‘Frankly,’ he confessed, ‘if we had known a few months ago what we know today, we would have made this one last effort, as Mr Jacobsen called it, a good deal sooner. And I would say to the British delegation through you, Mr Chairman, that we should have realized right from the start that the way to deal with this problem of excessive migration was not through some special arrangements with the United Kingdom, but on the contrary through a strong and durable European solution. I would like to say now how grateful the Commission is to all the Member States, and of course to the Council secretariat, for the efforts made to move this matter forward to a successful conclusion.’
Michael O’Rourke looked up from his notes to address the chairman at the far end of the table. ‘Would it help, Mr Chairman, if I read out the text of our proposal slowly? I am not sure the document under discussion is yet available in all the official languages, so it may be helpful also to be able to listen to the interpreters.’
‘Go ahead, Mr President,’ Arne Jacobsen instructed.
Michael O’ Rourke was a large man with a booming voice. Like so many of his countrymen, he had a way with words.
He could even make the dull, procedural prose which he had in front of him that morning sound more than halfway interesting.
‘This is the text the Commission is proposing,’ he began:
‘The Council hereby agrees that:
Where any country has experienced an inflow of workers or other migrants of exceptional magnitude over an extended period of time; and where:
the size of the inflow affects essential aspects of its social security system; or
leads to serious difficulties in its employment market; or
is putting ‘excessive pressure’ on public services or the environment,
that country may unilaterally derogate from the provisions of Chapter Four, Title I, of the Treaty on the Functioning of the Common Market, by imposing restrictions on the inflow of workers and other migrants, with a view to mitigating or eliminating the economic, social and environmental problems thereby caused . . .’
Michael O’Rourke paused, looked up from his papers and gazed about the room.
‘That’s it, Mr Chairman,’ he said.
Jeremy Hartley had, of course, heard the text the previous day. He’d had a chance to study it in detail. He admired its simplicity and the economy of words, so unlike most EU documents. He could live with it. More than that, he was ready to welcome it with open arms.
Best say so straightaway, he thought. That was always the best tactic. Set the tone of the debate. Make his view clear.
‘I am very grateful to you, Mr President, as Chair of the Council,’ he said to Arne Jacobsen: ‘And of course to the Commission,’ here he gestured to Michael O’Rourke, ‘for all the hard work the community institutions and the Member States have put in, so that we can today find a solution to what up till now has been an intractable problem.
‘What is interesting to me,’ he continued, ‘is that what seemed in the first instance to be a purely British problem turns out in the end to be a European problem and therefore one that is capable of a European solution.
‘I can confirm today that the United Kingdom government welcomes the text that the Commission has put forward, and sincerely hopes that it may be adopted unanimously by the Council this morning.’
The applause which followed Hartley’s brief intervention was more than polite. It was heartfelt.
It really was a different ball game now, they all thought, compared to what it had been just a few months ago. Even countries like Poland and Romania, whose workers travelled in tens of thousands each year in search of jobs in the more affluent parts of the European Union, could see the value of agreed language, which in the end permitted them to take their own decisions about what was right for their country. And if this text really did help to stop the imminent disintegration of the EU, it was surely worth swallowing any objections they might have.
One by one, the heads of State and government took the floor to express their views. Some of them made long speeches; some of them made short speeches, but none of them, not one, took exception to the text the Commission had circulated.
The prime minister of Hungary, Lazlo Ferenczy, was positively ecstatic, which was not surprising given that his country was busy erecting huge fences, topped with razor-sharp wire, along the length of its Eastern border.
‘It is high time we took this step,’ he urged. ‘My country supports the Commission’s proposal whole-heartedly.’
The president of France, Jacques Petit, was more nuanced. ‘France will not object to the text,’ he said. ‘The circumstances are indeed very special. But we would suggest the addition of one line at the end, namely that Member States which decide to introduce unilateral measures to control migration should nevertheless report such measures to the Commission.’
