The Edge of Madness (23 page)

It was while the gods were making up their minds that a rabbit got in their way. As Harry placed one final, cautious foot forward, it proved one step too many for the rabbit, who had been skulking in the heather and sulking at all this human intrusion on his patch. With a scurry of alarm he set off, causing Lavrenti to turn, just as the moon squeezed itself between the clouds, leaving Harry looking straight down the barrel of the Makarov. Lavrenti, in alarm, took three or four paces back, too far for Harry to throw himself on him, but still close enough to give the Russian a considerably better than fifty-fifty chance of placing a bullet somewhere between Harry’s temples and testicles, no matter how bad a shot he was. Neither alternative gave Harry much comfort. Lavrenti was excited, alert, and to Harry’s eyes his gun hand appeared disappointingly steady.

‘Ah, Mr Jones, is that you?’

‘Hello, Lavrenti, how are you?’

‘I am well, thank you, but you, I’m afraid, are–what is that word of yours?’

‘Screwed.’

‘That is it, Mr Jones. You are screwed.’

‘You don’t need to take it out on me, Lavrenti.’

‘But I see you lied to me. You’re not armed. And you pursue me. You are not my friend, I think.’

‘I tend to take exception when people shoot at me.’

‘Anyone who stands too near my father-in-law finds themselves in danger.’

Lavrenti waved the pistol theatrically–he was holding it in only one hand. Yes, an amateur, Harry concluded. He must have got lucky when he hit Shunin.

‘What happened between you and your father-in-law?’ Harry asked. Keep talking, Harry, keep him talking, and pray that something might turn up. Otherwise…

Yet Lavrenti seemed eager–desperate, even–to talk about his father-in-law, and to describe the horrors of the man in a manner that by comparison made Josef Stalin seem little more than the author of nursery rhymes.

‘I had to, Mr Jones. I had no other choice! The beating he gave me–do you know why? Because I had committed a great crime. I told him I disagreed with him. I opposed him. And he said
I had become a problem
. Do you have any idea what that means in Russia? Do you?’ Lavrenti demanded, his passion growing.

‘Tell me.’

‘He boasts he is a problem-solver. Bring him a problem, and he will eliminate it–that’s what he said at the last election, just after he’d had two of his opponents arrested and charged with corruption. Back in Russia,
he promised, I would no longer be his son-in-law, I would never see Katya again. He could do that, you know. And, after a little while, I would disappear, another of his problems solved. I would be a dead man, along with all the others.’ He was waving his free arm, punctuating his words with violent gestures, but the gun hand remained all too steady. And Harry, still crouching, could feel his legs going numb.

‘You could have applied for asylum–before you shot him.’

‘You think your Mr D’Arby would have listened?’ Lavrenti spat. ‘I think he would have suddenly found himself suffering from a case of diplomatic deafness. Anyhow, what would have been the point? With Papasha still alive, I’d be simply one more Russian exile found dead on the streets of London in strange circumstances.’ His chest was rising and falling, his breath consumed by his outburst. ‘And why should I run? Why should I live in the shadows because of one overblown tyrant–a man who is like a plague of rats, who destroys everything in his path? Why, even his own daughter hates him.’

Harry was wondering how long he could keep this man going, and how long he might stay alive, when out of the darkness another voice interrupted.

‘Don’t you dare talk about Katya. I’ll wring your neck with my own hands, you ungrateful shit!’

Lavrenti span round, the gun barking in the darkness, and Harry threw himself at him but his muscles were
heavy, his legs senseless, it turned into more of a despairing stumble than a life-saving leap and Lavrenti had time to turn yet again. Another bullet passed just inches from Harry’s head with a sound as though the air was unzipping, and the pistol smashed into his wounded arm. The pain was overwhelming; he slumped into the heather and lay groaning, defenceless. Lavrenti was back in charge.

Harry fought for focus, swimming against the grey tide of pain that for a few seconds obliterated everything else. When at last he had recovered his senses and was able to take in the scene, he found Lavrenti pointing the gun at the lumbering figure of his father-in-law.

‘I’d hoped you were already dead,’ Lavrenti exclaimed, ‘but now you’re a fool to give me a second chance, Papasha.’

