‘We had one, but she’s gone back to Croatia. Scared,’ said Wilkes.
‘That makes you think,’ Gott said. ‘Well, not to waste your time – I’d appreciate your advice. Four days ago – short notice, I thought – an invitation comes to me from the French Ambassador to a small, informal dinner at the Embassy. Not a big, public affair, you see, and I don’t know anyone at the Embassy – or not on that basis.’
Wilkes nodded.
‘In short, I was surprised. I accepted on the principle that the secret of life is being there. Now I want to know why you think I might have been invited – is there anything I ought to know – is there anything I know that I shouldn’t say?’
‘Are you sure there isn’t anything involving the bank?’
‘I’ve tried to find that kind of connection. There isn’t one,’ said Gott. ‘Now I’m going to sit down at a dinner table with a lot of Frenchmen so sharp they’ll cut themselves and I don’t know the agenda. There must be one.’
‘They’re pretty upset about this rapprochement with the US,’ Wilkes said.
‘Rapprochement. We’ve been up their arses since 1945. But what’s that got to do with the price of fish?’ said Gott, who, confronted by someone like Wilkes, could not resist coarsening his tone.
Wilkes did not flinch. He said, reluctantly, ‘I don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you. There’s a lot of EU talk about imposing sanctions on Britain if we don’t stop aiding and abetting the US. And they’re particularly worried about a reinvasion of Iraq. The French are the chief instigators, because of their traditional feeling that they’re entitled to mess about in Middle East politics but no one else is. Nevertheless, other countries are supportive. It would be hard to think of any who positively oppose the French stance.’
Gott had not expected this. ‘Sanctions? They’ll never go through with it.’
Wilkes said, ‘Obviously, they’ve been worried for years about this closeness between Britain and the US. The proposed sale of the bases has exacerbated it. And their clever thinkers have been thinking ahead, imagining an ever-closer relationship with the US, economic as well as military. My guess is your invitation comes from the fact that you’re about to begin an assault on the sale of the bases. If what I hear is true.’
He looked at Gott enquiringly. Gott didn’t say anything.
‘Exactly how far are you going with this?’ Wilkes enquired.
The Foreign Office was trying to work out whether he was a thorn in the flesh or a serious problem. The FO believed first and foremost in stability. Not change, not improvement, whatever that might be, just stability. Put the whole of the FO in hell and they’d start a dialogue with Satan, aimed at achieving greater stability in the Underworld. Which was probably why they didn’t trust or respect the creators of instability – politicians—and let it show, in their Etonian way.
‘I’m planning to oppose the third reading and stop the sale of the bases,’ Gott said, steadily. ‘I think you know that.’
‘Then the French and their allies in Europe will see you as an ally, of a sort. My enemy’s enemies are my friends. I should watch your step. They may hope you’ll win the vote and then go further, try to get Parliament to vote to take the bases back under British control. We’re supposed to be contributing to the EU Defence Force.’
There was a silent question here but Gott did not take the bait. ‘What will they want?’
‘Information about your plans I should think. They won’t press you. This will be to start a relationship with you which might prove helpful later. That’s my guess. As I say, be careful.’
‘I really can’t believe in the prospect of EU sanctions,’ Gott declared.
Wilkes said nothing, ignoring Gott’s implied question.
‘Thanks, anyway,’ said Gott. ‘It’s been enlightening.’ He stood up, ‘You’re busy – I’ll let you go.’
Wilkes also stood. ‘It would be pointless to say more – it’s early days …’
‘I understand,’ said Gott.
About to leave, Wilkes said, ‘Perhaps you could spare a moment tomorrow to let me know your impressions. I’m sure Sir Joe would appreciate it.’
‘Will do,’ said Gott, shaking hands. Then he sat down, stared into his pint and tried to assess the information Wilkes had given him, and not given him. They couldn’t be serious, the Euro finance ministers. They couldn’t be going to put brakes on trade with Britain. Or could they? He stood up, telling himself he was the man who didn’t even know what his own mother had said to his wife about him, or when. Bearing that in mind, was he fit to make a judgement on this issue, or any other? Probably not, but he knew he must.
