by Lex Lander
I looked wistfully at the square of blue sky. I’d been looking forward to shopping at Harrods.
‘You lot in the Civil Service wouldn’t recognise a full day’s work if it sank its teeth in your throat,’ I said spitefully.
If looks could speak volumes I would have been deafened.
* * * * *
After that tedious ‘working lunch’ I was allowed off the leash for a couple of hours. I used this free period to call on Cassandra who coincidentally was in town, staying at her Chelsea mews cottage. I had visited the place only once previously. It was no different from others of its genre all over the capital except that it was two cottages made into one, to create, by mews’ standards, a palatial dwelling place.
Unthinkingly I parted with the cab before establishing that my wandering ex-paramour was at home. She wasn’t. A rueful expletive was dying on my lips when a car turned into the courtyard – a sleek red Ferrari with dark tinted windows that reduced the occupants to obscurity. I guessed at once this was Cassandra’s latest extravagance and I was not wrong.
She got out, elegant and ravishing in her furs, her wax effigy-like beauty exactly as I remembered it. Straightening up, she stared at me over the roof of the Ferrari as if I were the last person she expected to come calling.
‘André,’ she said, no warmth at all.
The nearside door opened and from it, predictably, emerged a man. A tall, very good-looking man of twenty or so. Blond hair done up in soft waves that bounced when he tossed his head. Which he was doing now, piqued, as if he suspected Cassandra of double-booking her dates.
‘Still cradle-snatching, eh, Cassandra?’ I said, deliberately sotto voce.
‘What’s that?’ she snapped, and slammed the door on that costly piece of machinery with enough violence to make me wince. ‘What do you want, André?’
She talked more like the Queen than the Queen herself. Expletives aside.
‘A welcome back?’ I suggested.
The blond man jutted his jaw at me and clenched his fists.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ he demanded, his accent betraying his East London origins. Cassandra’s spare studs were seldom culled from the aristocracy.
She came round the front of the car, gave her boyfriend’s forearm a soothing squeeze.
‘This,’ she said with the longest of long-suffering sighs, ‘is my ex-bosom companion André. André, meet Clive.’
‘What you after, mate?’ Clive said, his tone suggesting he wasn’t delighted to make my acquaintance.
‘Never mind me. What’s this I hear about you, Cassie? Not well, Toby tells me.’
‘Toby’s an old woman and a gossipmonger.’
‘Agreed. But even he wouldn’t dream up an imaginary illness.’
Cassandra made a wearily dismissive gesture. ‘Let’s just say he’s exaggerating. I’m fine … fine.’
Clive, feeling neglected, asserted himself. ‘Look, sunshine –’
‘Hey,’ I said, raising a warning finger. ‘Butt out. I’m talking to Cassandra, not you.’
While he was getting used to being relegated to the sidelines, I said to Cassandra. ‘You look lovely, really lovely. But you don’t look fine. What’s wrong?’
Cassandra, hummed and hawed and finally said, ‘I’m seeing a specialist on Tuesday next. Let’s leave it at that.’
‘Is it … serious. Can I do anything?’
‘I said let’s leave it at that. Now be a darling and fuck off out of my life, will you?’
‘You close-mouthed bitch!’ I snarled, the last thread of my compassion snapping. ‘Can’t you see I … I …’
‘Care?’ She smiled, a symmetrical curving of her starkly red lips; but there was no joy in it. ‘Thank you then for caring, my dear one-time lover boy. Anything else on your mind? Do you need money?’
‘Money?’ I almost choked. ‘When did I ever ask you for money? You must be confusing me with this cretin.’ I nodded towards the simmering Clive.
‘Who the fuck are you callin’ a cretin?’ he blustered.
‘Oh, you know what it means, do you?’
He bunched his fists and got ready to prove his manliness.
‘Right, that’s it,’ he growled. ‘On yer fucking bike before I make yer lick me boots.’
‘I’m almost curious enough to see how you’d make me do that, you lowlife peasant.’
His eyes bulged. His body stiffened, the fists got ready for launch.
‘Clive – no!’ Cassandra cried, seeming concerned that I might get hurt. She tried to force herself between us, but Clive showed his true breeding by shoving her aside.
