The commissioner had long ago formed an opinion similar to Art Petrucci’s.
Unlike many in office in government Sir Richard was no one’s political appointee and certainly no yes man. He was outspoken in his criticism of this governments policies where it adversely affected or interfered with the business of fighting crime.
The commissioner had known for some time his days were numbered, as soon as a suitably amenable replacement was found he would be out. As far as he was concerned that allowed him carte blanche to do the job, as it needed to be done, until the axe fell.
“One of my officers was wounded in the assault on the St Johns Wood address; otherwise there were no casualties on our side. There is one terrorist critically ill and under armed guard in hospital. The remainder are in the secure cells at Paddington Green. I am formally asking for the assistance of international law enforcement and intelligence agencies. As you can see before you, Major Bedonavich and his companion would appear to be on the run. They may be able to assist us with any other information they possess. If nothing else we owe them protection and a debt of gratitude.” The PM merely nodded whilst Marjorie Willet-Haugh, the SIS chief looked at the PM for assent before answering
“Of course”. She was another PM appointee.
This Brit PM, who hadn’t opened his mouth once, puzzled Petrucci; it was as if all or some of this information was not news to him. This whole meeting had an awkward feel to it with mutual dislike and mistrust heavy in the air.
Looking again at the silent PM the commissioner added.
“I imagine that the Russians will be most eager to detain their people. Should it come to my knowledge that this country lends them any assistance in so doing, for whatever reason, then the person responsible will find him or herself in one of my cells charged with perverting the course of justice and treason. I have just presented evidence to you of the murder of unarmed police officers. The youngest was 23. Those murders were sanctioned by a foreign power that also assisted in a plot to destroy a large part of this city along with up to a million citizens. I am fully aware that a 10 billion pound trade deal is being secretly brokered with that same country.” The Foreign Secretary shot a startled look at the PM before standing and confronting the commissioner.
“Now see here… ”
The Commissioner silenced him with a look before nodding toward the CIA officer.
“My reason for requesting Mr Petrucci’s presence was to ask his assistance in this matter, I am now glad of his presence for another matter that I have only recently become aware of.” The commissioners face-hardened.
“If you would please bear witness Mr Petrucci?” The commissioner faced the PM.
“Mr Prime Minister, do you deny that you received a telephone call this morning at 8.23am from the premier of the Russian Federation?” Aside from a ghost of a look of surprise the PM merely avoided the senior policeman’s stare.
“Waiting outside this office are your close protection officers. As members of the Metropolitan Police Service they answer to me whilst I am in office and that is why I know your closing remark to that man was ‘Leave it to me, you can be assured of our full cooperation.’ Two of my officers were present during that call.”
The Home Secretary was on his feet.
“Commissioner, I demand that you apologise to the Prime Minister at once or I will be forced to require your resignation forthwith!” he stormed. The commissioner was not moved in the slightest.
“Sir, in avoiding responsibility for the policing of London you created a police authority to take any blame instead. This does of course mean that I no longer answer directly to you.” For a long moment the politician stared at the policeman before backing down.
As the Home Secretary resumed his seat Art Petrucci could not resist leaning forwards to look along the line of chairs at him.
“Shot yourself in the foot with that one didn’t you fella”.
For the first time since the briefing had begun the PM spoke. “Commissioner, I did indeed receive a request from the Russian premier. However I was not aware of the full facts until now. Please rest assured that any such agreement I may have made is now void”. Although the PM’s reassuring smile was the product of hours’ of coaching by experts it failed to reach his eyes on this occasion.
Looking at each of the persons present the commissioner stated finally.
“That concludes my briefing, Lady and Gentlemen. Mr Petrucci, my aide will assist with any communication with Langley or Washington you wish to make rather than waiting until your return to Grosvenor Square. Now if you will excuse me, I have six sets of widows and grieving relatives to visit.”
The Home Secretary, still angered, chose absolutely the wrong time to seize the policeman’s arm as he passed.
“When will my personal secretary receive the next of kin details of the officers as we have twice demanded them and received no acknowledgement?” He received a harsh stare.
“I believe Clare Hughes father spoke for all the families when he said that outliving ones children is a very personal tragedy and not a timely photo opportunity to slow the PM’s fall in the polls!” As the politician had still not released his arm he continued.
“The last man to grab my arm was a skinhead during the Southall riot. Would you like to see how that situation ended?” His arm was quickly released and he strode from the room without a backward glance.
Art Petrucci had to pinch himself to prove that he was really witness to this. A London Bobby had threatened, no, promised his prime minister that he was going to throw his butt in jail if he interfered in a police investigation. His report to Washington was going to be classified so high it wouldn’t become available under the Freedom of Information Act for a thousand years he chuckled to himself.
He already had the commissioners permission to use the secure communications facilities here and the connection with the Russian government had to be reported immediately to his own government, walking briskly he left to find the aide.
The coffee maker was this morning in constant use in the Situation room. It was getting on toward twenty-four hours’ since most of the people in this room had last slept. The briefer from the National Security Agency, the NSA, had finished outlining why the Mao and its construction hadn’t been discovered until now.
The presidents’ temper was running thin.
“How much else have we missed and how long has it being going on?” Looking toward the NSA Director for support and seeing her boss was apparently distracted by something on the ceiling that the briefer couldn’t see she looked back to the president.
“Sir, the only way to discover that would be to cross reference Foreign RORSAT and non-intelligence agencies satellite data or to track down the means used to subvert our Intel. My personal theory on the second is that it is a sophisticated program that has been inserted into the mainframe, I would start there. As to the first, it will take unknown man-hours’ to hand check the data. Assuming the Mao was built from scratch we could be talking about hand checking three years’ worth of photographs and radar scans… sir.” The president took a deep breath. He desperately wanted to scream at someone, but a lowly briefer would be a cheap shot target.
“Young lady, if you were the NSA Director… ” he paused to glance meaningfully at her boss before looking back at her and continuing, “… which is not beyond the bounds of possibility, what would you do?”