by D C Alden
His pulse quickened as he pushed the buzzer and stood waiting. An impatient Sully showed up a minute later, quickly unlocking the security gate.
‘Let’s go.’
Bryce did as he was told, elated to be leaving the deserted wing for the first time since he’d arrived. He shuffled behind Sully, head down, concentrating hard on masking his emotions. His eyes roamed the deserted corridors, the empty stairwells, taking in the signs on the walls that pointed to all points of the compass: Cowan Ward, Guthrie Ward, Toilets, Administration, Staff Only. Everything smelt of antiseptic, of stale food and urine. The floors were stained, the linoleum cracked and missing in places, yet in his mind Bryce danced along the corridors, twirling with delight at his new found freedom. The opportunity to reconnect with the world outside was a palpable thing, his thirst for information as acute as a man without water staggering across a wide desert. However, instead he stayed silent, trailing obediently behind his minder.
‘Where is everybody?’ Bryce eventually asked.
‘Watching TV,’ Sully replied over his shoulder. ‘Whole country will be glued to it tonight.’
Bryce was confused but said nothing, maintaining his vacant act. They passed through three more security gates without seeing a single person, then dropped down another stairwell to a wide landing. A heavy wood-panelled door bore the legend ‘TV LOUNGE’. Bryce’s heart quickened as Sully gripped the handle. Before he opened the door he turned to Bryce.
‘Behave yourself tonight and I might consider more TV privileges in the future. How does that sound?’ Bryce yawned, nodding dumbly. He followed Sully into the room. Like the rest of the building, the paint was peeling off the walls and everything smelt of damp. There were a dozen easy chairs arranged in a loose semi-circle in front of a large TV screen, which was flanked by two barred windows. Against the far wall was a long wooden sideboard with plastic cups and empty beakers of water. A bowl of fruit stood alongside the water, the bananas black, the apples brown and shrivelled. A movement caught his eye and it was then that Bryce noticed three of the chairs were occupied. Sully’s arm pulled him back behind the door.
‘You lot. Out,’ Sully commanded. Bryce peered through the gap, saw three men in navy blue sweatshirts and pants get to their feet and shuffle across the room to another door. Their appearance was as dishevelled as Bryce’s – heads shaved, skin bleached by a poor diet and a lack of sunlight, clothing hanging off their undernourished frames. Bryce noticed the eyes, too, the dark circles, the haunted expressions. They reminded him of death camp survivors from the Second World War and he felt an overwhelming sense of sadness for them, their broken minds, their shattered lives. The last of the NATO-led ISAF forces had left Afghanistan years ago, their defeat as resounding as that of any who had ventured into that Godforsaken country over the past two centuries. At the time, Bryce had campaigned heavily for the negotiations that ended the bitter war, a conflict that had claimed thousands of lives and billions of pounds. Ultimately, military force had failed, where dialogue and cultural respect, diplomatic strategies that Bryce had always championed, had won the day. Yet Britain still supplied troops and equipment to the UN peacekeeping mission in Afghanistan, a mission that continued to destroy lives, like the poor souls now scuttling from the TV room. He watched the door close behind the last man, banished to their own miserable accommodations.
‘Sit here,’ Sully ordered, pointing to a chair at the front. ‘Tonight’s a big night.
‘Is it?’ Bryce muttered the words, feigning disinterest as he flopped into the chair. Yellow foam stuffing squeezed out of a tear between his legs.
‘You’ll see.’ Sully picked up the remote and settled into the chair next to Bryce, his legs kicked out before him. He started flicking through the channels then settled on the BBC, the screen filled by a low-angled aerial shot, slowly panning across a flat landscape of palm trees and ancient monuments, where dazzling lights and piercing laser beams lit up the evening sky in a myriad of colours, where a heaving multitude thronged before a giant, red-carpeted stage that was filled with suited and robed dignitaries. Bryce fought hard to keep his expression neutral as he stared at the TV, the camera flashes that lit up the night like a cosmic storm, the long line of limousines, the smart ranks of ceremonial troops, the camera zooming in towards the historic document that rested on its purpose-built plinth, waiting to be signed.
