The Horse at the Gates (33 page)

The Gulfstream Skybird descended rapidly, dipping below the last of the low cloud to reveal a miserable landscape of steel grey seas and dark, oppressive skies. The executive jet tilted into a steep turn, its silver wingtip slicing through the air as white horses galloped across the surface of the sea below.

Tariq Saeed watched from the window as the plane levelled out, effortlessly gliding along its priority landing path towards London International airport. He never failed to be impressed by the feat of engineering that straddled the Thames Estuary, its galaxy of lights sprinkled across the cold waters of the North Sea like stars in the sky. He pulled his seat belt a little tighter, settling into the soft leather of the wide seat, careful not to crease his shirt. He was dressed more conservatively than recent appearances in Egypt: a charcoal grey suit, white shirt and a dark blue tie. Serious, sober, assured – that was the impression he chose to convey today, once his meeting with Hooper was over and the media went into overdrive.

Beneath him he felt the landing gear lock into place with a reassuring thump, the whisper-quiet engines change pitch slightly, and he looked down to see rolling waves smash themselves to fine spray against the giant rocks of the outer breakwater. He closed his eyes for a moment, his pulse quickening as he contemplated the morning ahead.

Although he’d enjoyed three days of the most lavish hospitality that Cairo had to offer, there was work to be done. Behind a smokescreen of diplomacy and trade talks, Saeed had delayed his return to the UK by a further three days, forcing Jacob Hooper to weather the storm of his disastrous transatlantic trip alone. Hooper’s advisors had all but deserted him, his Chief Press Officer resigning for ‘personal reasons’, his handpicked team of sycophants and would-be attack dogs too inexperienced to cope with the pressure the media, now camped permanently outside Millbank, were applying. Hooper had called Saeed in Cairo, at first demanding, then practically begging him to come home, but Saeed had declined. The tactic had worked, his network of informants reporting a series of bad-tempered meetings, of expletive-filled phone calls and hurled objects. Hooper was losing it, cracking under the pressure. And while the man who would be king paced the floor of his office in Millbank, Hooper’s wife was under siege at Chequers, hurling abuse at the camera crews that blocked the surrounding country lanes. Saeed would have laughed were it not for the contempt he felt for their vanity and lust for power. It was all coming apart so graphically, so predictably. The Hoopers had been elevated far above their station, but now they’d served their purpose. It was time to bring them crashing down.

The Gulfstream returned to earth with a gentle bump, rolling along the slick black tarmac and taxiing to a halt outside the glass and steel VIP terminal building that glowed in the half light of a cold December morning. Two BMW limousines waited at the bottom of the steps, flanked by several vehicles, black Range Rovers and marked police cars, and a ring of armed officers. Saeed thanked the captain of the Gulfstream and buttoned his jacket in the doorway, the memory of Cairo’s balmy climate snatched away by a stiff north-westerly. He trotted down the steps, shivering as the biting wind cut across the tarmac and bringing with it the roar of an Emirates Airbus taking off from a nearby runway. Saeed paused for a moment, watching the double-decked airliner thunder towards the sea in a cloud of spray then tilt skywards, clawing its way up towards the grey ceiling above, heading for somewhere warm no doubt. Saeed felt a pang of envy.

Fazal, his driver, stood by the BMW, the door held open. Saeed despatched his entourage into the other vehicles then ducked inside the warmth of the soundproofed interior. A few moments later, the convoy was headed at speed towards the causeway road and the distant Kentish shoreline. Saeed pressed the intercom button.

‘How long?’

‘Forty minutes,’ Fazal replied, ‘maybe longer. Even with the escort, the rush hour traffic looks particularly bad this morning.’

Saeed followed Fazal’s finger to the SatNav system and the angry red lines that glowed across the screen. ‘Take your time.’ He glanced out of the window as the convoy hummed along the wide causeway, blue lights clearing a path through the early morning traffic. Beyond the guardrail, the sea pounded itself against the giant black rocks of the breakwater and sea birds wheeled in the sky above. A miserable day, Saeed mused, depressing even, for Hooper at least. And for him it was about to get a lot worse.

