Whispers of betrayal

SIXTEEN

The destruction of the power station was not the only bomb incident that night. In the early hours of the morning the emergency services received an anonymous phone call through a computerized voice synthesizer. It indicated that a car parked in front of a terraced house in the quiet residential street of Mayday Avenue in Clapham contained a bomb. It also mentioned that the bomber was asleep inside the house.

Sky News received similar information, equally anonymously, about fifteen minutes later.

There was immediate suspicion about the authenticity of the report, given the rather picturesque name of the location. Mayday Avenue? But who the hell was going to take any chances after a night like this? So, as quietly as is possible at two in the morning, Mayday Avenue was cordoned off and sniffer dogs sent in.

When they reached the suspect car, the dogs responded with great enthusiasm, running round and round in excited circles. When the VIM check revealed that the car had heavyweight military connections, things began to fall into place. Could this be the car that had transported the explosives to Battersea? Were the bombers inside the house?

Only one way to find out.

An inspection through a night scope revealed that the downstairs windows were encased in metal security grilles. The front door also appeared to be reinforced. Perhaps nothing more than sensible precautions against domestic burglary, but also potentially the signs of fortifications around a bomb factory. There were other problems. Access from the rear was severely impeded by a series of gardens and walls – they wouldn't be able to get a large force of men in that way without disturbing every cat in the neighbourhood. It had to be through the front door.

Oh, but there were so many uncertainties. They had no idea about the internal layout of the house, or who might be sleeping where. If there was a bomb in the car, should they try to disable it first? Or try to evacuate the rest of the street, knowing that it would take hours and almost certainly alert the bombers? No, it had to be simplicity and speed. Delay was not an option, if for no better reason than that Sky TV had already arrived and other news cameras would be hot on their heels. Soon this place was going to be a circus. They had to go straight in.

A bomb-squad Land Rover was driven up as close and as quietly as possible to the front door. One end of a metal chain encased in sound-smothering plastic was attached to the chassis, while the three-foot metal bar that dangled from the other end was carefully dropped through the letter box. It was known as an 'enforcer'. Then the engine of the Land Rover was gunned and the clutch slipped. The metal chain went taut, the Land Rover hesitated as the tyres scrabbled for more grip, then lurched forward several yards. In its wake came the noise of splintering wood, and what remained of the front door of Number 27.

Suddenly Mayday Avenue was filled with the sounds of chaos – the angry shriek of a car alarm as the flying door buried itself in the windscreen, the howling of terrified dogs, the grave-spinning screams of officers as they poured though the hole in Number 27. Then the sound of other doors being smashed in, followed by more screams.

It was over in seconds. Only two occupants and no resistance, which in the circumstances was scarcely surprising. It's damned difficult to resist when you're caught naked in bed with your arms and legs wrapped around each other.

The sounds and sights of that night were captured for posterity and profit by the cameras of Sky TV. They could see it all from their position at the far end of the road, shooting from the bedroom window of a house owned by a quick-witted Asian family who had demanded five hundred pounds cash-in-hand for the disruption. Had they known it they could have bargained for considerably more. The video images were dark and grainy, lit only by the street lamps and lacking the sunlit clarity of the footage from the Iranian Embassy siege, but it was an exclusive on a night when competing newsrooms would slit veins for half as much. Sky had it all. The dark shapes of police in Kevlar-coated body armour scurrying along the road, crouching for every inch of cover. The Land Rover reversing into position. The brief tug of war and its explosive aftermath. The sudden invasion of the house and, only minutes later, the faint image of two bodies being dragged through the remains of the front door and spreadeagled on the pavement outside. Even in the poor light it was possible to see that one was a woman. It was only when the man started struggling that anyone was able to tell that the two were still alive. A boot on the back of the neck rapidly put an end to the protest.

There are many ways for a man to be humiliated. Being caught in the wrong bed is, perhaps, reasonably common, being suspected as a terrorist considerably less so. But being dragged goose-bump naked into the street and left lying face down on the freezing pavement for many minutes is a humiliation afforded to few. Yet then to be raised, arms manacled behind the back, and presented to television audiences around the world, with your career, self-respect and manhood withered in the cold, is all but unique.

For Colonel Abel Gittings, OBE etc, these humiliations had come all rolled up together.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Goodfellowe heard the blast through ears deadened by alcohol. He was drunk and wallowing in it. Not entirely his fault. The diet had lowered his resistance to alcohol, and what little tolerance remained had been finished off by Elizabeth.

