Cabinet Office Briefing Room A fell silent as William Davies strode through the open door. The heads of Britain’s various security agencies had been around the table for close to thirty minutes already. Little had been discussed. The meeting could not begin until the prime minister was present.
Davies walked to the head of the table and took his seat. All eyes were upon him. His own remained downcast.
Davies knew that he looked worn out. Mainly because he was. It had been five hours since the shooting. Some leaders thrive on the pressure. On the stress. Davies did not. The events of the day were a threat to his very survival as prime minister. It was not a situation that played to his political strengths.
He placed his files on the table ahead of him, then glared wordlessly around the room. All eyes looked back at him. Most belonged to men and women who had risked their lives for their country. Together they made up the COBRA Committee, the fast-response body convened in times of crisis and named after the room they now occupied. These were not individuals who were easily intimidated by an angry politician.
Davies’ gaze moved from one operative to the next. He knew them all, but in his tired, increasingly paranoid mind each was a blank canvas. Faceless proponents of a world he neither understood nor welcomed. Davies wanted as little to do with these people – with their secrecy and with their espionage – as possible. Just being among them irritated him.
But today it was unavoidable.
‘I don’t need to tell you what a disaster this is.’
Davies kept his tone soft; an intentional effort. It would help no one to begin with blame or conflict. There would be ample time for those.
‘But I do have to explain the situation to President Knowles. The Americans of course have their own investigators all over this already, so whether this blows up into an international incident could depend upon what I tell him. Now let’s see what spin we can put on this. What do we know?’
Davies watched as each pair of eyes swept around the table. He could tell that no one wanted to be first. They all knew the risk. Trafalgar Square had been a disaster. Millions – by now billions, even – had seen the UK’s most popular politician shot dead. That former President Howard Thompson had escaped with just a shoulder wound was no mitigation. Britain’s security services had been humiliated in the eyes of the world. And their American equivalents were circling, ready to strike at whoever had put their president at risk.
If Davies were to have any political future he could not allow that humiliation to stand. He could not allow an American investigation to get to the truth before his own agencies. The urgency of the situation demanded a scapegoat. Davies knew it. And so, it seemed, did the men and women in the room.
Finally his question was answered.
‘You probably know as much as any of us, Prime Minister.’
Davies turned to face the speaker. It was a courtesy. Nothing more. Davies was interested only in the information. Not in its source.
‘Why don’t you run me through it anyway? It will be helpful to hear as complete a version of events as we have.’
‘As you know, sir, the shooter was apprehended by a member of the Department of Domestic Security. This undoubtedly saved the life of President Thompson. It was, tragically, too late for Sir Neil Matthewson. The assassin has been taken to Paddington Green police station for questioning. This is ongoing as we speak.’
‘And we believe, do we, that this attack was the execution of the threats our intelligence services had uncovered against President Thompson?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. We do.’
‘I’m sorry, but what threats?’ The voice came from the back of the room.
Davies turned to face the new questioner. It was one of the room’s informal occupants, an assistant commissioner of the Metropolitan Police. Officially present as just a witness, the man seemed surprised at this new information.
‘It was a direct threat from the True IRA against the life of President Thompson,’ the original speaker explained, turning to face the Met officer as he spoke. ‘Specific enough that the former president’s continued involvement in the event was questioned.’
‘Questioned by whom?’
‘By both the UK and the US. With Thompson under threat, his involvement became an additional security factor. One we could have done without.’
The assistant commissioner took the answer and did not pursue the enquiry. Davies, however, wanted to know more.
‘Assuming this is right – that President Thompson was asked to reconsider his attendance in light of the threat – who overruled it? Who insisted on his continued presence?’
‘The White House did, sir. We were told that they would increase the Secret Service presence and that this would be sufficient.’
‘And my office?’
‘Your office directly deferred to the White House on the decision, sir.’
A smile crept across Davies’ face. This information had somehow passed him by – an oversight he would be looking into – but, for now, it was exactly what he needed to hear. The decision had been made by the Americans. That made it very difficult for them to criticise the British government.
Difficult, but not impossible. The full picture was needed.
‘How sure are we that what happened today was connected to this specific threat?’
‘We cannot be absolutely certain as of this moment.’ A second speaker. Another face Davies knew. Another recognition he resented. ‘Not until we have a verified claim from the True IRA themselves. But circumstances suggest that our assumption is correct.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that as Thompson was the target of the threat and as Thompson was one of today’s victims – albeit he was not the one fatally injured – then the logical supposition is that the threat made was the threat carried out. In addition we now know the identity of the shooter. His name is Eamon McGale, a native of Belfast. In the current climate McGale’s nationality alone would suggest involvement with either the UVA or the True IRA, as they are currently the active paramilitary organisations in the province. When combined with the specific threat from the True IRA, the conclusion rather writes itself.’
