Revenger

44

Robbie Bell was in the VIP bar, backstage at the O2, watching his boss fawn all over Alexandra Vermulen, the lobbyist who was supposed to make him a star in the good ol’ US of A. Bell had introduced them and had watched the look of delight spread across Adams’s face, like a fat kid in a sweet shop, as he took in the blonde hair, the impressively well-preserved face and the dress that clung in all the right places. Bell wondered if Adams realized what an idiot he was making of himself gawping at Vermulen like that. She was smiling politely at his terrible jokes, but she obviously had no interest in anything other than his business, and meanwhile Nicki Adams was starting to get seriously pissed off with her old lech of a husband.

They were all the same, these political couples, Bell decided. The men were egotistical middle-aged bastards. The wives smiled bravely, then went home to stew in white wine, bitterness and tears. However much Adams might try to trumpet his uniqueness, he was no different from the rest.

Bell felt the phone buzzing in his jacket pocket. It was his press secretary, Carla Shepherd, calling, presumably updating him on the post-speech briefings she was giving the media, or asking for an official answer to a tricky question.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘It isn’t,’ she replied. ‘They’ve all gone.’

‘What do you mean, they’ve all gone? You’ve only been there five

minutes.’

‘I mean, Robbie… darling… that I was just talking them through the scintillating issue of the White Death when they all started looking at their phones and just getting up and walking away.’

‘What was it? Some kind of pathetic, overgrown student protest against our disgusting racist policies?’

‘No… that hadn’t gone down too appallingly. Once I’d persuaded them that the numbers were kosher, some of them were actually quite interested.’

‘So what was the problem?’

‘Apparently there’s been a riot in South London.’

‘Good. That’s just what we wanted.’

‘I don’t think so… not like this. Apparently some obscure little street in South London now looks like downtown Tehran. Fifty people dead.’

A chill feeling of dread started seeping through Bell’s system, like icy rain down the back of his neck. Casualties like that made for a major, major story; much too major for his liking.

‘How the fuck did fifty people die?’ he asked, thinking there had to be some kind of a mistake. He could just about believe fifteen people dying in a riot. Maybe. But fifty?

‘Someone started fighting back,’ Shepherd said. ‘There was an explosion, a bomb or something. It’s all still very confused.’

‘Shit!’

‘Look, you really need to see what’s happening. Get your laptop. It’s all over the news… and Twitter’s going mad.’

Bell picked up his briefcase and slipped from the room. The backstage area at the O2 is a warren of passages, offices and dressing rooms. Bell found an empty room, pulled up a plastic chair and logged on. Minutes later he was on the phone again.

Though Mark Adams didn’t know it, there was rather more to his campaign that met the eye. Such as, for example, the secret campaign fund that had been established, supported by wealthy donors who had been promised repayment in the form of preferential treatment as and when Adams took office. That fund had helped pay for the rally at the O2 and funded some of the supporting activity around it. It was the brainchild of Hartley Crewson, the founder of a public relations company that specialized in Westminster politics and City finance. He had been Bell’s boss before Adams had hired him. In many ways, he still was.

In fact, the entire Adams campaign had been Crewson’s idea.

He had spotted the gap in the market caused by the spectacular unpopularity of all the mainstream party leaders, and realized that the time was right for an outsider to take them on. He’d spotted Adams as the perfect candidate, mentioned the idea in passing on two or three occasions when the two men had met, and then watched with great satisfaction as Adams, like any other politician, had effortlessly persuaded himself that the idea of forming his own party was entirely his own stroke of genius.

Crewson had wanted to be the silent, invisible power behind the throne — one whose existence was unknown even to the man who thought himself king. So far the plan had been working perfectly, but now the Adams train was suddenly in danger of leaving the rails.

‘Yes, I know. I just saw it on the news,’ Crewson said when Bell told him about the riot. ‘This isn’t what we needed at all. It’s going to dominate every news-cycle for the next week at least, just when we wanted to be driving the agenda. I thought we were all on the same page about what was required.’

‘We were,’ Bell replied. ‘And it worked perfectly at the O2. We had a perfect battle between our supporters and the usual rent-a-mob, with the police stuck uselessly in the middle. The choreography was perfect.’

‘So what happened at the other place?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Well, you’d better find out, asap. I’ll keep an eye on things from my end.’ Crewson sighed. ‘We may have to be ready to take decisive action to contain the fallout.’

‘I understand. What do you want me to do about Adams?’

‘As little as possible. Keep him out of sight of the media. I don’t want him saying anything or doing anything until we’ve decided on the correct response.’

‘He’s meant to be talking to that American, Alexandra Vermulen.’

‘Perfect. I hear she’s a little cracker. She can keep the candidate entertained for the next couple of hours. If she wants our money, she might as well start earning it.’

When Bell got back to the VIP bar, Adams was looking flushed with success. Evidently no one had dared to tell him that he’d been wasting his time.

‘Ah, Robbie, there you are!’ He beamed. ‘We were wondering what had happened to you.’

‘Just a few loose ends to tie up.’

‘Excellent…’ Adams turned to Vermulen and said, ‘I would, quite literally, be at a loose end without Robbie.’

She gave him another politely enthusiastic smile.

Adams looked back at Bell. ‘I was just telling Alexandra about our plans for dinner. I thought she might care to join us. She was married to a general, you know? And her current beau is an old soldier, too…’ Now he glanced at his wife. ‘Nothing like a girl who loves a man in uniform, eh, darling? Anyway, I was thinking that the two of them ought to join us. What do you say? Can we call the restaurant and get a bigger table?’

‘Of course,’ said Bell. He was, by nature, opposed to any ideas he had not had himself. But there was something to be said for getting this old soldier along for the ride. He and Adams could tell old war stories, get pissed and pretend to be heroes… and with any luck it would be morning before Adams found out about the riot. ‘I’ll get on to it right away.’