The Horse at the Gates

by D C Alden

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Secretary of State, I have the Prime Minister on line one.’

  ‘Put him through.’

  A click, then Hooper’s voice, sharp, edgy. ‘Tariq?’

  ‘Prime Minister. Good morning.’

  ‘I need you up here. Now.’

  ‘On my way.’

  Hooper disconnected the call abruptly. Saeed leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs and savouring the rich aroma and smoky flavour of the Cuban Turquino. Five minutes soon became ten, then fifteen. His phone rang again but Saeed ignored it. Instead, he used a key to open his desk drawer and extracted the folder that had been placed there while he was in Cairo. He flicked through its contents, satisfied that everything was in order. It was time.

  The elevator doors opened on the twenty-sixth floor and, for a moment, Saeed had to check he was in the right place. The first desks he saw were empty, papers scattered in disarray across them, the phones pulsing and warbling, the calls unanswered. He stepped out of the elevator, curious. Only one or two of the Prime Minister’s personal staff were at their desks, their faces drawn with fatigue, phones clamped to their ears, talking in hushed tones. He turned to the left, towards the kitchen, where a small group of men and women huddled together behind the glass wall, seemingly locked in fierce debate. Saeed recognised several of them, key advisors from Domestic Policy, Communications, and the European Secretariat. One of them saw Saeed and the others turned, their expressions startled, embarrassed, scattering from the kitchen like exposed mice. There was a sense of panic in the air, of desperation. Saeed likened it to the last days of the Third Reich, the rats buried in their hole, nervously awaiting the end.

  He headed across the floor to the south side of the building. Hooper’s secretary stood behind her desk in the outer office, chattering on a phone. Behind her he could hear Hooper’s muffled voice through the thick mahogany doors of his private office. On seeing Saeed the secretary quickly ended her call, smoothing her skirt and blouse as he approached. She stood smiling in front of him, hands clasped together. Saeed thought she was on the verge of bowing.

  ‘Secretary of State. Welcome back, Sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Polly.’

  ‘Congratulations on your trip to Cairo,’ she gushed, chestnut ringlets bobbing like springs around her face. ‘A wonderful ceremony.’

  ‘A great day for Europe.’

  ‘Yes. Indeed.’

  There was an awkward silence as Saeed held her gaze, his piercing blue eyes rooting the woman to the spot. There was so much more she wanted to say, yet clearly she didn’t have the nerve. Saeed decided to encourage her. ‘And how is the Prime Minister?’

  Polly’s frown creased her tired but reasonably pretty face. ‘It’s been a bad week. He’s having trouble focussing. President Dupont’s office has been ringing all morning, demanding a statement on Cairo, but Jacob – sorry, I mean the Prime Minister – won’t take the calls. He’s been trying to contact you since you landed.’ Her eyes flicked towards the double doors. ‘Everyone’s been at his throat all week and quite a few of the staff have left or called in sick. I’m worried about him, Sir. The Prime Minister has been rather...’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, tense is probably one way of describing it. He’s under a lot of pressure.’

  Saeed nodded. ‘Don’t worry, Polly. All this will be sorted out today.’

  The secretary beamed, clearly reassured by Saeed’s presence. ‘I’m glad you’re back, Sir. We all are.’

  Saeed took a few steps towards the Prime Minister’s office, then paused. ‘Get a message out to the other staff, would you Polly? Tell them that, despite the Prime Minister’s recent setbacks, there’s still a country to be run. I expect to see people working, not gossiping around the water cooler.’

  This time Polly did bow, a very slight one, but a bow none the less. ‘Right away, Sir.’

  ‘And no interruptions. At all.’ Saeed rapped on the PM’s door, twisted one of the brass handles and stepped inside.

  It was a huge office, an executive corner suite with a private bathroom that offered stunning views across an impressive swathe of London skyline. Jacob Hooper stood with his back to the room, staring out through the glass wall where heavy rain clouds scudded across the city and a sharp wind moaned against the glass. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, one hand thrust into a pocket, the other clutching his personal cell. He wore wide spotted braces over a heavily creased blue shirt, the armpits already damp with sweat. He turned his bald dome towards the door and Saeed noted the perspiration on his brow, the tie dragged from the neck, the open shirt collar. The man was a mess.

