Whispers of betrayal tg-3

by Michael Dobbs

  Londoners were both spectators and committed participants in the fight, like the townsfolk of Tombstone peering out from behind their shutters at what was about to take place in the main street, wondering how many coffins they would need, and whose name would be on them.

  The town was gripped by a heady mixture of anxiety and anticipation about this Fight to the Death. Trouble was, Londoners couldn't decide which one was the enemy.

  In the saloons you could get interesting odds. As the days drew on, those against Bendall lengthened. Beaky couldn't win, of course; Hissing Sid had too many marksmen scattered around the town. It was scarcely a fair fight, more an inevitable massacre, but knowing all that he still intended to come out and fight. Wasn't this the stuff heroes were made of? Dead heroes, of course, but that made it all the more fascinating.

  Three p.m. Thursday. Not long to wait.

  Overhead the Wimp Blimp droned on. And on, and on.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= COBRA met every day. Goodfellowe was not invited.

  NINETEEN

  The Walrus, aka the Chancellor of the Exchequer, focused his shortsighted eyes on the white tile wall a few inches in front of his nose while he relieved himself. It had been a long meeting of COBRA. No progress, little to report, apart from the news about the command vehicles. These were the vans used by the Metropolitan Police as mobile command and communication centres. The present crisis had placed an exceptional burden upon the Met, stretching the thin blue line until the elastic screamed. All leave had been cancelled and police stations stripped to a skeleton staff in order to provide as much manpower as possible in support of their colleagues in the City of London. In much of the rest of the capital, the sight of officers on the street became such a rarity that someone in authority had decided that six mobile command centres should be parked overnight in strategic locations to reassure local citizens and to give at least the impression of a police presence.

  By morning, two had been stolen and another left with no wheels, propped up on bricks.

  Without looking at him directly, the Walrus addressed the Lord Chancellor, who was standing alongside him, searching within his flies.

  'Got to go on backing Jonathan, of course.'

  'No question about it.'

  'Can't give in to terrorism.'

  'Specially not to a cartoon character.'

  'A song, Frankie.'

  'What?'

  'A character from a song. Not a cartoon.'

  'Well, yes.' The Lord Chancellor was distracted, still fumbling within his flies. 'You know, when I was a young man the wretched thing was always popping out at the most awkward moments. Now I never seem to be able to find it.' He sighed in relief. 'Ah, that's better.'

  'You're not one of the wobblers, then.'

  'Wobblers, George? Do we have wobblers?'

  'Apparently, Frankie.'

  'That's sad. Terribly sad, George.'

  'These are sad days, Frankie.'

  'I thought Jonathan made a very strong case about the moral imperative of what he's doing.'

  'Yes, a very moral cause. It's sad that the voters don't seem to appreciate it.'

  'London will get back to normal in a couple of days.'

  'Then we can put it all behind us.'

  'Well, those of us still left in Cabinet.'

  'Yes, pity about the reshuffle. Unfortunate, that announcement. In retrospect.'

  A pause as both of them concentrated.

  'You'll be safe, George.'

  'You too, of course, Frankie. Unless…'

  ''Less what, George?'

  The Chancellor turned to face his law colleague directly. 'Sod's law. Heads he wins, and in a flush of victory thinks he can do what he wants. Or tails he loses, and we get a new broom in Number Ten who decides to do some radical sweeping.'

  'Been thinking much the same myself. Not much of a reward for loyalty.'

  'Little wonder there are wobblers.'

  'As Jonathan would say, fuck it.'

  They both proceeded to wash their hands with excessive caution.

  'Good talking to you, Frankie.'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= On Wednesday the Government announced that the following day was to be a bank holiday. The Stock Exchange and other financial institutions would be closed. It was little more than bowing to the inevitable, no one was going to turn up to work in the City anyway.

