He hunched his shoulders, looking belligerent. "Yes. All right."

"Thank you, Fabian. I know it's hard for you right now."

"Can I go up to New London with Charlotte?"

"I don't think so. You'll be a lot safer here. Charlotte will be back in a couple of days."

Fabian's sullen expression darkened, but he didn't push it. Charlotte's arm had slipped round him, giving him a reassuring hug.

Suzi felt like cheering the kid on, someone who wasn't totally intimidated by Julia. Fuck knows, there were few enough in the world.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The sun hadn't quite risen high enough to burn the dew off Wilholm's lawns. Julia's Pegasus sent the pale grey and silver droplets scurrying in vast interference patterns as it landed.

She walked down the stairs from the belly hatch to be greeted with kisses and shouts from her animated children. Brutus barked at her, then started sniffing round her feet.

"You've been gone all night."

"Where did you go?"

"Was it with Uncle Greg?"

"Do you know where Daddy is yet?"

She put her arms around both of them, hugging tight. They started to walk towards the manor together, Daniella skipping.

Julia took a deep breath. "I'm sorry I had to rush off. It was Listoel. Yes. And, I think we might now." She laughed at Matthew, his jaw had dropped as he tried to match answers to questions.

"Where do you think Daddy is?" Daniella asked.

"New London. Your Uncle Greg is going up there today to find out if he truly is. We should know by tonight. I might have to leave again."

"Can we come?"

"No. If I find Daddy, I'll bring him straight back here. Promise."

Daniella and Matthew exchanged a look, annoyed and half relieved. Julia grinned at them. "Come on, I've got a teleconference in a minute, but we'll have some elevenses together first."

"No interruptions?" Matthew asked suspiciously.

"None at all."

David Marchant had been the first New Conservative Prime Minister elected after the PSP fell, a position he held for twelve years and two further elections before finally standing down in favour of his successor, Joshua Wheaton. Julia had found herself regretting his decision with increasing frequency over the last five years. Wheaton was too much like Harcourt, an image merchant desperate for public support, a spin doctor's cyborg. At least Marchant had the guts to make unpopular decisions on occasion. These days he had settled into a cosy role of elder statesman and New Conservative grandee. Always on the channel current affair casts, ready with an opinion and a quip. Perceived as the power behind Wheaton's throne. An accurate enough assessment.

When his image appeared on the study's flatscreen she felt herself relaxing. There had been a lot of head to head sessions in the old days, hammering out deals to their mutual advantage. Nowadays it was done through an army of assistants and lawyers, departmental interfaces, industry and government working groups, advisory committees.

One reason why the whole Harcourt problem had arisen in the first place. No hands-on control any more.

"Hello, Julia," he said. As always a rich resonant voice, instantly trustworthy.

"Morning, David. I have a problem."

"Whatever I can do, Julia, you know that."

"Choosing a better successor would have been a good start."

David Marchant smiled wisely. "Joshua is right for these times, as I was for mine. We needed strong leadership to recover from the Warming and the PSP, and now we need to loosen up a little, consolidate."

"There's a difference between loose and falling to pieces. Wheaton has lost just about all of his authority, over the country and the party. And I have Michael Harcourt on my back because of it."

"Michael is an ambitious man, admittedly."

"Michael is a bought man."

David Marchant laughed. "You're just annoyed because it isn't you who owns him."

"He isn't from your wing of the party. And if he does snatch the premiership from Wheaton, he'll purge the cabinet. You really will have to become a professional current affairs presenter if you want your voice to be heard after that. Trouble is, Jepson runs Globecast too. You'll be locked out. Give you a chance to get your golf handicap down," she said maliciously. Marchant hated sports; when Peterborough United won the FA cup she had sat next to him in Wembley's royal box for the match. He had emptied two hip flasks of whisky. Out of boredom, he always claimed.

"If you'd given Wheaton some support over Wales none of this would have happened, Julia."

"Life isn't as black and white as it used to be in your day, David. Politics isn't as simple, nothing is as simple. Which is a step to the good."

"Hardly, Julia; complexity is a step towards chaos."

"And simplicity makes control easy," she countered wryly. "It's oppressive."

"The PSP was oppressive, Julia, never us. We created the economic environment you thrived in, you have a lot to be grateful for. And as long as we remain in Westminster, Event Horizon can go on expanding. You have carte blanche, you know that."

"Event Horizon is already large enough, thank you. Besides, pure capitalism is as unsavoury as pure communism. I never favoured either extreme. There has to be a degree of regulation, and responsibility. A social market somewhere in the middle."

"That's rich, coming from you. You know the gains to be made from our policies. Without us acting in tandem this country would only be a second-rate European state, not the leading power we are today."

"You people, you're always so hemmed in by geography, aren't you? It ruins your thinking. The rest of Europe, the rest of the world for that matter, needs to develop their economies to the same level as England. If for no other reason than if they're poor they can't buy our goods."

"Nice in theory, Julia. You'll never see it in practice. Governments are too parochial, too protective. They have to be; it's how they get elected."

She favoured him with an indolent smile. "Unless they're Welsh governments."

"Touché. So what did that little shit Harcourt offer you?"

"He claims a direct line to Jepson, which he'll use to tell me what the other bids are. That's his edge. The rest of it was a standard government to industry inducement package."

"Hmm." David Marchant rubbed the bridge of his nose, thinking hard. "Well, of course, the inducement package will remain, that goes without saying. After all, my natural successors are placed in the Exchequer as well as Number Ten. That just leaves us with the problem of the actual bid. Fortunately, the PM can offer you Treasury backing for any offer you make to Jepson. In which case anything Harcourt tells you becomes irrelevant. I imagine Wheaton will consider a more appropriate position for him afterwards; Minister we can all blame for traffic jams, or somesuch. I take it you are arranging a suitable figure for Jepson with your financial backing consortium."

"Yes," she said grudgingly. Another bloody problem. Her finance division chief had briefed her during the flight from Listoel; the banks and finance houses were terrified by atomic structuring, running round like headless chickens. It was making business extremely difficult in the money markets.

"Good. Simply put in a figure you know the kombinates can't match. We will bridge the gap between that and the amount the banks will advance you. Blank cheque, Julia. And interest free."

"It will run to tens of billions, if not hundreds."

"So? Taxpayers are a bottomless source of money for governments. And they're not going anywhere."

"As a taxpayer, I object."

"Ah, but, Julia, you don't pay much tax, do you? New Conservative policies see to that."