Guy Fawkes Day

by KJ Griffin

  Chapter 40: Houses of Parliament: 10:45 p.m.

  Al-Ajnabi stood in the Commons Lobby next to Smedley, watching the last group of five hostages file past. They were beginning to gather momentum, instinctively sensing the pathway to freedom that led out of the Central Lobby and St Stephen's Entrance beyond. Only McLaughlin and Abu Fawaz were not involved in covering the release of hostages. From the Public Gallery, Al-Ajnabi could hear the odd muted 'goodbye' addressed to Magdalena Ortiz and Amy Weatherington. The eternal bond of the gaoler and inmate was universal; the sound of the pleasantries reminded him of the cheery military guards at Catterick, their red faces, stiff collars and unstated sympathy for one of their own.

  With the majority of the hostages now gone, Al-Ajnabi was anxious to rotate the guard, giving each person much needed time for sleep and warmth in the Commons Tea Room. Right now, November 5th seemed a long way ahead.

  Inside the Chamber he could see that Khalid Chentouf and Maria Vasquez had seated the remaining hostages along the government backbenches, to whose numbers Hasan had added Driscoll and Ferris and the two bankers from the IMF and World Bank.

  From the shadows of the Commons Lobby, Al-Ajnabi's eye searched out McPherson. The Foreign Secretary was easy to spot, his gaunt head rising high above his neighbours.

  When the last of the hostages had passed him by, Al-Ajnabi leant close to Smedley's ear.

  ‘I had a text message from Yokochi. It looks like they've found the tunnel and Joel Connor, alive or dead, we don't know. Yokochi thinks Connor may have had a heart attack in there.’

  Smedley whistled softly.

  ‘Shit! Then there really isn't any way out.’

  ‘No, the tunnel will just be another way in for them.’

  ‘You think they really will attack, Omar?’

  ‘Not yet. It depends on how tomorrow goes and how the world reacts. If they try to cut off tomorrow's broadcast, we might have to let Yokochi get nasty, which would increase the chances of an attack, when they spot the link.’

  Smedley grabbed hold of his sleeve and whispered.

  ‘You told me before that you had something up your sleeve, Omar, a bargaining tool to persuade t' bastards not to send in t' SAS. ‘Ave you still got it?’

  Al-Ajnabi smiled wistfully and shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t got that joker in the pack any more, Neil. I decided not to bring her.’

  ‘Her?’

  Al-Ajnabi smiled again.

  ‘That's right, mate. If we get out of here alive I'll tell you all about Sophie.’

  Smedley smiled back, then asked,

  ‘What are our chances of negotiating a way out?’

  Al-Ajnabi smiled wistfully at the question. If only he could be sure that the rest of the team shared Smedley's instinct for self-preservation and survival. With Abu Fawaz and McLaughlin that couldn't be assumed.

  ‘Still possible,’ he shrugged. ‘So far nobody’s been killed, not by us at any rate, and while it stays that way there will always be a chance of cutting some sort of deal.’

  ‘But if they attack?’

  ‘Then we have no choice but to defend our position. But the SAS will be only one side of our problems, Neil. It could be we’ll be up against internal enemies too?’

  ‘Abu Fawaz?’

  ‘And McLaughlin. When things have settled down later tonight, I want you to check those bombs, Neil. I can't be sure that Abu Fawaz has laid them according to plan.’

  ‘Aye, I'll do that, Omar.’

  ‘And be careful, Neil. If he's changed the bombs, then he may have changed the mines and booby traps, too.’

  Their talk had taken them to the Central Lobby, where the heavy gilded chandelier unnaturally accentuated the ghostly white glints of the statues of Russell, Northcote and Gladstone against the dim shadows of the recesses.

  Al-Ajnabi left Smedley to patrol the east side of the buildings adjacent to the river, making for Hasan, whose dark-suited figure he could see at the end of St Stephen's Hall, watching the backs of the last hostages.

  His footsteps echoed along the passageway where Chapman and the TV crew had joined him earlier, their measured rhythm sombre in the pregnant silence of the deserted palace.

