It didn’t take very long for everyone to settle down in their places. The chairman stood up.
‘Gentlemen – apologies – lady and gentlemen, as you’ll see, during the break there have been a few changes. I’d like to ask each group to discuss the three things required of us by our political masters: first of all, how, following the switch-off of nuclear power, can a 20% shortfall in electricity generating capacity be replaced by environmentally-friendly sources? Secondly, what can be done to make up the other 30% shortfall necessary to make the UK energy self-sufficient over the next five years? And, finally, what are your views on the timescales involved in bringing on board this new capacity?’
‘Each table,’ he continued, ‘is to come up with their ideal solution and must identify such problems that will have to be overcome in order to implement their plan. Let’s see where we are in, say, ninety minutes. Oh, one last thing. Before you proceed with your discussions, please give a thought as to what support, in terms of data and research material, you might need and who is in the best position to deliver it to you. Please pass the names and contact details to Barney here, who will arrange for those named to go into their offices so as to be at your beck and call.’ With that the chairman got up. ‘If you will excuse me, I have a couple of matters to sort out,’ he said and left the room
Rafi was left sitting close to the nuclear power expert. His body language suggested that he would have preferred to have been miles away. He was looking out of sorts. Understandably, thought Rafi, although he couldn’t work out whether it was him or those in the meeting room he wished to avoid. It would be interesting to hear what his suggestions might be.
Rafi started the conversation. ‘How about we start by looking at things from the nuclear perspective, pre-Stratford? Could you list the sources of energy that your industry viewed as being competitors and their pros and cons? Then perhaps we could move on to the timescale for taking nuclear offline.’
The nuclear scientist carefully studied the dark-skinned man sitting next to him. There was an uncomfortable silence which was suddenly broken by his flat-pitched voice.
‘Good idea. If you could give me a bit of time, I’ll write down my thoughts.’ He grimaced, pulled out a blue enamel Waterman pen from his breast pocket and started to scribble something. Whilst his head was down, Rafi took the opportunity to look around the room. The atmosphere had changed from one of overpowering sullenness to one more typical of a quiz night.
The oil and gas company directors had their smartly ironed sleeves rolled up. The youngest of the three, who Rafi reckoned to be in his mid-forties, had been made their spokesman and sat alongside their flip chart, scribbling hard. They were brainstorming, jotting down the key issues as they saw them, in whatever order they occurred to them.
The tone of the second table, which comprised the two former mine workers, the two coal barons, the boss of the coal-fired power station and the tax expert, surprised Rafi. They’d agreed to shelve all past hostilities and were working together to promote the benefits of a revitalised coal industry with the aim of supplying a new generation of power stations. At the top of their flip chart they had written: ‘Why Coal?’ and at the bottom: ‘Why Not Coal?’ – across the middle was a dotted line. It looked like they’d set themselves a target of writing down more pros than cons. Rafi noted a couple of their scribbled notes: ‘The UK has a couple of centuries of supplies – 100 countries export coal – so we can’t be held to ransom’; ‘Clean coal technology (CCT) and carbon sequestration have to be the rallying call’; ‘We have the technology – tax incentives are needed’.
Rafi’s eyes temporarily skipped the third table and rested on the fifth table, where the Treasury permanent secretary had been joined by a balding red-haired man with an immaculately kept moustache, and a smartly dressed woman. They greeted each other like long-lost friends. The Treasury official was in the throes of updating his colleague from the Energy Ministry and the woman from the PM’s office as to what was expected of them. They gave the impression that they were definitely up for the challenge.
Rafi’s gaze turned to the third table. The three environmentalists and the two experts on renewable energy were still discussing who was to be their team leader and what they should do next. They were getting nowhere. Rafi stretched across and picked up the blue felt-tip pen which was lying in the tray at the bottom of the flip chart, ripped off the top sheet and tore it into five strips. On one he put a blue tick and proceeded to fold up the five pieces of paper.
