There, the security guys remained blank-faced while the gates opened; save for one man, standing in a surveillance blind spot by the hedge, who dropped Josh an exaggerated wink. Then Josh drove out onto the road, moving too fast, acting enraged though his mind was cold. He was already working on mission prep.
Once on the motorway he drove more reasonably. Tapping his phone in its console slot, he queried vlogger sites.
"Command: select keywords America, political situation, Brand, coup, secession. Command: spelling disambiguation, coup equals C-O-U-P. Command: display top ten, most viewed."
He lowered the brightness on his heads-up as ten static panes showed low down on the windscreen. Then he tapped the console below the rightmost image.
A shaven-headed man in what looked like an expensive suit, shirt and tie began to speak.
"In Samuel, King David says: 'He traineth my hands for war, so that my arm may bend a bow of bronze.' The conflict you have been training for is here. Too long have we put up with Islamist jihadists, but at least they had the guts to declare war, unlike the left-wing godless liberals who have weakened this country for so long. Now we move to cleanse the Earth in the final crusade, the triumph of–"
Josh shut it off, changed lanes to slow down, then tapped below the next pane. Here the speaker was maybe twenty, his hair in braids, glancing off to one side every few seconds as he spoke.
"President Brand is threatening democracy, let's be clear on that. You don't agree, tough, because the police will kick your door down and drag you out as a threat to homeland security. That means no trial, no lawyer, no limit to how long they–"
He tapped that pane, also, to stillness. Then he wiped the display.
"Hell. To. Handbasket. In, a, going. Make a sentence out of that."
The phone chimed its do-not-understand tone.
"End voice commands."
After some twenty minutes driving in silence, he tapped again. Tony's image appeared, ghostly on the windscreen.
"Hey, Tone."
"Josh, my man. Are you OK?"
"Always. Are you still in contact with Taffy C?"
"Is he still alive?"
"That'll be a no, then."
"Actually, I think he's in London. I'm surprised you want to see him, though."
"If you're talking about the time I interrupted him with three rent boys and a blindfolded donkey, I think he's forgiven me for that."
"And I thought Vikram was the potty-mouth round here."
"Call me back?"
"After I've washed that image from my mind."
"Cheers, mate."
A car cut in front, and Josh braked, slowing right down. He shook his head, continuing at reduced speed; and it was only when the idiot turned off at the exit that a memory returned: dragging a hapless suicide jockey out of his car and throwing away the key.
All I needed was something important to work on.
If the situation here were as bad as the not-so-United States, there would be nothing he could do about it. But for now, so long as general elections took place and public opinion mattered, he could spread the word about corruption in the prime minister's office, hopefully to more effect than some student vlogger trying to warn his fellow citizens about a near-silent coup among the upper echelons of government.
Tony's image popped back up. "Park in Sainsbury's in Richmond, walk out here" – a secondary pane flicked into existence, showing a map – "and Big Tel's taxi will pick you up. RV is seventeen hundred."
"Got it. Where's Taff?"
"Centre of London, Shaftesbury Avenue. Tel has drop-off details."
"OK. Thanks, Tony."
"Give Taff a kiss from me."
"Only if it's no tongues." He killed the comms.
He was in Richmond with nearly five hours to spare, so he parked as close to the great park as he could, changed his clothes in the car, and went running. The highlight was a magical face-to-face with three young deer, who watched him as he crept past, before continuing his run.
A sponge bath at the back of the car – when there was no one around to watch – and he was back inside the vehicle, working with the heads-up, poring through the schematics and interface definitions that Matt had pulled from the Barbican.
"You guys are paranoid," Josh said aloud. "I'm impressed. Unfortunately."
Finally, he shut everything down, and drove to the supermarket for the rendezvous. At seventeen hundred hours and two seconds, he climbed into Big Tel's taxi cab.
After the usual banter, he said: "You free for an op on the sixteenth? By free I mean available, because I'll pay you for it."
"What do I get, like?" Tel manoeuvred the taxi out onto the road. "Straight fee or percentage?"
"Your choice, pal."
"Well, how much are you earning for this gig?"
"Somewhere between zero and nothing."
In the driver's mirror, Tel smiled. "If we're in the big leagues like that, then I'm in for five per cent."
"You fool, you could have twisted my arm for twenty."
"Uh-huh. We're talking heavy duty logistics, are we?"
"Solo insertion, maybe some of Tony's crew for distraction purposes only. I'm working on the details. The infiltration is just me."
