The Edge of Madness (3 page)

‘Let’s ask the cabbie, shall we?’ Harry suggested.

But the driver was having none of it. ‘What d’you think I am, from marriage guidance? Sort it out yerselves,’ he said, and slid the connecting window shut.

‘Already sorted. This creep goes in five seconds or he ends up in the gutter,’ the stranger said, heat flushing into his cheeks.

Harry returned the stare. The man was younger than he was, perhaps late twenties, and was of impressive size, but Harry suspected that the once-solid frame had been softened by the temptations of City living. On the other hand, the overblown appearance might just be that he was wrapped in a raincoat. If it came to an inglorious wrestling match in such confined quarters, the other man had the advantage simply by dint of his weight.

‘Five…’ the man snarled, counting.

‘Are you threatening me?’ Harry demanded, incredulous.

‘That’s it. That’s exactly it. Four…’

‘Please. Look, I got in first. It’s my cab.’

‘Three!’ The stranger’s knuckles grew white.

‘Come on, you can’t be serious. You’re not really going to hit me,’ Harry suggested, determined to sound jovial.

‘What part of “fuck off” don’t you understand? You some sort of retard? You got two seconds, then you’re out the door, on your own or on your arse. Your choice.’

Harry looked for help from the cabbie but the fellow had deliberately engaged his attention elsewhere, while the windows of the taxi were steamed up from the rain to the point of total opaqueness, depriving Harry of any chance of support from outside. He was on his own.

‘One…’ The man snapped, leaning back and looking for all the world as though he was preparing to
strike. That was the moment when Harry raised his elbow, catching the other man beneath the nose. There wasn’t a huge amount of force behind it since to use all his strength would have risked killing him, driving the nasal bones into the brain. And Harry had done that. Once. On a dark, swirling night in the bandit country of Armagh in 1988.

The IRA had been holding a hostage in an isolated farm just the other side of the border, and the mission of Harry’s unit had been to spring him. On a night blowing so hard it threatened to rip trees out by their roots, Harry had got within fifty yards of the milking shed when he’d stumbled straight into one of the IRA bastards about to take a piss against a tree, cock in one hand, Armalite in the other. There had been an unseemly scramble–Harry couldn’t use his own gun, it would alert those inside, and he had no time for his knife because the other man had the drop on him. That’s when Harry had raised his elbow, hit him, just one time, and the gunman had fallen back into the mud and cow crap, quite dead. Harry had no regrets; they’d already used an electric drill on the hostage, straight through both kneecaps, and were about to do much, much worse. It had been another bit of dirty business in a despicable war which had few rules, but that was then and…well, this was the middle of Mayfair. Harry was no longer a soldier but a politician, a Member of Parliament, and it wasn’t his job any longer to go round London adding to his body count. As he
raised his arm, he took care to use just enough force to mash the cartilage of the nasal passages. It caused the man to scream with pain.

‘Oh, dear, you seem to have banged your nose on the door. I feel sure it’s broken,’ Harry said.

‘You, you stinking…’ But the burble of protest was cut short by the handkerchief that he was forced to clamp against his nose to staunch the flow of blood.

‘I think you know where the door is,’ Harry added softly.

The taxi driver decided to become involved once more and began shouting at the wretch not to make a mess in his cab. Outnumbered, whimpering with rage and in considerable pain, the stranger stumbled back out into the rain, slamming the door shut.

The cabbie wasted no time in releasing the hand brake to lock the doors and prevent any further interruptions, revealing himself to be a man of instant loyalties. ‘Pushy bastard got what he deserved, you ask me. So where to, guv?’

Harry was just about to give instructions when his mobile phone began to vibrate. He plucked it from his pocket and listened intently for a few seconds.

‘Can’t it wait? I’ve got a lunch,’ he muttered with undisguised reluctance into the mouthpiece.

He said nothing more before the call ended. When it did, he sat back in the seat, his mind flooding with images of Gabbi and her manifold attractions. And that’s how they would probably now stay, nothing but
images. She was a girl from New York, lots of Latin blood, feisty, that’s what made her such fun, and he was willing to take a large bet that she wasn’t used to being stood up. Harry would call, do a little grovelling, try to firm up the weekend, but already he felt the moment slipping away. Anyway, she’d be back in New York by Wednesday, so not much point. But a pity. A very considerable pity, he decided.

