Ivory Nation, Andy Maslen [e manga reader .txt] 📗

the Parachute Regiment before that, hadn’t survived thirty years in uniform by rolling over corpses and taking a face full of shrapnel.

‘What can I do for you, Prime Minister?’

‘Surely you can guess?’

‘Not sure I can, actually.’

‘Very well. I’ll spell it out for you.’ A beat. ‘Dobbin.’

As his nickname left Tammerlane’s lips, Don knew the jig was up. Tammerlane had been digging. Deep. And someone had spilled their guts.

‘All ears,’ he managed.

‘This little outfit of yours. What was it called? Ah, yes. The Department. Such an innocuous-sounding moniker,’ he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. ‘Makes one think of IT. Or HR. Anyway, you’re cancelled.’

‘What?’ Don said.

He’d known what was coming. Nevertheless, hearing it brought him to a peak of anger he hadn’t felt for a long time.

‘You heard, Webster. I’m shutting you and your evil little death squad down.’

‘You can’t. We report—’

‘To the Privy Council. Yes, I know. Hey! I have an idea. Why don’t you call your handler there and ask her what’s going on. Then call me back. Your secretary, Molly, was it? She has my number.’

The line went dead.

Don had to squeeze his eyes shut to dispel the mounting sense of unreality that had built during the short conversation with Tammerlane.

‘What is it?’ Acheson asked, sitting forward in his chair, his forehead creased with concern.

‘Bloody hell, Nick. He’s shut me down. Hold on, I need to make a call.’

He pulled out his own phone and swiped through the contacts until he reached the woman he wanted. She answered before he’d even heard the first ring in his ear.

‘You heard, then?’ was all she said.

‘Hattie, tell me you have some sway in this. The Privy Council—’

‘Is no more. He disbanded us, Don.’ Her voice caught, and for the first time since Joseph ‘Call me Joe’ Tammerlane had swept to power, Don felt something he hadn’t felt for a very long time. Fear.

Don gripped the phone tighter.

‘What?’

‘There is no Privy Council. It’s been advising the monarch since the thirteenth century and Tammerlane drew a red line through it like an unnecessary item in the budget.’

As she explained Tammerlane’s brutal action, Don listened with half an ear. But his mind was on other matters. The assassination. The BBC interview just after his election victory. The press conferences. The fawning newspaper headlines. The postponement of the Defence Spending Review. The interviews on breakfast TV. Nick’s mauling at the hands of Tracy Barnett-Short.

Britain was sleepwalking straight into a coup, just as Acheson had said. And unlike the ill-fated attempt some years earlier by the blonde billionaire, Sir Toby Maitland, this had been achieved with the ballot, not the bullet.

‘Hattie, I have to go. I’m so sorry. I’ll be in touch.’

He called the number Tammerlane had given him.

The reply spoke volumes. Calm. Confident. And with an amused undertone. Like a cruel child caught out pulling the wings off flies and not caring.

‘This is Joe.’

‘What have you done, Tammerlane?’

‘I see respect has left the building. No “Prime Minister” this time, Don? So much for old habits.’

‘We’ll stop you. You won’t get away with this.’

Even as he said it, Don realised how much his threat rang hollow.

‘Won’t get away with this?’ Tammerlane echoed, clearly amused. ‘Don, this isn’t Scooby-Doo. I’m re-fashioning this country to be fit for the people. And, purely out of interest, who is this “we” you’re talking about?’

‘The heads of the armed forces. The intelligence community. The people who are true patriots, loyal to the Crown and to this country.’

With a heavy feeling in his gut, Don realised that he already knew the essence of what Tammerlane would say next.

‘You’re an old soldier, Don. And I respect you for that. But I cut my teeth in business. And the one thing I learned was that the man who holds the purse strings has all the power. In this case, that would be me,’ he said. ‘How long do you think those people you speak of will stay loyal once their wages stop arriving in their bank accounts, hmm? Because the chancellor of the Exchequer has just made one or two adjustments to the Government payroll. I think you’ll find you and your cronies in your gentlemen’s clubs may have the fire in your belly, but those you control…well, let’s just say I can hear them asking which way to the nearest Job Centre.’

Tammerlane’s mocking tone was replaced by the steady hum of a dead line.

Don looked straight at Acheson.

‘It’s over. He’s won.’

38

VIENTIANE, LAOS

Gabriel stepped out of the air conditioned arrivals lounge ready for, but still knocked back by, Vientiane’s soupy air. The airport information board had declared that the outside temperature was 32 Celsius. The humidity, approaching one hundred per cent, made it feel hotter still. Each breath was like drowning on dry land, so thick and wet was the atmosphere outside.

Palm trees grew in a long avenue leading away from the terminal. Everywhere, lush green plants competed with each other, and their human neighbours, to take up as much space as possible. The sounds of the city assailed Gabriel’s ears just as the heat had attacked his skin. Mopeds buzzed, high-mileage diesel engines clattered, dogs barked and pavement hawkers yelled.

He walked towards the end of the queue for taxis, unfastening another button on his shirt. Before he’d righted his suitcase, a uniformed attendant in a hi-vis vest and peaked cap rushed over.

‘Sir! Sir!’ he called from two paces out. ‘You need taxi? You are American?’

‘English. But yes, I do need a taxi. Is this the right queue?’

The attendant nodded, but then scowled at the fat woman in front of Gabriel who was regarding them both with barely concealed interest.

‘These are peasants here from the country. You do not queue with them, Sir. Here.’ He grabbed the handle of Gabriel’s suitcase. ‘I take this for you. Follow me, Sir, follow me.’

With head held high and shoulders back, the attendant swept imperiously past the queue, ignoring the shouts and what Gabriel imagined must be fairly salty Laotian curses.

Feeling a mixture of