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“Really? That’s marvelous.” She could practically hear Teddy’s smile all the way from Oxfordshire. “When should I start packing?”
“Actually I thought I might take a short break with Lucy. Hole up on Martha’s Vineyard for a while. Would you mind?”
There was a split second of hesitation. Then Teddy said, “Of course not, my darling. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”
“Great. I’ll clear it with Henry tomorrow. I’d better go now, darling. We’re here.”
The line went dead before Teddy had a chance to say good-bye.
The Daimler pulled up outside the house, its occupants hidden behind the smoked-glass windows. Gilbert Drake slipped the safety catch off his pistol and gripped it tightly. It was hard to tell which were louder, the jeers of the protesters or the click, click, whir of multiple camera shutters as Alexia De Vere stepped out of the car.
The day of the Lord is at hand, when destruction comes from the Almighty.
They were about to get one hell of a picture.
Henry Whitman turned on the television. He watched Alexia De Vere step out of her car, excruciatingly thin, like a couture-clad skeleton.
“My God,” said his wife. “She looks ill.”
“Yes.”
“Why doesn’t she just resign? Why does she cling like this? It’s pathetic.”
“Yes,” said Henry. But he wasn’t really listening. He was watching the pr
otesters on the screen booing his home secretary as she walked past. They really do hate her.
He was beginning to hate her himself.
In Michael De Vere’s hospital room, Summer Meyer was also watching the news.
The nurse who was plumping Michael’s pillow said cheerfully, “That’s his mum, isn’t it? She’s dead glamorous. Bit skinny, though.”
That’s an understatement, thought Summer. Alexia looked as frail as a bird as she stepped out of her car. Her black Chanel suit with gold bouclé detailing hung off her like rags on a scarecrow.
“Crowd don’t like her much, do they?”
“No. They don’t.”
“You’d think they’d give her a break, what with her son being so ill and that. Still, it’s a rough old game, isn’t it? Politics.”
Summer focused on the screen, tuning out the nurse’s prattle. Just as Alexia was about to reach the safety of the police cordon, something caught her eye. A glint of silver, flashing at the front of the crowd.
“Oh my God!” Summer said aloud. “Oh my God!”
Alexia looked straight ahead as she walked toward her front door, ignoring the shouts and chants and angry faces surrounding her.
“OUT, OUT, OUT!” they yelled. But Alexia wouldn’t be pushed out, not by her enemies in the cabinet and certainly not by this ignorant rabble.
Just keep walking. It’ll be over soon. Oh, look, there’s Jimmy.
Her secret-service officer smiled as Alexia reached the line of tape dividing the pavement from her private property. Alexia smiled back. The cameras instantly caught the exchange, clicking frenziedly like a swarm of cicadas.
It was a strange thing—a split-second thing—but one of the clicks sounded different from the others. Searching out the noise, Alexia spun around. She found herself staring into two eyes alight with raw hatred.
“I’ve got something for you, Home Secretary.”
The shot rang out as loudly as a thunderclap. Alexia felt a sharp pain and a moment’s intense surprise.
