The Lords' Day (retail) Page 12

  ‘Then I’m sorry for your discomfort.’ He tried to hide the irony in his tone.

  ‘He’s unreliable. He shouldn’t be there. No telling what damage he might do. Get rid of him. Is that clear enough for you?’

  ‘Perfectly. But—’

  ‘No “buts”, Commander.’

  ‘Then how can I put this, Home Secretary? I’m afraid we can’t get rid of Harry Jones. It’s too late for that. You see, whether we like it or not, he’s now part of our dealings with the terrorists. They know his face, and the more they see it, the more they’ll relax in his presence. Perhaps give themselves away. Reveal some little weakness or other. And that’s what we desperately need, to find some chink in their armour. Anyway, I think a familiar face reassures the hostages.’

  ‘Are you refusing to follow my instructions?’

  He paused, to gather his temper. ‘I’m suggesting they make little operational sense.’

  ‘Perhaps we should try to find someone who thinks otherwise, Commander.’

  Damn the woman. His tone grew tougher. ‘As is your privilege, Home Secretary. But from your point of view, I don’t think that would make much operational sense, either.’

  ‘What the devil are you talking about?’

  ‘You start demanding resignations and . . . well, how should I put this? The press are going to start wondering just how far up the ladder the blame game should go. And I think they’ll discover you sitting at the top of that particular ladder, won’t they?’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Home Secretary, I’m merely trying to point out some of the facts of life, facts that might prove far more uncomfortable to you than the presence of Harry Jones. I’ve got a job to do and I’d like to get on with it. You want heads on a platter, then I suggest you wait till this is finished. If it all goes pear-shaped you can throw me to the wolves and hope they won’t come after you, too. Use me as cover. And if, by some minor miracle, we manage to find a way out of this little shambles . . . well, you’re a politician. I’m sure you’ll find some way of using it to your credit.’

  ‘I don’t like your attitude.’

  ‘You want me to deal with terrorists or take time off for charm school?’

  ‘What sort of bloody-minded policeman are you?’

  ‘One with twenty-three years’ experience and with the worst job of his life to do. So I’ll do my best to stay out of your hair, Home Secretary, and—’

  He faltered. Harry had suddenly appeared at the door of the post-office room. He was sweating, bending a little under the weight of his large and unwieldy load.

  ‘And I’ll make sure Harry Jones doesn’t pitch his tent on your front lawn either. Anyway, he’s a little busy right now. Taking care of Mrs Antrobus.’

  4.57 p.m.

  Eaton was a man who was practised in the art of recovering from those moments of inner insecurity that beset all politicians. He was no philosopher king troubled by deep thoughts; instead, he had built his career on the basis of being a masterful presenter. In politics, he had found, there were always others to tell him and the rest of the world what should be done, but it took a man with the skills of stage management and media manipulation to make those things happen. His politics were, above all else, practical, always capable of compromise, and with a theatrical wave of his hand and a tremble in his voice he could put himself across as a man who cared, and cared enough to do whatever was necessary. It had saved him a dozen times when the ideologues would have preferred him to head straight for the cliff, and now those abilities were needed more than ever. He wanted to save his career, of course, but most of all he wanted to save his son. He knew what he had to do. He smoothed the wayward strands of hair at his temples and rose slowly in his seat.

  ‘Enough. We must put an end to it. It’s clear to me what we should do.’ He turned to Masood. ‘May I?’ He indicated the field telephone, a solid military-style piece of apparatus the size of a house brick.

  Masood considered, then nodded, but took close position as the Prime Minister raised the receiver.

  ‘This is John Eaton,’ he announced. ‘Would you please put me through to the Home Secretary . . .’ He waited for several seconds while the connection was made; his eyes strayed to his son, who gazed up at him in hope. Then he was through.

