The Lords' Day (retail)

by Michael Dobbs

  For a while, Daud Gul thought much the same. ‘It is one of their angels of death,’ he whispered to himself. They dressed him. A flight suit, gloves, leather boots, ear plugs, a pair of over-trousers they called a G-suit. He felt extraordinarily uncomfortable, claustrophobic, far more so than in any cell he had ever known, as though they were binding him in, making him totally defenceless. They were talking to him, giving him instructions about barf bags and piddle packs and what to do if he had to eject. They were losing him, he didn’t understand all their jargon. ‘Don’t matter a damn in any case,’ drawled one, ‘if he ejects he’ll probably break his friggin’ neck.’ Then the helmet, as though they wanted to crush his skull. He felt sick. The smell of jet fuel and exhaust fumes was overwhelming. He had to struggle not to vomit.

  They strapped him in. For a moment he considered refusing, but if he was going to die he wanted to show no fear. There were voices in his head, instructing him not to touch anything, and strange dancing screens in front of him with switches and flickering lights. A second plane stood alongside them on the runway, its pilot signalling with his thumb; suddenly the engines began to roar and someone was shouting in his ear: ‘Macko flight, you are cleared for take-off. Climb pilot’s discretion, runway heading, to flight level three-one-zero, contact departure when airborne.’ Without warning and from nowhere, a terrifying roar attacked Daud Gul and his head was thrown back into his seat. Out of the corner of an alarmed eye he saw the runway moving beneath them at an extraordinary rate, and ever faster.

  Then he was flying.

  9.01 a.m.

  The COBRA suite contained one of the most sophisticated communications systems in the world, intended for every type of emergency. Patching through to Harry in the BBC’s OB unit was not even a challenge.

  ‘Harry, what’s going on? You said twenty minutes.’ Tibbetts didn’t attempt to hide his impatience.

  ‘Got a little caught up, Mike, but we may be on to something very hot. Archie Wakefield’s been trying to communicate with us.’

  ‘To say what?’

  ‘That he can deal with the bomb.’

  Harry could hear the stirrings of excitement at the other end.

  ‘How, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. We’re just trying to communicate back with him, flashing a message in Morse code through the screen.’

  ‘But won’t that alert the terrorists?’

  ‘Don’t think so. It’ll look like nothing more than a pretty poor picture, a bit of atmospheric interference or something.’

  ‘You know what the terrorists have said about us screwing around with the picture.’

  ‘I remember. But I don’t think that’s our biggest problem.’

  ‘Then what is?’

  ‘Archie isn’t looking at the bloody screen.’

  ‘What do you propose to do?’

  ‘Give him another ten minutes.’

  But ten minutes creaked by, with Harry hovering impatiently over Tinker’s shoulder. Then they waited another five, and still Archie Wakefield hadn’t seen.

  9.16 a.m.

  Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, it’s not enough. No amount of willpower could draw Archie’s attention to the screen.

  ‘I don’t think this is going to work,’ Daniel muttered, crystallising the thoughts of everyone in the OB unit.

  ‘Then make it work, Danny!’ Harry snapped. ‘Find some way of attracting his attention. Don’t sit on your arse wringing your hands in despair!’ It took him a few deep breaths before he had calmed. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered. ‘It’s just that I don’t understand what you’re doing. This is your kingdom and I can’t help. It makes me edgy.’

  ‘Think nothing of it,’ Danny replied. ‘You want to hear my editor.’

  Harry placed his hand in gratitude on Danny’s shoulder. ‘I’ll owe you a drink after this.’

  ‘Grand. And since I can leave my car in the car park it’ll be a very large one.’

  ‘So, my friend – find me a solution.’

  ‘I suppose we could take the whole picture out. You know, massive interference. Make sure everyone sees it and pray that Archie’s the only one who understands Morse.’

  Before Harry had a chance even to consider the proposition, the speaker crackled into life. ‘Harry, speak to me. What’s happening?’ Tibbetts demanded. He, too, was growing edgy.

  Harry hesitated only for a second. ‘We’re going to try to attract his attention by taking out the whole picture. Just for a moment.’

