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A Sentimental Traitor
A Sentimental Traitor Read online
A Sentimental
Traitor
Also by Michael Dobbs
The Harry Jones Novels:
Old Enemies
The Lords’ Day
The Edge of Madness
The Reluctant Hero
The Historical Novels:
Winston’s War
Never Surrender
Churchill’s Hour
Churchill’s Triumph
Last Man to Die
The Parliamentary Novels:
House of Cards
To Play the King
The Final Cut
The Touch of Innocents
Goodfellowe MP
The Buddha of Brewer Street
Whispers of Betrayal
First Lady
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2012
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Michael Dobbs, 2012
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Michael Dobbs to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
1st Floor
222 Gray’s Inn Road
London
WC1X 8HB
www.simonandschuster.co.uk
Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN HB 978-0-85720-367-0
ISBN TPB 978-0-85720-368-7
ISBN Ebook 978-0-85720-369-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by M Rules
Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY
Dedicated to the memory of
Warwick Hele.
Teacher and Gentleman.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Five days before Christmas.
They were young, innocent, excited, pumped high on an overload of Cola and fries. They were also vulnerable and entirely undeserving of great misfortune. Kids – thirty-seven of them and none older than fifteen, wrapped in brightly coloured ski jackets and scarves against the December cold, their arms laden with the plunder they had snatched from the stalls of the Christmas Fair during their day trip to Brussels. These were the children of the US diplomatic community in London: pampered, privileged, and now headed home.
One of them, Cartagena, named after the town of her conception, was crying, wiping tears from her cherry cheeks and still complaining about the tumble she’d taken on the outdoor ice rink, but no one appeared to be taking much notice so she gave up. Even at the age of eight she was wise enough to realize she had already lost the sympathy vote and wouldn’t have any tears left to impress her parents if she kept this up. Soon she had put aside her dramatic hobble and was skipping along with the rest of the crowd as they made their way to the departure gate. An ancient Tiger Moth biplane in the colours of the Swedish air force was suspended from the rafters high above their heads. Cartagena looked up, incredulous. Did they really used to fly that stuff?
It was a scheduled flight, departing on time, not always what was expected at this time of year, but in any event it wouldn’t have mattered very much to the outcome. The men of evil intent who were waiting for it were already in position.
It had been a makeshift affair, organized at the last minute. The three men had hired the boat the previous day at IJmuiden on the Dutch coast, an Aquabell thirty-three-footer, a fishing boat with its cabin up front, substantial deck aft, and three-hundred-horsepower diesels that could get it out of trouble in the push of a throttle. It had been hired with few words and only the most cursory inspection of the three men’s paperwork. As soon as they got on board it was clear to the owner they knew how to handle it, and any lingering doubts he might have entertained were buried beneath the substantial wad of euros they produced, although the strange box-object in its canvas shroud that was lugged on board had nothing to do with fishing. Most likely a drugs run, he reckoned, or perhaps people smuggling, dropping Middle Eastern filth off on some deserted stretch of East Anglia. He couldn’t care less, not at almost double his usual rate and in a bundle of cash that was already forming a bulge in his pocket. If the British couldn’t keep an eye on their own coastline, why the hell should he lose sleep? He scratched his crotch and hurried off to the nearest bar.
Now the three men waited anxiously, the boat turning into the swell of the North Sea, keeping station beneath the flight path. On another night and in a less chaotic world they would have taken more time, employed more sophisticated equipment to track the plane, but they had to make do with an iPhone loaded with a Plane Finder app. Yet it was a remarkable tool. Press a button and tiny red icons began creeping across a map with the details and destinations of almost every commercial flight in the air including their call signs, flight paths, positions, heights, speeds. Everything in real time, and all a terrorist in a hurry would need. As they waited, they unwrapped their cargo from its polystyrene shroud, checking and rechecking every part of the gear they had brought on board. They had spent wisely. The shoulder-held surface-to-air missile they had acquired was the latest Russian model, an SA-24 Grinch, one of the best in the business, its sophistication so simple that operating it was easy enough even for ragheads: one as a spotter, the other the shooter. And as they waited, on their tiny iPhone screen the red marker of Speedbird 235 began its crawl across the map towards them.
The Airbus was climbing, its twin CFM engines burning eighty-three litres of fuel a minute through the crystal air of the winter night. Soon they were crossing the coast slightly to the south of Ostende, and even as they passed into the dark embrace of the North Sea, the pilots could see the gentle glow of the English coast more than sixty miles away. The flight would be short, a little over the hour, cruising at twenty-two thousand feet before descending and flying almost directly west along the Thames estuary and across London to Heathrow.
