Bledsoe nodded, smiling. It all sounded so perfect, and would have been too, if not for the fact that by that weekend, Roosevelt, or whatever he was called, was going to be dead.
'What about you?' asked Roosevelt.
'Miami Beach,' said Bledsoe. 'Check out some babes. Tell me about Saturday night.'
Roosevelt snapped his fingers at a passing waitress and pointed to his cup.
'I walked in through the front door and I left through the front door. The place is a joke. Can you imagine getting into the White House like that? I don't think so.'
'So how did you do it?'
'I took care of my non-business with the guy Williams, then I just happened to bump into Thackeray on my way out. The guy was wired. Hadn't slept in four weeks, God knows what he was popping. I offered him a few things, we went into some small, uninhabited office. The place is a maze.'
'How did you kill him?'
'Bludgeoned him to death with a copy of The Da Vinci Code.'
'Nice,' said Bledsoe laughing. 'Hardback?'
'Totally,' said Roosevelt.
His third cup of coffee arrived. Bledsoe chose the moment to order his third with a snap of the fingers, which he could've done at the same time as Roosevelt. The waitress smiled and thought, I hate you, you ignorant American fuck.
'So did you get the information?' asked Bledsoe.
Roosevelt took a drink of coffee, started nodding his head. Into the Italian gangster part of the conversation.
'Under the hair, just above the left ear,' he said.
'You took in a magnifying glass?' asked Bledsoe.
'Totally. So last century. Felt like Sherlock Holmes or something.'
'What did you get?' asked Bledsoe, pushing the question.
Roosevelt fished around in his pocket for a small piece of folded paper, which he passed over. Bledsoe kept his eyes on Roosevelt and then opened up the paper and read the words quickly, seven or eight times.
And the name of the star is called Wormwood
Bledsoe looked up at Roosevelt, his eyes narrowing.
'What does that mean?' he asked.
'I have no idea,' said Roosevelt. 'I was hoping you'd know.'
1503hrs
The Leader of the Opposition was having a bad day. His every day was bad. Sure, when he appeared in public he wore the confident grin of a man who thought he was just about to become Prime Minister, but realistically he knew he was finished. He had four more days effectively leading the opposition, and then, come Friday morning, he was going to have to stand before the press and accept defeat, and announce that it was time for the Conservative party to find a new leader to take them through the next parliament, and to try and build a platform which might lead them to power in 2009 or 2010. A few weeks from now he would return to being a nobody, like the previous two leaders, and he could crawl back into his coffin and only come out after the hours of darkness, to make after-dinner speeches at seven hundred pounds a time to anyone who would take him. (At least, he hoped he might get seven hundred. He'd heard that Duncan-Smith only got fifty quid and that Hague would do it for fourteen pints.)
Detective Sergeant Tony Eason, undercover at Tory Party HQ in an attempt to get under the skin of Dane Bledsoe – a task which he had manifestly failed to do – sat and looked at the back of the Count. He was bored, wanted to return to his desk at the office. He wanted to be out investigating commonplace murder and the like, not the murder of the PM's staff. This wasn't for him, hopelessly out of place as an undercover marketing executive.
'Where's Bledsoe?' asked the Count.
'Wish I knew,' said Eason, forlornly. Not only had he been unable to find out who Bledsoe was really working for, he generally had no idea where he was on an hourly basis.
'We're screwed, aren't we?' said the Count pitifully.
Eason tried to put himself into the role of the crack marketing man, which he was supposed to be.
'Well, you know,' he said, 'kind of depends on what you're looking for.'
The Count turned and gave him a hard stare.
'What d'you mean?'
'Well,' said Eason, struggling. 'You'll probably give the Lib Dems a good kicking. That didn't always happen back in the 19th century.'
