by D C Alden
Hooper’s face had turned from puce to ash white in less than a minute. He picked up the papers one by one, his disbelieving eyes scanning their contents, turning them over in his sweaty hands as if careful scrutiny would reveal them to be forgeries. Finally, he dropped them back on the table, his shoulders sagging just a little. ‘All this was all your idea, Tariq. The only way to guarantee Cairo, you said. Take the country forward.’
‘If you recall, you were more concerned about Washington than Cairo, right Jacob? Which is why a message was conveyed to President Vargas before your visit to-’
‘What?’ Hooper stormed.
‘That’s correct. It was felt that the White House should be given the opportunity to distance itself from you and any potential scandal. Your humiliation in Washington is proof that they took that opportunity.’
Hooper’s face boiled. ‘You fucking snake,’ he hissed, his lip curled into a sneer. ‘You back-stabbing little shit. You think I’ll just bend over, let you fuck me up the arse with this? I’ll bring you down too, smear you with enough dirt to screw up your own–’
He stopped suddenly, the words hanging in the air. Then the sneer morphed slowly into a knowing smile. ‘Oh yes, I get it now. Prime Minister Saeed, eh? You think that’s got a nice ring to it? You like the look of this office?’ He jabbed a finger towards Saeed’s chest. ‘The bright lights of Cairo have fried your brain, Minister. You think I’m going to make way for you? Think again.’
Saeed took a step back and sat down. There was only two ways this would go and clearly Hooper wasn’t going to take the easy route. ‘I’m sorry you feel like that, Jacob, truly I am. This country has suffered a lot of turmoil since the terror attacks and Cairo has given us all much hope for the future. You don’t figure in that future, Jacob. Your reputation is in the toilet, you’ve lost the confidence of the party and the people. Even your own staff are jumping ship.’
Saeed shifted in his seat and crossed his legs, brushing a speck of imaginary dust from his trousers. ‘Consultations with the Palace, the Privy Council’s office and the Parliamentary Party are complete and unequivocal – Jacob Hooper is a political liability and must be replaced. This afternoon I will issue a statement in the House calling for a vote of no confidence. And I’ll get it, Jacob, because the deep disquiet felt by many in regard to your stewardship will not go away. The country has lost faith in your abilities to carry it forward and many European leaders have expressed a reluctance to work with you. And abroad? Well, I think your international reputation speaks for itself. But there’s more.’
Hooper remained rooted to the spot, his eyes darting between Saeed and the evidence laid out before him. Saeed waved a hand towards the buff-coloured padded envelope on Hooper’s desk.
‘That last envelope contains further evidence against you, Jacob, evidence of more nefarious activities carried out in your name. Open it.’
Hooper snatched it up and tore it open, the contents spilling out over the desk. There were more documents and photographs this time, glossy black and white ten by eights, with stark, disturbing images. He saw Hooper lift them up to his face, his eyes narrowing at first, then widening as he finally grasped what he was looking at.
‘Jesus Christ, is that–?’
‘Gabriel Bryce, yes. Evidence of the treatment you condemned him to, his graphic deterioration in that awful facility. It’s all there, all engineered by you, your orders.’
Hooper let the photographs slip from his fingers, skimming across the smooth surface of the desk onto the floor. One of them landed by the heel of Saeed’s immaculately polished brogue, a disturbing image of Gabriel Bryce, stripped naked and crouched in the dark corner of a padded room, bony arms wrapped around his knees, his eyes pleading, haunted. Even Saeed was shocked when he first saw it.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Hooper repeated quietly. ‘What sort of animal are you?’
‘There’s something else.’ Saeed leaned over and pushed another photograph across the desk with his finger. Hooper stared at it.
‘You remember this occasion?’
Hooper frowned, then nodded. ‘My last tour of Afghanistan.’ He picked it up, studying it hard.
‘Correct, taken twelve years ago, just before you resigned your commission and became MP for Bolsover. An interesting composition, don’t you think?’
