The Wormwood Code (16 page)

'Yeah,' he answered, and he turned towards her and rested his head in his hand.

'Bit early for that, in't it?' she said.

'It was the White House,' he said, 'so it was pretty late for them.'

'The White House?' said the woman. 'You're pulling my chain, ain'tcha?'

'Nah,' said Bledsoe. 'I'm CIA, I'm always speaking to those guys.'

She giggled and tossed her long blonde hair to the side.

'Sure you are,' she said. 'And I'm Rosa Kleb.'

The duvet slipped down, revealing her breasts. All two of them.

'Ah,' said Bledsoe, slipping into his best spy persona, 'I was just looking for those.'

And the leader of Her Majesty's Opposition was just going to have to wait a little longer for his advice that morning.

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0659hrs

F
or the first time in a couple of days, Barney Thomson was back behind the old Prime Ministerial napper. The PM was reading the Guardian, Barney was standing behind him clutching a pair of scissors and a comb, Igor was standing to the side, clutching his broom.

Barney was in a reasonably chipper mood. Only three days to go. It would all be over soon and he could get back to where he belonged. Beside the sea, a sleepy town, and a few months of complete inactivity. Maybe the rest of his life could be like that.

Igor, on the other hand, was beginning to feel rather deflated. He had been promised much by Dane Bledsoe in their brief meeting a few days earlier, however as time had dragged on, and not a lot out of the ordinary seemed to be happening, he had begun to think that the man had been making fun of him. Usually he could spot it a mile off, but it had been a while since he'd been the butt of all the jokes.

'What do you make of it all?' said the PM. 'The FT has us extending our lead in the polls, this piece of crap has the polls revealing the fragility of our lead. What d'you think Barney?'

Barney was trying to make something of the PM's hair.

'D'you want me to be honest?' he asked. Igor perked up.

The PM hesitated. Honesty wasn't his favourite medicine.

'Go on,' he replied, guardedly.

'This is how I see it,' said Barney, not really thinking about what he was saying, trying to decide if he could do anything dramatically different with the PM's hair. A mohawk, perhaps. That would give the media something to focus on for the last couple of days, get his picture on every front page. 'The polls are a bit of this and a bit of that, but they all show you in the lead, and generally by more than when you started. You're going to win. But there's always the chance, of course, that you won't have an overall majority, or you'll be left with a small majority, in which case you're screwed. The war thing, with all these legal cases and criticisms, isn't going to go away, just get worse. By the end of the summer your party's going to be split and your authority will be diminished and you'll have to resign. The Chancellor will take over, there'll be various rebellions in the house, and before we know it we'll be having another election campaign in October.'

The PM looked back at Barney in the mirror, with big sad eyes.

'You really think so?' he asked miserably, his face not a million miles away from
Shrek 2
's Puss 'n' Boots.

'Aye,' said Barney. 'You won't see out the year. So what I think is, you might as well go for it now.'

'How d'you mean?'

'Let me shave your head, or dye your hair purple or something. Be dramatic. And as soon as Thursday's over, and you're still in charge for a short while, get out there and do big stuff. Reclaim all the countries of the Commonwealth, rebuild the days of Empire, take Ireland back, invade Iran and Syria, start a space programme and name it after yourself, declare Scotland your own individual fiefdom, and demand that you have sex with all the wives.'

As Barney had talked the PM had gradually slunk down into his seat, the interest in his expression had died, and he now viewed Barney with pursed lips.

'Very funny,' he said. Or, at least, it would've been funny if some of the things on the list hadn't actually been what the PM intended doing in the next parliament anyway.

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0841hrs

D
etective Sergeant Eason had snuck away from his undercover position as marketing man to the leader of the opposition for an illicit breakfast with DCI Grogan, the man heading up the investigation into the murders of two of the Prime Minister's men, Ramone the hairdresser and Thackeray the advisor. Eason was, as usual, eating everything on the menu, and already had several squirts of various condiments down his shirt and tie. Grogan was, as usual, smoking profusely and drinking coffee thick enough to lie on.

