Deadly Sin (2 page)

“Well, Bliss,” demands the commander. “Do you want to send in special forces?”

“Special forces,” muses Bliss, knowing that, on his word, a bunch of testosterone-hyped hit men in full riot gear will storm out of the shadows and smash heads.

“Yes … or … no,” harangues the commander in Bliss's ear, but Bliss is peering intently into the swelling crowd, searching for kids and smiles. The radio commentator isn't helping. “Opinion polls suggest that there are as many Muslims hostile to this visit as there are Christians,” he is saying, but Bliss finds only flag- and camera-waving friendlies, and he is happy to see the crowd melt back to the sidewalk as the cavalcade approaches.

“No special forces, sir.”

“Good call, Chief Inspector,” says the commander once the royal car has passed, although the praise falls flat as a mob of sign-wielding protesters a mile down the road at the mosque batter a hole in the cordon and rush the steps.

The sniper's visor is up. He levels the rifle to his shoulder.

Bliss is watching the handful of cross-waving protesters as they give a dozen uniformed men the runaround in front of the invited guests. He could bring in the heavies, but he vacillates. If the Queen gets wind from the press that a bunch of harmless loonies have been clobbered by the riot squad, he'll be clearing out his desk at the Yard by the end of the week.

The lineup of grey-robed mullahs, imams, and Islamic officials on the mosque's steps are in the sniper's sights, and he smiles as he moves along the rank, drawing a bead on each face in turn. “Pop!” he mouths, then moves on. “Pop! … Pop! … Pop!” Twenty seconds, ten shots, and any semblance of religious harmony will be back to where it was during the Crusades.

Commander Fox has other targets in his sights, and he makes a stab at the demonstrators on Bliss's screen who are now kneeling in prayer. “Oh, for chrissakes. Are you going to do anything?”

Bliss reaches for a microphone, takes a breath, and takes control. “Slow the procession; send in a surgical squad, fast — no gas, no stun guns, no dogs. The world is watching. All units — one-minute delay.”

“One minute?” queries the commander disbelievingly.

Bliss crosses his fingers. One minute can be absorbed — a clipped speech, a few hurried handshakes with some of the minions, one less prayer. But more than a minute and he'll have to consider revising schedules.

“The police are moving in to clear the demonstrators …” the BBC is reporting, and Bliss watches, praying that no one gets happy-handed with any of the sacrificial Bible punchers, knowing that nothing will make the news editors or the bishops happier than an armour-plated cop beating the crap out of a sandal-wearing Jesus look-alike to clear the way for the Queen to pay homage to Mohammed.

“Thank God for that,” mutters Bliss a minute later as the last of the zealots are carried away — still chanting, still praying.

The Queen's car rolls gracefully to a stop at the foot of the mosque's marble steps, and a footman slips forward to open the door. The sniper switches aim. The BBC switches to a fashion guru whose tone is closer to disgust than disdain as she takes in the unfashionable sight. “Her Majesty appears to be wearing some form of Muslim burkha,” she says as the hooded Queen steps from the car into the sniper's view. Then all of Bliss's surveillance screens simultaneously fade to black.

“Power cut,” yells Sergeant Williams, but Bliss has other ideas.

“Line sabotage,” he says. “We're on generator backup. Someone must've cut the feed —”

“Well!” screeches the commander. “Don't just sit there. Do something, Chief Inspector.”

“Yes, sir,” replies Bliss, as he frantically stabs buttons. But the screens stay blank.

“And now Her Majesty is waving to the crowd …” continues the BBC reporter, although his voice is almost drowned by whistles and boos.

“Alpha Charlie two-zero,” shouts Bliss into a microphone, desperately trying the Queen's bodyguard. “Get Guinevere back in the car. Get her back in the car.”

“Now Prince Philip has joined Her Majesty as they are welcomed by Shi'ite Imam Al-Shamman,” the reporter carries on. “But it appears that many of the specially invited onlookers aren't happy with the Queen's wardrobe …”

“Now what're you gonna do, Bliss?” nags the commander, and Bliss unsuccessfully tries the bodyguard again.

The sniper's aim is unwavering as he follows the Queen up the steps.

