I take the final night's watch, sending Jo home for the first time in three days, ignoring her protestations that I'm old enough to be her father (and then some, I imagine Colin muttering darkly), and that she, being so much younger, would be the better choice to stay up all night once more. Despite the camaraderie we share, I'm careful to take nothing more than a mildly avuncular interest in the youngest member of our section. I have no wish to make an even greater fool of myself, for one thing, and for another, I've seen the way she looks at Zaf. As for that young man, he seems to have lost no time in getting to know as many of the new batch of waiting staff as possible: so far, the CCTV has caught him engaging in two passionate-looking embraces in dimly lit service corridors, and getting slapped in the face by a third young lady. I wonder what he said to elicit such a vehement response, and make a mental note to ask him, when the operation's over. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, seems to be his modus operandi when it comes to the fairer sex, and I can understand Jo's caution, even though her heart is in her eyes whenever he walks into the room. There's something else in her eyes too, a guardedness that worries me; Fiona would have taken her aside by now, but Ms Meyers is hardly the sort to encourage cosy little chats, and Ruth is so wrapped up in her determination to keep Harry at arm's length, that she seems unable to focus on anything beyond her own work.
Around the hotel, the usual last-night events are unfolding; brief encounters are beginning, and ending, and negotiations which will shape global policy are being finalised over drinks in the billiard room, the drawing room, the lounge… as a professional civil servant, it's enough to make me weep. All those months of careful thinking and planning, all that research and writing, all that advising and briefing washed away on a tide of alcohol-fuelled bonhomie and sealed with handshakes and drinks all round. Upstairs, the Russians are partying on – I don't think I've seen any of them more than half sober since they arrived – and in the operations centre, Adam and Ms Meyers settle in for a more or less civil-looking chat over a reasonably decent single malt. No wonder Harry's so taken with the latest addition to Section D: she's an utterly ruthless and coldly efficient field officer, with the sort of slender, brittle blonde looks he favours, and a capacity for whisky to rival his own, if the way she effortlessly keeps pace with Adam as the night wears on is any indication.
As for Harry himself, Diaspora indicates that he's in his own room, but the CCTV tells a different story. In the small hours, he weaves up the hallway, looking decidedly the worse for wear, pausing outside Ruth's room for a long moment, before shrugging and stumbling into his own quarters, alone. At the other end of the floor, where the French delegation is staying, a door slowly closes on the slender silhouette of a woman, outlined in darkness; Harry, it would seem, is back to his old ways, and why not, seeing as Ruth has turned him down flat. As for Ruth, she seems not to need any sleep at all: the windows of her room are illuminated all night. She'll make herself ill, if she goes on like this… Sighing, I look for something else to focus on, but in all the wheeling and dealing, the wild bacchanals, les liaisons dangereuses happening all over Havensworth, nothing catches my mind's eye like the sight of the light streaking the carpet outside Ruth's door. Somehow it recalls that mad Midsummer night we spent together, and the sun's rays falling across our skin the next morning, tiger-striped as we slept, sated, still entwined around each other. Watching this wretched place is turning me into a sentimental old fool, and I for one will be delighted when this operation's over. Still, there's not much more to be done; once the agreement has been officially signed, and the delegates have had one last photo call, it will be over. I've seen many such events, and they all run to much the same pattern.
As it turns out, I couldn't be more wrong.
Addressing Africa Summit, Havensworth Hotel - closing ceremony
Shortly after breakfast commences at Havensworth, something unusual happens: Adam is approached directly by President Buffong in the main atrium. The African says in a low voice, "I suggest we go somewhere where no one can hear us," and just at that moment, Jo comes bouncing back onto the Grid, looking well rested and carrying hot coffee for two, bless her. "Morning, Malcolm! So, what's going on?" she asks, her glance flicking to my screens as she hands me coffee and a hot, grease-spotted brown paper bag that smells simply heavenly. "The President of Guadec and our esteemed senior field officer are taking a little turn about the grounds, and I don't think we're meant to be privy to that particular conversation. We're still waiting for Six to tell us what they know about the Kadala parents' death, so keep an eye on the secure mail channel, please. I'll just be enjoying my breakfast out in the corridor, if you could take over for a few minutes?" But Jo is already sitting down and reaching for her headset. I slowly get to my feet, wincing at the night's accumulation of aches and pains, and notice something in one of the other CCTV feeds: Ms Meyers, standing round the back of the hotel, smoking a cigarette and clutching a mobile phone to her ear. Out of habit, I look at the Diaspora display, and realise that the phone is not registered. Oh, why am I not surprised? My stomach growls loudly, reminding me that I am holding, rather than eating, a rapidly cooling bacon sandwich, and I head for the door, contemplating confronting Ms Meyers about the renegade phone. Trust her to do whatever she pleases; she's exactly what this section doesn't need at the moment. And when she finds out about her father… well, it doesn't bear thinking about, and I don't even know all the details. I wonder what Adam will tell her…and Harry. What will he say?