  Hasan turned to face his master at the end of the hallway, where the steps led down to Westminster Hall and St Stephen's Porch. Apart from the weapon he was toting, he looked immaculately turned out, ready for a ministerial meeting.

  ‘All the hostages have left?’ Al-Ajnabi asked.

  ‘Yes, Hadratak. Fifty-two have gone from here. Only the twelve left in the Commons.’

  ‘Good,’ Al-Ajnabi replied, his mind only half-focused on what Hasan was saying. ‘Tell me, Hasan, what did the others think of my TV interview?’

  Hasan looked surprised and perturbed by the question. Al-Ajnabi grinned slyly and forestalled the bland platitude on the tip of Hasan's tongue before it was spoken.

  ‘The truth, Hasan,’ he urged. ‘I want to know what the others really think.’

  Hasan took a while to answer, then looked away.

  ‘Some were upset, Hadratak. They had thought you would make direct threats against the Americans and the Israelis. Your agenda, they said, was not their own.’

  ‘Who was upset, Hasan? Abu Fawaz? McLaughlin?’

  ‘And Khalid Chentouf.’

  ‘And you, Hasan? What do you think?’

  "I do not care, Hadratak. It is not for me to have opinions about your projects.’

  ‘Oh come on, Hasan. We are not in Ramliyya any longer. You don't need to continue with unquestioning devotion. Even without my protection in Ramliyya, you would not be in danger. Sultan Adil is dead and so too are the memories of your role in the coup. The only danger you are in right now is the same danger we all share. You have a right to care.’

  Hasan frowned, then swallowed hard.

  ‘I will repay my debt to you, Hadratak. And then I will leave.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  ‘When Allah wills.’

  ‘OK,’ Al-Ajnabi sighed. ‘You may well get that chance very soon. This whole enterprise is not turning out at all as I had planned.’

  ‘Things can still change, Hadratak. God is great.’

  Al-Ajnabi stepped past Hasan, patting the Somali on the shoulder as he passed.

  ‘He will need to be, Hasan, that's for sure. Now go and rejoin the others, please. It's time that Maria, Magdalena and Amy had a rest in the Tea Room.’

  As he listened to Hasan's footsteps returning to the Commons, Al-Ajnabi continued in the opposite direction. A draft was blowing up the steps from St Stephen's Porch and he followed it warily down. At the entrance he was in time to see the last of the hostages hurrying to the safety of the metal barriers fencing off St Margaret's Church and the Abbey on the left, where they were being greeted by police and paramedics.

  In front of the barriers a lone figure was silhouetted ghoulishly against the backdrop of searchlights that were trained at the Parliament buildings and across Parliament Square.

  Al-Ajnabi squinted into the dazzling beams and took a longer look at the figure. The man had seen him and was trying to communicate, holding something to his ear and pointing with his free hand to the inside of his jacket. But looking straight into the searchlights, it was impossible to work out what the figure was actually saying. Damn the lights! He had a good mind to have McLaughlin find a suitable perch and take a few of them out.

  Just then the mobile in his waistcoat pocket started to bleat again; they had been trying frantically to call him since the interview had been shown on BBC. Al-Ajnabi pulled out the gadget and looked at the incoming number. It was neither Dinsdale's nor any he recognized. He let the phone continue to ring and looked back at the shadowy figure. More waving. Now he understood.

  Oh yes, it all made sense now; there was no more mystery about the figure or the caller. This was long overdue. Too long.

  He let the phone continue with its electronic music then pressed
to accept the call.

  ‘It's you I suppose, Max. And don't say it's been a long time.’

  There was a lengthy pause. When the voice finally came, it sounded hesitant.

  ‘It has been a long time, Robbie. Very long. We need to talk.’

  ‘There's not much to say, Max. And you know the score anyway. Or aren't they letting you into their discussions inside the Guildhall? No, wait a minute, it must have been their idea to get you to talk to me. Well, I hope you explained to them why we're not really on speaking terms any longer?’

