by Dc Alden
‘Get to the point, Geoffrey.’
Cooper visibly reddened. ‘My point? Quite simply, why are we watching these people? What evidence do we have to warrant this potentially illegal surveillance? The Commissioner here says that none of them have criminal records and most of them are tax-paying voters. The fact that they’ve visited Arabia on several occasions and are on some vague watch list doesn’t mean they’re guilty of anything. I’m sure I don’t have to remind anyone in this room that the diplomatic implications of these clumsy intrusions could be severe.’
‘They’re British citizens,’ Harry reminded Cooper. ‘This is a domestic issue.’
‘Have we learned nothing over the years?’ the Foreign Secretary countered. ‘My time in Arabia has taught me many things, not least that for people of the faith their loyalty is towards Islam first. It’s offensive to suggest otherwise. And we all know Arabia can be very unforgiving if it feels its people are being persecuted.’
Further along the table the SIS official bristled. ‘Foreign Secretary, there are some in the Intelligence Services who believe that the threat posed by Islamic extremism still exists, despite the ambient diplomatic temperatures we’ve become used to. And with these particular subjects there is some history, their citizenship notwithstanding. Right now the evidence is clear; a timetable is almost certainly being followed and anti-surveillance methods employed. This is no time to consider diplomatic niceties. This is happening on our streets, right now.’
Cooper barely glanced at the man, instead focussing his attentions on Harry. ‘Prime Minister, if we start arresting Muslims on the whims of our Intelligence Services it could prove both provocative and inflammatory. The adoption of a domestic anti-Islamic stance could have severe repercussions in Baghdad.’
The Metropolitan Police Commissioner nodded in agreement. ‘Sir, the Foreign Secretary has a valid point. We also have a legal responsibility to ensure that what we’re doing doesn’t contravene our Race and Religion Bills. We’ve spent years trying to rebuild relations between our communities after the problems we’ve experienced in the past. I’m sure nobody wants to see all that good work undone.’
‘Quite right,’ agreed Cooper.
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. Cooper’s condescending tone was getting on his nerves and the Commissioner had just played right into his hands. The policeman himself was more or less a political appointee and had assured his lofty position after a career that was without controversy, lacking any real-world experience but with all the right political connections and ideology. Harry pushed his chair back and stood up, a signal that the meeting was at an end.
‘I understand everybody’s individual concerns,’ he began. ‘However, I think we must err on the side of caution and go with the general consensus. SIS will continue their efforts to reacquire the subjects using any means possible, and I want alert levels raised across the board. Commissioner, I expect your people to handle any subsequent arrests or detentions with the utmost professionalism. And Geoffrey, you will prepare something for the Ambassador, just in case things do turn nasty. I want to be kept fully abreast of any developments, day or night, is that clear? Brigadier Forsythe, you have my authority to raise the military alert level. It won’t hurt to test our responses to intelligence briefs.’
The Brigadier nodded curtly. Cooper, he saw, flushed red with anger.
‘No press statements on this one,’ Harry warned. ‘We keep everything in-house for the time being. Let’s raise our guard without raising fears.’ As the meeting dispersed, Harry pulled his phone from his pocket and punched his wife’s number. After two rings he was connected.
‘Hi, Harry.’
‘Hi, love. How did it go?’ Harry glanced up to see a stern-faced Cooper hovering nearby. ‘One second.’ He held the phone against his chest. ‘Be kind enough to wait outside, would you Geoffrey? A private call, you understand.’ He turned his back and lifted the phone to his ear. ‘Sorry about that.’
‘Let me guess,’ Anna chuckled. ‘Geoffrey Cooper?’
‘Bingo. Where are you?’
‘Nearly home. Matt seems keen to get me back to Whitehall in record time. He thinks we’ll arrive around six or thereabouts. It all went very well, by the way.’
‘Good. I owe you dinner. A very expensive one.’ Harry checked his watch.
‘Look, I have to talk to Cooper and there are a few other things that need taking care of. I’ll see you upstairs when you get back.’
‘Okay, darling.’
