scene: the abstract patterns of light reflected on wet streets; the subdued roar of traffic; the squelching hiss of tyres; the glistening raincoats and umbrellas; and overall the insidious odour of exhaust fumes.All this activity, he reflected, might be brought to an end within the next few days, and the people pushing and thrusting round him hadn’t a clue that he was the man who might do it. To them he was just another Londoner in a raincoat with pulled-down trilby and dark glasses.
Filled with a sudden euphoria, a feeling of supreme power, his emotions fed on themselves until all fear had gone. Now he saw himself as a man of destiny, holding in his hands not only the life of a great city, but the future of all his people.
The crossing lights went green. His mood had made him careless and he bumped into someone crossing from the opposite side. The woman he’d nearly knocked down let out a startled, ‘Christ!’
Before Zeid could apologize, the man with her said, ‘You stupid twit! Why don’t you look where you’re going.’
12
The morning’s mail on Monday, November 8th, brought identical envelopes with identical contents to the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, to the United States Ambassador in the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, to the Director-General of the BBC in Langham Place, to the Editor of The Times in Grays Inn Road, and to the Editor of the Daily Express in Fleet Street.
In each instance the envelopes were opened and the contents read and examined by private secretaries. In the case of the Prime Minister and the US Ambassador the envelopes had, as a matter of routine, been security checked for strip explosives before opening. Within the hour all five addressees had either read the document or had it read to them on scrambler phones. The Prime Minister was finishing a late breakfast at Chequers when his principal private secretary, Andrew Lanyard, telephoned the contents to him.
‘I’ll be at Number Ten in less than an hour,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘It may be a hoax. But inform DGSS and McGann personally – repeat personally – at once. Not a minute is to be lost. Have copies ready for them. And see that a D-notice is put on it without delay.’
‘Right, Prime Minister. That will be done.’
DGSS (the Director-General of the Security Services) was the shadowy background figure who headed Britain’s intelligence services. He was never referred to by name and few people were aware of his identity. Dugald McGann was the Assistant-Commissioner in charge of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.
The Prime Minister was in his office in Downing Streetsoon after ten o’clock. Having gone through the motions of lighting a pipe, he considered the document a pale and agitated Andrew Lanyard laid before him. Immaculately IBM-typed on legal folios, it bore no indication of origin, no heading other than the single word ULTIMATUM. For these reasons the Prime Minister turned to the last page before reading it. It had been signed in black ink with a felt-tipped pen, ‘Mahmoud el Ka’ed.’ Beneath the strong, aggressive flourish appeared the name in type, beneath that the words ‘Soukour-al-Sahra’.
The Prime Minister frowned. ‘Where was it posted?’
‘In Weybridge. At the High Street post office. On Saturday evening.’
‘Weybridge. H’m.’ The Prime Minister fussed with a dead pipe, gave it up as a bad job, laid it on the ashtray. ‘Interesting. Have DGSS and McGann seen it?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. They have copies. Both of the document and the photos.’
The Prime Minister’s calm struck Lanyard as altogether too monumental. He doubted it if would endure through the document. It was one thing to have it read to you over the phone, quite another to see it in black and white.
‘I suppose I’d better read it, Lanyard.’ The Prime Minister spoke with resignation, turned to the front page and leant forward in his chair, his mind concentrated:
1. A nuclear device has been
Filled with a sudden euphoria, a feeling of supreme power, his emotions fed on themselves until all fear had gone. Now he saw himself as a man of destiny, holding in his hands not only the life of a great city, but the future of all his people.
The crossing lights went green. His mood had made him careless and he bumped into someone crossing from the opposite side. The woman he’d nearly knocked down let out a startled, ‘Christ!’
Before Zeid could apologize, the man with her said, ‘You stupid twit! Why don’t you look where you’re going.’
12
The morning’s mail on Monday, November 8th, brought identical envelopes with identical contents to the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street, to the United States Ambassador in the Embassy in Grosvenor Square, to the Director-General of the BBC in Langham Place, to the Editor of The Times in Grays Inn Road, and to the Editor of the Daily Express in Fleet Street.
In each instance the envelopes were opened and the contents read and examined by private secretaries. In the case of the Prime Minister and the US Ambassador the envelopes had, as a matter of routine, been security checked for strip explosives before opening. Within the hour all five addressees had either read the document or had it read to them on scrambler phones. The Prime Minister was finishing a late breakfast at Chequers when his principal private secretary, Andrew Lanyard, telephoned the contents to him.
‘I’ll be at Number Ten in less than an hour,’ said the Prime Minister. ‘It may be a hoax. But inform DGSS and McGann personally – repeat personally – at once. Not a minute is to be lost. Have copies ready for them. And see that a D-notice is put on it without delay.’
‘Right, Prime Minister. That will be done.’
DGSS (the Director-General of the Security Services) was the shadowy background figure who headed Britain’s intelligence services. He was never referred to by name and few people were aware of his identity. Dugald McGann was the Assistant-Commissioner in charge of the Special Branch at Scotland Yard.
The Prime Minister was in his office in Downing Streetsoon after ten o’clock. Having gone through the motions of lighting a pipe, he considered the document a pale and agitated Andrew Lanyard laid before him. Immaculately IBM-typed on legal folios, it bore no indication of origin, no heading other than the single word ULTIMATUM. For these reasons the Prime Minister turned to the last page before reading it. It had been signed in black ink with a felt-tipped pen, ‘Mahmoud el Ka’ed.’ Beneath the strong, aggressive flourish appeared the name in type, beneath that the words ‘Soukour-al-Sahra’.
The Prime Minister frowned. ‘Where was it posted?’
‘In Weybridge. At the High Street post office. On Saturday evening.’
‘Weybridge. H’m.’ The Prime Minister fussed with a dead pipe, gave it up as a bad job, laid it on the ashtray. ‘Interesting. Have DGSS and McGann seen it?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. They have copies. Both of the document and the photos.’
The Prime Minister’s calm struck Lanyard as altogether too monumental. He doubted it if would endure through the document. It was one thing to have it read to you over the phone, quite another to see it in black and white.
‘I suppose I’d better read it, Lanyard.’ The Prime Minister spoke with resignation, turned to the front page and leant forward in his chair, his mind concentrated:
1. A nuclear device has been
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