‘If you say so, Lavrenti. Scum.’ Shunin spat.

‘But this way it is better, more personal.’ There was no mistaking the genuine hate that welled between them. ‘What does it feel like to be staring down the barrel of your own gun?’

‘In the name of God, are you going to shoot me or bore me to death?’ Shunin sounded disinterested, certainly not a man on the edge of fear. A professional, Harry remembered.

‘Before you die, Papasha, there’s something I want you to know.’

‘If I must.’

Lavrenti gave a small, tight laugh. ‘It is something I
forgot to tell you when I married your daughter. I am a Chechen, Papasha.’ The words slipped out so softly, yet struck the Russian President full force in the face. His body stiffened, like a dog scenting a bear.

‘What is this nonsense? You are Russian, a Konev.’

‘Only on my father’s side. Not through my mother.’

‘No! I won’t hear of this,’ the older man stormed, clenching his fists.

‘Nevertheless…’

‘You–the son of a Chechen bitch? You deceived us, right from the start.’

‘No,’ Lavrenti shook his head, ‘not everyone. Only you.’

Shunin seemed to take several moments to collect his wits. ‘What are you trying to say?’

‘Katya knows. Has always known. She chose me over you. And our child will be a Chechen, too. Oh, but that’s right, we haven’t told you yet. She is pregnant. You’re going to become a grandfather, Papasha. I congratulate you.’

And as Lavrenti mocked, an animalistic growl of fury escaped from Shunin. For the first time he seemed to lose his self-control. He took a heavy step forward. Lavrenti sprang back. Then Shunin was hit by a bout of coughing. For a moment he doubled up, spluttering, then slowly fell to his knees.

All the while, as the Makarov waved back and forth, Harry had been calculating the odds. Six rounds gone, and a Makarov usually held eight. But sometimes ten.
Either way, enough. A bullet for both of them. And it seemed as if Lavrenti had picked up on these thoughts, for he took three steps backwards, away from any danger. He glanced behind him, making sure of his bearings; the cliff face was close by. Moonlight sparkled off the sea and the rumble of the surf welled up from below. Back along the road Castle Lorne still burned, but not as vehemently. The fire had done its job and it, too, was dying.

And suddenly the gun was pointing only at Harry.

‘I am sorry, Mr Jones. I rather liked you. But you have played too many tricks,’ Lavrenti said. He was calmer now, and had two hands on the gun, not so much the amateur. There was little point in further discussion. Harry was going to die. He could hear the sighing of the breaking sea, the song of the wind and the bicker of complaint from the gulls clinging to the rock face below. In Harry’s mind they seemed exquisitely beautiful sounds.

‘Would you allow me to get up?’ Harry asked. ‘It’s a thing with me, I always wanted to die on my feet, not on my back, or on my knees.’ That wasn’t entirely true. He’d have been happy to die in almost any position with Gabbi but now he wasn’t going to get the chance. So many things he would miss.

Yet even as Harry prepared to lever himself onto his feet, he saw Lavrenti’s finger squeezing the trigger. Every sound seemed magnified, every moment slowed. The barrel of the pistol looked like a cannon
pointing between his eyes, wavering just a little, but not enough, not for Harry. The finger was still tightening. He saw the final movement, the last small jerk of the pistol, and the hammer falling on his life.

Sunday, 2.36 a.m. British Summer Time; 9.36 a.m. China Time, Saturday. Shanjing.

Fu Zhang’s mind was awash with bewilderment. He couldn’t comprehend how such confusion could have taken place. A Minister frogmarched out of the Room of Many Miracles, brutal hands pinning his arms, the cold stare of the general who seemed to have little idea who Fu Zhang was. ‘I shall make sure that Mao Yanming hears of this. You insult him by interfering with me,’ Fu had shouted, but the general hadn’t said a word. He had simply nodded to the officer and the guards, who had continued to hustle Fu out of the building and into the car park. Fu’s official car was nowhere to be seen, its place taken by military trucks that had disgorged their cargo of hard-eyed troopers. He thought he saw amongst them those who had jeered at him earlier, and he turned to the officer to let him know that when this mistake was sorted out he, Fu Zhang, would make sure that both the officer and
his men would be charged with high crimes and insulting the state. The officer responded by tripping Fu Zhang from behind, sending him sprawling to his knees.

