The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  Saeed followed him, trudging the damp path of their tracks across the field. One of the policemen pulled out a radio and held it to his mouth, alerting someone, somewhere, of their imminent return.

  Hooper turned and walked backwards, waving the walking stick above his head. ‘Buster! Come here, boy!’ The dog duly responded, bounding from the trees. As it raced through the grass, Saeed could see something in its mouth, something grey and white. ‘What’s that, boy?’ Hooper said, slapping his legs as the animal skidded to a stop a few yards away. It dropped the wood pigeon from its jaws, the corpse a mess of blood and feathers.

  ‘Good boy!’ Hooper congratulated the animal, squatting down and rubbing its head and flanks. The dog raced away towards the house, ecstatic. Saeed thought Hooper, bursting with equal excitement, would run after him.

  ‘There’s something else, something we haven’t thought of,’ he warned. Hooper stood up, brushing his wet hands on his trousers.

  ‘What?’

  Saeed glanced at the policemen who watched them from a distance. ‘It’s delicate.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them, they can’t hear us,’ Hooper reassured him, his bulbous eyes flicking over Saeed’s shoulder.

  Saeed kept his voice low anyway. ‘What if Gabriel regains consciousness in the very near future?’

  ‘He’s done that already,’ Hooper reminded him.

  ‘I mean full consciousness, all his faculties. If the doctors and consultants declare him fit he could spike Cairo.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare,’ growled Hooper. ‘It’s been through parliament, a declaration of intent has been signed. Brussels has begun preparations, tens of millions of Euros already spent. We can’t go back.’

  ‘But he could stall the process, postpone it even. Legally he’d have that power – as Prime Minister.’

  Hooper’s face darkened, his finger poking his own chest. ‘I’m Prime Minister now, remember? Things have changed, we have a new government. The country’s moved on for God’s sake.’ He snorted angrily through his nostrils, but then he stepped closer. ‘Can he do that? Constitutionally, I mean. Can he take back any sort of control?’

  ‘Of course he can,’ Saeed warned, scrunching his face into what he hoped was a convincing mask of concern. ‘He can do what he likes, call a reshuffle, seek a vote of confidence from the parliamentary party. The country would marvel at his recovery, and he would use that emotion for political gain. You’ve seen him, Jacob. If anything, Gabriel Bryce is a pro.’

  Hooper’s jowls flapped from side to side. ‘No, Brussels would overrule.’

  ‘Not immediately. Constitutional processes have to be allowed to run their course. He could do a lot of damage before then.’ Saeed paused, allowing the scenario to take firm root in the man’s imagination, saw Hooper’s eyes shift from left to right as anxiety gripped him, his hand involuntarily rubbing his shiny dome. ‘And, of course, there’s the Washington trip. Gabriel would spike that in a heartbeat. He’s no fan of Vargas.’

  ‘Fuck!’ Hooper lashed the grass with his stick, the decapitated heads of wild flowers tumbling through the air. Saeed let him stew for a while, watching him turn towards the distant house, contemplating a life without the privilege, the prestige and the power he’d become accustomed to. ‘There must be something we can do? Some clause, a legal precedent perhaps?’

  ‘I’ve spoken to the Attorney General about this. If Bryce passes a physiological examination and is declared fit, all this goes away.’ Saeed swept an arm around the estate. He saw Hooper’s eyes drink in the rolling hills, the distant mansion, and thought the man was going to burst into tears.

  ‘But we’ve worked so hard, achieved so much in a few short weeks. Surely it can’t be undone as easily as that?’

  ‘It can,’ Saeed assured him, ‘you signed the documentation yourself, Jacob. Your appointment is a temporary one in the event of Gabriel Bryce’s full recovery, remember?’

  Hooper’s large shoulders sagged. He leaned on his stick and stared at the ground, crushed. The animal trotted back to its master and sat at his feet, tail wagging, eyes pleading. Hooper nuzzled the dog’s neck. ‘It’s alright, boy.’

  Saeed looked beyond Hooper to where the policemen stood waiting. They were some way off, well out of earshot. Saeed waved them on and they moved further towards the house.

  ‘There’s another way, Jacob. Another option.’

