by Phil Walden
An arm unceremoniously ushered him away from the hustle and bustle inside, but not before Deacon had glanced up and down the crowded tables. There was no sign of Coburn. He moved towards the entrance to a long narrow room with floor to ceiling glass, offering views of the river both to the east and to the west. Small tables enclosed by leather clad chairs ran alongside the curve of the glass, all packed with after work drinkers sampling what looked like exotic and expensive cocktails. He ordered what purported to be one of the bar’s signature selections, a cocktail with gin as its base. The bar was indeed spread over three floors and it took the best part of ten minutes for Deacon to study the occupants of every chair, stool and sofa. Coburn was not there.
As frustrating as it was, his failure served merely to strengthen his theory about why Max Coburn had come to the building. He strongly suspected that this was yet another meeting of the cabal but this time in London. If so, it was perilous but obviously deemed necessary. That only served to make it more intriguing. Something had or was about to happen which demanded the group come together quickly. Otherwise, why take the chance? The capital was obviously the only option, even if the chances of detection were higher. Somewhere near here, they were gathered in great secrecy. He knew who but he did not know where and, most intriguingly of all, why.
He sipped his drink, propping himself against one of the thin pillars which framed each of the vast windows. The lights of Tower Bridge shone brightly to the east, as the hands of Big Ben prepared to strike seven o’clock to the west. There was no denying that the views were spectacular, day or night. Tourists and day trippers were flocking to the building but longer term occupants were proving a problem. The hotel above had only just opened, a year later than planned. Most of the office space below remained vacant as did the luxury apartments on the upper floors. Hardly surprising, he thought. They were charging West End rents. Who would swap Mayfair or Knightsbridge for this? With so many floors unoccupied, the gathering could be anywhere. But Coburn had taken a lift which served the restaurants and bar. If one of the apartments or offices had been chosen, he would have accessed them via the main entrance.
On a nearby wall he noticed a rack containing promotional guides to the building. Deacon reached to pick one out. Inside the glossy cover, a detailed plan of the Shard was laid out, describing each floor and its intended function. He homed in on his current position, Floor Thirty One. Three floors above him lay the Shangri La Hotel. Hotels with discreet lodges had been utilised by the group before but this hardly fitted that particular bill. Being new, it would be in the full glare of publicity with critics scrutinising every detail in their rush to write the first reviews. Too dangerous, Deacon thought. Anyway, as the booklet was quick to remind him, this too had its own dedicated entrance, on another side of the building. Coburn seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
It was then that he noticed, in tiny print, reference to the two floors directly below where he now stood. Floors Twenty Nine and Thirty were service floors and described in the tome as empty but soon to be utilised when the upper floors of the edifice were occupied. Maybe, just maybe. It was certainly worth a try.
Deacon downed his cocktail and strolled back towards the lift, trying to seem natural and at ease. The display showed that the elevator which had catapulted him upwards was now dropping swiftly to the ground, soon to bring up another set of early evening diners and drinkers to this luxury crow’s nest in the sky. A few feet to the left stood another lift, a little smaller and narrower than its neighbour. He had failed to spot it earlier in his haste to search for Coburn. A notice declared it to be service only, serving the two floors below and strictly not for use by the general public. As if to reinforce the message, a tall, shaven headed and thickly set man stood guard across its doors, with an expression which brooked no argument, not even a friendly discussion. That in itself was strange. The floors below were supposed to be empty. Who would want to protect them with an obviously hired heavy? Possibly people who had something to hide and every reason to want to go undisturbed. It was worth a shot. Somehow, some way, Deacon had to get down there.
“Can you help me, mate? I’m feeling bloody awful,” Deacon croaked.
The burly man’s head swung round to look at him, his unbending glare a sign that he was irritated by the interruption.
“It’s all these fucking stairs. Been a bit much for me, I’m afraid.”
