Guy Fawkes Day

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Guy Fawkes Day Page 61

by KJ Griffin


  ***

  Saeed grinned from the driver's seat, ‘Allah yisallimak.’

  ‘W'inta b'khair,’ Al-Ajnabi grunted in reply, straightening himself and slamming the door shut. He looked up through the thickening drizzle to glance briefly at the façade of Westminster Hall, admiring the Bath stonework that encased Norman arches alongside which Chaucer might have strolled. The gabled roof stretched proudly to his left, looming high above the statue of Cromwell on its western flank.

  Looking past Cromwell’s statue, Al-Ajnabi’s eyes fixed on Paul Driscoll, and he walked purposefully towards the Barnet MP, while Khalid Chentouf, Oscar Salazar, Brendan McLaughlin and Abu Fawaz followed behind. The MP’s jaw had dropped in petrified bewilderment, and Al-Ajnabi felt instantly reassured by Driscoll's browbeaten terror.

  ‘I say, Prince Omar, isn't it?’ Driscoll hesitated.

  ‘Prince Omar Al-Ajnabi Al-Janoubi, Mr. Driscoll. Perhaps you have forgotten about me since our last meeting in Oxford? But how could I ever forget your own features, my dear friend? I have such charming and detailed photos of you locked away in my study!’

  Driscoll began to stammer in his double embarrassment. He shook Al-Ajnabi's hand timidly and offered the same uncertain hand to the rest of the Ramli prince’s party before hurrying back to Al-Ajnabi.

  ‘I’m sorry if I seemed rude, Your Excellency. It’s just that Doctor Al-Badawi didn’t mention that you would be attending the meeting in person, what with all that diplomatic rumpus going on right now…’

  ‘We are all slaves to business of one sort or another, Mr Driscoll,’ Al Ajnabi quipped. ‘Myself included. Now, do you have our passes? I'll take Doctor Al-Badawi's.’

  The MP was obviously too browbeaten to object to the security violation and Al-Ajnabi took a last look outside while Driscoll fumbled in his jacket pocket before handing out security passes to Salazar, Chentouf, McLaughlin and Abu Fawaz. There were three policeman patrolling the entrance, but they seemed more concerned with the wail of sirens rushing towards Waterloo than with the MP for Barnet and his guests.

  The autumn wind was gusting from the west, toying with the piles of leaves outside St Stephen's entrance, sending them in swirling eddies around the expectant queue of tourists. This would be the last taste of fresh air for days, perhaps forever, Al-Ajnabi thought glumly to himself and glanced up at the lion and unicorn, whose tutelary effigies were inlaid into the buttressing above St Stephen's Entrance. He took a last gulp of air and followed the MP past the trio of policeman.

  Driscoll led the way up two flights of stairs that brought them to St Stephen's Porch and the security check. Al-Ajnabi tensed; it was all up to Betty Wardley, Dave Cohen's new programmes for the scanners and CCTV cameras—and a slice of luck. But sensing that the best luck was self-created, he touched Driscoll's arm just before the MP led the way through the metal detector in an attempt to strike up diversionary conversation.

  ‘This is very beautiful,’ he said, pointing to his left at the Norman arches and hammer-beam roof of St Stephen's Hall. ‘Is this all part of the Palace?’

  ‘The very oldest part,’ Driscoll enthused, evidently glad of an opportunity for easy conversation.

  Al-Ajnabi feigned interest and did his best to keep the MP's eye as he was regaled with a long-winded account of the history of the Westminster Hall.

  Driscoll went through the metal detector without breaking off from his narrative. Al-Ajnabi swallowed. His turn. The blood was throbbing up against the mini-arsenal of small arms and ammo strapped painfully to various parts of his arms, legs and abdomen beneath the immaculate Armani suit.

  Nothing. No bleep, no alarms. The policeman lent towards him, waving the handheld scanner loosely over his body, more like a blessing than a search. In his relief, Al-Ajnabi felt he could have shaken the policeman's hand till the scanner dropped out of it.

  Betty Wardley had done her job there too. Only the beautiful sound of Driscoll's interminable spiel. The policeman nodded to Al-Ajnabi and waved him on.

  Al-Ajnabi turned, watching in ever greater exhilaration as first Oscar Salazar, then the dishevelled McLaughlin stepped through in turn. The PC with the body scanner was even more perfunctory when it came to Khalid Chentouf's turn and the Algerian carried himself through more confidently than any of the others.

  Only Abu Fawaz left. From his position next to Driscoll, Al-Ajnabi looked back at the computer screen, able to admire the beauty of Dave Cohen's programme first hand. The plump Jordanian lay his large briefcase flat on the scanner's conveyor belt, but instead of the chunks of Semtex and collection of fuses and detonators that he knew to be totally unconcealed inside, Al-Ajnabi watched in exhilaration as a mirror image of the case with more wholesome contents flashed across the screen. In the intensity of success, he felt like kissing Driscoll on either of his fetid cheeks.

  ‘Right then,’ Driscoll concluded, ‘if we're all set, I'll lead on through the Central Lobby and the Commons Corridor. You'll be able to have a quick look inside the House from the Lobby door.’

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