Davenport and Hutton were waiting in the VIP suite of one of London's designated emergency treatment centres dedicated to handling high priority dignitaries requiring special privacy or security considerations. The two men had been there almost an hour awaiting word from the operating theatre. The surgical teams had been working throughout the night. The Chief Surgeon entered the room, exhausted. He was escorted by Chief Superintendent Hargreaves from Scotland Yard.
"Gentlemen," the doctor began. 'I'm somewhat relieved to say that President Namakobo is in a serious but stable condition, and I expect that he will make a full recovery."
"Can't you give us any more than that?" Hutton inquired bluntly. "Well, he's certainly received a nasty bump to the head. But my
primary concern when he was brought in was the extent of his internal injuries; danger of haemorrhage and whatnot. However, I'm satisfied that we've dealt with that. He'll receive constant attention tonight and we'll see how he comes through in the morning."
"And Madame Namakobo?" asked Davenport.
"Not good, I'm afraid, General." The surgeon's tired features became grave. "She suffered the brunt of the blast and also received a number of bullet wounds to the abdomen and right leg - she was situated behind the driver I understand, and as you know, he died at the scene. Madame Namakobo lost a lot of blood and is in a particularly weakened state. I don't expect her to make it through the night."
The surgeon departed to tend his charges and leave his instructions for the night staff in intensive care. Davenport responded to the burr of his phone, while Hutton turned to Hargreaves.
"Alright, Eddie," Hutton began. "Tell me what the bloody hell happened."
"Well, Sir, it's in the log that our boys tucked the President and Madame Namakobo up in their embassy around 2100. Sometime after that, the President decided to go out for a nightcap." Hutton cursed, as Hargreaves continued. "Without warning, he and Mrs. Namakobo left in their car with his own security detail. None of ours. Completely off the agreed schedule, and absolutely no time for us to get any cars or extra people around there to take them. Of course, if I'd been there they wouldn't have been allowed to go outside the house let alone get into the car and head to town. From what I've been able to put together, the ambush was initiated by the deliberate obstruction of a van across the path of the President's vehicle. It then exploded - and it wouldn't be a stretch to assume that the stupid git driving the van didn't realise he was on a suicide mission. That's when the shooting started and the rest is history. I'll have more details later this morning, Sir."
"Alright, son. Well done. Get the report to me the moment you have it." "No problem, Sir. Will there be anything else?" Hargreaves' genuine respect for the Commissioner was evident. "If not, I'd best be getting back
to the Yard."
"Of course, nothing else for now," replied Hutton grimly. "Thank you." "Good night, gentlemen."
As the door clicked shut behind the policeman, Hutton returned to Davenport, who was standing dead still.
"Anything from your man, Morgan?"
"No, still nothing," replied Davenport sombrely. "To be expected. The whole bloody country has erupted."
"If there is anything to be unravelled from this mess, then it'll be up to him to find it," Hutton said.
"Indeed." Davenport was absently stroking his beard, as he did when in deep thought. "I believe we're about to be confronted by the elephant in the room - or not in the room."
"The very noticeable absence of our friend from the Foreign Office," Hutton noted. "There's definitely something rotten going on, Nobby.
Whatever it is, I'm certain that somewhere within our illustrious intelligence community someone has blood on their hands."
"We have difficult times ahead, Sinclair," Davenport said, looking straight at Hutton. 'I'm still troubled by the lack of available information surrounding this Foreign Office person Violet Ashcroft-James has suggested, and I don't believe we can afford the luxury of waiting for SIS, the Foreign Office, or even bloody MI5 to come clean about it."
"I think SIS has got an internal security problem that they're trying to patch up and the Foreign Office will be battening down the hatches to avert a scandal," Hutton noted. "And I'm afraid I don't have a great deal of confidence in the Foreign Office man."
"You mean ]ohnson?" "Yes, I do."
"How very interesting," remarked Davenport thoughtfully. "Let's go and find a drink somewhere, Sinclair, and swap some notes."
"Sounds like a splendid idea. You think it's time we upped the ante?" "Most definitely," asserted Davenport.