The guard said nothing, but just stared as if carrying out a visual assessment of this old geezer’s condition. Deacon realised he would have to do more. He instantly cried out in pain, fell back against the wall, and gripped his chest. He coughed violently, before subsiding into prolonged groans and sliding slowly down to the floor, seemingly unconscious.
Eyes firmly closed he heard the heavy footsteps pound towards him. The guard paused above him. He felt his breath on his face. Then the man shot off in the direction of the bar. Deacon would have to be quick. He struggled up and slammed his forefinger into the service lift’s call button. The doors immediately swung open. He jumped in and hit the button marked Floor Thirty. This was sheer madness. He had no idea what he would find or what he would do. What if he stumbled in on the gathering? What would he say? What excuse would he have? The doors seemed to take an age to close, but finally drew shut. He hoped his Good Samaritan would return, assume he had recovered and taken the main lift back down to the ground floor.
The journey down was brief. The lift opened. He paused. He could see, hear and sense no one. He edged forward and stepped out into a vast space, a bare concrete floor flanked by stark white walls, littered with a variety of building materials. Not only was this floor not being used, it was far from finished. In the rush to have the building ready and outwardly presentable to the watching world for the start of the 2012 Olympics, areas had been ignored and put back to a later date for completion. Whatever was planned, it was not taking place here. He turned to get back into the lift. Could he make his escape before the guard returned?
But then he heard faint voices. At first they were barely discernible but a sudden burst of loud, prolonged laughter was clear and recognisable. It was Max Coburn. He picked his way carefully nearer to the source of the noise. A wide shaft connecting this storey to the one below was positioned in the middle of the floor. The lifting mechanism designed to transfer essentials between the two was yet to be fitted. He crouched and gradually manoeuvred himself down until he lay flat to the ground. He edged towards the gap and gingerly looked over, poised to pull back if there was the slightest chance he might be spotted. He had a clear view of a section of the floor below.
There was a large table, about twenty feet by ten, surrounded by a number of padded leather chairs. Wines were laid out at the centre, chief amongst them unopened bottles of champagne in large silver ice buckets. A celebration was clearly being planned. He could see none of the people below and the conversations were too muted to be clearly heard.
At that moment a loud and commanding voice asked for silence. Deacon instantly knew it as the voice of Simon, the voice of Henry Lighterman. “Friends, let us move to the business of the day.”
There was immediate compliance. It was obvious that in this elite gathering, Simon was treated with the utmost respect. “As you all know, our timing has always been dependent upon the recovery of the economy and the belief that it would facilitate our progress. Unforeseen events have forced us to move more quickly. In short, Tom Catchpole’s little difficulty threatens to surface rather sooner than we anticipated or wanted. As a result we have taken measures to ensure his political demise. That’s disappointing. His radical environmental initiatives would have softened society for the more serious change to come. Nevertheless, we will devise new plans to engineer an improvement in the people’s standard of living, ones which will win support for the initial reforms we propose. Indeed, it is my expectation that they will see the former as a result of the latter and make it much easier for us to press on. A significant strengthening of t
he police remains paramount if the very fabric of society is to be preserved. Guaranteeing success will entail the politicising and strengthening of every branch of the security forces and the military.
“However the change to our timetable demands we proceed cautiously. The reform of the Lords, the abolition of a State Church and a blitz upon the Civil Service monolith will now be the major objectives of our first administration and form the main pillars of an attack upon the Establishment. All three are less contentious and will draw significant support from our chosen party and I suspect from wider afield.
“I have asked you here today because I believe we are at a key moment in our mission. Within the hour I expect Jacob to bring news that the leadership is within his grasp. Our journey to power will have begun. The next election will see the country vote the party into government. We will win power through democracy but within two terms we shall destroy it. The time for zealotry has come. And so gentlemen, I give you the toast: to the day, to the man, to Judas!”
All rose. Glasses were raised. A rousing cheer of: “To the day, to the man, to Judas!” rang out. The group returned to individual but animated chatter.
