The Aachen Memorandum

by Andrew Roberts

  ‘Yes, I do. She’s an American hack. Writes rubbishy books on the Mountbatten-Windsors. Nice girl though. Sexy, as you can see. I spent rather a long time chatting her up last night.’

  ‘She wants me to hire her to cover the King’s visit. From the historical angle. What do you think?’

  ‘I’m sure she’d do it well. Watch her though, as she’s got loads of ludicrous theories.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Oh, she’s hit on this clever but completely bogus theme that the Mountbatten-Windsors are all illegitimate.’

  Weaning’s frown meant he didn’t understand. He rarely did. For all his drive and ambition, Weaning actually knew very little. Which was partly why the Editor had demanded they hire Horatio.

  ‘For example, she goes around trying to find the marriage certificates of George IV and Maria Fitzherbert, William IV and Dora Jordan, Edward VII and Lillie Langtry and so on.’

  Weaning’s look of incomprehension told Horatio there was little point in persevering, but he did nonetheless.

  ‘It’s all to prove that William isn’t the rightful King of the Kiwis. It doesn’t stand up for a minute of course, but it goes down very well in A.F.T.A. for some reason. I imagine the Commission approves too. I don’t think she commands much academic credibility over here.’ He thought of the High Table deconstruction of her latest book. ‘In fact, I know she doesn’t. Cracking-looking, though, don’t you think?’

  ‘Suppose so, yes. And you chatted her up last night? What a lothario you’re becoming. Who did I see on your vid-phone this morning? Is that why you didn’t follow this one up?’

  ‘No, she’s got a seven-year-old kid. Too much hassle.’ Weaning’s face fell.

  ‘No wonder this office voted you antisocial. That was a blatantly lone-parentist remark.’ The tone suggested that he was almost saying it for the record, as if his office was bugged. ‘Let’s just talk about her professionally, if you don’t mind?’ Chastened, Horatio repeated that he didn’t think she carried much intellectual credibility.

  ‘Amongst you Oxbridge types, no doubt, but here at the screen-face it’s different. She’s the sort of person who sells news space. Send her in. Oh, and let me know about what the Admiral says before you go.’

  Horatio felt lucky to get away without some chippy lecture about his glaring lack of qualifications from the University of Life. In a way, Weaning was right; had Horatio attended that particular seat of learning, rather than Oxford, the best he could ever have hoped for was a Third. And he’d probably have also wound up on Weaning’s staircase.

  Ever the egotist, Horatio rather hoped that Gemma might show a scintilla of pique at his having gone off with Cleo the night before. To his irritation she didn’t. She kissed him twice on each cheek – another new federal fashion Horatio despised – and beamed when he whispered to her that he thought she was about to get hired. As she walked off towards Weaning’s office she looked over her shoulder: ‘Are you ever in the I.H.R.?’

  He did half his work in the Institute of Historical Research, but he couldn’t remember seeing her there.

  ‘Yes, quite a lot.’

  ‘Might see you there sometime?’

  ‘How about Monday? Afternoon-ish?’

  ‘Fine. Yes. Great.’ Rather pleasingly the conversation had taken place right in front of Penelope too. What a great May Day he was having.

  Leaning back on the assistant editor’s chair, his feet up on his old desk, Horatio pressed ‘Record’ on his pager and called the Admiral’s number. He got straight through, but no image came up on the screen.

  ‘Hello, I wonder if I might speak to Admiral Ratcliffe?’

  ‘This is he.’ Old but clear. Plus he hadn’t taken forever to get to the phone, like some of the nonagenarians he’d interviewed.

  ‘Oh, hullo sir. My name’s Horatio Lestoq. I write for The Times. I’m presently working on a series of articles on the Aachen Referendum and I was wondering if I might ask you a couple of questions?’

  ‘Horatio Lestoq did you say?’ Oh dear, not another oh-so-droll remark about his name. Why had he not been christened Simon, George or Reinhard?

  ‘Yes, apparently it’s naval. I was named after a nineteenth-century sailor.’

  ‘Well, of course I know all about Nelson. I was a naval officer for forty-two years you know,’ the old boy said testily.

