Son of Perdition (Chronicles of Brothers) (11 page)

He clenched his fists.

‘ . . . 
and
I’m not going to Yale – I’m going to film school in New York and
you
won’t stop me.’

James moved towards Jason and grasped him firmly by the shoulder.

‘And who
pays
for boarding school and film school? You’ll do as I say, young man.’

‘Go on – buy my subservience with
money
– just like you buy
every
one.’

James turned to Lilian. Incensed. ‘It’s enough, Lilian! He sits in his room for days at a time watching God knows what. That Stanley . . . Stanley . . . ’

‘Cupcake,’ shouted Nick. Then he buried his head in the sofa cushions.

Jason threw his hands up. ‘
Kubrick
,’ he shouted, red in the face. ‘Kubrick to my unenlightened, media-illiterate family.’

‘You’re grounded and no allowance!’ Adrian muttered under his breath. Lilian gave him a warning look.

‘You’re
grounded
,’ James roared, thrusting Jason away from him in fury.

Nick and Adrian collapsed in uproarious laughter. Lilian gestured vainly to them to be quiet.

‘And you watch that
temper
, Jason De Vere!’

Jason stormed out of the drawing room, slamming the door behind him.

‘
Not one
of the De Veres has a temper like his,’ James exclaimed, heatedly.

The door reopened.

‘
You
do!’ Jason screamed. He raced up the stairs like lightning.

Lilian walked over to the windows, hiding her amusement.

‘ . . . AND
NO
ALLOWANCE!’ James roared up the stairs.

He strode back into the drawing room and turned to Lilian, his face like thunder.

‘He’s coming to England, Lilian. My word is final.’

Five Weeks Later
New York Harbour, New York

The entire De Vere family gathered inside the huge embarkation hall in New York Harbour. A vast pile of trunks labelled ‘De Vere’ stood in front of a large glass divider beyond which lay the massive berth of the
RMS Queen Elizabeth 2
.

Lilian took out a hanky, tears welling in her eyes. She clutched Jason to her. ‘Goodbye, Jason, darling.’

Jason hugged her tightly. ‘Bye, Mom. Take care.’

James slapped his eldest son on his back, ‘I’ll miss you, Jason.’ He stepped back, his eyes moist. ‘Do us proud at Yale, son, and you can go to film school. I give you my word.’

Jason nodded, suddenly emotional. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

He tousled Nick’s hair, then slapped Adrian on the shoulder.

James and Lilian turned and moved through passport control, up the embarkation gangway, followed by Adrian and Nick who clutched his father’s hand tightly.

‘Hey, Nick!’ Jason called.

Nick turned around.

‘Now I’m not there to protect you and Adrian’s off to Gordonstoun, you have to stand up to the Limeys!’

Nick let go of James’s hand and bolted back down the gangway, escaping the grasp of the unprepared passport controller, and ran full tilt into Jason’s legs.

Jason knelt down and gently raised Nick’s tear-stained face to his own.

‘Hey, pal,’ he whispered. ‘I’m always here for you. No matter what.’

‘No matter what . . . ’ Nick stammered.

Jason held out his left hand. ‘Remember. Brothers’ pact . . . ’

Nick placed his chubby nail-bitten hand on top of Jason’s just as Adrian ran back down the gangway to place his left hand on top of Nick’s.

‘Brothers,’ said Jason.

‘BROTHERS!’ Adrian and Nick echoed in unison.

‘For eternity!’ Nick added, emphatically.

Jason looked down at the urchin-faced five-year-old and gave Nick his lopsided grin.

‘For ever, pal,’ Jason murmured. ‘My word.’

Nick nodded earnestly.

A flashbulb went off as Maxim pressed the trigger of his latest invention, a black digital camera with a myriad of impressive-looking silver gadgets on its top.

The ship’s horn sounded.

‘Boys! Come on!’ James called. Nick and Adrian ran back up the gangplank, then turned to Jason, waving furiously.

‘I’ll miss you guys!’ Jason shouted above the noise of the ship’s engines.

The flash went off again.

