The Horse at the Gates by D C Alden Page B

flash momentarily in her eyes, then she blinked several times and took a deep breath, once again in total control. ‘Ready to face the mob?’
    ‘As I’ll ever be,’ he smiled grimly.
    ‘Then let’s go. We’re late.’
    They left the room, striding past Bryce’s apologetic private secretary and out onto the landing. As Ella trotted down the Grand Staircase, its walls lined with portraits and photographs of previous Downing Street incumbents, Bryce paused beside his own image. It was a moody black and white study of sincere statesmanship, his thick grey hair swept back off his suntanned forehead, the sharp lines of his tailored suit more Vanity Fair than the Labour Review . Bryce studied the photograph intently, unsure if he recognised the man who held his gaze with such confident ease. It was an old picture, taken before Lizzie fell ill, when life promised to deliver everything he’d ever worked and hoped for, halcyon days that were now nothing but a distant memory. Feeling faintly unnerved, he headed quickly downstairs after Ella.
    His Special Advisor carved a path through the expectant faces packed into the corridor outside the State Dining Room where the press conference was being held. Most were familiar: Cabinet ministers, their expressions ranging from curiosity to indignation, anxious advisors sporting glowing cell earpieces and a sprinkling of Downing Street staff, all drawn by the mystery of the moment. They pressed against the walls to facilitate the Prime Minister’s smooth passage, a few quiet words of greeting and encouragement following him along the corridor. Ahead, the bright glare of the press conference beckoned, the buzz from the assembled press corps rising as they neared the room. Ella peeled away at the threshold and the chatter died away. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered and took up position just inside the room. Dossier tucked beneath his arm, Bryce took a deep breath and swept through the mahogany doors into the glare of the TV lights.

    The roller shutter rattled slowly upwards, the mouth of the warehouse gaping open to reveal nothing but blackness. The silver Ford delivery van emerged almost silently from the dark interior, lights extinguished, the driver a vague shadow behind the wheel. In his rear-view mirror he saw the swarthy man lower the shutter then melt into the darkness of the warehouse. The driver shifted in his seat and concentrated on the road ahead, steering the vehicle through the narrow backstreets of Waterloo, only flicking the lights on when he spotted a lone car approaching. He sat a little straighter then, accelerating to a reasonably sedate speed, unwilling to draw unnecessary attention to himself or the van. He cruised past empty industrial units and scruffy local authority tenements, past brightly-lit convenience stores and boarded-up pubs, until he reached the roundabout at the southern end of Waterloo Bridge. From there he headed north across the river Thames. He glanced to his left, where the lights along the embankment were strung like pearls, curving towards the Palace of Westminster and the seat of power in Britain.

    ‘Good afternoon,’ announced Bryce, settling behind the lectern. There was an enthusiastic chorus of replies from the press corps packed within its wood-panelled walls, pens poised expectantly above notepads, recording devices held aloft. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat, blinking into the bright TV lights arranged across the back of the room. He glimpsed his reflection in the teleprompter next to the lectern, the lighting catching the expensive sheen of his grey Hugo Boss suit and the rich red of his perfectly knotted silk tie. He looked every inch the European statesman he was and today he would prove how seriously he took that role. Words glowed on the teleprompter, scrolling slowly upwards.
    ‘For some months now the focus of this government has been centred on divisions in international relations. As I speak here today, US and