The Edge of Madness

by Michael Dobbs

  ‘Details?’ Blythe demanded.

  ‘Not clear yet, but you’re needed back at post, Madam President.’ He hesitated, then took a step forward. ‘Jesus H. Christ, I saw the flames from ten damned miles away. You scared the hell out of me, I can’t tell you how worried I was–and how wonderful it is to see you.’ His rebuke faded into overwhelming relief.

  ‘Thanks, Warren. For everything you’ve done.’

  ‘And one other thing while we’re at it.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I just hate being President.’

  ‘You know, sometimes so do I.’

  And Harry saw a look come over her face, an expression that said she was back in business.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a raincoat in the back of your car, do you, Warren?’ she asked. ‘I’m feeling very slightly underdressed.’

  He scurried off. The sky was beginning to lighten. It was a new day.

  ‘If I leave now, I can make it back to Balmoral for breakfast,’ she said.

  ‘As if none of this had happened,’ Harry added.

  ‘I guess so.’ She turned to him, wanted to draw close, but presidents had to be tougher than that. ‘Looks like we got out of this one, Harry.’

  ‘For the moment, at least. Mao may have gone, but those toys of his, they’re still scattered around the playroom, waiting for someone else to pick them up.’

  ‘Seems like I’ve got a lot of things to sort out in Washington, Harry.’ She paused, her presidential mask slipping. Will you promise to come and see me?’

  ‘I may have to go to Manhattan first.’

  ‘Someone there?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’ She leaned forward, kissed him. ‘Good luck, Harry Jones.’

  Then she was gone, whisked away in Warren Holt’s raincoat.

  The sky was lifting rapidly, and along with the night had faded so many of its fears, yet still there was Castle Lorne, or what was left of it, a blackened, ugly reminder. Harry saw Nipper and his grandmother in wheelchairs about to be loaded into the back of an ambulance. He hobbled over.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He demanded, alarmed.

  ‘In rather better shape than you, Mr Jones, it would seem,’ Flora replied earnestly. ‘They’re just taking us to the hospital for a few wee checks. Cuts, bruises, but no more than that. You, on the other hand…’

  ‘Did you really get shot, Harry?’ Nipper demanded with guileless enthusiasm.

  ‘Seems like it.’

  ‘Now, Nipper,’ Flora scolded, ‘you’ll be remembering your manners.’

  The boy’s brow clouded. ‘Yes, of course.’ He gulped. ‘Thank you very much for saving me, Harry.’ Very stiffly, he stretched out his hand.

  Harry took it, and squatted down beside him. Nipper wouldn’t let him go.

  ‘And I’m so sorry about Mr Washington.’

  ‘Wasn’t your fault, Nipper. You didn’t set the fire.’

  ‘Mr Jones,’ Flora whispered, her voice tight with emotion, ‘there’s something I wish to say about that, if you’ll allow me.’

  ‘What can I say, Mrs MacDougall? I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I’m afraid we’ve brought you nothing but pain.’

  But the old lady was shaking her head. ‘You don’t understand. These are tears of relief. Tears of great celebration, Mr Jones–and thanks to you, for bringing my bairn back. Nothing else on this earth matters as much.’

  She reached out and took his free hand, squeezing it. A pillar of fire scorched a path up his arm, but from somewhere he managed to find a smile. With his good hand he scrabbled behind his back. It was still there, the dirk, tucked into his belt, the only thing to have survived the fire. He handed it back. ‘We flew, didn’t we, Nipper? Just like the Lady of Lorne. They said it was a myth, but you and me, we know better.’

  ‘We sure do!’ Nipper exclaimed, his eyes brimming with excitement.

  ‘Next time, though, let’s try a different approach. Why don’t we use a plane, eh?’

  As they laughed and Flora continued to weep her tears of gratitude, D’Arby appeared from out of the fading night, at last separated from his radiophone. ‘I’m so very glad to see you smiling, young man,’ he said tousling Nipper’s hair in a too-familiar fashion.

