The Secretary of State shakes his head, as an aide silently shorthands all of this for the record. ‘And this has come through in the past two hours?’
‘Pretty much,’ replies the disembodied voice. ‘But mostly in the past hour. That’s when it really took off.’ Something like awe in his voice because this, this . . . wildfire has never occurred on anybody’s watch before.
The Secretary of State turns to the president. ‘I know you’ve made the decision to interdict this flight in the best interests of protecting the American people. I understand. But this is what the rest of the world thinks: those names are the countries that have already signalled – remember, the plane is still in the air, the passengers alive – that there will be definitive and forceful diplomatic repercussions. And these are our allies. Where there are parliaments they either have voted or will soon; where there are absolute rulers, they have ruled. Most likely it will fall like this: if these countries host US military bases, they will move to have these closed, or make the functioning of the bases deliberately unworkable. Where there are Status of Forces Agreements allowing our troops to operate, they will sue to have these cancelled. Mostly these SOFAs operate with at least a year’s notice period . . . but so many countries suing us, all at the same time, and for the same reason, will give this an irresistible force. I am sorry you have to be here, but there’s no gloss to put on this, this . . .’ and his face blanks for a moment; the situation doesn’t compute with normal vocabulary ‘. . . this collapse.’
From his side seat, President Hannah looks truly aghast, the chief executive watching his Fortune 500 company unravelling into a penny stock in a matter of hours. ‘I can’t believe this is happening. Happening to me . . .’
On board PK412
Tristie tells herself, I am not giving up, I am not, but I have to go back. She’s about ten feet forward of the entry hole Whiffler made, perhaps over the galley on the right side, but has to go back. It’s not going to work . . .
Jesus. The pain, you wouldn’t believe. Dragging her hips across saw-edged wing-nuts gouging her flesh, inching along, snagging every damned thing . . . All her clothes are long gone. Discarded. She’s naked.
She shoves back against one of the aluminium cross-spars, to retreat in the direction of the hole. It’s hard to push against the friction of your own dead weight. Shoulders strained, neck muscles weary. She has to cant her head, like a miner working a thin seam. It’s cold. In the torchlight, her breath clouding. Her heart thumping. Her skin frozen numb.
As she works her way back, Tristie’s feet feel the jagged edges of the opening. ‘Whiffler . . . Whiffler.’ A note of panic in her voice. ‘I need you.’
She lets herself sink on to the icy floor of the cavity.
Whiffler puts a hand on her foot as he pokes his head up through the gap. ‘What is it, Tristie?’ He can see her in the torch beam, looking back at him over her shoulder. He boggles a bit when the first thing he sees is her clenched backside, before looking up the line of her leg, repeating, ‘Tristie, what is it?’
Whiffler still has the most ridiculous pudding-bowl haircut. She realises why she feels so short of breath. There’s no oxygen supply up there, other than what percolates up from the hole. It explains the tightness in her chest, and the sudden panting. ‘You’ve got to . . . get me . . . some oil. Cooking oil . . . Olive oil . . . anything . . . I saw some . . . in first class . . . the focaccia bread . . . Go.’
But he doesn’t move. He looks around the roof space, testing struts, pulling on brackets. When he speaks, his voice is apologetic. ‘Just wondering what you need the oil for?’
She gives a long sigh of exasperation. Her lungs feeling curiously deadened. ‘Because there’s a slot . . . I need to get through . . . over there,’ and she points to her ten o’clock, ‘. . . little bigger than . . . the size . . . of a letterbox . . . and I need . . . to be . . . oiled up . . . to have a chance.’
She can almost hear his smile. ‘You’re kidding?’ Tristie Merritt, naked oil wrestler. Woo, woo.
‘No, Whiffler . . . and I’m going to need . . . your help . . . can’t reach . . . my back . . . and legs.’
He disappears like a mouse down a hole. No doubt the only person on the plane smiling.
Off the main White House situation room
President Charles Hannah breaks the dismal silence in the small communications suite. ‘There must be some way we can work this out?’
