Whispers of betrayal

NINETEEN

The Walrus, aka the Chancellor of the Exchequer, focused his shortsighted eyes on the white tile wall a few inches in front of his nose while he relieved himself. It had been a long meeting of COBRA. No progress, little to report, apart from the news about the command vehicles. These were the vans used by the Metropolitan Police as mobile command and communication centres. The present crisis had placed an exceptional burden upon the Met, stretching the thin blue line until the elastic screamed. All leave had been cancelled and police stations stripped to a skeleton staff in order to provide as much manpower as possible in support of their colleagues in the City of London. In much of the rest of the capital, the sight of officers on the street became such a rarity that someone in authority had decided that six mobile command centres should be parked overnight in strategic locations to reassure local citizens and to give at least the impression of a police presence.

By morning, two had been stolen and another left with no wheels, propped up on bricks.

Without looking at him directly, the Walrus addressed the Lord Chancellor, who was standing alongside him, searching within his flies.

'Got to go on backing Jonathan, of course.'

'No question about it.'

'Can't give in to terrorism.'

'Specially not to a cartoon character.'

'A song, Frankie.'

'What?'

'A character from a song. Not a cartoon.'

'Well, yes.' The Lord Chancellor was distracted, still fumbling within his flies. 'You know, when I was a young man the wretched thing was always popping out at the most awkward moments. Now I never seem to be able to find it.' He sighed in relief. 'Ah, that's better.'

'You're not one of the wobblers, then.'

'Wobblers, George? Do we have wobblers?'

'Apparently, Frankie.'

'That's sad. Terribly sad, George.'

'These are sad days, Frankie.'

'I thought Jonathan made a very strong case about the moral imperative of what he's doing.'

'Yes, a very moral cause. It's sad that the voters don't seem to appreciate it.'

'London will get back to normal in a couple of days.'

'Then we can put it all behind us.'

'Well, those of us still left in Cabinet.'

'Yes, pity about the reshuffle. Unfortunate, that announcement. In retrospect.'

A pause as both of them concentrated.

'You'll be safe, George.'

'You too, of course, Frankie. Unless…'

''Less what, George?'

The Chancellor turned to face his law colleague directly. 'Sod's law. Heads he wins, and in a flush of victory thinks he can do what he wants. Or tails he loses, and we get a new broom in Number Ten who decides to do some radical sweeping.'

'Been thinking much the same myself. Not much of a reward for loyalty.'

'Little wonder there are wobblers.'

'As Jonathan would say, fuck it.'

They both proceeded to wash their hands with excessive caution.

'Good talking to you, Frankie.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-= On Wednesday the Government announced that the following day was to be a bank holiday. The Stock Exchange and other financial institutions would be closed. It was little more than bowing to the inevitable, no one was going to turn up to work in the City anyway.

They also invoked Section 16c of the Prevention of Terrorism Act which gave them authority to prevent the residents of the City of London returning to their homes that evening until the emergency was over. Only five thousand people lived within the Square Mile, mostly within the Barbican complex. Some of the more elderly residents objected strenuously, arguing that they hadn't been moved by the Blitz, weren't going to move for Beaky and would be carried out in their coffins before they'd be moved by their own bloody Government, but overall there was surprisingly little fuss. Most of the residents had already fled to their places in the country or northern France.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= It was also on Wednesday, in the morning, that, much to his astonishment, Goodfellowe was summoned to Downing Street. He was still smarting from the last encounter, he wasn't sure he should go. He only knotted his tie and left after Mickey told him not to be so bloody stupid. What had he got to lose?

He found Bendall in the sun-filled garden in his shirtsleeves. He was sitting on a bench beneath the silver birch, holding a drink in his hand. It was clearly not his first.

'Tom. Where the hell've you been? Why haven't you been coming to COBRA?'

'Because I wasn't invited.'

'You haven't been getting invitations? I'm gonna fire somebody for that. Fire the bastards, d'you hear? Of course you were meant to come.' He drank as he lied. 'Anyway, you're here. Sit down.'

Goodfellowe hadn't even undone the button of his jacket. His body language suggested he expected the other man at any moment to try and pick his pocket.

