Whispers of Betrayal (33 page)

The great black door swung open. For a brief moment, Bendall stood in the entrance, silhouetted by the light of a thousand exploding flashguns, hands raised aloft, every inch the Old Testament prophet come to redeem his people and lead them from adversity. Only the pillar of fire was missing. Next time, maybe.

The door closed.

‘Ambassador, I must apologize. But I hope you understand –’

‘Of course, Prime Minister. Mr Goodfellowe has been a most gracious host.’

‘Ah, Tom. Glad you could hear that.’ Bendall bent closer, almost conspiratorial. ‘You see, I am a man of my word.’

‘Why, Prime Minister, did you think I had doubts?’

As soon as he’d opened his mouth Goodfellowe wanted to kick himself. His tone was unnecessarily contentious and now, surely, was not the time to wind up the Keeper of the Keys to Heavenly Office. He recalled the advice given to him by an old mentor about the secret of ministerial serenity. What was it? Mouth shut, mind closed and sleep in your own bed. At the moment he couldn’t even manage one of the three.

Goodfellowe’s reflections were interrupted by the noise of an anxious pounding of feet that were coming ever closer, drumming their way along the corridor that led from the rear of the house. A private secretary, no longer young and with his bald head shining like a radar cone, was scurrying towards them with one hand on his stomach and the other clamped firmly to his mouth. As he drew near he released both and emitted a low moaning sound that seemed to consist solely of the words ‘Oh, dear. Oh, dear.’

‘Evelyn, what is all this? Are you sick?’ Bendall enquired impatiently.

‘It’s – it’s Beaky, Prime Minister. He’s been on the phone again. Says that if you’re going to have a reshuffle …’ He trailed off, gasping for breath.

‘Beaky? Screw his mother. Damn.
If I’m going to have a reshuffle
–
what?
Pull yourself together, man.’

The rebuke seemed to give Evelyn unexpected resources. He stopped hyperventilating and became once more magisterially Mandarin. ‘If you’re going to have a reshuffle, he says to be sure that the first resignation you announce is your own. By three o’clock next Thursday afternoon. Or else.’

‘Else
what
?’

‘Or else he’s going to take out the entire City of London.’

Just the two of them. In the Cabinet Room. Door slammed shut.

‘Four! Four! You said there were only four!’

Goodfellowe begins to protest that it was a reasonable assumption, but Bendall can hear nothing except the explosion of fear that has ignited inside him.

‘I just killed myself out there. All that rejoice-rejoice crap. I stripped naked and exposed myself in front of the entire bloody world. Because
you
said it was over.’

‘I scarcely –’

‘Why did I listen to you? Why? Why?’

‘Did no one bother to check Beaky’s voiceprint against the guys we arrested?’

The effort is futile. Bendall is beyond listening, beyond the reach of either logic or excuse. Spittle flecks his lips and a wild, watery look has invaded his eyes. ‘You, you, you …’ He tries to unburden himself, to rid himself of the tempest that is raging inside him, but finds himself unable to complete the thought, indeed there is no longer any thought process, he is running on raw emotion. He sputters, snatches at words, at expressions, but finds none of them adequate. The wild look is still in his eyes, a mixture of confusion and, Goodfellowe suspects, a little hate. The knuckles are clenched tight, turning the flesh to bleached linen.

They stand like that for a full minute as though tied to each other. Goodfellowe dares not move or speak; his whole life seems to depend upon the struggle going on inside the other man.

Finally Bendall appears to compose himself. He stops shaking, flexes his fingers to regain the feeling, begins restructuring his disarranged hair with almost feminine care and seems suddenly to be calm. He walks to the door. As he leaves he turns and speaks once more to Goodfellowe with a voice that barely carries.

‘Judas.’

Death is a ruffian on the stairs, waiting to pounce and to strike in his own time. He has become the dominant figure of our age, inspiring in equal measure vast outpourings of piety and of profit, although nowadays perhaps profit has gained the upper hand. For the young, Death can be a jovial fellow, the source of endless humour and commentaries, for the young are immortal. They are also blind. It is only as you grow older that the eyes begin to open and you can recognize Death for what he is, the ruffian, lurking, lying in wait, wanting to trip you as you climb the stairs.

Amadeus had never feared his own death. One day Death would come for him, and he had seen enough pain and mutilation to know that at times Death is welcomed almost as a friend. But Amadeus couldn’t come to terms with the death of Scully. Albert Andrew. Follower. Saviour. His brother. In the endless hours since he had killed Scully – for that is how he saw it: he had been responsible for the death of his friend – Amadeus hadn’t moved from his concrete prison of a home, the London tower block he so hated. Thank God his wife was away, visiting some relative or lover, he no longer cared which. Perhaps it might have been better had she been there, someone on whom he could focus his anger and desolation, but she wasn’t. He was on his own, and never more so than now.

