‘Out of the way,’ hissed Jones.
The President was taken aback. ‘Say what?’
‘Move,’ said Jones, shoving on the handcuff.
‘Listen buddy, we’re kind of hooked up here. If you want to let me go you’ll be doing the right thing.’
‘Shut up and move and say nothing more or else you’ll be shot.’ The President understood. So far they had been sharing the lectern, like a couple of pop stars crooning into the same microphone, and now Jones wanted to take charge. The President shuffled to the left and Jones began. He had been here a couple of times to case the joint and had picked up some of the essential history.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, listen very carefully to me and do exactly as I say and no harm will come to you. I know that this is a traditional introduction to a speech by a lead terrorist, but in this case it happens to be true.
‘Hundreds of years ago, more than 350 years ago, a king was put on trial on this very spot. His name was Charles and he was a bad king. He took the money that belonged to the poor people. He was oppressive and he acted in a way that was arrogant and outside the law. He believed that he had some kind of divine right to do what he wanted and so they brought him here and they put him on trial and then they chopp-ed off his head. In the country where I come from it is of course the practice that if people commit great crimes their heads are chopp-ed off. You like to say that this is barbaric and so I point out that all your great British democracy, all your Parliament comes from that moment when the King’s head is chopp-ed and was that not the right thing to do?’
‘No,’ said Sir Perry Grainger, speaking for Henley-on-Thames in the royalist rump of Oxfordshire. ‘It was completely wrong, and anyway, it’s not chopp-ed, it’s chopped.’
‘Shut your face,’ said Jones the Bomb, and located that bright red object eleven rows behind Cameron and the French Ambassador as he faced the hall and on the left.
‘Well, you did ask,’ said Sir Perry, but Jones had unstuck a Browning taped to the small of his back.
‘Don’t say another word or I will shoot.’
‘All right, all right, keep your hair on.’
The noise of the automatic was so loud, reverberating off the flat flags and walls, that some thought the end had come and that Jones had let off his bomb.
The bullet was travelling in roughly the direction of Sir Perry, but connected first with the Dutch Ambassador’s left ear. This was protected by a sturdy German-built hearing-aid, which clattered to the floor while the bullet flattened itself harmlessly 150 yards away against the far wall. The Dutchman groaned and started to bleed. Cameron put her arm around him. It really wasn’t his day. A few seats away a distinguished lady peeress began to cry. A small puddle of pee formed beneath her chair. Black terror settled on the crowd.
‘That bad king was put on trial by the people of England,’ Jones resumed, ‘and his head chop— his head was cut off.
Today’ — he jerked the handcuff and the President’s arm jerked in response — ‘we have another bad ruler and another trial. This is a man who rules the world by force. He abuses human rights; he invades countries without any international authorization, just because he can, because he has the power. With his discriminatory trade policies he is keeping one billion people, the poorest people on earth, living on less than one dollar per day. With his depleted uranium shells he has been killing babies in Afghanistan.’ At this the President rolled his eyes.
‘Shut up,’ said Jones, catching the movement from one of his panoptic irises.
‘I didn’t say anything,’ said the President.
‘Be quiet, you idiot!’ said Jones and stuck his face so close, gun next to his cheek, that the President observed not just the eyes, but the awful pathology of a zit that had arisen when Jones was sixteen and exploded when he was seventeen, leaving a star-shaped depression in his forehead. The President was quiet. In the silence he could hear the sobbing that was spreading down the rows and the confused whispering of the security men into their lapels and the desperate chatter of the helicopter rotors overhead.
