by Vince Cable
By carefully avoiding the eyes and arms of the Chairman, she found herself embraced by the tentacles of another octopus: the Red Admiral, rather the worse for wear after several glasses of rum. When she disentangled herself she was struck by his handsome, weather-beaten face, the intense blue – if somewhat bloodshot – eyes and the rich, baritone voice. She could have warmed to him but his intentions were so crudely obvious that she made her excuses and headed for the other Asian in the room: a silent, stone cold sober Indian sipping apple juice in the corner. This was presumably the Desai she had heard about and seen reference to in the communications she had been channelling to Kate.
Although he was no conversationalist, she managed to extract from him the information that he had been badly shaken by a ‘security incident’ in Portsmouth earlier in the week. He was travelling back as soon as a flight could be found and would miss the rest of the exhibition. That provided Shaida with an excuse to leave, ‘to help our Indian colleague with his travel’.
But that last conversation and in particular the description of the ‘security incident’ reminded her what she was trying to blot out of her consciousness: her missing brother.
Liam sat in front of his computer screen, puzzled and worried. He looked around the room for inspiration, at the several dozen bowed heads absorbed in their own unresolved puzzles and at the silent screens on the wall offering a variety of news channels. The owners of the bowed heads, like him, had once thought of themselves as incarnations of Bond; but that was not how the Service worked. It had headed off attacks since 7/7 through meticulous intelligence gathering and data analysis. Boring. Sedentary. Necessary. No one wanted to be the person who missed something.
Liam’s problem was that his intelligence sources had dried up. Mo had disappeared from the face of the earth, seemingly, as had other young men from around the country known to have an anti-Indian agenda. Mo’s sister had been as helpful as she could and his friends were convinced he was still in the country. Nothing else. The consensus among Liam’s colleagues was that ‘something big’ was being planned, by people who were well organised and had unusually secure communications.
A couple of days ago the mystery seemed to have been solved: the call from the Tory MP and Trade Envoy passing on what seemed to be strong intelligence based on a sighting in Portsmouth. His bosses trusted his judgement and mobilised help. Then, the farcical ‘terrorist attack’. Sniggering all round. Liam’s five-a-side triumph. His colleagues spent their lives hunting for needles in haystacks and weren’t impressed by people who became overexcited at the first sighting of a shiny object.
The screens on the wall were showing the enveloping chaos in the Docklands area. Liam got up from his seat for a closer look: the drama at City Airport filmed from a helicopter hovering above; the lengthening queues and restless crowds at the ExCeL; the static traffic for miles around.
Shaida had already told him that she would be there representing Pulsar. Thinking of Shaida prompted other thoughts. The company board. They and a lot of other VIPs from pretty unsavoury places. A controversial industry bash that some highly motivated people found threatening or offensive. An obvious target. But the Met were all over it. Months of risk assessment and contingency planning. Judging by the unfolding drama on the screens, there were risks and contingencies the clever boys and girls at Scotland Yard hadn’t factored in. The company Global?
He wanted to be on the safe side. So he rang the number he had been given of the officer in charge of security at the exhibition. Assistant Commissioner Maggie Brown. He didn’t know her, but she was highly regarded. She ranked well above him but would listen to someone from the Service. She answered immediately: calmness personified. He explained his concerns about the suspected terrorist cell: ‘Sorry, nothing more concrete. Just a hunch. May need some extra security.’ She wasn’t fazed: ‘You can see we have our hands full. But we will check it out. American company; Global, you say? Consider it done.’
The cavernous halls of the ExCeL were packed with stands advertising every conceivable mechanism for killing, maiming or hurting fellow human beings that our species’ ingenuity could devise. The professionals, the military men and their civilian masters or servants eyed up the potential on offer and tried to match it to their budgets. Businesses from the biggest to the smallest practised their sales pitch. The halls gradually filled up as the police cleared a way through the demonstrators outside and celebrity spotters could identify the President of the DRC, the Saudi Defence Minister – a regular spender but reportedly short of cash this year – a couple of UAE ruling heads, and large posses of Chinese, Japanese, Koreans and Vietnamese preparing for mutual hostilities. The demonstrators outside would also have been alarmed to see how many delegations spent time among the stalls of the ingenious entrepreneurs offering a variety of novel techniques for disrupting demonstrations. Undoubtedly the stars of the first morning were the Presidents of Egypt and Nigeria who had each arrived with a long and expensive shopping list, albeit without a clear indication of who would pay for them.
The Global stand faced stiff competition but the beautiful Asian woman welcoming visitors was a pull for the overwhelmingly male delegates. At noon the Chairman was due to give an address, according to the programme, to an enclosure of invited guests, in a space set aside within the area of the stand. He would speak alongside the Secretary of State for Business. The defence correspondents of The Times, the Telegraph and the BBC had been invited to ensure that an announcement on the latest dollop of public spending on the Defence Industrial Strategy was given appropriate coverage. Then the guests would settle down to a sumptuous lunch provided by the catering arm of a top London restaurant, no expense spared. Board members would each host a handpicked table at which conversation would flow in the direction of Global’s latest offerings. Apart from a couple of security guards with walkie-talkies and bulging pockets, this was to be a relaxed, convivial, corporate event that could as easily have been transplanted to the Chelsea Flower Show or the hospitality suite before an international at Twickenham. As noon approached, however, it was becoming clear that all was not going to plan.
