The Edge of Madness

  Someone had shot the President of Russia.

  Sunday, 1.40 a.m. British Summer Time; 8.40 a.m. in the Room of Many Miracles, Shanjing.

  Sleeplessness was clogging Fu Zhang’s mind. He had long since ceased to have any understanding of the details on the screen, relying entirely on the director to guide him, literally by the hand, until he was told to make the final keystroke. Fu Zhang was making miracles, the glory was his, and it had been enough to get him through the long hours of the night. He had been denied his tea; not even a Minister was permitted to bring drinks into this electronic paradise, yet still his bladder had flooded, with excitement, and he was now wriggling with discomfort. ‘What are we doing?’ he enquired, moving closer as once more the screens shifted their focus and moved on.

  As he felt the warmth of the Minister’s body, it was Li Changchun’s turn to shift uncomfortably in his chair. ‘Water,’ he replied. ‘London will have too much of it, once the flood barriers fail, but Birmingham, the country’s second-largest city, will have too little.’

  ‘Tell me more,’ Fu demanded, his lips wriggling in anticipation.

  ‘They add all sorts of chemicals to their water. Chlorine. Fluoride. Many others. Tiny amounts. But we are about to add a whole lot more.’

  ‘We will poison them?’

  ‘No, not directly, not unless they drink as much as a horse. The harm will be largely psychological. They will quickly discover the problem, and it will be easily remedied, but there will be a panic. First at the water works and reservoirs, then amongst the British media, and finally amongst the public. Britain’s drinking habits will change overnight, dramatically. The editors of the press will encourage the British to think that every cupful of water their children take will shrivel their testicles or grow them an extra head. No one will feel safe.’

  Fu chuckled as Li continued working away on his keyboard.

  ‘Very shortly, they will be afraid even to turn on their taps,’ the director said. ‘No one will die, Minister, but they will come to live in fear.’

  ‘A nation at war with itself.’

  ‘Our ancestors will applaud you, Minister.’

  ‘After which I must sleep,’ he said wearily. ‘And I shall wake to find a different world is waiting for us, Li Changchun!’

  His celebrations were interrupted by new arrivals. A senior PLA officer was at the entrance, accompanied by two armed troopers. When the officer saw Fu Zhang, he marched towards him, the guard in close attendance. He stopped before the Minister and saluted sharply.

  ‘Vice-Minister Fu! General Wang Qishan has asked me to present his compliments, and request that you join him in the outer office,’ he barked.

  ‘General Wang himself is here?’ Fu exclaimed in delight. The general was a most senior army official. And he’d thought it was simply a truckload of callow, disrespectful yobs. ‘Please thank the General and tell him I shall be with him very shortly. There is something here I must attend to first.’ He waved at the screen.

  But it wasn’t simply the patterns on the screen he didn’t understand. Instead of retreating in respect, the officer continued to stand in front of him, insistent. Rather insolent, really. And as Fu Zhang’s lips danced in bewilderment, he found himself staring down the barrel of the officer’s gun.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sunday, 1.43 a.m. Castle Lorne.

  They had both been shot. The bullet had passed through Harry’s upper arm, somehow missing bone and artery, before nicking Shunin’s chest, leaving him with a deep flesh wound but nothing that would prove of long-term consequence. Harry’s punch had probably saved Shunin’s life.

  After the angry sound of the bullet had passed into the night, a silence fell, punctuated only by the cries from the dying castle. Harry and the Russian had both slumped to the ground behind the rocks, grateful for the cover. It was at this point that D’Arby decided it was time to make his presence felt once more. He scampered across to the wounded men with the intention of taking control of the situation. Just in time, Harry kicked his legs from beneath him. He was sent sprawling as two more bullets scythed through the air.

  ‘You stand out like a target at a fairground against the flames,’ Harry panted, still biting back the pain. Someone seemed to have stabbed a serrated kitchen knife into his arm and was twisting it.

  ‘Thank you,’ D’Arby whispered, lifting a mournful face from the shingle, his eyes bulging with fright.

  ‘Make yourself useful,’ Harry instructed, scrabbling with his good hand in his pocket and producing a large handkerchief. ‘Keep that pressed hard over the President’s wound. It’ll stop the bleeding.’

