The professor glances at Redmayne, who smiles self-deprecatingly and settles back in the chair beside his desk. “I’ll be here when you’re done with,” he murmurs.
Berry levers himself creakily out of his wingback chair. “Thank you for arranging this,” he says, then approaches the study door.
The PM’s office is not particularly large, but impeccably furnished with impressive antiques from the national collection. Unlike the Oval Office in the White House, the PM’s den is not usually used for public appearances. Its window casements overlook the walled garden at the rear, but are protected on the outside with bulletproof glass; those parts of the walls unbroken by windows are fitted with tall bookcases, and the floor is broken up by a cluster of armchairs at one end of the room and a small meeting table at the other.
The PM is sitting at one end of the meeting table, reviewing papers from an open ministerial red box. He’s wearing reading glasses and using a pen to scribble brief marginalia, his expression set in the intent mask of a schoolboy racing against the clock in an examination room. As the door swings shut behind Professor Berry, he walks slowly forward into the middle of the room, and waits.
Jeremy Michaels, the Prime Minister, finishes with one Treasury-tagged memo, places it facedown in the other half of the open box, then picks up the next paper. “Well?” he says, offhandedly, as if talking to himself. “Make it fast.”
Lord Berry knows a provocation when he sees one, and a hostile audience, not to mention a fix-up. Just the fact that he requested this meeting on Monday when the news broke and Number Ten only offered him a slot on Saturday speaks volumes. “All right. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t already been briefed against my agency. I asked for this meeting to give you the other side of the story and explain why the course of action you’ve embarked on is incredibly unwise—if you’re listening.” Needling the PM is a risk, but he’s already so closed off that it’s not a huge one: if it jolts him into paying attention, it’s worthwhile. And indeed, Michaels pauses in his reading of the memo on his blotter. Then, with exaggerated deliberation, he puts down his pen and makes eye contact with the professor.
“You have ten minutes, your Lordship, to explain why I should reinstate an organization that has demonstrably shat the bed in the most public manner imaginable, seriously embarrassing this administration, and the termination of which has already been announced. What makes you think there’s anything on earth that will change my mind?”
Berry fixes his gaze on the wall behind the PM. “Well, two things, really. Firstly, Q-Division shat the bed, as you put it, because of a long-term shortfall in recruitment, funding, and coverage. Bluntly, they’re overstretched and we were unable to do our job properly. So my first message is that you can shoot your guard dog if it displeases you—but you’re still going to have to secure your backyard. The threat hasn’t gone away; if anything, we got off lightly this time. The order as issued made no provision for continuity or handover of existing projects; as such there are some, shall we say, very worrying gaps in coverage now. Firing the executive would have been one thing, but dismissing the line staff all the way down to the cleaners is going to cripple the replacement agency for months and lead to catastrophic loss of institutional knowledge. As to the second message, it’s a bit uglier. Obviously you need to be seen to be doing something, and a major reorganization is the obvious thing to show you’re a strong leader cleaning house. But we have a long habit of not using private sector contractors in this business. So there’s nobody local to take on the job. Other governments do things differently, and doubtless you’ve been wooed by certain security conglomerates who can boast of esoteric specialities. Our advice to you is that we already vetted these contracting agencies with a view to using them—and rejected them with extreme prejudice. They come with some extremely questionable baggage attached and they do not have this nation’s best interests at heart; it’d be like outsourcing the Army to Russia.”
One minute. Berry pauses and takes stock of the PM. His heart sinks: it’s not looking good. Michaels’s head is slightly tilted, as if he’s trying to drain the water out of one ear—by all accounts he’s a good swimmer—and he’s wearing a slightly pained expression as if an annoying mosquito is buzzing around his head. Berry doesn’t dare to use his not-inconsiderable thaumic skills these days—not unless he’s willing to court an aneurism—but he is pretty certain that the PM is not wearing one of the wards SOE supplied to the Cabinet Office. But neither is his mind undefended. There’s only one conclusion Berry can reach, and it’s an unpalatable one.
“Your Lordship,” the PM begins, then pauses. “You’ve just threatened me twice in one minute. Firstly, with unspecified nasty beasties from the vasty deeps: ‘last time was bad, next time will be worse.’ And secondly, you’re casting aspersions on our American friends’ preferred contractors. I have it on very good authority that the corporation we’re talking to is specifically rated as best-of-breed by our trans-Atlantic colleagues. As there is no domestic equivalent, I have to conclude that you’re trying to put the frighteners on me in order to stop the restructuring and reform of the failed agency dead in its tracks.”
Michaels started slowly but is rapidly gathering momentum, and shifting gear from patronizing lecture to bully pulpit as he goes: “I will not be told what to do by a jumped-up maths teacher turned civil servant who bears partial responsibility for the worst disaster on British soil since the Battle of Hastings!” An expression of disgust steals over his face. “I’m fed up to here with you people spinning all sorts of bizarre lies to justify your featherbedding and special status within the Civil Service. As of now, that’s ancient history. SOE will not be reinstated. Instead it will be replaced, and its replacement will be integrated with the rest of the defense apparatus, with sails trimmed to fit our policy position, rather than made-up mumbo jumbo about alien gods and magic.” He snorts. “Get out of here. We’re done.”
Berry stands slowly, then nods. “Of course. If that is your final word, sir, I have no alternative but to respect it.” The specialized ward he wears under his shirt collar is buzzing like a trapped wasp, desperate to escape. He can feel the pressure bearing down on it, the hostile intent of the Prime Minister’s master. He needs to leave and bear witness while he can. “I doubt we’ll meet again. Goodbye.”
SEVEN
AUDITION FOR APOCALYPSE
Now pay attention: