Fifty-First State

by Hilary Bailey

  Once in the flat, Gordon-Garnett refused a drink and Kerr accepted one. The Kerrs had a weakness in that direction. Gott invited them to sit down and they took two chairs, one on either side of fireplace. Gott himself remained standing. ‘Any news of the base invaders?’ he asked, thinking that if they wanted something, as they surely did, they owed him some information in return. ‘Strange bedfellows,’ he said. ‘Ex-servicemen and extremists. I suppose the security firm guys were paid.’

  ‘Saudi money,’ said Gordon-Garnett shortly. ‘But that’s not what we’re here to talk about.’

  Gott looked at the clock on his mantelpiece and said, ‘I didn’t think so.’

  ‘I don’t want to keep you up, Lord Gott,’ Gordon-Garnett said. ‘But Alan wants you to think about this opposition to the third reading of the MoD Lands Sale Bill. In the light of these disastrous events at Hamscott Common. I don’t need to tell you that at a time of national emergency, with the hunt for terrorists going on, we ought to pull together, not divide the party.’ He leaned forward earnestly, ‘That’s what the PM’s thinking and he hopes very much you agree.’

  ‘I already had that message from Graham Barnsbury,’ Gott said. ‘I’m thinking the matter over. I’m asking myself what is in the best interests of the country, as well as the party.’

  ‘You think you’re qualified to make that kind of decision?’

  Gott went on the offensive. ‘At least I don’t owe my job to a foreign power.’

  While Gott’s nephew shot him a look of impatient dislike, Gordon-Garnett did not acknowledge the remark. He said, ‘So you don’t plan to withdraw your opposition to the bill?’

  ‘I’m considering my position,’ Gott told him.

  ‘Alan will be very disappointed to hear that. Very disappointed.’

  ‘I imagine he will be,’ said Gott. ‘But there’s nothing else I can tell you.’

  ‘He asked me to remind you that if you show yourself to be so thoroughly anti-American there’s a strong possibility Clough Whitney Credit and Commerce may lose a lot of American clients. They constitute about twenty-five per cent of your cash-flow, I’m told.’

  Gott nodded, knowing he had not thought far enough ahead. Petherbridge, who had been able to command dollars for his election, heavily assisted by the State Department, would certainly be able to put pressure on American investors. On the other hand, he thought, as they say, money’s serious – that’s why they call it money. The US Government, the CIA, the British Government, whoever was in charge of the operation, could put pressure on the investors to move their accounts, but the investors would still act in what they saw as their own best interests. To succeed they might have to bribe them – how far would they be prepared to go to persuade the bank’s clients to alter their banking arrangements? How much would they be prepared to give? Would the pay-off be enough? That might depend on what form it took. If he refused to comply, Gott knew he would be putting himself and his bank at risk. He could be losing his bank a quarter of its funds. But he was already facing the loss of the Treasurership of the party and exile from the corridors of power. He said, ‘That would be a misfortune for the bank.’

  ‘Edward,’ said his nephew. ‘The PM’s asked me to appeal to you on grounds of loyalty. You cannot split the party now.’

  ‘This wouldn’t be happening if Petherbridge hadn’t introduced the bill in the first place,’ Gott said bluntly. ‘I believe that it, and the threatened reinvasion of Iraq involving British forces, triggered this whole Hamscott Common affair. Now you ask for loyalty. And I can’t answer you. I need to think.’

  ‘If you did, and agreed to drop your opposition, Alan would be very grateful,’ said Gordon-Garnett.

  Gott knew Petherbridge would be grateful and show his gratitude in many ways. Whatever it was, it would be a lot – all the kingdoms of the earth, he thought, having had a churchgoing childhood. Then he pulled himself up short. He had had a long day. He said, ‘I will think it over. Thank you for coming to see me. But I have an early meeting tomorrow, so I hope …’ The two men got to their feet, apologized again for calling so late and bade him goodnight. But in the doorway, when Tobias Kerr was already halfway down the stairs, Gerry Gordon-Garnett turned to him and said, ‘If you don’t toe the line, Gott, you’ll regret it. You’ll be made very sorry indeed.’ His expression was nakedly malevolent as he turned away and went downstairs after Tobias.