Deacon turned over onto his back, trying to grasp the implications of what he had just heard. The time for zealotry? Hadn’t Lighterman used that very term during the interview Deacon had found on the internet. He had likened his passion and drive to the unceasing zeal of Jewish nationalists, those who had fought against the Romans around the time of Christ? That one word began to make sense of it all.
The stories told to him by his Jewish grandmother in a fruitless attempt to instil some knowledge of and pride in a religion long discarded by his parents, now came back to him. The names were the same. It was an easy mistake to make, for him and Olivia. Sure, Simon, James and John, even the discredited figure of Judas, were disciples of Jesus. But Barabbas certainly was not. However, they were all names of people who, alongside Jacob, had belonged to another movement completely at odds with the peaceful teachings of Christ. That movement was the Zealots, a fanatical and nationalist movement who opposed rule from Rome and who defiantly declared that they would call no one “lord” other than God. Granny Leah had drummed it all into him. Founded by Judas the Galilean, the Zealots had begun a rebellion, which upon Judas’ death, had been continued by other followers, three of whom were called Simon, James and Jacob. Barabbas was a notorious rebel who had committed multiple murders during the ongoing insurrection. Thus, Deacon now realised, the coded names were linked not to the disciples, as he had earlier thought, but to this violent revolutionary faction.
But surely, Deacon thought, things like that just didn’t happen in this country. However, he knew they did. Lord Mountbatten and the secret plot to oust the government of Harold Wilson in the 1960s sprang to mind. No, everything tallied. It would explain why the Lord Bailey story was pulled. Coburn had done his job. No one would want the attention of the nation’s press directed to the events at that Norfolk hotel that weekend. At last, Deacon could see the importance of Bailey and Spenser in the plan. Both held important positions and controlled strong power bases in the House of Lords and the House of Commons respectively. Add in the fact that the leading general in the army, the Head of MI5, and an Assistant Commissioner in the Met, were all meeting in secret with a reclusive billionaire hell bent on the destruction of this country’s democracy and there could only be one logical conclusion. They were planning a coup.
The whole thing was a daring and ingenious political ruse, designed to seize power not by force but by stealth. As unscrupulous as it was, Deacon couldn’t help but admire the League’s carefully planned strategy. Ensure loyal sympathisers in key positions across the country. Target the Left leaning factions for infiltration, avoiding the entrenched bastions of privilege which enveloped the Right. Recruit a young, good looking and charismatic figure, unknown in the United Kingdom. Promote him as an appealing personality and an original thinker and ensure his rapid rise through the party ranks. Create and feed a climate of distrust and dissatisfaction with Devaney and engineer a threat to his leadership. And finally rely on the public’s unceasing habit of falling for the promise of change, for something new, radical and fresh, to catapult this new man into the frame.
And Deacon knew, all too well, how strong support from a British centric media mogul like Coburn, could guarantee electoral success. Once that had been gained, he surmised what their next steps would have been. Disclose a scandal from the new Prime Minister’s past, force an embarrassing resignation and cause a crisis in a country, tired of electioneering and anxious to enjoy the fruits of an improving economic outlook. With the old brigade defeated, disgraced or forgotten, up would step Harry Spenser. Deliberately low profile and marketed as the scourge of the security services to throw off any suspicion, he would emerge eventually as the only alternative to fill the breach. Only then would the true force of the plot be unleashed.
Deacon shuddered. Was his imagination working overtime or were his thoughts justified by the evidence he had gathered? If he was right, he genuinely feared that the overall plan might succeed. With a sympathetic media, a compliant police force and with the insurance provided by the presence of the monarchy, the skill of the security services and the might of the armed forces, policies could be changed, rights slowly eroded, enemies neutralised and institutions eventually remodelled. In time, a country reborn not in line with the much vaunted yet illusory blueprint of Tom Catchpole, but on a template designed and controlled by a much more sinister force, moulded in the image of an ultra-nationalist sect. Deacon could see it all: John, James, Jacob, Barabbas and Simon, with others whose code names as yet unknown, all directed by the mysterious figure of Judas. They had every intention of turning the government of the United Kingdom into a dictatorship.
