State Secrets

by Quintin Jardine

  Finally, Mr Speaker stood. I expected him to yell, ‘Order! Order!’ but he didn’t. Instead he intoned, ‘Personal statement, Mr Merlin Brady.’

  Kramer had been half out of his seat. He looked bewildered as he stared up at the Speaker’s chair, but sank back down, as the leader of the Opposition rose to his feet.

  ‘Mr Speaker,’ he began, ‘I thank you for this opportunity to bring to this House matters which I believe deserve its attention.’

  The hum that had seemed to hang over the chamber like a swarm of very small bees fell silent instantly, as members on both sides tried to figure out what the hell was about to happen.

  ‘I must begin with a confession,’ Brady said. ‘For some time, I have been in a personal relationship with a lady; an improper relationship. However, I do not believe that it is one that requires my resignation.’

  ‘Then sit down!’ a deep voice yelled, from the benches opposite. That did draw a cry of ‘Order!’ from the chair.

  ‘Not yet,’ the Labour leader riposted, mildly. ‘Over the last few months that relationship has brought me information that I might not otherwise have had, but I have rarely used it, for fear of compromising the other person. This afternoon, however, I received something from her email address, which I am assured is genuine.

  ‘The fact that I have been sent it can only mean that she wishes it to be brought into the public domain without further delay, and in particular before the Right Honourable Gentleman, the Prime Minister, makes his much-vaunted announcement.

  ‘What I have here, and I say again there is no doubt as to its authenticity, as I believe another Right Honourable Member of this House can confirm, is the text of the statement that the late Prime Minister, his much-lamented predecessor, would have made if she had not been struck down,’ he paused, a crucial telling pause, ‘by fate.’

  ‘I have no doubt that our former Right Honourable Friend would wish me to share her thoughts with you, even after her death.’

  Kramer jumped to his feet. ‘Mr Speaker, I must protest! This cannot be allowed!’

  ‘Ah, but it can, Prime Minister,’ the wee guy in the black robe barked back at him, ‘and it will. Be seated and let the Right Honourable Gentleman continue.’

  He stood his ground. ‘I will not!’ he shouted.

  ‘I warn the Right Honourable Gentleman,’ the Speaker said, quietly. ‘Be seated.’

  ‘This is good,’ Hamblin whispered, alongside me. ‘He’s not kidding.’

  The Prime Minister’s face was puce, veins stood out on his neck. He had lost it; he had fallen totally, absolutely out of touch with the plot. ‘I will not!’ he repeated.

  ‘Then you leave me no choice. I name Mr Roland Kramer! Serjeant-at-Arms!’

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked Hamblin, as the House erupted in tumult.

  ‘It means he’s kicked him out,’ he replied as the black-robed official took Kramer’s arm and drew him away, his face paling as he realised the enormity of what he had done. ‘He’s ejected the Prime Minister from the Commons. I never thought I’d live to see the day.’

  ‘The leader of the Opposition may continue,’ the Speaker said, calmly. ‘Order! Order!’ he added, waiting for silence before resuming his seat.

  Brady nodded his thanks, drew a breath and began. ‘She would have said,’ he boomed, his voice stronger and more forceful than I had ever heard it, ‘Mr Speaker, I wish to make a statement of vital importance to the nation and to the world.

  ‘Just over two years ago, in the administration of my predecessor, senior ministers, specifically the then Defence Secretary and Chancellor of the Exchequer, were approached by an entrepreneur, Mr John Balliol . . .’

  I doubt that the House of Commons has ever been more silent than it was as Emily Repton’s last gift to the nation was read out.

  The moment continued as Brady resumed his seat, and as Nicholas Wheeler, who knew where to find me, caught my eye, then that of the Speaker, and rose to his feet.

  ‘Mr Speaker,’ he said, ‘I can indeed vouch for the authenticity of that declaration, as I helped my late friend and leader draft it.

  ‘To help ensure that her wishes become the agreed policy of this House, I propose to challenge immediately for the leadership of my party, that opportunity having been denied me yesterday by my involuntary absence from parliament, the reasons for which will, I promise this House, become public.’

  Forty-Seven

  ‘Are you finally going to tell me?’ Sarah asked, sipping mineral water in the dining room of the Savoy. ‘How did you do it?’

  ‘Very simply, for those who know how,’ I replied. ‘One of Amanda’s geeks hacked into Siuriña Kramer’s email account and used it to send Emily’s statement to Brady, with a covering message telling him that it had to be revealed before Kramer stood up in the House.’

  ‘You used the poor guy?’ There was a hint of disapproval in her voice.

  ‘Not at all. The opposite; I made him a fucking hero. I called him and told him how it had got there; I told him the whole story. He’d known for a while that Siuriña was playing him, but he’d gone along with it for the sex, which he said was a lot better than the information she pretended to feed him.

  ‘I called Nick too, and told him what had happened with Kramer. He was primed for action.’

  ‘Will his challenge succeed?’

  ‘Absolutely. Amanda has reached out, shall we say, to the lady in Spain; she will make a voluntary statement in return for not being extradited on conspiracy charges. It’ll name James Ellis as the man who hired her. He’s singing like my granny’s canary already.

  ‘Nobody died, other than Emily, and that was pure misfortune, so nothing will ever come to court,’ I told her. ‘That would be far too messy. But Kramer will step down tomorrow morning, as will Ellis and Mickey Satchell.

  ‘I’m not certain what’ll happen after that, but the expectation is that Nick will be elected leader and invited to form an administration. Kramer will set a record as the shortest-serving Prime Minister of all time. Not even in Italy can they match someone having only two days in office. Norman Hamblin will carry on, of course; they can’t afford to let him retire.’

  ‘And what’ll you do?’ she asked, reaching across the table to take my hand, before it could wrap itself around the flute of champagne that she’d insisted I have. ‘Will you stay here or will we go home?’

  ‘I called Merlin an hour ago, and told him “no thanks”; too much excitement for me.’

  ‘And Amanda?’

  I took my plastic card from my pocket and gazed at it. ‘Be in no doubt,’ I said, ‘I know where I belong and that’s with you, not her.’

  Then I put it back, grinned at her and winked. ‘But you never know. It might come in handy in the future.’