Michael Dobbs - Whispers of betrayal

The intention is also to place a Scimitar on the plaza in front of St Paul's Cathedral, but the Bishop of London objects in the most vociferous terms. God will provide.

The rest is all courtesy of Jonathan Bendall.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Democracy is based on a number of fallacies, the grandest of which is to believe that public opinion is the sum of all individual wisdom. It assumes that individuals are capable of arriving at informed and balanced opinions, which may be true, but completely ignores the fact that when those same informed and balanced individuals come together in large numbers, logic and reason are often cast aside and any gaps left in the framework of opinion are filled with raw, undisciplined emotion. So it was no surprise that the first reaction of Londoners to the Amadeus ultimatum was guided by cool logic. Law and order doesn't have much of a sense of humour and Beaky had blown it. Fascinating chap and all, given us a few laughs and put the politicians in their place, but this time he's gone too far. Bendall is our Prime Minister, whether we love him or mostly despise him, but the fact that we put him there leaves us with a sense of ownership. Anyway, blowing up a couple of ugly chimneys is one thing, blowing up the City of London is quite another.

Although what precisely Beaky had in mind for the City of London was the subject of extravagant speculation. The terminology he had used in his message – that he would 'take out' the City of London – was open to all sorts of interpretation. Did he intend to blow it up, like the chimneys? Or cripple its communications once again? Disrupt its transportation? Flood it with water? Melt the Lloyd's building? Let loose a plague of genetically modified rats? With Beaky almost anything seemed possible.

Speculation became a national pastime, yet speculation never stands still. What began as a matter of serious concern turned with the passing of hours into Playdough and was bent into all sorts of unintended shapes.

Downing Street was forced to deny it had intervened to stop the BBC playing the record of 'Captain Beaky and His Band'. The twenty-year-old record was back at the top of the hit parade and could be heard almost everywhere, but it was banned from the BBC following the personal intervention of the Chairman of the Governors. It was unfortunate in the circumstances that the Chairman was a close personal friend of the Prime Minister and their families spent holidays together in Umbria, because it encouraged journalists to jump to all sorts of conclusions. People have such suspicious minds.

There were even moments of popular merriment. Londoners have always had an acute sense of the absurd and there were parts of the operation that they found almost comic. So when a car was spotted heading erratically down Birdcage Walk in the direction of the House of Commons, to the authorities it seemed like a serious potential threat. A pursuit was begun by two police cars, complete with sirens and flashing headlamps, at which point the vehicle's progress became still more erratic, speeding onward into the night. The chase ended only when the car failed to negotiate the new chicane into Parliament Square and came to rest with one wheel over the kerb beneath the brooding statue of Churchill.

Yet this was not a terrorist incident. The culprit turned out to be, in the traditional phrase, 'a senior government backbencher', an ageing dunderhead who in spite of years of piteous whining still hadn't made it to the level of junior ministerial milkmaid. He'd been rushing to make a late-night vote, and as he had tried to explain to the arresting officer, his excuse for fleeing in front of the flashing lights of the constabulary was that he'd thought they were a police escort endeavouring to ensure he got to the crucial vote on time. The truth, as became readily apparent as soon as he fell out of his car, was rather more prosaic. He was pissed.

Ah, but he hadn't survived repeated bruising encounters with his electorate for nought. No sooner had the officer suggested he blow into the white plastic pipe of a breathalyzer than the Honourable Member wrenched himself free and fled towards the nearby gates of New Palace Yard, filling the evening air with piteous cries of 'Sanctuary! Sanctuary!' Had he made it through the gates and inside the precincts of the Palace of Westminster he might have been the cause of a constitutional crisis, for by the time the police had obtained authority to enter the protected premises of the Palace to arrest him he would undoubtedly have been as sober as any judge in the land. But he didn't make it. Distracted by the sight of two members of the SO-19 Specialist Firearms Unit in Kevlar-coated body armour with Glock SLPs drawn and aimed in his direction, he lost his concentration and tripped over the kerb. After which he lost his ambition and resigned his seat.

Somehow the constitution survived.

Yet the incident seemed to mark a turning point in the Government's battle for the public mood. The Government insisted that it had matters under control, but if it couldn't control its own backbenchers how the hell was it going to deal with Beaky? The public mocked; this was, after all, a comic war against a comic character.

The financial institutions, however, did not mock. Trading houses are not noted for their sense of humour, neither are they renowned for their sense of proportion. Panic often seems a more natural reaction. For two trading days, on Friday and the following Monday, the Stock Exchange held its nerve while furiously transferring as many of its computer operations as was possible to disaster recovery sites outside London. No one wanted to be seen to be the first to turn chicken and lose its head.

By the same token, no one wanted to be left behind. On Tuesday the City's collective nerve cracked and every trading screen, no matter where it was located, was drenched in the colour of blood. By early afternoon trading on the Stock Exchange was halted after billions had been wiped off the Footsie.

That evening the London Assembly passed a vote of no confidence in the Government's conduct. The Downing Street press spokesman retaliated by describing the Assembly as a gathering of rats. It was an unfortunate phrase for someone who at the same time was desperately trying to convince anyone who would listen that the ship wasn't about to sink.

Londoners were both spectators and committed participants in the fight, like the townsfolk of Tombstone peering out from behind their shutters at what was about to take place in the main street, wondering how many coffins they would need, and whose name would be on them.

The town was gripped by a heady mixture of anxiety and anticipation about this Fight to the Death. Trouble was, Londoners couldn't decide which one was the enemy.

In the saloons you could get interesting odds. As the days drew on, those against Bendall lengthened. Beaky couldn't win, of course; Hissing Sid had too many marksmen scattered around the town. It was scarcely a fair fight, more an inevitable massacre, but knowing all that he still intended to come out and fight. Wasn't this the stuff heroes were made of? Dead heroes, of course, but that made it all the more fascinating.

Three p.m. Thursday. Not long to wait.

Overhead the Wimp Blimp droned on. And on, and on.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= COBRA met every day. Goodfellowe was not invited.

The Walrus, aka the Chancellor of the Exchequer, focused his shortsighted eyes on the white tile wall a few inches in front of his nose while he relieved himself. It had been a long meeting of COBRA. No progress, little to report, apart from the news about the command vehicles. These were the vans used by the Metropolitan Police as mobile command and communication centres. The present crisis had placed an exceptional burden upon the Met, stretching the thin blue line until the elastic screamed. All leave had been cancelled and police stations stripped to a skeleton staff in order to provide as much manpower as possible in support of their colleagues in the City of London. In much of the rest of the capital, the sight of officers on the street became such a rarity that someone in authority had decided that six mobile command centres should be parked overnight in strategic locations to reassure local citizens and to give at least the impression of a police presence.