The Horse at the Gates (23 page)

Outside the air was brisk and scented with morning dew, with wet grass and damp earth. Saeed wrinkled his nostrils in disgust as he zipped his parka to the neck and trudged along a stone path in a pair of green wellington boots. He was an urbanite by nature and hated the countryside, with its rank odours and cloying dirt. In winter everything was cold and wet, in summer the air hummed with a million insects, crawling, stinging, laying eggs. Saeed shivered, partly from the cold, but mostly from the proximity of nature.

Hooper, on the other hand, was a man in his element. Saeed watched him striding across the wide field behind the house, a walking stick in his hand, calling to the lunatic animal that darted and panted and chased all manner of unknown tormentors. Hooper’s

two bodyguards trailed a short distance behind, heads swivelling this way and that, coats open, hands free. One of them saw Saeed and called to Hooper, who stood and waited. Saeed flinched as the Labrador spotted his approach and scuttled towards him, legs pumping through the grass, pink tongue lolling from the side of its mouth. He cringed as the unclean animal reared up on its hind legs and attempted to greet Saeed with its slavering mouth.

‘Buster! Get down!’ Hooper bellowed. The animal complied, spotting yet another unseen quarry somewhere across the field and sprinting after it. ‘Sorry about that,’ Hooper smiled. ‘He tends to get a little excited in the morning. Millie used to walk him around the park at home, always on a leash of course. Out here he goes wild, absolutely loves it.’

Saeed fell into step beside Hooper, wet grass clinging to his boots, the two policemen keeping a discreet distance behind them. ‘You’ve made quite a home up here, Jacob.’

Hooper’s face was flushed pink by the sharp air, by the brisk pace he set across the field. ‘Is that disapproval in your voice, Tariq?’

‘Of course not, but it does make some things a little difficult, that’s all. There’s been some talk amongst the Cabinet, a suggestion that perhaps Chequers is not the most convenient place from which to govern the country.’

Hooper swiped the long grass with his walking stick. ‘I’m not here out of choice Tariq, you know that. Millbank is too cramped, too many interruptions, plus we’ve got the bloody press corps camped out in the lobby, all of whom seem to think I should drop everything for a quick soundbite every time I’m passing through. It’s absolutely ridiculous. Besides, this was your idea,’ he pointed out. ‘Chequers is secure, plus it has all the necessary comms and media links. I can get a lot more done up here.’

Of course you can,
Saeed didn’t say. In a few short weeks, Hooper had become accustomed to life at the Buckinghamshire estate, as Saeed predicted he would. Hooper was born of country stock, his elderly father still presiding over several dozen acres of Lincolnshire countryside serviced by a regiment of foreign workers, who toiled away the summers in huts of corrugated iron, separating pea from pod, broccoli from stalk. It was where Hooper had grown up, cementing his love of all things outdoors, a love that took him into the armed forces where he finished an unspectacular career as a lieutenant-colonel in the Logistics Corps. Politics followed, the move to London permanent after he met his future wife at a party in Chelsea. The woman had turned out to be as nakedly ambitious as Hooper and equally at home in the country. In the end, the choice had been a simple one.

And Chequers certainly fitted the bill, an estate of historical import and period elegance, of manicured grounds and attentive staff, where the perimeter was patrolled by serious men with automatic weapons and a state of the art helicopter squatted on a landing pad to the north of the house. Chequers offered status, Hooper’s wide-eyed father clearly impressed as he shuffled around the grounds, the Hooper clan drinking and laughing long into the night as they revelled in their new found prominence. The wife had taken to the role of First Lady like a duck to water, the transition from reasonably-sized terraced house in Putney to the impressive pile of Chequers made with an ease of entitlement that surprised even Saeed. He’d heard her sharp voice several times around the house during his visits, either berating the staff or acting as an unofficial tour guide to her designer-clad friends from London.

The house was divided into two parts, Hooper’s substantial living quarters in the east wing and the more formal west wing, where the Prime Minister conducted the business of state. Cabinet meetings were now held in the main drawing room, the ministers ferried from London by motorised convoy or helicopter. Hooper had become accustomed to meeting by video-link too, a particular annoyance to those who had to endure his overbearing nature and abrasive people skills. There were also rumblings in Brussels, the Commission dismayed by Hooper’s isolation, his particular form of governance. Saeed had become his protector, shielding the Prime Minister from the vast majority of criticism, coaxing his European colleagues, his fellow Cabinet ministers, Party members, and not least the press, to accept their leader’s fledgling efforts, to understand his inexperience, his fear of another terrorist attack in the close confines of the capital.

