Seven o'clock in the evening.
Charles was still in his office. The whiteboard was now covered in new diagrams—no longer an idealised data platform, but an intricate web of inter-departmental relationships.
A knock at the door.
"Enter."
Cyril came in. "Minister, Sir asked me to give you this."
He handed over a memo slip.
Minister,
Your telephone offensive this afternoon has caused considerable reverberations across Whitehall. The Treasury is enquiring as to whether we are preparing some form of ambush; the Home Office is concerned you may be in possession of information they are not.
This uncertainty is precisely what we need.
When they do not know what we know, they will begin to make contact. When they make contact, information will begin to flow.
Your instinct was correct; the method requires refinement.
If you are amenable, we could discuss how to turn this noise into music tomorrow morning.
Addendum: Regarding the word 'friend', my phrasing was imprecise. In Whitehall, 'ally' is perhaps a more accurate descriptor. And the basis for an alliance is a shared objective, not personal sentiment.
A.C.
Charles read it and was silent for a long time.
"Cyril," he said.
"Minister?"
"Do you think this is his idea of an apology?"
Cyril considered this. "I think, Minister... that is the closest to an apology Sir is capable of expressing."
"The apology of a man who cannot apologise. How very... Alistair," Charles shook his head.
He picked up a pen and wrote a line at the bottom of the slip:
Nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Bring your sheet music.
Addendum: An ally is an ally. But a fox will never trust a foxhound.
C.H.
"Return this to him," Charles said, handing the memo back to Cyril.
"Yes, Minister."
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