Kate Thompson could see from the rolling news on her office TV that something untoward was happening at the ExCeL where she was due for lunch with her Secretary of State and the board of Global. After the excitement and false alarm at Portsmouth she wasn’t sure whether to be concerned or amused by the drama on the screen. She expected the event to be cancelled in any case since traffic was at a stand-still and Jim Chambers would never dream of using public transport. But after she settled to her files, Susan came in to say that she had just received instructions to take Kate to the helicopter pad on the MOD roof. It was late but they could still make the lunch.
The two women quickly made their way to Whitehall and Kate was in a cheerful mood; this was much more fun than being a rebellious back bencher. Chambers was waiting for them in the helicopter with Caroline, his principal private secretary, and he was altogether less cheery. ‘Bloody anarchists,’ he grumbled. ‘Time we sorted them out. Britain can’t be “open for business” when a few troublemakers can hold the capital city to ransom, like this.’ Kate tuned out of his rant as the helicopter revved up and headed off across London. This was her first time in a helicopter and she was totally absorbed in the scenery and, as they approached their destination, the signs of chaos on the ground. The rude welcoming message on the O2 triggered another burst of indignation from the Secretary of State above the crackle of the intercom; but Kate was full of admiration for the protesters’ nerve and creativity, and exchanged conspiratorial smiles with Susan. There was, however, a reality check as they landed next to the ExCeL: a serious warning from the security services. Should they go back? No. Just be careful.
Led by a couple of security staff, the ministerial group made their way through the exhibition hall, late but just in time for lunch. They went straight through the crowds of delegates to the Global stand and Kate noticed Shaida, stunning in
unfamiliar Western dress, receiving guests at the entrance. They arrived just as the Chairman was about to launch into a welcome speech, looking greatly relieved that his chief guest had made it with his entourage to fill some of the embarrassing number of empty chairs.
Kate was struck by the Chairman’s appearance: a rather gross man with remarkable coiffed hair in the style of his soulmate Trump. He was dressed in what Susan called, in a whisper, ‘cowboy chic’ missing only the Stetson hat. Kate recognised his accent, from the Mississippi delta in Louisiana, but his warm words scarcely disguised his irritation that British ‘communists’ were depleting his audience and delaying lunch. She had expected someone thoroughly sinister but found his folksy manner and cartoon-like appearance rather endearing. The Secretary of State responded with an off-the-cuff, charming and witty speech of the kind he had perfected on the Tory rubber-chicken circuit but with a few scripted lines for the journalists.
Lunch commenced. Kate was seated alongside a taciturn American, Colonel Schwarz, who had a military bearing, cold grey eyes and a severe crew-cut. He didn’t do small talk and her attention wandered to the rest of the gathering. She recognised the Red Admiral entertaining what sounded like East European or Russian businessmen and he winked when he saw her looking in his direction. She had been told to expect a group of Indians, including Desai, but there were empty seats where they should have been. She couldn’t help noticing the waiters, mostly Asian, who seemed remarkably awkward and inexpert as if they were serving a meal for the first time.
Shaida was watching events from the back of the stand, irritated that it hadn’t occurred to Global’s organisers that the woman who had charmed dozens of visitors to the stand might merit a lunch. Nonetheless, she was able to locate Steve and they found a good vantage point where they could see and not be seen. They had a laugh at the mannerisms of the strange American they now worked for. But, then, they noticed that there were more disturbing oddities.
A group of armed men silently filled the back of the stand around them and one of them indicated to them to stay where they were and remain silent. Then they noticed the strange behaviour of the waiters whose clumsy unprofessionalism was in marked contrast to the sophisticated food they were serving. One of them managed to spill a soup bowl over one of the guests. Next, Shaida saw that one of the waiters looked familiar: an African; she knew she had seen him before. Then, to her shock, she saw her brother. Instinctively she stepped forward, out of the shadows, towards him. He didn’t see her. But a moment later one of the waiters dropped a tray of glasses and, as everyone looked at the offender, the other waiters drew weapons from under their jackets.
Firing started. There were screams and shouts. Mo raised his weapon but then froze when he saw his sister in front of him. They stared at each other, fixed to the spot. Then he crumbled under a fusillade of bullets.
The firing stopped almost as quickly as it had begun, though the screams and cries for help continued along with a fire alarm that someone had activated. Shaida’s first thought was for the body in front of her. She embraced her brother, whispering words of hope and encouragement. Steve rushed to join her to try to revive Mo, who was clearly critically injured and bleeding from the mouth. But it was hopeless. As more security men, police, medics and voyeurs descended on the scene, Steve led her away, shaking and too stunned to speak.
The carnage was, however, less serious than initially suspected. Kate and most of the other guests had found refuge under the tables, though several appeared to be injured and at least one, a Korean, was dead. A passer-by, a waitress at a neighbouring hospitality event, had been hit in the head by a stray bullet and was also dead.
