The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  ‘Not something a politician likes to hear,’ Sully tutted, shaking his head. Bryce was about to offer a vague answer when a voice on the TV said:

  ‘...because of Bryce’s recent stroke. Although the security around him remains tight, the reports coming out of Millbank are suggesting considerable mental deterioration.’

  ‘That’s right, Jonathon. His weekly blog had become increasingly rambling. There’s been some concern, most recently expressed by various mental health charities, over its continued publication.’

  Bryce stared at the pundits around the table, the expressions of regret, the shaking heads. What bloody blog?

  ‘Yes, it’s all quite tragic. Our thoughts and prayers are with him tonight. Now, if we can shift focus back to Cairo, our viewers have been voting throughout the evening on the treaty and Deputy Prime Minister Saeed’s performance in Cairo, both given seemingly overwhelming approval. We’ll be sharing those results and getting his own reaction to tonight’s historic events from the Secretary of State himself, who’ll be joining us live in the next hour...’

  The words no longer registered in Bryce’s consciousness. The pieces were finally falling into place, a sudden flash of light that banished the shadows of deception in his mind. Now he knew, now he realised, the pieces swept from the board until only one remained.

  Tariq.

  Tonight he’d witnessed a coronation in all but name, his former colleague and political fixer sitting as an equal amongst the other heads of state, relaxed, confident, his place in history assured. His one time friend and ally, the man who’d fortuitously escaped the Downing Street blast, who’d become Jacob Hooper’s deputy, who’d assigned Sully to be his minder, the same man who’d never visited him, who’d denied Bryce all contact with the outside world in the name of security, who’d allowed him to rot in this Godforsaken facility until–

  The TV blinked off. Bryce was rooted to his seat, his legs numb, his eyes fixed to the black screen. He saw his reflection there, a small, frail figure he barely recognised. Sully’s dark silhouette stood close by, looming over him like an angel of death.

  Of course. Death. That’s what Sully represented, what this place had in store for him. He could see it all now, as if a map had been rolled out across a table before him. It all seemed so clear, so obvious, that Bryce felt like slapping his forehead in realisation. But he didn’t. Instead, he took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the lifeless screen. He let the muscles in his face relax, his jaw slacken.

  ‘Gabe?’

  Bryce turned his head slowly. ‘Did they say my name?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sully studied him hard. ‘You had a stroke, Gabe. The first night. Remember?’

  Bryce frowned. He nodded slowly. ‘I think so. I couldn’t move.’

  ‘That’s it.’ Sully patted him on the arm. ‘We’re going to get you more pills, Gabe, stronger ones. Make you feel better.’

  ‘A stroke,’ Bryce mumbled.

  ‘A bad one. Come on, up you get.’ He felt Sully’s strong fingers snake beneath his armpit and lift him out of the chair. He followed him out of the room and up the stairs. Through the barred windows the night was black and a fine mist of rain swept through the security lights outside. The corridors were empty, only the odd shout from a troubled inmate breaking the silence of the facility. Bryce shuffled along the grim hallways, his hands thrust into the pockets of his dressing gown, slippered feet slapping against the cold linoleum. Sully walked ahead, chain looping from his belt, keys jangling in his hand as he whistled tunelessly. Dead man walking – the phrase came to Bryce then, the realisation that he would never again see the outside of these stark, depressing walls. He knew he was a prisoner, but now his isolated ward was to become death row. A debilitating stroke followed by significant mental deterioration – they were setting the scene, softening the public blow when the news was finally announced. Gabriel Bryce, former Prime Minister, died this morning as a result of a second, massive stroke...

  He cupped a hand over his mouth as the bile bubbled up his throat. Sully turned, then ushered him quickly into a nearby utility room. He shoved him past the shelves and in front of a deep sink where Bryce folded over its edge, retching across the scratched and worn enamel. He turned the tap, rinsing his mouth as another wave of nausea gripped his stomach and he vomited loudly.

