The mats are rolled away. It is time to fit the suicide vest.
Antun strips to the waist. The packs of explosives feel cold against his skin. The canvas of the garment is rough. Hard wires press his flesh.
In the midst of these final preparations, he has to remind himself who he is, what he stands for and where he came from. He is Antun Bhatti, a proud member of the SSOA, the Sacred and Secret Order of Arthurians. Put simply, he’s a Christian soldier, prepared to lay down his own life to save others.
This vest is his crucifix. It is the holy instrument of death that he must carry to the end of his mortal road.
He remembers being a child in India. Eight years old, an orphan in the slums of the Punjab, running barefoot towards a squalid block of concrete that is his church. A giant wooden cross stands out at the end of a track covered in dusty black sewage, multi-coloured trash and fried grass. Muslim children throw rubble and stones as he races towards the sanctuary. He hears the missiles whizz in the air and clunk on the ground alongside him, feels the sting of those that connect with his flesh and bones.
Inside the cool of the church, young Antun sits on one of the old dark wooden pews, his feet not touching the floor, and counts the cuts and bruises on his bare legs and arms. Fourteen this month. The same number as the Stations of the Cross.
He puts a finger in the blood of a fresh cut on his knee and licks it. It tastes of iron and reminds him of the metal cross the priest put to his mouth at his confirmation.
The memory is vivid. As though it happened only yesterday.
Not a whole lifetime ago.
‘It is done.’ Nabil’s voice bridges past and present. He looks earnestly at Antun. ‘My brother, the Garden of Allah awaits you.’
46
Irish calls his boss and says he needs to see him.
Only when Zach Fulo hears the words ‘British Embassy’ does he tell his least popular cop that he’s got a slot at five-thirty p.m. and bad traffic or no bad traffic he’d better be on time and bring the Fed with him.
Before they head to Washington, Irish and Mitzi order the house special of deluxe quarter pounders, fries and onion rings.
The cuisine is more ballast than food and once the warm orgy of salt, carbs, fat and protein is over, they both wish they’d had the chicken salad.
He gets the check, while she takes a walk outside and calls her daughters. To be precise, she calls Jade, knowing that Amber won’t be far away and Jade will be annoyed if she doesn’t get called first, while Amber never thinks of such things.
‘Hi there — how are ya, honey?’
Jade is half-reading a magazine and answers in a bored and distracted voice. ‘All right.’
Mitzi tries not to be dispirited. ‘What’ve ya been doin’?’
‘Nothing much. Just hanging at Aunt Ruth’s.’
She really wishes her daughter wasn’t such hard work. ‘Everything okay?’
‘Don’t know. Uncle Jack’s gone to stay at a friend’s. I heard him and Aunt Ruth arguing this morning.’
‘About what?’ Her heart thumps.
Jade finally abandons the article on teen sex entitled ‘Should She, Shouldn’t She?’ and concentrates a little. ‘It was something about you. Uncle Jack said you’re a fucking bitch and then Aunt Ruth slapped him and told him to get the fuck out of the house.’
Mitzi takes a deep breath. ‘Wow. I wonder what I did to piss him off.’
‘Maybe the same thing you did to piss Dad off?’ She knows she’s now on borrowed time before she gets an earful. ‘Amber! Mom’s on the phone; she wants to talk to you.’ She drops the handset on a table.
Mitzi’s left seething.
Her other daughter picks up the phone, ‘Mom?’
She swallows the anger. ‘Hi, baby. How are you?’
‘I’m okay. When you coming home?’ She corrects herself. ‘I mean back to Aunt Ruth’s.’
‘Maybe tomorrow. Latest the day after. Are you having fun there?’
‘Yeah, we are. Well, me and Aunt Ruth are. Jade’s being — well, you know, Jade’s being Jade. We’re making cupcakes. Aunt Ruth’s baked a giant one. Wait ’til you see it, Mom. It’s bigger than the top off a trash can.’
‘Sounds great. What flavour?’
‘Chocolate. I mean — could it be anything other than chocolate?’
She laughs. ‘No, I guess not. Chocolate’s good and giant chocolate is super-good.’
‘Right! Do you want to talk to Aunt Ruth? I can go get her.’
Mitzi hesitates. ‘No. I’m okay. Don’t interrupt her if she’s busy in the kitchen. Just send her my love. Love you too, baby.’
‘Love you as well, Mom.’
‘Amber, give your sister a hug and kiss from me, and tell her not to be such a sourpuss.’
She laughs. ‘I will. Love you, Mom.’
Mitzi hears her shouting ‘sourpuss’ across the room as she hangs up.
Irish is stood by the Taurus, hands on the hood, looking as though he’s going to throw up.
She’s not ready to walk over to him. Her mind’s still on her kids and how Jade blames her for the break-up with her father. And it’s on Ruth and how she might well be blaming her for her break-up with Jack.
47
The armour-plated Bell is cleared to enter the secure airspace around Buckingham Palace and land on the royal helipad.
Visual security checks are conducted by armed protection staff before Owain is even allowed to step outside the craft.
Once he’s been cleared, he’s whisked inside by what seems a battalion of guards and footmen.
As he enters the Grand Hall, he remembers that it’s fifteen years since he was here for his investiture and how back then he’d realized his own family had frequented the building when it was no more than a town home for the Duke of Buckingham.
Such familiarity doesn’t stop him admiring the priceless works of art hung on the walls. Paintings by Rembrandt, Vermeer, Van Dyck and Rubens that form part of the Royal Collection.
He passes the Throne Room, its proscenium arch supported by a pair of winged figures of Victory holding garlands above the chair of state. Then the giant ballroom along the East Gallery, the site of state banquets and diplomatic receptions.
The security escorts leave Owain to wait in the White Drawing Room, a name that amuses him because it is so non-white. The ceiling-to-floor drapes and pelmets, the chairs and sofas, cushions and footstools, fire screens and even the surrounds of the giant ornate mirrors that amplify every expansive wall are either a rich yellow or glistening gold.
The Prince of Wales enters.
He’s in a slimly tailored, light-grey suit with a white shirt and pink and gold silk tie, looped of course in a Windsor knot.
‘I hope you don’t mind us meeting here instead of Clarence House.’ He holds out a hand to the knight.
Owain bows as he shakes it. ‘Of course not, Your Royal Highness.’
‘Please, not so official when we are alone.’ The prince motions towards two three-seater sofas arranged opposite each other. ‘I know my father wants to say hello, so don’t be surprised if he bursts in on us.’
‘I won’t. It would be delightful to see him again.’
‘Have you been asked if you would like tea?’
‘I have, and I don’t but thank you.’
‘Owain, I asked you here to discuss your new position, that of ambassador-at-large, with responsibilities for defence and counter-terrorism.’
‘I’m honoured to serve and highly delighted to do so from British soil.’
‘I know. One can only exist in America for so long without going slightly crazy. It’s like holding your breath under very pleasant tropical water. You still have to come up for air.’ He unfastens his suit jacket and cuts to the chase. ‘I’d like to speak bluntly.’