Tel navigated a junction, then: "And exfiltration afterwards?"
"Not needed."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"No, it's OK. If I do the job all right, I'll walk out on my own two feet."
"And Plan B?" asked Tel.
"I've reason to believe there'll be medics nearby. With luck, they might help me. Otherwise it's Plan D for dead, so it won't matter."
"Hmm." Tel drove on for a bit, then: "So where's the location, boss?"
"The Barbican."
"The–? You know, the big final's there on the twentieth."
"It is?" said Josh.
"Yeah. But security will be tighter than a duck's rectum, so if anyone was going to like sneak inside, they'd want to lay up early."
"I imagine so."
"Maybe four days in advance."
"Sounds good to me."
"So long as they wasn't thinking of going up against, like, thirty of the country's best professional knife fighters, that would probably be all right."
"Probably."
"Not to mention," said Tel, "close-protection teams with guns galore, on account of the PM visiting and all."
"Not to mention."
"Well." Tel swerved into a side street, one of his famous shortcuts. "You remember Mad Jock, right? Legend of the Regiment?"
"Sure."
"Wait'll I tell people I've had Mad Josh riding in my cab."
"Shit."
"That's what they'll do when I tell 'em."
Just before seven, Josh climbed out of the cab on Shaftesbury Avenue, directly by a side door of the old red-brick theatre. Big Tel drove off, and a male member of the theatre staff, dressed in black, opened the door from inside, and nodded to Josh.
"Alwyn is upstairs." The young man gestured to a narrow flight of wooden treads, darkened with age. "I'll lead the way."
He pushed the door shut – it would only open from inside – then started up the stairs.
"Don't you think this is a wonderful production?" he added. "It's the most fabulous I've worked on."
"Say what?" Josh kept pace as they ascended.
"Nine Princes in Amber. You must have seen it."
"I'm not really into musicals."
"But that's dreadful. Never mind."
At the top of the fourth flight, they turned left, and passed into a huge, high-ceilinged room ringed with dressing-tables and clothes racks… and some three dozen actresses who were naked or near-naked, changing into costume, or applying make-up while their pert, bare breasts bounced with the motion.
"Bloody hell."
Josh had twice known paralysis in the face of lethal danger. This was not quite the same but – there was the most perfect female arse he had ever seen, bending o
ver to pull up her voluminous skirt from the
floor. Awe and lust washed through him.
"Oh, dear fellow, do come on."
Looking back, Josh allowed himself to be led into a side room. When the door closed, hiding the beauties outside, he thought he might weep.
"Alwyn, I've brought your friend."
Blinking, Josh turned round. "Hey, Taff. How's it going?"
Taff rolled his eyes, then shrugged to the young man. "I apologise for my philistine friend."
"Oh, I find his rough edge rather a thrill. Or dare I say alluring?"
"Out with you, Freddy. I need to talk to my friend alone."
"Never mind. Ta-ta."
"Yeah," said Josh. "Cheers."
Once young Freddy was gone, Taff grinned at Josh.
"Did the ladies outside bring a lump to your throat? Or somewhere southwards?"
"How can you work here and not turn straight?"
"Dear Josh, you haven't seen the boys' dressingroom."
"Uh-huh." He looked around the shelves stacked with jars, the polystyrene heads on which rubber masks were draped, and empty gloves in the form of greyskinned hands bearing long, curved spurs. "From the show?"
"Of course. Demons, sort of. Makes for a rather nice dance number, their big fight in the first act."
"Er, right." Josh sometimes worked with the soundtrack of Bladefight 7 pounding in his earbeads. That was the nearest he came to associating blood and pain with music. "So I was looking for something to change my appearance."
"That's the only reason you lovely lads ever invite me to Hereford, isn't it?"
"How could we resist you?"
"Excuse me, but what makes you think everyone there rejected me?"
"This, I don't want to know."
"Ah, well." Taff waved at the shelves. "What are we talking about? Meeting up close and personal? Or just smiling for the spycams?"
Josh rubbed his face, trying not to think of perfect breasts. From next door, female laughter sounded.
"Er, mainly cameras, but I'll be in view for some time. I'd like not to be recognised later."
Assuming he survived so there would be a later.
"Are we talking lo-res from a distance? Or state of the art with close-ups?"
"The latter. Imagine I appeared on a webcast watched by millions, and wanted to be anonymous."