Deacon allowed himself a chuckle. How angry they must have been when Angel’s picture appeared in the newspaper, instantly putting the whole enterprise in jeopardy. Her arrival on the scene must have brought about an urgent change of tack. The chances of Angel recovering and talking or Start eventually blowing the lid off the whole affair were too great. The conspirators had to keep control of events. The attack on Start’s boat must have been an attempt to silence or murder him. Whichever, it didn’t matter. Where Angel’s disappearance fitted in, he wasn’t sure, but it must have been the work of this group. Control of her would allow Catchpole to be taken down immediately. Spenser could then insist on Devaney’s full support in an immediate leadership contest. Power was now tantalisingly close.
Deacon was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of cheers from below. Elgar’s Nimrod was sounding from a mobile. Conversations dropped away as silence enveloped the room. The call had to be from Jacob, Deacon thought. The ringtone stopped. Someone had obviously answered the phone. Deacon rolled over onto his front, anxious to see what was going on. As he did so, he overstretched, his arm colliding with a pile of copper pipes. They noisily rolled away. Deacon quickly shuffled back. If he could not see the quizzical eyes and the alarmed and angry faces angled upwards, he could hear the voices.
“What was that?”
“It could be pigeons.”
“Not this far up.”
“Then we have an intruder.”
“Impossible. The floor’s empty.”
“Well something’s up there.”
“We can’t ignore it.”
“Call security”.
“Guard! Guard!”
Deacon’s mind raced. The men below may have thought it impossible for anyone to get in, but he knew it would be impossible for him to get out. The guard would leave his post when summoned and immediately rush to investigate. There would be no time for Deacon to take the lift and make his escape through the crowded bars above. He was trapped.
Suddenly, Simon’s fierce and insistent voice boomed out, “Gentlemen! We must leave now!” Various voices began to question. He shouted, “Immediately!”
There was no explanation given or of
fered but something was obviously wrong. Brisk footsteps testified to the room below emptying rapidly. Deacon heard the lift doors open. They would need to leave through the bar areas higher up but would the ascent be interrupted to allow someone to get out, to investigate the noise and search for any uninvited guest? He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He breathed in heavily. He was too old for this. He’d bitten off more than he could chew. He was scared.
The lift doors slammed shut. The ascent began, the sound of the elevator growing in volume and intensity. To his relief it shot past. He was not out of the woods yet. He knew the group’s exit would have to be carefully managed and be gradual to avoid attracting any unwanted attention. The longer he remained where he was, the more certain he could be that no one had stayed on, lying in wait and ready to pounce when he emerged.
So Deacon lay there and agonised over what might have happened and over what he would do next. To the first question he had no answer but as to the second, the path was clear. This was indeed the big story for which he had yearned. If Start dragged the connection with Angel out of the headmaster, that would be the local story and a major scoop for The Eastern Mail. It would be quickly picked up by the nationals, involving as it did such a high profile politician.
But Deacon did not intend to stop there. He would go on to present the detailed evidence he had gathered about Henry Lighterman’s clandestine activities and reveal the names of his collaborators, their coded identities and the possible nature of the plot. Even better if he could somehow bypass Max Coburn and get Donnelly to run the whole story in The Globe. What sweet revenge and total vindication that would be for both him and Joe Start. The impact would be cataclysmic, both on the political classes and society as a whole. He could be sitting on the story of the century.
Chapter Twenty Two
The hours between the morning and evening sessions of the 1900 Committee had been frenetic. MPs had gathered in rooms, bars and restaurants across Westminster to talk over the storm created by Tom Catchpole and its possible consequences. Some saw it as a tour de force, combining radical politics, based on principle and beliefs, with a passion and commitment long absent from the party’s hierarchy. Others were more cautious, citing Catchpole’s youth and relative inexperience. Fast tracking him to the leadership would constitute an enormous gamble. But all agreed on one thing. Devaney’s position had become untenable.
