Fifty-First State

by Hilary Bailey

  He waited in some suspense for an answer. Al Maktoum told him, ‘That is not our strategy, General Stafford.’

  ‘I’m relieved,’ said Stafford, not completely reassured by the cool reply, which made him wonder if there was another strategy which he did not understand.

  ‘What the fuck is happening?’ came a cry from one of the captive soldiers. ‘What’s going on?’ Then there was a cry of pain.

  ‘Who were they firing at outside?’ Bob Carter asked.

  ‘Me,’ Stafford told him. ‘It was the Yanks. First they tried to arrest me, then they tried to bring me down.’

  ‘That’s my point, sir,’ Reid said. ‘Fifty-first state.’

  Stafford, standing in front of Reid, Carter and Al Maktoum and feeling like an ambassador at a tyrannical court, said, ‘Write to your MP about that, Splash. I’m here to tell you it’s pretty much certain that at some point, Marines will be landed inside the base. I don’t know when but it could be soon. What you need to do is surrender now, or get out fast if you have an escape plan. Otherwise there’ll be deaths and casualties. Where are the civilian women and children?’

  ‘In the hospital block. We don’t attack women and children. Unlike you,’ said Al Maktoum. He added, ‘General Stafford. You’re a brave man but you’re not needed here. I’m going to have to put you under guard.’

  The door to the hangar burst open and a small, black-clad man came up. He spoke to Al Maktoum in Arabic and Al Maktoum called over to Carter, ‘They’re moving the emergency services back.’

  ‘The assault’s on,’ Stafford said to Carter, but already there was movement in the area where the captive soldiers were being guarded. Stafford, horrified, saw men begin to strap black boxes to the American servicemen. ‘Jesus Christ!’ Stafford yelled at the seated Carter. ‘What the fuck are you trying to do?’ His phone rang. He ignored it.

  A serviceman who stood up and started trying to fight, although his hands were bound, was struck with a rifle across the side of the head and collapsed in a heap. Five bombs were strapped to five servicemen as the sound of incoming helicopters became louder and louder.

  Stafford shouted at Reid and Carter. ‘We can still stop all this.’

  Carter stood and hobbled fast for the back doors of the hangar, followed by Reid. Carter shouted, ‘General Stafford – sir—it’s each man for himself.’ And he disappeared. As did all the men in the hangar, running through the great doors with their weapons held high. With the helicopters overhead Stafford shouted into his phone. ‘Stop the attack! Five personnel have bombs strapped to them. Do you hear me – stop the attack!’ But he thought it was probably too late. While some of the formerly captive soldiers ran to the door of the hangar, others remained, their eyes on the five men who sat, motionless, with the bombs strapped to them. A tall, dark soldier went up to one of the seated men, knelt beside him and began to try to release him.

  Stafford went up to a tall red-headed soldier with a face so pale he looked bleached. He knelt down and looked at the bomb. ‘Don’t move,’ he said. The soldier said through frozen lips. ‘No? I feel like dancing.’

  ‘I’m going to try to cut through the strapping.’

  There were shouts and the sound of gunfire from outside the hangar. The doors opened and light flooded through the open doors. The side of the hangar was an ant heap of men struggling free and scurrying for the doors. Stafford began to cut, carefully, through the strapping of the bomb. To one side another terrified soldier was doing the same. The red-headed soldier rose, very carefully and stepped, slowly, away from the black box on the floor. Stafford, desperate, began to work to release another man.

  ‘Better run, buddy,’ said a voice from the floor. ‘They could be remote-controlled.’

  A voice from the doorway called, ‘Status report on bombs.’

  A voice called back. ‘One man still to be freed. Bombs on the floor.’

  Stafford laid the bomb carefully on the ground and got to his feet. Then he and the red-headed man ran towards the open door. Halfway there a blast of automatic weapon fire raked both Stafford and the redhead. They fell at exactly the same moment.