He got up and walked over to the third table. As he approached he heard one of the environmentalists say, ‘Why me? Surely you’d be better at putting our point of view across?’
‘How goes it?’ Rafi asked.
‘Well,’ replied George, a renewables expert, ‘we’re still trying to sort out where to start.’
‘I’ve got an idea,’ Rafi said. He put the five folded paper rectangles on the table. ‘Why don’t each of you pick one and the person with the blue mark on their paper becomes your team leader?’ There was silence among them as no one seemed willing to make the first move.
‘OK, on the count of three each of you picks up a piece of paper. One, two, three!’
The unfolded pieces of paper were picked up. The winner was an elderly-looking environmentalist.
‘All yours,’ Rafi said to him.
The old man smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr Khan.’
On returning to his table Rafi passed the three civil servants. Their flip chart was now headed: ‘Delivery Constraints’ and under this title there were a number of neat bullet points. ‘Change management’, ‘Planning regimes’ and ‘Tax incentives’ were underlined. Rafi overheard one of them say, ‘It’ll be down to giving the people a sense of ownership of the solutions,’ which made him smile.
Back at his table the nuclear expert had lost none of his downtrodden frown. He was scribbling energetically on his pad and barely acknowledged Rafi’s return. ‘I’m almost there,’ he said apologetically. ‘If you could give me, say, ten more minutes, please?’
The chairman nodded his approval. ‘Where did you pick up your team management skills?’ he quietly asked Rafi.
‘At Business School, I reckon,’ Rafi replied. ‘We spent a lot of time on problem solving and being treated like mushrooms.’
‘Mushrooms?’
‘Yes: being kept in the dark as to what the overall picture was and being fed on—’
‘Alright! I get the picture,’ he interjected.
The nuclear expert raised his head. ‘OK, I’m ready when you are,’ he said. His apprehension was starting to recede. ‘I’ve listed the energy sources used in electricity power generation and, given the self-sufficiency brief, I’ve ranked them according to their availability in the UK, with a note on their cost effectiveness, environmental friendliness and potential amount that they could supply. And I’ve also put down my thoughts on a realistic timescale for switching off the nuclear power plants.’
Time had flown by. Each table in the room was deep in discussion and the whole atmosphere had changed; there was dynamism in the way people were working.
The chairman looked at the nuclear expert. ‘Would you be willing to start the ball rolling?’
‘Happy to.’
The chairman stood up. ‘You’ve had your ninety minutes. I’m giving you a further ten to draw your thoughts together, get a cup of tea or coffee and have a pit stop if required. Then we’ll start on the next leg of our work. Don’t worry if you still have some loose ends. We’ll sort them out as we go, or come back to them at an appropriate time. When we return, our nuclear expert, Edgar, will kick things off. We’re going to do this in a friendly but robust manner. Each table will put forward their thoughts. Our three civil servants will work with us to pull together a coherent list of topics we have to agree on and from this—’
There was a knock at the door and SJ walked in. She passed the chairman a handwritten note. He read it, raised his eyebrows and looked
at Rafi. ‘It seems, Mr Khan, that your time is up; your presence is requested next door. Thank you for your input. Do call by if you get a spare moment later.’
Rafi said his goodbyes and left with SJ.
As they walked down the corridor, she turned to him and said, ‘You’re booked to see the PM in seventy-five minutes’ time. The PM is grateful to you for getting them moving, but thought that you’d now prefer to be brought up to speed on the terrorists’ whereabouts. It’s back to the dungeons to pay COBRA a visit.’
She looked at Rafi and felt she couldn’t work him out. His mugshot had been plastered all over the papers as ‘public enemy number one’, but he seemed to be one of the good guys. He’d had a rough time by the looks of things, but his eyes told another story. They were alive and bright.
A few minutes later they arrived at the door to the COBRA meeting room. As Rafi walked in he sensed a new feel to the room. The urgency and horror of the day before had given way to a businesslike atmosphere. Inside the door was a face he’d got to know very well over the past few days. Jeremy greeted him warmly and they fell into conversation.