'You know, Tom, I'm surrounded by incompetence. Those other bastards are useless. Useless! Every morning they promise me solutions yet all they come up with are excuses. And now… now all they do is sit there and look like mongrels who've just been caught crapping on the carpet. So I looked around this morning and said – "Where's Tom? He's always got some ideas." You know, you should've been sitting around the table, not hiding out amongst the officials. Then I would've noticed you weren't there sooner. I tell you, Tom, I've given them everything they asked for – more men, more resources. Only thing I can't give them is more time. It's getting late…' He rolled the glass between the palms of his hands, trying to focus his thoughts. 'I need your help, Tom. You're not like the rest. You're unpredictable, unreconstructed, unrepentant, un…' He began stretching for another suitable description.

'Unreliable? I think that's the word the Whips might use. You used a rather more forthright term the other day.'

'Did I? Did I? OK, so you don't do things by the book. In the orthodox way. But that's what makes you so important. You're a stubborn bastard, Tom. I need men with a bit of backbone about me right now.' He took a swig of gin, his eyes red from anxiety and alcohol, but also suggesting an inner animal determination to fight. 'I need you, Tom. I make no bones about it. Need you. You've always come up with something. Because you don't think like the others. You don't crawl, don't read out what others have written for you, you don't borrow their words or steal their thoughts. You're the original caveman. And I need something original.'

'Sounds the sort of invitation a man can scarcely resist.'

'Unless I can stop this man I'm dog meat.'

'Not to mention the City of London…'

'Find him for me, Tom. You and your insights… maybe you can do what the rest of them together can't. Damned deadbeats, all of 'em. Police, Army, Intelligence – useless! They've given me extra protection, put machine guns in the bloody shower, can't take a leak without some bastard watching me. Done everything – except give me results! That's what I need. Results!' His lips were damp with emotion. 'They've even given the whole bloody thing a code name. Operation Icarus. Scorched wings 'n' all. But when I wake up in the middle of the night, Tom, sometimes I think they're taking the piss, 'cos at the moment the only miserable swine who's going to get scorched isn't Beaky, it's me.'

'Bit like Minos.'

'Who?'

'The king of Crete. It was Minos who Icarus and his father were trying to escape from.'

'What happened to him?'

'He died. Became a judge in the Underworld, I think. Sort of perpetual backseat driver.'

'Damn me, you're frustrating! Always off on a different planet, places where frankly I can't follow. But that's why I need you, Tom. To do what the others can't. To figure out what this is all about – what he's about. I've seen you do it in COBRA. Yes, perhaps I didn't realize it at the time, but you're the one who's always been able to keep up with him. Do it again, Tom.'

'In twenty-four hours?'

Bendall lurched forward, closing the gap between them, his eyes and tone conspiratorial. 'Do it and you can have any job in Government you want. Name it and it's yours. Home Office, Foreign Office, Trade and Industry, next door at Number Eleven, even. Anything. Sounds fair enough, doesn't it?'

He allowed it to sink in for a moment, watching Goodfellowe as intently as a roadside kestrel.

'Sounds almost like a bribe, Prime Minister.'

'Sounds to me like the best offer you've ever had, or are ever going to get. You haven't figured it out yet, have you, Tom? I'm your best friend. The man who's going to make everything happen for you. But lose me and they'll bury you, too. May surprise you, old chap, but you're not everyone's cup of tea. And nobody else owes you.'

Goodfellowe was feeling increasingly uncomfortable. While Bendall was sitting in the shade, his own seat was in the direct sun and he was beginning to stifle. At last he unfastened the button on his jacket.

'A few days ago you said I'd betrayed you, called me Judas. Now you tell me you're going to do anything I want.' He didn't try to hide the contempt in his voice. 'How can I believe a single bloody word?'

'Because I'm dying.'

That, at least, Goodfellowe knew, was the truth.

'You know I'm on my way out, Tom, you can smell it. After this fiasco, win or lose, it's only a matter of time. But I'd like another eighteen months. It'll bring me to five years in office exactly, a nice round figure. Sort of historic. Then I'll resign, but I want to be able to walk away, not get dragged kicking and sobbing like all the rest. You must realize how important that is, Tom, for any man. To leave with dignity. Head held high. Is that too much to ask?'