‘Work this out how?’ The Secretary of State looks up from a series of mindless jottings. Cubes. Lots of cubes.
‘You know, work . . . Christ, we can’t be the first administration that needed to buy a friendly face . . . Cajole. Fudge. Encourage. Incentivise these countries, to make this thing go away.’
The Secretary of State’s expression is tired and blank. He dabs a button on the telecom console. ‘Is the prince still on the line?’ Somebody within the snug suite nods and moments later there’s a burst of white noise and then a live picture on a wall-mounted screen, satellited from a French chateau in horse-racing country. One of Washington’s trusted back channels to the Middle East. ‘Mr President . . . out of sight, please.’
Prince Abdullah of Saudi Arabia sits at a wide desk, in front of an expensive bookcase full of leather-bound tomes. Looking extremely well fed in a dark polo-neck fleece. The foreground is cluttered with a forest of gold-plated pens, sticking up from their holders. The Yale-educated prince has no formal role within the US–Saudi structure but has served several US presidents as an honest, astute sounding-board of information and opinion, both within the kingdom and the Gulf states, as well as the wider Muslim world.
‘Good afternoon, Abdullah. I want to thank you for your patience.’
The prince waves his hand. It is nothing. ‘We are old friends. If I can be of any assistance, God willing, I want to be.’
Grave tone. ‘Events are forcing us towards a decision . . .’
‘I can assume what that decision will be . . .’ and from his ornate study, the prince wags his finger at the camera ‘. . . in a world of change, this will have consequences.’ Rubs his hand back and forth across his silvery moustache. ‘Perhaps consequences that you and I, with our fixed world view, cannot begin to imagine.’
Pause. The only sound is the quiet hush of the air-conditioning.
The Secretary of State says: ‘We believe that we have no option, at this point. It is our hope that at least if the world does not support us, they will at least understand the terrible choice we had to make.’
‘What terrible choice, my friend?’ The prince holds up a meaty hand and counts off slowly. ‘One. You now believe the recording played out from the plane to be false, maybe there is not even a terrorist on board. Two, perhaps there is not even any weapon involved. Three, Canada does not stand with you. Four, the Islamic world is in uproar. Five, you have mid-term elections in four months and fund-raising for the presidential primary cycle starts in earnest in nine months. No doubt the president’s people are telling him how this will be political suicide: how it won’t play in Peoria, to have the president appear to be . . .’ and the prince makes inverted commas with his fingers ‘. . . to be “weak” in the face of a bunch of Muslim crazies. Did I miss anything out?’
The Secretary of State shuffles uneasily in his chair. ‘I’m still here.’
‘Your problem, Mr Secretary, is that nobody is listening. You’re either the fully fledged superpower you claim to be, in which case nobody will believe that the country that builds the plane, teaches the airlines how to fly the plane, even sets the rules of how the cockpit doors should and should not work . . . that this country with the most powerful armed forces and the smartest universities does not have a way to solve this problem. Or you’re not that superpower, in which case your problems run deeper.’
The Secretary of State tap-taps the end of his pen on a presidential jotting pad. ‘As crazy as it seems, Abdullah . . . that is the very truth of the situation.’
‘W
hat do the Pakistanis say?’
A hopeless shrug of the shoulders. ‘Next question . . .’ The previous Musharraf administration had reworked the constitution so significantly it was no longer clear whether it was the president or the prime minister who controlled the real levers of power, or therefore whom Washington should be entreating. The Secretary of State had been on video link with Islamabad only fifteen minutes before, trying to convey the latest news, that the cockpit door was disabled, how sorry they were, etc. All the prime minister had wanted was to have his cabinet watch him shriek about appropriating US assets in the country, and demand a scheme of reparation payments. Domestic political posturing.
