'You know, I do worry about this Iraq business,' said the PM. 'The press won't let it go, and I do worry that some of the hardworking, decent, honest people of Britain and England might start to doubt my integrity. Sometimes, as I meet the honest, decent, hardworking...'
'Of course they doubt your integrity,' said Barney, hoping to cut off another hardworking, decent, honest speech before it got into full swing.
'What?'
'Everybody thinks you're a liar. Of course they do. Look, consider the US President. When Gerald Ford said in 1976 that there'd been no Soviet domination of eastern Europe under his administration...'
'Did he say that?'
'Yep. And when he did, it was disastrous. Everybody thought, God, what a Muppet, what a complete and utter twat-brained loser, and they voted for Jimmy Carter. But think about your friend George. He comes out with stuff like that every day. Every single day. He makes words up, he stumbles over sentences, he clearly has no grasp of facts, he makes gaffes every time he opens his mouth. He has Muppet stamped on his forehead. He defines the word Muppet for a new generation too young to have seen the original Muppets. When the Muppets are remembered centuries from now, it will become lost in time whether Kermit was President and Bush was a stuffed frog, or the other way round. And yet, the people still vote for him. He still wins all those states that the Republicans always win, and he still wins Ohio. They're used to him doing it, they expect him to constantly gaffe.'
The smile increased a notch or two on the PM's face. He nodded. He thought about what Barney was saying.
'What are you saying?' he asked.
'Everybody knows you're a lying, low-life, political scumbag. So what if anyone comes up with a smoking gun and reveals you to be a big fat liar? That thirty-six to forty percent of voters who are polling in your favour, are just going to shrug and say, "we know, we know, enough already." You might be in more trouble if it was proved that at some point you'd told the truth.'
The smile stayed on the PM's face, although that one had him a little confused.
Suddenly there was a sharp crack and the plane juddered. At the bottom end of the cabin a woman let out a high-pitched involuntary scream. The PM gripped the armrests; Barney looked out the window. The momentary shudder of the plane had passed, and it resumed a normal, verging on bumpy, flight towards London.
'What was that?' asked the PM. 'What d'you think that was?'
Barney shrugged, heartbeat coming back down to normal.
'Maybe we've just been Tango'd,' he said.
'You don't think,' said the PM, ignoring the marketing reference, 'that there was a higher force at work?'
Barney glanced at the fake smile, now mixed with wonder and bemusement.
'Pardon?'
'You don't think,' said the PM, 'that we've just been touched by the Hand of God?'
He stared at Barney, the corners of his mouth touching his ears. A stewardess came alongside and leant slightly over Barney in order to speak to the PM.
'Everything all right, Sir?' she asked.
The PM nodded.
'Yes, yes,' he said. 'I feel that today, without wishing in such surroundings or company to fall into soundbite banality and cliché, that I have the Hand of God on my shoulder.'
The stewardess forced a smile, but it was something which she was also used to doing.
'The pilot just wanted me to let you know that the plane had been struck by lightning, but that everything's OK. Planes are designed to absorb the electricity. We'll be landing shortly.'
She smiled again, turned and walked back to her seat. The smile remained etched on the Prime Minister's face. He glanced at Barney and then looked back out of the window.
'The Hand of God,' Barney heard the PM muttering to himself, mixed in with the noise of the plane.
1431hrs
Detective Sergeant Tony Eason, undercover at Tory Party HQ, trying to find clues to the murder of the Prime Minister's former barber, Ramone MacGregor, had sneaked away from his new temporary place of work, to have lunch with his boss, DCI Grogan. Eason was eating a triple club sandwich with French fries and a side order of deep-fried mushrooms and onions; Grogan was eating cigarettes and coffee.
'So what's your man been up to today?' asked Grogan, referring to the contact Eason had made the day before with a PR man at Tory HQ called Dane Bledsoe, who had claimed to be working for MI6. 'You've got ketchup on your chin,' he added.
Eason wiped his face with his sleeve.
'Haven't seen him. He's been with Count Dracula all morning, press conference and stuff.'