The evening at the French Embassy had been pleasant – and interesting. There had been only eight of them in a small dining room, well-appointed in early-nineteenth-century French style. The hosts were the Ambassador and his wife, the guests a distinguished French writer and his beautiful actress wife, a senior man from the British Treasury and his Arabic wife and an attractive Frenchwoman of about forty from the cultural side of the Embassy, invited, Gott surmised, to be his partner for the evening. For all he knew, she was a spy.
Gott was still wondering why he was there, and had even begun to suspect he had been invited on a linguistic basis. The Treasury man spoke fluent French, as did his wife, and Gott’s good Scottish parents, understanding that like many Scots he might have to seek his fortune abroad, had been careful to make sure he was competent in French and German. The conversation during the first part of the meal was general, the food and wines good, as was only to be expected, and the film star was not just beautiful but intelligent and witty. Seated next to him, his companion, Madame Duhamel, was sympathetic and entertaining. She was bringing the Comédie Française to Britain next month and offered him tickets.
It was with the arrival of the excellent beef that the pace hotted up, when the eminent writer, Jacques Laclos, leaned towards Gott, sitting opposite, and asked, smiling, ‘And so – what would you say in Britain if we in Europe cut you loose?’ The French ambassador’s wife had, before dinner, described Laclos to Gott in that experienced undertone audible only to one hearer in a crowded room. ‘A distinguished political writer, left of centre.’ That was when Gott recalled the name as being that of a man who had recently achieved notoriety for advocating the repatriation of all French citizens of Algerian origin, or their internment. This caused him to wonder what ‘left of centre’ meant in these circles. He also noted that now the Treasury man was leaning forward a little to hear his reply. ‘Cut loose in what way?’
‘Intellectually, economically, morally,’ responded Laclos.
Gott, taking it that in this instance the ‘Europe’ to which Laclos had referred actually meant ‘France’, and understanding why it was the French who had coined the term agent provocateur, said blandly, ‘We have tried to distance ourselves over the centuries in many ways. By “we” I mean chiefly England. I think it’s fair to say the Scots are different. However hard Britain has tried, the attempt has always failed. Unless we distance ourselves geographically, which is impossible, I don’t think the effort could ever be successful.’ Gott was rather proud of this polished response. He felt a Foreign Office Etonian could hardly have done better. Nevertheless, he felt obliged to push on in a less diplomatic way. ‘Did you put your question just as an interesting hypothesis, or do you see a split as a real possibility?’
‘I am a theorist, not a politician, said Laclos. ‘Although I must say your plan for an actual geographical separation is interesting. I feel sure that if Britain could pull up its anchor and set sail for America, it would do so.’
‘Would you break champagne over the bows? Would you be happy see us set sail, leaving Europe behind?’
Laclos smiled, gave a small shrug and said, ‘It would not be my decision.’ He was angry, Gott saw. This issue was plainly serious and he wondered why he had not focused on it before. Perhaps he’d been too preoccupied by the campaign against the Mo
D Lands Sale Bill. Insular. But not even Jeremy, whose sharp instincts Gott normally trusted implicitly, had raised the question. Unless he had, and Gott had ignored him. Still, the blinkers had fallen from his eyes now – no wonder Wilkes had found time to meet him and be evasive.
Madame Laclos smiled with great charm at Gott and said, ‘I sometimes feel the relationship between Great Britain and Europe is like a bad marriage. One loves the other – the other has fallen out of love. The second lover begins to love again – the first has cooled. One decides to leave for good, gets in the car and drives to Rome – or takes a plane to New York – the other begins to weep and cry out “Come back.”’
‘Perhaps in the end the lovers will realize they’re better off together,’ was Gott’s inadequate reply. The moment passed, the conversation resumed its even, amusing tenor, the Treasury man gave everyone advice, ‘Don’t touch the dollar, even if it means buying the baht or the sucre,’ Madame Laclos told a terrible story of filming the latest Frankenstein in Prague. After dinner she, who apparently had some reputation as a singer of songs of the thirties and forties, agreed to perform. As the music continued, the Ambassador sat down next to Gott and said in English, ‘So – what do you think of our Jacques Laclos?’