James and Lilian stood at the entrance and waved, Lilian crying and blowing Jason one last kiss.

He took a deep breath, watching his father as he finally disappeared into the ship.

Maxim walked towards Jason, camera in hand.

‘You’re my responsibility now, Master Jason.’

‘Let’s pack for Yale.’

TWENTY-SEVEN YEARS LATER

Chapter Fifteen

Brothers

King David Hotel, Jerusalem, Saturday, 18 December 2021

Jason De Vere paced the marbled floors of the lobby of the King David Hotel, barking instructions into the headset of his mobile phone. He checked his watch for the third time in quick succession, then reluctantly sank into a large leather chair and idly picked up the business section of
The Washington Post
. He glared in distaste at the cup of weak Israeli coffee on the table. Thank God the Third World War was finally over. The Ishtar Accord couldn’t come soon enough for his liking, and he knew he echoed the sentiments of hundreds of conglomerate owners throughout the Middle East and the West. At least the media industry was fast returning to normal. He took a sip of the lukewarm black coffee and grimaced. VOX’s Jerusalem offices had escaped the worst of the war but his entire Tel Aviv staff had been killed in the nuclear blast from Iran. He sighed. And the King David Hotel stood unscathed. He snapped out of his reverie at the wailing of sirens drawing up outside the hotel.

Adrian had finally arrived.

Three black vans carrying six armed EU secret service men led the cavalcade, followed by the European President’s sleek armoured Mercedes. Four additional Mercedes and three more enormous protection vans screeched to an abrupt halt outside the hotel entrance, their earsplitting sirens still wailing.

Six bodyguards armed with MP5 machine pistols jumped out of the first van and tore into the lobby while four Israeli police helicopters chattered overhead.

Immediately, six secret service men surrounded the armoured Mercedes as Adrian De Vere exited. He walked through the entrance of the hotel shielded by his bodyguards into the lobby, straight to where Jason sat.

Jason put down the paper and grinned, studying Adrian as he took off his jacket and handed it to his personal bodyguard. He sat down on the plush velvet sofa, observing Jason affectionately.

Adrian seemed relaxed. He wore an easy air of sophistication, a man at home with his presidency. Trim, tanned and immaculately groomed, his playboyish good looks took eight years off him. Jason grimaced. Where his brother passed for thirty-two at forty, Jason was well aware he looked fifty for his forty-three.

‘God, you’re good, kid!’ Jason leant over, clasping Adrian’s shoulder. ‘The last time you got this much attention was when you burned down Dad’s greenhouse and the Newport firefighters came down! The centre of Jerusalem is totally blocked off. Air space over Ben Gurion Airport is closed. The whole city’s crawling with police units and snipers.’

Adrian grinned and loosened his tie.

‘Cappuccino.’ Adrian smiled at a waiter hovering anxiously next to him. The waiter shook his head nervously.

‘No cappuccino, Mr President, sir. It’s Shabbat,’ the waiter replied in a thick Israeli accent.

Jason held up his cup and sighed. ‘Even a European President has to bow to Shabbat . . . ’ He sighed again. ‘No milk.’

Adrian looked up at the waiter. He nodded. ‘Black coffee.’

Jason raised his eyebrows. ‘It’ll be lukewarm.’ He picked up
The Washington Post
. A photograph of Adrian covered the front page.

‘You’re the big news in this town.’ In fact, you’re the big news
everywhere
. The most historic peace accord in seven decades of the Middle East – “The charisma of JFK”, “the statesmanship of Kissinger”.’ He put the paper down on the table. ‘You got the European Presidency, pal, and you deserve it.’

Adrian grinned. ‘Not bad for someone who nearly failed his GCSEs. You should see the security brief.’

He called over his shoulder. ‘Travis.’ A muscular, clean-shaven man with close-cropped blond hair and clear blue eyes stepped forward.

Jason nodded in recognition. Neil Travis, former SAS, Adrian’s soft-spoken head of security, had been in the security detail for Adrian’s entire eight-year term as British Prime Minister. Travis pulled out a three-hundred-page dossier, then nodded respectfully to Jason.

