Fifty-First State (23 page)

Downing Street, London SW1. January 15th, 2016. 9 a.m.

There were now ten men and women round the long table, each with one, some with two, advisors and bag-carriers behind them, and security men at the door and windows. Police Commissioner Sir John Smythe had been present at the same table the evening before, two hours after the TV Centre bombing. He now reported to the meeting that a witness had seen a white van containing two men in ski masks driving into the TV Centre. A child, now in hospital with cuts and bruises, had been inside the TV Centre and seen the men in masks jumping out and running past her before the bomb went off. A householder had discovered two ski masks in a dustbin a quarter of a mile from the TV Centre. These were being typed for DNA and would be compared with samples on the extensive police database, which now contained DNA samples from a quarter of the population. Questioning of almost 200 people now in custody had produced no serious intelligence.

The rest of the reports were even less informative. Geoff Costello, ginger-headed and weaselly Head of Counter-intelligence, ran through his list of possibles, matching known aims and methods to known terrorist groups. It became plain he had no suspects. The report was more lecture than information. At that point Petherbridge, whose manner was less abrasive than it had been the previous night, cut him short. ‘Geoff, I think you're telling us you don't know who did it.'

‘It's a matter of time now, Prime Minister. If these men claim responsibility we'll get closer to them. If the interrogations produce some hard information we'll get them. We, together with the other agencies, are putting informants under pressure.'

‘There are already complaints that the men in custody are being questioned about matters unrelated to the bombings,' said Petherbridge.

‘I don't see how these critics can have any information at all about the questioning,' Costello told him.

‘I don't propose to let this meeting be sidetracked by civil liberties issues, whatever they may be,' said the Prime Minister. He called on Dame Maria Sutton to report and she did. However, most of the men and women present understood that there was more than one agenda for the meeting. There was the official agenda – the business of reports and action proposals concerning the bombing – and the unwritten one, the problem of what
the Prime Minister was going to announce at his ten o'clock press conference and to the House of Commons at three. People were panicking. People were grieving for Douglas Wellington, the animal man, who had died in the explosion. The child in hospital still had his hand, but perhaps not for much longer.

The invaluable Dame Maria came to his rescue. ‘We have a fairly firm lead concerning a small extremist group in Ealing, pledged to what might roughly be called anarchist principles – hitting non-specific targets to cause fear and alarm. Sheikh Ibrahim of the Muslim Council is ready to pronounce against them.'

‘Thank you, Dame Maria. Brief me on that after the meeting, if you will,' said Petherbridge.

Geoff Costello looked at Dame Maria with mingled respect and caution. He was certain he had told Dame Maria about the Ealing group six months earlier. As Co-ordinator of Intelligence she had to be informed of everything by all intelligence agencies. Since his briefing the group consisting of eight or nine young Muslim men had done nothing but meet and talk. Costello believed they would never act. Should they ever show signs of doing so, Costello, who knew the two group leaders were lovers, would be able to fracture the group instantly. It could be that Petherbridge didn't believe the group to be responsible either but needed to do so. He'd need more than that, though, when the US President got the Senate to ratify the attack on Iraq, which she surely would, after the beheading of the two American oil executives kidnapped in November. And the rolling of their heads into a police station in Baghdad. For him another war meant public order problems, more extremist splinter groups and further attacks. As for Petherbridge, he would be trying to get the press, Parliament and the public, probably in that order, to agree to stand beside our old allies in their hour of need, as they had stood by us so long ago. So long ago that people had forgotten; it was something in black and white on TV.

Sir John Smythe heard Dame Maria's statement and glanced quickly at Costello, whose face was expressionless. If there was something about the Ealing group Costello ought to have known, and had not, his expression, however carefully guarded, would reveal this to Sir John's experienced eye. But the lack of reaction told him that Costello already had the information. He, too, admired Dame Maria for her ready intervention. They had to give Petherbridge something positive to announce.

