Whispers of Betrayal

  Fair enough. To some extent he even agrees. So he says it. ‘Do you really have to go?’ And in saying it he reveals all the depth and tenderness of his bruising, which she’s just about to add to.

  ‘Of course I bloody well have to go! You know that. I’ve got no choice. The restaurant means more to me than …’ She hesitates, holds back. Even in anger she isn’t fool enough to go that far. Bloody, bloody men! ‘Means more to me than almost anything.’

  ‘I’d wanted to take you to Paris. Did you know that? Been trying to find the right time to ask you for weeks.’

  She strokes his face, still trying to reestablish contact. ‘And we will, Tom. We’ll go to Paris and anywhere else you want to go.’

  ‘So maybe I could come to Paris with you next weekend.’

  The hand is instantly withdrawn. ‘Why – why do you men always have to be such control freaks? You simply won’t accept that I can do this on my own, will you? Well, I can. What’s more, I’m going to show you I can. The restaurant is my baby, it’s my independence, it’s my life. I’m going to Paris and I’m going alone. That’s an end to it.’

  She has rolled onto her back, gazing at the ceiling. The air feels suddenly stagnant, and her breath is coming in impatient gulps. ‘Look, I’ll be back Sunday evening. Why don’t we have dinner then? We can celebrate and put all this nonsense behind us.’

  ‘I’d like that, very much.’

  They are both gazing at the ceiling now, their fingers gently intertwined in truce.

  Then: ‘How’re you getting there?’

  ‘By Eurostar. From Waterloo.’

  ‘When, my love?’

  ‘Just before three p.m. next Thursday.’

  To Goodfellowe, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, it seems that the weekend starts disgracefully early in Paris.

  As he mounted his cycle the following morning, Goodfellowe realized he had failed. They still hadn’t slept together. He hadn’t slept at all.

  Friday evening. The 250,000 workers of the City move from office to bar and out to their homes in the suburbs. As they depart, the military move in. By Saturday morning armed troops are patrolling the platforms of all Underground and mainline stations and barriers have been erected around the entire City. The Inner City Traffic Zone that has cordoned off a part of the Square Mile ever since the bloody IRA bombing of Billingsgate is pushed out ever further, in places beyond the City limits themselves. Commercial Street, Old Street, the Clerkenwell Road, High Holborn, Kingsway – all become part of the defensive line that has been thrown down around the trading heart of London. Roads of every description, main and minor, are blocked with barriers and sandbags and timber balks, and, of course, manpower. Most of that manpower is armed.

  From six o’clock Saturday morning the only access allowed to the City of London is by foot or by vehicles that carry a military or police presence. Policemen travel on every bus, and all bags are subject to summary inspection. Even the dustcarts carry an armed guard. Delivery vehicles are confined to the hours between eight at night and six in the morning, and are searched with particular rigour.

  Men are sent down into the extensive Victorian sewage system. Its brickwork is examined for any sign of recent interference. CCTV equipment is left behind to continue the vigilance.

  London has become a city under siege, cowering behind a ring of steel. A Scimitar tank is placed at the bustling intersection between Poultry, Lombard Street, Cornhill, Threadneedle Street and Queen Victoria Street, the great hub where those avenues meet like the spokes of a giant flywheel that turns non-stop, twenty-four hours a day, driving the City onwards – although the flywheel is now slowing perceptibly. A further tank is positioned alongside the Mansion House, for which purpose they have to close Walbrook, and another covers the Stock Exchange.

  The intention is also to place a Scimitar on the plaza in front of St Paul’s Cathedral, but the Bishop of London objects in the most vociferous terms. God will provide.

  The rest is all courtesy of Jonathan Bendall.