  They also invoked Section 16c of the Prevention of Terrorism Act which gave them authority to prevent the residents of the City of London returning to their homes that evening until the emergency was over. Only five thousand people lived within the Square Mile, mostly within the Barbican complex. Some of the more elderly residents objected strenuously, arguing that they hadn't been moved by the Blitz, weren't going to move for Beaky and would be carried out in their coffins before they'd be moved by their own bloody Government, but overall there was surprisingly little fuss. Most of the residents had already fled to their places in the country or northern France.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= It was also on Wednesday, in the morning, that, much to his astonishment, Goodfellowe was summoned to Downing Street. He was still smarting from the last encounter, he wasn't sure he should go. He only knotted his tie and left after Mickey told him not to be so bloody stupid. What had he got to lose?

  He found Bendall in the sun-filled garden in his shirtsleeves. He was sitting on a bench beneath the silver birch, holding a drink in his hand. It was clearly not his first.

  'Tom. Where the hell've you been? Why haven't you been coming to COBRA?'

  'Because I wasn't invited.'

  'You haven't been getting invitations? I'm gonna fire somebody for that. Fire the bastards, d'you hear? Of course you were meant to come.' He drank as he lied. 'Anyway, you're here. Sit down.'

  Goodfellowe hadn't even undone the button of his jacket. His body language suggested he expected the other man at any moment to try and pick his pocket.

  'You know, Tom, I'm surrounded by incompetence. Those other bastards are useless. Useless! Every morning they promise me solutions yet all they come up with are excuses. And now… now all they do is sit there and look like mongrels who've just been caught crapping on the carpet. So I looked around this morning and said – "Where's Tom? He's always got some ideas." You know, you should've been sitting around the table, not hiding out amongst the officials. Then I would've noticed you weren't there sooner. I tell you, Tom, I've given them everything they asked for – more men, more resources. Only thing I can't give them is more time. It's getting late…' He rolled the glass between the palms of his hands, trying to focus his thoughts. 'I need your help, Tom. You're not like the rest. You're unpredictable, unreconstructed, unrepentant, un…' He began stretching for another suitable description.

  'Unreliable? I think that's the word the Whips might use. You used a rather more forthright term the other day.'

  'Did I? Did I? OK, so you don't do things by the book. In the orthodox way. But that's what makes you so important. You're a stubborn bastard, Tom. I need men with a bit of backbone about me right now.' He took a swig of gin, his eyes red from anxiety and alcohol, but also suggesting an inner animal determination to fight. 'I need you, Tom. I make no bones about it. Need you. You've always come up with something. Because you don't think like the others. You don't crawl, don't read out what others have written for you, you don't borrow their words or steal their thoughts. You're the original caveman. And I need something original.'

  'Sounds the sort of invitation a man can scarcely resist.'

  'Unless I can stop this man I'm dog meat.'

  'Not to mention the City of London…'

  'Find him for me, Tom. You and your insights… maybe you can do what the rest of them together can't. Damned deadbeats, all of 'em. Police, Army, Intelligence – useless! They've given me extra protection, put machine guns in the bloody shower, can't take a leak without some bastard watching me. Done everything – except give me results! That's what I need. Results!' His lips were damp with emotion. 'They
've even given the whole bloody thing a code name. Operation Icarus. Scorched wings 'n' all. But when I wake up in the middle of the night, Tom, sometimes I think they're taking the piss, 'cos at the moment the only miserable swine who's going to get scorched isn't Beaky, it's me.'

  'Bit like Minos.'

  'Who?'

  'The king of Crete. It was Minos who Icarus and his father were trying to escape from.'

  'What happened to him?'

  'He died. Became a judge in the Underworld, I think. Sort of perpetual backseat driver.'

  'Damn me, you're frustrating! Always off on a different planet, places where frankly I can't follow. But that's why I need you, Tom. To do what the others can't. To figure out what this is all about – what he's about. I've seen you do it in COBRA. Yes, perhaps I didn't realize it at the time, but you're the one who's always been able to keep up with him. Do it again, Tom.'

  'In twenty-four hours?'

  Bendall lurched forward, closing the gap between them, his eyes and tone conspiratorial. 'Do it and you can have any job in Government you want. Name it and it's yours. Home Office, Foreign Office, Trade and Industry, next door at Number Eleven, even. Anything. Sounds fair enough, doesn't it?'