'So, do we think this thing's all coming to a head before Thursday, or are these two murders completely unrelated to the election, and possibly each other?' said Grogan belching smoke with every word.

'What do you think?' said Eason through a mouthful of hash browns.

Grogan pursed his lips, making his rubber face even more unattractive.

'You know, my fat friend, if you're ever going to become a grown-up policeman with responsibility and stuff, you're going to have to do some thinking for yourself.'

'I'm always thinking,' protested Eason. 'And right now I'm thinking about having another bacon sandwich.'

'Mr Comedian,' said Grogan. 'I think there's no way it's not connected. Two guys in the PM's office don't just get murdered, and they don't just get murdered in the run-up to an election. There's something going on and we need to work out what it is. What have you got from your friend at the Conservatives?'

Eason shrugged, indicated to a far-flung waitress that he'd like another bacon with ketchup.

'Not much,' he said. 'Keeps disappearing, doing his own thing. No idea what.'

'God, what are you doing there?' said Grogan with exasperation.

'You know, stuff,' said Eason. 'He vanished for a while yesterday, came in asking about Wormwood. You know, the quote from Revelations.'

Grogan stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, eyes wide on Eason.

'What?' said Eason, slightly concerned with the look on Grogan's face. 'What did I say?'

'And the name of the star is called Wormwood?' asked Grogan.

'Yeah,' said Eason. 'How d'you know that?'

'Because those words were carved into the head of Thackeray, the second victim. Which probably means your man has been speaking to Roosevelt, the guy who we believe killed Thackeray.'

Grogan tapped a contemplative spoon against the rim of his cup.

'He's not American, Bledsoe, is he?' asked Grogan.

'Could be,' said Eason. 'His accent's kind of weird, did occur to me that he was putting it on.'

'So let's say he knows the killer,' said Grogan, 'let's say that. But he also knows that you're working for the police, so why tell you about Wormwood? By doing that, he knows you're going to tell me, he knows that I'll already know about Wormwood, and he knows that we'll put two and two together and suspect him.'

'Sounds good,' he said.

'So why do it?' said Grogan.

Eason thought about it, turning the croissant over in his mouth. This was his chance to shine, to a boss that had rarely ever been impressed by him.

'No idea,' he said eventually.

Grogan nodded.

'Figures,' he said. 'Might be time to talk to the guy.'

'I've already talked to him,' said Eason.

'In a police capacity, you moron,' said Grogan.

Grogan stared at his number two, who was by now dripping breakfast, and then took a photograph from his inside pocket.

'OK, if he's going to screw us about, then we'll do the same to him. When you go back, show him this picture and see what he says, see his reaction. Think you can do that?'

Eason looked at the photograph of a man caught walking into 10 Downing Street on CCTV.

'This is Roosevelt?' he asked.

'Well done,' said Grogan. 'It'd be all over the papers and TV if it wasn't election week.'

'So I show it to the guy and let you know if he breaks out into assholes?'

Grogan nodded.

'Yeah,' he said, 'although I very much doubt he's going to do that.'

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1718hrs

S
ometimes the clean-up begins well before the operation itself is complete.

Dane Bledsoe knocked on the hotel room door and heard the restless footsteps inside come quickly towards him. The door opened, Roosevelt allowed Bledsoe to enter, checked the corridor, then closed the door behind them. The room was large, plenty of space around the double bed. The bed was unruffled, the room pristine, and there was little to tell that Roosevelt had spent the last five hours in it, pacing up and down, occasionally glancing at the television, which had been on the whole time, on CNN.

'The police have got a nice photo of you,' said Bledsoe, going to the window and looking down on Regent's Street. 'Great fake moustache.'

'Thanks,' said Roosevelt.

'Let me see the box,' said Bledsoe quickly. No messing about. It was time to get on with business, and the sooner he had the box the sooner that could happen.

'No more pleasantries, eh?' said Roosevelt. 'Sure thing, bud.'

He went to the bedside drawer. Nestled in beside the Bible was the small wooden box, which had once been in the possession of Ramone MacGregor, and was now in the hands of the CIA. He took it out carefully and handed it to Bledsoe.

