Fortress

37

The reception room was a sea of people. Waitresses glided between them with trays. Over a marble fireplace at one end of the room hung a portrait of Elizabeth I, standing on a map of England. But Sam’s attention was on Nasima as she gazed at the crowd.

‘It’s much bigger inside than it looks from the front, isn’t it?’ he said.

‘What is?’

‘Number Ten. A bit like the Tardis.’

She seemed mystified, a reminder that they were worlds apart. But he could see she was captivated by the event. Her whole manner was so different from that of the distant, wary woman he had first encountered in Doncaster. Her dress had also surprised him. She had really gone to town: smart black suit with a skirt above the knee, white blouse and high-heeled boots. Her eyes were subtly enhanced with kohl and her lips were a glossy rose. In this gathering of powerful, famous people, he wasn’t the only one whose attention she was attracting.

‘If you don’t mind me saying, you look terrific.’

She gave him a wry smile. ‘Just trying to blend in.’

The spell was broken by Derek Farmer bearing down on them. ‘Well, look at what we’ve got here.’ His lips were shiny with alcohol. He licked them as he spoke. ‘I hope I’m worthy of an introduction.’

‘This is Nasima. Nasima, this is Derek, my boss.’

He added the last words as a warning signal. He was ready for Farmer to disgrace himself and wanted to alert her in case she decided to take against him. But she rose to the occasion, smiled and even gave him a flirtatious laugh. Sam’s chest swelled with pride at her taking charge of the encounter with such confidence. Farmer leaned down and spoke in his ear in a stage whisper. The smell of drink was almost overpowering. ‘I’d keep her under a burka if I were you.’

Nasima laughed dutifully as he trundled away.

‘I’m sorry about that. You handled him brilliantly.’

‘Yes, he is quite disgusting,’ she said, without breaking her smile.

They sipped their elderflower cordial as a couple of reporters came up and complimented Sam on his TV appearances. He’d kept his studio makeup on, so what remained of Dink’s inflictions were now fully concealed. He could feel Nasima’s admiring gaze as he fielded their questions.

‘What’s your comment on the identity of the bomber?’

Sam frowned at the man, who was glancing at his iPhone as he spoke.

‘Kevin Hagerty, Daily Mail.’

‘Which bomber?’

Hagerty looked askance. ‘The hostel bomber, just been ID’d. Returnee from Syria.’

Sam’s stomach lurched. Hagerty continued talking while simultaneously scanning the room for anyone else of interest.

‘Nurul al-Something-or-other, got back three weeks ago after a nine-week tour. They found half his head in the rubble.’

The reporter fixed his eyes on Nasima, whose expression remained studiedly neutral. Then he called across to Pippa, who was talking to one of the presenters of Newsnight. ‘You need to brief the new boy.’

Pippa turned and said, without smiling, ‘Kevin, if this is about the hostel story, you know very well that’s unconfirmed speculation.’

Sam took a breath. He wasn’t at all clear what the rules of engagement were here, but Nasima was right beside him, watching intently.

‘Well…’ he ventured ‘… whatever the outcome is, I can say this much. Some of the people returning from Syria are very damaged.’

‘Oh, so you don’t condemn them, then?’

Sam reflected briefly on how much his life, and his thinking, had changed. Dink had committed that brutal assault on him for the same reason he was here now, so close to the seat of power: it was because of his difference. All this time he had been living his life believing he was no different from the mainstream. Now he was being sought out for his views because of his background. He didn’t know whether to be amused or outraged. It was as if he had been both alienated and empowered at the same time. How weird was that? He cleared his throat.

‘I do condemn the bombing, utterly. But it is important to understand the motivations of those who go to help in Syria, the desire to help their brothers, to do some good. Many of them come back utterly traumatized by the experience of war. Rather than just punish them, we should offer them support.’

The reporter let out a long garlicky sigh. ‘Blimey. I wonder what your new mate the PM’s going to say about that.’

Pippa was suddenly by their side. ‘Kevin, this is a reception not a bloody press conference.’ She turned to Sam. ‘He can’t use a single word.’

‘What — really?’

Sam looked at the smiling reporter in bafflement.

‘Yes. Really. Now run along.’ She held out a newly manicured hand to Nasima. ‘Philippa Kendrick, head of communications. Thank you so much for coming.’ She gazed at them approvingly. ‘Would you like to meet the prime minister?’