by Peter Watson
The train rattled over another series of points, louder now as the train gathered speed. Then another crack rang out as a second bullet from Tucker zipped into the floor near Riley’s head. He knew he had to move. The train swayed – and he swayed with it, grunting in pain, sweating in fear. He rolled across the carriage and out of the line of sight of the Tucker woman.
She would come for him, of course she would. She had dispatched O’Day without hesitation or a moment’s reflection: she had been ready. And she had very nearly dispatched him equally efficiently. This time, when she reached the end of the corridor …
Riley sat up. The door-handle of the carriage was virtually level with his head. He reached out. But the train was moving at twenty-five or thirty miles an hour. Could he survive that?
He heard a movement in the corridor. She would appear any moment and he knew he couldn’t survive that.
The pain was making him feel sick and he was beginning to retch. The burning sensation throbbed in his shoulder, sweat ran into his eyes, and the fingers of his right hand appeared dead already. With his left hand he leaned on the door-handle. The door clicked half open and then caught on a safety latch. He heard another sound in the corridor. Again he leaned against the carriage door.
Suddenly the door swung open and cool outside air and noise from the wheels rushed in. The Tucker woman would surely notice the change in noise level and realize what Riley planned. The pain in his shoulder was making him dizzy now, as well as sick. The American woman must appear any moment. Expecting another punch of pain in his back, Riley shifted forward and placed both feet on the bottom step of the doorway. In the wind generated by the train, the door swung back, trying to close itself. It swung against his right shoulder and he screamed in pain. With his knee he forced it open again. He heard someone behind him and, without waiting to turn, he half jumped and half fell from the step.
A cheer rang out on the government side as Lockwood stepped from behind the Speaker’s chair, ready to take his seat on the green Commons benches. The House was packed. The vote was a three-line whip but whipping in was unnecessary – the House of Commons offered few dramas like the one to be enacted this day and every member who was not in a hospital bed, or abroad, was present.
As Lockwood picked his way around the various members who had not found seats, he was conscious that all eyes were on him. His back was patted by loyal friends and colleagues but there were painful silences too. The opposition parties weighed in with noises of their own. Catcalls, laughs of derision intended to imply that Lockwood had already lost the debate. Other ministers – Lessor, Hatfield, Scylde – had arrived already. However, a space had been left for Lockwood opposite the dispatch box. As he sat down, Lockwood looked around the House. Although most eyes were on him, one set that were not belonged to George Keld. Now that he was no longer a minister, Keld had taken – and been granted by others – the first seat below the aisle, on the government side. This was the traditional spot for the chief critic of the day from within a government’s own party.
While the Speaker was conducting prayers and the opening business of the day, Lockwood leaned towards Hatfield, who was seated next to him. ‘Any change in the arithmetic?’
Hatfield sucked his teeth. ‘A lot of people are being very cagey. They say they will make up their minds, depending on the debate. That may be true of some of them but I suspect others have already decided to go against you but don’t have the guts to tell me. I’d say there are twenty-nine who are definitely going to abstain, four are against you while pretending to wait and see, and another six or seven are genuine in that they will be swayed by the debate.’
‘So there’s everything to play for.’
Hatfield sighed. ‘I suppose. With a fighting performance, as you are well capable of in normal circumstances, you could win by one or two votes. But I’m bound to say, Bill … unless you can come clean on the … matter we cannot come clean on … it’s going to be very difficult.’
Lockwood patted the Chief Whip’s thigh. ‘Courage, Joss. Don’t you fail me now. We only need one little word from Basle and this whole thing will be turned upside-down.’ He looked at his watch. ‘The vote is more than six hours away. If we get word from Basle, nothing anyone says in this debate is going to matter.’
‘Leave the car here!’ Victoria pointed to a space marked, in English, ‘Airport Security’. She had her own door open before Edward brought the car to a stop. He was out from behind the wheel and not far behind her as she ran into the departures terminal. His ankle was easing now.
