By as early as noon, the Home Secretary’s diary secretary was pale with nervous tension. By teatime she had retreated to the ladies for a quiet sob on at least two occasions.
Meeting after meeting in Marsham Street ran late as Ralph Rafferty interrogated private contractors on their plans to build new prisons; as he cross-examined department lawyers on an obscure piece of legislation to tighten up on migrant applications; and as he paced back and forth demanding explanations from immigration officials on delays at passport control.
Sitting at his desk with steepled fingers, he’d kept his face a mask of benign tolerance as he allowed a notorious backbench windbag to witter on at length about domestic violence, overruling his own officials as they attempted to break up the meeting and ease the MP out.
As a result of which obfuscation, Rafferty felt himself to be within his rights as he complained that he was his own worst enemy when it came to being a workhorse. He scowled as he ordered his diary secretary to ring his driver and stand him down for another hour. It was really too bad. He had to be at the British Museum for the Derkind gala. They were expecting him – indeed, he was something of a guest of honour. They’d think him damn rude, when everyone knew that he was the soul of courtesy. On his way back into his office, he even slammed the door, apparently in martyred exasperation.
Safe in his private sanctum, the Right Honourable Ralph Rafferty was desperate to speak with the General. Kirkham’s ruthlessness terrified even Rafferty. He dug out his private phone and placed it with some care on the papers stacked on the desk as his long fingers moulded and stroked his jaw. He settled the lank sweep of hair across his forehead. Kirkham knew no limits, no fear. Rafferty’s fingers moved to the phone, hovering over the keypad. He could order the General to call it off. Or at least persuade him to a more measured course. Plead, if that is what it took – before it was too late and too much blood had been spilled.
Rafferty’s ears pricked at the wail of distant sirens. Were the police already en route to the British Museum? Or were the sirens merely part of the nightly city soundscape?
The noise faded into nothingness. Routine, then.
Hawke’s AI was an abomination. Rafferty could well see it burning up the world. But he knew this much – if he called Kirkham off, the General would despise his civilian cowardice, cut him loose and go ahead anyway. And when the General did that, Rafferty would lose any leverage he had. He shook his head – he was too far in. He’d been careful, but God knows what compromising materials Kirkham had on him. What did the Russians call it – ‘kompromat’? If the General failed, he would take great pleasure in dragging Rafferty down with him, which could not be allowed to happen. Behind the round glasses, the politician’s myopic eyes struggled to find and focus on the clock face opposite. London time. Eight p.m. He had calculated it would take around three seconds for the first call to the police and maybe seven seconds more for the police to let the Home Secretary know.
Ten seconds.
He was a great man, he reminded himself, and he was on the side of the future.
Nine.
And this was his time.
Eight, seven, six.
God knows the prize was big enough to justify the death of a few unfortunates. They were necessary sacrifices to get him where he deserved to be and what he needed to have once he got there.
Five, four.
Political power and the wherewithal to use it for everyone’s benefit, not just his own.
Three.
It was his patriotic duty to go ahead.
Two.
He merely had to hold his nerve because it would all be over soon. Hawke be damned.
One.
Rafferty swept the phone off the desk and back into his jacket pocket even as he heard the melee start up outside his door. The noises were muffled, every phone in the place going off, the sound of running feet along the corridor, scuffles and fervent murmurs.
Despite himself, his lips twitched in a smile. He dragged down his muscles, clamping shut his lips as he pulled his shoulders back. A statesman in his country’s hour of peril. This was it. He picked up his pen.
There was a knock at the door.
The door opened, closed again – the noise of leather-soled shoes crossing the carpet, the whisper of wool cloth rubbing against itself, rapid shallow breaths and an aftershave blended with sandalwood and mediocrity. His Principal Private Secretary. It had begun.
Grasping his pen a little tighter, he kept his head bent over his papers – holding up his hand as he scrawled an exclamation mark against a paragraph he hadn’t read. Looking over his round spectacles with a sigh, Rafferty frowned – he was at work. Whatever it was, the official would have to wait for the Secretary of State to finish up his statecraft. What could possibly be so important as to disturb him? He had to get through these critically important papers before he could leave for the gala where the future awaited him.
He was careful to keep his face in order. Not to smile.
‘Home Secretary.’ His Principal Private Secretary sounded apologetic but insistent. ‘We have a situation at the Derkind gala. It’s bad. I have the Metropolitan Commissioner of Police on the line for you.’