Harry slipped his phone back into his pocket and made his way out into the corridor, where David Fuller was trying to placate his simmering Foreign Secretary.
‘Prime Minister,’ puffed a red-faced Cooper. ‘With the greatest respect, I feel that my experience in matters concerning Arabia should be given greater consideration.’
‘And in spite of that influence, your friends in Baghdad aren’t doing us any bloody favours at the moment, are they Geoffrey?’
‘They’ve had their own problems,’ spluttered Cooper, ‘all well documented. Look, I’m not buying that oil conspiracy rubbish and, furthermore, this so-called security situation could jeopardise future relationships at a time when we need them most.’
Harry glanced at his watch again and moved past Cooper. ‘Sorry Geoffrey, I haven’t got time to argue with you on this one. I suggest we leave security to those who know best.’
‘Those who know best?’ the portly Minister blustered, his anger booming along the corridor. ‘SIS are a bunch of public bloody schoolboys, singularly misplaced to judge the ramifications of-’
Harry stopped in his tracks and spun around. ‘Geoffrey, you will retract that remark or I’ll have your resignation on my desk within the hour. Is that clear?’ Cooper’s nostrils flared, his breath coming in angry snorts. ‘Very well. I apologise for-’
‘Accepted,’ Harry barked, turning smartly on his heel and trotting up the steps to Number Ten. Maybe the next reshuffle was too long a wait, he mused. He’d sleep on it and make his decision in the morning.
Cooper’s eyes burned into the Prime Minister’s departing back, the quiet rage spreading through his chest. Humiliated, and in front of that arse-kisser Fuller too. In fact, Fuller seemed to take some pleasure in Cooper’s embarrassment, smiling as he looked down at the rotund Foreign Secretary.
‘Come on Geoff, you know Harry is under some pressure right now. We all are.’
‘It’s Geoffrey. How many times do I have to remind you?’ snapped Cooper, realising they were quite alone in the corridor. ‘You’re a fucking weasel, Fuller, you know that?’ he hissed. ‘Harry’s little golden boy. All the perks, all the authority, none of the responsibility. You’re not even a minister, for God’s sake.’
Fuller’s smile widened. ‘Geoffrey, please. There’s no call for insults, is there? We’re both grown men with jobs to do, and I’m afraid I’ve neglected mine for too long, today. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to prepare some press papers. I’ll see you later.’
With that, Fuller turned and made his way up the stairs. Cooper couldn’t resist a parting shot.
‘What if all this is a false alarm? Imagine the flak from the Muslim Council, the Islamic Congress in Brussels. Who has to clear up that diplomatic mess, eh? Me. Not you, or your precious Prime Minister. So you run along, Fuller. I’m going to put out this fire before it takes hold.’
Fuller paused at the top of the stairs. The smile was gone, his words laced with caution. ‘Don’t do anything rash, Geoffrey. You should discuss this with Harry in the morning.’
‘Who are you to advise me?’ scoffed Cooper. ‘You’re out of your depth, Fuller. Now piss off.’ He watched the Director of Communications disappear up the stairs into Number Ten. The anger still coursed through him and he chastised himself for losing his temper. It was a foolish thing to do, particularly for a man of his standing and importance.
And right now there was so much at stake.
Th
e Foreign Secretary
Geoffrey Cooper knew he’d made a few mistakes during his tenure as Foreign Secretary, but no more than previous holders of the post. His lack of experience and occasional political naivety had embarrassed Harry, and Cooper had been forced to grovel apologetically on several occasions. He knew his job was on the line. And it was a job that Cooper took the greatest of pleasure in. He enjoyed the status, the chauffer-driven cars, the sumptuous banquets, the first-class trips abroad. And he particularly enjoyed his relationship with the Arabians.
He’d worked hard on that front, eager to make a name for himself as the first British Foreign Secretary to bargain the Arabians down. He’d managed a few small concessions, but it wasn’t much. No, he felt real progress had been made on a more personal level. His relationship with the Arabian Ambassador in London was excellent and had started when Cooper was Trade Secretary. He’d been to the embassy many times, a beautifully renovated Georgian building near Kensington Gore, and enjoyed their superb cuisine and well-stocked wine cellar, an indulgence reserved only for western guests. Cooper smiled as he recalled availing himself of some excellent Grand Cru on several visits.