  He allowed it to sink in for a moment, watching Goodfellowe as intently as a roadside kestrel.

  'Sounds almost like a bribe, Prime Minister.'

  'Sounds to me like the best offer you've ever had, or are ever going to get. You haven't figured it out yet, have you, Tom? I'm your best friend. The man who's going to make everything happen for you. But lose me and they'll bury you, too. May surprise you, old chap, but you're not everyone's cup of tea. And nobody else owes you.'

  Goodfellowe was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. While Bendall was sitting in the shade, his own seat was in the direct sun and he was beginning to stifle. At last he unfastened the button on his jacket.

  'A few days ago you said I'd betrayed you, called me Judas. Now you tell me you're going to do anything I want.' He didn't try to hide the contempt in his voice. 'How can I believe a single bloody word?'

  'Because I'm dying.'

  That, at least, Goodfellowe knew, was the truth.

  'You know I'm on my way out, Tom, you can smell it. After this fiasco, win or lose, it's only a matter of time. But I'd like another eighteen months. It'll bring me to five years in office exactly, a nice round figure. Sort of historic. Then I'll resign, but I want to be able to walk away, not get dragged kicking and sobbing like all the rest. You must realize how important that is, Tom, for any man. To leave with dignity. Head held high. Is that too much to ask?'

  'You'll retire?'

  'Eighteen months. Eighteen months in which you can be doing whatever job you want, planning, preparing. Giving yourself the best shot you're ever going to get of taking over from me. Becoming Prime Minister, Tom. What more can I offer?'

  The heat was growing more intense, Goodfellowe loosened his tie. 'I repeat. How can I believe a single bloody word?'

  Bendall twisted his lips into a sardonic smile, savouring the unfamiliar taste. He wasn't used to his own colleagues doubting his integrity, not to his face. It was another sign of just how weak he had become. His position was falling to pieces. 'OK, Tom. You want to play the tough guy. Fair enough.' Bendall turned to a folder that lay beside him on the garden bench and with almost feverish haste began scribbling on a sheet of paper. He finished and handed it across.

  'There you are, Tom. Your guarantee.'

  Goodfellowe read, and barely believed. The note was addressed to him. It said: It is my irreversible intention to resign as Prime Minister on my fifth anniversary in office.' The signature was characteristic Bendall, squeezed and bent at a sharp angle, like a set of iron railings that had been hit by a car.

  The note flapped in Goodfellowe's hand.

  'That's my word. And both your future and your fortune, Tom. With that you can squeeze me for anything you want over the next eighteen months. My life in your hands. It's worth money, too, a hundred thousand on your memoirs. But only if I survive.'

  Goodfellowe paused, struggling to comprehend how powerful he had suddenly become. Bendall was tied to him now, whether the Prime Minister found pleasure in his company or not. The paper began to crinkle as he grasped it tight, afraid it might disappear in the breeze. 'Why are you doing this?'

  'Because I'd happily settle for another eighteen months. I won't get eighteen hours if it all goes pear-shaped in the City.'

  'I suppose I ought to be flattered that you're making such a fuss of me.'

  There was a long silence, then Bendall burst into ferocious laughter. 'Special fuss? Of you? Oh, Tom.' He almost choked as he drank. 'How d'you know I'm not making the same promise to every other bastard in London…?'

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= Goodfellowe is sitting alone in his office, brooding. He's been offered everything, on one condition – that he save Bendall. Yet he can't. He's spent the best part of the afternoon running through every possibility in his mind, and getting nowhere. Bells keep going off inside his head, confusing him. Now he's exhausted. His whole life seems to be stretching out in front of him, yet as hard as he tries to peer ahead he can see no further than a few hours. Tomorrow, three o'clock.

  Then there's another ringing sound. His telephone. Elizabeth.

  It surprises him. She rarely calls, even after all their time together, and only ever for practical things. Never to chat. To say hello, how are you, I'm thinking of you. When they are together she's usually a fount of bubbling animation, but it seems you have to be there in front of her to grab her attention. Otherwise it's an out-of-sight, out-of-mind sort of thing. And tomorrow out of the country.