When I return to the tech suite some thirty minutes later, having not only eaten, but shaved, showered, and put on a clean shirt, Jo waves me over, concern written all over her face. "I think something massive is about to go down; Adam's been on and on at Harry about releasing Baptiste, and Ros is backing him up, but Harry says it would be state-sponsored terrorism, and Six has sent the Kadala file, but I haven't had a chance to look at it yet…" I take up my station again, quickly picking up the visual and audio feeds in the control centre. "I've got it now, thanks." She nods, already scanning the highly-classified contents of the file that Six has finally managed to unearth, and I turn to what Adam is saying, and doing, on screen. "This is a classified dossier of West Monrassan military files detailing the campaign against Beauville where Sekoa has concentrated the Northern population," he almost shouts, and I zoom in on the file he is waving at Harry, recognising the CIA markings with wry admiration as he adds, "The date of the campaign is next week. Come on, Harry, how much more evidence do you need?" I glance over at my colleague. "Jo. You need to call it in, now." Her eyes meet mine, and in them I see the weight of the knowledge she has gleaned in just a few minutes. "You can do this," I prompt her, and she smiles, slipping on her headset, launching her webcam feed, and coolly breaking into the tense conversation. "I've got the file from Six on Kadala parents' plane crash. The damage was consistent with a missile attack but Six kept it quiet as at the time Sekoa was deemed to be a Good Thing." Harry pauses for a second, before telling Adam quietly, "I want no one else involved," making it clear that whatever happens next will be on Adam, adding for emphasis, "The next hour never happened." My God, they're actually going to do it, I think, horrified, and only realise I've voiced my thoughts aloud when I see Jo's stricken expression. "Should I not have said all that?" I smile reassuringly, "You did brilliantly. It's Harry's decision now, and Adam's, and they've made it based on the intel and analysis available at the time." On the CCTV, I see Adam entering the little room where Miss Kadala is being held, and then kill the feed, as Harry has instructed; plausible deniability, as our trans-Atlantic cousins would call it, is of critical importance at times like this. Whatever Adam is planning, whatever is about to happen, is an unknown factor, and I hate unknown factors, especially at the tail end of a long and highly complex operation. My heart rate escalates sharply, and I concentrate on trying to keep my breathing steady as my anxiety levels rise, not wanting to give myself away to Jo; the junior officer doesn't need to know that we are now sailing in uncharted territory, and quite possibly may be about to fall off the edge of the map altogether. Here be dragons…
What happens next will never appear in any official report of the Havensworth summit: even writing it here is a very great risk, but I feel compelled to set the record straight, to stand on the side of truth. Perhaps one day, long after I'm gone, someone will find this, and the world will learn what really happened to poor Miss Kadala.
Adam releases the young woman from the room in which she has been confined, and I watch in trepidation as she makes her way into the media centre; still dressed in her waiter's uniform, she collects a presentation bouquet of lilies and joins the other staff in the dignitaries' reception line, hiding her pistol beneath the cellophane-wrapped flowers. As Sekoa draws level with her, he glances at her disinterestedly; her lips move, but I can't hear what she is saying, for she's not wearing a wire, and the background noise of the crowd drowns out her words. I see Sekoa's eyes widen in surprise, and then the unmistakable sound of gunshots rings out, and the tall African crumples to the floor. Everything seems to blur together: panicked screams, people running out of the room, others running towards Miss Kadala even as Adam arrests her, fending off the firearm-wielding security officers of a dozen different countries, shouting out that she has been disarmed, his body arched over hers protectively. For a moment, it seems that the situation is under control: Ros directs disoriented guests out of the media centre, while Harry moves amongst his counterparts, assuring them that the threat has been dealt with. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flicker of movement on the Diaspora display; looking more closely, I see that James Allan's icon is lit up, indicating that he is making a call.
