The Wormwood Code (8 page)

'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' asked the PM, sniggering slightly through a pecan Danish as he said it. No one else laughed.

'It's not funny anymore, Sir,' said Williams.

The PM took another bite of pastry.

'You do have a point, though, Prime Minister,' said Thackeray, whose slogan for the day was going to be,
If You Value It, Suck Up To It. A Lot.
'They're panicking.'

'They certainly are,' said the PM. 'New slogan, personal attacks, the war in Iraq, they're pulling out all the stops. Desperation stuff. New slogan, for God's sake. What do they think that's going to get them?'

'You just changed your slogan,' said Barney.

'Totally different,' said the PM. 'We always intended a rolling slogan programme, in which we would address the needs of the hardworking people of Britain, delivering value sloganeering to the point of need. As Prime Minister...'

'You're not on TV, Sir,' said Williams.

'Very good, Dan Dan,' said the PM, slurping noisily at a cup coffee, 'but I think we can at least take a moment to enjoy the pathetic attempts of the opposition to claw back the odd point in the polls. Taking A Stand. Who are they kidding?'

'Trying to pull a Churchill, Sir,' said Thackeray.

The PM bit into a croissant, flaky pastry crumbling over his shirt and tie, then he gestured around the table with the remnants of the pastry.

'That's it, isn't it? He's invoking Churchill. The cheeky sod. He'll be wanting to fight us on the bloody beaches next.'

He looked around the table. Igor was eating toast and marmalade, Barney had a bacon sandwich, Williams and Thackeray were existing on coffee and ProPlus tablets.

'Well, if he's going to be Churchill,' said the PM, 'then I'm going to be...I'm going to be...'

'Hitler?' suggested Barney.

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0819hrs

D
etective Sergeant Tony Eason was going undercover for the investigation into the murder of the PM's previous personal barber Ramone MacGregor, who had been murdered nine days earlier with a chicken. The story had been kept out of the papers, and the police were nowhere near coming to a conclusion in the matter. The only hint of a clue which had come their way was an anonymous telephone call from Conservative Party Head Office, which had of itself led to nothing. The Chief Super, M Jackson MacDonald had, however, barred them from investigating the link. Thus, Eason was being sent in undercover, unbeknownst even to MacDonald.

A short man with hair which was going the way of the Amazonian rainforest and glasses which were twenty years too young for him, greeted Eason in a small office, decorated in blue. He was poring over the morning's newspapers; a television was on in the corner with the sound turned down on the leader of the real alternative.

Eason took a seat across the desk and waited to be spoken to. Under his cover he had come highly recommended from a marketing agency in the city, and was here to help the Tory party turn things around in the last few days. Eason, naturally, knew nothing about marketing and had no skills in that direction whatsoever. Slightly nervous, waiting to be caught out in the first five minutes. Wasn't a natural undercover cop. His was more of an 'arrest first, investigate later if you have to, employing violence when required' approach. And he hadn't had breakfast.

'Look at this,' said the small man. 'Front page of the Sun.'

Eason nodded. Wondered how long it would be before he was able to take a tea break and grab a doughnut or a bagel.

'Posh Pyjama Drama, for God's sake,' said the little fella, talking at a hundred miles an hour. 'What the hell is that all about? Serve us much better if they did one of those equivocal government backing things they do. If they're not going to support us, the least they could do is slag that lot off when they support them. Tried to get our man to go out in his pyjamas today, but he went for a suit and tie instead. I mean, you may think the pyjama thing is mad, but there are others here who want him to wear a black cape, for God's sake. So what d'you think of the new slogan?'

Eason had been thinking about food.

'What?' he said.

'The new slogan. Taking A Stand on The Issues That Matter. You think it will resonate with the voters?'

Eason nodded and shook his head. He needed food, and then he needed to subtly get on with the investigation. The actual undercover part of the scam was just going to get in the way.

'I know, I know,' said the man. 'It's kind of bland, really bland. The thinking was to go for something that they couldn't rip the pish out of like the last one. And he also wanted to echo Churchill, you know. Take a stand and all that. Anyway, we've decided to go for a rolling programme of slogans over the last week. New one every couple of days or so.'

