The Ambassador (32 page)

‘Behind the scenes,’ Sir Robin continued, ‘we have key dissidents under constant observation. There appears to be some foreign influence – to our alarm, from so-called friendly nations. You should be wary.’

‘You’re kidding. Who is it? The pesky French, I’ll bet. Can’t leave them alone a minute. Or the Germans? Or are the Russians at it again?’ The Prime Minister’s love of intrigue shone on his streaming face.

‘No. Good Lord, Lyndon, those are not
foreigners
. They’re our partners in the Union. It may be fashionable still to refer to them in xenophobic language, but it isn’t practicality. No, it’s further afield. I’m afraid the Americans appear to be encouraging the subversives. The Ambassador in particular – a most naive and foolish man.’

‘Why should the Americans want to do that?’ Sir Lyndon asked. ‘Wait – I suppose their President thinks that if the Union falters a wee bit, they’ll be able to take over. Idiots, if that’s the case. Anyway, what are we going to do about it?’

‘My main anxiety is over the sporadic, but increasing, outbreaks of trouble. “Terrorism” is more apt. We have to nip it in the bud or it may become harder to maintain news black-outs. Several divisions of front-line troops are on their way home. Their loyalty is unquestioned. And we have negotiated more civilian back-up from the private security firms. They will play a far bigger part in future.’

‘I hope Rottweiler are included,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I made a killing on those RSS shares. Fifty euros each this week! When I got involved in the business twenty years ago they were ten cents apiece.’

Sir Robin pursed his lips. It was not illegal for politicians to have substantial shareholdings, nor did they have to be declared. Parliament had long since abandoned the archaic practice of registering personal financial interests. There were too many, for a start. Provided the tax authorities were happy – and, in Sir Lyndon’s case, that could be guaranteed, or arranged – it was nobody’s concern but their own.

‘I’m not entirely happy about that, I must admit.’ Sir Robin’s aristocratic brow puckered. ‘I have no reason to doubt that the new owners will fulfil all contracts to the letter. My difficulty is that we can’t find out exactly who they are. The trail of interrelated companies is highly complex – the convolutions have defeated the Stock Exchange. We couldn’t have interfered: competition laws forbid it. But good Lord, Lyndon, for all I know it could be somebody hostile.’

‘Like who?’ Sir Lyndon sat up straight. ‘I dealt with Branson. The cleanest credentials you could find. What are you accusing me of exactly?’

‘No, no. My
dear
chap. You will give yourself a heart-attack, and that would never do. You acted with total propriety. And, in the end, Rottweiler is only one of many private security firms, even if it is now the biggest in Europe. But – Far Eastern certification – that makes me uneasy.’

‘Could be Indonesians, or Singapore. Or our own chaps trying to avoid tax.’

‘Quite reasonable, in the circumstances. You will be able to announce cuts in taxes, too, in your next budget. But suppose it’s somebody else?’

The lights in the tunnel went out. Cowering together, their backs to the dead end, Marius, Lisa and Strether could feel the heat of each other’s bodies, could hear the rattle of breath in the throat and sense the pounding of each other’s hearts. Strether, the tallest, his mouth clamped tight shut for fear of screaming, could also sense something faint but dank hovering about both himself and the other two. It was the smell of terror.

He reached for Lisa’s hand. She scrabbled about in the pitch black and clasped him so tightly her nails dug into his flesh. With a wrench he realised that this could be the last time he touched her, if death was round the corner. He wanted to blurt out how much he had valued her, some babble about the joy of knowing her. Forced behind her as she resolutely turned outward he slid his arms around her waist and pulled her to him, so that he could bury his face in her hair. She trembled but every tendon was rigid. He whispered something to her, some endearment, he could not afterwards remember what. Behind them the walls were cold and clammy. It was a terrible place to die.

He struggled to concentrate but already his mind was fragmenting. Is this what it
meant, that one’s whole life began to flash before one’s eyes? He could see the endless Colorado plains, could hear the wind in the eaves of his ranch house, the thunder of hooves in the distance. A night fox called out, that eerie squeal that had transfixed him as a child out camping with his father. The odour of sweaty leather enveloped him afresh as he cantered across a gully, the horse straining and muscular beneath him. He had never faced his own death, but had struggled against its lingering cruelties with his wife: he would be spared that, and would spare others the need to care for him in a dribbling dotage. That was a blessing at least.

But what overwhelmed him was a powerful ache of regret: so much not done, so many useful years ahead lost. Most poignantly he grieved that he had not had time to say goodbye to Marty, and would not now be able to keep his promise to help her. He would never again be able to make love to her, to stroke those fabulous breasts and hear her breathy laughter. Hers was the most jarring of all the unfinished business snatched from him. And she would never know that she had featured among his fleeting reflections in this chilly tunnel which was to be his tomb.