On the surface the photograph was unremarkable as military photographs went, a dozen soldiers in desert fatigues and UN berets grouped in front of a large truck, smiling faces, eyes squinting in the harsh Afghan sunlight. Hooper was at the front, overweight even then, arms clasped stiffly behind his back, puffy red face sweating in the heat.
‘Where did you get this?’
‘Chequers.’
Hooper’s eyes narrowed. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Your personal data drives, actually. Millie has been most cooperative. I think she’s suffered more from the Washington fiasco than you. She’s a very defensive woman, very bitter. And she blames you, of course. I have it on good authority that she’s been in contact with a very reputable firm in Lincoln’s Inn that specialises in divorce.’
Hooper reacted like he’d been punched, grabbing the edge of the desk. ‘She what?’
‘Don’t be naive, Jacob,’ chuckled Saeed. ‘We both know your ambition is easily surpassed by your wife’s. In fact, her abuse of the system is becoming quite legendary. I’m told she requisitioned the helicopter for personal use on at least two occasions, no doubt with your knowledge.’
‘Stupid bitch,’ Hooper muttered under his breath. He looked at the colour image again. ‘So she gave you a photo, so what?’
Saeed pushed the glossy paper back across the desk and tapped it with his finger. ‘As I said, an interesting composition. The man at the back, fourth from the left. You recognise him?’ He watched Hooper lower his head, his eyes squinting.
‘No. Should I?’
‘Yes, you should. That’s Daniel Whelan.’
Hooper’s mouth dropped open, a thin bar of saliva bridging his lips. ‘Bloody hell, so it is. I’ll be damned.’
Saeed smiled. ‘An accurate assessment, Jacob.’
‘What?’
‘The photograph is damning. It connects you to Whelan, to Luton and Downing Street.’
‘What? Don’t be ridiculous,’ Hooper snorted.
Saeed noted the incredulous look, the mirthless chuckle. ‘Hard to believe, I know, but let’s look at the facts. You both served in Afghanistan at the same time.’
‘So what?’ exploded Hooper, waving the photograph in the air. ‘This was taken at Kandahar. There were thousands of troops there, how the hell am I supposed to remember every man under my command? Especially a fucking private!’
‘–and some years later your careers in Whitehall overlapped too,’ Saeed continued. ‘In fact, at one point you both worked in the same building. You see the link now? Whelan committed the Luton atrocity and is by default connected to the Downing Street bomb. Somehow access was gained to the government vehicle used in the attack for an extended period of time, which proves Whelan had an accomplice with significant security clearance. The explosive material was military grade, and you have extensive contacts throughout the armed forces in your previous roles as Defence Minister and your service in the Logistics Corps. You avoided the blast itself–’
‘Because you called me!’
‘–and immediately assumed authority. Since then, the hunt for the bombers has stalled and Whelan remains at large. A dossier has been compiled. There are grounds for investigation.’
Hooper swayed on his feet, then dropped heavily into his chair. He looked shell-shocked, defeated. ‘This is an outrage,’ he whispered, ‘all a complete pack of lies. You can’t prove a thing.’
Saeed laughed. ‘What’s the quote, Jacob? A lie can travel the world, while the truth is still tying its shoes? The truth doesn’t matter. Proof doesn’t matter. Your reputation is already holed below the waterline and if this goes public you’ll sink without trace. I
have it on good authority that the police will be forced to interview you formally, under caution. With your name already in tatters, the stain of suspicion would be hard to erase, whatever the real truth may be.’
Hooper buried his face in his hands, his breath coming in small gasps. At first Saeed thought he was crying, then changed his assessment to panic. The fight had certainly left him, he could see that now. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to turn the screw a little more, just to be sure.
‘But it’s not just about you, is it Jacob? There are your two young sons to consider, both nicely settled in their new school. Charterhouse, is that right? An outstanding school, certainly one of the best. However the board will frown upon their association with the Hooper family name and the stench of failure and disgrace. Not a good example for the rest of their young charges, and I’m sure the other parents will have something to say, too. A shame really, all because their father refused to co-operate for the good of the country.’
