Guy Fawkes Day
Page 89
***
House of Commons, 11:50 a.m.
The tea in Hasan's hand smelt good, but Al-Ajnabi needed the sleep more. He had managed only four hours so far.
‘The phone will not stop ringing, Hadratak,’ Hasan announced sternly, handing him the mug of tea. ‘You must answer it. Besides, it is nearly time for the twelve o'clock deadline.’
Al-Ajnabi got up from the makeshift bed in the Commons Tea Room and scratched his chin.
What news, Hasan?’ he asked.
‘There is a big demonstration here in London. We are watching on TV now. But that is all. The rest of the world is quiet, except for Mr Yokochi's diversionary tactics in Tokyo, Berlin, Paris and Washington.’
‘Have those been on TV?’
‘Yes, but there are also text messages from Mr Yokochi.’
‘OK, I'm coming, Hasan,’ Al-Ajnabi yawned, straightening his clothes and putting on his boots. It would need more than the quick wash he had planned in the adjacent washroom to remove the overwhelming tiredness that must be etched into his face. And the drawn face would have to go before he made his next pitch in front of the cameras.
Inside, the chamber of the House looked as if it had been turned over to street-sleepers. Blankets were tossed here and there over the benches while bins brimmed with the remnants of ready meals. An odour of stale food and unwashed bodies completed an unwholesome scene.
Al-Ajnabi found Maria Vasquez and Amy Weatherington standing in front of the television screen on top of the Commons Table. Both looked tired and miserable. Al-Ajnabi greeted them warmly, but their moods were beyond cheering up, so he sent them to rest in the comfort of the Tea Room.
The action on the TV screen looked promising. A pitched battle was now raging along the police lines, blocking access to Victoria Street and Parliament Square. Masked protesters had overturned three cars and set them alight. Others were hurling bricks, stones and an assortment of other projectiles at the riot police, but from what he could see, there was little chance of the protesters breaking the police lines. Two police helicopters were hovering overhead, piling further psychological pressure onto the demonstrators. It would take the concerted simultaneous surge of thousands of activists to break through; but the police were holding well. It was only time before they would baton charge to regain ground.
‘Why is the rest of the world so impassive?’ he shouted out in exasperation. ‘Where is the spirit of 1968? Can’t people see this is their last chance to reform the world before it is too late?’
The mobile in has hand rang again and Al-Ajnabi pressed to receive the incoming call as if he were unleashing the global revolution that was not happening outside.
‘Is that you, Robbie?’ Clayton's voice sounded unusually subdued.
‘You again, Max? They're letting you do all the talking now. You must be getting ever so important!’
But when Clayton spoke again, his voice was bland and he ignored the jibe.
‘The PM's agreed to let you have your second interview, but they want more hostages in return.’
‘You can have all but five. I'll keep Ferris, Driscoll, the two bankers and, of course, McPherson.’
‘They'll buy that,’ Clayton answered robotically. ‘Ten minutes' time. St Stephen's Porch again.’
‘Is that it, Max?’ Al-Ajnabi teased. ‘Aren't you even going to appeal to me to give up, call the whole show off?’
This time Clayton bit back:
‘Not at all, Robbie,’ he seethed. ‘Personally, I hope you die in there. The time for compromises between us is over.’
Al-Ajnabi clicked.
‘Ah! I suppose Alison must have told you about your daughter. Well, don't take it too hard, Max. It could have been a lot worse. Originally I had intended to bring young Sophie in here with me. Now that would have been a test – even for your conscience!’
The line went dead in Al-Ajnabi's hand and he stared for a second at the silent handset part-smiling, part something else. There was some satisfaction in hearing Clayton sound like that, but not quite enough. He had bottled it with Sophie and now Clayton had got off cheaply. Far, far too cheaply.