It had started almost as a game, something inspired by the monumental frustration of their lives. They had been swept up in its excitement and pursued the game with a passion – all, that is, except that worthless looter Payne. He had been a mistake. A misjudgement. One of Amadeus’s many misjudgements.

Now Mary and McKenzie had gone. He didn’t as yet know how, only that they were gone, together, the phone link cut. More mistakes.

Yet this was as nothing compared to the mistake he had made in killing Scully. As readily as Amadeus could live alongside Death, he was finding it impossible to deal with Guilt. Of course, it wasn’t his fault alone, Bendall was far more to blame than he, but nonetheless Guilt tormented and tortured him for being the only survivor.

Yet even on his own he was still a soldier. With a job to do.

So when he had seen Bendall on live television, bragging, claiming victory, he knew he owed it to Scully. He had to go on. It was the only way to ensure that Scully’s death was not in vain. The only way to deal with Guilt.

But what could one man do? On his own? One man against Authority? Against all the forces under the command of Bendall? One man against the entire orchestrated might of the State?

Why, with the little toys he had picked up in Bosnia, a man could do almost anything he bloody well pleased.

The City of London is unique. It is a small historic enclave also known as the Square Mile that sits at the centre of London town. Arguably it is the most important financial centre in the world. It has more Japanese banks than anywhere outside the Far East, more American banks than even New York. It trades more foreign exchange, sells more gold, deals in more foreign equities, handles more international insurance than any other place on the globe. One pound in every five earned by the entire population of Britain is earned within this fragment of London. The Square Mile is stuffed full of money and power. And, of course, people.

It is also a place of history, a settlement founded almost two thousand years ago by the Romans beside the banks of a meandering tide-washed river they called Tamesis. The Romans defended their town of Londinium behind stout walls of cobble and stone that can still be seen today, and within these remnants of ancient walls you can find not only traces of pagan temples but also the more modern places of worship such as the Stock Exchange and Bank of England, alongside St Paul’s Cathedral and sites of less divine judgement like the Old Bailey. Temptation, forgiveness and judgement all rolled up in one.

The tiny enclave of the City of London is the single most important plot of real estate anywhere in the land, a prize beyond all others. That’s why it has been a target of invasion, of fire, of plague, of pestilence, of bombardment and blitz. It has always survived. Until now.

‘So, do you really have to go?’

There, he’s said it. Goodfellowe can scarcely believe himself, but he’s gone and said it, and in doing so has betrayed all his lack of confidence in himself, and perhaps his lack of trust in her, too.

He had insisted on seeing Elizabeth. She’d said she was tired and would rather he left it until another time, but he was not to be put off. Got straight on his bicycle and set out for Elizabeth’s mews house in Kensington. He felt a desperate need to unburden himself – he had witnessed the most astonishing sight, the spectacle of a Prime Minister setting himself ablaze before an audience of millions, flames that would undoubtedly lay waste to much of the known world. The prospects of many of those around would be turned to cinders, and Goodfellowe had already been set up as the first victim. He had to see Elizabeth.

Yet there’s more to it than that. It isn’t just Bendall pushing him away, it’s Elizabeth, too. She has problems in which he has a right to share, but sharing is the part of love she finds so difficult, and it’s beginning to show in other areas. He’s suddenly realized it has been more than a fortnight since they last slept together. Somehow they seem to be falling out of the habit. No one to blame, he’s been distracted, too, but enough is enough. Or not enough, in this instance. He’s feeling bruised, more than a little neglected, and at the same time experiencing an extraordinary sense of intoxication from the turmoil of power he has just witnessed all around him. To put no finer point on it, he feels turned on.

So he has insisted.

When she comes to bed she is naked, her beauty reaching out to him and reminding him of all their shared pleasures, but her hands remain clasped under her cheek like a pillow. She has already explained she is tired. Their bodies cling to separate sides of the bed. Somehow their minds pass each other by, too.

‘It’s been quite a day.’

‘Sure has,’ she replies. ‘Barely twenty in tonight. This chaos in London is killing me.’

‘Bendall thought he’d got it covered this morning …’

‘Not my empty tables, he hasn’t.’

‘… and by this evening he’s up to his neck in alligators.’

‘The bank’s given me a month.’

‘We’ll know within a week.’

It is as though they have heard nothing, and have lost the desire to continue. They fall into a long silence.

