King Solomon's Curse

  He had also learned that both Nina Wilde and her husband were now at the US embassy – and despite demands to turn them over to British authorities, ostensibly to face charges for the swathes of destruction they had carved while evading capture, the Americans had refused. The ambassador himself had made that clear, and C suspected his orders came directly from the White House.

  Even without direct evidence to link himself and Hove to Brice’s attack, Wilde and Chase would be spilling their guts to the Americans. Suspicions would be raised, connections made . . . fingers pointed. And he had no doubts that Hove would turn upon him in a heartbeat to protect himself. As for what would happen if the Americans caught Brice . . .

  C made a decision. He returned to his desk and called a subordinate. ‘Is Peter Alderley still in holding? Good. Bring him up to my office, immediately.’

  He hung up, then opened a drawer. At the back was something he had never expected to need, but which he had placed there on his first day in the office out of force of paranoid habit gained from working in the field.

  A gun.

  He took out the Glock and checked it. The magazine was full, the slide moving smoothly when he racked it to chamber a round. Satisfied, he placed it back in the open drawer, within easy reach – but out of sight from anyone before him. Then he sat back and awaited his visitor’s arrival.

  Alderley entered a few minutes later. ‘Wait outside,’ C ordered the guards who had escorted the section head. ‘I want to speak to him in private.’ They left the room.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Alderley demanded. ‘I know something big’s happened – I couldn’t miss it even stuck in a cell.’

  ‘Sit down, Peter,’ C said calmly. Alderley frowned, but took a place in front of the desk. His superior switched on a television, which lit up with a shocking still frame of the clock tower caught mid-collapse. ‘There’s been a terrorist attack on the Houses of Parliament. The current death toll is at least four hundred, including over two hundred MPs.’

  Alderley struggled to overcome his horror. ‘So . . . so Nina and Chase were right about Brice—’

  ‘That’s why I’ve called you up here,’ C interrupted. ‘To find out what you think you know about this alleged plot by a former SIS officer, and how it connects to the crash of Flight 180 last year. Wilde and Chase are both being protected by the US embassy – as is Boxley from your team. Because of what they’ve said, the Yanks are making some extremely threatening noises towards our country. Not through diplomatic channels either. This comes direct from President Schilling. So: tell me.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know anything that you don’t already, sir,’ the moustachioed man said with no small sarcasm.

  C jabbed a finger at him. ‘Don’t get clever with me, Alderley. National security is at stake here!’

  ‘I already told you, before you had me arrested. I was brought intel by a reliable source that SIS was involved in an illegal operation in DR Congo, and that John Brice was in charge with full knowledge and approval from both here and Whitehall, despite supposedly having resigned two years ago.’

  ‘And what about the ancient weapon found by Wilde and Chase in the jungle?’

  Alderley eyed him suspiciously. ‘The Shamir? So you did know about that already. Who told you?’

  ‘Just answer the question.’

  ‘It was Brice, wasn’t it? You knew what he was doing all along! For God’s sake, sir! I’m the head of the Africa desk, but something this big was going on behind my back? How high does it go? Chase said that Brice claimed to have Section 7 immunity – which must mean that the Prime Minister signed it when he was Foreign Secretary. And I know he didn’t attend PMQs today. Did he authorise Brice to carry out this attack? Did you?’ Alderley’s voice rose as he became more accusatory.

  C’s right hand slipped towards the open drawer. ‘Are you implying that Prime Minister and I were complicit in today’s terrorist attack?’

  ‘I – I think there needs to be an immediate and independent investigation, sir.’ Alderley tensed, realising that his superior’s bearing had changed, but pressed on. ‘Nina Wilde and Eddie Chase evaded SIS watchers – including a team placed on me, I might add – to bring me information about Brice, about the Shamir, everything that’s been going on in the Congo . . . and the next day, Parliament is attacked. I’m going to assume that whatever official story might have been drummed up, the damage was caused by something more than Semtex or a rocket launcher. Some kind of sonic weapon, maybe?’

