Stones of Treason

by Peter Watson

  Opposition MPs cheered, cackled coldly. Backbenchers on the government side sat unmoving. But Page’s imagery had a ring to it. He had hit home.

  He thumped the dispatch box again. ‘What kind of person is it whose monument is an empty space? What kind of person is it whose contribution to our cultural life is to give it away? What kind of politician is it whose definition of the national interest is to put the concerns of a foreign country above this one?’ Page half turned to face the rest of the House. ‘This, surely, is topsy-turvy land. This is the world turned upside-down.’ He turned back to the dispatch box and thumped it again. ‘It is certainly a world that has got to stop! This way of treating the House has got to stop. This way of shrouding in secrecy anything and everything has got to stop. Government by one individual has got to stop.’

  Page allowed his shoulder to sag a little, to show that, after that crescendo, he was quietening down a little. But he hadn’t finished. He was now moving on to fresh fields. ‘I take it that some of the Prime Minister’s colleagues in his own party share this view of his behaviour. That is the only interpretation I can place on the resignation, at last week’s Cabinet, of the right honourable gentleman, the Member for Rothesay, as Defence Secretary. I am sure the right honourable member had more than one motive for resigning but that need not concern us tonight. What should concern us is that he could not, he would not, continue in a government led by the Prime Minister in the way that he is leading it at the moment. The right honourable member at least had the courage to resign. It is an example that many of us would like the Prime Minister himself to follow. This debate need not proceed to a vote tonight, if he will resign ahead of it. I do not need to remind the House of the damaging consequences of a vote. If the Prime Minister is censured, we on our side shall be prepared to fight an election, should the Prime Minister choose that course, but that does not mean we are unmindful of the consequences, consequences in terms of the economy, of the country’s political standing, of the “commotion”, if I may use a nineteenth-century word, that will be caused. The Prime Minister’s resignation could avoid all that – and I ask him to heed that warning, and to behave responsibly. Of course, I do not expect him to listen. Given the way he has been behaving recently, he listens to no one but himself and his narrow coterie of advisers. And it is perhaps foolish to expect him to behave responsibly when, for days and weeks past, he has been doing the very opposite.’

  At this point, opposition front bench members could be seen passing a slip of paper from one to the other. Finally, it reached Whiteman, who took it, looked at it, then leaned forward and placed it in front of Page. Page opened it and scanned the contents. He alone knew what they contained, for this was a stage-managed job. He again gripped the sides of the dispatch box. ‘Although I have said that the Prime Minister’s authoritarian and high-handed disregard for this House has been, and still is, his chief offence, it is of course not the only one. The extent of his miscalculation on this issue is so gross as to constitute an entirely separate reason why he should now resign. For he miscalculated not once but many times. He has vacillated and wavered, he has contradicted himself and shilly-shallied to the point where his performance, on behalf of this country, has been embarrassing and shaming. Moreover, his behaviour has contrasted markedly with that of the United States of America, which was thrust into this issue largely as a result of the Prime Minister’s mishandling of this affair.

  ‘The United States government, so unlike our own, has behaved throughout with candour and above all with firmness. And, I can now tell the House, this firmness has paid off.’ He held aloft the piece of paper Whiteman had handed to him. ‘I can reveal that, as we speak, as this debate takes place, the eight statues stolen from the Metropolitan Museum have been recovered. As a result of prompting by the United States government, which, as the House knows, has suspended aid to India, the Madras Regiment today attacked the holy Hindu shrine at Hindupur. Eight Hindus were killed in the raid, and three soldiers. Nineteen, from both sides, were injured. The stolen statues have been recovered but not …’ Page looked directly at Lockwood ‘… not without more blood on the Prime Minister’s hands.’

  A rustle of interest zipped along the Commons benches. This was luck on a spectacular scale, or a masterly stroke of Page’s, to have hot news and to deliver it in this fashion. Either way, the Commons admired it. In the Strangers’ Gallery, Sir Francis Mordaunt now realized what the journalist had been handing to Page in the central lobby.

