When you read this letter, they will already be in the air. They are due to arrive at Heathrow Airport at five minutes past seven.
At exactly seven fifteen, all eighteen members of this squad, including the coaches, will be killed.
You cannot save them; you cannot protect them: you can only watch. We hope, by this action, you will understand that we are to be taken seriously and thus you will act quickly to persuade the Americans to comply. By doing so, you will avoid the terrible and pointless massacre of so many of your young people.
We have taken the liberty of forwarding a copy of this letter to the American ambassador in London. We will be watching the news channels on television, where we will be expecting an announcement to be made. You will receive no further communication from us. We repeat: these demands cannot be negotiated. The countdown has already begun.
Yours faithfully,
SCORPIA
There was a long silence, broken only by the ticking of an antique clock, as both men studied the letter for a fourth and then a fifth time. Each was aware of the other, wondering how he would react. The two men could not have been more different. Nor could they have disliked each other more.
Sir Graham Adair had been a civil servant for as long as anyone could remember, not part of any government but always serving it, advising it and (some people said) controlling it. He was now in his sixties and had silvery- grey hair and a face accustomed to disguising its emotions. He was dressed, as always, in a dark, old-fashioned suit. He was the sort of man who was sparing in his movements and who never said anything until he had thoroughly considered it first. He had worked with six prime ministers in his lifetime and had different opinions about them all. But he had never told anyone, not even his wife, his innermost thoughts. He was the perfect public servant. One of the most powerful people in the country, he was delighted that very few people knew his name.
The director of communications hadn’t even been born when Sir Graham had first entered Downing Street.
Mark Kellner was one of the many “special advisers” with whom the prime minister liked to surround himself
—and he was also the most influential. He had been at university—studying politics and economics—with the prime minister’s wife. For a time he had worked in television, until he had been invited to try his luck in the corridors of power. He was a small, thin man with glasses and too much curly hair. He was also wearing a suit, and there was dandruff on his shoulders.
It was Kellner who broke the silence with a single four-letter word. Sir Graham glanced at him. He never used that sort of language himself.
“You don’t believe any of this rubbish, do you?” Kellner demanded.
“This letter came from Scorpia,” Sir Graham replied. “I have had direct dealings with them in the past, and I have to tell you that they’re not known to make idle threats.”
“You accept that they’ve invented some sort of secret weapon? An invisible sword?” Mark Kellner couldn’t hide the scorn in his voice. “So what’s going to happen? They’re going to wave some sort of magic wand and everyone’s going to fall down dead?”
“As I’ve already said, Mr Kellner, in my opinion Scorpia would not have sent this letter if they did not have the means to back it up. They are probably the most dangerous criminal organization in the world. Bigger than the Mafia, more ruthless than the triads.”
“But you tell me: what sort of weapon could target children? Thousands of schoolchildren—that’s what they say. So what are they going to do? Set off some sort of dirty bomb in the playground? Or maybe they’re going to go round schools with hand grenades!”
“They say the weapon is primed and operational.”
“The weapon doesn’t exist!” Kellner slammed his hand down on his copy of the letter. “And even if it did, these demands are ridiculous. The American president is not going to resign. His popularity ratings have never been better. And as for this suggestion that the Americans dismantle their weapons systems—do Scorpia really think for a single minute that they’ll even consider it? The Americans love weapons! They’ve got more weapons than just about anyone else in the world. We show this letter to the president, and he’ll laugh at us.”
“MI6 aren’t prepared to rule out the possibility that the weapon exists.”
“You’ve spoken to them?”
“I had a telephone conversation with Alan Blunt earlier this evening. I have also sent him a copy of the letter.
He believes, like me, that we should treat this matter with the utmost seriousness.”
“The prime minister has cut short his visit to Mexico,” Kellner muttered. “He’s flying home as we speak. You don’t get much more serious than that!”
“I’m sure we’re all grateful to the prime minister for interrupting his conference,” Sir Graham retorted drily.
“But I would have said it’s the aircraft carrying these football players that we should be considering. I’ve also spoken to British Airways. Flight 0074 was delayed in Lagos earlier today and only left this afternoon, just before half past twelve our time. It should be touching down at Heathrow at five past seven, just like the letter says. And the England reserve football squad are on board.”
“So what are you suggesting we do?” Kellner demanded.
“It’s very simple. The threat to the plane is at Heathrow. Scorpia’s helped us at least by giving us the place and the time. We must therefore re-route the plane at once. It can land at Birmingham or Manchester. Our first priority is to make sure the players are safe.”
“I’m afraid I don’t agree.”
Sir Graham Adair glanced at the director of communications, his eyes filled with an icy contempt. He had spoken at length with Alan Blunt. Both of them had been expecting this.
