Tested by Fire by David Costa (the little red hen read aloud TXT) 📗

Chapter Forty-seven

Costello had been up and had breakfast an hour before Lyndsey had appeared in the dining room.

‘I must have been tired; I didn’t hear you get up.’

‘If you didn’t hear me snore, then you must have been dead to the world,’ he replied with a grin.

When she left for the hot buffet table, Costello called a waitress over and asked for a pot of coffee for two. The coffee arrived just as Lyndsey sat down with her bacon and eggs. Costello poured two cups of coffee.

‘Any word from the boys?’ he asked.

‘I spoke with Mohammad before I came down, he was just leaving to catch the train into Manchester. He’ll be in touch later when he’s had a look around the Conference area. I suggest we wait for Mohammad’s call have lunch and maybe head in later.’

‘Sounds like a plan. We can’t do anything anyway until he gets the keys for the apartment.’

‘Yes, a slight change of plan there. I have to be with Mohammad at the estate agents with my passport to sign for the keys at five this evening. The agents are on the main Deansgate street, so you can drop me off at the NCP and I’ll let you know when we’re inside the apartment.’

‘Good idea, I don’t want to be hanging about anywhere.’

‘We can send Mohammad out for something to eat when we’re in there otherwise we’re just making it a longer stay than we need to.’

Now that they were close to the finish, and there was nothing more they could do, the hours would drag out, they knew this from experience.

‘I can never think of food in the future when I’m eating, it’s the same if I go to the supermarket on a full stomach,’ said Costello.

‘After tomorrow we can have a banquet wherever you want.’

‘On a yacht on some beautiful ocean.’

‘Sounds wonderful, it’s something I’ve never done.’

‘Let’s make that a date then. Job done tomorrow then yacht in Mediterranean for dinner. I’m off to get a paper and do some of that relaxing you talk about. See you later.’

Chapter Forty-eight

The Prime Minister had arrived in Manchester and was now in a meeting with senior ministers at his suite in the Midland Hotel when Jim Broad called to update him on progress.

He’d parked his car some distance away and had used the walk to take the time to think, putting together in his mind what he would say to the PM. It was early evening and though the conference delegates had, in the main, left the main Conference building for the day, there was still a large group of demonstrators in the area. The crowd were a mixture of all sorts. Some with placards showing their grievances and that were always complaining about something and looking for trouble instead of getting off their backsides and doing something to change the problem. Then there was the usual Union and left-wing protesters and agitators with placards from Save our NHS to Tory Scum, Ban Foxhunting all accompanied by the usual chants of ‘Tories Out’, ‘Tory Scum’, ‘Down with the capitalist system’. It was all meant to intimidate the delegates who had to pass them to get into the Conference area.

Broad liked to think that he would fight for what was the free speech these demonstrators represented, even if he didn’t like how they used it. The thing that angered him most was that the puppet masters behind the demonstrators who organised the rent a mob would show up when the crowd was at its biggest, spout a few words for the benefit of the cameras, then having heated up the crowd once more, would disappear to the warmth of their limo and the expensive hotel being paid for with Union or taxpayers money.

Broad knew some of the history of the hotel that had been used by kings, queens, presidents, and now prime ministers. The prime ministers mostly staying when attending the Conservative Party Annual Conference which Manchester had shared every two years with Birmingham. The two main political parties in Britain had moved their conferences into the big cities away from the old coastal resorts due to the fact the numbers attending had grown, now more hotel space was needed.

Broad had no problem getting through security and was now sitting outside the suite of rooms being used by the Prime Minister. He wasn’t alone. There was a secretary behind a desk and standing at the door to the rooms was one of the PM’s Personal Protection team standing quietly but alert.

‘You may go in now, sir,’ said the secretary.

When Broad entered the suite, Peter Brookfield came and shook his hand.

‘Jim, welcome, thank you for coming. Please, take a seat.’

Broad sat in one of the large winged leather chairs that made up a three-piece set surrounding a large glass coffee table which had two empty coffee cups and a buff folder with TOP SECRET across the top of the file and below in smaller letters Operation Longshot. Brookfield sat in the other armchair. Sitting on the large sofa were Sir Hugh Fraser and Sir Martin Bryant. After everyone said hello it was Bryant who spoke.

‘Well, Mr Broad, where are we now, can you bring us up to date?’

His question indicated two things to Broad. He’d used the word ‘we’ which he could take to mean we’re all in this together. But he’d started with a more formal, Mister, which Broad took as we’re together in this but if the shit hits the fan, you’re on your own.

Broad spent the next twenty minutes bringing them up to date.

‘So, despite all the resources we have, we’re not much closer to getting these people? You say we are, but how close?’ Bryant asked.

There was that ‘we’ again, thought Broad, and