  But now she wants to see him – it's her turn to insist. Dinner. Tonight. Before she leaves for Paris. She knows he is hurting. She wants to make it right, to get rid of this jealousy thing once and for all.

  'I don't do jealousy,' she has often said. 'It's a sign of distrust. A lack of self-respect.'

  Anyway, why should she do jealousy? He's doing enough for the both of them.

  – =OO=OOO=OO-= He arrives at Elizabeth's mews house in a state of distraction. Half his mind is trying to struggle with the jealousy thing, the other half struggling with the things Bendall has piled upon him. Yet the moment he walks through the door his cares seem somehow irrelevant, for there is candlelight, and home cooking, and Elizabeth who, in her forthright style, insists on taking it all head-on.

  'I wouldn't go if it weren't necessary. If there were any other way. But I have to go or I'll lose my business.'

  'And if you do go…'

  'Oh, poppet, you're not going to say something silly like "I'll lose you"? That doesn't come into the question, either. Look, bonehead, he's my backer. You are my lover. Backer. Lover. Got it?'

  'You think it so wrong that I should be upset by your going off to Paris – Paris of all places – with another man.'

  'What I won't have, Tom, is you telling me who I can and cannot see. I love you, but you don't own me. So what if I once had a relationship with Ryman and cared for him. He's a man I once loved. Another time. Not now. Now is you.'

  'And tomorrow?' he almost says, but doesn't.

  'If I don't do this dinner, I don't do this deal. Then I lose my home, Tom.'

  'Yeah,' he mutters. He knows all about losing his home. Hurts like hell.

  Elizabeth feels she has made her point, he doesn't need to be beaten any further. She's going off to Paris to see another man, and if Goodfellowe doesn't trust her that's his problem. Well, not exclusively his, perhaps, a little voice inside keeps repeating that maybe she doesn't completely trust herself either, but relationships are meant to have a sprinkling of spice, a little risk, otherwise they suffocate. She's done the thing with the rose-covered cottage and the slippers and the plans for a future together, and it didn't work, left scars. Made her feel owned, used. Never again. She needs to hang on to her own identity, needs some insurance – and, for Elizabeth, that means the restaurant. So sh
e's going to Paris, and if there prove to be a couple of complicating personal details when she gets there – well, she'll just have to sort them out. Over dinner. In her own way. Tomorrow. Whatever it takes.

  As for tonight, she'll sort out Goodfellowe, that silly, confused, hurting man. Sort him out while he's sitting at the dining table. She knows she's been neglecting him, and this weekend she's about to neglect him some more, so he needs reminding just how good their love can be. Perhaps she needs that reminder, too.

  The room is lit only by candles, a gentle light, a light that hides their creases. He's reaching for his whisky when he notices her standing provocatively in front of him. Suddenly she has his full attention. She takes hold of her shirt and lifts it high above her head, posing like a model in a little art studio in a garret overlooking Montmartre – no, forget Paris! Her skin is smooth and dark, just a few freckles at the top of her breasts. She'd once said she would have liked larger breasts but for him they are perfect. Great staying power. Still be there or thereabouts in another twenty years. He lifts his glass in appreciation but the whisky never makes it as far as his lips. She begins slowly to remove every other item of her clothing, rustling, swaying, teasing, as though she is seducing him for the first time, until he feels he wants her as though for that first time, too. Now she is naked, enticingly and unrepentantly naked, and he finds himself breathless – ever more so as she turns her attention to him, undressing him, stripping him, her fingers playing knowingly with every knot, every button and zip, until he has no more defences. Her prisoner. With his own trousers she ties his hands behind the chair.

  She begins stroking him, tenderly, first with her lips, then the tips of her fingers, her tongue, her nipples, every piece of her. Then she is standing before him once more and parting herself in front of him with her own fingers until he would have screamed if he'd had breath. Perhaps she isn't as good as she might be at expressing her emotions with words, but there are other languages of love. She seems to know them all.