The cabbie was staring at him insistently in the mirror. ‘Where’s it to be, guv?’ he demanded once more.

‘Downing Street,’ Harry sighed. ‘The back door.’

Thursday afternoon. The Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London.

Mark D’Arby carried many burdens. It wasn’t just the responsibilities he held as Prime Minister, for those he had grown adept at dealing with. What had driven him on, and always a little further than any rival, were the ghosts of his childhood, and one ghost in particular, that of his grandfather. Frank D’Arby had started out as plain Mr Derby but by dint of audacity and a huge pot of luck had grown into Sir Frank, the sort of character who leaped out of boys’ magazines, a war hero who didn’t give a stuff about convention and who had lived into his nineties despite smoking forty Craven-A cork tips a day. He’d been a flier and had a good war, found himself promoted to air vice-marshal and lived in occupied luxury in Berlin after 1945, where he would fly around in Dakotas with stuffed armchairs for seats and chintz curtains on the window, often in the company of women who were frighteningly young.
Grandpa made up his own rules as he went along. Arrogant, impatient, inspiring, unmissable. And often absent. It had made him an awful parent. Mark’s father, the only child of Sir Frank’s peripatetic marriage, sought solace in the ranks of the civil service, where he had remained buried in anonymity for most of his professional life. In disappointment, Sir Frank had turned his attentions to his grandson, Mark, who had grown up as shamed by his father’s obscurity as he was inspired by the stories of his grandfather. Then, one day, shortly after his ninety-second birthday, the old man had gone out duck shooting and winged one, insisting on finding the bird to finish it off. He’d stumped back well after midnight, soaked and sore. Three weeks later he died of a chill, cursing with his last breath. After that the young Mark had dedicated himself to changing the world in the image of his beloved grandfather, yet at that time there’d been no handy wars to engage him so he had turned to the battleground of politics. Made a good start, climbed fast through the ranks, and when John Eaton had unexpectedly walked out of Downing Street, Mark D’Arby fought the campaign to succeed him in swashbuckling style. It matched the mood of the time. He had won a famous victory.

Yet as Harry Jones walked into the Cabinet Room he could detect little of that fighting spirit. D’Arby seemed drained, distracted, sitting in his chair, staring at the brown baize tablecloth, fiddling with his fountain pen although there were no papers in front of him. For a
moment he seemed bent, older than his fifty-eight years, until he noticed Harry and sprang to his feet, the fire reignited in his face. ‘Harry, thanks for coming,’ he greeted, shaking Harry’s hand vigorously, and for a little too long.

‘No problem,’ Harry lied. ‘Sounded urgent.’

‘It is. Yes, it is.’ D’Arby appeared distracted once more, surprised to discover that he was still holding his pen. He threw it down on the table. ‘God, it’s stifling in here. Let’s go out in the garden.’

‘But it’s pouring.’

‘Nevertheless…’ The word hung between them, insistent, and the smile on the Prime Minister’s face had grown stiff. Harry’s mind suddenly began to spin in alarm. D’Arby clearly didn’t want to talk inside, but why not? What could be so important, so serious, that it couldn’t be discussed here, inside Downing Street? Harry was still trying to find first gear as D’Arby grabbed two umbrellas and led him through the doors at the far end of the room. It led them out onto a small patio.

‘You see these red and white slabs?’ D’Arby said, indicating the paving stones on which they were standing. ‘Hundreds of years old. And when those old lead flower troughs were made, America was still our colony, income tax hadn’t been invented, and this country was still the finest nation on earth. Takes you back, this place. Gives you a sense of history.’ The flowers in the tubs nodded their heads in apparent agreement.
‘Come on.’ He led the way to the insubstantial shelter of the silver birch that stood at the side of the lawn. The rain beat down with the sound of a dull drum upon the umbrellas. He pulled out a cigarette, lit it, sucked deeply. Harry hadn’t realized he smoked. The Prime Minister saw the curiosity in Harry’s eye. ‘Condemned man’s last wish,’ he said, trying to make a joke of it.

‘You in the firing line?’

‘Always.’ D’Arby’s blue eyes fixed on Harry, as though searching for something he wasn’t sure he would find. ‘Need your help again, Harry.’

‘Ah,’ The sigh of reluctance stretched out until it was lost in the rain.

