by Lex Lander
She tittered. I wasn’t so sure it was a tittering matter. Kirkland was reputed to be a vengeful bastard.
Later still, over a cairn of chocolate mousse, she said without preamble, ‘It was a boy, you know.’
‘What was?’ Then it clicked before she could answer. ‘Oh.’
The medic at the military hospital had already wised me up to the sex of the unborn child but I didn’t let on to Linda. At a loss to find the right words of solace, if there were any right words, I covered her hand with mine. She managed a flickering smile, but her eyes told a different story.
A boy. Not an it, a him. Now it seemed more like murder than miscarriage.
Chapter Twenty-Six
It was 1st May. Seven days to go before the Madrid Conference. From tomorrow the British delegation would be installed in the Spanish capital for the customary “acclimatisation” period. Was it to be farce or tragedy – or a tragic farce?
A new all-electric Nissan Leaf whisked me from a grey, humid Heathrow by some circuitous but uncluttered route, in total silence. Spooky. My driver was thin and taciturn, and dialogue between us was scant. I had trimmed my beard close to the skin, put on the most City-fied suit at my disposal – the charcoal grey three-piece – and was as well equipped to deal with the likes of Master Richard Kirkland as any failed undercover agent could be. As we drove past St Paul’s, the greyness was beginning to disperse but it wasn’t until we turned into Whitehall that the sun finally parted the murk and made its bow.
The Foreign and Commonwealth Office in Downing Street was virgin territory for me. The exterior is no more grandiose than the PM’s residence next door but one; inside it’s another story. Here the aura of Empire still prevails. Here is the pinnacle of the mountain of wealth that Britain’s colonies had spewed forth in their heyday. Here reposes power, though much reduced nowadays. The colonies are mostly gone and the wealth has evaporated like the morning dew in midsummer. But within the solid stone walls of the Foreign Office it was as if London, like Greenwich Mean Time, was still the hub on which the world turned and that, no matter what changes were wrought elsewhere, here was forever.
Portraits of monarchs, militarists, and ministers glowered down at me as I mounted the wide staircase with its rich red carpet, a step behind the black-suited usher. I was shown into an ante-room on the second floor, the window taken up with St James’ Park. The park was peopled with all the usual walks of life: mothers and nannies with baby carriages, joggers, early season tourists, hand-in-hand couples, the inevitable down and outs, all contributing their own shade of colour.
The door opened behind me. I pivoted on my heel leisurely.
‘Come in, Warner,’ Kirkland said, impeccably groomed as ever, a double-breasted dove grey suit with generous lapels and a regimental tie.
I brushed past him into the office of the Foreign Secretary. It was furnished as befit the status of its occupant: red leather chairs, walls panelled from ceiling to floor, a vast oblong desk with a red leather top. Table lamps with fancy earthenware bases were dotted here and there, all of them lit despite the stream of sunlight.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Warner.’ The Foreign Secretary stood up, tugging at his jacket, as if he, not I, were the underling.
His handshake was middling firm. None of Kirkland’s unconcealed dislike in it.
‘We haven’t met, have we?’ he said as we all sat, Kirkland taking up position on my right flank and crossing his elegant legs.
‘I haven’t had the pleasure, Minister.’
The rather watery eyes regarded me gravely, a sort of sizing-up. At close quarters the mouth was slightly weak, in contrast to the aggressive jawline. His dark hair was faultlessly groomed. He was reputed to work out in the gym three times a week, and certainly he was slim and fit-looking
Kirkland picked up a grey folder, finger-thick, from the edge of the Foreign Secretary’s desk. It was a folder I was familiar with – my personal dossier, blemishes and all.
‘Would you like a resumé, Minister?’ Kirkland said, at once pompous and ingratiating.
‘Not at all. I’m perfectly happy to take Mr Warner at face value.’
‘Indeed his track record to date shows him to be resourceful, imaginative, and ruthless.’ I could hardly believe this was Kirkland describing me. ‘Against this, he tends to lack thoroughness and is considered by his operator to be insufficiently security-conscious.’
Before I could protest, the Foreign Secretary said in a purring voice, ‘His attributes clearly far outnumber his failings. I am always suspicious of people without failings.’
