Inside Enemy Read Free

Secretary of State,’ Angela said, emphasising his formal title, ‘is what the press will make of it when news that Charles is to be the new head of MI6 gets out.
Cosy, incestuous Whitehall cronyism, that’s how they’ll see it. Which is what it is, of course.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘At the very least we should give the press desk a
line to take.’
    George shrugged. ‘Sure, they can have an LTT. It’ll be a nine-minute wonder.’
    The lights came on, illuminating the paintings and panelling and casting homely inviting pools on the Foreign Secretary’s desk. Then they flickered and went off again. No-one remarked on
it.
    ‘Part of my plan to drag the Foreign Office forwards and upwards towards a glorious past’ – George Greene waved at the nineteenth-century paintings of naval battles that had
replaced his predecessor’s choice of Brit Art – ‘is that, along with restoring our linguistic and subject expertise, we should avoid openness as far as legislation permits. You
can have openness or you can have government, but you cannot have open government. Not effective government, anyway. It is therefore my intention that the reconstituted secret service you are about
to command, Charles – MI6 or whatever you want to rename it and note I say command, not manage – keeps mum, shtoom, says sod all in public. No chiefly interviews or speeches, no PR, no
profile or social media presence or nonsense of that sort. The secret service will do its work in secret. Your name and head office will be announced, of course – that can’t be helped
– but that’s about it. The same will go for GCHQ. What happens with MI5, I don’t know. That’s the Home Secretary’s business. Are you okay with that?’
    Charles was.
    ‘The Intelligence Services Committee may have views,’ said Angela. ‘They will expect to be consulted, at the very least.’
    ‘They will be. I’ll tell them. Get the chairman in for a briefing.’
    ‘The chair is a woman, George. You’ve met her.’ Angela emphasised ‘chair’.
    ‘Chairwoman, then. Nothing wrong with that, is there – no shame in being a woman? Why hide it?’
    George Greene grinned again. He enjoyed baiting Angela, or indeed anyone baitable, but his off-the-cuff comments masked a powerful and unresting intellect. As a young man he had not come across
as obviously ambitious, Charles reflected, but he could not have got where he was without ambition. Assuming he still had it, there was only one place to go.
    George turned to Charles again. ‘I know you were expecting this to be a selection interview rather than confirmation of appointment and I know you weren’t looking for the job, so
it’s only reasonable that I should give you time to think about it despite the formality of my recent offer and your kind acceptance. Ten minutes? Two? You were always a cautious
chap.’
    ‘I’ve thought.’
    ‘Good. Start on Monday. There’s a nice new office. Well, a new old office, different office, probably not to your taste. I haven’t seen it. Angela will tell you all about it.
Any questions?’
    The door opened and the private secrety said, ‘Secretary of State, the Israeli Ambassador is here.’
    ‘Wheel him in.’ George bounced up from the sofa and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Charles. Look forward to working with you again.’ The lights flickered and he smiled at
them both. ‘Good to have the old team back together, isn’t it? Funny how things turn out. Only one problem: no money. Angela will tell you all about that too.’ He pointed at the
lights. ‘She’ll also tell you it’s part of your job to sort out these bloody power failures. And she’ll be right. Get that sorted and there’ll be coffee and biscuits
next time.’
    Angela walked briskly down the corridor without pausing to check that Charles was following.
    ‘You look cross,’ he said.
    ‘I am.’
    ‘What did he mean about me sorting out the power failures? I’m not exactly