Help wasn’t a neat, tidy word when associated with Harry Jones. Two years earlier he’d found himself in the middle of a siege of Parliament in which the previous Prime Minister, the Queen, and almost every other powerful player in the land had been held hostage. That most of them had walked out alive had been largely down to Harry. The nation owed him, anything he wanted, and since that day he could have named his own price, but hadn’t done so, had accepted nothing, apart from a George Cross, and had turned down D’Arby’s offer of a Cabinet post. Harry distrusted systems, didn’t want to be part of anyone else’s team, valued his freedom–and not just for the latitude it gave him to date totally unsuitable women. So far as he was concerned, the Cabinet could wait, perhaps forever. ‘But I guess this isn’t about making
me the Minister for Floods and Biblical Disasters, is it, Mark?’

The Prime Minister leaned back against the trunk of the tree. He had a long, elegant face and silvered hair, usually accompanied by a roguish grin that cameras loved, but the creases that normally gave him an air of experience seemed to Harry’s eye to have been carved more deeply, like a landscape that had been scoured by some recent flood. A grey pallor had settled over his complexion that Harry hoped was simply a trick of the light. D’Arby pulled once more at his cigarette. ‘You’re a man of remarkable insight, my friend. So do a little Sherlock Holmes and tell me what you’ve already deduced.’

‘OK. You drag me here at a moment’s notice, so it’s urgent. And serious–you look like yesterday’s breakfast. Something’s happened. And it’s too big, too important, for you to risk discussing it inside Downing Street. So we’re out here, in the pouring bloody rain, which is ruining my bloody shoes and running down my bloody neck, presumably so that no one can hear us.’ Harry paused to allow the implication of what he’d said to sink in. ‘Christ,’ he whispered.

‘Congratulations. Full marks. That’s why I wanted you, Harry, you’re good.’ D’Arby paused, unnecessarily buttoning his double-breasted jacket, making time to gather his words. ‘I know I can trust you. You have that wonderful ability to see things differently from others. Frustrates the hell out of me sometimes but…
right now I need you. This weekend. You got any plans?’

‘Plenty.’

‘Cancel them. Pack an overnight bag. You’re coming on a little trip with me. Until Sunday. But you must tell no one.’

‘What’s this all about, Mark?’ Harry demanded, frustrated, impatient, and, as he looked into the other man’s eyes, suddenly a little frightened.

‘I want you to help me stop a war.’

Thursday evening. The Beijing Hotel.

Darkness had already fallen in Beijing. Outside the windows of the hotel, the lights danced across a city that refused to sleep, yet inside the suite on the seventh floor, time shambled along like a column of refugees. They had left Wesley Lake to stew, to worry, knowing that it would undermine his resistance. There had been no interruption for eight hours, apart from a man who had brought hot soup, but the ambassador had left it to steam on the table, untouched, determined not to be tempted into playing their game.

Then Fu returned. He was accompanied by another man who remained totally silent, standing guard by the door, a man who was surprisingly burly by Chinese standards. A thug, a muscle man, Lake concluded. Perhaps that was the intention, to plant fear, encourage it to grow.

‘Sir Wesley, my apologies,’ Fu began. ‘This matter of the Wu woman. I cannot see how your safety can be secured until we get to the bottom of it.’ He stared directly at the ambassador but the Briton, who was standing by the window, gazing out at the world beyond, acted as if he had heard nothing, indeed as if he were still alone in the room.

‘She was a traitor. She has been dealt with,’ Fu continued, as though delivering a weather report, delighted to see the tightening of the knuckles that Lake couldn’t control. ‘Very serious allegations were made about her. I wonder if you might be able to help us clear them up.’

Lake turned, just sufficiently to catch Fu’s eye and let the man see the depths of his contempt for him.

‘No, I thought not,’ Fu said, his lips puckered in disappointment.

That was when Fu hit him, a surprisingly sharp blow for a man of such small stature, directly in the solar plexus. The ambassador was a man in his early sixties, more accustomed to the ordeals of the cocktail circuit than long sessions in the gym, and his resistance to the blow was not what it might have been. Immediately his nerves went into spasm; he retched, couldn’t breathe, clutched at the pain that was ripping him in two, and felt his breakfast rising. He stumbled towards the bathroom and collapsed on his knees before throwing up into the toilet bowl. He continued until he had nothing more to give.

