NIGHT WATCHMAN

by Rolf Richardson

  “Not an easy nut to crack?”

  The general nodded. “Especially as we are completely in the dark as to what he has up his sleeve. No accurate idea of his strength, nothing on what was hidden in those trucks. However, with the Prime Minister’s permission, we have already taken the first essential step….”

  Quilter gestured towards Damian, who nodded, then continued:

  “Which has been to quarantine the threat. Seal it off. My men have Fort Brockhurst surrounded and are confident Hamid cannot get out to wreak further havoc. Like taking more hostages.”

  “So now we have to bring him to justice,” said the Cabinet Secretary.

  “Indeed,” said the general. “But that won’t be easy because of the moat. Water barriers may be old fashioned, but they remain extremely effective. My Special Forces rely on stealth penetration, then, depending on circumstances, perhaps a sudden stun-and-storm, but here it will be difficult to get close without being spotted.”

  “What about an airborne assault?” asked the Prime Minister.

  “Again I’m afraid not much has changed,” replied Quilter. “The pioneer here was the German, Karl Student, who received a lot of positive publicity but was in fact remarkably unsuccessful. His failure to take The Hague in nineteen forty was almost the only setback in the German campaign in France. The following year, again in a campaign that succeeded, Student lost so many men in Crete that Hitler banned all future airborne adventures. On the allied side, we have only to look at the disastrous ‘bridge too far’ episode at Arnhem. Airborne attacks can succeed, but the risks are great and casualties can be heavy. I would not recommend it in this instance, especially as Hamid is bound to be on the lookout for it.”

  “But we must do something,” said the prime Minister. “There’s no question of any sort of bargaining with such an outrageous proposal.”

  “These situations take time,” said Quilter. “Very frustrating, I know, but that’s how it works. Plenty of posturing. Demands going back and forth. Can go on for years.”

  “You’re not hearing me, general,” said the Prime Minister. “I said no bargaining. And I’ve no intention of waiting for years. We get rid of this blot on our landscape immediately. Within days.”

  For a moment Quilter was silent. Then: “Very well, Prime Minister. On your head be it. I will draw up a plan for an assault on Fort Brockhurst. But if there is to be any chance of avoiding a massacre - a massacre of British troops, I will need some sort of diversion. Maybe you’d like to talk to this Hamid fellow yourself.”

  There was a hush. One did not speak to a Prime Minister like that: even an interim Prime Minister. Everyone waited for the inevitable explosion.

  Instead, the Prime Minister grinned: “An excellent idea, Quilter. I might even do that.”

  The general’s natural tan turned a deeper red: “I didn’t mean my remark to be taken literally, sir. Your personal involvement won’t be necessary.”

  “But it’s a brilliant idea, Quilter. I don’t mind pretending to bargain. Just a brief chat to the ogre in his den, while you bring on the cavalry.”

  “You can’t do that.” The Cabinet Secretary’s voice was up another octave. “A British prime minister handing himself over to terrorists. We won’t allow it.”

  “The main job of any country’s leader was once to do battle on their behalf,” said Damian.

  “Henry the fifth at Agincourt and all that…” said Adam.

  Sir Justin: “…And Bosworth in fourteen eighty five….”

  Adam: “…where King Richard failed to find a horse, according to the Bard….”

  Sir Justin: “…and consequently lost his head. A salutary lesson, I’d have thought.”

  Damian smiled. “That was a while ago. I’m talking about now.”

  “When we’re faced with a man who has already shown a predilection for decapitation.”

  “Enough.” Damian held up his hand. “My mind is made up. I may only be an Interim prime minister, but that means I’m also expendable. A mere Night Watchman. In two days there’s an election, so by the time I get talking to Hamid I may not even be prime minister.”

  “I must say this has possibilities.” General Quilter was smiling. “But a word of advice. Wait for Hamid’s next move, which is bound to come soon. All he’s done so far is lay out his stall. Next comes the squeeze. That’s when you bend under pressure.”

  “Maybe I could help.” It was Adam Tichbold again. “It’s no secret that I have ambitions for the next parliament. What if I state, loud and clear, that if I find myself leading the country next week – I’m sorry Damian, but that’s certainly a possibility – I shall lose no time blitzing Hamid’s pathetic little army? Might persuade him to talk to you while he still has the chance.”

  The prime minister was about to reply when a figure at the far end of the table said: “We have a news flash, Prime Minister. Okay to put it up on the screen?”

  Damian nodded. The big TV at the end of the room came alive to show a BBC reporter outside Fort Brockhurst:

  “….In a new twist to the ongoing drama here, General Salah-ud-Din, leader of the self-styled Islamic army of Hattin, has just announced he will execute another prisoner if we don’t start what he calls ‘meaningful discussions’ by nine o’clock on Sunday morning. That, of course, is the day after tomorrow: election day……”

  The reporter started elaborating without adding anything of substance, so after a couple of minutes the prime Minister said: “I think we’ve heard enough.”

  The screen went dead.

