Their moment was broken when Nipper appeared at their side bouncing from foot to foot before he came stiffly to attention like a guard on parade. ‘May I offer you a drink, Madam President?’ he enquired in a formal little voice.
‘Yes, that would be very good,’ she replied.
Nipper took it as encouragement. ‘And will you come and see my planes later?’ he added enthusiastically.
‘I can recommend them. They’re quite a collection,’ Harry said.
‘I’d love to,’ she replied, relaxing, squatting once more on the arm of the chair so that the boy could more easily see her face. ‘You know, Nipper, I have a son–he’s a little older than you, but when he was your age he collected toy soldiers. Whole armies of them. He used to lay them out on the dining table and shoot them with a gun that fired matchsticks.’
‘Were they English soldiers?’
‘Some of them, probably.’
‘And is your son a soldier?’
‘No, wants to be a lawyer.’ She could see a flash of disappointment cross the boy’s face. ‘But Mr Jones here was once a soldier. He saved my son’s life.’
‘Really?’ Nipper jumped on his toes with eagerness to know more, but a thousand questions seemed to crowd in on him and his frown returned. ‘So can you fly, Mr Jones?’
‘No, I’m afraid not.’
‘That’s a pity, because I would have liked you to teach me. Still, would you like a drink?’ It was clear that Harry hadn’t come up to par in Nipper’s judgement, but the boy was still willing to forgive. He took his instructions, then danced away to the other side of the room to fetch two glasses of wine.
‘Kids,’ Harry laughed.
‘Husbands,’ Blythe responded dully.
‘Ah.’
‘Sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean to…’
He could see her struggling. ‘No, I’m the one who’s sorry, Blythe.’
‘It’s just the telephone thing. Brought it all back. I went through the White House call log, you see, found everything there. He’s seeing someone else, and by the looks of it she’s not the first. Arnie’s a son-of-a-bitch jack-rabbit who’s been burrowing under every fence in town.’
Yeah, he knew what that was like. Mel had been built along those lines, too.
‘Mixing your metaphors, Blythe.’
‘What?’
‘Son-of-a-bitch? Jack-rabbit?’
She found herself forced to smile. Harry rubbed the top of her elbow, to let her know she wasn’t alone.
Her news came as no great surprise. He remembered a weekend when he’d been invited to Camp David, the President’s country retreat tucked away in the Catoctin mountains of Maryland. Arnie and he had enjoyed a game of tennis, doing the male-bonding bit, and Arnie had thrown around a whole lot of male barrack-room banter–too much for Harry’s taste, when Arnie’s wife was only a few yards away marinating steaks and fixing salad for the family’s evening barbecue. Arnie knew that Harry felt awkward. ‘Look, Harry, my old friend, they say there’s a time and a place for everything. Trouble is, I’m supposed to know my place, too. Walk three paces behind, smile, don’t fart in front of the press, swallow all their bullshit, smile some more…Gets to me at times, right here, I swear.’ And he had grabbed his own balls, then spent the rest of the evening getting just a little too drunk. Not a good drinker, was Arnie, and apparently not much of a husband, either.
‘Is it serious?’ Harry asked.
‘Terminal. As soon as I leave office, Arnie wants off.’
God, he knew about that, too. ‘You’ll get over it. You know you will. I did.’
‘Only one problem with that, Harry. I don’t want it over,’ she whispered.
He had no words for that. Instead of offering up platitudes, he took her in his arms and held her until she could breathe once more and had dried her brimming eyes on his shoulder.
‘One day, Mr Jones,’ she said, raising her head, ‘I’m going to give you a presidential citation for that.’
‘You already gave me one, remember?’
‘Getting to be a habit.’ A smile returned to her lips, then her eyes flickered over his shoulder. Shunin had appeared at the door. The Russian took a charge from his nebulizer, gave a polite nod in their direction and then, less than politely, went directly to the table where Nipper was still pouring the glasses of wine.
‘An interesting man, our President Shunin,’ Harry said.
