Guy Fawkes Day
Page 9
Chapter 7: Downing Street, London: October 8
The only good thing about his Wednesday morning with the foreign minister, Clayton thought to himself as he turned into Downing Street, was that it was usually brief and always unofficial. He knew he could have surprised a few people if had let it be known that the famously austere foreign minister, James McPherson, regularly trawled outside the cabinet secretary and the Joint Intelligence Committee to keep ahead of the pack when it came to unorthodox information.
But as far back as his days in the Paras Clayton had earned himself a reputation for keeping secrets well, and it was such trusted currency that had paved the way for his steady but inexorable series of promotions over the years. Not that promotion didn’t come with its own constraints. He had been permanent in London for the past two years, a necessary sacrifice in his quest for the top job, but a sacrifice nevertheless. The continuing fine autumn weather made him feel nostalgic for the glory years he had spent largely in Southern Europe, South America and North Africa. Days like this made him yearn to leave London.
Now, instead of the glamour life abroad, Clayton sighed at the prospect of another off-the-record meeting with McPherson. He had never managed to develop a liking for the awkward Scot, despite the seemingly symbiotic relationship. Theirs was an alliance founded on mutual interest and ambition; it had always been that way, ever since those long-gone army days. In the Regiment, friendship was sometimes forged, but loyalty always endured between ex-comrades-in-arms, even where affection was lacking.
The policeman outside Number 9 greeted his usual Wednesday visitor; Clayton gave him his usual wink in return. As usual the same secretary let him in and showed him to the first-floor room, where, as usual, the dour Scottish bastard was fingering a report with those lank, bony fingers.
‘Good morning, Max. Have a seat.’
Clayton pulled a face somewhere between a sly grin and a grimace. As usual, he thought, McPherson sounded as welcoming as a freshly cleaned toilet seeing a particularly sticky turd hanging ripe for the drop.
He studied the minister with ill-concealed derision: the untameable, wavy-grey hair, the hawkish nose, the cold blue eyes. A grunt did for a ‘hello’. There was never any small talk, so Clayton got straight down to business and brought his goodies out of the bag one by one. He had some good stuff on China, some saucy titbits on the German foreign minister, some interesting rumblings of a possible shake-up in the Russian government.
But McPherson’s mind was evidently preoccupied elsewhere.
‘Tell me Max,’ he cut in with customary bluntness, ‘what do your boys make of this?’
The minister thrust three of the morning’s quality papers at the Deputy Director-General of MI6. With varying amounts of detail all of them carried articles on the Ramli ambassador’s pledge the day before to place contracts worth up to five billion sterling exclusively with British companies. A giant international Ramli finance company was also to be created at a location to be announced somewhere in Britain. A special envoy had been dispatched from Ramliyya to oversee the implementation of these plans. Interestingly, none of the papers had been able to track down the fellow for further comment.
Clayton shrugged his shoulders.
‘Good news for us, I’d say. The new sultan has turned out to be a closet anglophile, just as we thought.’
McPherson’s eyes were staring straight ahead, unfocused. Clayton knew of that far-away gaze and prepared himself for further questioning.
‘I don’t get it, Max; I just don’t get it. I can understand these fellows wanting to create some goodwill here, place contracts with British companies, play a little on the London money markets. But five billion? All in Britain? Doesn’t make financial or diplomatic sense. The Americans are already complaining. The Germans and French are beating the drum for the mainland Eurozone; even the Qataris and their cousins in Abu Dhabi and Dubai are bleating about not being invited to the party.’
‘Surely you’re not suggesting we make a fuss about their money? What harm can a few billion Ramli petrodollars do anyone?’
But McPherson didn’t seem to be listening. The eyes were distant again and as the silence deepened Clayton communicated his own impatience in creaks of the ancient leather sofa. Typical of McPherson to pick on such an innocuous-looking bone! But he had to hand it to the humourless bastard—when others missed the wood, they returned to find McPherson examining the bark on the most interesting trees.
‘I want you to find out what’s going on in Ramliyya, Max,’ the minister finally resumed, returning from his private thoughts. ‘And I want to know what the Ramlis’ motives are behind this sudden windfall spending. Maybe it’s just what it seems. In that case, some of the kudos is bound to rub off on the government, and I want to claim all the credit, provided your chaps can prove all this largesse is as innocuous as it seems. But I’m telling you, Max, my instinct tells me there’s more to this than meets the eye.’
Clayton nodded, shrewd enough not to mention just how little MI6 really had on Ramliyya. Then his mind hit on something else.
‘And how much official licence do I get to work on this?’ he asked, always anxious to show the Director-General that his deputy was beyond his jurisdiction.
The question threw McPherson into quiet thought again, punctuated only by the rhythmic cracking of his long fingers.
‘Scratch around by yourself first of all. If you come up with anything, I’ll push the appropriate authorities to sanction you officially.’
‘OK, I’ll ask around in a few places,’ Clayton replied, reckoning it was time to bolt for the door. But McPherson caught him again before he could make good his escape.
‘Oh and Max, find out about this special envoy fellow of theirs while you’re snooping around. I don’t recall hearing of his arrival—certainly no one in my department was informed. Very strange. Anyway, see if you can track him down. I’d like to arrange a meeting. It’s almost as if he’s going out of his way to avoid normal diplomatic protocol.’