‘Today is not just the trial of this bad man,’ said Jones. ‘It is the trial of America. Before the eyes of all the people of Britain and before the eyes of all the people of the world, I bring you this bad man to this place of history so that he and his country may answer for their crimes. But I do not presume to be the judge myself, I do not seize and abuse the law like this man does,’ and he shook the cuffs again, so the President jerked like a crash dummy, ‘nor will I even impose the death penalty like this man does’ — jerk jerk — ‘to poor mentally defective Negroes in Texas. Instead, everyone in this hall will have the chance to speak, yes, to speak in favour of him or against him, just like in a court of law, and then the world will judge him. Yes, the whole world will judge America and in a minute I will explain how it will be done, but first I must ask you all to surrender your mobile phones and I must ask all police and other agents to give up their weapons. Please throw them in the aisle; that’s right, hurry up or else I’ll shoot again and this time I may not miss.’
‘Sir, it looks like he could easily be telling the truth on the heart sensor thing. Athletes buy them.’
‘Thanks, Grover,’ said Deputy Assistant Commissioner Purnell.
‘Athletes?’ said Bluett.
‘Yessir. There’s a thing called an exercise heart rate sensor. You could easily wire it up so that if the heart fails to beat for five or ten seconds, then it would complete a circuit and set off the detonator.’
‘You see,’ said Purnell.
They stared at the TV images of Jones the Bomb, which were now being watched in almost every country on earth. He looked mad enough to do anything.
‘Shall I fire, sir?’ asked Cabache, still locked in intimacy with Philippa of Hainault.
‘Hold your horses, Cabache,’ said Bluett.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
1027 HRS
Dean stood at the top of the steps, looking out over the audience, as Benedicte and the four other Arabs moved up and down the aisle, harvesting the mobiles in big black sacks and disarming any obvious security men.
The cameras were allowed to function — indeed, they were essential for Jones’s plan — and a close-up of the terrified kid was now flashed across the nation’s TV screens and round the world. His large expressive eyes were so wide that the whites entirely surrounded the irises; his lips were grey, and he was holding a Schmidt, given to him by Benedicte, as if it were an adder.
In the house in Wolverhampton, Paulie was sitting on a scummy orange beanbag and eating Alpen with water, waiting to go in for the late shift at RitePrice.
‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Nah.’ He put his face right next to the screen, so that his features were bathed in the strobing panicky colours of his former colleague’s skin.
‘I just do not believe it,’ he said. And the reaction was much the same in other parts of Wolverhampton.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Price the Cheese, and a ladle of whey dropped from his hand and clattered to the floor of the swish new cheesorium he had constructed with the insurance.
Next door, in the same old house in Wednesbury, Dennis Faulkner was so stunned that he thought he was having another little blip. He rose from his antimacassared Parker-Knoll and tried to loosen the tartan tie at his throat.
‘Huk hwork hwark,’ he said, and crashed back down again, knocking over various pottery objects ranged on the sideboard behind the chair.
There was even one person in the audience who thought she recognized Dean. She had been shivering, and praying, and crying with fear, and then she had opened her eyes and seen him. It couldn’t be him; and yet it had to be.
In the Ops Room Bluett flipped the switch again, so as to communicate directly with his agents in the hall.
‘This is Bluett,’ he said.
‘And this is Purnell,’ said Purnell.
‘Right. This is both of us,’ said Bluett. ‘They’ve taken my gun
s, sir,’ said one USSS man. ‘Mine too.’
‘Mine too, sir.’
‘I’ve still got a clear shot, sir,’ said Cabache.
‘Do not, repeat not, attempt to take these guys out. Please cooperate, and encourage the civilians to cooperate.’
‘Ye ssir.’
‘Sir?’ said one agent.
‘Yes.’
‘What happens now? Do you guys have a plan?’
‘We’re working on that right now.’
There is an iron railing at the top end of Westminster Hall, equipped with a gate which is used to control access by the public as they come in through St Stephen’s Entrance. Behind that fence was ranged an exotic collection from the great bestiary of British ceremonial. There was the Lord Chamberlain, an office now held by an epicene young coke-head whose family name may be found in the pages of Shakespeare.
