Guy Fawkes Day
Page 33
Chapter 20: Whitehall, London: October 22: a.m.
McPherson cracked his knuckles then put the photos on the table. Lengthy pause. Distant stare. Clayton fidgeted noisily on the ancient leather sofa that seemed to harden under prolonged contact.
‘Any chance that this Mr Hasan is a solo player acting without our Special Envoy’s knowledge or support?’ The foreign secretary asked.
Clayton uncrossed his legs then re-crossed them again hurriedly; shifting position did little to relieve the numbness in the buttocks.
‘At the moment there’s a chance of just about anything. Speculation is a free-for-all in the absence of any hard information.’
McPherson stared frostily at the petulance. Clayton got to his feet, rising on the balls of his feet to soften the stiffness.
‘Look, James,’ Clayton sighed, cutting the bony devil down to size with the impudence of first-name terms. ‘You asked me to check out the Ramlis and their money. I did. And in the absence of any proper investigation, this is all I could find. I know the photos don’t necessarily prove anything conclusively, but surely, at the very least, we should take a careful look at the Ramli Special Envoy—put him under surveillance, find out who the bugger really is and why he’s come here. Wasn’t that what you wanted me to do in the first place?’
Tortured sigh.
‘Quite right, Max. And you’ve done well. But to be quite honest, I wasn’t expecting you to come up with potential terrorism. Oh yes, I thought you might discover a few financial irregularities, compromise the odd backbencher by exposing nights at the Ritz on the Ramli account. But terrorism? The Ramlis? If it were the Iranians or even a rogue Saudi prince, I could quite understand. No, we’ll have to tread carefully on this one. If we upset the Ramlis for nothing, we’ll have all hell to answer for. Nevertheless, …’
Clayton had fallen sulkily silent. McPherson amplified the quiet with more of his own.
‘Tell you what, Max,’ the foreign secretary came to life eventually. ‘Let me see if I can get the go-ahead for you to rustle up something special and hush-hush. Mix and match of MI5, MI6 and Special Branch—something like that. I’ll leave the who’s and how’s to you. Must be unofficial, mind. Everything and everyone readily deniable. There’ll be a lot at stake with so many businesses around the country feeding on the Ramli cash, but you’re quite right—our Special Envoy chappie sounds a shade too special for my liking.’
‘So when will you give me the green light?’ Clayton cut in curtly. ‘Today? Tomorrow?’
Another weighty silence. More knuckle crunching. Clayton moved to the window and looked down over a grey Downing Street.
‘Call you tomorrow morning, Max.’
Clayton nodded and made impatiently for the door. But as his hand touched the door handle, the vulture swooped.
‘I am trusting you to be discreet on this one, Max. I expect you to show me exactly why I’ve already backed you officially to go all the way to the top.’