World War Moo (27 page)

He slapped his cheeks and got to his feet. It wouldn't come to that. He was about to set off to his working room, ready to start the day properly three hours later than scheduled, when Frank burst into the room. His face told Tony bad news was on the way. “Christ, what now?”

“Two things. While Archangel was making us look like country bumpkins this morning, heavily armed men on quad bikes came bursting out of a crate that was supposed to contain sacks of rice at an aid delivery site in Glasgow. They shot dead three soldiers and disappeared. We weren't able to track them.”

Tony steepled his fingers, pressing them together so hard his fingernails whitened. “And the next thing?”

“A helicopter was spotted coming in over the east coast of Scotland around six a.m. We don't know what it was doing, and we didn't have any assets in the area to shoot it down. It could've been dropping somebody, or something, off.”

“What do you think it means?”

“I think they've inserted some teams to carry out a mission.”

“Do you think they know about the missile?”

“Glasgow is in the right geographical area, I suppose, but it's unlikely.”

“Really? Somebody told Archangel we were coming. Why wouldn't somebody else grass us up about the missile?”

“Doesn't make sense. Whoever told them would be putting themselves in the shit as well considering what the response would be. They're more likely advance scouting missions to identify targets for a wider attack. We're trying to find out if there were other incidents. So far we haven't been able to identify any suspect activity, but that doesn't mean it hasn't happened.”

Tony picked up his phone and got his secretary. “Get me Piers.”

“It's the middle of the night there.”

“I don't care. Wake him up.”

While he waited for Piers to get on the line, Tony pulled out his picture of Spock and told himself repeatedly it was his reflection. It didn't work.

After five minutes, his secretary put him through to Piers, who said, “Hello, Tony. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure at such an ungodly hour?”

“Worried that I disturbed your beauty sleep? Well, don't fret, petal. You'd still be an ugly sod even if you slept for the next five hundred years.”

“You're hostile tonight.”

“I'm hostile? What the hell are you playing at?”

“If you must know, I was playing strip poker with Margaret Thatcher and Helen Mirren. In my dreams, I might add. So you can perhaps understand why I'm feeling a little confused. Can you tell me exactly why you're calling?”

“At least two armed units were dropped onto our territory today, one of them carried in an official UN aid consignment. I want to know what they're up to.”

Piers's voice, which had been fuzzy with sleep, snapped into focus. “Firstly, Tony, it's actually still our territory. We are the elected government.”

“And look what you did with it.”

“Labour would have been different? Politics only count during campaigning. Governments are governments, Tony.”

“Stop trying to dodge my question. What fuckery are you cooking up?”

“I've no idea what you're talking about. We're continuing to respect the current d
é
tente and have no intention of changing our position.”

“Then who are these guys? Extreme tourists?”

“Let me assure you that if what you say is true, it's nothing to do with us.”

There was that word “assure” again, indicating that Piers was lying through his perfectly formed, attempted-wife-stealing teeth. “We're going to find these people. And we're going to interrogate them. If we find out this is part of preparations for a strike or invasion, you'll suffer the consequences.”

Piers's voice took on a worried edge. “Hold on a minute, Tony. Are you suggesting you'll fire your nuclear weapons?”

Tony felt a near overwhelming desire to tell Piers about the viral weapon but kept himself in check. If they didn't already know, he couldn't afford to alert them to its existence before it was ready and give them a chance to destroy it. “I'm suggesting that any action, even the faintest whiff of an action, will be met with a commensurate response.” Tony paused. The formal language of Ferrero Rocher–eating diplomats didn't quite convey how strongly he felt, so he rephrased his threat. “The moment I see a bomber, even a seagull that looks a bit like a bomber from a distance, some very large nuclear missiles will be fizzing your way. The first one has the coordinates of your hotel plugged into its computer.”

“Think about what you're saying here. This is exactly the kind of talk that makes people nervous enough to consider the military option. Threatening us doesn't help.”