Saeed reached down and picked up the resignation letter at his feet. He smoothed it out and leaned over, sliding it across the desk. ‘It doesn’t have to be this way, Jacob. Sign that and leave now, today. Arrangements will be made. You’ll be comfortable, nothing extravagant, but comfortable, a decent pension.’
‘What about my boys?’
‘They’ll stay at Charterhouse, as long as you do as you’re told. After all, why should the sons be punished for the sins of the father? Unless, of course, the father decides to open his mouth, in which case their little feet won’t touch the ground.’
Hooper slumped further down in his chair, like a boxer on his corner stool, bloodied, beaten, unable to continue the fight. His face was a sickly grey colour, his eyes fixed on the landscape beyond the window. Confusion, disbelief, anger, denial, acceptance – Saeed had seen them all today and in a relatively short space of time. Hooper was a predictable animal and he’d played his role perfectly, but now it was time for the principal to leave the stage. Saeed slipped his cell from his pocket and punched a number.
‘Come up now,’ he ordered, then ended the call.
Hooper lifted his head. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘I have a small team waiting downstairs. Time is of the essence, Jacob, the continuity of government paramount. The office of the Prime Minister is to be reorganised.’
‘What happens now?’
‘You’ll sign the letter, then a car will take you to Chequers. You have three days to vacate the premises, after which I suggest a long holiday, somewhere private. Perhaps you’ll be able to save your marriage, perhaps not, but you’ll talk to no-one. A security team will be assigned to you and there’ll be no contact with the media. In a few months you’ll be assessed, then we’ll figure out a position for you somewhere, possibly Europe. It’ll be very low key, but you’ll get used to it. The alternative will be much worse for you and your family.’
Saeed got to his feet and gathered his documents together, slipping the photographs back inside the folder. Through the frosted panels he saw a group of people enter the outer office. As he reached for the door handle, Hooper said, ‘Why, Tariq?’
‘Excuse me?’
Hooper remained slumped in his chair, his eyes fixed on the view beyond the window, his voice almost a whisper. ‘Why? Why set me up, threaten me, threaten my children? What did I ever do to you?’
Saeed walked towards the desk. He kept his voice low too, conscious of the bodies outside the door. ‘Look at me, Jacob.’ Hooper turned his head. ‘Would you have gone if I’d have just asked nicely? Of course not. For you the premiership represents nothing more than power and prestige, the status to be savoured and enjoyed like exquisite food or vintage wines. You’re right, I do want this job, but for entirely different reasons than your own.’ Saeed glanced towards the door, then leaned over the desk, the whisper barely audible. ‘You see, the country is heading in a new direction, one that you could never contemplate steering towards nor comprehend why. I, however, do understand, as do others in Europe and elsewhere. The vision is a clear one, the goal now achievable. The task will take decades, but the groundwork has now been laid. This office and the responsibility it brings is nothing more than a tool to be used in the construction of something magnificent, a historical vision that has fired the imaginations of men for centuries. You think I care about country mansions and helicopters? I couldn’t care less.’
Saeed straightened up and shook his head. ‘You are a stupid man, Jacob Hooper, stupid and arrogant. I think the media have you pegged rather well at the moment. And later today the headlines will add ‘finished’ to their growing list of superlatives.’ He tapped the resignation letter on the desk. ‘Sign it. People are waiting.’
Hooper hung his head, chin on his chest, legs splayed out before him, arms dangling over the rests of his chair. If he was beaten before, he was well and truly crushed now, Saeed realised. He’d get no more trouble from him.
Hooper raised his tired, bloodshot eyes. ‘Give me a couple of minutes, would you Tariq? Allow me to compose myself?’
Saeed glanced at his watch and nodded. ‘You’ve got five.’
There were a dozen people waiting in the outer office, handpicked to take over the running of the Prime Minister’s office. Most were communications staff, ready to begin the task of informing the media of Hooper’s resignation to a waiting world. The news would not come as a shock, Saeed knew, because Hooper had performed so badly, and with the Christian festival of Christmas around the corner, the people would be keen to see a steady hand on the tiller as quickly as possible. And that would be Saeed’s hand, of course.
