Bolt Action (32 page)

The White House situation room

1035 Washington time, 1535 London time, 2035 Islamabad time

A
ll eyes are on the naval steward who strides importantly to Charles Hannah carrying an embossed silver platter, with a nice lace doily and, on it, the presidential headache tablets.

Hannah snaps back three pills and the water, freezes for a moment, dabs a handkerchief against his reddening nose, then swirls back into the present. Hawkishly poised over the long table, fingers splayed, staring across the Atlantic at this house-of- mirrors-plump MI5 woman, clad in a buttoned-up Harris tweed suit and skirt, like some ghastly matron out of a Harry Potter movie. Moreover, her excitable Antrim accent, which seems to compress all her words into the roof of her mouth, leaves some in the room wishing the video feed had subtitles.

He tries a bit of controlled breathing before returning to the subject at hand. ‘. . . so you’re saying that this recording from the plane is not Zaafir, the steward we had been led to believe . . .’

In his vision, the woman identified as Sheila Davane looks first to the president, then at her prime minister and immediate boss, the Home Secretary. Insofar as one can tell, they seem to be encouraging her, egging her on. Plainly she is not someone used to the limelight, but she is someone for whom the words prickly and irritable seem to have been invented.

Davane reaches out of shot for a plain manila file. Takes from it a photo, holds it towards the lens, obscuring her face. ‘The voice you heard belongs to this man . . .’ a young, Manchester-born trainee chef, with a pencil-thin moustache
and wispy chin-beard, standing in front of a black flag with white Arabic lettering, wearing an Arafat-style keffiyeh ‘. . . his name is Hassan Imani, formerly Glen Lynch. Age around thirty. Converted to Islam in prison where he was serving time for handling stolen goods. He was one of eight men convicted of conspiracy to murder others and endanger aircraft. The so-called Heathrow Airliners Plot . . .’

In the room in Washington, several aides move quickly around the table, fanning out a series of copied reports that originated seconds earlier from MI5 headquarters in London. Written corroboration of what Davane is saying . . .

‘Most of the accused filmed martyrdom videos, including Hassan Imani. The normal
bogshite
about going to paradise, killing
Kuffars
and so on
.
The media rebroadcast a lot of the video material in the news, transcribed it and put the audio online, MP3 files, normal court reporting.’

Davane looks back at the prime minister one last time. ‘What we heard this afternoon from PK412 is an audio recording of Hassan Imani’s suicide video. Word for word – voice analysis, everything, confirmed. Some guy with a tape recorder is in that cockpit, playing games with us . . .’

‘Games?’ The Secretary of State leans forward. ‘Can’t this be Imani himself?’

‘He’s in jail.’ And Davane leans back against a thick table, wincing slightly, to let that fact sink in. ‘We just double-checked with his prison governor.’

The permutations of this, that’s what’s killing everybody. What does it mean? Finally Attorney General Braddock turns to the acting director of the CIA, a haunted-looking man, with dark, staring eyes, much taken to wearing black. ‘Does this make any sense to you, John?’

All eyes turn to John Romen, career hatchet man. Romen, for his part, is startled, needs some time to think. He was actually miles away in another thought process altogether.
The directorship of the CIA is within my reach, should be mine by rights.
But this unwelcome intrusion of events from
the real world means things are not going well, not at all.

In the waiting-around for Ottawa to make their decision, the Defense Secretary had queried from his VIP plane whether the CIA could share some of the more recent cables from Bill Lamayette on the subject of this General Ali Mahmood Khan character. ‘Least we can do is see what Lamayette has been warning us about these past weeks, this Operation Macchar thing.’ Acting CIA director Romen had instinctively looked to his partner in the dark arts of Washington subterfuge, the National Security Advisor, and the NSA had suddenly remembered needing a toilet break. With no blocking plan, and no obvious allies around the table, the cables had come tumbling out, each one prophetic in its detail . . .

From two months ago:
I CANNOT STRESS ENOUGH THE INADVISABILITY OF UNILATERAL ACTION AGAINST GENERAL KHAN . . . HE PLAYS A LONG GAME . . . AND SOMETIMES THE BEST COURSE OF ACTION IS TO WAIT.

His last message before ‘dying’ in a Peshawar bomb blast . . .
GET IT INTO YOUR HEADS: PAKISTAN IS LIKE CHICAGO WARD POLITICS IN THE 1920S. EVERYBODY IN THE GAME IS UGLY. IT IS WHAT IT IS. DEMOCRACY AT WORK. THERE ARE NO GOOD GUYS AND THEY ALL WANT TO THINK THEY HAVE THEIR FINGER ON THE SELF-DESTRUCT BUTTON. GENERAL KHAN ACTUALLY DOES . . .