Arne Jacobsen decided to give the French president all the help he could. It was in any case, as far as he could see, a fairly harmless proposal. No one was suggesting that the Commission should actually forbid or try to subvert these unilateral measures.
‘If I hear no objection, I propose we accept the amendment as proposed by the president of France.’ He banged his gavel on the table before anyone had a chance to ask for the floor. ‘So agreed.’
The last speaker had just finished when there was a sudden commotion at the far end of the room.
‘Ah! I see the German chancellor has arrived,’ Arne Jacobsen said. ‘Shall we break for five minutes to give Mrs Brun the chance to catch up?’
The five-minute break stretched to ten; ten minutes stretched to fifteen. What on earth was happening, Hartley wondered? He was worried. It looked as though there had been a cock-up somewhere along the line.
‘I thought the Commission had squared this text in advance with the Germans,’ he commented acidly to Sir Luke Threadgold.
‘I did too,’ Threadgold replied. ‘The German ambassador definitely gave it his okay.’
‘Well, his okay doesn’t count unless Brun’s on board too,’ Hartley snapped. He could see that members of the German delegation were clustered round the chancellor in a corner of the room. The German ambassador, Herr Otto von Wiensdorf, a huge white-haired man who was the doyen d’âge among delegates, seemed to be almost shouting at her.
‘This is the only solution, Chancellor,’ he urged. ‘We must agree to it, not block it. And it is in Germany’s interest also. We too need this emergency brake. We cannot tolerate the present situation. Europe itself is at risk!’
When Arne Jacobsen called the resumed meeting to order, he gave the German chancellor the floor straightway,
‘I would like to apologize, chairman, for arriving late at the meeting this morning,’ Helga Brun began. ‘I have to admit that I only saw the interesting text circulated by the Commission as I was leaving Berlin to come to Brussels. I had to take the time necessary to consult colleagues and officials.’
She paused and took a sip of water from the glass in front of her.
‘I am sorry to say, Chairman, that my government finds the Commission’s proposal totally unacceptable. This great European Union of ours is founded on four basic freedoms: the freedom of movement of goods, people, services and capital over borders. My government is not prepared to see those freedoms weakened or diminished in any way.
‘So I much regret that I cannot give any comfort today to our British colleagues by agreeing that there is a European solution to their problem. We have no need of a European solution, because there is no European problem. Or certainly no problem that basic humanity and common sense cannot resolve. We should be proud of the opportunities the current crisis offers to us to show our compassion. We should not fight against this. So in the name of my country, I say “no”. Germany votes against this text.’
Hartley gathered his papers together, and headed for the door. If he was lucky, he thought, he might be able to make a quick dash to the airport before the press hammered him.
The driver had the door open, as Nancy Ginsberg caught up, BBC camera crew in tow.
Nancy was live on air and she made the most of it. ‘How did that go, Prime Minister?’ she called. ‘Kicked in the teeth by Brussels again?’
Hartley stared grimly ahead. There were times when it was best to keep your mouth shut. This was one of them.
Harriet Marshall let out a great whoop of joy as she watched the news from Brussels. The morning had played out even better than she had hoped. The danger that the EU would make a ‘too good to refuse’ offer had been conclusively avoided. Just as important, Britain had been totally humiliated that morning in Brussels by Chancellor Brun’s icy remarks as she trashed the olive branch that had been proffered. That would be worth a point or two in the polls.
We’re on our way, thought Harriet. Boy, are we on our way! That evening the bookies, for the first time ever, had the Leave campaign nudging into the lead.
Thomas Hartkopf was also watching the news that lunchtime. He mopped his brow. Wow, it had been a close-run thing! Too many links in the chain. London must have sent a message to Moscow, who had passed it on the Berlin, but he himself had only received that message that very morning, when the chancellor had already left Berlin for Brussels. He couldn’t speak to her directly, so he had to go through Ursula Hauptman, the chancellor’s long-time trusted assistant.
