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I don’t trust him.
The realization was instant and unexpected, but it was also total, an instinctive reaction rather than a critical judgment.
I don’t trust him but I need him. If I’m going to survive in the snake pit of this job, a good PPS is essential. We have to find a way to work together.
“Do you have any suggestions, Edward?”
“Suggestions for what, Home Secretary?”
“For how I make things right with Charles Mosely. I used the word ‘cowardly’ to a man who lost his son in action.”
“In my experience, Home Secretary, an apology is usually the first step.”
“Should I call him?”
“I would write. A letter, not an e-mail. A formal, handwritten apology smacks of an appropriate degree of contrition.”
Alexia De Vere smiled.
“Thank you, Edward. That’s what I’ll do.”
It took less than an hour for Henry Whitman to hear about the fireworks at the Home Office. Charles Mosely gravely offended. An incendiary statement being drafted for the press, without his knowledge or consent. It was only a week since Alexia De Vere had gravely offended the Russians with a stupid, throwaway remark to Parliament about money laundering. And now this.
He was furious.
“Should I get the home secretary on the line, Prime Minister?” Joyce, Whitman’s secretary, asked eagerly. Alexia De Vere was even less popular with Tory women than she was with the party’s ruling males.
“Yes.” Henry Whitman hesitated. “I mean no. Just put a call through to central office and make sure no statement is released to anybody until I’ve seen the wording and approved it.”
Joyce raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to talk to Mrs. De Vere, sir? Are you quite sure?”
“That’s what I said isn’t it?” Henry Whitman snapped.
The secretary left. Alone in his office at Number Ten, Henry Whitman made a call from his private cell phone.
“I need that information.”
“You’ll get it.”
“When? I’m being made to look like a laughingstock here. I need something I can use.”
“Soon.”
“Your source had better be good.”
“My source is impeccable. Very well placed. Very motivated.” There was a pause on the line. “Would you like to see a picture of him?”
“A picture?” Before Henry Whitman could answer, an MMS image appeared in his in-box. He clicked it open, and really wished he hadn’t.
“Jesus Christ.”
“Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Father, welcomes you into his heart.”
“Hallelujah!”
The young female minister was new to St. Luke’s Church and she was going down a storm. Gilbert Drake was normally not a fan of women priests, but even he was prepared to make an exception for this girl, with her loose blond hair, trim figure, and girlishly freckled cheeks.
“Jesus Christ forgives your sins and washes you in the holy water of His love.”
