‘Many, many millions of pounds and still counting,’ Tibbetts retorted, shuffling through Parry’s notes to try to find the latest estimate.
‘Treat me as a slow learner, commander. Explain it to me.’
‘The millions you’ve tried to make on the markets because of the siege. You know, Masood, for a moment the world thought this was all about releasing your leader. I wonder what they’re going to think when they realise that it was really just another grubby exercise in extortion.’
Parry began waggling his hands, trying to indicate that Tibbetts shouldn’t get too aggressive.
‘And you know what, Masood? Bulgakov double-crossed you. He was trying to run off with it all. Every penny for himself.’ It was a lie, of course, but one they had agreed in order to put pressure on Masood.
‘Tell me, commander, may I assume that you have been doing your homework during the long night, perhaps finding out about Waziristan?’
‘Yes,’ the policeman replied cautiously.
‘So what makes you think that anyone in Waziristan wants your money? What on earth would we do with millions of your British pounds? We don’t need cars – we have almost no proper roads – and there are only so many goats to go round.’ He was mocking.
‘But—’
‘What Mr Bulkagov has been up to I neither know nor care. If he has run off with all that money, it’s only what Russians do. Careless of you to give him the chance.’
Tibbetts took a deep breath; this wasn’t going well, the revolver was firing on spectacularly empty chambers. He only had one shot left.
‘Bulgakov’s dead.’
‘Commander, I think I understand your game, but it hasn’t worked. Bulgakov’s dead? May rabid dogs pursue him to the gates of Hell. I congratulate you on your discovery but it changes nothing. I killed my first Russian when I was eight, so do you really think I’m going to worry about one more? You see, they were a little like you, wouldn’t leave us alone, not until we had killed so many of them that they couldn’t wait to run back to their homeland. But you are not Russians, of course. It won’t take thousands of bodies to change your mind, just the handful of people in this room. All in all, you will get away very cheaply by comparison.’
Tibbetts swallowed back the bile that was rising in his throat. They’d played the game, and he had lost. It was time to move on. ‘Masood, we want no deaths, not yours, not anyone’s. Now I’m a policeman, I’ve no authority to negotiate, but I’d like to see if there are any avenues we could explore. We might be willing to consider placing your father in the hands of some international tribunal so that justice can be seen to be done, totally impartially, and—’
‘You mean in the way justice has been done to the families of the Mehsuds?’ he bit back, his voice grown sharper.
‘We have no argument with your people.’
‘You have an argument with my family . . .’ Masood’s voice faded. Tibbetts could see him hanging his head, could sense the pain eating him inside. ‘With my own bare hands I dug them from the ruins, and with these hands I buried them. Oh, I’m sure they weren’t the intended targets, the bombs were meant for some militant Islamist group you hated and had forced into our lands, but what did it matter to my wife and my son – what does it matter to me – who the bombs were intended for? But now the gun is in the other hand, Commander Tibbetts, and I shall use it to pursue you to damnation.’
‘But what good will shedding more innocent blood do?’
‘I shall tell you. It won’t bring back my wife or son, of course. But it will make me, Masood, feel so very much better!’ He was pounding his chest with his fist, so hard it seemed as if his bones might crack. ‘And when your sons die, perhaps then you will think very carefully before you return to my country.’
‘There must be some other way . . .’
‘Commander.’
‘Yes?’
‘It doesn’t matter to me if you have no authority to negotiate, because I have no intention of negotiating. What I want is very simple. Black and white, no little areas of grey or pink or blue to confuse you. It is an entirely colour less proposition. Release my father, that is all I want, and what I insist upon. I have lost enough members of my family to your Western justice. I thought I had made that clear.’
‘But—’
‘It seems you may be colour-blind, commander. I’m afraid you have been wasting time and time is not on your side. I gave you until twelve o’clock to release him but you have been trying to make a fool of me with your games.’
