The Horse at the Gates (10 page)

The slim wall safe was mounted inside the chimney breast, hidden behind a hinged replica of Aivazovsky’s
‘The Ninth Wave’
. Bryce had a fascination for seascapes, stemming from the sailing holidays of his youth and his all too brief flirtation with offshore racing during university. There was never any time for it now and he often missed it. He studied the painting for a moment, the castaways clinging to a broken mast, helpless as the sea threatened to engulf them; today, he thought he understood how those people felt. He punched a code into the safe’s keypad and the thick hatch swung open. Bryce turned around. Rana Hassani’s tiny figure stood in the study doorway.

‘The relocation programme is to be suspended?’

Bryce shot a glance at Ella, who immediately moved to intercept the Deputy Communities Minister. ‘I’m afraid the Prime Minister can’t see you right now, Rana. If you would-’

‘Well?’ Hassani demanded, dodging Ella’s outstretched arm.

Bryce retrieved the dossier and closed the safe door. ‘Where did you hear that?’

‘So, the rumours are true,’ she glowered.

Bryce struggled to keep his own temper in check. ‘Rana, this is neither the time nor the place for this and, besides, you’re overstepping the mark here.’

Saeed’s diminutive deputy stood her ground. ‘Prime Minister, with respect, I don’t think you’ve thought this through.’

‘Really?’ he bristled, waving the dossier in the air. ‘I think when you’ve heard the contents of this report you may reconsider that opinion. Now, if you’ll excuse us.’

Hassani didn’t move. ‘I’d like two minutes of your time.’ She tilted her veiled head respectfully. ‘Please.’

Bryce took a deep breath. ‘Fine,’ he relented, ‘two minutes.’

Behind Hassani, Ella shook her head vigorously. Bryce ignored her as he took up position by the window. The sun had already set, the sky a palette of deepening blues, the few clouds to the west brushed with streaks of pink and red. He looked down, where the evening shadows invaded the garden. The lawn was immaculate, the flower beds still quite colourful despite nature’s autumnal assaults. He looked beyond the perimeter wall and over the black steel spikes towards St. James Park, where stubborn leaves clung to the trees, shivering in the evening breeze. Nearby, scattered groups of tourists gathered in small knots on Horseguards Parade. The historic square once heaved with tour parties, all flocking to London in their millions to visit its multitude of attractions. Now it appeared desolate.

Two families in our village have already gone...

‘Prime Minister,’ Hassani began in a quiet voice behind him. ‘The relocation programme is a humanitarian effort on an unprecedented scale, a challenge that we here in Britain have met with resounding success.’

Bryce turned to face her. ‘I’m afraid that’s not the case-’

‘Let me finish,’ Hassani commanded, holding up her hand. Bryce fumed silently. True to form, she’d completed the predicted mood swing from respectful colleague to irritating nuisance in one small sentence. He’d look forward to sacking her, too, if he ever got a word in.

‘Suspending the program, or whatever it is you intend to do, is not only illegal, it will also damage international relationships, especially across the Islamic world. Furthermore, it will cause great distress among the seven million Muslim voters right here in Britain. To even suggest such a course of action is unethical, unconstitutional and, quite simply, unacceptable.’ Her voice had risen steadily as she spoke, the last word delivered just short of a bark. Before Bryce could answer, the Communities deputy continued her lecture.

‘Both Britain and Pakistan have enjoyed a long history together and many of the refugees see Britain as a spiritual home. To deny them the opportunity to come here is an abuse of their human rights. The programme must continue, so that displaced friends and relatives may be welcomed into the bosom of the Pakistani community. It is our duty to-’

‘A duty we can ill afford,’ Bryce cut in. He took a deep breath, knowing he had to tread carefully. ‘Rana, I sympathise with your argument, but it’s a fact that the refugees have travelled through some extraordinarily prosperous countries to arrive at the gates of Europe. As well as a
temporary
suspension, I intend to pursue agreements with the Gulf states, encourage them to accept a share of the burden until the situation in Pakistan is resolved.’

Hassani’s eyes bored into him. ‘The refugees are a burden to you?’

Bryce chewed his lip; this debate was going nowhere. He glanced at his watch. ‘Your two minutes are up.’

‘I strongly advise you to reconsider your position,’ Hassani urged, wagging a slender finger at the ceiling. ‘Much hatred has been directed towards the refugees and this suspension will only fuel such loathing, a state of affairs you will be held responsible for.’

Ella stepped between them, towering over the tiny minister. ‘That’s enough, thank you Rana. I think you’ve made your point. Now, if you don’t mind, the Prime Minister has a press conference to attend.’ She glared at Ella then left the room, leaving the door wide open. Ella swung it closed behind her.

‘Jesus Christ, that bloody woman.’

Bryce stared at the door. ‘How the hell did she find out?’

‘Must be someone at Heathrow, one of Davies’ team probably.’

‘I warned him, no leaks.’

‘If Rana knows, then so does Tariq.’

Bryce let out a long sigh. ‘Well, in a few minutes everyone will know.’

‘She’s right about one thing,’ continued Ella. ‘The Muslim community will see this as a bad day for them.’

‘Which reminds me.’ Bryce produced a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. ‘A shortlist of prospective candidates to replace Tariq, all with the necessary credentials. Go over it, would you? Let me have your thoughts?’

Ella plucked the paper from his fingers and scanned it quickly. ‘I will.’ She stood in front of Bryce and her hand reached out and smoothed the lapels of his jacket. ‘You look very nice,’ she smiled. ‘Very handsome.’

