offered advice from the counterinsurgency manual. US Special Forces, meanwhile, were conducting targeted drone strikes against alleged Islamist groupuscules in the Horn of Africa and northern Nigeria, in which direction the UK had gestured its support.
Any minister was welcome to dip a finger in the blood of the Foreign Secretary’s position, or else to demur. But the Defence Secretary Susan Rivers, who had entered politics from management consultancy, had no military expertise to offer. Blaylock had long ceased to imagine his own ex-services opinion carried any special weight: nobody in Westminster valued any sort of life anyone had before politics. In any case, his view here was as everyone’s. Penetrating the arid centre of Somalia was a risky errand. Drone strikes, remote-controlled death from above, were perturbing, but met the need to injure and disrupt the enemy. The likelihood that they worsened the purported grievances of said enemy was not a matter one could afford to countenance, any more than one could really afford to address those purported grievances.
Cabinet was clicking along with customary briskness, a handful of agenda headings despatched per the Captain’s wish to be done in forty-five minutes. Vaughan retook charge of proceedings.
‘So, the headline figures on net migration will be known todayand, Home Secretary, we hope the good work will continue and the target for reductions kept on course, just in time for party conference?’
‘I am hopeful also,’ Blaylock nodded.
‘The Business Secretary, Prime Minister?’
Jason Malahide, by dint of his black beard, always seemed somehow piratical when he bared his teeth. ‘I feel, again, I must point out that any reduction in immigration to this country shouldn’t be cheered from the rafters if the figures show we continue to deter the best business people from overseas, and foreign students, damn, sorry—’
Malahide had been interrupted by the ringtone of a phone – his own, the bleeping notes of ‘Why Was He Born So Beautiful?’ The table made noises off and Vaughan his patented ‘Give me strength’ face, until Malahide had fumbled into his jacket and silenced the offender.
‘Sorry – yes, overseas students are the wealth creators of the future but our policy is driving them elsewhere and, frankly, hurting our economy. We are seriously inconveniencing the Chinese by forever taking their fingerprints, and wasting the time of our top banks on endless visa applications for overseas hires. I mean, old colleagues of mine in Zurich and Frankfurt are laughing at us.’
Malahide, Blaylock knew, was not so much of a European, having made his money with a company that mined iron ore in Brazil and copper in Chile, was headquartered in Zurich and registered in Jersey. What did seem noteworthy to him was Caroline Tennant’s firm approving nod to the bit about ‘hurting our economy’.
‘Home Secretary?’ Ruthven tossed Blaylock the ball.
‘Obviously I share the Business Secretary’s desire that this country be a mecca for entrepreneurial talent—’
Obviously we prefer wealthier foreigners, we’ve plenty homegrown poor .
‘However, he knows as well as I do what are the parameterswithin which we are obliged to make our decisions—’
We swore we’d keep immigration low, so since we can’t do a hand’s turn about movement within Europe we have to hit the rest of the globe instead .
Ruthven, to Blaylock’s annoyance, was busy as a racetrack bookie taking note of ministers now wishing to speak. Whenever Caroline Tennant or Dom Moorhouse addressed the table it was to give mere briefings on decisions already made – courtesy calls, letting colleagues know roughly what they were up to. Blaylock’s share of government business, though, seemed forever an invitation for all-comers to jump in with boots on.
Valerie Laing, petite and flame-haired Communities Minister, tapped her folder vexedly with a biro. ‘Whatever happened to that
Any minister was welcome to dip a finger in the blood of the Foreign Secretary’s position, or else to demur. But the Defence Secretary Susan Rivers, who had entered politics from management consultancy, had no military expertise to offer. Blaylock had long ceased to imagine his own ex-services opinion carried any special weight: nobody in Westminster valued any sort of life anyone had before politics. In any case, his view here was as everyone’s. Penetrating the arid centre of Somalia was a risky errand. Drone strikes, remote-controlled death from above, were perturbing, but met the need to injure and disrupt the enemy. The likelihood that they worsened the purported grievances of said enemy was not a matter one could afford to countenance, any more than one could really afford to address those purported grievances.
Cabinet was clicking along with customary briskness, a handful of agenda headings despatched per the Captain’s wish to be done in forty-five minutes. Vaughan retook charge of proceedings.
‘So, the headline figures on net migration will be known todayand, Home Secretary, we hope the good work will continue and the target for reductions kept on course, just in time for party conference?’
‘I am hopeful also,’ Blaylock nodded.
‘The Business Secretary, Prime Minister?’
Jason Malahide, by dint of his black beard, always seemed somehow piratical when he bared his teeth. ‘I feel, again, I must point out that any reduction in immigration to this country shouldn’t be cheered from the rafters if the figures show we continue to deter the best business people from overseas, and foreign students, damn, sorry—’
Malahide had been interrupted by the ringtone of a phone – his own, the bleeping notes of ‘Why Was He Born So Beautiful?’ The table made noises off and Vaughan his patented ‘Give me strength’ face, until Malahide had fumbled into his jacket and silenced the offender.
‘Sorry – yes, overseas students are the wealth creators of the future but our policy is driving them elsewhere and, frankly, hurting our economy. We are seriously inconveniencing the Chinese by forever taking their fingerprints, and wasting the time of our top banks on endless visa applications for overseas hires. I mean, old colleagues of mine in Zurich and Frankfurt are laughing at us.’
Malahide, Blaylock knew, was not so much of a European, having made his money with a company that mined iron ore in Brazil and copper in Chile, was headquartered in Zurich and registered in Jersey. What did seem noteworthy to him was Caroline Tennant’s firm approving nod to the bit about ‘hurting our economy’.
‘Home Secretary?’ Ruthven tossed Blaylock the ball.
‘Obviously I share the Business Secretary’s desire that this country be a mecca for entrepreneurial talent—’
Obviously we prefer wealthier foreigners, we’ve plenty homegrown poor .
‘However, he knows as well as I do what are the parameterswithin which we are obliged to make our decisions—’
We swore we’d keep immigration low, so since we can’t do a hand’s turn about movement within Europe we have to hit the rest of the globe instead .
Ruthven, to Blaylock’s annoyance, was busy as a racetrack bookie taking note of ministers now wishing to speak. Whenever Caroline Tennant or Dom Moorhouse addressed the table it was to give mere briefings on decisions already made – courtesy calls, letting colleagues know roughly what they were up to. Blaylock’s share of government business, though, seemed forever an invitation for all-comers to jump in with boots on.
Valerie Laing, petite and flame-haired Communities Minister, tapped her folder vexedly with a biro. ‘Whatever happened to that
Similar Books