Bryce’s heart sank as he watched the TV. The world, and his place in it, had indeed passed him by.
Cairo had begun.
The ceremony was held in the shadows of the Great Pyramids of Giza. The sun had already set when the first European leaders arrived, their air-conditioned limousines whisking the dignitaries a short distance from the exclusive and heavily-guarded Mena House Hotel to the giant stage erected beneath the towering Pyramid of Cheops.
Saeed’s limousine was one of the last to arrive, depositing him at the bottom of a flight of red-carpeted stairs. He stepped out of the vehicle into a storm of camera flashes, the dazzling lights reflecting the gold embroidery of his knee-length black Sherwani jacket and silk trousers. Dozens more cameras tracked his graceful passage up the stairs and across the carpet where he received a standing ovation from the other EU leaders and the hundreds of European politicians and legislators seated before the stage. Saeed took his place in the front row, absorbing the atmosphere of a momentous spectacle about to unfold.
‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ remarked the German Chancellor seated alongside him.
‘Indeed,’ smiled Saeed.
The elevated stage was dressed like a movie set, two terraced rows of luxury seats fashioned like the thrones of the early Pharaohs. Forming the backdrop was a stand of massive columns resembling those at the ancient site of Karnak, decorated with intricate hieroglyphics and flanked by two huge sphinx-like statues with flaming torches set between their massive paws. The Pyramid of Cheops towered behind, a man-made mountain of stone bathed in a magnificent display of lighting that changed colour constantly as the sky darkened, while the gentle strains of the Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra drifted on the sultry air, adding to the sense of occasion. The Egyptians had outdone themselves, Saeed decided. Hooper, bowing and fawning before President Vargas in Washington, would secretly kick himself for missing this.
He raised his eyes above the minions seated in front of the stage and out across the desert, where an estimated one million people stood behind temporary barriers under the watchful eye of the Egyptian army, an endless sea of bobbing and swaying heads, a forest of arms above them, cameras flashing. Saeed had never been so close to such a crowd before, as if the whole of Cairo had turned out for what was to be an historic night. It reminded him of a scene from ancient history, an army stretched out across the desert, like Saladin’s perhaps, awaiting the horns that would signal the start of battle. It was a magnificent sight, and faintly unsettling. He smiled, wondering how many already had their bags packed.
A red light pulsed in the dark sky and Saeed watched an unmanned media blimp drift silently overhead, its multiple camera platforms recording every moment and beaming the broadcast to a waiting continent. A continent about to change forever.
‘The gown,’ observed the Chancellor, smiling, ‘a nice touch. And so representative of modern Britain.’
Saeed smiled alongside the German. Actually, the man was a Turk, he reminded himself, born in Hamburg, yet the blood that coursed through his veins was pure Ottoman.
‘Thank you, brother.’
‘A little overdone, perhaps?’ ventured the Chancellor, smoothing the expensive material of his own navy blue lounge suit.
‘A gift from the Egyptian Ambassador. It would have been insulting to our guests not to have worn it.’
‘Perfect,’ the Chancellor chuckled. After a moment, he added: ‘I see things have settled down at home.’
Saeed nodded. ‘The new administration has provided the stability the country so clearly craves. The west abhors chaos.’
‘And how is t
he Prime Minister?’
Saeed pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to blow his nose, discreetly covering his mouth. ‘Hooper is a child,’ he sneered, ‘and easily manipulated. The timing of his trip to America is a measure of the man’s naivety.’
‘In any case, you did well to encourage it.’
‘You’ve seen the news. The trip goes badly for him. His allies in Cabinet were initially emboldened by the man’s unexpected promotion, but now they’re sensing blood in the water. The opportunity to move against him may present itself sooner than planned.’
‘It has to be done subtly, Tariq. Many eyes are watching you now.’