  Democracy is based on a number of fallacies, the grandest of which is to believe that public opinion is the sum of all individual wisdom. It assumes that individuals are capable of arriving at informed and balanced opinions, which may be true, but completely ignores the fact that when those same informed and balanced individuals come together in large numbers, logic and reason are often cast aside and any gaps left in the framework of opinion are filled with raw, undisciplined emotion. So it was no surprise that the first reaction of Londoners to the Amadeus ultimatum was guided by cool logic. Law and order doesn’t have much of a sense of humour and Beaky had blown it. Fascinating chap and all, given us a few laughs and put the politicians in their place, but this time he’s gone too far. Bendall is our Prime Minister, whether we love him or mostly despise him, but the fact that we put him there leaves us with a sense of ownership. Anyway, blowing up a couple of ugly chimneys is one thing, blowing up the City of London is quite another.

  Although what precisely Beaky had in mind for the City of London was the subject of extravagant speculation. The terminology he had used in his message – that he would ‘take out’ the City of London – was open to all sorts of interpretation. Did he intend to blow it up, like the chimneys? Or cripple its communications once again? Disrupt its transportation? Flood it with water? Melt the Lloyd’s building? Let loose a plague of genetically modified rats? With Beaky almost anything seemed possible.

  Speculation became a national pastime, yet speculation never stands still. What began as a matter of serious concern turned with the passing of hours into Playdough and was bent into all sorts of unintended shapes.

  Downing Street was forced to deny it had intervened to stop the BBC playing the record of ‘Captain Beaky and His Band’. The twenty-year-old record was back at the top of the hit parade and could be heard almost everywhere, but it was banned from the BBC following the personal intervention of the Chairman of the Governors. It was unfortunate in the circumstances that the Chairman was a close personal friend of the Prime Minister and their families spent holidays together in Umbria, because it encouraged journalists to jump to all sorts of conclusions. People have such suspicious minds.

  There were even moments of popular merriment. Londoners have always had an acute sense of the absurd and there were parts of the operation that they found almost comic. So when a car was spotted heading erratically down Birdcage Walk in the direction of the House of Commons, to the authorities it seemed like a serious potential threat. A pursuit was begun by two police cars, complete with sirens and flashing headlamps, at which point the vehicle’s progress became still more erratic, speeding onward into the night. The chase ended only when the car failed to negotiate the new chicane into Parliament Square and came to rest with one wheel over the kerb beneath the brooding statue of Churchill.

  Yet this was not a terrorist incident. The culprit turned out to be, in the traditional phrase, ‘a senior government backbencher’, an ageing dunderhead who in spite of years of piteous whining still hadn’t made it to the level of junior ministerial milkmaid. He’d been rushing to make a late-night vote, and as he had tried to explain to the arresting officer, his excuse for fleeing in front of the flashing lights of the constabulary was that he’d thought they were a police escort endeavouring to ensure he got to the crucial vote on time. The truth, as became readily apparent as soon as he fell out of his car, was rather more prosaic. He was pissed.

  Ah, but he hadn’t survived repeated bruising encounters with his electorate for nought. No sooner had the officer suggested he blow into the white plastic pipe of a breathalyser than the Honourable Member wrenched himself free and fled towards the nearby gates of New Palace Yard, filling the evening air with piteous cries of ‘Sanctuary! Sanctuary!’ Had he made it through the gates and inside the precincts of the Palace of Westminster he might have been the cause of a constitutional crisis, for by the time the police had obtained authority to enter the protected premises of the Palac
e to arrest him he would undoubtedly have been as sober as any judge in the land. But he didn’t make it. Distracted by the sight of two members of the SO-19 Specialist Firearms Unit in Kevlar-coated body armour with Glock SLPs drawn and aimed in his direction, he lost his concentration and tripped over the kerb. After which he lost his ambition and resigned his seat.

  Somehow the constitution survived.

  Yet the incident seemed to mark a turning point in the Government’s battle for the public mood. The Government insisted that it had matters under control, but if it couldn’t control its own backbenchers how the hell was it going to deal with Beaky? The public mocked; this was, after all, a comic war against a comic character.

  The financial institutions, however, did not mock. Trading houses are not noted for their sense of humour, neither are they renowned for their sense of proportion. Panic often seems a more natural reaction. For two trading days, on Friday and the following Monday, the Stock Exchange held its nerve while furiously transferring as many of its computer operations as was possible to disaster recovery sites outside London. No one wanted to be seen to be the first to turn chicken and lose its head.