Yet Hooper was right, Chequers had been Saeed’s suggestion, but a calculated one. Hooper could no more resist the temptation of ruling the country from his own private estate than an alcoholic with money in his pocket could walk past a supermarket selling cheap booze.

Saeed turned to look over his shoulder. The policemen were some way back, the house shrinking into the distance as Hooper continued his morning constitutional. The demented dog flew between them once again, yapping and panting, before circling the security team and sprinting past Saeed’s leg and out toward the tree line.

‘Buster!’ Hooper bellowed after the fleeing animal. He tutted and turned to Saeed. ‘So, what’s the word from our conspiracy theorists? Any new revelations there?’

‘There’s a rumour that Bryce was about to tender his resignation.’

Hooper arched a bushy eyebrow. ‘Really?’

‘The pressure of the job is huge, of course. Then there was the visit to his wife’s grave the day before. Not unusual but significant, given the timing. The truth is we may never know. The only other person who may be able to shed light on what was going through his mind was Ella and she’s still in a coma.’

‘What about the man himself?’

‘You’ve seen him, Jacob. He’s still quite badly injured and in no fit state to communicate coherently. The point is, whatever Gabriel was about to announce it hardly matters now. We need to move on, concentrate on the future. There’s much to be done.’

‘Still, it’s strange. The sneaky visit to Heathrow before the bomb, that Border Agency guy, Davies, killed in Downing Street. What the hell was
he
doing in Number Ten?’

Saeed’s fingers stroked his carefully manicured beard. ‘Like I said, a mystery.’

‘What I don’t understand, Tariq, is that Heathrow was your responsibility. Surely Gabriel would have mentioned something to you?’

‘Well, he didn’t,’ insisted Saeed. ‘The programme is running fine and Davies has been replaced. We can only guess at what Gabriel was up to.’

‘Well, they were up to something,’ Hooper decided, watching his dog nosing along the distant tree line. ‘I only found out about the Heathrow thing from one of the security team. Common knowledge amongst that lot, I’m told.’

Saeed watched the watchers, their trained eyes searching the fields and trees for potential threats. They missed nothing, saw and heard everything. He’d have to be careful, changes would have to be made. ‘As I said, it makes no difference now, and this continued speculation will only hinder our progress. We need to put the whole thing to bed, so, as far as Gabriel’s press conference is concerned, we should push the resignation line, drip feed it to the media.’

‘Think we can get away with it? Could be a hard sell.’

‘Trust me.’

‘Ok, I’ll leave that in your capable hands.’ Hooper took a step closer, his eyes watching the tree line where the shadows still lingered. ‘What about these terrorists, Tariq? Are we still in any danger?’

‘The current threat level has been lowered to severe and the police and security services remain on a heightened state of alert. We’re continuing to round up rightwing activists and other potential troublemakers. Some have been charged for various offences but none in connection with the attacks. However, this Whelan character is still on the run. CCTV caught him jogging past a petrol station in Neasden a couple of days after the bomb. Since then, nothing. Either he’s gone to ground, or he’s managed to flee the country. The police believe he’ll pop up on the grid sooner or later and I’m inclined to agree with them. The main thing is we push on with our work.’

‘Yes, yes’ nodded Hooper. ‘What about the bomb itself? Any news on that?’

‘Forensics has established that both devices employed a military grade explosive of a type used by almost all European forces, so it’ll be hard to track down its exact origin. We know Whelan delivered the bomb to Luton and he almost certainly had a hand in the other, due to the timing and his previous employment as a government courier. The question remains: how did he get the explosives in the van? The police are still working on it.’

‘The driver?’

A Christian convert, his devotion to Islam, like the cancer that ate away at his bones, a closely guarded secret from family and friends. He’d died for Saeed, for the cause, a true martyr.

‘Just another victim. Apparently there was nothing to bury.’

‘Poor bastard.’