  Hooper lifted his head. ‘What? What option?’

  Saeed folded his arms, stroking his beard as if contemplating a new strategy. ‘The scene outside the King Edward hospital remains the same, does it not? Granted, most of the news crews have gone, but mountains of flowers still block the pavements and clutter up the railings. Every other day there’s a news item regarding Bryce’s recovery, speculation on his future, a general assumption that eventually he will recover.’

  ‘Go on.’

  Saeed could hear the desperation in Hooper’s voice, the faint spark of hope that glinted in his globular eyes. ‘What if there’s another incident,’ he began quietly, ‘another attempt on Bryce’s life? Something that would jeopardise the safety of staff and patients, something that would keep the threat of terror firmly entrenched in the public consciousness? An incident that would give us no choice but to have Bryce moved to a secure, undisclosed location, for his own safety and the safety of the public.’

  Hooper’s heavy jowls paled. ‘You want to blow up a hospital?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Saeed snapped. ‘What we’re talking about here is a whisper of an operation, a hint of a plot, an unknown, unsubstantiated conspiracy to murder Gabriel Bryce in his hospital bed. Leaked to the media it would be enough to give us the authority to move him, and by default remove him from the public consciousness. The flowers would wilt and die, the last of the outside broadcast vans would pack up and disappear, the hospital administration would breathe a huge sigh of relief. Life would go on and Gabriel Bryce would fade into obscurity like a retired politician. Out of sight, out of mind.’

  Hooper’s tongue darted lizard-like between his moist lips. ‘And move him where?’

  ‘A ghost ward,’ declared Saeed.

  The Prime Minister’s eyes widened. ‘You want to shove him in one of those ghastly places? Are you mad?’

  ‘Not mad, Jacob, simply prudent. Look, if you transfer him to another private hospital the problem remains the same. Bryce will continue to recover while our political aspirations wither on the vine. The moment he is able to sit upright and hold a coherent conversation, our vision for the future, and your travel plans, will simply melt away.’

  Hooper grasped at the straw. ‘Can we get away with it?’

  ‘Of course we can. Gabriel Bryce’s security and wellbeing is paramount. No one would dare challenge the decision once it’s made.’

  ‘No, I don’t suppose they would,’ Hooper muttered. ‘Have you somewhere in mind?’

  ‘There’s a particular facility in Hampshire, a secluded, highly secure unit for some of our more unstable veterans. A private suite could be made available. The chief administrator there is an old university friend of yours, I believe. Duncan Parry?’

  Hooper raised his eyebrows. ‘Duncan? Really? Good God, I haven’t seen him for years. He and I took history.’ A smile crept across his face. ‘Yes, quite a character with the ladies, if memory serves.’

  ‘And there are many opportunities for the right people in the NHS executive. Do you think Mr Parry can be trusted to help us? Would he be willing to pursue improved career prospects in return for providing secure accommodation for a VIP patient?’

  ‘I really don’t know. I could talk to him,’ Hooper offered.

  ‘Better yet, why don’t you have him up for a discreet dinner? I’m sure you’ve both got a lot of catching up to do.’

  ‘That’s a splendid idea,’ Hooper beamed. Then the smile faded. ‘But what about Gabriel? I mean, will he be looked after adequately? And what about visitors?’

  ‘The facility
is called Alton Grange and, yes, it has a fully-equipped medical and physiotherapy suite. Don’t worry, Jacob, Gabriel will be well taken care of. As for visitors, we can issue occasional press releases charting his progress. We don’t have to be specific. Security, you see.’

  Hooper was silent for a long time. He crouched down, stroking the dog, as he contemplated his next move. Saeed could almost hear his mind ticking over. As the silence continued, Saeed began to wonder if he’d somehow misjudged the man. No, he corrected himself, it was impossible. The players, specifically targeted, had been studied for over two years, their lives disassembled, their psychological processes broken down and analysed. They’d been followed, photographed, monitored, their homes bugged, their financial and medical records obtained and pored over by teams of professionals, searching for psychoanalytic and social cognitive patterns, detecting the traits, uncovering the layers, then finally revealing the psychological buttons that could be so easily pushed.

