He asked for the years 1987, which Vaughn had mentioned, and 1988 in case whatever he was looking for had been delayed in the writing. He took them to a table, sat down and leafed through. The link from past to present was uncanny. These were the years of David Cameron wearing tails and bow tie, embracing a pretty girl in a marquee; Boris Johnson also in tails, blond hair neater, stomach smaller; Michael Gove defending elitism in the Oxford Union. Somewhere among them was an obscure figure called Jed Fowkes who was on a summer student trip behind the still intact Iron Curtain.
He reached November. On the banner above the magazine title, there it was. ‘Conversion in Leipzig, by Jed Fowkes, page 6’.
I am a student of my generation. My teenage school and student years have run in parallel with the Thatcher years. To me, like the vast majority of others, the word Thatcherism became an abomination. We believed we saw the cruelty of capitalism all around us. In response I began to understand that socialism, real socialism, was the only answer for a better society. To that end, this summer I was accepted by the East German government on a short student summer course at the University of Leipzig. I went with high hopes. Here I would find fairness, equality, a generosity of spirit and a contentment. It did not turn out that way.
The article continued with a description not just of material poverty but of psychological and spiritual poverty. A depressed people labouring under a repressive government, fear in their eyes, shortages in the shops. Then came a passage which Quine found himself reading with mounting fascination.
During my stay in Leipzig, I met an attractive young woman whom it is better for me not to name. She was a postgraduate student, a few years older than me. We became friends – I won’t dwell on how far our friendship went. Two weeks into it she said that she would like to introduce me to her uncle, who she described as a fascinating man with a deep understanding of the future evolution of the socialist world. We had a drink, a meal a few days later, and then I was invited to stay the weekend at his cottage in a farming village outside Leipzig.
It was during those two days that I realized an attempt was being made to recruit me. It became clear that this ‘uncle’ was a member of the Stasi, East Germany’s intelligence service. He asked me, when I returned to Oxford, to assist the spread of the socialist ideal by helping his nation. It was to be a lifelong arrangement with a financial retainer. He flattered me by telling me that I had been spotted (by whom, I wondered) as a future high-flyer in British politics, in whatever capacity that might turn out to be.
For my own safety, I played for time. I now realized that the young woman was not the person I thought her to be. I was not invited to see the ‘uncle’ again. I told the young woman that I was seriously interested in the suggestion but needed time to think it over. She appeared satisfied with this and said I would be contacted after I returned to England. This attempt was made after my return and I rebuffed it.
I now understand that I made a mistake and I write this as a warning to others.
On my return, having undergone a political conversion as a result of this visit to a sad and corrupted society, I joined the University’s Conservative Association. I have made good friends, one in particular who has encouraged me to write this article as a warning to others.
Do not fall for false gods as I so nearly did.
Quine finished his third read of the article, raised his eyes and looked blankly into space which resolved itself into the captivating pre-Raphaelite murals of the Oxford Union library. Yes, there were questions arising to ask Sir David Vaughn.
He read on. Over the rest of the university year, Fowkes’s final one, he became a frequent contributor to Cherwell. The article had clearly laid the ground for a career inside the Conservative Party. He might not have been attractive or smooth enough to seduce the constituency backwoods men and women who selected parliamentary candidates. But he had remained a mover behind the scenes. If power not fame was his ambition, he was tantalizingly close to achieving it.
48
Isla watched and listened. Within his Treasury office, Fowkes continued to be careful. The hidden microphones were revealing no indiscretions, no whispered phone calls, just the silence of a serious man working at his desk. Running into her in the canteen the previous afternoon, he had suggested another quick coffee. It certainly was quick – perhaps it was a further check, perhaps he just needed to converse with another human being. His lack of interest in her now seemed real.
At 10.15 a.m. on the Tuesday morning he was summoned by the new Chancellor to her office. In the exceptional circumstances, a warrant had been granted to permit bugs there as well. Isla, earphones on, watched him walk along the corridor and enter.
