progressed. For a while Tariq thought they wouldn't make it, but as the day drew to a close they pulled up outside the tall black metal fence that ringed the Palace of Westminster. Big Ben loomed above them in the blizzard, marking the time as twenty past seven. They were actually a little early but that was okay.
The light was pre-dawn murky and the air was thick with snow as the snatcher honked his horn.
'Remember, once we're in, you can go,' said Tariq, knife in hand. 'Just don't try anything.'
A minute later there was a knock at the window. The driver wound it down.
'What the fuck you doing here, Tel?' asked the guard, shivering despite the thick puffa jacket he was wearing.
'We had a bit of business, mate,' said the snatcher. 'Someone attacked us at the airport. Had to evacuate. Let us in, will you, I'm bloody freezing.'
'You and me both. All right, put them underground.' The guard stepped back and waved them forward.
The gate swung open and the three lorries pulled into the courtyard. The snatcher swung the lorry round and drove down a concrete ramp into the underground car park. He pulled into a bay and switched off the engine. The other two lorries pulled up alongside.
Tariq opened the door and stepped out. He gave the thumbs up to Wilkes, who sat in the cab of the adjacent lorry, looking unenthusiastic.
But Tariq's triumph was short-lived. There was a cacophony of boots as men streamed down the ramp and burst through the interior doors, machine guns in hand.
Tariq stood frozen to the spot as the lorries were encircled by ten very well armed, very angry looking soldiers. The guard from the gate stepped forward and met the snatcher who had driven the lorry, by now out of the cab and running to meet his comrades. He took a gun from the guard and walked up to Tariq, smiling.
'I didn't give the pass word, dipshit,' said the snatcher. 'What, you think we're amateurs? We're SAS, pal. And you are really going to regret fucking with us.'
Chapter Twenty-Three
I can hear Big Ben chiming midnight as I lie in bed, unable to sleep.
I've been given a room in the Speaker's Cottage. It's luxurious, furnished with lovely antiques that have been polished to a fine lustre, and the flock wallpaper feels expensive. The bed is huge and comfy, the eiderdown deep and warm. The window looks out over the river and catches the rising sun in the morning. It's a very nice room indeed.
But it's a gilded cage. Cooper sleeps next door in an even more opulent chamber, and when he escorts me to bed in the evening he locks my door so I cannot sneak out and kill him as he sleeps.
I lie awake listening to the creaks and echoes of this old building as the night cold grips its bones. I can hear Cooper pacing the floor. He's not exactly walking up and down outside — he ranges wider than that — but every few minutes his soft footfalls pass by my room and I hold my breath, listening for the key in the lock. So far he's always kept walking, but this time around he's stopped outside my door.
Silence falls as I lie there, holding my breath, waiting for him to enter or leave. He's been there for five minutes now. What is he doing? Listening at the door? Wrestling with his conscience? Plucking up the courage to come in? The silence lasts so long that I begin to doubt what I heard. Maybe I just didn't hear him leave. He can't have been standing out there, motionless, for so long, can he? That's paranoid.
Yet I feel that just by listening for him I've been drawn into a deadly game of cat and mouse. I consider getting out of bed, creeping to the door and peering out the keyhole. But if he hears me moving around that may catalyse a decision, lead directly to him entering.
So I lie here, listening to the sound that is no sound — the sound of a man trying to decide my fate.
I was surprised when I found the women in the Lords. Not because I didn't realise such a place probably existed — armed men who run internment camps have always kept women for their use, from the comfort women to the women kept alive for 'special duties' in the concentration camps. No, what really surprises me is that Cooper visits them himself. He had been so insistent that he never had any of the women or girls that he trafficked before The Cull. I believe him, too. Now, it seems he no longer feels the need for such restraint. He even has a favourite. I wonder what insight Jools might be able to give me into the real man.
I resolve to go and talk to her again in the morning. My movements around the Palace are not restricted, but I am closely watched and another visit to the Lords risks arousing Cooper's suspicion. Still, I need allies, and those women are the best I can hope for right now.
I hear a sound outside my window, like a sharp crack. The air is thick with snow and all sound is muffled, so I have no idea where it came from or what it was. A drifting boat bumping against the embankment, perhaps?
There are no more sounds and I realise that it distracted me. Has Cooper crept away while I wasn't paying attention?
The silent waiting resumes. Another five minutes pass and I can feel my eyelids starting to droop in spite of myself. Sod this, I think. I'm going to sleep. I turn over, pull the eiderdown up to my cheek, and close my eyes.
The instant I do this I hear a loud banging on the door of the cottage. My eyes snap open. I hear Cooper turn and walk away from my door — so he was still there! — and go to answer. I have a feeling that whatever has occurred may provide an opportunity, so after a second's consideration I jump out of bed and pull on my jeans, jumper and shoes.
I tiptoe to the door, grabbing a glass from the dressing table as I do so, placing it against the thick wood, trying to hear what's going on. It's hopeless, though; all I can hear is the muffled drone of their conversation.
Then there are hurrying footsteps coming my way. I leap backwards as the key is thrust into the lock. I stand in the middle of the floor, fully dressed, no point trying to pretend I was asleep. The door opens and Cooper stands framed there for a moment, surprised to find me up and about. His surprise soon passes.
'Kate, I need your help,' he says. 'Come with me, please.'
Over his shoulder I can see one of his goons standing expectantly in the hallway, machine gun at the ready.
'Help with what?' I ask, not moving.
He pulls a handgun from his waistband. 'You'll see,' he says. He steps forward, grabs my wrist and pulls me after him.
'Hey!' I protest, but he spins and snarls at me with such menace that I'm momentarily silenced. Even when he slapped me he seemed in control, but in this brief instant I catch a glimpse of a different Cooper — furious, savage and ruthless, almost feral.
'Ah-ha,' I think. '
He drags me down a small winding back staircase to the ground floor, through a series of carpeted corridors — green carpet, meaning we're in the Commons — then into the corridor that joins Commons to Lords, through the central lobby and up to the closed doors of the Lords itself.
There are six or seven of his soldiers gathered at various vantage points, all with their guns trained on the doors. The air smells of cordite. Unconcerned by the fact that his men are staying in cover, Cooper walks right up to the doors, still pulling me behind him. He stands in front of the doors for a moment then kicks them open and strides into the ornate, high-ceiling chamber.
The women are gathered in a line on the back bench to my left. They're all sitting bolt upright with their hands upon their heads, eyes wide and fearful. In the middle of the room, on the big red cushion they call the woolsack, stands a man in a hoodie with a bow and arrow. The string is taut, the shaft of the arrow aimed straight at Cooper's heart. My mind races. This is one of Hood's Rangers. Have they decided to take Cooper down? Is this the beginning of an assault? I feel a momentary rush of hope but then damp it down. There's no firing from anywhere in the building, no sounds of combat or attack. No, this is one man. Here to deliver a message, maybe?
It occurs to me that it might actually be Hood himself.
Cooper pulls me to his side, wrapping his left arm around my throat and holding his gun to my temple.
'Drop it or she dies,' he yells.
The hooded man stands there, unmoved. He doesn't say a word.
