With one final glance in his mirror, Jeffrey confirmed that his red and blue tie was straight, and his hair was neatly in place. Opening his office door, he met the Prime Minister in the reception area, and together they walked to the front door of #10 Downing.
As the front door opened, the video cameras began to record, cameras flashed, and the two hundred or so members of the global media spun around to face them. The Klieg lights snapped on, and cameras began to click off pictures of their every move. The journalists, reporters, and their crews grew silent and every eye was on Trevor Wellington, Prime Minister of Great Britain. Over his shoulder, Jeffrey Hunter stood ready to face the media.
While Wellington eloquently addressed the crowd, Jeffrey Hunter stood stone faced, ostensibly listening to the press conference. He was standing at Wellington’s side, just as he had been since their days in the hallowed halls at Eton. But Hunter’s mind was somewhere else.
The world was changing, but so was Jeffrey Hunter. His country would go on, moving determinedly into the future. Politicians would come and go, battles would be won and lost, and evil men would continue to attempt to steal, damage, and destroy. But there were good people who would continue to fight — for the good of themselves, their families, and their country.
Jeffrey wasn’t ready to give in. There was still too much to do. This particular threat had been eliminated, but there were others lining up behind them, hell bent on destroying the lives of good people — people who just wanted to work hard and enjoy their families and their lives. Someone had to stand ready, to lead, to protect.
As the red lights on the bank of cameras in front of him burned bright, he could see the earnest look on the faces of the gathered media as they hung on the P.M.’s every word. They were there not simply to record his words, but to offer hope to the people who were desperately looking for leadership. Jeffrey stood unflinching, as the eyes of the world were upon him and the P.M., but his thoughts were firmly fixed elsewhere. In his mind, he was twenty-two years old again, and lying on the breathtaking exquisite grass lawn in All Souls Quadrangle, looking up between the beautiful gothic buildings at the bright blue Oxford sky.
The Cornmarket Conspiracy Page 24