The Lords' Day (retail) (25 page)

Tricia Willcocks stared at him, keeping him guessing. She had the palest of green-grey eyes. When she was younger they could rip a man’s clothes off, but now, with age and with anxiety,
they had turned to ice. Her reply, when it came, was offered slowly and with deliberation. ‘You tell your President that she’ll get her bra straps caught in a mangle over this one. If
her flying hoodlums so much as make a move or even sneeze loudly, they’ll be detained.’

She said no more, she simply sat and stared at him. She was trying to do a Maggie, browbeat him, but he had been told that Thatcher had always been immaculate even at times of extreme stress,
while at this time of the morning the Willcocks hair was clearly in need of a few moments in front of a mirror. He also thought he could detect a whiff of whisky in the air. This wasn’t going
to be the moment to talk her round with bullshit about astronomy. He took a deep breath. ‘That might be difficult, Home Secretary. They have orders to assist where possible – and to
insist when necessary. The United States cannot be party to any deal with terrorists—’

‘We’re not offering one.’

‘And since it seems unlikely they will offer to surrender, there can be only one outcome to this siege. We both know that.’

That was possible, even probable, but not yet certain. She didn’t reply. She wasn’t going to negotiate with him, either.

‘The siege will have to be ended by force,’ he insisted once more, ‘and perhaps it is better that way. It will stand as an example to anyone who might consider resorting to
terrorism in the future. If we can stand up to them now, together, we’ll show them that all such acts are futile, doomed to end in failure.’ He made a chopping gesture with his hand.
‘The way we see it, there is no logic for the siege being allowed to continue.’

Ah, but the Englishwoman could, although she couldn’t share her own logic with the American. She hadn’t shared it with anyone yet. It still sat inside her, burning like acid.

‘And so, Home Secretary, my government formally requests that this situation be brought to an end before any further deaths are incurred,’ he said, finishing off his script.

‘I can’t do that. Such things need to be discussed. With colleagues.’ She had no very high opinion of them, but they might yet provide a little cover.

‘I repeat, Delta Force stands ready to assist you.’

‘And I repeat, they will be intercepted.’

‘They will not come quietly.’

She smiled, one of her cold gestures, but the words were pregnant with menace. ‘Then they can come kicking and squealing, but come they will. Be sure to tell your president that. She
can’t go building her Alamos on my lawn.’

‘They are already here.’

‘And so is half the British Army!’ It was a gross exaggeration, they both knew that military commitments around the world had left the British desperately overstretched, even at
home, but the defiance matched her mood.

‘You surely wouldn’t fire on friendly troops.’

‘You would if I sent a task force up the Potomac!’

‘But we are allies . . .’

‘Allies. Not lap dogs!’

‘But that has never been the case.’ And it was his turn to exaggerate wildly.

‘I’ve bent over backwards to give your president the chance to change her mind, I’ve even left Delta Force squatting in Hyde Park when they should all be sitting in cells,
every one of them, but this cannot go on. It must be brought to an end. So you hear this, Ambassador, and you hear this good. She has about twenty minutes to turn those troops around or suffer the
consequences.’ She slapped the table with the palm of her hand. ‘And that is my last offer.’

The rims of her eyes were sore. Anger? Exhaustion? Perhaps the alcohol? Did it matter much which? Paine wiped his lips with the back of his hand. ‘I fear she will not accept it.’

‘Then we shall see who’s got the sharpest claws.’

There was nothing more to be gained from talking to her. Another couple of whiskies and she might simply crumble and fall asleep. On the other hand, she could be like the Boston Irish who
started a fight just for the fun of it. Only time would tell. The dogs of war had been let loose and it might take the rest of eternity before they were brought to heel. ‘I think
there’s little more I can do here.’

‘On that we are agreed,’ she said primly.

‘I will take my leave, Home Secretary.’ He bowed his head. The audience was over. He was about to turn when she spoke again, her voice far softer now that the formalities were
done.

‘What will you do now, Robert?’

He pursed his lips in thought; they seemed tight, dry. ‘I have to report your views back to my superiors.’

‘Yes, do that. Do your duty.’

