Kompromat

by Stanley Johnson

  ‘So if there are no Sydney Funnel Web Spiders up in the Kimberley,’ Professor Jones continued, ‘how is that you got bitten by one? Have you got any enemies, Mr Barnard? Someone was trying to kill you up there, that’s for sure. If they have tried once and failed, they might try again.’

  ‘Good God!’ Barnard exclaimed. ‘I see what you’re getting at.’

  Just at that moment a cloud passed across the sun. Barnard shivered.

  Sir Oliver Holmes, Metropolitan Police Commissioner, made space in his diary that very afternoon.

  Barnard walked across St James’s Park to New Scotland Yard. Deputy Commissioner, Cornelia Gosford, a handsome woman of medium height with short, salt-and-pepper hair, was with Sir Oliver when he arrived.

  ‘I’ve asked my deputy to join us. Cornelia looks after our links with the Three Fs. That’s Friendly Foreign Forces, Australia included.’

  Barnard, in his long career as a politician, had met Cornelia Gosford on several occasions. She was bright as a button. Had a doctorate from Cambridge. Probably belonged to the Athenaeum too. The word on the street was that she was in line to succeed Sir Oliver when he stepped down a few months from now. If she did, she would be the first woman to head the Met. Not that she wouldn’t have made it in her own right anyway.

  ‘Delighted to see you again, Deputy Commissioner,’ he said.

  Barnard told his Kimberley story once more. Sir Oliver didn’t interrupt, but once or twice he made notes on a scratch pad.

  When Barnard had finished, Sir Oliver looked at his Deputy. ‘Do you want to come in at this point, Deputy Commissioner?’

  Cornelia Gosford just had a query. ‘You said the couple who ran the house at Lazy-T, as opposed to the station hands, were called Ching and Fung. Do you know their full names? Of course, we can find out, but it would be easier if we had the family name. It sounds to me as though there’s an MSS cell up there in the Kimberley. A murderous one too if your story is anything to go on. Didn’t you say Selkirk had to top-up the fuel that night when they were trying to rush you to hospital? Somehow, apparently, Ching had forgotten to fill up the heli. I’ll get on to our friends in the Australian Federal Police – the AFP – at once. They’ll probably need a search warrant for Lazy-T. Is Mickey Selkirk still there?’

  ‘I think he’s back in the States,’ Barnard said.

  ‘That’s a pity,’ Sir Oliver cut in. ‘I’m sure the AFP would have wanted Mickey Selkirk to be there when they raid his property. Lots of mileage there in PR terms!’

  They all laughed. When Cornelia Gosford had left the room to set things in motion, Sir Oliver Holmes said to Barnard, ‘We ought to give you a bodyguard, at least until the Referendum’s over. We’ve been assessing the threat to public figures for some time. We think you qualify for protection.’

  ‘Good God!’ Barnard protested. ‘I’m just a figurehead in this campaign. The Leave side needed a chairman and my name popped out of the hat. The only reason I’m chairman is that I stuck my head above the parapet before the others did.’

  ‘Don’t underestimate your influence, Edward,’ Sir Oliver said. ‘Leave is within spitting distance of winning this fight. That wouldn’t have happened without you. As we see it, the Chinese Secret Service first tried to blackmail you, then to kill you. Three strikes and you’re out. Whether you like it or not, we’re going to keep an eye on you.’

  As Sir Oliver Holmes showed his guest to the door, he murmured, ‘By the way, we’ve finished our work on that file you brought back from Russia. Our report’s with the home secretary. She seems to be sitting on it at the moment. I must say I don’t blame her.’

  He held the door open. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you this, but we think most, if not all, of those documents are genuine. Let the chips fall where they may,’ he concluded cryptically.

  ‘Do you mean . . .?’ Barnard began.

  ‘I don’t mean anything at this moment,’ Sir Oliver said. ‘We were asked to report on the authenticity or otherwise of the documents we examined. That we have done. It is for others to draw the appropriate conclusions. I’m a policeman, not a politician.’

