The media hysteria had now reached levels not seen since the death of the Princess of Wales in 1997. And in fact the response was more hysterical because it was a running story, a breaking story, of unguessable consequences whose end could not be foretold.

  Radio programmes of all kinds were being interrupted with the news that, ‘the President of the United States, senior members of the Government, and hundreds of others, are being held hostage at Westminster. A group calling itself the Brotherhood of the Two Mosques is demanding the release of all the remaining prisoners held in Guantanamo Bay. At least one person is believed to have been killed by the terrorists who are threatening to detonate suicide bombs. The Prime Minister has called for calm. We go live now to Westminster.’

  And the news from the voting was still bad for America, though not as bad as it had seemed at first. Some countries, such as Saudi Arabia were reporting almost 100 per cent insistence that the prisoners be sent home. But there were odd pockets of support for the President. He might have thought that Russia, after her humiliation in the Cold War, would take the chance to put her boot on the neck of the old adversary. But no, the Russians had their problems in Chechnya. They took a dim view of Islamic terror. Maybe there was some kind of fiddling of the figures by the oligarchs who ran the TV stations (and who were mainly, as some lost no time in pointing out, of Jewish origin), but it seemed that Russia, one of the most populous countries in the world, was voting heavily for America.

  ‘We can put it out,’ said the Director of Political Editorial, coming down to the BBC newsroom like Moses from Sinai.

  ‘They just green-lighted it. We can report the aggregate polling figures.’

  The BBC had decided that since the information was out on the net, and since all other channels were already crunching the numbers, they might as well go ahead. With elaborate editorial throat clearing and issuing of health warnings, they did the work of Jones the Bomb.

  They broadcast the news that of people calling TV channels to express a preference, 58 per cent now believed that the American President should release the Guantanamo prisoners.

  Jones was almost incontinent with pleasure. He cachinnated like a gibbon, as the figure was flashed on the screen. ‘You see, you see,’ he cried, doing a little dance, which the poor President was obliged to echo. They were standing in room W6 watching the television. It was a small, poky windowless room, with a nondescript conference table and the chairs and carpets in parliamentary green. Cameron and Adam were standing behind them, he looking calm, she preparing herself to interrogate him further.

  ‘So go on then,’ gibbered Jones, thrusting his face close to the President. ‘You have seen the verdict of the world. The majority is clear. This time there are no hanging chads and stuffed ballot boxes, like you have in Florida. What do you say?’

  ‘Well,’ said the President, ‘well.’

  It was dawning on him that he might have to take a decision. Alone, shackled to a lunatic, with three other weirdos, besieged in some dungeon-like meeting room of the British Parliament, with no one to advise him but the blurting television, he was being called upon to make a choice of enormous moral and political implications. For the first time in his career, he was deprived of the jowly counsel of the businessmen who formed the upper reaches of his administration. ‘Well, buddy,’ he said, ‘I think we should wait and see.

  You say the verdict is clear, but I notice that the numbers have been changing a little. According to this fellow here,’ he gestured at the BBC with his free hand, ‘it’s come down from 61 per cent to 58 per cent.’

  ‘Coward!’ yapped Jones. ‘You do not even have the courage to do what the world wants you to do. We are the voice of the people of the earth. The poor people. The people that America abuses and insults and tortures. We are asking for one small thing. You do not have to give our comrades a Presidential pardon. We do not even say that they are all entirely innocent of crime. We only say they must be brought to trial in a country where they can receive a fair trial. Give the order, Mr President.’

  Silence for a second. The noise of the helicopter, more muffled than in the main hall. Another crash, as though another tile had come off the roof. Then a mysterious vibration, as though the whole building were starting to shiver and purr like an ancient cat in its sleep. It was rain, falling on the roof, as a sudden drop in temperature released the thousands of gallons the heat had been holding in the sky.

  ‘No, sir, I can’t do that just yet.’

  ‘Give the order and you will go free. But if you fail to accept the verdict of the people, then it will be my pleasure and honour to kill you, even if I lose my own life.’

  The President narrowed his eyes and looked again at the screen. The fellow seemed serious. Must be to do what he’d already done. The President didn’t want to die, not at all, not for the sake of the Guantanamo prisoners. His brain revolved, not normally the fastest process known to nature, but now accelerated by adrenalin.

  He could pretend to capitulate and give the order, and then double-cross Jones the Bomb. But no, then people would think he was weak, and in any event, the terrorists might kill him anyway. But if he did nothing, people would also think he was passive and powerless.

  ‘Mr Jones, sir.’ It was Dean, putting his hand up to speak. Cameron watched him closely. ‘Mr Jones, I think we’ve done enough now: can we stop?’

  Again and again Dean saw the mysterious round weapon drop from the roof. In his imagination it portended the inevitable retaliation of the superpower and its lieutenants. He saw men with guns dropping from the ceiling on ropes. Violent men, who shot without questions, and then kicked their corpses.

  ‘What do you mean, stop?’ said Jones impatiently.

  ‘Well, I think we’ve made our point.’

