Devolution (9 page)

A loud roar consumed the House.

Shouting over the merriment, the Speaker proclaimed, “We will have our final meeting of committee members after lunch.”

Following another smack of the mallet, this brief session of the Commons came to a close.

Tony Manning casually made his way down the rickety wooden steps. From across the floor, he spotted Richard Sykes. The MP’s morose disposition separated him from the jovial mood of those around him. Manning was in no hurry as he walked over. Sykes spotted his approach and excused himself from the group.

Manning extended his hand as they neared. “How have you been, my friend?” They hadn’t spoken since that afternoon at the cafe.

“I’m getting by.” Sykes’ defeated eyes, however, told a different story. “It’s still tough.”

Tony understood, and he did not envy him. Without a family, Sykes had no one to comfort him, no one to console him. No one to love him.

Manning placed a compassionate hand on his old friend’s shoulder. “It’s not too late.”

The expression on Sykes’ face remained unchanged: stern, yet weak.

Off to their right, Tony noticed a figure emerge.

“Gentlemen,” William Cunnington said with a heavy soul.

To Tony’s left, MP Pugh entered the conversation. “So, this is it.” Pugh’s spirit was on par with the others: joyless and somber. “I was sort of hoping this day would never come.”

The remaining members of the House suspended their own conversations to witness the embrace. The four heroes stood together, possibly for the last time. The hall silenced.

“I’ll be honest,” Cunnington confessed, fighting his emotions, “I thought about running again. But I need more time.”

Manning and Sykes tried to console him; they felt his pain.

The rest of the House looked on sympathetically. No one dared to even move. The hall had never been so full, yet so quiet.

Pugh removed his hand from Cunnington’s shoulder and placed it in the middle of their small circle. Sykes followed by placing his on top. Manning and Cunnington joined in solidarity.

“To us…” The four men tightened their grips. Pugh spoke softly, his words intended for their ears only. “…the men performing the greatest patriotic service that no one knows.”

Touched by the reality they shared, the other three replied, “To us.”

The tight embrace of their hands fell away, and their inner circle broke apart. If they had only known one of them would not live to see the afternoon session, they may have prolonged the moment.

*

It was a chilly, overcast April afternoon in London. The Members of Parliament broke out of Westminster for one last lunch break before elections. A strong westerly wind signaled the approach of a cold front and possibly rain. Under the Vauxhall Bridge stood a man dressed in a full-length tan coat and matching hat. The pillars of the bridge acted as a funnel guiding the gales over the River Thames. Newsman Chris Nash battled to keep his balance. Hunched forward with his fists clenched in his pockets, he shivered in the rushing current, wondering why he was asked to meet here. Under the bridge lay a few vagabonds, huddled together under layers of worn-out cardboard and raggedy blankets. In the distance, up river, Nash spotted an approaching figure. His heart began to pound and gelid beads of nervous sweat formed on his forehead.

The figure was wrapped in an ankle-length khaki trench coat, with a hood pulled securely over its head. Sporadic gusts lifted the bottom half of the coat, revealing dress shoes and pinstriped pants. With taut arms jammed into the pockets, the figure battled the headwind. Nash noticed the face was hidden behind dark sunglasses and a tightly wound scarf.

The man was soon upon him, his head held low. “Mr. Nash?” the figure called over the loudly blowing air.

“Yes!” Nash yelled.

The man removed a piece of paper from his pocket and presented it to the newsman. Nash leaned in.

The man’s voice rose to a barely audible level. “Few in Parliament know of this. The prime minister is your contact.”

Nash battled the wind trying to view the pamphlet. “Where did you get this?”

“Do the right thing, Mr. Nash. Your country needs you.”

The man turned and walked back along the river. The wind seemed to carry him away, leaving Nash to stand in amazement, gazing at what could be the story of the century.

*

RING!!! RING!!!

The sound of the incoming call echoed through his posh office. Alam Jabbar casually put down his book, rose from his leather sofa, and limped to the phone.

“Hello?” He rubbed his tired eyes.

“Mr. Jabbar,” said a deep, cavernous voice.