  After leaving New Scotland Yard, Barnard walked back into St James’s Park. Girls in summer dresses walked around the lake. Some were sunbathing in bikinis. He sat on a bench and mentally ticked off the names of the waterfowl: Mallard, Shelduck, Wigeon, Gadwall, Teal, Pintail, Shoveler . . .

  A hundred yards away, Jerry Goodman, one of the ‘watchers’ Sir Oliver had put in place that very afternoon, spoke quietly into his radio. ‘Not much going on. He’s watching the birds in St James’s Park. No, I mean the real birds. The birds on the lake. Not the dolly birds. Plenty of those around today too. Over and Out.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Turkish president, Ahmet Ergun, was in a foul mood. He felt betrayed. There were three million Syrian refugees in his country. Turkey had fed them and watered them. Europe might complain about the ‘flood’ of migrants. That was garbage. Turkey, under his leadership, had made heroic efforts to stem the tide. But he expected a little something in return.

  And what had he got? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Turkey was still out in the cold. They’d been talking for years about Turkey joining the EU and they didn’t mean a word of it. Those guys in Brussels looked on the Turks as though they were some kind of barbarians, conveniently forgetting that the Ottomans had ruled half of Europe for over 500 years. Why did the French eat croissants for God’s sake?

  Sitting in one of the many receptions rooms of his enormous new palace in Ankara, the nation’s capital, the Turkish president called for more coffee.

  ‘Please bring my wife too,’ he said.

  When Nuray came and sat down beside him on the sofa, he said to her, ‘Today, I’m going to do it.’

  Nuray Ergun nodded. ‘It is time.’

  For decades now she had been her husband’s rock and support. She had even chosen to wear the headscarf, sending a message to the nation which had not gone unnoticed.

  ‘It is time,’ she repeated. ‘For too long we have grovelled to Europe. You should rip up the agreement with the EU about the refugees. Europe has not kept its side of the bargain. We applied to join the EU since 1987. They told us there are thirty-five chapters to negotiate and most of them haven’t even been opened. Be serious, Ergun.’

  ‘I am being serious,’ Ergun said. ‘I have given the instruction this morning.’

  What Ergun did not tell his wife was that the precise timing of his decision, as well as important details relating to scope and method, had been thrashed out in detail on the occasion of President Ergun’s recent visit to Moscow. As Turkey sought to distance itself from the EU and to seek allies elsewhere, for example with a new agreement on Turkey-Russia collaboration, there had been one issue where Popov had insisted that urgent action by Turkey would be tremendously helpful.

  ‘Just open the taps, Mr President,’ Popov had urged. ‘And do it now. That’ll make them squeal.’

  That afternoon, President Ahmet Ergun flew down from Ankara to S¸anliurfa airport in southern Turkey. From there he was escorted to Suruç, Turkey’s largest refugee camp. He arrived at around noon and almost at once mounted a makeshift stage to make one of the most important speeches of his career.

  As the sun beat pitilessly down, bouncing off the bleached, almost white, soil, Ahmet Ergun looked out over at the rows of tents and at the crowds of refugees – men, women and children – who now gathered around the podium.

  He began on a serious patriotic note. ‘Today, I want to say how proud I am of the effort Turkey has made to deal with an unprecedented crisis. We have over three million refugees in our country, more than any other nation in the world. Here in Suruç, we have the largest refugee camp in Turkey. Just over the border in Syria, the fighting is still raging. Refugees are still coming. Day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute.

  ‘As I have said, Turkey is proud to play its part. But we cannot bear this immense burden alone. Europe has n
ot risen to the challenge. But now we have heard the German chancellor say “we can do it”. So I say, bravo. At last the world is waking up. Today I am saying to you here in Suruç, and in the many other camps in this country, that you are free to leave. We shall speed you on your way. We shall help you cross over to Lesvos, Kos and Chios. We shall escort you in safe convoys to the Bulgaria border or up the Black Sea Coast to Romania.

  ‘My sincerest wish is that you have happy memories of your stay in Turkey!’