  C stared at him, his expression as unreadable as a reptile’s – then to Alderley’s shock raised the gun. ‘Your problem, Peter, is that you’ve practically gone native, wondering how we can help all these pisspot little African nations, when what you’re supposed to be doing is using them to help us! We’re on our own now, and we have to secure our position in the world. Brice’s mission in DR Congo was to do just that.’

  ‘By securing mineral rights?’ said Alderley incredulously, eyes fixed on the gun. ‘What about the thousands of people who’d die in a civil war that we instigated?’

  ‘They are not our concern,’ C stated coldly. ‘What is our concern as officers of SIS is the defence of the realm, and the protection of this agency. But any revelation of Brice’s role in the Mukobo operation threatens both those things.’

  ‘Then I’d say they’re already more than threatened! If the Americans have Nina and Chase, and the video of Brice’s confession, then they’ve got more than enough to join the dots and point back to you and the PM. And if it’s proved that the Shamir was used to do that,’ he pointed at the frozen image of destruction on the screen, ‘then . . . then that makes you the greatest traitors in this country’s history.’

  C said nothing for a long moment, the gun locked unwaveringly upon Alderley. ‘If the full truth were to come out, it would be catastrophic for Britain. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘I . . . would have to say yes,’ he replied uneasily.

  ‘But if anyone who knew the full truth were to be silenced, unable to reveal it, then the realm would remain protected. That is, of course, our job as officers of SIS. To serve and defend our country . . . by doing whatever is necessary.’

  Alderley’s eyes widened in alarm as C stood, the gun still fixed on its target. ‘Sir, I don’t know the full truth!’ he protested.

  The head of MI6 regarded him without emotion . . . then let out a small, resigned sigh. ‘Which makes you very fortunate, Peter.’

  He put the gun’s muzzle in his own mouth – and pulled the trigger.

  Quentin Hove strode angrily into Briefing Room A to find it already occupied. More people than before were present, the previous attendees joined by Claire Parker, one of the junior ministers at the Home Office; though she was relatively young and held only a secondary role in her department, the Home Secretary’s incapacitation meant she was technically the highest-ranking minister capable of participating. Also present amongst other new arrivals was Sir Rupert Jennings, the Private Secretary to the Sovereign. Hove was surprised to see him, as national security briefings were not part of his usual remit, but considering the circumstances he assumed the Queen herself had ordered him to find out how her government intended to respond to the attack on the nation.

  His anger was because he had not instigated the COBRA meeting. Instead, he had been called – almost summoned – to the Cabinet Offices. ‘Right,’ he said as the others in the room stood upon his entrance, ‘what’s going on, and why couldn’t I be told over the phone? We can’t afford to waste any time in this crisis.’

  He took his place, everyone else sitting down. MI5’s Director-General was first to speak. ‘Prime Minister, there have been a number of alarming developments. The first concerns C.’

  Hove belatedly realised that the head of SIS was conspicuously absent. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

  ‘Sir Kirkland is regrettably unable to atte
nd due to his death,’ said Blandford, gravely deadpan.

  The Prime Minister stared at him in disbelief. ‘What?’

  ‘He committed suicide in his office an hour ago.’

  ‘What?’ The word was almost a yelp. ‘Why?’

  ‘The extremely disturbing intelligence we’ve received from the Americans may have had something to do with it,’ the Director-General went on. ‘Evidence has come to light concerning an SIS officer called John Brice, the crash of the Skyblue Airlines 747 in the Atlantic last year, and secessionist militias in the Democratic Republic of Congo.’

  Hove felt a cold fear. ‘What has any of that got to do with today’s attack? We’ve got bigger concerns than some jungle backwater.’

  ‘It would appear that it has a great deal to do with it, Prime Minister.’ Somehow, the title sounded more like an insult. ‘This Brice, though supposedly having resigned two years ago, claimed on camera that he was actually still an SIS officer working in deep cover to aid the secessionist movement. As part of his mission, he freed a wanted war criminal from American custody – while he was aboard an American airliner on the way to the US to stand trial. The airliner crashed into the ocean with the loss of all aboard. If he was indeed a British operative acting under orders, then I’m sure you would agree that such an act would be tantamount to an act of war against our closest ally.’