‘A very interesting man,’ said Gott. ‘I found his views interesting. We’ve irritated our European neighbours for years, playing in the middle of two great powers, the USA and the European Union. Monsieur Laclos seems to think those days are over. I wonder if his views are widely shared in Europe.’
‘Certainly among the older members of the Union,’ the Ambassador said.
‘Well then, Ambassador,’ said Gott, ‘I suppose the question is, what are we all going to do about this?’
‘There’s talk of EU sanctions against the UK,’ said the Ambassador.
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Gott. ‘But is that practical? A great deal of trade would be lost on all sides.’
‘That is one side of the argument,’ said the Ambassador. ‘The anxiety is that America is wounded, but, like a wounded animal, struggling to survive. Those struggles make it unpredictable, a great threat to stability in the world. And the thinking is that perhaps the UK, by using its bases in support of American foreign policy, is colluding in that.’
‘Any measures taken against Britain by the EU would be seen by the US as hostility. Do the governments of Europe really want to declare war on the US?’
‘Of course not,’ said the Ambassador, and led the applause for Madame Laclos. He stood up and said to her, ‘Madame – a last request – the song that was playing when my wife did me the honour of saying she would become my wife – “Plaisir D’Amour”.’
And Madame Laclos agreed. Shortly afterwards, the party broke up. On the pavement the man from the Treasury said quietly, ‘You seemed to be having a chat with the Ambassador. Can I give you a ring about it tomorrow?’
‘I’m reporting back to Sir Joe Camden at the FO.’
‘Put me on the list.’
In spite of the fact that it was late, Gott had been drawn, as if by a magnet, back to his office. Seated at his desk, he thought. The basic question was whether the EU was bluffing and the Ambassador, at the intimate dinner to which he had invited Gott and the Treasury man, was doing what all good diplomats are supposed to do, lying for his country. Intimate dinners, private words and the rest could sometimes make things change. But, he declared to himself, his own business, his proper trade, was money. So what was he going to do?
His first act was to brace himself for another brush with the past. He had a long list of people to ring and decided to bite the bullet and first call Gerard Dorfmann, a director of the Crédit Lyonnaise in Paris, at a phone number he knew too well. Gott had been involved in a love affair with Dorfmann’s wife Helene for five years. They met when they could; they loved each other. Dorfmann, said Helene, knew about the affair but tolerated it, as he had his own little entanglements. Edward Gott and Helene did not want to divorce their spouses. But Edward Gott and Helene Dorfmann wanted to live together. And this question was still unresolved when Helene was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. She was dead six months later. Gott had taken the blow and endured it, though now, two years after Helene’s death, he knew he would never be the same again. A young man will be hit, will mourn, may contemplate suicide and then there will be another girl, another job, another country, perhaps. Gott knew he no longer had that resilience. He had barely thought of another woman since Helene’s death. The only person he had told about it was an obscure solicitor who lived with her doctor husband on the borders of Kensal Green and Willesden.
Now he decided he had to ring Dorfmann, the man he had cuckolded, because he needed him. It was risky. Dorfmann might resent him. He might even pretend to help, while secretly taking revenge. But he and Dorfmann knew each other. Dorfmann would be able to assess the information he was providing. His voice would be useful where it mattered. Uncertain of the response, Gott picked up the phone.
At least Dorfmann was awake, when summoned to the phone. He was wearing a jacket and tie and looked as immaculate as ever.
‘Edward,’ he said in English. He appeared businesslike, mildly surprised and nothing else. Gott outlined his problem. Dorfmann said, ‘I hardly need to tell you what the European money markets are making of all this. There are the ugly rumours about a British election bought with dollars. Can you confirm or deny?’
Gott took a deep breath and told Dorfmann, ‘I would not care to deny them.’
