The Horse at the Gates (32 page)

The second event made his heart beat faster, a warm glow spreading across his chest, the adrenaline pumping through his body. Beyond the pillars and columns of the magnificent stage, the flags of every European Union state hung limply from a forest of flagpoles, teased into occasional life by a sluggish night breeze. It was lost in the darkness, briefly lit by the last of the fireworks and the sophisticated lasers, but Saeed’s eye caught it none the less. It wasn’t there earlier and Saeed assumed that it wouldn’t be there much longer, but to those that recognised it the point had been made.

The wind picked up then and the flag unfurled, snapping open to reveal the white
Shahada
inscription emblazoned across a black background. For that briefest of moments, the flag of the Khilafah, the global Islamic state, flew above the unwitting heads of Europe’s elite.

Saeed descended the stairs and climbed into his waiting limousine, the smile on his face a little wider.

‘Well Gabe, what did you think of that?’ Sully got to his feet, stretching his muscular frame. ‘Not a bad show, huh? Minister Saeed did the country proud, don’t you think? A true statesmen.’

Bryce shrugged his shoulders, studying his fingernails. Inside, his mind was a whirlwind. Hooper in Washington, Tariq in Cairo, the treaty now written into European law. Things were happening so fast Bryce found it hard to cope with the deluge of information. He kept one eye on the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen. The City had clearly welcomed the treaty, the global markets responding positively to the formalisation of the energy and trade deals that the treaty had cemented. On the screen, the streets of Cairo were mobbed, hundreds of thousands dancing in the streets while cars inched their way through the crowds, horns blaring and EU flags waving. The scene was the same across Europe; London, Paris, Berlin, Rome, every major city witnessed spectacular fireworks and celebrations on a scale that Bryce thought breathtaking. In a few weeks Britain had been transformed from a land plagued by creeping social division and economic uncertainty to a nation filled with hope and a newfound confidence, where people danced in the streets and new deals struck with new partners promised a future of prosperity for the continent.

No wonder Bryce was yesterday’s man. He was a forgotten figure, a symbol of Britain’s bleak past. He’d been banished, in every possible–

‘...that Gabriel Bryce couldn’t be here tonight.’

Bryce stiffened, his eyes flicking toward the screen. A studio panel in London, well-known political commentators grouped around a huge circular table, a giant screen behind them, the fireworks that rippled across the night sky, throwing the Houses of Parliament into deep shadow.

‘Yes, unfortunate for Bryce, but Jacob Hooper chose the Afghan talks and a state memorial service in Washington over one of the most important nights in Europe’s history. An inexplicable decision by any standard.’

‘What about his live link address?’

‘Well, I think that did more to highlight the torrid time he’s had in America, rather than show support to the treaty itself. Once again, it calls into question his political judgement.’

‘Another British Prime Minister potentially undone by Cairo?’
invited the well-known newsreader chairing the event. The smug expressions around the table made Bryce twist his fingers in anger. He took a deep breath and relaxed, aware that Sully was studying his reaction. On the TV the debate continued.

‘It’s now generally accepted that Gabriel Bryce was going to announce his retirement prior to the Downing Street bomb. His continued opposition to Cairo had made him deeply unpopular in the party...’

‘Not something a politician likes to hear,’ Sully tutted, shaking his head. Bryce was about to offer a vague answer when a voice on the TV said:

‘...because of Bryce’s recent stroke. Although the security around him remains tight, the reports coming out of Millbank are suggesting considerable mental deterioration.’

‘That’s right, Jonathon. His weekly blog had become increasingly rambling. There’s been some concern, most recently expressed by various mental health charities, over its continued publication.’

Bryce stared at the pundits around the table, the expressions of regret, the shaking heads. What bloody blog?

‘Yes, it’s all quite tragic. Our thoughts and prayers are with him tonight. Now, if we can shift focus back to Cairo, our viewers have been voting throughout the evening on the treaty and Deputy Prime Minister Saeed’s performance in Cairo, both given seemingly overwhelming approval. We’ll be sharing those results and getting his own reaction to tonight’s historic events from the Secretary of State himself, who’ll be joining us live in the next hour...’

The words no longer registered in Bryce’s consciousness. The pieces were finally falling into place, a sudden flash of light that banished the shadows of deception in his mind. Now he knew, now he realised, the pieces swept from the board until only one remained.

Tariq.

Tonight he’d witnessed a coronation in all but name, his former colleague and political fixer sitting as an equal amongst the other heads of state, relaxed, confident, his place in history assured. His one time friend and ally, the man who’d fortuitously escaped the Downing Street blast, who’d become Jacob Hooper’s deputy, who’d assigned Sully to be his minder, the same man who’d never visited him, who’d denied Bryce all contact with the outside world in the name of security, who’d allowed him to rot in this Godforsaken facility until–

The TV blinked off. Bryce was rooted to his seat, his legs numb, his eyes fixed to the black screen. He saw his reflection there, a small, frail figure he barely recognised. Sully’s dark silhouette stood close by, looming over him like an angel of death.

Of course. Death. That’s what Sully represented, what this place had in store for him. He could see it all now, as if a map had been rolled out across a table before him. It all seemed so clear, so obvious, that Bryce felt like slapping his forehead in realisation. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the lifeless screen. He let the muscles in his face relax, his jaw slacken.

‘Gabe?’

Bryce turned his head slowly. ‘Did they say my name?’

