The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  He approached the bar, making a show of patting his pockets. ‘Is there a phone I can use?’ he explained to the barman. ‘I think I’ve left mine on the job.’

  Without looking up from the game on his phone, the youth pointed to a dark corridor that led towards the toilets. ‘There’s a web terminal down there. Takes pre-pay cards. You want one?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘Five, ten or twenty quid?’

  Bryce fingered the slim wad of notes in his pocket. ‘Five will do.’ He took the card and headed along the corridor. The booth was on the left, just before the men’s toilet. Bryce slid the door open and settled down on the seat inside. It was snug, almost soundproofed, a single touch screen terminal shielded from prying eyes by the frosted glass of the booth. Bryce searched inside his coat and produced the card, now worn and dog-eared, but still readable. He pulled the prepaid cell from his pocket and dialled the mobile number on the card. His heart began to beat faster as the calling tone reverberated in his ears. Then a click on the line, the connection successfully made.

  ‘Hello.’

  The voice was the same, that confident tone that Bryce remembered so well. He closed his eyes, the memories flooding back, the heat of the flames, the strong hands that never stopped working, tearing at the timbers that held him, setting him free.

  ‘It’s good to hear your voice again,’ Bryce began, hoping, praying, Mac would recognise his own.

  There was a pause on the line. ‘Excuse me?’

  Bryce willed himself to think and act carefully. He knew the level of sophistication of the government’s monitoring programmes, the constantly shifting flag words that initiated remote recording, the men and women who worked in the shadows, listening, tracing...

  ‘I was hoping you might remember me. You helped me out a while back in London. I was trapped. My leg was injured. You sent me a book, in hospital.’ Come on, Mac, think!

  ‘A book? I don’t–’ Then he stopped talking. Bryce could hear other voices in the background, men’s voices, laughter echoing in a large empty space. ‘Is that you, Prime–?’

  ‘Yes,’ Bryce confirmed, cutting Mac off. He closed his eyes briefly, the phone clamped to his chest, relief flooding through him. ‘Yes, it’s me. Contrary to popular belief, I’m still in reasonable shape.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Mac whispered. ‘I thought you were–’

  ‘Don’t speak. Just listen, let me talk for a moment, ok?’

  In the background someone hammered away at something, the sound echoing down the line. Eventually Mac replied. ‘Sure.’

  Bryce took a deep breath. ‘Good. Thank you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘The truth is, I’m in serious trouble. My life is in danger and I need your help. Before you ask, there’s no-one else, no-one I can trust. I can’t go into any detail, only that I need to disappear for a while.’ Bryce paused for a response, but all he could hear were voices in the background. ‘Hello?’

  ‘I’m still here.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I–’

  ‘Go on.’

  Bryce shifted the phone to his other ear and reached into his pocket. ‘I have a plan, sort of. Right now I’m in a town called Alton. You know it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After I end this call I’m going to head south, towards the next town. It’s called Four Marks.’ He smoothed the carefully folded map out on his thigh. ‘There’s a bus stop to the south of the town, just after the dual carriageway ends. I’ll wait there for, well, I don’t know – until midnight. If I don’t see you before then, I’ll assume you’re not coming and move on. Sometime after that I’ll probably be dead. I don’t know how the story will break, but whatever it is it won’t be the truth, you can believe that. I’m not ill. There was never any stroke.’ Bryce paused for a moment. ‘That’s it, that’s all I can say right now, but I want you to know something. If you decide to have nothing to do with this, I will respect your decision and never contact you again. You have my word.’

  Bryce sat in silence, his eyes closed, fingers pressed against his temple. He could hear the chatter in the background, the sounds of industry echoing around those distant walls. In the corridor, the toilet door creaked and slammed. A shadow lingered outside the frosted glass, then moved away. Bryce held his breath, the phone clamped to his ear.

  ‘Start walking,’ Mac said. ‘I’ll be there in two hours.’

  The line went dead. Bryce sat quietly in the booth for several moments, his body shaking, using the cuff of his sweatshirt to wipe away the tears.