'You'll retire?'

'Eighteen months. Eighteen months in which you can be doing whatever job you want, planning, preparing. Giving yourself the best shot you're ever going to get of taking over from me. Becoming Prime Minister, Tom. What more can I offer?'

The heat was growing more intense, Goodfellowe loosened his tie. 'I repeat. How can I believe a single bloody word?'

Bendall twisted his lips into a sardonic smile, savouring the unfamiliar taste. He wasn't used to his own colleagues doubting his integrity, not to his face. It was another sign of just how weak he had become. His position was falling to pieces. 'OK, Tom. You want to play the tough guy. Fair enough.' Bendall turned to a folder that lay beside him on the garden bench and with almost feverish haste began scribbling on a sheet of paper. He finished and handed it across.

'There you are, Tom. Your guarantee.'

Goodfellowe read, and barely believed. The note was addressed to him. It said: It is my irreversible intention to resign as Prime Minister on my fifth anniversary in office.' The signature was characteristic Bendall, squeezed and bent at a sharp angle, like a set of iron railings that had been hit by a car.

The note flapped in Goodfellowe's hand.

'That's my word. And both your future and your fortune, Tom. With that you can squeeze me for anything you want over the next eighteen months. My life in your hands. It's worth money, too, a hundred thousand on your memoirs. But only if I survive.'

Goodfellowe paused, struggling to comprehend how powerful he had suddenly become. Bendall was tied to him now, whether the Prime Minister found pleasure in his company or not. The paper began to crinkle as he grasped it tight, afraid it might disappear in the breeze. 'Why are you doing this?'

'Because I'd happily settle for another eighteen months. I won't get eighteen hours if it all goes pear-shaped in the City.'

'I suppose I ought to be flattered that you're making such a fuss of me.'

There was a long silence, then Bendall burst into ferocious laughter. 'Special fuss? Of you? Oh, Tom.' He almost choked as he drank. 'How d'you know I'm not making the same promise to every other bastard in London…?'

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Goodfellowe is sitting alone in his office, brooding. He's been offered everything, on one condition – that he save Bendall. Yet he can't. He's spent the best part of the afternoon running through every possibility in his mind, and getting nowhere. Bells keep going off inside his head, confusing him. Now he's exhausted. His whole life seems to be stretching out in front of him, yet as hard as he tries to peer ahead he can see no further than a few hours. Tomorrow, three o'clock.

Then there's another ringing sound. His telephone. Elizabeth.

It surprises him. She rarely calls, even after all their time together, and only ever for practical things. Never to chat. To say hello, how are you, I'm thinking of you. When they are together she's usually a fount of bubbling animation, but it seems you have to be there in front of her to grab her attention. Otherwise it's an out-of-sight, out-of-mind sort of thing. And tomorrow out of the country.

But now she wants to see him – it's her turn to insist. Dinner. Tonight. Before she leaves for Paris. She knows he is hurting. She wants to make it right, to get rid of this jealousy thing once and for all.

'I don't do jealousy,' she has often said. 'It's a sign of distrust. A lack of self-respect.'

Anyway, why should she do jealousy? He's doing enough for the both of them.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= He arrives at Elizabeth's mews house in a state of distraction. Half his mind is trying to struggle with the jealousy thing, the other half struggling with the things Bendall has piled upon him. Yet the moment he walks through the door his cares seem somehow irrelevant, for there is candlelight, and home cooking, and Elizabeth who, in her forthright style, insists on taking it all head-on.

'I wouldn't go if it weren't necessary. If there were any other way. But I have to go or I'll lose my business.'

'And if you do go…'

'Oh, poppet, you're not going to say something silly like "I'll lose you"? That doesn't come into the question, either. Look, bonehead, he's my backer. You are my lover. Backer. Lover. Got it?'

'You think it so wrong that I should be upset by your going off to Paris – Paris of all places – with another man.'

