The South Lawn Plot (15 page)

T
HE CAT WAS TURNING IN CIRCLES
, pursuing its own tail. Falsham, hunched in a chair with a great wool blanket covering most of his burly frame, watched the animal intently.

The cat's role in the household was to catch mice. Either, Falsham thought with what amusement he could muster, there were no mice in the house (an unlikely state of affairs for sure) or the beast had long since divined that food would arrive by other means, which was no doubt the truth. The cat was far too rotund for an animal supposedly dependent entirely on hunting tiny creatures.

Falsham had been unable to sleep and had come down from his room to await the dawn. The first slivers of sunlight were evident in the windows at the front of the house, and the cat was twirling in the light of a beam through which countless specks of dust were floating up and down, as if on strings.

Falsham, alert despite his sleeplessness, lifted his head and cocked it to one side. He could hear the first stirrings of the household. One soul, at least, was afoot.

He shivered and pulled the blanket tighter around himself. The cat stopped its circling and regarded him. Lazily, it lifted itself and walked slowly towards the remains of the fire that had blazed well into the previous night. It seemed to understand that someone would come to revive this and other dormant blazes, thus making it possible for others to rise from their beds without fear of instant paralysis in the morning chill.

Falsham observed the cat with no small degree of envy. It was required to care for nothing other than its own comfort. None among the household ever counted the dead mice in the morning for the simple reason that they were so rarely to be found.

The cat, it seemed, was only accountable to an unseen deity, a feline lord. Imperator Felix. It had no reason to concern itself with the death of other kings.

Falsham rose from the chair and stretched in an effort to rid himself of the stiffness in his body. He longed for Spain, but England was now his lot, England and a woman who might be his wife, and a child whose birth was only days hence.

He blinked, his eyes irritated by the dust being blown about by some invisible draft. Perhaps, he thought, a walk outside would clear his eyes and his mind. But he did not dwell on the idea for more than a few seconds. One of the servants walked in purposely from the far end of the great room with a pail in one hand, a wooden spoon in the other. He nodded at Falsham and muttered a low salutation as he began to tend to the slumbering fire.

Falsham watched as the man stirred the contents of the pail and applied dollops of what appeared to be animal fat to the embers. There was a crackling sound and some flickers amid the wood that had not fully burned. The man added sticks and then larger pieces of wood. Within seconds the fire was renewed. The servant rose, bowed slightly, and hurried out a door at the opposite end of the room.

All thoughts of venturing outside now vanquished, Falsham crouched in front of the spitting flames. The heat worked its magical powers, and, for the first time in many hours, he began to feel as if his limbs and extremities had not died of their individual accord.

“A fair morning, John.”

Falsham turned his eyes to see Cole standing in the middle of the room, a cloth cap with ear coverings clamped firmly atop his head.

“That it is,” Falsham replied, standing up as he did so.

“Come to the fire and be warm,” he instructed his friend. “The flames are a tonic for body and soul.”

Cole shuffled across the flagstones and slumped into another of the fireside chairs.

“At least on this earth. Hades is quite another story,” Cole said.

Falsham noticed that the old man, who was rarely to be seen without bundles of papers under his arm, was carrying only a small document. As if he sensed an inquiry, Cole held up a printed packet.

“The latest from London,” he said. “It arrived late last night by messenger. Our friends in the city are at the very least attentive. I think this reflects the temper of our times well enough. And it is not good, John.”

Cole reached into the folds of his clothing, pulled out a pair of reading glasses and began to read aloud.

“ ‘The anti-Roman packet or memoirs of popes and popery.' ‘For the conviction of papists and the confirmation of Protestants.'“

Cole looked up as if to ensure that he had his friend's full attention.

“I am listening,” said Falsham. “Please continue.”

Cole cleared his throat. “What this is my friend is a blasphemous reworking of the lives of our beloved successors of Saint Peter. Yes, some have had their faults, I have no doubt, but they are mere human flesh burdened with a heavenly mission. Blasphemy indeed. Listen!”

