Teddy loved her. But he didn’t know her the way that Lucy Meyer did. With Lucy—only with Lucy—Alexia could let go completely and be herself. That was what she needed, now more than ever.
Alexia’s soup had grown cold. She asked for the bill. She had a Select Committee meeting at two-thirty and a vote at four. After that she would go home and sleep. Then she would call Lucy, arrange to take this break that everyone seemed to want her to.
It will be all right, she told herself. It will all be all right.
“Forget it, mate. That’s my spot.”
The burly photographer pushed his colleague out of the prime position on Cheyne Walk, directly opposite Alexia De Vere’s house.
“Says who?”
“Says me. I’ve been ’ere since ten o’clock this morning. I only nipped over the road for a packet of fags.”
“That’s your problem.”
As the two men noisily fought out their turf war, a growing crowd of protesters lined up along the home secretary’s Chelsea Street house, waving placards imprinted with Sanjay Patel’s face. So far the anniversary of Patel’s death had been a subdued affair. The dead man’s supporters were being respectful of the police line keeping them twelve feet back from the De Veres’ property, even though it was only marked with tape. But as afternoon turned to evening, the chants of “No Regrets, No Reelection” and “De Vere OUT!” grew louder and less good-natured. The home secretary was due home any minute. Despite the presence of both police and television crews, the potential for violent confrontation hung in the air like a rotten smell.
In the middle of the crowd, Gilbert Drake said a silent prayer.
May it be as Isaiah said: “I will punish the wicked for their iniquity. I will cause the arrogance of the proud to cease, and lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.”
Alexia De Vere’s son might be on life support, but that wasn’t punishment enough for the suffering she’d caused poor Sanjay, and so many others. All Alexia De Vere cared about, all she had ever cared about, was herself, her own self-serving, godless life. That was what she had to lose.
An eye for an eye.
Beneath his parka, Gilbert Drake lovingly fingered the cold metal of his gun.
Henry Whitman was on his private line.
“How many of them are out there?”
“About fifty or sixty, Prime Minister.”
“Is that enough? It doesn’t sound like much of a crowd.”
“It’s enough.”
“So we’re a go?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded amused.
“That’s up to you, Henry. You’re the boss, remember?”
Henry Whitman closed his eyes and made a decision.
“I don’t like it, Alexia. I don’t like it at all.” Teddy De Vere’s voice was full of concern. “I saw some of them on the television earlier and they looked distinctly aggressive. Can’t you come back here tonight, to Kingsmere?”
In the back of her ministerial car, Alexia pressed the phone to her ear, trying to conjure up Teddy’s presence, the comfort of his arms. I must spend more time with him. Lean on him again like I used to. Her committee meeting had dragged on longer than expected—didn’t they always?—and the vote was interminable. The brief peace she’d felt at lunchtime, planning her escape with Lucy Meyer, was all gone now. She wished Teddy were with her. But the thought of schlepping all the way out to Oxfordshire, not reaching her bed till ten or eleven at night, made her want to cry.
“I truly can’t, Teddy. I’m exhausted. Anyway, Edward’s briefed me, there are plenty of police at the house. If things get rowdy, they’ll simply clear people out.”
“Why risk it, though, my darling? You can sleep in the car if you’re tired. Please come down, Alexia. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.” Changing the subject, Alexia said, “I’ve been thinking of taking some holiday.”
“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 protesters 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.
Then everything went black.
Chapter Twenty-eight
“Alexia! Alexia, can you hear me?”
Sir Edward Manning’s voice sounded very far away. Alexia thought, How strange that he’s using my first name. He never uses my first name. Something serious must have happened.
Opening her eyes, Alexia found her vision was distorted. She could make out Edward’s concerned features, and a sea of other, blurred faces behind him. But everything was lurching, as if they were on a ship on the high seas. She had no idea where she was. The light hurt her eyes, and a wave of nausea combined with a searing pain in her side.
Then the blackness returned and she felt nothing at all.
Henry Whitman spoke grimly into the phone.
“Is she alive?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
For a brief, unworthy moment, Henry Whitman felt disappointed.
“He shot her at close range, but somehow the bullet lodged in her rib. They’re operating now, but I understand she’s going to make it. She was incredibly lucky.”
Yes, thought Henry Whitman. She usually is.
“They arrested the man?”
“Yes, sir. Gilbert Drake. A cabbie from North London, no prior record. He was a friend of Sanjay Patel’s, apparently. Gave himself up, no trouble.”
“All right. Keep me informed.”
The prime minister hung up, poured himself a whiskey, and took two long, deep swallows. Gilbert Drake. What kind of an idiot must the man be to have missed at point-blank range? Henry Whitman hoped they locked Drake up and threw away the damned key.
Black became white. White walls, white ceiling, white bed, white light.
Am I dead?
Alexia blinked against the brightness. Slowly reality reasserted itself.
A hospital. The pain in her side was gone, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling she hadn’t felt since her teens. Morphine. She looked down. Sure enough, there were the tubes, pumping some unnamed painkiller into her arm.