Whispers of Betrayal (18 page)

Goodfellowe gently swirled the whisky around his tumbler, savouring the hints of peat. Lots of peat, and seaweed. From one of the islands.

‘You don’t want to know, Jonathan.’

‘I certainly do.’

‘Believe me, you don’t.’

‘I insist. Dammit, this is a matter of national security. I could have you dragged to the Tower and tortured for such information.’

Goodfellowe sighed. An image of Sam and Darren appeared before his eyes, their faces earnest, their arguments giving no quarter.

‘Very well, if I must. I knew they couldn’t be environmentalists because … well, because these guys were making fun of you. Mocking you. And it’s a time-hardened fact that environmentalists have no sense of humour.’

Rankin, from his sentry post by the black-and-white marble fireplace, quietly choked.

‘Just instinct?’ Bendall pressed.

‘And experience.’

There followed a long silence while Bendall looked out of the window, for all the world as though he’d suddenly become fascinated by the branches of the silver birch. As the silence lengthened, Goodfellowe came to the conclusion that he’d blown it. He began chastising himself. Dammit, couldn’t he simply be pleasant to the bastard for just a few minutes?

Bendall turned back towards him, the eyes cool, not trying to impress. ‘You don’t bother with the niceties, do you, Tom? Still, I shouldn’t worry ’bout that. I’m never short of a few arse-lickers, am I, Eddie? But instinct and experience? They’re about as rare in these parts as a whore’s charity. I need them. Maybe I need you.’

Goodfellowe gave no reply, contenting himself with a large slug of whisky to calm the tautness that had grown inside.

‘Let me put my cards on the table, Tom. There’s a reshuffle coming up. If you want, you’ll be part of it.’

The slightest pause, then, slowly: ‘I want.’

‘But first I’d like your help and ideas on these attacks. We know they’re former soldiers, but that doesn’t help us much. Something like forty thousand’ve left the armed forces in the last five years, it’s still like searching for a bedbug in a brothel. And no knowing what they’ll do next. So we’ve raised the level of security, called together COBRA’ – he offered the acronym of the national security committee that held its meetings in the Cabinet Office briefing room – ‘and I want you on it as my special adviser.’

‘He’ll have to sign the Official Secrets Act,’ Rankin advised.

‘Not necessary, already done it,’ Goodfellowe contradicted. ‘When I was Foreign Office Minister. The obligations of the Official Secrets Act last until you die. Sometimes longer, I’m told.’

Suddenly Bendall was on his feet, with Goodfellowe struggling to follow.

‘Don’t cross me, Tom. Don’t get like all the rest. Stay with me, and you’ll find me a good friend. Hell, you might even make it here after all. When they finally get me.’

‘That was a little bit of history.’

‘At last, I’m a footnote.’

‘Maybe more than a footnote, Tom. A whole chapter even. Perhaps the entire bloody book.’

‘What bloody book?’

Goodfellowe and the Chief Whip were in Parliament Street, walking briskly, a little breathless, floating on adrenaline.

‘Try Lear. Like the mad king, handing on his empire.’

‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Eddie? Stop being so
bloody opaque. You sound like a prison letter trying to wriggle its way past the censors.’

‘I’m a Chief Whip, for God’s sake. You’re not supposed to understand me, just do as I say.’

They paused at a pedestrian crossing.

‘Try being human for a change. Give me a clue.’

‘Should’ve worked it out for yourself already. About Jonathan.’

The electronic man turned green in their favour. Goodfellowe wondered how long it would be before traffic lights were accused of being sexist.

‘What about Jonathan?’

‘He’s not long for this world, some might say. Not me, you understand. But then I’m only a loyal Chief Whip. No opinions of my own.’

‘Hell, I’ve only just got there. And you’re saying the party’s practically over?’

‘Not yet. But soon, maybe.’

‘You bursting my balloon already?’

‘No, quite the opposite. Imagine. You in Cabinet a year or so. Mr Clean. Mr Fresh. Mr Not Responsible For All This Lousy Mess. Unlike all the others. It could be you sending out invitations to your own party.’

‘You mean …’

‘Yes. As Prime Minister. Let’s face it, more ridiculous things have happened.’

