Louise sat back, listening. Earlier this morning, once she and Jephson had agreed the line they were taking, she’d managed to confirm exactly why the Downing Street deadlines were so tight. The probability of an electoral drubbing at the hands of Pompey First, coupled with the publicity Clive Samuels had attracted over the sale of the naval dockyard, had put Portsmouth firmly on the parliamentary agenda and Jephson knew for certain that Tory Central Office had been ordered to pull together a comprehensive strategy for damage limitation. Hence Biscoe’s summons to attend his masters, and hence their own invitation to Downing Street. It was, Jephson had concluded with a smile, a wonderful opportunity to put Downing Street in MI5’s debt, and with luck the next half-hour would achieve just that. Not by battling against opposition gibes, but by turning damage limitation into a pre-emptive strike.
The PPS had finished his précis. The polls, he said, told their own story. Pompey First were way, way ahead. They were well organized and highly innovative. They were riding an enormous wave of local support and they’d spent a great deal of money turning an unfocused resentment into solid votes. Biscoe, to his credit, had been right. These people were a real threat. Not just to Pompey Tories, but to local politicians everywhere.
The Prime Minister nodded. Behind the smile and the easy small-talk, Louise sensed a deep exhaustion. He tapped the briefing summary the PPS had passed to him. He was looking at Biscoe. ‘The dockyard business is unfortunate. We’ll come to that in a minute. What are the issues here? What’s really hurting us?’
Louise felt Biscoe stiffen beside her. Instinctively, she liked this man. He had the air of someone whose patience had finally run out. If the PM wanted the truth, he could have it.
‘It’s difficult to know where to start, Prime Minister.’ He opened his file, then closed it again. ‘Number one, we’re simply not popular. The trust has gone, the willingness to put up with the tough times because there’s something better round the corner.’
‘But there is something better round the corner.’ The Prime Minister was looking concerned, a kindly GP offering reassurance, and Biscoe nodded at once.
‘I agree,’ he said, ‘I’m sure you’re right. But for whom? Take employment. Getting a job’s really tricky, and even if you find something the money’s often pathetic. I see these people week in, week out. They’ve got kids, bills, a couple of thousand owing on the mortgage. It’s bloody hard just making ends meet and, whatever we say, it’s not getting any better. Except for other people. Often in London.’
‘I take your point.’ The Prime Minister was frowning. ‘But what about specifics? Education, say, or the health service?’
‘Disaster areas. The schools are falling apart and the people up at the university seem close to packing it in. These people are angry, Prime Minister, and they’ve found a home to go to. That’s what’s so alarming about Pompey First. It’s not just our lot. It’s the opposition, too. These people are fed up with all of us. They’ve lost faith. If someone offers them an alternative, no matter how radical, they’re going to take it. Not simply in Portsmouth, but very possibly elsewhere.’
The Prime Minister looked glum. Then grave. He’d managed to snatch the last general election by playing the union card, by wrapping himself in the flag, and the anthem, and all those precious memories of what it really meant to be British. Yet here he was, suddenly facing a situation that could, conceivably, unpick it all.
Jephson’s cue could hardly have been more perfect. Biscoe was looking in his file for some figures. Jephson leaned across, restraining him. ‘Prime Minister,’ he began, ‘if I may …’
The Prime Minister looked up, visibly relieved. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘go ahead.’
Jephson began to describe what lay behind Pompey First’s attacks on Westminster and Whitehall, the real agenda they intended to pursue once they were in power. Evidence had come to hand, he said, that they were pushing not simply for a greater say in the city’s affairs but for wholesale independence. They’d developed strategies in great depth and detail. They had forward plans for a local health service, for supplementary school funding, for city-wide pension provision. On the back of the government’s privatization programme, they’d had a number of conversations with the utility companies, assuring supplies of electricity, gas and water. They were even in the process of finalizing plans for a new flag.
‘It’s blue and white with a hint of red,’ he said helpfully. ‘Just like the Pompey football strip.’
The Prime Minister was looking at his PPS. The PPS plainly thought that Jephson had lost touch with reality. ‘You’re joking,’ he said. ‘You have to be.’
