The Horse at the Gates (30 page)

A red light pulsed in the dark sky and Saeed watched an unmanned media blimp drift silently overhead, its multiple camera platforms recording every moment and beaming the broadcast to a waiting continent. A continent about to change forever.

‘The gown,’ observed the Chancellor, smiling, ‘a nice touch. And so representative of modern Britain.’

Saeed smiled alongside the German. Actually, the man was a Turk, he reminded himself, born in Hamburg, yet the blood that coursed through his veins was pure Ottoman.

‘Thank you, brother.’

‘A little overdone, perhaps?’ ventured the Chancellor, smoothing the expensive material of his own navy blue lounge suit.

‘A gift from the Egyptian Ambassador. It would have been insulting to our guests not to have worn it.’

‘Perfect,’ the Chancellor chuckled. After a moment, he added: ‘I see things have settled down at home.’

Saeed nodded. ‘The new administration has provided the stability the country so clearly craves. The west abhors chaos.’

‘And how is the Prime Minister?’

Saeed pulled a linen handkerchief from his pocket and pretended to blow his nose, discreetly covering his mouth. ‘Hooper is a child,’ he sneered, ‘and easily manipulated. The timing of his trip to America is a measure of the man’s naivety.’

‘In any case, you did well to encourage it.’

‘You’ve seen the news. The trip goes badly for him. His allies in Cabinet were initially emboldened by the man’s unexpected promotion, but now they’re sensing blood in the water. The opportunity to move against him may present itself sooner than planned.’

‘It has to be done subtly, Tariq. Many eyes are watching you now.’

‘They shouldn’t be concerned,’ Saeed promised, settling back into his chair. An aide approached, one of the Turkish President’s entourage Saeed realised, and handed the German Chancellor a slip of paper. He read it, then placed it in his pocket. He sat a little more erect and adjusted the cuffs of his crisp white shirt.

Saeed raised an eyebrow. ‘All is well, I trust?’

‘They’re on their way.’

Sully elbowed Bryce painfully in the arm. ‘I’m sure you recognise a few of your old mates there.’

Bryce shrugged, noting the discreet exchange between the exotically-dressed Tariq and the German Chancellor, the flunkey who bowed and scuttled back behind the Turkish President across the stage. Where was Hooper? The commentary hadn’t even mentioned him yet, focussing instead on those who
were
there. Bryce recognised many faces, including representatives from the United Nations, seated just below the Organisation of Islamic Cooperation members. It was common knowledge that the OIC was the real power in the UN and the seating plan clearly reflected that hierarchy. In fact, watching the camera pan slowly along the faces of the European leaders, Bryce realised that much thought had gone into every aspect of the seating.

Saeed and the German Chancellor, both major signatories, were in the front row, along with the Turkish President and the French, Dutch and Belgian Prime Ministers. Significantly the Irish and Danish luminaries were seated further back and at opposite ends of the stage, clear punishment for sharing Bryce’s doubts about the treaty. Behind the front row was the President of Bosnia Herzegovina, a significant promotion in international terms, Bryce realised. Next to the Bosnian he noticed a diminutive figure wearing a white fez and sporting a grey beard. It took a moment before Bryce recognised the Grand Mufti of Sarajevo, the only religious leader he could see on the stage. How had the Bosnians managed that concession?

In fact, the more he studied the screen, the more he realised the significance of the occasion. He was suddenly reminded of a confrontation in the House of Commons, long before he became Prime Minister, with a young MP from an obscure British independence party. It was late and the man was drunk, obstructing Bryce as he’d tried to leave the lavatory.

‘They want it back, you know,’ the man had said, jabbing his finger in the direction of Bryce’s chest, ‘and you’ll give it to them.’

‘Give who, what?’ Bryce had asked. He remembered being annoyed, impatient.

‘Europe,’ the man had spluttered. ‘Don’t you get it? Don’t you see? You’re being used. They’re laughing at us, behind closed doors, in the mosques and madrassas, all over Britain, all across Europe.’ The man had raised a finger to his lips, swaying drunkenly on his feet. ‘It’s their secret, their black manifesto. We’re being duped, drugged, lulled into a false sense of security. I know. I can seeee...’

The man had hissed the word like a snake, his amateur dramatics interrupted by an awkward stumble against the wall, giving Bryce the opportunity to leave the lavatory and have the man arrested. Now, watching events in Cairo unfold, Bryce recalled those bitter words, applying their offensive logic to what he could see on the screen before him. The ranks of Europe’s elite were heavily sprinkled with prominent Muslims, united, powerful, with ready smiles and warm handshakes in abundance, waiting patiently to sign a document that would change the face of Europe forever.

No, he chastised himself, it was a ridiculous chain of thought.

On the screen, the live feed cut to an aerial shot of a convoy moving swiftly through the suburbs of Giza. The palm-lined highway was swept clear of traffic, police outriders shadowing the fleet of black Mercedes limousines in a dance of blue lights.

‘Here they come,’ Sully announced brightly. ‘The show’s about to begin.’