He recognized it immediately, but played it off as unimportant. His fatigue faded. “How can I help you?” A faint pulse mildly thumped in his ear.

“Have you made a decision?”

“Why do you keep calling us?”

“All you need is what I provided you.”

“I am through playing these games with you,” Jabbar blurted out.

“No, you’re not,” the man said calmly.

He had called Jabbar’s bluff, and they both knew it.

“What do you want from us?”

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Jabbar. What do you think I want?”

Click!

The line suddenly went silent.

Jabbar groaned, placing the phone on its base. His stomach churned while he impatiently awaited a call back. His fingers danced nervously across his desk. Five minutes passed before he reluctantly reached for his other phone.

“Yes, Jabbar,” answered Aasir Abdulah Kabul, as if the call were anticipated.

“Sir, we just got a call. It was tapped and then disconnected. We spoke of nothing important.” Jabbar was about to apologize for failing his boss—he wanted a name. Then Kabul uttered, “Standard protocol. I know it well.”

“Sir?” Jabbar was puzzled. “British intelligence,” Kabul explained. “They hung up for you.”

*

William Cunnington was sitting at a table with many of his fellow Parliamentarians. The men often spent the noon hour at the Soba Noodle Bar, not far from Westminster. The sleek interior blended variations of stained hardwoods with yellow radiance. There was no better place to enjoy their final lunch as representatives.

Richard Sykes was the last to arrive, and excused his tardiness. “I had to get something out of my office.” He shook off his coat and hung it on the back of the chair.

Pugh and Manning also sat at the eight-person table, and Sykes settled across from them.

“So this is it,” Cunnington commented. “The last time we’ll sit here.”

“How about we talk about something else?” Manning pleaded.

“Think you guys will run again, someday?” asked a fellow MP who filled one of the remaining seats.

Pugh reached across Manning towards the sugar bowl. “I might,” he said absently.

“My wife won’t let me leave,” Manning joked. “I have to make some money.”

“Don’t give me that,” Sykes mocked. “That wife of yours makes enough cash.”

“That was my mistake,” chimed another PM. “I went for looks.”

“Really?” Cunnington questioned. “Slim pickings where you’re from, huh, Paul?” The table broke out in laughter.

The light prodding helped to lift the suffocating cloud that hung above the table. For the remainder of lunch, the men avoided discussion of the hostage crisis and its aftermath.

The check was paid, and soon afterward, they all had their coats heading towards the door.

“After you.” Manning reached for the handle ahead of Sykes.

When the door swung open, it ushered in a gust of cool, moist April air. The patrons turned towards the door when the refreshing breeze fell upon them. The men embraced the harshest of the draft, their coats and scarves swinging freely in the opposite direction.

In what appeared to be slow motion, the expressions of the patrons turned to horror as three bullets punctured Sykes’ chest. The blasts from the shots violently ricocheted off the restaurant walls. The force of the blow knocked Sykes into Manning’s arms. Plates and glass chattered as tables were thrown onto their sides for protection. Women screamed and men yelled to get down.

“Call the paramedics!” Manning cried, clinging onto his dear friend. The blood gushed from his body.

The other MPs rushed to assist Manning in lowering Sykes’ to the floor. The door quietly closed as they pulled his limp body from the entrance.

Manning opened his friend’s shirt, revealing three flowing holes. “Oh, my God!” His fellow MPs stood in horror. “Is there a doctor here!?” Manning screamed, clutching Sykes’ lifeless body. “Please, is there a doctor here!?”

“Hang in there,” Manning begged, the tears rushing down his face. He knelt on the floor, his friend resting in his arms.

Despite Manning’s pleas, Sykes lay motionless, his olive complexion turning to a pale blue.

“The paramedics are coming!” Cunnington hollered.

Manning pressed his fingers to Sykes’ neck. Feeling nothing, he placed his friend on the floor and began pumping his chest. With each thrust, hope faded from the eyes of the onlookers. Their concern morphed into a solemn stare of inevitability.

