Whispers of betrayal

THIRTEEN

The meeting of COBRA had started badly, and was about to get worse. The Cabinet Secretary had begun by reporting on the findings of TAG, the Threat Assessment Group made up of representatives from the security services. The findings didn't put it in so many words, but the scribble on the Prime Minister's blotter summed it up succinctly.

No bloody clue.

Water. Transport. The Government's paging system. Telephones. What next?

The TAG team had sat long and deliberated, but they had so little on which to base any solid conclusion. All they knew was that the Government, not so many years ago, had spent several small fortunes honing the abilities of the conspirators to find imaginative ways of bringing cities like Moscow and Baghdad grinding to a halt. So what chance had London? The TAG team found itself plagiarizing its own earlier work, suggesting that the conspirators might copy the IRA who had mounted an attack on London's electricity substations, or food terrorists who had poisoned supermarket supplies, or the lone mad blackmailer who had threatened to flood the London Underground. No one could be sure what might happen next, they had so little to go on. All they knew was that unlike either the IRA, the food terrorists or the mad blackmailer, these conspirators had succeeded in remaining entirely undetected. What was even worse to Bendall's mind, their identification with humorous cartoon characters was beginning to stick in the public consciousness. 'Beaky' made for neat, sharp headlines, and that bloody record was being played on the radio again. Even the BBC was at it. As long as they stuck to making fools of the Government, there was a distinct danger of the conspirators gaining cult status.

When Goodfellowe slipped into his seat in COBRA a full ten minutes after everyone else, failing miserably in his attempt to do so unobtrusively, Bendall was not amused. The Prime Minister felt isolated and in need of an opportunity to show he was still in charge of proceedings. In short, he needed a victim, and latecomers always provide an ideal target. It was possible that Goodfellowe had an excuse, of course. Perhaps his bike had a puncture or he'd lost his bus ticket, but whatever the reason it wasn't going to be enough. Bendall decided he was going to make an example of Goodfellowe.

Maybe it was going to be a bit like World War I, Bendall thought. Perhaps this one wasn't going to be over by Christmas, either. With every passing day the mood of his security advisers was becoming more bleak and their explanations less digestible. They'd be talking about the long haul and heavy pounding next. He needed fresh impetus, to introduce a little terror to stiffen the backbone, and for that he needed a bloody sacrifice. Stir up a little fear, inflict a little violence. To encourage the others. Yes, Goodfellowe would do, and do nicely.

The Police Commissioner was in the middle of giving his report in which he was ticking off a long list of completed actions and proposed new initiatives when Bendall interrupted.

'Yes, yes, yes, Commissioner, but perhaps we can all save time if I direct you to one simple question. What hard evidence have you managed to find?'

The Commissioner studied the nail on his thumb. 'We have to accept that it's early days yet, Prime Minister, and-'

'Anyone?' Bendall interrupted once more, testily. 'Security services? SIS? What's your budget this year – more than a billion? What do you do with it, apart from buying curtains and restocking the drinks cabinet, eh? And what about you boys at Defence? Or GCHQ?' He glanced around the table at each in turn.

Silence.

'I've given you everything. Anything you asked for. We've got bills for overtime running into millions, we've raised security on every public building in the country, we've interviewed thousands of suspects, done wiretaps, a bit of burglary too, and for all I know we're coshing the Roman Catholic Cardinal to see if he's heard anything in the confessional. I've got the Attorney General on my back telling me we've pushed things to the very limit of the law, but it's what you asked for so I gave it to you. And what have I got in return…?'

More silence, broken only by the rustling of grown men trying to shrink.

Suddenly Bendall's fists banged down on the table, sending the papers scattering like grouse in August. 'Give me strength. Doesn't anyone in this room have a clue?'

Much more silence. Very serious silence. Then a sound, innocuous, almost apologetic, of Goodfellowe clearing his throat. It had an effect similar to the rivet of a submarine popping at the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Without further effort, he had everyone's attention.

'Prime Minister, I'd like to apologize for being a little late…'

Inside, Bendall smiled grimly. The turkey had walked into the abattoir.