  ‘And so, Mr Speaker, the American involvement in this whole shameful episode, this shabby charade played with the culture of this country, the American involvement is over. Honour has been satisfied, and both the Indian and American governments can hold their heads up in international company. Sadly, the same cannot be said of the British government. But in any case, so far as the British government is concerned, the issue is not yet over. In its final act, perhaps, but not over. That may come later tonight. I urge the House to bring this matter to a fitting close. This shabby matter has sullied the good name of Britain for too long.’

  Page sat down as roars of approval rang out around him. Feet were stamped on the ground, order papers rustled in the air. On the government side, no one was actually going to applaud the opposition leader openly but there were some, there were definitely some, who stamped their feet. Everyone could feel it.

  ‘Wicked touch about Hindupur,’ Lessor mumbled into the Prime Minister’s ear.

  Lockwood nodded. He looked pensive, sucking his lower lip. It was his turn now, when the clamour died down. He looked up. Hatfield was approaching again. He slumped into the space beside the Prime Minister. ‘How much are you planning to say?’

  Lockwood looked up at the Commons clock. ‘It’s twenty five past nine. Not much. Why?’

  ‘Talk for as long as you can. We’ve found where Zakros and Nancy Tucker are staying in Geneva.’

  All it had taken was a phone call. As Victoria had instructed, Edward had called the Berne Hotel, then the Alba. No luck. Then they had started calling the hotels in the old city of Geneva, across the Rhône, by the cathedral. He started with the Helvétique. When the receptionist answered he repeated the patter he had used with the other hotels.

  ‘Just a moment, I’ll see.’ A pause. Then: ‘Well, I don’t think we have the entire party here but we do have a Mrs Kimball and a Dr Quincy. Shall I put you through?’

  ‘No, no! Don’t do that. You’ve been very helpful but my job is to locate the people. Our customer liaison officer will visit the hotel in person. Goodnight.’

  ‘As you wish. Goodnight, sir.’

  He called Victoria through into his room. Excitedly they pored over the map of Geneva provided by the car rental company when they had hired a car at the airport. They found the hotel easily enough on the map. It was on the Rue Saint-Léger. ‘What’s the number?’ Victoria asked, picking up the phone. She then called the hotel herself and, to Edward’s great surprise, booked a room in the Helvétique.

  ‘Is that wise?’ Edward asked. ‘What if Nancy sees me?’

  ‘You don’t have to stay there. But if we want to get hold of the stuff they brought from the bank we’re going to have to break into their room, if we get the chance. For that, we need a room of our own, in the same hotel.’

  While Edward stayed in the car, Victoria checked into the Helvétique. She returned after about fifteen minutes and leaned into the car through the open window.

  ‘Well,’ asked Edward.

  ‘The room’s fine. But I don’t quite know what to do about Nancy and Zakros, or Kimball and Quincy. The one advantage we may possess is that, at the moment, they are unsure that they’re being followed. If I start asking at the reception desk, our questions may just get back to them –’

  ‘Get in!’ hissed Edward. ‘Over there, by the taxis. It’s Nancy.’

  Victoria got into the car. Nancy was wearing a white raincoat with a vivid green scarf.

  ‘So that’s Nancy Tucker,
’ murmured Victoria, looking from her to Edward and back again. ‘Striking.’

  Edward’s emotions were finding it hard-going. Nancy certainly did look striking – Victoria was right there. He could imagine all too well her flesh, her breasts, her movements under the raincoat. But then … what she had done, the deception, the lies, and now the killing. He would never have believed he could have been so wrong about someone.

  As they watched, a man held the taxi door open for Nancy and she got in. Then he got in beside her. The taxi made a U-turn, and as it sped off down the Rue Saint-Léger both Edward and Victoria saw the man lean across and kiss Nancy.

  Victoria gripped Edward’s arm. He put his hand on hers. ‘That must be Zakros. I’m glad I saw that.’ He looked at Victoria.

  ‘They seem very relaxed,’ she said. ‘I wonder why?’

  ‘Yes, it’s worrying. They must know everything by now.’

  ‘Can they really think they are safe? Surely not.’

