Fortress

20

‘Can you open your bag, please?’

There was a heavy police presence outside Party Headquarters, checking people before they went through the door. Barriers had been set up to funnel visitors to a table where their belongings were being examined. Sam unzipped his bag. The policewoman glanced in and ran a grey plastic wand over his laptop. ‘ID?’

‘I have an appointment, with—’

‘ID, please,’ she repeated, as if he hadn’t heard her.

He felt inside his coat and brought the driving licence out of his wallet. She peered at the details, then examined a clipboard held by her colleague. ‘Mr Koverchovich?’

She said it loudly, mispronouncing it. A couple of other uniforms looked up and scanned his face.

‘Dr Kovacevic. I’m here for a job interview.’

The policewoman’s mouth twitched with amusement. ‘Good luck, sir,’ she said, without a trace of goodwill as she handed back his bag. With a curt flick of her head, she signalled to him to go through.

Sam gave his name at the desk, then sank into a large leather and chrome chair. He tried to collect his thoughts for the interview but the impact of Helen’s note blotted out everything else. He had found it on the kitchen table when he got back.

If the letter was a bombshell, the call that followed it was worse. The first three times he’d tried it went to voicemail, but she picked up after the fourth.

‘What is this? Are you dumping me?’

‘I’m sorry, Sam.’

‘What’s your mother been saying?’

‘Just that it’s a bad time for us to be together.’

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ He was practically shouting down the phone.

‘I’ve got to go. Sorry.’

She rang off. He dialled again, then decided against it. He threw the phone at the wall. Tears of anger blurred his vision. It took him several minutes to grasp what Helen had meant. Nothing like this had happened before.

When he retrieved the phone he saw there was a voicemail. Even though it was late he had called the number and got straight through to a woman called Pippa, who sounded very important but terribly keen to meet ASAP.

A tall woman in her early thirties, in a smart suit with a silky blouse underneath, glided towards him. Her smile and her hair looked immovable.

He got to his feet. She put out a hand. ‘Hello! I’m Pippa. So, is it Sam or Sahim?’

Sam shook her hand, which felt limp and cool, and smiled. Usually he would have said ‘Sam’ emphatically. But the choice suggested opening himself to more possibilities. ‘Either’s fine.’

She tilted her head, sizing him up. ‘I rather like Sahim. Let’s go for that, shall we?’

She gestured for him to follow. Her carriage and manner reminded him of Helen, but he dismissed the thought.

She showed him into a boardroom with a long table and waved at a chair. A carafe of water had been placed in front of it.

‘We’re just waiting for Derek — he’s our marketing wizard. But he’s always late so let’s see if we can cover a few things first.’ She gave him a conspiratorial smile as she seated herself opposite him and opened a slim file. ‘We’re so glad you decided to give us a chance.’

He laughed, faintly sheepish. ‘Well, I’m always open to offers.’ Oh, God, he thought, does that sound desperate? The truth was he had never allied himself with a political party, not because of any determination to remain independent but because politics didn’t interest him. They were talking about an actual job, though, and since he didn’t have one, he had nothing to lose.

‘We thought you must be rather in demand.’

‘I was up at Oxford for an interview. They’ve not got back to me yet.’

This wasn’t a lie, more a creative interpretation of the truth.

She smiled again. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. Their loss, I’m sure. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t pleased. Young Muslims willing to work for the Party are a bit thin on the ground right now.’

‘Well, I’m not exactly practising.’

She laughed. ‘Well, I call myself C of E but I can’t remember the last time I went to church. You fit the bill, all right.’

Her enthusiasm put him at ease. ‘Well, you haven’t interviewed me yet. You may think differently afterwards.’

They both laughed politely. She flipped open a file and studied it. ‘So, just to be absolutely clear, you were born in the former Yugoslavia, is that right?’

‘Bosnia. Yes. But I’ve been here since I was five.’

She frowned. ‘You came as a refugee? Gosh, that must have been horrid for you.’

‘Actually, no. I count myself very lucky to be here.’

She sighed. ‘If only more people felt that way.’

The door flew open and a middle-aged man with a florid face and wispy blond hair burst in, a BlackBerry pressed to one ear. Under his arm was a sheaf of papers that looked as if they were about to cascade from their precarious perch.

