State Sponsored Terror Read online

  ‘Christ!’ said Adam. ‘You are right.’

  Eve looked at Adam and nodded and smiled. ‘I am,’ she said, ‘I am right.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Ged, ‘tis time to get moving.’

  They emptied their glasses and stood up, as Ged winked at the fragrant ladies who dragged their eyes from the screen, especially for him.

  That was His Majesty the King speaking live from Sandringham. Now, even though it is Christmas Day, none of us must ever forget there are still armed and dangerous terrorists at large. We must all be on our guard. Here is a brief rundown of the ten Most Wanted Men. Please pay close attention; you could earn yourself a sizeable reward.

  A mugshot flashed on to the screen.

  Adam’s face.

  Ged was now at the bar. He reached across the counter and offered his hand to grumpy George.

  ‘Happy Christmas to you,’ Ged said, ‘and thanks for the drinks.’

  George muttered a reply, reluctantly took the proffered hand, and peered around the broad gypsy to see the latest wanted faces.

  The first man wanted is Adam Goodchild, also known as Adam Rexington. He is wanted for the cold-blooded murder of a senior SPATs officer.

  Eve ushered Adam from the bar, while standing in front of the screen, as she pretended to sort out her bag.

  ‘Eh you! Out the way!’ shouted George. ‘Some of us are trying to watch this.’

  Remember, there is a £200,000 reward for any information leading to the recapture of this dangerous young man. Do you know where Adam Goodchild is now? If you have any information on this fugitive please contact your nearest SPATs station on Freephone 303030 or any police station, or your local National Neighbourhood Watch Service. Secondly, Michael William Price. He is wanted on explosives charges in the City of London, where he attempted to blow up the Stock Exchange.

  An ugly mug flashed on the screen. By then, Ged and Adam were outside; Dolores in the doorway, cooing in Hawkeye’s ear, while Eve was bringing up the rear.

  ‘Here,’ said George, ‘wasn’t that the young mush who was just in the bar with that gypo?’

  ‘Nah,’ said the old woman, emptying her glass again.

  She had a picture-perfect image of the man known as Adam Goodchild set in her mind. She had always had a photographic memory for faces, and she knew well enough that the kid on the screen, and the youth in the bar, were one and the same.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid, you old fool,’ she said. ‘He was but a boy, fill her up will ya,’ handing him the scummy glass. ‘That’s the third time this week you’ve recognised somebody.’

  ‘Could have sworn it was him,’ George muttered, setting the stout flowing again, while dreaming of big rewards.

  LATER, AS THE WAGON made its way across the open forest, Ged said: ‘Didn’t put you down for a murderer, kid, and a cop killer at that.’

  ‘He’s not!’ snapped Eve.

  ‘I knows what I sees.’

  ‘They are making it up,’ said Eve. ‘Just like they make everything up.’

  ‘That’s certainly true, they can spin a yarn or two, I’ll give you that. Just so long as you don’t harm me, or my family. I’d snap your neck like kindling if you ever tried such a thing. Understand me?’

  Adam looked the gypsy in the eye and bobbed his head, partly to show he understood only too well, and partly out of respect.

  ‘We’ll say no more about it,’ Ged said, and after that, he began singing an ancient song with scary words that none of them, not even Dolores, had ever heard before, and didn’t want to hear again.

  Soon after that, darkness began hugging the woods. They would need to find somewhere safe to make camp.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ said Adam, ‘Could we leave the forest?’

  Ged pulled a face. The idea made some sense, but leaving the safety of the forest was not to be undertaken lightly. After a pause he said: ‘You want to go over the hill?’

  Adam nodded. ‘Many hills,’ he said, grinning.

  Eve was listening to every word, though acting different.

  Dolores was feeding Hawkeye again.

  ‘To where?’ said the gypsy.

  ‘Windsor,’ said Adam.

  ‘I know the place. Beside the big river.’

  Adam bobbed his head. ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘Tis a long way. Been there before, mind, but not for a good while. You want to go there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Ged glanced at Eve. ‘And you missy, you want to go there too?’

