Ack-Ack Macaque (32 page)

“How do you think the monkey’s getting on?” Paul asked.

Victoria shrugged. “I haven’t heard any gunfire.”

“Is that a good sign or not?”

“Who knows?”

She crept to the door and slipped back out of the office, into the foyer area with the smoked glass doors. Half a dozen glass-walled breakout rooms led off this reception area, three on either side. Apart from the middle one on the right, they all had their blinds and doors partly open. That one had all its blinds firmly closed, screening it from the area where Victoria stood, and the breakout rooms on either side.

She stopped walking.

Paul said, “Come on. What are you waiting for?”

“There’s something in there.”

“In where?”

“That room. Look at the blinds. There’s something in there. I’m going to take a look.”

Paul scratched dubiously at the pale bristles of his goatee. “I don’t think—”

“The one thing I know how to do is smell out a story. And trust me, this room stinks.”

She stepped over and opened the door. The lights inside were off, but she could make out a hospital gurney standing between the central conference table and one of the glass walls. A figure lay on it, but in the gloom, she couldn’t see its face. Holding her breath, she felt along the wall beside the door until her fingers found the light switch.

“We should go,” Paul said, whispering even though nobody but her could possibly have heard him.

“No.”

She flicked the switch and the strip lights on the ceiling flickered into life. Now she could see that the figure on the gurney was male; but his features were so sallow and sunken that it took her a few seconds before the memories clicked into place and she recognised him.

In her head, she heard Paul gasp.

“That’s—”

“Yes.”

An IV drip stood beside the gurney. She pushed it aside and touched her fingers to the man’s forehead. The skin felt loose and cold. His eyes were closed, and he wasn’t breathing.

“But, that’s the King!”

“No,” she said. “That
was
the King.”

“What do you mean?”

She stepped back and yanked the phone from her pocket.

“He’s dead.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

I’M NOT A ROYALIST

D
ESPONDENT,
M
EROVECH WALKED
back to his cabin. He found Julie still on the bed, where he’d left her, back against the wall and legs stretched out in front of her.

“Any luck?” she asked.

“No reply.” He flopped down on the bed beside her. In accordance with Victoria’s message, he’d been trying to radio the British fleet in the waters around Hong Kong. “We tried everything, but if they’re listening, they haven’t responded.”

Julie bit her lip. “But if they launch a missile, that’s it, is it not? Game over.”

Merovech rubbed his eyes. “The navigator recorded my message and he’s broadcasting it on a continuous loop. I don’t know what else to do.”

They were silent for a few moments, each lost in their own thoughts. Then Julie pulled her good knee up to her chin and hugged it.

“
Je veux appeller mon père.
”

“What?”

“I want to call my father.”

Merovech sat up. “Yes, but now? I don’t have a phone.”

“I have my SincPad in my bag. I can make a video call with it. Can you get it for me?”

“Are you sure?”

Julie turned a baleful eye on him. “Of course I am sure! Look around you, Merovech. The world’s about to end. When else am I going to call him?”

Merovech sighed, and slid off the bed. He scooped Julie’s bag from the floor and passed it to her.

“What are you going to say?”

She didn’t look up. She unzipped the bag and pulled out the electronic tablet.

“I do not know yet.”

“Are you going to tell him about us?”

“Merovech, please!” She pressed the power button and the screen came alive with the TuringSoft logo. “I said, I do not know. Now sit down quietly, or go for a walk. I do not want you interrupting.”

“But, Jules—”

“No.” She glared at him. “This might be the last time I ever speak to him. So can you
please
just sit down and shut up?”

She tapped the screen to bring up a dial pad, and then used it to enter a thirteen-digit phone number. Arms folded, Merovech watched her.

The pad gave three long, single-tone rings, and a male voice answered.

“
’Allo?
”

“Papa?”

“Julie? Is that you? Where are you?” Julie’s father was a slightly-built man in his early fifties. From where Merovech stood, his image appeared upside down: horn-rimmed glasses; dark, receding hair; and a thin, nervous moustache. From what could be seen in the backdrop of the picture, he seemed to be in a study lined with books. The titles were in English and French.

“
Papa, écoute! Je suis sûr.
I am safe. I am on a skyliner with Merovech.”

“
Le prince anglais?
Why are you with him? The television says he is in hospital.”

Julie glanced up at Merovech.

“I am going to marry him.”

Her father leaned in towards the camera. “Bullshit!”

“
Non papa, c’est vrai.
” Julie ran an agitated hand through her purple hair. “Merovech. I am calling because I thought you should know. I do not need your blessing.”

Her father rocked back. With one hand, he adjusted his glasses.

“
Je veux vous rentrer maintenant.
”

Julie’s teeth scraped her bottom lip.

“No. I will never come back.”

“You will do as I say!”

“No. I am not a child any more. You cannot intimidate me any more.”

“Intimidate you?” The man shook the phone he was holding.

“
Oui.
But now, you know what? It doesn’t matter anymore.”

The man on the screen sneered.

“
Vous êtes très courageux sur le téléphone.
We will see if you are so brave when we meet face-to-face.”

“That is never going to happen.”

“And why is that? Because you have your prince to protect you?”

“No!” Julie brought the pad right up to her face. Her knuckles were white on its rim. “Because if you ever come near me again, I will fucking kill you!”

“Julie!”

“
Je suis libre!
I am free. I do not know how long it will last, but I am
never
coming back to you.
Comprend?
”

“Hey!”

“Burn in hell.”