  The boy nodded silently, and Harry thought he noted flecks of grey resentment creep into his grandmother’s eyes. Perhaps D’Arby saw them, too, for he turned, awkwardly.

  ‘What can I say to you, Flora? We’ll find some way of overcoming this tragedy. We’ll rebuild Castle Lorne for you–I don’t know how we’ll do it, but I’ll find a way, some departmental budget, one mechanism or another that will get us there, and if we can’t do that we’ll raise the money privately. That’s my promise. The country owes you a debt of honour.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr D’Arby. But it were better you had never come.’

  Strange, Harry thought, how the Prime Minister was able to start a war on the other side of the world yet was apparently reduced to scratching around to find some means of doing what was right on his home turf. And his words fell well short of the apology that was due to Flora, as if the chaos had been entirely someone else’s responsibility.

  The two men stayed until the ambulance had drawn away, leaving them alone. Firemen were damping down the ruins, but from a safe distance; the walls were cracked and clearly unstable. At some point soon, the castle would be razed, for safety’s sake, and who would have the strength and patience to rebuild it, despite all of D’Arby’s assurances? Castle Lorne wasn’t just walls, it was an expression of a family’s place in the world, and that world had changed. By tomorrow some official would have arrived with a notebook and a set of building regs that would ensure Castle Lorne could never recapture its ancient grandeur. Better it be left to its ghosts.

  D’Arby interrupted his thoughts. ‘If you’re up to it, Harry, it’s time for us to go. You need some help with that arm of yours but, if you could tolerate the inconvenience, we’d be best putting some distance between us and this place. Before journalists start scratching around and asking their damn-fool questions. I’ve got a helicopter coming. We’ll be back at Chequers in a couple of hours. Tell you what, I’ll treat you to lunch.’

  ‘I guess I’ll live,’ Harry muttered in reply. It was more than three other men had managed in the past few hours.

  Sunday, shortly after first light. Elsewhere in the World.

  They had hoped to finish the task while it was dark, but it wasn’t to be. Dawn had already broken by the time the USS Reuben James slid from her bed of sand, backwards, hauled out by an ugly, sea-churning tug. She made her way the couple of miles to international waters under her own steam, guarded from the air by any number of US warplanes, and escorted until the very end by dancing Iranian gunboats with their flags fluttering in triumph. It all made excellent news footage, and was soon being shown around the world, much to the Americans’ despair.

  Yet eventually the frigate made it to safe seas and her crew could breathe a sigh of relief. As could everyone else. There wasn’t going to be a war in the Middle East, not today, at least.

  It was about the same time, after a night spent balancing on the edge of fear, that the engineers at Sizewell began to see the temperature in the reactor core slowly dropping, although it would be another four days before they could be certain there had been no breach of the reactor vessel and that radiation wasn’t seeping into the outside world. There wasn’t much judgement involved in this, only luck. A huge amount of it, as it turned out.

  And in another time zone seven hours away, Sir Wesley Lake sat down inside the British embassy for a very private lunch with Sammi Shah. Just the two of them. No rules but plenty of beer. They had a lot to talk about. And they were both determined to get just a little bit drunk.

  EPILOGUE

  Sunday, 8.35 a.m., Chequers, Buckinghamshire.

  The helicopter trip seemed interminable. Several times Harry found himself on the point of collapsing in
to sleep, only for the helicopter to give a fresh twitch or judder, with every jolt turning his arm to molten steel. At last the red-tile roofs of the Chequers estate came into view beneath them, set amidst the thousands of acres of sweeping Buckinghamshire parkland. They circled, preparing to land on the expanse of lawn at the end of Victory Drive, only to hit yet another air pocket. The helicopter pitched, sending Harry’s stomach reeling and finally ripping his arm from his body. At least, that’s how it felt. He fell as much as climbed from the craft, grey and exhausted.

  ‘Need to get you patched up, my friend,’ the Prime Minister said, taking him by his good arm, offering support as they walked towards the house. ‘Borrow some of my clothes–a little large around the waist, but they’ll do. And I’ve got a police doctor waiting to take a look at you. He won’t ask questions. By tomorrow, this whole thing will be as though it had never happened.’