He was wearing buckled shoes, tights, a stock and the kind of frilly frock coat favoured by Sir Mick Jagger in his Sympathy for the Devil phase. There was a man whose technical name was Silver Stick, but whose wife called him Algy, a superannuated army officer whose creaking calves now sheathed in black silk had once propelled him over the tryline victoriously at Twickenham half a century ago. There was Rouge Dragon Poursuivant and Garter King of Arms and a man called the Earl Marshal whose job it was at the State Opening of Parliament every year to carry something called the Cap of Maintenance.
There was the Speaker and his clerks, all braided, wigged and frogged, and there to one side, standing nearest the gate and fingering with wet grip the old ebony staff, surmounted by a lion, which had been the mark of his office since it was created by deed patent in 1350, was the Gentleman Usher of the Black Rod, there, because he is Serjeant-at-Arms of the Lords, and it falls to Black Rod to officiate at all such encounters between Their Lordships and distinguished visitors.
Poor Black Rod. He had fought at Korea. With the utmost dash, gallantry and dispatch and with signal disregard for his own safety, he had led his SAS detachment by rope ladder up the cliffs of Aden. When he had successfully applied for his current position after seeing an advertisement in The Times, it was in the belief that he had all the calm and cunning to deal with any threat that might befall the Upper House; and now he had been out-manoeuvred.
Not since he had been a teenage lance corporal and guarded the wrong pylon in the freezing drizzle of Salisbury Plain had he experienced such a military reverse.
As Dean looked at Black Rod, he saw that his expression was shared by almost all the representatives of Britain’s spavined junker aristocracy. They fingered the ancient maces and swords and pikes and halberds and rods by which it was their sworn duty in principle to defend this place, and a mood rose off them like a vapour. It was not alarm or fear. It was shame.
‘I say,’ whispered Silver Stick to the Earl Marshal, easing his sword perhaps half an inch out of his scabbard. ‘You know what I think?’
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ said the Earl Marshal.
‘But I really feel we ought to do something.’
‘Just don’t even think about it.’
‘It’s all very well saying that, but …’ Silver Stick was going to point out that a large proportion of his male relatives had died in engagement so heroic as to be ludicrous, charging machine gun nests with nothing but a whistle and a swagger stick, abseiling down smokestacks into the Bessemer converters of the Ruhr. But he knew that the Earl Marshal’s family had been in re-insurance before being raised to the peerage by Lloyd George, and he did not want to appear snobbish.
‘What about the element of surprise?’ quavered Silver Stick, voicing the secret thoughts of all the halberdiers, pike men and rod wielders who stood impotently around.
‘I think you’d find it was surprisingly stupid,’ said the Earl Marshal. He had no need to articulate the odds.
Even if Silver Stick could get round the fence and skewer the lead terrorist without precipitating a torrent of Uzi or Schmidt bullets, there was the prior problem.
If Jones the Bomb was to be believed, his death would be automatically followed by a detonation that would kill them all.
‘But do you think they can possibly be serious?’ said Silver Stick.
‘I have a terrible feeling that they are.’ The flower of England’s chivalry and nobility stared out at the expanse of Westminster Hall.
The heat seemed to have intensified under the TV lights and the audience flapped their programmes ever more desperately, like the spastic batting of a butterfly’s wings as it dies against a window. The old English soldiers stood on the dais and looked at this innocent multitude. They looked with expressions as stony as the very sculptures that dotted the hall.
They looked with the hollow eyes of men who have failed in their first and defining constitutional duty. Black Rod clutched his eponym and was at a loss.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
1028 HRS
Roger Barlow sat sprawled in his seat near the back, looking up at the hammerbeam ceiling, and gave way to fear, and to glassy despair. He’d bungled it. He’d bogged it up. He could have been a hero. Now he had been proved right and Chester de Peverill had been proved wrong and the only consolation was that Chester de Peverill was as likely as any of them to get blown to smithereens.
One of the Arabs was coming down the aisle waggling his gun and urging them all to speed up. ‘Give mobile,’ he said, ‘give mobile.’
De Peverill chucked his across on to the stone floor. ‘You had better give him your phone, Rog,’ he said.