‘The greatest security operation ever mounted in Israel, Mr President, sir.’

‘Bigger than Bush in 2008, Travis?’ Jason teased.

‘Respectfully, much bigger than President Bush, Mr De Vere, sir.’

‘Thank you, Travis,’ Adrian said.

Travis stepped back out of sight.

‘It’s exhausting to be President,’ Adrian laughed.

‘Sounds more exhausting to be your security detail,’ Jason said dryly.

Adrian grinned. ‘He’s a good man.’ He looked around the lobby. ‘I haven’t been here for years, to the King David, I mean.’

‘I heard they’ve given you the Royal Suite,’ Jason said. ‘Mother would bite your hand off.’ He grinned. ‘You know they turned me and a thousand other lesser mortals away on account of you.’

‘Sorry, pal, you should have let me know you were out here.’ Adrian shook his head. ‘Independent as always – you should have used my name, Jason. Chastenay booked every room four weeks in advance – more easily secured. You know the drill.’

‘It’s okay,’ said Jason. ‘I’ve booked out the fourth floor of the Colony. I prefer it.’

‘Melissa and I used to stay there a lot when I was . . . ’ Adrian broke off in midflow. ‘I didn’t want to go back . . . ’ His voice trailed off.

Jason studied his younger brother as the waiter returned with the coffee. When was the last time he’d seen Adrian? Four months ago at Melissa and the baby’s funerals in London. Briefly at the Aqaba press conference. Business. But as brothers, they hadn’t had a personal one-on-one since the last De Vere summer-vacation house party in Martha’s Vineyard when their father had still been alive.

Jason studied his younger brother.

Adrian had changed. It was subtle, but unmistakable.

Two years ago, after two terms as British Prime Minister, he had been worn down by the relentless British cynicism and the mandatory attacks on his character and policy. He had taken a year off after resigning from the Labour Party and had holidayed for three months with Melissa in the Carribean. She was already five months pregnant.

Then four months ago, the unbelievable had happened.

Melissa Vane Templar De Vere, Adrian’s wife, died in childbirth and the son whom Adrian had so eagerly awaited had been stillborn.

Adrian had thrown himself furiously back into politics and was appointed Europe’s envoy to the Middle East during the Russo-Pan-Arab-Israeli war. It had finally ended two months ago. A month later he had been inaugurated as European President with a ten-year term. The most powerful man in the West.

The Third World War – the bloodiest war in history – had ended. And Adrian De Vere had been almost single-handedly responsible for strategizing the most complex and ambitious peace process in the history of the Western and Middle Eastern world.

After five separate last-minute cessations, three by the Iranians and the most recent two by Israel, the final accord was due to be signed on 7 January in Babylon.

‘How much time have you got, Adrian?’

‘I meet the King of Jordan here in twenty minutes. Then the Russians, dinner with President Levin, coffee with the Turkish Prime Minister, then fly out at midnight to Teheran. It’s good to see you here, Jas. What is it – a VOX merger?’

Jason shook his head.

‘A buyout. The Israeli cable platforms YES and HOT are up for grabs. VOX closes on it tomorrow. And I’m considering purchasing Israel’s largest satellite provider. Once the Accord is signed, media shareholding here will go through the roof.’

‘Impressive. Let’s hope the Accord goes through without another hitch.’

‘The Israelis still not buying into the peace process?’ Jason asked.

‘The truth
is
, Jas, if I don’t get the Israelis to the table this time, the entire process is finished.’ Adrian set down his cup. ‘Destroyed.’ He looked straight ahead, grim.

‘I thought you had it in the bag?’ Jason said, puzzled.

‘I have. But it’s complicated. He leant back in his chair and sighed ‘The major challenge to the whole peace process is that the Israelis won. Single-handedly defeated the combined Russian and Arab military in twenty-two months.’

He lowered his voice. ‘The earthquake was the event that threw it their way. We all
know
that but of course . . . ’ He nodded in the direction of the resident Rabbi overseeing the Shabbat observance regulations. ‘ . . . 
they’re
attributing that to the hand of the Almighty. And who can blame them? I mean it was a showdown – Iran, Russia, Turkey and Syria decimated on the mountains of Israel. An unmitigated victory. It makes the war of ’67 pale in comparison.’

