He didn’t complain. She knew he’d keep that car until the wheels fell off, would never part with his memories of her, or the dent in the bonnet. He’d never abandon her, not like that bloody boy when she was fourteen.
Yet for all her experience and experiences, she still found it so difficult to share. She kept men hungry, like Penelope at her loom, fed their desires but not their souls, and in the end it always told. The one man she had been determined to trust, her husband, had grown frustrated and eventually had gone. Not entirely anyone’s fault. Circumstance. She’d been five months pregnant, there had been a car crash in which he’d been driving. She lost the baby, and her ability to have more babies, and along with it for a while had died something inside her that allowed her to trust and to share with men.
Until she had met Goodfellowe. He was wounded, too. Both damaged goods. Something they could share.
She loved Goodfellowe, but he was a man and so carried with him a little of the baggage of every man she had ever known. She wanted to love him more, and perhaps one day she might, but in the meantime she could find solace in her restaurant, something to which she could commit herself completely. It was a relationship she could control.
Or so she had thought. But these were difficult times, times of cash-flow problems and cancellations.
Salvation was at hand, of course, in the form of twenty-two crates of the finest Tsarist vintages, for which she had signed a contract in both English and Russian, lodging copies with the customs, taxation and foreign trade authorities in Odessa, and had then transferred the US dollar equivalent of almost seventy thousand pounds into an account at the People’s Bank of Odessa in the name of Vladimir Houdoliy, frozen until such time as a certificate of export for the specified goods had been presented.
Vladimir Houdoliy had become a man of great significance in her life. Perhaps too significant, for ever since the money had left her account and found its way to Odessa, it seemed to have disappeared into a hole in the ground.
Now there was no answer from Vladimir’s phone, no matter how many times she rang.
‘Come in, come in … er, Tom.’ Bendall seemed to be struggling for the name. ‘Whisky?’
Without waiting for a reply the Prime Minister nodded to Eddie Rankin, who busied himself at the small drinks cabinet. Goodfellowe had intended to decline, had he been given an option. He was way behind on his diet this week. Had been all month.
They were in Bendall’s study on the first floor of Downing Street with three large sash windows that offered a fine view of the silver birch in the garden and the park beyond. The windows had a faint green tinge, on account of the inch-thick glass that was blastproof and tested on the Royal Engineers’ proving range at Chatham, a legacy of the IRA mortar attack that had left the garden and most of the windows looking like a bad day on the Somme. Not that the reinforced windows offered complete protection. They were so heavy they had to be opened and closed with huge winding handles, and were now far more robust than the ancient brick walls into which they were bolted. In the event of another explosion, they’d probably fall into the room in one huge piece, reducing everyone inside to specimens on a microscope slide. Not so much immunity, simply a different path to immortality.
Goodfellowe hadn’t been in this inner sanctum before. It had the unmistakable feel of a boy’s den – cracked leather chairs and sofas, yards of bookshelves, disrupted piles of papers on floor and desks, the lingering smell of beeswax and alcohol. At the far end of the room, much to Goodfellowe’s astonishment, stood a Sixties jukebox, switched on and ready to go, and on the wall above it a huge oil painting by some modernist that had been borrowed from the Tate.
‘So,’ Bendall began after they had seated themselves, examining his cufflink as though he had nothing better to do. ‘You were bloody rude at Question Time the other day.’
‘Was I, Prime Minister? If so, it was unintentional. Anyway, you were far bloody ruder.’
Suddenly Goodfellowe had won all of the Prime Minister’s attention. ‘True. But that’s what I’m paid for.’
‘Ah, I’d wondered about that.’
Bendall considered this backbencher, this strange creature who appeared to be in neither awe nor fear. ‘You know, when I first got into Cabinet, they said that you were the one to look out for. The man who would most likely make it. Here, in Downing Street. Perhaps even beat me to it.’
‘Then they got it wrong. Whoever “they” were.’
‘God, I thought you were going to come out with something crass. Like “the best man won”.’