They had come to an abrupt halt in the entrance to New Palace Yard. A taxi hooted impatiently.

‘My own party? It’ll never happen. Beryl will get to me first and tread on every balloon in sight.’

‘Beryl?’

‘My constituency chair-monster. I’m supposed to be at an Executive meeting right now. They’re appointing a new treasurer. While they’re at it I think she’s also organizing my lynching party.’

‘Don’t worry about Beryl. I’ll give her a call. Can’t be too specific, not yet, but I’ll give her some prattle about you being the Prime Minister’s right-hand man and his gratitude to her for sparing you this evening. Mutter about greater things to come. She’ll be wringing out her knickers by the time I’ve finished with her.’

‘I doubt it. You haven’t seen her knickers. Only a guy rope short of a Millennium Dome.’

‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, Tom?’

‘Forgotten what?’

A duty policeman nodded in recognition as they passed into the Palace precincts.

‘Power’s what it’s all about. An aphrodisiac. Use it. Enjoy it!’

Afternoon sex is one of the few entrenched traditions in the House of Commons that has refused to die with the times. They haven’t yet set up a working party to ‘modernize’ it; and probably they never will. To die for, those moments of gratification squeezed between lunch and the time the good and the great wend their way to the Tea Room.

Elizabeth arches her back to make herself more comfortable and to spread Goodfellowe’s now-relaxed weight. He is still on top of her, and inside her, and distinctly damp. He has been extraordinarily vigorous, as though being whipped, driven on, which in turn has driven her on, and on. A good one, even a great one.

She begins to tremble. Deep inside something’s moving, rushing remorselessly through her and taking no prisoners. She has no effective way of expressing what she is feeling, so she begins to cry.

He is alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Oh, bloody men,’ she gasps. ‘You’ll never understand.’

‘Understand what?’

She shakes her head, closes her eyes, bites deep into her lip to stifle the sobbing and let the sensation take her.

When it’s over, reluctantly she opens her eyes. He is still staring at her from five inches above, trickling perspiration, a blob of it wobbling on the end of his nose. So much for romance. He is frowning with concern.

‘Don’t worry, hunk.’ She plants an enormous kiss of gratitude on his mouth. ‘Only aftershocks.’

He raises himself a little, their moist bodies part. Cooling air rushes in and tickles her breasts. She moans once more.

‘Not fair on a girl, Goodfellowe. I come home for a couple of hours’ rest before the evening onslaught, you rush in like a
shipwrecked sailor and leave me feeling like I won’t be able to walk for a week. What pills are you popping?’

‘Not bad for an ancient mariner, eh?’ He feels masculine, almost smug.

She arches her back again, stretching the vertebrae to pull out the creases. He’s still firm, still not moved from her. She tries to draw back, to examine him, burrowing into the pillow, her instincts quivering.

‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ It’s part question, part accusation. He still looks smug.

‘Not supposed to tell you. They’ll cut my balls off if I tell you.’

She reaches down for him. ‘Something comes to mind. Like why worry what might go on in the bush tomorrow when at this very moment a bird’s already got your balls in her hands. Come on, cough. Your secret’s safe with me.’

‘Promise?’

She squeezed just enough to make her point.

‘It’s called COBRA.’

The Cabinet Office Briefing Room. COBRA. (The ‘A’ is there simply to give the acronym a bit of bite.) A modest room-within-a-room that lurks behind the Victorian façade of the Cabinet Office in Whitehall.

COBRA is a world of ancient and modern. You approach it through a lovingly restored Tudor brick tunnel that was once part of the old Palace of Whitehall. Half-close your eyes and you can almost catch the cussing of Good King Harry as he chases the ball around his tennis court, but no sooner have you walked on just a few paces, through the door that is both soundproof and blastproof, than you realize that you have been propelled into the digital age.

The rectangular table that dominates the room has space for twenty people, each with his or her own touch-sensitive computer screen. Functionaries and support staff sit at chairs that are pushed back against the wall; they follow proceedings on a large master screen that hangs on one end wall. At the opposite end of the room are two small offices in which wait other support staff, communications staff in one, the appropriate security service in
the other. The security service concerned is often the SAS, for this is the grubby end of government.

