The first floor was a place of jabbering telephone calls and whacking typewriters, heaping of files and confabs of dark grey suits. Donald wondered what all the frenzy was about. He had never seen anything like this at Wilson House. One sensed a certain fanaticism about typing everything up in a report for circulation, as if that proved it was right. They turned into a corridor with windows looking out into the black night—any gunman out there could turn the building into a shooting gallery. These Party people must feel exceedingly safe to allow the night to peer in at them like that. Up ahead, he spotted a familiar person with the chest of a horse and a bull’s neck. It was Valentin, the tough guy who had guarded the National Party office at Bloomsbury College. Donald waved to him. At the sight of Sarah-Kelly, he barged forward and bear-hugged her off her feet.
“Skay! Oh that’s brilliant, you’re safe!” He gripped Donald by the arm and shook his hand. “I congratulate you for getting Skay out of that slaughterhouse, Donald. Only five of us got out of that top floor alive. The rest were wiped out by those glory thugs, every last one of them. Come on, we’ve got to tell the president about this.”
With his arms around Donald and Sarah-Kelly, and trailed by an obviously peeved Kalchelik, Valentin budged through a nearby doorway into an office congested with desks and filing cabinets. A wall of uniformed backs met them. Someone beyond the wall was giving a briefing at an easel, of which Donald could only see the pinnacle of the three legs whilst recognising the voice of Theo Farkas. The wall of backs was composed of former glory officers, all wearing the tricolour armband. Valentin drew them both in close and said:
“We’ll have to wait; the president is giving a briefing to the Provisional Cabinet.”
Donald tuned in to the voice. Reconnaissance units were spreading around the Great Ring Drain and would be confirmed in position on all major junctions by morning. The ultras had left the turnpikes open to all, apparently as a goodwill gesture. Several units had run into convoys of sovereign vehicles fleeing the Central Enclave and there had been exchanges of fire. At least two National Army armoured cars had been knocked out, against which, three sovereign vehicles had been captured and were being returned to the Central Bank for deposit of precious items into the National Treasury. Scattered groups of sovereignite glory troops had been intercepted on the public drains with varying results. Here and here, the groups surrendered. There is an ongoing firefight here, with reinforcements on the way. Concerning the Grande Enceinte, all the forts were confirmed in National Army control. Mopping-up of sovereignite glory troops was ongoing, this operation being complicated by the mass movement of servants taking flight before rumours that mobs from the asylums would irrupt in the morning. To resolve the situation, fear-mongering and rubbishing were being thoroughly prevented by the National Police.
The challenges for the morrow centred on four prime tasks. One, communicating the total victory of the National Party to the people of the Republic. Bulletins were already being printed by ZEEBRI night shifts for morning distribution. Farkas would be touring all the industrial asylums with loud speaker units to announce the liberation of the people and declare their citizens’ rights. Two, secure the remaining strategic buildings in the Central Enclave, notably the mansions of the sovereigns in Mayfair, the Palace of Westminster and all glory trust headquarters. Three, establish good relations with the Ultramarine Guild. Communication was hindered by the Ultramarine Guild headquarters having been shuttered in anticipation of the aforementioned mob and all owners having disappeared. Four, establish adequate border forces around the Great Ring Drain, which would be the frontier of the Republic during the phase of consolidation. Next meeting at 7 am. Any questions?
The wall of backs dispersed from the office, a sense of space returned. Farkas looked shattered on his feet—completely exhausted, eyes glittering with fatigue. For all that, he attended to a queue of subordinates that had grown during the briefing. It was fully half an hour before Donald and Sarah-Kelly got their slot. By some unspoken consensus, most of the building had drifted off to bed by then; night quiet had finally come to the headquarters building at almost half past two in the morning.
Farkas waved the four of them in around his small, plain desk in the corner of the office. He smelled of sweat and cigarettes. After he had shaken the hands of the men and given Sarah-Kelly the statutory bear-hug, he lit up a cigarette, handing out his pack to Valentin, Kalchelik and Sarah-Kelly, while Donald declined.
Farkas looked at Donald with piercing force, whilst clasping his hands behind his head and blowing smoke at the ceiling.
“You’re an interesting catch. How much do you think Krossington will pay to get you back?”
“Nothing,” Donald said.
“Krossington paid good gold to get you back from Dasti-Jones—I saw that with my own eyes. He will pay again.”
“I think not. My wife is divorcing me. She’s from a manor in the Lands of Krossington, whereas I am but a commoner. TK has to shun me to demonstrate solidarity with his own Land Council. It’s all good, solid sovereign logic.”
“Ah!” Farkas hissed through his teeth. “Our National Police picked you up at Ladbroke fort—where were you going?”
“Here—Brent Cross. Sarah-Kelly has friends here.”
“And now you are here—Brent Cross—with Sarah-Kelly’s friends. You were close to Tom Krossington. You must know a great many secrets of his clan.”
“They’re