Smythe suppressed a sigh and looked at the others round the table. At least that bit of the business was over. Now everyone would report. In his estimation the chances of anything worth hearing were small. It was almost always true that the bigger the meeting the less useful it would
be. He needed to get back to work. There were 200 suspects in custody undergoing questioning.

In the Prime Minister's own office his personal aide Gerry Gordon-Garnett poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down in an easy chair. ‘You've got to lighten up.'

‘My point, Gerry,' Alan Petherbridge said, ‘is that I don't lighten up. I'm not Carl Chatterton, who looks like the headmaster of a successful City College and I'm not Amir Siddiqi, who looks like a building society manager. It's being a straightforward upper-class Englishman that got me elected. With the help of Madam President, who also finds my manner and behaviour convincing. Lighten up? The Met Commissioner had two policemen on duty outside the TV Centre, when it's an obvious target. There was nothing to stop the van from being driven straight in, because there were no precautions against it. We're floundering and the public will spot it. Where am I now? Press at ten a.m., visit to the victims in hospital at noon, European Commissioner to lunch. I'll ring the White House before the House at three. Get hold of Jones, would you, Gerry. I need him to brief me on these threatening noises coming out of Europe and decide on a response.'

Gerry Gordon-Garnett set off for the Private Secretary's office and, as he took the stairs, thought his boss was like a robot; he never stopped. Never stopped, never flagged or failed, never forgot. But if he had to drag a reluctant country into war, how could he cope? Maybe he was the kind of man who broke because he would not bend. Strange that when a man became PM, sometimes his strengths turned out to be weaknesses.

Manderton, Oakdene Avenue, Bromley, Kent. January 21st, 2016. 9.00 a.m.

I shall tomorrow put it to the Senate and the country that the American government and the American people must act, promptly and with resolution, against the terrorist government of Iraq to ensure the security of the USA, to regain American property, and to maintain peace and stability in the Middle East

US President
November 30th, 2015

Any attack on the elected government of Iraq will be taken with the utmost seriousness by the nations of the Arab League.

Ahmed Al Saud, President of the New Arab League.

December 3rd, 2015

While deploring the illegal seizure of Iraqi oilfields by the government of Iraq we would regard with grave alarm the prospect of an attack on the government of Iraq by the USA and its allies. We would regard with displeasure any nation of the EU associating itself with such an attack.

Lajos Zilhaly, President of the European Union.

January 20th, 2016

Joshua Crane stood in his now-empty house in Bromley thinking, yet again, that he ought to drain the pool, which gleamed blue outside the big plate glass windows of the living room. He'd have to organize it himself. There was no chance of Beth returning to London, not after the TV Centre bombing.

It had been six weeks since the vast car, heavily laden with clothing, battery lamps, a camping cooker, tins and packets of food and gallons of bottled water, had pulled out of the drive. Beth was going to her parents in a seven-bedroom house but Beth was taking no chances. If a power station blew up or poison was introduced into the local water supply, she and her family would be safe. Beth brought their boys back from school to take part in the move. It was a firm principle with her that a woman needed a man with her to help and, if she could not have
a man, the boys would do. ‘You can't expect me to do all this alone,' she had told Joshua.

During the constrained family Christmas in Yorkshire, Beth had raised the question of returning to London when the boys' holidays ended and Joshua had agreed this was a good idea. However, he'd been unable to resist pointing out that he had told his wife when she left that there was no big crisis, adding that many who had left were now creeping back, looking shamefaced and often blaming the anxieties of others – wives, children, elderly parents – for their departure.

He'd been irritable. He disliked staying with his in-laws. And he had noticed the regular presence in the house of a tall local widower, an early-retired Oxford lecturer, described by his mother-in-law as ‘an old friend of the family' and noted, too, that the man seemed to be putting a lot of effort into getting along with his sons. It hadn't taken the man long to start moving in on the situation, he reflected. And there wasn't much effort to stop him, either. Over Christmas he'd poo-poohed Beth's retreat but, with the TV Centre bombing, it now looked as if she might have been right to run.

