Free To Play the King by Michael Dobbs

Minister. I've studied all the options carefully, and I really think it would be best if we dispense with the more extravagant options and go for something traditional. Not one of these steel and glass air-conditioning units.'
    'Will it provide the most modern office environment?' Stamper intervened.
    'It'll fit into the Westminster environment,' Dickie continued a little uneasily.
    'Scarcely the same thing,' the Party Chairman responded.
    'We'd get a howl of protest from the heritage groups if we tried to turn Westminster into downtown Chicago,' Dickie offered defensively.
    ‘I see. Planning by pressure group.' Stamper gave a cynical smile.
    The Environment Secretary looked flustered at the unexpected assault but Urquhart came quickly to his rescue. 'Don't worry about Stamper, Dickie. Only a week at party headquarters and already he can't come into contact with a pressure group without raising his kneecap in greeting.' He smiled, this was considerably greater fun than being preached at by the two large female charity workers who were hovering behind Dickie, waiting to pounce. He drew Dickie closer for protection. 'So what else was on your mind?'
    'It's this mystery virus along the North Sea coast which has been killing off the seals. The scientific bods thought it had disappeared, but I've just had a report that seal carcasses are being washed up all around Norfolk. The virus is back. By morning there will be camera crews and newshounds crawling over the beaches with photos of dying seals splashed across the news.'
    Urquhart grimaced. 'Newshounds!' He hadn't heard that term used in years. Dickie was an exceptionally serious and unamusing man, exactly the right choice for dealing with environmentalists. They could bore each other for months with their mutual earnestness. As long as he kept them quiet until after March . . . 'Here's what you do, Dickie. By the time they reach the beaches in the morning, I want you there, too. Showing the Government's concern, being on hand to deal with the questions of the . . . newshounds.' From the corner of his eye he could see Stamper smirking. ‘I want your face on the midday news tomorrow. Alongside all those dead seals.' Stamper covered his mouth with a handkerchief to stifle the laugh, but Dickie was nodding earnestly.
    'Do I have your permission to announce a Government inquiry, if I feel it necessary?'
    'You do. Indeed you do, my dear Dickie. Give them whatever you like, as long as it's not money.'
    'Then if I am to be there by daybreak, I'd better make tracks immediately. Will you excuse me, Prime Minister?'
    As the Environment Secretary hustled self-importantly towards the door, Stamper could control himself no longer. His shoulders shook with mirth.
    'Don't mock,' reproached Urquhart with an arched eyebrow. 'Seals are a serious matter. They eat all the damned salmon, you know.'
    Both men burst into laughter, just as the two charity workers decided to draw breath and swoop. Urquhart spied their heaving bosoms and turned quickly away to find himself looking at a young woman, attractive and most elegantly presented with large, challenging eyes. She seemed a far more interesting contest than the elderly matrons. He extended a hand.
    'Good evening. I'm Francis Urquhart.'
    'Sally Quine.' She was cool, less gushing than most guests.
    'I'm delighted you could come. And your husband . . . ?'
    'Beneath a ton of concrete, I earnestly hope.'
    Now he could detect the slightly nasal accent and he glanced discreetly but admiringly at the cut of her long Regency jacket. It was red with large cuffs, the only decoration provided by the small but ornate metal buttons which made the effect both striking and professional. The raven hair shimmered gloriously in the light of the chandeliers.
    'It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs . . . ? Miss Quine.' He was picking up her strong body language, her independence, and couldn't fail to notice the taut expression around her mouth; something was bothering