Now, who are you ringing? I wonder, peering at the CCTV display, where he is half-hidden behind a pillar in the media centre, then checking back on Diaspora, which shows another icon lighting up across the room from Allan; the phone belongs to one of the SO19 officers assigned to protection duty for the Home Secretary, and I instinctively grasp what's about to happen, even as my brain scrambles wildly to put it into words: there is a bright flash, a sharp crack! and at the same time, Miss Kadala's eyes roll back in her head, and she goes horribly limp, even as Adam cradles her fallen form and roars, I SAID SHE HAD NO WEAPON!, his voice cracking with rage and grief, his face distorted as he holds the dead girl with bloodied hands. There is something about the intensity of his emotional outburst that makes the hairs on the back on my neck stand up; Adam hasn't reacted like this since Fiona's death. I want to tell him that it's not his fault, that Allan had ordered the hit, but he's not responding to me, and all I hear from his earwig are strange noises that sound suspiciously like strangled sobs. I quickly change frequencies, not wishing to intrude on an excruciatingly private moment, but from across the room, Jo's big blue eyes are fixed on me, and I realise I'd better say something to reassure her, if only I could think what that might be, given the tragedy that we have just witnessed. "Wh…what do we do now?" she says, sounding very young, and I stare back at her, my mind blank with fatigue and shock.
Walk out of this room, and never come back occurs to me fleetingly, before I hear myself say in a remarkably calm voice, "Our jobs. Jo, we have to focus like never before. Adam's depending on us: they all are. We've got to go through everything, every bit of CCTV footage, every scrap of audio. All our jobs could depend on it." She searches my face for a moment or two longer, looking for something that I'm not sure I can give her. "Jo, this is really important. I've never seen anything like this happen before, and we have to be prepared to make our case. Are you up to it?" "I don't know," she replies slowly, "are you?" Oh, please don't ask me that, not now… Forcing a smile, I answer, "Oh, I'm always all right," sounding unconvincing even to my own ears, and she rolls her eyes. "Malcolm, please. So, where do we start?" Good girl… "With the files we downloaded from Styles: could you please cross reference them with the Sekoa and Kadala files," I instruct, and Jo gets to work, relieved to have something meaningful to do.
I know how she feels, as I begin the painstaking task of reviewing and logging every frame of CCTV footage from the time that Adam lets Miss Kadala out of the room, to his outraged and terrible despair, as he embraces her lifeless body, sprawled on the plush carpet of the media centre. At the same time, Jo and I are still the omniscient eyes and ears of the operation, keeping track of everyone and everything at Havensworth as the delegates demand answers that are not forthcoming, or make offers of assistance that Harry waves away; others seize the opportunity to slip away discreetly in black limousines, bound for half a dozen private airfields dotted around the Home Counties. I split my attention into all the different processes I am performing, like a server handling many millions of requests simultaneously, seeking to become as emotionlessly efficient as a machine, even while some remote part of my consciousness recoils in shocked disbelief at what appears to be state-sanctioned murder, with my own country playing host to an all-African assassination. Dear God, what have we become?
The Havensworth team returns to the Grid, some hours later, with the exception of Adam, who has gone home to his son, according to Zaf. "Harry says to wrap it up for the night, get some sleep, and reconvene in the morning," he informs us. "Jo, I can run you home if you're ready in the next quarter of an hour," he adds, and she doesn't need to be asked twice: her eyes flick to me, and I nod. "You've done a wonderful job," I tell her, "Just save everything you've been working on to the server before you leave." I start to do the same thing, struggling not to yawn, and in a few minutes we are powering down all systems for the first time in almost four days, compiling dossiers to send to Registry, and sweeping Starburst wrappers, takeaway coffee cups and empty Red Bull cans into the bin as we exit the tech suite. "'Night, Malcolm!" Jo chirps, setting off to find Zaf. Wearily, I raise a hand in acknowledgement, and go in search of Harry, even though my head is foggy with fatigue: I have questions, and I want answers.
