Free Sun Dance by Iain R. Thomson Page B

hope you understand Prime Minister?”
    “Of course, of course, Josh, I greatly appreciate all you’ve done, any change you may wish will be dealt with appropriately,” and perhaps a little coyly, he enquired, “Er, not Nuen by any chance?” The P.M. mentioned the largest U.S. Company in the nuclear business.
    “Oh, nothing definite,” Goldberg waved a podgy hand, “but a friend in Nuen did suggest that a U.K. contract would be greatly appreciated.” For the first time he looked directly at the P.M. “Maybe there’s also a space on their board.” The comment hung between them in mutual understanding. Their eyes locked for several moments.
    “By the way, Josh, strictly across this table, the deal to sell UK’s shares in our Atomic Weapons Establishment at Aldermaston to that Californian crowd, Harris Engineering, is just about through. You may know, they’re doing a lot of research into the next generation of nuclear warheads. The M.O.D. seems quiet relaxed about it and of course the Chancellor’s delighted. Any way, it’ll tie together quite neatly with any development that Nuen has in mind. We’ve had to keep this little arrangement out of earshot of The House, otherwise there’d be one hell of a hullabaloo.”
    During this disclosure, Sir Joshua’s eyes had fallen to looking at the carpet before he commented, “I must admit, I did get an inkling of the deal.”
    Drawing a sharp breath, the P.M. looked suspiciously at his advisor.
    “Very, very discreetly,” the Chief Scientist continued smoothly, cursing inwardly for admitting as much, “through a friend, as it happens. I do assure you, P.M. this Californian Group, quite apart from their vital work on nuclear weaponry and starting production on the latest airborne megawatt laser guns, are well to the fore in several fields, advanced physics, super computing, and that’s just two areas.” Pausing a moment, he looked up, “More particularly, so far as this waste storage question is concerned, they are into the science of creating the exotic materials which may well be required for casing these underground facilities.”
    The meeting had gone on long enough, too open for the comfort of both. “Look Josh, I can see we must get this storage question sorted out,” the P.M. mused aloud. “Underground you say, well maybe somewhere with a low population density. An agreeable landowner is always better than compulsory acquisition; less fuss, then there’s planning, public enquires, all that damn nonsense.”
    “Leave it with me, P.M.” Sir Joshua lifted his considerable weight out of the chair.
    A cordial handshake brought further discussion to a close. “You have my full confidence, Josh,” The P.M. held onto the man’s hand. “By the way, I can’t just recall who’s the chairperson of Nuen.” His smile settled warmly on Sir Joshua, “Do pass on my best regards for their Company’s future.”
    “Naturally I shall do so, as soon as a suitable opening arises.” He disengaged his hand.
    A green light flashed on the desk. The P.M. reached and touched it. Without any sound, a large steel door slid open. Goldberg left equally silently.

    Whistling the latest pop tune, the P.M. drew a diary from his inside pocket and wrote a few careful notes before sitting back at the desk and drumming his fingers. He swivelled his chair, stared at the operations map and checked his watch. A red light flashed. He touched it. The room’s only door opened silently. A tall man stood at the end of the room without speaking. Dark city clothes emphasized the pallor of a face seldom away from artificial light. Darting eyes swept the room. The Agent remained silent.
    “Good, good, glad you could make it.” A brusque greeting which took care not to address the man by name and was far removed from the P.M.’s usually warm approach. “Any progress on the tube train bombers? I really need results, by next Wednesday’s House of Commons questions, if possible. Not that