The Ambassador (43 page)

‘No, no, nothing much. I’m made of sterner stuff,’ the Prime Minister responded, then regretted it; that might imply that those who had died were not. Then it came to him that the Permanent Secretary was gone for ever; no more would the bastard be around to taunt him with that beady gaze, those thin lips, that air of infinite superiority. Sir Lyndon permitted himself the ghost of a smile. ‘Of course, Sir Robin was a lot older,’ he continued smoothly. ‘Not as robust. But his passing is a great loss.’

Packer’s warning blink suggested that the remark had been a mite too offhand. ‘A great, great loss,’ Everidge repeated, eyes downcast. ‘A state funeral. Tuesday.’

‘Of course,’ Packer picked up. ‘And will you be declaring a state of emergency?’

‘No. What for?’ Everidge allowed himself to sound astonished, though the areas to be covered had been settled in advance. ‘Some lunatic flings a bomb and the whole panoply of state grinds to a halt? We carry on. The work of government continues without a pause, without rest. Dissident elements are being rounded up as we speak. Fair trial, and all that. Justice will be done.’

‘So it’s business as usual, Prime Minister?’

Everidge grunted a Churchillian affirmative. Packer posed several more anodyne questions, and the interview was rounded off neatly with a light handshake. With a sigh of relief Everidge heaved himself to his feet, balancing his weight on his knuckles.

‘Congratulations on a near escape,’ Packer added, as the camera indicator went out. He moved forward as if to pat the injured hero on the arm. At Everidge’s glower he backed off. ‘You’ll take a quiet couple of days, though, surely?’

‘Yes. Suppose so. Gotta show respect,’ the Prime Minister mumbled. He suddenly felt faint and gratefully accepted the handful of paper tissues offered by an assistant to clean his face. The orange pan-stick he wiped off was spotted with scabs.

Then he lightened. ‘But I’m going out for a quick drink tonight. In fact, I may have more than one. I really feel like a blinder, y’know?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Maxwell Packer. He eased himself out of the black tunic while mentally calculating, and with some satisfaction, how much the interview, syndicated round the globe,
would earn Packer Television plc in the next few weeks. Those Far Eastern shareholders would be delighted. ‘I know exactly how you feel. Life is a bitch. You enjoy yourself, Lyndon. You deserve it.’

After the chaos upstairs Peter, the embassy chauffeur, decided to make himself scarce. A former Army reservist who regarded himself as an uncomplicated patriot, he had nevertheless become fond of his American employers, and particularly of the Ambassador. To him, Bill Strether exhibited some of the best qualities, including an old-fashioned consideration towards his staff that had been sadly lacking in those Whitehall circles of his previous employment. It was a pity Mr Strether had given up that attractive dark-haired scientist lady. Repeated visits to the Toy Shop instead did not meet with the chauffeur’s wholehearted approval.

He took refuge in his lair, down in the cool basement surrounded by cars and tidy workbenches. He put the kettle on and made tea, the traditional way in a warmed pot, and sipped it appreciatively. The comforting smell of ancient grease and oil, of machinery, rubber and leather filled his nostrils. He tinkered with the veteran petrol-driven Mercedes, running his fingers lovingly over the aluminium engine casing which gleamed whistle-clean in the halogen light. It remained here because nobody wanted it; the booming market for such antiques was in China, but it would have been an economic crime, as well as environmental vandalism, to have let it go to them.

The afternoon wore on. The radio on the workbench droned quietly in the background, brief news clips interspersed with solemn music, but he paid no attention. He whistled through his teeth as he checked that the two electric vehicles were fully charged. With so much trouble on the streets – and in his opinion it could take weeks before everything settled down – his role was to ensure that whenever the Ambassador or his staff needed personal transport it was ready for them in an instant, especially if the recent disruptions to the public services continued.

Peter did not grieve for Sir Robin or the other victims, whom he did not know, but he was sorry the Prime Minister had been spared. The word among the government car pool drivers was that Sir Lyndon was a corrupt and sleazy individual; conversations in the back of vehicles, and his spluttered comments when alone afterwards, suggested he let it be thought he was no genius and easily manipulated. Instead, however, the man was at the core of any devious activity. The Prime Minister was a nasty bag of tricks and the world would have been a pleasanter place without him.

