Red Notice

58

Clements was in his usual seat, behind and just to the right of the home secretary. His job was to keep her supplied with files and briefing notes, to restrain her if she embarked upon any flights of rhetoric, and to intervene if her eagerness to do the right thing looked likely to result in promises his underlings could not fulfil.

Most of the committee was now present, and there were more bodies than yesterday. There was even a junior minister from the Department of Transport, attending his first COBRA meeting. Judging by the look on his face, he was excited and worried in equal measure. What if he had to make a decision?

Clements had got there well before anyone else, and felt even more superior when each new arrival came in not wearing a suit. The rest were in their weekend clothes: jeans, cords or, in Alderson’s case, a blue Pringle sweater and the kind of patterned trousers golfers used to wear in 1970. Clements never really thought these people might have normal lives. He simply didn’t care. Politicians, like hamburger flippers, were transient; he amused himself by calling them shits who passed in the night. They would move on; he would still be here looking after the country.

There was a commotion outside as Sarah Garvey arrived, accompanied by her staff and Home Office advisers. The committee rose. She had been at home when she’d got the call and immediately changed into work clothes, a blue suit — skirt and jacket. Like Clements, she understood the meaning of right dress, right time.

Peter Brookdale, a member of the prime minister’s advisory team, was among her retinue. The former tabloid hack, now head of communications, held the home secretary back as she was about to enter the room and muttered urgently into her ear.

The committee remained in stand-up-and-wait-for-her-to-enter-or-sit-down-and-do-it-again mode. Clements watched Sarah and Brookdale. The spin doctor was in jeans and green sweatshirt, and anyone unaware of their respective roles would have had difficulty in deciding from their body language which was the minister and which the paid employee.

The home secretary read from a briefing sheet as she listened. Whatever was being said clearly didn’t sit well with her. She jabbed her index finger at him to underline her reply, then turned back towards the committee room and entered.

‘Gentlemen, please sit.’

Clements knew exactly what had been said. He’d seen and heard it all before. The PM was worried about how he would come out of this incident. If things went wrong, Brookdale would make sure the media knew it was all Sarah’s fault. If they didn’t, then his job was to make sure the PM got all the credit.

Clements greeted her with his best civil-service smile. ‘Good morning, Home Secretary.’

She gave him a nod as everyone took their seats, then looked around the table. ‘Good morning, everyone. Now, as I understand it, we’ve got an HGV Shuttle on fire in the UK-bound section and Antonov holding a trainload of passengers hostage in the French-bound tunnel. How many dead so far?’

‘One confirmed, Home Secretary,’ Alderson said. ‘But we have no idea what casualties have resulted from the explosions. And now I’m afraid we’ve lost contact.’

‘It’s hard to see how things could be much worse.’

Clements cleared his throat vigorously enough for everyone to know that he was taking control of the conversation. ‘We believe the two incidents are connected, Home Secretary.’

Sarah Garvey turned a baleful eye on him, aware that Clements might be enjoying the moment. ‘I stand corrected. Things are worse.’

‘Yes, Home Secretary, much worse. If we had been successful in Hampstead we would not be sitting here this morning. And I’m sure that the electorate will bear that distinction in mind when they come to cast their votes in the by-election there next week.’ He exchanged a give-me-strength look with the dark side, as Clements liked to call passing shits like Brookdale. The communications chief looked as unimpressed as the minister by Clements’s opening statement.

Sarah Garvey was having none of his shenanigans today. There was work to be done. This was only her second chairing of COBRA and she needed help from people who could provide it. ‘Mr Clements, unless you can come up with something rather more intelligent or useful — and, honestly, either will do — I’d recommend a period of quiet reflection. As Abraham Lincoln used to say, “Better to keep silent and be thought a fool, than to open your mouth and remove all doubt.”’

Clements glanced at the other politicians around the table, noting their hastily suppressed smiles at his humiliation. What a pack of rats, he thought, always jockeying for position and favour, all smiles to your face, but racing to be the first to trample you underfoot if you fall foul of the party or the press.

Clements knew that ultimately, should he need to play it, he held the trump card when it came to any situation involving Laszlo. But now was not the time. ‘We have had some good news, Home Secretary.’

‘At last.’ Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. ‘And what would that be, pray?’

Clements held up a sheet of paper. ‘The bi-national status has been suspended. The UK now has control. It was Antonov who initiated the suspension, by making contact with us rather than the French.’

‘And that’s supposed to be good news, is it? I should imagine the French are pissing themselves with laughter right now…’ She was momentarily distracted as Brookdale stood up, BlackBerry in hand, and scuttled out of the room to give his master the news.

Clements shifted in his seat. ‘Under international law we are empowered to take unilateral action to resolve the matter and, forgive me for sounding like a scratched record, but given the unfortunate events in Hampstead yesterday…’ he paused to ensure he had her complete attention, and received a look of pure venom in return ‘… a firm and decisive intervention, ending the crisis and eliminating Antonov, would win the government a lot of kudos and some respite in the opinion polls.’

Brookdale returned to the room. He might not have caught everything that had been said, but the last part was all he was interested in. ‘That would certainly be true,’ he blurted, ‘if the intervention were successful. But if it failed…’ He left the sentence unfinished.

Clements didn’t acknowledge him. ‘Fortune favours the bold, Home Secretary. The SAS are already deploying, and they will not fail us. The chief constable here has the situation under control in the meantime.’

‘The SAS were deployed in Hampstead too.’ Sarah Garvey’s tone was even more waspish.

‘Yes,’ Clements replied smoothly. He had her where he wanted her. ‘And had it not been for the prevarication from this committee room, they would have apprehended Antonov before he could make his escape.’

Alderson looked at a sea of blank faces. He had never set eyes on most of the committee before now, and suspected that if he were to attend another incident in a few months’ time most of this lot would have moved on. Yet again COBRA appeared to be little more than a photo-opportunity: its members seemed to believe that if they could be seen walking into the meeting, they’d appear to be achieving something.

He sparked up. Somebody had to. ‘Home Secretary, the SAS have a man on the train. He may be able to help us.’

This was news to her. She swivelled to confront the DSF, the director of UKSF. ‘Well?’