  After they had gone, Gott sat down heavily asking himself what he was doing. What was he walking into? Why didn’t he just cave in, acquiesce? He’d done it before, a hundred times. What public man, what man of business, hadn’t?

  What was he worrying about – his immortal soul? He didn’t believe he had one. His integrity – what the hell was that? An answer came back to him, as clear as a bell, as obvious as looking through a pane of glass, ‘I’m not standing out against Petherbridge because Petherbridge’s plan is morally, strategically, politically wrong. I’m standing out against it because it won’t work.’

  He stood up and said aloud, ‘Won’t work.’

  106 St George’s Square, London SW1. February 3rd, 2016. 6.30 p.m.

  The TV was on in Lord Gott’s car as he was driven home.

  ‘Fourteen terrorists out of a group of approximately thirty men who illegally invaded the Hamscott Common airbase were captured immediately. Seven of the men who illegally entered the base were killed.

  ‘Five US soldiers were also killed and one was severely wounded. General John Stafford, who serves with the Army Chief of Staff and who entered the base, it is believed, as a negotiator, was also caught up in the action and is seriously wounded. He is undergoing medical treatment.

  ‘There is still no answer to many questions. What was the motive of the men involved? What was the nature of the alliance between, as it seems, British and foreign Muslims and former members of the British Army? What was the intended role of General John Stafford? A number of terrorists, possibly as many as ten, escaped and are still at large. I have with me in the studio …’

  ‘A lot of people talking balls,’ Lord Gott said over the voice. ‘Nothing new then, or nothing anyone’s telling.’

  ‘John Stafford’s being operated on again tomorrow. They’ve found more bullet fragments close to his spine,’ said Graham Barnsbury. ‘They’ve already taken out his spleen.’

  ‘Poor bugger,’ said Gott. ‘Anything about the CIA trying to kill him before he even got in?’

  ‘No. But if it leaks they’ll say he was mistaken for another terrorist, trying to get on to the base.’

  ‘That’s a career ended.’

  ‘It probably has anyway. They say he may not walk again.’

  The car drew up at Victoria Station. Barnsbury got out, saying, ‘Thanks for the lift.’ He walked away, a hunched figure in the rain soon lost in the crowd of hurrying commuters.

  Barnsbury was taking his wife’s terminal illness hard, thought Gott. He’d already told him he was thinking of resigning the chairmanship. Gott hadn’t mentioned that Alan Petherbridge had already offered him the job, although he’d suggested to Petherbridge he would accept it. Not that he would. Not that Petherbridge would now give it to him, since he was still mustering opposition to the Ministry of Defence Lands Sale Bill.

  They were outside Gott’s house now. There was a figure in the gloom on the steps of the building.

  ‘Thanks, Jeremy,’ Gott said.

  ‘Who’s that on the steps?’ Jeremy asked, peering.

  ‘It’s a man I called in. I’ve had your flat swept. I hope you don’t mind,’ said Gott as he left the car. Jeremy, just starting up to find a parking space said, ‘Swept? For bugs?’

  ‘That’s right. I think he found something. He’s looking pleased with himself.’

  ‘Thanks, Mr Throckmorton,’ said Edward Gott, in a discouraged tone.

  ‘Sorry, guv,’ said Throckmorton. ‘You want my guess – it’s British security.’

  ‘That’d be mine, too,’ said Gott.


  Inside the flat, the security man, a wizened figure with two missing front teeth, held out on his palm ten little red dots. ‘All over the place,’ he reported. ‘All your phones, obviously, in the TV, under your bed, in the shower, even inside that nice piano. And something special for the computer. Want them?’ he asked, with the air of a dentist offering a patient the teeth he has just extracted. ‘Keep them,’ said Gott.

  Jeremy appeared in the open doorway. ‘Find anything upstairs?’ he asked keenly.

  ‘Even in your toilet,’ said Throckmorton.

  ‘No!’