  ‘I, too, seem to owe you my thanks, Mr Jones,’ Shunin muttered through lips that struggled to hide the pain.

  ‘You owe me an explanation,’ Harry snapped back.

  The Russian President closed his eyes, his defiance seeming to melt into resignation. He whispered only one word. ‘Lavrenti.’

  As though on cue, another bullet ricocheted off the rock above their heads.

  ‘Enough, Lavrenti!’ Harry cried out. ‘He’s dead.’

  Eventually a voice answered from the darkness. ‘How can I believe you?’

  ‘You saw him go down.’

  ‘I’m coming to make sure.’

  ‘Do that and you’ll be the next to get shot,’ Harry shouted fiercely.

  ‘You’re not armed.’

  ‘Then you just go ahead and prove me wrong, Lavrenti. I haven’t shot a Russian since Afghanistan,’ he continued, lying, ‘but I think I can remember how it goes.’

  Konev fell silent.

  Beside Harry, Shunin twisted his lips in a sardonic smile. ‘I believe that’s what they call information warfare, Mr Jones,’ he whispered.

  ‘I was married once. Became something of an expert.’

  ‘What do you reckon? He believed you?’ D’Arby demanded.

  ‘Bet your life on it,’ Harry replied grimly, ripping the sleeve from his shirt and attempting to twist it into a tourniquet for his arm. As he struggled with the makeshift bandage, he slumped back against the rock, his stomach wanting to heave. His body was trying to protect itself, numb his senses rather than feel the pain, but he had to fight it; men died when their wits grew dull. When the wound was bound he turned to Shunin. ‘So, we appear to have got ourselves wrapped up in a little family business–your family business, Mr President. I think you owe us an explanation.’

  Shunin bit his lip, in reluctance as well as pain. He didn’t want to share, but he knew he owed Harry. ‘Someone inside the Kremlin has been betraying me. Dripping information about my travel plans, where I will be, and when. Making me a target. The car bomb was waiting for me as I drove to the airport, even though I had only made those plans the day before. It had to be someone close. Very close.’

  ‘Lavrenti.’

  ‘I didn’t want to believe it. Anybody else but him. He is my son-in-law, Katya’s husband. I had even allowed myself to dream he might be the future of Russia.’ He groaned as D’Arby changed his dressing, pressing a fresh handkerchief onto the wound. ‘So I brought him with me, here. To test him. To look for any sign.’

  ‘You used us to sort out your own private squabble,’ Harry snapped.

  ‘You want to hear my story or deliver a sermon?’ Shunin’s eyes glared defiantly through the haze of pain, but he was wheezing once again, his asthma back and his medication lost in the castle. ‘You said you saw me disappear last night and followed me. But you were following Lavrenti. I saw you both. Why, you really think I am up to hiking for miles through the hills at night?’ He spluttered, and not for effect.

  So there had been two of them out there in the dark, Harry realized. It was Lavrenti with the cigarette, leaving Shunin with the midge bites. ‘He had made an arrangement to meet someone,’ Harry mused. ‘Must have been when we went to Sullapool. He disappeared for a while, down to the harbour.’

  ‘But why?’ D’Arby asked.

  ‘At a guess, to find
something incendiary, something with which to start the fire,’ Harry replied. ‘This wasn’t a spur of the moment thing, after all, not if he had already tried with a car bomb. He told me himself how much he hated you, Mr Shunin.’

  ‘He said much the same thing to me. That’s why we had our…disagreement.’

  ‘He said you would end up killing us all.’

  ‘I promise, I shall kill only him.’

  ‘So why did you search my room?’ Harry asked.

  ‘Someone had stolen my gun. I thought it might be you. I think we know now who it was.’

  ‘You brought a gun?’ D’Arby protested. ‘For God’s sake, why?’

  ‘For my security!’ Shunin snapped defiantly. ‘Quite clearly the security you offered has left a lot to be desired.’

  ‘And as a result you nearly ended up killing us all!’

  Their faces were raw in the lurid light from the fire, yet as they confronted each other another voice cried out from the darkness. It was Lavrenti. ‘I want–I want political asylum.’

