George was silent for a few moments, one massive hand caressing his chin, then said: ‘The British haven’t got much of a reputation for giving in. Feed any of them enough beer or scotch or whatever and like as not someone will end up by telling you that no unspeakable foreigner has ever set foot on their sacred soil for a thousand years. Which is true — and it’s the only country in the world that can claim that.’
‘True, true. But not applicable — or at least of importance — here. This is not a case of Churchill declaiming that we will fight in the streets, hills, beaches or wherever and that we will never surrender. That’s for martial warfare and in martial warfare the parameters and issues are clear-cut. This is psychological warfare where the distinctions are blurred out of sight. Are the British any good at psychological warfare? I’m not sure they are. Come to that, I’m not sure that any country is — too many indefinables.’
‘I don’t think, anyway, that it’s a factor of either martial or psychological warfare. If there’s any factor that’s going to count, it’s the factor of human nature. This is how it might just possibly happen. The British will bluff and bluster, rant and rave — you have to admit that they yield first place to none when it comes to that — throw their arms in the general direction of a mindless heaven, appeal for common justice and claim they’re as pure and white and innocent as the driven snow, which, at this moment of time and conveniently forgetting their not-so distant bloody history, they have some justification in claiming to be. What, they will ask, have we done to precipitate this intolerable situation and why should 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 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 principles of all they think they hold dear destroyed, their finer sensible ties trampled in the mud. The Times letter department would be swamped in an unprecedented deluge of mail, all of it demanding 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 jumped up politicians strutting their brief hour upon the stage. Politicians 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 gallantly 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 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 minibus 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 Effen 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. - wouldn’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 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 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