  Jones glanced at the President and the others, as though to confirm that they had heard this impertinence. ‘Dean,’ he said in his softest and most murderous tones. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘They’re going to kill us, Mr Jones, and they’ll never let us out of here alive.’ Dean was aware that this was a paradoxical complaint, given what he had nominally undertaken to do.

  ‘But we’ve discussed this.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking, and I agree with yow, Mr Jones, sir. I agree with yow about everything, but I’m not sure .

  ‘You’re not sure what?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I, like, really want to die.’

  ‘Assuredly, Dean, if we die, angels will accompany us to our rest, and we will lay our heads on pillowy bowers, and we will live in the tabernacle of the blessed, where no rain falls, neither is there any snow, and the warm breezes play…’

  Dean shouted: ‘I don’t care. Anyway, I like snow.’ For the first time that day Jones the Bomb looked taken aback. It was if a snake had been hypnotizing a rabbit and the rabbit had suddenly stuck its tongue out.

  He glared. Dean bit his lower lip. He had been on the wrong side of the law before. Ever since the cremation of the neighbouring cheese laboratory, he had felt a fugitive, an alien, but never had he felt so lost in a jungle of fear, and now the great whi
te hunters were coming for him, and he was among the rabid beasts that must be put down. Cameron stood up and moved towards him.

  Dean resumed. ‘I’m just saying that I wanna …’

  ‘You want to surrender? Will you do nothing to help our brothers who are fighting and dying in Palestine?’

  ‘Well, I think I have helped you know, so I honestly think we’ve done our bit.’

  ‘Do you want to give into this world of pornography and decadence, and the abuse of womankind…?’

  ‘And freedom and democracy and the rule of law,’ said the President.

  ‘Quiet,’ said Jones the Bomb, yanking his chain. ‘Dean,’ said Jones, ‘you took a holy oath that you would join the ranks of the Shahid, that you would be a martyr.’ On the way down the corridor to room W6, Dean had looked quickly out of one of the leaded windows. He saw that the crowd was being dispersed from Parliament Square, and that the men in blue were being joined by men in green.

  ‘Listen, mister,’ said Cameron. ‘I think he made it pretty clear that he doesn’t want to be a suicide bomber.’

  ‘What is it to you, woman?’

  ‘Don’t you woman me.’

  ‘Adam,’ snapped Jones at Dr Swallow, who stared levelly back. ‘She is your responsibility; kindly take charge of her.’

  ‘No one takes responsibility for me,’ said Cameron.

  ‘Yeah, Mr Jones, sir,’ said the President. ‘Welcome to Western civilization, buddy. Get with the programme.’

  ‘Hold your tongues the lot of you.’ He shoved his automatic into the President’s temple so hard that he winced. Then Jones pulled the gun away and pointed it at Cameron and then at Dean. There was a silence.

  ‘Well,’ said Cameron to Adam. ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’

  ‘There’s nothing I can say,’ he told the girl he loved.

  ‘I’ve been a fool, and I’ve been cheated. Cameron, I’m sorry.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  1103 HRS

  There was something amiss with Haroun, thought Benedicte. She knew the man craved martyrdom, but he was red-faced with impatience. He walked towards her with tiny steps, as though trying to keep a walnut between his knees.

  ‘Quickly,’ he said.

  ‘What is thees queeckly?’ she whispered. ‘It is time to blast these sons of goats and monkeys.’ ‘We must wait for Monsieur Jones to come back.’ ‘No! If I wait any more, something will happen.’ ‘What ees something?’

  ‘Something bad. To me.’

  The Palestinian girl looked closely at Haroun. ‘Mais tu veux faire pi-pi, chéri?’

  Haroun didn’t like Benedicte. Her chic white T-shirt unambiguously revealed the location of her nipples. She was not attired like a black-eyed one.

  He jerked his chin.

  ‘But go on then,’ she chuckled, waving the muzzle of the Uzi at the swing doors. ‘We can manage.’

  And if anybody laughs at me now, thought Haroun as he minced out, I will shoot them in the bladder.

  ‘Tootle pip,’ called Lady Hovell to his smouldering back, ‘you clear off, and take Ulrika Meinhof here while you are at it.’

  The acting terrorist leader walked towards her down the aisle, noiseless in her Nike Airs.

  ‘I think I should warn you that you don’t scare me, young lady.’

  ‘Then you are brave but you are not smart.’

  ‘In fact, there is only one thing that really frightens me.’

  ‘And what is that?’

  ‘I am frightened of the disapproval of God.’

  ‘Ferme la gueule. How do you say it in English?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Shut you the fat gob.’

  ‘My advice is to follow that young man, find the nearest policeman, and hand over that gun.’

  As the two women stood next to each other, the rain outside deepened in tone. The drops swelled and thickened to the size of currants, or even gulls’ eggs, and a great drumming came from the roof. A cloud of Turneresque blackness rolled across the London sky, and as the light died in the windows, strange shadows formed on the women’s faces.

  ‘Go home, dear,’ said the Baroness.

  Benedicte stuck her snout right next to the ancient map.

  ‘Now is the time for the beeg silence.’ She raised the Uzi to her ear. ‘Or else the silence will be the long one.’