Dorfmann’s pale, clear-cut face was grave. ‘Then I would advise your countrymen to take immediate measures to detach itself from the US. Otherwise, you not only become a puppet state, but destabilize the European Union.’
‘Will the EU act if we do not?’ asked Gott.
‘Almost undoubtedly. You may know there is talk of a preferential trade agreement between your country and the US. A transatlantic free trade area.’
Whatever talk there had been, Gott had not heard it. It might be gossip. But it made him think – the move to push down tax barriers and quotas between the two countries would be logical, given what he understood Petherbridge to be doing. And would sour the relationship between Britain and the countries of Europe to the point where Britain might withdraw from the EU. Or be asked to leave. It would be a trade earthquake. Gott disguised his shock and said only, ‘Thank you, Gerard. This has been most helpful.’
‘Thank you for your very sympathetic letter concerning the death of my wife.’
‘I miss her greatly,’ said Edward Gott.
‘I, too,’ said Gerard Dorfmann. ‘I take it you will not object to my informing my colleagues of your call.’
‘The reverse,’ he said.
Edward Gott sat with his head in his hands for almost a minute. But his screen was still flashing numbers at him. He drank a glass of water and called Rod Field, the newspaper editor, who, he guessed, would probably be in his office.
Gott asked, ‘What do you know about a French initiative to apply sanctions against the UK?’
‘What do you know?’ was the predictable reply.
‘Nods and winks,’ said Gott, cagily.
This reply was plainly not good enough for Field. He said, in a busy man’s voice. ‘There was a meeting of the French and German Finance Ministers today.
‘Embargoes were said to have been discussed. No confirmation. Do you want to have a word with our chief political correspondent, George Lamb?’
And so Gott rang Lamb, a tired-looking man in his thirties, standing in the hall, apparently arguing with the nanny, Katrin, who was apparently arguing with a child. ‘Not at all, Lord Gott. We’re all still up, as you can hear.’ A woman called out something in a foreign accent. A child in tears yelled back.
‘I can’t give you a clear answer, Lord Gott. There’ve been whispers of sanctions for about ten days, now. But I don’t think anyone would commit to saying it’s serious. On the face of it, there are no obvious advantages to the EU d
oing whatever they’re planning to do. They lose trade and money, make their own electorates angry and gain nothing. But what I’ve heard said seriously, by the political correspondent of Le Matin and someone on the Berliner Zeitung, is that, taking the long view, they see Britain coming under the effective control of the US politically. You’ve seen the books, Lord Gott, so you’ll know the strength of the rumour that the Prime Minister won the election with American dollars. I won’t even ask—’ He broke off as the screams of the child grew louder. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Katrin! Give her the dummy.’ The woman shouted back. ‘Never mind!’ cried Lamb. ‘I’ll explain it to Mrs Lamb. That I have ordered you to give Tabitha the dummy.’
There was silence now and Lamb breathed out heavily as he said, ‘The joys of family life. I’m sorry, Lord Gott.’
‘I have six sons,’ Gott said. ‘Now – I don’t want to take up too much of your time but – you were telling me what the arguments seemed to be for sanctions.’
‘Yes – well, it’s journalists’ talk only but, crudely put, some of the EU ministers see Britain as having a pro-US, bought government in place. What they foresee is economics following politics, the US using Britain as a base just off Continental Europe, flooding them with cheap American goods, Britain making use of its European membership to get advantages for American trade. With a British – American free trade area thrown in, if the rumours are correct.’ Another man who’d heard about this, Gott thought. Where had he been, behind a pillar, when the gossip was circulating? He must be losing his touch. But Lamb was continuing to speak.
‘They see the Bank of England and the Federal Reserve getting together, hooking up the dollar and the pound and turning the joint currency into a rival to the Euro. That way there’d be three main currencies in competition, the yuan, the euro and the dollar/pound. Could be a fantasy, a Euro-nightmare. I can’t judge; I’m not a banker or an economist. I only know there are important people in Europe who are spooked. Tell me, Lord Gott, in view of all this, what would you do with your money?’
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