The Wormwood Code (17 page)

The door opened and Dan Williams, advisor to the PM, breezed into the office, a light whistle on his lips. The last full day of the campaign, the torture nearly over. The fact that he was whistling
I Should Be So Lucky
was almost as mortifying as the joint interview the PM and his wife had given to the Sun newspaper, but fortunately he started talking almost immediately, so that no one else in the room had to kill him or anything.

'Morning, Sir,' he said, snapping his fingers. 'Morning, Barn. Igor!'

'Dan Dan,' said the PM warmly. 'The final stretch.'

'That's why I'm so chipper, Sir,' said Williams. 'It's been a long road.'

'Via Baghdad,' said the PM, smiling, and Williams laughed. Barney and Igor glanced at each other, then they each buried their heads in a newspaper. Barney was already wondering if he'd get flown back to Glasgow in the private jet they'd used to abduct him, or whether he'd be left to trundle along to the BA desk at Heathrow of his own accord.

'You all set for the last big one this morning?' said Williams.

The PM nodded. The entire cabinet were pitching up in Finchley, as if putting all the criminals together in one photo op was going to convince anyone.

'Shame we have to let Hoon out in public, but we couldn't exactly have everyone and not him. Look a bit odd.'

There was a knock, the door opened and one of the secretaries whose name the PM could never quite get the hang of, stuck her head round.

'Sorry to interrupt, Sir,' she said, 'but there's someone to see you. Says he's from the leader of the opposition's team.'

She raised an eyebrow or two as if not entirely sure about what she was telling him.

'What's the name?' said the PM suspiciously.

'Bledsoe,' she said. 'Dane Bledsoe.'

The PM shook his head.

'Never heard of him.'

Barney Thomson had just got to the five-times-a-night bit of the interview and was looking at the PM over the top of the paper with even more disdain than usual. Igor, however, had sat bolt upright. Heart racing, pulse pounding. It was the man who had offered him the chance to become the next PM, and who he thought had forsaken him. Barney noticed Igor out the corner of his eye, how the hump no longer seemed so curved.

'Any ideas?' asked the PM of Williams.

Williams reaction was not that different from Igor.

'Yes,' he said, coldly, 'he works for the Count, all right.'

The PM nodded.

'Well, this should be intriguing. Show him in.'

The secretary vanished, and a few seconds later – a few seconds which were loaded with heart-stopping tension – the door opened and Dane Bledsoe, the man who had murdered the man who had murdered Ramone the hairdresser and Thackeray the advisor, walked in, dressed very casually and carrying a small briefcase.

He smiled at Williams.

'Dan Dan,' he said. 'Glad you managed to hold down the job.'

Williams could barely bring himself to acknowledge him. Barney cast an eye over the guy and then looked back at Igor. Igor was all eyes.

'What can I do for you, Mr Bledsoe?' said the PM, straightening his tie. 'Are you here to wave the white flag on behalf of your boss?'

Bledsoe smiled at the weak joke and placed the briefcase down on top of the PM's desk. Williams immediately sprang to his feet.

'I presume that thing's been scanned,' he barked.

The PM waved at him, Bledsoe smiled again.

'What's in the case?' asked the PM.

Bledsoe stared at him, taking his time to reply. He was going to enjoy this.

'You get to take a look. I would advise, however, that you get these people out of here before you do.'

'No,' said the PM.

'I think you should,' said Bledsoe.

'Listen, I've no idea who you are or what's in the case, and I'm not about to get everybody out of here when I'm more likely to call security in.'

'One word, Prime Minister,' said Bledsoe.

'Well it better not be Iraq,' answered the PM sharply.

Bledsoe's eyes narrowed. For the first time the PM began to sense that something might be wrong. He glanced at the others. Igor and Williams were staring at the two of them, rapt by the unfolding, small drama. Barney had picked up the arts section of one of the broadsheets.

'Wormwood,' said Bledsoe slowly.

The PM swallowed. Immediately the colour began to leave his face.

'Oh, God,' he said softly.

'Sir?' said Williams. 'What does that mean?'

