Free State Of Emergency: (Tom Buckingham Thriller 3) by Andy McNab Page B

had nailed his colours to the mast. He had appointed himself head cheerleader. But the PM was bridling.
    ‘Yes, please take a generous helping of our Great British pounds with a side order of Islamofascist fanatics. We’re effectively paying them to take our suspected terrorists – when they haven’t even been convicted!’
    Farmer, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet so far, knew it was time to give the PM a gentle prod and remind him on which side his bread was buttered. He leaned forward and reached into the pile of newspapers stacked on the end of the coffee-table. ‘In his Newsday interview, Rolt points to those particular individuals who have made it clear enough that they’re at odds with British society and British values, that they’ve effectively exiled themselves already. “Patriation” is simply a logical next step for those individuals – even a lifestyle choice.’
    There was a nervous silence. He knew, as they all knew, that the scope of what could be said out loud had just widened.
    ‘It’s what a lot of the public want. It’s why they voted for us.’ He tapped the Newsday front page. Two photographs dominated: one of Rolt on a podium punching the air, the other a screen grab of a masked jihadi. Above the picture of Rolt was one word, ‘ IN ’, and above the masked Islamist, ‘ OUT ’. Farmer grinned. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’
    He watched as the PM inevitably turned to Alec Clements, the cabinet secretary. It was to him that the premier always looked for the final word, as if he was the ultimate barometer of what could and couldn’t be done. As always, Clements had bagged himself the only upright chair and sat, as he preferred, slightly apart from the rest of the group, his eyeline a few inches above those on the sofas. He appeared to be both presiding and remaining aloof. He had unbuttoned his waistcoat to give his ample belly some ventilation and was closely examining something under the nail of his forefinger, giving the entirely false impression that he wasn’t paying full attention.
    ‘I rather think, Geoff, if I may come in here, that since there’s no going back, we might as well concentrate on finessing the small print so we can whisk this through Parliament. At least then we can say, “Job done,” and the Home Office can get on with executing the policy.’
    They could always rely on Clements to home in on the main point. Farmer regarded him with a mixture of awe and fear, for his ability to glide along in a swan-like fashion, unflustered by the battles either out on the streets or inside the room. It had been Clements’s idea to get Rolt to stand in the first place, but he had deftly contrived to manoeuvre the PM into voicing it. But now, rather late in the day, the PM was struggling with what was left of his conscience, his face reddening as he started to splutter.
    ‘I don’t think I like the word “execute” in this context. And I still don’t see how the hell it’s going to work! Are we talking about squads of police picking these guys off the street and putting them on the next plane to Syria? Bursting into mosques to round them up? Oh, yes, that should calm things down.’
    Clements glanced up from his manicure. There was a hint of weariness in his tone. ‘Yemen have already indicated they’re quite keen. Lebanon’s showing interest.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Anyway, the new man will be downstairs. Why don’t we have him up and we can find out?’
    You couldn’t help but admire the way Clements manoeuvred himself away from direct conflict while at the same time goading them on. The PM stood up. ‘I’m going to see him on my own for a few minutes. You lot can come back in when we’re done.’
    Clements stretched like a cat and got to his feet. ‘He’s booked himself a press conference at eleven so you’d better be quick.’
    Farmer’s enjoyment of the meeting came to an abrupt halt. What the fuck? He struggled to contain