'And what have you been doing?'
'Stuck in the office. Still supposed to be coming up with a new election slogan.'
Grogan laughed, stubbed out a cigarette and lit another.
'You were taking the pish when you came up with my cover story, weren't you?' said Eason.
Grogan laughed again and slurped some coffee.
'Partly,' he replied. 'On the one hand you couldn't market water to a wealthy dehydrated man in the desert. On the other, it's what? Like the Tory party needed a heavy-handed food slob, who likes to arrest people for wearing the wrong colour t-shirt? They needed a marketing genius, so that's what they got. What've you come up with?'
Eason took a large bite of club sandwich, a great splurge of mayonnaise erupting forth from within the layers. He shrugged and looked reasonably sheepish.
'The Conservative Party,' he said, 'Tough On Crime, Tough On Stains.'
Grogan looked over the top of his cup and shook his head.
'Thought it might appeal to the housewife vote,' said Eason.
'I should have sent you in as an undercover toilet cleaner,' said Grogan.
Eason wiped his arm across his mouth again. Took another bite so that his face was bulging with food.
'You speak to your guy at Vauxhall Cross?' he asked, the question almost unintelligible.
Grogan nodded.
'We had coffee this morning,' said Grogan. 'He knows nothing about Dane Bledsoe.'
Eason chewed on, savouring the blend of turkey, bacon, mayo, tomato, lettuce and toast. Took a drink of a chilled Chilean Chardonnay, light and crisp with hints of Gwen Stefani.
'Can you trust him?' asked Eason.
Grogan snorted.
'Are you kidding me?' he said. 'He works for MI6. You can't trust any of that lot. So, Bledsoe might well be who he says, or he could be working for someone totally different. At least we know, because he had you pegged already, that he ain't just a normal Conservative sap. If my guy's telling the truth, Bledsoe's lying, but then we'll never know if my guy's telling the truth, because inherently he's paid to lie anyway. That's his job. Kind of pointless talking to any of them.'
'So what d'you want me to do?' asked Eason.
'Simple,' said Grogan. 'If Bledsoe is getting to travel around with the Prince of Darkness and be with him all day, then that's what you have to do. You have to come up with something brilliant which makes the guy like you and makes him want to have you beside him all the time. Like that barber guy who's suddenly going everywhere with the PM.'
'That's a bit strange,' said Eason.
'Yeah,' said Grogan. 'I'll be speaking to him again, I think.'
Grogan drained his coffee. Eason took another massive bite out of his sandwich. Nearly finished and contemplating ordering another one.
'So I need a cool slogan which they're going to love,' said Eason through the food.
'No problem,' said Grogan. He held his hands up in true advertising fashion. 'Into Europe With Confidence,' he said.
Eason looked at him, wondering if he was trying to be funny. Thought about it.
'Is that what the Tories are about?' he asked.
'Oh, yes,' said Grogan, and he hid the smile behind the dregs of his coffee.
2235hrs
Late evening in London, late afternoon in Washington. The President of the United States was sitting in the Oval Office watching baseball highlights from the night
before, eating a burger. Ten minutes respite before the next round of engagements which he didn't quite have a grasp on. There was a knock at the door and the Director of the CIA stuck his head round and looked at the President.
'You still have five minutes, Sir?' he asked.
The President smiled that smug smile of his, a smile moulded in the same ancient plastic surgery factories as the smile of the PM.
'Sure,' he said. 'I'm just eating a burger here. Can I buy you one?'
'No thank you, Sir,' said the man. His predecessor had been known to accept everything offered by the President, and then stick it in his pocket and take it away to be embalmed and preserved for his own private collection.
The President bit into the burger and didn't notice the puke of sweet mustard which exploded across the desk. The Director of the CIA sat down opposite him, laid his briefcase on the desk, opened it quickly and took out the small wooden box, which had been brought over from Britain a few days earlier by the man who had murdered Ramone, the PM's hairdresser.
'I think you should take a look at this, Sir,' said the CIA man.