'… but it was the matter of a few phone enquiries which I think might help our discussions.'

'Help is a rare commodity around this table.'

'Since we can't establish their identities and we have little clue as to their intentions, I've been wondering about something else. Their motives. Now, on the surface they claim to be military men with an agenda which is almost political-'

'Excruciatingly bloody political when it's aimed at me.'

'Well, precisely. But I've been considering the possibility there might be another motive.'

'Such as?'

'Money.'

'What – ransom? Blackmail?'

'More in the line of a killing on the Stock Exchange. There would be a lot of money to be made out of water and telephone shares if you knew that the attacks were about to take place. And who would know that – other than the attackers themselves?'

Chairs were being pushed back from the briefing table and necks twisted round as everyone strained to get a good sight of Goodfellowe.

'So I made enquiries of a market maker in water shares – there's only a handful of them.'

'What about telephone shares?' Bendall interrupted yet again.

'A huge market, too many market makers there for me to check on my own. But water's almost pocket-sized by comparison. So I asked if anyone had enjoyed a little windfall.' He paused to enjoy the effect before continuing. 'One investor did, indeed, seem to have a remarkable stroke of luck. He took out some put options only two days before the attack on Downing Street. Betting that the shares would crash.'

Oh, but he had 'em now. None of them dared breathe. He kept them waiting. Eventually the Prime Minister, softly but very insistently, prompted him.

'And…?'

'He walked off with about three hundred thousand. And because of the timeframe involved, he didn't have to put up a single penny himself. A very astute man. Reasonably restrained, too. Three hundred thousand's not a lot in this context. He could've made millions.'

'Then why didn't he?'

'Maybe he thought that would be a little too obvious. Or, more likely, because no one would have accepted such an enormous gamble from him. It seems he's not a regular investor on the Stock Exchange. The put option was placed through a small broker near Cheapside, a one-room operation above Boots the Chemists, would you believe? We're not talking high finance here, Prime Minister.'

Justin had been awesome. Having squeezed the name of the broker-above-Boots from the rat-arsed Rosenstein, he had then seduced the broker with a tale about how he himself was going to start making a market in water shares. Brokers know only one tactic for dealing with a market maker, that of adopting a position of complete and unrestrained wantonness. The fellow had crawled all over him with offers of drinks and dinner followed by an extended evening of lap dancing. The confidential details of one very lucky small investor seemed so trivial in comparison with their new-found friendship, particularly after the first couple of bottles. The Chinese walls that secured secrecy in the City had been undermined and toppled by the constant pounding of a tide of alcohol and greed. By the early hours of the following morning an exhausted Justin had been left in the condition of a sailor who had only narrowly survived a shipwreck, and not for the first time Goodfellowe wondered what it must be like to be pussy-whipped by Mickey.

Now Bendall was gesturing vigorously in Goodfellowe's direction. 'Tom, what are you doing sitting in the corner? Come and sit by me. So that they can all see.'

'Them' and 'us' already, Goodfellowe noted.

'So, let me get this straight, Tom. This man, a complete stranger to the stock market, places a bet that water shares will take a pounding. And he does this less than forty-eight hours before the attack on my bathroom?'

'Exactly.'

'And walks off with

'Three hundred thousand. Give or take a little loose change.'

'And does this remarkably astute investor have a name?'

'Oh yes, Prime Minister. He has a name. It's Payne. The Honourable Freddie Payne, to be precise. It appears that before he became a player on the Stock Exchange he was a Major in the Guards. The Grenadiers. We kicked him out two years ago.'

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Bendall is shouting.

'No! No, I will not have it! Enough!'

'But, Prime Minister,' the Commissioner tries for one last time. He's showing courage, everyone else has given up. 'If Payne is our man, he must have accomplices. Let us give him a little rope. Let him lead us to the others.'