  7 Adam Street, Shepherd’s Bush, London W12. February 1st, 2016. 10.30 p.m.

  Because neither of them had to work that night and Joe was visiting Marie in hospital, William and Lucy had spent the early part of the evening quietly cooking a meal together. William had braised chicken breasts in lemon, with just a dash of Tabasco while Lucy had prepared a salad and made her special dressing. Listening to a new CD by Ghost Town they ate their meal together in peace. A good evening for both of them and made better by the prospect of more to come. While Marie was in hospital Joe Sutcliffe had agreed that as soon as Marie, her condition stabilized with medication, was discharged, the Sutcliffes would return immediately to Basset. Joe had talked to Marie, more balanced now but still very afraid of London bombs. Marie had welcomed the move home. Joe had told William, ‘We’ve been here nearly five months and I know it hasn’t been easy. You’ve been a hero, Will, and I appreciate it.’ He seemed a different man since his wife had been officially diagnosed as being in need of treatment, and had begun to receive it. Even Marie appeared to accept the need for a return to Yorkshire, using the coded language of the Sutcliffes – she said she had been worrying about the garden and the possibility of squatters moving in.

  When the phone rang William answered it calmly, fearing no harm. But the caller was Joe, from the hospital, who said, abruptly, ‘Marie’s in a state. We’re coming back.’

  ‘What!’ cried William. ‘The thing is,’ Joe said awkwardly, ‘since this terrible business at Hamscott Common, Marie’s been getting anxious again. She’s convinced it will happen again at the base near us, at Thwaite. I didn’t like to tell you.’ The old Joe, protector of Marie, had resurfaced. ‘She’s panicking. She’s gone downhill. She’s nearly as bad as she was before.’

  ‘Right,’ William said dully. He felt sick, and knew his stomach was telling him something his head was unready to accept. ‘You’re talking about coming here? Has she seen a doctor yet?’

  ‘The duty doctor hasn’t come. She’s desperate to come back to the flat.’

  ‘Joe,’ William said. But Joe had gone. William suddenly had a clear vision of himself sitting on his parents’ terrace on a clear, blue morning. Lucy wasn’t with him.

  ‘What is it? Will – what is it?’ Lucy cried.

  William looked at her, hating her, for a moment, for being her own parents’ daughter. Lucy stared at him.

  ‘Joe and Marie are coming back here – to stay,’ he said. ‘It’s something about the Hamscott Common Airbase,’ and went over to the TV. In silence they stood looking at the screen.

  CNN was showing the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street. He sat at a desk, crisp and cool as ever. ‘Each and every one of you can be sure that we will spare no efforts in hunting down the perpetrators of this atrocity. As we do this, you, too, can play your part. You can deprive these evil men of what they want, to alarm and disturb, by continuing with your normal lives. This is not the first challenge the people of Britain have faced in their long history and they have never yet failed in courage and determination. God bless you all.’

  William spun round to face his wife. ‘No! No! No!’ cried William. ‘No! It’s impossible!’

  ‘That was the Prime Minister, the Rt Hon. Alan Petherbridge,’ said the presenter over the strains of the National Anthem. William threw a plate at the wall. It shattered. ‘Fuck them!’ shouted William. ‘Fuck the fuckers! Why can’t they leave us alone?’

  Lucy was frightened. ‘Oh, William – what are we going to do?’

  The Garrick Club, Garrick Street, London W1. February 2nd, 2016. 7.30 p.m.

  Graham Barnsbury and Lord Gott were together again at the Garrick Club – the buzz concerning the US election contributions had become so loud that Gott, though still unwilling to divulge his suspicions publicly, had, to give an impression of financial candour, put in place a
system of handing over to the Chairman, each month, the breakdown of the party’s monthly accounts. It was a chore for both of them but the party had acted, and that was the point.

  Graham Barnsbury had never been keen on the Garrick. He found the atmosphere was too Bohemian. However, that evening Gott had to preside over a dinner at the club for a distinguished ninety-eight-year-old author, a former friend of Winston Churchill, who had served his country, undercover, with immense bravery in Greece and Yugoslavia during the Second World War. ‘Sorry, Graham,’ he said. ‘I have to commemorate an aged hero regarded by many, including his own biographer, as a not-so-crypto fascist. But in these dark moments, I take comfort from the thought that a man has to eat somewhere every night.’

  ‘True,’ said Barnsbury, but Gott knew he must be thinking about his own home and his desire to be there with his dying wife.