‘Tell him to do it or he’s fucking out of here today. I don’t care. Well, fuck you too.’

The papers slid to the floor.

‘Fucking arseholes.’

Only then did he become aware of the two of them, watching. ‘Sorry, all.’ He grinned at Sam and thrust out a meaty hand. ‘Derek Farmer. So glad you could come. Boy, do we need someone like you round here.’ His brow furrowed briefly as he peered at Sam. ‘So you are Muslim, right? Or, er…’

He frowned at Sam’s linen suit from H&M. Pippa studied her nails.

‘I am, but I’m under cover.’

They all laughed — a little too long. But for the first time in a while Sam felt as if he was capable of making an impact. ‘But to answer you properly, yes, I am a Muslim. Born and bred.’

‘But not about to…’ Farmer made a gesture as if something was about to explode from his chest.

Sam was mystified. He glanced at Pippa who was looking the other way.

‘Oh, y’know. Kaboom!’

Sam laughed again because there was nothing else he could think of doing. So did Farmer, who looked at his watch, then picked up his BlackBerry and gestured with it. ‘So, here’s the deal. The Party’s in the shit. Most of your lot think we’re the enemy. And, frankly, we deserve everything you’re hurling at us — well, maybe not the petrol bombs. But the fact is we look like a bunch of fucking dinosaurs. Well, not Pippa, of course, who just looks fucking sexy.’

‘Fuck off, Derek.’

‘Oh? Thought it was worth a shot. Anyway, apart from Pippa, the Party’s a load of WASPs, who look as though the only hoi-polloi they know are the beaters on their grouse shoots. As for “Generation Now”, all we’ve got is a few chinless wonders whose grasp of Estuary English is about as good as their Mandarin, and a posse of Afros we bribed to join up with free iPads.’

He looked at Sam expectantly. ‘We need some Islamic cred. Someone who can speak to the street, reach out to the Muslim community, love them up a bit and make them feel more like we’re the party that has their interests at heart. Got it?’

Sam found himself nodding. All his time in academe he’d been surrounded by political correctness. Farmer’s refusal even to pay lip service to it was almost refreshing. ‘Yeah, I think I can help you out there.’

Farmer waved him on, like a traffic cop. ‘Go on, then. Do your stuff.’ He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head, revealing large sweat stains round his armpits.

Sam looked at Pippa, who was smiling. He leaned forward. ‘Eh, okay, well. There’s a lot of people, not unlike me, really, who just want to get on with their lives. They’ve either fled tyranny or their parents struggled to get here so they can make something of themselves. None of us in this country have anything to gain by fighting with each other. We all want peace and quiet and prosperity.’

Farmer clapped. ‘Love it. More!’

Sam felt like a performing seal but he didn’t care: he had their attention and that made a welcome change. ‘Peace and prosperity only thrive where there’s the rule of law. As a criminologist, I know all about what happens when there’s no security. This party is right to support the police. Their job is very difficult and, yes, mistakes get made, but what’s the alternative?’

Farmer turned to Pippa. ‘I think our friend here has just talked himself into a job.’ He returned to Sam. ‘Got any skeletons?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Sex, drugs, rock and roll, anything the tabloids could stick you for?’

Was Karza a skeleton? If so, he wasn’t about to let on.

‘Married? Girlfriend — or boyfriend?’

‘None of the above — currently.’

‘Well, if you do snare one make sure it’s a she and, if possible, one of your lot. Some of our backwoodsmen cut up rough when they see their English roses being plucked by brown fingers. Sorry.’

Pippa gave Sam an apologetic look while Farmer ploughed on. ‘How’d you like to be on telly tonight?’

‘Sure.’

‘He actually has some media experience,’ said Pippa.

‘Fuck me — then he’s perfect. Channel 4 News are doing a hatchet job on us. We could put you up — surprise the shit out of them.’ Farmer seemed thrilled at the prospect.

Emboldened by their attention, Sam felt a surge of confidence. ‘I’ll need a briefing.’

‘Good man. Play your cards right, we might even parachute you into a safe seat.’ Farmer scooped up his papers and winked at Pippa. ‘Do the necessaries, Princess.’ He offered Sam a warm, sweaty hand. ‘See you in Makeup. Jon Snow’s gonna love you.’