  ‘What about this? They’ve had a … well, unusual day. But … Zakros and Nancy are lovers. They’ve been apart for weeks, maybe months, plotting this thing and hardly ever seeing each other. At last, tonight, they are together. That would be one cause for happiness.’

  ‘Yes, but come on! They killed O’Day and nearly killed Riley.’

  ‘And got away with it, so far as they can tell. Riley was the only witness to the killing, and I assume he’s not saying anything, at least not to the Swiss police. He’ll have claimed diplomatic privilege so the Swiss police probably don’t have a clue who to look for – what age, sex or name.’

  ‘It doesn’t make sense, Edward. Why shouldn’t Riley tell the police? He doesn’t have to tell them everything.’

  ‘But say the police catch Nancy and Zakros first. What’s to stop them telling the Swiss police everything? And who’s to say one of the police won’t earn himself a decent dinner with a call to a newspaper?’

  ‘Hmm. If you say so. But I think they should be panicking.

  But let’s stop nattering. They are out of their room and they didn’t have any briefcases with them when they left. That means the stuff is in the hotel – so this is it. One of us ought to follow them but I need you for what I have in mind.’

  ‘And what do you have in mind?’

  ‘Follow me.’ She got out of the car and led the way into the hotel. Inside the lobby, she said, ‘Borrow the Michelin Guide from the concierge. Pretend you’re looking for a place to eat. I’ll be back in a moment.’

  Feeling rather jittery, in case Nancy should return, Edward did as he was told. Victoria was gone a few minutes but when she returned she was carrying an envelope, a hotel envelope.

  ‘Now, take the Michelin,’ she said to Edward, ‘and return it to the concierge. Get a good conversation going with him about a restaurant to eat in. I shall interrupt you but your job is to watch where he puts this envelope I’m going to leave with him. It’s addressed to Quincy. When you’ve finished, come up to my room – number thirty-eight. Okay?’

  Edward nodded, picked up the book and sauntered over to the front desk. The receptionist was a tall, rather lugubrious man with a Mexican-style moustache. Edward had the Michelin book open at the Geneva pages. ‘Excuse me,’ he said softly. ‘Last time I was in Geneva I tried Le Cygne and the Amphitryon. Quite frankly they were a bit rich … I prefer plainer food. Can you suggest somewhere?’ He smiled at the concierge and thrust the book towards him.

  The concierge took the book but didn’t look at it straight away. ‘You like Swiss food? French food? Italian? There’s a good German restaurant in Geneva and a fish place. What you like?’

  Edward shrugged. ‘French, I suppose, or Swiss –’

  ‘Excuse me.’ Victoria leaned over the desk and held the envelope under the receptionist’s nose. ‘Today is Dr Quincy’s birthday and I’d like him to have this. It’s a surprise. Can you put it in his pigeon-hole, please, so he gets it as soon as he returns?’ Victoria left it by the Michelin Guide and disappeared back up to the room. Edward watched as the concierge absently picked up the envelope and tapped the Michelin Guide with it. ‘I would recommend L’Or du Rhône, or, if that’s too expensive, or you can’t get in, the Buffet Cornavin.’ He looked up, smiled, then turned and placed the envelope in pigeon-hole number sixteen.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Edward. ‘I’ll try the Buffet first, I think. I’ll call from the room.’ He retreated up the stairs.

  The hotel was made for burglary, as Victoria put it. Short corridors, tiny cul-de-sacs which gave on to the staircase. This meant that Edward could keep watch while she went about breaking and entering.

  They found room sixteen at the back of the hotel where it probably overlooked the Petit Palais Museum. ‘Ready?’ whispered Victoria. She took a set of skeleton keys from her pocket and twirled them in her fingers. ‘We’re given a course on these at Didcot. They’re the American Express Card of the security services: we never leave home without them.’ She grinned. ‘This shouldn’t be too difficult.’

  Edward nodded. ‘You seem confident.’

  ‘I’ve been trained. The British government believes women make just as good burglars as men. My aunt would have approved.’

  She bent to the lock. Edward heard a click, then a deeper click, then a rattle, still louder. Then he heard Victoria whisper again, ‘Voilà!’ – and the door swung open.