She tossed the pad aside. Taken by surprise, Merovech lunged for it, but he wasn’t quick enough, and the device shattered against the riveted seam of the cabin’s metal wall. The casing came apart and glass chips skittered across the floor.

T
WO MINUTES LATER
, K8 burst into the cabin, a SincPhone held in her outstretched hand.

“Here,” she said, thrusting it at him.

Merovech backed away. He’d been trained never to speak on an unguarded line, especially if he didn’t know the other caller. It was a royal thing. “Who is it?”

“Just take it.” She pushed the phone into his hands, and stepped back, eyes wide like a frightened child.

Watching her, Merovech raised the phone to his ear.

“Hello?”

“Merovech?” The line was scratchy. “It’s Victoria. I’ve found your father.”

“Is he—?”

“
Non.
I’m afraid not. We were too late. I am so sorry.”

The cabin seemed to swirl around him. He put out a hand to steady himself.

“Okay,” he said. “Thank you. Thank you for telling me.” He passed the phone back to K8 and turned to Julie. He could hear the blood roaring in his ears, and his head felt light, as if he might faint. The memories of his childhood spilled through his mind like photographs tipped from an upturned shoebox.

From the bed, Julie asked, “Are you all right?”

He shook his head, feeling like a lost child.

“Not really, no.”

“Your father?”

“He’s dead.” The words sounded hollow and lifeless, incapable of carrying the freight of grief and meaning they represented.

“Oh.
Je suis désolée.
” Her face crumpled. She tried to shuffle forward without bending her bandaged leg. “I am so sorry.”

“That’s what Victoria said.”

“What are you going to do?”

Merovech shrugged. Had no idea. He seemed incapable of thought.

“What can I do?”

“Well.” Julie sniffed. She took a long, shuddering breath and then sat up straight, pushing her shoulders back. Her eyes were red and tear-smudged. “You are King now.”

Anger stirred. “We both know that’s bullshit.”

“Yes.” Julie leant forward, reaching for his hand. “We know that. But we do not have to
tell
anybody. Not just yet. For now, you should be King. Our countries need you. This is what you have spent your whole life training for.”

Merovech put a hand to his brow. He’d been expecting this for a year, ever since the grenade attack in Paris; but now it was here, he didn’t know how to react. His hands trembled. Something bubbled in his throat, but he didn’t know whether it was a laugh or a sob.

“You’re in shock,” Julie said. “We both are. Sit down.”

Merovech shook his head. “No. I can’t do this.” He looked around. He wanted to get out. He needed to be alone.

“You have to.”

“I can’t, I’m not ready.”

“You have always known this might happen. This is what you were born for.”

“But, I’m not even—”

“Hey!” The voice was K8’s. Standing in the doorway, she fixed Merovech with a glare, and waved an accusing finger at him. “It doesn’t matter what you want, sunshine. Heaven knows, I’m not a royalist. But right now, you have to step up, ’cos you’re the only one of us that can.”

“She is right,” Julie chipped in. “When this is over, you can do whatever you like. Until then, we need you.” She threw her hands in the air. “Hell, the entire
world
needs you.”

“Uh-huh,” K8 agreed. “There’s a war coming, and you’re the only one with a chance of stopping it.”

The deck juddered beneath their feet, and tipped another three or four degrees to starboard. K8 put out a hand to steady herself on the doorframe. Somewhere aft, they heard something crack and snap.

Merovech closed his eyes. He couldn’t be king because he wasn’t of the royal bloodline; because of his mother and what she’d done to him.

“She grew me in a test tube,” he said. “She grew me and passed me off as my father’s son. And then she subjected me to all those tests. All those endless tests.” He balled his fists. He’d been raised a prince but really, he was no better off than the monkey. They’d both been living in fantasy worlds.

Well, screw that.

Screw them all.

Too many people had died. Now the game was over, because he had decided it was over. If he had to take the crown, even for a few hours, it would be worth it to bring his mother, and her whole rank conspiracy, down. K8 was right: he had a war to stop and a coup to expose. Inside, he felt cold and dangerous, like the cutting edge of a knife. Every gram of resentment and frustration, every moment of fear or doubt, every scrap of anger: they were all funnelled into this single moment; all wadded together in his chest, and compressed until they shone with the hardness of diamond.

This must be what it feels like to be a king, he thought. And in that instant, knew exactly what he had to do.

He opened his eyes. K8 took one look at his face and shrank back into the corridor.

“Where are you going?” Julie called after him. In the doorway, he turned to her.

“The bridge,” he said, as the walls groaned again. “I’ve got a speech to make.”

BREAKING NEWS

From
The European Standard
, online edition:

ARMAGEDDON:

Could ‘Back Door’ Leave Us Defenceless?

29 N
OVEMBER
2059
– As the Chinese and British navies rattle their sabres in the waters of the South China Sea, rumours abound of a hitherto-unsuspected ‘back door’ in many of the silicon chips which are used to run everything from missile defence systems to public transport networks and nuclear power plants—chips which were manufactured in China, the world’s largest exporter of cheaply-produced electrical components.

If true, these rumours raise the terrifying possibility that any war between our two countries would end in humiliating defeat, with the Chinese military able to remotely subvert and disable every piece of hardware with a connection to the Internet, thereby paralysing our business, military and critical infrastructure systems ahead of any attack, whether by nuclear or conventional weapons.

Speaking at a hastily-convened press conference in Cheltenham, an unnamed GCHQ spokesman described the situation as “our worst nightmare”.

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