It wasn't as if he didn't understand. He wasn't an insensitive, uncomprehending male. She had problems that weighed heavily on her humour and left her distracted, unable to concentrate on the little rituals of courtship. 'It's because I love you that I don't have to pretend,' she explained. That was good enough for Goodfellowe. If the magic of their moments together had waned, squeezed aside by her money problems, it would only be for a short while. One of those relationship things. Anyway, he'd been distracted, too, with COBRA and all. Power was a great aphrodisiac, but there was the other side of it which could also leave you knackered at the end of the day. No matter, soon it would all be over, they'd be back to normal, and then he would find that memorable moment when he would ask her to marry him and they could put it all behind them, in bed, like they used to. Hell, no rush.

So, late that evening after the final vote, he had dropped in at The Kremlin. He wanted – needed – to say hello. Cheer her up, if he could. Or was it to cheer himself up? Anyway, he arrived.

'Missed you,' he explained.

'Me, too,' she replied, and meant it. She squeezed him briefly but passionately, then sat him down at one of the tables and proceeded to fetch a very special bottle of Crimean champagne, from Massandra, which came with the crisp hint of gooseberries and apple blossom and was the colour of gently baked biscuit. The cork came out with an understated explosion of joy and he relished the moment, playing with the wine, pushing it around his mouth with his tongue before allowing it to trickle slowly down the back of his throat. 'This is superb. Terrific. To what do I owe this pleasure? Guilt?' A clumsy joke which deserved its fate of being ignored.

'Celebration. I think I've found a new financial backer,' she muttered softly.

That's fantastic. Who?' he responded with enthusiasm.

'He's called Ryman. An old friend.'

'Wonderful!' Then Goodfellowe paused, ransacking his store of recollections. 'Ryman. An old boyfriend.'

'You've got an excellent memory, Goodfellowe.' She smiled for the first time that evening. It needed more practice, he thought, the first attempt was unconvincing.

'Forgive my stupidity, but why would an old flame of yours want to lend you money?'

'For old times' sake, stupid.' Her lips puckered, she was flirting, the old Elizabeth, teasing him, but the eyes still looked serious, bitter-sweet. 'Don't tell me you're jealous, Tom. It's the first good thing that's happened in ages and I could really do without any menopausal male inadequacy right now.'

Was he jealous? Perhaps. But to him her words seemed an unnecessarily brutal attempt to put an end to that line of conversation.

She had mentioned the name only once before, during a long and deliriously alcoholic evening they had spent at a country hotel owned by a friend of Elizabeth where, in an elaborate game of foreplay, they had left their bedroom strewn with the confidences of their previous entanglements – although, to be fair, most of the confidences had been Elizabeth's. He'd been married so long that his only entanglements in recent years had been with duvets. She'd used her past conquests to goad him, to inflame his male possessiveness to the point where he needed to invade and reclaim every inch of her. If she lived to be as old as Methuselah she was never going to forget the drapes of that particular four-poster. They had loved and laughed, then loved a lot more, and he had forgotten all those names and past indiscretions of hers that had scratched away at him – until now.

'He lives in the South of France,' she hurried on, as though aware that some further explanation was called for but keen to redirect it onto safer, foreign fields. 'Bit of a playboy. Inherited squillions.'

'And keen to help.'

She nodded and held his gaze.

'So what happened between you two? Why didn't it work out?'

'As I said, he's a playboy. I found him in bed with my best friend.'

'Thought you didn't do jealousy.'

'I don't. But I do a fine line in revenge. I put sugar in the fuel tank of his yacht on a night when they were sailing off for one of their little trysts. Left them stranded for hours. They had to be rescued by the coastguard, got lots of local publicity. Unfortunately, she had told her husband she was going to a cookery class.'

'Ouch. And he forgave you after that?'

'The boyfriend? Well, that's all ancient history.'

Until now. Goodfellowe chided himself. He had to be grown up about this. 'Well, if he's willing to help, that would be…' – he stretched for the word, almost stumbled – 'helpful.'

'It would be a loan. I'd have to let him have a share of the restaurant until I'd repaid it. But he wouldn't interfere.'

'A sort of -' he was about to say 'sleeping partner' until something he was forced to recognize as menopausal male inadequacy gripped him savagely by the throat. 'You've discussed this with him?'

'Of course. We had dinner last week.'

The night of that little white lie, no doubt.

'I'm hoping we can finalize it this weekend. It would be a great weight off my mind, Tom.'