  Buckingham Palace, London

  The conversation stopped and Saeed turned towards the door as the Duke of Cambridge strode into the room. His dress was both sober and elegant, the Prime Minister noted; a dark grey suit and black tie, the formal shoes polished to a mirror-like sheen. Over the years, the Duke had transformed himself from an awkward and stuffy heir to fashionable urbanite, seduced like so many of his parasitical peers by inherited wealth and the glittering lights of celebrity. A stark departure from the previous generation but, in many respects, far more malleable, Saeed mused. The Duke crossed the thick carpet towards the three men, who rose in unison from their chairs to greet him.

  ‘Salaam Alaykum, Gentlemen,’ the Duke began, ‘my apologies for the delay.’

  In the doorway a personal aide loitered inquisitively, no doubt eager to share her observations in whispered tones with the other servants below stairs. Saeed took a few steps, smiled at the royal lackey, then swung the heavy door closed in her face, banishing the eavesdropper to the dimly-lit corridor outside. He turned and watched the Duke greet the bespectacled Somali, Professor Mohamed Handule, the current EU Ambassador of the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation in Brussels. The Duke shook the smaller man’s hand, bowing slightly as he did so and kissing him lightly on both cheeks. Then he turned to the Egyptian Minister of Justice, Galal Sharawi, and finally Saeed. No kisses for them, Saeed observed, which suited the Prime Minister. Personally he wasn’t one for awkward physical contact, particularly with those not of the faith, but it was encouraging to see such supplication from the senior member of the Royal Family before a lowly Somali professor, head of the OIC or not. The Duke showed great respect towards Islam, much like his father before him.

  The heir to the throne settled into a chair opposite the three men, running a hand across his thin but perfectly coiffured blond hair, then smoothing the folds of his tie. Saeed noticed the small emblem of the RAF woven into the silk, the Duke’s former service arm of choice. He still flew helicopters to this day, often buzzing from one Palace to another at considerable cost to the taxpayer, a luxury that Saeed was prepared to condone. For now.

  The room was situated on the second floor of the north wing of the Palace, one that encompassed the Duke’s private accommodations and overlooked the darkened grounds beyond. Saeed decided it wasn’t as gaudy as other parts of the Palace, those cold, draughty state rooms littered with discerning yet uncomfortable furniture, the walls lined with portraits of long dead, pale-skinned Infidels. The sitting room they occupied now was a welcome departure from the rest of the building, with its subtle lighting, underfloor heating and warm ambience. The furniture was deep and comfortable, the carpets luxurious, the silver trays of recently delivered refreshments of the highest quality; an intimate and appropriate meeting place for men of power and respect. And the Duke, of course. It was the diminutive Professor Handule who began the discussion.

  ‘The funeral, it went as well as expected?’ he asked, one thin leg folded over the other, a china cup of coffee balanced on the knee of his white gown.

  The Duke nodded gravely. ‘It did, Mohamed, thank you. Terrence was a great friend and a well-respected pilot, and the Cardinal delivered a very touching eulogy, not a dry eye in the house. Such a shame. He was still young, only forty-six.’

  ‘Cancer took both my father and mother,’ the overweight Sharawi stated gruffly, his fingers hovering over a perfectly arranged plate of pastries. ‘My condolences.
’

  ‘Thank you, councillor.’

  ‘You’d served together, is that right?’ Saeed prompted.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, as part of the RAF Search and Rescue force up in Anglesey.’

  Saeed noticed a look pass over the Duke’s face, a vague mixture of sadness and a painful smile, no doubt triggered by the sudden recollection of a long-forgotten memory. Handule must have noticed it too, clearing his throat loudly and bringing the Duke’s focus back into the room.

  ‘Before we begin I’d like to thank you for this private audience, Your Highness. Your generosity on such a sad day is to be commended.’

  The Duke waved his hand. ‘Not at all, it’s my pleasure. Tell me, Mohamed, how are things in Brussels?’