'And give you the slip? Run rings around you? Like he's been doing ever since this whole fiasco started? Not any more!' Bendall rises from his chair to indicate the meeting is about to be. adjourned. 'I want him picked up within the hour, and I want him broken. I've lost count of the times I've had to stand up in Parliament and defend you against accusations of police brutality, so now I want you to start living up to your reputation. Squeeze the bastard, squeeze him dry. I want him, then I want the rest of 'em. I want action, not argument.' And if I sound strident, almost desperate, it's because that's precisely what I am. A Prime Minister who can't safeguard his own capital city will soon be no Prime Minister at all. The authority and awe that come with this office have been leaking away like water through a ruptured dyke, but now I have something – someone – to throw into the breach. So I want the entire ungrateful world to know that we've got one of them, that these creatures aren't a bunch of quaint comic characters but instead are grasping bastards who have been lining their own pockets, and I want them to know all this because it will tell every single one of them that I, Jonathan Bendall, am back in business. Understand?

'And Tom? Good work. I'm glad there's someone I can count on.'

There is a general shuffling of papers, and glances of envy tinged with relief are cast in the direction of Goodfellowe. Slowly, stiffly, they depart.

No one seems to have noticed how very, very quiet Earwick has been.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= It has been a day of triumph, to be followed – or so Goodfellowe hopes – by a night of conquest.

But Elizabeth has cried off. Short-staffed at the restaurant, she says, she will have to fill in. One of those things.

When he telephones to say goodnight, she isn't there. Hasn't been there all evening, according to Maribelle.

Perhaps she has changed her plans, or wanted a quiet night on her own, to worry. A silly white lie. One of those things. Unnecessary, he thinks.

That night his bed feels unusually cold.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= The following morning brimmed with optimism, but Bendall wasn't to get the headlines he wanted.

Neither was Earwick.

'DIPWICK!' screamed the Sun, straining to cram the huge typeface onto its front page. The rest of the media tumbled in its wake like lemmings over a cliff, although some preferred not to dwell on the more graphic details.

Earwick's House of Commons researcher, he of the e-mail, was called Ernest. Ernest was like many parliamentary researchers, youthful, bright-eyed, exceptionally eager. He was unusual although not unique in that he was also deeply and, in the eyes of many, beautifully black, which had caused the Sun to ensure that his image on the front page was in colour, since monochrome photos tend to wash out the features on black faces. editor@the-sun.co.uk still had no idea by what mixture of alchemy or electronic artistry he was getting copies of the Home Secretary's e-mail messages flashed onto his screen, but through frantic hours of analysis Brett Eatwell and his staff had resolved that these messages were indisputably genuine. These included the communications about his forthcoming speech to the annual general meeting of the Lancashire Women's Institute, the reminder for Ernest to pick up his shirts from the laundry in Horseferry Road, and the request for Ernest to 'check local newspaper archives – make absolutely certain, no messing on this one,' that the Fred Whittles who had just been appointed to the Opposition Front Bench as Spokesman for Home Affairs and apple pie and other worthy sorts of thing was the one and the same Fred Whittles who, according to shadowy Home Office sources, had been sentenced to community service for a minor assault on a policeman outside a Bristol nightclub. It had been the occasion of his eighteenth birthday.

Trouble was, there was also the e-mail that Earwick had sent on the afternoon the telephones had run amuck, an unfortunate e-mail by any standards, in which he had requested that Ernest get his 'beautiful black bum over to my place in twenty'. The full text now occupied a considerable part of the front page. What space remained was devoted to a photograph. Under a caption describing it as 'the moment of madness', it showed Ernest entering the front door of the Home Secretary's stucco-fronted house in Pimlico. It was a rather fuzzy picture, since the hastily summoned photographer had arrived only seconds before Ernest himself and scarcely had time to take off his lens cap. The photograph on page five, however, was much sharper, showing Ernest leaving fifty-five minutes later, with the ghostlike face of Earwick staring after him from behind the curtains. (There was also more material on pages four, five, six, seven, twelve and thirteen, with further sensational revelations promised in the next day's edition.)

Little wonder he'd found it difficult to concentrate during COBRA.