‘I’m not sure I trust my opinion of any man right this moment,’ she replied. ‘You’re all from some weird and distant planet. A place to which, frankly, I’d like most of you to return.’
‘I suppose that’s why you’ve brought Mr Washington along,’ he countered, ‘to make that point for you.’
‘Fair enough. I suppose, next to Marcus, our Mr Shunin is positively overflowing with social graces.’
‘Why do you put up with Washington?’
‘Because of his brutal honesty. You don’t get much of that in the White House, Harry. Too much equivocation, too many subtleties. There’s nothing subtle about Marcus Washington. He has a mind like a razor–cuts through all the excuses, gets right to the heart of the matter quicker than anyone I know–and can perform transplant surgery on it while most other members of my Cabinet are still scratching round trying to find out which end of their bodies their backsides are pinned to. Not a comfortable man, but politics isn’t a comfortable business.’
‘A great intellect doesn’t necessarily make a man right.’
‘Nor necessarily make him wrong, Harry.’
‘I stand rebuked. And if he’s a friend of yours…’
‘No, never a friend, not like you, Harry. But a relevant man, that’s Marcus Washington.’ Nipper at last delivered their two glasses of wine, holding them in stiff, extended arms, desperate not to spill them.
‘Thank you, young man,’ the President said.
Nipper bent towards them conspiratorially. ‘Mr Shunin over there has asked for a whisky. Do you think I should give him an ordinary one or one of Granny’s specials?’
‘Just whatever’s on the table, I suggest,’ Blythe whispered in return.
‘Save the specials for later,’ Harry added, bending low. ‘For us.’
Nipper nodded in his most serious manner and stepped back across the room to the Russian.
‘Kids,’ Harry said once more.
‘Bloody men!’ she exclaimed, raising her glass to thank him for rescuing her. ‘Time to stop being a sentimental slush-bowl, Mr Jones. Let’s get to business.’ She turned to smile at Shunin. He accepted her summons and walked towards them, an enormous whisky in his hand.
‘This is like being on the bridge of a ship,’ he exclaimed solemnly, indicating the view through the windows. ‘But not the Titanic, I hope.’ He raised his glass to them and drank.
‘To those in peril on the sea,’ Harry said, returning the toast, praying there was a Russian sense of humour buried in there somewhere.
Soon Washington and Konev made their appearances; only D’Arby was missing. Strange, Harry thought, for the host to keep others waiting, but almost everything D’Arby had done since they’d arrived puzzled him. As he thought about it, a nail of concern began driving itself into his skull, but even as Harry puzzled about him the Prime Minister was there, amongst them, taking a glass of wine, apologizing for his late arrival. ‘I’ve been scanning the news channels,’ he explained.
‘Perhaps we should all report what we have discovered,’ Shunin suggested.
No, thought Harry, it wasn’t so much a suggestion. With that heavy Eastern European delivery of his, with its detached and relentless pace that was reminiscent of an artillery barrage, it came across as more of an instruction. And they obeyed. The six of them gathered before the library window, suspended halfway between jagged rocks and the doorstep of heaven, and told what they knew.
The reports they shared were like the patterns of a kaleidoscope, a picture that could be seen from so many aspects, yet one that still came
from the same puzzling source. More troops had appeared in Beijing, guarding every major approach road and rail link as well as pitching up outside many more embassies. And it wasn’t only the Chinese ambassador in London who had been recalled; most of the ambassadors from major Western capitals were on their way home to Beijing, although no one would say why. Konev told them that Russian units stationed along the border with China were reporting an unusually high number of Chinese air patrols along much of its length, while there had been an eruption of coded military and diplomatic radio traffic across the country that was more intense than anyone could remember. The Chinese authorities were talking–screaming–at each other, even though they were maintaining a steadfast silence to the rest of the world. Meanwhile in New York, the Beijing Opera Company had failed to appear for the start of their nationwide tour. They simply hadn’t got on the plane. When the reins in China were jerked, everyone felt it, even the divas.