COBRA deals with matters of security. Secret matters, sometimes unpleasant matters. The sort of things that get zipped up in body bags and don’t travel well with either pink broadsheets or screaming-blue tabloids. The sort of things that hide deep within the folds of the Official Secrets Act. Frequently the room is used for ‘hypotheticals’, rehearsals against the day when their worst fears become reality, like an attack on the Channel Tunnel, or the kidnap of a Cabinet Minister’s daughter. Or New Labour selling itself to Rupert Murdoch.

But no one had foreseen this one.

Goodfellowe had arrived through the front door of the Cabinet Office, leaping like a salmon up the few steps – he’d rather hoped to find a posse of photographers waiting to capture this historic moment so that he could smile knowingly and tease them with a terse ‘No comment!’, but the only onlooker was a one-footed pigeon perched precariously on the grimy windowsill.

Many of the others attending had walked through the back way, from Downing Street. It was a collection of allsorts, with Secretaries of State for Foreign & Commonwealth Affairs, for Defence, for the Environment, Transport and the Regions – without his private secretary, who was having a termination that morning, but with his deputy, the Minister for London, who rumour had it was the cause of the private secretary’s concern. Also in attendance was the creepy Permanent Under-Secretary with the pallid skin and drooping right eye, and the Director-General of MI5. The Commissioner of Police was there, too, encrusted in braid.

Oh, and Earwick.

He’d arrived in the company of the Prime Minister, hovering so close that he looked like a tailor taking a fitting. Earwick’s appointment as Home Secretary had been announced only the night before, rather more rushed than had been planned but in time to steal the headlines on the evening news away from the midwives’ pay talks. They’d collapsed. So, according to the midwives’ leaders, had the health service. A time for desperate measures. So they had brought forward the announcement of Earwick’s appointment. The soot of midnight oil was smudged
beneath his eyes, yet the eyes themselves still burned bright, fuelled with ambition.

Even though the Prime Minister had taken the chair, Earwick was allowed to lead the discussions. Goodfellowe wondered why. The attacks were good news for the Government and had boosted its popularity as the British public instinctively rallied round. There was glory to be had here, a commodity as precious around Westminster as a good meal on a motorway, so why share it? Perhaps the Prime Minister sensed the situation was not yet under control, that the unexpected might yet happen. He was being cautious.

‘I’m grateful, Prime Minister, for this opportunity to address colleagues on the current situation. In the hours since my appointment I’ve spent the time reviewing progress on this matter. Let us be frank. It’s been a disappointment. In all honesty up to this point we’ve made practically no progress whatsoever …’

Ouch. Goodfellowe winced. One in the guts for Hope. Kicking a man once he’s down is never the most attractive of activities. On the other hand, it is so much easier.

‘However, I’m delighted that we now have real developments to report. Thanks largely to the efforts of the Prime Minister’s office’ – a nod in Bendall’s direction – ‘I can confirm that these outrages are the work of a group of disgruntled former military officers. They’ve made contact twice now, by both letter and telephone.’ An animated stare around the table. ‘I hope I don’t have to emphasize that this aspect of the operation is to be regarded as strictly confidential. No public announcement at this stage about the military connection.’

‘If I may interrupt through the chair?’ It was the Walrus, without raising his head. Earwick had thought he’d been snoozing.

Bendall nodded his approval.

‘Why not?’ demanded the Walrus.

‘Why not what?’

‘Why not let the public know? Gain their assistance in the hunt?’ His head was still down, as though he didn’t want to look up to Earwick. As though he were determined that he would never look up to Earwick.

Earwick paused, steepled his fingers, debating whether to embrace the old fool or to throttle him. Throttle him for preference, but
that would have to be left for another time. ‘There are two main reasons for silence, at least at this stage. We don’t wish to alarm the public unnecessarily. The IRA and animal libbers are one thing, the prospect of our own highly trained professionals quite another. It could prove most disturbing, particularly to editors with overactive imaginations – as I’m sure the Chancellor of the Exchequer with all his experience will understand …’

‘And the second reason?’ the Walrus demanded, interrupting the flow of grease.