‘Not at all.’ Jephson produced an audio-cassette and laid it carefully on the table in front of him. Louise had given it to him in the car – it had come from Mike Tully’s collection. ‘I’ll spare you the chore of listening,’ he said, ‘but I assure you we’re talking hard intelligence.’
The PPS began to ask where the cassette had come from. The Prime Minister waved the question aside. ‘You’re sure about all this?’ he queried.
‘Prime Minister, I’m certain.’
‘And you think they could really do it?’
‘I think they could really try.’
The Prime Minister thought about the proposition. ‘But that has to be illegal, doesn’t it? An act of sedition? An act of rebellion against the lawfully elected government?’
Jephson leaned forward. ‘And a threat to national security, too, the way we’re reading it.’
‘Hence your interest?’ The Prime Minister gestured vaguely at Jephson and Louise.
‘Of course.’
The Prime Minister blinked, aghast yet fascinated. ‘And you think they have the backing? Financially?’
‘I suspect so.’
‘How?’
Jephson didn’t answer. Earlier, he and Louise had agreed that the advantage for MI5 lay in a slow drip-feed of relief, parcelling out the story chunk by chunk. Keep the politicians caged as long as possible, Jephson had told her. Otherwise they’ll so easily forget who’s found the key.
‘How?’ the Prime Minister repeated. ‘How would they ever raise the money to make it all work?’
‘There are ways and means, Prime Minister. We haven’t quite got the whole picture yet but we’re moving as fast as we can. Rest assured.’ He smiled.
The PPS took up the running. ‘What about this afternoon?’ he said. ‘PMQs?’ He waved a hand at the mountain of paperwork, the bullets for the Prime Minister’s parliamentary gun when he faced the leader of the opposition in the Commons.
Jephson frowned, the diligent civil servant keen to help wherever he could. ‘My sense is that the key issue will be the dockyard. Everything else, at this point, is speculation.’
‘I think you’re right,’ the PPS agreed. ‘But we were rather hoping…’ He peered at a line on the typescript. ‘Mr Zhu, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Anything on him?’
‘Nothing firm. Nothing a hundred per cent.’
‘Soon?’
‘I very much hope so.’ Jephson picked up the audio-cassette. ‘It’s only a suggestion, of course, but, as far as the dockyard’s concerned, might it be possible to announce a suspension of negotiations? Pending the outcome of certain enquiries.’
‘You think that might help?’
‘Absolutely. And it also happens to be true.’
The Prime Minister and his PPS exchanged glances. Jephson was right. It was a little premature for the PM to comment on the dockyard sale and, in any case, these matters were of a commercial nature and therefore subject to the usual strictures on confidentiality. Likewise the issue of Pompey First. At this stage, their success was pure speculation.
He glanced across at Jephson. ‘It’s good to see you so well briefed,’ he said. ‘I’m grateful.’
Jephson smiled, then gestured towards Louise. ‘I’m lucky to have such professional support, Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘Miss Carlton’s played a blinde
r.’
Mike Tully was typing an affidavit when he heard the approaching loudspeaker in the street below. He pencilled a mark on his notes, then pushed his chair back from the desk. It was a woman’s voice. She was talking about the way the city’s budget had been slashed. This year, the government had snatched away half a million pounds. Pompey’s money. Your money.
Tully looked down from the window. One of the old open-top buses had come into view around the corner. It was plastered with Pompey First posters and amongst the gaggle of candidates on the top deck, Tully could see the woman with the microphone. He stepped back from the window. Kate Frankham, he thought. Hayden Barnaby’s bit of stuff.
Further down the street, a gang of contractors was digging up the road. There was a tail-back from the temporary traffic lights and the Pompey First bandwagon came to rest outside Tully’s office. Kate had handed over the microphone to someone else, and while the new candidate droned on about Opportunity ’96, another Pompey First initiative, Tully watched Kate pour a cup of coffee from a Thermos. She was deep in conversation with a tall man in jeans and a linen jacket. He had a wide grin and a mop of blond curls and as she beckoned him closer he began to laugh. Her gloved hand touched him lightly on the arm, and Tully saw the coffee spill as the bus inched towards the traffic lights.