When he had recovered from the shock and raised his head, Fu found himself surrounded by a ring of soldiers. Now he was certain they were the same troops he had met on the road, but they were no longer jeering. Instead their faces were stiff, filled with an air of earnestness, and expectation. Then he felt something cold, evil, touch the nape of his neck. The officer’s pistol.

What? Now, for the first time, he began to be afraid. He thought his bladder had burst; he could feel the warmth of his own fear spreading down his legs. He screamed at them, to tell them they had made a mistake, he was engaged in an historic attack on the enemies of their country that would bring them all glory, and he personally had launched the attack. But the officer said he knew. And that was why they were going to execute him.

Fu Zhang thought they must be trying to humiliate him, as he himself had done to others during the madness of the Cultural Revolution, reducing them to blubbering, incontinent fools. But then he heard the safety on the pistol being released. They were going to shoot him? Like a common criminal–on his knees, in a car park? He couldn’t comprehend the disgrace.

Fu Zhang was still struggling to understand what was
happening, and why, when his world turned as white and glistening as the snow on a Himalayan peak, which faded into the biting, blinding crystals of an ice storm, swirling, screaming, before it went entirely blank.

Sunday, 2.42 a.m. The cliffs above Castle Lorne.

Harry was astonished to discover that he was still alive. Lavrenti’s gun had failed to fire. As Harry clambered unsteadily to his feet the Russian pulled the trigger again, and again, yet there was nothing but the click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber.

Now Shunin was lumbering to his feet, wheezing. ‘Ah, Lavrenti, you blind fool. You forgot about the two we used at Sheremetyevo.’ He patted his pocket. ‘And you never found the extra magazine.’ He burst into mocking laughter. ‘Looks like I won after all.’

Lavrenti’s eyes flooded with confusion and fear. He stepped back, but found he could go no further. He was on the very edge of the cliff. ‘What are you going to do?’ he asked, his voice difficult to make out above the gusting wind.

‘You don’t imagine we’re going to let you walk away from here, do you?’ Shunin growled, the fresh magazine was in his hand. ‘A little hunting accident, I think–don’t you, Mr Jones?’

‘I can’t let you do that, Mr President,’ Harry replied.

‘But I think you cannot stop me. I have complete diplomatic immunity. In any event, I’m not even here,
the world thinks I’m a thousand miles away back home.’ He turned to his son-in-law. ‘But I am not an unreasonable man. I will do a deal with you, Lavrenti. A fine funeral, I think. Military bands, much wailing and mourning. Laid out, stiff and cold, in the Kremlin. A Russian funeral. No one’s going to know you’re a stinking Chechen half-breed.’

As his father-in-law mocked, Lavrenti fell to the ground his head bowed.

‘And I’ll take care of Katya’s condition. You can trust me on that,’ Shunin whispered, the words wrapped in menace.

‘Papasha, please! Leave her alone, at least…’

‘Perhaps, Lavrenti. We’ll see. Now give me the gun.’

Lavrenti sobbed, and his shoulders gave a final heave, weighed down in submission. ‘Not Katya, Papasha…’ He held out the gun, the grip towards his father-in-law.

‘Mr President, he is on British soil,’ Harry began to protest.

‘Stay out of this, Mr Jones. It’s family,’ Shunin barked, and took a step towards his son-in-law, reaching for the gun.

Yet even as his fingers closed around it, he found his wrist had been seized. Lavrenti’s face was up, he was no longer sobbing but smiling, a serene look of triumph glowing in his face. Shunin tried to pull away but he was leaning forward, off balance, out of breath. And now both Lavrenti’s hands were on him.

Lavrenti heaved, with all his might, backwards. Shunin had no means of resisting. The younger Russian tumbled off the cliff. And Shunin followed.

Lavrenti didn’t let go of his father-in-law’s wrist until they were falling. He was content to die with him, but had no desire to die beside him. Shunin was still spluttering in disbelief, even as Lavrenti gave one final, glorious roar of triumph.

