Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 35: Albert Embankment, London. October 31: 4:45 p.m.

  Clayton pulled the collar of his raincoat up, cursing the miserable November weather and wishing he were anywhere else.

  Oh well, at least the fresh air gave him time to think. Too many distractions in the office, too many policy directive meetings, too many bland civil service types analysing everything and achieving little.

  But think as hard as he might, he still couldn't work out what the hell Robbie was up to. He'd gone over everything time and time again in his head, but it still didn't make much sense. So many disparate, random threads. Why didn't Robbie simply show up and take a swipe?

  Maybe he had decided to stop there with Goss and Easterby. Yes, may be that was it? Robbie wouldn't go against his old friend Max personally; they had been inseparably close friends before after all, back then before the court martial. And did Robbie have the right to feel so aggrieved? Shagging Alison? Well, all right, pretty bloody inexcusable screwing your best mate's bird, but it had all been an accident in any case, certainly at first, and it wasn't like she and Robbie had actually been married. Anyway Robbie had certainly got pretty good compensation in Alison's daughter, Sophie. Christ, Sophie Palmer looked even hotter than Alison had done in her prime, and Robbie had hired the girl in Oxford like some high class hooker! Well worth every sodding Ramli riyal, I bet, you lucky bastard!

  But no, Clayton winced, kicking at a discarded Coke can on the footpath, he was deluding himself. Robbie was going to show up again for more; everything Robbie had done so far had been intricately planned. Sooner or later he would weave together all these ill-fitting strands and the end product, whatever it turned out to be, was certainly not designed for Max Clayton’s amusement; he felt he could be sure of that.

  Come on, Max, look at the evidence. Analyse the clues. Take that party at Oxford for example, the MPs and the other bigwigs; there had to be news about them by now. In a surge of hope, he pulled out his mobile and called Knox.

  Knox’s office was engaged. He tried the mobile.

  Gargle of mucus at the back of the throat. Faint hint of cough.

  ‘Oh good, Max! Just the person I need to talk to.’ Giggle. ‘Been besieged here all day. First MacSween from Special Branch, then Dinsdale from the Met. Then the Home Sec himself. Everyone expects me to know about these bloody bomb threats against McDonalds. Haven't a clue! Just came out of nowhere. Can’t your lot help me out, Max? Haven’t you anything I can pass on before the 5:15 meeting?’

  ‘Sorry, Graham, can't help you there. Actually, I was calling for your help again—about the Ramlis. Do your lot have anything on movements or communications flow to and from the Ramli Embassy?’

  Clayton was sympathetic towards Knox's predicament, so much so that he didn't begrudge the bastard any of the guttural noises that accompanied the request. The poor sod would be under pressure today, and for the first time Clayton listened to the steady lament of police sirens that seemed to have invaded the South Bank now from north of the river.

  ‘There is a report on the Embassy movements, Max. Nothing very dramatic, though. Didn't excite us much. Can it wait for the meeting or do you need it now?’

  Clayton deliberated, looking across the river at the Houses of Parliament, already well illuminated in the dreary post-equinoctial dusk.

  ‘Sorry to be pain, Graham.’

  Cough.

  ‘OK Max, I'll ask for the details and call you right back.’

  Clayton checked his watch: 4:50. He'd better step it out to arrive at New Scotland Yard in time for the emergency COBRA meeting with the Home Secretary in Downing Street.

  The wind was freshening from the west across the river. Clayton glanced to his left, watching the lights from the river-facing façade of Parliament dance on the murky Thames. After the meeting he would check again on those two MPs, Paul Driscoll and Claire Ferris. Why had they been invited to Robbie's Oxford party? He'd heard some bullshit explanation about locating a Ramli investment bank in Barnet or Ipswich. Barnet or Ipswich? Christ, Robbie still had a sense of humour, and was probably pissing himself that nobody else could see the joke! Ipswich and Barnet for God's sake!

  Clayton turned right past St Thomas Hospital and walked straight into a large crowd of onlookers thronging the approach to Westminster Bridge. The sirens that he had been trying to erase from his concentration all the way along the embankment were now everywhere, screeching in intermittent pulses of panic and flashing blue in the faces of the crowd.

  Clayton squeezed through to the junction of Lambeth Palace Road and Westminster Bridge Road and found a Standard distributor, always more informative than the papers themselves.

  ‘What's going on here?’ he asked, handing a fiver to the astonished man.

  ‘Thanks, guvnor,’ the man with the high visibility vest nodded, pocketing his stash. ‘Gone bloody beserk today, mate. Bombs everywhere. First McDonalds all over the country, now this one 'ere in Waterloo and there's more at Piccadilly, Euston and Victoria 'n all.’

  ‘Thanks, mate,’ Clayton grunted and his mobile came alive. He checked the number and coughed almost instinctively.

  ‘Hello again, Graham.’

  ‘Here you are Max: Embassy closed all day to visitors. Just the usual staff in the offices, nothing interesting there. At four o'clock three diplomatic Mercs and a Jag left about the same time, all single drivers, all different directions.’

  ‘Shit!’ Clayton hissed to himself. ‘He’s on the move!’

  ‘On the move?’ Knox echoed almost apologetically. ‘Probably best on foot, Max. The roads and underground are in turmoil. Further bomb scares at Waterloo and Victoria, or so I’ve heard.’