  ‘Oh, they know the whole story, Robbie, don't you worry about that. But that's all past, if not forgotten. It's the future we've got to talk about now, like whether you have any. But we can't talk like this, Robbie. Too many ears. Why don't I come over to meet you?’

  So far it had been necessarily civil, but now Al-Ajnabi felt the anger return in a hot flush against the chill wind.

  ‘You mean they're sending you after me again, like they sent you to Walvis Bay, eh? What do they want you to do this time? Tempt me a few yards outside the porch and have a sniper put a bullet through my brains?’

  Clayton paused and when he spoke again he sounded almost on the verge of tears.

  ‘I'm coming over unarmed, Robbie. It's me who's sticking my neck on the block. There'll be no tricks.’

  ‘You'll come over to me unarmed, Max?’ Al-Ajnabi laughed sarcastically. ‘What's to say I won't point a gun at your head when you get here and stick you in with the hostages next to McPherson? For a master of deceit, you've suddenly grown very trusting, Max!’

  Whatever Clayton's intention, the connection had been peremptorily cut and Al-Ajnabi could already see his former friend walking steadily towards him across the road from St Margaret's. He flicked his phone shut and tightened the grip on his MP5K. Max Clayton was close enough now for him to put a thirty-round clip into his chest in under three seconds. Al-Ajnabi's finger hovered over the trigger, but only close enough to slip the safety catch on and shoulder the weapon. Cold-blooded murder was for others; Omar Al-Ajnabi had no room for that in his plans.

  Clayton stopped fifteen yards from the entrance by the steel barrier in front of which tourists must have queued patiently only hours earlier. His face was still in shadow, but from what Al-Ajnabi could see it hadn't changed much since he'd last seen it from a hotel balcony in Walvis Bay all those years ago.

  ‘You're close enough now, Max, but there are no more showings today I'm afraid.’

  Clayton ignored the jibe.

  ‘Dear oh dear, Robbie, you've completely lost it,’ he sighed, shaking his head. ‘What the hell have you got yourself into? You picked yourself up after South Africa, had some incredibly lucky breaks. Power, wealth, not to mention an impressive harem, I shouldn't fancy. So why the hell come here? Why throw all that away, Robbie? For Easterby, for McPherson, for me? Are we worth all that? Think of all you've been through since you left prison. Why give up all the gains of your new life just to have your revenge beamed across the world on satellite TV?’

  Al-Ajnabi was taken aback. There was neither the sarcasm nor the antagonism he had expected in Max's voice.

  ‘It's not just revenge any longer, Max. You saw the TV show.’

  "All that political and environmental bollocks? I'm not buying that, Robbie. Do you think most people out there care about any of that shit, even if, I grant, some of the truth may well be on your side? People don't want to know about poverty and pollution, Robbie; they're conditioned to think of people like you as nutters and loonies, whingeing doomsday merchants with no practical solutions to the world's problems. They trust us to sort things out for them, and we have no intention of rocking the boat which has carried us well enough so far. You've had your little cameo appearance on TV, so for Christ sake get out of here while you still can. So far no one's been killed, not by your side anyway. You're ahead. You can quit with honour. Trust me, I can get you some sort of deal, Robbie.’

  ‘Trust? Fine word coming from you, Max! You want to make a deal, do you? Is it the same kind of deal as you were looking for in Walvis Bay?’

  The reply was a long time in coming and the tone conveyed hurt.

  ‘I never came to Walvis Bay, to harm you, Robbie. Accuse me of anything you like with Alison, but not that.’

  ‘Oh no? So what were you doing in Walvis Bay then, Max? Just coincidental?’

  "I came to warn you, Robbie. To warn you and to help you out. I'd discovered something, you see, and believe me or not, I wanted to make amends. But when I found out about the helicopter crash and saw the fake dental records, I thought I had got there too late to save you. It looked like they had already done their work. Or that's what I thought at the time.’