  With that, a hastily assembled band played some martial music. As the president stepped down from the stage, a fleet of buses rolled up to carry the refugees away to a hopefully brighter future, a scene which was replayed at the fifty other refugee camps scattered throughout Turkey.

  In the car heading back to the airport, President Ergun commented to his escort for the day, General Aslan Bolat, ‘Well, that’s a start. Of course, the people in the camps are only the tip of the iceberg. There are at least two million refugees living in the cities as well, without actually being in the camps.’

  General Bolat stared straight ahead. The Turkish Army would, he knew, soon confront a critical decision. Did they continue to back the president with his increasing autocratic tendencies or did they do what the Turkish army had historically done at times of crisis: intervene to restore the legacy of Turkey’s great founding father, Kemal Atatürk?

  ‘Well, what do you think, General?’ Ergun said.

  ‘We must trust in your guidance, Mr President,’ he said.

  President Ergun grunted. ‘And in God’s too.’

  If Suruç camp was some distance from Europe’s borders, other refugee camps were much closer. The camp in Edirne for example, was virtually within spitting distance of the Bulgarian border. Less than an hour after President Ergun had finished his speech in Suruç, the guards at the border post on the Turkish side of the Maritsa River flung the gates open to let a horde of refugees stream across the bridge, overwhelming the guards on the Hungarian side. Refugees who couldn’t gain access to the bridge began to ford the river. Chaos reigned.

  Possibly the most dramatic scenes, as recorded on the world’s television, were filmed on the Aegean coastline, where by some quirk of history Greek islands such as Lesvos, Cos and Chios were to be found almost within a stone’s throw of the Turkish mainland. Not a day passed without lives lost. Rickety boats sank. Even with life jackets, exhausted refugees were drowned. And the promised land, when they reached it, was not the Nirvana they hoped for. Selkirk Global News outlets went out of their way to show pictures of sodden refugees being verbally abused by exhausted locals or pushed back into the boats.

  Harriet Marshall, watching television at home after a long day campaigning, could barely contain her enthusiasm. She shouted to her partner, ‘Christine, come and look at this. You won’t believe it!’

  She turned up the volume as the TV showed a pitched battle between a crowd of migrants and a stern phalanx of policemen, advancing ruthlessly, Perspex shields held in front of them. Rocks were thrown, followed by a sudden burst of gunfire.

  ‘Brilliant!’ Harriet clapped her hands. ‘Totally brilliant. And that was the BBC. Fox News ran a much longer piece. So did Sky. Just what we needed. That should shift the polls.’

  Christine Meadows, an eminent scientist with a sheaf of publications to her name, was beginning to be seriously worried about Harriet. As a researcher, she was used to reaching evidence-based conclusions and one of the conclusions she was coming to was that her partner was, quite frankly, losing it.

  ‘Hold on a moment, darling,’ she protested. ‘I know we or rather you want to win this Referendum but does that mean anything and everything goes?’

  Harriet looked at her in surprise. She gestured at the television. ‘This stuff is like gold dust for us. This refugee crisis couldn’t have come at a better time. First, Chancellor Helga Brun, then President Ahmet Ergun. Both of them coming in right on cue.’

  ‘I think I’ll leave you to it.’ Christine went up to her study. She was still trying to finish her latest book. She switched on the computer, found the file, picked away at the keyboard. But still she couldn’t concentrate. What on earth had got into Harriet? She was working day and night. Kept on popping out to visit the newsagent at the end of the road with some lame excuse about picking up the evening paper.

  Given the pressures of the campaign, with Harriet being awake half the night, they had been sleeping in separate rooms in recent weeks. When she came down to breakfast next morning, Harriet had already left. The car had gone too. She was surprised. Harriet normally took the tube to Westminster, then walked over the bridge to the Leave office in Westminster Tower.

  She noticed a crumpled piece of paper on the kitchen table. Maybe Harriet had left her a note.

  It wasn’t actually a piece of paper. More like one of those cards they stick up in the newsagent. Yes, that was exactly what it was. Another of those notices about a missing three-legged black cat. ‘Three-legged black cat found’ the notice said. ‘Ring 077238954978’.