‘To err is human,’ Kirkland concurred.
This was marvellous. I had expected vilification and I was getting pats on the back. I slid a little lower in my soft, all-embracing leather armchair. All it would take to round off my contentment was a glass of cognac and a few dancing girls, non-PC though that would be.
‘So, Mr Warner,’ the Foreign Secretary said, smoothing his hair, an unnecessary and slightly effeminate gesture. ‘You come highly recommended. Toby doesn’t dish out bouquets freely.’
I levered my body forward from the depths of the armchair. ‘Recommended for what? Or don’t I need to know?’
‘Of course you need to know. Provided you remember that this conversation and all that follows are governed by the Official Secrets Act.’
‘I already signed it.’
‘Good – you remembered,’ Kirkland said, the nearest he was likely to get to whimsy.
‘You’re to go to Madrid,’ the Foreign Secretary said. ‘With Kirkland.’
‘Am I?’ My well-being tottered slightly. Was this some kind of punishment? ‘What about Sideshow.’
‘Sideshow is being sidelined,’ Kirkland informed me in another stab at whimsy. ‘A change of policy towards Gibraltar.’
‘What change?’
‘We’re going to offer the Spanish sovereignty.’
‘What!’ I sat up fast. ‘You mean you’re selling out?’
‘No!’ The Foreign Secretary’s affability dropped from him like a shed skin. ‘Realpolitik, Warner, realpolitik. Sovereignty with a ninety-nine years leaseback to the United Kingdom. Long enough to guarantee all living Gibraltarians and all but a small minority of their children a lifetime of continued British rule.’
‘They’ll never agree,’ I said, too numb to think coherently. ‘GIBESTÁ … You’ll have a Civil War on your hands.’
Kirkland gestured dismissively with my file. ‘Don’t be so alarmist. The Gibraltarians will be – how shall I put it? – sold the idea.’
He was talking with all the lofty assurance of the ignorant. What did he know of the resolve of such as Michael Vella and the hot-blooded nihilism of Peter Vitale? A betrayal of this magnitude could only strengthen the independence movement, the entire populace of the Rock would swing its weight behind GIBESTÁ. Thirty thousand people makes for a lot of resistance.
‘Leaving aside for now the probable backlash,’ I said, ‘why the change of heart?’
‘Politics moves in ways too mysterious for you to understand,’ Kirkland sneered. His hitherto concealed esteem for me didn’t extend to trusting me with secret material.
The Foreign Secretary differed. ‘I think you’re wrong there, Kirkland. Let’s kill two birds with one stone and have our friends join us, shall we?’ He flipped a switch on his intercom and asked for ‘our visitors’ to be shown in.
These proved to be a tallish, middle-aged man with a droopy grey moustache, and a smaller, younger, and obviously junior compatriot. Both American.
‘General Arnold Krefting and Mr Willard Branklin.’ The Foreign Secretary announced. ‘Gentlemen, may I introduce André Warner. At the present time Our Man in Gibraltar.’ The touch of humour was wasted on the Americans but drew an unctuous smile from Kirkland.
‘Glad to know yuh, Warner,’ the general’s accent was mid-Western, unrefined by his exalted rank. Willard Branklin had the clipped intonation of a Columbia-educated man, less dra
wling, closer ethnically to my Canadian English. He had the apologetic manner of a small-town lawyer.
When we were all seated once more the Foreign Secretary went on to explain to me, ‘General Krefting is here incognito as Special Envoy on behalf of our friends across the Atlantic who, naturally, are concerned about the issues at stake regarding the Rock.’
‘The Strait of Gibraltar is vital to the whole Western Alliance,’ Kirkland interjected, inclining his head towards me.
‘I’m not a schoolkid,’ I said, mildly irritated. ‘There’s no need to give me a lesson in military strategy.’
The Foreign Secretary said, ‘It’s necessary you appreciate that security considerations for the West as a whole override all other considerations, including the right of Gibraltar’s inhabitants to self-determination.’
‘Not many years ago Margaret Thatcher launched a war over another piece of rock and the right of its inhabitants to self-determination.’