  ‘Damn, Gabe.’ Sully turned away, disgusted. He took a few paces out into the corridor, pulled his cell from his tunic and studied the screen. Bryce came up for breath. As he leaned on the sink, his eyes roamed the shelves nearby, stacked high with boxes of medical supplies. The brown cartons were clearly labelled: latex gloves, antiseptic wipes, wound dressings. Then he noticed the lettering on a nearby box and, without a second thought, thrust his hand inside, his heart beating rapidly as he secreted the item in the pocket of his dressing gown. He bent over the sink and forced himself to retch again, watching Sully through tear-filled eyes, the Turk’s wide shoulders filling the doorway, his back turned away from Bryce’s noisy convulsions. His stomach finally emptied, Bryce splashed his face with cold water and straightened up. The panic had subsided, the fear kept at bay, replaced by a clarity that Bryce hadn’t experienced in a while. A coup had taken place, a coup so obvious that the public were simply blind to it.

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Something I ate,’ Bryce replied, rubbing a damp hand around his neck. ‘I feel tired.’

  ‘Then let’s go.’ Sully led him back through the corridors and past the steel gate of his empty ward. He slammed it behind Bryce and spoke to him through the rusted mesh. ‘Get yourself bedded down, Gabe. Nurse will get you started on that new medicine tomorrow, ok?’

  Bryce nodded without turning and headed towards his room. He heard doors slamming behind him as Sully disappeared into the night. He made straight for his bed, draping the dressing gown over the thin quilt and burying himself beneath the covers. The room was cold but Bryce didn’t really feel it. He didn’t have long, that much he knew. His deterioration was now public knowledge, the chances of any recovery about as remote as those poor bastards orbiting Jupiter ever returning to earth. Soon the order would be given and Sully would come for him. The hows or whys didn’t matter, only that his life would probably end in this soulless, miserable room. His body would be shipped to a coroner’s office somewhere, a certificate of death issued, arrangements made for a private funeral. All above board, all the loose ends taken care of. Despite the public’s misplaced faith in the probity of its politicians, the political elite had done it before, removing people who threatened covert agendas. Government scientists killed in Oxfordshire woods, or RAF Chinooks crashing into Scottish hillsides, the end result was always the same. Nothing could be proved, a liberal use of the word ‘conspiracy’ effectively discrediting any meaningful investigation by concerned parties. The dead were mourned and the world moved on.

  And who would mourn for Gabriel Bryce? Not Charlotte, the sister he hadn’t seen or heard from in years, married to a Swiss socialite in Geneva. His parents were long dead, his wife too, and there were no children to stand tearfully in the front pew. The flowers on his grave would wilt and die and the moss would creep steadily across the stone to eventually obscure his name. He would be quickly forgotten, a page in history, his legacy one of failure. Now he felt the hand of Tariq on his back, pushing him towards his impending doom. No doubt Hooper had been manipulated too, his trip to Washington a political embarrassment according to the pundits on the TV. The reality of the conspiracy was almost impossible to accept, yet the wheels of state would grind on, the lives crushed beneath its giant cogs of no concern to a population disconnected from the stark realities of modern politics.

  With Hooper discredited it was only a matter of time before Tariq made a move for the premiership, of that Bryce was certain. Before then, the field of play would have to be cleared. Sometime soon a call would be made, an order given. He’d hear the security gate open for the final time, Sully’s footsteps along the corridor, the angel
of death standing at the foot of his bed. Bryce felt a mixture of emotions: fear initially, despair and finally anger, cold and calculating. He wouldn’t make it easy for them, wouldn’t allow them to dictate the time and place of his own demise. If it were to be his final act, then at least he would have control over its execution.

  Under the covers of his bedding Bryce eased the hypodermic needle and syringe from its shrink-wrapped packaging and secreted them inside the frayed lining of his mattress.

  London

  The Gulfstream Skybird descended rapidly, dipping below the last of the low cloud to reveal a miserable landscape of steel grey seas and dark, oppressive skies. The executive jet tilted into a steep turn, its silver wingtip slicing through the air as white horses galloped across the surface of the sea below.

  Tariq Saeed watched from the window as the plane levelled out, effortlessly gliding along its priority landing path towards London International airport. He never failed to be impressed by the feat of engineering that straddled the Thames Estuary, its galaxy of lights sprinkled across the cold waters of the North Sea like stars in the sky. He pulled his seat belt a little tighter, settling into the soft leather of the wide seat, careful not to crease his shirt. He was dressed more conservatively than recent appearances in Egypt: a charcoal grey suit, white shirt and a dark blue tie. Serious, sober, assured – that was the impression he chose to convey today, once his meeting with Hooper was over and the media went into overdrive.