SJ smiled. ‘I’ll come and get you in seventy minutes,’ she said, turned and left.
Jeremy looked at Rafi. ‘Where would you like me to start?’
‘Golden Sundancer and the three trawlers, please.’
‘It’s all go at sea and up in the air with the two Nimrods tracking them. The Great Yarmouth trawler left port at 16.00 hours on Friday and, as you know, turned south. She entered the Straights of Dover around 22.30 yesterday and is currently heading towards the Lizard Point off Cornwall. On board is Dakka Dudayev, the Stratford bomber; a real hard case.’
‘The trawler from Peterhead offloaded Rudnik Miromov, the Cruden Bay terrorist, on to Golden Sundancer north-west of the Pentland Firth at 5 p.m. yesterday evening. She then headed at speed around the Western Isles. The Troon trawler rendezvoused with her at 03.00 south-west of Stanton Banks where she picked up Talal’s number two, Alistair Hartnell, and the recruiter of the suicide bombers, Kim Chindriani. Since then Golden Sundancer has been flying down the west coast of Ireland at a bloody impressive 40–46 knots. She’s currently just west of Bantry Bay. Our calculations point to the Great Yarmouth trawler, Rosemarie, and Golden Sundancer rendezvousing at 19.00 hours this evening south-west of the Isles of Scilly. From there, we believe that they’ll head for Morocco and the port of Safi.’
‘What’s Maryam up to?’
‘She’s carrying on as usual in Luxembourg, playing at being a real socialite. Wining and dining seem to be her middle names. The commissioner is arranging a visit to Luxembourg to tie in with the capture of the other terrorists on Monday afternoon.’ Jeremy drew breath and pointed to the screens around the room. ‘On the home front, the army’s pyrotechnics continue to be impressive: there’s still a good mix of dark smoke, explosions and flames from Cruden Bay, Aldermaston, Hartlepool and Heysham. Even though numerous announcements have been made that no radioactivity has been released and the terrorists missed their nuclear targets, the TV crews love it. I feel sorry for the local residents, but at least it’s in a good cause.’
‘How’s it progressing at Stratford?’ asked Rafi.
‘Basically, it’s a bugger and is still taking up masses of resources. Thankfully, – Operation Counterpane – got most people away from the exclusion zone relatively quickly. The genius part was getting others to look after them. It’s worked magically. The reaction of the provincial cities, and in particular the rural communities, has been beyond anyone’s expectations. Trains have been running constantly from the London termini since Friday morning transporting the refugees to their destinations. Fleets of coaches have poured into London from across the country, with offers of accommodation and homes for those who got on board them. The logistics of the major retailers have stood up well. In some instances people have been getting on their coaches with a blanket, duvet or just a towel or coat around them. En route to their destination, stop-offs to department stores have been arranged to fully clothe and re-equip the travellers. The Dunkirk spirit has been unbelievable. Only a small minority of those dispossessed have caused trouble; the vast, vast majority have been grateful for the help and to be evacuated. The police and the army have been dealing with the minority in a calm but firm manner,’ said Jeremy.
‘What are the radiation levels like?’ Rafi enquired, concerned.
‘The experts got their initial calculations for the exclusion zone spot on. The Royal Engineers, with the help of specialist building contractors, have completed the demarcation and the clearing of the perimeter of the exclusion zone and I understand that plans are afoot for work to start tomorrow on the foundations for the perimeter wall. There have been attempts at looting and to get items that are now, of course, radioactive out of the exclusion zone. The army patrols have been up to their task and clamped down firmly on such activities. There are 3,000 battle-hardened troops with experience of Iraq and Afghanistan policing the perimeter – next to nothing has got out.’ Jeremy paused.
‘The scientists have put together plans to counter the problems of the leaching of the radioactive materials into the water table. Fingers crossed they’ll get it right, or else the City of London and Docklands will be in trouble.’