  On a whim, Christine Meadows rang the number. There was a strange screeching noise at the other end of the line. Then an automated voice said. ‘This number has been disconnected.’

  Odd, Christine thought. Very odd indeed. What on earth was going on?

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  With one week to go before polling day, Barnard took the day off. He spent the morning on farm chores, went for a ride after lunch (his bay mare, Jemima, though getting on in years, was still good for a day’s outing with the local hunt), then worked on his papers at the table in the drawing room.

  The French windows opened out onto the terrace. In the middle distance, beyond the water meadows, the gentle hills of the Wiltshire Downs glowed in the afternoon sunshine.

  What a lucky man he was, Barnard thought. When all this was over, he could spend a bit more time at Coleman Court: dam a chalk stream, make a pond, build a folly. That kind of thing.

  His musings were interrupted by his wife, Melissa, carrying a tray of goodies.

  ‘Scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam,’ Melissa proclaimed. ‘Only seven more days left. Let’s celebrate.’

  ‘Let’s wait at least till tomorrow before we open the champagne,’ Barnard cautioned. ‘I may fall flat on my face tonight.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t, darling.’

  Truth to tell, Edward Barnard, who was usually as unflappable as they come, was just the tiniest bit nervous about the event in which he would be participating that evening. Not since 1933 when the Oxford Union had considered the motion ‘this House will in no circumstances fight for its King and Country’ had an occasion been so widely heralded.

  Back then, the whole country had awaited the outcome with bated breath, and when the Oxford Union decisively approved the motion, waves of anger and disgust had risen across the land. The Daily Express trumpeted: ‘DISLOYALTY AT OXFORD: GESTURE TOWARDS THE REDS’. Cambridge University threatened to pull out of the annual boat race. Winston Churchill made a tub-thumping speech calling the result ‘That abject, squalid, shameless avowal’.

  There was every chance, Barnard thought, that the evening’s debate in the Oxford Union, more than eighty years later, would prove equally if not more controversial. The Referendum was rapidly descending into a free-for-all knockout contest with Marquess of Queensberry rules suspended for the duration.

  Melissa Barnard was just clearing the tea things away when she heard the sound of tyres crunching on gravel. She looked up to see a black four-wheel drive Range Rover with tinted windows enter the courtyard. She put the tray down and went outside.

  Jerry Goodman, thirty-four years old, ex-Royal Marines and now a member of the Met’s Special Security Squad, got out of the vehicle.

  ‘Good evening, Ma’am,’ he greeted Melissa.

  ‘Hello, Jerry,’ she said, Then, as two other plain-clothes officers emerged from the vehicle, she added, ‘Hello, Tom; hello, Anna. Come in and have some tea. We’ll
be ready in a jiffy.’

  She took them into the kitchen and left them there, cradling mugs of tea in their hands, while she went upstairs. Barnard had already put his dinner jacket on.

  ‘The team’s here,’ she said. Strange, wasn’t it, she thought, how quickly they had got used to having ‘security’ around.

  The Barnards had a Range Rover too. They left in convoy.

  ‘You go first,’ Jerry said. ‘You may as well head straight for the Union. They’ve got parking spaces for us there.’

  ‘That’s something,’ Barnard said. ‘Last time I made a speech at the Union in Oxford, I spent half-an-hour looking for a place to park.’

  Barnard studied the order paper while his wife drove. The terms of the motion, he observed, deliberately echoed that famous ‘King and Country’ debate so many years ago. It stated ‘that this House will in no circumstances vote to leave the European Union’.

  The motion was due to be proposed by Lord Middlebank. It was to be seconded by none other than the current chancellor of the exchequer, Tom Milbourne. The first speech for the opposition was to be made by Andromeda Ledbury, one of the rising stars of the Leave campaign, with Barnard himself scheduled to fire the last salvo against the motion before the floor debate and the final vote.

  ‘Do you know what you’re going to say tonight?’ Melissa asked as they turned off the A34 into Oxford. ‘The whole debate’s going to be televised apparently. Have you got some notes at least?’