The Aachen Memorandum

by Andrew Roberts

  ‘It’s safe. Don’t worry. Tell them this is the deal. If you can get someone senior in your office – Bittersich or someone – to take a serious interest in prosecuting this I’ll let you have it. Till then just use my notes. They’re pretty rough but they explain the position well enough.’

  ‘Does anyone else know where it is?’

  ‘No. No one.’ Alarm bells rang. He had to protect himself against P.I.D. Specifically against Alex Tallboys. What had the Admiral told Percival? ‘But tell your bosses that if anything were to happen to me, facsimiles of the original will start arriving on editors’ and politicians’ desks in Oslo, Washington, Beijing and Auckland before the end of the week. I’ve organised that at least.’ She thought for a moment.

  ‘All right, I’ll go back to Thames House now. Tonight I’ll let you know what I’ve got. Oh, and darling.’ She moved so close to him their noses were almost touching. Her scent smelt expensive and smuggled. He recoiled.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why do you shrink away from me? You didn’t even let me kiss you. What have I done? What’s happened? I’m on your side you know. We must both find out who killed my grandfather. And we must blow this conspiracy sky high. But we can’t do it if we don’t trust one another. I’ve just told you I’m falling in love with you, yet you haven’t betrayed the slightest flicker of pleasure at hearing it. Have you forgotten all about last night?’

  The memory of it sickened him. His sister.

  ‘I’m sorry, Cleo, I’ll explain everything later. When we have time. Of course I love and trust you.’

  ‘Is there someone else? Is that it?’ Gemma’s face filled his mind.

  ‘No, of course not. Look, I’ll explain everything soon.’ It sounded so contrived and pathetic.

  ‘What’s wrong with now?’

  ‘Now we’ve got a continent to wreck!’

  ‘Where are you staying tonight? Your flat’s under twenty-four-hour surveillance.’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘How about mine?’

  ‘Far too risky.’

  ‘It’s the ideal place. They’d never expect it. It’ll be the only safe place.’ He could always sleep on the sofa. Where else was there? What other friend could he trust apart from the absent Marty? Could he even trust him? It was better than the streets. It made a mad sort of sense.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘The entry code is 0112006. Memorise it. Don’t put it in your pager.’

  The first of January 2006 was the date the pound sterling was finally abolished. Easy to remember.

  ‘I’ll talk to Bittersich when I get back to the office. He’ll probably have to clear any deal with “E”, who’ll want to talk to Brussels. It might well help that I don’t actually have the evidence itself on me now, you were right about that.’ She thought for a moment. ‘You know, with Percival as the quarry this will make both our names. We could wind up famous. But it’s bound to get very rough first. That’s why I keep saying you have to trust me. You do, don’t you, darling?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ In order to avoid having to kiss her on the lips he kissed his finger and touched her on the end of her beautiful, Lady Pamela Berry nose. Then he walked away, northwards across the Park towards Bayswater.

  CHAPTER 20

  07.46 WEDNESDAY 5 MAY

  Horatio woke to the sound of Cleo’s modem bleeping the ‘Urgent’ signal in the next room. He leapt up and looked around.

  She hadn’t returned that night. Fine. That at least saved him from explaining why he couldn’t sleep with her. Where was she?

  He ran over to her modem. The bleeping was loud and insistent. And getting even louder. He lowered himself into her workstation seat.

  ‘URGENT! URGENT! URGENT!’ the screen read. But unlike his modem yesterday it demanded her password.

  He could hardly remember his own eleven digits. What would Cleo’s be? There was no chance of cracking it. He’d just have to get out fast.

  It was probably a warning about another S.W.A.T. team.

  Then it came back. They’d talked about passwords at Marty’s party. What had she said? She mixed her date of birth with her mother’s maiden name, or something basic like that. They’d laughed that she didn’t use something more original.

  Presumably Flora’s maiden name had been Ellis too. Assuming they were twins it would be his date of birth as well. So that’s ELLIS 7.1.2016. Five letters, six numbers. Eleven. They’d fit in between one another. It was a long shot.

