clasped her arms tightly round her chest and shivered. She stared at the silent telephone, willing it to ring, willing it to be Peter at the other end.
Chapter Two
FOLLOWING A DAY of acute anxiety, Sir Marcus Beckett had just fallen into an uneasy sleep at his Buckinghamshire home. The telephone woke him abruptly soon after midnight. His wife groaned and pulled a pillow over her ear.
âGreat Middleton 2367,â he mumbled automatically into the mouthpiece.
âSir Marcus?â came a crisp voice. âDowning Street here.â
âOh? Oh yes!â he answered, adrenalin pumping into his veins.
âI have the PM for you, sir. Just a moment,â the telephonist continued smoothly. There was a click and the sound of an extension ringing.
âMarcus? Are you awake?â a familiar voice bellowed into his ear.
âI am now,â he answered quietly, struggling to guess the significance of the call.
âWhat the hellâs going on, Marcus? Have you seen the
Daily Express
?â
âWe, er . . . we donât get the papers until morning out here, Prime Minister,â he winced, dreading what was to follow.
âH-bomb secrets in litter bin. Defence Ministry secrets probe! Thatâs what the bloody thing says! First edition. All over the front page!â the head of the Government was yelling down the line.
Beckett guessed that a few whiskies had been consumed that evening before the early copies of the FleetStreet papers had been delivered to Downing Street.
âOh, dear God!â Sir Marcus groaned. âHow the hell did that get out?â
âMore to the point, why the hell didnât I know about it?â
âI . . . Iâd hoped it was a minor matter, a mistake . . . and could be cleared up without bothering you,â he explained lamely.
âMinor?â the PM shrieked even louder. âDoesnât sound minor to me! Bloody retired general spouting his mouth off to the papers about how he found a diagram for the new missile warheads on Parliament Hill. You call that minor? Whatâs the matter with you, Marcus?â
âGeneral Twining talked to the press? I donât believe it!â Beckett gasped.
âWell, youâd better believe it, Marcus! So get your finger out of Dorisâs bum, and come over here right away!â
With that, the phone at the other end was slammed down. That man could be disgustingly crude at times, Beckett brooded to himself as he pulled on his clothes.
It was raining hard as he drove himself towards the capital. Normally he would be conveyed by a Ministry chauffeur, but there was no way of getting his driver to come round to collect him in the middle of the night at such short notice. He was driving his wifeâs rusty old Fiat, which he now realised had a decidedly worn exhaust. He would take some pleasure in driving it straight into Downing Street and parking right outside Number 10, something normally unheard of for private cars. He hoped the racket of the exhaust would wake up the whole of Westminster.
His mind had fully cleared now, and he had determined to counter the PMâs anger with aggression. After all, he had been acting in his friendâs best interest, tryingto keep this business out of the political arena. The man should be grateful instead of downright rude, he thought.
âGood morning, Sir Marcus,â exclaimed the policeman at the Whitehall end of Downing Street, looking uneasily at the car the civil servant was driving. The officer had been warned to expect this late-night visitor, and reluctantly agreed that he could park outside Number 10, but not for too long. He winced at the throaty roar that proceeded on down the street.
In the event, two hours passed before Beckett emerged again, a chastened man. The Prime Minister had been totally unconvinced by the arguments for keeping him in the dark, and he was summoning a full-scale crisis meeting later that morning. It was nearly 4
Chapter Two
FOLLOWING A DAY of acute anxiety, Sir Marcus Beckett had just fallen into an uneasy sleep at his Buckinghamshire home. The telephone woke him abruptly soon after midnight. His wife groaned and pulled a pillow over her ear.
âGreat Middleton 2367,â he mumbled automatically into the mouthpiece.
âSir Marcus?â came a crisp voice. âDowning Street here.â
âOh? Oh yes!â he answered, adrenalin pumping into his veins.
âI have the PM for you, sir. Just a moment,â the telephonist continued smoothly. There was a click and the sound of an extension ringing.
âMarcus? Are you awake?â a familiar voice bellowed into his ear.
âI am now,â he answered quietly, struggling to guess the significance of the call.
âWhat the hellâs going on, Marcus? Have you seen the
Daily Express
?â
âWe, er . . . we donât get the papers until morning out here, Prime Minister,â he winced, dreading what was to follow.
âH-bomb secrets in litter bin. Defence Ministry secrets probe! Thatâs what the bloody thing says! First edition. All over the front page!â the head of the Government was yelling down the line.
Beckett guessed that a few whiskies had been consumed that evening before the early copies of the FleetStreet papers had been delivered to Downing Street.
âOh, dear God!â Sir Marcus groaned. âHow the hell did that get out?â
âMore to the point, why the hell didnât I know about it?â
âI . . . Iâd hoped it was a minor matter, a mistake . . . and could be cleared up without bothering you,â he explained lamely.
âMinor?â the PM shrieked even louder. âDoesnât sound minor to me! Bloody retired general spouting his mouth off to the papers about how he found a diagram for the new missile warheads on Parliament Hill. You call that minor? Whatâs the matter with you, Marcus?â
âGeneral Twining talked to the press? I donât believe it!â Beckett gasped.
âWell, youâd better believe it, Marcus! So get your finger out of Dorisâs bum, and come over here right away!â
With that, the phone at the other end was slammed down. That man could be disgustingly crude at times, Beckett brooded to himself as he pulled on his clothes.
It was raining hard as he drove himself towards the capital. Normally he would be conveyed by a Ministry chauffeur, but there was no way of getting his driver to come round to collect him in the middle of the night at such short notice. He was driving his wifeâs rusty old Fiat, which he now realised had a decidedly worn exhaust. He would take some pleasure in driving it straight into Downing Street and parking right outside Number 10, something normally unheard of for private cars. He hoped the racket of the exhaust would wake up the whole of Westminster.
His mind had fully cleared now, and he had determined to counter the PMâs anger with aggression. After all, he had been acting in his friendâs best interest, tryingto keep this business out of the political arena. The man should be grateful instead of downright rude, he thought.
âGood morning, Sir Marcus,â exclaimed the policeman at the Whitehall end of Downing Street, looking uneasily at the car the civil servant was driving. The officer had been warned to expect this late-night visitor, and reluctantly agreed that he could park outside Number 10, but not for too long. He winced at the throaty roar that proceeded on down the street.
In the event, two hours passed before Beckett emerged again, a chastened man. The Prime Minister had been totally unconvinced by the arguments for keeping him in the dark, and he was summoning a full-scale crisis meeting later that morning. It was nearly 4
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