Everybody in the room had groaned, and groaned again, as they read through the sheaf of cables, glancing up every so often at the screen showing Lamayette still flopping around in a drugged fugue in an interrogation suite at Bagram airbase. Lawyers have a term for this sort of evidence. Exculpatory. Gee, he was trying to tell us we’d have a problem on our hands . . . and you know what, we do.

So, Romen is a man under a serious cloud. Everybody in the room is worried, but only he is worried for his job, being the person who most clearly dropped the ball. Moreover, he is a
man who likes his subject matter to be rational and orderly, nicely laid out in briefing papers for him to peck at. But now he is exposed: no briefing papers, nobody’s opinion to hide behind, and no instinctive ability to function in such a mad-minute scenario. His skills lie elsewhere. So he deftly paddles the ball back as hard as he can. ‘I’ve got a lot of respect for Ms Davane’s work; I’d go with her analysis soon as anything we could come up with. Perhaps – Sheila, is it? – perhaps Sheila could talk to their strategic motivation . . .’

Davane crosses her arms, irritated. Her face scrunches inward, very pugnacious. ‘
Strategic motivation?
Are you guys asleep over there? The US shoots down a plane with three hundred people on board, and the first thing you do is release the hijacker’s mad ramble from the cockpit to make the point this was self-defence. Case closed: some riots around the world, lots of broken glass, unhappy people, but basically, manageable in the scheme of things. Then comes news that the mad ramble was actually somebody else’s mad ramble, somebody we know is locked up in jail. Ah, you say, but the radio transmission . . .’ and she punches one hand into another in admiration ‘. . . that’s why the hijacking
had
to happen in the middle of the Atlantic. No VHF radio. Not enough range. And anyway, we could have triangulated that signal to the Boeing’s position. High-frequency radio is the key to this. But HF signals bounce around the upper atmosphere like a skimming stone. Meaning in effect we think that high-frequency ramble came from the plane but it could just as easily have been transmitted from, I don’t know, France, or the Caribbean . . . you just need to know the Shanwick frequencies, which are all a matter of public record.’

Davane leans closer still. ‘Just to be clear. I’m not saying the plane has
not
been hijacked. Clearly there’s been some kind of loss of control. But it’s been orchestrated to ensure that when the dust settles and the wreckage and bodies come up from the bottom of the sea, there will not be sufficient compelling proof . . . no balance of probability, or whatever legal matrix you guys are using to . . .’

Romen senses his opening, his chance to shine. His voice bristles with indignation. ‘You must think our countrymen and women extremely incurious and unintelligent . . .’

The Ulsterwoman stalks so close to the lens that the whole screen in the situation room is taken up by her jowly face, crevassed with lines. Her pale grey eyes leer into the camera . . . a pantomime monster. ‘Don’t you worry what
I
think. Worry about what
they
think . . . Do the words IRAQ, GATHERING THREAT and WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION not mean anything to you? How much mistrust of one superpower can the global order endure before the same thing has to happen? One third,
one third
, of your citizens still believe 9/11 was an active federal conspiracy! . . . what are these people going to make of PK412? Will they give you the benefit of the doubt on whether those three hundred people had to die? When all of this evidence is fed through the prism of the Internet, you’ve got . . .’ Davane waves a hand, to summon up the right expression. ‘. . . you’ve got a doomsday scenario. Checkmate, which I learnt today is from the Persian,
Shaah Maat
. It means the king is made powerless. Paralysed without being hit by anybody. Likewise America. We see her today astonished. Amazed, Perplexed. Humbled. That is what these constant references to Qissa Khawani are about. A massacre of innocents in the 1930s by British forces that should have become a rallying cry across the whole world. This is Qissa Khawani twenty-first-century style. So, my commiserations . . .’

‘
COMMISERATIONS
. . .’ The president startles the room with the anger in his voice. There’s a prickle of sweat over his top lip, a blush of red colouring his neck, and a slight juddering through his right hand. ‘What the hell are you talking about commiserations for?’

Clearly Davane hasn’t got the hang of the video lens, for she steps even closer, looking, in Washington, as if she’s pressed up against a porthole. ‘I say commiserations, Mr President, because I presume you will still be shooting down this plane . . .’

The smooth, silver-haired vice-president coughs his surprise
from his airborne office. ‘Did you say we’ll
still
be shooting down this plane?’

Various cabinet figures from Transportation and the FAA, plus their senior staffers, start to huddle, whispering louder and louder. Nodding their understanding, shaking their heads, for the penny has finally dropped.

‘We haven’t solved the problem . . . just got ourselves a different one.’

And the Ulsterwoman stares gimlet-eyed at her audience, the rest of the COBRA room totally obscured. ‘Unless I’m mistaken that plane is going to fly itself to New York, come what may. The flight plan I saw indicated all the waypoints had been entered up to and including John F. Kennedy International. The flight management system will do what it’s told. Fly around and around its final waypoint until it runs out of fuel, at which point the automatic pilot disengages and . . .’ her pause is dramatic, timed to perfection, just a hint of a little twinkle in her eye ‘. . . and over a city of nine million, Flight 412 becomes a hundred-and-fifty-tonne coffin with no place to land . . .’