And so he continued. “I will pass over the words in Latin. The story is a continuance of the sordid falsehoods contained in its predecessor. Hear me now. Of Pope Gelasius, Pope Calixtus.”

Cole began to mutter words. He was hastening to the most insulting lines.

“Ah, here, yes,” he said. “A legate in England rails against the marriage of priests and is himself caught in bed with a whore. And here, John, our holy pope is dubbed the grand Lucifer at Rome, and we here in England, who have struggled for our faith, are his little pugs. There has not been such insult paid since the days of Reginald Pole.

“I will say this for the virgin queen, she was no friend of our faith but she knew well enough to put a stay on such gross public opprobrium. If I found the printer of this blasphemy, I would duck him in his own ink vat.”

“Reginald Pole. I know that name,” Falsham said.

“He was the last of our faith to sit on the bishop's seat at Canterbury. He passed in the year ‘57, or perhaps it was ‘58,” Cole replied.

“Ah,” said Falsham, nodding slowly. “It concerns me that you find this screed so vexing. Perhaps you should cast it into the flames and be done with it.”

Falsham waved a hand towards the fire, by now a considerable blaze.

But Cole ignored him and continued to read, though now in more subdued tones. He only stopped when seized by a violent fit of coughing. Falsham, alarmed by his friend's discomfort, stood up but was entirely uncertain as to what he should do. His anxiety was eased by the return of the same man who had rekindled the fire. He was holding a phial that was full to the brim with a dark liquid.

“Thank you, Tom,” said Cole before placing the phial to his lips and sucking down the entire contents in one gulp.

“What is it? Falsham said.

“It is better not to ask,” Cole replied. “Some might accuse the maker of witchcraft.” His coughing had stopped, however. Cole forced a smile, but it did little to hide his evident pain. He placed the packet on his lap and sat back in the chair, his eyes closed and breathing shallow.

“Death is not far away, John, but before he strikes I have my own answer,” he said.

Falsham, still standing, his arms folded as he stared intently at the old man, said nothing.

“Help me up, John, there is something I must show you.”

Falsham did not argue. Gently he lifted Cole to his feet and held him steady by grasping his upper arms in a firm grip. He was shocked at how thin the old man had become. Whatever the consumption, he thought, it was as ravenous as it was malign.

Cole pulled his arms free and drew in his breath as deeply as he could. It seemed to Falsham that his friend rattled as he inhaled and exhaled.

Cole, without saying a word, began to shuffle towards a door at the far end of the room.

“Follow me,” he instructed, his voice drawing on what seemed to be a renewed and purposeful inner strength.

And so Falsham walked slowly behind his mentor. At first the halls, the doorways, alcoves and nooks were familiar. Ayvebury, however, was a large and rambling house, both wide and deep, and Falsham had devoted most of his time so far to the exploration of the estate. Much of the house was still unknown to him.

Cole led him to a long corridor in the rear of the house at the end of which were stairs to an upper floor. The wood lacked the polished finish of the broader staircases in the more traveled part of the house, and at each step the wood gave off a groan as if it, too, was suffering from some wasting ailment.

Cole said nothing, and Falsham judged it better to remain silent. He had a sense that Cole was so deep in thought that words would be ignored anyway. As they climbed upwards Cole began to speak to himself, though very softly. His words rose slightly, and Falsham heard the words of prayer.

At the top, there was a way to the right and one to the left. Cole turned left and advanced on a heavy door that blocked any further progress about twenty steps from the top of the stairs. He turned the handle and walked into a room that was, to Falsham's surprise, the most lavishly furnished that he had seen in the entire house. A great pile of kindling and firewood stood in the
grate. The room, however, was cold and there was no evidence or indication of recent occupation.

Cole walked slowly to the great fireplace and upon reaching it placed a hand on the stone mantle. He was having obvious difficulty in breathing but he turned to Falsham and smiled.

“I have enjoyed the fruits of this life in this room on occasion, John. It is full of memories.”

Falsham nodded. No matter its cushioned luxuriance, he thought, there was little for Cole to do here now other than dwell on past glories.

“I am sure with the fire ablaze there was warmth enough to match any desires,” he said.