If they went to war again in Iraq, there'd be further bombings. The US Senate was sitting and would vote, within days, on the issue of the war. While Iran was, reports suggested, halfway to developing a nuclear bomb. Joshua decided he could not ask Beth to return while everything was so uncertain – and unless he asked, she would not come.

There was still an abandoned Mickey Mouse beanbag in a corner of the room. His elder boy, Marcus, had always resisted any attempt to throw away the beanbag he'd had since he was five. He must have hauled it downstairs before the move. It must have been jettisoned to make room for another three gallons of water.

And then there was the Sale of Lands Bill. Petherbridge was already beginning to muster support for railroading the bill through its third and final reading a month from now. He could no longer count on the Labour leader's support – Carl Chatterton was faced with too much opposition within his own ranks to commit himself. If Chatterton baled out on the bill Petherbridge would need every Conservative vote he could muster from his own ranks; he would need to put pressure on the constituencies of the known dissidents in his own party, Joshua being one of the foremost. His local Party Chairman, Barrington Chambers, had rung him three times in two days, asking for a meeting. Joshua suspected Barrington had already been got at by Head Office. He had engagements up and down the country, a diary crammed with meetings and no desire at all for a get-together with Barrington, at which Barrington would be forced to tell him that if he wouldn't vote with his party on the sale of airbases, deselection was on the agenda. And to top it all there was the call he hadn't screened – Saskia's.

Joshua had spent a lot of time with Douglas Clare in Battersea since his wife had left and he had split with Saskia. Against his better judgement, he had called Saskia twice since Christmas, to find messages on her machine saying that she was filming. Perhaps she was. Saskia normally left messages on her answering machine saying she was unavailable for interesting reasons when the reason might be that she felt she looked unattractive. She had a second phone she would answer to special people, Joshua included. That one had the vision off. When she didn't answer on that phone either he felt a mixture of regret and relief.

When, at eight that morning, he had heard Saskia's pleading voice, ‘Joshua – Josh—help me, please,' he answered. The hour alone rang alarm bells. Saskia was not an early riser unless she was actually filming. Her voice was high-pitched and rapid.

‘What's the matter?' he asked her.

‘These bastards – bastards—are all leaving. And there's no room for me. No room at the chateau, Cape Cod, the place in Scotland, the house in Ibiza. They're all running and they won't take me with them. Where can I go, Josh?'

Joshua reflected. One of the exciting aspects of Saskia's world – fashion, the fringes of the film business – was that she moved with a lot of people richer, more famous or more aristocratic than she was. But if they were leaving the UK because of the bombings and the possible attack on Iraq, it would be a case of
sauve qui peut
—those lucky enough to have somewhere to run to, would run there, but they might not be thinking of inviting beautiful, amusing Saskia Wilkins. They would be making arrangements for their own safety, for the nanny, the Leonardo drawing, the silver cutlery and the bank accounts, not Saskia. As if the house had caught fire, they would be concentrating on priorities.

Joshua had seen his wife go north with his children. He had heard story after story of the same kind – wives being sent off to places of safety, friends off in all directions, pictures taken off the walls and moved elsewhere, jewellery banked. And here was Saskia, with her ‘Where can I go, Josh?' What could he say? Telling her not to worry probably would not help. He did it anyway and she replied by shouting, ‘You don't care!'

‘What are you afraid of?'

‘Getting bloody bombed, you fool!' she shouted. ‘Look at the TV Centre. They're saying we're going to attack Iraq and the Arabs are saying they're going to bomb us back. They might have nuclear weapons! Justin Soames has taken Cordelia to Turin, the Eastmans are in Long Island, Harriet Schwemmer's in Austria, Brang's in Goa, the Fainlights are in the Loire, Fanny and Bick have gone to Sydney. There's no room for me on the boat, in the plane, in the house – how do you think I feel? Like shit, that's what.'