‘Please tell the chancellor,’ he had told her, ‘that she should not, absolutely not, approve the Commission’s proposal for a Europe-wide emergency brake on migration. That is the formal position of the German Ministry of the Interior and we are constitutionally responsible for such matters.’
‘The chancellor will be very pleased to hear that,’ Ursula said. ‘That accords with her deeply held beliefs. I’ll patch the message though to her at once. She should be reaching Brussels about now.’
Later that day, Dr Otto Friedrich summoned Thomas Hartkopf in a terrific rage. ‘I’ve just been told that the Ministry of the Interior blocked the Commission’s proposal. Who gave those instructions? I certainly didn’t. We should have agreed to the Commission’s proposal. It is precisely what Europe needs at this time.’
Hartkopf fessed up. ‘I did. You were not available and I was the acting officer in charge. It was my responsibility to take a view. I spoke to Ursula Hauptman. She was very supportive.’
Friedrich calmed down a little. Ursula Hauptman had been so long at the chancellor’s side that she was sometimes called the ‘alternative president’.
Hartkopf added a further point. ‘Besides, I am sure you will agree that by her actions this morning, the chancellor is digging her own political grave a little bit deeper every day.’
It didn’t take long for Dr Otto Friedrich to see what Thomas Hartkopf was driving at.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It had been a long day. Fyodor Stephanov reckoned that he had written twelve blogs that evening, which was two more than his quota. It was hard work. You had to use your brain, as well as your imagination.
Natasha, his girlfriend, was visiting friends in Moscow and wouldn’t be back until the weekend. Stephanov was looking forward to having a quiet beer and watching a spot of television before he turned in.
His three-hour stint finished at midnight. It was less than a half a mile from Savushkina Street to his apartment on the eighth floor of a Soviet-style apartment block. Usually it took him about ten or fifteen minutes to cover the distance, allowing time for a cigarette along the way.
Two men, who obviously knew his schedule, were waiting for him in the lobby of the building. He recognized them at once. They were both Chinese. He had dealt with them on several occasions, back in the days when he was hawking Kompromat on the black market. They’d even had a Chinese meal together one night. Ling was older than Kong but both were tough-looking customers.
‘What are you doing here?’ he tossed the stub of his cigarette into a bin.
‘We’ve come to talk to you.’
‘What about?’
‘Let’s go up to your apartment,’ Ling said.
They sat round the kitchen table in his flat. Stephanov had some cans of Baltica in the fridge and he passed them round.
‘So what’s the problem?’ he asked.
‘The problem is that material you sold us,’ Ling told him. ‘You said they filmed that English guy with the two ladies. We’ve had word back that the man on the bed with the girls wasn’t the English guy at all. It was someone else. They want to know who it was. They want the footage, the original footage.’
Stephanov swore under his breath. That bloody film! He wished he had never got involved in the first place.
Well, he couldn’t give them the film. Lyudmila Markova and her team had bagged everything up and taken it away with them.
‘I can’t give you the footage. I don’t have it. FSB Moscow took it. You’ll have to ask them!’
His visitors didn’t appreciate the joke. As part of the Chinese Ministry of State Security’s extensive net of agents in Russia, they were under great pressure to deliver the goods. When Beijing said ‘jump’, you jumped.
Ling took a long pull at his beer. Normally they would have resorted to violence, but with Stephanov it was different. He might have been selling Kompromat material on the black market, but he was still FSB.
‘What can you give us?’ Ling said. ‘Our clients are anxious.’
Stephanov stood up. ‘I’ll be right back.’
This was the moment, in cinematic terms, when he would have popped out of the room for a moment only to come back with a loaded pistol to turn the table on the intruders.
But Stephanov didn’t have his weapon that evening. He had gone straight from the FSB office to Savushkina Street without it. When you’re sitting in front of the computer, you didn’t need a suspicious bulge in your back pocket.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Kong said. He stood close to Stephanov in the bedroom, while Stephanov rummaged through a chest of drawers.
‘Got it!’ Stephanov exclaimed as he found what he was looking for.