Davies nodded in agreement.
‘And has this McGale person not assisted by confirming his motives?’ he asked. ‘Or even just his loyalties? Surely that would negate the need for any verified confirmation from the organisation?’
‘Yes, it would. But I’m afraid we haven’t been able to get anything at all from him. He won’t say anything beyond confirming his identity. At least until he has seen a lawyer.’
‘Then we’ll have to do something about that.’
Davies had seen an opportunity to shift at least some of the blame to the White House. It put him in a hurry to see it happen.
‘If he won’t speak without a lawyer then we need to supply one.’
‘That’s been dealt with already.’
It was the original speaker again. Davies turned to face him.
‘It was urgent and so your office made arrangements in your absence, Prime Minister. Of course they had to be very careful in selecting the right person. An establishment lawyer wouldn’t look right in the left-wing press, while a lawyer with known terrorist connections would be wholly unacceptable to the Americans.
‘As such they decided – in consultation with the Ministry of Justice, MI5 and the US Secret Service – to use an independent lawyer with an unimpeachable reputation. This man has been contacted and in all likelihood he will attend Paddington Green to advise McGale and represent him in interview first thing tomorrow morning. After which we’ll hopefully know a lot more.’
‘In all likelihood he’ll be there in the morning? You’ll hopefully know a lot more after that?’
Davies could not hide his irritation. With political survival within his grasp, he was becoming desperate.
‘This all sounds very uncertain. We’re not operating purely on wishful thinking and good intentions here, are we?’
The speaker opened his mouth to respond. He was stopped by a dismissive wave of Davies’ hand. The prime minister had more questions.
‘And who is the lawyer in whom we are placing so much trust?’
‘His name is Daniel Lawrence. He’s a very well-known human rights lawyer with a reputation for utter integrity. We felt—’
‘I know who Daniel Lawrence is.’
Davies could hear the change in his own tone of voice as he interrupted. The identity of McGale’s lawyer was not happy news.
‘Daniel Lawrence is the godson of Anthony Haversume. For the purposes of maintaining civility, I’m going to assume that wasn’t the reason he was chosen for this task. But other than that unfortunate connection, yes, I suppose Mr Lawrence is a good choice.’
No explanation was needed for Davies’ comments. His difficult relationship with Anthony Haversume MP was common knowledge.
Haversume had been a minister in Davies’ cabinet until resigning his position with the stinging criticism that Davies had surrendered to terrorists in Northern Ireland as part of the renewed peace process. Since that time Irish terrorist activity had surged, both Catholic and Protestant. It had cost hundreds of lives and strengthened Haversume’s argument, making him Davies’ most vocal critic. If the prime minister had a nemesis, it was Haversume.
Davies continued.
‘And, as you say, hopefully we will know more once McGale has been interviewed in the morning. In the meantime, let’s focus on what we do know. Firstly, how on earth did McGale get a gun into Trafalgar Square when we’d restricted entry?’
A third speaker answered. Another practitioner of the dark arts, as far as Davies was concerned. Another face he resented knowing.
‘His pistol had masking tape around it. There was no sign of tape on him, or any marks on his body to suggest that anything had been taped to him. It’s a fair assumption, then, that he collected the weapon inside the square. That someone left it for him.’
The final statement hit Davies like a physical blow. The light at the end of his metaphorical tunnel was suddenly receding. There was rising anger in his voice as he spoke.
‘Are you telling me that someone with access through our security planted that gun for him to use? That this thing was planned with the help of an insider?’
‘That’s the only logical conclusion.’ The answer was matter-of-fact. ‘Someone in a position of trust was involved. McGale could not have done it alone.’
Silence descended as Davies took this in. He looked from face to face. Searched for a different opinion. All he found was wordless agreement. Defeated, his eyes returned to the bearer of this bad news.
Taking a deep breath, he asked the inevitable question.
‘Have we got any idea who this insider is?’
‘No, sir.’ The answer came from the same senior agent. ‘I’m afraid we don’t. It could be anyone. From any team. We can’t even say if it was from the British side or from the American.’
‘THAT’S JUST NOT GOOD ENOUGH!’
The sudden increase in volume made even the most experienced operatives jump.
Davies could see his political survival moving further out of reach. It made him desperate. A desperation that manifested as anger. Every shouted word was directed at the latest speaker.
‘WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO TELL PRESIDENT KNOWLES?’
‘That we are investigating every angle, sir.’ The agent kept his calm. ‘The Americans had joint responsibility for security, Prime Minister. It’s as much their failure as ours.’
‘AND YOU THINK THAT WILL MAKE A DIFFERENCE, DO YOU?’