  “Seems we’re running out of options,” said the Prime Minister. “I now need to be talking to Hamid Khan by Sunday morning. Polling day will also have to be D-Day for Fort Brockhurst. Please draw up plans to that effect, general, and let me have the first draft by tomorrow morning I realise this is a rush, but our hand has been forced.”

  General Quilter nodded. “We’re used to rush jobs in the army. I’ll have a preliminary plan to you by nine o’clock tomorrow. I do have one request, though. Despite the probability that Hamid has night vision equipment, our best chance of success remains a night assault. If you still insist on a personal confrontation with this man, can you keep him talking for twelve hours or so?”

  The Prime Minister smiled. “His demand is only that ‘meaningful discussions’ should start. He can’t possibly expect a rapid agreement. Don’t worry, general, I’ll keep him busy.”

  “I need hardly add that everything we’ve just said must be accorded the highest level of secrecy,” said Quilter. “Careless talk could cost lives, including that of our prime minister.”

  “Can’t even tell Chloe,” said Adam, with a grin.

  “Especially not Chloe,” agreed Damian. “She’d do her damnedest to stop me. Now, if that’s all…..”

  The prime minister glanced around the Cobra room. There were no more offers.

  “….Okay, let’s get to work to rid the country of this pestilence – and I’m not talking about the flu bug.”

  53

  A reply was immediately sent to Salah-ud-Din, accepting his demand for ‘meaningful discussions’. But on three conditions: that no further executions took place; the talks be in secret with no publicity; and a promise of safe conduct for ‘a government representative’. No indication was given as to who this person might be, only that he would have plenipotentiary powers to negotiate.

  The Prime Minister brushed aside the Cabinet Secretary’s suggestion that the election be postponed: democracy could not be seen to be giving way to violence.

  The rest of the day was a strange hiatus. Until General Quilter presented him with a plan for disposing of Hamid Khan, there was nothing more Damian could do in that direction. However, from now on his full attention had to be on defending what amounted to an attack on the United Kingdom, so political campaigning would have to take a back seat.

  By now it was getting late and the Prime Minister found himself in London rather than Oxford, so he could do
little except return to Number Ten, where he arrived pondering how to tell Chloe that….well, that he could tell her nothing. However, her antennae must have picked up the vibes because she greeted him with a kiss and the comment: “I don’t want to know.”

  Emotionally drained, he was dithering about what to do next when Chloe continued: “Looks like you need a night out on the town.”

  Still playing out possible military outcomes in his head, Damian replied absentmindedly: “Oh….yea? Like what?”

  “A slap-up meal, then home for some TLC.”

  So while the rest of the country battled out the remaining hours of the election campaign and Quilter’s team plotted the demise of Salah-ud-Din, Prime Minister Damian White’s girlfriend took him to the ‘Sole’s Delight’, a fish restaurant in Covent Garden. Here they indulged themselves with the chef’s special, allegedly caught at Dover, polished off an expensive bottle of Chablis, gorged themselves on an obese-making gateau, and finished with a brandy (for Damian) and a Benedictine (for Chloe).

  Just after 11 pm they returned to Number Ten, where Chloe administered her promised Tender Loving Care. Then they both slept like babes.

  54

  APRIL 27TH.

  Next morning, much refreshed after a good night’s sleep, Prime Minister Damian White greeted General Quilter’s emissary at the appointed hour of nine. His visitor was a man of solid build and medium height, hair so close-cropped it was impossible to say what colour it might be if allowed to grow. His handshake was vice-like, his smile just for the record.

  “Compliments of General Quilter, sir. I’m here to brief you.” He offered no name, the only clue to his identity being the single crown of a Major on his uniform. Special forces are not trained to socialise with outsiders, even prime ministers. Damian led the way into a small anteroom, simply furnished with four chairs and an oval table.

  As they sat down at opposite sides of the table, the Major opened a slim briefcase, extracted a map and spread it out. Said: “The boss was most impressed.”

  “Oh?”

  “That you were prepared to put yourself in harm’s way like this.”

  Damian felt embarrassed. “Least I could do. Besides, it sounds interesting. Better than chairing some boring meeting.”

  “Different certainly. Boring definitely not.”

  The Major evened out the creases on the map, then began: “Our target: Fort Brockhurst. Property of English Heritage, who are responsible for its upkeep, so it is not derelict. However, we understand there have been no regular visitors for the past several years. You can’t take this map with you….” The Major managed a wintry smile. “…So try and remember the general geography.”

  “Let’s start with the fort’s location in the middle of suburban Gosport, which lies across the harbour from Portsmouth. It’s bordered on the west by the A Thirty Two road from Fareham, which ends a couple of miles further on at the tip of Gosport. At this roundabout….” the Major outlined the path with his finger…. “Gunners Way goes off to the northeast. The Fort sits in the Vee between these roads.”

  “Overlooked by a lot of building,” said the Prime Minister.

  The Major nodded. “To the east, yes. First a row of houses; then, at the junction of Wingate road, an industrial estate. This is the public face of Fort Brockhurst, the only way in being via two narrow bridges over the moat: here and here. It’s also the only aspect from where you can actually see out from the fort without clambering onto the ramparts.”

  “Very public.”

