Short of Glory (32 page)

‘You what?’ Patrick heard the sharpness in his own voice.

‘Saw him off. Well, he was skulking around the garage looking as though he was going to nick something. You were still out enjoying yourself with “in-due-course” so there was
no one I could ask. I went for him with a shifting spanner but he got away.’

Patrick did not hide his anger. ‘That was bloody stupid. If you’d stopped to ask him what he was doing there he’d have told you. You’d better apologise to Sarah as soon
as you get back.’

‘All right, all right, I’ll apologise. I’ve no objection to apologising. Lot of people can vouch for that. But what I’d like to know is what was he doing skulking around
there at twenty past one in the morning? I bet Sarah didn’t know he was there. He’d been up to something. I could tell. He was shifty.’

‘It’s hardly surprising with you chasing him with a spanner.’

‘No, no, before that. It was his manner. He was definitely up to something. Also, he’d been boozing more than was good for him. Couldn’t hold it. He’d been sick behind
the garage.’

Patrick was not able to feel wholeheartedly angry. What Chatsworth said about Stanley was worrying because he was the kind of man to know shiftiness when he saw it. He rang Sarah when he got
back to the embassy and asked about Stanley. He repeated then that he didn’t mind her son being around but he could tell from her voice that she thought he was complaining. In fact, it was
Stanley’s absences rather than his presence that worried him.

She spoke hesitantly and loudly. ‘On Friday I try to take him to the buses depot, massa. I try but he is bad boy and we are late. It take two and a half hours to get there and we miss the
bus.’

He softened his tone as much as he could. ‘Why did it take so long, Sarah? What was the difficulty?’

She hesitated again. ‘My fault, massa, I get the wrong bus and then we have to walk and there is no other bus for a long time. But we go again tomorrow afternoon. I get the bus right then,
massa.’

‘What time does it go?’

‘At half past two.’

‘I’ll come home for lunch and I’ll take you both to it.’

‘That is kind, massa. Thank you.’

Jim Rissik rang a few minutes later. He had heard about the Chatsworth incident and had talked to his boss about it. Patrick gave Chatsworth’s version, with which Jim did not bother to
argue. ‘For Christ’s sake and his, make sure he doesn’t do anything like it again. I had a hell of a job persuading them not to get on to the MFA and make a protest. It was only
because of the visit of your minister that they didn’t. You owe me a favour there, Pat.’

Patrick spoke with forced jocularity. They both laughed at the idea of Chatsworth in the beer hall, then discussed Jim’s so far unsuccessful efforts to discover who had removed
Whelk’s effects.

‘How’s Joanna?’ asked Jim, with no change of tone.

Patrick felt himself stiffen. ‘All right, well.’

‘Is she at home at the moment?’

‘As far as I know, yes.’

‘I rang earlier but there was no answer. I wondered if she was with you.’

‘No, no. She might have been shopping.’

‘Yes, something like that.’

He recognised affected unconcern in Jim’s voice, sensing the same in his own. They rang off with cheerful goodbyes.

He told Sir Wilfrid about Chatsworth. There was a good chance that Clifford would come to hear of it anyway and he did not want to be seen keeping a secret from the ambassador. Sir Wilfrid
pursed his lips. ‘It was a bit injudicious of him, I admit, but he’s naturally not aware of diplomatic niceties. It’s up to you to make sure he understands, Patrick. He struck me
as a very level-headed sort of chap and I’m quite sure he wouldn’t have done anything like that if he’d had any sort of inkling of the embarrassment he could have caused.
It’s your responsibility to make sure he does have inklings in future. Goes to show they’re keeping tabs on him, though, doesn’t it? They must be in it up to their
necks.’

‘But they thought at first it was me.’

‘Of course they did, it’s your car. They’re probably keeping tabs on you, too. Where were you at the time, by the way?’

‘I was seeing a friend.’

‘Well, why not take Chatsworth along with you in future? He’s probably bored and rather lonely. It’s up to you to take care of him and he’s not the sort of chap to get in
the way, I’m sure.’