The Count stared at him, wondering if he was being serious, then he let out a great sigh and slumped further into his seat. Checked his watch. His ten minutes respite was almost over, then he was going to have to be back out on the campaign trail. The last three days and, along with the other two leaders, he was visiting as many marginal constituencies as possible. Kicking himself – or rather, kicking his advisors – that they hadn't come up with the brilliant Ikea idea of the other mob.
The door opened and Dane Bledsoe walked in, fresh from conspiracy.
'We should get going, Sir,' he said, without trace of duplicity, a true covert operative.
The Count nodded and tried to switch on the grin.
'Probably should,' he said.
He stood up. Eason joined him, fidgeting, wondering if he could just excuse himself.
'Either of you know what or who Wormwood is?' asked Bledsoe, with the brazen lack of subtlety of the intelligence services.
'A plant,' said the Count. 'A bitter plant. You think we could feed it to the government? I'm afraid it's probably what we'll be eating on Friday. Bitterness.'
He pulled on his jacket, lifted a couple of papers.
'Won't need the jacket,' said Eason. 'It's a hot one. Probably an opportunity for an ice cream photo,' he added. The Count took his jacket off, fished around in the pockets for a couple of things.
'Something to do with a star,' said Bledsoe, 'a star called wormwood. Anyone know what that's all about?'
The Count shook his head, distracted, trying to get into the character of a confident politician.
'Revelations,' said Eason, and Bledsoe looked interested and also slightly confused. Not a Bible man.
'The third angel,' said Eason. 'There fell a great star from heaven, burning as it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of water; and the name of the star is called Wormwood: and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died of the waters, because they were made bitter.'
Bledsoe stared at him; the Count was ready and walked out the door. Not a New Testament man after all.
'You don't look like a Bible thumper,' said Bledsoe.
'Nah,' said Eason. 'You know how it is when you're a teenager. Iron Maiden, Denis Wheatley, all that shit. You read Revelations to death. All that seven angels standing in the sun, 666 stuff. The Omen and the like. I looked and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on him was Death. Fantastic. Load of baloney, right enough, but fantastic all the same. Couldn't tell you how many gospels there were, but I know Revelations inside out.'
Bledsoe looked impressed, for some reason felt pleased with himself for immediately identifying someone who could help him out, when all that had been required was a quick two minutes on Google.
'That pale horse thing was in the Bible?' he said. 'I always thought it was just for the movies.'
'Nah,' said Eason.
'So what has it got to do with any of this?' asked Bledsoe.
Eason looked at him, obviously no idea what he was talking about, and shrugged. And they followed the Count out the door, back onto the campaign trail, to fight a losing battle against the Magnificent Two – the PM and the Chancellor – out on their bank holiday afternoon, eating lunch, eating ice cream, drinking pints and glad-handing it around the marginal constituencies of the deep south.
Tuesday 3rd May 2005
0615hrs
Dane Bledsoe hung up the phone and rolled back over in bed. Glanced at the clock. Just after one a.m. in Washington and these people were still at work. What would they have been like if Britain had actually mattered to them? He put his hands behind his head and stared at the ceiling. How many of his days began with an abrupt awakening via the phone? He needed to get up an
yway, the usual early campaign start. Another day trailing around the marginal constituencies of the country, giving the leader of the opposition advice that ranged from the pointless to the ridiculous.
'Work?' said a voice next to him.
Took another look at the clock. If she was awake anyway, then there was still time to continue what they'd started the night before.
'Yeah,' he answered, and he turned towards her and rested his head in his hand.
'Bit early for that, in't it?' she said.
'It was the White House,' he said, 'so it was pretty late for them.'
'The White House?' said the woman. 'You're pulling my chain, ain'tcha?'
'Nah,' said Bledsoe. 'I'm CIA, I'm always speaking to those guys.'
She giggled and tossed her long blonde hair to the side.
'Sure you are,' she said. 'And I'm Rosa Kleb.'
The duvet slipped down, revealing her breasts. All two of them.
'Ah,' said Bledsoe, slipping into his best spy persona, 'I was just looking for those.'
