The Wormwood Code (10 page)

'You mean, like the Matrix?' he said.

Bledsoe laughed and sat back. He took another drink of ridiculously expensive mineral water, then pushed his unfinished plate away.

'You'll not get any dessert,' said Eason.

Bledsoe smiled, although there was now an edge to it. Unhappy that his grandstanding had not impressed. He stood up and put on his coat.

'Get the bill, will you?' he said.

Eason, unaware of the price of the mineral water, nodded.

'This is going to explode,' said Bledsoe, darkly, 'and there is no way you are going to understand any of it. Be careful, Sergeant.'

And with that dark warning, he turned and left.

And so, at lunchtime on the eight millionth day of campaigning, as Barney Thomson tucked into a burger and fries, and as Igor wellied into a pizza; as the PM ate a lettuce sandwich, and Thackeray and Williams drank coffee and popped caffeine pills; as the Prince of Darkness ate sausage and egg and the chairman of his party got stuck into beef Wellington; Detective Sergeant Tony Eason, duly warned about the dire future which awaited them all, finished off his plate, then Bledsoe's plate, and asked for another beer.

1351hrs

A
strange sort of day, the weather unsettled. Threatening storms, unsure whether to be hot or cold or muggy or wet or windy. Like virtually every other day in Britain. The Prime Minister was in reflective mood as he sat on the plane taking him on the short flight back to London. His assistants Thackeray and Williams had jousted for the seat next to him, as had a few senior members of his party and a variety of journalists. However currently occupying the seat was the PM's hairdresser, Barney Thomson.

The PM turned away from the gathering clouds and looked at Barney. He may have been in reflective mood, but it didn't mean that the plastic smile wasn't stamped on his face. There was nothing he could do about it now, it was permanently etched there. Even if a journalist asked him about cancer treatment or dead people or the tsunami, the PM had to reply through the fixed grin. When plastic surgery goes bad.

'How d'you feel it's going, Barn?' said the PM.

Barney Thomson looked up from the latest US bestseller,
Michael Moore Is Fat, George Bush Is Stupid, The World Is Being Fucked By Big Business And We're All Going To Die From Obesity
.

'As expected,' he replied.

The PM nodded.

'You really think so?' he asked.

Barney sighed, closed the book over and let it rest in his lap. It was typical that the PM should select Barney to sit beside as he was just about the only person on the plane who had nothing to say to him. It was like the way a cat will always find the person in the room with an allergy.

'You know, I do worry about this Iraq business,' said the PM. 'The press won't let it go, and I do worry that some of the hardworking, decent, honest people of Britain and England might start to doubt my integrity. Sometimes, as I meet the honest, decent, hardworking...'

'Of course they doubt your integrity,' said Barney, hoping to cut off another hardworking, decent, honest speech before it got into full swing.

'What?'

'Everybody thinks you're a liar. Of course they do. Look, consider the US President. When Gerald Ford said in 1976 that there'd been no Soviet domination of eastern Europe under his administration...'

'Did he say that?'

'Yep. And when he did, it was disastrous. Everybody thought, God, what a Muppet, what a complete and utter twat-brained loser, and they voted for Jimmy Carter. But think about your friend George. He comes out with stuff like that every day. Every single day. He makes words up, he stumbles over sentences, he clearly has no grasp of facts, he makes gaffes every time he opens his mouth. He has Muppet stamped on his forehead. He defines the word Muppet for a new generation too young to have seen the original Muppets. When the Muppets are remembered centuries from now, it will become lost in time whether Kermit was President and Bush was a stuffed frog, or the other way round. And yet, the people still vote for him. He still wins all those states that the Republicans always win, and he still wins Ohio. They're used to him doing it, they expect him to constantly gaffe.'

The smile increased a notch or two on the PM's face. He nodded. He thought about what Barney was saying.

'What are you saying?' he asked.

'Everybody knows you're a lying, low-life, political scumbag. So what if anyone comes up with a smoking gun and reveals you to be a big fat liar? That thirty-six to forty percent of voters who are polling in your favour, are just going to shrug and say, "we know, we know, enough already." You might be in more trouble if it was proved that at some point you'd told the truth.'