  By the same token, no one wanted to be left behind. On Tuesday the City’s collective nerve cracked and every trading screen, no matter where it was located, was drenched in the colour of blood. By early afternoon trading on the Stock Exchange was halted after billions had been wiped off the Footsie.

  That evening the London Assembly passed a vote of no confidence in the Government’s conduct. The Downing Street press spokesman retaliated by describing the Assembly as a gathering of rats. It was an unfortunate phrase for someone who at the same time was desperately trying to convince anyone who would listen that the ship wasn’t about to sink.

  Londoners were both spectators and committed participants in the fight, like the townsfolk of Tombstone peering out from behind their shutters at what was about to take place in the main street, wondering how many coffins they would need, and whose name would be on them.

  The town was gripped by a heady mixture of anxiety and anticipation about this Fight to the Death. Trouble was, Londoners couldn’t decide which one was the enemy.

  In the saloons you could get interesting odds. As the days drew on, those against Bendall lengthened. Beaky couldn’t win, of course; Hissing Sid had too many marksmen scattered around the town. It was scarcely a fair fight, more an inevitable massacre, but knowing all that he still intended to come out and fight. Wasn’t this the stuff heroes were made of? Dead heroes, of course, but that made it all the more fascinating.

  Three p.m. Thursday. Not long to wait.

  Overhead the Wimp Blimp droned on. And on, and on.

  COBRA met every day. Goodfellowe was not invited.

  NINETEEN

  The Walrus, aka the Chancellor of the Exchequer, focused his shortsighted eyes on the white tile wall a few inches in front of his nose while he relieved himself. It had been a long meeting of COBRA. No progress, little to report, apart from the news about the command vehicles. These were the vans used by the Metropolitan Police as mobile command and communication centres. The present crisis had placed an exceptional burden upon the Met, stretching the thin blue line until the elastic screamed. All leave had been cancelled and police stations stripped to a skeleton staff in order to provide as much manpower as possible in support of their colleagues in the City of London. In much of the rest of the capital, the sight of officers on the street became such a rarity that someone in authority had decided that six mobile command centres should be parked overnight in strategic locations to reassure local citizens and to give at least the impression of a police presence.

  By morning, two had been stolen and another left with no wheels, propped up on bricks.

  Without looking at him directly, the Walrus addressed the Lord Chancellor, who was standing alongside him, searching within his flies.

  ‘Got to go on backing Jonathan, of course.’

  ‘No question about it.’

  ‘Can’t give in to terrorism.’

  ‘Specially not to a cartoon character.’

  ‘A song, Frankie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A character from a song. Not a cartoon.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ The Lord Chancellor was distracted, still fumbling within his flies. ‘You know, when I was a young man the wretched thing was always popping out at the most awkward moments. Now I never seem to be able to find it.’ He sighed in relief. ‘Ah, that’s better.’

  ‘You’re not one of the wobblers, then.’

  ‘Wobblers, George? Do we have wobblers?’

  ‘Apparently, Frankie.’

  ‘That’s sad. Terribly sad, George.’

  ‘These are sad days, Frankie.’

  ‘I thought Jonathan made a very strong case about the moral imperative of what he’s doing.’

  ‘Yes, a very moral cause. It’s sad that the voters don’t seem to appreciate it.’

  ‘London will get back to normal in a couple of days.’

  ‘Then we can put it all behind us.’

  ‘Well, those of us still left in Cabinet.’

  ‘Yes, pity about the reshuffle. Unfortunate, that announcement. In retrospect.’

  A pause as both of them concentrated.

  ‘You’ll be safe, George.’

  ‘You too, of course, Frankie. Unless …’

  ‘’Less what, George?’

  The Chancellor turned to face his law colleague directly. ‘Sod’s law. Heads he wins, and in a flush of victory thinks he can do what he wants. Or tails he loses, and we get a new broom in Number Ten who decides to do some radical sweeping.’

  ‘Been thinking much the same myself. Not much of a reward for loyalty.’