  He tapped in 7-E-1-L-2-L-0-I-1-S-6. Nothing. He tried it backwards. The bleeping got louder. Logic told him he had about as much chance of stumbling on the right answer as of winning the Euro-Lottery. She was probably just indulging in party talk and had really chosen something absurdly esoteric. Horatio’s own codeword was 9-L-9-E-2-I-0-L-4-A-3, for the day they took his love away. Could a password be deemed subversive?

  He feared this was a dangerous waste of time.

  He tried it alphabetically, then in ascending numerical order, then both backwards.

  The bleeping just got louder. Almost at a scream. He couldn’t see any volume switch. Could the neighbours hear? Should he run?

  After his fifteenth try he remembered what the Admiral had said in his letter. The births were registered a few days or so apart, to fool the fathers. He tried 9-E-1-L-2-L-0-I-1-S-6. Nothing. In desperation he started the next combination, randomly, with a 2.

  Eureka!

  The screen cleared and the message came up.

  URGENT! 08.00. 5/5/45. LASER ON W.W. MOTORCADE. ENT BR. SEC 7. ROUNDING UP USUAL E.R.M. & 10.5 SUSPECTS. LIAISE P.I.D. SP BR & B.-B.B. SIGINT. REPEAT URGENT! ERASE THIS. ENDS

  He looked at his watch. 07.50. Wednesday 5 May.

  This wasn’t a warning. It was a plan.

  It hadn’t happened yet!

  Who’d sent it? He pressed 1471 but the screen went blank. He stared at his watch again. 07.51 flashed up as he did so. He had nine minutes. Where the hell was Cleo?

  He ran over to his pager. Marty first. He’d know what to do. Horatio knew he’d be tracked whether he used his own pager or Cleo’s vid-phone. It had better be his pager. They’d never believe he stumbled on her entry code and modem password and telling them to anyone would surely put suspicion on to her. Dressing frantically, he considered his options.

  Then he remembered.

  Gemma was due at Dover to cover the King’s arrival! How many sections were there on that Bridge? Every schoolchild knew.

  With a sick thud located somewhere in his inner colon, Horatio remembered there were seven. The last was at Dover. This was not some terrorist outrage against the Bridge. This was assassination.

  If P.I.D. knew about it before it happened, surely they’d stop it? What was that about ‘the usual suspects’? It sounded remarkably casual. Like something out of the final scene of that embargoed Humphrey Bogart movie.

  He must act. Now.

  Gemma had given him her direct number. Where was it? Page 1101 of the pager. He got through. Damn! It was her ansapage. ‘Hi! This is Gemma. Ah’m afraid Ah’m busy right now, but please leave a message.’

  ‘Gemma!’ he yelled into it. ‘Get away from the Bridge! Run now! Stay away from section seven! It’s going to be hit any moment now! Get out of the area! Now!’

  His next call was to Marty’s flat again.

  ‘Hi, Marty?’

  ‘Hello, yes, who’s speaking?’ But it wasn’t Marty. He recognised the voice. It was Tallboys.

  ‘Listen, Alex, this is Horatio Lestoq …’ Tallboys started to speak. ‘Shut up and listen. There’s going to be a laser attack on the King’s motorcade in Dover in about eight minutes’ time. Stop it! Now!’ He clicked off. What was Tallboys doing in Marty’s flat?

  Next he got through to the P.I.D. receptionist. Cleo wasn’t there.

  ‘I’m afraid Ms Tallboys is not in today. Would you like to speak to anyone else?’

  ‘Michael Hibbert, please. It’s an emergency.’ Another minute clicked up o
n his watch as he waited to be put through. 07.52.

  ‘Hibbert speaking.’

  ‘It’s Horatio Lestoq here.’

  ‘Horatio!’ Surprise. So Hibbert was au fait with his case. Just as well. Doubtless he had already pressed the ‘Call Trace’ button.

  ‘Listen carefully. Any moment now there’s going to be an assassination attempt on the King in Dover.’

  ‘King? What King?’

  ‘Don’t play games. This is an emergency.’

  ‘OK. Details please. You do know Europol gets about twenty of these calls a day.’

  ‘This is for real.’

  ‘They all say that, too.’

  ‘Laser attack. Channel Bridge section seven. At oh-eight hundred this morning.’

  ‘And what is it you want?’ The tone had gone clipped. Nasty. Lean and hungry.