The journey by car was designed to increase the Prime Minister’s frustration, his sense of isolation. Saeed checked his cell, monitoring the tweets from one of his informers on the twenty-sixth floor. Already Hooper had erupted behind the heavy wooden doors of his office, the muffled shouts barely distinguishable, the crash of an innocent item of furniture hitting the wall. The press weren’t letting up in their campaign against the Prime Minister either, the scathing editorials, the relentless news items all heaping further pressure on his shoulders. He was cut off from his beloved Chequers, at the beck and call of European ministers unhappy with his absence from Cairo. Dupont himself had publicly chastised him, undermining his position and, more importantly, badly bruising his ego, something that Hooper would find particularly hard to endure. The psychological evaluations that had resulted in the former Defence Minister’s selection for his role were proving to be uncannily accurate.

Saeed felt his cell vibrate in his hand, saw the new message. An argument with his wife now, a full-blown row heard by several staff outside his office. Excellent news. Suddenly the phone rang, and Saeed saw it was Hooper himself. He let the call ring out, and the two subsequent calls, knowing it would send the man’s blood pressure sky rocketing. Saeed then made several calls himself, to the Privy Council, the Supreme Court, the Attorney General’s office and others, confirming legal and constitutional positions, cementing loyalties. Everything was prepared.

Rain drummed on the roof of the BMW as the convoy hissed along the Whitechapel Road. Brake lights glowed red as they carved through the mounting traffic, sirens wailing a noisy path towards the city. Curious faces lined the route, early morning commuters, market vendors and shopkeepers, all staring as they gathered in doorways or sheltered beneath umbrellas. From behind the tinted bulletproof glass, Saeed stared back and realised that, were it not for the miserable weather, he could still be back in Cairo. The faces he saw were all brown, the shops a colourful mixture of food markets and takeaways, electronic goods stores and clothing emporiums, the signs in Bengali, Urdu and Arabic. Bunting crisscrossed the street, a leftover from the celebrations of last week. The flags were varied, the drab stars of the EU standard easily outnumbered by Egyptian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi pennants. Nowhere did he see a Union Jack, not once. Like the Jews many years before them, the Europeans had been driven out from this part of the city.

Down a dark side street Saeed caught a glint of the new dome above the distant East London mosque. He craned his neck, catching it again as they slowed for a busy intersection. He thought it looked splendid, the burnished gold metal reflecting ambient light even on such a grey day, and the rebuilt minarets were much higher than before, dominating the local skyline.
As they should,
smiled Saeed.

Soon the suburbs were left behind, the convoy snaking through the city and approaching Trafalgar Square in less than fifteen minutes. The vehicles weaved carefully through the giant concrete vehicle traps at the junction of Whitehall then accelerated south. The pavements were almost deserted, the public barred from Whitehall itself as part of a raft of sweeping security directives designed to protect the fledgling administration from further attack. Now, only government employees could access the famous street, yet there were few to be seen as the building works continued and the rain pummelled the pavements, urged on by a strengthening wind. Saeed recalled a recent speech in the House, one in which the leader of the Opposition had referred to the damage caused by the Downing Street bomb. The woman had referred to it as ‘jarring to the eye, almost offensive’. Saeed begged to differ.

Through the lefthand window, the facade of the Ministry of Defence building was cloaked in white plastic sheets that snapped and rippled in the wind, briefly exposing the workmen behind who toiled away as the bomb-damaged building was slowly restored. But it was the opposite view that gave Saeed the most satisfaction. The whole site was sealed off behind temporary fences adorned with hazard signs and demolition company logos, where men in yellow helmets trudged across the muddy ground, backs bent against the wind and rain. What little remained of Downing Street was held upright by an intricate mesh of scaffold tubes covered with plastic sheeting, the fractured brickwork exposed, fragile, like a sick patient wrapped in bandages. The surrounding Cabinet and Foreign Ministry buildings had been partially demolished too, providing unobstructed views across St. James Park. Some said the bomb had ripped the very heart out of London. Saeed preferred to think of it as surgery, intrusive and painful, yet ultimately necessary.