There was anger in every word.
‘IT WAS ON BRITISH SOIL. WHICH MEANS WE WILL BEAR THE BLAME FOR THIS IF WE CAN’T IDENTIFY THE INSIDER.’
‘Sir, we will get to the bottom of this. We will find who was working with McGale. We just need more than five hours to do that.’
Davies did not respond. He could not, because the agent had a point. Five hours was just not enough time. Even the White House would understand that.
The thought calmed him. As did the realisation that, right now, he needed these people. Alienating them with anger and abuse would achieve nothing.
‘OK.’ When Davies spoke again his tone had lowered. Still strained, but at least his volume had decreased. ‘That seems reasonable enough. At least to buy us some time. Which leaves the question of apprehension. Why wasn’t McGale stopped before he fired?’
Most eyes turned to the meeting’s first speaker, but it was the second who answered.
‘Timing, Prime Minister. McGale was seated close to the stage, twenty-three rows back and in an aisle seat. He waited until the crowd were on their feet and applauding before making his move. When one considers the short distance, and the cover he had by moving quickly among an animated crowd, it’s really no wonder that he wasn’t taken down sooner. That anyone reacted at all is quite remarkable.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Davies jumped on the opportunity. ‘The reaction of our operatives. I’ve been fully briefed on this point. It could be problematic. Having broken cover, the gunman ran into the area at the foot of the stage. An area controlled by a team from the DDS.’
The Department of Domestic Security. It was the first agency Davies had mentioned by name. In that moment every man and woman at the table knew that the scapegoat had been selected.
Davies continued, aware that his intention was now clear.
‘Of the nine DDS operatives in that area, only two reacted. Of those two, one managed to put her head into the line of fire of the only marksman to get a shot off. The other failed to draw his weapon at all. I’m no expert, but is that the standard I should expect from our premier department of national security?’
‘With all due respect, sir, I think you are oversimplifying the situation.’
Davies turned to face the latest speaker. This time it was the head of MI5, the UK’s internal security service.
‘How so?’ Davies asked.
There was no mistaking the prime minister’s tone. He would not accept the explanation that was to come. But still the answer was given.
‘As anyone with field experience knows, Prime Minister, those agents did more than could be expected of them. How they reacted so quickly is beyond me, but somehow they managed it.’
‘Yes, but you’re missing the point. Those operatives may well have reacted quickly, but they also did so incompetently. The world saw seven DDS agents do nothing, an eighth get shot by her own marksman and a ninth who seemed to forget that he carried a gun. They allowed a major security operation to descend into farce.’
‘I hardly think that’s fair, sir.’
The last word was spat out. The expression on the face of the MI5 director suggested that it had not left a pleasant taste.
He continued.
‘The DDS agents followed protocol to the letter. Sergeant Regis had the short-range shot. In those circumstances Major Dempsey was required to keep his weapon holstered. If he were to draw it he would risk hitting the agent with the clearer firing opportunity. That is why he didn’t shoot and that is why the police sniper should not have pulled his trigger. The agents did everything right. If the marksman had done the same we would not be having this conversation.’
The heads around the table seemed to turn as one. Towards the occupant of a seat in the far corner of the room. The same Met officer who had spoken earlier.
The MI5 director addressed the man directly.
‘Assistant Commissioner, as you know, you’ve been asked to attend this committee today as a witness, to deal with the matter that has now arisen. Namely to establish which of the twenty snipers on duty around Trafalgar Square today took the shot which killed Sergeant Samantha Regis. Are you yet in a position to deal with this issue?’
The police officer rose to his feet. He faced Davies rather than his interrogator. ‘Prime Minister, despite the inclusion of multiple agencies in the blanket marksmen coverage of the square we have been able to confirm – albeit unofficially – that the shot was . . .’
‘I did not ask you a question,’ Davies interrupted, ‘and nor am I interested in your answer. Take your seat.’
Davies indicated the same instruction with his hand as he interrupted.
His eyes returned to the director of MI5. Fault had been placed. Davies would not see that changed.
‘It was the DDS agents who failed today. No one else. This was supposed to be a celebration of our victory in the war against terror. Instead, the incompetence of our operatives has allowed it to descend into a rallying call to terrorists across the world.’
There was no response. And Davies knew why. He knew the belief that these people held. It was part of why he hated them. They believed that Davies had surrendered in Ulster. That he had gifted power to those who had maimed and killed in exchange for nothing. They regarded Davies’ concessions for peace to be nothing less than cowardice. Davies knew differently. He also knew that he would never persuade them from their views. And nor would he try.
‘OK,’ he finally said, breaking the silence. ‘Time to move on. I want to know what steps are being taken to identify McGale’s accomplice.’