by Vince Cable
He was also very wealthy, a self-made millionaire many times over. Precisely how he had made his millions was the subject of numerous pieces at the back of Private Eye: the consumer credit company that fleeced hapless purchasers who hadn’t read the small print carefully enough; the insurance claim after a conveniently timed warehouse fire; the lucrative land deal involving MOD property that could, plausibly, have only been achieved with the help of an inside source. But the mud didn’t stick. He was now a TV guru on business; widely admired for his support for children’s charities; while his generous donations to the Conservative Party and individual MPs had bought him political influence and, now, power.
Although several inches shorter than his new ministerial colleague, his big, shaven, bull-like head and powerful physique established a dominant presence in the room, but he was charming and solicitous, anxious to make her feel at home. His piercing blue eyes sought hers and held her gaze: a man thoroughly confident with women, as suggested by his reputation. ‘Well, Kate, settling in all right?’ he chortled. ‘How are your Overheads?’ When she looked blank, failing to get his joke, he explained that ‘Overheads’ was his word for civil servants. ‘You and I are wealth creators. We are the profit line in UK plc’s P&L. They, the public sector, consume the wealth: the debit side. We mustn’t let them forget it.’ The civil servant in the room, his principal private secretary, looked into the middle distance pretending not to hear, having been on the receiving end of this ‘joke’ many times before.
For Kate, this unorthodox introduction gave her an opportunity to broach the first awkwardness she had encountered in the department. ‘Actually, I do have a problem on that front. Can we have a private word?’ Jim indicated to his principal private secretary that she should leave. ‘I would be grateful for your help in reshuffling my private office, Secretary of State.’
‘I prefer you to call me Jim.’
‘Jim, if I am to do this job I need to work with people whom I trust and have confidence in…’ She explained her problem without mentioning Edwin’s appearance and irritating manner: a private secretary who seemed to be devoted to her predecessor, an obscure man of mind-numbing mediocrity but who did exactly as he was told. The private secretary’s style, she explained, was to advise his minister that everything he – now she – wished to do was fraught with legal, financial, reputational, organisational or presentational risk. If the case for action was overwhelming, he would invoke the Doctrine of Unripe Time to argue that the Minister should delay making a decision: ‘The longer you delay, Minister, the more facts you will have on which to base your decision. Now is too soon.’
‘I cannot work with this man,’ she explained. ‘His deputy isn’t any better. He spends his time gazing at my chest and then rushes to open the door for me or help me to sit down. Where do they get these people from?’
‘Kate. Absolutely right. That’s what I like to hear. No nonsense. I will speak to the chief Overhead and ask him to line up some genuine talent for you. But I also want to talk to you about something else: this India thing. The PM wants you to go out there. Big deal for your first job. He thinks you will charm them. I have asked the team to come up to brief you, if you are ready.’
The civil servants trooped in: Parsons, the permanent secretary; Caroline, the principal private secretary, parked on a sofa behind the meeting table; a fierce-looking, grey-haired lady from the MOD whose label read ‘Ms Kidlington’; a tall distinguished man with a military bearing who was introduced as ‘the Admiral: he advises me and the Defence Secretary’; and a man in his forties who announced himself as ‘Liam – security’.
‘Right, ladies and gentlemen. Our new Minister, Kate Thompson, has been asked by the PM to go to India to advance the discussions on the arms contract. She doesn’t need to know too much detail. The High Commissioner will fill her in and hold her hand when she gets there. But she needs to know roughly what this is about – why it matters – and what her role is. In general, she has to look beautiful – not difficult I’d say! – and speak as little as possible. But it is a bit more than that. Ms Kidlington?’
Ms Kidlington started to read from her notes, which, Kate observed, were worryingly long. ‘Minister, years of patient negotiation have got us almost to the point of agreement. But the Indians are difficult negotiators and their coalition politics is complex. Buying arms from Britain, and the USA, goes against the grain with a lot of nationalist MPs and with the lefties in their parliament. But Delhi is committed to it because there is a crucial piece of equipment and associated software only we can offer them.