'Good idea,' said Eason. 'What's next?'

'Don't know. That's your job. Straight off the top of your head, give me the first slogan you can think of.'

Eason stared, a little wide-eyed. The bloke snapped his fingers.

'Now!' he barked.

'Vote Tory and Get More Doughnuts!' said Eason quickly.

The little man stared across the desk at Eason, drumming a curious finger on the table. He nodded, pursed his lips.

'I don't think it's quite there yet,' he said, 'but it's a good start. Go out there, find yourself an office, and come up with new slogans. A host of them. You have carte blanche to free-think and conceptualise.'

'Cool,' said Eason. 'Do I also have carte blanche to go and get breakfast?'

The little man nodded, and then looked back at the papers.

'Certainly,' he mumbled. 'Get me some French toast while you're at it, will you?'

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0956hrs

T
he PM sat dourly on the train, staring out of the window. At a four-seater table, with Williams, Barney and Igor. Thackeray had been late getting to the train and so had had to sit at a table with the Deputy Prime Minister, and was currently being bored to death by a long story about chicken and leek pie.

'That's the trouble with being PM,' said the PM, 'the trouble with electioneering. You have to go to Bristol. I mean, should anyone really have to do that if they don't want to?'

'Arf,' said Igor.

The PM nodded, although he hadn't picked up the nuance inherent in this particular arf.

'And what's that thing we're going to have to do later, Dan Dan?'

'Speak to ordinary, real, hardworking people on local radio phone-ins, Prime Minister,' said Williams. 'It plays great with the electorate.'

The PM exhaled, toyed with his tea which was going cold on the table.

'I know, but really, truly, madly, deeply, do we have to?'

'It'll go down well, Sir,' said Williams. 'Even if you make a mess of it, it won't cost you anything.'

The PM rolled his eyes.

'It'll end up being more flippin' questions on the Iraq war and the NHS.'

'Hellish when you have to justify yourself,' said Barney, 'isn't it?'

'Arf.'

The PM looked across the table at the two of them.

'Well, yes, frankly, it is.'

He glanced at Williams, looked out the window, contemplated getting into an argument and defending the invasion of Iraq, but he had to spend too much of his life doing that without forcing a discussion which he didn't need to have.

'I was wondering,' he began again, the tone of voice indicating a new, meandering tangent, 'if by some miracle we don't get elected... Might be time for a career change.'

'Sir?' said Williams.

'They're looking for a new James Bond, aren't they? I could be just the man, don't you think? Instant name recognition, I'm suave, I have panache, elegance, élan, verve and a chic style which not many British actors have anymore, yet I also have the edge of someone who would happily invade a smaller country as long as I knew I could get away with it.'

He looked around the assembled table, waiting for a reaction.

'Course, I'd need to get my teeth fixed.'

'Excuse me,' said Barney, quickly, and he rose from the table and headed towards the toilet at the end of the carriage, even though he didn't actually need to go.

'We're not going to lose, Sir,' said Williams.

'Arf,' said Igor.

Barney looked over his shoulder, caught Igor's eye, nodded and then turned and walked from the carriage. Decided against going into some small, vile toilet and stood at the window of the door, looking out as the countryside of south-west England rolled by. Ten more days to go. He wasn't a prisoner, and there was nothing stopping him from jumping ship and going home, but it wasn't long. Almost enjoying the comfortable life of the big city on a big allowance, and he would appreciate the solitude and quiet of Millport even more when he returned. He leant against the door and closed his eyes, enjoying the rhythm of the train, the swaying and the clatter of the tracks. In its way as peaceful as the rhythm of waves up on the shore, a sound in which he could lose himself.

'Mr Thomson?'

Barney opened his eyes. Another rude awakening. A train steward dressed in black trousers and a maroon jacket was standing beside him, hands behind his back.

'I'm all right, thanks,' said Barney. 'I've eaten.'

'The leader of the opposition has been very impressed with the Prime Minister's hair since you took over hairdressing duties,' said the steward.

Barney stared at the man.

'Excuse me?' he said.

'The Prime Minister's hair,' said the steward. 'We've been very impressed.'

Barney glanced into the carriage, but he was out of sight of the PM and his entourage.