  Harry saw the alarm rise in Shunin’s eyes; if they let him back in from the night and he found Shunin still alive, anything could happen.

  ‘Should have thought about that before you killed your father-in-law,’ Harry shouted in return.

  ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘And neither do I, Lavrenti.’

  ‘I want to do a deal.’

  ‘Get real, Lavrenti. You only get one type of deal for killing the President of Russia.’

  ‘But we are in Britain.’

  ‘OK. So I tell you how it works here. We give you two choices. You throw us your gun, then we talk.’

  ‘And if I refuse, Mr Jones?’

  ‘It’s simple. I see you, I shoot you.’

  They waited for his response, but none came.

  ‘You’re good at your mind games, Mr Jones,’ Shunin said softly. ‘A remarkable man, I think. You have saved my life twice already tonight, and still you fight for it.’

  ‘There’s a prime minister and another president to think of, too, Mr Shunin, not to mention a rather fine Scottish lady and a very special young man.’

  They were interrupted as a huge section of masonry fell from the upper floor of the castle, crashing onto the rocks below with a mighty explosion that sent cinders like wasps of fire sparking high into the sky. From where she was tending Nipper with the help of Blythe, Flora turned and held her hand to her lips, muffling a whimper of despair.

  ‘You think he’s still out there?’ D’Arby asked, his voice tight with concern.

  ‘No bloody idea. Let’s try.’ And Harry shouted once more for Lavrenti, but all he got back was an empty echo.

  ‘Thank God, he’s gone,’ the Prime Minister exclaimed.

  ‘But where would he go?’ Shunin asked.

  ‘Only one place to go,’ Harry answered. ‘Sullapool.’

  No one talked as they all conjured up an image of sleepy, innocent, unaware Sullapool being hit by a desperate Russian with a gun in his hand.

  ‘Oh, bugger,’ Harry swore, ‘I suppose I’d better go after him.’

  ‘Harry, leave it to others,’ D’Arby instructed.

  ‘You forget, Mark, this is one of the most isolated parts of the kingdom. There are no others.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I think I owe this one to Marcus Washington.’

  ‘What will you do?’ D’Arby asked, his voice full of anxiety.

  ‘Play the Chinaman. Try and find some way of beating the bastard without him firing first. It’s a useful technique when you’re armed with nothing more than fresh air. What’s he got anyway, do you know?’ he asked Shunin.

  ‘My Makarov PM.’

  Nothing too insignificant, then. Harry flexed his arm; it worked, after a fashion, so long as he was willing to ignore the herd of buffalo that trampled across it every time he moved.

  Shunin was sitting beside him, his back propped up against the same rock. ‘I’d like to join your posse, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Can’t let you do that, Mr President. It could get a little hairy out there.’

  ‘But I can help. I have some experience in these matters.’

  Yes, I bet you do, breathed Harry.

  ‘And, as you say, I am a president, you cannot stop me,’ the Russian continued. ‘Anyway, it’s my gun, my family, my problem.’

  Harry looked at him with curiosity. ‘You pulling rank?’

  ‘If that’s what it takes.’ The Russian turned. ‘What about you, Prime Minister?’

  D’Arby hesitated, but only for a fraction. ‘I’d better stay here, look after the others–just in case he comes back.’ It was, of course, the right thing to do, someone had to stay behind, yet Shunin didn’t bother to hide the contemptuous curl of his lip.

  Harry tugged at his bandage to make sure it would stay in place. ‘Better get on with it. You ready, Mr Shunin?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  So they left the protection of the rocks, skirting low, scuttling like crabs in case Lavrenti was still close at hand, until they had some confidence they would no longer be framed against the fire, and then they set out on the road, not side by side but separated, so as not to make too convenient a target. The wind was still blustering and the clouds sailing like ships across the sky. The moon was pale, hiding them, but hiding their quarry, too. Harry’s arm complained with every footfall, and he discovered he had a limp–he wasn’t too sure whether he’d burnt his leg or bloodied it in the fall–but what bothered him most was the midges. As soon as the two men left the cover of the fire and its protective smoke, the midges descended on them like Visigoths and proceeded to attack every morsel of exposed flesh. Ridiculous. A bullet through his arm and a bloodied leg, yet he was worrying about insect bites. Somehow, Jones, he told himself, your life seems to have lost its perspective.