  Several voices began talking across each other in COBRA, their words tangling, but all joined in warning.

  ‘What if the terrorists understand it?’ a tired voice broke in. ‘Isn’t that a huge risk?’

  ‘I think we own the risk business right now,’ Harry replied.

  More voices broke across each other. ‘Do nothing, Harry,’ Tibbetts instructed. ‘We’re going to have to consider this very carefully.’

  And Harry knew they would consider it to the death. ‘Too late,’ he heard himself saying, stumbling into a maze of subterfuge from which he knew he might never escape. ‘It’s already underway.’

  As Tibbetts’s voice came over in alarm, Harry looked inquisitively at Daniel, who frowned, then shrugged, then nodded, and once again began to manipulate the controls. Immediately the screen began to flash and jerk as pixels tumbled in and out until, with a grand fanfare, they disappeared completely, only to reappear and start the whole performance over again. It went on for several seconds. On the other screens they could see everyone in the Lords beginning to turn in their seats to look up at the show. Then, at last, Archie Wakefield joined them.

  ‘Right!’ instructed Harry. ‘Back to the full screen. Tinker, get to work.’

  And the complete picture was back, except for a small black square that was pulsing inoffensively in one corner, giving out its message in a series of bursts, some short, others a little longer, that repeatedly spelled out the letters ‘C’ and ‘Q’ in Morse. It was an instruction to make contact.

  Almost in slow motion, they saw a tight smile etch its way across Archie’s face, and he began tapping away once more, marking on his forehead the letter ‘K’. Roger. I understand.

  A sense of excitement gripped everyone in the OB unit; Archie’s face was now held in close-up, cameras catching him from two different angles. Daniel’s face lit up as he shook Harry’s hand; others applauded silently.

  Archie had repeated the tapping sequence for the third time when the sound of gunfire sliced through their joy. Splinters of old ceiling oak came cascading to the floor. Masood was standing before the throne, his face contorted with rage.

  9.23 a.m.

  ‘Harry. Harry . . .’ Tibbetts was calling. ‘What the hell do we do now?’

  Masood was shouting down the phone to the police negotiator, demanding answers.

  Harry’s mind was swimming, not so much with confusion as with exhaustion. Four hours’ sleep in the last forty-eight, being beaten, broken, almost killed, had been enough to wear down the sharpest mind, but – and there was always a condition – he knew Masood would be in scarcely better shape. His reactions would be slowing, his mind numb and that made him vulnerable. And impatient. Harry knew he had to move rapidly, to push Masood’s anger in a different direction before it became irretrievably set.

  ‘What do we do?’ Tibbetts repeated over the speaker, his tone a mixture of anxiety and reproach.

  ‘Say it’s a signal problem to the screens,’ Harry suggested.

  ‘I think we need to consider . . .’ another voice broke in, but Harry cut him off.

  ‘We don’t have time for this!’ he snapped. ‘Masood needs an answer now. So tell him . . .’ His words trailed away as Harry searched frantically for inspiration.

  ‘What, Harry? Tell him what?’

  Then it came tumbling out. ‘That the cables run outside the building and must have got damp during the night. It’s only temporary cabling, wasn’t set up for overnight
use. Yes, tell him we can fix it, but that’ll require us sending engineers inside the building.’

  ‘But he’ll never agree to that.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. All he has to do is to believe it. So go on, ask him!’

  Masood wouldn’t permit engineers into the building, of course, but as he spoke to the negotiator and the rest of the world watched, they saw Masood slowly lowering his weapon as the surprise and suspicion seeped from his body. Yes, he was vulnerable, too. And on another of the screens Harry saw Archie resuming his tap-tap-tapping.

  9.32 a.m.

  Harry had led them deeper into the maze of deception and he knew he had lost several of the COBRA committee along the way. Even Tibbetts was beginning to express his doubts. It wasn’t surprising; Harry was having ferocious doubts himself.

  ‘So what do we do now, Harry?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘We need to test them. See what frame of mind they are in.’