‘I long ago stopped thinking of myself as even a good man, let alone the best man.’ It neatly ducked the matter of his opinion of Bendall.
‘But you got it right, didn’t you? At Question Time. You knew they weren’t eco-freaks. How? How did you know that?’
Goodfellowe gently swirled the whisky around his tumbler, savouring the hints of peat. Lots of peat, and seaweed. From one of the islands.
‘You don’t want to know, Jonathan.’
‘I certainly do.’
‘Believe me, you don’t.’
‘I insist. Dammit, this is a matter of national security. I could have you dragged to the Tower and tortured for such information.’
Goodfellowe sighed. An image of Sam and Darren appeared before his eyes, their faces earnest, their arguments giving no quarter.
‘Very well, if I must. I knew they couldn’t be environmentalists because … well, because these guys were making fun of you. Mocking you. And it’s a time-hardened fact that environmentalists have no sense of humour.’
Rankin, from his sentry post by the black-and-white marble fireplace, quietly choked.
‘Just instinct?’ Bendall pressed.
‘And experience.’
There followed a long silence while Bendall looked out of the window, for all the world as though he’d suddenly become fascinated by the branches of the silver birch. As the silence lengthened, Goodfellowe came to the conclusion that he’d blown it. He began chastising himself. Dammit, couldn’t he simply be pleasant to the bastard for just a few minutes?
Bendall turned back towards him, the eyes cool, not trying to impress. ‘You don’t bother with the niceties, do you, Tom? Still, I shouldn’t worry ’bout that. I’m never short of a few arse-lickers, am I, Eddie? But instinct and experience? They’re about as rare in these parts as a whore’s charity. I need them. Maybe I need you.’
Goodfellowe gave no reply, contenting himself with a large slug of whisky to calm the tautness that had grown inside.
‘Let me put my cards on the table, Tom. There’s a reshuffle coming up. If you want, you’ll be part of it.’
The slightest pause, then, slowly: ‘I want.’
‘But first I’d like your help and ideas on these attacks. We know they’re former soldiers, but that doesn’t help us much. Something like forty thousand’ve left the armed forces in the last five years, it’s still like searching for a bedbug in a brothel. And no knowing what they’ll do next. So we’ve raised the level of security, called together COBRA’ – he offered the acronym of the national security committee that held its meetings in the Cabinet Office briefing room – ‘and I want you on it as my special adviser.’
‘He’ll have to sign the Official Secrets Act,’ Rankin advised.
‘Not necessary, already done it,’ Goodfellowe contradicted. ‘When I was Foreign Office Minister. The obligations of the Official Secrets Act last until you die. Sometimes longer, I’m told.’
Suddenly Bendall was on his feet, with Goodfellowe struggling to follow.
‘Don’t cross me, Tom. Don’t get like all the rest. Stay with me, and you’ll find me a good friend. Hell, you might even make it here after all. When they finally get me.’
‘That was a little bit of history.’
‘At last, I’m a footnote.’
‘Maybe more than a footnote, Tom. A whole chapter even. Perhaps the entire bloody book.’
‘What
bloody book?’
Goodfellowe and the Chief Whip were in Parliament Street, walking briskly, a little breathless, floating on adrenaline.
‘Try Lear. Like the mad king, handing on his empire.’
‘What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Eddie? Stop being so bloody opaque. You sound like a prison letter trying to wriggle its way past the censors.’
‘I’m a Chief Whip, for God’s sake. You’re not supposed to understand me, just do as I say.’
They paused at a pedestrian crossing.
‘Try being human for a change. Give me a clue.’
‘Should’ve worked it out for yourself already. About Jonathan.’
The electronic man turned green in their favour. Goodfellowe wondered how long it would be before traffic lights were accused of being sexist.
‘What about Jonathan?’
‘He’s not long for this world, some might say. Not me, you understand. But then I’m only a loyal Chief Whip. No opinions of my own.’
