Salt flashed his security badge at the grilled entrance to Downing Street.
He nodded at the policeman guarding the large black door and stepped into the lobby. The size of the building never ceased to surprise him. You never forgot you were in a converted residential house, no matter what room you were in, even though it was stripped of bedrooms. The remaining spaces had been converted into reception areas, with every effort having been made to ensure it did not resemble an office building.
A slim, red-haired man with a brisk, efficient manner marched up to him holding an appointment book in his hand.
‘Sir Charles, you could at least have called.’
‘He’ll want to see me,’ said Salt.
‘You are lucky. He’s still awake.’
Tim Sergeant, the Prime Minister’s Permanent Private Secretary, was already walking away by the time he finished the sentence, and Salt followed him through the lobby and up what was called the Grand Staircase.
‘Can I ask what this is about?’ asked Sergeant.
Salt didn’t reply. Sergeant should have known better than to ask.
‘Follow me,’ said the PPS curtly.
Salt followed him into the study at the back of the house.
Sergeant knocked once with the knuckle of an index finger, an announcement more than a request, and opened the door.
It was a fitting statement for 10 Downing Street that even the room called the study did not have a desk in it. It was a sitting room with a fireplace at one end, next to which sat four chairs arranged around a mahogany coffee table, and at the other end was a round table large enough to sit eight chairs. Bookshelves with lattice doors covered two of the walls, and framed portraits of previous prime ministers hung from chains affixed to the ceiling above the fireplace.
The Prime Minister sat at the dining table, a large red box open at his elbow. Salt could see reports, spread out across the desk, covered with bright-yellow sections that had been marked with a highlighter. The PM looked up distractedly as Salt entered.
‘Charles, now’s not a good time.’
‘I just had a nice chat with Orpheus.’
The PM looked in alarm over the top of his half-moon spectacles.
‘You caught her?’
‘No. But we will.’
The PM stood up, leaving his papers, and walked over to where Salt was sitting, taking a chair opposite.
‘Make sure you don’t lose her again,’ said the PM. ‘This is our last chance at the Orpheus programme.’
Salt shook his head.
‘Actually, the sister didn’t attack Ultra. She’s only just realized what she is. And that leaves only one other person who could be behind the attacks. Christian. So, both assets are in play.’
The PM said nothing for some time, the flames in the fireplace casting dancing reflections on his spectacles.
‘If he really did survive the drone strike, then he’s more powerful than we thought. What’s your advice?’
Salt smiled. The night had left him invigorated; he felt like he was in his twenties again. There was no more doubt in his mind. He knew the way forwards.
‘We’re going to kill two birds with one stone.’