The president glanced over and smiled. Looked back at the TV.
'It's a lovely briefcase,' he said. 'I think I might get me myself one of those.'
'The box, Sir,' said his visitor, 'look at the box. What's in the box.'
He held it out, then placed it on the desk and pushed it across. The President of the United States stared at it curiously as he wolfed down another great wadge of cow, then he wiped his fingers on his trousers and pulled the box closer. It was heavier than it looked, and he picked it up with two hands.
'Wow,' he said, 'what's in this thing?'
'Look inside, Sir,' said the CIA man.
They exchanged a glance, and then the President slowly opened the box and looked at its contents. He stared at it a long time, comprehension growing, and then he closed it back over and laid it down on the desk.
'Wow,' he said again.
The CIA man nodded.
'If this gets out...' said the President.
'Exactly.'
The President looked back at the box.
'We need to talk about it, Porter,' he said.
'That's why I'm here, Sir.'
The President nodded and looked back at the TV. They were talking about the Red Sox. He was fed up hearing about sports teams from Boston.
'I'm going to have another burger,' he said.
2341hrs
The PM sat and looked in the mirror, baring his teeth every now and again. Depressed, as ever, by the fact that he hadn't been able to get to a dentist before the campaign had begun. At least he could see himself when he looked in the mirror, unlike the leader of the opposition.
Now, however, as well as his teeth and his varying degrees of suntan, he was depressed because the Attorney General's initial advice to the government on war in Iraq had finally been leaked. They had been waiting for it for months, and now it was out there and the press were all over it. He just had to hope that Barney Thomson was right, and that it wouldn't be telling people anything they didn't already know about him.
The door opened and Williams and Thackeray came in. Neither of them had slept in over two months, and they were beginning to look a little rough, the caffeine tablets having an ill-effect on hair colour and eyes.
'Sir?' said Williams.
'Sir?' said Thackeray.
The PM turned slowly.
'How does it look?' he asked. He was tired; so tired, that he didn't notice that his two men were zombies compared to him.
'It makes five front pages, Sir,' said Williams.
'Five,' repeated Thackeray, who had drunk fifteen cans of Red Bull and was a little wired.
'Any of them positive?' asked the PM.
'You mean,' said Williams, 'something like Proof That The PM Lied, But If He Lied To Us, Then He Can Also Lie To The French?'
'Yes,' said the PM, 'something like that.'
'No,' said Williams.
'No,' repeated Thackeray.
'All bad,' said Williams.
'All bad.'
The PM looked sadly at them and then let his eyes drift away. He needed to get to bed and then wake up the next morning invigorated. Question Time the following evening, and he couldn't afford to be flat for that.
'Thanks guys,' he said. 'Get some sleep.'
Williams nodded.
'Good night, Sir,' he said, and opened the door.
'Sleep, sleep, yes,' said Thackeray, 'nice sleep, precious sleep.'
And off they scuttled.
The door closed and the PM looked forlornly at the dull brown varnish in the dim light of early night. He rested his head in the palm of his hand and wondered if it was too late now to hand the reigns over to someone more honest, someone more charismatic and, more than anything else, someone fresher. Like Igor.
Thursday 28th April 2005
0617hrs
An early start. The PM was standing at the window of his office in Downing Street looking out at the grey skies of morning. One hand thrust in his pocket, the other clutching a cup of coffee, already his second of the day. In the room were his two assistants, Williams and Thackeray. The PM, at least, had had some sleep. Williams and Thackeray had spent the night reading the papers, talking to journalists and eating caffeine chewing gum. Williams looked tired and strained, slumped in a chair at the back of the office, rubbing his eyes. Thackeray, however, had overdosed and was chattering wildly to himself in strange tongues, pacing up and down the office, doing a passable Jim Carrey impression.
'We have to do it, Sir,' said Williams. 'It's out there now anyway. We put it on the website, we take the flak for the day, we move on.'
'It's not you who has to take the flak,' said the PM, voice edgy, without turning round.