  She beamed. ‘Yes, I do. Very much.’

  ‘Then, that is where we shall go. Take some time to get there, mind, hope you knows that.’

  ‘How long?’ said Adam.

  Ged pulled a face, and peered at the new moon as if for inspiration.

  ‘Three days, it will take three days.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Eve. ‘We have plenty of time.’

  Ged snorted agreement, as Hawkeye fell asleep, exhibiting that calm innocent face that only infants display.

  ‘OK,’ he said, and that was that.

  Fifty-Two

  Light snow fell as Liz strode along Downing Street, heading toward Number 10. She tapped on the door and it opened as if by magic. ‘You are expected, ma’am,’ said the tall thin man, dressed fully in black. She was shown upstairs to an anteroom and welcomed by the same businesslike young woman she had met before.

  ‘Latest protocol suggests you might like to kiss the PM’s hand,’ she parroted.

  There would be no Call me Thelma’s this time, imagined Liz, as she was shown into the same square room where the expensive paintings displayed themselves. Moments later, Henderson the Hunk opened the door and a smiling Thelma Bletchington appeared.

  If the closeness of her recent election victory had disturbed Thelma’s confidence, she did not let it show. This was the old Mrs Bletchington back on display. She had slept better too, judging by the lack of rings around her eyes. She had lost a couple of pounds from her tummy, and the maroon velvet dress fitted like a second skin. Henderson closed the door and took up position inside the room, standing before the exit, his hands clasped in front of him, as if protecting his tackle, as footballers do, from a vicious free kick, his eyes trained on the giant Stubbs painting on the far side of the room.

  It was easy for him to stare at old masters for hours on end. He had been trained to do so on punishment duty at the Royal Hospital School in Holbrook, ordered to stand and stare at a print of the Haywain, whenever his Collingwood housemates had failed at some essential task. It served him well. He could stand and stare at old masters all day, and it helped that these were not prints.

  He came to know every brush stroke of that painting, just as he could describe the sunken barrel set beneath the water of the tributary of the Suffolk Stour, and every tiny detail on that Constable creation. His eye for detail had never left him.

  The two women met in the centre of the room, Thelma offering her hand, palm down. Liz took it and bowed and kissed the scented fingers.

  ‘So nice to see you again, Elizabeth,’ said the PM. ‘So good to be getting back to normal, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister.’

  Liz had judged the mood perfectly. There would indeed be no Call me Thelma’s today.

  ‘Come,’ Thelma said. ‘Let us sit.’

  They made their way to the same small circular table and sat across from one another.

  ‘Well,’ Thelma began, ‘exciting times in which we live.’

  Liz smiled demurely. A question or a statement? Who knew?

  ‘That is true.’

  ‘First things first. I have put through what we said.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Making you a Dame, of course. I always keep my promises, Elizabeth. Whatever else they say about me, I always keep my promises.’

  ‘I am sure you do, ma’am.’

  ‘It will appear in the next edition of the London Gazette, as these things do, and be announced in t
he New Year Honours list.’

  ‘Thank you, Prime Minister,’ said Liz. ‘I really don’t know what to say, ma’am, except thank you again, yet that seems hopelessly inadequate.’

  ‘Nonsense, girl,’ said Thelma, and she did that thing she often performed, of reaching across the table to grasp her opponent’s wrist, a quick reassuring squeeze. ‘You deserve everything you get. What you did was above and beyond the call of duty, and not for the first time, I might add. I take it, you accept?’

  ‘Of course, ma’am, without reservation.’

  ‘Good, then that’s sorted. You will receive the official correspondence by personal courier within the next forty-eight hours, and after that, your appointment to the Palace, to be presented to the King, will be confirmed.’

  Liz heard her Prime Minister’s words clear enough, yet they sounded surreal. Could this really be happening? Being made a Dame at twenty-six? Was that an all time record?

  Thelma brought Liz back to the present, by changing tack.