  The Alton Grange administrator, Parry, was a case in point. To his colleagues and friends, he was a capable mid-level manager of a secure mental health facility with a stable home life and modest ambitions. The reality was somewhat different. He was, in fact, deeply embittered by his mundane position, a borderline alcoholic, who rarely spoke to his wife, instead spending most of his free time trawling the internet under a host of on-line pseudonyms in search of violent sex movies. He was also a rightwinger and no friend of Bryce’s policies, his credit card transactions revealing a history of book and film purchases of dubious political content. What would a man like that do when the call from Hooper came? Turn down an evening’s entertainment with the Prime Minister of Great Britain, a guaranteed promotion to Richmond House in Whitehall? Of course not.

  And Hooper himself, ambitious but distinctly unqualified for high office, his promotion to Defence Minister a reward from Bryce for his intimidating tenure as deputy chief whip. He was a bully, unpopular with his staff at the Ministry of Defence, avoided by most of the Cabinet at social gatherings, surrounded by a few sycophants drawn to his physically intimidating presence, his loud voice and brusque manner.

  There wasn’t much to go on in his personal life. He had no obvious vices, his two young sons in private schooling taking a large chunk of his income and modest investments. Their recent move from a little-known boarder in Shropshire to the gothic spires of Charterhouse in Surrey was in keeping with Hooper’s new found status, and therein lay his Achilles heel. Hooper’s life was all about status, whether earned or bestowed it did not matter. He was driven by ambition, pushed further by a harridan of a wife who relentlessly goaded Hooper about the material worlds of her friends and their successful husbands, the offshore accounts, the luxury power boats moored in the Mediterranean, the villas in Cap Ferrat and the Costa Del Sol. The Downing Street bomb had been a fortuitous event for the Hoopers. Saeed himself had heard the voice recording, the whispered intimacy after a short and rare bout of sex, the witch’s words in Hooper’s ear: This is your moment, Jacob. Don’t screw it up, for God’s sake. For the boys’ sake. You’ll never get another opportunity like this...

  Hooper had responded accordingly, as the psychologists predicted he would. Power had been seized, ambitions fulfilled by the blood of others. Now all that remained was this crucial piece of the jigsaw. Once that was in place, the picture would be almost complete.

  ‘How long will he be there? At Alton Grange?’

  ‘Long enough, Jacob. The Attorney General has made it clear that once Cairo is signed there can be no return to the past. The only thing that matters is Britain’s future, with you providing the necessary leadership. There’s much work to be done, a new continent to shape, new partners to nurture and support. And a new Prime Minister’s residence to be built. You’d have final approval of the design, of course. Or would that be Millie?’

  Hooper’s face broke into a wide grin. ‘You’re right, what’s past is past. Gabriel was a competent leader, but new blood is what’s needed now.’ He clapped his hands and rubbed them briskly together. The dog got to its feet, tail wagging furiously. ‘Set it all up, Tariq. Let’s get the ball rolling on this Alton Grange thing.’

  ‘I’ll need authorisation for various procedures. Protection Command will require briefing.’

  ‘Do we have to involve the police?’

  ‘Of course. They’re providing Bryce’s security. However, in the event of another incident, the security services can legally supersede police authority. I have good contacts at Thames House. Discreet operatives can be resourced.’

  Hooper nodded silently for several moments. ‘Sounds like a plan. Ok, draft the papers and I’ll sign them.’

  Hooper turned to face the sun that climbed above the tree tops, a milky white disc that gave little warmth but speared the trees and flooded the field in rays of golden light. ‘This dawn marks a new day for British politics, Tariq, one that we’ll remember for a long time.’

  Saeed followed his gaze as the jigsaw piece slotted firmly into place. ‘I’m sure we will, Jacob.’

  King Edward the Seventh Hospital, London

  The shouting invaded his dreams, the screams rising only to fade again, before rising once more. They were screams of anguish, a wailing that was both familiar and disturbing. The darkness turned to grey, then to a bright white as he drifted upwards through the layers of fatigue. The room swam slowly into view, the TV on the wall, the chairs and coffee table by the window, the brick wall beyond. It was all as familiar as a prison cell and, in some respects, not that much different. The screaming was louder now, more intense, yet Bryce was still finding it difficult to focus.