‘God’s light,’ the captain whispered as the lights of the English coast began to emerge on the horizon, like a thousand candles being waved in greeting. On a night like this a man could gaze all the way to Heaven. Karl was a family man, four teenage girls, and crammed into the aft hold was a bulging bag full of presents he’d grabbed in a frantic half-hour through the crew duty-free at Brussels. Every year as they grew older the struggle to find something they appreciated got more difficult, but he didn’t complain. All too soon they would be gone. Damn.
It was the last flight of the day. The milk run. There were one hundred and eight passengers on board, two pilots and five hosties, making a total of one hundred and fi
fteen on the manifest. The hosties – cabin crew – were moving down the aisle serving the boxes of antiseptic sandwiches and snacks that passed as in-flight refreshment. The napkins had dreary motifs of holly printed on them, the sole concession the PC brigade at corporate headquarters had made to the festive season, so the hosties had retaliated and were wearing reindeer horns with flashing red lights on the tips.
‘Time to make an idiot of myself,’ the captain muttered as he rose from his seat and pulled a Santa Claus hat over his head.
‘But, Karl, you do it so brilliantly,’ Bryan, his first officer, replied.
‘Just make sure you don’t crash the bloody thing while I’m gone.’
‘Haven’t done that in almost months,’ Bryan said, smiling.
The captain disappeared, but only for a few minutes. Not much scope for distraction on a short flight. By the time he returned, the first officer was already talking to air traffic control and confirming the details of their course adjustment and descent, twisting the control knobs to set the coordinates into the flight computer. ‘Speed: two-two-zero, flight level: one-five-zero,’ he was repeating.
‘Glad you managed to keep us in the sky this time,’ the captain muttered, draping his hat over the clothes hook behind him. As he slipped back into his seat, from the corner of his eye he saw the hat fall forlornly to the floor. He sighed. His wife kept telling him he was getting too old to fly, but too old to play Santa Claus? He thought about retrieving it, but decided it could wait. He would tidy up later if Abi, the senior attendant, didn’t find it first. She was always complaining about his untidiness. He fastened his harness. ‘I have control,’ he declared, reasserting his authority. Yet no sooner had the words been acknowledged by his colleague when from somewhere behind they heard a crash – no, a series of crashes, an extended, evil noise, like the gates of Hell swinging open. In the same heartbeat the master alarm began to chime out a warning, and the Airbus started to bounce around the sky like a sweet wrapper caught in an updraught.
From their vantage point fifteen thousand feet below, the three attackers gazed on, in glorious anticipation, which slowly froze to disbelief. The spotter had acquired the target, through night-vision goggles bought on the Internet. The skies in this part of the world were lonely at night and Speedbird 235 stood out starkly against the clutter of distant stars. The Grinch was a one-shot throwaway system, almost kid’s stuff; all the shooter had to do was clip on the power unit, press a button, and they were set. As he tracked the aircraft through the eyepiece he engaged it with a half-trigger, then another gentle squeeze. Nothing more. The missile did the rest. The eruption of sound and light battered the two men’s wits. By the time they had recovered and the fug of smoke had disappeared, the missile was already at a great distance, its trail a distinctive spiral through the night sky as it went in pursuit, constantly adjusting its attitude to stay locked on to the heat signature of the engines. They watched it closing in. They saw it strike. They even witnessed the sharp flare of impact. Then Speedbird 235 carried on.
No explosion. No ripping of the wing away from its mounting. No tattered fuselage tumbling from the sky. Above them, the strobe lights of the Airbus were still flashing from the wingtips. A malfunction, a dud perhaps, always a risk when these things were bought on the black market, or was it because the missile was at the very limit of its effective range, and even beyond? The plane continued on its path through the night. They had failed, catastrophically, and in their line of business there was always a price to be paid for failure. For a few minutes they argued, screamed, hurled curses at each other, threatened to drag each other’s mothers from the whorehouse, frantically interrogated the screen of their iPhone and stretched their necks until they could no longer see the lights of the aircraft as it flew on, and on. In despair, the phone was hurled overboard, as far as it could be thrown. Then they hit the throttle and sped back into the darkness.
Back in the cockpit, there was no sense of panic. An engine had gone, that was the obvious answer, and they had practised for that any number of times on the simulator at Cranebank. Anyway, the ECAM aircraft monitoring system was telling them all they needed to know.
‘Eng Fail. Eng One Fail,’ the screen reported.
The captain reached forward to switch off the distracting howl of the master alarm. ‘I have control. Read ECAM,’ he instructed the first officer, his voice formal, unflustered. ECAM was a brilliant device, designed not only to tell them what the trouble was but how to fix it. In an equally formal tone the first officer began calling out the instructions from the screen when, without warning, the instructions changed.