There were other lights, apart from the glow of the dying fire, by the time Harry found his way back. The road beyond the causeway was teeming with flashing lights and the commotion of officialdom. The fire had been spotted from the distant Isle of Mull and the emergency services called, but it had proved entirely too late. There was nothing to be done but let the fire burn itself out. There would be questions, of course, but already D’Arby was on the police radio, fixing things.

‘Chief Constable, I want to make one point absolutely clear, this situation is to be treated as a tragic fire, nothing more. I appreciate this is a tricky situation for you, but you have any number of anti-terrorist powers to use in order to keep the lid on it. I’ll happily explain the circumstances face to face when you come to London–in the very near future, I’m sure. Aren’t you due an investiture or some such thing? In the meantime, this is a matter of national security and I will personally rip the balls off anyone who allows this to leak.’

D’Arby broke off as he saw Harry. ‘Where are they?’ he asked in alarm, searching around, seeing more than he wanted in Harry’s face.

‘At the foot of the cliff.’

D’Arby gasped, his body slowly twisting in shock. ‘How in God’s name do we explain that?’

‘We don’t. The Russians do. Shunin himself suggested it. A hunting accident.’

‘You can’t seriously—’

‘Either that or they’ll have to admit to having their president murdered by a Chechen rebel who also happened to be his son-in-law.’ Harry shook his head. ‘Too messy. They’ll go for the hunting accident.’

D’Arby’s mind was spinning. So many loose ends…He turned once more to the radio. ‘Yes, as I was saying, in the
very
near future, Chief Constable.’

Harry wandered away, leaving him to his grubby work, feeling numb. He thought he’d better find someone to look at his arm; soon it would start hurting like hell again. Check on the others first, though. He found Blythe wrapped in a thermal blanket. Nobody seemed to have recognized her, not with rattails of hair wriggling down her normally immaculate face.

‘You all right?’ she asked.

‘I’m badly hurt.’

‘How?’ she asked in alarm.

‘You called me an idiot back in there.’

She smiled, relieved. ‘And you are.’ But her smile
faded as quickly as it had appeared. ‘Poor Marcus,’ she whispered.

Harry nodded. ‘You know, I think I could have got to like him, after all.’

Yet already she was being distracted as, behind his shoulder, another figure appeared through the confusion of the night. It was Warren Holt. She gasped in surprise. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I tried to phone. It doesn’t work.’

‘I know.’

‘Are you OK?’ he asked.

‘Sure, but…I told you only to contact me in case of war.’

‘Or something similar.’ He looked uncomprehendingly at Harry, failing to recognise him. It was scarcely surprising, Harry looked like an extra from a cheap horror movie. ‘Can we go somewhere a little more private, Madam President?’

‘Come on, Warren, this is Harry Jones, you don’t need to worry about him. We have remarkably few secrets.’

‘Well…’ He hesitated, but only for a second. The entire world was going to hear about it soon enough. ‘It’s war of a kind, Madam President. In China.’

‘What?’

‘It seems Mao was planning to take a pop at other countries behind the backs of most of his Politburo and the army. The details are still pretty vague, but it seems Mao was about to launch some sort of cyber attack,
very big and hugely controversial. The PLA got wind of it and acted first. Came together with his political opponents inside the Politburo and–well, it seems they walked into Mao’s office and kind of kicked him out.’

‘Got rid of him?’ She demanded, her voice rising in excitement. She grabbed Holt’s arms, as though trying to shake the answer out of him. ‘Are you telling me he’s gone?’

‘Permanently, it seems. They must have been terrified by what he was planning.’

‘They weren’t the only ones!’ she cried.

‘But what about those who’ve taken over?’ Harry demanded. ‘What have they said?’

‘Very little,’ Holt replied. ‘You know the Chinese, all smoke and mirrors. But their Foreign Ministry has called in some of the ambassadors–the British as well as our own–and offered what amounts to a quiet apology and a reassurance that whatever toys Mao was throwing around would all be put back in the box.’

‘Details?’ Blythe demanded.

‘Not clear yet, but you’re needed back at post, Madam President.’ He hesitated, then took a step forward. ‘Jesus H. Christ, I saw the flames from ten damned miles away. You scared the hell out of me, I can’t tell you how worried I was–and how wonderful it is to see you.’ His rebuke faded into overwhelming relief.