'What I won't have, Tom, is you telling me who I can and cannot see. I love you, but you don't own me. So what if I once had a relationship with Ryman and cared for him. He's a man I once loved. Another time. Not now. Now is you.'

'And tomorrow?' he almost says, but doesn't.

'If I don't do this dinner, I don't do this deal. Then I lose my home, Tom.'

'Yeah,' he mutters. He knows all about losing his home. Hurts like hell.

Elizabeth feels she has made her point, he doesn't need to be beaten any further. She's going off to Paris to see another man, and if Goodfellowe doesn't trust her that's his problem. Well, not exclusively his, perhaps, a little voice inside keeps repeating that maybe she doesn't completely trust herself either, but relationships are meant to have a sprinkling of spice, a little risk, otherwise they suffocate. She's done the thing with the rose-covered cottage and the slippers and the plans for a future together, and it didn't work, left scars. Made her feel owned, used. Never again. She needs to hang on to her own identity, needs some insurance – and, for Elizabeth, that means the restaurant. So she's going to Paris, and if there prove to be a couple of complicating personal details when she gets there – well, she'll just have to sort them out. Over dinner. In her own way. Tomorrow. Whatever it takes.

As for tonight, she'll sort out Goodfellowe, that silly, confused, hurting man. Sort him out while he's sitting at the dining table. She knows she's been neglecting him, and this weekend she's about to neglect him some more, so he needs reminding just how good their love can be. Perhaps she needs that reminder, too.

The room is lit only by candles, a gentle light, a light that hides their creases. He's reaching for his whisky when he notices her standing provocatively in front of him. Suddenly she has his full attention. She takes hold of her shirt and lifts it high above her head, posing like a model in a little art studio in a garret overlooking Montmartre – no, forget Paris! Her skin is smooth and dark, just a few freckles at the top of her breasts. She'd once said she would have liked larger breasts but for him they are perfect. Great staying power. Still be there or thereabouts in another twenty years. He lifts his glass in appreciation but the whisky never makes it as far as his lips. She begins slowly to remove every other item of her clothing, rustling, swaying, teasing, as though she is seducing him for the first time, until he feels he wants her as though for that first time, too. Now she is naked, enticingly and unrepentantly naked, and he finds himself breathless – ever more so as she turns her attention to him, undressing him, stripping him, her fingers playing knowingly with every knot, every button and zip, until he has no more defences. Her prisoner. With his own trousers she ties his hands behind the chair.

She begins stroking him, tenderly, first with her lips, then the tips of her fingers, her tongue, her nipples, every piece of her. Then she is standing before him once more and parting herself in front of him with her own fingers until he would have screamed if he'd had breath. Perhaps she isn't as good as she might be at expressing her emotions with words, but there are other languages of love. She seems to know them all.

She takes his glass of whisky, raises it to his lips, teases him with its taste, begins to dribble it down his chin. The raw amber liquid flows off the point of his chin down his neck, feels cold, then begins to trickle down his chest, following a hesitant path across the folds and planes of his body until it is nearing his navel and threatening to run beyond, where he knows it will burn with an ice fire that makes him already gasp in apprehension. But her lips and tongue are pursuing the whisky down, down, down, it trickles faster, then slows, but always her lips follow, running down, racking him between fear and anticipation, tearing him between pain and excruciating pleasure, until the last threads of his breath unravel in one emaciated cry that seems close to agony.

When he is able once more to engage his brain and open his eyes, it is dark, for the candles have exhausted themselves, as has he, and he has forgotten all those silly things that have been worrying him.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= When Goodfellowe opened his eyes early the following morning, he found himself gazing at the gentle olive ridges of Elizabeth's back. Right now, in this place and at this quiet time of day, he seemed to have everything he wanted. But he knew it wouldn't last – couldn't last. Today was Thursday.

For a start he'd have to get home and change. His trousers were hanging over the back of the dining room chair with creases that seemed like the work of a student of Picasso. Love may be beautiful but there was always a price, and at very least a dry-cleaning bill.

Damnation. Now he remembered last night, and what it was about, and still he didn't want her to go.