The place was crowded, thronged with people. She stopped, craning her neck.
‘Swissair, right!’ Victoria saw it first and led the way.
The Swissair desk was empty. ‘The flight must have closed,’ she breathed. ‘It’s quarter past four.’ But Victoria had already turned away. She ran across the hall but then stopped. In the car they had decided they had to use two of the tickets they had found in the nose of the Cessna: there wasn’t time to buy new ones. They just had to pray no one noticed the tickets and passports didn’t match. But now they might not even get that far: the queue for security stretched nearly half-way through the building. It would take half an hour to get through.
‘There!’ Edward said, urgently but softly, and pointed to a row of three wheelchairs. When he reached them, however, they were locked together. ‘Damn!’
‘No. Stand in front of me. I can manage this sort of thing.’
Edward stood in front of Victoria as she kneeled down. He didn’t look, not wanting to draw attention to what she was doing. Thirty seconds passed. Forty. Fifty. ‘We’ll never –’
Suddenly he felt something pushing at the back of his legs and Victoria hissed: ‘Sit down.’
She pushed again and he almost collapsed into the chair.
She wheeled him to the front of the line where other passengers immediately gave way. The security guard spoke to her in Greek and she answered. What sounded to Edward like a quarrel then ensued and he began to sweat. But then the guard and Victoria were joking and they were allowed through. Victoria pushed the chair as fast as she could without looking suspicious.
‘What was all that about?’
‘He wanted to know why I didn’t have my airport pass and you didn’t have a boarding card. You need special clearance to escort disabled passengers.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said the lamination machine, the thing that covers the security pass with clear plastic, had broken down and eaten my card.’
‘And he believed you?’
‘He had a northern accent. I asked him if he was from Kavalla or Xanthi. He was from Drama, nearby. We got on very well. And he could see that the Swissair desk was already closed.’
Edward grunted. He showed his passport and they were through.
‘Gate seventeen,’ said Victoria, looking at the signs. ‘We turn right here.’ She pushed the chair round a corner. ‘Okay … run!’
Edward leaped from the chair and together they ran down the corridor. Gate eleven was ahead.
‘It’s miles!’ gasped Victoria.
‘Run!’
Gate thirteen, gate fifteen. A long line of baggage trolleys barred their way. They skidded around them. A gaggle of schoolchildren filled the passage. Edward, in front now, pushed gently through them. He lifted one child bodily out of the way. She, and some others, protested. But Edward and Victoria were through.
Gate seventeen, when they reached it, was peopled by just two women and a man. Victoria slapped down the tickets. ‘The flight is closed,’ said one of the women. Her accent was German. She was Swiss.
‘The plane is still here!’ cried Victoria, pointing.
‘It is leaving now.’
‘Please!’
‘The flight is –’
Edward held up his passport. ‘I’m a doctor,’ he said quietly and calmly. ‘I am a liver specialist. I must get to Annecy tomorrow morning. I must operate on a young
boy, who may die if I don’t. Are you a mother?’
The woman stared at him. She looked hard at his passport, which Edward held on to but which did indeed say ‘Dr Edward Andover’ on the front. ‘If you are British, why are you operating in France?’
‘I’m well-known in my field.’
Victoria said something in Greek to the man standing next to the Swiss woman. He nodded and spoke to her. She picked up a phone and punched some buttons. After a short delay she spoke in German. Then, without smiling, she said, ‘Very well. You may go on board. The door will be opened for you. You are very lucky. Swissair is always punctual.’
Edward and Victoria marched down the jetway before there could be any second thoughts. As they reached the plane, the door was being opened. They stepped aboard and were given seats in the front row. Everyone else on board stared at them, but they just flopped down, exhausted.
Not until they were taxiing to the runway, a glass of champagne in their hands, did Edward think to ask Victoria what she had said to the Greek man standing next to the Swissair woman. ‘It seemed to do the trick. What on earth did you say?’
‘I said you’d been working in Greece too. And that you had just operated on a famous Greek: George Kofas.’