‘Is the Prime Minister all right, Sir?’ Every head in the outer office turned towards Polly as she spoke.
‘Yes,’ Saeed smiled, ‘although he will be leaving us shortly.’
‘Leaving?’ Polly looked nervous, as if whatever fate was about to befall Hooper would apply to her also. Saeed didn’t blame her. Her boss had been under tremendous pressure for the last week, and her job couldn’t have been easy. In addition, her office had just been invaded by a large group of people who were under strict instructions to say absolutely nothing to anyone.
‘Don’t worry, Polly, you’re an integral part of the team. I’ll be needing you.’
Polly’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘Anything I can do to help, Sir.’
For now, Saeed didn’t add, just until the fuss died down. Then you’ll be moved, quietly, to another department, just one more change in a long list of changes that people were going to start seeing. Now, where the hell was Hooper?
He saw his bulk through the frosted panels beside the door, moving around the room towards the door. Finally.
Everybody in the outer office heard the solid click as the doors were locked from the inside. Puzzled, Saeed stepped forward and twisted the brass door knob. He turned to Polly. ‘Get security up here now.’
There were several thumps from inside the room, loud ones that Saeed felt through the soles of his shoes. He rapped the thick wood with his knuckles. ‘Jacob, open the door. Jacob!’ There was no answer, only several more thumps, each one successively louder. What was this, some sort of last minute tantrum? Whatever dignity Hooper had left was now gone. Saeed had a mental image of him being led out into the street in handcuffs. Or maybe even a restraining jacket, like a mental patient. He must make sure the footage was released to the media at the earliest opportunity.
The loud crash of glass behind the door startled everyone. Polly uttered a shrill yelp of fear.
‘Everybody out! Clear the room!’ Saeed ordered. Just then two government security men appeared, dark suited, with wide shoulders and large hands. Saeed pointed to the thick double doors. ‘Break it down.’
The men set about the task with relish, taking turns to aim ferocious kicks against the brass mechanism. Rough hands rattled the door knobs, pummelled on the thick mahogany wood. Within thirty seconds both men were sweating, within a minute they were panting for breath, their faces twis
ted in anger. Suddenly, the wood beneath the door knobs splintered, cracking like a pistol shot. The younger of the two men took another step back and drove his foot into the area around the lock, sending one of the doors flying inwards and crashing against the frosted panel, shattering it. Saeed bundled in after them.
Everybody froze. Hooper stood by the broken glass wall as a cold wind barrelled around the room, swirling and snatching at discarded newspapers and documents and tossing them into the air. Saeed saw the chair was gone, Hooper’s heavy leather chair, no doubt lying in the street below. Hooper’s shoes were inches from the edge, his gaze off towards the distant horizon. Saeed turned to the security guards and ordered them to stay back. He took a few paces toward the window and stopped.
‘Jacob,’ he said quietly.
Hooper turned, just as Saeed heard the shouts, the muffled thump of boots on carpet, the rattle of equipment. He turned and waved his arms furiously, barring entry to the police officers who spilled into the outer office behind him. He raised a finger to his lips, silencing the new arrivals, who backed away from the open door. No one spoke, no one made a move, allowing Saeed to take a pace closer towards Hooper, then another. He studied the Prime Minister carefully; his behaviour was so much more than childish frustration, so unexpected, yet tantalising for its potential. He saw Hooper’s face streaked with tears, saw the resignation in those bulbous, bloodshot eyes, the prospect of a life without meaning, without purpose, a life lived at the outer fringes of obscurity. The eyes shifted, locking with Saeed’s, searching for hope, for forgiveness, and finding none. Instead, Saeed nodded, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of the head.
Hooper took one more look at Saeed, at the uniforms that filled the room behind him. Shirt soaked by the invading rain, his tie flapping wildly in the wind, Jacob Hooper closed his eyes, took a sharp breath, then stepped over the window ledge.