'I take it you're not really a steward,' said Barney.

'No,' said the Steward. 'I'm with the opposition, tracking the PM's movements. Nothing sinister, just a bit of low-level surveillance and political espionage. They do it to us too.'

'Why are you telling me?' asked Barney, which was a more polite version of what he wanted to say, which had contained the word 'off' at the end of a short sentence.

'We've had you profiled and we know you're a man who can be trusted, even if you don't take our side.'

'Well, that's very kind of you,' said Barney.

'You're welcome,' said the steward. 'The leader of the opposition would like you to transfer allegiance, and cut his hair instead of the Prime Minister's. He feels that a new hairstyle might be all that separates us from overturning the six point deficit.'

Barney held the man's gaze for a short time, and then turned away and looked back out of the window at the green farmland of England.

'He doesn't have that much hair,' said Barney eventually.

'The best artists, the true geniuses, can work with the most slender of tools,' said the steward, attempting to appeal to Barney's ego. Barney looked back, a withering glance, just as the door to the carriage fizzed open and Thackeray stepped through. He looked suspiciously at the steward and Barney.

'So, that would be one bubbly mineral water and one cream cheese with Mongolian chives on butterscotch rye bread, Sir?'

Barney ignored Thackeray and gave the steward a stiff glance.

'No,' he said, 'it wouldn't.'

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1551hrs

'W
e're Really Brilliant, The Other Lot Are Shite!' said Eason, holding his hands up in banner fashion. As he had done for the previous twenty-three slogans he'd thought of for the great Tory party election revival.

The young guy across the desk, whose day had been spent sorting through ties for the leader to wear over the next week and a half, didn't even bother shaking his head this time.

'Which company did you say we got you from?' he asked.

'Our Leader May Be Undead, But At Least His Teeth Are White!' barked Eason.

The tie guy nodded.

'Better,' he said. 'Not sure that he'd like the undead reference, all the same.'

'Troops Out! Re-Nationalise The Railways! Ban Consultants and PFI!'

This time the tie guy laid down the four blue ties between which he was choosing for the following day.

'I don't think any of those are actually representative of our policies. Did you read the manifesto?'

'The mani-what?' asked Eason.

The door opened and a man in his 30s stuck his head round, looking at the tie guy.

'Hey, Charlie, we're going to need the go-ahead on...'

He stopped. He saw Eason. Eason glanced at him only when he'd stopped talking, and saw the flash of recognition in his face before he switched on a smile.

'Sorry, sorry, you're busy, Charlie, I'll come back later.'

And with that, he was gone, the door closed.

Eason watched the retreat and then turned back to Charlie.

'Who was that?' he asked.

'Maybe you'd like to read the manifesto tonight,' said Charlie. 'Or right now. It might help.'

'That guy?' asked Eason.

'One of our PR people. Bledsoe, Dane Bledsoe. What's the deal?'

Eason shook his head, trying to shake off the conversation, like he'd never asked.

'A Conservative Britain,' he said, holding up his hands, 'The Great Melting Pot.'

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2156hrs

T
he end of another day on the campaign trail. Nothing had happened, not really, but at least it was another day nearer the end of the road, another day closer to it all being over, and the press could get down to discussing who the next leader of the opposition was going to be, who would be the next man to get the chance to trade childish insults at PM's questions in the Commons. And as the current leader of the opposition tucked into a late dinner, he constantly ran his hands through his short hair, and wondered how good it would be, what a breakthrough in his chances of success it would be, if only he could persuade the mesmerizingly brilliant Barney Thomson, the necromancer of the hair, to join his staff.

Barney Thomson, the most sought-after barber in London, was already fast asleep, and the three different agencies which were watching his movements, had already stood down for the night.

0619hrs

E
arly morning in London, still the depths of the night in Virginia, USA, where the real decisions would be taken about the result of the forthcoming General Election in the UK. Locked in a small cupboard in an office on the fourth floor, under no more security or protection than any other file or cabinet in the entire building, was a small wooden box, which had been brought to CIA Headquarters a few days earlier. The contents of the box were known only to a few, yet the result of the General Election would hinge entirely on whether any of those few decided to go public with the information which they held.