Fortress

53

Cabinet secretary Alec Clements was in the chair. ‘Thank you all for making the time to be here. The PM sends his sincerest apologies but, as I’m sure you can imagine, he is rather busy just now. I will relay to him whatever comes out of our discussion. In any case this is a good opportunity for those of us who don’t know him to get to know Vernon Rolt.’

He indicated Rolt, who smiled and raised a hand. Clements went on, ‘There is no formal agenda, hence the mix of attendees. May I remind all those here that this is a background briefing? Chatham House rules: nothing said here leaves these four walls.’

Sarah Garvey scrolled through the emails on her BlackBerry. They were the same messages she’d read twenty minutes ago, but she felt the need to concentrate on something else while Clements was speaking. She was by far the most senior politician present — the others were all comparatively low level — yet she had been added to the list at the last minute. Was this some kind of slight, to get back at her for her robust chairing of the COBRA meetings? Whatever was behind it, she smelt a rat.

Clements referred once again to his star guest and this time put on his grave face. ‘I’m sure I speak for everyone present when I say how profoundly shocked we all were by the atrocity at the hostel. And may I add my personal compliments to you, Vernon, for the restraint and moderation with which you have chosen to respond. An example to us all,’ he added, with a glance at Garvey, whose short temper and fondness for rapid-fire expletives were notorious in Whitehall.

She focused on Rolt. She found it disturbing that opinions which would have been considered toxic a matter of months ago were rapidly gaining credibility. Before, just being in a room with someone holding his views would have been political suicide, yet now his presence was regarded as a lifeline, politicians virtually queuing up for a photo-opportunity.

He was very seductive, no question. Partly it was his looks. He was timelessly handsome. With his thick, short dark hair and clear blue eyes, he could have been a film star: Sean Connery in his Bond days. Also his composure, the apparent lack of outrage combined with the quiet passion, were all great attributes, all the more so when he was seated beside Clements, whose oily manner and imperiousness were so repellent to her. She suspected his sexual proclivities did not even involve other humans.

Clements was still talking, ranging over the events of the past few weeks, firing out statistics of casualties, damage. He was in his element, presiding over his favourite kind of situation, semi-covert, with the promise of confidentiality for all, so he could soak up whatever thoughts people were having and pass them back to the PM. She was alarmed at the extent to which he’d had the top man’s ear since he’d returned from Washington. And she was not a little piqued at how her own role seemed to have been subtly downgraded.

Privately the PM had been full of praise for her handling of the unrest, but publicly he talked as if he had been in complete charge — even while he was poncing about at Camp David. But what could she expect? With an election coming, if he didn’t look strong and decisive he could take them all down with him.

Early that morning she had called Mandler, MI5’s director general, to tell him about the Rolt meeting.

‘We’re still watching him, but I’d be lying if I said we had anything concrete.’

She was grateful for his honesty, something that seemed to be in increasingly short supply. ‘I thought you were putting someone inside his camp.’

He sighed. ‘Well, that’s proved more difficult than we expected. Our man didn’t exactly take the bait. And now I’ve just heard he’s buggered off to America. Woolf made a total dog’s breakfast of trying to recruit him. It seems they all underestimated him. On the other hand, his attitude makes him perfect for the job, since there’s no way Rolt would suspect him. I think we just have to play a slightly longer game.’

‘There isn’t time for a longer game. Rolt’s becoming a power to be reckoned with. It’s time you started joining up some dots, Stephen.’

She could hear the strain in his voice. She knew that sceptics in the Service were arguing — with some justification — that they were on a fishing expedition where Rolt was concerned. She had some sympathy for Mandler, being pulled as he was in different directions, but she could see the fight going out of him and it wasn’t an edifying sight.

‘This wretched hysteria about returnees isn’t helping. Pulling people off the streets with virtually nothing to go on, other than that they spent a bit of time in Syria, is just inflaming an already combustible situation. There aren’t the resources for much else.’

‘Well, give it another week,’ she had told him, ‘but don’t let Rolt go off your radar. I don’t have a good feeling about him.’

Watching Clements’s body language, it was clear that, as far as he was concerned, Rolt was the most important person in the room — after himself, of course. The cabinet secretary was positively fawning over him. She looked round at the young Muslim, Derek Farmer’s new find. He had a Bosnian name, but scrubbed up well as a Party man, the acceptable face of young Islam. What was he making of all this? She watched him as Rolt spoke.

‘All I’ve really said is that there are limits to tolerance if we are under siege from people who have different beliefs, many of which are entirely obnoxious to the vast majority of us. And may I add I’ve had numerous messages of support from a wide range of faiths and communities.’

‘Would you like to come in here, Sahim?’ Clements pronounced his name Saaheeem. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, for those who haven’t yet met him, Mr Kovacevic is doing sterling work waving the flag for the moderate Muslim. Our secret weapon, if you like.’

Sam scrabbled to separate the warring thoughts overlapping in his brain. He felt he had lost control of his life, that he was being pushed and pulled in different directions. He had been hired as the voice of moderation, the young Muslim who could speak up for tolerance. Now he was torn. Before, part of him had agreed with Rolt; now what the man was talking about sounded like nothing short of ethnic cleansing, in which he, Sam, would be tarred with the same brush as Karza, and Bala, with his leg injury and electronic tag. To have escaped deportation in Bosnia then find it here, being openly discussed by supposedly civilized people? It was unthinkable. What could he say? His mind had become a complete blur. He opened his mouth, hoping fervently that what came out would not be too incoherent.

‘Thank you. Well, I think it’s a time for care, for restraint, for keeping open lines of communication with all sections of society. We should extend a helping hand to the returnees, rather than punishing them. We need to help them find a way back into society. And those who have been traumatized by their experiences, I think we should be helping them, just as Invicta helps ex-servicemen and — women, who’ve fought for their country.’

That seemed to make sense. So why was there an uncomfortable silence when he finished? He noticed that almost everyone was staring into their own laps. No one was looking at him. Had he crossed some kind of line?

Clements struggled to find the right response. ‘Well, that certainly sounded like it came from the heart. Thank you, Sahim.’

Sam’s heartbeat was hammering in his ears.

Rolt engaged him with a cold stare that sent a shiver through him. ‘It’s a laudable position, and I don’t doubt your good intentions,’ he began, ‘but I’m afraid we’ve passed that point. Where do you think you’re going to find the popular support, now we have seen what they — some extremists — are capable of? The people we are talking about are not the well-meaning Muslim running their halal business or corner shop. We’re talking about another thing altogether: the menace in our midst, who’ve taken all our hard-fought-for values of tolerance and free expression and crushed them underfoot. They want Sharia law. They want a caliphate. They want women segregated, shrouded, deprived of education. And they are prepared to blow up my men to scare us into making concessions. No, we need to be rid of them, whatever it takes.’

Sam’s mouth went dry. Those words would be Karza’s death sentence. Before, he had relished this sort of meeting, enjoyed the cut and thrust of the debate. Now he was lost for words, and terrified of what the future might bring.