‘Forget the Falklands. The priorities were different.’
‘That’s a fact – they were political, not military. Avoiding loss of face, it’s called, I believe, not to mention being evicted from government at the next election.’
General Krefting moved restlessly. ‘Say, gennelmen, this sure is fascinating but my time’s kind of short. Let’s get the show on the road, huh?’
The Foreign Secretary relinquished the floor with good grace and the General, thanking him ultra-politely, said to me, ‘An unofficial approach was made to us by the Spanish Ambassador in Washington last week, warning that unless the Conference between you guys produces what they call an acceptable result, they’re gonna break off diplomatic relations with Britain and review their policy towards NATO.’
‘They’re playing poker,’ I said, addressing the Foreign Secretary.
He shrugged.
‘Poker or not,’ Krefting said, his voice grating, ‘we can’t afford to call their bluff. Spain is still officially classified a Grade 3 Democracy, which means it’s considered potentially unstable, what with the unrest in Catalonia, and the Basque truce likely to collapse anytime soon. To put that in perspective, Greece, Poland, and Croatia for instance are likewise Grade 3, Portugal is Grade 2, while other western European states are Grade 1.’
‘And Britain?’
My levity earned me four baleful stares.
‘It’s in all our interests to avert any crisis in Europe, unconstitutional or otherwise,’ Krefting resumed, ‘and especially any weakening of the Alliance. Are you with me?’
A nod was sufficient.
He continued, ‘We’ve asked your government to make a major concession on sovereignty. We would have preferred a condom.’
‘Condominium,’ Branklin corrected.
‘Yeah, thanks, Will. Never quite got the hang of that word. Sounds like Latin for a rubber.’ Laughter broke out in the room. ‘Anyway, your boss here says no go, so it’s to be a transfer of sovereignty with leaseback.’
He didn’t fool me with his disarming country boy act. It often suited American diplomats, I had found, to let their British counterparts think of them as straw-munching yokels.
‘A condominium may sound more attractive and less of a concession,’ the Foreign Secretary elaborated for my benefit. He left his desk and went to stand before the nearest window, parting the net curtains like some nosy old crone checking on the neighbours. ‘But joint rule is riven with practical difficulties. Inevitably it leads to dispute and the two parties are quite likely to end up where they started, at daggers drawn.’
‘Where does the US stand in this?’ I asked Krefting. ‘Whose side are you on, or is it the usual “even-handed” diplomacy?’
He guffawed. ‘There speaks the voice of cynicism.’ He leaned forward in his chair, aimed a long finger at me. ‘Now, listen to me – like it or not, my country provides the overall umbrella of security for the free world and that means, rightly, we got the biggest shout. Biggest clout, biggest shout, right, Will?’
Branklin murmured an affirmative.
‘Consequently …’ the finger was going like a hammer-drill, ‘if little guys like Britain and Spain can’t get their act together, Uncle Donald has to make decisions for you in the interests of the Alliance as a whole. It’s like being the head of a family – we gotta keep the kids from squabblin’.’
The Foreign Secretary cleared his throat, visibly piqued to hear Britain’s status so depicted. But it was essentially the truth. In the arena of foreign affairs, Britain and most other west European states were little more than American satellites.
‘Having said that, we sure would like it a whole lot better if Gibraltar stayed under British military control. The solution we’ve gone for will give everybody a bit of what they want: NATO avoids a crisis of confidence, Spain gets a deferred sovereignty, Britain retains her presence, and the people of Gibraltar go on for the next ninety-nine years as if nothing had happened.’ His tone implied ‘after that, who cares?’
‘Let’s face it,’ the Foreign Secretary said, ‘sovereignty with leaseback isn’t much of a sacrifice. None of us here will see the sun rise on a Spanish Rock.’
As if that were all that really mattered.
‘It’s a neat little package all right,’ I conceded. ‘I only hope the Gibraltarians will see it your way.’
Michael Vella wouldn’t, of that I was sure. Peter would go ballistic.
The Foreign Secretary wrinkled his prominent brow. ‘There’s no reason to suppose they won’t, is there?’’
