by Jack Higgins
"You know what they're like. They'll go anyway."
"Well, of course they will! But we'll be on record as opposing it. And in case you have any problems with him, I happen to know that there's a discrepancy of some fifty thousand pounds in the accounts of the Act of Class Warfare at Oxford...so Percy has some explaining to do."
"Do you really think heads will be cracked?"
"My dear, I'm counting on it, especially with little Helen Quinn toddling along like the good little dilettante she is. With any luck, she'll get arrested. That really would look bad in the papers. The gossip columns would love it--the revolutionary who's a Senator's daughter."
"You bitch. You don't miss a trick, do you?"
"No, darling. Just make sure that you don't."
S aturday morning found him in Oxford at The Lion. The pub was crammed with students and Percy was already there, a pint of beer in front of him.
Rupert paused beside him. "I'll just get a drink."
He pushed through the crowd and saw Helen Quinn and young Grant at the end of the bar. He smiled and went over and ordered a large Jack Daniel's from the barman.
"Hello, there," he said. "You're going to the rally, then?"
Grant stopped smiling and became aggressive. "What's it got to do with you?"
"Alan, shut up." She smiled at Dauncey. "Yes, we're going on the bus."
"I wish you wouldn't. It could get very nasty. The more I've read about it, the more likely it sounds that there'll be violence, and we simply couldn't condone anything like that."
Students nearby were listening and Percy, coming forward, had also heard. Grant said, "You don't approve?"
"Not of riots, and police trying to crack your skull with a baton."
"Afraid, are you? A ponce like you would be. Rupert Dauncey. What kind of a name is that?"
Students standing around laughed and Helen said, "Stop it, Alan."
He ignored her. "I know what it is, it's a ponce's name."
Rupert smiled gently. "If you say so," picked up his drink, and returned to Percy.
The professor said, "I'm sorry about that."
"That's okay. He's young. But I meant what I said. I think it's all too dangerous. I want you to get on that bus and tell them not to go."
"Get on the bus? But I told you. I've other plans. I--"
"You can forget them. Listen to me. The Countess and the Rashid Educational Trust acted in good faith in supporting Act of Class Warfare. We believed in its philosophy--but we do not believe in violent protest."
"But I can't control their behavior."
"I realize that. But you can tell them how you feel when they're on the bus."
"No, I--"
"Professor." Dauncey leaned close. "We've put a lot of trust in you. Also a lot of money. Wouldn't it be a shame if it should come out that there is a discrepancy of fifty thousand pounds in the ACW accounts?"
Percy seemed to shrivel up. "I don't know anything about that," he whispered.
"Oh, yes, you do. Imagine what it would be like at Wandsworth, someone like you, sharing the showers with murderers and sex offenders. Not a pretty picture, Professor."
Percy had turned white. "For God's sake, no."
"We wouldn't appreciate the scandal ourselves. It would damage our reputation. But it would damage you much more, wouldn't it?"
"All right," Percy moaned. "Whatever you say. But they'll go anyway, no matter what I say."
"Oh, I'll back you up. You can introduce me as representing Rashid. Nobody can say afterwards that we didn't do our best." He looked across the room and saw Grant making for the men's room and got up. "I'll be back."
When he went into the toilet, Grant was just finishing. He turned, pulling up his zipper. For the moment, they were alone.
"What do you want, ponce?"
Rupert kicked him on the right shin, doubled him over with a blow to the stomach, then grabbed the left wrist and twisted the arm straight. He raised a clenched fist.
"How'd you like me to break it for you?"
Grant moaned with pain. "No, please, stop."
Rupert exerted more pressure. Grant cried out and Rupert swung him around and slapped his face. "Now listen to me. I happen to know you're here at Oxford only because all your expenses are paid by an outside scholarship. Do you know who's behind that scholarship? Do you?"
Grant moaned again and shook his head.
"We are. The Rashid Educational Trust. And we can take it away so fast it'll make your head spin. So, step out of line with me again and you'll be out of Oxford and working at McDonald's. Understand?"
"Yes," Grant rubbed his arm, tears in his eyes.
Rupert lit a Marlboro. "So this is what I want you to do."
Alan Grant fumbled in his pocket for a tissue, and his fingers brushed against the pen his brother had sent him. Something, a bad feeling, made him switch it on now.
Rupert took a paper bag from his pocket.
"There are three pieces of candy in there, chocolates. Each has an Ecstasy tablet inside. I want you to offer the girl one during the demonstration."
"Why--why should I do that?"
"Because there's a fair chance you'll be busted by the police when the riot starts, which it will. A drug bust would be very embarrassing for her father, you understand?"
"What happens if the shit doesn't hit the fan? If she takes the pill and doesn't get arrested?"
"There'll be other times. Just get her back to that bus in one piece."
"We aren't coming back tonight."
"Why?"
"My brother's working in Germany. He's got a one-room flat in Wapping. He said I could spend the weekend there."
"And she agreed?"
"Yes."
Rupert shook his head. "She must be hard up. What's the address?"
"Ten Canal Street. It's just up from Canal Wharf on the Thames."
"Do you have a mobile phone?"
"No, just the house phone."