‘Sometimes it feels like a curse. We bury our souls in duty.’ For a brief moment it seemed as if he wanted to say more on the matter, to unburden himself of a great weight, but it
passed. ‘I shall be available for a few hours, in case of developments. I have some letters to write. After that . . .’ He offered a thin smile. ‘I must rejoin my
friends.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten. And I hope that none of this is personal between the two of us. We both have our duty, Robert. I think you understand.’

Without a further word he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

2.53 a.m.

The police cells should have been quiet at this time of night. There was a routine that normally kept things running smoothly; every twenty minutes the prisoners were inspected
for signs of attempted suicide, or sickness, or arson, or any of the other unpleasantries that go with being forced to stare your fate firmly in the eye, even smearing the walls with excrement.
That happened; sometimes in the morning they had to hose the place down. But tonight all had been peaceful, up to now. Then, in an instant, the place flooded with commotion. There were shouts,
protests, doors were being kicked, all to the accompaniment of an unholy animal-like wailing that was coming from behind one of the doors.

The duty sergeant rushed to the cell. He was a man of many years’ experience who thought he had seen everything in his time, yet no sooner had he peered through the spy-hole than he
stepped back in astonishment.

The tramp was sitting on the padded cement platform that made up his bed. The overcoat he had been wearing was now spread out beside him, ripped to pieces, its lining completely separated from
the cloth. His mouth hung open, exposing all his blackened teeth, tears were streaming down his face, and he was laughing. Hysterically. The sergeant had never heard such a sound, nor seen such a
sight, for around the tramp were strewn dozens and dozens of crisp fifty-pound notes, like cherry blossom in May. It was more money than the tramp had ever seen at one time in his life. And
scattered amongst it all were three shiny new passports.

3.15 a.m.

The alleged irresistible force met the self-proclaimed immovable object at the bottom of Constitution Hill, beside the wall that ran around the gardens of Buckingham Palace and
less than a mile from Delta Force’s landing point beside the lake. Two British Spartan armoured personnel carriers were enough to block the road. The Americans could easily have found a way
round them, through the park, even on the pavement, but the confrontation had to take place somewhere and this was as good a spot as any.

The leading Delta 4 by 4 braked sharply to a halt, its tyres skidding on the surface of the road. Those coming up behind spread out to give cover. From all sides came the insidious sounds of
weapons being made ready. It was several seconds before a British Army officer marched out from the shadows and, as he reached the first Delta vehicle, saluted smartly, his right arm as tight as a
spring.

‘Captain Merrick Braithewaite, First Battalion, the Scots Guards,’ he declared before standing at ease.

The American in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle gave a gentle wave back and spat out a large wad of gum. ‘Colonel Nathan Topolski. The American Automobile Association, Phi Beta
Kappa and the Sons of Cincinnati. At your service.’

The British officer cleared his throat. ‘Colonel, under other circumstances it would be my pleasure, but I have orders to hold you here. You are not needed and, I regret, not very much
welcome, either.’

The American took some time in lighting a small cigarillo. ‘Don’t remember you guys saying that in 1941.’

‘Yes, you were late for that one, too.’

‘So,’ the American muttered, sucking deep on his cigarillo and exhaling a cloud of dense blue smoke, ‘what’s the punishment for trespass in these parts,
captain?’

‘We normally let people off with a mild caution. If they behave and leave the property immediately.’

‘Funny thing, seems to me, you calling it trespass when the fire brigade’s come to put out your fire.’

‘Danger of getting wires crossed and hoses tangled, I’m afraid.’

‘Horse shit.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘There’s a danger of slipping in horse shit, too. Surprised you didn’t mention it.’

‘You could be stepping in a whole pile of it, colonel,’ the captain responded, his voice lower, less gentle.

‘But that’s what we do, captain. Delta gets all the mucky jobs.’