The day before the minister was due to arrive his visit was downgraded yet further to a ‘private fact-finding mission’. It was to be announced to the press that the
minister was to have no formal contacts with the Lower African government. It was known within chancery, though, that he was to have an informal meeting with his ‘opposite number’. In a
lengthy immediate telegram London gave the reason for the downgrading as HMG’s imminent refusal to recognise the so-called independent homelands that Lower Africa had created for large
numbers of rural blacks. London’s argument was that if the decision were conveyed during an official visit both countries would be obliged to assume unhelpful public postures, leading to a
worsening of bilateral relations. Such relations, though they existed only in the minds of a very small number of officials, were believed by governments to apply to entire peoples, and they were
sustained in this belief by the very officials in whose minds such relations existed. The telegram also argued that an unofficial visit might be a more ‘viable’ forum in which to
persuade the Lower Africans to be more flexible on the question of the disputed Northern territories.

‘Frankly, I don’t believe it,’ said Clifford, tossing the telegram on to Philip’s piled desk, from where it fluttered to the floor. Philip had to pick it up.
‘London have known this all along. Why are they suddenly trotting it out at the last minute? Either because they don’t trust us – for which they have no reason because we
haven’t let them down yet – or because someone wants the visit to pass off as quietly as possible so that we don’t get any credit for any success. There’s been plotting,
mark my words. It’s that man Formerly again, trying to do us down.’

‘He didn’t strike me as a plotter,’ said Patrick. ‘He didn’t seem sufficiently interested.’

‘How long have you known him?’

‘I’ve only met him once or twice.’

Clifford shook his head. ‘You’ll find as you go on, Patrick, that the Service is full of plotters and schemers at court, ambitious men who won’t hesitate to do you down.
Formerly is one of the worst, a real smiling assassin if ever there was one. Personally, I detest such ambition.’

Philip looked pained and weary. ‘Is that really so, though? I know I haven’t been in the Office as long as you but I honestly haven’t found it thick with assassins. Most people
are conscientious and on the whole decent. Perhaps Formerly is a little more relaxed than he should be but he’s not dishonest and when he does do something he does it rather well. You must
admit, his drafting—’

Clifford waved his hand. ‘Oh, his drafting, yes, his drafting’s very good. But we can all draft well or we wouldn’t be here, would we?’ He waited for a response.
‘No, it’s his integrity I worry about. It’s corrupted by his passion for self-advancement.’

When Clifford had gone Philip picked up his pen again. ‘
Scribo ergo sum.
Other men need enemies.’

Sir Wilfrid had a different explanation. He tapped his copy of the telegram with one of his longer pipes. ‘I detect the Prime Minister’s hand in this. No doubt just been reminded
that the visit is taking place, can’t trust a junior minister like Ray Collier to get anything right so it’s turned into a damage-limitation exercise to try to stop him doing anything
at all. Collier would be quite incapable of introducing such subtlety into one of his own visits. I heard from Hugo Loveless in Cairo that his trip there a few months ago was devastating: export
orders cancelled, Arab money withdrawn from London, Middle East peace hopes set back, all that sort of thing. Ever met the man?’

‘No.’ said Patrick. This was the third time in two days that Sir Wilfrid had asked the question.

‘The least internationally-minded of anyone I’ve met in government, which is saying a great deal. I hope his plane crashes.’ He smoothed his hair. ‘Actually, we
don’t need knowledgeable ministers. We just need ministers with real political determination – “boot” or “bottle”, I believe the phrase is now. It’s our
job to know about foreign countries. All they need is to know what the national interest is and then to tell us to get on with it. As a Service we often reflect the interests of the countries we
deal with rather than our own. We achieve reasonable relations, negotiations or whatever when it might actually be in the national interest to be unreasonable. It’s up to the ministers to see
that. We can’t help it, we’re diplomats.’ He paused again. ‘You’d better not repeat this, Patrick.’

‘No, sir.’

Ray Collier, his private secretary and his wife Sheila were to arrive at six-thirty in the morning. They were to be met by Sir Wilfrid, Clifford and Philip and not, now that the visit was
unofficial, by any Lower African representatives. The afternoon before, though, Philip was taken ill once more with the unspecified virus infection. He had worked on his brief throughout the
weekend and during the evenings, manning his desk through dizziness and nausea. He cared a great deal about getting it right whereas Clifford cared only about the inconvenience of not having Philip
do it.

As Philip was helped from the office, pale and shaking, Clifford said that Patrick would have to take his place at the airport the following morning. Philip shook his head weakly.
‘It’ll be all right by tomorrow. I’ll go. No need for Patrick.’