A flurry of birds took to the air, exploding noisily above the tree line. The dog’s manic barking echoed across the fields.

‘Both President Dupont and President Bakari are keen to discuss the running order for Cairo,’ Saeed mentioned. Hooper grunted a vague reply, stamping towards the trees. Saeed studied him closely, allowing the man to brood for several moments. Eventually he said: ‘Jacob, what’s the matter?’

Hooper came to a sudden halt and spun around. ‘The truth? Cairo’s the bloody problem.’ He thrashed at the long grass with his walking stick, cutting through the wet stalks like a scythe.

‘Excuse me?’

‘It’s going to clash with the reparation talks in Washington. I’m in a real bloody quandary.’

‘We’ve already decided, the Foreign Secretary will attend the talks. After all, they’re only preliminary discussions. A deal isn’t expected.’

‘Yes, but as head of state I really think I should be there.’

And Saeed knew why. As an act of goodwill, Hector Vargas, the American President and billionaire media mogul, had decided to attend the opening session at the United Nations in New York, alongside the delegation from the Islamic Emirate of Afghanistan, in the latest round of war reparation talks. Tension in the city would be high, demonstrations planned by veterans groups and others, the world’s media focussed on events in the Big Apple rather than the done deal in Cairo. Then there was the memorial service for the three Jupiter astronauts, missing presumed dead, planned for the same week in Washington DC Vargas would be attending, along with NASA officials, former astronauts and a sprinkling of Hollywood and other media personalities. Hooper’s presence at the talks would no doubt secure him an invitation to the service, a scenario he’d clearly considered. The fat buffoon was drawn to the glitz and power that emanated from Vargas and Washington like a moth to a flame.

‘You’ll be the only head of state from Europe there, Jacob.’

‘Yes, but we were a major contributor to the mess in Afghanistan. I think it would send the right signals to Kabul, show them we intend to take these talks seriously, that we stand by our obligations.’

Saeed pretended to consider Hooper’s argument, then said: ‘Mmm, I see your point. It would also send a clear message to communities across Europe that you’re sensitive to the plight of the Taliban government and the Afghan people. Yes,’ Saeed nodded enthusiastically, ‘on balance your presence in the States could reap some added diplomatic rewards right here in Europe.’

Hooper shifted from foot to foot, as if he was about to break into an excited jig. ‘What about Dupont? Do you think he’ll buy it? I can’t afford to piss him off.’

The PM waited with bated breath as Saeed performed a master class of contemplation. When he thought the man was about to burst, he said: ‘I doubt he’d object. In fact, if we spin it right, I’m almost certain that everyone will see your trip to Washington as a positive step towards greater understanding. I’ll get an announcement drafted to that effect. In the meantime, we should contact the US Ambassador, inform him of your intentions.’

‘Yes, yes, of course,’ blustered Hooper, barely able to contain his excitement. ‘So you’ll go to Cairo in my place, Tariq? You’ve no personal objection?’

‘On the contrary, it’ll be an honour to sign the treaty. We must speak to Dupont at the earliest opportunity so changes can be made to the programme.’

‘See to it, would you?’ Hooper’s eyes took on a faraway look, a self-satisfied smile creeping across his bloated face. ‘I’ve only ever been to the White House once, and that was as a tourist. Boiling hot summer, just after we got married. Millie and I took photos outside.’

‘And now you’ll probably be a guest.’

‘Jesus Christ, she’s going to wet herself.’ Hooper saw the disapproval in Saeed’s eyes. ‘Sorry, Tariq.’ Embarrassment quickly forgotten, Hooper brushed past his deputy and headed towards the house. ‘We should start back. There’s work to be done.’

Saeed followed him, trudging the damp path of their tracks across the field. One of the policemen pulled out a radio and held it to his mouth, alerting someone, somewhere, of their imminent return.

Hooper turned and walked backwards, waving the walking stick above his head. ‘Buster! Come here, boy!’ The dog duly responded, bounding from the trees. As it raced through the grass, Saeed could see something in its mouth, something grey and white. ‘What’s that, boy?’ Hooper said, slapping his legs as the animal skidded to a stop a few yards away. It dropped the wood pigeon from its jaws, the corpse a mess of blood and feathers.