  ‘Home Secretary,’ he began – he used the title, not her name, he needed this to be formal – ‘the situation here is untenable. There must be no more deaths, no more suffering.’ He closed his eyes, a father at prayer. ‘I am instructing you to make arrangements for the immediate release of Daud Gul. You will report back to me as soon as these arrangements have been made. And you will also make provision for transportation to take his followers here wherever they wish to go in the world. They will leave unharmed. Is that clear?’

  Rustles of overwhelming relief began to snake their way along the benches around him; a peeress began to sob quietly with relief. Masood stiffened in expectation. Eaton lifted his head, as though addressing a vast arena, as indeed, beyond the walls, he was. Above him, the last of the evening light was catching on the stained glass in the windows, and seeming to dance in delight. Eaton knew he could put this all behind him, the people would understand. What was one life in exchange for so many, some miserable foreigner traded for the restoration of civilisation and order as the British had known it for a thousand years? God, he so desperately needed a drink, his hand was shaking even as it held the phone, but it wouldn’t be long now. He ran his fingers through his hair once more, knowing the eyes of the country – perhaps the entire world, by this stage – were upon him. Some would carp at what he was doing, of course, narrow-minded fundamentalists, the English ayatollahs who would want to flay him for allowing one wild mountain man to run rings round the entire Establishment and damn him for being the officer on watch when it happened, but most would heave a sigh of relief and praise him for his common sense. He had given them back the day, and tomorrow would take care of itself. He glanced across at Magnus once more and allowed himself a smile. His son returned the smile, and nodded in appreciation.

  Yet, as Eaton listened, a change came over him. Slowly his face began to melt, as wax does when it is held too near the flame. He didn’t move, not a muscle, yet at the same time his entire body appeared to shrink.

  Without a further word, he tried to replace the receiver, but couldn’t, his hand was shaking too much. His young captor took it from him. Eaton stood staring at his son. His lips moved, but for a while he made no sound. When eventually the words came, they sounded raw, as though each one had been torn from his throat.

  ‘She won’t do it!’

  ‘Why?’ his son mouthed, bewildered.

  ‘Because of the damned protocol . . .’

  It had been thirty years since terrorists had hauled Aldo Moro from his car on the streets of Rome. He was one of the most significant men in Italy, a politician who had been Prime Minister five times and who could expect still more. And now he was a captive. What happened in the ensuing days and weeks rewrote many of the rules for dealing with terrorists, not simply in Rome but across Europe.

  The terrorists were members of the notorious Red Brigades, a Marxist-Leninist revolutionary group who insisted they would release Moro only in return for their own leaders who were languishing in gaol. During the course of the next weeks, Moro made several public pleas for his life. He wrote letters to the government that not only begged them to meet the terrorists’ terms but which also heaped vicious criticism on the government and its actions in combating terrorism. The government refused to listen. They said the letters were written under duress and didn’t represent Moro’s true views, that in any event the government were committed to the principle that they would never negotiate with terrorists, for to do so would be to open the doorways to hell. Even the Pope joined the argument, pleading for Moro’s life and offering to take his place as a hostage. But it was to no avail. Fifty-five days after he was taken, Moro was found in the boot of a ca
r. He had been shot in the head.

  There was, inevitably, an outpouring of sympathy amongst the public across Europe for Moro and his family, but amongst many governments the reaction was starkly different. They had watched Moro trying to blackmail his government into denying their principles and ripping up their policy on how to deal with terrorism. To have succumbed to such demands would have been moral suicide, so they said; catch one minister and an entire country might be held to ransom. Where would it end?

  It was a precedent that bothered many, and the British Government decided to launch a pre-emptive strike. Deep within Whitehall, a secret ordinance was drawn up that forbade governments to obey any messages or instructions from ministers held under threat. This self-denying ordinance was never put before parliament or made public but nevertheless it became a central part of the code of governance, and gave ministers not only the excuse but also the duty to take a firm stand. From that point on successive governments committed themselves to the policy that they would never – must never, as a matter of fundamental principle – negotiate with terrorists. It was like a blood oath. And it was called the Moro Protocol.

