Fortress

72

Everything about the prime minister should have suggested a man at the top of his game, thought his home secretary. Sprawled over his sofa he was tanned, with not a single grey hair and no unattractive bags under the eyes, the signature facial feature of anyone in the top job. The neck was developing a bit of a wattle, Sarah Garvey noted, a hangover from a crash diet he had embarked on a year ago. And he was doing his best to look relaxed in a polo shirt, lightweight chinos and loafers. The trouble was, he was in the shit and he knew it.

‘Okay, Derek, hit me with it.’

Farmer glanced at her. ‘Sure you wouldn’t like to clear the room first?’

The PM smiled grimly. ‘I think Sarah will have heard worse things about me than anything you can deliver, and said them too, most probably.’

She gave him a grim smile back, relieved that she was still a confidante, that she hadn’t been eclipsed — yet.

Farmer sighed and launched in. ‘Okay, so this sample’s taken from the party faithful, which is what makes it particularly worrying as they were giving you a pretty easy ride before all this chaos. Sixty-five per cent of those polled said they thought the PM had not handled the crisis well, seventy per cent say you should have broken off your meeting at Camp David and come home to take charge.’

The PM showed no reaction.

‘And seventy-three per cent say they don’t believe the enhanced Anglo-American relationship will deliver either prosperity or security.’

Garvey noted a pink tinge spreading over the PM’s cheeks. He lurched forward and jabbed the air. ‘Yeah? Well, bollocks to that. And POTUS and I won’t be announcing any detail before our summit anyhow. How the fuck do they think they know? Honestly, Derek, where do you find these people?’

His neck quivered, causing her to wince inwardly. She also disliked his un-ironic use of the presidential acronym, one of his other less attractive features being his fondness for diminutives and nicknames to denote new best friends.

Farmer ploughed on. At least he didn’t mince his words. ‘Understood, Prime Minister. But the fact remains that, with an election five months away, the other figures are troubling.’

‘But, as you say, the sample is just the party faithful. They’re always at their worst when there’s a bit of bother on the streets.’

This was too much for Garvey. ‘Geoff, really, you can’t go around downplaying what’s uppermost in people’s minds right now.’

‘I know, I know. It’s just a turn of phrase. You know me, never knowingly overstated.’

And this with half the country going up in flames. He really was the limit.

Farmer looked up from the pages of figures perched on his knee. He had evidently detected an unexpected ally in his midst. ‘Well, to the home secretary’s point, there’s a further question in the same sample it’s worth drawing your attention to.’

‘Go on. Hit me while I’m down.’

‘Eighty-five per cent of those polled said they believed that Vernon Rolt’s call for a crackdown on suspected terrorists should be heeded by the government.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake—’

‘And if I could just finish? Sixty-five per cent of them said they would vote for the opposition if they were to adopt the same measures.’

‘Well, bollocks to that as well. Five months is a very long time in politics.’

Farmer wasn’t backing down. ‘We can’t overlook it. The party chairman has been onto us about it.’

‘Well, he can sod off.’

The PM got up and started moving round the room, fiddling with his many knick-knacks — evidence of his supposed popularity in various parts of the world the voters weren’t interested in — but Farmer wasn’t to be deflected. Garvey braced herself for what was coming.

‘Look, just as a holding measure, how about a meeting — you and Rolt? Nothing formal, just so we can get a photo of you together. You don’t have to show your hand, just listen to him for ten minutes.’

The PM didn’t seem to be paying attention. Farmer added: ‘All right, five. It might help check the rumour that you’re not receptive to fresh ideas.’

The PM’s face was very shiny now. ‘It’s his ideas I’m not bloody receptive to. I’ve nailed my colours to the multicultural mast and I’m not taking them down, especially for that — I know it’s terrible what happened to his hostel and after all he’s done for our boys and so on, but I refuse to be associated with a proponent of deportation. Derek, I’m disappointed in you. Sarah, where do you stand on Mr Rolt?’

‘I’m with you, Prime Minister — sorry, Derek. We’re a nation of moderates, and whatever the polls say, when the chips are down, we don’t like extremists. I say, stand your ground. Besides, everyone knows that the right message at a time like this is one of unity — the very opposite of what he’s trying to promote.’

Farmer gave an almost inaudible grunt of reproach.

Garvey glanced at her watch. ‘We need to cover security arrangements for Friday.’

The prime minister was clearly glad of a reason to get shot of Farmer. ‘Sorry, Derek, let’s pick this up later.’

Farmer gathered up his papers and got to his feet. ‘So you’ll give it some thought? Only we’re inundated by press enquiries about where you stand…’

Garvey knew this was a bridge too far. When the PM flipped he turned an alarming heart-attack red, reminding her of an angry tomato.

‘I’m not going to be pushed around by some Oswald Mosley wannabe with delusions of grandeur. Make it go away, Derek. Do your job.’

Farmer collected up his papers and shuffled out of the room. The PM shook his head as the door closed. ‘He may be right. A handshake would probably suffice. He can be invited to some low-level do or other and they can get their picture — but I’m buggered if I’m going to give him a personal audience. You know, they’ve got the same problem in the US, the rising tide of bigotry. The President and I compared notes.’

There was a wistful look in the PM’s eye, as if he was remembering a romantic weekend, before he’d had to come home to his wife.

‘Yes, and on that note, I really must give you a rundown on the security for the summit.’

The PM groaned. ‘Must you, Sarah? I’m sure you’ve got it marvellously under control.’

What was wrong with the man? He was hopeless on detail. Besides, she was going to tell him whether he wanted to hear it or not. Then if anything went wrong, God forbid, he couldn’t say she’d kept him out of the loop.

‘Basically there’ll be a total exclusion zone around Number Ten and Whitehall for the whole day. All the roads will be closed around the ambassador’s residence in Regent’s Park for his motorcade, or if he’s delayed he can helicopter in from Stansted, once they’ve parked Air Force One, and land in St James’s Park. Any hiccup at all, we have the place secure. Every pedestrian within a mile will be stopped and, if necessary, searched. The police have authorization to turn away anyone they don’t like the look of. We will also be closing Westminster, Charing Cross and Victoria tube stations and rerouting the buses. The only press invited will be ours and theirs, staff only, no freelances.’

The PM’s eyes had already glazed over. ‘As I said, I’m sure you’ve got it all under control.’

A senior PA put her head round the door. ‘The cabinet secretary’s here, Prime Minister.’

The PM sprang to attention. ‘Jolly good.’

Garvey got swiftly to her feet. The last thing she needed right now was to be cross-examined by Clements in front of the PM.

‘And, ma’am, Stephen Mandler’s waiting for you in your office. He said it’s urgent.’