The smile stayed on the PM's face, although that one had him a little confused.

Suddenly there was a sharp crack and the plane juddered. At the bottom end of the cabin a woman let out a high-pitched involuntary scream. The PM gripped the armrests; Barney looked out the window. The momentary shudder of the plane had passed, and it resumed a normal, verging on bumpy, flight towards London.

'What was that?' asked the PM. 'What d'you think that was?'

Barney shrugged, heartbeat coming back down to normal.

'Maybe we've just been Tango'd,' he said.

'You don't think,' said the PM, ignoring the marketing reference, 'that there was a higher force at work?'

Barney glanced at the fake smile, now mixed with wonder and bemusement.

'Pardon?'

'You don't think,' said the PM, 'that we've just been touched by the Hand of God?'

He stared at Barney, the corners of his mouth touching his ears. A stewardess came alongside and leant slightly over Barney in order to speak to the PM.

'Everything all right, Sir?' she asked.

The PM nodded.

'Yes, yes,' he said. 'I feel that today, without wishing in such surroundings or company to fall into soundbite banality and cliché, that I have the Hand of God on my shoulder.'

The stewardess forced a smile, but it was something which she was also used to doing.

'The pilot just wanted me to let you know that the plane had been struck by lightning, but that everything's OK. Planes are designed to absorb the electricity. We'll be landing shortly.'

She smiled again, turned and walked back to her seat. The smile remained etched on the Prime Minister's face. He glanced at Barney and then looked back out of the window.

'The Hand of God,' Barney heard the PM muttering to himself, mixed in with the noise of the plane.

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1431hrs

D
etective Sergeant Tony Eason, undercover at Tory Party HQ, trying to find clues to the murder of the Prime Minister's former barber, Ramone MacGregor, had sneaked away from his new temporary place of work, to have lunch with his boss, DCI Grogan. Eason was eating a triple club sandwich with French fries and a side order of deep-fried mushrooms and onions; Grogan was eating cigarettes and coffee.

'So what's your man been up to today?' asked Grogan, referring to the contact Eason had made the day before with a PR man at Tory HQ called Dane Bledsoe, who had claimed to be working for MI6. 'You've got ketchup on your chin,' he added.

Eason wiped his face with his sleeve.

'Haven't seen him. He's been with Count Dracula all morning, press conference and stuff.'

'And what have you been doing?'

'Stuck in the office. Still supposed to be coming up with a new election slogan.'

Grogan laughed, stubbed out a cigarette and lit another.

'You were taking the pish when you came up with my cover story, weren't you?' said Eason.

Grogan laughed again and slurped some coffee.

'Partly,' he replied. 'On the one hand you couldn't market water to a wealthy dehydrated man in the desert. On the other, it's what? Like the Tory party needed a heavy-handed food slob, who likes to arrest people for wearing the wrong colour t-shirt? They needed a marketing genius, so that's what they got. What've you come up with?'

Eason took a large bite of club sandwich, a great splurge of mayonnaise erupting forth from within the layers. He shrugged and looked reasonably sheepish.

'The Conservative Party,' he said, 'Tough On Crime, Tough On Stains.'

Grogan looked over the top of his cup and shook his head.

'Thought it might appeal to the housewife vote,' said Eason.

'I should have sent you in as an undercover toilet cleaner,' said Grogan.

Eason wiped his arm across his mouth again. Took another bite so that his face was bulging with food.

'You speak to your guy at Vauxhall Cross?' he asked, the question almost unintelligible.

Grogan nodded.

'We had coffee this morning,' said Grogan. 'He knows nothing about Dane Bledsoe.'

Eason chewed on, savouring the blend of turkey, bacon, mayo, tomato, lettuce and toast. Took a drink of a chilled Chilean Chardonnay, light and crisp with hints of Gwen Stefani.

'Can you trust him?' asked Eason.

Grogan snorted.

