Oh yes, said Purnell, I know. I mean, what problem?
We got reports of helicopter activity right over the cavalcade route, and the Black Hawk needs to go that way, said Purnell.
We need that Black Hawk in the aerial vicinity at all times, and neither of us wants a mid-air collision.
Purnell found his eyes closing, and he listened some more.
Unbelievable, he told Grover, when the conversation was over. Weve got just over an hour till the President starts speaking, and the Americans are fussing about the French Ambassadors girlfriend. They say they dont want her in the hall.
And tell the boys in the chopper to clear out of the way, would you?
The trouble with today, thought Purnell, was that if something did go wrong, no one could say they hadnt been warned.
BOMB SCARE HITS LONDON read Roger Barlow, continuing to steal shifty looks at Ziggys Standard; and then page after page about the state visit.
Of course there was nothing about him. He felt like laughing at his own egocentricity.
There was something prurient about the way he wanted to read about his own destruction, just as there was something weird about the way he had been impelled down the course he had followed. Maybe he wasnt a genuine akratic. Maybe it would be more accurate to say he had a thanatos urge. By this time next week, he thought, there would be nothing left for him to do but go on daytime TV shows. Perhaps in ten years time he might be sufficiently rehabilitated to be offered the part of Widow Twanky at the Salvation Army hall in Horsham.
Catch you round, then, said Barlow to Ziggy.
Ciao-ciao, called Ziggy, the man of efficiency and ambition. He flashed his pink P form, and was admitted to the security bubble.
For the eighth time that morning, Barlow presented his bike for inspection by the authorities.
Roadblock was too modest a word for the Atlantic wall of concrete that the anti-terrorist mob had put in Parliament Square. Each lithon of black-painted aggregate was packed with steel and designed to withstand 83 newtons of force, or a suicide ram-raid with a Chieftain tank.
There was a gap through which cars were being admitted in drips, but all cycles were being stopped.
Whoa there, sir, said a sixteen-and-a-half-stone American man with a kind of transparent plastic Curly-Wurly coming out of his ear and disappearing into his collar. How are we today?
Were fine, said Barlow shortly.
I cant let you through without a pink pass with the letter P. Barlow had grown up in the Cold War, and when at school he had read Thucydides. It had been obvious to him that America was the modern Athens energetic, pluralistic, the guarantor of democracy and freedom; and therefore infinitely to be preferred to the Soviet Union, closed, nasty, militaristic, the modern Sparta. But now, on being intercepted by an enormous Kansan, just feet away from the statue of Winston Churchill, he felt his gorge rise. His eyes prickled with irritation. I am a Member of Parliament.
Oh, damn it all, he added; though as luck would have it his curse was lost in the noise of the Metropolitan Police Twin Squirrel swinging high and away towards Victoria.
Had he looked 200 feet behind him, he would have seen the ambulance come to a halt in the queue for the very same traffic lights-cum-checkpoint.
Sitting at the wheel, Jones swore. Any minute now the cavalcade would be upon them. He looked at the Americans, checking each vehicle with glacial deliberation, and checked his watch.
A ire fe Mabda ak, he said, which means My cock in your principles.
The cavalcade was now approximately twenty-seven minutes away from Parliament Square. Apart from the outriders, it consisted of thirty black vehicles, a mobile operating theatre complete with the appropriate blood supplies and a specially adapted Black Hawk helicopter in a continuous hover, intended to snatch the principals in the event of an ambush. The two permanent protectees, as they were known to the 950 American agents in London, were in a Cadillac De Ville so fortified it was a wonder it could move. The armour plating was five inches thick and designed to withstand direct fire from a bazooka or a mine placed beneath it. There was a tea-cosy of armour around the battery, the radiator and the engine block, to minimize the risk of the fuel catching fire. The glass was three inches of polycarbonate laminate and instead of allowing the driver simply to look through the windshield, an infra-red camera scanned the heat signature of all the objects in the path of the car, and projected an image on the inside of the windscreen. But move the Cadillac did, though at something less than the US speed limit.
Permanent Protectee number one shuffled the papers of his speech and touched the hand of Permanent Protectee number two. It was an insane way to travel, but kind of fun. The cavalcade mounted the ramparted expressway at the end of the M4, and West London was spread out beneath them in the morning sun, like a beautiful woman surprised in bed without her make-up.
Gee, said the second Permanent Protectee, aint that something?
She smiled at her husband, but secretly she was worried.