He heard a click as Marius pushed in the gun’s laser cartridge. A vicious little weapon, it could drop a victim at half a kilometre. Suitable for an assassin who wished to make one hit where it would be most brutal. At close quarters it could blind. Strether prepared to shade his eyes the instant firing began, though a hole punched through his hand would be equally dreadful.

‘
Don’t shoot
.’

The voice hung in the darkness, around the corner from which they had come. It was male and had a vaguely familiar resonance, but was edged with authority and caution.

‘
Don’t shoot. Put up your weapon. You have nothing to fear
.’

Marius cleared his throat. ‘Who the hell are you? Identify yourself.’

‘I’m here to identify you, Prince. Or, rather, your uninvited guest.’

As the pursuer rounded the corner the motion switched on the lights once more. The trio stood rigid, eyes staring, fright now mingled with curiosity.

It was Lisa who recovered her wits first.

‘
Winston
! What on earth –?’

Before them loomed the lanky figure of the records clerk in his unmistakable sweater, jeans and sneakers, a woolly hat on his head, his neck swathed in a knitted scarf and leather gloves on his hands. His eyes were wide and wary but he carried no weapon.

Winston pointed at the gun. ‘Disarm it and put it away, please, or you’re not going any further.’ Marius, shaky and confused, did as he was ordered. ‘Now stand a few steps away from the door.’

Strether began to ask, ‘What door?’ then he grasped from the direction of Winston’s look that he meant the wall behind them. Obediently the three shuffled back several paces and Winston walked forward, his long neck inclined as if he were peering through a spy-hole, though the wall was smooth and featureless.

Then the dead-end wall swung back as if on hinges, and Winston ushered them through. The corridor ahead was not much broader than the tunnel from which they had come, but it was well lit and the floor had rush matting. The air was immediately sweeter. Behind them the enclosure shut silently. A camera slung from a bracket in the ceiling
surveyed them with a low buzz.

‘Say your names – they like to use voice recognition,’ Winston instructed, and they did so, one by one. The camera seemed particularly interested in Lisa. As it concentrated on her, Winston nodded firmly at it. The anonymous eye moved on. She bit her lip. The subsiding panic had left her drained and exhausted.

‘You decided to tag along, Dr Pasteur,’ Winston explained in a formal tone. He began to move along the corridor and the others followed. ‘They freaked out when they saw three people heading their way, not two. Especially when your ID came up – a government employee, high-ranking – so I got an emergency call. I blame myself. I should have maintained total secrecy, and I let it slip. I should not have mentioned that the Prince and the Ambassador were coming. You were bound to jump on that. Anyway, I’ve vouched for you. Hope that’s okay.’

Lisa stopped dead, a look of utter amazement on her face. Winston turned and began to chuckle.

‘I think
you
have some explaining to do, Winston,’ Lisa chided. ‘What is going on? How are Prince Marius and Mr Strether involved? And where the hell are we?’

‘That’s simple. Under the Milton Keynes public library, at a rough guess. There are tunnels everywhere beneath the complex. Some old, some new. It was designed as a government bunker in the last century’s Cold War, in case of nuclear holocaust. Never needed so the system was forgotten. But it’s ideal for our use.’

‘Who’s
we
, Winston?’ Strether inquired. ‘Is it Solidarity? Are you a member?’

‘Of course I’m a member,’ Winston grinned. ‘My God, it’s the sole thing that keeps me sane as I punch out those goddamned codes – knowing I can record the nastier bits to show somebody else who’ll take it seriously. And who isn’t forever spouting on about how fantastic the genetic programme is, and how lucky we are to have it.’

Lisa averted her eyes. They were at another barrier which opened to admit them into some kind of great hall, a triple-storeyed room like a hangar, big enough to house a small aircraft or helicopter. Around its walls were storage racks with anonymous boxes and pallets neatly stacked. A shadowy figure in overalls slipped out as they entered. The light was dim, power-saving but adequate.

‘This way.’ Winston strode across the hall towards a glazed supervisor’s office at the far corner. It was empty. In a moment they found themselves standing, somewhat cramped, in front of an untidy desk. The windows of the office gave out on to the darkened hangar. Above an empty armchair another camera watched and paced, as before, from one visitor to the other. All the cameras looked new and hastily installed; no attempt had been made to merge them into the background. As if satisfied, this one suddenly looked down and stopped moving.

