Only Human by Tom Holt

guess.’
    â€˜Oh, marvellous,’ Artofel grumbled. ‘Hang on, though. What embassy? I didn’t know we had . . .’
    Meskithial grinned. ‘Not common knowledge,’ he said. ‘It’s a fairly recent development, actually. Formal diplomatic relations were only established in 1968. Before that it was all about guys in hats and overcoats with fur collars feeding the ducks in Green Park, which was endearingly picturesque but not all that efficient. So we set up a chain of embassies and consulates; works reasonably well, but we do tend to keep quiet about it. Otherwise we’d be up to our horns in lunatics claiming amoral asylum or taking hostages or parading up and down outside chanting Evil, evil, evil - out, out, out! You can do without that sort of interruption when you’re negotiating complex trade agreements.’
    Part of Artofel’s brain wanted further and better particulars - trade agreements about what? for example - but it was heavily outvoted. ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘where is this embassy? Is it far?’
    â€˜I should have said embassies, plural, ’cos there’s an awful lot of them. And the consulates too, in the smaller towns. In fact,’ he added casually, ‘there’s one in pretty well every high street. ’Course, they don’t call themselves embassies. All part of the cover, you see.’
    Artofel nodded. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘And what do they call themselves?’
    â€˜You keep saying that,’ muttered the Foreign Secretary. ‘I still think he’s behaving oddly.’
    The Home Secretary shrugged and lit a cigarette. ‘Of course he’s acting oddly,’ he replied. ‘He’s the Prime Minister. If he wasn’t acting oddly,’ he added, shaking out the match and dropping it into an ashtray, ‘that would be odd.’
    â€˜You don’t have to be mad to work here, but it helps?You may be right.’The Foreign Secretary swilled the remains of his Scotch round in the bottom of his glass. ‘In a sense,’ he added, instinctively.
    â€˜Of course I’m right,’ his colleague said. ‘You don’t get to be Prime Minister unless you’re odder than a barrelful of ferrets to begin with.You don’t know the half of it. Take Lloyd George, for instance.’
    â€˜Huh?’
    â€˜Kept seventeen goats in the cellars of Number Ten, and when he died they found enough ladies’ underwear in his safety deposit box at Coutts to clothe half the women in China. Why do you think they passed the Official Secrets Act? And he was as rational as the Speaking Clock compared with Ramsay MacDonald.’ He leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘They say there’s a couple of offices in Downing Street they just bricked up after he resigned, ’cos nobody could face going in there. Didn’t stop him doing his job, though. Damn fine statesman. Father of his country.’
    The Foreign Secretary pursed his lips. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Point taken. I just wish he wouldn’t do it, that’s all. I mean, all it takes is one of the cameras to catch him, sitting there staring into space, twitching his nose and rubbing it between his hands, we’ll be a laughing stock. And that tatty old camel overcoat with the tea-stains on it could cost us a couple of marginals in the Home Counties if we’re not careful. Remember Michael Foot’s donkey jacket?’
    â€˜True.’
    â€˜More to the point,’ he added, frowning. ‘Nobody’s actually heard him say anything since he got out of hospital. I hope he’s going to snap out of it soon, because keeping the lid on that isn’t going to be easy.’
    The Home Secretary smiled. ‘Don’t knock it,’ he replied. ‘What this party’s needed these twenty-seven years is a leader who keeps his gob shut. Stands to reason. Man doesn’t talk, doesn’t say