  ‘I am sorry, yes of course.’ This one would have to be handled carefully. ‘It’s just that we were not taught about him at school. He was taken off the syllabus during Depatriation and I rather assumed …’

  ‘He was taken off more than that, young man,’ said the Admiral. ‘You know Delors Square?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Uh-oh. Was the old boy senile? How could he not know of London’s most central location?

  ‘Well. It used to be named after Horatio Nelson’s greatest victory. His statue was up where Schuman is now, on the top of the column.’

  So what? Site-renaming had gone on ever since universities in the 1980s had started calling junior common rooms after Nelson Mandela. Horatio knew that Attali House, the headquarters of the European Bank for Reconstruction and Development at the other end of the Mall, had once been the palace where the Royal Family had lived. The huge Asia-Pacific Economic Zone headquarters on the south side of the Thames used to house London’s local government. Everyone knew that the vast gothic Westminster Heritage, Amenity and Leisuredrome had been a palace where the British Parliament had sat. It wasn’t too hard to believe that Delors Square had once commemorated a battle against our Union partners and fellow citizens. His mother might even have mentioned it once. Strange, though, that he hadn’t been taught it at school.

  ‘I was wondering how long you’d take to get in touch, Horatio,’ said Ratcliffe. ‘I’m ninety-one now, so you’ve left it rather late in the day. But it’s good to hear from you at last.’

  What on earth could he mean? What amazing vanity to assume that, having only been a minor official in the referendum process, he would be on the call list to be interviewed for this piece. Horatio persevered nonetheless.

  ‘Well, if it’s all right I’d like to ask you a few questions about your role in the Aachen Referendum.’

  ‘Haven’t you anything else to tell me before that?’

  ‘I’m sorry, how do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ The vanity again. The classic cry of every pompous sub-Commissioner complaining about his hotel room or Christian Democrat M.U.P. upbraiding the maitre d’ over a table allocation.

  ‘Yes. You’re Admiral Sir Michael Ratcliffe’ – the oldies usually liked it when he referred to the by their pre-Classlessness titles, ex-peers especially – you were Chief Scrutineer for South-West Region.’

  ‘And that’s all I am to you?’

  ‘Yes. As I said, I’m a journalist working for The Times. We haven’t met before, have we?’ Had he ever interviewed Ratcliffe for any piece he’d written?

  ‘I know all that. I heard you the first time and you needn’t speak slowly. I may be ninety-one but I’m not senile.’ Horatio was unconvinced.

  ‘What was your mother called?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘What was your mother’s maiden name?’

  ‘I really can’t see what that can possibly have to do with this interview.’ Horatio was regretting the call. He didn’t want to be cruel. He’d just wrap the whole thing up as soon as possible. In the meantime he’d humour the old boy. ‘Her name was Heather Ellis.’ Another long pause.

  ‘All right, fire away.’ It was as unexpected as it was welcome.

  ‘Did you ever meet Commission Secretary Gregory Percival at the time of the Referendum to discuss … finance? He was Foreign Commissioner Mackintosh’s special advisor at the time.’ A long silence this time. After about fifteen seconds Horatio feared the Admiral had fainted, fallen asleep, or simply walked off.

  ‘Hello? Admiral Ratcliffe, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m still here. I he
ard what you said. Look, I think you’d better come down here. There’s something I must tell you … yes. It’s best that you do. There is something you ought to know … Something that you of all people must know.’

  ‘Could you tell me now?’

  ‘No … Certainly not. Not like this. Not over the phone. Come down tomorrow. In the morning. Early as you like. In the meantime I’ll try to get my thoughts down about … everything. How long’s it been?’

  ‘What? How long has what been?’

  ‘All the Aachen business.’

  ‘Thirty years. My article is to commemorate the anniversary on Tuesday.’

  ‘Well, that’s quite long enough. It needed something like this to happen. And you’re exactly the right person … Yes … To tell everything to. How extraordinary. I’d like to see you too. Do you drive?’

  ‘No,’ said Horatio, slightly ashamed of himself. Poverty and malcoordination had combined to make him immobile.

