Michael Dobbs - Whispers of betrayal

'Seems to me that you're the one who's got himself morally confused. Setting himself up as the nation's conscience. Who the hell voted for you?'

'It's enough that I swore to defend my country. With my life, if necessary.'

'I took an oath of office, too!'

'Political office? You mean that trough of broken promises? Oh, and you act so proud and so principled while you're at it, even with your noses stuck in the swill. But then you get shoved aside – as you all are. You're sacked. You crawl off to spend more time with your family, your ambitions destroyed. It's only then you discover a different set of principles that had been hiding all the while, new principles that force you to turn on your old friends and become a heartfelt critic of the very Government you were so delighted to serve all those years. Christ, don't you guys ever get sick of spending half your life crawling up the backside of a creature like Bendall?'

Goodfellowe stood silent for a moment, rubbing both his aching knees and his pride.

'Tell me I'm wrong, Tom. Look me in the eye and tell me you're different.'

Me – crawl up to Bendall? 'I thought I was supposed to be leading this argument, Peter. We seem to have got our roles a little muddled.' He straightened his stiffening back. He knew he was losing this one. 'But you make an excellent point. I suspect we're both fed up with being kicked around by Bendall. So let's do something about that, shall we?'

'Like what?'

'Peter, I'm going to walk over to the radio -'

'Don't move an inch. I'll shoot!'

'Your choice, old friend. But there's something I have to prove to you.'

And Goodfellowe walked, moving across to where the radio had been positioned a little distance from Amadeus to improve the reception. It was only a small affair, the size of a thick book, and from it came the sound of commentators filling the time with empty words as they waited for the three o'clock deadline. In five minutes.

The barrel of the pistol followed him as he moved. Goodfellowe couldn't fail but be aware of the contrast – Amadeus's hand so steadfast and unwavering, his own shaking like a fish in a net as he took up the radio.

'The entire country is waiting for this extraordinary event in just a few minutes' time, when Jonathan Bendall will walk out of the door of Number Ten Downing Street to let us know his decision. In all my years in Westminster I have never known another moment like this, when the fate of not just one Prime Minister but the nation's capital hangs in the balance

With every ounce of his trembling strength, Goodfellowe hurled the radio as far as he could, watching it sail down in a graceful arc to disembowel itself on the concrete hundreds of feet below, and all the while wondering whether he was about to follow.

'What the f-'

Goodfellowe had risked his life in a gamble to buy a few minutes' time. He felt profoundly sick, yet he dared not pause or lose the moment. 'You want to stop being kicked around by Bendall? Well, what the hell do you think you're doing right now, hanging on his every word? Without Bendall on the bloody radio you won't know what to do. You're as dependent on him as anyone. I thought I might just make the point.'

'The point is… the point is that either he will resign, or he won't. If I hear about it at three o'clock or five minutes past, what's the difference?'

'No difference. The principle is still the same. You'll still be sitting on your arse waiting for him to make up your mind for you!'

'I rather think it's Bendall who is waiting on me. I shall destroy him.'

'Funnily enough, I think it's quite the other way around. You may be the saving of Jonathan Bendall.'

'Me? Save Bendall?'

'Resurrect him. Pull him back from the grave. Make him immortal. You see, I happen to agree with you about our Prime Minister's personal qualities. But after this? You won't destroy him. If he decides to step down and save the City, they'll talk about it as the greatest act of self-sacrifice since the crucifixion. He'll be Jesus and John Kennedy all wrapped up in one. A pathetic excuse of a man turned into a national hero. Think about it. Kind of makes you lose the will to live, doesn't it?'

Amadeus was shaking his head as though trying to rid himself of bothersome flies. 'No such thing as heroes any more. Give them a god and you always find there's some editor or other non-believer waiting to turn everything to corruption, to make out that we're all the same sort of lowlife. So Bendall as hero? I doubt it. Anyway…' His lips toyed with a restrained smile. 'I'll take my chance. Nice try, Tom, but that one won't float.'

Then let me try a different boat. Let us set aside Jonathan Bendall, and turn instead to Mary Wetherell and Andy McKenzie. What's to become of them? Or Freddie Payne – although I suspect you couldn't care less for him. Silly, really, what he did, trying to screw a little money out of the system you say you're trying to save. Looks clumsy. Taints them all. But not half as much as they'll be tainted if you let those bloody things off. They'll all of them be accessories before the fact, with the fact being something considerably more unpleasant than the bloody Blitz. Puts them in the same league as Goering and Goebbels in most people's books. So they'll be condemned and then they'll be left to rot.' Time for a slight change of course. 'Correction – you are going to leave them to rot. The Commanding Officer who betrayed his own men.'

'Don't you dare lecture me about betrayal! They all knew the risks. Volunteers every one. And victims. Casualties of war, just like you and me.'

'I missed that. Like you and me?'

'Didn't I explain?' Amadeus pulled a contrite face. 'These mortar things start spraying as soon as they're fired. There'll probably be enough undiluted backwash to… well, to ensure that neither of us is in much of a position to worry about what happens after.'

Goodfellowe said it softly, yet with passion. 'Shit.'

'Sorry, Tom. I'm used to the idea of giving up my life for what I believe in. But you're a politician. Don't suppose the thought ever entered your head.'

'I am going to die?'

'Possibly. Probably. You're right, it depends upon Bendall. Not my call.' Amadeus was eyeing Goodfellowe curiously. 'Tell me, Tom, how do you feel about that?'

'Dizzy, I guess. Must be the fresh air up here.'

'Or the thought of your life hanging on the whim of a politician?'

'Perhaps it's that I'm a little more confused than you about the principles I'm supposed to be dying for.'

'No need for confusion. It's that stuff we learnt about in civics at school. Justice. Honour. Fair play.'

'Oh God, spare me the lectures about the playing fields of England.'

'Damn you, then try the Falklands! Or the Gulf. The Bogside. Bosnia. Kosovo. All the places British soldiers have been sent to die by politicians who couldn't find the hole in their fucking underpants let alone half these places on a map. The world out there's still a gutter and we need our armed forces to clean it up as much as we ever did. And the only thing our armed forces need, all they've ever asked for, is a little respect.'

'Respect? With the City gone and the economy crippled? What sort of dream world are you in? You'll make the military the whipping boy of every third-rate politician in the country. They'll charge around the corridors of Westminster like demented puppets crying, "Never again! Never again!" And there won't be a Chancellor in Christendom who'll resist the temptation to pick the military's pocket at every turn. They'll fillet the armed forces as though they were the last fish on this planet. Save them? You won't have saved them, you'll have shattered them more effectively than a Russian first strike. These aren't principles, these are the excuses of a suicide note!'