Whispers of betrayal tg-3

by Michael Dobbs

  They stand like that for a full minute as though tied to each other. Goodfellowe dares not move or speak; his whole life seems to depend upon the struggle going on inside the other man.

  Finally Bendall appears to compose himself. He stops shaking, flexes his fingers to regain the feeling, begins restructuring his disarranged hair with almost feminine care and seems suddenly to be calm. He walks to the door. As he leaves he turns and speaks once more to Goodfellowe with a voice that barely carries.

  'Judas.'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= Death is a ruffian on the stairs, waiting to pounce and to strike in his own time. He has become the dominant figure of our age, inspiring in equal measure vast outpourings of piety and of profit, although nowadays perhaps profit has gained the upper hand. For the young, Death can be a jovial fellow, the source of endless humour and commentaries, for the young are immortal. They are also blind. It is only as you grow older that the eyes begin to open and you can recognize Death for what he is, the ruffian, lurking, lying in wait, wanting to trip you as you climb the stairs.

  Amadeus had never feared his own death. One day Death would come for him, and he had seen enough pain and mutilation to know that at times Death is welcomed almost as a friend. But Amadeus couldn't come to terms with the death of Scully. Albert Andrew. Follower. Saviour. His brother. In the endless hours since he had killed Scully – for that is how he saw it: he had been responsible for the death of his friend – Amadeus hadn't moved from his concrete prison of a home, the London tower block he so hated. Thank God his wife was away, visiting some relative or lover, he no longer cared which. Perhaps it might have been better had she been there, someone on whom he could focus his anger and desolation, but she wasn't. He was on his own, and never more so than now.

  It had started almost as a game, something inspired by the monumental frustration of their lives. They had been swept up in its excitement and pursued the game with a passion – all, that is, except that worthless looter Payne. He had been a mistake. A misjudgement. One of Amadeus's many misjudgements.

  Now Mary and McKenzie had gone. He didn't as yet know how, only that they were gone, together, the phone link cut. More mistakes.

  Yet this was as nothing compared to the mistake he had made in killing Scully. As readily as Amadeus could live alongside Death, he was finding it impossible to deal with Guilt. Of course, it wasn't his fault alone, Bendall was far more to blame than he, but nonetheless Guilt tormented and tortured him for being the only survivor.

  Yet even on his own he was still a soldier. With a job to do.

  So when he had seen Bendall on live television, bragging, claiming victory, he knew he owed it to Scully. He had to go on. It was the only way to ensure that Scully's death was not in vain. The only way to deal with Guilt.

  But what could one man do? On his own? One man against Authority? Against all the forces under the command of Bendall? One man against the entire orchestrated might of the State?

  Why, with the little toys he had picked up in Bosnia, a man could do almost anything he bloody well pleased.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= The City of London is unique. It is a small historic enclave also known as the Square Mile that sits at the centre of London town. Arguably it is the most important financial centre in the world. It has more Japanese banks than anywhere outside the Far East, more American banks than even New York. It trades more foreign exchange, sells more gold, deals in more foreign equities, handles more international insurance than any other place on the globe. One pound in every five earned by the entire population of Britain is earned within this fragment of London. The Square Mile is stuffed full of money and power. And, of course, people.

  It is also a place of history, a settlement founded almost two thousand years ago by the Romans beside the banks of a meandering tide-washed river they called Tamesis. The Romans defended their town of Londinium behind stout walls of cobble and stone that can still be seen today, and within these remnants of ancient walls you can find not only traces of pagan temples but also the more modern places of worship such as the Stock Exchange and Bank of England, alongside St Paul's Cathedral and sites of less divine judgement like the Old Bailey. Temptation, forgiveness and judgement all rolled up in one.

  The tiny enclave of the City of London is the single most important plot of real estate anywhere in the land, a prize beyond all others. That's why it has been a target of invasion, of fire, of plague, of pestilence, of bombardment and blitz. It has always survived. Until now.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= 'So, do you really have to go?'

