they, luckless lambs being led to the slaughter etc, be forced to find an
impossible solution to an impossible problem which is none of their making?
All quite true, of course. Why, they will cry, is no one in the world
lifting a finger to help us, specifically those idle, spineless, cowardly,
incompetent etc, Dutch who can’t bear to separate themselves from their
cheese and tulips and gin even for the few moments it would take to
eradicate this monster in their midst.
‘Nobody, of course, is going to pay a blind bit of attention to what they
are saying. And when I say “they” I don’t mean the British people as a
whole, I mean Whitehall, their government. And here’s where the first real
bit of human nature comes in. The British have always prided themselves on
their compassion, fair-mindedness, tolerance and undying sympathy for the
under-dog- never mind what a few hundred million ex-subjects of the British
Empire would have to say on that subject – and
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their kindness to dogs, cats and whatever else takes their
passing fancy. That they may be happily existing in a world of
sheer illusion is irrelevant: what is relevant for them is that what
other people may regard as sheer hypocrisy is, for them,
received truth . It is an immutable fact of life – British life, that
is
– so that if we poor Dutch even as much as got our feet wet, their
moral outrage would be fearful to behold. Their indignation
would be unbounded, ditto their consternation, the princip’ les
of all they think they hold dear destroyed, their finer sensibili
ties trampled in the mud. The Times letter department would be
swamped in an unprecedented deluge of inail, all of it demand
ing that the criminals responsible for this atrocity should be
held to account. X number of heads on x number of chargers.
John the Baptist raised to the nth.
‘And now the second real bit of human nature. Whitehall is acutely aware
who the John the Baptists would be. The government – any government, come
to that – may regard themselves as statesmen or cabinet ministers but
deep down in their cowering hearts they know full well that they are only
jumpedup politicians strutting their brief hour upon the stage. Politi-
cians they are and politicians in those fearful hearts they will always
remain. And in their little egoistic political minds they are concerned,
with rare exceptions – our Minister of Defence is one – only with
security of tenure, the trappings of office and the exercise of power.
Their egos are their existence and if you destroy their egos you destroy
their existence or at least consign them to the political wilderness for
many years to come.
‘There would be a landslide defeat for them at the next election or, much
more likely, they would be turfed out of office very promptly. For your
average cabinet minister, such a possibility is too appalling for
contemplation. So we won’t get our feet wet. Motivated not by their own
miserable fear, cowardice, greed and love of power but by the overriding
dictates of common humanity, Whitehall will gallandy bow its head to the
terrorists.’
There was a considerable silence, interrupted only by the hissing and
drumming of rain on the window panes and streets and the constant
rumbling of distant thunder. Then George
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said: ‘You never did have a very high opinion of politicians, did you,
Peter?’
‘I’m in the sort of job where I have the unfortunate privilege of coming
into contact with far too many of them.’
George shook his head. ‘That’s as may be. But that’s a very, very cynical
outlook to adopt, Peter.’
‘We live in a very, very cynical world, George.’
‘Indeed, indeed.’ There was a pause and this time George nodded his head.
‘But sadly I have to agree with you. On both counts. About the world. And
about the politicians.’
Nobody had anything more to say until a van drew up before the hotel
entrance – it was, in fact, the mini-bus that had been used in the Dam
Square the previous evening. Romero Agnelli, who was driving, wound down
the window and slid back the door behind him.
Jump in. You can tell me where to go.’
‘Jump out,’ van Effen said. ‘We want to talk to you.’
‘You want to – what’s wrong, for God’s sake?’
‘We just want to talk.’
‘You can talk inside the bus.’
‘We may not be going anywhere in that bus.’
‘You haven’t got the -‘
‘We’ve got everything. Are we going to stand here all day shouting at
each other through the rain?’
Agnelli slid the door forward, opened his own and got out, followed by
Leonardo, Daniken and O’Brien. They hastily mounted the steps into the
shelter of the porch.
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Agnelli said. The suave veneer
had cracked a little. ‘And what the hell -‘
‘And who the hell do you think you’re talking to?’ van Effien said.
‘We’re not your employees. We’re your partners – or we thought we were.’
‘You think you -‘ Agnelli cut himself off, frowned, smiled and hauled his
urbanity back into place. ‘If we must talk – and it seems we must. –
wouidn’t it be a little more pleasant inside?’
‘Certainly. This, by the way, is the Lieutenant.’ Van Effen made the
introductions which Vasco hoarsely acknowledged, apologizing profusely
for the state of his throat. Agnelli, it was
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clear, had no idea who he was, even going as far as to say that Vasco
couldn’t possibly be anything else than an army officer.
Inside, seated in a remote corner of the lounge, van Effen unfolded his
newspaper and laid it on the table before Agnelli. ‘I suppose you can see
those headlines?’
‘Um, well, yes, as a matter of fact, I can.’ He could hardly have failed to
for the banner headline was the biggest the newspaper could produce. It
read, quite simply, ‘FFF BLACKMAILS TWO NATIONS’ which was followed by a
number of only slightly smaller headlines which were concerned primarily
with the perfidy of the FFF, the heroic resolution of the Dutch government,
the dauntless defiance of the British government and one or two other lies.
‘Yes, well, we rather thought you might have read something like
this,’Agnelli said. ‘And we did think you might have been a little
troubled. But only a little. I mean, I personally can see no reason for
concern, or that anything has radically altered. You knew what the reasons
for your employment – sorry, engagement – were and you knew what we were
doing. So what has changed so much overnight?’
‘This much has changed,’ George said. ‘The scope of the thing. The
escalation of the plan. The sheer enormity of the matter. I’m a Dutchman,
Mr Agnelli. The Lieutenant is a Dutchman. Stephan Danilov may not be Dutch
born, but he’s a damn sight more Dutch than he is anything else and we’re
not going to stand by and see our country drowned. And country, Mr Agnelli,
means people. It is certain that none of us three operates inside the law:
it is equally certain that none of us would ever again operate outside the
law if we thought that our actions would bring harm to any person alive.
Quite apart from that, we’re out of our depth. We are not small-time
criminals but we do not act at an international level. What do you people
want with Northern Ireland? Why do you want the British out? Why do you
blackmail our government – or the British? Why do you threaten to drown
thousands of us? Why threaten to blow up the Royal Palace? Or haven’t you
read the papers? Are you all mad?’
‘We are not mad.’ Agnelli sounded almost weary. ‘It’s you
209
who are mad – if you believe all that you read in the papers. The papers
have just printed – in this instance, what your government has told them
to say – in a state of national emergency, and the government do regard
this as such, they have the power to do so. And the government have told
them what we told them to say. They have followed our instructions
precisely. We have no intention of hurting a single living soul.’
‘Northern Ireland is still a far cry from blackmailing the Dutch
government for a little ready cash,’van Effen said. ‘This, we thought,
had been your original intention and one with which we’d have gone along.
Quite willingly. We have no reason to love the government.’ He stared off
into the far distance. ‘I have no reason to like quite a number of
governments.’
‘On the basis of what you have told me,’ Agnelli said, ‘I can quite
understand that.’ He smiled, produced his ebony cigarette-holder, fitted
a Turkish cigarette and lit it with his gold-inlaid onyx lighter, all of