Harry is not in the inner sanctum, nor on the Grid, and neither is Ruth: her work area is in darkness, and the only sign of life, if it can be termed as such, comes from Ms Meyers's desk, where she is slouched in her chair, her booted feet on the table, and smoke – smoke! – rising from the lit cigarette in her hand. Too tired and too outraged to even speak, I reach over her shoulder, neatly pluck the noisome object from her fingers, and stub it out on the sole of my shoe, glowering at her as I do so. For her part, she blows a lungful of smoke in my face, her slanted green eyes gleaming with malice, before slowly and deliberately recrossing her ankles and sliding a bit further down in her seat. "Do that again, and I'll report you to Health and Safety," I snap, holding my handkerchief over my nose in a vain attempt to filter the air. "Ooh, threats," she drawls, her glance flicking over me dismissively. "If you're looking for Dirty Harry, he's probably up on the roof, shagging that dreary little analyst, Rose, Ruby, whatever her name is. They went through the pods an hour ago, five minutes apart." I blink, caught off-balance by this exceedingly casual reference to the head of our section, and disconcerted by the vivid image my imagination has conjured up at her words. "W…what are you still doing here, then?" I ask, and she arches back in her chair, stretching both arms overhead lazily; it is a pose calculated to show off her physical assets, such as they are, and for once I am very glad that I am not like most men. "I'm waiting him out," she tells me, "I have some business to discuss." Ah yes, your reprehensible old monster of a father… She closes her eyes, dismissing me with a wave of the hand; I hesitate for a heartbeat, my curiosity prompting me to ask her what happened with Adam and Miss Kadala, before remembering that she is not to be trusted, and I despise her, besides. As quietly as possible, I cross the Grid and step into the pods, when the sensation of eyes on my back makes me glance round instinctively to see Ms Meyers staring at me, her face as immobile as stone: I can't get out of her sight quickly enough.
Once I'm safely ensconced in my car, I turn the radio up loud to combat the crashing fatigue that threatens to overwhelm me as I drive the short distance home, just in time to catch the end of the ten o'clock news. I listen disinterestedly at first, until I realise what the newsreader is saying. 'In news just in, disgraced financier and former ambassador to Russia, Sir Jocelyn Meyers, has been sentenced to twenty years' imprisonment for his role in what has been described as an attempted coup against Her Majesty's Government earlier this year. Sir Jocelyn's barrister, Mr Charles Coutts, has declined to comment other than to maintain his client's innocence…' I brake hard to avoid a car that has cut in, and listen avidly as the newsreader continues, 'Controversy has surrounded this trial, which has been conducted in a closed court and under a strict media ban. Sir Jocelyn left the court under heavy police guard, and is believed to have been taken to HM Prison Belmarsh.' Wide awake now, I switch off the radio and concentrate on driving the remaining few miles in a safe and cautious manner, mulling over what I've just heard. Belmarsh is one of the toughest supermax facilities in the country, where some of the most violent and psychotic criminals are detained; I can't think of a better place for Meyers, whom I will always hold responsible for Colin's murder, to spend what is very likely to be the rest of his life, short of sending him up the Thames to enter the Tower via Traitors' Gate.
As I drive through my own gate, and towards the house, my heart lurches: lights are on, and not the ones I have programmed into the security system. I cut the engine, turn off the headlamps, and cover the last two hundred metres on foot, heart hammering in my chest and my breath coming short as if I've been running. The front door is unlocked, and I push it open with infinite care, a can of capsaicin spray from the glovebox clutched in a sweating hand. I tiptoe towards the kitchen, where the intruder seems to be, and nearly go into cardiac arrest as a figure rushes towards me down the darkened hallway and seizes me around the middle. "Where have you been?" a familiar voice demands, and as my head whirls with the sort of discombobulation I had only thought possible in the most vivid dreams, I reply with confused disbelief, "Mother?!" as I disengage myself to reach for the light switch. "Isn't it wonderful?" she beams at me, "That awful man has gone to gaol and I don't have to hide any more, so I've come home, Malcolm. I've come home for good!" Blinking in the bright light of the hallway chandeliers, I take in the sight, speechless with astonishment and not a little shocked at her sudden return. She is wearing a pink Liberty blouse and a tweed skirt, and bootie-style beige wool slippers on her feet. There is not a scrap of peach-coloured satin or fur in sight, and her hair is wound into a neat bun, with nary a trace of her aristocratic alter ego to be seen: it is as if the past year never happened at all. "Well, don't just stand there, silly, give your mother a kiss," she says impatiently, and out of sheer force of habit, I obey. "I don't know what you've been doing, but there's no food in the house, and hardly any tea, and really, Malcolm, why on earth did you let all the staff go?" she scolds, and turns to go back into the kitchen. "I'd make tea, but I had to pour the milk away, it had turned completely," she says, wrinkling her nose, and I finally find my tongue.