'Are you kidding me?' he said. 'He works for MI6. You can't trust any of that lot. So, Bledsoe might well be who he says, or he could be working for someone totally different. At least we know, because he had you pegged already, that he ain't just a normal Conservative sap. If my guy's telling the truth, Bledsoe's lying, but then we'll never know if my guy's telling the truth, because inherently he's paid to lie anyway. That's his job. Kind of pointless talking to any of them.'

'So what d'you want me to do?' asked Eason.

'Simple,' said Grogan. 'If Bledsoe is getting to travel around with the Prince of Darkness and be with him all day, then that's what you have to do. You have to come up with something brilliant which makes the guy like you and makes him want to have you beside him all the time. Like that barber guy who's suddenly going everywhere with the PM.'

'That's a bit strange,' said Eason.

'Yeah,' said Grogan. 'I'll be speaking to him again, I think.'

Grogan drained his coffee. Eason took another massive bite out of his sandwich. Nearly finished and contemplating ordering another one.

'So I need a cool slogan which they're going to love,' said Eason through the food.

'No problem,' said Grogan. He held his hands up in true advertising fashion. 'Into Europe With Confidence,' he said.

Eason looked at him, wondering if he was trying to be funny. Thought about it.

'Is that what the Tories are about?' he asked.

'Oh, yes,' said Grogan, and he hid the smile behind the dregs of his coffee.

––––––––

2235hrs

L
ate evening in London, late afternoon in Washington. The President of the United States was sitting in the Oval Office watching baseball highlights from the night before, eating a burger. Ten minutes respite before the next round of engagements which he didn't quite have a grasp on. There was a knock at the door and the Director of the CIA stuck his head round and looked at the President.

'You still have five minutes, Sir?' he asked.

The President smiled that smug smile of his, a smile moulded in the same ancient plastic surgery factories as the smile of the PM.

'Sure,' he said. 'I'm just eating a burger here. Can I buy you one?'

'No thank you, Sir,' said the man. His predecessor had been known to accept everything offered by the President, and then stick it in his pocket and take it away to be embalmed and preserved for his own private collection.

The President bit into the burger and didn't notice the puke of sweet mustard which exploded across the desk. The Director of the CIA sat down opposite him, laid his briefcase on the desk, opened it quickly and took out the small wooden box, which had been brought over from Britain a few days earlier by the man who had murdered Ramone, the PM's hairdresser.

'I think you should take a look at this, Sir,' said the CIA man.

The president glanced over and smiled. Looked back at the TV.

'It's a lovely briefcase,' he said. 'I think I might get me myself one of those.'

'The box, Sir,' said his visitor, 'look at the box. What's in the box.'

He held it out, then placed it on the desk and pushed it across. The President of the United States stared at it curiously as he wolfed down another great wadge of cow, then he wiped his fingers on his trousers and pulled the box closer. It was heavier than it looked, and he picked it up with two hands.

'Wow,' he said, 'what's in this thing?'

'Look inside, Sir,' said the CIA man.

They exchanged a glance, and then the President slowly opened the box and looked at its contents. He stared at it a long time, comprehension growing, and then he closed it back over and laid it down on the desk.

'Wow,' he said again.

The CIA man nodded.

'If this gets out...' said the President.

'Exactly.'

The President looked back at the box.

'We need to talk about it, Porter,' he said.

'That's why I'm here, Sir.'

The President nodded and looked back at the TV. They were talking about the Red Sox. He was fed up hearing about sports teams from Boston.

'I'm going to have another burger,' he said.

––––––––

2341hrs

T
he PM sat and looked in the mirror, baring his teeth every now and again. Depressed, as ever, by the fact that he hadn't been able to get to a dentist before the campaign had begun. At least he could see himself when he looked in the mirror, unlike the leader of the opposition.

Now, however, as well as his teeth and his varying degrees of suntan, he was depressed because the Attorney General's initial advice to the government on war in Iraq had finally been leaked. They had been waiting for it for months, and now it was out there and the press were all over it. He just had to hope that Barney Thomson was right, and that it wouldn't be telling people anything they didn't already know about him.

The door opened and Williams and Thackeray came in. Neither of them had slept in over two months, and they were beginning to look a little rough, the caffeine tablets having an ill-effect on hair colour and eyes.