  ‘Well, protect him of course. Change the route. Alter the schedule. Cut the walkabout. Do whatever you people do to protect V.I.P.s.’

  ‘No, I mean what do you want, politically? What are your demands?’

  ‘Demands?’

  ‘Yes. Money, release of internees, flights to Oslo, that sort of thing. What’s your organisation demanding, Dr Lestoq?’ The cent dropped.

  ‘Look, I’m not behind this. I’m just warning you about it!’ He couldn’t stay any longer. Thirty-two seconds were up. They’d be tracing his pager’s whereabouts. He clicked off.

  Next was Weaning.

  ‘I’m sorry, you are not through-accessed to Mr Weaning.’ It just had to be Penelope.

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘He doesn’t want to take your calls,’ she said, in a voice oozing satisfaction.

  ‘Listen here, Aldritt. Tell him there is going to be an assassination attempt on the King in seven minutes’ time and Gemma Reegan will die in it if she’s not warned.’ Ten precious seconds later Weaning came on. He sounded aggressive.

  ‘What’s all this?’

  ‘You must get Gemma out of the area. Tell her to get away. They’re going to laser section seven of the Bridge in’ – he checked his watch – ‘about seven minutes’ time.’

  ‘You’ve cracked. Who are going to laser it? This time you’ve gone too …’

  ‘I mean it, Weaning. They are going to kill the King and anyone else near the beam! You know what lasers can do. Remember Kuwait! Get her out of there!’ He clicked off. Had his hysteria conveyed a sense of urgency, or just lunacy?

  Then he called the New Zealand Embassy and was put through to a security officer named Cradock. Halfway through telling him, Horatio realised he’d have to get out. If Hibbert had managed to trace his call successfully he needed to leave Cleo’s flat right now. A S.W.A.T. team could already be on its way already. No sirens this time. He dressed and got out in less than thirty seconds. He hoped the poor Kiwi had got the gist.

  No signs of anything unusual on the street.

  He’d done his best, he thought, as he walked towards Talgarth Road. But was it enough? Depressed, defeatist, deflated, there was only one person he could turn to now. Three minutes to go. There was a cash vid-phone in the Director’s Court Metro station. He’d risk one more call.

  ‘Hi. It’s me. I need to talk to you.’

  ‘Where are you? I’ve been so worried.’ Heather looked it. ‘All those dreadful things they’ve been saying about you in the papers. Can I help you in any way?’ This was the real, unconditional love and support he needed. The sort he so rarely got from her when he was young. Now he knew why.

  ‘There’s going to be an attack on the King any minute now.’ ‘What?!’

  ‘You know the King is coming over the Channel Bridge this morning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There’s going to be an assassination attempt on him.’

  ‘What can we do about it? Have you called the police?’

  ‘Yes. But I suspect it’s they who are behind it.’

  ‘Horatio, you’re obviously in danger. We must meet. You look terrible. Is there anything you need? We must meet today. Where? Speak in some sort of family code, as I’m sure the police will be bugging my phone now. Do you need anything?’

  ‘Yes I need to know the truth about a few things.’

  ‘I’ll come up straightaway.’

  ‘I need to talk. Watch out though. If you are being bugged, the house is probably being watched and you’ll be followed. Take care.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’ She smiled. ‘It’ll be like old times. Right now, I’ll get on to someone I know in Dover.’

  Riley’s thesis had detailed the various ways how, as Robert Lestoq’s wife, she had bamboozled the police, MI5, Special Branch and the various Euro-spook agencies in support of her husband’s campaign against the superstate. Until it had all ended suddenly and tragically on 6 April 2016. He thought of somewhere they could meet.

  ‘How about the statue commemorating Rory’s hero?’ She thought for a second.

  ‘Got you. Yes, I’ll see you there in’ – she checked the vid-phone clock ‘ninety minutes.’ The phone clicked. Assuming Europol were bugging her, they would have been able to trace that call. Time to go.