She had been reading the papers; she knew about the abortive raids on the Islamist cells. That was why she had furtively telephoned Colonel Bluett and begged him to take extra precautions.
Bluett had been frankly amazed, but also pleased to be made her confidant.
Yes, maam, he said. Never mind what the Brits say: that place is gonna be full of my people. I mean some of our top men.
As the cavalcade began to crawl the last nine miles of its journey, a hatch was opening on the roof of the east wing of the Palace of Westminster, in the cool shadow of Big Ben. Out scrambled the sizeable figure of Lieutenant Jason Pickel.
He stood for a moment on the duckboards, 120 feet above New Palace Yard, listening to the honking of horns down the Embankment, the protesters bleating to each other, like ewes in some distant fold. He held out his hand and squinted at it.
Man oh man, he said to himself. He stopped the tremor by gripping his snipers rifle, and walked on down the duck-board until he found a point of vantage.
Are you all right, Jason? asked Sergeant Indira Natu, who had followed him up. Indira had been specifically deputed to stay with Pickel, on the orders of Deputy Assistant Commissioner Stephen Purnell.
Not that the British cops had any reason to think of Pickel as a risk. It was just that if they were going to have a Yank sharpshooter on the east wing roof and Bluett was very keen then there was damn well going to be a Brit to accompany him.
Indira was from the SO19 Firearms Unit. She had huge eyes, rosy lips, and tiny, delicate hands, in which she now toted an Arctic Warfare sniper rifle, built by Accuracy International of Portsmouth, capable in the hands of an average marksman of bunching bullets within a couple of inches at more than 600 yards. In the hands of Indira, the gun could shoot the horns off a snail.
You OK? she repeated.
Its just that something gave me goosebumps here. I guess you could call it Dad flashbacks.
Dad flashbacks? wondered Indira. It sounded like something worrying from Sheila Kitzingers Baby and Child Care. She looked at her neighbour on the roof. He was big and blond, with a proud nose and heavy brow, and hands that made his rifle-barrel look like a pencil. He was dressed in olive drab fatigues, and had the name Pickel sewn in black capitals on his chest, as well as the American flag. She hoped he wasnt going to blab about some deathbed reconciliation with the father who never loved him.
Yeah, honey, its like a Nam flashback, cept its about Baghdad.
Tell me about it, Jason, said Indira as they settled down together. Were you scared?
Scared? Did you say scared? Jeez, I wasWhat the hell was that?
The American went rigid as percussive waves filled the air. He instinctively eased off the safety catch and now BONG the second explosion assailed his eardrums.
The whole roof vibrated as Big Ben sounded the opening carillon of a quarter to nine.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
0845 HRS
The great clock struck, and Jones cursed (something about a dog, again). The longer they stayed in this traffic jam, the higher their chances of being spotted. Surely the tow-truck man would by now have raised the alarm?
But why did he clamp us, sir? asked Dean.
I dont know.
Isnt that why we got an ambulance, so this couldnt happen?
Have faith, Dean. Has not Allah looked after us? Think of the prophet in his youth, how he became a warrior for God.
An electronic voice interrupted them. It was female, and spoke in an American accent.
Turn left now, she said. Haroun cursed. It was the satnav, determined to take the vehicle back to Wolverhampton. Much to the irritation of Jones and his team, they could find no way of silencing her.
Soon we will be in the belly of the beast, said Jones.
Make a U-turn, said the satnav, and then turn right in 100 yards.
The voice of the bossy little robot carried through the drivers window, and might have reached the ears of Roger Barlow, who was now only a matter of a few feet away; except that he was turned away and bent over.
He was trying to lock up his bike against the railings of St Margarets, just until they sorted out this business with the pass.
Not there, sir, said an American.
Where?
Not there, either, sir. I am afraid you will have to take it with you.
But I cant get into the Commons without a pass, can I? The USSS man shrugged.
Barlow stood on the pavement with his bike, like some washed-up crab, as the tide of traffic lapped through the gap and continued around Parliament Square. As he approached his fifty-second year, Roger was conscious that his temper was decreasingly frenetic. He had long since ceased to rave at airport check-ins. If his train was delayed for two hours, it no longer occurred to him to sob and squeal into his mobile. But there was something about being told what to do by this gigantic gone-to-seed quarterback that got, frankly, on his tits.
The Yank was wearing those clodhopping American lace-ups with Cornish pasty welts, a Brooks Brothers button-down shirt, and a large blue blazer. He had the Kevin Costner-ish Germanic looks that you see in so many members of the American military.