  They made slow progress, Harry dragging his leg, Shunin wheezing hard, until they saw it, up ahead, a brief, wavering light that flickered in the heavy summer darkness. It was a cigarette being lit. Lavrenti’s cigarette. Difficult to tell just how far away it was, but no more than a couple of hundred yards. Harry drew alongside Shunin and silently indicated the light. The Russian nodded. It seemed as if the game had taken a turn in their favour.

  They pursued him, drawn on by the dancing ember of light and the other cigarettes that followed in continuous order. Harry found it exceptionally hard going, battling not just with the hill but also his exhaustion, yet Lavrenti seemed to be making even poorer progress; they kept him in sight and gradually gained on him as they climbed up the coast road.

  It was yet another cigarette that undid them. As Lavrenti paused to light it, he must have glanced back along the road to the castle, which was still burning madly, and seen against its backcloth the silhouettes of the two men as they followed. A shot rang out, wildly, in panic, which hit nothing but the night, yet now he was alerted and all but invisible once he had thrown away his cigarette. In the pale reflection of the moon they saw him dash from the road towards the cover of the gorse that hugged the cliff top. Then he was gone.

  Harry and Shunin huddled by the side of the road. ‘You sure you’re up to this?’ Harry demanded.

  The Russian was wheezing even harder. He didn’t speak, merely nodded.

  ‘Look, the gun he’s got, the Makarov, it’s probably not accurate over more than forty yards, and then only when it’s handled correctly. After a hundred yards the bullet’s dead and wouldn’t do much more than bruise you even if it hit you. I’m betting that Lavrenti’s an amateur.’

  Shunin nodded in agreement.

  ‘He could miss a brick wall at five yards if he’s flustered, so we need to distract him. I’m going to try to get up behind him–’ Harry indicated with his left arm towards the cliff top–‘while you carry on up the road until you’re beyond him. All I want you to do then is to make some kind of noise to grab his attention. He’ll be confused, distracted. That will give me my chance.’

  ‘For wha
t?’

  ‘For…whatever. Hell, I don’t know, I’m making this up as I go along.’

  The cliff tops were formed of a mixture of rock, gorse, heather, and coarse rabbit-cropped grass. It was too dark for Harry to be sure of his footing; he stayed low, moved slowly, trying to avoid the proliferation of holes, gnarled roots, and other pitfalls that lay in wait for the unwary. He kept stopping, listening, his senses alert. As the adrenalin pumped once more through his body, he found he barely noticed the bullet wound or the battered leg, and he had completely forgotten to fret about the flying midges. He estimated that Lavrenti was no more than a hundred yards ahead and since he could detect no sign or sound of movement, Harry reckoned the other man was staying still, waiting. It was several minutes later when, from some distance up ahead, came the sound of what appeared to be a cry, as if someone had fallen. It was soon followed by the noise of a man hobbling along the road, heading away in the direction of Sullapool. Shunin had done his work well. And, as if to confirm the fact, set against the thin milk sky Harry saw the outline of Lavrenti rising to his feet. He was barely twenty yards away. Close enough to use the Makarov, but too far to be taken by surprise. Bugger. Bugger!

  The sound of Shunin’s footsteps had disappeared. Harry was left with only the incomplete cover of darkness. That might not be enough. His heart began to pound, it brought the fire back into his arm, his breathing grew like the sound of trumpets, it must surely give him away. It had become a dance of shadows and silhouettes as Harry made the few extra yards he needed, keeping low, melting into the cliff top. Every footfall seemed to bring cries of complaint from the heather, every rustle of his clothing was like the flapping of a great sail, yet somehow it was all lost amidst the noises of the night and carried away on the stormy breeze from the sea. The Russian appeared lost in thought, or indecision, turning towards the direction of Sullapool, the gun still in his hand, while Harry crouched, and crept, on all fours, balanced, like a sprinter in his blocks, waiting for the moment when distance and adrenalin and plain fortune came together to decide.