"I've been on an operation for days, Mother, so buying milk has been the last thing on my mind. Besides, I don't mind drinking it black." She tuts, lifting the kettle onto one of the hobs, "If you'd just let me arrange a weekly delivery from Fortnum's…" Sighing, I shake my head; this is a well-worn argument, albeit one we haven't revisited recently. "Mother, we've been over this before, and as I've said in the past, I don't want a standing grocery order from the most expensive providore in London. This isn't Buck House, for one thing, and half the time I'm not here, and it would just be a waste, for another. If I'd known you were coming home, of course I'd have gotten some things in. How did you manage to check yourself out of the clinic, anyway?" I'm only asking out of curiosity, but her back stiffens with indignation as she sets the teapot on the bench and tips the tea caddy upside down to demonstrate just how empty it is. "Anyone would think you wished I was still there, the way you're going on. It was quite easy, once they understood that I'd only been in hiding. Then they were happy to sign me out," she answers off-handedly.
Dumbfounded, I watch her calmly making tea as if she hadn't just said the most extraordinary thing. Could it really be true? Could all of the hysteria and delusional behaviour have been her way of saying she was afraid of what Jocelyn Meyers might do to her, and if so, what does she know, or what does he think she knows? Oh, Lord… Mother hands me a brown Denby mug of strong black tea, and carries her own over to the kitchen table, along with a plate of slightly stale gingernuts; after a moment, I join her. "But, Mother, I don't understand. Why were you hiding? Had he threatened you? Why didn't you tell me, if he was frightening you?" She eyes me over her mug, but says nothing as she nibbles at a biscuit like a rabbit with a carrot. A great weariness washes over me, and I want nothing so much as to lay my head down on the table and sleep for days. "You might at least say that you're happy to see me home again," Mother observes in a hurt little voice, and enervation and guilt battles with irritation before I gather myself and say patiently, "Of course I'm pleased, but I have to say I'm a bit surprised to see you here, after my last discussion with your treating psychiatrist." I reach for a gingernut and dip it into my tea, and am unexpectedly reminded of Ruth, doing exactly the same thing at this very table; I remember, too, other things that Ruth and I did at this very table, and blush to the roots of my hair. Mother sets her mug down with a little grimace of distaste – she loathes black tea – and says, in that way she has of turning a subject completely, "The house is absolutely filthy, you know. The downstairs bathroom looks as if it hasn't been cleaned in weeks, and there's dust on all the radiators, and the silver needs polishing, and as for the state of my nice little sitting room, it's frightful, that's the only word for it. Nothing's been touched since the last time I went in there, and all the cushions need airing, and…" She finally has to pause for breath, and I see my chance.
"I'm sorry, but I'm absolutely shattered, Mum, I've been on duty since last night, and I simply have to go to bed," I tell her and get up as she replies sniffily, "You know I don't like you using that word, Malcolm, it's so frightfully common!" Yes, I know, just as I know your thoughts on practically any subject you'd care to mention… "Goodnight, Mother," I say, dutifully dropping a kiss on her cheek, "I'm sure you'll sleep well in your own bed tonight." She waves me away, still miffed, and on legs nearly buckling with exhaustion, I climb the stairs, desperate for this day to end. After a short, but deliciously hot shower, I fall headlong into bed, my eyelids weighted as with lead, and succumb to the sweet oblivion of sleep, a few lines of Keats drifting through my weary mind like the half-remembered words of an old, familiar song.
O soothest Sleep! if it so please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn mine willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen" ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.
A/N: the poem is 'To Sleep', by John Keats, and a better way to round out the crowded events of Havensworth I could not imagine. Thank you to everyone who is still reading and reviewing this story, I appreciate all your comments, thoughts, corrections and suggestions.