‘Some of the newspaper comments prior to this afternoon’s proceedings have been such as to suggest that the precipitating issue today is a slight one, that a few marble sculptures do not really amount to a row of beans in the scheme of things.’ Frank Whiteman looked around the crowded benches. ‘I am bound to say that I do not see it like that. Not like that at all. And I know that many of my colleagues agree.’ Murmurs of ‘Hear, hear’ rustled around the chamber.
Frank Whiteman was an excellent choice to open the debate. He had a good speaking voice, deep, warm, easy to listen to. He was tall, with a full head of white hair, like a fresh fall of snow, and an open face, given to smiling. More than that, however, he was, if not exactly liked on the government benches, then certainly respected. He was not a cheap politician, out for quick points. He even thought that on occasions the other side had a case. Government supporters never gave him credit for this in public, but in the House they paid him the compliment of listening to what he said. As deputy leader of his party, he commanded respect on all sides.
‘As we approach the end of the twentieth century, we in this country live – whether we like it or not – in a post-industrial world. Religion has declined massively. Political allegiances are no longer set in cement; they change. Technology, in the form of travel, computers, communications, changes our lives time and again, literally from month to month. In such a world, a world where freedoms are growing at an alarming rate, there is an important role for governments but, in a sense, a new one. As the old frontiers of government recede, as the state grows smaller, so – in my humble view – the new role expands. People are confused by the pace of change, they are alarmed when the old certainties, the old ways of doing things and, more important, of thinking, are changed. Governments therefore have to give a lead here. They – and only they – are in a position to shape the world we choose to have. They – and only they – are in a position to set the values a country wishes to espouse.’
He lowered his voice, for effect. ‘And it is here, in this sense, that I believe the government has gone wrong. It is here, and in this sense, that the Elgin Marbles are so important.’ Now he raised his voice. ‘Art, the role of art, the place of beauty in our lives, has never been more important. The signs are there for us all to see. Not just in the enormous prices fetched at auction for masterpieces by Van Gogh or Picasso or Renoir, but in the millions who go to museums, art galleries, who go to the theatre, the ballet or the opera. In the simple fact that thousands and thousands of people turned out last night in a candlelit vigil on the Acropolis in Athens. We have arrived at a point in the evolution of the west where many of us, perhaps most, can do these things. We want to do these things, we enjoy them. In an ever-uglier world, the arts enrich our lives as no other aspect of it, save love and family life, can. I may regret the fact that religion no longer plays as important a part, but I cannot deny that, nowadays, for many people, for most people, art is the greater pleasure. It is, if I may speak grandiloquently for a moment, man at his best.
‘This is my first point – and, don’t worry, I’m only going to make two.’ He smiled as the rest of the House chuckled. ‘Hear, hear.’
‘So I am saying, firstly, that the newspapers – not for the first time – are wrong. The arts are not a small issue, a side issue, an irrelevant issue in the grand scheme of things. In the late twentieth century they are among the most important issues of the day, in some ways the most important, and I think the government has underestimated that. Of course governments have miscalculated before. But this has been no ordinary miscalculation. This miscalculation has been insulting. I have said that the arts, in the late twentieth century, are the very vitals of the nation. All the more reason therefore for the Prime Minister to have come to this House with his plan for these sculptures and to have laid before Parliament his ideas, his policies, for open discussion. Nothing would have been lost had the Prime Minister brought this issue to the House – and a lot may have been gained.’ Whiteman shifted another sheet of paper from the dispatch box. He raised his voice to show that he was winding up. ‘We shall never know, Mr Speaker, for the matter did not come to Parliament. Instead, the Prime Minister put himself above this House. With the mother of parliaments he behaved in the most unparliamentary fashion. In one of the oldest democracies, he behaved as an arrogant authoritarian, disdainful of others, rivals and colleagues alike. On an important issue, a matter on which almost everyone in this House, in this country, has a view, no one was consulted. The Prime Minister acted alone. Therefore, he alone bears responsibility for all that has followed – I will not delay the House with the details, we all know them, the Prime Minister better than anyone and he has to live with his conscience. But I repeat: he alone is responsible for the mismanagement that has led to this censure motion being put today – a grave charge. Alone! That is the key word here. If nothing else, he alone should go.’
