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r. “You say NOTHING, do you understand? Nothing. Not to me, not to the press, not to anyone. You lay low and you let me handle this mess. Are we clear?”
Alexia was silent.
“Have you any idea how many people are calling for your resignation, Alexia?” The prime minister’s frustration was palpable. “How much pressure I’m under to rein you in?”
“No idea whatsoever,” Alexia said defiantly. “Nor do I care.”
“Well, you should care. I can be pushed too far, you know, Alexia. Remember that.”
“So can I, Henry. Perhaps you should remember that.”
She hung up. Sitting beside her, Sir Edward Manning noticed that her hands were shaking. Whether it was from fear or anger, he couldn’t tell.
“Can I help, Home Secretary?”
“No. Thank you, Edward. I’m fine.”
They drove on in silence. The traffic eased as they merged onto the Embankment. In a few minutes they’d be at Parliament Square.
“There is one thing, Edward. It’s about the file you gave me last night, on our friend Mr. Hamlin. The American.”
Sir Edward Manning’s ears pricked up. The prime minister had clearly just ripped Mrs. De Vere a new asshole. Her career was on a knife edge over this immigration furor. And yet her prime concern seemed to be a single, harmless crackpot.
Why?
“What about him, Home Secretary?”
“Well, the police have had no success in tracking him down. I wondered if you might know of any . . . alternative channels.”
“I see.”
“I’d like to locate him.”
Sir Edward paused for just a moment, as if about to ask a question, but he obviously thought better of it.
“Of course, Home Secretary. Consider it done. Oh, goodness!”
The scene in Parliament Square was chaotic. Mob would be putting it too strongly, but there were angry groups of protesters from all sides of the debate waving placards and shouting competing slogans. Alexia’s photograph was being held aloft like an icon, triumphantly by some groups and ironically by others. One gathering of mostly male, Eastern European faces had drawn devil horns on the home secretary’s head. Through the Daimler’s blacked-out windows Alexia heard the abuse, both the English chants of “racist bitch” and the hate-loaded shouts in various Slavic languages.
“Go around,” Sir Edward Manning hissed to the driver. “We’ll go in the back entrance.”
“We will do no such thing,” Alexia said firmly. “Stop here.” And before Sir Edward could restrain her, she had opened the car door and stepped outside.
“Home Secretary!” he called after her but it was useless. The noise of the crowd was deafening. Once people realized who it was, pandemonium broke loose. Luckily, two policemen swooped in to protect the home secretary, one on either side of her, but they offered little protection against the swelling mass of bodies.
For the second time that day, Alexia felt frightened. The prime minister’s phone call earlier had frightened her, although she hadn’t shown it, either to Henry Whitman or to her own staff. Never show weakness. Never back down. When cornered, she had a tendency to fight even harder. She knew with hindsight that her statement on the flag affair had been mistaken. But she would never admit it, especially now, when the stakes were so high. She must appear strong, to Downing Street, to the cabinet, to everybody. Strength was what Alexia De Vere did best.
But this was different. This was physical fear. She’d acted on impulse, jumping out of the car, but she knew now it had been a mistake. I should have listened to Edward and gone around the back. This is dangerous.
Aware that she might be being photographed, she held her head high as she was hustled through the jeering crowd, almost all of them men. But she was afraid. The men’s physical closeness was intimidating. Alexia could smell their foul breath, soured by bitterness, and felt suddenly nauseous. Then, out of nowhere, she felt herself being grabbed by the arm and pulled forward. She couldn’t see her rescuer, but she knew he was dragging her toward the private members’ entrance to Parliament, toward safety.
My security detail. Thank God. I must be more careful next time.
Relaxing her body, she allowed herself to be pulled closer, tuning out the angry faces on either side of her, focusing only on the door ahead. At last the danger was past. A wall of police moved in behind her, forcing the protesters back. The hand that had been gripping her arm let go and Alexia looked up for the first time into the eyes of her savior.
“You!” she gasped.
“Me.”