Peter had no knowledge about the explosions. It didn’t matter much; the protesters could not be successful. Dissidents might rail, but if the voters at large were content then nothing would change. The urban proletariat, men and women he met in pubs, cared mainly whether their teams won on Saturday and took chances only in betting shops with slow horses. The more affluent occupants of suburbs and villages had too much to lose. Their prosperity made them greedy for more, and unwilling to put it at risk. For them, disorder was a pain. It was a viewpoint he understood.

Nothing would come of it. To Peter, a straightforward if wary cynicism about the latest events was wisest. Plus a quiet determination to stay out of harm’s way.

His eye was distracted. He gazed around, puzzled. A slight twitching movement came
from one corner of the garage. Rats, probably, or other vermin. They’d have to get a cat. He focused briefly but it had gone. He shrugged, fetched liquid polish and a cloth and began to rub down the chrome facings on the Dodge.

That twitch again. His heart began to thump. Access from the street down a narrow alley at the back of the embassy was possible, if you knew how, or stumbled on it by accident. A drunk had been found down here once, badly shaken by falling down the stairs. A stray dog had slipped through the grating. What could it be this time?

The chauffeur was as capable of bravery as the next person, but he was not mad. Breathing hard, he ran on tiptoe back to his workbench and snatched up a flashlight and a crowbar.

The heap in the corner moved again and a groan seemed to come from it. The chauffeur bent over it and shone the flashlight cautiously. A grubby bundle of clothes, scarlet silk and feathers, oddly incongruous, showed up in the yellow circle of light. Another groan came from the depths of the clothing, which began to shudder. A leg jerked out, barefoot and blackened with dirt.

A woman’s leg. With a streak of blood down the calf.

Peter dropped the crowbar and jumped to the intercom.

‘Security? Security. In the garage. Something – a person. Is there a paramedic on call? Yes. Bring him too. Somebody’s down here. I think she’s hurt – badly hurt. Hurry it up, won’t you?’

‘He’s in there, Colonel.’

‘Have you searched him?’

‘Thoroughly.’ The adjutant’s demeanour was grave. He stripped off the thin plastic gloves and threw them in a bin.

Colonel Mike Thompson hunched his shoulders, his hands clasped behind his back. He felt disoriented and uneasy. Beyond his window the collection compound in the MoD courtyard was filling up. Out of the corner of an eye he could see slumped figures, male and a few females, some in huddles, others weeping or conversing angrily. His own men were on duty to guard them; the Rottweilers, unoccupied and frustrated, had been ordered merely to stand by. They did not like it.

The recent arrival of his Azeri adjutant Neimat Vesirov was a consolation. The young officer had obtained a transfer from the desert to be at his side. That kind of loyalty would give anyone a surge of confidence. Thompson tapped a file. ‘And you reckon this mob were behind the Westminster bomb?’

Vesirov glanced over his shoulder. From a room along a corridor came the noise of singing: deep, raucous male voices, raised in unison. In that room, its door ajar, were slumped five Rottweiler guards in their distinctive navy fatigues. He spoke quietly.

‘We tried fingerprints. That worked. Everybody forgets about old technology. But that lot’ – he jerked his head –’they’d use even older methods. They’d love to lift this chap and beat him senseless. We pulled rank and got him first. But we can’t keep them at bay for ever. And our bunny hasn’t given us any names. Yet.’

‘Some bunny.’ Thompson’s face was grim. ‘We have to co-operate with them. Top level instructions – give all assistance necessary to civilian units.’

‘But, Colonel –’ Vesirov stopped. His voice was clipped; despite his excellent English the auto-translator was plugged in and switched on. It was as if the lieutenant did not quite trust himself to believe what he was hearing in the unaccustomed milieu of civil disorder.

‘I know. I don’t like it either.’

‘There’s something not right about them,’ the adjutant persisted, in a low murmur. ‘Heaven knows, sir, I don’t like terrorists. It’s not warfare as I understand it. But those new guards give me the creeps. They are not normal.’

‘Some of them are. Their captains – I quite like Finkelstein. In his better moments.’

‘When he’s sober. He’s been drinking a lot lately. Maybe he doesn’t like the new recruits any more than we do.’