And the leader of Her Majesty's Opposition was just going to have to wait a little longer for his advice that morning.
0659hrs
For the first time in a couple of days, Barney Thomson was back behind the old Prime Ministerial napper. The PM was reading the Guardian, Barney was standing behind him clutching a pair of scissors and a comb, Igor was standing to the side, clutching his broom.
Barney was in a reasonably chipper mood. Only three days to go. It would all be over soon and he could get back to where he belonged. Beside the sea, a sleepy town, and a few months of complete inactivity. Maybe the rest of his life could be like that.
Igor, on the other hand, was beginning to feel rather deflated. He had been promised much by Dane Bledsoe in their brief meeting a few days earlier, however as time had dragged on, and not a lot out of the ordinary seemed to be happening, he had begun to think that the man had been making fun of him. Usually he could spot it a mile off, but it had been a while since he'd been the butt of all the jokes.
'What do you make of it all?' said the PM. 'The FT has us extending our lead in the polls, this piece of crap has the polls revealing the fragility of our lead. What d'you think Barney?'
Barney was trying to make something of the PM's hair.
'D'you want me to be honest?' he asked. Igor perked up.
The PM hesitated. Honesty wasn't his favourite medicine.
'Go on,' he replied, guardedly.
'This is how I see it,' said Barney, not really thinking about what he was saying, trying to decide if he could do anything dramatically different with the PM's hair. A mohawk, perhaps. That would give the media something to focus on for the last couple of days, get his picture on every front page. 'The polls are a bit of this and a bit of that, but they all show you in the lead, and generally by more than when you started. You're going to win. But there's always the chance, of course, that you won't have an overall majority, or you'll be left with a small majority, in which case you're screwed. The war thing, with all these legal cases and criticisms, isn't going to go away, just get worse. By the end of the summer your party's going to be split and your authority will be diminished and you'll have to resign. The Chancellor will take over, there'll be various rebellions in the house, and before we know it we'll be having another election campaign in October.'
The PM looked back at Barney in the mirror, with big sad eyes.
'You really think so?' he asked miserably, his face not a million miles away from Shrek 2's Puss 'n' Boots.
'Aye,' said Barney. 'You won't see out the year. So what I think is, you might as well go for it now.'
'How d'you mean?'
'Let me shave your head, or dye your hair purple or something. Be dramatic. And as soon as Thursday's over, and you're still in charge for a short while, get out there and do big stuff. Reclaim all the countries of the Commonwealth, rebuild the days of Empire, take Ireland back, invade Iran and Syria, start a space programme and name it after yourself, declare Scotland your own individual fiefdom, and demand that you have sex with all the wives.'
As Barney had talked the PM had gradually slunk down into his seat, the interest in his expression had died, and he now viewed Barney with pursed lips.
'Very funny,' he said. Or, at least, it would've been funny if some of the things on the list hadn't actually been what the PM intended doing in the next parliament anyway.
0841hrs
Detective Sergeant Eason had snuck away from his undercover position as marketing man to the leader of the opposition for an illicit breakfast with DCI Grogan, the man heading up the investigation into the murders of two of the Prime Minister's men, Ramone the hairdresser and Thackeray the advisor. Eason was, as usual, eating everything on the menu, and already had several squirts of various condiments down his shirt and tie. Grogan was, as usual, smoking profusely and drinking coffee thick enough to lie on.
'So, do we think this thing's all coming to a head before Thursday, or are these two murders completely unrelated to the election, and possibly each other?' said Grogan belching smoke with every word.
'What do you think?' said Eason through a mouthful of hash browns.
Grogan pursed his lips, making his rubber face even more unattractive.
'You know, my fat friend, if you're ever going to become a grown-up policeman with responsibility and stuff, you're going to have to do some thinking for yourself.'
'I'm always thinking,' protested Eason. 'And right now I'm thinking about having another bacon sandwich.'