The PM wiped his top lip with his fingers, staring all the time at the briefcase. His heart was flying, his palms dripping sweat. This was worse than being interviewed by the public on Question Time. Face white, eyes bulging, he looked at the others in the room.

'I'll have to ask you to leave, please,' he said.

'But, Sir!' said Williams.

'Does that mean we can go back to Scotland?' said Barney, perking up. Igor threw his boss a quick glance.

'Just leave,' said the PM.

Barney shrugged, lifted the paper and walked out the door. Igor was a little more reluctant to go, but this was what he'd been waiting for. He stared at Bledsoe, hoping for some acknowledgement from him, but when it didn't come he turned and followed Barney out the room. Williams didn't want to leave, but realised he had no option. There was something he could do, however, and he hurriedly scribbled a note on a torn-off piece of paper. He folded the paper and then, ignoring Bledsoe, he passed the note to the PM and walked quickly from the room.

The door closed and the two men were left alone. Bledsoe and the Prime Minister, staring at each other across the briefcase.

'Well, aren't you going to read the note, Prime Minister?' asked Bledsoe.

The PM held the paper in his hands, still holding Bledsoe's gaze.

'It's going to tell you that I'm MI6,' said Bledsoe. 'Or maybe CIA, I can't remember which it was that I told Williams I belonged to.'

He smiled. The PM's heart rate was slowing down, beginning to get angry about something which he knew was not within his control, something which he knew could only turn out badly.

'And which are you?' asked the PM.

'Both,' said Williams. 'Although neither of them are my main paymasters.' He smiled again. 'I'm a triple agent, you see. Very exciting.'

The PM opened up the piece of paper and read Williams' hastily scrawled note.

"MI6 - don't trust him!!"

The PM folded it again and slipped it into his pocket.

'Open the briefcase,' said Bledsoe.

The PM swallowed, hesitated, then reached out, flipped the clips and opened the case. Inside was a single, small wooden box. He paused again, his heart once more picking up pace, a-bad-a-bing-a-bad-a-boom-a-bad-a-bing-a-bad-a-boom. He swallowed, licked his dry, nervous lips.

He pulled the box towards him and then slowly lifted the small, ornate lid and looked inside.

He froze. His heart stopped beating for the merest second, his breath caught in his throat. A great shiver washed over him and suddenly he shook himself back into life. Then, with the return of life, came an uncontrollable shaking. He set the box down in the briefcase, looking at its contents, his shuddering fingers touching its sides.

'Oh, God,' said the Prime Minister. 'Oh my God. Where did you find it?'

He finally tore his eyes away from the box and looked up at Bledsoe.

'Beautiful, isn't it?' said Bledsoe.

The PM swallowed and looked back inside the briefcase, his eyes wide and the self-assurance, which had been so evident when being interviewed by the Sun the previous day, now completely gone.

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1301hrs

T
he leader of the opposition stormed into the room and threw his teddy dramatically into the corner. The two men behind him, his new advisor and undercover cop, Tony Eason, and the shadow chancellor, followed him tentatively into the room.

'Tell me that again!' shouted the Count. The man was livid.

'He's gone,' said Eason. The upside of that for Eason was it meant he too could go, as he'd only been here to watch over Bledsoe.

'The...but...I mean...but...the,' stammered the Count, unsure of where to start.

'I'm leaving too,' said Eason. 'It's been nice not advising you.'

The Count slumped into his chair and stared forlornly at Eason.

'You're all deserting the sinking ship.'

The shadow chancellor bowed his head, tapping his fingers behind his back, his defection letter to the Liberal Democrats in his inside pocket.

'The ship ain't sinking,' said Eason. 'It's sunk. Anyway, I was only here to watch Bledsoe, and now that he's gone, I'm out of here.'

'I thought you were a crack marketing man?' said the Count, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

Eason lifted his badge from inside his jacket and flashed it at the two of them.

'I was undercover. Scotland Yard. And so was Bledsoe. CIA or MI6 or something, not sure.'

'I know,' said the Count sharply. 'He was CIA, and he was going to give us something we could use against the PM. He was going to grant us certain victory.'

