‘Aren’t you reaching for the unknowable?’ asked Morahan softly. ‘Indeed the impossible.’
Sandford grimaced. ‘Nothing is ever unknowable. And in politics nothing should be impossible or undoable.’
‘Have you consulted the chiefs?’
‘You may recall – it was leaked to a newspaper – that the previous government attempted to have a judge inquire into the security services but they lobbied successfully against it. So no, I have not consulted the chiefs. And in anticipation of your next question, neither has this time attempted to stand in the way.’
‘I think you’ll find, Francis,’ interjected Atkinson, ‘that the Security Service – Dame Isobel in particular – understands this Prime Minister has a stiffer backbone than his predecessor.’
‘And Six?’ asked Morahan, repressing a rush of revulsion.
‘Sir Malcolm,’ replied Sandford, ‘assures me of the Secret Intelligence Service’s full co-operation. He is always keen to point out that SIS’s involvement is restricted to its activities with regard to these people while they were, or are, out of the country.’
‘You mean Five and Six are still…’ Morahan hesitated, ‘defecating on each other?’
‘Not at all,’ said Sir Kevin Long. ‘Communications, I am delighted to report, are better than ever.’ It was the Cabinet Secretary’s first contribution; his beam spread broader than ever as he made it. ‘The Cs meet once a week in my presence to iron out any turf issues. All most amicable.’
Morahan imagined the politely expressed arguments and precedents the Cabinet Secretary must have used to dissuade his headlong Prime Minister from unnecessarily opening potential cans of worms – and the gracefulness with which the civil servant would have accepted his defeat. Surrounded by these powerful figures and, despite himself, moved by Sandford’s plea, he sensed the noose tightening.
‘I can understand why you’ve come to me. I’m a senior judge. We sometimes have our uses, even for politicians. And, however briefly, I was once an MP and Cabinet member, so have an element of political understanding.’
‘Precisely,’ said Sandford. ‘You are uniquely well-qualified.’
‘There is the issue of my resignation.’
‘I see no issue,’ said Long.
‘Nor me,’ added Atkinson.
‘Really, Geoff?’ Morahan sighed.
‘As I recall,’ said Atkinson, ‘Frank Morahan, as you were then generally known, resigned as Attorney General in the summer of 2002 to resume a highly successful career at the Bar and spend more time with his family.’
‘Yes, that’s what I said,’ agreed Morahan. ‘You may recall the timing. Six weeks after President George W Bush and Prime Minister Tony Blair agreed in Crawford, Texas to go to war with Iraq and remove Saddam Hussein. Come what may. As the government’s senior law officer, I would be the one who would have to approve its legality. My view was that any such war would be illegal.’
‘That’s not what you said at the time,’ said Atkinson. ‘Not even in Cabinet.’
‘It was less than a year after 9/11. I had no wish to be disruptive. I also believed the then Prime Minister to be an honourable man.’
‘As we all did,’ said Atkinson. ‘As we all did.’
‘I’ve never sought to justify myself publicly,’ continued Morahan, ignoring the lie, ‘but, as has been speculated, this was the real reason for my resignation. I also view that war as a prime cause of the very tragedy unfolding in our country which you are now asking me to investigate. I am therefore parti-pris.’ Morahan stopped abruptly, stared down at his crossed hands. No one spoke. He raised his head in anguish at the three men around him.
‘Hey,’ said Sandford with youthful vigour, ‘slow down. We’re sixteen years on. That’s hardly a partisan view, we all recognise it. All it means is that you got there first. We as a nation reaped the whirlwind you saw gathering.’
‘Prime Minister,’ said Morahan, ‘sixteen years ago I left the world of politics to return to the law. I would prefer to stay there.’
‘If you accept this role,’ said Sandford, ‘so you will. It may be enabled by government but it is a judicial inquiry. I’m asking you to both help me and perform a duty for your country.’ With that, Sandford rose to his feet. The meeting was over.
Heavy-legged, Morahan pulled himself up, shook the three proffered hands and, exchanging parting courtesies, headed for the door. The cherubic assistant private secretary magically appeared and escorted him out.
As the door clicked shut, Sandford turned to Atkinson. ‘You knew him then. Will he do it?’
‘He’ll fall in line,’ replied Atkinson roughly. ‘Always a supine streak to him in my view.’ Sir Kevin Long raised a discreet eyebrow.
‘He had the guts to resign,’ said Sandford.
‘You’re wrong. He didn’t have the guts to see it through.’
‘Will he see this through? I want it done properly.’ He paused. ‘Let’s be clear, our secret friends need a bloody good kicking.’
‘Your message was clear. We’ll make sure he doesn’t forget it.’
Sandford gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘There’s the politics of it too, isn’t there?’
‘What do you mean?’ Atkinson’s voice betrayed anxiety at missing a trick.
‘We have four more years in power. During that time, there’s bound to be a big one. Maybe several.’
‘Yes, bound to be.’
‘So when it happens, people’ll never be able to say we didn’t do everything to anticipate it – to think the unthinkable. That we didn’t just leave it to the police and MI5. We shone a public light on them, we pulled together the wisest heads in the land to scrutinise them. No stone was left unturned.’
‘That’s good, Robbie.’ Atkinson’s admiration was genuine. ‘Very good.’
‘Thanks, Geoff. I’m surprised you hadn’t seen it yourself.’ Simultaneously they turned to the Cabinet Secretary but Sir Kevin Long was saying nothing.
‘Well, let’s hope that’s all settled,’ said Sandford, rubbing his hands. ‘Kevin, perhaps I might have a minute with the Home Secretary.’
‘Of course, Prime Minister.’ The Cabinet Secretary eased gracefully from the room.
‘What are you going to surprise me with now?’ asked Atkinson.
‘Think about it, Geoff. On whose watch did the terror return?’
‘The last Prime Minister, of course.’
‘And who was Home Secretary during the years the terror was being planned?’
Atkinson chuckled. ‘The last Prime Minister.’
‘Precisely,’ said Sandford, triumph in his eye. ‘Chilcot did for Blair. Morahan can do for her.’
‘So…’ concluded Morahan that evening, after explaining the Prime Minister’s invitation to his wife, Lady Iona, at their Chelsea home. Like him, she was a public figure; née Chesterfield – which she’d kept as her professional name – she had risen to be Head Mistress of a prestigious London girls’ school and one of the country’s most