Friday afternoon. Castle Lorne.
Blythe Edwards popped a sweetener into her coffee. ‘Fair enough, Mark,’ she said, giving the muddy liquid a stir before casting aside her spoon, ‘I take your point about Russia, but why on earth should Mao try to give the United States a kicking?’
D’Arby held up his hand, spreading his fingers. ‘How many reasons do you want?’ he asked, beginning to count off the digits. ‘You’re right up there at the top of Mao’s list. Because of Taiwan, because of your old trade boycotts, because of all your whingeing about the Dalai Lama and Darfur and human rights. And he won’t have forgotten about the Korean War, either, although he was nothing but a baby at the time.’ He had now come to his thumb. ‘But, in truth, he only needs one reason.’
‘Which is?’
D’Arby’s expression suggested that the question was redundant, the answer all too obvious. ‘Because you are the United States. The superpower. The international hate figure. For an entire generation the malcontents around the globe have needed no other target but you. Whatever the problem, you are its cause. And wherever crowds gather and flags are burnt, there you’ll find the Stars and Stripes in the ashes.’
‘There has to be more to it than that,’ she countered.
‘China has both motive and means.’
‘But you don’t have a body! Heavens, this isn’t some old episode of Miss Marple where we rely on instinct,’ she returned, paying him back for his earlier abrasiveness. ‘You’ve got nothing more than a theory. I’m not sure what it is you want, Mark, what you’re expecting out of me and Sergei, but whatever it is has to be based on something more solid than coincidence and ancient squabbles.’
As D’Arby considered her words, his head dropped in sorrow. ‘Sadly, I do have a body. An exceedingly brave young woman who was very close to Mao.’ He paused, battling with his feelings, wondering how much he should tell them. ‘Her family was from Hong Kong. British connections. We found those connections extraordinarily useful…when she found her way into Mao’s bed.’
‘You mean his mistress was your spy?’ Blythe exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Jesus, we had no one anywhere near as close as that.’
‘She told us so much of Mao’s thoughts and plans. Apparently he liked to talk. It was his form of foreplay, got him excited, telling her what he was going to do to the rest of the world. That’s why I know the Chinese were behind the boiling reactors and the mysterious blackouts, and all those tiny glitches in our systems that screwed up our pensions and sent crates of toilet rolls instead of mortars to war zones. And that is why I know he intends to attack us all, very soon.’
‘You use the past tense when you talk about the girl,’ Shunin interjected. ‘What happened?’
‘Somehow Mao found out. I suppose it was inevitable that someday he would. Sadly, that day came a few weeks ago. What precisely happened to her?’ He shook his head and shrugged. ‘You know Mao, you know what we’re dealing with, you’ve all done your own psychological profiles on the man. He’s out of the same stable as Genghis Khan. I hate to think what has happened to her, but she disappeared. Completely. That’s why I can’t be more precise about when he plans to attack. Except that it will be before the summer is out.’
‘He may have changed his mind, even been forced to change his mind,’ Washington suggested.
‘Are we willing to take that chance?’
From his chair in the middle of the table, Shunin began to chuckle.
‘Something amuses you, Mr President?’ D’Arby enquired.
‘We scour the heavens for electronic tittletattle and spend billions on the latest eavesdropping devices, while you make do with–how do you say in English?–a tuppenny tart. I like your style, Prime Minister.’ Somehow even his compliments came basted in sarcasm.
‘Intelligence doesn’t come simply from machines, Mr President.’
Shunin continued to chuckle, without humour, shaking his head.
