Michael Dobbs: Whispers of betrayal

Upward. Eleven further floors, and two more of plant rooms. Lifts. Stairs. Through the door that leads out onto the roof. Two fifty-one.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= The rooftop seemed deserted, occupied by nothing more than anonymous pipework and aerials that bent gently in the wind. The air was so much fresher at this height, and the view breathtaking. On every side stood the glass-eyed monuments to Mammon – the banks, the finance houses, the factories of fortune that were the City of London – and in their midst the cupola of St Paul's, standing guard, defiant, as though reminding them to enjoy it while they could, for all things are fleeting.

It was the fresh wind that made him realize he was not alone. The strains of a transistor radio drifted on the breeze from a side of the roof hidden from Goodfellowe by a huge ventilation duct. He turned the corner and found himself staring at Amadeus – and yet again at the barrel of a gun, this time a Czech pistol. It was pointed directly at him.

'Tom.' Amadeus smiled, but the expression failed to stretch as far as his eyes, which were sleepless, disturbed, erratic. 'You were the last one I thought to see. It's been a long time.'

'Perhaps too long, Peter.'

'What are you doing here? Come to apologize for standing me up on that drink?'

'Happily, if an apology is what you want.'

'Ironic. A little while ago an apology is all I wanted. A few words, politician's words, even. Not the most priceless of jewels, you would have thought. But it's too late for that now. Still, sorry to have to meet like this.'

'This isn't exactly what I was expecting, Peter.' Goodfellowe was staring at the scene in front of him. Beside Amadeus stood a child's toy, a garish blue-and-yellow plastic shotgun which had a pump action and assorted motifs styled after some kids' TV show. Alongside it, laid out in drill order, were what appeared to be half a dozen multicoloured lightbulbs.

'What were you expecting, exactly?'

'I'm not sure. Almost anything. A bomb, a nuclear device, perhaps. Not a children's toy.'

'I'm putting a little theory to the test. We're at about five hundred feet and this toy water mortar claims to be able to launch its little bombs' – he indicated the light bulbs – 'a further hundred feet in the air and for a distance of three hundred feet while they release their contents. Add to that the prevailing wind' – he licked his finger and held it up to test the breeze – 'I reckon the droplets will reach certainly as far as the Bank and Mansion House. Who knows, maybe as far as the river. Kids' stuff.'

'And the devil's work…'

'The gun came from Regent Street, and I've used a scuba tank to put the contents under a bit of pressure, just a couple of atmospheres, to make sure it all vaporizes properly. A little hit and miss, but that shouldn't matter, not for my purposes. One block more or less won't make much difference, will it? By the way, old chap, come and squat under that awning, will you? Out of sight?' The barrel of the most un-toy-like Czech pistol was waved at Goodfellowe. 'Can't have you standing about like a distress beacon for all the world to see.'

Goodfellowe crouched, very uncomfortable, his knees cracking in protest.

'Toy water bombs? You plan to destroy the City of London with a plastic water pistol, Peter?'

'Not quite. You see, these little grenades aren't full of water but a little cocktail I picked up in Kosovo from a Russian captain. Buy anything from the Russians nowadays. It's a binary chemical their weapons people have been experimenting with. Two solutions that are harmless on their own, but once mixed together become instantly virulent. Orange rain, they call it. Brought it back as a bit of a keepsake. Never thought about… this.' He nodded towards the skyline.

'It'll destroy the City?'

'Iraqis found it did a damn fine job on several Kurdish villages, apparently. Makes the lungs bleed until you drown in your own blood. But there's an unfortunate after-effect. On exposure to the air the compound quickly corrupts. The droplets turn to jelly which doesn't disperse but sticks to everything it touches and degrades very slowly.'

'That's a problem?'

'Sure. It's a persistent agent. This stuff hangs around for a month or more. Doesn't kill maybe, not once it starts degrading, simply causes extreme nausea and temporary disablement. But that makes it very messy, and it's resistant to all the usual anti-agent scrubbing and decontaminants. So you can see why it's a problem. Even when you've taken out the enemy you can't take advantage of it for a long while. Too long.' He paused. 'Although to destroy the City of London, you don't have to occupy it, do you? Just close it down for a month. The Japanese and American money men will do the rest.'

'Destroy the City?'

'That's right. Call in Bendall's overdraft.'

'You think you'd be destroying just banks and companies, for God's sake? Think it through. You'd be destroying lives. The lives of millions. Their incomes gone, pensions lost…'

'Tell me about it,' Amadeus spat. 'Your Government does it all the time.'

'But it could never be rebuilt, Peter. This place works on confidence. Cut it to pieces and you can't simply stick it back again afterwards. It would cause a financial meltdown. Hundreds of billions of pounds flooding out of this place at the touch of a button and taking with it the social services, hospitals – yes, and your precious defence budget. The country would be on its knees.'

'It's already on its fucking knees! I'm giving it the chance to stand tall and hold its head up high once more. All it has to do is get rid of one maggot of a man!'

'You'll never get away with it.'

'Why? Because you've arrived? Hadn't noticed you'd brought the cavalry with you. Anyway, nothing's over until the fat lady sings and' – he waved the gun towards the transistor, tuned in to live coverage of the Prime Ministerial press conference due in – what? – seven minutes' time – 'we're only on the overture.'

Goodfellowe rose stiffly to his feet, his knees screaming with pain. 'I can't let you do this, Peter.'

The barrel of the gun was pointed directly at the centre of his heart.

'You've no choice. One step towards me and it's the last you'll ever take.'

'You'd kill a friend?'

'Believe me, I've watched many good friends die over the years.'

'In the national interest.'

'That seems to be the standard political excuse.'

'And this is in the national interest?'

Amadeus grew animated. 'What else can I do? Write letters to the newspapers, for God's sake? Go and lobby my Member of Parliament?' The words threatened to make him choke. 'You see, that's where it all falls down, Tom. Politicians don't believe in country any more. Or conscience. Only political convenience. You talk about being anchored to your principles, but then the wind changes so you pull up anchor and sail off in some new direction.'

'I don't see it that way.'

'Of course you don't, because you're a politician. An animal that can barely see at all. You stand for election with stars in your eyes but the moment you get elected they put you in blinkers so you don't get lost going through the voting lobby.'

'It's a game of give and take. Teamwork. Like football.'

'It's no game, Tom. It may seem like that at Westminster but out there in the real world it's life and bloody death. You screw up in Bosnia or Kosovo or even in Littlehampton District Hospital, and some poor wretch dies. And how many hospitals have you voted to close in the last couple of years?'

'The world isn't black and white,' he responded, ducking.

'What, there's no difference between right and wrong? Between deceit and honour? I know that's how politicians like to make it seem with their spin doctors and compromises, but you'll have to forgive me, old friend, Westminster isn't the real world. You talk about being in touch with the people, but the only time you politicians seem to be in touch with the people is when you're pissing on them from inside the palace.'