One of the assassins had failed to fire a shot after his weapon had jammed and he was pinioned to the floor by a scrum that included Jim Chambers and the Red Admiral. Another, described as African in appearance, managed to flee in the mayhem leaving his white jacket and gun behind. Two others, one a white convert, were unambiguously dead. And the fifth was found, mortally wounded, being cradled by his sister. There was one other body: Chairman Le Fevre. His corpse was unscathed, however; he had died of a heart attack.
As the news channels and, later, the newspapers sought to interpret these events, the initial focus was inevitably on another terrorist outrage in parallel with those on the Continent and in the USA. Several terror groups claimed credit – not that there was much credit to claim. The biggest peaceful demonstration in recent years, and its cause, largely disappeared from the news. As the journalists hunted for a human interest angle, the first target was the waitress, an innocent bystander. But she turned out to be an illegal migrant from Moldova; no one knew her backstory; even her name, Irma, was probably false. The image that dominated the story was the photo taken from a mobile phone and distributed on social media, of the beautiful young woman holding her dying brother. Divided family; divided allegiances; here was a modern parable for the country to debate.
The funeral took place several days later in the corner of the municipal cemetery where the town’s Muslims buried their dead. It had taken a few days to get Mo’s body back from the authorities, while they investigated the plot. It was a cold wet day: the first real sign of coming winter. Steve had come to join the mourners, but he soon realised that he was the only non-Muslim in the gathering crowd and judged from facial reactions that he was unwelcome. So he retreated to a copse of trees and watched from a distance. Even there he was caught up in the mood of the ceremony. At the sight of Shaida, in the front row of women relatives cradling her mother, he felt, for the first time in years, warm tears running down his cheeks and he sobbed to himself quietly. He was distracted from his grief by the sound of several men moving through the trees behind him and when he turned he recognised Liam among them. He assumed that they were here to watch the mourners rather than to mourn.
After the funeral crowd dispersed, he waited and then stepped forward bearing the red carnations that he judged were suitable. He placed them on the freshly dug soil covering the grave and then stood for a long time contemplating. Not since the death of his mother had he been to a funeral and that was a rather antiseptic, badly attended event in a crematorium, drained of emotion. He was more profoundly moved by this young man in the earth in front of him, who had shown little beyond hostility but who had helped to send his own life in a new direction. He was at the point of leaving when he heard a rustle of clothes behind him and then felt a hand slip under his arm. It stayed there and a head rested against his shoulder.
A week later Deepak Parrikar passed through London on his way to the USA. There was a joyful reunion with Kate in his hotel. They had both survived near-death experiences and had much to share. Kate and he knew that their paths were diverging but they were reconciled to the reality and were able to savour each other’s company as it came, for the moment, as if each encounter were to be the last. They had not been truly alone together for weeks, and longed to express their passion for each other. At last, their physical desires satisfied, they lay entwined and talked in the warm glow of shared contentment through much of the night with an easy fluency and depth of understanding that neither had ever had with anyone else.
They explained to each other how they managed their roles as accidental politicians whose family circumstances and events had moulded them rather than career and ambition. They shared, too, their awkwardness as outsiders; not part of the tribe; not anchored by rigid ideology; used by but also learning how to use the system. Neither was a saint nor even particularly idealistic but both had a basic sense of decency and a nose for detecting evil. They marvelled at the fact that the dividing lines between them of convention, colour and country mattered so little.
As Kate prepared for an early morning departure she took a folder from her briefcase and gave it to Deepak. She explained the role played by the unlikely couple: the British trade unionist and Labour MP in waiting and his courageous and beautiful friend (she had never established what precisely the relationship was). Shaid
a’s researches had established a trail of nefarious activity across several continents. The folder compiled by Shaida detailed Desai’s activities within Global. There was almost certainly enough – the offshore accounts, the lavish tax-free payments, the involvement with political figures on the American extreme right – to have Desai ejected from the inner circles of government, and from Parrikar Avionics. The Indian ruling party valued the appearance, at least, of probity and the threat of bad publicity was a powerful inducement with an election approaching.
When the drama of the terror attack had passed, Kate organised an appointment to see the Secretary of State. She arrived with a fat folder.
‘Well, Kate, I hope you are none the worse for our little adventure. Terrible business. I hope it will silence all those hopeless, wishy-washy liberals who want to go soft on Muslim terrorism.’
‘I guess we owe a big debt to Liam and the security people. They were ready and casualties were minimised. Your rugby tackle helped too!’
Jim guffawed. ‘I was just doing my bit for UK plc. A pity we didn’t have more time at the exhibition. It was a superb, professional, show. Inevitably we lost some business in all that fuss, but I am told by the defence sales chaps that we still had record turnover. But let’s get down to business. The Prime Minister has asked me to confirm that the job we have promised you is coming through in a reshuffle in a few weeks’ time. Have to keep it under wraps, but probably a big job at the Treasury. Next step the Cabinet! And he also wants you to take on an inter-ministerial task force on diversity as someone who has empathy for our ethnic minorities, as well as being a champion of women.’
Kate smiled in acknowledgement. ‘Actually, I wanted to talk to you about something else. Global. The Red Admiral.’