The convoy continued south, passing through the security checkpoints outside the Houses of Parliament and Lambeth Bridge, before arriving at Millbank a minute or so later. The BMW glided to a halt and the door opened. Assistants and advisors converged around Saeed’s car, umbrellas braced against the wind and rain. The Deputy Prime Minister climbed out and they moved en-masse towards the building, crossing the lobby in a damp procession, the policemen on guard standing a little straighter, the elevator doors sweeping open. Saeed headed straight to his office on the twenty-fifth floor and closed the door. He ordered coffee and a Danish, flicking through the TV channels until he settled on the BBC’s Middle East roundup. He’d been watching for less than three minutes when the phone interrupted his thoughts, warbling with the soft tone of the intercom facility. Saeed smiled, muting the TV.

‘Yes?’

‘Secretary of State, I have the Prime Minister on line one.’

‘Put him through.’

A click, then Hooper’s voice, sharp, edgy. ‘Tariq?’

‘Prime Minister. Good morning.’

‘I need you up here. Now.’

‘On my way.’

Hooper disconnected the call abruptly. Saeed leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and savouring the rich aroma and smoky flavour of the Cuban Turquino. Five minutes soon became ten, then fifteen. His phone rang again but Saeed ignored it. Instead, he used a key to open his desk drawer and extracted the folder that had been placed there while he was in Cairo. He flicked through its contents, satisfied that everything was in order. It was time.

The elevator doors opened on the twenty-sixth floor and, for a moment, Saeed had to check he was in the right place. The first desks he saw were empty, papers scattered in disarray across them, the phones pulsing and warbling, the calls unanswered. He stepped out of the elevator, curious. Only one or two of the Prime Minister’s personal staff were at their desks, their faces drawn with fatigue, phones clamped to their ears, talking in hushed tones. He turned to the left, towards the kitchen, where a small group of men and women huddled together behind the glass wall, seemingly locked in fierce debate. Saeed recognised several of them, key advisors from Domestic Policy, Communications, and the European Secretariat. One of them saw Saeed and the others turned, their expressions startled, embarrassed, scattering from the kitchen like exposed mice. There was a sense of panic in the air, of desperation. Saeed likened it to the last days of the Third Reich, the rats buried in their hole, nervously awaiting the end.

He headed across the floor to the south side of the building. Hooper’s secretary stood behind her desk in the outer office, chattering on a phone. Behind her he could hear Hooper’s muffled voice through the thick mahogany doors of his private office. On seeing Saeed the secretary quickly ended her call, smoothing her skirt and blouse as he approached. She stood smiling in front of him, hands clasped together. Saeed thought she was on the verge of bowing.

‘Secretary of State. Welcome back, Sir.’

‘Thank you, Polly.’

‘Congratulations on your trip to Cairo,’ she gushed, chestnut ringlets bobbing like springs around her face. ‘A wonderful ceremony.’

‘A great day for Europe.’

‘Yes. Indeed.’

There was an awkward silence as Saeed held her gaze, his piercing blue eyes rooting the woman to the spot. There was so much more she wanted to say, yet clearly she didn’t have the nerve. Saeed decided to encourage her. ‘And how is the Prime Minister?’

Polly’s frown creased her tired but reasonably pretty face. ‘It’s been a bad week. He’s having trouble focussing. President Dupont’s office has been ringing all morning, demanding a statement on Cairo, but Jacob – sorry, I mean the Prime Minister – won’t take the calls. He’s been trying to contact you since you landed.’ Her eyes flicked towards the double doors. ‘Everyone’s been at his throat all week and quite a few of the staff have left or called in sick. I’m worried about him, Sir. The Prime Minister has been rather...’