Margaret Lascelles: Welcome, Jed, have a seat. Jed Fowkes: Good morning, Margaret.
ML:It’s arrived. (Sounds of something being rustled.) The Royal Speech. One copy for you, one for me. I understand it’s gone to the Palace this morning. Circulation is extremely restricted until time of delivery on Thursday to prevent leaks.
JF: Of course.
ML:I congratulate you. It’s a remarkable document.
JF: Thank you.
ML:More than radical. In its way, revolutionary. How did you manage to get the Prime Minister’s approval?
JF:I think he remembered the hopes and ambitions we once had. To truly change the country.
ML:Amazing. Wonderful really. And no sign of ‘moral’ government, arms sales bans and all that.
JF:I think he realized he hadn’t thought it through.
ML:Well… Thursday will be a game-changer.
JF:We’ve finally done it.
Isla heard footsteps and made a show of intense typing, raising half an eye to see Fowkes emerge. He seemed excited as he re-entered the Spads’ office. Silence fell. She imagined him sitting, calming himself. Within a couple of minutes, there were sounds of movement. They had to be preparations to leave. The Spads’ door opened. He reappeared, leather jacket on, left arm clamping something to his chest, no case. He headed towards the stairs.
Flexibility, the ability to take your own decisions on the ground – key qualities drummed in from day one. You’ll sense it, James had said. The moment Jed takes his risk. The moment the days of allowing him to relax means he drops his guard. She jumped up from her desk, grabbed her coat, beret, phone and mini-recorder. With no time for explanations to her colleagues, she followed. As she reached reception he was leaving the building.
He turned right and right again past Clive’s statue, left when he hit Whitehall. The autumnal sun was low but the day not cold. He walked fast. She broke into a jog to keep him in sight, sweat gathering beneath the beret and around her neck and chest. He did not stop, did not look around. Surely he must at some point. He crossed Whitehall, continued north past the Banqueting House, right into Horse Guards Avenue, left into Whitehall Court, right into Whitehall Place, approaching Embankment tube. He was not heading anywhere near Mayfair or IPRM. She took out her phone, hit two digits and spoke briefly.
A few yards from the tube station, he halted abruptly. She was close but able to swivel and stare at Big Ben in a tourist trance. He did not turn, just stood, as if he might be considering his options. He took off again, scampered up the steps of the Hungerford and Golden Jubilee bridge. At the top, he had only two ways to go. It must be a rendezvous. She reckoned a pick-up somewhere on the South Bank, perhaps by a black Mercedes.
He stopped again. She turned her back to him, then sneaked round for a glance. He was looking downriver towards St Paul’s and the City, hitting a number on a mobile. She switched on the recorder, edging ever nearer, trying to keep her side or back to him. Maybe he was just organizing the rendezvous. There could not have been an advance plan for this – he would not have known when it was coming.
She was within yards – enough people scurrying on the bridge to give some cover. She tried to get close enough to pick up even odd words from his phone call. Nothing.
He lowered the hand holding
the phone from ear to midriff, the conversation over. Was this the moment? Just one short, secretive phone call. A message he did not dare give anywhere near the office or Treasury. A burner phone. A venue with a deep river flowing beneath it.
His other arm felt the leather jacket. A reflex action – he must be checking that something was still lodged beneath. She made her decision. More to come, leave him alone. He had a quick look around and, with a slight movement, moved his hand over the railing. He released a small black object – it could only be the phone. She imagined it plopping into the river below. Was that the vital piece of evidence?
He turned, heading back towards her. She turned at the same time and walked fast, getting well ahead of him. She, and he, had nowhere to go but back down the steps onto the Embankment. She could cross the road, find cover just inside the tube station hall and keep an eye out for him coming down.
She saw him scurrying down and onto the pavement, now heading towards Parliament. She crossed back over the road and followed, texting as she walked.
He reached the lights at the junction of Embankment and Westminster Bridge. The pedestrian light was red. She hung back, wondering if he would ignore it and skip between traffic to get to the other side. He waited, not drawing attention to himself. The light changed, he walked and turned right. She assumed his destination was the House of Commons. He rounded Big Ben, then turned left. He passed the members’ entrance; perhaps it was not the Commons after all. Unless he was bluffing.
He stopped, looked west and, this time jumping between traffic, crossed St Margaret’s Street. He walked straight on, Westminster Abbey to his left. She crossed, keeping him in sight. He was nearing the north door. Avoiding a couple walking towards her, she was momentarily distracted. She looked up and he had disappeared. Must have turned right, back towards St Stephen’s Green.
She ran, stopped at the corner beyond the entrance to St Margaret’s Church and peeped round. No sign. Inside St Margaret’s, had to be. She turned back. A single security guard and a guide manned the entrance. She asked a tourist’s question about the statues on the Abbey’s north door and then if she could walk around St Margaret’s. Of course, she was told, it was open to all, and free. But no photography please. She pushed open the central door of the triple arch and entered, immediately turning left and inspecting a memorial plaque. Cautiously she glanced around. A handful of tourists, a verger wandering around. She moved to the back of the nave for a broader view.
A figure was kneeling in the front pew of the left side aisle. She took up position in a right side aisle pew near the back. She had a good diagonal view. Discreetly she took a photo. After a couple of minutes, the figure rose. It was wearing a black leather jacket. It had to be him. Rather than walking down the side aisle, he walked to the nave, stood in front of the altar for a few seconds, crossed himself, bowed, swivelled and headed down the nave towards the exit. Jed Fowkes was surely not a believer.
For a split second, she was caught by indecision. She needed a clearer photo. Each step was bringing him closer. She raised her iPhone above the top of the pew and clicked. He stopped, swinging in her direction. Something, perhaps just that tiny movement of the iPhone, had alerted him. There was a flash of recognition in his eyes.
Think. Think fast. Like her, he must make a decision. Go back to where he had placed his package or follow her. His priority surely was to get to her first. She was nearer the exit than him. Better that she lured him outside. A confrontation inside the church could jeopardize everything. She got up and walked fast enough to ensure she reached the exit before him. Outside the church, she turned right towards St Stephen’s Green, not running, still not wanting to attract attention, not wanting the security guard and guide to notice anything amiss. As she rounded the church, out of sight of the entrance, she slowed down. In a couple of seconds he caught up with her. She allowed him to grab her.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, you little bitch?’
‘Oh hi, Jed, fancy seeing you here.’
‘I said, what the fuck—’
Two pairs of arms, one from each side, seized him.
‘This woman tried to rob me!’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said a well-built figure in jeans and T-shirt. ‘Could you release her please?’
‘We’re here to protect you, Mr Fowkes,’ said a second similarly dressed figure. ‘It would be safer for you to come with us. If you understand what I mean.’ They each took one side, arm-locking him. He submitted. An unmarked car was waiting on a double-yellow line just a few yards away.
Isla watched him disappear inside, then returned to the entrance of St Margaret’s. ‘I think I may have left my gloves inside,’ she said to the security guard. ‘What an idiot, eh?’
She re-entered and headed to the front left side aisle. It was marked number 60. Nothing was immediately in sight. He had been kneeling on the left edge. There was a half- to one-inch gap between the wooden end of the aisle and the stone of the cathedral wall. She put on her phone torch, shone it down the crack. A thin package. The oldest tradecraft in the game – a dead letter box. A good one too.
She prised it out. A brown manila envelope. She needed photographic evidence. It was sealed with a metal fastener and added staples. She cursed. She wondered how long she had. Surely, at the very least, the timing would be sufficient for them to get Fowkes away. She undid the fastener and slowly, one by one, unpicked the staples. She slid out the single object inside. A bound advance copy of the Royal Speech. She photographed it, placed it halfway into the envelope and photographed the two together. With great care, she reset the staples and attached the fastener. She replaced the envelope in the crack and photographed it there too.