  When they first arrived at the Garrick it was to find that the club’s surly porter had been supplanted by two large security men. The surly porter stood to one side, watching, while Lord Gott of Weather sted and Graham Barnsbury, the Chairman of the Conservative Party, were patted down by ex-policeman like a couple of miscreants pulled up by the Auxiliaries in the street. The battle at Hamscott Common airbase a week earlier had altered everything. Armed police surrounded all public buildings, the Houses of Parliament were ringed with tanks, as were all airports, docks and railway stations.

  Gott gave their orders to the waiter. ‘Any news about the ten missing terrorists?’ he asked. Barnsbury shook his head. ‘They escaped through a gap at the back.’

  ‘Didn’t the satellite pick it up and track them onwards?’

  ‘They’re saying there was low cloud,’ Barnsbury reported flatly. ‘Billions and billions spent, defeated by low cloud. Unbelievable. Well, I don’t think I believe it. But why lie?’

  ‘Habit,’ said Gott. He handed over the folder containing the accounts. Barnsbury did not look at them.

  ‘General Stafford’s had his operation. It was successful, up to a point.’ Barnsbury sipped from his brandy glass then put it down firmly on the table. ‘I might as well tell you – it won’t be a secret by tomorrow. Well, to the public, obviously, one hopes – but with the Internet and the Arabic media …’ He paused and Gott waited, looking attentively at his colleague’s worn face. ‘I spoke to Ian Noakes this morning. He had me in. It seems there’s a missile gone from Hamscott. A tactical nuclear weapon. One megaton, about ten per cent of the bomb they dropped on Hiroshima.’

  ‘A nuclear missile!’ Gott said. It was barely a question. ‘How did they get it out, under all that scrutiny? Oh, I see, they took it out earlier, before the pressure was on. Then they constructed the siege to mask it.’

  Barnsbury said without enthusiasm, ‘Quick of you to work it out like that.’

  ‘There were a couple of physicists among the Arabs they caught—’

  Barnsbury nodded, ‘They won’t say anything. They’re very tough.’

  ‘They’ll need to be,’ said Gott grimly. There were rumours about the questioning of the Hamscott Common captives.

  ‘Ibrahim Al Maktoum is dead,’ Barnsbury mentioned. ‘Wounded in the fighting, apparently. Died of his wounds.’ His voice was neutral.

  ‘Well,’ Gott said briskly, ‘no one’s ever accused the British of being afraid of using torture. It’s always been a question of who, when, why and how much. As with adultery,’ he added. They had settled with each other that neither was going to drop to his knees crying, ‘I can’t stand it! What about my wife, my children?’ Now he asked, ‘Can they set it off?’

  ‘Apparently it’s a bomb designed to trigger when it’s dropped from a plane, tough casing, unsophisticated firing mechanism. It’d take a bit of adapting, then a launcher, even then it might fail. On the other hand, armed, it could detonate by accident, on impact, in something like a road accident.’ He added, ‘If it’s still in the country.’

  ‘I suppose if they had the brains to get it out of Hamscott, they could get it out of the country,’ said Gott. He looked at Barnsbury, and signalled to the waiter. Barnsbury said half-reluctantly, ‘Well, just one more drink. It’s a little strange, Gott. Ever since I heard all this it’s been difficult to see things in the same light.’

  Barnsbury had never been a thoughtful or imaginative man. That had been his usefulness. And Gott did not want to ask him what his thoughts were. He only said, ‘Light of eternity shining over all of us now, I suppose.’

  ‘The Yanks are furious. They’ve been wanting to clear a quarter of a mile of trees and scrub away from the back of the base for years but they’ve had the lawyers and the environmentalists and all the local groups against them. The thing’s dragged on. You can imagine what they’re saying now.’ He paused, ‘Edward – there’s something else.’ This use of his first name alerted Gott. ‘They’re putting pressure on you not to oppose the Lands Sale Bill any more. I’m supposed to persuade you.’

  ‘Consider you’ve delivered the message,’ said Gott.

  ‘The powers that be weren’t pleased I came with you to see Haver but they’ve convinced me to abandon my opposition to the group. I agreed – given my personal circumstances – and they seemed to think I could talk you round. I told them it wouldn’t work.’

  Gott sagged, momentarily. It was not surprising that in the present climate of fear of terrorism and the news about the missing nuclear weapon, Barnsbury had succumbed to Government pressure. His dying wife was plainly occupying most of his thoughts. He had no strength left for the battle.