It isn't, of course, a crime to be a homosexual and to conduct one's relationships in private, even if you are Home Secretary, but if you are to escape without embarrassment from such relationships then you have to choose partners less brittle than Ernest, who had cracked and blubbed at the first sign of a reporter, and then agreed to hand over his story, illustrated with original copies of handwritten letters, photographs and excruciatingly personal memorabilia, in return for twenty thousand pounds and a club-class ticket to Florida.

Did the nation care that the third most powerful man in government, behind the security of his own front door, went by the sobriquet of Lady Lydia? That he bought his underwear from Agent Provocateur in darkest Soho and mailed his undeveloped films for processing to a photographic shop in Chelmsford which advertised its confidential services in the classified pages of Boyz magazine? Or that last New Year he had thrown a dinner party by candlelight at his hideaway in France during which the ever-artistic Ernest had played the piano wearing nothing but a chorister's ruff? None of this was necessarily life-threatening in a modern and liberated country, given a little careful media management, but what rearranged all the furniture and finally threw it overboard were the notes in which Earwick compared Ernest's manhood to the size of the Prime Minister's ego, suggesting it was over-inflated and forever on display.

Stupid, of course, to have written in those terms, but middle-aged men under the influence of alcohol and pink poppers tend to do such silly things.

Later that morning the Home Secretary's private secretary telephoned with his apologies, but Mr Earwick would be unable to attend Cabinet. He was too busy writing his letter of resignation.

Outside Number Ten, the gaggle of correspondents gathered before television cameras and tried to extract comments from those arriving for the meeting of the Cabinet, but failed. They didn't get any smiles, either. However, a consensus did emerge amongst the waiting media. It was their unanimous view that, with two Home Secretaries down inside a month, Bendall's administration seemed suddenly to have the sense of direction of a supermarket trolley.

At the Cabinet meeting the Lord Chancellor insisted on delivering a statement. He was an old personal friend of the Prime Minister, well intentioned but with two considerable defects. He was incredibly dour – 'the personality of a computer screen with the Screensaver switched off,' as one columnist had put it. He also possessed even less imagination than a Screensaver, a characteristic which, up to now, had protected him from the many vagaries of politics. But his friend was hurting. He wanted to help. So he had hijacked proceedings by insisting on delivering a statement – 'on behalf of all your colleagues and friends around this table, Prime Minister' – that was unusually extravagant in support of Bendall and extolled the many virtuous qualities of his leadership in these troubled times. 'We wish you to know that without either reservation or hesitation, Prime Minister, we support you one hundred per cent.'

The rest of his colleagues banged the table in a show of unanimity.

Fuck, but the guy was in trouble.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= Dipwick's curt letter of resignation was reported in full in every newspaper.

Amadeus cut it out, smoothed the creases and placed it in his file alongside Dipwick's letter to the Telegraph. The one that had started it all. All that crap about feather beds. The one that said: 'The truth of the matter is simple. The nation's security remains safe in this Government's hands.' Except, of course, when those hands were straying.

He placed it back in the drawer of his desk, which closed with the gentle sigh of a knife being replaced in its sheath. One down, one still to go.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= They hadn't been able to pick up Freddie Payne easily. Sod's law. His wife had taken the children away to her mother's so he'd grasped the opportunity to stay over in London at his club in St James's. He'd invited Jamie Cairncross to dinner, paid him the eight thousand he was owed – 'splendid, never doubted you for a moment, my dear fellow' – and then settled down over several large tumblers of Highland Park to play a little backgammon, during which he'd doubled up with the brashness of Zorba on his saint's day and promptly won two thousand of it back. Just when he didn't need it. And when, over a late breakfast the following morning, he'd heard of Dipwick's discomfort, he'd decided to take the day off. A minor celebration was in order. Buy some new ties, perhaps sacrifice a few virgins. The gods were playing on his side once more.

Or so he thought.