“You're trying to blame us for this? You're the ones who've been talking about obliterating my country.”

“If you weren't so aggressive and quick to wave your nuclear response around like a big stick there wouldn't be as much talk.”

“We're being defensive, not aggressive.”

“All I'm trying to say is that we should keep our heads.”

“I am trying to keep my head. Attached to my bloody body. You and your generals should do the same.”

Tony slammed the phone down and got up to pace the room. He picked up a lamp and dashed it into the fireplace, fragments of china pattering back out onto the floor. He stood for a long time, head resting on the mantelpiece and conjuring up Spock, before he was calm enough to turn back to Frank.

“They're really going to do it,” he said.

“It's beginning to look that way.”

Tony stirred the broken lamp with his foot. All of the morning's optimism faded in the face of the spurt of anger he'd been unable to contain. He was like one of those fragments, being swept along by far larger forces. Apart from the missile, all he had to hold on to was Tim Roast and his citizen brain surgery. He just hoped the deterrent would be ready in time, and that it would serve its purpose.

“There is one bit of good news,” Frank said. “We've found out where this antivirus group is based.”

There seemed little point in engaging the group at this stage in the game. If they got the missile ready and it served to hold off the attack on Britain, he could think about it. Then again, making the film Amira suggested would keep her out of his hair for a few days. Her constant attempts to talk him out of firing the missile were getting on his tits.

“I'll send Amira up to make the film,” Tony said.

Frank's face fell. “Can't she just send up a camera crew?”

The anger Spock had just suppressed threatened to come back. Here they were in a race against time to save themselves, and all Frank could think about was the sex he wouldn't be having. Perhaps this epidemic of horniness wasn't such a good thing after all. “For God's sake, Frank, it'll only be a day or two. You've got hands. I'm sure you can manage by yourself until she gets back.”

“That's like asking a forty-a-day smoker to chew Nicorette. The things that woman can do…”

“No details,” Tony said. “She's going. And find these incursion teams. We need to know what they're up to.”

As Frank huffed out of the room, other benefits of sending Amira occurred to Tony. Yes, these incidents were a bad sign, but a propaganda video could serve a purpose. With luck, Piers's paymasters would take the continuation of a PR offensive as a sign that BRIT had no other options. They'd find out how wrong they were soon enough.

 

SIX
DAYS TO EXCISION

 

22

Geldof's combat training began at dawn when he was rudely awakened by his mum's voice. In his sleepy state, he believed he was in his bed at their Bearsden home being roused for school. Downstairs there would be a breakfast of chopped fruit in soy yogurt, which he would grumble about but eat nonetheless before heading round to Nadeem's to walk to class. His nostrils filled with the faint scent of dope smoke. He smiled. His dad was in the back garden, fiddling with his squirrel assault course and puffing on his first joint of the day.

“Just ten more minutes,” he muttered.

When he opened his eyes in response to the shaking that predictably commenced and saw Fanny's ruined face, the fantasy fell away like the badly painted backdrop of a school play. His face must have mirrored the corresponding sinking in his stomach, for Fanny turned slightly to hide the more-ravaged side of her features. He reached out to touch her chin and turn her face back toward him. He brushed his fingers across the scars. She flinched, but didn't pull away. “Does it still hurt?”

“It's always going to hurt.”

“I know,” Geldof said, and pulled her in to squeeze her tight. Her grip around his back was tight, but he still sensed nothing sinister lurking behind the hug. It was simply the fierce embrace of a mother who'd missed her son. “Right,” he said as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. “Enough soppiness. We are British, after all.”

Fanny got to her feet. “Absolutely. Come on, it's time to start your training.”

“Any chance of some breakfast first?”

“Shooting practice, then breakfast. A hunter aims better on an empty stomach. Meet me outside in ten minutes.”

Geldof, now fully awake and rather excited at the thought of unleashing the fearsome warrior he'd always hoped lived inside him but had never been able to locate, gave his teeth a perfunctory brush, shrugged on his clothes, and hurried into the chilly morning. Fanny was standing in the middle of the clearing, a bow in each hand.