  ‘Somehow I suspect we’re about to hear another of your inspired suggestions,’ a fresh voice interrupted. It was Tricia. She was back, quietly relishing Harry’s discomfort.

  She had felt abandoned. The American President had abused her, her own colleagues had turned from her, and she had panicked until she had grown so giddy she had almost passed out. Yet the moment had moved on from her humiliation. Others were coming under pressure, starting to stumble, and in this she sensed opportunity. They weren’t doing so well on their own, without her. Her mind was still swamped, her thinking processes drained of clarity, but she had found what she wanted – someone to blame if it all went pear-shaped. Harry had stepped forward so willingly, so brashly, and the blame when it was spread around would reach at least as far as Tibbetts, too. The prospect was enough to revive her. Her personal authority had dried up within COBRA and wouldn’t return just for the claiming of it, so she stepped out carefully. ‘Have I got it right, Harry, you want to get into their minds? I’m intrigued, tell us more,’ she suggested, her tone implying that nothing he said was likely to be taken too seriously.

  ‘I suggest we get Archie to fake a serious medical situation. Call for a doctor. See how they react.’

  ‘And what is that supposed to tell us?’ she pressed.

  ‘If they agree, it would be a sign that they’re relaxing, looking ahead.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘It’ll show nothing has changed. That they still mean us harm.’

  ‘So far as theories go it sounds about as tenable as wet tissue,’ she reflected.

  ‘But we have to reach a decision,’ Tibbetts countered, reasserting his own authority over the discussion. ‘Daud Gul’s in the air, and getting further from our reach with every minute. We don’t have time for certainties.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean we should take leave of our senses, too,’ she muttered, not as an official contribution but loud enough for everyone to hear.

  Tibbetts refused to be deflected. ‘In my view this is about as good as we’re going to get. Worth a try. Unless you have a better idea, Home Secretary,’ he challenged.

  But she had done what she wanted, tested the ground to ensure that it would once more take her weight. It wasn’t the time to go charging ahead, not yet. She put up no further opposition.

  Across the speaker in the OB Unit, Harry could hear other voices, all cutting across each other as they discussed his proposal. He could make little sense of the electronic gabble until Tibbetts’s voice came through again.

  ‘The gods have smiled on you, Harry. You can go ahead. But if they let a doctor in,’ he warned, ‘the consensus here is that we should trust them. Frankly, we’re praying they will.’

  In the OB Unit, Tinker wiped his brow and waited, his finger poised.

  ‘Time to sound the advance, old friend,’ Harry instructed.

  Slowly, doggedly, the message was tapped out: ‘Fake medical emergency. Demand doctor. Over.’ And Archie’s forehead was glowing in reply. He understood.

  The arrangements took little more than a minute. As they watched their screens, they saw Celia Blessing half rise in her place, then collapse with a wild groan of pain, clutching her chest. It was like a stone cast into a pond, disturbing everything around; people began leaning forward, offering advice and help, all of which Archie waved away to give Celia a little breathing room. With obvious tenderness he laid her light frame out on the leather bench, stroking her forehead, checking her pulse, releasing the button at her neck. He looked up in distress towards his captors.

  ‘She needs a doctor.’

  Masood offered no expression.

  ‘A doctor, for pity’s sake!’ Archie cried.

  ‘No one comes in.’

  ‘Then let me take her out.’

  ‘No one leaves.’

  ‘Please, I beg you. Let her get help!’ pleaded Archie, and although he couldn’t be aware of it, in COBRA they were biting their thumbs and nicotine sticks in agreement. ‘You want her death on your hands?’ Archie demanded.

  Masood shrugged. ‘I don’t even know who she is,’ he replied, and turned his back.

  9.50 a.m.

