Fear of the Fathers (9 page)

To clear his mind he turned on the TV. He had the complete selection of satellite channels at his disposal, but he still couldn't find anything he really wanted to watch. After much scrolling he eventually hit upon a documentary about Joe Strummer called
The Future is Unwritten
. Even though they were before his time, he had developed a great liking for
The Clash
in his teens and he had been meaning to see the film for a while. He settled down on his bed and relaxed.

Halfway through, he used
Sky+
to pause the movie. It was half past eleven and he felt he ought to make a sweep of the house. He was also feeling hungry, and a trip to the kitchen was looking attractive.

His room was on the top floor of No. 10 Downing Street. Along the same corridor were the lodgings of the other permanent bodyguards. There were six of them in residence, augmented by floaters from the Special Branch pool. Tonight he was the only one in his quarters. Stone and Davis had gone out drinking and weren't due back on until Tuesday; the two he didn't know were with their families for the night; and Appleby was downstairs outside the Prime Minister's bedroom.

Jennings stepped out into the long passageway and headed for the stairs. On the floor below he stopped to talk to Appleby, who was engrossed in an Agatha Christie novel. “How's it going?” he asked.

Appleby put down his book and stretched out his arms and legs. “Tiring,” he said. “Are you going to relieve me any time soon?”

“I thought you said two o' clock?”

“Yes, I did. I just thought it might be around that time now.”

Jennings laughed. “No such luck. Still another two and a half hours to go, I'm afraid. I'm just going to the kitchen though. I thought you might want something to eat.”

“I wouldn't mind,” said Appleby. “Just rustle me up a chicken sandwich or something. That'd be great.”

“No problem,” said Jennings, and left him to his book.

As he descended to the ground floor he noticed for the first time just how big the house actually was. During the day, when there had been staff wandering about, he hadn't really felt the depth of space that existed. The emptiness of night brought on a feeling of awe. What looked from the outside like a little two up, two down terrace, was in fact comparatively cavernous. The effect was a bit like the
Tardis
.

As he entered the kitchen the last of the catering staff was getting ready to leave. He was a young man in his early twenties. He wore a puffa jacket, jeans and trainers.

“Just going to get a snack,” said Jennings.

“Well, just help yourself,” said the chef. “You know the score. Goodnight.”

Jennings had been shown around the kitchen earlier on in the day during his guided tour. It was common practice for the security staff to make their own food on the night shift. He set about gathering the ingredients for a couple of chicken sandwiches. Once he'd laid everything out he began to carefully assemble a pair of culinary masterpieces.

“They look good,” said a voice from behind.

Jennings' heart jumped at the initial scare, then he turned round. It was the Prime Minister.

“Hello sir,” said Jennings. “I didn't hear you come in. You gave me a bit of a fright.”

Ayres smiled. “Sorry about that. I was just coming down for a bit of a midnight snack.”

“Don't you have someone that does that for you?”

“Well, yes. But not at night. I couldn't justify having twenty-four-hour culinary service to the taxpayer now, could I?”

“I suppose not sir. Although I'm sure most people in your position would.”

Ayres nodded and grinned. “Yes, I suppose they would. But to be honest I quite like making my own food. I have enough people doing things for me as it is, I don't want to lose complete touch with reality, do I? I know I'm in a privileged position and I like to respect the fact. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yes sir,” agreed Jennings. “It's good to know that you appreciate your position. There's not many politicians that do.”

Ayres went to one of the fridges and pulled out two cans of Coke. He handed one to Jennings. “I suppose you've worked with a lot of politicians in your time,” he said.

Jennings took the can and said, “Yes sir, I have. And no disrespect to yourself sir, but the majority are quite frankly—”

“Arseholes? Wankers?” Ayres interjected.

“Well, I wasn't quite going to go that far,” laughed Jennings.

Ayres opened his can and took a drink. “You can say what you like to me Jennings. I agree with you about politicians – most of them are out to serve themselves, not the people they represent. The problem is, to change the system you have to be in it. And to be fair, once you're in it, it's very hard to resist the temptations that accompany the responsibility.”

“I dare say it is, sir. But you seem to be doing a good job.”

“I'm glad you think so,” said Ayres. “But I might just have to abuse my power and ask you to make me one of those sandwiches. They look quite delicious.”

“I'm sure that I can do that, sir. It would be a pleasure.”

Jennings cut another two slices from the loaf of bread and began preparing a sandwich for Ayres. He could see why the guy was so popular. He possessed a naturally disarming normality that put you immediately at your ease. The media took the piss out of him, christening him ‘call me Jon', but that was what he was – an ordinary guy, with ordinary tastes and a sense of humour.

“You seem to be a dab hand with food,” said Ayres.

“I try my best, sir. It comes from being a bachelor, and liking good cuisine. I like to eat well, it's a pleasure that's overlooked in today's fast-food culture. People are too busy to enjoy, or appreciate, their food nowadays – a quick snack on the go is all that most of us get the chance for. If you sit and think about what you're eating, even a simple bit of bread can be a delight.”

Ayres looked thoughtful. “I suppose you're right. I guess, as a society, we've come to treat food as a means to an end: as a God-given right, rather than a blessing to be enjoyed. I think we've got to a point where we all should take stock and think about what we've got and what we really need, rather than what we think we need.” He paused. “Does that make sense to you?”

Jennings nodded. “Absolutely, sir. I think that if the economic crisis shows us anything, it's that greed is not necessarily good. To coin a phrase.”