Yes, Geoffrey Cooper enjoyed a close, personal relationship with his Arabian friends. They listened to him, really listened. And, after too many glasses of the embassy’s equally impressive Burgundy, he impressed upon them his political ambition; to be granted a private audience with the Supreme Ruler of Arabia himself. Harry wouldn’t think him incompetent then.
Cooper’s involvement with the Arabians had started just after Harry had come to power; at the time, Cooper had occupied the post of International Secretary for Trade and Industry. He’d flown to Egypt for a Euro-Arabian trade conference, landing at Cairo International, the only airport in the whole of Arabia that serviced direct flights from the west. Visas into the state were extremely hard to acquire for westerners and all travellers, no matter where they were headed in the Gulf region, had to pass through Cairo and continue their journey aboard the state airline.
Not that there were many holiday-makers anyway. Since being assimilated into the new Arabia, the tourist sites at Luxor, the Pyramids, the magnificent hotels in Dubai, the Great Temple of Petra in Jordan and many other holiday destinations had been closed to non-Muslims indefinitely. Essential maintenance and architectural preservation programmes to combat the damage caused by endless tours parties were the initial reasons, but the truth was that western travellers were not welcome any more, their dollars and Euros no longer needed in the prosperous and unified Islamic state of Arabia.
Cooper interpreted these actions another way. He saw all this religious and nationalist posturing as the predictable growing pains of a new empire. He prided himself on his ability to gain the trust of the Arabians and, after some initial contact, felt that they, in turn, warmed to his obvious charm and sophistication.
But his ambitions didn’t stop at what he knew to be low-ranking Arabian delegates. No, the pinnacle of his career would be to gain an audience with the Supreme Ruler of Arabia, the Grand Mufti Mohammed Khathami himself. There was a possibility that, given the right circumstances and enough time, this secretive and powerful man would grant him, Geoffrey Cooper, a personal audience. Since his rise to power, Khathami hadn’t received a single Western diplomat on any official state visit. All meetings, appointments, state banquets and every other facet of diplomatic life were handled by emissaries, local dignitaries or other representatives. The man was a virtual recluse.
It was rumoured that Khathami lived in an ancient Arabian fort by the azure waters of the Persian Gulf. Another rumour spoke of a desert palace in the hills of Jabal Sawda, in south-western Arabia. Or that he enjoyed a home in the marble city that was the newly-rebuilt Baghdad. In reality, no-one really knew. Invitations had been extended to him and his ministers by foreign governments, Britain included, and all were attended by the Cleric’s closest aides; the Cleric himself had always politely refused.
His Holiness would see no-one, his responsibilities to his people and to the State were too demanding. But international diplomatic relationships were important. Why would he not see foreign representatives? The man had a dream for his people, his aides would answer. The moral and religious fibre of some Arabian states had been corrupted and westernised over the years. They’d lost their way. The Cleric was out there somewhere, deep in the desert or by the shores of the sea, spending his time in quiet contemplation or with other Holy Seers. He would be reading and interpreting the holy scriptures, forming new laws, new religious guidelines that would lead Arabia from out of the dark days of their recent past and into a bright future of Islamic Brotherhood. For not only was Khathami a great leader, but he was also a learned scholar and Holy Man. He didn’t soil his hands with the grubby business of politics on the world stage. His only concern was for the Islamic state and the future of its peoples. Everything else was unimportant.
As Cooper travelled around Cairo, he saw the Grand Mufti’s image everywhere. His face adorned posters plastered on roadside hoardings, was lovingly painted in glorious colour on the sides of buildings, or found in cheap picture frames behind shop-keepers’ heads. The slight, bespectacled Khathami, head held high in profile, looking bravely into the future, or maybe gazing benignly downwards, head tilted and hands clasped together in divine compassion.