It was clear that Sammi Shah’s beating hadn’t been an accident. The Chinese juggernaut was on the move, ready to squash anyone who stood in its way, although in what direction it was headed no one could say for sure. Except D’Arby. He sat by the window, a little apart from the rest of them, rolling his glass in both hands. He didn’t say a word, didn’t have to. Even the surf pounding on the rocks below seemed to be saying, ‘I told you so.’
‘I congratulate you, Mr Prime Minister,’ Shunin muttered.
‘Not necessary, Mr President. We need ideas, not applause. What do you suggest?’
The Russian considered the question, chewing a mouthful of whisky. ‘Dinner,’ he finally responded, draining the rest of his glass. ‘Let us build our strength while we decide what sort of message we should deliver to Khan Mao and his Golden Horde.’
For the briefest moment D’Arby closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer of thanks, then rose to his feet. He was about to lead the way, yet Shunin was already ahead of him, striding out of the room, intent on getting on with business. He didn’t need the Englishman’s permission for dinner, or for anything else, come to that.
As his footsteps echoed from the far side of the door, it was clear to everyone that it wasn’t only the world outside these walls that was changing. A change of pace had overtaken them, too, and a change of direction. Up to that point they’d been sitting back, uncertain, unconvinced, except for D’Arby, but now they were heading off on the front foot, behind Shunin, who was leading them not just off to dinner but all the way to the Forbidden City, if if that were to be necessary. And Harry, for one, didn’t care for this. He didn’t know Shunin, couldn’t trust him, not a Russian. Snow on his boots, ice in his heart. And bloody rude.
The group descended the broad staircase, constructed from ancient oak with huge thistles carved deep into the newel posts. The treads creaked comfortably in greeting as they made their way, and from somewhere down below came the compelling aroma of their dinner, but Harry was distracted. He tugged at D’Arby’s sleeve, holding him back from the others.
‘What’s going on, Mark? I feel as if you’ve been playing with us all.’
For a moment the Prime Minister seemed ready to protest his ignorance, but one glance into Harry’s eyes told him that it would be pointless. He stopped, allowing the others to continue until they were too far away to hear. ‘I see you haven’t figured out the game.’
‘The game?’
‘We’re in a hole, Harry, one that’s too deep for me. The game is to get out of it but there’s no easy or clean way to do that, not on our own. We need these people, need them desperately, but they are the ones who will have to take charge, make it their own. They won’t follow us. It’s been years since we British have been in charge of anything on the international scene, even a game of cricket, so we let them take the lead, while we follow behind.’
‘To where, Mark?’
‘To wherever it takes us.’ The words came very slowly.
‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘Look, Harry, if they think it’s their game they’ll play it to the hilt, no half-measures, take their fair share of the blame for the consequences. If that means I’ve got to act the chinless Englishman who gets dragged behind the big guys, it’s a small price to pay. By the time this game is finished, I’ve a suspicion we’ll be needing some very big guys to hide behind.’
D’Arby could see the understanding beginning to coalesce in Harry’s eyes. ‘Come on,’ he urged, brightening, ‘we can’t afford to miss Flora’s feast.’ He bounded off down the stairs, trying to catch the others.
Below him, Nipper was striking the gong, demanding his presence for dinner, yet his Prime Minister’s words were still ringing like alarm bells in his ears. ‘Wherever it takes us.’ Suddenly Harry discovered he had lost his appetite.
Late Friday evening. Northern Persian Gulf.
The Room of Many Miracles was by no means a unique operation. It was responsible for a vital coordinating function, but the seeds of cyber war were scattered far and wide, in institutions and facilities located in many different theatres. What happened next originated in one of these other locations.