‘HYD Green Reservoir Low Level.’
Bugger. One of the three hydraulic systems had gone down. Thank God the designers of this wonderful beast had built in three such systems – Green, Yellow and Blue – so they still had two left. Failsafe. Hell, this bird could fly on just one, no great problem, it had happened to most experienced pilots one time or another. But it was time to let others know of their little difficulty.
‘Speedbird 235, Speedbird 235,’ the captain spoke into his radio. ‘Mayday Mayday. Mayday. Engine failure.’
The voice of an air traffic controller responded immediately. ‘Acknowledged, Speedbird 235. Let me know your intentions.’
Intentions? They would carry on, of course. No drama. The Green hydraulics were the primary system and controlled things like the steering of the nose wheel, the landing gear, the main braking system, lots of other things, too, but there were plenty of backups. The landing gear could be dropped manually, there was emergency braking available on Yellow. And ECAM was giving them the safety procedure, something they’d practised a hundred times on the simulators. Isolate the engine, pull back to idle, master switch off, activate the fire system that cut off the supply of fuel and air to the engine in case of a leak. Losing an engine and one set of hydraulics wasn’t much of a problem, but you didn’t want this sort of thing spreading. The Airbus flew on, her path straight and true.
They were still concentrating on the ECAM instructions when Abi appeared at the flight-deck door. They buzzed her through. She was frowning, twisting the antlers nervously in her hands.
‘Guys, stop screwing around. Please?’
‘We have an engine down, Abi.’
‘I know that! Bits of it are falling off the back of the airplane. The kids don’t know whether to scream or take photos. What should I tell them?’
The captain slipped into his formal briefing, reporting the engine and hydraulic failure to her, stating his intention to continue on to Heathrow, giving his estimate of timing. They were barely seventy miles from touchdown; they’d be on the ground in little more than a quarter of an hour. ‘It’ll be a normal landing, I think, Abi, but because of the hydraulics our steering’s stuffed, so we won’t be able to get off the runway. There’ll be a lot of vehicles to greet us and plenty of flashing blue lights. Totally normal for this sort of thing. No evacuation, no slides, we’ll just stop on the runway instead of taxiing to the gate. Understood?’
Abi repeated his instructions back to him in confirmation. ‘Tell me you’ve done this sort of thing before, Karl?’ she added when she had finished the routine.
‘Don’t worry, Abi, several times. You OK with this?’
‘It’ll give me something to talk about in the nail bar. Men drivers.’
‘Tell the other girls I’ll be buying drinks when we get down.’
‘To celebrate the fact you can land a plane with only a few bits falling off?’
‘Christmas. I was thinking Christmas. This is my last trip.’
‘Make sure it’s not ours, too,’ she replied, defiant. Dear Abi, she could give as good as she got. ‘And for Heaven’s sake, tidy up this cabin,’ she added, bending to pick up the fallen Santa hat. She tried to hang it back on its hook, but the hook was broken, flapping from its fixture. Perhaps the bang had been more severe than they’d thought. She folded it neatly and put it in her pocket.
‘Good luck, you guys.’ She placed a hand on the captain’s shoulder. He squeezed it tenderly, and for a fraction longer than was necessary. Then she disappeared back into the plane.
‘How many times you really done this before?’ the first officer asked, trying to sound nonchalant as the flight-deck door closed behind her.
‘Hundreds of times,’ his colleague replied. ‘In the simulator.’
‘And they told me I was a jerk.’
‘No point in putting the wind up her. You know how emotional these hosties get, but this is nothing we can’t handle.’
‘Tell me, Karl, you and Abi ever had a thing going?’ the first officer asked nonchalantly, his eyes still fixed on ECAM. ‘I always thought . . .’
Silence. The captain concentrated on his controls.
‘Hell, I would,’ the first officer added.
The captain sighed. ‘Just concentrate on your job and give me the readings, jerk.’
In front of them, the lights of the Thames estuary were burning bright and already the pilots could see the dark snake of the river that would lead them home.
Then ECAM started pinging again. For a single heartbeat the first officer thought it was a repeat of the earlier information, but it wasn’t going to be that easy.
‘Shit, we’ve lost Yellow,’ he spat.
The second hydraulic system was losing pressure. That was the moment when they both knew they were in trouble – not desperate trouble, but deepening. It meant they had no brakes, no flaps, the landing would be very fast and there was an excellent chance they’d run right out of tarmac. The emergency services wouldn’t be there as spectators any longer.
‘You know, Karl, I’m hoping this is a sim.’
A Sentimental Traitor