The welcome, if such it was, was grudging, though they no longer felt in immediate peril. Marius ostentatiously placed the gun on the table before him, close to his hand.

Out of the corner of his eye Strether saw that the Prince had taken Lisa’s fingers in his other hand, and was holding them tightly. It dawned on him that the two had walked together, behind him and out of his sight, in the time – it seemed like an age – they had been in the tunnel. And had whispered to each other, and not shared their remarks with him. Marius and Lisa were the same generation, he noted, and similar in colouring and stance. Part of
Strether’s mind flickered. She had Polish blood; the Prince was Hungarian as well as
part-Japanese
. They were closer genetically, and culturally, than he was to either of them. It was not impossible that they should be attracted to each other. A strange, sonorous alarm bell began to ring somewhere deep in his soul.

Then his attention snapped back. Fear flooded through him once more.

A dark-haired, thickset man entered. He seemed to have a slight limp, but he carried himself with an air of authority. He wore a khaki uniform with badges of rank. His eyes were black, his greying beard was neatly enclosed in a small hairnet that disappeared up beyond his brown skin and ears, and ended in a startling blue turban.

The three dishevelled adventurers stood stock-still in the crowded office and stared openly. Lisa pushed a lock of damp hair back from her eyes then covered her mouth with her fingers as if uncertain how to react. At her side Marius relaxed visibly and squeezed her hand once again. She did not remove it. Strether noticed the slight movement; embarrassed, he found a handkerchief in his pocket and blew his nose.

‘I’m Ranjit Singh Mahwala,’ the turbaned man introduced himself. ‘My code name is Spartacus, and I’d prefer that you use that. Sit down, please.’

‘Good Lord. I’d expected –’ In truth Strether did not know what he had expected, except that a trim, muscular Sikh officer with a mobile, intelligent face had not been anywhere near the frame. He sat down heavily.

‘You expected a tall, blond NT, no doubt. Everybody does: it is the unassailable icon of leadership. Racism is endemic in the Union, Ambassador, as it is everywhere else, whatever the law may say. People such as myself and Winston are relegated to the lower ranks of society not merely because we are not NTs, but because we don’t conform in any way to the image of NTs.’

‘You’re all so accustomed to the ruling class and its style that it’s assumed the likes of us can’t possibly perform in command roles,’ Winston added, with a twist of a smile.

‘So Solidarity is just blacks, is it?’ Strether was nonplussed. He had been challenged once before on these supposed supremacist tendencies by Winston and resented it.

‘No. Absolutely not.’ Spartacus’s voice was sharp. ‘We have many NTs in the group. Responsible individuals who are alarmed at the trends. Who have reason to believe that something sinister may be going on. Who want it stopped, and normality restored.’

‘Why are you called Spartacus?’ Lisa’s brain felt weary. It may be silly, but unless she could settle trivial details she could not focus on larger questions.

‘He was the leader of a great uprising against the Romans,’ Marius answered her. Up to that point he had been very quiet. He no longer attempted to hide that his hand was entwined with Lisa’s.

‘An uprising of the slaves, so perhaps it is not the best analogy,’ Winston continued.

Strether grappled with the reference. There’d been a movie in the distant past. The name had another defect, he recognised. Spartacus had lost.

‘Perhaps I should explain,’ the Sikh continued. ‘I was a soldier, an officer. Still am; officially I am on leave recovering from injuries sustained when my vehicle blew up. A frontier posting I was not sorry to quit. Anyway, I am not a fugitive. But for the last few months I have worked full time for this organisation. It is my intention to hand over the task as soon as I can find a suitable replacement. Then I can return to my regiment, and there carry on whatever good work I can do.’

‘You will note, Dr Pasteur, that we do not have a slave mentality,’ Winston murmured mischievously. ‘We welcome anyone in a senior position who can support us. Passive personalities are no use whatever.’

Lisa had caught up. ‘I’ll buy that. If you know about my work, Spartacus, then you’ll have heard from Winston that I’m very unhappy. The purposes of the programme, the
public-service
element especially, are being eroded and replaced by some other, more sinister
objectives. It’s complicated, and murky. I can’t find out who’s responsible but it must be reversed. That doesn’t mean I want to join any underground movement.’

‘You don’t have to join us, though naturally we’d hope you would. For the most obvious reasons we don’t keep any central membership register. This is not the kind of club to which you pay your subscription by direct debit, Dr Pasteur.’

