‘Even if it means not passing the bill?’
‘It’ll be passed,’ said Gott. ‘Petherbridge has moved too quickly for us. The party won’t want to break ranks so soon after a victory. And Chatterton’s backing the bill. He’s persuaded his inner circle and the NEC not to oppose it and do you know why? Because even if Petherbridge has got a thumping majority Chatterton still thinks he’s in with a chance, one day, of becoming Prime Minister. He’s fed up with seeing his own supporters in the streets, crying out against US actions in the Middle East, backed by Britain. First it was Iraq – twice – then the Lebanon, now Syria. Every time the US uses those bases to pursue what is basically its foreign policy, not ours, the public gets angrier and the Prime Minister takes the blame for the actions of a powerful ally he can’t control. If Chatterton got his wish and became PM, his own supporters would be up in arms against him, asking for his removal. So he’s keen to see the bases in US hands. That way, whatever happens isn’t the PM’s fault.’
‘Mark Moreno wanted to fight,’ Joshua said.
‘Mark Moreno will be the next Labour leader,’ Gott said with certainty. ‘But he isn’t now.’
‘We’re fucked anyway,’ said Joshua, thinking unhappily about voting in direct defiance of his Party Leader. ‘Shall we get in out of the rain?’
The debate, in a standing-room-only House of Commons, began with the Secretary to the Minister of Defence, speaking slowly and dully, saying that over the past seventy years the defence of Britain had depended on its US ally, that though the enemy had changed over those years, it was still true that Britain needed their help. The additional advantage would be the seven billion pounds the US had offered to the British government for a hundred-year lease, which would go straight to the British taxpayer. When he sat down there was a single cry from the Opposition benches, ‘Kim Durham!’ and a roar of attack and defence from both side, which the Speaker had difficulty in quelling.
The Labour Shadow Defence Secretary’s position obliged him to make a weak speech, more questions than declarations. Would the land on which the air force bases stood be legally US territory? Where US servicemen committed a crime against a civilian, off the base, under whose jurisdiction would they come? Was handing over the bases tantamount to handing over British foreign policy to the USA? Did the suggestion embodied in the bill come under the heading of the basing of foreign troops on British soil? Would the Government examine the constitutional implications of the bill?
When he sat down the same backbencher called out again, ‘Kim Durham!’ This time he was followed by Mark Moreno, sitting directly behind Chatterton, who in turn yelled, ‘Kim Durham!’This was Moreno’s challenge, the first time he had publicly defied his leader, an announcement to party and country that he was no longer prepared to be loyal to Carl Chatterton. The intervention was followed by uproar.
This local excitement detracted from what was agreed later to be the best speech of the debate. Amir Siddiqi for the Liberal Democrats spoke calmly, but with an underlying passion. The bill was dangerous, ill thought-out and possibly treasonable. He would ask bluntly the questions the Shadow Defence Secretary had asked politely, almost as if uninterested in the answers. Was it safe to hand over eight air force bases to a foreign, nuclear power, however friendly? Would the presence of the bases and their use for US foreign policy bring down on Britain the wrath of the US’s enemies? Was the handover not just further proof that Britain was nothing more than a US client state? How would this abnegation of responsibility be seen by European partners? Would the handover not compromise Britain’s position in NATO? If the Tory party had been paid by the US they could not have done worse for their own nation. That he spoke not just for his party but for the country as a whole.
This finale, the matter of the money, caused many heads on the Conservative benches to bow. The debate had exposed rocks below the water. When Mark Moreno shouted the name of the woman killed by US troops on a British airbase, he was challenging his party boss’s leadership. Amir Siddiqi was, as many in the House knew, referring to the growing speculation about the source of the party’s pre-election donations.
Public demonstrations, newspaper leaders, the head-shakings and leaked warnings from other European leaders had made no difference – the vote on the first reading of the Ministry of Defence Lands Sale Bill was won.