  ‘People – people claim to be MI6 agents all the time,’ Hove managed to say. ‘If he resigned, then he resigned. Any actions he took after that would be those of a mercenary – or a lunatic.’

  ‘There, ah, there is something more to it, Prime Minister,’ said Parker, sounding extremely nervous as she opened a folder. ‘John Brice was given indefinite Section 7 immunity for anything he did relating to a mission in the Congo.’ Her hands trembled as she held up a sheet of paper. ‘It, um, it was signed by you, sir. Two years ago. When you were, ah, Foreign Secretary.’

  ‘I know what I was doing two years ago!’ Hove snapped, recognising his signature and trying to hide his terror behind anger. ‘I signed Section 7 orders for dozens of MI6 officers. That doesn’t mean I authorised one of our own men to destroy an American plane!’

  ‘It does mean there is a direct link between yourself and John Brice, Prime Minister,’ said Blandford. ‘Have you had any further contact with him since?’

  ‘I didn’t even have contact with him when I signed the order!’ Hove glared at him. ‘Are you interrogating me, Timothy?’

  ‘Merely trying to uncover the facts necessary for the protection of the realm, Prime Minister.’ The MI5 head turned to the Director of GCHQ beside him. ‘Clive, if you would?’

  Clive Collins, head of the communications spy agency, took out a small digital recorder and pushed the play button. Hove flinched in shock as he heard his own voice come from the little speaker – along with those of C and Brice. ‘We – you, you’ve destroyed Parliament! You must have killed everyone inside!’ the short but damning recording concluded.

  All eyes were upon him, the emotions behind them different – dismay, anger, hostility – but none positive. ‘Where did you get that?’ Hove demanded, knowing his only defence was to attack. ‘Politicians are specifically excluded by law from being monitored by GCHQ – especially the Prime Minister! This isn’t just inadmissible, it’s illegal! It’s – it’s treason!’

  ‘We didn’t intercept this, sir,’ said Collins. ‘It was given to us by the Americans. The mere fact that they’ve revealed the NSA can crack our encrypted calls – we’re implementing countermeasures already, of course – shows how important they believe this is.’

  ‘It’s interesting that you should use the term “treason”, Quentin,’ Blandford said pointedly. ‘Because it sounds very much as if you personally authorised today’s attack on Parliament.’

  ‘This is ludicrous!’ barked Hove. ‘I’m trying to deal with an attack on this country, and you’re wasting my time with ridiculous allegations! This meeting is over.’

  ‘Actually, Prime Minister,’ said Jennings, speaking for the first time, ‘it is not.’ He too had a folder before him, marked with the Great Seal of the Realm: notice that the documents within had been personally signed by the monarch. Almost regretfully, he opened it and took out the pages within. ‘This is an action unprecedented in modern times, but in light of the evidence, Her Majesty is exercising her prerogative to remove a minister of the crown from office pending an investigation. The named minister . . . is you, Prime Minister. I am here to serve you formally with notice of your removal, effective immediately.’

  Hove jumped up, slamming his palms on the desk. ‘This is outrageous! The Queen doesn’t have the authority to remove me. I’m not some mere functionary – I’m the Prime Minister! She acts upon my instructions!’

  Jennings was unruffled. ‘Technically speaking, the Prime Minister serves at Her Majesty’s pleasure; that is the exact legal term. She has the power to dismiss any member of her government at will. She also has the right in times of grave constitutional crisis – again, the exact term – to overrule the decisions of her ministers. I would consider the deaths of over a third of all Members of Parliament in a terrorist attack to indeed qualify as such.’ He slid the papers down the desk to the man at its head. ‘Mr Hove, you are no longer the Prime Minister.’

  Blandford took over as the stunned Hove regarded the documents. ‘It pains me to have to say this, Quentin, but I’m afraid the Security Service need to ask you some questions.’ He nodded to an aide, who opened the door. A pair of large, hard-faced men in dark suits entered and moved to flank Hove. ‘It would be to everyone’s benefit if you would go with them voluntarily, and with dignity.’