  ‘To business. We have other things to discuss. Firstly, you have no plans to enter politics, I take it?’

  ‘Good God no.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like you to do that, Elizabeth. You would make such a formidable opponent, and I don’t need stronger opposition.’

  Liz thought the PM sounded strangely vulnerable, as if genuinely worried that one day Liz might be persuaded to line up against her.

  ‘I will never enter politics, you can be certain of that.’

  ‘Excellent,’ smiled Thelma, and she repeated the reach and squeeze business. ‘I want us to be friends and allies. We could achieve such great things together. The truth is, Elizabeth, I have been waiting for someone to come along who shared my vision, someone I could trust in all things, even when hard decisions need making and taking, decisions that might be, what shall we say, unpopular.’

  ‘As I have said before, Prime Minister, I am at your command.’

  ‘Good, that is settled. Let’s move on.’

  Liz relaxed and sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. It was difficult to concentrate on what the PM was saying, for the thought of becoming a Dame insisted on infiltrating her brain, bringing a gentle smile to Liz’s face. What would her friends and family make of that? Thelma had adopted an earnest face, and Liz guessed the hard part was coming up. Give something, take something, she was known for it. Mrs B wasn’t regarded as the canniest of political operators for nothing.

  ‘I mentioned before that I had two new policies I want to push through in the new parliament, policies that will shake the country to its boots.’

  ‘You did, ma’am.’

  Liz edged closer to the table.

  ‘You are the first to hear this, so it’s top secret, for your ears only.’

  Liz glanced at Henderson. He stared at the painting.

  Thelma followed her eye line.

  ‘You needn’t worry about him,’ she said. ‘He is as deaf as a post when it comes to policies, aren’t you, Henderson?’ and she glanced back over her shoulder.

  Henderson didn’t blink, didn’t speak; didn’t look, didn’t breathe, by the look of him. Liz guessed he already knew everything there was to know about it; whatever was coming next, and a great deal more, besides.

  ‘See,’ she said, grinning, ‘deaf as a post.’

  Liz smiled in agreement.

  ‘The biggest problem with the country as I see it is immigration.’

  Liz nodded slowly, anxious not to interrupt.

  ‘We have already stopped it, lock stock and barrel, 100%, and not before time, dead in its tracks, and there is no doubt the country approves wholeheartedly. The policy is hugely popular, and it is working. Now, I want to take it one step further.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Repatriation!’

  That old box of red-hot coals was about to be brought back into the limelight. Liz had guessed as much. Was it a step too far?

  ‘The international community will not approve,’ she said.

  ‘The international community can go hang!’ snapped Thelma. ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse for any of them. Britain is all I care about.’

  ‘It might be considered racist.’

  ‘Don’t be so stupid! I am not talking about the blacks! I am talking about the hundreds of thousands of useless farts the European Union foisted on us over the past fifteen years. The Poles, Bulgarians, Romanians, Czechs and Slovaks, Hungrians, or whatever the hell they are called, Serbs, Russians, Ukrainians, Turks, Croats, Lemon Kurds, the whole bloody lot! This country has become a haven for every Slavic ne’er-do-well in God’s creation. Everyone in Britain knows the sole reason there has been a housing crisis in this country has been because of these jokers flooding in, unhindered. And that’s only the legal ones. There are hundreds of thousands of illegals too, working away in the black economy, and a sizeable percentage of them are criminals; we all know that. Well, we have finally slammed the door shut, thank God, albeit after the horse has bolted. Now what we have to do, is open it again, slightly ajar, shall we say, and begin the process all over again.... in reverse.’

  So it wasn’t racist, because they were Slavs, thought Liz. Did that make any sense? And how long would it be before other sections of the community became targeted. Could one, and would one, trust this woman? Not for the first time, Liz’s thinking and speaking were running on different tracks.

  ‘And how do you propose going about this repatriation exercise?’

  ‘I’ve thought it thoroughly through,’ Thelma said, a little too quickly, as if she had well rehearsed the lines.

