So the Oxford Herald reporter was now closeted with the Member for Mid Oxfordshire in Portcullis House, built at the turn of the millenium to house the overflow from the antique palace across the way.
From the outside Portcullis House was an attempt at revivalist Gothic, a rectangular block with a series of gaunt towers mimicking Pugin’s from a century and a half earlier.
Inside it had a bright atrium, open to daylight, with a row of trees and some cafeteria tables. The second floor housed the MP’s cell-like offices, where elected members could follow the monastic rituals of their order. The decor was modern rather than mediaeval, well-lit with plenty of veneer. Facing the inner courtyard just above the atrium were French windows, currently closed due to the weather, which was spraying rain against them.
Damian White MP was sitting at an L-shaped desk, also made of light wood; to his left an angle-poise lamp, in front of him a laptop; on the right a photo of Mandy and their two children, Rory aged nine and seven-year-old Sophie.
His attention had wandered off the picture of his estranged wife but that understandable, because in front of him sat the representative of the Oxford Herald, dapper in tartan skirt and knee-length leather boots. Introductions complete, Chloe was about to start the interview when she remembered something, got up again and placed the latest electronic gizmo on the desk.
“Hope you don’t mind?” Her smile must have made a substantial impact on global warming.
“‘Course not. Good of you to ask.” What with public CCTV and all manner of personal recording devices, it was accepted by everyone that even one’s thoughts were no longer private.
Chloe liked to start her interviews with some ice-breaker personal questions. Where they lived, perhaps. Or some family history. In this case, perhaps not. She glanced at the picture of Mandy and the children. The national media had already covered Damian’s marital problems in exhaustive detail, so no need to rub salt into the wound.
Knowing how easily lady interviewers could be led astray by Damian, Forrester had instructed her to concentrate on politics. A pity, she thought. This was the first time she had seen the Victor of Strictly in the flesh and he looked interesting: certainly more interesting than either of her husbands. Maybe a little frayed around the edges, but he must be well into his thirties and Westminster was a hard taskmaster. Or so they always told you.
Chloe was forcing her mind back to politics and how to phrase that opening question, when there was an almighty crash. Portcullis House, a modern and well constructed building, shook as though threatening to collapse. They leapt to their feet. Looked around. Nothing was obviously amiss, the rain still hammering at the windows.
They flung open the door, rushed out, joined everyone else in the corridors with the same thought: what the hell had happened? Gradually the mob gravitated to windows facing south, which offered views of the Palace of Westminster. Big Ben was still there....although there was something odd about it. But everything behind and to the right was obscured by a pall of smoke and dust. Traffic in Parliament Square was gridlocked. A lone policeman in high-vis jacket was waving his hands, as though he felt he had to do something, but had no idea what.
“A terrorist bomb!” shrilled a young girl, whom Damian recognised as working for the Home Secretary.
“There’s always a second bomb”, she added. “Let’s get outta here.”
This led to a stampede for the exits. Chloe was about to follow when she felt Damian’s restraining hand. He shook his head, said: “No point in panicking.”
It wasn’t only that he was sceptical about the second bomb theory, more that he didn’t reckon anyone would get very far. Government centres are infested with security people trained for rapid reaction. He doubted whether they would let anyone out of Portcullis House. If evacuation were deemed necessary, it would be on their orders. All they could now do was sit tight and wait.
“It’s the middle of PMQs” said a female voice behind them.
They turned round. It was the chief Whip, Bessie Robotham, large, wide-eyed and out of breath.
“I tried to get through the tunnel,” she gasped. “But they wouldn’t let me.” She was referring to the underground passageway that connects Portcullis House with Parliament. Having failed there, she must have climbed two floors to try and see what was going on, rather puff-making for a large unathletic lady.
“Looks like another Airey Neave,” she added, between bosomy heaves.
“Airey who?” asked Damian.
