The Horse at the Gates (8 page)

A minute later Ella appeared at his side, jabbering away into her cell headset, the wind whipping at her hair, at the faux fur collar of her beige overcoat. ‘Who was that?’ she asked, following his gaze.

‘Nobody.’ Bryce watched the woman as she departed, the sound of her footsteps snatched away on the freshening breeze. He could feel Ella’s eyes on him. ‘What?’

‘Are you alright, Gabe?’

‘Of course. Why’d you ask?’

Ella shrugged her shoulders. ‘Nothing. You look a bit pale, that’s all. Tired.’

‘What do you expect in this bloody job.’ The woman was distant now, a small figure glimpsed between the landscape of headstones. Then she was gone. Bryce sighed. ‘Let’s go.’

The sleek ministerial convoy waited along the access road, engines purring quietly, exhaust plumes condensing on the cold air. Doors swung open as Bryce approached, and sharp-eyed men in bulky overcoats scanned the terrain for trouble. He was about to duck inside his BMW limousine when he heard a faint chant carried on the wind. A large group of people had gathered at the main gates of the cemetery, placards held high. Black-clad policemen in riot gear lined the road, herding them towards the opposite pavement.

‘Who are they?’

‘Students mostly, plus a sprinkling of pro-refugee supporters,’ explained Ella. ‘They arrived a little while ago in a coach. There’s about forty of them, well-organised, a camera crew, nicely printed placards etcetera. Someone must’ve tipped them off that you were here.’

‘No bloody privacy anymore,’ Bryce fumed. He ushered Ella inside the BMW, a bodyguard closing the door behind him. He was glad to be out of the cold, embraced once more by the heated interior and the soft leather. He wriggled out of his overcoat as Ella keyed a button and raised the central glass partition, sealing the rear passenger compartment with a soft
thunk
.

‘I’ve issued a D-Notice,’ she announced, snatching the ear piece from her head. She winced as she caught several strands of hair in its rubbery hook. ‘Anyway, they can’t use any footage of you at Lizzie’s grave or otherwise.’

‘Good.’ Bryce watched the Range Rover ahead move off, then the smooth power of the BMW kicked in as it accelerated after it. They approached the main gates at speed, the ranks of headstones on either side a grey blur, the faces of the curious flashing by. Then the BMW was through the gates, turning past the police motorcyclists that blocked the road, past the chants of the protestors, most of them hidden from view behind a line of police vans, their screaming placards dancing an angry jig above the roofs –
No More Borders! Justice for Refugees! Yes to Cairo!

‘You think they know something’s in the wind?’

‘Not a chance,’ Ella replied. ‘If they did there’d be thousands of them.’

Ten minutes later, the convoy curled up the slip road and onto the A3 motorway towards London. Bryce settled into his seat, the BMW’s passage almost soundless in the Kevlar-cocooned interior. He stared out of the window, watching the traffic flash by as the convoy ate up the miles towards the capital.

‘Tell me about tomorrow.’

‘The press conference is scheduled for five-forty five,’ Ella informed him, ‘followed by the Cabinet meeting at sixfifteen. I’ve laid on a few extra bodies for the communications office, too. We’re bound to get swamped afterwards.’

‘Fine.’

Ella paused, toying with the cell in her hand. ‘There’s still time, Gabe. We can justify the Heathrow suspension, but stopping Cairo is going to be a bloody hard sell. If you brief Cabinet beforehand they’ll be more inclined to support your decision. Cutting them out of the loop like this will just piss them off.’

Bryce shook his head. ‘My mind’s made up, Ella. This way the Heathrow dossier will have maximum impact, both here and in Brussels. If we get public opinion on our side beforehand, Cabinet will be swayed more easily. Then we can push it through parliament.’

‘You’ll be directly undermining their authority. I’m getting a ton of calls already, demanding to know what the press conference is about. There’s a lot of frustration out there.’

‘Once we go public they’ll understand. I’ll make it up to them.’

Ella glanced at the back of the driver’s head, at the bodyguard next to him. Despite the soundproofed partition she lowered her voice. ‘Have you thought about the repercussions, Gabe? I mean really thought about them?’

Bryce exhaled noisily. ‘Don’t patronise me, Ella. I’ve thought of nothing else this past week.’

‘Because DuPont is going to go absolutely ballistic when this breaks. The other leaders will, too. We’re not the only ones who need that gas and oil. Most of Europe’s economies are depending on it.’

‘I know that,’ Bryce snapped. He took a breath. ‘Look, all we’re talking about here is delaying the treaty, not scrapping it. We need assurances, that’s all. Guarantees. Same applies to the relocation programme.’ Bryce was silent for a moment, then he turned and said: ‘What about Tariq?’

His Special Advisor tapped her cell. ‘I’ve scheduled five minutes in your office just before the press conference.’

‘It won’t take that long.’

Ella frowned. ‘Strange, he’s barely been seen since he returned from Istanbul. Even Rana’s being cagey about his movements.’

‘She’s covering,’ Bryce said. ‘Anyway, it’s irrelevant. Tariq’s history.’

Outside, a police motorcycle outrider shot past the car, square jaw jutting beneath his black visor. ‘The next few weeks are going to be hell,’ Ella muttered.

Bryce reached over and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t worry, we’re doing the right thing. Tomorrow is about hard choices, plain and simple, and it’s my job to make those choices. It’s why people voted for us.’

Ella looked away. ‘I hope to God you’re right Gabe, I really do.’