  I thought you might have, thought Liz, and she nodded for Thelma to continue.

  ‘It will be a five year plan.’

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘They will all be offered a bursary to return home, and start a business of their own in their homelands. This bursary will be a substantial amount of money, payable one week after they have left the country, by bank transfer. The Treasury tell me we can afford it, especially when we confiscate their UK property rights. We shall have to finance the programme somehow, and that seems as good a way as any.’

  ‘I see. Go on.’

  ‘The bursary will be offered immediately. It will be open-ended, and will be reduced by 20% for each of the five years it stands. So for example, just imagine the bursary figure was fixed at say £40,000, a figure I pluck from thin air, you understand, they would qualify for that amount on leaving the country, and taking their families with them. Each year the figure will be reduced by 20%, £8,000 a year until it reaches zero. You follow?’

  ‘Yes ma’am, in other words they would get £32,000 if they went in year two, £24,000 in year three, and so on.’

  ‘Correct, you’ve got it.’

  ‘And what happens if they don’t take up the option?’

  ‘Simple. They would be deported with a zero bursary at the end of the programme.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be popular.’

  ‘Course it wouldn’t, not with the international brigade, it won’t, but back here, we think it will be tremendously popular. A sure-fire vote winner. We are not in the European Union any more, so why should we accommodate millions of smelly Europeans? It makes no sense at all. We don’t need them, we can’t feed them, we don’t want them. So what in God’s name are they doing here? At the end of five years, those still remaining would be removed from the country; otherwise no one would voluntarily take up the bursary. If these Johnny-come-lately’s can be persuaded we mean business, that we will be forcing through the programme, come what may, we estimate that something like 60% will voluntarily grab the cash while it is at its highest point. These people like their little piles of money, make no mistake about it. Don’t underestimate human greed, Elizabeth. I think they will snaffle the money while it is on the table.’

  Liz couldn’t imagine where that estimate came from, and didn’t agree with it either, but kept that thought to herself.

  ‘And my department? Wha
t would you expect from us?’

  ‘I’d have thought that was obvious, Liz. The SPATs will organise the programme, lock, stock, and barrel, and carry it through. There is no one better qualified. You could arrange such a thing.... couldn’t you?’

  Liz nodded, though it was more of a ripple of the eyebrows. She knew it would be difficult, dirty, and not a little dangerous, but it would also be a challenge, and most of all, Elizabeth could see terrific long-term benefits.

  ‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ she said. ‘It would need additional resources, but I am sure we could push through such a programme without too much difficulty.’

  Thelma waved her hand across the table.

  ‘You can have all the resources you want. The SPATs will eventually become the biggest and most powerful organisation in this country, if it isn’t already, and you, Dame Elizabeth Mariner, will be the driving force at its head. I can see benefits everywhere. Imagine how the crime rate will drop, for a start, once we rid ourselves of these people.’

  It was a thought that had already entered Liz’s mind, and as she was thinking of that, she suddenly became conscious that Thelma had fixed her with that icy look of hers, as she often did before asking an important question.

  ‘Will you carry out my wishes?’

  Liz smiled. Whatever qualms or personal doubts she might have harboured, Thelma Bletchington had blown them away with her charm and charisma. She was a wicked woman, there was no doubt about that, but you had to love her.

  ‘Of course, Prime Minister,’ she said. ‘It will be a challenge, but one that I and my organisation, shall rise to with gusto.’

  Reach over squeeze thingy again, and another big smile. For one second Liz thought that Thelma might actually kiss her.

  ‘I knew I could rely on you.’

  ‘You said there were two policies?’

  ‘I did, yes. I’m coming to that. Would you like coffee?’

  Liz was anxious to continue.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Me neither. Far too much to do. Yes, on to the second plank of the new parliament, no less revolutionary, I think you will find. I propose to turn the country into a republic. I want to bump off the King and make the prime minister the Head of State.’ She sat back in her seat, a slightly supercilious look set on her face, as if saying: What the hell do you think of that?