  ‘Sergei Shunin might disagree, Konev and Marcus Washington, too.’

  ‘Well, they’re not in much of a position to cause a fuss, are they?’

  They walked through the Rose Garden once more, greeted by a full refreshing sun, towards the house. A steward was holding a door open for them, but Harry lingered. ‘Let me sit awhile out here,’ he said, ‘say hello to the world.’ He fell onto a garden bench. The smell of roses was irresistible, bringing colour and refreshment even with his eyes closed.

  ‘I’ll get the medic to patch you up. Afterwards it’s breakfast and a bath for you,’ D’Arby said. ‘I’ll go and make the arrangements.’

  But Harry stretched out a hand, holding him back. ‘Why me, Mark? Why did you have to drag me along?’

  The Prime Minister turned, then slowly seated himself on the bench. He placed his hand upon Harry’s. ‘As I told you, there was no one else I could trust. And I was right. You’ve been magnificent, Harry.’

  ‘You used me.’ The eyes were still closed, the voice drained.

  ‘Of course. That’s my job, to bring the finest people around me and to make the most of their talents. I’m proud–and grateful–for what you’ve done.’ D’Arby’s tone was bullish, but his expression was tinged with concern as he examined Harry.

  ‘You wanted my backing, if things got messy,’ Harry continued, his voice a monotone.

  ‘True enough. I’ve always been grateful for your support, Harry, you know that.’

  ‘And I guess you thought perhaps I might provide some measure of physical security.’

  ‘I wasn’t far wrong there, either!’ Yet despite his jocular tone, D’Arby found that his hand on top of Harry’s no longer felt appropriate. Hesitantly, he withdrew it. Harry’s eyes opened. They stared, red and rimmed with reproach.

  ‘But most of all you wanted me to work on Blythe. You suspected she’d be reluctant, wary. You needed me to win her over.’

  There was no doubting it was an accusation. D’Arby’s tone became more cautious. ‘Yes, the American point of view was always going to be crucial. And I’d have been a fool to ignore your persuasive powers in that quarter. In no sense did I wish to embarrass you—’

  But Harry cut through him. ‘You played me for a fool.’

  ‘I played you for a giant!’ the Prime Minister answered firmly. ‘Harry, you’re the best in the business. Why else did I ask you to join the government? You said it wasn’t the right time–well, I think that time has come. Damn it, you’ve shown how indispensable you are, and you’re in a position to ask for any post you want. You can go all the way, Harry, you know that, right to the very top. If you want my job–well, when the time comes, I’ll back you every step along the road.’

  D’Arby made it sound like an act of generosity, but Harry knew he was proposing a deal. He pulled himself up on the seat so that he could turn to face the Prime Minister. ‘That’s very flattering, Mark, but I don’t think that’s going to be possible.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Too soon for me, even if I wanted it.’

  ‘Too soon for what?’

  ‘To throw my hat into the ring. When you resign.’

  ‘When I retire.’ He clearly preferred the word. ‘I hope that’ll be some time off, Harry. Lots still to do, particularly now, building bridges with the new China and a new Russian president. Christ, we’ve had a tough weekend, but think of the good that can flow from it.’ He leaned forward, came closer, wanting to re-establish their intimacy. ‘Harry, I know up in Scotland we had our misunderstandings, a few short words, in the heat of the battle, but from my point of view the last couple of days have done nothing but increase my already great regard for you. I hope you’ll forgive any cross words I might have uttered. I didn’t mean them, you know that.’

  ‘Sticks and stones, Mark,’ Harry uttered wearily.

  The Prime Minister grew animated, clenching his fists in passion. ‘We’re on the brink of a new world, Harry. And Britain’s a player once again. Perhaps it’s too much to hope that we’ll all be cosy friends, but it’ll be a world in which we understand each other very much more closely. That’s a better world, a safer world, Harry. And much of that is down to you.’

  It was what Mark D’Arby had always been so good at, subtle flattery, finding balm for open wounds.

  ‘But this weekend’s been mostly down to you, Mark.’