‘Would you wait, mocking, until you are on your knees?’ D’Arby suddenly exploded. ‘Until your people are pounding on the door of the Kremlin with their children starving in their arms? Until the world around you has been reduced to darkness, until all the rules by which you live have been torn up and even the snow turns yellow? He is planning this–that I know! He’s planning it now, and if we don’t fight him together he’ll pick us off one by one.’ He turned breathlessly to Blythe Edwards, firing on all sides like a gunslinger in a saloon. ‘And what will you do, Madam President, when Mao turns to you and says he’s going to take back Taiwan? How will you respond–how will you be able to respond when you’ve lost control of your own country?’ Then back once more at Shunin. ‘And when, Mr President, Mao says he wants to renegotiate those oil and gas contracts, how will you respond? What will you do when he says that he wants to renegotiate all those unequal treaties you forced down China’s throat in order to steal vast tracts of his land? Oh, you might threaten him, say you’ll retaliate, but you won’t even be certain that when you push the bloody button your missiles will work!’
‘I’d never go to war on the word of a Chinese tart,’ Shunin bit back sharply.
‘A tart who paid for her words with her life!’
A silence descended upon the table, stretching so long it began to be painful. No one knew what to say next; perhaps too much had been said already. That was when Flora MacDougall reappeared.
‘Flora, I asked that we not be disturbed,’ D’Arby snapped, his tone too blunt for politeness.
‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister–my apologies to you all,’ she offered, her voice calm and sweet, addressing the others, ‘but there’s something I thought you might be needing to see. It’s been showing on the news this last half an hour or more. If you’ll allow me?’
The Prime Minister nodded stiffly, in the manner of a man on a scaffold giving the sign to his executioner. Flora crossed to an ancient carved elm cupboard and opened its doors to reveal a television hidden inside. She switched it on, then stood back. It took only moments for the news item to appear.
It showed Sammi Shah, standing before the pink-fronted British embassy. As the picture juddered slightly across the satellite link, he announced that strange events were taking place in Beijing. Troops had begun to appear on the streets. Communications had been interrupted and many official meetings had been cancelled. The British and several other embassies had been cordoned off. Something out of the ordinary was happening in the Chinese capital, Sammi told the world.
He was in the process of explaining that the usual government contacts were unavailable for comment when, from behind his shoulder, an officer of the People’s Liberation Army appeared and grabbed his shoulder. Sammi resisted, pushed back, determined to continue with his broadcast. Two more soldiers joined the officer and a hand came out to cover the lens, but not before those sitting around the table were all able to see Sammi, the BBC’s man in Beijing, being clubbed to the ground and beaten senseless with rifle butts.
‘Oh, my God,’ whispered D’Arby, his voice hoarse with fear. ‘It’s already started.’
CHAPTER TEN
Friday mid-afternoon. Castle Lorne.
They sat motionless, buried in their own thoughts. D’Arby hung his head in despair. ‘Not so soon, not so soon,’ they heard him whisper.
‘The reporter mentioned other embassies,’ Blythe Edwards said, her voice grim.
‘We need to find these things out,’ Shunin added. ‘There is a telephone here?’
‘Most certainly,’ Flora replied.
‘Then, if I may, Mrs MacDougall, I would like to use it to call my embassy,’ he said, for the first time deploying impeccable manners.
‘We can’t,’ D’Arby said, looking up.
‘But we must,’ Shunin countered.
The American President nodded her support. ‘We have to know what’s going on.’
‘Think about it. Just think!’ D’Arby demanded, growing animated. ‘You know the Chinese. They’ve got the capacity
to scan the skies for key words that will alert them to any significant calls. One false word–just one–and it will give them our location.’ He wasn’t looking directly at anyone but focusing his attention on a silver napkin ring that he was twirling between his fingers. ‘Look, you know what they can do, because that’s what we’ve all been doing, too. We’ve got listening stations around the globe and up in space, ransacking private communications for incriminating language. That’s how you Americans have been able to wrap up so many al-Qa’eda cells,’ he said to Blythe, ‘and you to dig out so many Chechens,’ he continued, turning to the Russian. ‘We all listen out for our enemies. And we have to assume that Mao’s men are listening out for us.’
‘Even so,’ Blythe responded, ‘we have to take the risk. We can’t do this blind.’
‘No, you don’t understand,’ D’Arby said, looking up at last. ‘You can’t telephone. Not from here.’