  Gott asked, ‘Is Petherbridge afraid if we knock out this bill we’ll go further and attack the whole basis of the ownership of the bases, perhaps start to kick out the Americans?’

  ‘It’s hard to know, if the news about this stolen missile gets out, what the public response will be. Petherbridge plans to say that this only stresses our need for US military and other assistance. But there’ll be loud voices saying we should get them, and the weaponry, off our turf. There’ll be panic and no one can guess which way the cat will jump. That’s why he wants unity in the party.’ He looked hard at Gott, who shook his head.

  ‘Thought not,’ said Barnsbury. He finished his drink and stood up. He nodded at his glass, ‘Thank you, Edward.’ He had more to say, Gott saw. He waited. Barnsbury said awkwardly, ‘There’s something else I’ve been requested to tell you. There’s talk of a certain situation in your private life. If you don’t back off, that situation will be private no longer.’

  Gott knew this speech was costing Barnsbury a lot. ‘Don’t worry. The threat has already been made. I’ll deal with it.’ He put out his hand, Barnsbury shook it and walked away. Gott looked after him, thinking that the man had managed, in half an hour, to give him two ugly messages.

  Gott stood in the lavatory and straightened his white tie. He looked at himself in the glass, noting the bags under his eyes; he ought to have shaved before he left the office. His beard was coming in grey these days. Now he had to do something he should have done thirty years ago and which had become more and more impossible as the years went by. He’d been a coward, but if Petherbridge was on the verge of smearing him publicly, he must act now. There were things, as the Collect had it, that he had done which he ought not to have done and other things he ought to have done, which he had not done. Perhaps it was the knowledge of a nuclear weapon in circulation that was making him brood, he thought. Or just the prospect facing him in Scotland.

  A political journalist came in and said bonhomously, ‘Hi, Edward. How are you? How’s it all going?’

  ‘Never better,’ said Edward Gott. He straightened his shoulders and went off to hail the seventy-plus-year-old achievements in the Balkans of the almost-100-year-old veteran.

  106 St George’s Square, London SW1. February 3rd, 2016. 12.30 a.m.

  Edward Gott, who had a directors’ meeting at his bank next morning at nine, had walked home from the celebration of the Second World War warrior at the Garrick. He was trying to c
lear his head.

  Barnsbury’s story about the missing warhead had shaken him badly. He wanted to warn two of his sons, one who worked in the City and lived in Bow, the other living and working in the West End of London, to grab their families and leave the city quickly. His youngest son was safe enough in the USA, at MIT, his eldest farmed in Cumbria, Joe was on what seemed to be a permanent holiday in Thailand and Richard was in South Africa. Which left Robin and Jamie in London, possibly in danger. Except – who knew where the bomb was? If it was armed, on a plane, ready for take-off? And, if so, to where? You could run, but who could tell if where you ran to might not be more dangerous than where you’d come from?

  If the news got out, there’d be a flight to the country, because people would think it was safer there. If the news got out, if the roads got jammed, even blocked off by the Army to prevent flight, his sons would be angry he hadn’t told them sooner, when they and their families could have escaped.

  He shivered inside his heavy coat and walked more briskly. He had never known a time when events had moved so fast, shaking, whirring, banging, spitting out unintended consequences, unpredictable as a rocket nailed crookedly to a fence on Guy Fawkes Night.

  There was frost on the bushes surrounding the square when he reached home; the bare branches of the trees sparkled with it. He opened the heavy front door and went upstairs to his flat. He needed to think and knew, from experience, that he was on the brink of making the mistakes of a busy and energetic man – mistakes stemming from having too much to do and too little time to think.

  He still had a campaign to run, a meeting at the bank tomorrow, his answering service would ring in ten minutes and Jeremy would have left a stack of notes and letters on his desk for him. And – his heart sank at the thought – he had to fly to Scotland and talk to his wife. As he threw his overcoat on the small concert piano only ever played by his daughter, the doorbell rang. He looked out of his window at the empty streets and the bare trees of the square opposite. Outside his door was a large black car and, under a street light and looking up at his window two faces he knew, one Tobias Kerr, his wife’s nephew and second-in-command to the Prime Minister’s Private Secretary, the other, Gerry Gordon-Garnett. Serious business then, in the early hours of the morning. They must have been driving around waiting for his lights to go on.