‘Thanks, Warren. For everything you’ve done.’

‘And one other thing while we’re at it.’

‘Yes?’

‘I just hate being President.’

‘You know, sometimes so do I.’

And Harry saw a look come over her face, an expression that said she was back in business.

‘I don’t suppose you have a raincoat in the back of your car, do you, Warren?’ she asked. ‘I’m feeling very slightly underdressed.’

He scurried off. The sky was beginning to lighten. It was a new day.

‘If I leave now, I can make it back to Balmoral for breakfast,’ she said.

‘As if none of this had happened,’ Harry added.

‘I guess so.’ She turned to him, wanted to draw close, but presidents had to be tougher than that. ‘Looks like we got out of this one, Harry.’

‘For the moment, at least. Mao may have gone, but those toys of his, they’re still scattered around the playroom, waiting for someone else to pick them up.’

‘Seems like I’ve got a lot of things to sort out in Washington, Harry.’ She paused, her presidential mask slipping. Will you promise to come and see me?’

‘I may have to go to Manhattan first.’

‘Someone there?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘That’s good to hear.’ She leaned forward, kissed him. ‘Good luck, Harry Jones.’

Then she was gone, whisked away in Warren Holt’s raincoat.

The sky was lifting rapidly, and along with the night had faded so many of its fears, yet still there was Castle Lorne, or what was left of it, a blackened, ugly reminder. Harry saw Nipper and his grandmother in wheelchairs about to be loaded into the back of an ambulance. He hobbled over.

‘Are you all right?’ He demanded, alarmed.

‘In rather better shape than you, Mr Jones, it would seem,’ Flora replied earnestly. ‘They’re just taking us to the hospital for a few wee checks. Cuts, bruises, but no more than that. You, on the other hand…’

‘Did you really get shot, Harry?’ Nipper demanded with guileless enthusiasm.

‘Seems like it.’

‘Now, Nipper,’ Flora scolded, ‘you’ll be remembering your manners.’

The boy’s brow clouded. ‘Yes, of course.’ He gulped. ‘Thank you very much for saving me, Harry.’ Very stiffly, he stretched out his hand.

Harry took it, and squatted down beside him. Nipper wouldn’t let him go.

‘And I’m so sorry about Mr Washington.’

‘Wasn’t your fault, Nipper. You didn’t set the fire.’

‘Mr Jones,’ Flora whispered, her voice tight with emotion, ‘there’s something I wish to say about that, if you’ll allow me.’

‘What can I say, Mrs MacDougall? I apologize from the bottom of my heart. I’m afraid we’ve brought you nothing but pain.’

But the old lady was shaking her head. ‘You don’t understand. These are tears of relief. Tears of great celebration, Mr Jones–and thanks to you, for bringing my bairn back. Nothing else on this earth matters as much.’

She reached out and took his free hand, squeezing it. A pillar of fire scorched a path up his arm, but from somewhere he managed to find a smile. With his good hand he scrabbled behind his back. It was still there, the dirk, tucked into his belt, the only thing to have survived the fire. He handed it back. ‘We flew, didn’t we, Nipper? Just like the Lady of Lorne. They said it was a myth, but you and me, we know better.’

‘We sure do!’ Nipper exclaimed, his eyes brimming with excitement.

‘Next time, though, let’s try a different approach. Why don’t we use a plane, eh?’

As they laughed and Flora continued to weep her tears of gratitude, D’Arby appeared from out of the fading night, at last separated from his radiophone. ‘I’m so very glad to see you smiling, young man,’ he said tousling Nipper’s hair in a too-familiar fashion.

The boy nodded silently, and Harry thought he noted flecks of grey resentment creep into his grandmother’s eyes. Perhaps D’Arby saw them, too, for he turned, awkwardly.

‘What can I say to you, Flora? We’ll find some way of overcoming this tragedy. We’ll rebuild Castle Lorne for you–I don’t know how we’ll do it, but I’ll find a way, some departmental budget, one mechanism or another
that will get us there, and if we can’t do that we’ll raise the money privately. That’s my promise. The country owes you a debt of honour.’