Rupert took out his diary and pencil. "Give me the number," which Grant did. "Right. Now look after her. I'll check you out this evening. Remember, give her the pill during the demonstration. And make sure she doesn't mix it with alcohol. I don't want her sick, Grant, just high. Are we clear?"
Grant mumbled yes.
"And if you say anything--anything--about this to anyone, you will be very, very sorry. Is that clear, too?"
Grant nodded.
"Good. Now you can go."
He gave Grant time to leave, then followed him. Most of the students had gone, but Percy still waited in the booth.
Rupert said, "Come on. Get ready to make your speech," and led the way out.
The coach waited outside the school hall. About forty people were on board and half a dozen students stood on the pavement, chattering in anticipation. Rupert and Percy climbed up into the bus.
"So you're coming with us, sir?" someone called.
"Yes, but against my better judgment. I believe this whole thing could turn very nasty," Percy said.
Someone shouted, "Get stuffed."
"No, seriously. Act of Class Warfare isn't about violence. We're about change, peaceful change. I fear this is a dreadful mistake. We shouldn't go, none of us should go."
Rupert took over. "Listen, my name is Dauncey and I represent the Rashid Educational Trust. As some of you know, we help sponsor Act of Class Warfare, but we can't condone violence of any kind, and believe me, it's going to get violent today. Professor Percy is right--it's the right cause, but the wrong time and place."
The reaction was just what he expected. A chorus of "Why are we waiting?" burst from the back of the coach, and Rupert shrugged. "It's on your own heads, then."
He sat next to Percy. Helen was across the aisle from him. Grant averted his gaze and looked out of the window. The girl smiled.
"It's quite exciting, really," she said to Rupert.
"Your first riot."
"Oh, I don't believe all that. It'll be fine, I'm sure of it.
"
"Let's hope you're right."
She turned away, her face troubled.
B obby Hawk's funeral was at eleven o'clock that same morning at a small village called Pool Bridge in Kent, an hour out of London. Ferguson went down and Dillon accompanied him. It was still bad March weather, with only the hope of spring to look forward to.
Dillon lit a cigarette and opened his window. "Nice countryside."
It started to drizzle. Ferguson said, "I wonder what she's been up to since they got back?"
"I have no idea. The events in Hazar the last few days must have given her something to think about, though."
"Anything new from Roper?"
"Not a thing. He says he's been through all available leads. He can't explore her mind. He can only try and find a pattern to her actions, which means she's got to make the next move."
"I take your point."
"Anyway, I'm seeing him this afternoon, just in case."
"Good." Ferguson leaned back. "I wonder how Tony's making out."
"She shouldn't have annoyed him," Dillon commented. "That was a serious error on her part. She'll live to regret it."
"Let's hope so," Ferguson told him, and they entered Pool Bridge.
The village was typically old English, with cottages, an ancient church, a pub, and a country hotel that looked Georgian. There was a line of cars parked at the side of the church, and Ferguson cursed softly.
"Damn it, we're late. Come on, Dillon," and he got out and hurried to the large oak door.
The service had just started, and the church was so full that they had to stand at the back. They saw the coffin, and the rector in his vestments on the steps of the sanctuary above it. Mrs. Hawk and her two daughters, all in black, occupied the front pew. The commanding officer of the Lifeguards was there, and his opposite number from the Blues and Royals, supporting each other, as always.
Late in the service, the Lifeguards' colonel joined the rector on the steps, and outlined Bobby Hawk's brief career, praising him for his service and character.
Yes, but what does it all mean? Dillon asked himself. What's the point? The boy was only twenty-two years old, and then the organ started and the hymns began.
Outside at the graveside, the drizzle turned to heavy rain and the General's chauffeur appeared and discreetly offered an umbrella.
"Why does it always rain at funerals?" Dillon asked.
"Some kind of tradition, I suppose," Ferguson said.
And then it was over, and the crowd started to make their way to the country hotel. There was a selection of wines, a buffet. Most people seemed to know each other. Dillon asked one of the waiters to get him a Bushmills and stood back.
Mrs. Hawk approached Ferguson and kissed his cheeks. "Good of you to come, Charles."
"I'm surprised you'll talk to me. To a certain extent, your son was working for me."
"He was doing his duty, Charles, and that's all that matters."
She moved on, and the Lifeguard colonel approached. "Nice to see you, Charles. It's a bad business. That's two cornets Tony Villiers has lost out there."
"You think he'll find difficulty in replacing young Hawk?"
"Not while there are enough mad young fools just out of Sandhurst."
He glanced curiously at Dillon, and Ferguson said, "Sean Dillon. He works for me."
The Colonel's eyes seemed to widen. "Good Lord, the Sean Dillon? I was trying to catch you in South Armagh more years ago than I care to remember."
"And thank God you didn't, Colonel." Dillon turned to Ferguson. "I'll see you at the car."
I t was just after three when the coach unloaded by the river, and the students joined the steady stream of people walking up Horse Guards Avenue to Whitehall. Rupert and Percy drifted along at the back, unknowingly passing the corner where, during the Gulf War, an IRA professional named Sean Dillon had mortar-bombed Number Ten Downing Street from a white Ford Transit.