Back in the kitchen, he spread the US-flag boxer shorts on the table. ‘You can have them. For free. Just don’t come back.’
Ling fingered the soft, silky material. ‘This is good. Very good. These are boxer shorts the man was wearing? You sure of that?’
‘I’d stake my life on it,’ Stephanov replied. He examined the inscription on the waistband. ‘See what it says: “Bloomingdales’ finest”!’
‘How much you think these US-Flag boxer shorts are worth?’ Ling asked.
‘A lot of money in the right hands,’ Stephanov replied. ‘There could be DNA, for example.’
When Ling and Kong had gone, Stephanov poured himself another beer. At least they hadn’t beaten him up, he thought. Maybe he ought to retire.
With three weeks to go before the Referendum, Edward Barnard took time off for lunch at the Athenaeum Club. He’d been a member for years. He didn’t go to the club often, but when he did he usually enjoyed himself. Most of the people who belonged to the Athenaeum were tremendously brainy. The club kept a special book recording the names of club members who had won the Nobel Prize in physics, chemistry, economics or whatever. Barnard was very ready to recognize that he wasn’t in that league. He didn’t regard himself as an intellectual – he’d read geography at Oxford – but he was capable of contributing to a discussion in the bar or around the Members Table if he felt he had something to say.
One of the nice things about the Athenaeum was that it had reciprocal arrangements with similar clubs around the world. If you were visiting Sydney, for example, you could dine at the prestigious Union Club, and vice versa.
Barnard found himself sitting at the long Members table next to a tall, greying Australian. ‘My name’s Irwin Jones. I’m Professor of Toxicology from Sydney University,’ the man introduced himself.
‘And I’m an MP campaigning to take Britain out of the EU,’ Barnard replied. ‘Does toxicology inc
lude the study of spider bites?’
‘It certainly does.’
Barnard spent the next few minutes telling the Australian Professor about his recent narrow escape in the Kimberley.
‘I had a terrace room at Lazy-T. I guess the spider came in through the open window. They rushed me to Kununurra District Hospital. Took the dead spider too. Luckily there was a top toxicologist there that night. He took one look at the thing and said it was a Sydney Funnel Web Spider. Atrax Robustus. He even gave it the Latin name.’
Professor Jones looked surprised. ‘Can you remember the name of the toxicologist? I might give him a call.’
‘Professor Cohen, as I recall. I’m going to send him a note. He probably saved my life.’
‘Cohen? I know Cohen. Toxicology’s a small world. He used to work at Sydney Hospital before moving west. Will you forgive me a moment? I need to use the phone.’
‘There’s a booth downstairs where you can make a call,’ Barnard told him. ‘The club doesn’t allow mobiles in the public rooms.’
Minutes later, the Professor returned. ‘I talked to Cohen. Woke him up actually. He remembered you well. Said he gave you the Red Back Spider anti-venom but basically he didn’t expect it to work. The venom of the Sydney Funnel Web Spider is based on the protein toxin robustoxin. The venom of the Red Back Spider is based on latrotoxins. Apples and oranges. Said you were lucky to survive. People do survive a bite from the Funnel Web Spider without anti-venom treatment, but not many, I must say.’
The Professor paused. The kedgeree on his plate needed his attention. Then he added quietly, ‘You ought to call the police, you know.’
Barnard was puzzled. ‘Why would I call the police? I was bitten by a spider. I recovered. End of story.’
‘I fear not.’ The Professor pushed his plate aside. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’
They took their coffee out on to the terrace, overlooking the garden. London, that June morning, could not have looked lovelier.
‘Look, it’s quite simple,’ Jones explained. ‘There are no, repeat no, Sydney Funnel Web Spiders in Western Australia. That’s why the hospital in Kununurra didn’t have the specific anti-venom for that sort of spider. They are simply never found up in that part of the country. As a matter of fact, the only place in the world that they are found is in Sydney and the neighbouring area. That’s why they’re called what they are. And that’s why Cohen was so confident about his identification. He comes from Sydney himself. Knows the critters well.
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