‘I might be able to help,’ he says at last.

‘Seventy thousand would help.’

‘That’s right. From Mr Ryman.’

She sighs, turns her back to him. Oh, but what a back. How many nights he has lingered awake, gazing at it while she slept, tracing its sensuous curves with his thoughts, kissing it gently, feeling her stir inside her dreams. Is it foolish to be so in lust with the woman he loves? And so in love with a woman lusted after by others?

‘Not the jealousy kick again. Not right now, Tom.’

‘Am I so wrong to feel that your weekend with an old lover is marginally less appealing than discovering I’ve got varicose veins?’

‘It’s wrong that you shouldn’t trust me.’

‘It’s him I can’t trust.’

‘He’s got hundreds of women.’

‘And I’ve got only you. Which is why I fight so hard to keep you.’

‘I know,’ she whispers, turning once more to face him, no longer angry. Bloody men. ‘That’s one of the reasons why I love you.’

It seems so long since she had uttered those words. She has often maintained that men are genetically constructed to lie their way into any woman’s bed, and therefore expressions of love should be treated as bearing the same sincerity as someone called Vince who works in tele-sales. ‘It’s what you do that counts, not what you say.’

Fair enough. To some extent he even agrees. So he says it. ‘Do you really have to go?’ And in saying it he reveals all the depth and tenderness of his bruising, which she’s just about to add to.

‘Of course I bloody well have to go! You know that. I’ve got no choice. The restaurant means more to me than …’ She hesitates, holds back. Even in anger she isn’t fool enough to go that far. Bloody, bloody men! ‘Means more to me than almost anything.’

‘I’d wanted to take you to Paris. Did you know that? Been trying to find the right time to ask you for weeks.’

She strokes his face, still trying to reestablish contact. ‘And we will, Tom. We’ll go to Paris and anywhere else you want to go.’

‘So maybe I could come to Paris with you next weekend.’

The hand is instantly withdrawn. ‘Why –
why
do you men always have to be such control freaks? You simply won’t accept that I can do this on my own, will you? Well, I can. What’s more, I’m going to show you I can. The restaurant is my baby, it’s my independence, it’s my life. I’m going to Paris and I’m going alone. That’s an end to it.’

She has rolled onto her back, gazing at the ceiling. The air feels suddenly stagnant, and her breath is coming in impatient gulps. ‘Look, I’ll be back Sunday evening. Why don’t we have dinner then? We can celebrate and put all this nonsense behind us.’

‘I’d like that, very much.’

They are both gazing at the ceiling now, their fingers gently intertwined in truce.

Then: ‘How’re you getting there?’

‘By Eurostar. From Waterloo.’

‘When, my love?’

‘Just before three p.m. next Thursday.’

To Goodfellowe, lying awake, staring at the ceiling, it seems that the weekend starts disgracefully early in Paris.

As he mounted his cycle the following morning, Goodfellowe realized he had failed. They still hadn’t slept together. He hadn’t slept at all.

Friday evening. The 250,000 workers of the City move from office to bar and out to their homes in the suburbs. As they depart, the military move in. By Saturday morning armed troops are patrolling the platforms of all Underground and mainline stations and barriers have been erected around the entire City. The Inner City Traffic Zone that has cordoned off a part of the Square Mile ever since the bloody IRA bombing of Billingsgate is pushed out ever further, in places beyond the City limits themselves. Commercial Street, Old Street, the Clerkenwell Road, High Holborn, Kingsway – all become
part of the defensive line that has been thrown down around the trading heart of London. Roads of every description, main and minor, are blocked with barriers and sandbags and timber balks, and, of course, manpower. Most of that manpower is armed.

From six o’clock Saturday morning the only access allowed to the City of London is by foot or by vehicles that carry a military or police presence. Policemen travel on every bus, and all bags are subject to summary inspection. Even the dustcarts carry an armed guard. Delivery vehicles are confined to the hours between eight at night and six in the morning, and are searched with particular rigour.

Men are sent down into the extensive Victorian sewage system. Its brickwork is examined for any sign of recent interference. CCTV equipment is left behind to continue the vigilance.

London has become a city under siege, cowering behind a ring of steel. A Scimitar tank is placed at the bustling intersection between Poultry, Lombard Street, Cornhill, Threadneedle Street and Queen Victoria Street, the great hub where those avenues meet like the spokes of a giant flywheel that turns non-stop, twenty-four hours a day, driving the City onwards – although the flywheel is now slowing perceptibly. A further tank is positioned alongside the Mansion House, for which purpose they have to close Walbrook, and another covers the Stock Exchange.