“Before your time,” she replied. “Nineteen seventy nine so before my time as well, but I’ve read about it. A chap called Airey Neave, war hero and shadow Northern Ireland Secretary, was blown up in the Parliament car park by an IRA bomb.”
“That was then,” said Damian. “Before we had proper security. Couldn’t happen now.”
“Well, something has happened,”
They watched as a helicopter arrived, hovering to one side of the dust cloud, which was starting to subside. And yes, there was something odd about Big Ben. It wasn’t quite straight. Down below, traffic remained stationary. The inhabitants of Portcullis House, now confirmed as being confined to barracks, continued gazing out at the mayhem, uncomprehending.
“We’ll get to know what’s happened soon enough,” said Damian. “How about going down for a coffee while we wait?”
12
For a short while the two events existed in their own separate capsules: one event around Parliament Square, the other on a radar screen.
Tim Adamson and Harry Fuller had watched, mesmerised, as the altitude read-out on the AfroAir blip slid inexorably towards zero. At 100ft. altitude the speed figures had tumbled to under 100 knots. Then nothing. The AfroAir return had vanished.
Harry picked up the direct phone line to Heathrow. Said that AfroAir was down somewhere in the West End of London. Could have made it to the River Thames. Nothing more he could tell them.
There followed a communications frenzy as first Britain, then the world, tried to work out what had happened. One of the first to make the connection was Foreign Secretary Adam Tichbold, who was in Terminal 5’s Aspire Lounge, awaiting the arrival of President Zumweski.
AfroAir would normally have been allocated Terminal 3, but the president had let it be known he would like a wash and brush-up on arrival, so his flight had been transferred to British Airways’ T5. Adam had even managed to secure the adjacent A18 arrival gate. It cost nothing to butter up psychopath dictators and the Aspire Lounge could offer showers, a spa, champagne, everything the weary traveller could desire. Well, almost everything. A man from the embassy had indicated that the president would also appreciate an ‘escort’ service. A request politely declined. His Britannic Majesty’s Foreign Office was not in the business of supplying willing ladies to visiting dignitaries.
By now Adam Tichbold was thoroughly fed up. The Aspire lounge, with its floor-to-ceiling windows and spectacular views over the airport was nice enough, but he had been wasting valuable time, hanging around far too long. First he’d been told the flight was diverting to Manchester. Good riddance. By rights Zumweski should be serving time in prison, not being welcomed as a head of state. Some hapless fellow up north could now have that pleasure. Tichbold was about to get into his limousine when another message came through that the president would, after all, be landing at Heathrow. So it was about turn to the Aspire, where the luxurious facilities did little to improve his temper.
It was lunchtime, blood-sugar levels in need of a top up, and although he did not normally start drinking until the evening, he was seriously contemplating breaking this habit.
As he was standing there, feeling sorry for himself and wondering what to do, a British Airways uniform hurried up, led Adam by the arm to a quiet corner and whispered: “Bad, news, I’m afraid, Minister. Looks like we may have lost AfroAir.”
“What do you mean ‘lost’?” snapped the Foreign Secretary.
The uniform squirmed. “It’s still down on the bo
ard as ‘delayed’, but....well, we think it may be delayed indefinitely. Permanently.”
“Good God! You mean crashed?”
“Shh!” Uniform hopped around as though standing barefoot on hot coals. The Minister had responded far too loudly. ‘Crash’ was not a word one uttered at an airport.
“How? Why? Where?”
“Radar lost contact with it over central London. That’s all we know.”
“Good God!” Normally a man of many words, the Foreign Secretary was now lost for them.
“I’ll let you know soon as we have anything definite. And please...” Uniform put a silencing finger to his lips and scuttled off.
Adam Tichbold collapsed into one of the lounge’s deep chairs. Tried to get his brain into gear, a difficult exercise as it had virtually nothing to work on. He was without his usual retinue. Protocol had to be observed, but President Zumweski was not someone His Majesty’s Government wished to encourage. The bare minimum would suffice, so the Foreign Secretary was on his own.