  There, he's said it. Goodfellowe can scarcely believe himself, but he's gone and said it, and in doing so has betrayed all his lack of confidence in himself, and perhaps his lack of trust in her, too.

  He had insisted on seeing Elizabeth. She'd said she was tired and would rather he left it until another time, but he was not to be put off. Got straight on his bicycle and set out for Elizabeth's mews house in Kensington. He felt a desperate need to unburden himself – he had witnessed the most astonishing sight, the spectacle of a Prime Minister setting himself ablaze before an audience of millions, flames that would undoubtedly lay waste to much of the known world. The prospects of many of those around would be turned to cinders, and Goodfellowe had already been set up as the first victim. He had to see Elizabeth.

  Yet there's more to it than that. It isn't just Bendall pushing him away, it's Elizabeth, too. She has problems in which he has a right to share, but sharing is the part of love she finds so difficult, and it's beginning to show in other areas. He's suddenly realized it has been more than a fortnight since they last slept together. Somehow they seem to be falling out of the habit. No one to blame, he's been distracted, too, but enough is enough. Or not enough, in this instance. He's feeling bruised, more than a little neglected, and at the same time experiencing an extraordinary sense of intoxication from the turmoil of power he has just witnessed all around him. To put no finer point on it, he feels turned on.

  So he has insisted.

  When she comes to bed she is naked, her beauty reaching out to him and reminding him of all their shared pleasures, but her hands remain clasped under her cheek like a pillow. She has already explained she is tired. Their bodies cling to separate sides of the bed. Somehow their minds pass each other by, too.

  'It's been quite a day.'

  'Sure has,' she replies. 'Barely twenty in tonight. This chaos in London is killing me.'

  'Bendall thought he'd got it covered this morning

  'Not my empty tables, he hasn't.'

  '… and by this evening he's up to his neck in alligators.'

  'The bank's given me a month.'

  'We'll know within a week.'

  It is as though they have heard nothing, and have lost the desire to continue. They fall into a long silence.

  'I might be able to help,' he says at last.

  'Seventy thousand would help.'

  'That's right. From Mr Ryman.'

  She sighs, turns her back to him. Oh, but what a back. How many nights he has lingered awake, gazing at it while she slept, tracing its sensuous curves with his thoughts, kissing it gently, feeling her stir inside her dreams. Is it foolish to be so in lust with the woman he loves? And so in love with a woman lusted after by others?

  'Not the jealousy kick again. Not right now, Tom.'

  'Am I so wrong to feel that your weekend with an old lover is marginally less appealing than discovering I've got varicose veins?'

  'It's wrong that you shouldn't trust me.'

  'It's him I can't trust.'

  'He's got hundreds of women.'

  'And I've got only you. Which is why I fight so hard to keep you.'

  'I know,' she whispers, turning once more to face him, no longer angry. Bloody men. 'That's one of the reasons why I love you.'

  It seems so long since she had uttered those words. She has often maintained that men are genetically constructed to lie their way into any woman's bed, and therefore expressions of lov
e should be treated as bearing the same sincerity as someone called Vince who works in tele-sales. 'It's what you do that counts, not what you say.'

  Fair enough. To some extent he even agrees. So he says it. 'Do you really have to go?' And in saying it he reveals all the depth and tenderness of his bruising, which she's just about to add to.

  'Of course I bloody well have to go! You know that. I've got no choice. The restaurant means more to me than…' She hesitates, holds back. Even in anger she isn't fool enough to go that far. Bloody, bloody men! 'Means more to me than almost anything.'

  'I'd wanted to take you to Paris. Did you know that? Been trying to find the right time to ask you for weeks.'

  She strokes his face, still trying to reestablish contact. 'And we will, Tom. We'll go to Paris and anywhere else you want to go.'

  'So maybe I could come to Paris with you next weekend.'

