“I’m taking you to Ādaži, but I’m staying with you. You need me now more than ever. And we’ll need that radio of yours before this is over. Ādaži will be where the fightback will begin. Not here in Riga. Not after this morning.”
Krauja looked at Morland. Their eyes met.
Morland’s heart missed a beat. He felt immensely protective. He knew he’d go to the ends of the earth for her. At that moment in time, fighting for Latvia meant fighting for Marina Krauja. But she must never know.
“What are you waiting for, then?” he ordered. “Let’s roll.”
TREV WALKER SIPPED morosely at a Diet Coke and checked the emails on his iPhone. He was sitting in the open-plan bar of the Russell Arms, a rambling, quirky pub just under a mile north of the Prime Minister’s official residence at Chequers, in the green and leafy Buckinghamshire countryside on the edge of the Chiltern Hills. Normally he’d be quite happy to spend Sunday lunchtime in a pub, but surrounded as he was by boot-clad hikers and check-trousered Sunday golfers, fresh from eighteen holes on the nearby Ellesborough club course, he felt uncomfortably out of place. In his ill-fitting and crumpled off-the-peg suit and scuffed black shoes, he knew he looked like it, too.
Walker was happiest in the Red Lion, halfway down Whitehall and almost opposite the entrance to Downing Street. That was where he could meet, network and extend his influence. A country pub full of newly countrified people relaxing on a Sunday was well outside his comfort zone.
He looked across at the lunch table in the corner of the dining room where the Prime Minister sat with his family. It had clearly been a good morning for him. He sat, like any other forty-something father, focused on his pretty wife and young children, completely happy. Walker accepted that the PM was reasonably conscientious at dealing with his ministerial boxes, usually before breakfast, but sometimes, thought Walker, the PM overdid the relaxing. Photos of him with his family might sit well with middle-class, female voters—one of the PM’s fixations—but one result was that he could end up reacting to events, rather than driving them, like that latest telephone call from President Dillon of the United States.
Walker had no time for the British defense establishment at the best of times. In fact, he enjoyed treating them with undisguised contempt and reveled in the knowledge that his suits and unpolished shoes drove some of them into a fury, before he even started to talk down to them. But even he had to admit that the government’s approach to defense was too much smoke and mirrors and that Dillon’s criticisms had been exactly on the mark.
Walker knew full well that there was precious little proper strategic thinking going on in 10 Downing Street. He knew also from this morning’s telephone call with President Dillon in Washington that she knew that, too. But he had to give her credit for the way she’d flattered the PM and asked him to stand alongside the US. But again, it was all about creating the right perception for the focus groups on which so many government decisions were based. For the PM to be seen as new best friends with the charismatic new US female president would be good for his image with women voters and with the media. Tough and statesmanlike, it was just what the PM needed with all his ongoing EU issues.
Walker felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to see one of the PM’s close protection team. “You’re wanted outside, Trev,” he said, signaling Walker to follow him out.
Outside the pub, even Walker had to admit that the warm, spring sun shining on the translucent green of the surrounding trees was uplifting. But that was only a momentary thought as the officer pointed out a silver Mercedes E-Class, beside which Kate Bowler, the PM’s Private Secretary, was standing. Tall and slim, with brown hair tied back, she was usually enigmatically relaxed. But today Walker could see that she was grim faced and looking positively shocked, despite making an effort to compose herself.
She strode toward him as soon as she spotted him. “I need to see the PM, Trev. He’s got to get back to Downing Street. Now.”
Normally, he would have demanded to know what was going on, but not today. He had never seen Bowler like this before and now was not the moment to aggravate her. Walker turned and went back into the pub. He sidled up behind the PM’s chair.
“Sorry to interrupt, boss,” he muttered, “Kate’s outside. She says you’ve got to get straight back to Number Ten. Something important has come up.”
“Can’t it wait, Trev?” the PM said irritably. “Our food hasn’t arrived yet.”
“No, boss. You need to speak to her now.” Walker was not putting up with any argument.