“The royal guests are slowly making their way towards the reception party on this historic occasion …”

Bliss has an idea, punches a button, and springs to life a picture from a police helicopter hovering over the scene. “Direct radio feed — no wires,” he says proudly as he scans the scene from overhead, then he freezes in horror.

“All units. All units!” he yells into the microphone as the sniper on his screen tenses to squeeze the trigger. “Red alert! Red alert! Red alert!”

“Sit down, Chief Inspector,” says the assistant commissioner sternly as Bliss is ushered into the inner sanctum of New Scotland Yard an hour later. The door shuts with a firm
clunk
behind him.

“You know Commander Fox,” the A.C. continues, pointing to his second-in-command as Bliss takes the strategically placed chair in the centre of the room, although the senior officer makes it clear that he has no intention of introducing the two men who are eyeing the newcomer from the comfort of a black leather settee.

Secret Service — royalty protection
, thinks Bliss, glancing at the clean-shaven pinstripe pair who are lounging, jacketless, with the smugness of Mafia capos at a lynching.

The air is heavy despite the brilliant sunshine of the August day. Bliss sits and waits, guessing that anything he says now will only tighten the noose. The assistant commissioner puts on reading glasses to scan a sheet from the single slim file on his desk. The senior officer has already read it twice and knows the conclusion. But this is politics; the stakes are high, careers are on the line, pensions are at risk. Commander Fox sits alongside the A.C. with a poker stare waiting for orders, readying to pull on the rope with the others.

Why bother with this nonsense?
Bliss questions inwardly, knowing his resignation has been in his pocket for several years.
Stuff you
, he thinks with an eye on the assistant commissioner.
I can play your stupid game — and win. Twenty-eight years on the streets for Queen and country and you think you're going to rip me apart just to please those poncy schoolkids on the settee. Look at them; softer than baby's shit. They wouldn't last five minutes in Brixton on a Saturday night
.

“Well, Chief Inspector,” says the A.C., putting down his glasses with deliberation. “It seems that, overall, your performance was very satisfactory.” Then he waves to encompass the room and laughs. “You just saved us all from King Charles and Queen bloody Camilla.”

“A satisfactory performance,” fumes David Bliss as he walks home along the Thames embankment amid the jostle of a million similarly stressed escapees.

A mirrored image of London Eye, the giant millennium Ferris wheel, catches his attention as it slowly revolves in the river as if driven by the relentlessly flowing water,
and he slips out of the miserable stream of homebound workers to watch.

“Old Father Thames keeps rolling along …” he hums under his breath, trying to put his woes in perspective, but the torpid river's apparent immortality drags him down with the realization that it will still be coursing through England's ancient capital long after him. “I'm fifty tomorrow,” he muses gloomily, realizing that he is on the cusp of a downhill run with no hope of a trophy at the end. But is he halfway? He knows his chances of reaching a century: one in twenty-six, discounting nuclear holocaust and other global catastrophes. Four out of a hundred — better numbers than the lottery, but not the sort of odds to bet your life on.

“Repent. The end is nigh,” sings out an aging sandwich man as Bliss passes, but it's a song he has been singing for more than thirty years. His voice is hoarse, and his credibility is as tattered as the raincoat and the heavy billboards that weigh him down.

“Give us some change for a cuppa, guv'nor,” pleads the mendicant, slipping from under his boards and sidling up to Bliss. “It's bleedin' boilin' out 'ere.”

“You need a cold drink …” starts Bliss, sees the light starting to form in the old beggar's eyes and pauses. “Maybe you should get shot of that old coat.”

“Not bloomin' likely,” he snarls, baring a mouthful of nightmarish teeth. “I wouldn't have nuvving to wear fer winter.”

Bliss feels for a coin and jokes. “Don't worry, mate. If you're right, it'll be a damn sight hotter for most of us by then.”

“It ain't funny, guv'nor. Look at all the bleedin' 'urricanes an' erfquakes. Mark my words, the end is near.”

“But when — today?”

The perpetually disappointed doomsayer squints at the clear blue sky as if checking for a portent — a flock of ravens; a lightning bolt; the hand of God. Finding nothing more
apocalyptic than a jumbo jet spewing pollution en route to Heathrow he turns back to Bliss and whispers, “Nah. Not today, guv'nor. We're aw'right today. Next week p'raps.”