'Flak, flak,' muttered Thackeray quickly, his mouth guzzling at words like a landed fish at the air, 'noun, anti-aircraft protection, missiles, or fragments, military slang: adverse criticism: heated disagreement, dissension. Flak jacket, a heavy protective jacket reinforced with metal. From the German 'fliegerabwehrkanone'. Flak. Roberta Flack...'
The PM turned and looked at Thackeray who gave a skip and turned at the wall, began to pace back.
'Are you all right?' he asked.
Thackeray muttered at the ground, realised the PM was addressing him. Stopped, did something sudden and unnecessary with his hands and nodded.
'Sure, sure, Prime Minister. Fine, fine, totally, you know, like, fine. I agree with Williams, yes, agree I do.'
'Agree you do?' asked the PM, slightly concerned.
'Yes, yes, release it we must.'
The PM was about to say something else, but he was a little put off by the fact that he was suddenly having a discussion with a Jedi master.
The door opened, and the PM's third, un-credited advisor, walked into the room. Barney Thomson, barber and the PM's new-found sage.
'Barber, barber,' muttered Thackeray, turning his back and scuttling off to the corner, mouth mincing at syllables. 'Near the master, must not let him, no.'
'Barney,' said the PM, raising his coffee mug to him, 'thank goodness you're here.'
Williams rubbed his forehead, sunk another centimetre into his chair. Had been bothered at first, when it had become clear the influence Barney Thomson was going to have over his boss – regardless of whether or not he actually wanted to have any influence – but he was too tired now to get stressed about it. In fact, now that Thomson was here, it took a little of the pressure away from him. Thackeray turned and looked over his shoulder at Barney, muttering darkly. Barney had had an early night, and so was at least in a decent enough state of repair to deal with the morning.
'I came as soon as I could,' said Barney, although it was too early in the morning for that level of humour, and none of the other three men in the room realised he was joking.
'Shite's hit the fan,' said the PM. 'We're discussing whether to release the Attorney General's legal advice on the
war in Iraq of 7th March, 2003.'
'You mean, now that it's been leaked and everyone's seen it anyway?' said Barney.
The PM stopped. Held his coffee in mid-air.
'Well, yes, I suppose,' he said.
Barney walked over to the small table where there was coffee, tea and croissants laid out.
'Might as well,' he said. 'Might as well.'
0814hrs
Detective Sergeant Tony Eason, undercover at Tory Party HQ, investigating the murder of the PM's previous barber, Ramone MacGregor, who had been brutally killed with a chicken almost two weeks previously, had woken early with a brilliant idea. He needed something solid to take to the Leader of the Opposition, something which would allow him into the man's inner circle, so that he could get closer to one of Count Dracula's PR men, Dane Bledsoe, a shadowy figure who had claimed to Eason to be working for MI6. Eason, who had taken to sleeping with a notepad beside his bed, had woken from a dream with the perfect election slogan for the Tories to use over the final few days of the campaign. This was what the Prince of Darkness had been waiting for. This was what would allow him into the very heart of the Tory campaign.
Eason arrived at work, shirt already flapping out of his trousers, tie a little out of line, and the remnants of a very sugary doughnut dotted around his upper cheeks. He nodded at Chardonnay the receptionist, winked at Melanie the security guard, snapped his fingers at Greta the pastry girl and strode purposefully into the reception area outside the Count's office. His secretary, Loella, looked up from that morning's correspondence.
'Loella,' said Eason, 'hi darlin'. Is the boss in?'
Loella nodded, toyed with a pen at her lips. There was something different about Eason today, and she tried to think what it was.
'See you later, sweetlips,' said Eason, and he snapped his fingers and winked at her. Loella caught herself giggling, but since there were no other women there to judge her for the outrageous retaliatory flirt, she let it go. Eason knocked, then stepped quickly into the room.
The Leader of the Opposition was sitting at his desk, fiddling with his tie. PR man Dane Bledsoe was already there, as was the Shadow Chancellor.
The Wormwood Code Page 8