  She would have to move fast, assuming they didn’t stop her leaving altogether. Horatio assumed they would prefer to follow her in order to catch him, and also that she would somehow evade them. Even the road cameras could not track every number plate as they came up the A3. She’d suddenly stop in autoparks, reverse down one-way streets, turn U-turns in tunnels and shake them off one way or another. They’d need a helicopter to follow her, and she’d spot that. He saw with satisfaction that rain was starting to spit down now and dark grey clouds filled the sky. That ruled out their tracking her car roof number by satellite, as in the recent Albanian mafia case in Ludlow.

  He walked down onto the Talgarth Road and caught a tram into town, sitting in the front seat so nobody could see his face. He paid the driver in cash. Accessing the news on his pager, Horatio mentally braced himself for the worst. It was 08.02. As he was reading the top news story, about preparations for celebrating the 120th anniversary of Founding Father Delors’ birth on 20 July, it flashed up:

  NEWS FLASH! NEWS FLASH! LASER ATTACK ON ENTENTE BRIDGE. Several Dead, Many Feared Wounded in Assassination Attempt on William Mountbatten-Windsor. New Zealand Monarch Escaped Unhurt … repeat … Laser Attack on Entente Bridge. Tenth May Group Blamed.

  Horatio’s stomach knotted up. He read on as the newsflash was updated every fifteen seconds.

  News is coming in of a terrorist attack on the motorcade carrying the King of New Zealand, William Mountbatten-Windsor, at the Entente Bridge at 08.00 today. As it arrived at section seven in Dover, the motorcade was hit by what have been described by experts as three high-velocity, high-voltage laser beams. They ignited the fuel tanks of the first three grade 1 petrol autos of the motorcade, causing large explosions … MORE SOON.

  Eight bodies have been recovered so far. The beam was extremely powerful, prompting speculation that it came from a military rather than an industrial or sporting laser. The explosions could be heard all over the city. The beam seems not to have been fired for long enough for its source to be immediately traceable … MORE SOON …

  Horatio could hardly bear to wait for the new information. He was not particularly religious, but he prayed and prayed, making God all sorts of probably unkeepable promises if Gemma were to turn out to be all right. Perhaps she had been somewhere else, perhaps she had been late, perhaps she had got his message in time, perhaps, perhaps …

  It appears the motorcade had stopped moments earlier in order for Mr Windsor to meet the people and take his first steps on English soil since he left twenty-eight years ago with his father the late ex-King Charles III … MORE SOON … The first beam hit the front auto as the chauffeur opened the door of the second limousine, cutting it in half and igniting the petrol tank. Immediately afterwards the next two autos were destroyed in the same way … MORE SOON … Nine people are now officially reported de
ad, there are reports of many more injured by flying glass and the metal bodies of the exploding autos … MORE SOON …

  Europol has just announced that a warning was received a few minutes before the attack. Not enough time was allowed for police to act, however. It was given by the fugitive Dr Horatio Lestoq, the man wanted in connection with the murders of Admiral Michael Ratcliffe on Sunday and his neighbour Ms Jean Dodson today.

  Jean? JEAN!

  It seemed as though a hinge had been loosened on Horatio’s world. It started to swirl around. Surely not Jean as well? This wasn’t happening. He looked wildly around the tram. Was everyone watching him? Had they recognised him? Were they even then secretly paging the police, about to pull the emergency cord? Make a citizen’s arrest? He got off at the next stop, outside the Anglo-German Friendship Museum on the Cromwell Road. He walked to the bench by the main entrance and sat down, trying hard to restrain tears. He must not draw attention. And he had to think logically. Now as never before. If they’d got to Jean what had they found out from her? She’d heard the tape.

  Keeping his face turned away from the cameras, he walked back up Exhibition Road, reading the pager updates. What about Gemma?

  It now appears that about a minute before reaching section seven, the motorcade had stopped and Mr Mountbatten-Windsor was moved to another of the autos further behind. The former Prince of Wales thus escaped the assassination attempt unscathed. The tour schedule has been suspended until he has visited the injured in Dover Central Hospital.

  Horatio looked further down the page. A name jumped out at him.

  … Jemima Reegan, an A.F.T.A. author, covering the visit for The Times. A few moments ago the deputy editor of that newsagency spoke to us. Mr Roderick Weaning described Ms Reegan as ‘an outstanding journalist and author who had made the Union her home. A kind, decent person who was popular with all who knew her.