‘Colonel Topolski,’ the young captain sighed, ‘I don’t get a lot of pleasure out of this. Indeed I find it rather awkward. The fact is, I rather like
Americans.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘I saw action alongside your colleagues in Afghanistan. I also watch
The Sopranos
and I never say no to a bowl of Baskin-Robbins. And I lost a brother in 9/11. So, yes –
really. But I have my orders which are unambiguous. You may return to your Starship Enterprise and transport yourselves back to your own galaxy, or, if you would prefer, I would be more than happy
to entertain you to an early breakfast in the officers’ mess. But you will not proceed any further.’

Slowly, the American flicked away his cigar butt, which performed a slow arc of death in the darkness. ‘Now ain’t that a bitch. You see, I’ve got my orders, too, which are to
head on and help you out with your little situation. And since I’m a colonel and you’re only a captain, I guess my orders beat yours. And I don’t have time for breakfast. Nothing
personal.’

‘No offence taken. But we have a situation and you will not be permitted to proceed.’

‘Delta don’t turn tail.’

‘Then we shall have to provide whatever degree of persuasion is required for you to change your mind.’ He turned and shouted over his shoulder. ‘Sergeant Major, tell the lads
to make ready!’

The American glanced out into the night. Two APCs . . . ‘I figure we outnumber you eight to one.’

The captain stiffened, rose on to the toes of his boots. ‘Nevertheless.’

‘What, you gonna light up this place like Disneyland?’

‘Like Old Trafford.’

‘Who?’

‘Those are my orders.’ It was said in a manner that allowed for no doubt.

‘Hell, captain, then you’re right. We have a situation.’

‘It is one I very much regret, colonel.’

‘Me, too. Saw myself what you guys did to the Taliban. Fought with you – fucked with you, too, when we got the chance of a little R&R. I’m part English myself, on account
of my grandpa marrying one of your girls when he was over here in ’45. I’m on your side, captain – we all are. That’s why we’re here. But I guess you and me walked
into one mother of a cat fight.’ He began rummaging through the pockets of his blouson in search of another smoke, but came up empty-handed. He sighed. ‘So you gonna shoot
me?’

‘I might ask the same.’

They stared at each other, as best they could in the darkness, neither of them willing to take the next step in a dance that had been choreographed by others. When at last the British officer
spoke once more, his voice was low, as though he wished to be heard by no one other than Topolski.

‘Know what, colonel? I think it would do no harm for us both to take a little guidance on the matter. Wouldn’t do for you and me to start an international incident all on our own,
now, would it? It seems that your President and my Home Secretary are calling each other’s bluff and using us as bait – that’s fine, goes with the job, but perhaps we should both
report back on the operational difficulties we have encountered. Yes,
operational difficulties
, that’s the thing. Give them a little longer to consider the consequences, perhaps find
an alternative to you and me blowing each other’s balls off. No need to rush things.’

While the American considered the proposal, instinctively he began scrabbling in his pockets once more, but no sooner had he started than the captain had taken a couple of brisk steps forward
and with the skill of a magician was proffering a cigar case. ‘Havana,’ he explained, snapping the case open.

It took a while before the American stretched out a hand and accepted one, passing it beneath his nose, sniffing it with approval. ‘We don’t get these Cuban cigars.
Embargoed.’

‘All condemned men deserve one last smoke.’

‘Specially one like this.’

‘I suggest we enjoy it – while we both report back?’

Already the American was striking a match.

3.38 a.m.

Harry’s phone buzzed.

‘Wouldn’t take a holiday to the Caribbean in the near future if I were you, old boy.’

‘Why do you always talk in riddles, Sloppy?’

‘In case someone realises how thick I am.’

‘But you went to Harrow.’

‘You can stuff the boy into education, but you can’t always stuff the education into the boy, old chum. Nevertheless, I seem to have my uses. Been busy. Cayman Islands. British
Virgin Islands. Dutch Antilles. We’ve been flapping our towels around them all. You won’t believe the number of people we’ve had to bribe, browbeat or other wise grotesquely
threaten to get to the bottom of this. I’ve promised at least four of my contacts that the Home Secretary will sleep with them.’

‘Was that the bribe or the browbeating?’

‘She’s seen as something of a sex symbol in the Caribbean, apparently. Must be a power thing.’

‘I’d rather have my toenails pulled.’