Eason was on the point of saying something about how you can't trust these people, when he was gripped by a much more fundamental issue. A stomach rumble.

'I've got to get lunch,' he said. 'And report in,' he added as an afterthought.

And he was gone, and with him and Bledsoe went the last hopes of a Conservative victory. Or so the leader of the opposition believed at that moment.

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1417hrs

T
he PM pinged one last magical smile the way of a group of undecided voters and then dived into the green car and slumped into the seat. All day the incredible seemed to have been happening. His smile had vanished. Sure, it was still there in public, but the minute the door was closed and he had his back turned on the outside world, the perma-smile seemed to die.

He sat back and closed his eyes, fifteen minutes of respite before his next engagement. Williams was sitting in the small fold-down seat behind the driver, staring at the PM. Igor and Barney were there too, although no one knew why anymore. The PM had forgotten all about his hair, all about his smile, all about the dead tooth on his lower jaw.

Every time they had sat in the car together that day there had been an awkward silence. Only Barney seemed unperturbed by it, only Barney seemed to be immune to the anxiety.

'What's wormwood, Sir?' said Williams, delivering the question with a degree of intensity, as it was the seventeenth time he'd asked it so far, with no reply.

The PM rubbed his brow. Once more a nervous tongue darted out and licked at nervous lips. Right elbow on the door, head in hands, he stared out the window at the meagre crowds lining the streets (people who were mostly there to make sure he went away.)

'I'm going to have to resign,' he said, his voice shaking. Igor perked up, his own heart thumping. This news at least got Barney's interest. Williams looked shocked.

'Why? My God, why?' he said, with great drama. 'What is Wormwood, who is Wormwood? Is it an insurance scam? A woman?'

The PM didn't reply, his face once more returning to the ashen grey which it did when he was away from the public eye this day, and he allowed himself to face the inevitable truth. Finally he stared sharply at Williams, his eyes full of melancholy and sorrow.

'It's a woman, Sir?' said Williams, reading the look. 'A woman?'

The PM held his gaze for a few seconds and then dropped his eyes. If only, he thought, it was that simple.

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1141hrs

L
ate in the evening of the final day before polling. The ballot boxes would open at seven a.m. the following morning and the next five years of the country's future would be decided. (Not that there were actually any differences between the two main parties, so in fact the election was of little importance.) The PM stood at his office window looking down at the damp pavements below. It had been the longest day of his life, a day when every conceivable thought of revenge and resignation and desperation had coursed through his head.

Bledsoe had given him until five a.m. on election day to make up his mind. Another five hours and nineteen minutes to decide if he wanted to walk away from politics for good, or stand up and face the consequences, should the contents of the small wooden box be made public. Just the thought of it had his insides squirming, the thought of his dark secret being shown to the media for public consumption. And yet, he could not bring himself to walk away.

If only, he had begun to think once the initial shock had died away, if only he could find out who Bledsoe really worked for. Besides the CIA and MI6 of course. If only he could discover the true paymasters behind this outrageous threat to his premiership.

The PM turned and looked down at his desk, littered with papers and the remnants of a late night Chinese, which had failed to settle his stomach. For the first time that day he steeled himself and felt the determination begin to flood through his bones. He gritted his teeth, his lips clamped together. Maybe there was still a chance, maybe there was indeed a way which would allow him to escape from this perilous position.

'Barney Thomson,' he said quietly to the empty room. 'Get me Barney Thomson.'

0323hrs

T
he earliest start on polling day by a sitting PM in living memory. However, he wasn't up and about in order to do some last minute campaigning. He had his own immediate future and the future of the entire country to think about.

He stood at the office window looking out at the night. Very early morning, but dawn was not so far away. He'd had a couple of hours sleep, but now he was wide awake, alert and ready to fight for his political life. A cup of coffee, a day-old Danish – which is always better than a day-old doughnut – a clean shirt, fresh determination, and stiff new starched underpants.

There was a knock at the door and it opened to reveal Barney Thomson, who walked in already clutching a cup of tea. Barney, too, was wide awake.

'Barney,' said the PM, 'come in, please. Sit down, we need to talk.'