“Well said, Jennings! I like your thinking. Unfortunately, I think it's more of a spiritual standpoint than a political one. I can't very well stand up in front of the country and tell people to stop trying to better themselves.”

“But that's not what I mean.”

“I know that, and you know that. But that's how people would take it – or at least that's what the media would make of it anyway. All I can do is what the majority want me to do, that's what a democracy is all about. If you want to change people's attitudes then it's better to be a rock star, a religious guru, or a writer. Or, in some cases, all three.”

Jennings finished making the sandwich and handed it to the Prime Minister. He smiled at the absurdity of the situation.

“What's so funny?” asked Ayres.

“Nothing, sir,” Jennings replied. “It just seems a bit strange standing here making you a sandwich and chatting away. I suppose it comes under ‘stories to tell your grandchildren'.”

“I'm honoured. But it won't seem so strange in a few weeks time, it'll just be part of the job.” He took a bite of his sandwich. “Mmm,” he said. “That is absolutely divine. I might have to put you on the catering roster. You could be a bit like Steven Segal in
Under Siege
.”

“That's very flattering, sir. But I'm not really that good a cook. It's only a sandwich after all.”

Ayres laughed and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Come on,” he said. “Let's take Appleby his food. He'll probably be cursing by now, I know what he's like.”

Singh looked into the girl's eyes and saw her mortal fear. He'd been in the same position many times before. He steadied his breath, cleared his mind, and attempted to objectify her. But in the midst of his cold darkness he felt a crack, a fissure of light, an external voice telling him to stop.

He composed himself once more, trying to silence the unwelcome visitor. His arm shook as the battle raged. His head span, his heart choked, and his face contorted. Then his concentration broke.

Hushed voices carried from the corridor. He turned round and looked through the eyeglass. Two men were standing on the other side of the door, dressed in suits and whispering earnestly.

Without thinking he tucked the Browning into his belt. He grabbed the girl roughly and slung her over his sturdy shoulder. She was a liability, but she could prove to be valuable insurance, or at the very least a good shield.

Finally he picked up his leather holdall and headed for the window. The girl kicked and struggled with her bonds, but Kamal was too strong.

“Stop it!” he insisted. “The more you struggle the worse it will be.” He squeezed her midriff hard to emphasize the point. She let out a stifled yelp.

The room was on the first floor at the back of the hotel. He'd already done a feasibility study when he'd checked in the week before. It was twenty feet down to the car park via the fire escape.

He lifted the large window and threw his holdall out onto the metal walkway. He then stooped and thrust himself and the girl through into the cold night air. Behind them the door to the suite burst open. He didn't look back.

The steps were steep but not un-navigable. Even with his hands full Kamal negotiated them with professional ease. At the bottom he gave the girl another warning squeeze. She was starting to play up again. He repositioned her to protect his back and began to run across the car park towards his Subaru Impreza.

Muffled shots came from above, and bullets pinged off the concrete. Kamal kept in a straight line. Why the hell were they shooting? he wondered. He had a hostage for God's sake. But hostage or not the salvo continued.

He felt a sting in his side and knew that he had been hit, but the car was near and his momentum carried him forward. He threw the girl and the holdall to the ground, and leapt to safety. Disabling the alarm with his key fob, he opened the driver's-side door. The bullets stopped.

He picked up the holdall, placed it in the passenger-side foot well, and then looked down at the girl. She was lying still on the concrete, gazing up at him with tearful eyes. She was of no use to him anymore, and she'd seen his face. He pulled the Browning from his waistband, aimed at her head, and squeezed the trigger. There was no sound. The gun had jammed.

With no time for delay he decided to leave her. He would be out of the country by the time they got his description. He jumped into the car and slammed the door. The powerful engine sparked to life and he thrust the gearstick into reverse. The car stalled.

Kamal turned the key but nothing happened. He looked out into the car park and saw the two men running towards him. Springing back out of the Impreza he dragged the girl to her feet, placing her between himself and his pursuers. They hadn't heeded her before, but she was his last resort. “Stay where you are!” he shouted. “Come any closer and the girl dies!” He stuck the Browning to her temple.

The men stopped and took a look around the car park. Outside the hotel kitchens a couple of chefs had come out for a cigarette. The men nodded to each other and lowered their weapons.

Kamal pushed the girl forward and bundled her into the back seat, keeping himself shielded at all times. He tried the ignition once more and the engine gladly obliged. He backed out, turned, and sped off with burning tyres. Behind him the men slipped away into the shadows.

Safely out of London Kamal pulled in at the services and turned on the inside light. He looked down to assess the injury. The pain was bearable, but the amount of blood on his shirt suggested that he needed to see to the wound fairly quickly. As a rule he would have gone to his specialist, but that would mean at least another hour's drive. The best option was to get a room at the motel and apply a field-dressing.

The girl was lying still on the back seat. Her eyes were open and red. Kamal noticed blood pooling beneath her legs. He lifted them gently and saw a dark hole at the rear of her left calf. She had taken a bullet.

He sighed and shook his head. This was something he did not need. He did not need it at all. His options were becoming very limited.

He faced front and thought. There was no way he could shoot the girl there and then. Though his parking spot was fairly isolated it was too risky, and there was no way he could leave her lying on the back seat for prying eyes to come across. He could always secrete her in the boot, but again the chances of being seen lugging her round were too great. Did he have time to take her somewhere secluded and do the job? Probably not – he needed to see to his worsening injury. The only real way out was to take her with him compliantly.