'Mine, too.' Hell, he'd got to stop being such a wimp. This was great news. A new start for Elizabeth, a new start for them both. He squeezed her hand, leaned across the table and kissed her. Perhaps it was the table between them that prevented it from being the long and lingering expression of desire he had intended to show. 'I'm so happy for you. Well done.'

'Thanks, darling. Means me playing hooky next weekend. He can't come to London. I've got to meet him halfway.'

'Where?'

'Paris.'

At which point Goodfellowe had decided to get seriously drunk.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= If modern Prime Ministers lead less decadent lives than some of their predecessors, it's perhaps less to do with their virtues than with their diaries, which are crammed. Packed to the point of exhaustion. It leaves them little time to relax, still less time to think. Scarcely time to fit in a good game of cricket or a prayer meeting, let alone a torrid affair.

There is no privacy in Downing Street, even in the upstairs apartment, where the door swings open through day and night as messengers come to demand the attention of the nation's overworked leader. Whatever it might have done for Lloyd George, home turf is no longer suitable for Prime Ministerial mischief. Booking into a hotel under the name of Mr and Mrs Smith is also unlikely to bring the privacy required, while popping round to her place for a quiet evening has its own desperate limitations when two cars crammed with bodyguards have to tag along. So modern Prime Ministers behave themselves, not so much because they are beyond temptation but rather because temptation is beyond their reach. Pity the same can't be said of their Cabinet colleagues.

The nation's leaders are prisoners of their diaries, and all too frequently in their memories the dates become scrambled and details blurred, yet there are some moments they remember with the clarity of finest Irish crystal. Moments such as escaping assassination. Declaring war. That first visit to kiss hands at Buckingham Palace. Viewing the videotapes of what the bishop got up to in the lift of the US Embassy during the Independence Day celebrations.

Jonathan Bendall had woken after only three hours' sleep with the feeling that this would be one of those days he would remember without any need to refer back to his diary. He'd grown used to lack of sleep, to anxiety, to being disturbed by the thought that events were stretching beyond his control. But today things would be different. The breakthrough had come. It was just as he had said, they were bombers and there was blood on their hands. By a stroke of good fortune it was their own blood. Well, that's what came of playing with fire – and messing with him.

He strode into COBRA with a sense of expectation. This was the beginning of the end for the Beakies. They'd been caught, quite literally, with their trousers down – he was still chuckling at the news pictures. He could see the headlines now. 'Beaky's Gone Bonkers!' God was good. Truly a moment for the memoirs. He made a mental note to pursue his gentle enquiries about literary agents.

'So, Commissioner, to business,' Bendall began, taking his place at the central seat and opening his folder with an officious snap. He was anxious to get on with the matter, like a top spinning at full speed. 'Let's start with our little lovebird, shall we? What have you got for me?'

The capital's chief policeman swallowed. 'Very little I'm afraid.'

The top hummed aggressively. The atmosphere in the room seemed to grow several degrees cooler.

'We're still pursuing enquiries, Prime Minister, but to all intents he is no longer a suspect.'

'But this man's a soldier-'

'Correct. A Colonel Abel Gittings.'

'A bomber!'

'A Signals officer.' He began reading highlights from the file. 'On the directing staff at Camberley – commanded an electronic warfare unit in Germany – then Military Secretariat – now Deputy Director Defence Strategic Plans based here in Whitehall. Man's got a track record as long as your arm.'

'So'd Philby.'

'Caught in flagrante, for sure, but that seems to have been the sole purpose of this little exercise. To set him up. We pulled his car apart, as we did the house of his girlfriend and his London apartment. Now we're doing the same to his family home, although his wife is taking it all rather badly. But so far we've found exactly nothing. Not a sniff of explosives or bomb-making equipment – apart, that is, from the traces of plastic explosive smeared on the outside of the car to leave a signature for the dogs. But inside – nothing. He's clean. Almost certainly he has no connection with Beaky.'

'Nothing to do with the cutbacks? That's at the root of all this, isn't it?'

'No more than many. Gittings isn't an axeman, he's merely a very capable survivor. At least, has been, up till now.'

The top wobbled slightly before spinning on.

'So what about the other one? The dead man at Battersea? What about it, Defence?'

The Secretary of State for Defence scanned his briefing note. 'Albert Andrew Scully. Parachute Regiment. Age 42. Regimental Sergeant Major. Falklands veteran. Decorated for bravery, including a Military Medal and a Queen's Gallantry Medal. Impeccable record – until two years ago. He was injured in Germany, disabled out. So he wasn't part of the general cull, strictly speaking.'

'And since then?'