  ‘Listen here then. Take the shuttle from Maastricht Terminus to Basingstoke. Ibworth is three or four miles out of town. Take a taxi from the station. I’m in the Rectory, on the right directly after the Free Fox public house. You go down a drive and you’re there.’ There was another pause. ‘Oh, and Horatio my boy.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Be careful and please tell no one about this. About me.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘I mean it, it really matters.’

  ‘I promise.’ He would try one last time. ‘Sir? Before you click off. Can you give me any hint at all about what you want to discuss?’

  ‘None at all over the phone, but I’ll draw up something for you to take away afterwards. A memorandum. Something to make your and your editor’s hair stand on end. I’ll do that right now.’

  Mystified but intrigued, Horatio said goodbye.

  Should he bother? He had plenty of other work he needed to do. It was Sunday tomorrow. He might be able to spend the day in bed with Cleo reading the Sunday printouts. Drinking champagne. Making love. It was probably only some semisenile meandering. But Horatio held the same view of individuals as of other research material. Direct personal contact and hard graft paid. He’d go.

  As he tried to switch off his pager, Horatio’s podgy forefinger pressed the wrong button, and instead called up ‘Last Access’. Not for the first time the Luddite in him rued the new technology. It never was designed with him in mind. It seemed that whenever Horatio ventured out onto the Information Superhighway he got run over. Just as he was about to jab the ‘Off’ button again something caught his eye.

  Last access: 03.03 1/5/45.

  He couldn’t remember using his pager last night. Not that he could remember much about last night. He was drunkenly following Cleo bedwards, after all. But no one had his PIN number except him, his mother and Registry. How could anyone have accessed his pager? Who would have wanted to?

  Seeing Gemma had gone, Horatio went next door to play Weaning the tape. He told him he would go down there the next day, and got approval for his paltry travel expenses. Leaving the office, he again passed Penelope Aldritt’s desk.

  ‘Very nice material,’ he said, pointing at her dress with the sweetest of smiles. Just as her face lit up at the compliment he added, ‘You really ought to have a dress made out of it.’

  ‘Lookist,’ she spat.

  ‘Uglyist in this case, actually,’ he grinned, ‘which I don’t think is quite illegal yet.’

  ‘A case of the pot calling the kettle coloured, isn’t it?’

  ‘No, sweetheart, there’s a difference. I’m ugly and proud. It just kills you.’

  ‘No wonder all the women in this office hated you.’

  ‘They didn’t, only you did. Farewell, sweet maiden. Don’t let me take you off your,’ – he patted the bookshelf – ‘interesting work.’ He hoped she got the allusion. Probably not. Just to make sure, he tapped the shelf again. ‘I shouldn’t stay on it too long though, if I were you.’

  ‘Sometimes you can be a right bastard, Lestoq.’

  ‘Surely it should be parentally-challenged,’ he retorted, with exactly that smug smile which he knew would infuriate her most.

  CHAPTER 4

  08.10 SUNDAY 2 MAY

  London’s Maastricht Terminus – which Horatio knew really had once been named after a battle against our Union partners and fellow citizens – was unusually busy for a Sunday morning. A holiday group of Belgian tax assessors off Eurostar were chatting excitedly prior to taking the tube to Aldwych. Crossrail passengers from Paddington and Heathrow, weighed down with bags, were busily trying to engage the Polish porters and hail taxis. Drunks, down-and-outs, beggars and ex-farmers were causing their usual mayhem. It was a scene which made Horatio nostalgic for the days before the Noise Pollution Directive, when buskers had played popular tunes in the tunnels.

  He made his way over to a ticket dispenser, pulling a fifty-euro note from his pocket. He studied it for a moment to check it wasn’t one of the counterfeits which the Chechen mafia had mass-produced in Bradford last year. Apparently one could only tell by looking closely at the width of Edward Heath’s huge grin. The note looked genuine. Unlike the grin.

  He took the ticket and his change. Then he walked down platform 22 towards The Flying Dutchperson. The ads along its side reminded him yet again how grossly unfit he was. ‘Come Heli-Diving in Greece’, an almost naked Amazon was cooing. Sex, sex, sex everywhere, used to sell everything. The next advert told him how ‘accommodating’ everyone was on Club 13–30 holidays in Sardinia, presumably a reference to sex as well. From the moment he woke, every paper, cable channel, EuroNet, pager, modem, tram and poster, until the sky searchlight ads lit up at night, yelled sex sex sex at him. Even the ad for the Peter Mandelson Palace of Popular Culture at Windsor showed a leggy model wearing only the bottom half of a Beefeater’s costume. He thought about Cleo.

