The Shape of Ice by Douglas Hurd

Author:Douglas Hurd
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2007-10-14T16:00:00+00:00

The plenary sessions of the summit were to be held in the Maritime Museum on the harbourside. There was no question that morning of sauntering informally through the streets or sampling ice-cream. It was still called the G8 Summit but there were ten motorcades if you included, as was proper, the President of the European Commission and the President in Office of the European Council of Ministers. Each motorcade had to present itself and disgorge at the entrance to the museum in proper sequence of protocol. The last and much the longest, containing the President of the United States of America, was set to arrive at precisely ten am.

This meant that Simon Russell had to leave the Delta Hotel at nine twenty-three. It had been a pleasant enough morning up until then. He had telephoned Louise, as she took her lunch of crispbread and yoghurt at Number 10, and thanked her for her letter. She had asked how the Russian discussion would go, which was a good sign, though he knew that she would not have been interested in his reply. He had read the London press cuttings harvested by Artemis and propped against the toast rack. An opinion poll suggesting quite an easy Tory win in the South Sussex by-election, two or three speculative pieces about public spending based (he thought) on Treasury briefing, nothing new from China, some relatively subdued criticisms from Ulster politicians of his initiative, short pieces from diplomatic correspondents on inside pages foreshadowing Andreyev’s appeal for help at today’s Summit.

Simon liked on these occasions to breakfast alone, and reflect. The storm clouds had indeed blown in upon him since Tuscany but they had created some balancing energy within himself. He had not yet been to the doctor about his back, and had mentioned it only lightly to Louise and to Patrick Vaughan. Maybe the ache was a bit easier today, despite the long plane journey. In any case he was willing to accept a disc pinching on a nerve if that was fate’s price for keeping his heart stable. Of course there was no medical connection, but fate did not work by Harley Street rules. As was his custom he passed his main political problems quickly in review, having poured out his second cup of coffee. He had made his decision not to go to China sound very definite, but next morning was not sure that he was right. He knew himself well. One reason for being so emphatic in front of his team had been precisely to smother any second thoughts of his own before they took shape. Now there was no going back. Ireland was different, because there his proposal had no downside. Faced with the Breakaways he had nothing to lose by playing the democratic card. Time would tell if he had anything to gain.

His real problem was the public spending round at home. Had he been right to play it so long? The press were just beginning to scent trouble and from now on the tension would build rapidly.

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