Read Online The Knives by Richard T. Kelly - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard T. Kelly
Ads: Link
out?’
‘What do you have in mind, Guy?’
Walters’s whole frame roiled with keenness. ‘As I understood it, we’ve got a database full of tip-offs from the public about illegals. Let’s get our Enforcement teams out on the road, make a big day of hunting these people down – house calls, spot checks at dodgy workplaces. Send a message, yes? If people think all we ever do is talk about clamping down then, hey, let’s get clamping!’
Blaylock pondered. The plan had a brute simplicity, rather in the manner of its author.
Ben Cotesworth, though, looked rattled. ‘David, there’s a big, big problem with that kind of tactic. People will say we’ve gone fishing – just based on gossip, on nosey neighbours. In that database you’ll have a whole load of hoax calls, malicious calls, rival curry-houses having a pop at each other. You’ll be taking the word of narks. And, yeah, bigots.’
‘Ben, I don’t doubt there’ll be a few wrong steers but, howay, we’re not Gestapo. If people have their papers on them then they can go about their business.’
‘It’s a stunt , but. It’s showbiz. A big hassle knocked off in a day just for headlines. If we want to do this we should at least do it right – review the data properly, plan it, use some stealth.’
Blaylock felt sharply what Ben was accusing him of – of trying to look big and tough and, rather, appearing cowed and small. He would not have suffered the charge from anyone but his protégé.
It was true: he believed he was responding to steady silent pressures exerted from beyond the door. He loathed the idea of decisions made solely to get out of a short-term hole, for naked political interest. He loathed it especially because he had done it before, once or twice or three times. And now – he could feel it coming over him – he was going to do it again. Because, in the end, he didn’t hate expedience half as much as he loathed inertia.
‘Guy, you’re sure we have the data to hand, in good order?’
‘Oh yeah. Fifty thousand tip-offs reported by the public. If we don’t get a thousand expulsions I’ll walk naked down Whitehall.’
‘We’ll see about that. But, yes, let’s get it done. How soon?’
‘God, I mean … why not this week? Friday?’
Blaylock nodded assent, and looked to Ben, who had folded his arms, sunk his chin in his chest and tilted back in his chair – a posture Blaylock used to observe in his son during the final grim months before divorce and exile from the family home.
As the team filed out Geraldine was there, looking custodial, and she steered Blaylock lightly by the elbow toward his office.
‘Some interception warrants have turned up in quite a batch, maybe you could sign them off now?’
Blaylock sat at his desk so as to treat with seriousness two dozen or so requests from MI5 to approve intrusive surveillance on select individuals – wire-tapping, room-bugging, plain-clothes observation.
The subjects were suspected Islamists in the main, plus a couple of Irish republicans, and a suspiciously shiftless Russian ‘tourist’. Blaylock read as carefully as he could. He refused to be cowed or made star-struck by the spooks – wanting, rather, to form his own judgements based on the evidence. He could not, however, scrutinise every warrant line by line. More often he was resigned to trusting these secret, untested hunches, these informed suspicions of conspiracy and wickedness. He felt some sort of force steering his hand as he scribbled his signature – the duty to protect, his duty as minister for the interior, hardened by the fear of what failure might constitute. The spooks were nameless and faceless to the public, but he was the poster-boy for national security; and if wickedness came to pass then the public would require a public figure, like a target, on whom it could pin the tail of blame.
The various Islamist suspects depressed Blaylock especially. Some looked like little more than young men with
‘What do you have in mind, Guy?’
Walters’s whole frame roiled with keenness. ‘As I understood it, we’ve got a database full of tip-offs from the public about illegals. Let’s get our Enforcement teams out on the road, make a big day of hunting these people down – house calls, spot checks at dodgy workplaces. Send a message, yes? If people think all we ever do is talk about clamping down then, hey, let’s get clamping!’
Blaylock pondered. The plan had a brute simplicity, rather in the manner of its author.
Ben Cotesworth, though, looked rattled. ‘David, there’s a big, big problem with that kind of tactic. People will say we’ve gone fishing – just based on gossip, on nosey neighbours. In that database you’ll have a whole load of hoax calls, malicious calls, rival curry-houses having a pop at each other. You’ll be taking the word of narks. And, yeah, bigots.’
‘Ben, I don’t doubt there’ll be a few wrong steers but, howay, we’re not Gestapo. If people have their papers on them then they can go about their business.’
‘It’s a stunt , but. It’s showbiz. A big hassle knocked off in a day just for headlines. If we want to do this we should at least do it right – review the data properly, plan it, use some stealth.’
Blaylock felt sharply what Ben was accusing him of – of trying to look big and tough and, rather, appearing cowed and small. He would not have suffered the charge from anyone but his protégé.
It was true: he believed he was responding to steady silent pressures exerted from beyond the door. He loathed the idea of decisions made solely to get out of a short-term hole, for naked political interest. He loathed it especially because he had done it before, once or twice or three times. And now – he could feel it coming over him – he was going to do it again. Because, in the end, he didn’t hate expedience half as much as he loathed inertia.
‘Guy, you’re sure we have the data to hand, in good order?’
‘Oh yeah. Fifty thousand tip-offs reported by the public. If we don’t get a thousand expulsions I’ll walk naked down Whitehall.’
‘We’ll see about that. But, yes, let’s get it done. How soon?’
‘God, I mean … why not this week? Friday?’
Blaylock nodded assent, and looked to Ben, who had folded his arms, sunk his chin in his chest and tilted back in his chair – a posture Blaylock used to observe in his son during the final grim months before divorce and exile from the family home.
As the team filed out Geraldine was there, looking custodial, and she steered Blaylock lightly by the elbow toward his office.
‘Some interception warrants have turned up in quite a batch, maybe you could sign them off now?’
Blaylock sat at his desk so as to treat with seriousness two dozen or so requests from MI5 to approve intrusive surveillance on select individuals – wire-tapping, room-bugging, plain-clothes observation.
The subjects were suspected Islamists in the main, plus a couple of Irish republicans, and a suspiciously shiftless Russian ‘tourist’. Blaylock read as carefully as he could. He refused to be cowed or made star-struck by the spooks – wanting, rather, to form his own judgements based on the evidence. He could not, however, scrutinise every warrant line by line. More often he was resigned to trusting these secret, untested hunches, these informed suspicions of conspiracy and wickedness. He felt some sort of force steering his hand as he scribbled his signature – the duty to protect, his duty as minister for the interior, hardened by the fear of what failure might constitute. The spooks were nameless and faceless to the public, but he was the poster-boy for national security; and if wickedness came to pass then the public would require a public figure, like a target, on whom it could pin the tail of blame.
The various Islamist suspects depressed Blaylock especially. Some looked like little more than young men with
Similar Books