Whiteman picked up his remaining sheet of paper, retrieved the others from the table at the side of the dispatch box and slumped on to the bench behind him. A chorus of roars burst about him on the opposition benches. Lockwood kept his eyes closed. He was more interested in the noise behind him on the government’s own benches. It was muted but not, he noticed, all that hostile to Whiteman.
‘What do you think?’ whispered Hatfield, in the short few seconds before the next speaker was called.
‘Not bad. He didn’t need to convince his side … it’s our side he’s got to win over. Saying I have neglected the House was good tactics. Anyone on our side who is thinking of abstaining can convince himself he’s acting in the interests of democracy. And of course it’s true; I did neglect the House. I had no choice.’ He opened his eyes and sat up, smiling at Hatfield so that others could see he was still in the land of the living and still able to smile. ‘But, if we get the news we want, I shall still be able to bring them round. Ah! Maybe this is it.’
A steward, wearing the tailcoat and chain of his office, was approaching the Prime Minister with a note. Lockwood took the envelope and thanked the man. He tore it open and studied the sheet inside in such a way that only he could see. He smiled again at Hatfield. Only the Chief Whip could see the look in the Prime Minister’s eyes as he whispered, ‘Riley and O’Day have had an accident. O’Day is dead and Riley has a broken shoulder and a broken leg. The Brigade in Basle got away.’ Only Hatfield could see Lockwood’s lower lip tremble. ‘Whiteman was right to lament the decline of religion. We need a miracle now.’
‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain. Owing to air traffic congestion, we will have to hold for a few minutes, before landing at Geneva airport. I apologize for the delay but there is nothing we can do about it. However, we shall have you on the ground just as soon as we can
. Thank you.’
Victoria looked at Edward and squeezed his arm. Half-way through the flight his brain had seized up as the realization of what he had done to the Cessna hit him. He had killed five people, including its pilot. Five? He couldn’t even be certain how many people were – had been – in the plane. Maybe there had been two pilots. He had gone cold with the shock, and put a blanket around his shoulders. Victoria had talked to him the whole way, trying to keep his mind off what he had done. She squeezed his arm again. ‘A few minutes, Edward. You’ll feel better when we land. It’s sitting still that’s frustrating. Don’t forget, we are on the very plane that Kofas, Kolettis and the others would have taken. Maybe Zakros – even Nancy – will be here to meet us.’
Sir Francis Mordaunt was familiar with the layout of the Houses of Parliament. If he were to be pushed, then he supposed that he knew the Lords better than the Commons. It was in the Lords, after all, that Her Majesty delivered the Queen’s Speech. But the Commons was hardly less familiar.
Mordaunt would have much preferred to have talked to Page at Buckingham Palace, and he couldn’t risk being seen anywhere near the leader of the opposition’s room in Parliament. Too many questions might be asked and Lockwood might get to hear of it. But he could, quite legitimately, watch the debate from the Distinguished Strangers’ Gallery, where he could keep an eye on Page in case he left the debate at any time. Mordaunt looked down into the chamber now. A steward was standing over the leader of the opposition, handing him a piece of paper. Page glanced at it, read it more closely and then stood up. He walked down the chamber, away from the Speaker’s chair, turned and bowed, and then sauntered out.
Mordaunt was already on his feet. This was exactly what he was waiting for and he thought he knew where Page was headed: the central lobby, where MPs met visitors who were not allowed into the more exclusive precincts of Westminster. Mordaunt nodded to the steward in the Strangers’ Gallery and hurried down the steps at the back. Parliament was full of little mazes of corridors and he threaded his way through one of these now, before emerging into the central lobby. His steps rang out on the marble floor.