Gott called William over and asked for another bottle of wine. ‘It’s not the end,’ he assured Joshua. ‘It’s not even the beginning of the end. Anyway, you’ve got the tiger by the tail now, Joshua. If you don’t get Petherbridge, now you’ve voted against him, he’ll certainly get you.’
‘You don’t need to tell me,’ said Joshua, tight-lipped.
Sugden’s, Fox Square, London SW1. December 17th, 2015. 10 p.m.
Only a fortnight later they were back at the same table. Arriving where Joshua Crane and Jeremy Saunders were already sitting, Edward Gott eased himself into his chair, sighing theatrically. ‘Interesting times,’ he said as he beckoned over the wine waiter. There were black marks under his eyes and his normally ruddy skin was sallow. With the first reading of the Ministry of Defence Lands Sale Bill passed, the next stage of the fight was on. Gott was canvassing support; meetings up and down the country were being arranged.
That morning the new Iraqi leader, Mohammed Al Bactari, had asked the National Assembly to back him over nationalizing the Iraq oilfields. There had been no opposition. Already there was fierce fighting between Iraqi troops and the US-employed pipeline guards.
The five-year-old New Arab League had issued a warning to the US that more military activity in the Middle East would lead to reprisals. The League, small, factional and not inclusive, led by the unpopular Ahmed Al Saud, was not considered to be a serious threat, yet the announcement had sounded more than usually determined and many of the League states were heavily armed. There had always been a fear that the Arab states would forge an effective alliance – this might be the time.
Parliament was in recess, but already Alan Petherbridge was fielding questions about what Britain’s answer would be if the US requested British troops for an invasion of Iraq. He was saying only that no request for military support in any area had been made by the US. This answer was no answer, as the newspapers made clear. It did not help that two officers and nine men from a Midlands regiment had just been killed in an ambush in one of the semi-autonomous tribal areas separating Afghanistan from Pakistan. It had not been Petherbridge’s government that had committed multinational troops to the area – but the eleven deaths reinforced the public’s opinion that the British Army should not involve itself in any more foreign wars.
At four that afternoon a Muslim man, a Polish IT student – had blown himself up on a bus outside Selfridges in Oxford Street, killing three passengers and wounding seven more. Because it was thought that this might be the start of a series of bomb attacks all traffic in inner London had been halted. A protest about the coming war in Iraq. Sir John Smythe, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner, said he feared this might be the first of many such incidents. MI5 and MI6 were in conference. Police were on standby. In Edgware Road, outside Paddington Green police station, destination for terrorists suspects, the road was blocked by armed police and traffic only filtered through after checks on the drivers.
When the wine waiter came to the table, he turned out to be the restaurant’s manager, William Frith. The real wine waiter had rung earlier, saying he was flying back to Lyons immediately. When Gott asked him why he was taking orders for drinks, William told him about the disappearing French waiter. Gott frowned. ‘Well, I hope you’re going to stay,’ he said. ‘People are panicking,’ said William. ‘And I suppose if it’s a real threat my wife and I ought to go to my parents in Spain.’ He moved off. It was a busy night. Upstairs, the threat of reprisals from the Middle East or of terrorists at home weren’t worrying Jack Prentiss. He was delighted, foreseeing an ongoing political crisis which would fill his restaurant and the rooms upstairs for t
he foreseeable future.
‘Seems a bit premature to start running for it,’ Jeremy said. ‘We’re not in this war. We don’t even know if there’s going to be one.’
‘But some people seem to think so,’ Joshua said glumly. He saw the panic beginning in his own life. That afternoon, Beth had asked him if he thought she should retreat with their sons to her parents’ small estate in West Yorkshire. They were due to spend Christmas there, anyway. Did he think she should stay on after they went back to school? Would they be in more danger there, near Fylingdales, or in London? Would he feel she was disloyal if she retreated with the children? Joshua, surprised by what he thought was overreaction, did not know whether his family would be in danger in London or Yorkshire. He said, ‘I think it’s too early to start thinking like that.’ Beth replied, sarcastically, ‘Well, you’re in the government. You ought to know.’