Cole, however, had partly entered the fireplace.

“Come here, John,” he commanded.

“There was a time when the queen's men were very energetic in these parts, seeking out priests, so whenever we had unwelcome or unexpected visitors we would set this wood ablaze and engage in a game of chess. After they had gone and after the fire had eased we would…”

At this point Cole strained. His two hands were stretched upwards into the sooty darkness, and he was pushing against the inside of the mantle.

Falsham could not easily see the stone backing of the fireplace, but he was conscious of a grinding and rumbling sound. And then he could see flames and with some alarm took several quick steps towards Cole, his hand extended to pull him out.

“No, John,” said Cole, with some alacrity. “They are only faggots burning to light our descent into the hidden room. I had Tom light them. As you can see there is a system of levers and pulleys that are activated by hands placed against precise spots in the stone. Your fingers will not detect any grooves or indentations. It is by practice that you will learn the pressure points.”

“I am impressed,” said Falsham. “I have of course seen priests' hidden quarters before, but they were invariably hidden behind wood panels. Stone is God's own work.”

Cole was already through the portal and descending what seemed to be a curved stairway.

“Time is short,” he said without turning. Falsham followed.

“What I did not tell you is that the messenger who brought that damnable packet also brought word that the king and his party will be here at Ayvebury by tomorrow. Clearly we must advance our plan.”

Cole stopped and turned his head. The shadows from the flames flickered across his pained face, but again he managed to smile.

“I have all my life longed to gaze into the face of my savior, John. My time has finally come, and you will be my instrument.”

W
HAT HAD CHANGED THE GAME
as far as Beijing was concerned was Taipei's constitutional referendum, and its anticipated result.

No matter all the reassuring words from the advocates of independence, it was seen in Beijing as the end of a manageable standoff. For decades, the two Chinas had been locked in an embrace of sorts. Each claimed ownership of the other. Thus, the Republic of China and the People's Republic, had been able to live with a stalemate. Now it was different. Taiwan had taken a step too far for the rulers on the mainland to bear.

And so they resolved to bear it no more.

Three files were spread across Henry Lau's desk, all of them opened but the pages still untouched and in order. Lau had stared at the documents for what to Burdin had seemed an age. But he had said nothing.

Eventually, however, Burdin felt it necessary to speak, though on a less weightier matter than the secrets of a superpower.

“Any chance of a tipple? Something a little stronger than this admittedly excellent vintage?”

For a couple of seconds there was no response but Lau was not entirely absent from the moment.

“Forgive me, Roger. I am a horrible host; anything of course. Please, step over here and take your pick.”

Lau motioned towards his exquisite collection of booze but made no attempt to rise from his seat. The tension, though not broken, had been eased. Burdin stood up and briskly walked over to an array of bottles and decanters worthy of a man as wealthy as Henry Lau, a man, of course, who did not touch alcohol very much at all himself, except for the occasional sip of a top class wine.

Burdin allowed himself a small Scotch and stood for a moment staring through the windows and into the night sky. The storm had done it worst and all that remained was the occasional flicker of lightning, now some miles distant.

“You know, Roger,” said Lau, “I have dealt with the lies and chicanery of business rivals and friends for all of my life. Deceit has never surprised or shocked me. It is what I expect. Each and every day I expect to be cheated, laid waste by those who publicly toast my health.”

Burdin, sensing a summons, returned to his chair.

“So why should I be surprised if the affairs of nations night be any different? Of course, I am not. Betrayal of one nation by another, even a friend or an ally, is as old as nations themselves. Perhaps we Chinese invented betrayal. After all, we invented just about everything else.”

Lau folded his arms and smiled.

“The difference is, of course, is that I am not helpless before my business enemies and rivals. Quite the contrary, and I have been lucky over the years in that I have been able to smite most of them. I have suffered some wounds, I have lost out on some deals, but nothing has been fatal. So here I am, one of the richest men in the world and yet helpless in the face of treachery and betrayal that is continental in scope and will likely decide the future course, not just of Taiwan, but all of Asia and beyond.”

Burdin nodded and took another sip of his drink.