The prince looks to one side, and a bare, elegant female hand places a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. He smiles his thanks before turning back to the camera. ‘Understand this and you will understand the problem you face: in our hearts we are a nomadic people. The whole of our history and culture tell us we are always journeying across deserts, looking to protect our flock, searching for that next waterhole, or oasis. Which is why we say, It is good to know the truth, but it is better to speak of palm trees . . . That is why, my friend, these people are not interested in the truth, your truth. Every politician in the Arab and Islamic world will take from this tragic story what they know their peoples want to hear.
‘And that can only be bad for you. Very bad.’
By Lambeth Bridge
A hundred yards from MI5’s headquarters
The barrister Beveridge Clairmonte leans forward to tap his chauffeur on the shoulder. Pull off the road here. They’re on the London Eye side of Lambeth Bridge and the Bentley convertible eases like a hovercraft, up and on to the pavement, at this point a generous twelve feet wide. Clairmonte has a deep voice, Paul Robeson-like. ‘I am sure Ms Davane can waive normal parking rules on this occasion.’
‘Hhhhmph’ is all that Davane can manage.
They’d not done more than twenty miles per hour or covered five hundred yards since leaving MI5’s headquarters. So, as Davane looks around, she sees her two protectors from 14 Coy. easing out of a jog. Looking alert yet relaxed, scanning this way and that. Behind them the two vans, laundry and floral services, are jockeying for position, doing their best to be inconspicuous.
And as in a bad movie, Davane is aware of five or six young crew-cut males, granite jaws, thousand-yard stares, suddenly finding Lambeth Bridge an excellent place for playing musical statues. Pretty ordinary tradecraft from her colleagues in the Metropolitan Police. Public holidays mean no street vendors; she makes a mental note to pass that on too.
Clairmonte opens the door for Davane and offers her his hand. She declines. With a bow, he motions her towards the bridge’s balustrade, the railings, an intricate latticework of wrought iron, painted the same deep red as the leather benches of the House of Lords. The downstream side of Lambeth Bridge.
Davane leans against the railing, flips up the lapels of her tweed jacket against the sudden chill coming off the river and tries to organise her hair, which, after a ride in an open-top car, is no longer as composed as she likes. She sees the tide coming in fast, and the Thames looking as mucky-brown as ever.
Clairmonte joins her, gazing way downriver at a distant object. A plane coming into land at City Airport. He is six-one, six-two, that sort of height. Strong shoulders, pale skin. Perhaps a bit of Botox around the mouth and eyes, because his skin is a touch too tight for his smile to look comfortable.
Between the two of them, there’s a well-worn groove of effortless animosity, such that they don’t have to rush into conversation. Small talk would be an insult to either party, and both of them understand the rules . . .
Davane and Clairmonte are standing beside a lamp standard that rises thirty feet above the railings. There are pairs of these lamps either side of the apex of each of the bridge’s arches. Five arches in total. Because she can’t see under the structure, Davane guesses they’re over the second arch. Not quite midpoint.
Having finished with her hair, she wants to get on. ‘How is this going to work, then, learned counsel?’
‘We wait for a call.’ And taking a Nokia phone from his coat pocket, a rather fine camel-hair number, he looks at it carefully. ‘Pre-paid, of course. Brand new. When the call comes I pass it to you.’ And the barrister’s own displacement activity is to part his dreadlocks from the back, so they fall equally down both shoulders.
Behind Davane, watching closely, are the two men from 14 Coy., one of them already on the cuff-mike, passing on the news that a call is expected, incoming. Unknown number. Confirmed. The MI5 surveillance camera and tracking audio had picked up the same information from their vantage point in the laundry service van.
In the flower delivery van, amid the hastily assembled CIA field team, also privy to MI5’s radio traffic, there’s a serious outbreak of swearing.
‘I don’t suppose the gentlemen on foot who’ve formed a discreet semicircle around us are your employees, contractors and/or agents thereof.’ Clairmonte doesn’t even bother to look, so obvious are the guys hiding behind their newspapers.
Davane juts out her jaw, in the vague direction of Parliament.
‘Most certainly, they are not.’