"Wouldn't that be a lovely thing? I don't suppose you could wear a demon mask? I could do you with or without horns."
"I'd rather look normal."
"My dear boy, normal? That sounds so boring."
"And I'll be taking the stuff away with me. I won't need it for days yet."
"So you remember all my lessons in artistry? How to layer it on so it's undetectable? Of course not. Now sit down in front of this mirror, and be a good boy."
"Yes, Taff."
"And pay attention, because I assume your taut arse will be on the line again."
"Isn't it always?"
It took over twenty minutes – interrupted when a bra-clad beauty poked her head around the door and called Taff out to help with something. If Josh hadn't been half made-up, he'd have offered to help – but finally he was staring at a different face in the mirror. It was like seeing a distant cousin for the first time.
"You're a genius, Taff."
"Aren't I, indeed."
"So…"
"The boy wants even more from me?"
"I was wondering if you could supply light disguise for up to seven, no, make it nine guys. Just in case. They'll be on the periphery as a distraction."
"Hmm. Skin colour?"
"Whites and browns" –Josh thought of Vikram – "quite dark, no orientals."
"I'll prepare a selection. Did you bring a bag of some sort with you?"
"Er, no."
"Aren't you supposed to be master planners, all of you?"
"With all those girls outside, master something springs to mind."
"Tsk, tsk. Well, let's see… Oh, why don't you pop next door, while I'm getting things together."
"You got some kind of secret setup going in here, Taff? Something I shouldn't see?"
"No, but it's almost curtains up. You want to catch the last few titties before they disappear, better take the opportunity now."
Josh looked at the door.
"If it's necessary for the mission," he said, "I guess I can manage it."
[ TWENTY-EIGHT ]
With his backpack slung over one shoulder, Josh got through the ground-level entrance, despite its being locked, climbed up to the top-floor hallway, and knocked on Suzanne's front door. Then he stood waiting, unable not to smile.
The door opened. Suzanne looked at him.
"Hello?"
He said nothing.
"Look, who are you and what do you–? Josh? My God, Josh."
"You're not supposed to recognise me."
"I almost didn't. That's so spooky."
"You want to make out with a stranger? We could switch the lights off."
"Come in. For God's sake, come in before Mrs Arrowsmith sees you."
After he was inside and Suzanne had locked the door, he said: "Who's Mrs Arrowsmith? The neighbour?"
"Yes, and I've got a reputation to uphold, Mr Cumberland. Strange men coming in and out at all hours would not be much help."
"Well, I'm certainly strange."
"You are, in fact. You weren't thinking of not taking that stuff off, were you?"
"I wasn't… Was that some kind of psych trick?"
"What do you mean?"
"The way you said something about what I wasn't thinking of."
"Ah, so you have been paying attention."
"To you, definitely."
"Then go in the bathroom and remove that disguise right now."
"Yes, ma'am."
Afterwards, he came out looking normal but smelling like turpentine. He went out to the kitchen.
"Hi," he said. "What are you doing?"
"Cooking us supper, because you're staying the night, in case you hadn't realised."
"Ah."
"So what have you been up to? And where did you get that disguise?"
"A friend of mine, works in an interesting place."
"What kind of interesting place?"
"Do you know" – he stared at her brown eyes – "I forget. Really. When I'm looking at you."
"Hmm. So why the disguise, if you won't tell me where?"
"So no one recognises me afterwards. After I confront Zebediah Tyndall on camera."
"In the middle of this knife-final thing?"
"In the middle of this thing" – Josh blew out a breath – "that millions of people will be watching in realtime, yes. On the day of the general election, when a large chunk of the population are expected to vote online in the evening."
"Right. And that will help how?"
"Well, you know, when people are watching sports events, they have all sorts of secondary panes popped up: fighter stats, you name it. Panes that could show any number of interesting things instead, to do with political corruption."
"And how many people will be with you?" asked Suzanne.
"Like I said, millions of folk watch the–"
"No, how many people are helping you to carry out this insanity?"
"I'm still ironing out details. Six to nine, probably."
"Is that enough?"
"The tighter the perimeter, the fewer people you use to infiltrate."
"All right." Suzanne placed peppers and an onion atop a chopping-board, then picked up a kitchen knife. "And no one's going to stick one of these in anyone?"
"I hope not."
"Does that mean you'll have guns?"
"Probably not. Gunpowder gives off a detectable signature when you–"
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