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

to take up the cause. He smiled. Because he realised the answer had been staring him in the face all along. Blame the Syrians. Yes! It would work. He began rehearsing his plea to the judge.

61

HIGH-SECURITY PRISON, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, UK

Joseph Tammerlane’s trial took four weeks. During those twenty-eight days, his government was overturned by a combination of actions, civil, criminal and military. A fresh election was held. The incoming government instituted certain reforms to ensure the near-death experience of British democracy could never be repeated.

In his summing up and sentencing, which he permitted to be televised, a first in British jurisprudence, the judge outlined once again Tammerlane’s crimes.

He ended with the words, ‘You have heard the verdict of the jury. You are guilty on all counts. I hope it will ring in your ears for the rest of your life. You, Tammerlane, are nothing more than a common criminal, a murderer of the vilest kind. You became drunk on power and, in your inebriation, were willing to commit the most heinous crimes in your quest for a utopia that was never going to exist outside the dogma of your own outdated thinking. I sentence you to a whole-life tariff. You will die in prison. Take him down.’

Tammerlane was not permitted to receive any visitors, bar an official of any religion he might care to entertain. Declaring himself an atheist as well as a Marxist, he declined even this, thin company.

Nevertheless, one windy February day, three months into his sentence, a plain, grey Ford Mondeo saloon rolled up to the gate at the facility housing him.

The guard on duty that morning approached and twirled a finger for the driver to lower the window.

He leaned in, scrutinised the document the driver held out to him and nodded.

The driver rolled up the window, noticing, as he did so, the small black diamond sewn onto the right shoulder of the guard’s uniform. The red-and-white barrier jerked upwards and clanged into a vertical position.

The driver drove into the yard, parked, switched off the engine and exited the car. Rounding the back, he opened the boot and took out a supermarket carrier bag.

He walked up to the front door and rang the intercom buzzer.

‘Yes?’

‘Wolfe.’

The latch rattled and he pushed the door open and stepped into the warmth of the reception area.

The man on reception nodded, handed him a magnetic keycard and went back to his sudoku.

Gabriel walked down the white-painted corridor. At the far end, a single door waited for him. His footsteps rang out on the painted concrete floor.

Reaching it, he pressed the keycard against a black plastic pad standing half an inch proud of the wall.

The lock clicked. He pushed through into the cell. Carefully designed without a single protrusion to which a ligature could be tied.

Tammerlane looked up from a book. Gabriel saw pictures of garden plants. He was wearing a pair of grey jogging bottoms and a sweatshirt in matching fabric. White athletic socks on his feet, which were tucked into the sort of slippers hotels often provide.

‘You!’ Tammerlane said.

‘Me.’

‘Come to gloat?’

Gabriel shook his head. He reached into the carrier bag and withdrew a sweatshirt identical to the one Tammerlane was wearing.

‘I’ve come to make good on my promise.’

The following day, Aisling Connor, the BBC’s senior evening newsreader, patted her hair one last time, checked her teeth for lipstick traces in the small mirror she kept in her handbag, then readied herself. She stared into Camera Two’s lens, keeping half an eye on its red ‘ON’ lamp.

Her earpiece clicked.

‘Coming to you in five, Ash,’ her producer said.

The floor manager signalled for quiet.

‘In five, four…’

He switched to hand gestures for the final count, fingers folding down three…two…

Finally, he simply aimed his pointing index finger at her.

Aisling assumed her ‘serious’ face. The one she used to report terror incident, royal deaths and natural disasters.

‘The body of disgraced former Prime Minister Joseph Tammerlane was found in his cell this afternoon by prison staff. He had hung himself with his own sweatshirt and was pronounced dead by the prison doctor. The police say they are not treating his death as suspicious.’

After a brief and largely repetitive interview with a BBC reporter outside the gate of the unidentified prison, Aisling continued to the next item.

‘In Botswana, a major ivory poaching ring has been rolled up. With connections stretching as far as Dubai and Vientiane, the capital of Laos, the operation was said to have been extremely well-organised, well-funded and utterly ruthless. We go now to Robin Summersby in Gaborone, who is talking to Major Edward Modimo of the Botswana Defence Force Anti-Poaching Unit.’

Gabriel aimed the remote at the TV and turned it off. He gathered Eli closer. She snuggled against his right side and lay a hand across his midriff.

‘Are you happy?’ she asked.

‘Very. Are you happy?’

‘Yes. Remember we’re having dinner with Stella and Jamie tomorrow.’

‘I know. I’m looking forward to it.’

‘Gabe?’

‘Yes?’

‘You know you just said you’re happy?’

‘Er, you mean ten seconds ago?’

She pinched him.

‘Yes! That!’

‘Vaguely.’

She popped her eyes wide at the sarcasm and slapped his chest.

‘Are you happy with me?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? You know I am.’

‘Then, can I ask you something?’

‘Go on.’

She moistened her lips and in that split second he realised she was nervous.

‘I want us to get married. Will you marry me?’ she asked.

He looked into her eyes. Saw his future there. Opened his mouth to give her his answer.

His phone rang. He glanced at the screen. No Caller ID.

‘Gabriel Wolfe.’

‘Gabriel. It’s Frank Onagweyo. From Kagosi Group?’

‘I remember. What’s up, Frank?’

‘You know you said I could talk to you about it? The PTSD?’

‘Yes.’

‘You got a minute?’

‘All you need.’

Gabriel looked at Eli, at her expectant face. The crinkle just above the bridge of her nose. Her lips, half-open as she waited.

He nodded, smiled and mouthed, ‘Yes.’

Feeling a lightness in his heart that had been absent for a long time, he took the phone out into the garden.

The End

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Published by Tyton Press, an