  ‘Little wonder there are wobblers.’

  ‘As Jonathan would say, fuck it.’

  They both proceeded to wash their hands with excessive caution.

  ‘Good talking to you, Frankie.’

  On Wednesday the Government announced that the following day was to be a bank holiday. The Stock Exchange and other financial institutions would be closed. It was little more than bowing to the inevitable, no one was going to turn up to work in the City anyway.

  They also invoked Section 16c of the Prevention of Terrorism Act which gave them authority to prevent the residents of the City of London returning to their homes that evening until the emergency was over. Only five thousand people lived within the Square Mile, mostly within the Barbican complex. Some of the more elderly residents objected strenuously, arguing that they hadn’t been moved by the Blitz, weren’t going to move for Beaky and would be carried out in their coffins before they’d be moved by their own bloody Government, but overall there was surprisingly little fuss. Most of the residents had already fled to their places in the country or northern France.

  It was also on Wednesday, in the morning, that, much to his astonishment, Goodfellowe was summoned to Downing Street. He was still smarting from the last encounter, he wasn’t sure he should go. He only knotted his tie and left after Mickey told him not to be so bloody stupid. What had he got to lose?

  He found Bendall in the sun-filled garden in his shirtsleeves. He was sitting on a bench beneath the silver birch, holding a drink in his hand. It was clearly not his first.

  ‘Tom. Where the hell’ve you been? Why haven’t you been coming to COBRA?’

  ‘Because I wasn’t invited.’

  ‘You haven’t been getting invitations? I’m gonna fire somebody for that. Fire the bastards, d’you hear? Of course you were meant to come.’ He drank as he lied. ‘Anyway, you’re here. Sit down.’

  Goodfellowe hadn’t even undone the button of his jacket. His body language suggested he expected the other man at any moment to try and pick his pocket.

  ‘You know, Tom, I’m surrounded by incompetence. Those other bastards are useless. Useless! Every morning they promise me solutions yet all they come up with are excuses. And now … now all they do is sit the
re and look like mongrels who’ve just been caught crapping on the carpet. So I looked around this morning and said – “Where’s Tom? He’s always got some ideas.” You know, you should’ve been sitting around the table, not hiding out amongst the officials. Then I would’ve noticed you weren’t there sooner. I tell you, Tom, I’ve given them everything they asked for – more men, more resources. Only thing I can’t give them is more time. It’s getting late …’ He rolled the glass between the palms of his hands, trying to focus his thoughts. ‘I need your help, Tom. You’re not like the rest. You’re unpredictable, unreconstructed, unrepentant, un …’ He began stretching for another suitable description.

  ‘Unreliable? I think that’s the word the Whips might use. You used a rather more forthright term the other day.’

  ‘Did I? Did I? OK, so you don’t do things by the book. In the orthodox way. But that’s what makes you so important. You’re a stubborn bastard, Tom. I need men with a bit of backbone about me right now.’ He took a swig of gin, his eyes red from anxiety and alcohol, but also suggesting an inner animal determination to fight. ‘I need you, Tom. I make no bones about it. Need you. You’ve always come up with something. Because you don’t think like the others. You don’t crawl, don’t read out what others have written for you, you don’t borrow their words or steal their thoughts. You’re the original caveman. And I need something original.’

  ‘Sounds the sort of invitation a man can scarcely resist.’

  ‘Unless I can stop this man I’m dog meat.’

  ‘Not to mention the City of London …’

  ‘Find him for me, Tom. You and your insights … maybe you can do what the rest of them together can’t. Damned deadbeats, all of ’em. Police, Army, Intelligence – useless! They’ve given me extra protection, put machine guns in the bloody shower, can’t take a leak without some bastard watching me. Done everything – except give me results! That’s what I need. Results!’ His lips were damp with emotion. ‘They’ve even given the whole bloody thing a code name. Operation Icarus. Scorched wings ‘n’ all. But when I wake up in the middle of the night, Tom, sometimes I think they’re taking the piss, ’cos at the moment the only miserable swine who’s going to get scorched isn’t Beaky, it’s me.’