Jeremy chatted at length, detailing how the exclusion zone was being cleared of people and how the location of London City Airport was a godsend. ‘It must be a nightmare for the air traffic controllers, what with all the transport plane movements. Thankfully, only one pilot has got his approach wrong and nearly ended up in the water,’ he recalled.
Jeremy hesitated. ‘Your interrogator, Andy, phoned me earlier today.’
Rafi involuntarily tensed up.
‘Nothing untoward,’ reassured Jeremy, sensing Rafi’s unease. ‘In his investigations he came across an individual who paid your family money every month for over fifteen years.’ Jeremy passed him a piece of paper with a name and phone number on it. ‘I think you might know him?’
Rafi looked in surprise at the name: Major Charlie Staveley. Then he smiled. ‘Yes I remember him well. He was my maths teacher at Haileybury.’
‘Andy interviewed him about the money he paid to your grandfather and then to you father. All he would say was, “It was a long time ago and Haileybury had strong connections with the Stepney Boys Club which assisted East End of London families – this was my way of helping.” Andy reckons that the major was hiding something. You might like to drop by and have a chat with him one of these days, just in case.’
‘Thanks,’ said Rafi, still faintly puzzled, ‘I’ll do that.’
Their conversation returned to Stratford and the terrorists.
Out of the corner of his eye Rafi saw SJ enter the room and realised his time with Jeremy was up. It had flown by.
Rafi felt a delicate tap on his shoulder, turned and saw her smiling face just behind him. ‘Time to come with me,’ she said with a grin.
Rafi nodded, said his goodbyes to Jeremy and followed her up to the ground floor of Number 10 and the PM’s anteroom.
‘You must be beginning to get to know this room rather well,’ SJ commented in a friendly manner.
‘Yes, I can recommend the service – it’s excellent,’ Rafi grinned. He seemed to have said the right thing. SJ nonchalantly preened her hair, turned with a little wiggle of her hips and left the room. A few minutes later she was back holding a tray with a cup of tea and some chocolate biscuits.
‘Thank you.’
She smiled. ‘I only try to please. The PM will be ready to see you soon.’
After only a few moments Rafi was shown by SJ into the adjoining room.
The PM got straight to the point. ‘Rafi, the head of the Civil Service has listened to your tape,’ he began and then paused. ‘He says that if I heard its contents I could not, with a clear conscience, deny knowledge of what went on, should it ever get out into the public domain. He confirms that it’s political dynamite. It’s clea
r that the Home Office and a number of its ministers took spin to an unprecedented level of crassness. Thank you for bringing this matter to our attention. What transpired, I agree, is best left in the past.’
Rafi nodded.
‘I have commissioned a report on “Media briefings and dissemination of information and data by ministers and public servants”. I have asked for proposals from the head of the Civil Service for a select committee to monitor this area. We have to make those who use lies, half-truths and false statistics as tools of their trade openly accountable,’ said the PM.
‘Thank you,’ replied Rafi.
‘I’m truly sorry; it seems you and Kate came within a whisker of averting the Stratford disaster, only to have people who should have known better mess things up for you. By the way, the junior minister in question has resigned his seat. I understand he’s going to try his hand at something well away from the public gaze.’
With that the meeting was over and Rafi was ushered into the entrance hall of Number 10 where he found Kate waiting for him.
‘Have you had a useful morning? I missed you. Your friend SJ,’ she said with a wink, ‘phoned. She asked if I could come and collect you. So here I am. There’s a car outside and if it’s OK with you, our next port of call is Wood Street.’
Rafi nodded; he was becoming accustomed to being at people’s beck and call.
‘We’re going to give John, Jeremy and the team a hand with the logistics for rounding up all those suspected of being on the terrorists’ payroll. Actually, that’s a bit of a white lie; they want me and I rather like your company – hence the we,’ she said with a big grin. ‘I reckon I’ll get withdrawal symptoms when this is all over. Will you come with me?’ asked Kate, slightly flummoxed by Rafi’s deadpan expression. ‘Don’t worry; if you don’t want to tag along I can easily drop you off at the hotel on the way.’
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