  As he slotted on his seatbelt, Horatio scanned his fellow passengers’ papers. More rioting in the North. Halifax, Leeds and Hull now. He was mildly surprised the Information Commissioner allowed such graphic reports of it. Union Jacks were apparently being flown with impunity, COHESION FUND TO BUY SICILY. No surprises there. TALLINN MOB FIRED ON BY EURO-ARMY. He thought of poor Leila. The secessionist movements in the Baltic protectorates were as brave as they were doomed. There was the inevitable royal story in the Indy: WILLY TO SPEAK IN HYDE PARK. His pager was full of a joint assault by the Environmental Health Agency and Customs & Excise on a pub in Catford where it was suspected that nicotine cigarettes were being sold. A dealer had died in the shoot-out.

  The cream of his university generation had gone into the E.H.A. He’d have probably wound up there himself if he had not won his Fellowship. He hoped it hadn’t been anyone he knew. An operation like that would probably have been undertaken by a S.W.A.T. team rather than his contemporaries, although since ‘elitist’ Civil Service fast-streaming had been abolished, one never knew.

  On the business pages Horatio saw that the Cannabis Sales Division of the Feel-Good Factory Inc. had announced a 2.2 billion-euro pre-tax profit for the year ending 1 April 2044. He was in the wrong business.

  He scanned The Telegraph. Little of interest apart from a photograph in the Letts Column’s ‘crumpet corner’ – as it had been nicknamed before the Sexism Directive – of Lucy Percival, the Commission Secretary’s daughter, who had been nominated as one of the ‘Euro-Women Achievers of the Year’ for her work on the Attali House fine art collection.

  Horatio failed to stifle a smile at the obituary of the eighty-five-year-old journalist and author Christopher Silvester on the next page. Ever since the Entente Bridge had opened in 2014, rabies had been rampant amongst dogs and foxes. For Silvester to die of it after a bite from his grandson’s pet hamster was a fate few would have predicted.

  Horatio stared out of the shuttle window as it trundled through the countryside at an energy-efficient 80 kph. The planting of oilseed rape across the whole of Hampshire left the countrysid
e a uniform electric yellow colour. With Surrey and Kent ordered by the Agriculture Commissioner to be set aside until 2048, the Home Counties were a depressing sight.

  His fellow passengers did little to raise his spirits. A couple of regulators behind him were arguing over the merits of the Channel Islands sale. It annoyed him more than he could easily explain. The thin, bearded narg with the Easiwriter in his jacket breast pocket was monotoning: ‘It’s got to be a good deal if the P.E. value is nine point five or above. I mean, Barry, what are future earnings likely to be?’

  Horatio sympathised entirely with his strange-looking friend, who was arguing that it wasn’t solely a financial question: ‘Paris shouldn’t be allowed to buy something which for centuries has been part of South English Region, just because they offer enough. London should never have accepted.’ This drew nervous glances from around the carriage. It sounded suspiciously like Anglo-patriotism or, even more dangerous, nationalism itself.

  The shuttle drew into Basingstoke station not a moment too soon. Horatio got the first taxi on the rank and asked for Ibworth. He discouraged conversation by ostentatiously reading his pager messages. His mother was looking forward to seeing him at the weekend. It would give him a chance to make up after their latest row. It seemed as if their relationship was under constant strain these days. She always seemed to take his half-brother and half-sister’s side against him, even when, as over this latest money thing, Dick and Marcia were clearly in the wrong. He assumed there was some textbook psychological syndrome which made her withdraw her love and support for him where her new family were concerned, but that hardly made it any easier to bear.

  Or was he perhaps just being paranoid? Vain, egotistical and snobbish he would admit to unhesitatingly, but Horatio was damned if he was going to add paranoia to the list without some more evidence. For his mother to take their side when he could not even pay his Atgas bill, while Dick drove a grade 1 petrol auto and Marcia swanned around in Cordiale and Pagan Dior dresses at two grand a throw, seemed plain wrong.