After another indulgent night, he had arrived at the gallery the following morning with cobwebs in his eyes and a tongue that had the tactile qualities of Velcro. He'd assumed the three men in raincoats were viewers of the new exhibition, but they weren't. They were police officers. He was arrested as soon as he walked in, directly in front of the new white-on-white sand thing by Stephane Graff. He hadn't even had time to take off his brand-new overcoat.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= The moment they put their hands on his shoulder, Freddie Payne knew that his life had changed completely and for ever. There was no going back now, not to the way things had been, to that period of his life when his father was alive, to the years when he had served well and loyally in the cause of his country. Least of all could he go back to that short but elegant time when his wife had been in love with him, and he had loved her. He should have realized this much sooner. Perhaps he had been fighting too hard inside himself to hang on to what he had lost, looking back, clinging to the wreckage rather than rebuilding. Now he had no choice. There was no going back to the way things were, not when he was handcuffed to a police inspector in the back of a speeding police car filled with the sound of its wailing siren.

The sweat was beginning to trickle onto the fold of his new collar, his wrists were already sore and in the car mirror he could see a face that belonged to someone else, a face that was hollowed and aged with eyes shot through with red flecks of fear. A familiar face, but not his own face. It seemed to be the face of his father. That was the moment Freddie Payne realized he hated himself.

As he looked at the angry eyes staring out at him from the mirror, they seemed suddenly to grow huge and fill his mind, boring into those hiding places he had built inside himself and confronting all the excuses he had made for failure. He had worshipped his father, tried to emulate him in everything he had done – joining the Guards, but never making it to command the regiment. Facing the dangers of active service in Northern Ireland, because that's what his father would have wanted, but never winning the Military Cross. Why, he had even learned to abuse women in imitation of his father, learned how to lose money, too, although he had done both of these with considerably less finesse than the General. He had tried to live his life in his father's footsteps, yet just when Freddie had needed him most the old bastard had blown his brains out. Taken the easy option, left the field of battle and run away, leaving Freddie to face the mess on his own.

It seemed to Freddie that he had spent the years since then in an impossible struggle, trying to continue to love his father even while he had learned to loathe him, blaming his father for everything, using him as the excuse of last resort. It was all the old man's fault, or so he pretended. Now, sitting in the back of the police car as it jumped the lights on the way to the top security cells at Paddington Green, Freddie Payne reckoned he had about ten minutes in which to grow up.

He had little idea why they had picked him up or what they knew, but many things were already certain. His wife would leave him, that was inevitable, taking their two daughters with her. They were spoilt brats anyway, took after their mother. The job at the gallery was history, too; Charlie would never forgive him for the embarrassment. The bank manager would also get in on the act and bring a complete stop to his stumbling line of credit. That part of the equation gave him cause to smile. He had made the best part of eight hundred thousand on the water and telephone deals and almost none of it had found its way into that unimaginative idiot's hands. Payne had opened a new account, in Switzerland, where neither his wife nor his bank manager could get at it; maybe they'd never find it, maybe it would still be there for him when he got out. Something to look forward to.

His wife, his bank, most of all his father, they'd all let him down, but not as much as he'd let himself down. Throughout his adult life only one thing had always been there for him, constant and unquestioning. The Army. Until the bloody politicians had got at it. The Army was the one thing he'd always been able to rely on, and in turn it had always been able to rely on him. It was the only thing in his life he had ever got right.

As the car swept in behind the reinforced steel gates of Paddington Green, Payne knew what he had to do.

– =OO=OOO=OO-= 'He's done what?' Bendall didn't try to hide his exasperation.

'Remained silent. He refuses to give us anything but his name, rank and serial number,' the Police Commissioner sighed, not sure what he might say that would mollify the Prime Minister. There had to be more to life than being used as a doormat.

Police work had become so intensely political. You entered the service with some vaguely formed idea about fighting for justice but instead, as you rose through the ranks, you found yourself distracted by the fight for budgets, for press coverage, for breathing space from the onslaught of pressure groups and politicians. You never won, it was always a rearguard action, until you ended up disillusioned and simply fighting for something to retire to.

The Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, Peter Jevons, had played the game with skill. Throughout his career he had always kept on the move, taking care not to get bogged down in unnecessary confrontations with either the media or his political masters, making sure he never gave the impression of being stale. A career wrapped in clingfilm, they had said, out on show but untouched, although now he was seated behind the Commissioner's desk with nowhere else to run there was the suspicion that his reputation was beginning to moulder slowly at its edges. Yet a safe pair of hands, they'd always said that of him. That's why he had decided to bring the news of Payne's arrest personally to the Prime Minister, not because he wanted praise, but because he expected trouble. His instincts were entirely accurate.

The interview in the Downing Street study had started civilly enough. Faced with the possibility of several more days' revelations in the Sun about his colleagues' dipped wicks, Bendall knew he was in desperate need of a diversionary tactic. The tide was beginning to run ferociously against him; if he couldn't turn it, perhaps he could at least redirect it before it succeeded in surrounding him completely.

'This is the moment to hand the media another story, wouldn't you agree, Commissioner?' Bendall had suggested, drawing on a cigarette. He only ever smoked in private, and only when under pressure. Bad for the image, to be seen smoking, so he never did so in public and never allowed any photographs of himself with a cigarette. Bit like Hitler and his reading glasses, thought Jevons. 'So we'll call a press conference this afternoon. To announce the latest developments.'

'Developments, Prime Minister?' the policeman's face had crumpled into creases of concern.

'That I have taken personal charge of this investigation. Hands on. I'll not tolerate any further failures. And neither will the public' He had disappeared for a moment behind a grey-blue haze before reappearing, his eyes agitated, dancing around the room in search of a resting place. 'I'll be able to announce the bloody man's arrest and reveal that they're no better than common thieves, in it for the money. I want no doubt left in the voters' minds that these people want nothing less than to hold London to ransom.'

'That may be, but I would advise strongly against a press conference so soon.'

'Why, for heaven's sake? It's the only decent spin we've had in weeks.'

'Because the matter is still spinning. It's not yet under control.'

'He's locked up in top security at Paddington Green. How much more control do you need?'

It was at this point that Jevons had told him about Payne's stubborn silence. Nothing but name, rank and serial number. And there was more, Bendall's equanimity was about to undergo a further assault.

'That's not our only problem, Prime Minister.'

'What?'

'Unless we find some hard evidence – and so far we haven't – we're going to have the devil of a time making any charges stick.'

'Several hundred grand in his pocket and you say you've got no evidence?'

'It's all circumstantial. Completely circumstantial. We may have to let him go.'

'He's not the only one who can be let go, you just remember that, Commissioner,' Bendall spat.

Jevons flushed. 'Am I to take that as a threat?'

Bendall didn't answer immediately but stubbed out his cigarette – only half finished – before straight away lighting another. Then, through the smoke: 'Of course not. Just a reminder that there are all sorts of potential outcomes to this one. For both of us. We need to nail these bastards.'

'I can't guarantee a charge. We may have to let him go. We have power to hold him for thirty-six hours, no longer.'

'For God's sake, have you no imagination?' Bendall exploded. 'Can't you think of some other charge? His kind often have exotic tastes. With traces of it in their pockets, so I'm told.'

'You're suggesting we plant evidence on him?'

Bendall's lips twisted in frustration. His words, when they came, were slow and very precise. 'I would never suggest anything like that, Commissioner.'

'Of course not.'

'So use the Terrorism Act. Then you've got him for days, not hours.'

'Terrorism? This isn't the IRA.'

'No, it's worse!' Bendall was straining forward in his chair, like a condemned man who had just received the first tickle of eternity. 'This isn't a game we're playing here, it's a premeditated assault against millions. The entire capital. Striking at the heart of the whole damned country.'

'Forgive me for pointing it out, but your opponents might suggest you're confusing the interests of the country with the interests of your Government.'

'Dammit, these people are a national menace! They've already disrupted London far more seriously than the IRA ever did. That makes them terrorists in my book, terrorists under the law, too, and I'll find a dozen different law officers who'll back me up on this.'

'I don't doubt it.'

'So you hold him under the Terrorism Act and you sweat him. You understand?'