While he was momentarily distracted from the main objective – putting me in hospital – I planted a knee in his balls, putting so much effort behind it that I lost my balance and fell to the cobbles with him. I left him thrashing about down there, squealing the way a pig squeals when they winch it up by its hind legs prior to cutting its throat. Master Clive wouldn’t be doing stud duty on Cassandra this afternoon or any other afternoon this side of a long period of celibacy.
Chapter Nine
The table was oval, its surface sheathed in red leather. The ten chairs were made to match. Not antique, not modern, just top quality. According to Toby, most inner sancti of the more prestigious government departments are furnished without regard as to cost. If the taxpayers realised how large chunks of their contributions were put to use there would be a second civil war.
And yet I sat down in and amongst the red leather and the panelling and the carpet of rich interwoven patterns that was surely never made anywhere so lowly as Axminster, willing enough to wallow with the plutocracy when it suited my best interests.
Toby was acting as Secretary. As such he was neutral, immune to controversy.
‘I’m merely a taker of notes, dear boy,’ he had explained, before we went in. ‘Just as an accountant will merely do the sums yet have no interest in their interpretation, so I must have no bias towards what’s proposed or rejected at these meetings. I observe, I record, I do not take sides.’
So far though, I was still pretty much in the dark as to which side I would be on.
Toby introduced me to the committee and vice-versa. In the chair was the Minister of Foreign Affairs, the Foreign Secretary’s number two: the Rt Hon Malcolm Crabbe, MP. About forty, a shade overweight with pouches under his eyes and the beginnings of jowls. An honest face, a valuable asset in a politician.
Also present was the Prime Minister’s personal snoop, Richard Kirkland, a tall slender man, also about forty, with silver blond hair cut short and flat to his scalp. Azure blue eyes that crinkled at the corner were contradicted by thin lips – lips so red they might have been lipsticked. It was a cruel mouth, yet softened somehow by the pronounced dimple in his chin. According to Toby, Kirkland was a newcomer to the PM’s stable of advisers, spin doctors, and miscellaneous cronies, and too implacable, too ambitious to be popular, even by the hatchet-wielding standards of the political spectrum.
The other two present and correct were the obese and gravy-stained Stanley Smilley, a panjandrum of a politician, representing the MoD, and a wide-shouldered individual with the lumpy features of a pugilist who was introduced to me simply as Abercrombie. MI6 was my guess, though not from my era.
I shook hands with them all, even Abercrombie. His battered face bothered me, a reminder of what could happen to you in the sort of games MI6 played. And I was about to play again.
I indicated the two empty chairs. ‘Is this all of us?’ I asked Toby. ‘Or are bigger guns expected.’
Toby’s smile was both amused and cynical.
‘My dear André, this is about Gibraltar. You don’t expect Secretaries of State to concern themselves personally with the doings of a mere overseas territory, do you?’
Actually, I did. Especially since I had been seduced here at great expense and grovelling, to perform certain irregular duties in respect of that mere overseas territory.
‘I thought Gib was
of strategic importance.’
Here Abercrombie chipped in with, ‘Let us worry about strategy, Warner. All you’ll have to do is wriggle your way into the nest of these GIBESTÁ vipers.’ His lip curled. ‘A very insignificant part of the grand scenario, I can assure you.’
‘Thanks for putting me in my shabby little place.’
‘Now then, children,’ from Smilley. He had the aura of a benevolent uncle, so playing the part must have come natural to him.
‘Order, gentlemen, please,’ Crabbe called from the end of the table. The tip of his neat little nose had acquired a pair of lozenge-shaped, half-frame spectacles. Now he looked intelligent as well as honest. ‘Mr Secretary –’ to Toby, ‘– are you quite ready?’
Toby nodded. ‘Minister.’
So far Kirkland, apart from a mechanical response when we were introduced, had not spoken. Now he said: ‘For the record, the PM has instructed me to report back in person on this meeting.’ He bestowed a passing glance on me, the red lips twitching. ‘Is that a big enough gun, for you?’