‘Rubbish. It’s no good meeting the minister looking like death warmed up. Anyway, supposing you didn’t last the night – if we hadn’t made other arrangements
we’d be left high and dry. Patrick must come.’ The redeeming feature of Clifford’s insensibility was that it was so obviously impersonal. ‘And even if you did make it you
might infect the minister and then where would we be? Old Formerly would be cock-a-hoop. It would be round the Service in no time. Better Patrick than you with the plague.’ Clifford turned to
Patrick. ‘We’d better have another meeting on transport arrangements. We’ll need a big car for tomorrow morning. Draft proposals and come to my office at four.’

‘We’ll only need one car, won’t we?’

‘That’s as maybe but it still needs to be properly organised. Do a memo.’

‘A big one?’

‘What?’

‘I’ll bring it at four.’

The parked aeroplanes were sharp and bright in the early morning sun. A few cleaners and mechanics wandered contentedly about; nothing was happening.

Besides Sir Wilfrid, Clifford and Patrick there were two other waiting groups in the VIP lounge. They comprised dark-suited men, official and quiet. Each group kept as far away as possible from
the other two. Sir Wilfrid sat in an armchair in the sun. He fidgeted for a while, then turned to Clifford. ‘D’you know Harry Potts?’

‘Head of Southern European Department?’

‘High Commissioner in Ghana. People used to speak of him as a future permanent under-secretary. Ever hear why he didn’t get it?’

‘He had an affair with the wife of the Home Secretary.’

Sir Wilfrid shook his head. ‘Legal sex never harms any career except a politician’s. In fact, it can make it. People take notice of you. No, what went wrong with Harry was that he
got a bit shirty with the then PUS during a meeting with the Foreign Secretary. Told him he was talking rubbish about the Common Market, which he was, and that the country would suffer if his
advice were followed – it was and it did – but that sort of thing just doesn’t do, you see, especially not in front of the minister. The Service hates disagreements. Thirty years
of assiduous graft thrown out of the window by five minutes’ plain speaking. The PUS never forgave him. Saw to it that Moscow went to Eric Wilson, who was everybody’s yes-man and as wet
as the Spanish armada, and New York to Herbert Simpson who’d been dead on his feet for years. They actually put him in the ground last year but that was a formality. Brain death set in at
about the time of Suez. Doesn’t do to disagree with your superiors, you see, as I’ve learnt to my cost. Never say what you think till you’ve thought what you ought to say.
It’s the most important thing to remember in this business.’

For a moment it seemed that Sir Wilfrid would expand upon the lessons of his own career but he turned his fine features towards the sun, closed his eyes and dozed. Patrick read the book he had
been given in the Kuweto library. Clifford paced up and down, his hands behind his back.

‘What are you reading?’ he asked in an undertone. ‘Never heard of it. The minister’s our only hope.’

‘Hope of what?’

‘Saving our allowances. We’ve got to get it across to him that if they’re cut by the twenty-seven per cent people are now talking of we’ll all be on the bread
line.’ He glanced at the other groups. ‘Laughing stock of Battenburg.’

The airliner landed and disgorged its load of tired and untidy passengers. A tall silver-haired man carrying a slim black briefcase was ushered into the VIP lounge. Sir Wilfrid, awake now,
remained where he was and gazed at the distant hills. Clifford braced his shoulders, put his hands to his sides and stepped briskly forward to the silver-haired man.

‘Minister, good morning,’ he said.

The man looked faintly surprised but shook hands.

‘Good morning,’ he said in careful, heavily accented English. ‘Might I have the pleasure of knowing whom I am addressing?’

Clifford bent over the man’s hand, which he still held. ‘Clifford Steggles, head of chancery. Permit me to introduce the ambassador.’ He turned and, seeing Sir Wilfrid still
sprawling in the armchair, called sharply to Patrick, ‘Call Sir Wilfrid, will you?’

One of the other groups converged suddenly upon Clifford and the silver-haired man. They looked anxiously possessive, fingering their cuffs and ties. The man recognised one of them. There was
humourless laughter, explanations, apologies, further explanations. Clifford went red in the face. The man was a leading Swiss banker who handled a great deal of Lower African business, a
connection which neither the Swiss nor the Lower Africans were keen to advertise. He was escorted away by worried government officials.