'Mr Comedian,' said Grogan. 'I think there's no way it's not connected. Two guys in the PM's office don't just get murdered, and they don't just get murdered in the run-up to an election. There's something going on and we need to work out what it is. What have you got from your friend at the Conservatives?'
Eason shrugged, indicated to a far-flung waitress that he'd like another bacon with ketchup.
'Not much,' he said. 'Keeps disappearing, doing his own thing. No idea what.'
'God, what are you doing there?' said Grogan with exasperation.
'You know, stuff,' said Eason. 'He vanished for a while yesterday, came in asking about Wormwood. You know, the quote from Revelations.'
Grogan stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, eyes wide on Eason.
'What?' said Eason, slightly concerned with the look on Grogan's face. 'What did I say?'
'And the name of the star is called Wormwood?' asked Grogan.
'Yeah,' said Eason. 'How d'you know that?'
'Because those words were carved into the head of Thackeray, the second victim. Which probably means your man has been speaking to Roosevelt, the guy who we believe killed Thackeray.'
Grogan tapped a contemplative spoon against the rim of his cup.
'He's not American, Bledsoe, is he?' asked Grogan.
'Could be,' said Eason. 'His accent's kind of weird, did occur to me that he was putting it on.'
'So let's say he knows the killer,' said Grogan, 'let's say that. But he also knows that you're working for the police, so why tell you about Wormwood? By doing that, he knows you're going to tell me, he knows that I'll already know about Wormwood, and he knows that we'll put two and two together and suspect him.'
Eason nodded all the way through, as he bit the head off a croissant.
'Sounds good,' he said.
'So why do it?' said Grogan.
Eason thought about it, turning the croissant over in his mouth. This was his chance to shine, to a boss that had rarely ever been impressed by him.
'No idea,' he said eventually.
Grogan nodded.
'Figures,' he said. 'Might be time to talk to the guy.'
'I've already talked to him,' said Eason.
'In a police capacity, you moron,' said Grogan.
Grogan stared at his number two, who was by now dripping breakfast, and then took a photograph from his inside pocket.
'OK, if he's going to screw us about, t
hen we'll do the same to him. When you go back, show him this picture and see what he says, see his reaction. Think you can do that?'
Eason looked at the photograph of a man caught walking into 10 Downing Street on CCTV.
'This is Roosevelt?' he asked.
'Well done,' said Grogan. 'It'd be all over the papers and TV if it wasn't election week.'
'So I show it to the guy and let you know if he breaks out into assholes?'
Grogan nodded.
'Yeah,' he said, 'although I very much doubt he's going to do that.'
1718hrs
Sometimes the clean-up begins well before the operation itself is complete.
Dane Bledsoe knocked on the hotel room door and heard the restless footsteps inside come quickly towards him. The door opened, Roosevelt allowed Bledsoe to enter, checked the corridor, then closed the door behind them. The room was large, plenty of space around the double bed. The bed was unruffled, the room pristine, and there was little to tell that Roosevelt had spent the last five hours in it, pacing up and down, occasionally glancing at the television, which had been on the whole time, on CNN.
'The police have got a nice photo of you,' said Bledsoe, going to the window and looking down on Regent's Street. 'Great fake moustache.'
'Thanks,' said Roosevelt.
'Let me see the box,' said Bledsoe quickly. No messing about. It was time to get on with business, and the sooner he had the box the sooner that could happen.
'No more pleasantries, eh?' said Roosevelt. 'Sure thing, bud.'
He went to the bedside drawer. Nestled in beside the Bible was the small wooden box, which had once been in the possession of Ramone MacGregor, and was now in the hands of the CIA. He took it out carefully and handed it to Bledsoe.
Bledsoe held it softly in his hands, felt his throat dry. Didn't often have moments like this in his job. Hair rising on the back of his head moments. He opened the box and looked inside at the small artefact, two thousand years old. He stared at it for a long time, Roosevelt standing over him, also looking down into the box, as he had many times in the previous week.
The Wormwood Code Page 12