“We're going to start you off with a stationary target,” she said, indicating a bull's-eye nailed to a tree.

Geldof eyed the target, which was a good twenty meters distant. “It's a bit far away.”

“Nonsense,” Fanny said. She dropped one of the bows, slipped an arrow from the quiver on her back, nocked, turned, and fired. The arrow thrummed through the air and hit the center of the target with a cartoon-style
thwock
.

Geldof whistled. “Where did you learn to shoot like that?”

“I did have a life before you were born. Your turn.”

Geldof picked up the bow. The only time he'd held such a weapon it had been a plastic made-in-China effort that fired sucker darts. He'd never been able to hit anything then, and he wasn't feeling too hopeful now. “So, am I supposed to split your arrow or something? Or maybe you can stand over there with an apple on your head.”

“Let's start with not shooting yourself in the foot.”

She stood behind him, guided his hands to the correct position, and showed him how to nock an arrow with two fingers. “Now pull.”

He hauled as hard as he could and managed to get the string back half as far as Fanny had. He pointed in the general direction of the target, his arms already wavering with the strain. When he let go, the string pinged his fingers and the arrow sagged through the air. It didn't even make it halfway to the tree.

“No problem,” Fanny said. “Let's try again.”

And so they did. Again. And again. And again. By the time they finished, Geldof's fingers were raw, Fanny's face flushed, and virtually every object around them—except the target—perforated. It seemed Geldof's inner warrior was still in hiding.

They broke for a quick breakfast, and then it was time for combat yoga. Nayapal was waiting for them down by the water's edge, doing a showboating handstand on a rock.

“Geldof,” he said from his inverted position. “How is the rash?”

“Much better,” Geldof said, refraining from adding, “No thanks to you.” He still hadn't forgiven Nayapal for his consultation at the height of the hemp-induced itchiness, when he'd hovered his hands over Geldof's body for five minutes before diagnosing an extreme case of “spiritual malaise.” He'd been correct about Geldof's struggling to find his place in the world, but that had no connection to the rash.

“Then let us begin,” Nayapal said, lowering his legs to the earth in an impressive display of strength and balance.

The lesson began with ten minutes of sun salutations, which were intended as a limbering-up exercise but set Geldof's arms and hamstrings trembling with effort. Halfway through, Mick wandered over to sit on the grass and spectate. After the sun salutations, Nayapal had Geldof attempt to contort into a series of other poses—each agonizingly painful and as far from martial arts practice as Geldof could possibly imagine. He managed to fall on his arse during each one. Finally, when he almost broke his neck during an attempted handstand, he sat down.

“Come on, Geldof,” Fanny said, frustration evident in the stiffness of her voice. “You never know when you're going to have to fight.”

“I'm trying,” he said.

“Either do, or don't do. There is no try.”

“For feck's sake,” Mick called across. “Are you quoting
Star Wars
at the poor lad?”

Fanny looked at him blankly. “I don't know what you mean.”

“Yoda said that to Luke. What's next? Is this old bollix going to start spouting Mr. Miyagi at us?”

“It's pretty obvious I'm going to be crap at everything,” Geldof said before his mum could shoot off a rejoinder, all too aware that this situation had the potential for escalation even given his mum's pig-induced personality makeover. “Can't we just stop?”

“You need to be strong of body and mind if you're going to join us.”

“God's blood, I'm not John Connor. I'll be delivering leaflets, not fighting an army of killer robots.”

“Who's John Connor?”

“The leader of the resistance in the
Terminator
films. You're acting just like his mum.”

Fanny's eyes bulged out of her head, and Geldof began to worry the virus was taking over. “Can everybody just stop talking about films? Doesn't anybody have anything original to say anymore? I never owned a television, I never went to the cinema. I haven't seen any of them, and I don't care that I haven't.”