  Hove was about to protest, but a look up at the looming men dissuaded him. Instead, he made a show of straightening his tie and tugging down his jacket as he stood. ‘Very well. But this isn’t over. I’ll fight this all the way to the Supreme Court if I have to.’

  Blandford watched as he was led from the briefing room. ‘Make sure he doesn’t suffer any . . . “unfortunate accidents”,’ he told the two guards.

  Parker stared after Hove as the doors closed behind him. ‘Okay, ah . . . now what do we do?’ she said, wide-eyed. ‘We don’t have a Prime Minister! Who’s in charge of the government?’

  The head of MI5 gave her a look that was somewhere between amusement and pity. ‘Currently? As the senior cabinet member present, that would be you.’

  ‘What?’ she gasped. ‘But – but I don’t know what to do! I’m a junior minister, I’ve never even run a department!’

  ‘Fortunately, you’re in the right place to learn,’ he told her. ‘The function of a COBRA meeting is to brief members of the government on matters of critical national import so they can decide how to respond.’ A small smile. ‘So, shall we begin?’

  ‘Are we done?’ Eddie said with considerable impatience. ‘We’ve told you everything we know three bloody times over.’

  Huygens looked up from his laptop, on which he was reviewing a transcript of Nina and Eddie’s statements. ‘Almost. You mentioned copying files on to SD cards before you left Butembo. Do you know if the other members of your expedition will have anything pertinent to the investigation?’

  Nina tiredly rubbed her eyes. ‘There’ll be some footage of Brice and Mukobo together when we went through Solomon’s challenges, and Jay probably filmed the Shamir in action. That’ll let the Brits see that what happened at Parliament was caused by the same thing.’ The official nodded, making a note.

  ‘So what’s going to happen?’ Eddie asked. ‘To Britain, I mean. Having the Prime Minister and the head of MI6 be involved in taking down an American plane won’t be good for the “special relationship”.’

  ‘That’s up to the President,’ replied Huygens. ‘By the way, Hove isn’t Prime Minister any more. Seems he was removed from office.’ Seeing their shock, he went on: ‘The evidence you b
rought to us played a large part in it. It hasn’t been announced to the public yet, but there’ll be a statement soon. Looks like the British government wants to do everything possible to make it clear to the President that Hove was the plan’s sole instigator.’

  ‘Why just Hove?’ said Nina. ‘What about C, Brice’s boss? He’s just as involved.’

  ‘Didn’t anyone tell you? He’s dead.’

  The pair looked at each other in surprise. ‘When did that happen?’ asked the Yorkshireman.

  ‘A couple of hours ago. Suicide. It seems he shot himself in his office – in front of someone he’d had locked up for helping you.’

  ‘Peter Alderley?’ said Nina, worried. ‘Is he okay?’

  ‘I think so, but it’s MI6; they’re not exactly known for their water-cooler gossip.’ He finished typing, then closed the laptop. ‘Okay. We may want to ask you more questions, but for now, we’re done.’

  ‘Great,’ said Eddie. ‘Then we need a phone to call my dad and make sure our little girl’s okay.’

  Huygens indicated one of the phones on his desk. ‘Be my guest. Dial nine for an outside line.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Eddie called his father’s home, becoming concerned when he only got an answering machine. ‘Dad, it’s Eddie – I’m going to try you on your mobile,’ he said, before dialling another number.

  ‘They might just be out somewhere,’ said Nina.

  ‘They might,’ he replied, unconvinced. This time, he got an answer – but the stress in his father’s voice immediately set alarm bells ringing. ‘Dad! It’s Eddie, are you okay? Where’s Macy?’

  ‘Edward! Oh, my God,’ Larry answered. ‘We’re at the police station, in Southampton. They – they took her, they took Macy!’

  ‘Who took Macy?’ Nina’s face filled with fright at his words. She leaned closer to listen to the other side of the conversation. ‘The cops?’