  Beneath him he felt the landing gear lock into place with a reassuring thump, the whisper-quiet engines change pitch slightly, and he looked down to see rolling waves smash themselves to fine spray against the giant rocks of the outer breakwater. He closed his eyes for a moment, his pulse quickening as he contemplated the morning ahead.

  Although he’d enjoyed three days of the most lavish hospitality that Cairo had to offer, there was work to be done. Behind a smokescreen of diplomacy and trade talks, Saeed had delayed his return to the UK by a further three days, forcing Jacob Hooper to weather the storm of his disastrous transatlantic trip alone. Hooper’s advisors had all but deserted him, his Chief Press Officer resigning for ‘personal reasons’, his handpicked team of sycophants and would-be attack dogs too inexperienced to cope with the pressure the media, now camped permanently outside Millbank, were applying. Hooper had called Saeed in Cairo, at first demanding, then practically begging him to come home, but Saeed had declined. The tactic had worked, his network of informants reporting a series of bad-tempered meetings, of expletive-filled phone calls and hurled objects. Hooper was losing it, cracking under the pressure. And while the man who would be king paced the floor of his office in Millbank, Hooper’s wife was under siege at Chequers, hurling abuse at the camera crews that blocked the surrounding country lanes. Saeed would have laughed were it not for the contempt he felt for their vanity and lust for power. It was all coming apart so graphically, so predictably. The Hoopers had been elevated far above their station, but now they’d served their purpose. It was time to bring them crashing down.

  The Gulfstream returned to earth with a gentle bump, rolling along the slick black tarmac and taxiing to a halt outside the glass and steel VIP terminal building that glowed in the half light of a cold December morning. Two BMW limousines waited at the bottom of the steps, flanked by several vehicles, black Range Rovers and marked police cars, and a ring of armed officers. Saeed thanked the captain of the Gulfstream and buttoned his jacket in the doorway, the memory of Cairo’s balmy climate snatched away by a stiff north-westerly. He trotted down the steps, shivering as the biting wind cut across the tarmac and bringing with it the roar of an Emirates Airbus taking off from a nearby runway. Saeed paused for a moment, watching the double-decked airliner thunder towards the sea in a cloud of spray then tilt skywards, clawing its way up towards the grey ceiling above, heading for somewhere warm no doubt. Saeed felt a pang of envy.

  Fazal, his driver, stood by the BMW, the door held open. Saeed despatched his entourage into the other vehicles then ducked inside the warmth of the soundproofed interior. A few moments later, the convoy was headed at speed towards the causeway road and the distant Kentish shoreline. Saeed pressed the intercom button.

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Forty minutes,’ Fazal replied, ‘maybe longer. Even with the escort, the rush hour traffic looks particularly bad this morning.’

  Saeed followed Fazal’s finger to the SatNav system and the angry red lines that glowed across the screen. ‘Take your time.’ He glanced out of the window as the convoy hummed along the wide causeway, blue lights clearing a path through the early morning traffic. Beyond the guardrail, the sea pounded itself against the giant black rocks of the breakwater and sea birds wheeled in the sky above. A miserable day, Saeed mused, depressing even, for Hooper at least. And for him it was about to get a lot worse.

  The journey by car was designed to increase the Prime Minister’s frustration, his sense of isolation. Saeed checked his cell, monitoring the tweets from one of his informers on the twenty-sixth floor. Already Hooper had erupted behind the heavy wooden doors of his office, the muffled shouts barely distinguishable, the crash of an innocent item of furniture hitting the wall. The press weren’t letting up in their campaign against the Prime Minister either, the scathing editorials, the relentless news items all heaping further pressure on his shoulders. He was cut off from his beloved Chequers, at the beck and call of European ministers unhappy with his absence from Cairo. Dupont himself had publicly chastised him, undermining his position and, more importantly, badly bruising his ego, something that Hooper would find particularly hard to endure. The psychological evaluations that had resulted in the former Defence Minister’s selection for his role were proving to be uncannily accurate.