A silence fell as the five people in the little office warily assessed each other. Strether had a distinct feeling that everyone present knew a piece of an important story, like part of an old-fashioned jigsaw, but nobody had the entire picture. With the right encouragement each might offer their contribution, but the atmosphere was edgy and distrustful. They might break up without having made any progress, with lingering enmity, frustration and fear, or a dramatic fusion might occur. He wondered how much of it was up to him, and groaned inwardly at the state of his own ignorance. But his courage was returning.

He broke the silence. ‘Is Prince Marius a member?’ he inquired softly. It was easier to put the query to the Sikh rather than directly to the Prince. ‘I suppose he must be, to be so well informed about it.’

Spartacus gazed for a moment at Marius who was preoccupied with a bit of fluff on his sleeve. Then, ‘We should like him to be more than a member, Ambassador. We think he would make a fine leader.’

Every eye turned to the Prince. His handsome face darkened. ‘We have had this conversation before,’ he said grimly. ‘It is a compliment of the highest order, though I’m really not sure why I should have been singled out. And not at all happy about it.’

‘Because you’re on the inside. You move in the highest circles. You are widely respected and liked. If anyone can initiate effective action against the forces of evil, you could – and you could bring in many more, who’d be horrified to know what’s been going on. Up to now all we’ve managed is sporadic action, a few strikes here and there. The same with our contacts on the continent. It isn’t enough. You, Prince, you could lead us all forward.’ Spartacus’s voice had taken on an earnest, almost pleading quality.

‘And you don’t have freckles,’ Winston added drily. Lisa glanced sharply at him.

‘Freckles? What does that mean? What difference …?’ Strether was irritated at the superficiality and intrusiveness of the remark.

Winston slouched forward and spoke as if confidentially to the Ambassador, though in the cramped office his words were audible to everyone.

‘It means he ain’t what he seems. His parents requested freckles, but for reasons known only to himself, or them, he hasn’t got ’em.’

‘What makes you think his parents requested freckles?’

On his friend’s behalf, Strether felt annoyed. Family material of this kind was not for public display.

Winston grinned again but did not reply. Lisa answered for him, speaking carefully. ‘It means Winston has located and checked the Prince’s printout – the one given on a child’s eleventh birthday – but unlike most readers who learn nothing from the tables, Winston can analyse their content. The Prince differs in distinctive respects from his own chromosomal makeup. Freckles are linked to particular NT lines. Either the clerk made a mistake forty years ago, or someone else did. The computer doesn’t lie.’

‘The freckles could be on a recessive colour gene which was subsumed by something
stronger, such as Japanese pigmentation,’ Marius spoke up in his own defence. ‘You’re wrong to assume I was unaware of the discrepancy. But I do not consider it significant. And it has no bearing whatsoever on my decision not to lead this group of worthies – to what can only be their destruction.’

‘But that’s precisely why we need a remarkable individual like you,’ the Sikh urged. He gazed at Marius till the Prince returned his stare, then held it steadily. They resembled nothing so much as two gladiators testing each other in mortal combat. Strether found himself listening in fascinated perplexity as the two men verbally parried and side-stepped, unsure which protagonist he wanted to win: but the advantage lay with the Sikh who was circling, net in hand, to catch his unwilling prey.

‘You have a duty to lead. You have all the qualities necessary. You could help us.’

‘I cannot. You flatter me. It is dangerous. You are heading for defeat.’

‘We cannot stop. The Énarques are tightening their stranglehold on society. Soon it will be impossible for anyone else to enter the elites. And with increased passivity and reduced ambition at lower levels, nobody else would want to.’

‘I do not have it in me. I may be independent, but I’m a loner. I could never lead a full-scale rebellion. I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘You would leave that to us. Plenty among our ranks have military or police experience – in fact, they’ve been among the quickest to join. They’ve seen what’s happening and how it flatly contradicts their training and the Union’s laws. The true subversives are those upper castes who have their own game plan. Men at the very top. They are the conspirators, not us. We need you.’

‘I am not a leader. I could not make decisions. I’ve never made decisions. In fact I’ve spent my whole life avoiding them. Conflict is not my line. I respect what you’re trying to do, it’s utterly admirable. If I could, of course I’d help. But I am not your man.’

‘But that’s precisely why you were picked out – your arrogance is a front, a pretence. In reality you’re a vastly more civilised and thoughtful person than you let on, Prince. We’ve been observing you for months. That should come as no surprise. You have the perfect balance of history, birth and integrity to make this mission a success.’

The Sikh’s language had drifted into the messianic. His eyes bulged in his head, his lips were tensely pursed. In the background Winston, still upright, hovered like a vengeful sprite. The pressure on Marius was enormous. Strether watched in mute, shared anguish as the Prince wrung his hands, as if they were being entwined by ever-tightening invisible bonds. A biblical allusion came hazily to him, of Jacob wrestling all night with the angel. Only when his will was broken was he granted the strength to overcome his enemies. And to lead his people.

