Sarah Garvey scrolled through the emails on her BlackBerry. They were the same messages she’d read twenty minutes ago, but she felt the need to concentrate on something else while Clements was speaking. She was by far the most senior politician present – the others were all comparatively low level – yet she had been added to the list at the last minute. Was this some kind of slight, to get back at her for her robust chairing of the COBRA meetings? Whatever was behind it, she smelt a rat.

Clements referred once again to his star guest and this time put on his grave face. ‘I’m sure I speak for everyone present when I say how profoundly shocked we all were by the atrocity at the hostel. And may I add my personal compliments to you, Vernon, for the restraint and moderation with which you have chosen to respond. An example to us all,’ he added, with a glance at Garvey, whose short temper and fondness for rapid-fire expletives were notorious in Whitehall.

She focused on Rolt. She found it disturbing that opinions which would have been considered toxic a matter of months ago were rapidly gaining credibility. Before, just being in a room with someone holding his views would have been political suicide, yet now his presence was regarded as a lifeline, politicians virtually queuing up for a photo-opportunity.

He was very seductive, no question. Partly it was his looks. He was timelessly handsome. With his thick, short dark hair and clear blue eyes, he could have been a film star: Sean Connery in his Bond days. Also his composure, the apparent lack of outrage combined with the quiet passion, were all great attributes, all the more so when he was seated beside Clements, whose oily manner and imperiousness were so repellent to her. She suspected his sexual proclivities did not even involve other humans.

Clements was still talking, ranging over the events of the past few weeks, firing out statistics of casualties, damage. He was in his element, presiding over his favourite kind of situation, semi-covert, with the promise of confidentiality for all, so he could soak up whatever thoughts people were having and pass them back to the PM. She was alarmed at the extent to which he’d had the top man’s ear since he’d returned from Washington. And she was not a little piqued at how her own role seemed to have been subtly down-graded.

Privately the PM had been full of praise for her handling of the unrest, but publicly he talked as if he had been in complete charge – even while he was poncing about at Camp David. But what could she expect? With an election coming, if he didn’t look strong and decisive he could take them all down with him.

Early that morning she had called Mandler, MI5’s director general, to tell him about the Rolt meeting.