‘Yes, yes, I appreciate that – but, Sarah, this is a win-win. We get our boys home and we’re not fighting Islam any more. Should send the right messages to both sides. We – that’s the President and I – see this as a real opportunity to press the reset button on our relationship with the Muslim world, and he’s prepared to put some real economic muscle behind it. And, by the way, just to give you a little bit more . . . support, I’ve asked the office to go hard on finding some young Muslim voices – you know, who we can put up to show we’re inclusive.’

Seriously? ‘I think we’ve rather passed that point.’ His feeble Tiggerish enthusiasm made her want to beat him to death with his own golf clubs.

‘Come on, Sarah, positive thinking. Crises can bring out the best in us. Let’s use this opportunity to shake the Party up a bit. With all this kerfuffle at home, it’s a good moment to start widening the gene pool.’

Kerfuffle?

She felt the chill of despair setting in.

‘Look, just do whatever you can to keep a lid on things. You’ve got my total confidence. And – you never know – it could be your finest hour. Anyway, must dash. The President wants us to get going again.’

The line went dead just as Spate slid back into the room. ‘The car’s ready, Home Secretary.’

A second, and her mental diary had gone blank.

‘For COBRA.’

She let out a low groan and reached for her bag. ‘I’m not getting into a car to travel three hundred metres down Whitehall.’

‘Under the current circumstances, Home Secretary . . .’

‘There’s a press scrum on my doorstep. I’m bloody well not going to be photographed climbing into a bulletproof Range Rover to go half a block. People need to see that someone’s got some fucking balls around

here.’

‘Absolutely, Home Secretary.’

Was that the hint of a smirk she detected? It had better bloody not be. The PM had already put her in a foul mood and, if necessary, she was prepared to get the nutcrackers out. In fact, she was looking forward to it.

Chapter 9

9

COBRA Briefing Room, Whitehall

The COBRA room smelt as if the same air had been inhaled and expelled by successive mandarins, through a filter of tobacco, alcohol, pizza and curry. Buried as it was in a blast-proof windowless basement under Whitehall, to keep the inhabitants breathing it relied on an ancient air-conditioning system that should have been donated to the Science Museum long ago.

As Garvey entered, she paused and looked over the sea of male faces. For a moment she was propelled back to her schooldays, the solitary female in her Latin class. Nothing changes. ‘Sorry I’m late. The PM kept me on the phone.’