‘Especially,’ Kirkland said, ‘if it’s presented as a fait accompli.’ He would say that, the smug bastard. ‘It worked with Hong Kong, on a much larger scale, even though the occupying power is a dictatorship, whereas Spain is a democracy.’
‘Has Spain been told what’s going to be offered?’ I asked.
‘Not yet.’ From Branklin. ‘It’ll be negotiated during the talks.’
‘Made to look as if we’re giving the earth, the moon and the stars, I suppose.’
Krefting clapped his hands together in delight. ‘You got it, fella. Here – have a cigar.’
They were Macaduno Portofinos, seven inches of the finest Havana leaf, in a tube of the finest aluminum. I declined with thanks. He lit up, and nobody drew his attention to the THANK YOU FOR NOT SMOKING notice on the Foreign Secretary’s desk.
For a few moments all was quiet in the panelled office but for the sucking noises from Krefting as he drew on his cigar. The efficiency of the soundproofing reduced the world outside to a whisper.
Then I reactivated the debate by saying, ‘I still maintain Spain’s bluffing. They had a referendum on NATO in the eighties. The Government would fall if they tried to renege on it.’
‘It’s a gamble we’re not prepared to take,’ Krefting said, spilling ash down his tie. ‘Besides, there’s more to it than just this threat to withdraw from NATO. In fact it’s the main reason you’ve been brought in on this.’
‘Should I be flattered?’
‘You most surely should. As I understand it you’re employed in a private capacity. It couldn’t happen in the States, no way would an outsider be allowed in on something this sensitive, even a former operative. But it seems like you’re the principal source of the information, so …’ He made circles in the air with the cigar, renouncing the consequences and depositing more on his tie.
‘What information?’
Krefting’s surprised look was directed at the Foreign Secretary.
‘It’s all right, General,’ he soothed. ‘Warner had good reason to suppose we’d rejected his reports on the subject.’ Taking slow measured steps he returned to the centre of the room, propped his behind on the edge of the desk from where he could command the stage. ‘We think you’re right after all,’ he said to me. ‘We think they’re going to invade.’
* * * * *
The American delegation was long gone, evening was on us, the sun now sunk behind Buckingham Palace. The Foreign Secretary’s leather-topped des
k was overrun with empty coffee cups and plates. Elsewhere were maps of Spain and Europe, open laptops, and a copy of the latest NATO Military Compendium. Jane’s Fighting Vehicles and other military reference works had spilled over onto the floor. Kirkland’s laptop screen was full of secret data about the military status of Spain and the availability of UK armed forces.
After the Americans, others, including the Minister of Defence, had come and gone: mostly military strategists. They had produced blown-up stills of my amateur movie and grilled me on this helicopter and that armoured car until I was in a daze and could no longer associate the hardware in the photographs with what I had retained in my memory. When at last they left me in peace, with only the Foreign Secretary, the Defence Minister – female and blonde with a built-in sardonic smile – and Kirkland to contend with, I felt brainwashed.
‘You should have expected to be thoroughly debriefed,’ Kirkland remarked unsympathetically, pouring coffee for the four of us.
‘In case you’ve forgotten, you dismissed my report out of hand. Implied the Irazola kids were playing a joke on me.’
‘Don’t be deluded,’ the Defence Minister said. ‘I’m still not entirely sold on it.’
I sipped coffee. It tasted like top-quality dishwater.
‘You aren’t? Then why all this high-powered stuff with the Americans and half the brass in the British Army?’
‘We’re being prepared, like good little boy scouts,’ Kirkland said.
‘Or girl scouts,’ This from the Defence Secretary, standing up for her sex.
‘Quite,’ Kirkland acknowledged. ‘As of now we rate the chances of an invasion at sixty-forty against, and even then only if we prove intransigent at the Conference. But these odds are high enough to warrant taking certain precautionary steps.’
The Foreign Secretary, tie loosened, said, ‘And since we aren’t going to be intransigent, there will be no need to invade.’
The reasoning was solid. I couldn’t argue with it. Others, not in this room or even in this country, might.
‘I suppose,’ I said, still assembling my thoughts as I spoke, ‘that the offer of sovereignty plus leaseback will be enough to satisfy the Spanish.’