  ‘Well, well, the prodigal son returns.’

  Saeed said nothing, crossing the thick red carpet and taking a seat in front of the Prime Minister’s desk. It was an enormous desk too, piled high with papers and folders, forming lazy towers that teetered over the computer pad and the phones. There were sweet wrappers discarded on the floor around Hooper’s vacant chair and several dirty coffee cups stood on a sideboard next to the double doors. On the other side of the doors was a sofa, messily decorated with the morning’s broadsheets. For Hooper, none of them held good news. A bank of TV screens mounted on an aluminium pole stood in the corner of the room like a high-tech coat stand, each screen tuned to a different news channel. Saeed saw himself in Cairo, signing the treaty, then waving to a jubilant crowd from the balcony of the embassy. He also saw Hooper, puffing up the steps of a British Airways Dreamliner, his wife’s face like thunder, not leaving the shores of the United States in glory but rather as fugitives, quickly and quietly, undercover of night. And then he saw Daniel Whelan’s face on another, bulldozers clearing the rubble in Luton, long queues at airport security, vehicles being searched by border agents at an obscure British sea port. Saeed smiled to himself. The bank of high definition screens was like a living chess board, all the pieces still in play, manoeuvred into position by the hand of Saeed and others, the game converging towards its predictable conclusion. And, of course, Saeed would be the last one standing, of that he had no doubt.

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’

  Saeed turned away from the screens. ‘Jacob. How are you?’

  ‘Cut the bullshit, Tariq. Where have you been?’ Hooper crossed the carpet and flopped into the heavy black leather chair behind his desk, the tortured mechanism squealing in protest.

  ‘Cairo,’ Saeed answered. He kept his face neutral.

  Hooper banged his fist on the desk, threatening to topple the paper towers. ‘Don’t be bloody facetious, you know what I mean. Why didn’t you arrange for the helicopter to pick you up this morning? Why drive in, for God’s sake? I need you here.’ He stabbed the desk with his finger in rapid fire morse code.

  ‘I needed time to think.’

  Hooper threw his arms up in the air. ‘Think? Really? Well, join the bloody club. That’s all I’ve been doing for the past week while you’ve been basking in glory. Those bastards out there won’t leave me alone.’ Hooper rubbed his face in exhaustion, breathing heavily through his fingers for several moments. When he finally spoke his voice had lost some of its harshness.

  ‘I’m sorry, Tariq.’ He grabbed the edge of the desk and pulled himself in, toppling a stack of papers onto the floor. He didn’t seem to notice at all. ‘All this shit is getting on top of me. The media are like wolves at the door and I’ve lost half my team through resignations or sickness, which is bullshit, fucking cowards. I’m like a fucking leper here!’ He saw the disdain in Saeed’s face and muttered, ‘Pardon my French.’

  The fool couldn’t speak a word of that particular language either, Saeed knew. In fact, the media had picked up on Hooper’s distinct lack of experience for the position he now held, despite the tragic circumstances of his promotion. The country had grieved, buried its dead. Cairo was the turning point, a line in the sand, the moment when the country vowed to move on. Unofficially briefed by Saeed’s people, key person
nel in the media ran with stories highlighting Hooper’s inexperience, the unhelpful mood swings, the lack of progress that the Prime Minister’s brief reign symbolised. And the embarrassment his transatlantic trip had caused.

  ‘It’s all because of Washington. What a stupid, stupid idea that was. Jesus Christ.’ Hooper balled his fists and rubbed his eyes, as if he could physically massage the memory from his mind. ‘A monumental fuck-up from the moment I got there. I assume you’re familiar with the details?’ Saeed pulled an uncertain face. ‘Well, it wasn’t pleasant, I can tell you. During the remembrance service they seated me eight rows back, wedged between the Swiss Ambassador and some tinpot general from Zambia who spent half the service leering at Millie. Afterwards, at the White House reception, I was introduced as Prime Minister Hopper, thanks to the illiterate bloody Master of Ceremonies. And to cap it all, Vargas refused a private audience, even after I’d sent the Ambassador to petition him on my behalf. I nearly choked on the humiliation, I can tell you. And Millie – well, the less said the better.’