However, since his rise to power, he’d rarely been seen in person. The man was an enigma, a mystery, the key to Cooper’s future. As Trade Secretary he travelled to Cairo often, officially on government business, but unofficially to ingratiate himself with the Arabians, to become their friend. It was during his fifth trip to the region that Cooper realised his growing importance to the powers that be.
At a multi-national conference in the port city of Alexandria, he’d given a speech outlining the importance of Arabia, its spreading influence across the globe and the desire of western governments, particularly Britain, to extend the hand of friendship towards the Islamic state. His Arabian hosts had responded well and Cooper was invited to extend his stay in Arabia, a guest at the palace resort of Sharm El Sheikh, where a banquet was to be held for important friends of Arabia. Cooper was over the moon. Finally!
In a carefully-worded call to Harry in London, Cooper had dismissed the invitation to the desert resort as a possible stunt, but felt that a refusal may offend. Harry had agreed and Cooper could barely conceal the excitement in his voice. He was whisked by limousine to Cairo airport, where he boarded an executive helicopter, along with his secretary and personal aide. Despite his protestations, Cooper’s bodyguard was ordered to stay behind at the embassy by Cooper himself. Couldn’t have a potential snitch in the group, reporting back every little conversation to Harry. Besides, the Arabians had guaranteed his security and Cooper had simply glowed with self-importance.
The helicopter travelled southeast under the hot sun. Their destination was paradise, or so the rumours went, located a few miles inland from the old tourist hotels and dive beaches of Sharm El Sheikh, where the Gulf of Suez emptied into the Red Sea. But the tourists had long gone, the coastal hotels demolished, the ground bulldozed and returned to nature. In the rebuilt harbour, erstwhile tourist dive boats once again trawled the warm waters for fish.
Looking beyond the pilot’s windshield, Cooper’s heart beat a little faster as he caught a glimpse of the huge oasis up ahead. The helicopter landed a few moments later, settling onto a raised helipad above the trees. As the rotors wound down, Cooper and his party were escorted by a small welcoming committee into an elevator that took them down to the oasis floor, where they boarded a large electric buggy.
The British party were very excited, none more so than Cooper. So, this was where the favoured friends of Arabia were taken, he mused happily as the buggy hummed along, snaking asphalt paths beneath the trees. It was beautiful, and Cooper watched with delight as colourful birds flitted between the palms, diving and swooping around the cool waters of gurgling streams and deep rock pools. Cooper ha
d met one or two European diplomats who’d been here before, but he was the first Briton. In the past, he’d had to sit and listen with gritted teeth as the Italian and German Ambassadors had both waxed lyrical about their own visits and expressed mock sympathy at Cooper’s continued exclusion. Cooper had been quietly furious and he burned with envy, but now the boot was on the other foot. While his European comrades baked in the Cairo heat, here was Geoffrey Cooper at the palace of Sharm El Sheikh.
Presently, the buggy left the shade of the trees as the path carried them through the ornate gardens towards the splendid marble palace ahead of them. Cooper was impressed. It was every bit as magnificent as it was rumoured to be – a seven-storey circular marble building with a huge, ornate brazier at its pinnacle, the natural gas flame that burned inside said to be visible for fifty miles. The grounds that surrounded the building were perfectly manicured and alive with flora and fauna of the most vivid colours. Designed and built specifically for the accommodation and entertainment of selected diplomatic guests of Arabia, the palace was the pinnacle in luxury without the decadence of western avarice, a place where the real business of Arabian politics was carried out, away from the superficial posturing of Cairo. An invite here meant that the Arabians wanted to do business. Copper had arrived, in more ways than one.
The British party was met by a large group of Arabian officials in the towering glass and marble atrium. Palms were pressed, photographs taken and Cooper was shown to his private penthouse on the top floor. The suite was a sumptuous, ornate affair, the huge bed and furnishings bedecked in the finest silks and fabrics and woven in the richest colours. The bathroom was enormous, encompassing a walk-in bath, whirlpool and the most wonderful multi-jet shower that Cooper had ever experienced. Outside on the balcony, Cooper towelled himself dry as he admired the view, the surrounding oasis giving way to the Red Sea that shimmered in the distance under the warm rays of the setting sun.