Colonel Thompson sighed. ‘Stop that. We have a job to do. Our suspect has to be interrogated. His name sounds familiar – I think he may have served with one of my units some while ago. To be honest, I hope not. And I agree with you. I’d much rather we do it than let them get at him.’

‘They like cutting things,’ the lieutenant brooded. ‘I found a cat in there the other day. Or rather, the remains of a cat. But it was still alive.’

‘I said
stop it
.’ The Colonel’s voice rose sharply above the singing. He gathered up his powerbook, a file and a swagger stick. On second thoughts, he reached inside the desk drawer for the sheet of paper he had scribbled over, folded it and put it in his breast pocket. Then he checked his holster: the safety was off. ‘Come on.’

Spartacus stood as the two men entered, his handcuffed hands held in front of him, pumping up and down. In a hectoring tone he began what was apparently a prepared speech: ‘I demand my rights under the Geneva Convention. I am held illegally as a prisoner-of-war…’ Then as the small windowless room filled with the authoritative bulk of the Colonel, he gaped in confusion.

‘Colonel Thompson – sir? What are you doing here?’

‘Captain Mahwala, isn’t it?’ Thompson consulted his powerbook coolly. He motioned to his prisoner to sit then took the chair on the opposite side of the table. The adjutant closed the door and positioned himself across it like a barricade. ‘I think the question is, what are
you
doing here?’

Spartacus opened and shut his mouth but said nothing.

The Colonel put the swagger stick on the table, then his elbows, and folded his big hands together. Slowly he crunched first one finger then another till the joints cracked like pistol shots.

‘I am here to question you, Captain Mahwala, about your involvement in terrorist action. To be precise, the assassination attempt at the House of Commons. What do you know about it?’

‘I am not obliged to say anything,’ Spartacus replied formally, but it was clear that his resolve was wilting under the cold, steely gaze of his former superior. Patches of sweat appeared under his arms. Suddenly he burst out, ‘You should not be supporting them. You, of all men – I thought you had some humanity about you. What they’re up to is dreadful, terrible. They are destroying the very fabric of society …’

The Colonel waited till the mini-tirade petered out. Then he rotated his shoulders, deliberately, as if bored.

‘Are they? I thought that was
your
intention – Spartacus. That is your codename, isn’t it? Now I don’t want to waste any time, Captain. We already have a great deal of solid intelligence. Your group has been penetrated for some months. We know, for example, that whereas you used to be the leader, someone else more recently has been entrusted with that crown of thorns. Who is it?’

Spartacus was sullen. ‘If you have inside information, you don’t need me to tell you.’

‘But I do need you to admit it, and to turn King’s evidence against him,’ the Colonel responded silkily. It came to him that he secretly enjoyed the interrogation process, the battle of minds so akin to poker or chess; and provided he performed well, the excesses on offer next door could be avoided. A cackle of wild laughter came from that direction, and the crunch of boots on the floor.

‘Never.’ Spartacus tried to fold his arms across his chest but the handcuffs defeated him. He stared belligerently at the Colonel. ‘We tried to kill the Prime Minister and the Permanent Secretary together. Oh, it can only be a gesture – others will step forward to take their place. But such a spectacular act could not be glossed over. It has to be reported. The conspiracy of silence will have been broken. The media might start asking questions. And the voters might be interested in some genuine answers.’

‘And who gave you the right?’ Thompson mocked. ‘And by such means? Does your Guru Nandra give you permission? Is it written in your holy books?’

‘Sikhs are warriors.’ Spartacus held himself proudly. ‘We are not afraid to fight, and die.’

‘Oh, fine.’ The Colonel leaned forward and played with the swagger stick, rolling it under his fingertips, lightly, back and forth. ‘The targets you attacked yesterday were not soldiers. They were elderly men. Sir Robin, whom you killed, was over ninety. That was not an act of bravery, Captain. It was a piece of sheer cowardice.’

‘No. It takes more courage to stand against the wicked. To advance and be counted. To separate oneself from the common herd. Those men have been leading the Union to disaster. You can make your racist comments, Colonel Thompson; they don’t worry me. You have thrown in your lot with the forces of evil. They have conspired to put my people to the bottom of the dung heap. To bar the top jobs to everyone except their own offspring. They use prisoners as a source of farmed organs – do you know about that? They manufacture evidence to put dissidents into gulags and concentration camps. They …’