A ripple of applause reached Saeed’s ears, growing louder with each second, like an approaching rainstorm. The multitudes were clapping and cheering, the sound rolling across the desert floor in steady waves and crashing against the strings of the orchestra that fought to compete. In the distance, a procession of limousines snaked their way towards the pyramids, headlights gliding along the blacktop. Offstage, men and women sporting headsets and microphones flew into a whirlwind of self-important activity as the convoy drew closer. The stage lighting suddenly increased in intensity as the orchestra shifted gear from the exquisite delicacy of Handel to Beethoven’s rousing Symphony number Nine, the conductor whipping the air with his baton and drawing an energetic response from his musicians.

Impressive, Saeed mused, very impressive. The gathered heads of state stood as the Egyptian ceremonial troops surrounding the stage came to attention as one, their weapons held stiffly before them. The symphony built towards its thunderous climax, the applause of the multitudes rising like the sound of the ocean into the Egyptian night.

The Presidents of Europe and Egypt, their limousines drawing up at the bottom of the steps in perfect synchronisation, had arrived.

Danny dragged a chair across the bedroom and sat on the small balcony as darkness settled across the Hertfordshire countryside. It had become something of a ritual at the end of the day, enjoying a cup of tea as he watched the shadows stretch across the fields behind the house, the crisp air punctuated by the call of evening birdsong, the cautious appearance of white-tailed rabbits and other wildlife as an occasional moon bathed the earth in its cold, clear light. As he sipped his brew, Danny saw a firework explode somewhere over the rolling hills towards Watford. He took a deep breath and sighed, recognising the perfect moment to spark up a fat boy and get quietly wasted. But smoking was forbidden in the house and, besides, he had no gear. In fact, he hadn’t had a smoke since he’d arrived and he felt better for it, although the withdrawal symptoms were a bitch sometimes. Keep busy, that’s what Ray recommended. He was right, as usual.

Another firework bloomed in the distant sky. Everyone would be getting pissed tonight, and Danny briefly wondered what was going on back at the King’s Head. There was probably some sort of drink-up in progress, seeing as the whole country was officially in party mode, though whether the stupid bastards realised they were celebrating yet another inevitable tax burden was anyone’s guess. He was glad to be away from that shithole, anyway. The law might still be hunting him, but here, behind the walls of the estate, he felt safe. And he was well looked after too. Three squares a day, a comfortable apartment, work around the estate; for the first time in many years, Danny felt useful and a whole lot healthier, too.

He heard the TV on the sitting room wall hum into life and Ray’s gruff voice rasping from the speakers.
‘Danny? You there?’
Danny hurried into the sitting room and reached for the remote control, activating the TV’s inbuilt camera.
‘Ah, there you are. Come and join the party, son.’

Behind Ray’s tanned head, Danny could see a group of people gathered in one of the reception rooms of the main house. He could hear music, the buzz of conversation and the odd peal of laughter. Danny hesitated. ‘Are you sure, Ray? I mean, I’m supposed to be in hiding and all that.’

Ray’s pearl-white smile beamed across the screen. ‘Don’t worry, son, it’s an informal gathering. Old friends, senior members of the Movement, all highly trusted individuals. You couldn’t be in safer company.’

Twenty minutes later, Danny let himself in through the kitchen door wearing a pair of beige chinos and a freshly-pressed white polo shirt. Once again he checked his appearance, this time in the hallway mirror, realising how different he looked from the old custody shots the media were still circulating. His hair had grown a fraction, allowing Tess to tidy it and sweep in a side parting. The beard was neatly trimmed and his complexion had that healthy outdoors look. All in all, he felt no-one would recognise him from his mug shot and that gave him a bit more confidence. Still, the thought of meeting Ray’s friends was a little intimidating.

‘Very handsome.’ Danny turned and saw Ray in the doorway of the main reception room. ‘Come on, son. Everyone’s waiting.’

The wood-panelled room was lit by strategically placed candle clusters and a couple of small table lamps that glowed on either side of the large windows. A TV mounted on a trolley next to the door droned quietly, barely cutting through the chatter. The atmosphere seemed relaxed enough and Danny counted maybe twenty people scattered around the room, some well-dressed and clearly moneyed, others a bit more down market. The ladies, most wearing party dresses and sparkling jewellery, gathered on the numerous sofas, while the men stood in quiet groups. No one noticed Danny until Ray swept a meaty arm around his shoulders and led him into the centre of the room.

‘Can I have everyone’s attention for a moment, please.’ The chatter died away and Danny’s cheeks reddened as the small crowd studied him, curious expressions on their faces. He saw one woman on the sofa whisper something to a heavily made-up blond next to her and both women giggled softly, ramping up Danny’s embarrassment. Some edged closer to him, while others lingered around the walls, their faces lost in the shadows. Danny felt like a specimen in a glass box. Ray’s strong fingers squeezed his shoulder.

‘Friends, I’d like you to meet Danny Whelan. As most of you know, Danny has been a guest of mine for a while now and I’d like to think in that time we’ve become friends, right Danny?’

Danny’s cheeks burnt a deep crimson.
Thank God for the beard.
‘Er, yeah, of course Ray.’