‘Whose, then?’
‘That would be only guesswork on my part.’
Clairmonte’s questioning eyebrows are flecked with grey.
‘You do have the amnesty document with you?’
Davane holds up the brown briefcase. ‘Everything the girl Merritt asked for.’
Reassured, his voice softens. ‘So why the big snatch squad?’
It’s the Ulsterwoman’s turn to brood over the skyline, some of the most recognisable landmarks in the world. She picks out the desolate flagpole atop the magnificent Gothic Victoria Tower, indicating that Parliament is not in session. Yes, of course, the Whitsun break. My, these parliamentarians work hard.
Another piece of local history that this blow-in from the colonies would not understand . . .
Georgie Porgie pudding and pie
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
George Villiers, first Duke of Buckingham. Murdered, 1628, on an earlier version of Lambeth Bridge. Just yards from where they now stand. King James was so enraptured by George’s boyish good looks, it made the business of marriage and royal offspring almost impossible. Hence the rhyme.
Davane is musing on the history and culture of this country. She herself has taken a faithful oath to defend her monarch’s realm. The most important commitment in Davane’s life, and something to which she has given her entire being. This monarch. Queen Elizabeth II. Descended by blood from the very same James I . . . She is convinced of one thing. In real and unforgiving situations, if the state is to survive, it must act, must be prepared to do anything that is ‘necessary’ to ensure its durability, irrespective of the cost of ‘freedom’ . . . good people may have to suffer. Like the rise and fall of the Thames, statecraft has its own unstoppable rhythm. And Davane is about to cast a stone in that dark tideway.
The immediate question for Davane is whether or not to tell the truth. It boils down to this: Merritt is clearly the brains of the operation, and there’s no earthly way the barrister can contact her now.
Less than a quarter of an hour to go . . .
In words that are strangely difficult for her to form in her throat, Davane finally answers. ‘Your client will receive everything she asked for. But nothing more. She forgot extradition, to face appropriate charges in another jurisdiction . . . perhaps America. Maybe the excitement of the moment convinced her she knew what she was doing. But the law can be so treacherous . . .’ and she glares at Clairmonte before leaning once again on the balustrade ‘. . . so treacherous, once you’re out of your depth. Don’t you think, counsel?’
With great relish, Davane anticipates the look on the face of this elegant prick of a barrister. Merritt’s mistakes were undoubtedly based on his errors of advice. So she half-turns, expecting somethi
ng delicious to savour.
Instead, Clairmonte rocks back on his heels, roaring with delight, Father Christmas and Falstaff rolled into one. ‘My. She surely read you like a book, Davane.’
It’s all a little disconcerting for Davane, at the centre of this encircling mantrap of police, MI5 and CIA officers. She thought she’d played her hand to perfection . . .
White House situation room
1048 Washington time, 1548 London time, 2048 Islamabad time. . . Twelve minutes to scheduled point of engagement
The round-table discussion is almost ended, the room dead quiet but for the single voice. A lot of lives at stake . . . either way. On the ground, or in the air.
The consensus is leaning heavily towards taking down Flight 412 in the next dozen minutes. President Hannah has required each of the National Security Council to keep their remarks to thirty seconds. This is no time for oratorical windiness.
In the ugly but brutal analysis, it boils down to this: off the Canadian coast, take down a few hundred foreigners (plus fifty-four US citizens at last count, including a former Peace Corps contingent), or condemn to death perhaps several thousand Americans somewhere in the Tri-State area when this behemoth of a plane and its passengers crash out of the sky. The Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Jim Badgett, delivered grim news, backed up by the team in attendance from the Federal Aviation Administration. The query had been whether you could nudge the thing out to sea, like flipping the wings of the V1 Doodlebug rockets in the Second World War. Badgett shakes his head emphatically. No. There is no plane, civilian or military, that could safely tip the wing of a 777, such that it would change course permanently. Moreover, the flight management system would compensate and simply fly a slightly different bearing to its next programmed waypoint.
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