  Al-Ajnabi paused, leaning back in uncertainty against the maps of London that were etched onto the green walls of the Porch. The possibility that Max might be telling the truth sent bizarre sensations spinning across his mind. He had imagined this meeting with Max so many times before over the last fifteen years, but none of the scenarios had ever been like this. Max's words were seductive. He felt instinctively drawn forwards towards his old friend, and as if to test the hypothesis, an impulse sent him down the last couple of steps.

  He stood in the fresh night air just a few paces away from Max, fully exposed to any of the snipers that might be hiding up in the Abbey across the road. If Max were lying, the slap of the bullet into his forehead would come swift and painlessly.

  ‘Who were 'they' Max?’ he asked softly, scouring the battlements of Westminster Abbey in front of him for the tell-tale silhouette of a sniper's rifle.

  But it was Clayton's turn to step closer. They were eye to eye.

  ‘Go for the negotiated settlement, Robbie, and I'll have them fed to you. I'll be there for you this time. There are no more Alisons between us.’

  ‘And I just trust you, Max? After all the help you gave me in the court martial?’

  Clayton swallowed hard.

  ‘Don't keep coming back to that, Robbie. I fucked up when you were inside and I know it. You see, I just couldn't bear seeing you face-to-face back then. The guilt… it was too much.’

  ‘Guilty conscience? I'm not buying that one either, Max. You were just too busy screwing and re-screwing Alison.’

  ‘That's not how it was, Robbie,’ Clayton swallowed hard. ‘But if that's how you want to imagine it, so be it. I tried to explain years ago but you wouldn't listen.’

  The vision of Max with Alison left an undigested taste of bitterness in Al-Ajnabi's mouth and he backed away towards the steps again.

  ‘No deals, Max. It's late and I've got things to see to inside.’

  ‘For Christ's sake, I'm trying to save your skin, Robbie!’ Clayton called out angrily at his back. ‘They'll kill you if you stay in there. You've already made yourself far too inconvenient for a lot of powerful people.’

  Half way up the steps Al-Ajnabi turned again towards his former friend.

  ‘Who is it that really wants to see me dead, eh Max? Is it them or you?’

  ‘What difference will it make? It will be the same result either way.’

  Al-Ajnabi took the rest of the first steps, leaving the night air behind.

  ‘Just tell me one thing, Robbie," Clayton shouted up from below, his face suddenly lit up by a swaying searchlight. ‘I can see you had your plans for all of us, even Alison. Oh yes, the poor girl will be beside herself now she has found out that the Middle Eastern diplomat who's been screwing her daughter is actually you. But tell me, Robbie, what I want to know is this: what plans did you have for me, eh? Even Prince Omar Bloody Ajnabi's going to find it difficult putting a bullet in me when he's holed up in there. So why not have a go here and now while you can see me face to face!’

  Al-Ajnabi turned on his heel and their eyes met again. Clayton had followed him as far as the first step, close enough to make the offer momentarily appealing. But he kept the MP5K close to his shoulder and shouted back bitterly.

  �
��You were lucky, Max. I hit an unexpected snag. If you survive this, don't think it's because I couldn't get your or didn't want to. But now, before I leave, it's your turn to come clean: What are you going to do with Sophie Palmer, Max? Have you pulled her in yet?’

  Clayton laughed, but it was a hyena's cackle of exasperated contempt.

  ‘Oh, this is too much, Robbie, even for you! You haven't become infatuated with the daughter now, have you? My God, so that's it! She must be a class shag! We both know how well Alison could slide between the sheets, but are saying the daughter's even better in the sack? Well, what a shame! You're never going to get another night with Sophie Palmer again, Robbie, not if you choose to stay in there. The men from the ministries don't want the embarrassment of having you stuck in a maximum high security jail for life, giving compromising interviews to the world's press. They'll play dirty, I'm telling you, Robbie, if you don't take this chance. No more Sophie Palmer for you, old friend. Or had you intended to leave her to me in your will?’

  Max's taunts almost hit their mark, but Al-Ajnabi swallowed them bitterly and took refuge in the irony.

  ‘That won't ever happen, Max. So don't stay awake fantasizing about what you mustn't touch. In fact, you can thank Sophie's good judgement for having spared you that punishment.’