Moments later the video conference is over, and there’s a nervous scurrying in the room. One of the few still seated, in a cloud of wonderment, Admiral Jim Badgett, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, whistles softly through his teeth. He speaks for the whole room. ‘We sure are in a real pile of doggy doodoo.’

On board PK412

T
hey’re by the doorway of the first galley, in economy, forward of the wing. Button and Tristie. Button holding an Airfone and a pre-paid credit card from a stack Tristie has. Whiffler’s wobbling atop a small pyramid of wrestlers and passengers, trying to whack through the underside of the roof’s cabin lining, hefting an aluminium galley inset that’s deliberately bulked up with soft drink cans.

Button, as ever, looks untroubled though keen to help. ‘With all this crap going on, do you really think they’re listening in, GCHQ?’ he asks.

‘That’d be my bet . . . they know my voice and their computers would match me up in a heartbeat. We might be trying to do good work here, but we’re no less expendable for that.’

‘Why can’t we get Weasel or someone to put the DRAM chip in an envelope, just post it to them?’

She flicks away an irritating bounce of hair from her eyeline. ‘Because, Button, we need to trade it for the immunity document. They know now who we are and what we’ve done. I’ve fixed up the handover to be in London someplace, which is why they’d be especially alert to any calls to the London area. Three hundred passengers on the plane, perhaps only ten, twenty per cent using the phones now, how many of them would be calling London? Not many . . .’ Forward and aft, the same vacant faces watch them, waiting for the horror, that explosive
craaack
of the airframe giving way. What a way to go.
Please God, if it comes, make it quick. ‘. . . Weasel already knows to ditch the phone I called him on. But we’ve got to get word to him. Just confirm things.
And find out if we got the MoD’s dough . . .
’

Button bites his lip, nods his great shaggy head and gets dialling.

‘
Helloooo
, Piglet . . . and how the hell are you today?’ Button chuckles quietly at whatever the response is. ‘Good one.’ Some mordant soldier gag probably, about how far up shit creek the three of them on the plane are. ‘. . . Do you happen to be near the Internet, young friend? Try the Sun’s website.’

Button turns his back and unfurls his long frame against the doorway of the galley, the phone cord stretched to the maximum.

‘Be careful what you say now, laddie . . .’ He rubs his bristly chin with the back of his hand. ‘. . . Is it now?’

Button is suddenly interested in the eyelets and hooks that hold up the galley curtains, counting them off with his sausage-like fingers. But listening all the time.

‘I’m sure Weasel would appreciate a call . . . you know the number? . . . I thought not . . .’ and he reads it out from a piece of paper Tristie hands him. Eleven digits. They’d all agreed on a basic encryption system when Ward 13 first came together, to transmit any set of important numbers to one another over open lines. Subtract four from the value of the fourth digit, six from the value of the sixth and so on. ‘Why does it start with four and then change every second number?’ Tristie had asked them, knowing the key to any code is simplicity. Answer, ‘
Because
England beat Germany four–two to win the World Cup.’ They’d teased her about the code. So what, the code is simple, but effective enough to keep Noppy’s computers gummed up for a while . . .

Tristie scrutinises the back of his nodding head, thinking she might just tear Button’s hair out if he doesn’t let on soon. Twelve months of planning, Ward 13 . . . and all she can do is listen second-hand to the news arriving. Her mind fills with images of flag-draped coffins at RAF Lyneham being escorted
down ramps of C-17 transporters, of Wootton Bassett, the nearby Wiltshire town where so many have taken to standing in silence as the hearses pass through, and of the quiet rage and terrible impotence of those who made it home, alive . . . but shattered.

Will all this be worth it?

Button’s face doesn’t give anything away. ‘Yeah . . . he might appreciate the help . . . good enough, mate . . . cheers.’

He clicks the button to end the call, houses the phone, thanking the nervous mother whose seat the phone belongs to, and happily
coochie-coos
the little dark-haired girl on the woman’s lap.

Button stretches out the aches and stresses in his body, like a lion after a long snooze, turns to Tristie. ‘Well . . .’ big-bastard smile on his face ‘we got the money.’

The next thing, she has hopped up into Button’s arms, squeezing the life out of his neck. Fizzing with relief. His voice is inches away yet his words seems so small and remote, as if he’s whispering to her from the far end of a hangar. ‘. . . Piglet read me the story, the actual yarn from the Sun and the Daily Mail website just to make sure . . . three hundred and fifteen million bloody quid, girl . . . Defence Secretary saying he’s going to make a formal statement to the House tomorrow . . . Exchequer to make it official . . . you fucking did it, Tristie.’