‘No—’
‘And my patience is worn down. It will not last until twelve. Not eleven, nor even ten. Nine – nine o’clock. That is all the time you have. After that, the hostages will start to die!’
‘But you said—’
‘Nine o’clock, commander!’
‘You can’t! That’s barely two hours . . .’
But already it was too late. Masood had slammed the telephone back into its holder as though he was pushing a detonator.
6.58 a.m.
COBRA. Suddenly it seemed a ridiculous name for such a toothless body. Its members reconvened immediately, but what was there to be done? It had all gone wrong. They gathered silently, sullenly, without the wounded Harry, as Brigadier Hastie once more rehearsed the scenario of what he called the Deliberate Action Plan. It was much as before. ‘But I must revise my figure of survivability,’ he added. The more he talked about death, the softer his voice seemed to grow, as if he were saying goodnight to children. ‘As I made clear, my earlier estimate was based on an attack executed during the night while the terrorists were in a state of distraction. But as we can all see, that is no longer the case.’ His blue eyes settled on the Home Secretary, chiding her. ‘They are alert and we have lost whatever element of surprise we might have enjoyed. Consequently, I have to advise you that the casualty rate will be higher.’
‘How much higher?’ Willcocks demanded, but her voice had lost its edge of bravado.
‘Difficult to assess.’
‘How much higher, brigadier?’
‘Up to another ten per cent.’
Yet even as his words swept through them like a winter gale, the scene on the floor of the House was changing once more. John Eaton had spent the last hour hunched over, lost in his despair, ignoring all efforts of those around him to offer comfort. He appeared as a man whose spirit had been broken beyond repair, but now in a flash he sprang to his feet and confronted Masood, face to face.
‘Let me go,’ he said, the words fraying at the edges.
‘And why should I do that?’ Masood responded, stepping back to place a little more room between himself and this unexpected adversary.
‘I will sort this out for you. I will get your leader released.’
‘But you have already tried. You failed.’
‘That’s as much your fault as mine. Inside here I am nothing more than a hostage but outside – outside I am the Prime Minister. Release me and I will give you what you want. You know I will. You have my son.’
‘But you are the same man inside as out.’
‘I will be a different man, believe me,’ the Prime Minister replied in a state of extreme agitation. He moved forward, as though wanting to shake belief into Masood. In reply, the other man raised his rifle. Eaton ignored it.
‘You have made me think harder in the last few hours than perhaps I have done in my entire life. About what we have done – and what we have failed to do. In all honesty – and I tell you this on pain of my son’s life,’ he said as he waved in the direction of Magnus, ‘– I have never had any intention of doing your people harm. And if I have done so, inadvertently, then I beg your forgiveness. What was done was done out of ignorance, not malice, it was a policy aimed at others, not you. Your people were caught up in a tide of history that seemed to sweep beyond the control of anyone. But I vow to you – that will change. It will change, yes, it will! Because we will change!’ He threw up his arms, like a preacher. ‘Show t
hat you are merciful and I make you this vow. I will devote myself to your cause. Become your ambassador. Be your advocate. Take your case to Washington, to the United Nations, to the people of the world. Give me my son’s life and I will give your people a future and make sure that what goes on in the mountains of your homeland is never again forgotten.’
Masood began slapping the stock of his weapon in mock applause. ‘Hah! What a splendid performance. Truly memorable. But you forget one thing, Prime Minister. What I am doing will make sure that we are never again forgotten, and so much more effectively than any words you can offer. I will make the whole world listen.
But Washington listens to no one, while the United Nations listens to everyone and can decide nothing. The people of the world are far too weary with their own troubles to have time for little Waziristan. As you have admit ted, you knew nothing of my country, and didn’t care.’ Masood patted his weapon once more. ‘I will change all that.’
‘But you have made your point.’
‘I have scarcely started.’
‘Please – let me go.’
‘You would run away.’
‘I want to save you. And my son.’