  ‘’Fraid so,’ he said. ‘Do you want them?’ and he again held out the red dots.

  ‘Do you know, I don’t think I do,’ Jeremy said.

  Money changed hands.

  ‘Right-ho, guv,’ said Throckmorton to Gott. ‘We’ll be back tomorrow to put your infrared beams in. They won’t do this again.’

  ‘The toilet, though,’ said Jeremy, still shocked.

  Gott said. ‘I’d pretty much expected it. Here am I, spearheading this attempt to overthrow the bill to sell the British airbases to the US military. There’s Petherbridge, knowing that if the bill’s defeated it will weaken him here, and his paymasters at the White House will lose faith in him. They won’t forgive – they’ll do all they can to get him out and get somebody more effective in. Small wonder Petherbridge got his security minions to bug my house. Well, tomorrow they’ll put in infrared rays across doors and windows and various other tricky bits and pieces. We’ll be able to plot the Queen’s assassination in here after that, and no one will know.’ He was staring unthinkingly at the small grand piano, on which a vase of roses stood. Only one person ever played it – the person he supposed he loved best of all, if you could weigh these things. It’ll be fun, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘The system will start screaming when a cat walks on a sill or a pigeon lands. It’ll scream when the cleaning lady comes in, probably when we do. Come back here with your girlfriend and before you’ve kissed, the cops will appear. It all adds to the gaiety. Doesn’t bother me.’

  He sat down on the piano stool and stared at the grim-faced portrait of his grandfather above the fireplace. ‘Petherbridge can sit in Downing Street watching me pee as much as he likes. You saw his stepfather – you went to his mistreated mother’s grave. His wife’s a nervous wreck. And he’s a traitor. Do you know what my son Jamie’s wife says – she’s a child psychiatrist? “He picked sides and allied himself with the powerful man, his father, who was beating his mother, but he would have felt that as a betrayal, seen himself as the betrayer.” Not that you need qualifications to guess that.’

  But whatever he said, Gott thought of his piano and his daughter who played it and knew he hated Petherbridge as much as he despised him.

  Clough Whitney Credit and Commerce, Leadenhall Street, EC1. February 5th, 2016. 11.30 p.m.

  Edward Gott took off his black jacket, loosened his black tie and undid the top button of his starched shirt. He got coffee from the kitchenette attached to his office and sat down at the computer. The day had been a long one. The previous one had been even longer.

  That was when Gott had flown to his house in Scotland – which was actually his wife’s house – landing in the early evening in foggy weather. Perhaps it was the landing that had caused Gott’s queasiness. Or, perhaps, the slight nausea was caused by the fact that he had come to tell his wife something he ought to have told her before they married. Not such a bad story, compared with those that other husbands have had to confess to their wives. Many years before, he had fled to the USA leaving a pregnant girlfriend in Britain. His family had helped the young woman, a student, and her daughter, when she was born. At that time Gott had been a student himself – had not even met his wife. He knew this was a common enough tale. The worst part of it was that he had never told his wife, during thirty years of marriage, that he had another child. Or perhaps the worst part was that he was only doing so now because the Prime Minister had threatened to leak the tale to the press.

  The couple had dined alone and, after his wife had left him at the table, Gott had had a couple of brandies to steel himself. When he joined her she was sitting at her small desk in the corner of the drawing room, writing a letter. At his request, she joined him at the fire. ‘I have something to tell you – something I should have told you long ago,’ he began. She looked at him from the other side of the fireplace and said, ‘This sounds grave, Edward.’ Her face had no expression, but he had not expected her to react otherwise – this was a woman who had borne six sons, at home in her own bed, and never uttered a cry. And so he said, ‘I’m afraid this may hurt you. Unfortunately I have made some enemies and they are trying to damage me. I didn’t want you to read it in the papers.’ And he had told her about his former girlfriend, a fellow student, his graceless disappearance and the birth of a daughter. ‘Margot,’ he had said, ‘I am so sorry. I should have told you before we married. I was so afraid that I would lose you.’ There were tears in his eyes when he finished speaking and Lady Margot’s face had still not altered. After a silence she said, ‘Yes, you should have told me, Edward. At some time during the years we’ve spent together.’