They heard a lot of noise, the babble of many voices, and when they turned the corner into Whitehall, it was already crowded with people. A line of police vehicles stretched across the road, to prevent access to the gates of Number Ten, the police all in riot gear and some of them on horseback.
The crowd surged forward, more and more people arriving and applying pressure from the back. The Oxford contingent was already splitting up, scattering throughout the crowd. Helen Quinn and Alan Grant were forced to one side and swallowed up, Rupert and Percy pushed elsewhere.
Up front, young men, faces obscured by balaclava helmets or ski masks, presented a new and sinister element: And then it happened. A petrol bomb soared from somewhere inside the crowd, hit the ground just in front of the police line, and burst into flames. There was another and yet another, as the police retreated a few yards.
The crowd roared as two more petrol bombs were thrown, and yet there was also an element of panic, a lot of people realizing they'd gotten into something worse than they had expected. Some turned and tried to work their way back, and at that moment, the mounted police charged.
They were met by a hail of missiles, but the police kept coming and burst into the front ranks, batons rising and falling. Total panic now reigned everywhere, people crying out, women screaming.
Henry Percy turned desperately, terrified. "I can't take this. I must get out."
For what it was worth, Rupert himself had no intention of staying. The police, after all, didn't ask questions at such affairs. The fact that you were there was enough. He was just as likely to get clubbed on the head and thrown into the back of a van, and that wouldn't do.
He said to Percy, "Don't panic. Just follow me," and he started back, kicking and punching his way through.
They made it to Horse Guards Avenue and joined a throng of people who were doing the same thing, most of them running. Finally, they turned out onto the main road beside the Thames and made it back to the coach. They weren't the first; at least half a dozen students were ahead of them.
Percy scrambled inside and Rupert followed. Two of the students were girls, and they were crying. The boys didn't exactly look happy, either. Percy sat, head in hands.
Rupert said to the students, "I warned you, and you wouldn't listen." He turned to Percy. "God knows what's happened to the others. But that's your problem, isn't it?"
He got out, walked along the Embankment in the direction of Vauxhall Bridge, managed to hail a black cab, and told the driver to take him to South Audley Street. Kate would be pleased that it was all working so well.
I t was half past four in Whitehall, people running everywhere, and Alan and Helen had been forced to shelter in a doorway with several others. He hadn't given her the drugs yet--there hadn't been time. Besides, he had other things on his mind. Helen was afraid but excited at the same time. She clutched Grant's arm, and he took half a bottle of vodka out of his pocket and unscrewed the cap. He had a very long swallow. The police were charging again, and she clutched his arm even harder. Grant felt himself getting hard. He was going to score today, he could tell--but he might as well make sure of it.
"Take it easy. Here, have a drink."
"You know I only like white wine."
"Come on, it'll calm you down."
Reluctantly, she took the bottle and swallowed. It seemed to burn all the way down. "God, that's strong."
"Not really, it's just the taste. Have another pull."
"No, Alan, I really don't like it."
"Don't be silly, it'll make you feel better."
She did as she was told.
There was another roar from the crowd as the police forced their way forward relentlessly, clubbing their way through, and now very large numbers of people were turning and fleeing.
Grant said, "Time to go," took her hand, and pushed his way through the crowd.
They moved down Horse Guards Avenue and made it to the Embankment. The coach was still there on the other side of the road, waiting for stragglers.
"Maybe we should go back to O
xford," she said, feeling light-headed from the drink.
He put an arm around her reassuringly.
"Come on, baby, it'll be all right. Okay, it was a piece of shit back there, but let's not let it spoil the weekend."
"All right," but there was a reluctance in her voice.
"Come on, we'll get a cab." Which they did a few moments later.
A t South Audley Street, Rupert Dauncey switched off the live coverage on television and turned to Kate.
"There they are, all running like scared rabbits."
"I wonder what happened to the Quinn girl?"
"I'll call the place where Grant's staying and see." He did, but the phone simply rang and rang.
He replaced the receiver and frowned, looking out at the gathering darkness of the March evening, uneasy and not really sure why.
He said to Kate, "I think I'll go down to Canal Street and see if they're there. I'll use your Porsche, if that's okay."
"Why, darling, you're taking this personally."
"I love you, too," he told her, and left.
I n the cab, Grant remembered the Ecstasy chocolates and gave her one. He knew it was too late for Dauncey's purposes, but, hell, now she'd really be ready. He intended to screw her brains out. And screw Dauncey, anyway. Big, self-important bastard, with his threats. Grant wasn't afraid of him--he had it all on tape! And on the way to the bus after leaving Dauncey, he'd run into a friend who wasn't going to the demonstration. It had been the perfect opportunity. He'd given him the pen for safekeeping and told him to stick it in Grant's mailbox. No sense risking it getting lost in the excitement.
No, Mr. Dauncey, Grant thought, grinning to himself, we'll just see who's going to be very, very sorry.
A t the house in Canal Street, he began the wrestling with Helen Quinn on the couch. She was thoroughly drunk now and struggling, trying to avoid his kisses.
"No, Alan, I feel awful. My head's splitting."