‘They shouldn’t be concerned,’ Saeed promised, settling back into his chair. An aide approached, one of the Turkish President’s entourage Saeed realised, and handed the German Chancellor a slip of paper. He read it, then placed it in his pocket. He sat a little more erect and adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white shirt.
Saeed raised an eyebrow. ‘All is well, I trust?’
‘They’re on their way.’
Sully elbowed Bryce painfully in the arm. ‘I’m sure you recognise a few of your old mates there.’
Bryce shrugged, noting the discreet exchange between the exotically-dressed Tariq and the German Chancellor, the flunkey who bowed and scuttled back behind the Turkish President across the stage. Where was Hooper? The commentary hadn’t even mentioned him yet, focussing instead on those who were there. Bryce recognised many faces, including representatives from the United Nations, seated just below the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation members. It was common knowledge that the OIC was the real power in the UN and the seating plan clearly reflected that hierarchy. In fact, watching the camera pan slowly along the faces of the European leaders, Bryce realised that much thought had gone into every aspect of the seating.
Saeed and the German Chancellor, both major signatories, were in the front row, along with the Turkish President and the French, Dutch and Belgian Prime Ministers. Significantly the Irish and Danish luminaries were seated further back and at opposite ends of the stage, clear punishment for sharing Bryce’s doubts about the treaty. Behind the front row was the President of Bosnia Herzegovina, a significant promotion in international terms, Bryce realised. Next to the Bosnian he noticed a diminutive figure wearing a white fez and sporting a grey beard. It took a moment before Bryce recognised the Grand Mufti of Sarajevo, the only religious leader he could see on the stage. How had the Bosnians managed that concession?
In fact, the more he studied the screen, the more he realised the significance of the occasion. He was suddenly reminded of a confrontation in the House of Commons, long before he became Prime Minister, with a young MP from an obscure British independence party. It was late and the man was drunk, obstructing Bryce as he’d tried to leave the lavatory.
‘They want it back, you know,’ the man had said, jabbing his finger in the direction of Bryce’s chest, ‘and you’ll give it to them.’
‘Give who, what?’ Bryce had asked. He remembered being annoyed, impatient.
‘Europe,’ the man had spluttered. ‘Don’t you get it? Don’t you see? You’re being used. They’re laughing at us, behind closed doors, in the mosques and madrassas, all over Britain, all across Europe.’ The man had raised a finger to his lips, swaying drunkenly on his feet. ‘It’s their secret, their black manifesto. We’re being duped, drugged, lulled into a false sense of security. I know. I can seeee...’
The man had hissed the word like a snake, his amateur dramatics interrupted by an awkward stumble against the wall, giving Bryce the opportunity to leave the lavatory and have the man arrested. Now, watching events in Cairo unfold, Bryce recalled those bitter words, applying their offensive logic to what he could see on the screen before him. The ranks of Europe’s elite were heavily sprinkled with prominent Muslims, united, powerful, with ready smiles and warm handshakes in abundance, waiting patiently to sign a document that would change the face of Europe forever.
No, he chastised himself, it was a ridiculous chain of thought.
On the screen, the live feed cut to an aerial shot of a convoy moving swiftly through the suburbs of Giza. The palm-lined highway was swept clear of traffic, police outriders shadowing the fleet of black Mercedes limousines in a dance of blue lights.
‘Here they come,’ Sully announced brightly. ‘The show’s about to begin.’
A ripple of applause reached Saeed’s ears, growing louder with each second, like an approaching rainstorm. The multitudes were clapping and cheering, the sound rolling across the desert floor in steady waves and crashing against the strings of the orchestra that fought to compete. In the distance, a procession of limousines snaked their way towards the pyramids, headlights gliding along the blacktop. Offstage, men and women sporting headsets and microphones flew into a whirlwind of self-important activity as the convoy drew closer. The stage lighting suddenly increased in intensity as the orchestra shifted gear from the exquisite delicacy of Handel to Beethoven’s rousing Symphony number Nine, the conductor whipping the air with his baton and drawing an energetic response from his musicians.