‘It’ll do. But just so we’re clear, I couldn’t care less about politics and politicians. I’m doing this – assuming I do it – because I’m in between jobs and for old time’s sake.’
‘Thank you for putting it so succinctly,’ Kirkland said. His mouth formed what was meant to be a smile, I think, but it ascended no further than his nostrils.
The meeting proper began with Crabbe stating the terms of reference in Toby-speak.
‘We are not concerned here with the wider issue of Spain’s claim to Gibraltar and the talks to be held in Madrid in May. Nor indeed are we concerned with the future of the territory of Gibraltar itself, although the decisions we make and the actions we take …’ He paused, half-smiling ‘… Poetry unintended, gentlemen. Our decisions and actions will assuredly influence that future.’ He leaned forward, an earnest, sincere man, doing what he had been told to do. Like all of us. ‘What concerns our modest caucus is this GIBESTÁ movement. They are, as you are all aware, a growing force. They make a lot of noise and noise carries a long way. Spain sees GIBESTÁ as a fissure in the Rock. They fancy that if they shove a crowbar in there and throw enough muscle behind it they will cause confusion and dissent, leading to a gross weakening of our hold on Gibraltar.’ He looked around the table, slowly, catching the eyes of all of us in turn. ‘Does anybody here not fully understand, or disagree with the picture I have painted?’
I refrained from repeating my ‘paranoid’ jibe. Put like that, in what, for a politician, were fairly bald terms, it sounded eminently possible that Gib could be lost to Britain.
Smilley, who was Crabbe’s counterpart at the MoD, bristled at the implication behind the Foreign Minister’s last question.
‘We’re not schoolboys, Malcolm,’ he said testily, ‘and you’re only sitting in that chair as a convenience.’
The double-entendre was not lost on the assembly. Even Crabbe grinned, brown eyes twinkling, shaking his head.
‘GIBESTÁ is led by a man called Michael Vella.’ His eyes scoured the table again. ‘Fifty-two years old, a widower, one child – a daughter, who, tragically and coincidentally, was killed during a demonstration by the movement on Sunday last.’
‘Bloody good show,’ Abercrombie muttered.
Anger surged inside me at his callousness. I could still the feel the girl in my arms, still warm with life yet organically dead; still youthful and innocent, yet doomed to decay before her due. No one here knew that I had witnessed the demonstration and the killing, of which they spoke so clinically.
‘The death itself is unimportant,’ Smilley observed. ‘It’s the implied escalation that worries me. The last two demos by this crowd have ended in violence resulting in injury, damage to property, now this first fatality. How many next time?’
Crabbe brushed aside Smilley’s rhetorical question. ‘Let’s not digress, Stanley. I wanted to give everyone such background information on GIBESTÁ as appears relevant.’ Smilley scowled, acknowledged Crabbe’s supremacy by interlacing his fingers over his considerable midriff and subsiding into his chair.
‘Michael Vella,’ Crabbe went on, ‘was born in Gibraltar of Gibraltarian parents. His pedigree is therefore impeccable. He owns a travel agency and an estate agency in Gib and has business interests in both Spain and the UK. He’s tolerably well off. Prior to forming GIBESTÁ he had no active involvement in politics, although he apparently subscribes generously to the coffers of the GSD party. Sir Peter Caruana, who was the leader of the party and Chief Minister of Gib until 2011, is, or used to be, a close friend. There is no evidence that Vella is similarly chummy with the present Chief Minister, Picardy.’
‘Picardo,’ Toby corrected gently.
‘I do beg your pardon … Picardo.’
‘Do you think, Minister, that the loss of his daughter will discourage Vella?’ Kirkland tapped a pen absently on the table top as he spoke. His gaze was thoughtful and fixed on the high window. The pale gold light of the setting sun struck his face but it didn’t seem to bother him; he didn’t even squint.
Crabbe reached for a glass tumbler, one of eight forming a laager around a water jug.
‘Impossible to predict at this stage. His daughter was only buried today. His record suggests not. As a matter of fact, he appears to be a man of some mettle. Served in the police when he was young. Awarded the George Medal for rescuing somebody from a blazing car.’ Crabbe shuffled some notes around. ‘He left the force when he came into money from a deceased relative. Considered a man of integrity and a great espouser of causes.’