‘Hell, I’ve only just got there. And you’re saying the party’s practically over?’
‘Not yet. But soon, maybe.’
‘You bursting my balloon already?’
‘No, quite the opposite. Imagine. You in Cabinet a year or so. Mr Clean. Mr Fresh. Mr Not Responsible For All This Lousy Mess. Unlike all the others. It could be you sending out invitations to your own party.’
‘You mean …’
‘Yes. As Prime Minister. Let’s face it, more ridiculous things have happened.’
They had come to an abrupt halt in the entrance to New Palace Yard. A taxi hooted impatiently.
‘My own party? It’ll never happen. Beryl will get to me first and tread on every balloon in sight.’
‘Beryl?’
‘My constituency chair-monster. I’m supposed to be at an Executive meeting right now. They’re appointing a new treasurer. While they’re at it I think she’s also organizing my lynching party.’
‘Don’t worry about Beryl. I’ll give her a call. Can’t be too specific, not yet, but I’ll give her some prattle about you being the Prime Minister’s right-hand man and his gratitude to her for sparing you this evening. Mutter about greater things to come. She’ll be wringing out her knickers by the time I’ve finished with her.’
‘I doubt it. You haven’t seen her knickers. Only a guy rope short of a Millennium Dome.’
‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you, Tom?’
‘Forgotten what?’
A duty policeman nodded in recognition as they passed into the Palace precincts.
‘Power’s what it’s all about. An aphrodisiac. Use it. Enjoy it!’
NINE
Afternoon sex is one of the few entrenched traditions in the House of Commons that has refused to die with the times. They haven’t yet set up a working party to ‘modernize’ it; and probably they never will. To die for, those moments of gratification squeezed between lunch and the time the good and the great wend their way to the Tea Room.
Elizabeth arches her back to make herself more comfortable and to spread Goodfellowe’s now-relaxed weight. He is still on top of her, and inside her, and distinctly damp. He has been extraordinarily vigorous, as though being whipped, driven on, which in turn has driven her on, and on. A good one, even a great one.
She begins to tremble. Deep inside something’s moving, rushing remorselessly through her and taking no prisoners. She has no effective way of expressing what she is feeling, so she begins to cry.
He is alarmed. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Oh, bloody men,’ she gasps. ‘You’ll never understand.’
‘Understand what?’
She shakes her head, closes her eyes, bites deep into her lip to stifle the sobbing and let the sensation take her.
When it’s over, reluctantly she opens her eyes. He is still staring at her from five inches above, trickling perspiration, a blob of it wobbling on the end of his nose. So much for romance. He is frowning with concern.
‘Don’t worry, hunk.’ She plants an enormous kiss of gratitude on his mouth. ‘Only aftershocks.’
He raises himself a little, their moist bodies part. Cooling air rushes in and tickles her breasts. She moans once more.
‘Not fair on a girl, Goodfellowe. I come home for a couple of hours’ rest before the evening onslaught, you rush in like a shipwrecked sailor and leave me feeling like I won’t be able to walk for a week. What pills are you popping?’
‘Not bad for an ancient mariner, eh?’ He feels masculine, almost smug.
She arches her back again, stretching the vertebrae to pull out the creases. He’s still firm, still not moved from her. She tries to draw back, to examine him, burrowing into the pillow, her instincts quivering.
‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ It’s part question, part accusation. He still looks smug.
‘Not supposed to tell you. They’ll cut my balls off if I tell you.’
She reaches down for him. ‘Something comes to mind. Like why worry what might go on in the bush tomorrow when at this very moment a bird’s already got your balls in her hands. Come on, cough. Your secret’s safe with me.’
‘Promise?’
She squeezed just enough to make her point.
‘It’s called COBRA.’
The Cabinet Office Briefing Room. COBRA. (The ‘A’ is there simply to give the acronym a bit of bite.) A modest room-within-a-room that lurks behind the Victorian façade of the Cabinet Office in Whitehall.