  ‘A constant battle,’ Handule sighed. ‘Islamophobia spreads like a virus, no more so than here in Europe, and our organisation is growing increasingly concerned. We’ve made it clear to the Commission that much emphasis must be placed on eradicating the discrimination and violence directed at our communities, particularly in light of recent events.’

  ‘An unacceptable situation, I agree. However, I’m sure we’re doing all we can here in the UK to combat this menace, right Tariq?’

  Saeed nodded as the Egyptian minister slurped his coffee loudly, then placed the cup and saucer on the table between them. ‘May I say how grateful the Egyptian people are for your support for the Treaty of Cairo and our membership of the European community. You are held in high regard in our land, Your Highness, more so than any other western leader before you. And if I may be so bold, perhaps even your father.’

  ‘Please,’ the Duke protested, ‘you’re too kind.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Sharawi persisted. ‘Your father did much to encourage greater understanding of Islam, to highlight its many contributions in the fields of science and exploration, to champion its commitment to peace across the world. It is a great tragedy that he cannot be here today.’

  Saeed battled to keep the smirk off his face. The King had been a prolific campaigner for worthy causes, particularly sustainable farming, so the irony was not lost on many when the old man had been trampled by a herd of panicked Friesians on his Gloucestershire estate. Even Saeed, normally above the distractions of frivolity, had recognised the comedic quality of the whole episode. The King, now permanently retired from public life, apparently still bore the hoof marks across his back. Saeed massaged the threat of a smile from his lips and concentrated on the business at hand.

  ‘Thank you for those kind words, councillor,’ the Duke replied. ‘I know my father would have welcomed you all here today. And shared your concerns.’

  ‘Concerns shared not just by us, but the whole of the Muslim world,’ Handule pointed out, his thin face narrowing, his high forehead creasing into troubled folds. He leaned forward in his chair, waving an admonishing finger. ‘The crimes carried out on your shores, by your citizens, have left a great tear in the hearts of Muslims everywhere. The pain of Luton is felt by us all.’

  The Duke nodded sympathetically. ‘Believe me, Mohamed, many of us who represent Britain on the international stage feel tremendous shame over the events of September. Thankfully, my new government, guided by Tariq’s measured hand…’ Saeed acknowledged the compliment with a gracious nod ‘… has taken great strides towards rebuilding the bridges between our affected communities. In fact, the Treaty of Cairo would have been much delayed were it not for Tariq’s leadership.’

  ‘True,’ the Somali allowed, ‘the Prime Minister is indeed a credit to your nation. But he believes, like many of us do, that more needs to be done.’

  The Duke looked puzzled, glancing towards Saeed. The Prime Minister said nothing, quietly hoping Handule hadn’t gone too far. The Duke had proved to be the most popular member of the Royal Family for many years, a firm favourite with the media and the wider public. He always drew large crowds at every engagement, glamorous wife in tow, the twin girls looking more like their iconic grandmother at every appearance. The family possessed a celebrity quality, and the Duke was well-versed in both domestic and international affairs. When he spoke, people listened. To have him onside in the coming months would be a huge advantage.

  The Duke shifted in his chair. ‘I don’t doubt that Mohamed; but, like I said, as a nation we’re going to great lengths to ensure that Britain learns its lesson from the terrible events of September. For example, refugees arriving on these shores no longer have to suffer the indignity of the relocation centre at Heathrow, and we are doing our best to cope with the considerable influx of economic migrants and displaced persons that have entered the UK since Cairo came into force.’ The Duke crossed his legs, folding his hands in his lap. ‘Frankly, the sheer weight of numbers has surprised us all, yet it’s my belief that the UK is responding positively to these continued challenges, more so perhaps than many of our European partners. Wouldn’t you agree, Tariq?’

  Saeed nodded. ‘Indeed, and the UK continues to extend a warm welcome to its newest citizens, However, I believe the Ambassador is referring to a different issue.’

