They rested against a tree, panting.
“Those were Krossington marines. They broke into the house—so they certainly weren’t there to say ‘hello’. For some reason TK wants me gone.”
“He must have found out about that account-captain you shot.”
“I doubt it. More likely it’s because of my wife’s divorcing me, or else Lawrence’s escape. Or both. He’s decided we’re more bloody trouble than we’re worth.”
The implications were far too daunting to dwell on now. The imperative of now was to get outside the Grande Enceinte before TK put a watch on Ladbroke fort.
“We’ve got to keep moving,” he said.
“We’ll be safe in Brent Cross.”
“We have to get there first, can you keep running?”
“We’ll stand out a mile if we run, and we’ll keep hitting folk.”
This was true. They put on their boots and continued at a brisk walk. They could hear occasional boot steps and whispers around them. In the darkness, it was hard to discern whether there were many other people out here or few. Most strangely, there were no vehicles. Normally glory vehicles roared up and down this major artery all day and all night. A wider silence hung over the Central Enclave. There were no background booms of the Naclaski batteries.
The wide road veered a little to present a new long straight. In the distance was a bubble of light, rather like frontier gates, except that there were no frontier gates on this stretch of Euston Road. Presently they could hear a Stirling generator pulsing and smell wood smoke from its stack. The lights stood on the junction of Euston Road with Ladbroke Grove. Donald could see nothing resembling an impromptu checkpoint. The flag of the National Party hung between a couple of poles beaten into the gravel, forming a backdrop to a lighted area jostling with people creating a great deal of excited chatter. None of them were glory troops and there certainly were no sovereign marines.
A ring of young men and women around the flag were dishing out handfuls of bulletins to everyone who passed. Donald drifted in the flow and took a bulletin, pausing in the light to read it. It had been issued by the National Party using top-class paper and print. Donald burst out in an exclamation and shook his head.
“Team Lieutenant Farkas is the new president of the National Party,” he said. “Do you know Farkas?”
“Of course. He was one of the big movers behind the Atrocity Commission. It’s payback for him, seeing as he never killed surplus and it killed his career. There’s lots of glory officers like him in the Party now… It says there’s an arrest list.”
Sarah-Kelly turned the bulletin over. Together, they scanned the photographs of named glory criminals. Donald did not breathe for half a minute. He was pretty sure Sarah-Kelly held her breath too. Lawrence was not named. However, Donald did spot a familiar face; Team Lieutenant Richard Haighman, the officer with the rugby-mashed face who had been his jailer on the Lands of Dasti-Jones. It was Haighman who had warned Donald yesterday that an atrocity was about to happen in Bloomsbury. According to the bulletin, Haighman’s crimes included being in the chain of command that had ordered the shelling of Brent Cross, in addition to “a sustained record of criminal actions from the beginning of his career”.
“How seriously should we take these charges?” he asked. He thought his voice quivered.
“Very seriously. Banner and Farkas were determined that only if the evidence was—to use their word—irrefragable, would an officer be listed for arrest. I saw the files of some of the ones on the short list. They were bloody guilty bastards.” She rapped the sheet with her forefinger. “This lot are guilty and they deserve to hang.”
Sarah-Kelly could not have missed Haighman’s picture. She had not recognised him.
“It doesn’t say how many of them have been captured.”
“I wonder how they’ll hang after all the stuff they’ve done.”
Donald folded the bulletin and put it inside his leather raincoat. He glanced back up Euston Road. It was a pointless gesture, as the darkness could have hidden a company of Krossington marines.
“Let’s keep going,” he said.
*
TK and Wingfield passed the stiff minutes trying to absorb themselves reading reports or drafting memos. From beyond the blackout shutters came occasional sounds of the enormous night of confusion: distant shots, some yelling, the grumbling of a truck on Park Lane. When booted feet thumped up the steps beyond the door, both men put down their pencils. Wingfield bade the arrival enter. It was the marine lieutenant who had led the small party to capture Donald.
“Is he well, lieutenant?” TK asked.
“He wasn’t there, Your Decency. The house was shuttered up and empty. No servants, no owners. We had to break in to check, being careful to make it look like casual looting.”
“Anything at all to suggest where they went?”
“Nothing, Your Decency. No notes or forwarding information.”
“Thank you,” TK said, in a dull tone. The lieutenant saluted and left. After a few moments’ thought, TK spoke over his shoulder to Wingfield.
“We’ll have to stay in London. I’ve a nasty feeling Nightminster was right