'Nothing. No trace of him anywhere. We're still checking, but nothing so far from the DHSS or the police. He's got no bank account, hasn't even taken out a library book -'

'His disability pension?'

'Goes straight to his wife, and he's had no contact with her either. For two years RSM Scully seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth, until last night. Quite the invisible man…' He trailed off. This wasn't what Bendall wanted to hear, not at all.

Another turn of the top. 'Jumpers? Come on, Jumpers. What about the bloody media?'

'They're desperate for news on the dead man but so far we've been able to give them… well, practically nothing.' He glanced at Defence, almost sulkily. 'Doesn't help that he's a war hero, not at all.' Jumpers had sleepless eyes and was suffering from the symptoms of incipient flu. The strain was getting to him. His words were imprecise, his enunciation often trailing away as it stumbled between the East End and Night Nurse. 'I've got the Ministry of Defence working on whether we can establish a track record for him as a drunk or wife beater, that sort of thing, but we're still struggling to work out a line to take on the main issue.'

'Which is?'

'Uhh, why we shot a man who appears…' – Jumpers sniffed, battling with catarrh. Or was it conscience? – 'well, to put no finer point on it, why we killed a man who wasn't even armed.'

'Because he was a bloody bomber!'

'Precisely, but-'

'But what? Why is there always a but? He blows up half of London and there's a but?'

'You see, the Mirror's wondering why only three of the chimneys went down. It's trying to stand up a theory that he died trying to stop the bombs going off. That we shot the wrong man. And several of the newspapers are focusing on the fact that there was remarkably little damage, although I'm encouraging the Express to do a feature on the dogs' home. Apparently many of the dogs became hysterical and three have had to be put down. Could provide some helpful colour.'

'Save me.' Bendall buried his head, the enthusiasm drained from his day. He found himself envying the dogs. 'Pass the anaesthetic'

'Beg pardon, Prime Minister?'

'A joke, Jumpers, a joke. But you're right, it's a bloody awful moment for humour. Is there more?'

'That's it, really. The chimneys fell inside the empty walls of the power station. Just a pile of rubble waiting to be carted off. Apart from the one remaining chimney.' Another sniff. 'I'm afraid that's going to be a cartoonists' paradise.'

'Was the fourth chimney damaged?'

'Apparently not.'

'I want it down anyway. We can't have the bloody thing mocking us from halfway across London.'

'Ahem, I hate to be the one bearing bad tidings, Prime Minister-'

'The one?' Bendall whirled once more in the direction of the interruption. It was the Cabinet Secretary.

The Cabinet Secretary remained undaunted, a resolution borne of having hacked her way through the mandarin grove to become the first female Cabinet Secretary in history. She wore a face that was lined but defiant, the marks of a woman who had devoted the best years of her life to men, all of whom had been left in no doubt that she believed she could have done their job far better. Many of them had agreed. So when she talked, they listened. 'There may be no easy means of demolishing the remaining chimney.'

'Why the hell not? The other three put up remarkably little resistance.'

'It's listed. Grade Two. Which means that by law the owners have a duty to rebuild, unless given dispensation to demolish by the Secretary of State for the Environment, Transport and the Regions – which, in light of the enormous expense involved in rebuilding, they will undoubtedly seek. But that would inevitably be bitterly opposed by English Heritage and the conservation lobby who've spent the last twenty years battling to keep the thing standing. Meanwhile, no matter what course of action is proposed, it's my judgement that we can rely on the local residents of Battersea to be split absolutely and militantly down the middle between those who want it up and those who want it down. I can foresee a fresh set of planning enquiries taking years.'

'Your foresight never fails to inspire me, Dame Patricia.'

Bendall was growing giddy. Tops, once they begin to lose their equilibrium, never recover. 'So let me get this straight.' He began counting on his fingers. 'We've got a suspect who's not a suspect. A body who is, apparently, nobody. A national monument that's been turned into the biggest circus site in the city. And nobody's got a clue.' He studied his palms as though trying to read his own future. The top gave a final savage, unbalanced twist, then toppled. 'Well, with apologies to the ladies present, fuck it.'

The blatant obscenity jarred upon the meeting. The complaint of a man in considerable trouble. It made him dangerous, required wary walking. It also had the effect of jarring Goodfellowe to life. He had been sitting quietly, feeling desperately hung over, oppressed and claustrophobic in this day-less room, struggling to keep up with the discussion and struggling even more to sort out his own problems.