  Again the Major nodded. “Which is both good and bad. Good because there’s a constant stream of legitimate traffic, allowing us to set up base on the industrial estate without them noticing.”

  “Are you sure they don’t know?”

  “We’re pretty good at blending with the local scenery. Even if they do suspect something – and they must know we won’t be simply sitting on our backsides – they’ll have no idea where we’ll actually deploy our forces.”

  “Not from this direction, then?”

  “No, that’s the bad news. An assault from the eastern side would be suicidal. However, the northern and western perimeter is made up of thick earth-covered ramparts with no view out. Here they are effectively blind…”

  “…Except for lookouts on the ramparts…”

  “Of course. But lookouts can be distracted. Or neutralised by snipers. Our problems start when we’re over the ramparts come down into the central open area, which is a classic killing ground. We can expect fire from the museum complex in the middle as well as from all the rooms that face inwards from under the ramparts.”

  “I’m beginning to see why General Quilter was not too keen on this idea,” said the Prime Minister, a guilty conscience creeping up on him at the possibility of serious casualties.

  “It’s the boss’s job to spot problems,” said the Major. “But we don’t get many chances of practising our trade for real, so the lads wouldn’t miss this for anything. Our team have spent hours assessing the situation and we’re sure this is do-able.”

  “And what’s my role?” asked Damian. “Apart from keeping our terrorist talking.”

  “That’s about it,” replied the Major. “But it’s an absolutely vital role. We can’t do this in daylight, so you must try and keep him occupied - and not executing any more prisoners - until darkness falls and we can get to work.”

  “Hope you don’t mistake me for a terrorist”, said Damian, beginning to wonder why on earth he had agreed to this crazy scheme.

  “I’m coming to that,” said the Major. “We need you to wear a tracer, a gadget that tells our troops exactly where you are. We can expect Hamid to be on the lookout for this sort of thing, so we’ve developed an invisible device: one you swallow.”

  The Major extracted from his briefcase a small black box, which he opened to reveal a white cylindrical pill about 20 millimetres long.

  “Looks like the sort of thing just about everyone over the age of sixty takes these days for some ailment or other,” he explained. “But this is no slow release tablet. On the contrary, it will resist all attacks from your digestive system, passing through your gut and emerging the other end exactly as you see it here.”

  “Charming! Does it keep burping away inside me until I eventually fart it out?”

  The Major allowed himself a smile. “Depends whether you’re constipated. The homing device has a life of about three days. After that it becomes an inert and harmless object.”

  “Also harmless when active, I hope?”

  “Of course. Goes without saying.”

  “Even so, nice to hear you say it. Do you have any more surprises for me?”

  “One more thing you should know, sir. We’re planning a little post-election celebration.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “One of my men came up with the idea that we could make use of the fact tomorrow happens to be election day. I believe the polls close at ten, so shortly after that there’ll be signs of some local whoopee.”

  “We never celebrate the polls closing.”

  “In the past, that’s so. Now we will. Nothing official, just parties generated by Social Media to celebrate having a proper government again. Gosport is organising a fireworks display.”

  “Which you hope Hamid will be expecting?”

  “We’re sure of it. Terrorists live on the oxygen of publicity, so they gobble up all incoming stuff to see how successful they’ve been. Some words from you would also help.”

  “And you’ll be organising our noise at the same time?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What do you then want me to do?”

  “Keep your head down. Play it by ear. We have a plan of course, but it’s a corny old saying that no plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

  “But you’ll know precisely where I am because of my little pill?”

  “That’s the sum of it. We’ll tell Hamid someone will be arriving at nine, but not who. We’ll dr
ive you in, sitting in the back of an ordinary car - no government limo - blacked out rear windows, so no one can see who’s there. The British public might not take kindly to the idea of their leader trying to cut a deal with a man who chops off people’s heads.”

  “I have one condition,” said Damian. “I must be able to cast my vote first.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that. But it should be okay as long as you’re at the polling station soon after it opens at seven. We’ll have a helicopter waiting nearby to whisk you to our safe house near Fareham. From there you’ll go on in a car via the A Thirty Two road, which has a bad reputation for congestion, but shouldn’t be too bad early on a Sunday. No reason why you can’t be at the fort by nine. Any more questions, sir?”

  Damian shook his head slowly.

  “In that case you have our thanks - and the thanks of our country. Have a good day. See you tomorrow.”

  The Major’s briefing ended with another paralysing handshake - a friendly fire injury.

  55

  The rest of the day disappeared in a blur. As soon as the Major had left, Damian and Chloe eased themselves into the official limousine for the drive back to Wheatley. He was still Prime Minister, so Bill and Ben were on hand to make sure no one took a pot shot at him.

  On the last day of campaigning everyone was expected to pull out the stops in a final frenzied burst of energy, so his agent had arranged to throw him straight into the fray with a visit to the Cowley motor works. But Damian felt strangely detached, so much so that as they left Cowley Warbeck asked if he felt okay.

  “Of course, Alec. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem, well…. Not quite with it. Not your usual self.”

  “Affairs of state. A lot to think about.”