With nothing he could usefully do, Adam called up a waiter, ordered a Caesar Salad and yes, under the circumstances he would break that habit, also a glass of Chardonnay. He should really be back in Whitehall, but that could wait for two items: food and more clarity in the situation.
Both arrived within fifteen minutes, more clarity in the shape of the nervous British Airways uniform, with the information that there had also been an incident at the Palace of Westminster. Pressed to elaborate on the word ‘incident’, he replied “Some sort of explosion. Terrorist related.”
“Bollocks!” said the Foreign Secretary.
“Sir?”
“I’m no Einstein, but it’s bloody obvious. You never have two incidents within minutes of each other. We’re talking about one event. Forget the terrorist angle. Whatever has happened at Westminster must be something to do with our friend Zumweski. Perhaps he wanted to see how democracy worked and got too close.”
Adam gave a guffaw at his own joke, then realised it might not be in the best of taste, so added hastily: “Now that Zumweski won’t be appearing, I’d better get back to work. But I’m going to finish lunch first, so let me know if anything new comes up in the next few minutes.”
The BA uniform confirmed that he would do so and departed, leaving Foreign Secretary Adam Tichbold thoughtful.
Although information was still sketchy - in truth almost non-existent, it was clear something dramatic had occurred. Such events often offered opportunities for the fleet of foot and unscrupulous. Adam prided himself on being both of these, but so far the Everest of politics had eluded him. Would events now unfolding finally enable him to grasp the top of that greasy pole?
Ever since being selected for the safe Tory seat of Surrey West while still in his twenties, Adam had been the party’s glamour boy. Nature had been generous in building him a frame of six foot four inches, with dark hair and a profile that might have been chiselled out for Hollywood. He had continued the good work on his own account with a Savile Row tailor and shoes from John Lobb. His trademark was the triangular tip of a handkerchief, peeking out of his left breast pocket: always a Conservative blue hankie. Even the fact that he had been educated at Eton did not appear to be a handicap.
Adam Tichbold was a good speaker, worked hard and always voted the party line. He had often been tipped as a future PM, but this remained a promise unfulfilled. Admittedly he had indulged in some youthful scrapes, some skeletons rattling away in his cupboard, but no more than was usual at Westminster. His frustrations were probably due to no more than the unpredictability of politics.
The Foreign Secretary finished lunch, pulled out a mobile and told his driver to meet him outside in five minutes.
Into battle! Details of the Westminster ‘incident’ were obscure, but opportunities for advancement must surely exist. If so, he was determined to find them.
13
Shortly before 3 pm it was confirmed that the two ‘incidents’ were in fact one. AfroAir had failed to reached the Thames and struck the Palace of Westminster.
With the possibility of terrorism eliminated, the curfew on Portcullis House had been lifted. Damian White, Bessie Robotham, Chloe Pettigrew and everyone who had been imprisoned there the past couple of hours were free to go.
But go where? And do what?
A massive rescue operation was underway, necessitating the closure of Parliament Square and causing traffic standstill over much of central London. You could walk down Whitehall or onto the Embankment. And catch the tube from Westminster station situated underneath Portcullis House, as long as you didn’t want to use the Circle and District lines going west, because these ran so close to the surface that safety checks had to be carried out on the section alongside Parliament: eastbound trains and the deep north-south Jubilee line were operating normally.
This limited mobility was of little use to the inhabitants of Portcullis House, whose overriding aim was to discover what was happening across the road. Normally there’s a surfeit of information: annunciator screens with all the latest news; laptops similarly force-fed; clanging division bells should there be a sudden vote. Now nothing. There had clearly been a major disaster: a plane crash, someone said. No hope, of course, for anyone on the plane, but what about casualties on the ground? It didn’t look good there either, but no details were forthcoming.