  ‘What you need, if you ask my opinion, is a nice husband.’

  ‘Shut your face, vieille putain!’

  ‘I’m no—’

  Benedicte pulled the trigger. Even as far back as Barlow and de Peverill, the shots buffeted their eustachian tubes, as though someone was ripping calico just by their ears.

  Lady Hovell clapped her hand to her heart. She sat down. Her eyes fell away from Benedicte, and at once she looked like anyone’s old grandma, just told a piece of bad news by the docs.

  A noise went up from the audience, a small but unanimous exhalation. They knew that they had sustained a defeat.

  Was Lady Hovell’s chin wobbling? Was that a crinkle on the jaw that had never trembled in forty years of sneering from men who weren’t fit to lick her boots? It was hard to tell. But as Silver Stick gazed at her from afar, tears formed in his ducts, of love and fright.

  Frig me spastic, thought Jason Pickel, as the bullets ate into the main collar beam, just ten feet below him. That could have been a serious inguinal injury.

  He squinted below, to check whether the mad A-rab bitch might fire again. Then slowly he looped the nylon rope round the crown post, tied it tight, and then began to slide it through two carabiners at his belt.

  When he had finished, he crouched once again over the gathering, his big shoulders hunched, rifle ready, like an eagle as it waits for its moment.

  Adam was still saying nothing, and Cameron was looking at the TV, trying not to hurt.

  The BBC had a ‘Russian expert’, who was casting doubt on the oddly pro-American numbers from Russian TV.

  She had to know about his theft. ‘So how did you take it?’

  ‘I am afraid I just put my newspapers and stuff on top of it, and then scooped it all up when we all left.’

  ‘So what are you, a spy?’

  He groaned. ‘Yes, I suppose I am. But it’s got nothing to do with this business.’

  ‘And who are you supposed to be spying for?’

  Dean watched their conversation. In particular, he watched Cameron, and noticed more detail: the tilt of her nose, the bangle on her wrist, the little white scar on her slender left arm. He shivered, and listened to the rattle of the rain. Not only had the temperature fallen, but the adrenalin was turning sour in his veins, leaving a hangover of fear.

  Jones the Bomb spoke. ‘The door is open, Dean, my young friend.’

  Dean looked at the door. On the contrary, it was shut.

  ‘But if you go through that door now, remember that you will lose all chance of bliss. You have a chance now’ — he stared with his mongoose intensity — ‘to obtain the stone that is more precious than the world and anything that is in it. Remember, my dear Dean, that when the first drop of blood is spilled, the shahid does not feel the pain of his wounds, and all his sins are forgiven. He sees his seat in Paradise, and he is saved from the torment of the grave—’

  ‘Mr Jones, sir, I just don’t believe in paradise.’

  The President looked keenly at him. No one ever got elected President of the United States without believing in paradise.

  Jones made a sad face: ‘I know it is difficult, and I know it is frightening, and I know we all have moments when we feel we have lost our faith . .

  ‘You bet your sweet ass,’ said the President.

  ‘But I hope you still have faith in me, Dean. Do you?’

  ‘Do I what?’

  ‘Have faith in the person who has liberated you from the false values of Western decadence?’

  Dean rose. He moved towards the door. ‘Mr Jones, I. No. Yes. I … No.’

  That’s it,
thought Roger Barlow, when Benedicte fired at the roof-beams. Get me out of this thing, dear Lord, and I promise I’ll be good. I’m fed up with being bad.

  Here are all the good things I am going to do. I’m going to pick up my towels from the bathroom floor. I’m going to start listening properly when she talks to me. I’m going to communicate. I’m going to stay awake after lights out, because it’s always worth it in the end. I’m going to understand that the important thing is not to solve problems, but to discuss them. After fifteen years, I’m going to get the point that marriage is not a final act; it’s like a meeting of the European agricultural ministers, an endless negotiation of insolubles.

  I won’t pick the corner of my toenails with a Bic biro lid. Ditto ears, or at least not at dinner parties.

  I won’t open tins of tuna and then leave them under the bed. I won’t go to the fridge, take out a Waitrose raspberry trifle, eat it all, and then put back the licked-out plastic container.

  I won’t lose my temper when we get lost, and then refuse to ask the way. I’ll stop farting under the duvet .

  His eyes met the twitchy glare of Habib, who was walking down the aisle, swinging his gun like a sadistic maths master invigilating an exam.

  It occurred to Roger that if he wanted divine intervention, he had better make some real concessions.

  The noise from Benedicte’s gun carried out into New Palace Yard. It penetrated the ambulance, and entered the ears of William Eric Kinloch Onyeama. One lung was half-full of blood.

  The pericardial puncture unit had made a neat hole in his chest. His thoracic diaphragm had been punctured, his pencardial membrane was in a bad way and his sternum was severely scraped.

  But Eric Onyeama was alive, and he owed his life to the Huskie.

  It was the tough little computer which had served as his breastplate, and which had borne the brunt of Haroun’s attack.

  He had lost about four pints of blood; but the haemorrhage had slowed, and now he was coming out of his faint. He flapped an arm, and knocked a non-glass urine bottle to the floor.