Cunnington stepped forward, placing a hand on Manning’s shoulder. He gave a sturdy squeeze. Bathed in blood, Manning stopped pumping and lowered his head to Sykes’ chest. He wept as patrons began to emerge from behind the fallen tables. Off in the distance, the faint wails of an ambulance grew louder.

*

A
pril 15

The final toll of the bell faded as the pastor began the service. His voice calmly echoed off the stone walls of the cathedral.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate the life of a friend, a father, a husband, and a son.”

Mourners continued to enter under the large expanse of Gothic arches, yet the pews were barely a quarter full. MP Richard Sykes lay in state at the front. His friends and loved ones, dressed in a dull black, struggled to compose themselves. The church’s stained glass windows cast a spiritual light.

Manning, Pugh, and Cunnington sat in the front pew. They appeared lost and abandoned, despite the support of their families. Sykes was now a central player in the two most dramatic experiences of their lives. The pastor continued with his sermon, but the men discerned only ambient noise. The pain of the moment was too consuming, and no one could understand their pain.

While the manifestations of their internal struggles appeared identical, the fuel of their thoughts was very different. Pugh and Cunnington focused on Sykes and what he had meant in their lives. They remembered the times they shared. In Tony Manning, however, a rage was building. In that church, at that moment, he vowed to avenge his friend’s death. And he knew his target.

Across town, within earshot of the tolling bells, the London Chief of Police opened a very contentious news conference.

“I know, I know,” he stated to a badgering media, his arms held high. “If you give me a second, I can answer your questions.” He tried to show as little frustration as possible. “We have a suspect in custody. He is a member of the Loyalist Ali Front. Right now we can’t link it to the hostage crisis, but we are looking into it. We do not know why MP Sykes was targeted. But the man has confessed.”

Chris Nash squeezed his way to the front of the media mob. Normally, news directors didn’t leave their offices, but the newsman had an inkling this was somehow connected to
his
investigation. “Do you believe the other three hostages are in danger?” Nash hollered.

The rest of the media followed with their own queries, flustering the chief and giving him no time to answer.

Aasir Abdulah Kabul and many of his comrades, including Alam Jabbar, were watching the press conference from his office.

Kabul’s office was even more magnificent than Jabbar’s. Animal heads from his hunting expeditions hid the Versailles paneled walls. Visitors stood upon bamboo flooring and Tabriz Haji Jalili rugs.

“Turn that off,” he barked. “This does not seem right.” Kabul’s keen instincts told him something was amiss.

“What does not seem right?” Jabbar asked, admiring his boss’ intuition.

Kabul motioned towards the blank screen. “This guy—something does not seem right about his death. Why would that terror group who took him hostage kill him and not the others?”

One of his subordinates spoke up, “They could kill them one by one.”

“All the MPs were in that restaurant. If they wanted them dead, that was the moment,” Kabul said.

“Maybe it was not the LAF,” suggested Jabbar. He rose from Kabul’s red sofa and reached for his cane. “Remember the letter we received?”

Kabul rubbed his chin. “You never received a call back from that person, did you?”

“And it was tapped.” Jabbar was pretty sure he knew where his boss was going with this.

Kabul was now in deep thought.
Could it be coincidence?

“Do you think whoever killed him will come after us?” Jabbar asked with concern.

“When you last spoke with this person,” Kabul said, ignoring his question, “did either of you mention anything about the pamphlet?”

“No,” Jabbar recalled, though he was uncertain. It had happened so quickly
.
“We didn’t get that far into the conversation.”

“But you got far enough for someone to recognize his voice.” Kabul grinned with nefarious excitement. “Mr. Jabbar, I think your mystery man was Richard Sykes.”

A blast of intrigue rushed through the room.

“My comrades,” Kabul proclaimed, “we now have the upper hand.”

The leader’s grin grew more prominent as he rose to his feet and proudly advanced towards the window. The realization was nearly overwhelming. Their opportunity to exact revenge was possibly at hand. He relished in this revelation as he overlooked downtown London.

Kabul’s gaze fell upon a long black sedan creeping down Victoria Street below. For no particular reason, he watched the vehicle vanish among the brick edifices of the aging city.