  The Duke swivelled back to Handule. ‘Oh? In that case my apologies, Mohamed. Please continue.’

  ‘Thank you,’ the bespectacled Professor nodded, a toothy smile carving across his ebony face. ‘What you say is true, Britain has done much to heal the wounds of Luton and extend the hand of friendship towards our brothers and sisters from Pakistan and elsewhere. But there is another issue, one that will do more for Britain’s moral redemption in the eyes of the Islamic community than previous efforts.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Are you as familiar with the Qur’an as your father once was, Your Highness?’

  The Duke looked suddenly embarrassed, shaking his sparse dome. ‘Sadly not. I’ve been meaning to get round to it, of course, but my schedule has been full and...’

  ‘Permit me to impart a small education then,’ the Somali offered, pinching his thumb and forefinger together. His cleared his throat then said in a soft voice: ‘And we ordained therein for them: life for life, eye for eye, nose for nose, ear for ear, tooth for tooth and wounds equal for equal.’

  The Duke nodded solemnly. ‘The language and cadence of Islam’s holy words are truly inspiring,’ he fawned. ‘But please forgive me Mohamed, I’m not quite sure where you’re going with this.’

  ‘Daniel Whelan,’ Saeed explained.

  The Duke’s eyes flicked from Saeed to the Somali and back again, while the Egyptian helped himself to yet another pastry. He held up his hands. ‘You’ve lost me,’ he admitted.

  The Ambassador’s face darkened. ‘This Whelan creature must be brought to justice,’ he growled, his finger pointed righteously at the ceiling.

  ‘And he will,’ insisted the Duke. He turned to Saeed. ‘No stone is being left unturned, isn’t that right, Tariq?’

  ‘Correct.’ Saeed privately refused to use the term ‘Your Highness’, unwilling to formally recognise the authority of the House of Windsor. In all his dealings with the Duke, he’d never once been corrected. ‘The hunt for Whelan goes on,’ he continued. ‘It’s true, he’s managed to evade capture so far, and this is for two likely reasons: either he’s already dead, or he’s in hiding somewhere. Either way, the truth will soon be known.’

  ‘He could have fled abroad,’ the Egyptian speculated, noisily sucking flakes of pastry from the ends of his fingertips.

  Saeed shook his head, faintly amused by the look of disdain on the Duke’s face. ‘Unlikely. According to the intelligence, Whelan is a poorly educated, penniless criminal with little or no support network. Travel outside the UK would be far out of his comfort zone. No, he’s still here somewhere, hiding like a rat in a hole no doubt.’

  And yet Whelan’s disappearance was a mystery to everyone, especially Saeed. Generally it was only organised crime syndicates that possessed the money and resources to squirrel away one of their own. Whelan was at the other end of that scale, a living, breathing definition of the word petty, yet som
ehow he’d managed to evade the biggest manhunt Britain had ever seen, not to mention a ridiculously large reward. Whelan had been chosen after a long exercise, an exacting filtration process that had finally identified the ex-soldier as the perfect candidate. Yet, somehow, he had outwitted them all. Or fallen down a hole. The Prime Minister’s eyes wandered to the window, to the distant lights of the city beyond. He was out there somewhere, perhaps not far…

  ‘Trust me Mohamed, it’s only a matter of time before he’s caught,’ the Duke assured the Ambassador.

  ‘Everyone Whelan has ever known is either under surveillance or cooperating with the authorities,’ Saeed confirmed. ‘It’s a case of sooner, rather than later.’ He turned towards the Duke. ‘The reason we’re here tonight is to discuss what happens after he’s in custody.’

  The Duke shrugged his shoulders. ‘Well, he’ll be tried and convicted, I imagine. Like any other terrorist.’

  ‘Tried here? In a British court? Out of the question!’ the Ambassador barked, waving away the suggestion with a dismissive flick of his wrist. His voice dripped with disgust. ‘The thought of this terrorist languishing in one of your gaols, watching TV, indulging in drugs and pornography, would be a profound insult to Muslims everywhere.’