He returned to his desk, trying to shut his mind to the howl of the Tannoy below. The candidate was talking about the dockyard, stirring up the controversy over Samuels’s breach of faith, and Tully felt a fuse burning deep within him. He’d barely stopped thinking about the dockyard since he’d read Sunday’s Sentinel, and the longer he brooded, the more he became convinced that Barnaby must have been privy to the secret negotiations. He was Zhu’s chief of staff, for God’s sake. There was surely nothing that the Chinese got up to in Portsmouth that Barnaby wouldn’t, at the very least, suspect. Yet here he was, leading a party committed to a clean break and a fresh start, pretending that the Sentinel’s little scoop about the dockyard had come as a terrible shock. Did Barnaby seriously think he could have it both ways? Would he do to the city what he’d done to Liz?
Tully got up from the desk again. Yesterday, before Ellis had disappeared back to London, he’d done his best to find out what would happen to the information he’d passed on. He wanted a guarantee of action, an assurance that something would be done, but although Ellis had obviously understood what he meant, he’d been unable to offer anything firmer than a nod, and a mumbled aside about ‘appropriate channels’. Quite where these channels might lead was anyone’s guess, and it was beginning to dawn on Tully that Ellis’s pals in the intelligence community might well be playing a game of their own. From occasionally bitter experience, Tully knew far too much about the secret world for his own peace of mind. That’s the way these things work, he told himself. Debts settled here. Obligations established there. But absolutely nothing set in motion that might attract unwanted attention.
Tully glanced at his watch. Time was running out. It was already Tuesday. People would be going to the polls on Thursday. If they chose to vote for Pompey First then surely the city deserved to know exactly what the leadership had in mind. Tully entered a number into the electronic lock that secured his filing cabinet. He kept a duplicate set of audio-tapes in the middle drawer. Consulting his master list, he selected a recent set of conversations from late April and closed the drawer again. He picked up the phone. The number was some time answering. In the street below, Pompey First were still trawling for votes. Finally, on the phone, a woman’s voice.
‘The editor, please,’ Tully said, ‘and tell him it’s urgent.’
Harry Wilcox was watching Prime Minister’s Questions on the parliamentary cable TV feed when the call came in. He reached back, plucking the phone from the desk. The Prime Minister was on his feet again. Wilcox’s pen hovered over the pad on his knee.
‘Yes?’
Wilcox listened for perhaps thirty seconds, scribbling as he did so. On television the Prime Minister was explaining that the Minister of Defence would be dealing with questions arising from the potential sale of Portsmouth dockyard as and when he deemed appropriate. Details of the negotiations were presently confidential. Members of the House would not expect Her Majesty’s Government to breach that confidentiality. The Prime Minister sat down while a Tory backbencher took up the running. His question addressed the latest inflation figures. Were they not another confirmation that the country was on course to become the most successful economy in Western Europe?
Wilcox’s finger found the off button on the remote control. The screen went blank. ‘Very interesting,’ he said to the caller on the line. ‘By all means come on over.’
Twenty minutes later, Tully was sitting in Wilcox’s office. The two men had met before, at the Imperial Hotel on the day of the riot, and the conversation quickly turned to Hayden Barnaby. ‘I thought he was mad,’ Tully said candidly, ‘or drunk. Situation like that, you weigh the odds. They were appalling. He was bloody lucky not to get himself killed.’ He paused. ‘But then he’s like that, isn’t he? Death or glory? All or nothing?’
‘You’re right. He’s exactly like that. You know him well?’
‘Not really.’ Tully produced an audio-cassette, leaving it in his lap where Wilcox could see it. ‘He puts a bit of business my way from time to time and we’ve had the odd drink but I wouldn’t say I know him, not well at any rate.’
Wilcox caught the tiny lift in Tully’s voice, a signal, he thought, of disapproval. He nodded at the cassette. ‘What’s that?’
