Guy Fawkes Day
Page 85
***
The Guildhall, November 1st, 8:30 a.m.
‘My God, has the Prime Minister’s jet left Washington yet?’ the Home Secretary wailed. ‘What a total balls up of a fiasco this is if he can’t even get back into the country at a time of national emergency!’
‘It did take off, Sir, but it’s been ordered back to Washington,’ the Cabinet Permanent Under-Secretary informed him.
‘And what do the geeks say? How long do they reckon this virus attack will close our airspace for?’
‘No news yet, I’m afraid, Sir. Could take quite a few hours to resolve. Not just the UK that’s hit either. All flights are cancelled in Belgium, the Netherlands, France and Spain and the problem seems to be spreading. The RAF is operational, however. We could arrange to repatriate the Prime Minister using an RAF jet.’
The Home Secretary put a hand through his silvery hair and stared glumly into his coffee cup.
‘And ports are closed too you say?’
‘Similar sort of computer virus affecting all navigational and maritime management software I’m afraid. No reliable word on how long that will take to resolve either.’
The Home Secretary sighed.
‘So Mr Bailey has indeed got his way. All our borders are effectively closed and what’s worse, the PM can’t get back home either. Total bloody shambles!’
With that the Home Secretary pulled at some of the wilder wafts of silver hair that bushed out across the tops of his ears. For a long time, the sound of him scratching his tufty whiskers was the only audible sound in the room, till Dinsdale broke the silence, looking straight across the table at Knox.
‘What has GCHQ got to tell us about these websites linked to Bailey’s group, Graham?’
Knox coughed. It had been a long time coming, and he made it a four-scrape super-special to celebrate his feat of endurance.
‘We’re working on shutting them down but it’s not easy. They are hosted in different Asian countries and two coming out of Russia. Very little activity before yesterday evening but now receiving more hits than Facebook. As well as being powerful propaganda tools, they are also being used to coordinate actions around the world via encrypted messages. Also rather alarming is the amount of popular support they seem to be generating.’
Dinsdale frowned, creasing his bald patch bright crimson as he addressed the Home Secretary.
‘Looking at all our options, Sir, what was the Prime Minister’s view about the possibility of sending in the SAS?’
The Home Secretary looked irritable and distracted. It was the Cabinet Permanent Under Secretary who eventually replied.
‘Colonel Loquart of the SAS will be giving this Committee a full feasibility briefing at midday. All please requested to attend. We shall advise the Prime Minister accordingly when we have heard what Colonel Loquart has to say, but at this stage, unless the situation inside the Commons deteriorates rapidly, the Prime Minister’s wish is for dialogue and negotiation, not direct action.’
‘Just as we would all wish,’ the Home Secretary perked up. ‘And how about the foreign perspective, Mr Clayton? What reaction from outside the UK?’
Clayton's reply was a long time coming. He could not move from his position slumped against the wall, chin resting on chest. He was being slowly stifled, but all the pressure was coming from inside himself. Alison's words still echoed inside his head, seemed to be repeated on everybody else's lips. He was watching lips move, but hearing nothing.
Knox coughed to fill the silence and even the Home Secretary found some sort of chesty wheeze to support him.
‘Abroad?’ Clayton eventually answered in a voice so constricted it was as if he were being garrotted. ‘Mixed, I’d say. Most are simply engrossed in the sensationalism of the moment. Nothing from Ramliyya either publicly or privately. We’ve been asked to use our material to put together a psychological profile of Robbie Bailey, but…’
‘Yes?’ the Home Secretary probed.
‘There’s not much point. I can tell you all you need to know already.’
‘But sadly you haven’t persuaded your old friend to give up yet?’ the Home Secretary quipped waspishly.
Clayton acknowledged the veiled reproach with a swift scowl, but then looked away. The Home Secretary, all this lot, none of them really mattered to him any more; neither did Queen nor country or his rapidly disappearing chances of promotion to the top job. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead on the wall, while a couple of under secretaries arrived in the room, one to whisper a message into the Home Secretary’s ear, another to deliver a sheaf of papers.
Clayton checked his watch again for reassurance. It was the only part of his life that remained constant and predictable: 8:37 a.m.
‘We've got just under three and a half hours till noon, gentlemen,’ Clayton announced dreamily. ‘So what's it going to be? Are we going to grant Bailey a second television interview?’
The crunch question produced no more than an exchange of ponderous glances around the room. The Home Secretary took to scratching his whiskers again.
‘Both the Prime Minister and I are extremely anxious to avoid another worldwide TV spectacular. This Bailey fellow has made a mockery of all us and giving him further media coverage is the last thing either of us would wish for. However, you seem to know Bailey's capabilities and state of mind better than any of us, Mr Clayton. Do you think Bailey will turn nasty if we play firm, if we refuse to grant him another interview?’
With the Home Secretary’s owlish gaze upon him, Clayton saw just the chance he had been waiting for. Alison's words from last night were still choking him with strange feelings he would have thought he had long ago left in anonymous places in his introverted past. Now he was burning with all the zeal of a convert. His future hand was going to be difficult, probably impossible to play, but he was certain of one thing: his only hope of salvation lay in pulling it off. With this in mind he left his position leaning against the wall and moved in to dominate the centre of the room.
‘A few words won't cost us anything like the damage an outright refusal could do,’ he warned. ‘If we let Bailey talk to the cameras, he'll keep talking to us too, and that way we all stay winners. I can guarantee you that Robbie Bailey means what he says and he’s never lacked the courage to follow his convictions. He's got guns, explosives and hostages to play with and from what we’ve seen, there may well be other units loyal to his command active in the this country and even across the world. I put it to you gentlemen that to turn up the pressure at this stage would be to risk more than we can imagine. Yes, I know Bailey well, and I can tell you that he's too clever to shoot a few innocent hostages and leave their bodies outside St Stephen's Porch for us to invite the television cameras over for a feast of condemnation. Bailey will respond, of that we can be sure, and we may well live to regret not allowing him a few minutes of camera time.’
Clayton looked around the room, catching every man in the eye while they digested his words. After another of Knox’s coughs, the Home Secretary shuffled the papers that lay in front of him and rose to his feet.
‘Well that concludes it, gentleman. I’m going to contact the PM in Washington and ask him to sanction a second interview. Provided he agrees, that will buy us a little more time, I suppose, and at midday we will see what Colonel Loquart has to offer.’