  It had lain gathering dust in the drawer for a generation. And it was all that Tricia Willcocks needed to refuse her Prime Minister’s instructions.

  5.07 p.m.

  Eaton was a manipulator of words, a man of mirrors who could reverse images as quickly as he could a car. It had kept him from digging deep inside himself about most things – his beliefs, his emotions, those inescapable sticking points. He had found himself able to dance around most obstacles and, like a Pied Piper, lead the unsuspecting off in an entirely different direction, yet now it wasn’t working. He could no longer skim over the surface of things, he was forced to dig deep within himself, and he found himself lacking. As he confronted himself, his entire being shook. He lost control of his muscles. He sank slowly to his knees, struggling for breath, as Masood towered above him.

  ‘It is what I expected,’ the young man said in a calm voice. ‘It is what you would have done, I think, in the same circumstances.’

  The Prime Minister shook his head, although whether in disagreement or despair wasn’t clear.

  ‘That is a pity,’ the young man continued. ‘It appears they have not learned the lesson – yet.’

  ‘I’ll . . . try again,’ Eaton sobbed. His hands were shaking uncontrollably.

  ‘But they have not listened to you.’ As he uttered the words, Masood raised the barrel of his gun towards the back of Eaton’s head. ‘So what further use are you?’ Masood said as the muzzle reached the nape of his victim’s neck. ‘None, I fear. Goodbye, Mr Eaton.’

  In pain, Eaton twisted his head, looking towards Magnus. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, ‘so very sorry . . .’

  5.10 p.m.

  Britain had ground to a halt. Even though it was the middle of the rush hour it was later estimated that thirty-six million Britons were watching at that moment, and hundreds of millions in other countries. There was only one camera broadcasting images, situated on a high platform in the public gallery at the far end of the chamber from the throne. Its operator had long since fled along with everyone else who could, but the unmanned equipment gave fair coverage of the area now crowded with hostages, and Daniel wasn’t about to upset either the gunmen or his bosses by switching to any other shot. Through the eye of this solitary camera, the world watched.

  In the middle of Piccadilly Circus, beneath a huge screen carrying live coverage of the happenings, two Benedictine monks knelt on the cold pavement. Many others joined them; the rest of the crowd stood in silent awe. Trains out of main stations stood abandoned as passengers and crew refused to board, their attention fixed on the news screens. The editor of the Sun, seated at his desk at the end of a newsroom frozen in apprehension, began scribbling his morning’s simple headline: ‘Sacrificed’. A producer in the BBC newsroom bent close to the ear of a young researcher, whispering the name of Spencer Perceval, the last Prime Minister to be murdered. In Downing Street, Tricia Willcocks reached for her glass of water, and spilled much of it on the tablecloth. The London Stock Exchange was closed, of course, but exchanges around the world were still open, and everywhere they began selling sterling and every type of British holdings with ever increasing determination.

  It was at this point that a figure rose from the rich leather benches of the House of Lords. ‘I think there may be a better way,’ his voice rang out. It was Robert Paine.

  The young Mehsud looked up. ‘The ambassador of the United States of America can have nothing to say that will interest me,’ he spat. ‘Perhaps you would like to join your friend.’

  ‘I am in your hands,’ Paine acknowledged. ‘But your leader is in other hands, too. Surely there is room for some deal.’

  ‘What – you believe you can do what the British Prime Minister cannot?’

  Paine looked at the broken, trembling man on his knees before them. ‘I think so,’ he replied softly. ‘We Americans allegedly have some influence in these matters.’

  ‘What are you proposing?’ Masood asked, curiosity oiling his words.

  ‘I’m not a politician but I believe I have some position here. And some skills. I’m a diplomat. Allow me to do what I am trained for. Let me see if I can bring about a resolution.’

  ‘You misunderstand us badly if you think you can romance us out of our demands.’

  ‘Sir, I see no romance in a muzzle. I know your purpose. I have no reason to deny it.’

  ‘Then what will you do?’