This time it was the Commissioner's turn to consider carefully before replying. 'I'd be grateful for your instructions on this matter in writing. It helps to have things in proper order, don't you think?'

'In writing, you want it in writing? No problem. In fact I insist we handle this thing, as you put it, in proper order. Which brings me to another development I want to announce this afternoon.' Bendall moved over to the window from where, through the inch-thick glass, he could gaze across the garden of Number Ten. The tubs were full of flowers in bloom and the silver birch was casting a long shadow over a lawn. He obliterated the scene in cigarette smoke. 'What do you think they planned to do with the money?'

Jevons paused before replying, uncertain in which new direction they were heading. 'I can do nothing but speculate. Why, almost anything…'

Bendall swung to face him. 'Almost anything, you say?'

'Of course.'

'Reminds me a little of the IRA, you know. All those bank robberies. Extortion rackets. They used the money to buy their arms and explosives. D'you think it's possible that's what we have here?'

'Anything's a possibility.'

'Bombings? Assassinations perhaps? An attempt to cripple London as it's never been hit before?'

The policeman held up his hand as though to stop a wayward driver. 'You're going too fast for me. Prime Minister. It needn't be anything like that.'

'We're dealing with highly trained officers, and the one we've got locked up has years of experience in Northern Ireland.'

'Even so, bombings and assassinations are far too -'

'It's what the latest TAG assessments are going to suggest is an option.'

'My own Deputy Commissioner is on the TAG team, Prime Minister. I wasn't aware that they were predicting full-scale war.'

'It's because they haven't thought of it. Yet.' A smile died almost before it had appeared. 'But they will by the time of the press conference this afternoon.'

'I can't say I care for this.'

'And I don't care for the fact that you're getting nowhere with these bloody people!' Suddenly Bendall was shouting, seemingly so exasperated by the other man's reticence that he was on the point of losing control. 'Christ, I'm not asking you to prove the Virgin Mary was on the game, I'm only asking you to protect the elected Government. We're being slaughtered on every front page. That's what you should care about. Because things are going to change, you hear me? No more holding back, not any longer. From now on we're taking the gloves off and we're going to screw these bastards!' Bendall was shaking so forcibly that he turned his back to give himself a moment in which to gather himself.

Jevons examined the lines of the well-cut suit, and concluded he was watching an act. First the bullying, now the anger. Bendall wanted something. When at last the Prime Minister spoke again the mood had changed and he spoke as if for the public record.

'I would be failing in my duty if I didn't share with the people the dangers they might face from these renegades. They need to know that their Government is doing everything within its power to prevent further attacks on their capital city. I expect your full support in that.'

The Commissioner lowered his head, but the contempt in his eyes had already betrayed him. The Prime Minister began wandering around the room, apparently aimlessly, as though looking for something he had lost. He knew he had already lost the Commissioner.

'We'll have to raise the level of security on everything. Public buildings, public people. Gives you a hell of a lot of contingencies to cover, doesn't it, Peter?'

First names? Friends? Jevons's alarm grew. He swivelled in his chair to keep Bendall in his sights. The Prime Minister was now at the far end of the study, standing beside his jukebox.

'We have one of the most experienced police forces in the world, Prime Minister…'

'Yes, of course. But can you cope?'

'Are you doubting…'

'Simply wondering. The force has come under great strain in recent years. You've got fewer men and fewer resources than you had, yet now we're faced with something quite exceptional, something no one foresaw.'

'I've warned repeatedly about the damaging effects of the cutbacks.'

'Yes, I take the point.'

'Why, we've met – what? – twice in the last eighteen months in this very room. Meetings I demanded in order to protest at-'

'Let's not dwell on it, Peter. We both know that Chancellors get it wrong more often than not. But it seems to me we're here to deal with the present situation, not rake over old coals. I come back to my point. Can you cope?'

'With difficulty. With very great difficulty, in fact. And I refuse to be held responsible if-'

'I need your full support in this matter, Peter. Nothing less is acceptable.'

'What, with all this talk of terrorism? TAG assessments? A security blanket thrown across London? Simply to save the reputation of you and your -'

'OK. You win.'