She walked out of the church, now turning left and left again, back to St Margaret’s Street and right past the House of Lords to Thames House beyond. Two watchers took up position inside St Margaret’s Church. On this day, its ‘No Photography’ rule would have to be broken more than once.
49
Thursday, 8.30 a.m. The day of the State Opening of Parliament, culminating in the Royal Speech.
Sandford had decided the less said to Margaret Lascelles, the better. He lifted the phone. ‘Mark, could you get the Chancellor on the line?’
A few clicks and she was there. ‘Good morning, Prime Minister. An exciting one too.’
‘Ah,’ said Sandford. ‘Margaret, I’m afraid there’s been a mistake.’
‘Oh?’ He detected the flutter in her voice.
‘Yes. The wrong version of the Royal Speech was sent to you.’
‘But it was properly bound. Just as the final document always is.’
‘Yes. I had samples of two versions printed – the one Jed Fowkes contributed to and also my original. I wanted to read them against each other.’
‘I see.’
‘I’ll investigate with the Cabinet Secretary what went wrong. And how only one version ever got to you.’
She hesitated, he waited. ‘May I ask which, erm, version you decided on?’
‘I appreciate Jed’s work,’ replied Sandford. ‘But I’ve decided steady as we go is the right option.’
‘And the legislation about arms sales and private security and military operations?’
‘Oh, that’s a commitment,’ said Sandford as if it could never have been in doubt. ‘Did I not make myself clear at Conference?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister. Of course.’
‘Good. Have you seen Jed in the past couple of days?’
‘I haven’t. He seems to have gone missing.’
‘I expect he thought his work was done. He must need a break after everything that’s happened.’
Quine, head buried in the Financial Times, was having a leisurely breakfast with Sophie and Isla, who had been given a couple of days off to recharge batteries.
‘Look at this,’ he said, handing them a folded-over inside page. ‘Bottom right. My old foes back in action.’
IPRM ALLIANCE WITH CHINA
>
IPRM, the international private security and military conglomerate, has announced a major contract with the Chinese government to provide support services in Africa. It is understood that this will take two forms. Firstly, the protection of Chinese personnel and infrastructure projects throughout the continent. Secondly, the provision of support services to African governments with whom China is collaborating.
Michael Ho, chief executive officer of IPRM, said the deal was a game-changer for the company. ‘We will now be looking at a potential flotation to help finance our further global ambitions.’ Asked about the Prime Minister’s recent speech on a potential ban on companies like IPRM trading with non-democratic regimes, Mr Ho was confident. ‘Our information is that there is no prospect whatsoever of this leading to what would be unenforceable legislation. We believe that a voluntary code is the way forward and will take part in industry-wide consultation to achieve the right outcomes.’
‘So our nice Prime Minister’s morality crusade is over before it began,’ said Sophie.
Quine and Isla exchanged awkward looks. ‘Don’t take it as given,’ said Quine. ‘You can’t believe a word you read in the press, can you? And you certainly can’t trust anything that comes out of the mouths of IPRM.’
His phone pinged. ‘Well, here’s a thing.’ He turned to Isla. ‘You and I have been invited to an early supper with the Prime Minister at his home in Notting Hill. I suggest you bring that recorder of yours.’
50
At 9 p.m. the bell rang at the Sandford family home in Salisbury Square. A protection officer opened the front door to reveal a visitor. The Prime Minister stood a few feet behind.
‘Hello, Jed,’ said Sandford, ‘thank you for coming.’
There was no handshake. Fowkes wore a suit which appeared to have been recently pressed – probably the same one he was taken in – a white shirt and red and pink striped tie. His hair was neat, his face clean-shaven. His narrow chin jutted out more than ever. Only in his sunken eyes was there any sign of distress. He was presenting himself as a successful, professional political expert, dressed for work – a man who did not yet accept that he had been beaten.
A Time to Lie Page 27