  ‘Let me out of here to talk face to face with those who can give you what you want. Try to persuade them.’

  ‘Let you out? But I have only just captured you, Mr Ambassador,’ the young man mocked. ‘Let you out to sing like a canary? Or to fly away like some fluttering pigeon? No, I think not.’

  ‘I give you my word. I will return. By ten o’clock tomorrow.’

  ‘The word of a diplomat!’

  ‘You know I must return. You have the son of my President.’

  ‘We do. Yes, so we do,’ Masood agreed, nodding ruefully. ‘Perhaps we should try your suggestion. But first’ – he raised his gun once more – ‘I think I will shoot the Prime Minister, just to encourage you in your efforts.’

  ‘No! You shoot him and you show the whole of humanity your word cannot be trusted. You would give me nothing to negotiate with. Shoot him, and I can only assume you would shoot us all. I could not – would not – speak on your behalf.’

  ‘You would barter with me?’

  ‘Your leader in exchange for the lives of everyone here. Isn’t that what we’re about?’

  Masood examined the other man, his eyes wrinkled in suspicion, as though inspecting a mountain ram he had been offered at too low a price by some passing Pathan. Eventually his eyes flickered away to the digital clock behind the ambassador’s head.

  ‘Then, Mr Ambassador, you’d better make a start. You don’t have too much time left.’

  5.44 p.m.

  Many people were to play a role on that day. Maria Melo Almeida was one who was about to participate in a minor but, for her, a life-changing way. She was in her sixties but still working to keep her mildly incapacitated and chronically indolent husband in cigarettes and Sky subscriptions. Portuguese by birth, she lived near the flyover in Notting Hill and worked as a cleaner for several people during the week. This day had been spent at a local travel agent’s dusting around catalogues and washing up several days’ worth of coffee mugs, and after the office closed she decided to pop in on another of her clients whose apartment was on her way home. She bought some milk at the corner store in case he needed it, and a small bunch of flowers with which to brighten his utilitarian living room. He needed help like that, and she liked to add these little courtesies to her job, turning clients into friends. That way they kept her on and she could relax into a routine, otherwise she would end up spending her days sweeping around her wretched husband.

  Maria had
her own keys to the apartment, which she carried on a large ring along with many others. She let herself in and picked up the newspaper from the hallway floor. Strange, she thought, that he hadn’t taken it himself. Perhaps he was having one of his off days, like people confined to wheelchairs sometimes do. She walked into the living room fumbling with milk, flowers, newspaper and the large bunch of keys, and at first didn’t notice what was waiting for her. When she did, when she saw what had happened to her client, she let out a piteous scream that reached all the way to Downing Street and left her so emotionally broken it ensured she would never do another day’s cleaning for the rest of her life.

  6.10 p.m.

  ‘Bob . . . how are you?’

  Paine didn’t care for the diminutive, usually insisting on the use of his full name, yet it was but one of many indignities he had endured in the last few hours. Anyway, who was he to argue with his President?

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, into a secure phone, but his slight hesitation betrayed the strain.

  ‘You poor man.’

  He was sitting in the back of his ambassadorial BMW, near the Cenotaph in Parliament Street, just beyond its intersection with Downing Street. It was inside the security cordon and eerily quiet. A stray newspaper bowled along the gutter, pushed by a gentle breeze until it caught beneath the wheels of a parked coach, one of several that had transported the armed units of CO-19. A little further down the street stood a soup kitchen, emblazoned with the name Teapot One, serving drinks to a small group of snipers, yet the usual banter that marked such occasions was gone. Everyone seemed lost in his own world. Even as Paine watched, a column of unmarked white vans drew up and the doors flew open. Men began to scurry out. The SAS had arrived.

  ‘Bob, give me your assessment.’

  ‘I haven’t yet had a chance to talk with the British authorities. I insisted on reporting to you first.’

  ‘We don’t have a great deal of time, Bob. Can they cope, the British? I need your gut feeling on this one.’