7.00 a.m. Pull on a tracksuit, put in five minutes of basic crunch, ten of skipping, five weightlifting (in a bedroom converted to a small gymnasium).
7.20 a.m. Shower.
7.40 a.m. Breakfast, thrown together in the cramped little attic kitchen.
8.00 a.m. Showered and breakfasted, plan the day ahead with three secretaries: Private Secretary, Diary Secretary and Personal Secretary.
Mondays Also plan the week ahead, with Chief of Staff, Personal Secretary, Press Secretary, Political Secretary and the Head of the Policy Unit.
For those wise to the routine, the Achilles’ heel in the Prime Minister’s iron routine was 7.20 a.m.: there is no lock on the door to the private apartments, and no place to hide in a shower.
So it was that on this particular morning Sally Morgan, the Head of MI6, was sitting on a lavatory lid with Edgeworth’s naked, soapy form just visible a few feet away through the frosted glass. It was her second meeting with the PM within nine hours.
She read out the coded message from Ogorodnikov which had arrived at her desk in the early hours of the morning, via her Russian counterpart. Her voice was raised, to be heard over the splashing water.
‘Prime Minister,
‘You and I are aware of a certain breakthrough which has been made by our scientists working in a spirit of co-operation in an underground research facility in Slovakia. In mankind’s long and troubled history there can be few more exciting discoveries than to find that we are not alone. Unfortunately, this discovery may also prove to be very dangerous. Information of a highly advanced scientific and technical nature has been received, which could benefit our species beyond measure but which may also carry enormous risks.
‘I am advised that there are international protocols to cover this situation. This is surely a matter for all mankind, to be dealt with through the United Nations. However, I have also been told that if this information becomes public, we could do nothing to prevent a private individual or group from replying to the message, revealing to the signallers that we have reached a certain stage of advancement. Conceivably, the message could be a lure intended to sniff out civilisations which have reached this stage. The motivation lying behind the message could be far from friendly. We could find ourselves inside their test tubes.
‘Prime Minister, you and I have been plunged into a strange and difficult situation. Do we use the new knowledge for all mankind, or for both our peoples, to create a pan-Europe far ahead of our American and Chinese friends? Or do we smother this dangerous discovery? And if so, what do we do about the scientists who have made it?
‘This is not a matter for large teams of advisers and TV cameras. We must meet, you and I, and decide the matter face-to-face, in secret and alone. You will guess that time is very short. The scientists are to disperse in three days. If they do, so does the new knowledge. We must decide before then.’
The shower was switched off.
‘Shall I leave?’
‘No, just pass me that towel. That one. What’s he getting at, Sally? Decide what?’
Sally Morgan handed over a large white towel, keeping her eyes averted. The Prime Minister appeared, wrapped in it, and started to blow-dry his hair, peering into a half-steamed mirror. She pretended to have misheard.
‘A secret meeting with Ogorodnikov?’ She made a clicking noise with her tongue. ‘Not a trivial exercise, Prime Minister.’
‘But there are precedents,’ Edgeworth said. ‘Kissinger told me he went in and out of China incognito in the seventies. He was supposed to be resting in a Himalayan retreat, and just slipped over the border.’
‘And it’s been done by a British Prime Minister,’ Sally informed Edgeworth. The drier went off and she wondered how he intended to get his underpants on. ‘Anthony Eden left England during the Suez crisis, spoke to the French Prime Minister and came back without anyone knowing he’d been away. But that was just a cross-Channel hop. To meet Ogorodnikov halfway in total secrecy would require clandestine flights over neutral territory and that’s a different ballgame. Altogether different.’
Edgeworth was skilfully wriggling into blue boxer shorts, still wearing the towel. ‘What’s the halfway point between here and Moscow?’
She had anticipated the question. ‘The Baltic Sea, give or take. Lots of islands, one of them owned jointly by Finland and Sweden.’
Now he was pulling on trousers. ‘The Russian President and I have to meet, whatever the difficulties. I’ll speak to Pembroke.’
At eight o’clock, showered and breakfasted, Edgeworth took the narrow stairs down to the large wood-panelled ante-room and turned right again through open double doors to the first-floor drawing rooms and the study. The latter, with its floral-patterned settees and soft cushions, its cabinet with the Bohemian glass collection and its deep carpet, had the air of a middle-class living room. Anne Broughton, the Diary Secretary, was sitting at an armchair with a pile of papers on the oval coffee-table in front of her. Joe Pembroke, the PPS, was leafing through a large black diary. Jean, the Personal Secretary, was pouring tea.
Edgeworth sat down next to Pembroke and loosened his tie. There was an exchange of greetings.
The PPS ran briefly through the day’s events, Anne pencilling comments from time to time on her notes, Edgeworth interjecting here and there. He seemed distracted, impatient almost. Finally, with the day’s schedule barely settled, he said, ‘Ladies, I wonder if you would leave us for a few minutes?’
The Diary Secretary tapped her papers together neatly and left the study, leaving a slight trail of perfume. Jean gave her boss a puzzled glance and followed.
Pembroke waited.
Edgeworth said, ‘Ogorodnikov and I need to meet face-to-face.’
‘When, Prime Minister?’
‘Immediately. We should meet halfway.’
Pembroke said flatly, ‘That’s not possible.’
‘No wagon train, no security and above all no publicity. Just you, me and a translator we can trust.’
‘I’m sorry, Prime Minister, but it can’t be done. And even if it could, I wouldn’t allow it. You can’t possibly dispense with security in this day and age, not even for five minutes.’
Edgeworth smiled grimly. ‘I want to meet Ogorodnikov in the Baltic Sea area and return without anyone knowing I’ve been away. And I want to do it this week.’
‘That’s crazy. It can’t be done.’
Edgeworth patted Pembroke’s knee. ‘Of course it can, Joe. If not by you, then by a PPS who believes it can.’
Pembroke frowned. ‘You have this persuasive way, Prime Minister. Let me see.’ He started to flick through the diary pages. ‘This is Thursday. You’ve done the Queen, the Blair visit and the Young Inventor awards. This morning is Cabinet and Question Time, and tomorrow is the Kohl funeral. And then you have weekend guests at Chequers.’
‘Cancel my weekend guests, Joe, and send Wentworth in my place to the Kohl funeral.’
‘You can’t. Chancellor Kohl was a good friend to us. You’ll cause great offence.’
‘I’ll be indisposed. I’ll head for Chequers tonight to recuperate. See if the medics can come up with something to make me look groggy this morning.’
‘Prime Minister, I don’t know what’s going on here…’
‘And join me at Chequers this evening. Arrive as quietly as you can and bring very warm clothes. By the way, Joe, you don’t happen to fly a Tornado?’
Pembroke exposed teeth and grunted; after all, he thought, when the PM cracks a joke you’re expected to laugh. The bit about the Tornado was, he assumed, a joke.