Of course he was jealous, he couldn't deny it, he hated the idea of Elizabeth going off to Paris to spend time with another man, but he had also come to realize that he was suffering from something deeper than simply a dose of male insecurity. He was back in that mire of despair where his private life and his political life were heading in separate directions. It was scarcely a new sensation, for his wife, Elinor, had never enjoyed politics. She'd been there at his side, loyally but without any real interest, never truly participating. In truth, holding him back. Not her fault, not anyone's fault, no one to blame, just one of those things. Yet a modern political career is all-consuming, there is no room for the half-hearted, no longer time as there once had been for a politician to read or write great histories in the manner of a Macmillan or a Churchill. The profession of politics is all-consuming; it hadn't consumed Elinor with interest, but it had finally, and tragically, consumed her. As they said, just one of those things.

When, finally, he had crawled out from beneath his guilt and self-loathing, he had found a new start. He had also found Elizabeth. Out of misery had come an opportunity for a second chance, with a woman who was not only interested in his career but almost insistent. She would become one of the great political hostesses, working alongside him, cementing his political alliances as he pushed his way back up the slippery slopes of Westminster, through COBRA, into the Cabinet, then perhaps even into Downing Street. A career that would emerge from the darkness of its recent years.

So why did he feel so bloody miserable? Was it still the malevolent remnants of his guilt? The turning worm of jealousy? The fact that the closer he and Elizabeth got, the more they seemed to be passing each other by like travellers in the night? The fear that on his progress up the slippery slope he would have to sit and sup with men like Bendall, and that he might lose the thing that mattered to him beyond all, his daughter Sam? His wretchedness had to be more than simply his monumental hangover.

His brain felt horridly mechanical and rusted, yet as he sat in this airless room, something moved under the impact of Bendall's obscenity. With a pitiful jolt, some part of his brain collided with another, forcing upon him the enormity of what had happened. They had shot an unarmed man for doing nothing more than ridding the London landscape of a monstrous carbuncle. It was practically a public service, not an excuse for executive execution. A man had died, and by sitting in this room he, Goodfellowe, was partially responsible.

He stirred in his seat, sufficient for Bendall to notice. 'God, you look awful, Tom.'

'Thank you. Prime Minister. But not half as bad as Scully, I'll be bound. Why did we have to kill him?'

'He was trying to kill me, for God's sake.'

'Kill you? With a bit of old iron scaffolding?' Goodfellowe's thoughts were beginning slowly to coalesce. 'Not unless he was trying to break his way into Downing Street and club you to death.'

'Not literally, man. You know what I mean.'

'I just think it's a pity he's dead.'

The room seemed to have grown suddenly stifling for many of those present. The Defence Secretary wriggled uncomfortably and ran his finger around his collar. Dame Patricia began making notes in her precise, minuscule handwriting, as though drafting a bill of indictment.

'I think these things need saying,' Goodfellowe added softly. 'And if they can't be said here, where can they be said?'

There was a moment of silence that was strained with both awe and fear, like children watching parents having sex through an open door. Then Bendall spoke again, his tone full of formality. 'Did you have a point to make, Tom?'

'Yes.' Slowly his thoughts were beginning to coalesce, emerging like a chrysalis from its cocoon. 'I think Colonel Gittings must be connected with the case.'

'But he's clean-'

'There's a connection of motive, you see. They're making fools of us' – well, of Jonathan Bendall, at least; they all knew he meant Jonathan Bendall – 'and they've made a fool of the colonel.'

'But why? He's not responsible for cuts in the military.'

'Agreed. Which makes the attack on him seem almost like a bit of – dare I use the word? – private enterprise. A bit on the side. Can anyone say whether the explosives used at Battersea were the same as were smeared on his car?'

Jevons responded. 'Forensics aren't complete yet, but – certainly it's possible. All the early indications are that both were standard Army-issue PE4.'

'So let me get this straight. You're suggesting that after they blow up the power station in Battersea they hightail it over to Clapham and have a go at the copulating colonel?' Bendall sounded incredulous.

'It's a possibility. Worth considering.'

'It's demented! Who the hell would be vicious enough to take time out to arrange for a man to dangle by his balls like that on primetime television?'

Silence. Goodfellowe didn't know, and no one else had yet caught up with him. Bendall was right, it did seem vaguely ridiculous. Then the image of gunge poured into fuel tanks of a luxury yacht came into Goodfellowe's mind, and a flicker of sadness crossed his eyes. 'A woman.'

The suggestion swept them into a confusion that left even Dame Patricia stranded.

'Oh, I see. We're going to run this investigation on the basis of masculine instinct, are we?' Bendall sneered.