A short pause for bewilderment. 'Win what?'

Suddenly music came blaring out from the jukebox, something horrid and thumping from the Seventies. Bendall was drawing closer to Jevons in order to make himself heard.

'You win your argument. Your logic, it's irresistible,' Bendall began, squatting informally on the arm of the Chesterfield next to the Commissioner. The noise forced him to bend close to the Commissioner's ear to make himself heard. 'Seems to me I've no choice other than to accept that the cutbacks have gone too far, and that as a result you might be considering your position. I respect that. A Commissioner who resigns on a matter of principle.'

'I wasn't aware that I had mentioned resignation!'

'And I don't think I'd mentioned the fact that in the light of the present situation it's my intention to ensure that the damage done to the police budgets in recent years will be repaired. In full. That's my promise to you.'

The Commissioner nodded stiffly, uncertain whether he had heard correctly above the din.

'I want the TAG assessments acted upon, Peter. No holds barred on this one. And if it means extra resources

'I can't conjure up additional policemen out of thin air, Prime Minister.'

'And there we have it, the nub of the whole matter. You're going to need some help.'

At last Jevons thought he had caught up with where this one was going. This was a guns and butter conversation. He'd just been offered the butter, and now…

'Public Order Act, Peter. Military Aid for the Civil Power.'

'You mean the Army.'

'Discreetly, of course. As low profile as possible. But you need it, and frankly I need it, too. To show that these guys are nothing less than extremists. Fighting their own.'

'The Army on the streets of London? For PR purposes?'

'It's a PR war we're fighting, Peter, and we're losing it. The stakes don't come any higher than this, for either of us. There's a war going on in this city and there'll be no sympathy for those who come second. I'm not going to lose this one, I'm going to fight it with everything I've got.'

'But the Army…?'

'I would understand if you feel obliged to resign. That would be a pity. Not what I want, you understand. Awkward timing for you, handing over to someone new just at the point when the police are about to be handed massive new resources. Chucking in the towel just when you're about to win the fight.'

Bendall, seated on the arm of the sofa, was hovering above the Commissioner's head, crowding him. And squeezing the constitution. For under the Military Aid to the Civil Power provisions, responsibility lay firmly in the hands of the Police Commissioner to write to the Home Office requesting the support of the armed forces. The law was clear, Bendall needed the Commissioner's consent if the Army was to be involved. And yet nothing was clear. If Jevons refused and resigned, Bendall would simply make sure his replacement did anything that was required. If Jevons didn't resign but fought his corner and refused to summon the Army, the blame for any further outrages would fall like rocks upon his shoulders. They would drag him off in disgrace. And yet, if he did what Bendall asked, the capital's police force would be showered with gifts throughout the next fiscal, indeed right up to his retirement. The coppers' copper, they would call him, the Commissioner who took care of his own. Bendall had made it so easy for him, and at the same time so impossible. He couldn't quite work out whether he was being blackmailed or bribed.

He sat there, twisting his signet ring until, eventually, he let forth an extended sigh. He desperately wanted to get out of this room. 'I'll sign an appropriate request as soon as I get back to my office, Prime Minister.'

'Not necessary. I think you'll find my private secretary has a draft waiting downstairs in the Cabinet Room.'

Jevons rose wearily to his feet, his eyes glazed, unfocused, like a man not wishing to catch sight of his own reflection. 'I hope you will understand if I don't attend your press conference this afternoon, Prime Minister. I feel very slightly violated.'

He left the room, not bothering with the pleasantries of farewell.

As soon as the door had closed, Bendall crossed the room to turn off the music. He hated the mindless head-banging crap, but it had its uses. The taping system he had set up to record the conversations in his office would one day provide a unique historic archive, a record to be studied by future generations, the mortar that would cement his place in the memories of the nation.

But there would always be some conversations he wouldn't wish to have analysed too closely, even at the risk of having those future generations question his obscure and apparently appalling taste in music.

What the hell. When he retired he'd get a new concert hall on the South Bank named after him. That should do the trick.