“Most of humanity, Lau continued, “is born helpless and dies helpless. It is the natural course of things. So you can understand the even greater sense of helplessness that a powerful man feels when that power is suddenly like a water vessel with a vast hole in its side. The pain, the frustration, is beyond normal appreciation and understanding. I might as well be some dirt-digging peasant in a remote province that Beijing still considers Maoist.”

Burdin nodded again and took another drop. He wished he had poured more of the elixir into his glass. He was familiar with Henry Lau's tendency towards homilies though this was a sermon rooted in genuine angst and justifiable anger. It was, in his own world, as if the Americans had abandoned Britain to the old Soviets.

“I am a dead man, as you know,” Lau said, taking Burdin a little by surprise with his change of tack. “My cancer is inoperable. I might live a year, a little more or a little less. Time is not my friend, and history is rushing past me like a stream of melted mountain snow. A month seems like a minute, a week like a split second.

“A thousand years of history is about to be written, and I have but a few moments to stake my claim on posterity. So rather than me languishing over these documents, Roger, why don't you summarize them for me? I already
have an inkling but I must hear treachery's name spoken by someone I trust. And that is you, my friend. This first file, it is in Mandarin, I see. Do you speak it?”

“Not beyond a greeting and a farewell I'm afraid,” said Burdin with a look of mock seriousness on his face. He put down his drink and lifted the file from the table, holding it with the cover facing its host.

“But I do know what it contains in a general sense. What we have here is Beijing's wish list as communicated to the Americans.

“As you can imagine, it is not exactly a ‘Dear Santa' letter. It is rather rude and hectoring, full of self-justification and historical claptrap. You really don't need to read it at all because you well know the form. The end of it, however, is of greater interest. This is the carrot where much that has gone before has been the stick. It offers all manner of deals and tradeoffs if the United States looks the other way. These are offers that would be very hard to refuse if you're thinking strictly about jobs and the future of your nation's rather battered economy.”

Burdin paused for a few seconds before opening the second file.

“This one, in English, of course, deals with scenarios. It is a combination of assessments from the CIA, the Pentagon, NSA, DIA and a couple of others. The documents, all copied from the originals as you would expect, are variously marked ‘restricted,' ‘classified' and ‘top secret.'

“What they mostly do is to sketch out the likely build-up to an attack. They accurately predict unrest on the mainland as a primary precursor to invasion of this island. We are already witnessing such scenes, or at least we have become aware of them.”

“Yes,” Lau interjected. “And I have in my possession a number of firsthand accounts from friends on the mainland, and in one case, a cousin. Armed resistance to the so-called People's Liberation Army has been growing in several districts, and so too has the PLA's retaliatory repression. There have been hundreds of deaths, and many other have disappeared, but the fires of rebellion, if anything, are spreading.”

“Quite so,” said Burdin. “I am separately aware of a British plan for the evacuation of United Kingdom nationals from at least one large southern city. The expectation clearly is that the unrest, though mainly rural at this moment in time, will eventually spread to the cities.”

Burdin pushed the folder across the desk.

“As you read this, in your own time of course, it will become increasingly clear to you that those making these assessments consider the defense of
Taiwan an ultimately futile venture, one that would lead to enormous losses for the US. and possibly even result in a world war.

“One of the files, the one merely marked ‘restricted,' outlines the fig leaves that Beijing will use in advance of an actual invasion. As you will see there are fifth column units allied with Beijing already in place on the island. The author refers, without a hint of irony I might add, to a Gulf of Tonkin-type incident off the coast that could also be used as an excuse for retaliation by sea, air and land.

“The assessments predict stiff resistance by your own armed forces and pleas from your government for international help. It outlines the likely effects of missile strikes from the mainland and even allows for the use of tactical nuclear weapons by the PLA. They would not be directed at Taipei but at some of your military units at the other end of the island. They want your capital intact, if possible.”

“Of course they do,” Lau said, sitting straighter in his chair. “Please continue.”

“There is a file marked ‘top secret,' this one, that warns of a possible attack by North Korea on the South as the Chinese attack on Taiwan gathers momentum. Beijing, of course, turns a blind eye and all of a sudden Washington is facing twin Asian wars simultaneously.”