‘The kind we all love to hate,’ Smilley said. He seemed to speak for the most part simply to remind us of his presence and ministerial parity with Crabbe.
‘Just so, Stanley,’ Crabbe said indulgently. ‘A list of other leading GIBESTÁ lights is available and will be distributed after the meeting.’
‘Homework,’ Smilley grunted.
Crabbe sipped water before saying: ‘I’m sure you’ve done yours already, Stanley.’
‘Who – me? Not bloody likely. I’m here on sufferance. This GIBESTÁ business is political not military. You don’t need my department.’
Crabbe didn’t demur.
‘Moving on then to GIBESTÁ itself. We estimate its official membership at one hundred and eighty and rising. It has a further estimated one thousand five hundred or so active supporters, and perhaps two or three thousand sympathisers. Say a minimum of 15% of the permanent adult population of the Rock.’
‘Up from zero four months ago,’ Kirkland pointed out.
‘A rapid rise of fortunes by any benchmark,’ Crabbe conceded.
‘At that rate they’ll have the support of a majority by the end of the year,’ I said, to prove I was on the same page as the rest of them.
Toby bestowed a warning frown on me. Perhaps he thought I was being facetious.
‘Happily,’ Crabbe said, ‘political parties don’t achieve straight line growth of support. Our projections suggest they’ll top out somewhere between twenty and twenty-five percent. Which is worrying enough, I might add.’ He rustled more papers, peered down his nose at them. ‘You’ll find all you need on GIBESTÁ in the dossiers to be distributed after the meeting. Now …unless there are any pertinent questions on the organisation I would prefer to move straight on to the proposed action and the part to be played in it by Mr Warner here.’
There were no dissenters and Crabbe, after gulping down more water, proceeded.
‘Six weeks plus one day from today the Madrid conference on Gibraltar will open. By D-DAY minus seven of the conference, at the latest, GIBESTÁ must no longer be an active force.’ He beamed around the five faces, favouring me with an extra long, extra bright beam.
‘Sounds simple,’ Smilley grunted from the depths of his chair.
‘Oh, it is, Stanley, it is. I’m sure when Mr Warner brings his undoubted skills to bear on it, it’s days will be numbered. Thirty-six, to be precise.’
; ‘Simple but not easy,’ I demurred. ‘Do I get any guidelines, any advice as to the means to be employed?’
‘Not from me, though please feel free to consult with Mr Abercrombie and Mr Kirkland outside of this meeting, if you wish. Tobias will of course settle all the contractual details with you and will act as your controller throughout.’
Toby was wearing a downtrodden expression. He ran a finger along the inside of his collar, a sign he wasn’t totally at ease with the commission.
‘What I would like to know,’ from Kirkland to me, ‘is what qualifies you so uniquely for this task?’
‘That’s irrelevant,’ Toby said shortly. ‘It’s all been settled.’
Kirkland’s air of sleepy condescension was no more. As for Toby’s comment, it might as well never have been made.
‘Warner?’ Kirkland said, and his look was direct and unblinking.
‘Search me. I used to be with MI6, as I’m sure you know. I have experience in undercover work. I speak Spanish.’
‘Ah, yes, so I heard. Donde vives en España?’
I grinned. ‘In Malaga.’
‘Como se dice esto en español?’ His Spanish was faster and more fluent than mine.
‘Vivo en Malaga,’ I expanded obligingly.
‘Congratulations,’ Smilley grunted. ‘You’ve established that he understands Spanish.’
‘I assume you’re available immediately?’ Kirkland said, as if bent of finding some flaw in my suitability.
‘Affirmative.’
‘And what contacts do you have in Gibraltar? Do you know – personally know – anyone influential?’
‘I personally know Michael Vella.’
Which stopped him as effectively as buffers stop a train.
Nobody asked me to elaborate. And after that there were no more questions of any kind.
‘If we’re all agreed on what’s to be done I think we can up stumps, gentlemen?’ Crabbe obviously considered his job well done, his chairmanship properly discharged. He dispensed with the lozenge-shaped spectacles. ‘All clear, Mr Warner?’