can’t buy that sort of thing on the Portobello Road.
They’re the full Monty. I beg you, don’t underestimate them.’
‘So who in God’s name are they?’ the policeman cried out softly in exasperation. ‘Arabs? Islamists? Al Qaeda? What bloody hole have they crawled out from?’
Harry leaned his forehead against the deep wood panelling of the corridor trying to round up his drifting thoughts. ‘Not so much a hole as a complex of caves, I suspect. Somewhere in the
mountains of the North West Frontier. They’ll be Pashtun, Baluchi, something like that, not the rag-tag mob of the Islamic international brigade – from what I’ve seen of these
guys, close up, they’re remarkably similar. Same physiognomy. I’ve seen something like that before . . .’ He began rhythmically banging his forehead, like a drumbeat calling his
struggling thoughts to order, but they shuffled along at their own pace for a while; memories of his briefings on active service in Iraq, fragments from his researches in the clandestine corridors
of Oxford. Suddenly they had all lined up together. ‘Mike, I think I may have got it! I know who these bastards are. And if I’m right, I can guess what they want.’
Yet from the end of the phone there was no sound of enthusiasm, not even of enquiry, only an exquisitely painful silence. It was a few moments before the other man spoke. The piano string in his
voice seemed to have broken. ‘Harry, get over here. Now. You’re right, these guys mean business. And I think we’re going to need you.’ Then he cut the link. He didn’t
even give Harry the chance to tell him what he knew.
12.12 p.m.
Inside the chamber, Eaton had been confused by the attacker’s request. ‘She’s not here. Tricia Willcocks isn’t here,’ the Prime Minister said.
‘I find that difficult to believe,’ the young terrorist responded, looking carefully round the chamber.
‘She’s indisposed. Ill.’ At last he had one over the bloody man, although the consolation was small.
‘Ah. A pity. She has quite a reputation. I was hoping to meet her. So which other members of the Cabinet are absent?’
‘I have one in China on a trade mission, another is attending the funeral of her father.’ Eaton cast around him. ‘Other than that, I believe we are all here.’
‘Then I would like another female member of the Cabinet to come forward, please . . .’ He put his hand to his temple, reaching for his mental list, hesitating over the name.
‘Mrs . . . Antrobus. The Education Secretary. Am I right?’
‘Why do you want her?’
He spoke slowly, as though talking to a dullard. ‘I want to put her on television. Make her famous. But I can’t see her, where is she?’ he demanded, his eyes probing along the
benches. ‘I want you to point her out.’
‘I’ll not hand anyone over to bloody men like—’
He was interrupted by a voice that came from a seat behind him. ‘That’s all right, Prime Minister.’ Marjie Antrobus stood, a tall, willowy blonde who had Norwegian blood in her
somewhere. ‘No point in hiding.’ And she was right. There were only five women in his Cabinet, one was at a crematorium and another still in bed. That left only three.
‘Ah, Mrs Antrobus. Please come and join me here on the steps.’
Slowly, delicately, being careful to take her time, for she wasn’t a woman to be rushed, Marjie Antrobus picked her way along the row in which she was seated and made her way forward. She
was the youngest woman in the Cabinet, with three children of school age, one of them still at nursery. That had seemed to Eaton to be as good a claim as any for being appointed Education Secretary
and she had justified his choice, proving both popular and resolute. Not often you could find a Minister who could catch the fantasies of male colleagues yet still do the mother thing. She stepped
forward. Her blue eyes held more curiosity than fear as she stood beside the young man.
And that was where he
They’re the full Monty. I beg you, don’t underestimate them.’
‘So who in God’s name are they?’ the policeman cried out softly in exasperation. ‘Arabs? Islamists? Al Qaeda? What bloody hole have they crawled out from?’
Harry leaned his forehead against the deep wood panelling of the corridor trying to round up his drifting thoughts. ‘Not so much a hole as a complex of caves, I suspect. Somewhere in the
mountains of the North West Frontier. They’ll be Pashtun, Baluchi, something like that, not the rag-tag mob of the Islamic international brigade – from what I’ve seen of these
guys, close up, they’re remarkably similar. Same physiognomy. I’ve seen something like that before . . .’ He began rhythmically banging his forehead, like a drumbeat calling his
struggling thoughts to order, but they shuffled along at their own pace for a while; memories of his briefings on active service in Iraq, fragments from his researches in the clandestine corridors
of Oxford. Suddenly they had all lined up together. ‘Mike, I think I may have got it! I know who these bastards are. And if I’m right, I can guess what they want.’
Yet from the end of the phone there was no sound of enthusiasm, not even of enquiry, only an exquisitely painful silence. It was a few moments before the other man spoke. The piano string in his
voice seemed to have broken. ‘Harry, get over here. Now. You’re right, these guys mean business. And I think we’re going to need you.’ Then he cut the link. He didn’t
even give Harry the chance to tell him what he knew.
12.12 p.m.
Inside the chamber, Eaton had been confused by the attacker’s request. ‘She’s not here. Tricia Willcocks isn’t here,’ the Prime Minister said.
‘I find that difficult to believe,’ the young terrorist responded, looking carefully round the chamber.
‘She’s indisposed. Ill.’ At last he had one over the bloody man, although the consolation was small.
‘Ah. A pity. She has quite a reputation. I was hoping to meet her. So which other members of the Cabinet are absent?’
‘I have one in China on a trade mission, another is attending the funeral of her father.’ Eaton cast around him. ‘Other than that, I believe we are all here.’
‘Then I would like another female member of the Cabinet to come forward, please . . .’ He put his hand to his temple, reaching for his mental list, hesitating over the name.
‘Mrs . . . Antrobus. The Education Secretary. Am I right?’
‘Why do you want her?’
He spoke slowly, as though talking to a dullard. ‘I want to put her on television. Make her famous. But I can’t see her, where is she?’ he demanded, his eyes probing along the
benches. ‘I want you to point her out.’
‘I’ll not hand anyone over to bloody men like—’
He was interrupted by a voice that came from a seat behind him. ‘That’s all right, Prime Minister.’ Marjie Antrobus stood, a tall, willowy blonde who had Norwegian blood in her
somewhere. ‘No point in hiding.’ And she was right. There were only five women in his Cabinet, one was at a crematorium and another still in bed. That left only three.
‘Ah, Mrs Antrobus. Please come and join me here on the steps.’
Slowly, delicately, being careful to take her time, for she wasn’t a woman to be rushed, Marjie Antrobus picked her way along the row in which she was seated and made her way forward. She
was the youngest woman in the Cabinet, with three children of school age, one of them still at nursery. That had seemed to Eaton to be as good a claim as any for being appointed Education Secretary
and she had justified his choice, proving both popular and resolute. Not often you could find a Minister who could catch the fantasies of male colleagues yet still do the mother thing. She stepped
forward. Her blue eyes held more curiosity than fear as she stood beside the young man.
And that was where he
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