  ‘Kind of you to say so,’ D’Arby smiled.

  ‘No, you don’t understand. It was an accusation.’

  The smile withered. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘You planned the entire weekend, right down to the breakfast menu. And, God, you played your role magnificently. You exasperated them, stirred them up, pushed them on, all the time. They came for a weekend and almost ended up in a war.’

  ‘You know why that was, Harry. Britain’s neck was on the line and they wouldn’t have lifted a finger to save us. I had to give them ownership, make them feel it was their operation, otherwise they would never have agreed.’

  ‘You deceived them.’

  ‘All diplomacy requires deception, Harry. Surely you understand that.’

  ‘But you could never be certain they’d swallow it all, could you? That’s why you had to go the extra mile.’

  ‘Cutting off the phones, you mean?’

  ‘It got me thinking, that’s all.’

  ‘About?’

  ‘What else you might have arranged to make sure you got what you wanted.’

  A silence hung between them, growing heavier with every breath. A butterfly perched on the back of the bench, wanting to spread its wings in the sun, but quickly flew off again.

  ‘As you said, America–Blythe–was crucial,’ Harry continued.

  ‘Which is why I needed you.’

  ‘And why you needed the Reuben James.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I kept wondering about your addiction to the news, turning it on, almost as if you were expecting something. And what you got was the Reuben James. One hell of a lucky coincidence. Couldn’t have gone better if you’d planned it.’

  ‘Are you suggesting—’

  ‘What, that you had a word with someone down at GCHQ, whoever’s in charge of our own cyber-war capability? Fed them this national-security crap about how you and he had to save the country from damnation–the sort of stuff you gave me? Yes, that’s what I think happened. And he did what you asked, gave you another little party piece to add to your drama. Enough to drive Blythe over the top.’

  ‘That is total bollocks!’

  ‘Is it? You see, we share so many of our guidance systems with our American allies. We’re in a much better position to take a crack at the 5th Fleet’s navigational gear than the Chinese.’

  The Prime Minister sat silent, stunned.

  ‘And you see, Mark, the Chinese didn’t fit the picture for me. They’re bending over backwards to avoid military confrontation, that’s why they’ve chosen the cyber route. Taking on the 5th Fleet would be the last thing I’d consider, if I were them.’

  ‘Clearly they lack your exceptionally vivid
imagination.’

  ‘You’re probably right. The Chinese like to stick to form, to a pattern of behaviour–like attacking our utilities, our transport system, our money, our machinery of state.’ Harry paused, sighed. ‘And also, we’re supposed to believe, one little old lady tucked up in a hospital bed in Massachusetts. But that’s the other bit I couldn’t swallow.’

  ‘What the hell are you implying?’ D’Arby was shaking with anger.

  Harry chewed on his lip; it had a wound on the inside, swollen and sore, tasting salty, of blood, something he hadn’t noticed before. ‘I don’t think the death of Blythe’s mother was down to the Chinese at all. I think it was you.’

  D’Arby stared in astonishment. Harry stared back, searching for the flicker of guilt.

  ‘I think that was another bit of theatre, Mark,’ he said, ‘specifically designed to bring Blythe alongside. Yes, those were the words you used–and that phrase of yours. Whatever it takes.’

  ‘Good God, you’ve gone quite mad. How on earth could I persuade anyone to do something like that?’

  ‘You persuaded the most powerful politicians in the world to go to war, Mark. You’re a very persuasive man.’

  D’Arby stiffened, his whole body seemed to tighten in anger. His voice came as though it were the first breath of winter. ‘You start making allegations like that, Harry my boy, and they’ll need an excavator to find what’s left of you. I’ll pile so many writs and security notices on you that by the time they get to you there’ll be nothing left but a shadow.’

  ‘Do I take that as a threat?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Harry sucked at his tattered lip once more. ‘Only one way to stop me, Mark, you know that. And I don’t think you’ve got the balls to kill me, not face to face. I suppose one anonymous little old lady on the far side of the world may barely tickle your conscience, but I don’t think you’ve got it in you to do your own dirty work.’