‘To put it bluntly, because we haven’t got the faintest idea who these people are. They don’t fall onto any of our traditional lists of extremists and activists. We’ve no idea at this stage even how many, let alone who. It’s a bit like searching for snowflakes in Siberia.’

‘So what do you propose to do?’

‘Be vigilant! They’ve hit water, transport. Who knows what next? So I have raised the state of alert on all government buildings and asked the Commissioner to draft as many police officers as possible onto the streets, to make their presence more obvious. I’ve also cancelled all leave in SO-13, the police armed response unit.’

‘You think lives may be at risk?’

‘We are dealing with military hoodlums. They may be unstable. Worse than terrorists. I’m not going to be the one who has to stand up in Parliament after some appalling tragedy and say that I wasn’t prepared. I have also told the security services that I’ll authorize electronic surveillance and phone taps under any reasonable circumstance. We can’t afford to lack the necessary courage. As of now London is on a twenty-four-hour alert.’

‘Sounds a little like short cuts.’

‘Let me put it this way. I intend that we should deal with these renegades sooner rather than later. They’ve put themselves outside the law, and if we have to go to the very edges of the law ourselves in order to defeat them, I can live with that. It’s results that count. And – let me phrase this carefully – all the opinion-poll evidence suggests that the people expect us to act decisively. To defend their interests. Hell, we have to trust the people.’

‘But not tell them what they are up against.’

‘If the voters’ – a slip of the tongue; he’d meant to say ‘people’ but for some reason he seemed to be thinking of elections – ‘thought
there was a bunch of little Hitlers wandering around the streets of London intent on mayhem, there would be chaos. And unnecessary fear. The economy would lose billions. So first things first. What the public wants to know above all is that their security is safe in our hands. When we know who we’re dealing with, then we can decide what information to give out, but what they need to know in the meantime is that their Government is ready to act. So whatever it takes, gentlemen. Whatever it takes.’

‘I take it that no one has any objections?’ Bendall instructed.

Goodfellowe swallowed. He had all sorts of objections, particularly and very personally to Earwick. A loathsome object but, according to the Prime Minister, a very necessary individual. Within a few short minutes of his first appearance as Home Secretary he’d defiled the grave of his predecessor, shoved his head so far up the Chancellor’s backside that it wouldn’t appear until next Budget Day, and had threatened action that was unprincipled and – who knows? – maybe verging on the unlawful, threatening an armed response to those who so far had done no more than bring Trafalgar Square grinding to a halt. That was no more than Sam had done. What was Earwig going to do next time she waved her bicycle pump around? Shoot her?

Objections? Sure he had objections, but he also had his back against the wall. Quite literally. He hadn’t been invited to sit at the table along with the big boys, merely to sit in attendance. To the rear. On the seats reserved for officials and advisers. His role was to listen and to learn. If he behaved himself, maybe later he would move up to the top table.

But it couldn’t be much later. Goodfellowe had gone past the stage when he had his whole life before him. A good chunk of it was already well behind him or hanging around his waistline. What had Churchill said? It was a line Goodfellowe often used in speeches, one he could always rely upon for a ripple of laughter and applause. Churchill and Lady Astor, entering the Guildhall in the City of London, side by side. ‘Look around you, Winston,’ she had demanded caustically, ‘you could fill half of the Guildhall with all the brandy you’ve drunk in your life.’ The Old Man had looked around the great hall through weary eyes and replied: ‘Ah, yes. So much more still to do. And so little time to do it.’

Damn it, Goodfellowe couldn’t deny it any longer. He was middle-aged, stuck in a world that placed an ever heavier premium on youth. But you are only as young as you feel, and he didn’t feel middle-aged, not with Elizabeth beneath him.

He choked off his misgivings. Time to be not only middle-aged, but also grown up. This was his route back. Back to office. Back to happiness. Back to helping make little bits of history, like COBRA. Back to making a difference, for others. Back to youth, even. Recapturing the many things he’d lost since last he had buried his attentions in a Ministerial red box, and Stevie had drowned.

Give and take. Compromise. A team player. As though he were playing on a football squad, accepting the need to pass the ball, helping others score goals, not battling on his own any more.

So much better than shouting angrily from the touchline, wasn’t it?

Although he’d better watch out for the professional foul.