  ‘I was ashamed,’ he told her.

  ‘So you should be.’

  ‘What do you think?’ he exclaimed, meaning, of course, that he wanted to know what she felt.

  But Lady Margot seldom spoke of her feelings and, when she did, usually in connection with her children. She said only that she very much wished he had seen fit to tell her of this earlier. She wondered that he had so little confidence in her. Gott knew his wife to be a resolute woman, a worthy descendant of Fergus the Redhanded and Donald Skullcracker and whatever other member of her bloodstained family it was who had lit a fire under a cauldron and boiled an enemy alive. Nevertheless, he found this aristocratic restraint unnerving. He heard himself say, ‘At least it’s kept me straight over the years – knowing what I did, what I was capable of.’

  He was immediately ashamed of this outburst. He did not actually see Lady Margot smile, but just had the impression she was, although her face had not moved. ‘That’s a blessing,’ she said, and stood up. ‘Well, Edward. You’ve given me a lot to think about. You’ll be here for breakfast?’

  And Gott said he would be, but thought it unlikely that this question meant that his wife would be ready for a discussion at breakfast the next day, or at any other time. He drank another brandy and went to bed, but not in the matrimonial bed.

  And, as he had expected, Lady Margot did not refer to his revelation the previous evening. Instead, she referred to the kipper he was eating, the rebuilding of the north wall of the estate and a very nasty quarrel over a will in the family of one of their daughters-in-law.

  It was only after taking off in the helicopter in even thicker fog—‘Clearer south of the Border’ the pilot said – that, somewhere over Birmingham, it dawned on Lord Gott that his wife almost certainly knew the story of the woman and the child. He was not sure why he thought this. It might have been that, having been married to Lady Margot for thirty years, her reactions told him. She had not been deceitful enough to pretend to be shocked or surprised, or untruthful enough to say that she was. Equally, she had not let him off the hook by telling him she already knew about the woman and her child, because that would have made things easier for him, and she wanted to punish him as, he had to admit, he fully deserved.

  Who had told her? One of his sons, who knew all about their half-sister and met her from time to time? On balance, he thought not. So who else would have told her? And suddenly he knew exactly who had told Lady Margot about his illegitimate child. It had been his mother. Perhaps even his father? He discarded the thought – no, it would have been his mother. And that meant, since Gott’s mother had been dead for twenty years, his wife had known his sordid little secret for at least twenty years, perhaps longer. She had known it while she was bearing and rearing at least some, perhaps all, of their sons. Gott was startled. He thought
of himself as a clever and competent man but it seemed he had not known what was going on under his nose. His wife and his mother had deceived him. Of course, his mother had thought it right to let his wife know. Of course, Lady Margot had been too well-mannered to bring it up. That would have been against her code. But she would – who would not – have wanted him to tell her the truth. And he had not.

  Gott was sobered. And he was not proud of the fact that he also felt relieved. At least, he thought, if his wife had known the story for so long, she was not going to divorce him now. Sadder, wiser and considerably less anxious, Gott landed in London and began to go about his other business.

  He had received a surprise invitation from the French Embassy so he rang a senior official at the Foreign Office, to be offered, not just an informative chat but a meeting with a bright young man from the European department.

  At lunchtime he arrived in a Whitehall pub to find Wilkes, a weary-looking man in his thirties, sitting in front of a pint and a sandwich he had barely touched.

  ‘Another?’ Gott glanced at Wilkes’ near-empty glass.

  ‘If only,’ Wilkes said sadly. ‘I’ve got to keep a clear head. It’ll be FO sandwiches and coffee into the small hours again, I imagine.’ Gott barely knew Wilkes and saw in him that slightly camp Old Etonian manner, which, as a Scot and outside this exclusive club, he mistrusted.

  ‘I hear you’ve got a new daughter,’ Gott said. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Not that I see much of her,’ Wilkes said. ‘My wife could do with me at night, too.’

  ‘Get a nanny,’ said Gott, unsympathetically.