Impressive, Saeed mused, very impressive. The gathered heads of state stood as the Egyptian ceremonial troops surrounding the stage came to attention as one, their weapons held stiffly before them. The symphony built towards its thunderous climax, the applause of the multitudes rising like the sound of the ocean into the Egyptian night.
The Presidents of Europe and Egypt, their limousines drawing up at the bottom of the steps in perfect synchronisation, had arrived.
Danny dragged a chair across the bedroom and sat on the small balcony as darkness settled across the Hertfordshire countryside. It had become something of a ritual at the end of the day, enjoying a cup of tea as he watched the shadows stretch across the fields behind the house, the crisp air punctuated by the call of evening birdsong, the cautious appearance of white-tailed rabbits and other wildlife as an occasional moon bathed the earth in its cold, clear light. As he sipped his brew, Danny saw a firework explode somewhere over the rolling hills towards Watford. He took a deep breath and sighed, recognising the perfect moment to spark up a fat boy and get quietly wasted. But smoking was forbidden in the house and, besides, he had no gear. In fact, he hadn’t had a smoke since he’d arrived and he felt better for it, although the withdrawal symptoms were a bitch sometimes. Keep busy, that’s what Ray recommended. He was right, as usual.
Another firework bloomed in the distant sky. Everyone would be getting pissed tonight, and Danny briefly wondered what was going on back at the King’s Head. There was probably some sort of drink-up in progress, seeing as the whole country was officially in party mode, though whether the stupid bastards realised they were celebrating yet another inevitable tax burden was anyone’s guess. He was glad to be away from that shithole, anyway. The law might still be hunting him, but here, behind the walls of the estate, he felt safe. And he was well looked after too. Three squares a day, a comfortable apartment, work around the estate; for the first time in many years, Danny felt useful and a whole lot healthier, too.
He heard the TV on the sitting room wall hum into life and Ray’s gruff voice rasping from the speakers. ‘Danny? You there?’ Danny hurried into the sitting room and reached for the remote control, activating the TV’s inbuilt camera. ‘Ah, there you are. Come and join the party, son.’
Behind Ray’s tanned head, Danny could see a group of people gathered in one of the reception rooms of the main house. He could hear music, the buzz of conversation and the odd peal of laughter. Danny hesitated. ‘Are you sure, Ray? I mean, I’m supposed to be in hiding and all that.’
Ray’s pearl-white smile beamed across the screen. ‘Don’t worry, son, it’s an informal gathering. Old friends, senior members of the Movement, all highly trusted individuals. You couldn’t be in safer company.’
Twenty minutes later, Danny let himself in through the kitchen door wearing a pair of beige chinos and a fres
hly-pressed white polo shirt. Once again he checked his appearance, this time in the hallway mirror, realising how different he looked from the old custody shots the media were still circulating. His hair had grown a fraction, allowing Tess to tidy it and sweep in a side parting. The beard was neatly trimmed and his complexion had that healthy outdoors look. All in all, he felt no-one would recognise him from his mug shot and that gave him a bit more confidence. Still, the thought of meeting Ray’s friends was a little intimidating.
‘Very handsome.’ Danny turned and saw Ray in the doorway of the main reception room. ‘Come on, son. Everyone’s waiting.’
The wood-panelled room was lit by strategically placed candle clusters and a couple of small table lamps that glowed on either side of the large windows. A TV mounted on a trolley next to the door droned quietly, barely cutting through the chatter. The atmosphere seemed relaxed enough and Danny counted maybe twenty people scattered around the room, some well-dressed and clearly moneyed, others a bit more down market. The ladies, most wearing party dresses and sparkling jewellery, gathered on the numerous sofas, while the men stood in quiet groups. No one noticed Danny until Ray swept a meaty arm around his shoulders and led him into the centre of the room.