  It wasn’t normal to still be feeling like this. November was almost upon them, his wounds were much better, and yet some days he felt as weak and exhausted as he did when he’d first arrived. It was the drugs, of course, the sedatives that were being fed into his system. At first he welcomed them, numbing his body from the pain of his wounds, his mind from the shock of the bomb, the miracle of his survival, the loss of so many friends and colleagues. Now it was different. His body was healing but his mind was still clouded, his thought processes often vague and confused, until it was too much of an effort to keep his eyes open. He wanted to shout at the consultants as they pored over his charts, at the nurses who cleaned and dressed his wounds, at Orla, who tampered with his drip as Bryce watched her through heavy-lidded eyes. But he didn’t possess the strength. He wasn’t getting better, he was getting worse. And the screaming was getting louder.

  Sirens. As Bryce finally realised what the awful sound was, the door to his room flew inwards and crashed against the wall. The overhead lights snapped on and a group of doctors marched in, flanked by several nurses. A policeman in black body armour and brandishing an automatic weapon yanked the curtains closed, shutting out the night. More policemen funnelled into the room and Bryce heard shouting in the corridor outside. The sirens were louder now and a red strobe light pulsed near the doorway. Bodies crowded around his bed and the he heard the coffee table tip over, spilling the magazines that Bryce had never read across the floor.

  ‘What’s going on? What’s happening?’

  Medical staff pressed in from all sides. Practised hands went to work, stripping the bed covers off, unplugging his body from the complex machinery, his veins from the mind-numbing drip. ‘Someone talk to me, please!’ He saw a familiar face lingering behind the medical team, talking earnestly to a helmeted policeman. ‘Suleyman!’ The orderly stared at him for a moment then looked away. His purple uniform was gone, replaced by a dark roll neck sweater and winter jacket. Then Bryce smelt something burning and suddenly the sirens, the flashing lights and the urgency all made sense. The building was on fire.

  The doctors loomed over him, tugging at his eyelids, blinding him with pen torches, checking his vision with waving fingers. Bryce could see the hairs in their nostrils, caught the whiff of breath mints and tobacco. They spoke to each other in their own language, of pressures and pulse
rates, of medications and observations. A stretcher trolley was wheeled next to the bed and firm hands gripped his limbs, supported his neck. One, two, three, lift...

  Smoke drifted across the ceiling, faint wisps of white and grey. A blanket was thrown over him, a pillow placed beneath his head, transport straps secured around his chest and legs. Orla was at his side, a rain coat draped loosely over her uniform. They were going outside, probably into the car park, or down the street perhaps, a fire assembly point. Bryce almost smiled. At last he’d feel the cold night air on his face, in his lungs. The doctors, gathered together at the foot of his trolley like a stone-faced jury, finally nodded their consent. Responsibility was passed, commands were issued in harsh voices and the trolley was set in motion. Suleyman appeared at his side, hands on the safety rail, guiding Bryce out of the room and into the corridor outside. If he had the strength Bryce would’ve cheered.

  ‘Don’t worry Mr Gabriel, we’ve got a security situation here. Just relax, everything’ll be fine.’

  Bryce replied with a satisfied smile. He didn’t care what was happening, as long he got to leave his room for a while. There was more smoke in the corridor, the squeak of rubber boots on the floor, more shouting. Alarm strobes pulsed on the walls and strip lights passed overhead like white lines on a road. Black helmets bobbed in and out of his vision and he caught a glimpse at the clock on the wall behind the nurses’ station: 02:14. Orla looked down at him several times, concern knotting her brow. A stethoscope dangled from her neck, swinging like a pendulum as they trundled along the corridor. They turned left, then right, then the trolley bounced over something hard and suddenly he was inside a large elevator with walls of brushed metal and bright overhead lights. The doors rumbled closed, the chaos of the corridor left behind. Suleyman on one side, the nurse on the other, two policemen by his feet, weapons clasped to their chests, all silent as Bryce felt the elevator travel downwards. They were definitely going outside.