feet, already on TV, were not as important as the hundred other important matters she acted on daily.
Muldoon waited. Would Hollander wake the President, giving Muldoon the appearance of a man so concerned by this random death that he had called the President of the USA, and so influential that the President had responded personally, or would he have to face the worldâs press without that backing? âLet me make some calls and get back to you,â Hollander said.
âAs soon as you can,â Muldoon said. âI have a press conference in an hour and a half.â
Now, the press conference was only an hour off and there had still been no call to the silent room, reached only by the muffled sound of traffic and the incessant ringing of phones in other rooms. Muldoon, behind his desk, backed by a vast oil painting of the Duke of Wellington on a rearing stallion, was sweating. The only other man in the room, his Press Officer, Tom Canning, was in a chair by the fireplace, with a pen in his hand and a pad on his knee. In fact, there would be nothing to write until the Presidentâs call came, if it did. Every few minutes one of Canningâs assistants came in with a sheaf of messages and silently handed them to him. The British press and the BBC wanted statements. The European press wanted statements on the statements of their own leaders â the German President had wondered what was the status of the British bases, the French President pointed to that status as anomalous, the Russian President had already sent unnecessary and trouble-making condolences to the family. Everyone wanted the PM to respond, but Frederick Muldoon waited for the presidential call that might not come.
Canning was betting that Hollander would not wake his President and, at the last moment, would produce an uncontentious statement for Muldoon to deliver. Hollander would consider Muldoonâs long-term prospects, never good because of the small majority, worse after this death at the base. Because, technically, only one man could have authorized the Marines to invade the base and that was Muldoon. And Hollander would know the British press would write the story of a puppet PrimeMinister allowing foreign troops to gun down an innocent schoolteacher, lone parent of a small boy. It was irresistible. And, Canning thought, also as true as any press story ever got.
Canningâs wife, who worked for Sky News, had told him as he drank a hasty espresso that morning, âIf the President doesnât come up with something solid for Muldoon this morning before the press conference, the President will be hanging him out to dry. Goodbye, Muldoon, hello, somebody else. Who will that be?â
Canning hadnât answered the question â heâd been rushing through the door â but the answer was obvious. That somebody else would be Alan Petherbridge, the Home Secretary. He was capable and respected, if not liked. And as far as Hamscott was concerned he had clean hands â heâd advised using British police to clear the base. Heâd been backed at 6.30 a.m. by COBRA, so Canning understood, and at seven thirty heâd confirmed the plan with the Prime Minister. Muldoon had then reneged on all that, pretty certainly after a call from Washington. It would not be long before Petherbridge, one way or another, made this known.
This put Canning in a bad situation. He disliked Petherbridge about as much as Petherbridge disliked him. He was a cold, smug, clever-clever bastard, Canning thought, and he hadnât recommended a softly-softly approach at Hamscott because he was a bleeding heart, a supporter of peopleâs right to protest, but only because it was the more intelligent way. Muldoon would be lucky to survive, once Petherbridge let it be known he was the hero of the Hamscott Common affair. Ladbrokes would start offering odds on him as the future Prime Minister. And Canning would be out of a job.
Canning shifted
Muldoon waited. Would Hollander wake the President, giving Muldoon the appearance of a man so concerned by this random death that he had called the President of the USA, and so influential that the President had responded personally, or would he have to face the worldâs press without that backing? âLet me make some calls and get back to you,â Hollander said.
âAs soon as you can,â Muldoon said. âI have a press conference in an hour and a half.â
Now, the press conference was only an hour off and there had still been no call to the silent room, reached only by the muffled sound of traffic and the incessant ringing of phones in other rooms. Muldoon, behind his desk, backed by a vast oil painting of the Duke of Wellington on a rearing stallion, was sweating. The only other man in the room, his Press Officer, Tom Canning, was in a chair by the fireplace, with a pen in his hand and a pad on his knee. In fact, there would be nothing to write until the Presidentâs call came, if it did. Every few minutes one of Canningâs assistants came in with a sheaf of messages and silently handed them to him. The British press and the BBC wanted statements. The European press wanted statements on the statements of their own leaders â the German President had wondered what was the status of the British bases, the French President pointed to that status as anomalous, the Russian President had already sent unnecessary and trouble-making condolences to the family. Everyone wanted the PM to respond, but Frederick Muldoon waited for the presidential call that might not come.
Canning was betting that Hollander would not wake his President and, at the last moment, would produce an uncontentious statement for Muldoon to deliver. Hollander would consider Muldoonâs long-term prospects, never good because of the small majority, worse after this death at the base. Because, technically, only one man could have authorized the Marines to invade the base and that was Muldoon. And Hollander would know the British press would write the story of a puppet PrimeMinister allowing foreign troops to gun down an innocent schoolteacher, lone parent of a small boy. It was irresistible. And, Canning thought, also as true as any press story ever got.
Canningâs wife, who worked for Sky News, had told him as he drank a hasty espresso that morning, âIf the President doesnât come up with something solid for Muldoon this morning before the press conference, the President will be hanging him out to dry. Goodbye, Muldoon, hello, somebody else. Who will that be?â
Canning hadnât answered the question â heâd been rushing through the door â but the answer was obvious. That somebody else would be Alan Petherbridge, the Home Secretary. He was capable and respected, if not liked. And as far as Hamscott was concerned he had clean hands â heâd advised using British police to clear the base. Heâd been backed at 6.30 a.m. by COBRA, so Canning understood, and at seven thirty heâd confirmed the plan with the Prime Minister. Muldoon had then reneged on all that, pretty certainly after a call from Washington. It would not be long before Petherbridge, one way or another, made this known.
This put Canning in a bad situation. He disliked Petherbridge about as much as Petherbridge disliked him. He was a cold, smug, clever-clever bastard, Canning thought, and he hadnât recommended a softly-softly approach at Hamscott because he was a bleeding heart, a supporter of peopleâs right to protest, but only because it was the more intelligent way. Muldoon would be lucky to survive, once Petherbridge let it be known he was the hero of the Hamscott Common affair. Ladbrokes would start offering odds on him as the future Prime Minister. And Canning would be out of a job.
Canning shifted
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