Goodfellowe stared back and knew he despised the man.

'Why else would the phone call about the colonel's car be disguised through a voice simulator?' Goodfellowe responded. 'Beaky's never bothered with that before. So the voice had to be totally distinctive. I'd bet a Ministerial salary that it's a woman.'

The Prime Minister and backbencher held each other's eyes in a hypnotic contest of wills. They both knew that that was precisely what Goodfellowe was doing, gambling with his Ministerial salary.

'So,' Bendall broke the spell, 'Beaky is really Boadicea. From the regiment of Amazons.'

'Try Signals.'

Bendall shook his head slowly, disbelieving, disliking. 'How the hell d'you figure that one out?'

'Look at what they've done. Water. Traffic lights. Fairly low grade stuff. But then telephones. Now bombs. That's technical. Which means we're probably looking for expertise in communications and explosives. Signals and Engineers. So let me ask – how many female explosives experts are there who could make a real mess of Battersea power station?'

The Defence Secretary searched for someone else who might help him, but he was on his own. 'Perhaps about twenty,' he guessed.

'OK, twenty. And how many women officers have left the Signals regiment over the last few years? Probably ten times that number. And if Gittings has managed to make an enemy of any woman, there's got to be a damned good chance she's in the same regiment. Which means Signals.'

'You sure?'

'No. But one of the two's a woman,' he insisted.

'The two?'

'The CCTV has only ever shown four. Four of them stuffing up the water system. Four of them knocking over the traffic lights.'

'And at Battersea?'

'After Payne they were down to three. The watchman couldn't see for sure in the dark, but three chimneys, three chimney sweeps. Stands to reason. Now they're down to two.' Goodfellowe winced – God his head hurt.

'Two. And one a woman

'And if we can avoid shooting her in the back, all the better,' Goodfellowe added. He didn't know why he said it but, like the emerging chrysalis, he found himself driven on. It sounded like an accusation, and everyone knew it.

The Prime Minister and the Backbencher. There could be no doubt about it now, theirs wasn't so much a relationship as a collision, an encounter of fire that one day would burn their relationship to ashes. Maybe that day had already arrived. Every single member sitting around the briefing table was looking at Bendall, waiting for the sign. The Prime Minister clearly should no longer tolerate this insolent man, not if he were to retain his dignity and authority, yet he still needed him. How would Bendall act, from strength or from need? A turning point in the story of both men.

Bendall cleared his throat. 'Check it out,' he instructed. 'Engineers and Signals.' The creases across his face began to lighten. From a cast list numbering in the tens of thousands, they were now looking for a mere handful. If Goodfellowe was right, the odds had shifted dramatically in his favour. 'We need to look for someone with a grievance, or someone who's been acting strangely,' he concluded, attempting to appear as if he had taken charge of the proceedings once more.

The members of COBRA sat with their heads lowered, scribbling as though dutifully taking note of his instructions. None of them wanted to raise their eyes and acknowledge that their Emperor no longer had his clothes.

It was as they were dispersing from COBRA that the Prime Minister took Goodfellowe to one side. The top had finished spinning, now things must lie as they had fallen.

'Trouble is with you, Tom, I don't always like you very much. The damnable thing is, at the moment I can't do without you.'

Goodfellowe considered, then nodded. 'Prime Minister, I think I know exactly how you feel.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-= It is the middle of the day, the sun has at last come to London after days of dishwater skies, yet Mary is lying in bed in the small faceless hotel in Bayswater that is all she has left to call home. She is crying softy, shedding tears into her pillow for Scully whom she now knows is dead.

As her tears fall, Mary has no idea how much danger she is in. She is unaware that she is on the list of 286 former women officers of the Signals and REME regiments for whom the security services have been searching frantically during the last twenty-eight hours. She has no inkling that as one by one they have located and eliminated the others, Mary has risen to the very top of their list. She is the one who knew Gittings, who threw a punch at him in the middle of the mess, who had a grievance, who is now acting strangely. Who has left home, but no one knows for where.

Except Barclaycard.

The only advance warning Mary gets is a slight scrabbling at the door before it splinters off its hinges and she is faced by half a dozen armed men in hoods with weapons drawn and pointing at her. She is left defenceless, doesn't even have time to reach for her clothes or even to shout.

She barely has time to realize that it's all over, to wonder whether they are going to shoot her, too. She has only a fleeting moment before they grab her. She uses it to squeeze the hand of Andrew McKenzie, who is lying in the bed beside her.