  ‘A great deal has been heard about morality in this House today. But maybe we should take a look at the morality of this debate.’ Lockwood leaned his elbows on the dispatch box. The chamber was perfectly still. He had stopped sweating. As his time to speak had approached, the Prime Minister had been more nervous than he had let on to any of his close colleagues. Normally he was not at all nervous and he knew that, other things being equal, he performed well. But other things were not equal. Andover and Tatton in Geneva had located the blackmailers again, but what exactly did that mean? Did it mean that he would get some news in the next fifteen minutes? News which would mean that the complexion of this whole debate would change? The closeness of the timing had wrong-footed him, he had to admit it, so that now, in this the most important speech of his political career, he was not giving his best. He knew it, and that made his performance even worse. People would conclude that he really was losing his grip.

  ‘I would like to ask the House a question. A set of questions. The first is this: Is not the return of the Elgin Marbles, so-called, a moral issue? Should governments not lead on moral issues? I seem to remember being lectured, earlier today, on that very subject, when it was said emphatically that governments should give such a lead.’ He hunched further forward over the dispatch box. ‘Here is another question: what would have happened if I had announced to this House that the government was thinking of returning the Elgin Marbles? I will tell you what would have happened. A great deal more hot air than has been generated even in the past few days. And maybe much more than hot air. A great deal has been made of the demonstrations, the arson attacks and – yes – the death of the security guard in New York. You may even throw in the deaths at Hindupur if you wish. The collision of those tankers in the Thames. The vigil in Athens. These arguments have been paraded through the newspapers and throughout this debate. But I say to the House: had the government simply announced that it was thinking of sending back the Marbles then the troubles might have been far worse. There would have been debate, yes, but there could easily have been demonstrations, there could have been –’

  ‘Rubbish!’ yelled a voice from the opposition backbenches. ‘Rubbish!’

  Taken aback, Lockwood faltered. Seeing him falter, weaker souls now joined in the catcalls. Cries of ‘Rubbish!’ sailed around the benches, accompanied by foot-stamping and even a cry of ‘Resign!’

  Lockwood knew he had to get a grip on the House. He stood up straight. He raised his voice. ‘This House cackles about morality, yet won’t even stop to listen to the argument.’

  ‘You didn’t stop to listen, Lockwood,�
�� someone shouted. ‘You just stormed ahead. We had nothing to listen to!’

  ‘I will be heard,’ Lockwood shouted. ‘I will be heard.’

  The Speaker now stood, meaning that all other members, Lockwood included, had to be seated. ‘Order! Order!’ the Speaker shouted. ‘The House will come to order.’

  Complete silence did not return but the din subsided. Before he sat down again, the Speaker cried, ‘The Prime Minister will continue.’

  ‘But not for long,’ someone else shouted, earning a wave of laughter.

  ‘Order! Order!’ The Speaker stood again.

  This time the noise subsided more quickly and as it did so Lockwood got to his feet and approached the dispatch box. He waited for a moment so that he might better be heard but also for effect. ‘I will not be lectured on morality in this House by the honourable gentleman opposite. Contrary to what he has claimed, this government, my government, has done nothing to be ashamed of. The fact that our action was unilateral does not make it unnatural as he implies, or humiliating. On the contrary, it shows that some people in Britain, some people who, fortunately, are in government, can act from the best of motives, where immediate personal gain is not the only measure by which they lead their lives. I cannot be the only one in this House who has been disgusted to hear the self-righteous self-interest shown in this debate, by weasels who –’

  ‘Withdraw! Withdraw!’ The cry was immediately taken up by many backbenchers, and the opposition front bench too.

  Lockwood was sweating now. That remark had been a mistake.

  ‘Withdraw! Withdraw!’ They would not be silenced.

  The Speaker was on his feet again and the Prime Minister gave way. ‘Order! Order!’

  Arthur Page was on his feet too, as the noise subsided. ‘Mr Speaker, it ill behoves the Prime Minister, who is the subject of this debate, to use words such as “weasel” about honourable members. I accept that he is more familiar with weasel behaviour than any of us. Yet he should withdraw the remark. It is yet another example of the way he is losing his grip on events.’