He had gone straight from home to Saskia’s flat, hoping to take her to bed. Instead, when he let himself in, although she always heard his key in the lock and the sound of the front door opening, she was bent over the coffee table, expertly snorting up a line of cocaine through a silver straw. Plainly she had decided to abandon any pretence that she never touched drugs. When he had protested, ‘Saskia!’ she’d lifted her head and said only, ‘There’s going to be a war in Iraq. And terrorists all over the place. How do you think I’m going to get through a party where everybody’s scared? And talking about leaving?’
He told her he thought people were overreacting. She mentioned the explosion outside Selfridges. When Joshua said he could be badly compromised if found in a flat where drugs were in use, she responded, ‘You’d better go then.’ And so Joshua had gone. It ought to have been a relief – he knew he should have ended the affair weeks before. But these two episodes, with his wife and his mistress, had depressed him. And now Sugden’s’ wine waiter had left.
‘We’ve got to kill this bill at the second reading,’ Gott said firmly. ‘It’s scheduled two months from now.’ He looked Joshua in the eye and waited.
‘It may die the death in committee. There are many constitutional questions. And protest mobilizing.’
‘Petherbridge will rush it,’ Gott predicted.
Joshua nodded. ‘Right.’ The nationalization of Iraqi oil had ratcheted the situation up several notches. He felt events moving faster, perhaps spinning out of control. He was thinking about his own career. If they could see off the MoD Land Sales Bill Petherbridge might go. He, Joshua, would have been one of the architects of the Prime Minister’s downfall, and therefore a favourite with the new PM. Who did Gott, the kingmaker, see in the job? he wondered. He, Joshua, would get a ministerial post. He was young enough to rise from there, perhaps to the top, young enough to grab the fairy from the top of the Christmas tree. But if they lost – or even if they won and Petherbridge stayed in office – the consequences would be awful – deselection, back to teaching, a lower income and a furious wife.
Gott was saying to the waiter at his elbow, ‘I’ll just take some quails’ eggs. No appetite,’ he said to the others. Joshua, after Beth going, and Saskia snorting, and knowing that whatever personal problems he had he was close to the heart of a political storm, also lacked appetite. He ordered a plate of whitebait and Jeremy, whatever his inclinations really were, the same.
‘I think we can do it,’ said Gott. ‘Now there’s pressure on Petherbridge to help the USA reinvade Iraq he’ll be under continual scrutiny. The public don’t want it. At least half the House of Commons don’t want it. Overturning that bill will be seen as telling the US we won’t go along with the war.’
‘The word’s out. There was a deathly hush on our own benches when Amir Siddiqi talked about the Tory Party as being bought – wouldn’t it help if you leaked the information about where the pre-election donations came from?’
‘You’re not the only person asking. Everyone is. I’m working on getting rock-solid proof—’ Jeremy snorted. ‘All right,’ said Gott, ‘Jeremy is. Meanwhile I’m saying the details of the donations are public and the party accounts are still being worked on.’
‘What about Petherbridge’s threats?’
‘One’s dealt with. The other is a threat to my personal life. I made a mistake many years ago. I compounded it. Now it’s caught up with me. Simple as that.’
Joshua would have liked to ask for details. He glanced at Jeremy who gave him a warning glance and shook his head a centimetre in Joshua’s direction, warning him to say no more.
Joshua speculated. Gott found in bed with a dead boy? Gott with millions of his bank’s money stashed in the Cayman Islands? He had to believe Gott was not stupid enough to proceed if Petherbridge had some truly damning bit of information to use against him. But supposing he had? They’d all be in the soup, tainted by association.
The starters arrived and Gott looked at them, then called the waiter back. ‘Do you know what? My appetite’s come back. I see they’ve got that good hare stew on the menu. Fancy some? I bet you do. Hollow legs – Jeremy,’ he informed Joshua. ‘Fancy some yourself?’
‘I suppose so,’ Joshua said numbly.
‘Eat up,’ said Gott. ‘It all hangs on what the US President says when she addresses the nation tonight. But I expect she’ll only threaten. She won’t declare war before Christmas. She’ll have a struggle to get consent.’