‘Yes.’ Sully studied him hard. ‘You had a stroke, Gabe. The first night. Remember?’

Bryce frowned. He nodded slowly. ‘I think so. I couldn’t move.’

‘That’s it.’ Sully patted him on the arm. ‘We’re going to get you more pills, Gabe, stronger ones. Make you feel better.’

‘A stroke,’ Bryce mumbled.

‘A bad one. Come on, up you get.’ He felt Sully’s strong fingers snake beneath his armpit and lift him out of the chair. He followed him out of the room and up the stairs. Through the barred windows the night was black and a fine mist of rain swept through the security lights outside. The corridors were empty, only the odd shout from a troubled inmate breaking the silence of the facility. Bryce shuffled along the grim hallways, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing gown, slippered feet slapping against the cold linoleum. Sully walked ahead, chain looping from his belt, keys jangling in his hand as he whistled tunelessly. Dead man walking – the phrase came to Bryce then, the realisation that he would never again see the outside of these stark, depressing walls. He knew he was a prisoner, but now his isolated ward was to become death row. A debilitating stroke followed by significant mental deterioration – they were setting the scene, softening the public blow when the news was finally announced.
Gabriel Bryce, former Prime Minister, died this morning as a result of a second, massive stroke...

He cupped a hand over his mouth as the bile bubbled up his throat. Sully turned, then ushered him quickly into a nearby utility room. He shoved him past the shelves and in front of a deep sink where Bryce folded over its edge, retching across the scratched and worn enamel. He turned the tap, rinsing his mouth as another wave of nausea gripped his stomach and he vomited loudly.

‘Damn, Gabe.’ Sully turned away, disgusted. He took a few paces out into the corridor, pulled his cell from his tunic and studied the screen. Bryce came up for breath. As he leaned on the sink, his eyes roamed the shelves nearby, stacked high with boxes of medical supplies. The brown cartons were clearly labelled: latex gloves, antiseptic wipes, wound dressings. Then he noticed the lettering on a nearby box and, without a second thought, thrust his hand inside, his heart beating rapidly as he secreted the item in the pocket of his dressing gown. He bent over the sink and forced himself to retch again, watching Sully through tear-filled eyes, the Turk’s wide shoulders filling the doorway, his back turned away from Bryce’s noisy convulsions. His stomach finally emptied, Bryce splashed his face with cold water and straightened up. The panic had subsided, the fear kept at bay, replaced by a clarity that Bryce hadn’t experienced in a while. A coup had taken place, a coup so obvious that the public were simply blind to it.

‘You all right?’

‘Something I ate,’ Bryce replied, rubbing a damp hand around his neck. ‘I feel tired.’

‘Then let’s go.’ Sully led him back through the corridors and past the steel gate of his empty ward. He slammed it behind Bryce and spoke to him through the rusted mesh. ‘Get yourself bedded down, Gabe. Nurse will get you started on that new medicine tomorrow, ok?’

Bryce nodded without turning and headed towards his room. He heard doors slamming behind him as Sully disappeared into the night. He made straight for his bed, draping the dressing gown over the thin quilt and burying himself beneath the covers. The room was cold but Bryce didn’t really feel it. He didn’t have long, that much he knew. His deterioration was now public knowledge, the chances of any recovery about as remote as those poor bastards orbiting Jupiter ever returning to earth. Soon the order would be given and Sully would come for him. The hows or whys didn’t matter, only that his life would probably end in this soulless, miserable room. His body would be shipped to a coroner’s office somewhere, a certificate of death issued, arrangements made for a private funeral. All above board, all the loose ends taken care of. Despite the public’s misplaced faith in the probity of its politicians, the political elite had done it before, removing people who threatened covert agendas. Government scientists killed in Oxfordshire woods, or RAF Chinooks crashing into Scottish hillsides, the end result was always the same. Nothing could be proved, a liberal use of the word ‘conspiracy’ effectively discrediting any meaningful investigation by concerned parties. The dead were mourned and the world moved on.

And who would mourn for Gabriel Bryce? Not Charlotte, the sister he hadn’t seen or heard from in years, married to a Swiss socialite in Geneva. His parents were long dead, his wife too, and there were no children to stand tearfully in the front pew. The flowers on his grave would wilt and die and the moss would creep steadily across the stone to eventually obscure his name. He would be quickly forgotten, a page in history, his legacy one of failure. Now he felt the hand of Tariq on his back, pushing him towards his impending doom. No doubt Hooper had been manipulated too, his trip to Washington a political embarrassment according to the pundits on the TV. The reality of the conspiracy was almost impossible to accept, yet the wheels of state would grind on, the lives crushed beneath its giant cogs of no concern to a population disconnected from the stark realities of modern politics.

With Hooper discredited it was only a matter of time before Tariq made a move for the premiership, of that Bryce was certain. Before then, the field of play would have to be cleared. Sometime soon a call would be made, an order given. He’d hear the security gate open for the final time, Sully’s footsteps along the corridor, the angel of death standing at the foot of his bed. Bryce felt a mixture of emotions: fear initially, despair and finally anger, cold and calculating. He wouldn’t make it easy for them, wouldn’t allow them to dictate the time and place of his own demise. If it were to be his final act, then at least he would have control over its execution.

Under the covers of his bedding Bryce eased the hypodermic needle and syringe from its shrink-wrapped packaging and secreted them inside the frayed lining of his mattress.