It was a standard watch for those on board the USS Reuben James–or, at least, as standard as any watch could be in the controversial waters of this part of the world, where the territorial waters of Iraq bump up against those of Iran. Always a hot spot, made worse by ongoing disputes about boundaries and navigation rights and the wretchedly shallow waters, but those factors weren’t a problem for the Reuben James, which had an IBMS (integrated bridge-management system) that formed the frigate’s eyes and brought together all the navigational information pumped out by its radars, the gyro, and the GPS gear. That didn’t mean to say that ships didn’t have to take care, for in this part of the world the coastline was flat, so the radar systems gave off an indistinct picture, which meant that all the more reliance was placed on the GPS. Still, that gave the ship’s position to within a metre, so there couldn’t be a problem–and you didn’t want a problem in these waters, not with Iranian gunboats buzzing around like horse flies.
The Reuben James had a crew of more than two hundred officers and men and was four hundred and fifty feet in length–not the biggest US vessel, but it packed a ferocious punch with its missiles, 76mm cannon, helicopters, torpedoes and other armaments. A proud example of American naval might. Until it gave a sudden lurch which threw many of those on board off their feet and even sent the officer of the deck sprawling on the bridge, chipping a tooth. By the time he regained his feet, the ship had come to a halt and was beginning to list. The USS Reuben James had run aground. Alarms began to beep, ring and wail, hornets swarming around his head. The officer gazed in horror at the IBMS display, trying to see what could have gone wrong, for it showed the nearest sandbank more than two miles away. He felt sick, this was the end of his career, but he was a professional, he knew the drill. He turned to the boatswain’s mate, but had to spit into his hand before he could find his voice. ‘Boatswain,’–the voice dried, he hawked again–‘sound general quarters.’
Immediately another alarm began to penetrate throughout the ship.
Mechanically, his hand reached for the intercom. ‘All hands man your battle stations! This is not a drill. I repeat: this is not a drill!’
And not a dream.
He was about to summon the captain to the bridge when the door burst open and his commanding officer was there, face flushed with horror. ‘This could not happen. Not happen!’ he shouted.
The officer of the deck found himself unable to do anything but point feebly at the displays. The computers of the IBMS still showed the ship clearly in the main channel, miles from any trouble, not stuck on a sandbank that was inside waters belonging to the Islamic Republic of Iran.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Dinner, Friday. Castle Lorne.
The dining hall had been impressive at lunch but now, set for dinner, it was magnificent. As the light of the day began to fade, its theme was taken up by candles that flickered f
rom the walls, picking out every stone and granite muscle. The oils in their gilded frames appeared like windows into an earlier, more heroic world, one that was inhabited by derring-do clansmen and wild-eyed stags. The hall was large but its atmosphere was intimate and its table brimming with surprise. Flora and Nipper served the fare, all of it fresh and none that had come far. Succulent scallops, shrimp, white crab and prawns nearly as large as the lobsters. A little mayonnaise, a pot of melted butter and a fresh, uncomplicated wine from somewhere along the Loire, although Shunin chose to stick with the whisky. The atmosphere was intense, almost timeless, and the silver sparkled in the candlelight, just as it would have done three hundred years before when Scotland had its own kings.
‘I’ll be leaving you all to your dinner, then,’ Flora said when she had made one final check that all their requirements were satisfied. ‘I’ll be sending Nipper up from time to time to see to your wants, while I’m away to the kitchen to take care of your venison.’
For a little while after she left they engaged in small talk, but Shunin was desperately poor at the game and none of their hearts were in it. The seafood was delicious, but D’Arby could only toy with it. Soon he was cleaning his hands in a finger bowl, wiping them with elaborate, almost over-zealous care before bringing the others back to their point. ‘So, Mr President,’ he said, turning to the Russian, ‘you suggested we talk to Mao.’
‘Did I?’
‘Send him a message. That’s what you said.’
‘One he can’t ignore,’ Shunin muttered, biting messily into the soft flesh of a lobster.
‘What did you have in mind?’ Blythe Edwards asked.
‘One with a clear point, Madam President. Preferably driven home with an ice pick.’
‘You mean an ultimatum?’ Washington asked, examining a prawn. He hadn’t bothered with the lobster; it seemed too messy, and too much like hard work.