‘As I wish to save my father. But the only way they will let Daud Gul go is if your son dies. Nothing less will persuade them. And even then I suspect they will still say no.’
‘Please . . .’ Eaton lowered his head, and his voice. ‘I beg you. I will do anything for my son.’
‘Yet you did not lift a finger for mine!’ Masood was now struggling to control his emotions; his lips moved but he could not speak, as though pain had made him dumb. It was some time before he spoke again. ‘My people have been raised in a hard world, Mr Eaton. For hundreds of years we have been persecuted, when we had asked for nothing more than the right to sit round our campfires and grow old. Now the time has come for the smoke to blow in a different direction.’
‘You quote me ancient history? You will die for what is already dead?’
‘The past isn’t dead. And it isn’t even the past. Look, the evidence is all around you, here, in your House of Lords!’
‘I would do anything to save my son.’ The words came forth individually, washed in torment. ‘If the entire world were an ocean I would turn my back on it all for this one drop. Let me give up my office, my reputation, my life, but leave me this. He is my only child . . .’
‘As little Sardar was mine. There, you didn’t even know his name, did you, Mr Eaton?’
The Prime Minister dropped to his knees, the last of his resistance gone. ‘Then I beg you, kill me first. I will not watch my own son die!’
‘That, of all punishments inflicted on a man, is the most cruel. To watch your son die. That I know.’
Eaton was sobbing, his shoulders heaving.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Eaton, you will not suffer long, and certainly not as long as I. Hours, I promise, that is all. For I intend to take your life, too. After your son, you will be the next.’
The shoulders stopped heaving, and simply fell.
‘But you will not be alone, I promise you,’ Masood continued. ‘I think you shall die alongside your Queen.’
Ten
7.13 a.m.
‘DOES HE MEAN IT? Does he mean it?’ the Home Secretary demanded. Her world was spinning off its orbit. Whichever way she turned, she saw nothing but chaos.
Tibbetts was the first to respond. ‘He’s already shot one Cabinet minister, beaten up Harry Jones and the US ambassador. We’ve precious little basis for disbelieving him.’
She sat with her head in her hands, her battered red nails standing out against skin bleached pale by exhaustion.
‘We need to decide, Home Secretary,’ Five pressed.
When, at last, she raised her head, her eyes were rimmed with anguish. ‘Then I believe we go in as soon as they start shooting the boys.’
‘That won’t be in time to save them,’ Hastie reminded her.
Her nostrils flared in frustration. ‘No, not the Queen, either, so you keep telling me.’
‘So why wait. Why not let us go now?’
‘Because!’ she snapped, frustrated that she should be forced to repeat the argument once more, knowing they doubted her. ‘Because any attack would guarantee that the Queen will die. The only hope she has is if they’re bluffing, and as slim as that hope might be, we have to cling to it.’
As she finished, one of the phones on the table in front of her began to ring. ‘What?’ she snapped, punching the speaker button in impatience. She had no great desire to share the conversation with everyone in the room, but she was afraid that if she picked up the receiver her trembling hands would betray her.
‘It’s the Queen’s private secretary,’ a voice informed her. ‘From the palace.’
‘And he wants?’
‘Just a word.’
A voice filled the room. It was refined, gentle, draped with sorrow. ‘I have just been watching, Home Secretary. I thought I might be of some assistance.’
She could do without fresh hands trying to push her around, but politeness required her to listen. ‘Thank you, Sir Peter. And precisely how do you think you can help?’
‘I have just been speaking with Prince Philip. Both he and I are of the same opinion, which is that Her Majesty would understand. Whatever it is you felt you had to do, and whatever its consequences’ – he hit the word just sufficiently – ‘she would support you. And so will the family.’
She glanced around the table, trying to judge the reaction of the others. Her voice had lost her stridency when at last she responded. ‘You realise the implications of what you’re saying – for the personal security of Her Majesty?’