  An hour gone, and six hundred miles closer. The Super Hornet had used almost sixteen thousand pounds of fuel cruising at 38,000 feet, trying to catch the following winds, yet if it were to make it to a landfall of any sort it would need much, much more. Above his head, Daud Gul saw the sky looming dark while below him the earth was lost in a milky haze, much as it had been ever since they had left Diego Garcia. Yet something was changing. The other Super Hornet that had been flying with them ever since they took off, holding tight in formation on the right-hand side, had vanished, disappearing from view only to reappear seconds later and a matter of feet in front of them. It was getting closer – too close! Daud Gul almost cried out as the twin engines of the other jet seemed about to smash into the cockpit, but as his eyes filled with disbelief, he saw a hose line extending from beneath the other plane with what looked like a basket of some sort attached to its end, and his own pilot was moving in to meet it, the two planes engaging in an agile dance that made Daud Gul forget his fear and for a moment of weakness admire the skill of these enemies. Then drogue met probe, they were locked, and for many minutes the two planes matched each other, thousands of feet above the earth, like two angels frozen together on the doorstep of heaven. As they embraced, Gul could see one of the gauges in front of him changing colour and steadily climbing.

  Then it was done. The two planes parted gently. Once more Daud Gul’s body was being forced back into his seat as his plane climbed steeply, as steep as any mountainside. He closed his eyes, fighting the nausea. When he opened them again, the other craft had gone. They were on their own.

  9.58 a.m.

  She was lying with her head cradled in Archie’s lap. He ran his fingertips across her hair, casting around in apparent anguish, and keeping his eye on the screen.

  ‘What next?’ he tapped, and once again when at first he received no answer. It required fifty separate fragments of the Morse code.

  ‘What plan for bomb?’ the reply came back.

  ‘Recommend wait until Queen—’

  But suddenly Archie was looking directly into Masood’s eyes, knowing he was undone.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the terrorist demanded, his lip curled in suspicion.

  ‘What – this?’ Archie began fumbling theatrically and ridiculously at his forehead. ‘Why, just a nervous habit, I suppose.’ He tried to smile, but that only inflamed the other man’s mistrust.

  ‘If you want to keep your fingers, and your head, then if I were you I would keep them well apart,’ Masood said, his eyes burning into Archie. ‘I shall be watching you.’

  Reluctantly, Archie’s hand returned to stroking his patient’s hair.

  Those watching howled in silent despair. With his good fist, Harry made a substantial dent in the OB van’s aluminium wall, sending instant and merciless spasms of regret shooting through his broken fingers. Somewhere inside the v
an, someone swore luridly. Then Tibbetts’s voice, reeking of despondency, came over the speaker link. ‘Harry, I think we need you back here. Right now.’

  10.24 a.m.

  ‘What is it to be?’

  Tibbetts’s question failed to raise any spark of enthusiasm or fresh insight. They had waited for Harry to arrive, but the additional time had done nothing to clarify their thoughts. Disaster was still spelled the same way.

  ‘Let’s begin with an update from Brigadier Hastie, please,’ Tibbetts said.

  The Scot cleared his throat. ‘Little has changed, I’m afraid. We still have three snipers in place, but one of them has been on station for nearly eight hours. He’ll be tired, not capable of operating at a hundred per cent. I give him one good shot, but no more, which leaves seven gunmen. Our objective is to get to them before they can do damage to the hostages. The other two snipers are hidden in the ventilation shafts and they should be able to account for two targets each, assuming that the targets don’t suddenly shift their positions. So we’re down to three. It’s those three that will do the damage – assuming that we are proactive. If we wait for them to move first, I still have to stick to my twenty-per-cent casualty rate amongst the hostages. And there is still, of course, the matter of the bomb.’

  The bomb, the bloody bomb, everything kept coming back to that.

  ‘Have you – has anyone – any idea about how Lord Wakefield might deal with it?’ Tibbetts gazed around the room; he found faces coloured with the ashes of an empty hearth, and no answer.

  ‘What about the royal protection officer?’ someone eventually asked.

  ‘Potentially very useful,’ Hastie responded, ‘but only if he knows what to expect. Otherwise he’ll be taken as much by surprise as anyone.’

  ‘Can’t we alert him?’

  ‘He won’t read Morse. And he’s sitting in a different part of the chamber to Lord Wakefield. I think the only way to alert him would be to get someone inside. If we could do that, we could also organise some sort of distraction. It might shift the odds sharply in our favour.’