‘But why not?’
‘Because…’ He paused, seemingly unwilling to finish his explanation. As he fumbled with his thoughts the napkin ring, too, escaped from his clutches and began to roll across the wooden tabletop. They all watched, hypnotized, as it slowly moved towards the edge and, with what seemed like its last breath, fell to the floor where it rattled around noisily on its rim until it finally fell silent.
The ensuing silence was broken by D’Arby, his voice subdued. ‘Because,’ he said, ‘I’ve had the line cut.’
A chorus of protest began pouring forth from all sides.
‘It was the right thing to do at the time,’ he insisted, awkward but defiant. He glared at his accusers. ‘Security in silence, that’s what we all agreed.’
An argument erupted and was about to grow bitter when a new voice could be heard. It was Flora MacDougall. ‘You might have done the courtesy of telling me, Prime Minister. I would have understood.’ She was very formal, her sense of personal violation clear. This was her home, one the MacDougalls had defended for six hundred years, often with their lives. It brought the others to a halt.
D’Arby screwed up his face, and his courage. ‘Flora, I apologize.’
‘You didn’t trust us. Any of us,’ Shunin accused.
‘I felt we shouldn’t take the risk of being discovered by accident and kick-starting the whole thing.’
‘But it’s already started!’ the Russian snapped.
‘I wasn’t to know.’
‘You brought us here to solve the problems of the world,’ Shunin said, acid in his voice, ‘yet we can’t even order pizza.’
The colour drained from D’Arby’s face, and with it his control of the moment. He had called this summit, made the arrangements, set its goalposts, but the game was no longer his. Instinctively, the Russian reached to snatch the advantage. ‘Where may we find a phone, Mrs MacDougall?’
‘We passed through a small place a short while before we got here,’ Lavrenti chipped in, ‘a few miles back along the coast road.’
‘That’ll be Sullapool,’ Flora said, still sniffing in disdain.
‘It has phones?’ Shunin asked.
‘And a church, if you’ll be needing it.’
‘Lavrik, you will go, find one of those phones. See what the hell’s going on.’
‘It’s still a risk,’ D’Arby said, trying to make up the ground he had forfeited.
‘I fear, Prime Minister, that the world has suddenly begun to overflow with risk,’ Shunin replied dully.
‘Then we must be careful. Use public phones. Ambiguous language,’ Blythe added.
Konev rose to do his master’s bidding.
‘Marcus, you go, too,’ Blythe instructed.
His face grew petulant, offended at being given an order. ‘If I must. I’ll call Warren.’
‘No, that’s too direct. Just in case they’re listening.’
‘The embassy, then?’
‘Call Ed Schumacher at CNN in London. He’ll know what’s going on an hour before it happens, and long before anyone at the embassy on a summer weekend.’
‘Suppose I’d better drive,’ Harry offered. It was the first time he had spoken during the entire lunch.
‘Ah, Mr Jones,’ Shunin replied, ‘I’d wondered why you were here.’ There was no apparent humour in the remark. D’Arby was down, so now his lieutenant could be lashed.
The alliance hadn’t even made it through lunchtime.
Friday mid-afternoon. Sullapool.
The road to Sullapool was narrow, winding, steep and uncomfortably hot. There was no breeze to disturb the heather that cloaked the hills, no relief from the humidity that seemed to bear down on this part of the coast. Harry’s head still felt as though it were stuffed with polystyrene bubbles; the last thing he needed was to spend more time in the front seat of the old Range Rover, whose gearbox complained on the gradients and whose windows squeaked in protest as they were wound down. Yet slowly, the sea air began to revive him.
The journey had started inauspiciously. Washington had almost raced to claim the rear seat; he’d grown fed up with watching Shunin take control and would be damned before he would allow the son-in-law to do the same. He’d been made to feel like a messenger boy, running errands while the grown-ups relaxed and reflected on what had transpired. He knew the President herself couldn’t be found wandering around the town and there was no other choice but for him to go, yet even so he felt affronted. He was being treated like an errand boy, and something deep in his background made him resent it. He slumped in the rear seat and sulked while Konev climbed up in front beside Harry.