  The hand is instantly withdrawn. 'Why – why do you men always have to be such control freaks? You simply won't accept that I can do this on my own, will you? Well, I can. What's more, I'm going to show you I can. The restaurant is my baby, it's my independence, it's my life. I'm going to Paris and I'm going alone. That's an end to it.'

  She has rolled onto her back, gazing at the ceiling. The air feels suddenly stagnant, and her breath is coming in impatient gulps. 'Look, I'll be back Sunday evening. Why don't we have dinner then? We can celebrate and put all this nonsense behind us.'

  'I'd like that, very much.'

  They are both gazing at the ceiling now, their fingers gently intertwined in truce.

  Then: 'How're you getting there?'

  'By Eurostar. From Waterloo.'

  'When, my love?'

  'Just before three p.m. next Thursday.'

  To Goodfellowe, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, it seems that the weekend starts disgracefully early in Paris.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= As he mounted his cycle the following morning, Goodfellowe realized he had failed. They still hadn't slept together. He hadn't slept at all.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= Friday evening. The 250,000 workers of the City move from office to bar and out to their homes in the suburbs. As they depart, the military move in. By Saturday morning armed troops are patrolling the platforms of all Underground and mainline stations and barriers have been erected around the entire City. The Inner City Traffic Zone that has cordoned off a part of the Square Mile ever since the bloody IRA bombing of Billingsgate is pushed out ever further, in places beyond the City limits themselves. Commercial Street, Old Street, the Clerkenwell Road, High Holborn, Kingsway – all become part of the defensive line that has been thrown down around the trading heart of London. Roads of every description, main and minor, are blocked with barriers and sandbags and timber balks, and, of course, manpower. Most of that manpower is armed.

  From six o'clock Saturday morning the only access allowed to the City of London is by foot or by vehicles that carry a military or police presence. Policemen travel on every bus, and all bags are subject to summary inspection. Even the dustcarts carry an armed guard. Delivery vehicles are confined to the hours between eight at night and six in the morning, and are searched with particular rigour.

  Men are sent down into the extensive Victorian sewage system. Its brickwork is examined for any sign of recent interference. CCTV equipment is left behind to continue the vigilance.

  London has become a city under siege, cowering behind a ring of steel. A Scimitar tank is placed at the bustling intersection between Poultry, Lombard Street, Cornhill, Threadneedle Street and Queen Victoria Street, the great hub where those avenues meet like the spokes of a giant flywheel that turns non-stop, twenty-four hours a day, driving the City onwards – although the flywheel is now slowing perceptibly. A further tank is positioned alongside the Mansion House, for which purpose they have to close Walbrook, and another covers the Stock Exchange.

  The intention is also to place a Scimitar on the plaza in front of St Paul's Cathedral, but the Bishop of London objects in the most vociferous terms. God will provide.

  The rest is all courtesy of Jonathan Bendall.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= Democracy is based on a number of fallacies, the grandest of which is to believe that public opinion is the sum of all individual wisdom. It assumes that individuals are capable of arriving at informed and balanced opinions, which may be true, but completely ignores the fact that when those same informed and balanced individuals come together in large numbers, logic and reason are often cast aside and any gaps left in the framework of opinion are filled with raw, undisciplined emotion. So it was no surprise that the first reaction of Londoners to the Amadeus ultimatum was guided by cool logic. Law and order doesn't have much of a sense of humour and Beaky had blown it. Fascinating chap and all, given us a few laughs and put the politicians in their place, but this time he's gone too far. Bendall is our Prime Minister, whether we love him or mostly despise him, but the fact that we put him there leaves us with a sense of ownership. Anyway, blowing up a couple of ugly chimneys is one thing, blowing up the City of London is quite another.

  Although what precisely Beaky had in mind for the City of London was the subject of extravagant speculation. The terminology he had used in his message – that he would 'take out' the City of London – was open to all sorts of interpretation. Did he intend to blow it up, like the chimneys? Or cripple its communications once again? Disrupt its transportation? Flood it with water? Melt the Lloyd's building? Let loose a plague of genetically modified rats? With Beaky almost anything seemed possible.