Bryce saw her reflection in the glass and knew she was worried. Privately he was too, but what other options did he have?

The convoy continued northwards, the outriders carving a path through the afternoon traffic. Bryce took advantage of the silence, staring out of the window as he contemplated firing his Communities minister. Tariq had once been a trusted comrade, rallying Britain’s burgeoning Muslim community behind Bryce’s election campaign, earning his place in Cabinet with his intelligence and unswerving loyalty, a dependable mouthpiece both at home and in Brussels. He was passionate, a team player, and yet there had certainly been a cooling of their relationship in recent months, Tariq distancing himself from the intimacy of their ideological bonds, succumbing instead to the growing power of the Islamic Congress of Europe, aligning himself with pro-Cairo factions in the European parliament. It was understandable; Tariq was seen as the major conduit of Islamic influence and opinion in Bryce’s government and Bryce had encouraged it for his own political purposes, yet somehow it had led to the debacle at Heathrow. Despite the betrayal, he would miss Tariq’s counsel and powerful cultural influence. A hard man to replace, indeed. Something else he had to work on.

Outside, the green fields of Surrey yielded to the urban sprawl of the south London suburbs. Raindrops tapped the window, slithering across the thick glass like tiny tadpoles of mercury. He thought of the woman back at the cemetery, her bitter words, her warning about Cairo. Wherever she’d got her information from, and Bryce guessed it was from an uncensored blog somewhere, her facts were essentially correct; the treaty had to be stopped. The question was, for how long?

Sirens wailed as the convoy slowed and the traffic became heavier. Bryce looked beyond the warehouses, beyond the industrial units and the suburban rooftops that lined the motorway to where the sky met the earth.

In the distance, far to the east, storm clouds gathered on the horizon.

Thirty-four miles to the north, Danny Whelan swung the wheel of the truck in a tight arc across the car park then stamped heavily on the brakes. He crunched the gear lever into reverse, the warning signal beeping loudly, and backed the vehicle smartly towards the covered loading bay. He watched his wing mirror carefully, as one of the mosque staff waved him backwards.
A loading bay! Jesus, how big was this place?
Too bloody big, he decided. Still, he had a job to do.

The truck was where the bloke on the phone had said it would be an unmarked white Ford Cargo parked on the edge of an industrial estate near Kings Cross station. Danny had arrived by pushbike, unwilling to use the CCTV-saturated London transport network. The estate was deserted, the surrounding business units barred and shuttered, the morning sun still loitering beyond the horizon. He waited in the shadows for a minute or two, half expecting to see an enraged Sully pacing around the truck, waiting for Danny to show up and give him a beating. But there was no Sully, no one around at all, and Danny was relieved, if not a little surprised. After all, he’d stolen the job from under Sully’s nose and yet no one seemed to be bothered, not Sully, his mate at the agency nor the bloke on the phone. Strange. Danny dismissed the thought; who cared, as long as he got paid, right?

He locked his bike against a railing, found the keys behind the fuel tank and climbed into the cab, still thinking the whole deal was a bit suspect. His doubts were soon laid to rest when he saw the money, a fat wedge of fifty pound notes tucked inside an envelope in the glove box. Danny’s heart sank when he inspected the paperwork –
a mosque?
He was half tempted to take the money and piss off, but common sense got the better of him. If he played his cards right this could be the start of a regular gig and, besides, all he had to do was deliver a fridge to a mosque. As long as no-one found out, so what?

Danny didn’t really think about it on the journey north, humming away to the radio as the truck rumbled along the M1. It was only when he turned off the motorway and saw the distant gold dome dominating the skyline that his mood changed. The Luton Central Mosque was huge, almost as big as the one being built in the east end of London. Danny remembered complaining about that one, an afternoon of drunk-dialling Stratford council to voice his protest. Every leftie do-gooder he spoke to was full of praise for it, talking about serving the needs of a diverse community, the celebration of different faiths and all their other bullshit. What about my community? Danny had raged from inside the public phone booth, what about our needs? As usual he was threatened with prosecution, heard the tell tale clicks on the line as the conversation was recorded and the trace begun. Opinions weren’t allowed anymore; the Thought Police were always watching, always listening. Bastards.

He engaged the handbrake with another sharp hiss of compressed air and jumped down from the cab, slamming the door behind him. The loading bay was situated at the rear of the building, set deep in the shadow of the mosque walls. Danny’s eyes were drawn upwards to the roof. There, gleaming in the afternoon sun, the golden dome thrust upwards into the sky, visible for miles around as it rose above the surrounding suburbs. For a moment Danny just stood there, quietly impressed by the sheer scale of the construction. He vaguely remembered hearing something about it on the news, Bryce and his entourage of flunkeys padding around in their socks, waffling on about its importance in the community, blah-blah, bullshit, bullshit. He also remembered the Prime Minister’s female staff, forced to wait outside in the rain, polite smiles fixed on their faces while inside they seethed at the insult to their feminist sensibilities. Fucking hypocrites. But there was no doubt about it, the Luton mosque was big, could probably hold thousands of worshippers. And as buildings went, Danny grudgingly admitted that it was an impressive sight. Not beautiful or anything, not like St. Pauls or Westminster Abbey, but it had lots of marble columns and arches and skinny little windows. And CCTV cameras, he noticed.

He clambered up onto the concrete loading bay, dusting off his jeans as the mosque worker in a white robe stepped forward, hand outstretched.

‘My name is Imran. You have paperwork?’

Danny pulled an untidy collection of printouts from his back pocket and handed them over.