Michael Dobbs - Whispers of betrayal

'This isn't a bloody election. There aren't always easy options. People must be made to realize-'

'No, it's you who've got to realize. Dying for your country is one thing. Dying for some half-baked idea is totally bloody different!'

'Scully died – and for what? He was willing to risk his life anywhere in the world for his country, but instead he died for no better reason than to save the neck of that scumbag in Downing Street. And that's why he's got to go. What more reason do you want, for pity's sake? Scully is…' – Amadeus loses a beat – 'was the finest, most decent man I ever served with. They killed him. Shot him like a dog. This isn't a game any more, Tom. I'm not fiddling around with traffic lights or telephone systems. There's blood on the ground – Scully's blood – and I swear it's not going to lie there alone. He deserves more than that!'

Goodfellowe's response was basted in sarcasm. 'Ah, so there we have it. Forgive me, I thought we had been talking about high principle, a matter of honour. But this is nothing but a little piss pot of revenge.'

'No!'

'But certainly. First you pretend you are doing this for your country, yet your country will revile you. You know something, Peter? They're going to stand in great queues to spit upon your name, while Bendall will come secretly at night to dance in celebration on your grave. So then you change your tack and say you are doing this for Scully. For Scully? All you'll be doing is reducing Scully's memory to nothing better than a kettle of stinking fish.'

Amadeus is suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, as if he has his head above hot coals. He is confused. 'This is for Skulls. For Albert Andrew. He was my friend. He wasn't in this for any reason. Only because I asked him.'

Goodfellowe's voice has risen to the level of a shout. 'But I thought you said he volunteered. So this is what it's all about. Not about country or conscience, least of all poor old Scully. This is about your own pathetic sense of shame.'

The pistol is still pointed directly at Goodfellowe's heart but it is now shaking, held too tight, and Amadeus's eyes are closed, images of Scully rushing before his mind. He is very near the edge. Goodfellowe is still shouting, pushing.

'Scully was betrayed, for sure. But by you. He trusted you and you got him killed. That's it. That's all of it. Shame! Shame! Shame on you!'

Amadeus is shaking his head, a jerking motion. Nothing is working properly any more. A straining noise is coming from his throat. He wants to reply, to bulldoze his way through the accusations, but he can find neither words nor wind. It is dark and he is standing over a body, of a young Argentinian conscript with a bayonet in his belly and a soundless scream on his twisted lips. But suddenly he can see more clearly and realizes the corpse is not that of some foreign devil but of Scully, lying amidst dust and rubble. In Battersea. His body is lifeless, except for the eyes. The eyes are staring out, accusing. If anyone had to die it should have been Amadeus. Not Albert Andrew. He was owed. By Amadeus above all others.

Shame! Shame! Shame!

Amadeus has run out of arguments. He can no longer move. Slowly, the pistol tilts away from Goodfellowe's heart, then falls to the ground.

Goodfellowe is shaking, very scared, but his tone grows softer, the lash put to one side. 'Sometimes the best means of attack is to do nothing, Peter. You've left Jonathan Bendall without a friend in the world. He's brought London grinding to a halt and caused chaos to millions. Don't give him the excuse to play the moralizer, to say it was all worth it. Leave him to dangle while his nearest and dearest fight amongst themselves to be the one to finish him off. You don't have to bother. Don't you see, Peter, you've won already? The only thing that can snatch that victory away from you is what you are planning to do now.'

Amadeus is slumped against the wall. He doesn't look as though he has won the greatest battle of his life. His lips mouth the word 'Scully' over and over.

Goodfellowe glances at his watch. Oh, Hellfire! Two minutes to three! He moves across gently, takes up the plastic shotgun, turns to Amadeus.

'Peter, I'm sorry to ask this but… I know you normally carry a mobile phone. May I borrow it?'

'Wh-what?'

'Your phone.' Goodfellowe holds out his hand, demanding.

Like a man who has just stumbled bloodied from a boxing ring, Amadeus searches half-aware inside his pocket. At last he finds the phone.

Goodfellowe takes it, retreats, begins punching numbers. For pity's sake let them answer this time.

It's as though his whole life now hangs in the balance. He can still save Bendall. For a while at least. Long enough for Goodfellowe to be granted the status of a national hero, to ensure that his elevation to the Cabinet becomes a foregone conclusion and -

Oh, mother's milk. That time – two minutes to three.

The train.

Elizabeth.

He has missed her. Mislaid her, until this moment. And now she has gone to Paris.

He will have fame. More fortune than he has ever dreamed of. Plus the woman of his dreams.

He is one phone call away from his destiny. All he has to do is to save Jonathan Bendall and claim his prize. But in making that phone call he will also destroy Peter Amadeus, a man who in so many ways Goodfellowe secretly admires. The body of his friend used as a stepping stone for his own ambition.

It will make him no better than Bendall.

The phone in his hand is ringing insistently. A minute to three. Sixty seconds. Then it answers.

'Downing Street. How may I help you?'

Goodfellowe stares at it for what seems a moment longer than an entire lifetime.

Then he throws the phone as far as he can after the radio.

The words of defiance and high principle uttered by Bendall on the step of Number Ten would have carried more weight had he not first, on the dot of three o'clock, had to announce that he was resigning. After that, the media quickly came to indulge in lurid headlines and speculation as to who would succeed him rather than bathing in the dead waters of constitutional principle. The plain truth was that no one liked Bendall and precious few came to his defence.

And when, in the following days, the most rigorous search of the many corners and crevices of the City failed to detect a single trace of either explosive, weaponry or even a mislaid catapult, his noble sacrifice came to seem more a lack of nerve. He'd bottled it. Like a poker player with a knave, queen and king all held in his hand – or at least locked up in the top security wing of Paddington Green police station – yet lacking the grit to call the other man's bluff. For bluff it clearly was. Beaky might have had a shy at a couple of traffic lights and an architectural eyesore, but the City of London? Never! Hell, he was the bravest animal in the land! Which was more than could be said of Jonathan Bendall. A man who had created a crisis out of, well, in hindsight, out of practically nothing.

They didn't stay in Paddington Green for long. The prosecution had a whole confection of suspicions and circumstance, but no hard evidence beyond a mobile phone and an inspired punt on the Stock Exchange that was, of course, no evidence at all. If that were evidence they'd have to lock up at least six former Ministers.

So they were released. McKenzie took up a position with Medecins Sans Frontieres and never returned to Britain, while Mary was engaged by a leading firm of City insurance brokers that specialized in terrorism and political risk. She spent much of her time in Latin America negotiating the release of kidnap victims, and fell in love with a prominent Colombian lawyer after obtaining his release from eight months in captivity. Like all her emotional adventures, it didn't work out. Freddie Payne stayed in London, got divorced, then got drunk, and afterwards went skiing near his bank in Switzerland.