A former leader of the Conservative Party, one of those revolving-door leaders of the nineties and noughties, came over and murmured in Gott’s ear. Then he clapped Joshua on the back and left.
‘Well,’ said Gott, smiling, ‘that man’s thinking ahead. He wants to be my friend.’
That was it, thought Joshua. If they overturned the sale of the bases Gott would be an important man. Edward Gott, kingmaker, he thought.
72 Whitechapel Road, London E1 January 14th, 2016. 10.30 a.m.
Julia Baskerville had spent Christmas in Houston with her husband and daughter and now, back in London, was conferring with her local Party Chairman, Mr Zulfeikar Zulani, a local businessman who owned three butchers’ shops in East London. He had told her that three young men had been taken away over Christmas by the police. Their families did not know where they were. Two homes in the constituency had been raided and searched, although nothing had been found and the police had left the residents standing in the confusion caused by the search, without apology.
Julia told him, ‘I’ll talk to DS Spring about it and see what I can do. But he’ll tell me what he usually says, that the police were acting on confidential information and the young men will be investigated and released if nothing is found against them. You know it’s happening all over the country. I’m sure you suspect the police are under orders to create disturbance and anxiety to frighten the community. It started after the Victoria Station bombing and got worse after the Selfridges bomb. So when I talk to DS Spring he’ll know he has orders from on high to do exactly what he’s doing.’
Zulfeikar Zulani looked tired. They had been political friends for many years although they still respectfully addressed each other as Mr and Mrs. But in spite of the formality they knew each other fairly well – Julia knew about Zulfeikar’s increasing prosperity, that he had fixed his brother’s passport, that young Aziz was disappointing his father by being lazy at college and hanging out with the wrong friends. In turn Zulfeikar knew of the difficulties Julia experienced while being, effectively, a single parent to her daughter – and secretly deplored her family arrangements. But neither mentioned, to each other or anyone else, what they knew of each other’s lives.
‘I’ll do all I can,’ Julia told him. ‘But for all our sakes, I’m afraid of another bombing. It’s not just that the police will come down harder – the government will change the law to allow for indefinite detention. This new government is ready to get very harsh.’
‘If the US invades Iraq and Britain joins them there will be more bombings,’ he said, with certainty.
‘I know. I’m due to ask for assurances that won
’t happen.’
‘I wish you success,’ he said, without hope. ‘It’s being said that this government is being paid by the USA,’ Mr Zulani said. ‘They’re saying the election was bought with dollars.’
Julia had heard the rumours but thought they were just the result of tea-room gossip. But whether they were or not, the story had reached Whitechapel.
‘Who’s saying?’ she asked. She noted that Mr Zulani had been studying her face, as if to see what she knew or did not know.
‘Al Jazeera television,’ he told her.
‘I’ve heard whispers,’ she said. ‘But I thought it was fiction. Have they any evidence?’
‘They haven’t given any.’
Gott, Julia thought. Gott would know if there was any substance to the story. But even if he did, would he tell?
Mr Zulani said, ‘Even if the story is untrue, it will be dangerous if it is believed.’
Julia only nodded. She was still thinking about Lord Gott. Zulani went on, ‘Two young men, probably from the National Front, attacked two Asian boys on Boxing Day. One is still in hospital, and likely to lose an eye.’ He added, ‘You should know there is a group in the constituency called The Jihad. The leaders are from the Middle East. They are calling on the young men to resist. They are saying the US President will soon declare war on Iraq. And that Britain will follow’
Julia looked steadily at the man who had been her Party Chairman since she had been elected, and her predecessor’s Chairman also. He had hesitated before telling her this bad news.
‘If the police think there is a network of terrorists here, they will come down harder. But if I do not speak, I am guilty.’
‘I won’t mention it,’ she said. ‘Not unless something serious comes to my attention.’
‘Our world is becoming a more dangerous place,’ he said.
Hamscott Common Airbase. January 14th, 2016. 3.30 p.m.
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