Tully ignored the question. He was looking at the framed front page hanging on the wall behind Wilcox’s desk. Already, Sunday’s exclusive belonged behind glass.
‘What’s your line on Pompey First?’ he asked.
Wilcox reached for a paperclip. Everywhere he went people were asking the same question and he’d not once wavered in his answer.
‘From where I sit they’re a blessing,’ he said. ‘If nothing else, they’ve made us think about ourselves. That’s rare in local politics, believe me.’
‘I meant personally. What do you think of them personally?’
Wilcox was looking at the cassette again, no longer sure where the conversation was headed. Had this man Tully heard the story he’d just picked up from the newsroom? About Liz and Haagen? And Amsterdam? He decided to stall. ‘Are you asking me about my vote?’
‘Not at all. I’m asking you about Pompey First. You know Hayden Barnaby. You probably know this Charlie Epple. What’s the verdict?’
‘Hayden’s a friend of mine,’ Wilcox said carefully. ‘That makes it difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes me prejudiced.’ He shifted his bulk in the chair. ‘He’s a bright man. And he’s committed, too.’
‘Committed to what?’
It was Wilcox’s turn to let the question drift past. He looked at Tully for a long time. Then he leaned forward, shadowing the desk. ‘Mr Tully, what exactly do you want? I’m a busy man. You told me you had something I’d be interested in seeing.’
‘Hearing.’
‘What?’
‘Hearing.’ Tully tapped the cassette. ‘Have you got a player for this?’
Wilcox was briefly disconcerted. Then his curiosity got the better of him and he left the office. Tully watched him bend over an empty desk in the newsroom and pull at the drawers. When he returned with a player, Tully gave him the tape. ‘It’s cued up,’ he said. ‘Side A.’
Wilcox was going to say something but thought better of it. He inserted the tape and pressed the play button. At once, there was a distinctive bark of laughter.
‘Charlie Epple,’ Tully explained. ‘The other voice you’ll know.’
Wilcox sat back in his chair, revolving it slowly, first one way, then the other. Charlie was humming. At length, he broke into song. It sounded like a chorus, at once intimate and exhortatory.
‘Nothing in shadow, nothing to hide,
Heaven’s Light Ou
r Guide… yeah!’
There was more laughter, then Barnaby’s voice. He was telling Charlie to hang onto the day job. If he wanted a failed rock star to lead the Department of Culture and Arts, he’d bear him in mind. In the meantime, maybe they could get on with the business in hand. Had Charlie pursued the currency thing? Had he talked to the economics guy at the university? The conversation rambled on. Charlie said he knew fuck all about ecus but the bloke with the doctorate insisted it was the obvious route. Even if the Treasury didn’t cut up rough about hanging on to sterling, the ecu was still favourite.
‘Why?’
‘Something to do with stability. It’s not a floater. It doesn’t bounce around, like the pound. You understand any of this stuff?’
‘Not really, but Zhu does and he says the same thing. Either the ecu or the Swiss franc. Hates dealing in anything else. You happy to go with the ecu?’
There was a pause on the tape, then more laughter from Charlie.
‘Fine by me, Mr President. You name it, I’ll sell it.’
Wilcox indicated that he’d heard enough. Tully stopped the tape.
‘Where did you get that?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘It’s recent?’
‘Last month.’ Tully showed him the spine of the cassette. ‘April the twelfth.’
Wilcox nodded. His hands were knotted behind his head and he was staring out across the newsroom. ‘So what’s the point you’ve come to make?’ he asked.
Tully wondered whether he’d chosen the right excerpt. Maybe he should have gone for something less technical. Like Charlie’s plans to enter the city’s swimming team for the next Olympic games.
‘They were discussing a national anthem,’ he said, ‘and a new local currency. These guys want to pull us out of the UK, lock, stock and barrel. It’s all there, hours and hours of it. A blueprint for UDI.’
Wilcox shook his head emphatically. ‘It’s a piss-take,’ he said. ‘They’re fucking about.’
‘You think so?’
‘I know it, I know these guys, they’re at it all the time, especially Charlie Epple. He’s a headbanger. Always was.’
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