Her bed seemed to be the place for so many decisive moments in his life – the place where so often he laid bare not simply his body but also the inner man. This was where the course of his life had begun to change, to turn away from the past and poor, mind-stolen Elinor, towards something new. It was the place where he had dug down deep into his very English psyche and admitted to passions he'd been brought up never even to acknowledge, let alone indulge. It was here, between these sheets, that he had come once more to embrace ambition. He was excessively English about that, too, for admitting to ambition left him feeling self-conscious and even a little grubby. Perhaps that was why he remembered the moment so well. Elizabeth naked, bringing him breakfast. With toast crumbs and a wrinkled newspaper. Oh, and the letter from his old school chum Amadeus. Pity they'd never got round to having that drink, and now perhaps they never would, not once he had become a member of the very Government Amadeus despised so much.

Elizabeth rolled over, in the last throes of sleep. How much he wanted her, and how much he desired her not to go to Paris. 'If there were any other way,' she had said. And, with the clarity that morning brings, maybe there was. Something he had overlooked. Something that, if he got his trousers back on and went for it, might even stop her needing to go to Paris.

He had wanted to steal half an hour in her arms this morning, claiming her, possessing her, before she went off to Paris, but now he didn't have time. He'd have to skip breakfast today.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= The time of Cabinet has been brought forward to nine o'clock. There is little formal business, a deck-clearing operation designed to leave as much time as possible to deal with whatever might lie ahead. Bendall is brisk and the rest of those gathered around the table are demure to the point of invisibility.

'Any comments on this last matter?' Bendall enquires, but there are none. He closes his folder with a peremptory snap, and prepares to rise from his chair. 'Fine. Thank you. Any other business?'

It is a throw-away line, he is anxious to get on. Already his hands are on the arms of his chair levering himself upward.

Then the Lord Chancellor coughs, as though a fly has flown into his mouth and he doesn't have the balls to spit or swallow.

'Prime Minister, I have something, if you please.'

Bendall sits back in his chair, awaiting another expression of solidarity. Good old Frankie, always ready to give support. There's a security briefing in five minutes but I can make time for this. Then get Woolly to leak it to the midday news.

'As you know, Prime Minister, we are all great personal friends of yours around this table

Bendall lowers his eyes.

'… and we owe our positions here to you personally. There can be no doubting the intense loyalty we all feel to you.'

A muted rustle of approbation from around the room. Yet good old Frankie is finding it difficult to continue. He has thought about these words throughout a sleepless night, has rehearsed them with colleagues, yet still they stumble in his throat. His hands are clasped together in front of him, knuckles cracking, as though at confession.

'We are your friends. We also have a public duty as Ministers of the Crown. Sometimes those roles sit sadly alongside each other

But not today, not today, dear Frankie. Today we are four square against bloody terrorism. Four square behind bloody me.

'I hope it might be said that you have no greater admirer around this table than myself, Prime Minister

A demure Prime Ministerial smile of gratitude.

'… and I have taken it upon myself over the last twenty-four hours to consult every one of your colleagues whom you see here. We are unanimous.'

Inside, Bendall trembles with relief. One hundred per cent. The whole bloody lot. Perhaps the rumours that one or two of them have begun to get their braces in a twist are wrong, nothing more than press hysteria. Perhaps old Frankie has whipped them into line. Dear old Frankie. He's about as useful as balls on a cardinal but, by heaven, no one can question his loyalty. Which is more than can be said for many of them around this table. Too many. Still, get through the afternoon, then start a little threshing. Chaff from the wheat, and all that.

'We are united in our determination to beat the scourge of terrorism.'

Alleluia!

'But in the process of defeating terrorism, we cannot contemplate the destruction of the City of London and the devastation that would cause to the entire country. No man, no matter how great, is worth such a price.'

What the hell…?

'Which is why all of us, every one, believes that if this threat is not lifted you must resign. By the deadline of three p.m. this afternoon.'

Bendall doesn't hear all the rest, homilies about hearts full of distress and a place of honour in the annals of our times. He is too busy searching for options. Yet as he looks around the table, no one will meet his eye. They are all against him.

He has less than six hours.