There had been no warning, no small talk, no attempt to probe or wheedle information out of him. Such a blunt attack was unlike the Chinese, who rarely took the direct route between any two points. Even as his eyes streamed and his heart pounded, Lake tried to collect his scrambled thoughts. He came to one instant conclusion. Fu was in a hurry. Perhaps time wasn’t on his side, either. And suddenly he was grabbed from behind by the guard from the door, and he felt a sharp jab in his arm. When at last the kaleidoscope of colours in his eyes had formed into a coherent shape, he found Fu beside him holding a syringe. It was already empty.

‘Just a little encouragement, Sir Wesley,’ Fu was saying, ‘something that will jog your memory, and then will help you forget.’

They dragged him back to an armchair, where he fell, but he no longer hurt. Already his limbs were numb and a greyness had fallen across his thoughts. He heard the name Wu Xiaoling, it seemed to be ringing in his mind, like church bells. He was drowning in confusion and he struggled to stay afloat, he didn’t want to think of Xiaoling so instead he thought of his wife, tried to concentrate every fragment of his energy on her, and as she came to his mind he knew he had nothing more to fear, except disgrace. If he was about to be cast into Hell, let them get on with it, but he’d drag this little shrivel-dick Confucian with him every inch of the way. He gave a roar of defiance, which emerged as nothing more than a groan, and he remembered no more.

They worked on him for the greater part of two hours, prodding him, slapping him, pinching his cheeks, plying him with more serum, encouraging him with both kind words and threats, until at last Fu dragged a towel across his perspiring brow and slapped it across Lake’s pallid face before hurling it into a corner in frustration.

‘A little longer,’ the guard suggested.

But Fu shook his head. ‘There is no time left. No time!’ he screamed. Then he stamped out of the room and slammed the door.

Thursday afternoon. Moscow.

The middle-aged man cursed, in the colourful manner drummed into him on the bare, brutal streets of postwar Leningrad. In those days the city was a frozen concrete wasteland that had been both playground and university to him, providing the sort of education that left scars, particularly on someone on the short side of average, but Sergei Illich Shunin had survived. Not everyone had; he’d lost both his sister and his eldest brother, and his father, too, after pneumonia had caught up with his scarred lungs. The young Shunin had grown up knowing that something more than the ordinary was expected of him, and he hadn’t disappointed. He’d been born in a communal flat shared with two other families and an army of cockroaches, yet within fifty years he’d become the leader of the
Russian Federation and had gone to live in a palace. Not bad, so far as it went. Inevitably such a rapid rise took its toll, it meant he was a man of few true friends, yet no one dared ignore him. Behind his back they called him ‘Malenkiy Napoleon’, Little Bonaparte, and that pleased him. Others who had sat in his chair had done so much damage–that tapeworm Gorbachev, and that arse-nipping oaf Yeltsin who had viewed the world through the bottom of a bottle. They’d let the Chechens and every other separatist snake run loose so it was Shunin’s job, his destiny, to nail them back inside their box and bury it so deep they’d wake up next to the Devil. Damnation to them all. One day Russia would be great again.

Yet right now, Sergei Illich Shunin felt overwhelmed by impotence. It wasn’t just the weather, the crushing summer heat that had stretched on for weeks and was beginning to fry his brain and squeeze his asthmatic lungs, it seemed that God Almighty had taken up arms against Russia and was sending trials of apocalyptic proportions to test him. The poor harvest, the melting taiga, the industrial screw-ups, the Muslims and malcontents huddled in their camps just waiting for the chance to tear his country apart.

And that cursed nuclear plant. It had come back to haunt him. He’d pretended he’d dealt with the matter, put it behind him, fired the director, decimated the staff, but the spilling of so much blood had simply been for the sake of appearance. Deep down he had known
it wasn’t an answer. Then, two days ago, the nightmare had been revived. The British ambassador had delivered a hand-written letter from his Prime Minister, stating that it had been a deliberate act of sabotage. Cyber sabotage. How the hell did the bastard know? Know for sure? But he said he did. It had been one of the theories–guesses–put up by Shunin’s own men, who had blabbed on about protocols and source codes and mysteries that came straight out of a child’s fairy tale. Shunin had dismissed it all, he couldn’t be dealing with make-believe, but it hadn’t quelled the doubts inside and now this Briton was stirring it all up again. And he was suggesting that worse was to come. What could be worse than a nuclear meltdown? Shunin prayed he would never find out.