“Ah,” said Lau, “that's how they get out of it. Washington's greatest nightmare. So they choose to see it all as a choice, Taiwan or South Korea, and, of course, it will be Seoul, not Taipei. Clever, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Burdin replied, “such a predicament would force the hawks on Capitol Hill to back away from Taiwan even as they are seen rushing to the defense of South Korea. This occurs even if Pyongyang does not attack. There only has to be authentic sounding reports of preparations for an attack from north of the 38th parallel. And who, in a crisis as great as this, is going to pay any heed to a North Korean denial? Nobody.”

“Precisely,” said Lau, clapping his hands in agreement.

“A central part of the plan, said Burdin, “is that US naval forces are as far from Taiwan as they can legitimately be when the initial, supposedly surprise, Chinese landings take place. Perhaps they will be holding exercises with the Japanese or the Australians. There will be protests, uproar and a lot of saber-rattling, but within forty-eight hours the American public will be presented with a sad but unavoidable
fait accompli
.

“And, of course, it isn't all that bad, really. The Chinese are not really Reds
anymore, and Chinese unity is not entirely an undesirable thing, indeed good for trade relations in the long run. Beijing will be slapped with some short term sanctions, the ambassador in Beijing might be summoned back to Washington for a while, that sort of thing. But not much more than that.”

“You forgot one thing, Roger.”

“And what might that be?”

“What if we Taiwanese begin to kick mainland ass, as the Americans might say?”

Lau almost spat out the words and smiled broadly as he did so.

“Won't happen, Henry, I'm afraid,” Burdin quickly replied. “And this is something I have separately from the American files. Apart from the sheer number of men that the mainlanders are going to throw at you there are several of your generals who have been compromised. They will either surrender, sit on their hands or join with the attackers, all in the interest of saving lives and ensuring a new national harmony of course.”

“And if we had nuclear weapons of our own?”

“Do you?”

Lau grimaced. “We would if the fools in government had listened to me twenty years ago. What's in that third folder?”

“It's the recommendation to President Packer from his military brass, advisers and cabinet members. It sort of gets him off the hook.”

“It advises him to turn his back on Taiwan and leave us to the mercy of the Communists,” said Lau.

“More or less.”

“And Packer's response?”

Burdin pulled a single sheet of paper from the file, and although it was a copy, the seal was clear. He handed it to Lau.

“From the desk of the president,” said Lau, scanning the sheet.

There was no date on it but Lau recognized the signature because he possessed a personally signed letter from the president. But it was not the name that held his gaze, rather two simple words above it.

“I concur,” Lau said, almost in a whisper. “I concur.” Then, more loudly, “To whom?

“It was written to a member of the president's inner circle, but precisely which one I am not sure,” said Burdin.

“If there are other such notes, they expressed the same agreement with the general consensus.”

“How did you come by these documents, Roger?”

Burdin tilted back in his chair and stared momentarily at the tiny pinprick lights in the office ceiling. He tilted forward again and looked at his companion directly.

“I don't know which individual provided this information, only to which individual it was provided. They say that the Lord provides, Henry. In this case, however, it was more a case of someone providing on his behalf.”

“These documents,” said Lau, his hand passing over the files in a sweeping motion,” amount to a death warrant for my country.”

“That they do, Henry,” Burdin said. “And there's a little more, again not in these files. A considerable flow of Chinese money is finding itself into the concentric circles of the Packer reelection campaign. It's all disguised and well hidden, of course, and none will show up in a Packer PAC, but there's millions being funneled to specific individuals and organizations.”

“With layers of plausible denial for Packer of course,” said Lau.

“Absolutely,” Burdin replied. “I think you can see why we came to you, Henry. A murder squad officer might say you have always had the means. Now you have the motive.”

“And the opportunity?”

“Leave that to us,” Burdin said, draining his glass.

Lau inhaled deeply. The pain in his head had returned, now worse than before.

“So you want me to assassinate the president of the United States. I will await with interest your advice as to how I should go about it.”