What was needed was an act of free will, a choice. The Prince was right when he said that he had always shunned commitment. If he held to that view, their journey underground was wasted. Yet Marius had arranged the episode in the first place; he must have been aware that the stakes would be swiftly raised. And in front of both Lisa and Strether, newcomers to the group. Had he perhaps – unwittingly or otherwise – put himself into a corner where to refuse would be to lose face, friends, everything?

The Prince and the Sikh. Each clearly grasped the stance of the other. On whatever occasions they had met before, Strether realised, the identical arguments must have been
rolled out. Yet here, now, a palpable sense of destiny hovered about them. Not least because of his own presence, and Lisa’s. There could be no going back, not now.

‘I am not a leader. Don’t ask me to do this,’ the Prince said, sadly.

Spartacus scented victory. ‘You have some persuading to do, Prince, but not of us. Or of yourself. Your task would be to persuade others – to use your prestige and your contacts to spread the word, then to identify and brief those men and women who would replace the Énarchy at the right moment.’

‘But
I’m
an Énarque,’ the Prince answered, with asperity. ‘I went to school with these monsters you so roundly condemn. You’re asking me to betray my relatives, my parliamentary colleagues – a whole class. And for what?’

‘Because it must be done. Because the codes are being betrayed as we speak. Because the world we’ve grown up in, sworn loyalty to, is being destroyed before our eyes – and you will be one of the culprits if you don’t call a halt to it. You can’t wait on the sidelines. Soon enough there won’t
be
any sidelines.’

They backed off for a moment. Strether pondered. Then he spoke. ‘Marius, what have you got to lose? If you accept that the Union’s in trouble, it’d be immoral not to try. It’s not a job for someone like myself – it needs an insider, Spartacus is spot on there. Nor, I suspect, would anyone accept strictures from Winston or even Lisa – sorry, but this is
realpolitik
. It has to be somebody exactly like you. One of
them
. Absolutely, one of them.’

‘And, with respect, Marius, this is urgent. You have to decide.’ Lisa touched his arm, her expression pleading.

‘On the other hand,’ Marius responded, a sarcastic edge to his voice, ‘what have I got to gain? I’m a privileged mover in every elite. I have a fabulous life – power without responsibility or, at least, influence without accountability. It has suited me so far. I’m at a decision point, that is so: hardly a mid-life crisis, but more a feeling that my playboy days are behind me. That’s personal, not public. My best years are to come and I wish to share them, to find a partner. Somebody like Lisa here – who knows?’

Everyone present saw him tighten his grip on her hand, and the uncharacteristic shyness with which she bent her head, only to raise it to gaze fully at him. The Prince did not pause. ‘That’s hardly a recipe for becoming a full-blooded revolutionary against the NTs, my blood and bone, and it does not appeal to me, not one jot.’

‘But you’re not an NT,’ Winston said softly.

The whole room froze. Strether felt his heart skip a beat. He glanced at Lisa, but she was sitting bolt upright, clutching the edge of the desk for support with her other hand, staring at Marius intently as if the computer printout were etched on his cheeks and brow for all to see.

‘What did you say?’ Marius demanded, half rising in his seat. His fingers reached for the silvery gun.

‘Calm down. You can find out for yourself easily enough.’ Winston spoke clearly so that everyone could hear. ‘It’s not just the freckles. A whole host of things don’t add up. Not least your personality and IQ. You’re supposed to be barely beyond average intelligence, Prince, like most royals. That ain’t so, as you demonstrate every time you open your mouth. And your classification is F-645, which is bland, lightweight. You’re neither – that’s what makes you such a find. You are learned, and passionate, and wilful. The combination is
unusual – so much so, that it must have come through natural selection. That’s why I’d lay a big bet that you’re not an NT.’

‘That’s a terrible thing to say, Winston,’ Lisa upbraided him crossly. ‘How dare you? You commit a criminal act by poking around in somebody’s private records and then you accuse him of being a fraud. And a non-NT. How could you? D’you think that’s going to convince him, if nothing else will?’

‘The trouble with you, Doctor, is that you’ve swallowed the whole lie hook, line and sinker,’ Winston retorted angrily. ‘You think the world revolves around being an NT. What’s wrong with the rest of us? What makes you so superior? I’m not one. Neither is the Ambassador, nor Ranjit. Nor, I am spot-on certain, is your bloody boyfriend here. The Prince. If he’s a Prince. If he’s anything.’