Bledsoe held it softly in his hands, felt his throat dry. Didn't often have moments like this in his job. Hair rising on the back of his head moments. He opened the box and looked inside at the small artefact, two thousand years old. He stared at it for a long time, Roosevelt standing over him, also looking down into the box, as he had many times in the previous week.

'It's fitting that something which is going to change the world should be so beautiful,' said Bledsoe.

'Yeah,' said Roosevelt softly.

Bledsoe looked up at Roosevelt. Suddenly the wonder had left his face. Roosevelt saw the look in his eyes, was unsure where it came from. Too late he realised that Bledsoe was wearing a jacket on a warm day in the big city. Started to react, but five hours cooped up in a room, warm and drowsy, and he was too slow.

Bledsoe whipped the small gun with silencer attachment out from his jacket and put a bullet into the centre of Roosevelt's forehead. Roosevelt stared at him, his third eye trickling blood, and then he fell backwards onto the bed, so that there wasn't even a thump as he fell to the floor. Bledsoe took another look at the contents of the box, closed the lid, slipped it into his pocket, stood up, fired another four bullets into Roosevelt's chest just for the hell of it, and then nonchalantly left the room.

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2209hrs

B
arney Thomson and Igor had come to the end of another day. They had travelled north with the PM; they had stood and listened to his apologies and his excuses and his bluster and his non-excuses and his deferrals to the Chancellor, who the party seemed to think carried more weight in the matter, because he'd always been quiet on Iraq and everyone thought the PM was a lying scumbag. Nevertheless, it didn't seem to make any difference, and Barney had been right earlier that morning when he'd told the PM that he was going to win the election anyway. Just as he'd been telling him for the past week.

It had been a slow evening, late back from the trip, and Barney and Igor had ended up at a Garfunkels. Steak and chips for Barney, Caesar salad for Igor, who was trying to improve his complexion. Not much conversation. Barney was tired, couldn't wait for the whole thing to end. Knew that the PM was going to ask him to stay on as his personal hairdresser/advisor, but also knew that the PM would expect him to say no. Igor was quiet because he had still not heard from Dane Bledsoe, the man who had, in a roundabout way, promised him that the PM would be forced to resign this week and that Igor was in line to take his place. Britain's first deaf-mute, hunchbacked Prime Minister. At least, since Wilson. He had been very excited, and had spent the week planning his revenge against all those villages out of which he'd been chased by an angry mob wielding torches.

'You're not yourself,' commented Barney, as they waited for two cappuccinos. 'You OK?'

'Arf,' said Igor, and he shrugged. Didn't bear Barney any grudge.

'Igor,' said Barney, and his assistant looked him in the eye for just about the first time that evening.

'Tell me what's up,' he said. 'Is it a woman?'

'Arf,' said Igor shaking his head.

Barney smiled.

'Well,' he said, 'as long as it's not a woman then it can't be too bad. They're the worst.'

Igor smiled for the first time in a while. In fact, he had a date later that evening with a Channel 5 journalist he'd met on the campaign trail a couple of days earlier.

'It'll all be over soon,' said Barney. 'Think you'll come back to Millport,' he asked, knowing that that was one of the things which was bothering Igor, 'or will you stay down in the big city?'

The cappuccinos arrived. Igor looked over the top of a mountain of cream and shrugged.

'Arf,' he said.

And Barney Thomson made a small hole in his cream pile and poured in two sugars and nodded his head in understanding.

0718hrs

'A
nd so,' said the Prime Minister, and Barney Thomson could smell the whiff of horse manure in the air, 'we come at last to the great election of our times.'

Barney Thomson, barber, rolled his eyes and looked back at that morning's Sun.

'Can I just ask,' he said, staring at the smiley pictures of the PM and his wife. 'What were you thinking?'

The PM looked over at him, saw the newspaper he was reading, and cringed from head to foot.

'You think anyone will see it?' he asked.

Barney stared over the paper at him.

'They have a readership of four million. That was why you chose them.'

'Yes,' said the PM, his skin crawling with embarrassment, hoping at least that the Chancellor wouldn't notice.