Adrian drew his head closer to his brother.

‘They’ve got enough nuclear fuel to power Israel for seven years. The truth is the Israelis want
total
capitulation from both the Arabs and the Russians. Nothing less. To them the peace accord is an admission of defeat. We had them at the point of signing three times.’

He drank down his coffee.

‘When it comes to the issue of Jerusalem, they won’t concede an inch. In their terms, they defeated the Arabs and they’re demanding some major concessions. They want the entire Temple Mount back, East Jerusalem returned and a watertight military commitment from the EU, UN and NATO to protect Israel and her borders for the next seven years . . . ’ He sighed. ‘The old 1967 borders.’

‘Whew! Tough, little brother! And the Arabs – they’re going to accept that?’

‘They have already. It’s the Israelis. They’ve agreed to all our demands but they refuse to denuclearize.’

Adrian suddenly looked worn beyond his years.

‘I’ve worked day and night for this, Jason.’ He nodded to the waiter and pointed to his cup. ‘But I think I have it covered.’

The waiter filled Adrian’s cup and retreated.

‘I have attained access – how do I put it? – to something of extreme value to the Israelis.’ He paused. ‘I intend to lock it down by the end of the week. I’m sure they’ll be persuaded. I’m not prepared to let anything stand in my way.’

Jason noted the speed with which his younger brother had moved from relaxed charm to man of steel in less than five seconds.

‘I heard about the Temple Mount fiasco.’ Jason gestured at the papers. ‘Some ancient relic stolen.’

Adrian lowered his voice below the hearing of the EU support staff, civil servants and secret service agents now positioned all over the lobby.

‘It should have been kept under wraps. The Israelis are blaming the Arabs. The Russians are blaming the Israelis. The Arabs say it’s a set-up by Mossad. The issue is – they aren’t taking it with a pinch of salt.’

‘You think it was terrorists?’

‘We don’t think. We’re sure.’ He sipped at his coffee again. ‘It had all the hallmarks of a terrorist group.’

‘And no sign of the artefact?’

Adrian shook his head.

‘It’s evaporated into thin air. Every agency in the world is onto it but there’s nothing. To all intents and purposes it may as well never have existed. And every scientist sent to verify it was murdered by the terrorists.’

‘Do you know what it was?’

‘If I tell you, Travis has to kill you.’ Adrian grinned. ‘Classified.’

‘But you think Israel would do almost anything,’ Jason’s eyes narrowed. ‘to get it back into their hands?’

‘Oh, yes. I think one could safely say they would sell their very souls.’

Jason studied his younger brother intently, but as usual Adrian was inscrutable.

The sound of wailing sirens outside echoed thrugh the hotel.

Jason watched as the elderly King of Jordan entered. Immediately ten Secret Service men materialized across the room.

Adrian rose. ‘Julia’s book is on
The New York Times
best-seller list this week.’

Jason shrugged.

Travis appeared from the shadows and placed Adrian’s jacket over his shoulders.

Adrian grinned. ‘I could have sworn the ruthless New York media tycoon with the zero people skills was based on you.’

Jason scowled, then they both laughed.

‘Drop in to Normandy on one of your London trips.’

‘I’ll try, Adrian, really . . . ’

Adrian smiled affectionately at his elder brother. ‘You’ve helped me get up the ladder of politics, Jason and I’ll never forget it. Whatever I can do for VOX – it’s yours. The deal with China state TV’s still on. I meet in Beijing in two weeks.’

Jason slapped Adrian on the back. As they walked together through the lobby, Adrian turned to Jason, suddenly grave.

‘Look, there is something, Jas . . . ’ He looked his brother straight in the eye. ‘It’s Nick. His body’s stopped responding to the antiretroviral treatments. He’s dying, Jason. He’s been given six months. He needs you.’

Not a muscle of Jason’s face moved.

Adrian walked a few steps, then turned back in exasperation. ‘Hell, you’re a stubborn son of a . . . ’