“I'll be waiting,” mocks Bliss sternly as he hands over a pound coin, but as he rejoins the homebound flood of office labourers he sinks lower, thinking,
What if he is right? What if I have only one more week?
Mid-life crisis, he tries telling himself, but is it mid-life?

In the August heat the Friday rush hour of weary workers is as torpid as the river. Global warming is on everyone's lips as the mercury bumps off the scale for the third week in a row, and most are heading for the coast and the cool waters of the North Sea or the Channel.

“Heat Wave Takes Elderly Toll,” shouts the headline in the
Evening Chronicle
, but Bliss delves deeper to discover that it's editorial hype. “Health officials estimate that as many as a thousand may die …” continues the article, leaving him wondering how many of them will be happy not to have to struggle through another winter.

A counter-flow of foreign tourists bucks the tide as homebound workers stream into the stifling stations and subways, but most of the visitors have come prepared, wearing saris, djellabas, and kaftans; many of them are thankful for the relative chill of the sweltering English weather.

Bliss balks as he is swept towards Embankment tube station. The persistent threat of a fanatic's bomb and the thought of being stuffed into a smelly sweatbox for half an hour turns him off, and he heads for Waterloo Bridge.
The walk will do me good
, he persuades himself, not needing to check his midriff, and as he crosses the river his mind is still on his age. Fifty years of relentless gravity may be having a negative effect on his gut, hair, and eyelids, but by craning back his head and straightening his spine he still has no difficulty seeing over the heads of the throng.

Which of them have the genes, the fortitude, and the luck to beat the odds and get a birthday card from the
Queen, he wonders, picking out faces with a detective's eye — white, red, brown, and black; Caucasian, Afro-Caribbean, and Asian; sallow, ashen, and flushed; flabby, drawn, and downtrodden; pretty, ugly, and plain. Who are they? What are their hopes, dreams, and ambitions? Which of them could be talking to God, listening to God, or scheming to play God? And which God? Whose God?

He stops mid-bridge and searches for a moment's solace amidst the constant rumble of buses and taxis as he leans over the stone parapet to gaze into the languid water. His presence makes an eddy in the stream of silent pedestrians as they eye him watchfully, even fearfully. Couples, families, and troupes of tourists may pause to marvel at the historic riverside views without causing a stir, but not a lone man in a business suit peering introspectively at the river.

Where are we going? he wants to know, questioning both his own future and that of humanity, and time takes a very long breath as his eyes lose their focus in the slowly swirling sludge.

“Are you all right, sir?” queries a suspicious voice eventually, and it takes Bliss a few moments to bring himself back.

“Brain fart,” he explains, turning slowly to the uniformed constable with an embarrassed laugh. “I was trying to look into the future.”

“Really,” says the young officer guardedly, and Bliss immediately catches on to the constable's look of cynicism. He quickly pulls out his warrant card, explaining, “I'm D.C.I. Bliss from the Yard,” as if his status guarantees immunity from suicidal tendencies. But his identity puts a new complexion on the officer's baby face, and the young man stutters, “S-s-sorry, sir …” Then he attempts to deflect the blame with a vague sweep of his hand. “O-o-only, some people were worried …”

“No problem, son,” says Bliss, recalling similarly embarrassing moments in his early years, but as he carries on across the bridge he can't help laughing about the
young officer. He's probably still a teenager — maybe twenty; his mother sits at home fearing a terrorist attack while he spends most days as a city guide and photographer's model praying for one.
I was probably like that
, reflects Bliss, and he pictures a tall, keen, athletic young man who, in his own mind, hasn't changed a great deal. Most of his hair is still holding on, although the colour's fading. “You can get stuff for that,” his adult daughter, Samantha, frequently reminds him. But what then — dentures, spectacles, and Viagra? And after that — incontinence pads, colostomy bags, and a constant diet of minced meat, rice pudding, and Vera Lynn?

“You're only fifty, for chrissakes,” he tries telling himself as he walks along the riverside path but he realizes that, like the Thames, he is a lot nearer the wide open ocean than most of his colleagues.