And no matter how furiously he searches, he can't find a single bloody option.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Goodfellowe knew none of this because he was cycling around Shepherd's Bush Green and rejoicing. It was an unlikely location for a celebration, not a part of London he knew well or wanted to get to know any better, but for the moment it was all he had. Moreover, it was no ordinary celebration, for the touch of inspiration that had brought him here from Elizabeth's bed had worked. Worked! And now, surely, there was no need for her to go to Paris. The good guys had won and he was desperate with impatience to tell her so and to claim his reward. Trouble was, Elizabeth wasn't answering her phone. Must be busy packing. It made him all the more impatient, so he decided to proceed directly to The Kremlin.

He called Mickey to let her know he would be late in the office.

'Where are you? Off stroking our beloved leader's ego again?'

'No, I'm in Shepherd's Bush. Woman business.'

'You didn't have to go that far. I could have set you up right here in the House of Commons.'

'Elizabeth business, idiot.'

'Oh… And the Bendall business?'

He hadn't forgotten about Bendall, but the matter with Elizabeth had pushed other things out of the way. Anyway, what the devil was he supposed to do? He couldn't work miracles. Mickey was telling him of lurid rumours, about how the press conference called for three that afternoon wasn't simply an opportunity for Bendall to issue another ringing cry of defiance. There was to be the spilling of much blood, so it was being said. Resignations. Ah, the start of the reshuffle, Goodfellowe mused, feeling exhilarated. But no, Mickey was insisting, the whispers around the corridors were of Bendall's own resignation.

Bendall? Resigning? If Bendall were to resign it would be the end of all Goodfellowe's hopes. No Cabinet post and, without that, how would he be able to hold on to Elizabeth? Everything of importance in his life had somehow got round to depending on Bendall. The thought made him queasy. No, it couldn't be, Bendall wasn't the resigning type. He dismissed it as idle gossip.

It was as he listened to Mickey turning the rumour mill that Goodfellowe's eyes wandered around the telephone box in which he was standing. It carried that antiseptic odour of very recent cleaning, yet already it was covered once more in the lurid tits-and-bums cards of the good-time girls offering everything from Swedish lessons to something called Ethiopian aerobics. Goodfellowe scratched his nose but it didn't help. He still didn't understand Ethiopian aerobics. Yet even in this place of squalor the forces of righteousness were not to be denied. A little black-and-white card had been inserted amidst the moral debris. 'If you are tired of Sin, read John 3:17,' it proclaimed stubbornly. Beneath it someone had scribbled: 'If you're not tired of sin, ring Tray-cee after 3.30 on…' Scribblers had been busy elsewhere, too. One lurid card sought new converts: 'Bored out of your knickers? Get rid of your old M amp;S, get into a little S amp;M. Ring Sadie for a stimulating new position…' Beside which somebody had scrawled 'Dyslexics need not apply.'

In the jumble of notions that were stirring inside his head, one suggestion more irrelevant than all the rest snagged upon the card and its grubby message. That of his old school chum. Poor old Amadeus, he wouldn't be able to play. Couldn't spell, so not invited to the party.

'Shut up!' he ordered.

'What…?'

'Be quiet a minute. Let me think. There's something…' He collided with the thought yet again.

Amadeus. Couldn't spell. Not invited to party. Seriously pissed off. Couldn't spell. Couldn't spell any more than, it seemed, could Beaky…

It was preposterous. Amadeus? But suddenly his schoolfriend had both motive and mucked-up means.

'Mickey, darling, need something in a bit of a hurry. Our friend Amadeus. What's his address?' But Mickey only had a telephone number. She offered to call it. 'No, don't call him, call up the Telegraph's letter page instead, they'll have the address. Find out where the hell he lives, will you? In a hurry.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Goodfellowe was cycling back down the Bayswater Road in the direction of Marble Arch, getting soaked in foul-smelling fluid from the windscreen washers of some moron's passing car, when his pager stirred. He wobbled dangerously as he attempted to read and ride.

Oh, save us all.

Shakespeare Tower.

In the Barbican.

The heart of the City of London.

Amadeus is inside the ring of steel.