‘I believe I do.’
She paused while the words sank in. ‘Then I’m grateful to you for your call, Sir Peter. We will let you know.’ Slowly, she reached out to push the button that cut him off. ‘He’s telling us to go now. Not to wait.’
‘Excellent!’ Hastie declared.
She couldn’t resist the volcano of suspicion that welled inside her. Had Hastie put the private secretary up to this? But what difference did that make now? She had been outmanoeuvred, by men, and by events. As she struggled to consider the implications of what had been said, a host of fresh opinions from around the table began to hem her in as voices dressed in various shades of courage and caution tried to outdo each other. Or were they merely voices inside her head? She was about to bang the table for silence when the phone interrupted them once more. ‘For God’s sake!’ she snapped.
‘It’s President Edwards.’
She bit through another nail. Something inside told her she wasn’t going to like this. She sighed. ‘Put her through.’
‘Home Secretary,’ the American began. There was no fanfare, no niceties, no attempt to reach out and do that woman-to-woman stuff. ‘I have instructed Ambassador Paine to go back into the Chamber with a message for the terrorists.’
‘You have no right!’ Oh, the wretched woman! The arrogance! But there was no time for empty protest. ‘Message? What message?’ She put on her most haughty of voices. ‘Might I remind you, Madam President, that all communications must go through me? This is an operation under British control.’
‘But if only it were under control, then none of this would be necessary.’
‘I don’t understand. What – what is necessary? You can do nothing without discussing it with us first.’
The sigh of exasperation from the other end of the phone was clearly audible. ‘Tricia,’ the President said, ‘this isn’t up for discussion. I’m calling to let you know that as of now the United States is taking over command of this operation.’
7.18 a.m. (12.18 p.m. BIOT time)
It wasn’t much of a prison cell, so far as those things went. There wasn’t a call for such things on the British Indian Ocean Territory of Diego Garcia. Sure, they occasionally had a problem with rapes and a little GBH, and a few years earlier there had been a case of murder, but there was
a limit to how much trouble you could get up to on a coral atoll, and if anyone did get out of hand they were quickly shipped out to Hong Kong or home to the States. The cellblock was supposed to deal only with the minor stuff like drunkenness, smuggling pornography or being found peeing on the Queen’s Birthday Palm Tree. Normally they wouldn’t have kept an important prisoner here so long, but these weren’t normal times. Daud Gul had been lodged in a cell at the end of a grey corridor within the BIOT police building from the moment they’d flown him in, in the middle of the night. They told him he was on Diego Garcia but that meant nothing to him; more important to him on a daily basis was that the place was damp from the humidity and smelt of puke and pee from the drunks who were left to sober up on the benches in the corridor outside his door. As much as they scrubbed the place the following morning, the sour smell never went.
He had expected worse. Sure, they’d pushed him around a little, and on a couple of occasions beat him up badly, but he had blocked his mind to it all, even the occasional pain. They seemed to think he was of far greater significance than he was, a man with links to every liberation group he had heard of, and quite a few he hadn’t, and he saw no reason to lift the veil on their delusions. For some reason they thought he wanted to rule the world when all he sought was the comfort of his homeland, so he had locked himself away inside his imagination, up in his mountain eyrie, beyond their reach, in a battle of wills. And when he opened his eyes, through the window of his cell, he would see these self-styled defenders of freedom throwing up and fouling themselves in the corridor, and he felt not only better but superior. No, they wouldn’t break him.
Once again there was commotion outside in the corridor. More drunks. Raised voices. Anger. More drunks, he supposed. But, as he listened, he decided they were not drunks, after all. This was something different. It was his British guards who were protesting, raising their voices in alarm. Moments later the lock of his cell was being turned, the door opening, and the men who crowded through weren’t British policemen in their tan uniforms and short trousers but Americans in brown and green camouflage fatigues with bulletproof vests. They were also armed.