  Again Hooper banged his fist on the desk, sending more papers spilling onto the carpet. ‘They’re calling me star-struck, arrogant, stuff like that. Now I’ve got Dupont and half the bloody Commission on my back, demanding answers, talking about souring Euro-US relations. It’s a fucking nightmare.’

  Hooper placed his elbows on the desk and closed his eyes, massaging his temples with thick fingers. ‘I should’ve concentrated on Cairo, made that my focus. Why did I bother with Washington? Why?’

  Because you’re an idiot, Saeed didn’t say. Hooper’s eyes snapped open and he cocked his chin towards his deputy. ‘I mean, look at you, Tariq. The media are kissing your arse, singing your praises from the rooftops while I’m made to look like a rank amateur. Things have got to change.’

  The Prime Minister pushed his chair back and crossed to the window. He stood there for several moments, watching rain flurries lash against the glass. Saeed waited, his fingers tracing the edge of the folder balanced carefully in his lap.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Cairo, its success,’ Hooper said eventually. ‘I want to tap into that success, allow a little of the glory to rub off, exercise a bit of damage limitation. I’ve still got contacts, some friends in the media.’ He turned around. ‘There’s work to do on the trade talks, yes?’

  ‘Some,’ confirmed Saeed, ‘although it’s very low level stuff.’

  Hooper waved the concern away. ‘It doesn’t matter. I want to announce a trip to Cairo, to help finalise the talks, so to speak. We’ll need to arrange something with Bakari, throw in a speech or two, photo-ops around the pyramids, greeting the people. You know the drill.’

  Saeed almost laughed. The naivety of the man was breathtaking. ‘That’s a bad idea, Jacob. Cairo has passed, the stage dismantled. The city has moved on. Besides, President Bakari is embarking on a tour of the Gulf region next week. There’ll be no one at home.’

  ‘Shit!’ Hooper spat, thumping the glass with his fist. ‘Fine. Then we’ll organise something else, a state dinner perhaps, right here in London. Egyptian Ambassador, EU delegates, all the players. You can open with a few remarks about Cairo, its obvious success, then lead into my own role in its ratification. I want you to emphasise my contribution, Tariq, from the initial talks to the ceremony itself. I know you did a lot of the leg work, but that was your job, right?’ Saeed said nothing, allowing Hooper to immerse himself in his fantasies, his bulging eyes staring into space somewhere over Saeed’s head. ‘Yes, that’s it. I’ll start with a few words about Washington, about the recognition of bravery and human endeavour, man’s quest for the stars, that sort of rubbish. Give the trip a human feel, gloss over the diplomatic fuck-ups. I want to get it across that I didn’t go for my own interests, that I spoke to you every night when you were in Cairo.’

  ‘But you didn’t,’ Saeed pointed out.

  Hooper’s eyes narrowed. ‘I know that. Play along.’

  ‘Why?’

  The wind hummed across the glass, driving the rain before it. Saeed thought he heard the faint murmur of the secretary’s voice outside the room. It sounded troubled.

  ‘Why?’ Hooper’s large frame stood silhouetted against the window, his thumbs hooked around the straps of his braces, his legs apart. It was supposed to be an intimidating gesture, Saeed knew, but instead he thought Hooper looked ridiculous, like a West End player about to break into an absurd dance routine. There was a look of disbelief on his face, too, as if he hadn’t heard properly and what he thought he’d heard just couldn’t be true.

  ‘Why?’ Hooper repeated. He marched across the room towards the sofa, snatching up a newspaper in his large hands. He spread it wide so Saeed could read the headline: Dupont Demands Answers as PM Stalls. ‘No? Still not getting it?’ Hooper flung the paper away, its sheets scattering across the carpet. ‘How about this one?’ Hooper Implicated in Remembrance Day Cuts, the headline screamed. ‘How the fuck did they get hold of that story?’

  Saeed had already seen it, the leaked memos, the subsequent scaling down of the Remembrance Day parade, rubber stamped by Hooper and his Ministers, his unguarded comments about ‘limbless squaddies, noisy bands and pointless fly-bys harming Britain’s reputation with her European partners’, causing particular offence amongst veteran groups. Saeed swivelled his chair, crossing his legs.