  Saeed felt his cell vibrate in his hand, saw the new message. An argument with his wife now, a full-blown row heard by several staff outside his office. Excellent news. Suddenly the phone rang, and Saeed saw it was Hooper himself. He let the call ring out, and the two subsequent calls, knowing it would send the man’s blood pressure sky rocketing. Saeed then made several calls himself, to the Privy Council, the Supreme Court, the Attorney General’s office and others, confirming legal and constitutional positions, cementing loyalties. Everything was prepared.

  Rain drummed on the roof of the BMW as the convoy hissed along the Whitechapel Road. Brake lights glowed red as they carved through the mounting traffic, sirens wailing a noisy path towards the city. Curious faces lined the route, early morning commuters, market vendors and shopkeepers, all staring as they gathered in doorways or sheltered beneath umbrellas. From behind the tinted bulletproof glass, Saeed stared back and realised that, were it not for the miserable weather, he could still be back in Cairo. The faces he saw were all brown, the shops a colourful mixture of food markets and takeaways, electronic goods stores and clothing emporiums, the signs in Bengali, Urdu and Arabic. Bunting crisscrossed the street, a leftover from the celebrations of last week. The flags were varied, the drab stars of the EU standard easily outnumbered by Egyptian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi pennants. Nowhere did he see a Union Jack, not once. Like the Jews many years before them, the Europeans had been driven out from this part of the city.

  Down a dark side street Saeed caught a glint of the new dome above the distant East London mosque. He craned his neck, catching it again as they slowed for a busy intersection. He thought it looked splendid, the burnished gold metal reflecting ambient light even on such a grey day, and the rebuilt minarets were much higher than before, dominating the local skyline. As they should, smiled Saeed.

  Soon the suburbs were left behind, the convoy snaking through the city and approaching Trafalgar Square in less than fifteen minutes. The vehicles weaved carefully through the giant concrete vehicle traps at the junction of Whitehall then accelerated south. The pavements were almost deserted, the public barred from Whitehall itself as part of a raft of sweeping security directives designed to protect the fledgling administration from f
urther attack. Now, only government employees could access the famous street, yet there were few to be seen as the building works continued and the rain pummelled the pavements, urged on by a strengthening wind. Saeed recalled a recent speech in the House, one in which the leader of the Opposition had referred to the damage caused by the Downing Street bomb. The woman had referred to it as ‘jarring to the eye, almost offensive’. Saeed begged to differ.

  Through the lefthand window, the facade of the Ministry of Defence building was cloaked in white plastic sheets that snapped and rippled in the wind, briefly exposing the workmen behind who toiled away as the bomb-damaged building was slowly restored. But it was the opposite view that gave Saeed the most satisfaction. The whole site was sealed off behind temporary fences adorned with hazard signs and demolition company logos, where men in yellow helmets trudged across the muddy ground, backs bent against the wind and rain. What little remained of Downing Street was held upright by an intricate mesh of scaffold tubes covered with plastic sheeting, the fractured brickwork exposed, fragile, like a sick patient wrapped in bandages. The surrounding Cabinet and Foreign Ministry buildings had been partially demolished too, providing unobstructed views across St. James Park. Some said the bomb had ripped the very heart out of London. Saeed preferred to think of it as surgery, intrusive and painful, yet ultimately necessary.

  The convoy continued south, passing through the security checkpoints outside the Houses of Parliament and Lambeth Bridge, before arriving at Millbank a minute or so later. The BMW glided to a halt and the door opened. Assistants and advisors converged around Saeed’s car, umbrellas braced against the wind and rain. The Deputy Prime Minister climbed out and they moved en-masse towards the building, crossing the lobby in a damp procession, the policemen on guard standing a little straighter, the elevator doors sweeping open. Saeed headed straight to his office on the twenty-fifth floor and closed the door. He ordered coffee and a Danish, flicking through the TV channels until he settled on the BBC’s Middle East roundup. He’d been watching for less than three minutes when the phone interrupted his thoughts, warbling with the soft tone of the intercom facility. Saeed smiled, muting the TV.