I relented, convinced that she was telling the truth. More softly I said, ‘Is there any way you can think of that I could contact her?’
A further shake of the head.
‘Somewhere I could leave a message?’
‘I’m sorry. I know nothing of her movements.’
I sought out Bevan, who was suitably disgruntled to be woken and marched out into the garden in his dressing gown.
‘Richard’s adamant on going to Lords today,’ I said.
‘You told him?’
‘I swore him to secrecy. Do you think I’d let my own brother – the King – die? I need to know when and where the bomb’s going to go off.’
He huddled into his dressing gown. ‘I never said anything about a bomb.’
‘You implied as much. I’ve no time for games, Bevan. I need to know. These are the lives of my family we’re talking about. The only people I have left.’
A shrug. ‘I don’t know any more than I’ve already told you.’
‘You must have some idea of when it’s going to happen.’
He shook his head.
‘Please, Bevan. Help me.’
‘My guess is the pavilion. It’s just a guess, mind you, but it’d make sense. You’d all be crammed in there. That way they’d be sure of getting everybody.’
‘I want to speak with whoever told you this.’
‘No chance. Even if I could arrange it, there wouldn’t be time. And they wouldn’t come within fifty feet of you.’
I could have hit him then. He was so stubborn, so infuriatingly wooden at times.
‘How much a part of this are you?’
‘Like I told you, I just hear things. Pass them on.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Believe what you want.’
‘You told me the Aztecs expected you to keep an eye on me. Is that what you’re doing, Bevan? Working for them? Leading me a merry dance?’
He laughed. ‘What do you take me for? Look, I’ve given you the tip-off. Now it’s up to you. Save yourself if you can’t save anyone else, for Christ’s sake.’
The silence was filled by a single bird singing a belated dawn chorus somewhere in the shrubbery. At that moment the entire situation seemed utterly improbable – I standing in a garden with a pyjamaed Welshman who was continually offering me ‘help’ in the most obstructive manner possible.
‘You told me once you weren’t exactly a royalist,’ I remarked.
‘You won’t find many from my background that are.’
‘Why bother telling me, in that case? What difference would it make to you if we were all killed or not?’
‘I look after my own.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Whatever you want.’
He pushed past me and went inside.
Four
I bathed and took breakfast alone in my suite, then went to see Richard again. But he had departed early for Lords, obviously intent on avoiding me. I could scarcely believe he intended to risk his life.
At ten thirty, Chicomeztli arrived to escort me up to the launch pad for the flight to the ground. He was his usual cheery self, but I brushed aside his pleasantries.
‘Do you know where my sister is?’
He followed me into the elevator. ‘I believe she went out last night with some friends. To a rock concert at Wembley Stadium.’
I was suspicious. ‘That’s the first I’ve heard of it.’
‘Nepantla. She is a fan, yes?’
Nepantla were a very popular Aztec band, and I knew they were touring England.
‘She didn’t come home last night.’
Chicomeztli shrugged. ‘There will be an escort to watch over her. Perhaps she stayed with friends.’
This sounded suspiciously casual. ‘Does she often do this sort of thing?’
Chicomeztli looked puzzled. ‘There is no bar on her freedom of movement providing her personal security is assured. Is something wrong?’
I watched the ascending numbers on the floor-level indicator.
‘Is she going to Lords today?’
‘I do not know. Is there some difficulty?’
I sighed, then shook my head. ‘No. It’s nothing.’
He was silent for a while, but I was aware of him watching me.
‘I hope you’ll forgive me,’ he said, ‘but I think perhaps you should take a leaf, as you say, out of your sister’s book.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Some pleasure and relaxation. You take too little, maybe?’
‘Isn’t that what I’m doing? Relaxing? Having a day out at Lords?’
The harshness of my tone obviously took him aback. The elevator lurched to a halt, and the doors ground ponderously open.
The flight to Lords took only twenty minutes. Extepan, Tetzahuitl and Richard were already there in their seats when I arrived. Extepan was dressed in his ultramarine uniform, Tetzahuitl draped in a carmine and charcoal robe, Richard entirely in white. All three were conspicuous targets, I thought immediately, for any assassin. Richard pointedly did not look in my direction. It was almost as if he had blotted our conversation from his mind – or more likely had simply decided to carry on regardless with that special rigidness of attitude which he adopted once his mind was made up.
The old pavilion had been destroyed during the invasion, but the new structure of glass and chrome aped its stately Palladian contours while being thoroughly modern inside. The new Long Room was equipped with contour couches, video screens and the control centre for the all-weather dome which enabled matches to be played during rain and even in winter. Apparently the Lords committee was aghast when Extepan had insisted that women be admitted to the room for the first time in its history
We were introduced to both teams. Jeremy Quaintrell, the English captain, was the youngest son of the Earl of Eltham a former friend of my father but now a partisan of the Aztecs. Jeremy had been a childhood friend of ours, but he now struck me as haughty and smug. The polyglot Azanian team seemed rather ill at ease, as if they were reluctant participants in the event. Though the country had welcomed its Aztec-supported liberation from British colonial rule and its infamous Aparthood system, independence was brief and its current protectorate status was seen by many of its citizens as just another form of colonialism.
The Long Room was filled with dignitaries and guests, many of them Aztec but many also English who had no connection with Aztec rule. Had the bomb already been planted here? Would it be detonated by someone now present? Or would some other means be used? Poison gas or a concussion grenade? A mortar attack from outside the ground? Mass poisoning of the Earl Grey or cucumber sandwiches? My mind raced over lurid possibilities.
We assembled on the balcony for the start of the match. Victoria’s seat was empty. The ground was full, many of the faces black Azanian émigrés or descendants of West Indians who had fled to Britain when the Aztecs occupied the Caribbean islands at the turn of the century. How many would die if there was a big explosion? I kept looking around, searching for some furtive movement or surreptitious gesture. I caught Richard staring at me, his face a mask of reproach. He said nothing, looked away.
The team captains emerged with the umpires. A coin was tossed. Quaintrell won and elected to bat. My father, a keen Middlesex supporter, had taken me to many matches as a child, and I had developed a real appreciation of the game. Today, however, it was the last thing on my mind.
‘Where’s Maxixca?’ I asked Extepan.
‘He has other duties elsewhere today,’ he told me.
This only made matters worse. If Extepan were killed, there was an even stronger possibility that Maxixca would be appointed governor in his place. This is madness, I thought. I must do something. But what? How could I betray those who were fighting for a cause I believed in? How could I let innocent people die?