‘I don’t have one,’ said Barlow. He hoped he sounded surly, rather than frightened. He didn’t like mobiles because you couldn’t trust the blighters. They were technological Judases, he thought as he stared at the ceiling. There had been a godawful moment the other day when his blinking mobile had contrived quite independently to dial his wife.
He was somewhere he really shouldn’t have been, not for his own good, and he was in the company of the woman in whom this ghastly reporter from the Mirror was now taking such an interest. The woman in question seemed deliberately to have exposed her bosom, and she was looking at him imploringly. ‘Oh please,’ she droned, ‘you promised. Do it for Eulalie. It’s a fantastic investment.’
Roger had smiled at her, because he really wanted to make her happy, or at least stop bugging him, and then he thought he must be going mad. He could hear the voice of his conscience.
It was this tiny voice squeaking at him from his breast pocket like Tinkerbell, ‘Darling is that you? Hello. Hello.’
‘Oh hi, darling,’ he said, when he twigged. ‘Hi, did you call me?’
‘No I didn’t call you, you must have called me.’
‘No I didn’t call you, you definitely called me.’
‘Oh mm, oh good, how are you?’
‘Oh I’m all right, how are you? You sound as though you’ve been running.’
It had been, all told, quite a sticky conversation. And then another time he was waiting to vote late at night and would you believe it, her mobile accidentally dialled his and left a long message. It must have jostled up against something in her handbag or been squeezed in some unexpected way and he found himself listening to his wife walking down the street when he thought she was at home. Pok pok pok went her heels, and then she seemed to arrive somewhere, and then he found himself listening with paranoid fascination as she engaged in some extended transaction, full of ambiguous pauses, with some chap or other; and when the message ended, Roger was so wrung out that he decided mobiles were instruments of temptation and that he would have no more to do with them.
He folded his arms, ignored Chester and gazed aloft at the woodwork.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
1030 HRS
‘Sweet Lord,’ he thought, ‘there’s something moving.’ He could have sworn he saw something up there where the huge transoms of oak melted into darkness. He thought of pointing it out to Chester and then decided against.
The mystery of Westm
inster Hall is how a space so vast can yet be so old. Even when it is bright outside, a man can stare at someone in the far corner and be unable to pick out his features. There is a total surface area of 1,547 square metres and somehow they roofed it in an age before steel girders and ferroconcrete. How? They, or rather Richard II, employed a man called Hugh Herland, who built the biggest and most technologically advanced hammerbeam roof in the world. At the end of each hammerbeam, Herland carved huge angels bearing coats of arms and staring down at the proceedings 90 feet below. The angels’ faces are now a good ruddy wood colour, but for most of the six centuries of their existence, they have been black. In the winter, and indeed for much of the year, the cold seeps up through the clammy riverbank on which the flagstones are set. To take the chill off the grim mediaeval hangar, the occupants would light fires and because the braziers sent up such smoke, it was necessary to make primitive openings in the roof. These chimney holes have long since been turned into hatches for use by electricians or death-watch beetle inspectors; and the biggest chimney hole, not far from the north door, had been covered with a flèche, a folly of Victorian gothic spindles that rose from the spine of the roof.
Jason Pickel had found an inspection hatch in the bottom of the flèche; and through this he now inserted his booted feet and the knife-like creases of his fatigues. For a few seconds his legs swung in the darkness. The hatch was tight and it was hard to see below. There must be a platform beneath him, he reasoned. Why the hell else would they build a hatch here?
He lowered himself as far down as he could, straining with his biceps as though exercising on the parallel bars. He pointed his toe and probed the obscurity beneath. His toecap connected with a beam. ‘Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,’ hummed Pickel, as he prepared for his plunge. ‘Save in the Cross of Christ my God,’ he whispered. ‘All the vain things that charm me most I sacrifice them to his blood.’ Yup, a sacrifice was called for and there was no higher cause. Flipping his arms above his head, like the two handles of a corkscrew when the cork is ready to be drawn, he disappeared through the hole.
Seventy-Two Virgins Page 21