‘Ella-’

‘I can have an opinion, can’t I? If I can’t have you, then at least allow me that.’ Bryce said nothing as she picked a thread of lint from his shoulder. She smiled and squeezed his hand. ‘I’m always here for you, Gabe. You know that.’ Bryce saw the pain of rejection flash momentarily in her eyes, then she blinked several times and took a deep breath, once again in total control. ‘Ready to face the mob?’

‘As I’ll ever be,’ he smiled grimly.

‘Then let’s go. We’re late.’

They left the room, striding past Bryce’s apologetic private secretary and out onto the landing. As Ella trotted down the Grand Staircase, its walls lined with portraits and photographs of previous Downing Street incumbents, Bryce paused beside his own image. It was a moody black and white study of sincere statesmanship, his thick grey hair swept back off his suntanned forehead, the sharp lines of his tailored suit more
Vanity Fair
than the
Labour Review
. Bryce studied the photograph intently, unsure if he recognised the man who held his gaze with such confident ease. It was an old picture, taken before Lizzie fell ill, when life promised to deliver everything he’d ever worked and hoped for, halcyon days that were now nothing but a distant memory. Feeling faintly unnerved, he headed quickly downstairs after Ella.

His Special Advisor carved a path through the expectant faces packed into the corridor outside the State Dining Room where the press conference was being held. Most were familiar: Cabinet ministers, their expressions ranging from curiosity to indignation, anxious advisors sporting glowing cell earpieces and a sprinkling of Downing Street staff, all drawn by the mystery of the moment. They pressed against the walls to facilitate the Prime Minister’s smooth passage, a few quiet words of greeting and encouragement following him along the corridor. Ahead, the bright glare of the press conference beckoned, the buzz from the assembled press corps rising as they neared the room. Ella peeled away at the threshold and the chatter died away. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered and took up position just inside the room. Dossier tucked beneath his arm, Bryce took a deep breath and swept through the mahogany doors into the glare of the TV lights.

The roller shutter rattled slowly upwards, the mouth of the warehouse gaping open to reveal nothing but blackness. The silver Ford delivery van emerged almost silently from the dark interior, lights extinguished, the driver a vague shadow behind the wheel. In his rear-view mirror he saw the swarthy man lower the shutter then melt into the darkness of the warehouse. The driver shifted in his seat and concentrated on the road ahead, steering the vehicle through the narrow backstreets of Waterloo, only flicking the lights on when he spotted a lone car approaching. He sat a little straighter then, accelerating to a reasonably sedate speed, unwilling to draw unnecessary attention to himself or the van. He cruised past empty industrial units and scruffy local authority tenements, past brightly-lit convenience stores and boarded-up pubs, until he reached the roundabout at the southern end of Waterloo Bridge. From there he headed north across the river Thames. He glanced to his left, where the lights along the embankment were strung like pearls, curving towards the Palace of Westminster and the seat of power in Britain.

‘Good afternoon,’ announced Bryce, settling behind the lectern. There was an enthusiastic chorus of replies from the press corps packed within its wood-panelled walls, pens poised expectantly above notepads, recording devices held aloft. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat, blinking into the bright TV lights arranged across the back of the room. He glimpsed his reflection in the teleprompter next to the lectern, the lighting catching the expensive sheen of his grey Hugo Boss suit and the rich red of his perfectly knotted silk tie. He looked every inch the European statesman he was and today he would prove how seriously he took that role. Words glowed on the teleprompter, scrolling slowly upwards.

‘For some months now the focus of this government has been centred on divisions in international relations. As I speak here today, US and Chinese warships eye each other suspiciously in the South China Sea as the localised military build-up accelerates. In the Middle East, Iraqi and Iranian citizens are digging nuclear fallout shelters, a depressing phenomenon not witnessed since the darkest days of the Cold War of the last century. Closer to home, Polish terrorists persist in their attacks on Russian interests as the New Soviet Army sends more and more tanks toward their neighbour’s frontier. In short, the world is witnessing worrying divisions. I have spent many months, both here and abroad, attempting, along with my colleagues in Brussels and the United Nations, to pull people round to a common position. Today, that is still the goal of this government, the search for peace and greater understanding amongst the international community, under the guidance and governance of the United Nations.’

Bryce took a moment to allow the weight of his words to percolate amongst the journalists around the room. He caught the eye of the well-known lead anchorman from the Islamic News Network, his arms folded tightly across his chest, his dark eyes glaring at him from the back of the room. Perhaps he knew what was coming, Bryce speculated, but it hardly mattered. In a few moments the whole of Europe would know.

‘But the quest for peace should begin at home, for how can we lecture others on peace when the concept is an alien one for some of our own citizens?’ Bryce glanced down, flicking over the cover of the dossier. He frowned, his eyes scanning the words uncomprehendingly. Something was wrong. A low murmur began to fill the room, banishing the awkward silence.

Bryce held up a hand. ‘I’m sorry, there seems to be a slight-’ His voice trailed away. He was looking at an intelligence briefing document, not the Heathrow dossier. Bryce realised he’d picked up the wrong bloody report, distracted by Rana’s interruption and the similarity of the buff-coloured unmarked binders. He turned to Ella and shook his head. She peeled away from the wall and marched forward. Bryce clamped a hand over the microphone as the chatter in the room rose.

‘I’ve picked up the wrong report. I’ve got to go back upstairs.’