COBRA is a world of ancient and modern. You approach it through a lovingly restored Tudor brick tunnel that was once part of the old Palace of Whitehall. Half-close your eyes and you can almost catch the cussing of Good King Harry as he chases the ball around his tennis court, but no sooner have you walked on just a few paces, through the door that is both soundproof and blastproof, than you realize that you have been propelled into the digital age.
The rectangular table that dominates the room has space for twenty people, each with his or her own touch-sensitive computer screen. Functionaries and support staff sit at chairs that are pushed back against the wall; they follow proceedings on a large master screen that hangs on one end wall. At the opposite end of the room are two small offices in which wait other support staff, communications staff in one, the appropriate security service in the other. The security service concerned is often the SAS, for this is the grubby end of government.
COBRA deals with matters of security. Secret matters, sometimes unpleasant matters. The sort of things that get zipped up in body bags and don’t travel well with either pink broadsheets or screaming-blue tabloids. The sort of things that hide deep within the folds of the Official Secrets Act. Frequently the room is used for ‘hypotheticals’, rehearsals against the day when their worst fears become reality, like an attack on the Channel Tunnel, or the kidnap of a Cabinet Minister’s daughter. Or New Labour selling itself to Rupert Murdoch.
But no one had foreseen this one.
Goodfellowe had arrived through the front door of the Cabinet Office, leaping like a salmon up the few steps – he’d rather hoped to find a posse of photographers waiting to capture this historic moment so that he could smile knowingly and tease them with a terse ‘No comment!’, but the only onlooker was a one-footed pigeon perched precariously on the grimy windowsill.
Many of the others attending had walked through the back way, from Downing Street. It was a collection of allsorts, with Secretaries of State for Foreign & Commonwealth Affairs, for Defence, for the Environment, Transport and the Regions – without his private secretary, who was having a termination that morning, but with his deputy, the Minister for London, who rumour had it was the cause of the private secretary’s concern. Also in attendance was the creepy Permanent Under-Secretary with the pallid skin and drooping right eye, and the Director-General of MI5. The Commissioner of Police was there, too, encrusted in braid.
Oh, and Earwick.
He’d arrived in the company of the Prime Minister, hoverin
g so close that he looked like a tailor taking a fitting. Earwick’s appointment as Home Secretary had been announced only the night before, rather more rushed than had been planned but in time to steal the headlines on the evening news away from the midwives’ pay talks. They’d collapsed. So, according to the midwives’ leaders, had the health service. A time for desperate measures. So they had brought forward the announcement of Earwick’s appointment. The soot of midnight oil was smudged beneath his eyes, yet the eyes themselves still burned bright, fuelled with ambition.
Even though the Prime Minister had taken the chair, Earwick was allowed to lead the discussions. Goodfellowe wondered why. The attacks were good news for the Government and had boosted its popularity as the British public instinctively rallied round. There was glory to be had here, a commodity as precious around Westminster as a good meal on a motorway, so why share it? Perhaps the Prime Minister sensed the situation was not yet under control, that the unexpected might yet happen. He was being cautious.
‘I’m grateful, Prime Minister, for this opportunity to address colleagues on the current situation. In the hours since my appointment I’ve spent the time reviewing progress on this matter. Let us be frank. It’s been a disappointment. In all honesty up to this point we’ve made practically no progress whatsoever …’
Ouch. Goodfellowe winced. One in the guts for Hope. Kicking a man once he’s down is never the most attractive of activities. On the other hand, it is so much easier.
‘However, I’m delighted that we now have real developments to report. Thanks largely to the efforts of the Prime Minister’s office’ – a nod in Bendall’s direction – ‘I can confirm that these outrages are the work of a group of disgruntled former military officers. They’ve made contact twice now, by both letter and telephone.’ An animated stare around the table. ‘I hope I don’t have to emphasize that this aspect of the operation is to be regarded as strictly confidential. No public announcement at this stage about the military connection.’
Whispers of Betrayal Page 16