  Speculation became a national pastime, yet speculation never stands still. What began as a matter of serious concern turned with the passing of hours into Playdough and was bent into all sorts of unintended shapes.

  Downing Street was forced to deny it had intervened to stop the BBC playing the record of 'Captain Beaky and His Band'. The twenty-year-old record was back at the top of the hit parade and could be heard almost everywhere, but it was banned from the BBC following the personal intervention of the Chairman of the Governors. It was unfortunate in the circumstances that the Chairman was a close personal friend of the Prime Minister and their families spent holidays together in Umbria, because it encouraged journalists to jump to all sorts of conclusions. People have such suspicious minds.

  There were even moments of popular merriment. Londoners have always had an acute sense of the absurd and there were parts of the operation that they found almost comic. So when a car was spotted heading erratically down Birdcage Walk in the direction of the House of Commons, to the authorities it seemed like a serious potential threat. A pursuit was begun by two police cars, complete with sirens and flashing headlamps, at which point the vehicle's progress became still more erratic, speeding onward into the night. The chase ended only when the car failed to negotiate the new chicane into Parliament Square and came to rest with one wheel over the kerb beneath the brooding statue of Churchill.

  Yet this was not a terrorist incident. The culprit turned out to be, in the traditional phrase, 'a senior government backbencher', an ageing dunderhead who in spite of years of piteous whining still hadn't made it to the level of junior ministerial milkmaid. He'd been rushing to make a late-night vote, and as he had tried to explain to the arresting officer, his excuse for fleeing in front of the flashing lights of the constabulary was that he'd thought they were a police escort endeavouring to ensure he got to the crucial vote on time. The truth, as became readily apparent as soon as he fell out of his car, was rather more prosaic. He was pissed.

  Ah, but he hadn't survived repeated bruising encounters with his electorate for nought. No sooner had the officer suggested he blow into the white plastic pipe of a breathalyzer than the Honourable Member wrenched himself free and fled towards the nearby gates of New Palace Yard, filling the evening air with piteous cries of 'Sanctuary! Sanctuary!' Had he made it through the gates and inside the precincts of the Palace of Westminster he might have been the cause of a constitutional crisis, for by the time the po
lice had obtained authority to enter the protected premises of the Palace to arrest him he would undoubtedly have been as sober as any judge in the land. But he didn't make it. Distracted by the sight of two members of the SO-19 Specialist Firearms Unit in Kevlar-coated body armour with Glock SLPs drawn and aimed in his direction, he lost his concentration and tripped over the kerb. After which he lost his ambition and resigned his seat.

  Somehow the constitution survived.

  Yet the incident seemed to mark a turning point in the Government's battle for the public mood. The Government insisted that it had matters under control, but if it couldn't control its own backbenchers how the hell was it going to deal with Beaky? The public mocked; this was, after all, a comic war against a comic character.

  The financial institutions, however, did not mock. Trading houses are not noted for their sense of humour, neither are they renowned for their sense of proportion. Panic often seems a more natural reaction. For two trading days, on Friday and the following Monday, the Stock Exchange held its nerve while furiously transferring as many of its computer operations as was possible to disaster recovery sites outside London. No one wanted to be seen to be the first to turn chicken and lose its head.

  By the same token, no one wanted to be left behind. On Tuesday the City's collective nerve cracked and every trading screen, no matter where it was located, was drenched in the colour of blood. By early afternoon trading on the Stock Exchange was halted after billions had been wiped off the Footsie.

  That evening the London Assembly passed a vote of no confidence in the Government's conduct. The Downing Street press spokesman retaliated by describing the Assembly as a gathering of rats. It was an unfortunate phrase for someone who at the same time was desperately trying to convince anyone who would listen that the ship wasn't about to sink.