  ‘Actually, it was me who leaked that particular piece.’

  Saeed heard the secretary’s voice again, louder this time, more insistent, competing with the wind and rain. The pressure was building all around, symbolised by Hooper’s reddening face. The man looked fit to burst.

  ‘You did what?’ There was a menace to his voice, a quality that others might have found threatening. Saeed knew better.

  ‘Are you deaf? It was me that leaked that story. And there’ll be others too, unless you do the right thing.’

  Saeed flipped open the folder on his lap and produced a cream-coloured envelope. He held it aloft for a moment, then placed it on Hooper’s desk. Hooper flung the newspaper to one side and marched across the room, his eyes locked on Saeed’s. He moved behind his desk, scooped up the sealed envelope and turned it over, eyeing it warily. It was blank.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Your resignation. Please read and sign at the pencil mark.’

  Hooper didn’t speak for several seconds, his eyes flicking between Saeed and the envelope. Then he tore it open, scanning the contents quickly. He peered over the top of the page.

  ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘No joke,’ confirmed Saeed. ‘Please sign where indicated.’

  He watched Hooper re-read the letter, the carefully worded text on rich cream paper bearing the Prime Minister’s seal, his full title clearly displayed below the small pencil cross. The letter gave no specific reasons for the resignation, only that the decision hadn’t been taken lightly and was to be effective immediately. Hooper dropped the letter on his desk as if it was coated in poison.

  ‘You’re out of your tiny mind, Tariq.’

  ‘This isn’t up for discussion, Jacob. Sign it and go now, today. It’s in your own interests. And in the interests of the country, of course.’

  Hooper placed his hands on the desk and leaned forwards. Saeed noted the thick, hairy forearms, the huge dome of a head, the hair spilling out of the collar of his shirt. He was like an ape, Saeed realised; a sweaty, uneducated ape. He caught the odour of stale coffee as Hooper barked at him across the desk.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, Tariq? You think your little song and dance in Cairo has given you the balls to challenge my position? How fucking dare you.’

  ‘You’re out of your depth, Jacob. You’re not up to the task. Everyone knows it except you. Go now and you’ll get to keep your pension, walk away with some dignity. Fight me on this and you’ll be making a very big mistake.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Hooper swept the desk clear with his forearm, scattering phones and papers and sending his comp
uter pad tumbling across the carpet. Saeed turned towards the door, towards the frosted glass where the opaque circle of the secretary’s face was frozen outside the room.

  ‘I suggest you calm down, Jacob.’

  Hooper scooped up the resignation letter and stuffed it back into its envelope. He skimmed it into Saeed’s chest where it flapped to the carpet. ‘Change of plan. I want your resignation, you jumped-up little shit.’

  Saeed took a deep breath and sighed. He’d been expecting this, the anger, the desperation. He knew Hooper wouldn’t go willingly, so now it was time to up the ante. He got to his feet, extracting several documents from the folder, and laid them carefully across the recently cleared space on Hooper’s desk. The Prime Minister frowned, the boiling anger suddenly tempered by confusion.

  ‘What’s this?’ he growled.

  Saeed laid the last item down, a thick padded envelope, then spread his hands across the table, like a magician presenting his opening illusion. ‘It’s a road map, a route you will travel if you refuse to go quietly.’ Hooper snatched up the first document as Saeed continued. ‘That one is the order to have Gabriel Bryce removed to an NHS psychiatric facility, signed and dated by you. Attached is a printout of the confidential email ordering me to begin the process.’ Saeed’s finger traced over the documents along the desk. ‘This is a printout of the visitor’s log at Chequers, recording Duncan Parry’s stay.’

  ‘Duncan?’

  ‘That’s right. He’s signed an affidavit, stating that you forced him to circumvent admission procedures and accept Bryce as a patient in the name of national security. I’ve done the same, expressing my deep disquiet as to your motives and my concern for Gabriel Bryce’s health. These documents were drafted and lodged with the Attorney General’s office at the time. They will remain in her possession, sealed, as long as you announce your resignation today.’