The ribbon of road before them was rumpled. The ground at this point rose steeply from the firth, and for a while the road clung to the sides of the hills before making a dash to a notch in the brow. At this highest point on the road they passed a small, dilapidated stone shelter, which Harry thought might in earlier days have served as a lookout for the farmers and fishermen who by night would have turned their hand to a little lucrative smuggling. The spot gave a fine view across the firth to the islands beyond, where the sea shimmered in the heat, disturbed only by battalions of seagulls, squabbling as they hunted for food. Beyond the shelter the road tumbled precariously towards the small town they could see some five miles in the distance. There was no sign of life along the road itself.
‘God, this is bleak,’ Washington muttered from the back seat.
He should try it in the middle of winter, Harry thought. He had. It had been twenty years since the SAS troop he’d been leading had been dropped a little further up the coast at dusk one short January day. Their mission was to test the defences of the country’s main nuclear submarine base at Faslane that lay sixty tortuous miles to the south. They’d marched through these hills for three snow-driven days and as many frostbitten nights before they’d reached the base, only to find that an army of peaceniks had arrived before them and Faslane was buttoned up as tight as a nun’s knickers. So instead of trying to go over or under the wire, they’d walked through the front gate early one morning disguised as a painting and decorating crew. Once inside they’d nabbed the base commander in his home while he was concentrating on his kippers. His wife had still been in her nightdress and curlers. Mission accomplished. Oh, but there had been hell to pay. Apparently Harry hadn’t played by the rules–yes, apparently there were rules about how you were supposed to break into the place, so a week later Harry had taken his troop back to these hills and done it all over again.
‘Bleak? It has its own beauty,’ Harry said, responding to the American’s jibe. ‘People become very attached to it. The clans in this part have been slaughtering each other for centuries over its control.’
‘Why would they bother?’
‘Perhaps for no more than the privilege of being able to be the first to spit upon the English.’
‘Pointless savagery.’
‘Oh, no, you’ll find the true savages in Glasgow. The East End, around Rugby Street. You need a police escort to get in, although why anyone would bother I’ve never figured
out.’
Washington realized Harry was sending him up, and fell back to irritated silence. This man knew how to sulk, Harry thought.
Shafts of evening sun were squeezing between the clouds gathering to the west as they came to the outskirts of Sullapool. It was a community of no more than a few hundred souls who teased a modest living from hill farming and the sea. On its outskirts lay the ruins of an abandoned slate quarry. The houses were small, neat, almost entirely single-storey affairs that appeared to be ducking their heads beneath a levelling winter wind. Most had whitewashed walls and postage-stamp gardens. The town was scattered across a spit of land that projected into the firth from the surrounding hills, with a small but stout harbour at its far end where several fishing boats were tied up. This was where Mrs MacDougall had said they would find one public telephone; another was located outside the old church.
‘Here we are,’ Harry said as he drew up beside the church. The street was empty, not a soul in sight. ‘You’ll be bothered by nothing but the midges.’
Washington, still insisting on pre-eminence in the pecking order, moved quickly to claim squatter’s rights in the red phone box, closing the door against them. It appeared warped, he had to force it closed with his foot. Seconds later, he was wrenching it open once more. He stuck his head out. ‘I haven’t used one of these things before,’ he said peevishly.
So many degrees, so many accolades, so many bumps on that burnished skull of his, yet still he couldn’t work out how to get a dial tone. ‘A system built only for savages, of course,’ Harry quipped as he showed the American what to do, building a little tower of coins beside the receiver in case he should need them. He made sure Washington had his dial tone, then left the rest to him.
He backed out of the phone box, made a point of closing the door carefully, then retreated to the car to give the American space to make his call. That’s when Harry noticed the Russian was missing.
The Edge of Madness Page 13