It was all intensely frustrating. Bessie was wandering around, like a lost soul, muttering “PMQs... Everyone there... PMQs”. Chloe Pettigrew, by chance on hand for the biggest scoop she was ever likely to get, was continually thwarted by police, impervious to her press card. Damian White, with no special agenda, simply wandered around watching history in the making.
Foreign Secretary Adam Tichbold’s blood pressure problem was caused by the traffic, which brought him to a complete halt just short of Hyde Park Corner. They had already spent ninety minutes on the journey from Heathrow and enough was enough. Adam told his driver he would walk the rest of the way, slammed the door shut, and set off.
Although it was still blowing hard, the rain had eased, low cloud racing across, a hint of brightness in the west. Adam negotiated the rabbit warren of Hyde Park Corner underpasses and took the exit down Constitution Hill. Passing Buckingham Palace he heard the ‘thump-thump’ of a helicopter, which hovered briefly before disappearing from view. Probably the king. Not many people had the privilege of direct access to the palace.
Adam skirted the Victoria memorial and took the scenic route through St.James’s park. The king.... Now, there was a thought. The British monarch had been left with precious few powers, but still had some. In theory it was his job to send for the person he thought best suited to be Prime Minister. Not that many years ago he would still have had some choice in the matter. Nowadays he had to accept Parliament’s decision, but what if the ‘incident’ Adam was approaching had cut off so many of Parliament’s limbs that it was temporarily unable to govern? What if Parliament was hors-de-combat?
The Foreign Secretary quickened his pace, exhilarated; he really should get more exercise. Leapt up the steps into King Charles Street, past the watchful eye of Clive of India - there was a man after his own heart! Then into Whitehall. Parliament Square was blocked off, but no matter. He had established that Portcullis House remained operational and reaching it was no problem.
Time to resolve the chaos.
14
It was inevitable that on this Wednesday afternoon Bessie Robotham and Adam Tichbold should meet. As Chief Whip and Foreign Secretary, they appeared to be the two most senior members of the government still at large. Bessie had been around Portcullis House all day, Adam had just arrived. Both were acutely aware that events could no longer be allowed to drift. Someone had to get a grip on things and they seemed to be the only ones capable of it.
This was ironic, because of all the personality clashes that entertained the Westminster village none was so well established as that between Bessie and Adam. It was not only that Adam, suave a
nd handsome, came from what was perceived to be the ruling elite, while Bessie, rough-hewn and without personal charm, had clawed herself up from humble origins. It ran deeper than that. Those claiming to be in the know hinted at some ‘event’ during undergraduate days at Oxford. Adam had been at Balliol a year ahead of Bessie at Somerville, both studying Philosophy, Politics and Economics, which was probably what had brought them together. The participants remained tight-lipped about any youthful fallings-out, so the scandal-mongers had mostly lost interest, but one thing was certain: the Chief Whip and Foreign Secretary did not get on.
With no information yet available about survivors from the wreckage across the road, Bessie Robotham had set about doing something. She had consulted her ‘Little Black Book’, actually an iPad which contained megabytes of material about every Conservative Member of Parliament: Male or female? Straight or gay? Faithful to partner or not? Miserly or spendthrift? Alcoholic or TT? She included any fact that might one day assist her to persuade, cajole or blackmail that member into the correct division lobby. The Black Book also contained much mundane data, such as the location of everyone’s parliamentary office. She had trawled through the Portcullis House register to obtain a partial roll call and told those she could find not to leave the building.
She had been helped in this work by Damian White, whom chance had thrust in her path at the start of the crisis. Her opinion of him was beginning to soften. He might be far too independent when it came to following the party line, but today his behaviour couldn’t be faulted; perhaps not the ‘little twerp’ she had always thought, but a rather helpful little man. Bessie still thought of him as ‘little’, because her seniority over the member for Mid Oxon remained at about three inches in height, thirty kilos in weight and twenty five years in age. To say nothing of sixteen years more in the Commons.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 5