‘Put simply, the Indians are frightened – and understandably so – about the possibility of a Pakistan nuclear attack. They have a deterrent that could blow Pakistan to smithereens several times over. But that isn’t protection against a first strike, launched by a rogue element, such as religious fundamentalists. The Indians have a “no first use” strategy as we had with the Soviets. But the Pakistanis have been unwilling to reciprocate.
‘We – and they – think the risk is low but it is sufficient to build a defensive shield as best they can. Now we hear the Chinese are “giving” Pakistan an upgrade to their missile. Remember President Reagan and Star Wars? That was over thirty years ago. Technology has moved on. A shield, or a partial shield, is now possible, though the use of decoys means that missile defence is at best partial. Nonetheless, the US has a system mainly to counter rogue states like North Korea. So have the Israelis, and others are being developed. It turns out that one of the key pieces of kit is a machine that destroys the navigation systems of missiles, and aircraft, in flight. Correctly deployed it could stop, or at least minimise, a nuclear attack. Are you with me?’
Ms Kidlington paused and looked around to ensure that her lecture was still being followed. She sought to engage with Kate’s eyes in order better to communicate her passion. Experience had taught her that ministers were, in general, rather ignorant about these high-level security issues and not very interested.
‘Now, the bad news – the British company that has developed this technology is run by a maverick Scottish socialist, from an industrial estate north of London. His company is called Pulsar. He is a loose cannon but a genius. Frankly, MOD would prefer a more orthodox supplier but he always delivers on time and on budget, and he is British. The Indians would much prefer to deal with a recognised name, a BAE Systems or a Rolls-Royce. The American Defense Department and MOD will vouch for Mackie, but the Indians want more reassurances. We understand that, since this is a sensitive subject. They don’t want the wrong kind of publicity.
‘The clinching argument for Pulsar is that as a result of an old Indian connection, they have a part-owned Indian partner called Parrikar Avionics, which will make sure the technology is transferred to India and stays there. The Indians won’t take our stuff off the shelf. We have done some due diligence. Family company. Old man Parrikar, the founder, is a bit of a scoundrel, but the son, Deepak, who runs the avionics company, is squeaky clean – which we need under our anti-bribery legislation.’
‘Bloody Coalition government. Bloody Liberals,’ broke in the Secretary of State. ‘They brought in this anti-corruption crusade, crippling our businesses. Politically correct nonsense. My friends tell me they can’t even buy their overseas customers a drink or they’ll be sent to Wormwood Scrubs for twenty-five years.’
‘Secretary of State,’ interrupted the permanent secretary, who was used to his political master getting the bit between his teeth and galloping over the horizon, ‘I am sure the Minister would like to know a little more about her role.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Chambers took over the briefing, deciding that Ms Kidlington had already had a long enough innings. ‘Kate, the Indians need to be convinced that we are fully committed – politically – to this technology transfer stuff and have got a firm grip on the British supplier. If the PM or myself were spending time hobnobbing with modest-sized companies, questions might be asked about what they do. We don�
��t want that: don’t want to stir up the Pakistanis or the arms trade protesters for that matter. A middle ranking minister will do fine. Our chaps will give you a bit of a boost in the Indian media – rising star; the next Mrs T; all that – and push to get you in to see the Indian PM. I have asked the Admiral, here, to join your party. He knows the background and is well connected in India.
‘And you will like Parrikar Junior. Very handsome – one magazine called him the Indian George Clooney – not that I look at other men, unlike some I could mention. Ha.’ The permanent secretary desperately tried to hide his laughter in a grotesque rictus, knowing that it would not do to appreciate a joke at the expense of the Prime Minister but equally understanding that it was career-enhancing to be amused by the Secretary of State’s sense of humour.
‘So Kate, smile sweetly and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. And impress them with your knowledge of India. As well as your business connections, I understand you travelled around the country many years ago.’
Kate’s heart sank. This was definitely not on her CV. She had erased it from her memory. That appalling Australian, whom she had fallen for. His story about spiritual enlightenment that seemed so plausible at the time. The ashram… Oh my God! They know it all!
The hitherto silent Liam interjected: ‘We have you down as travelling there for four months during your gap year.’
‘Actually, I spent most of my time in India on the hotel loo with amoebic dysentery. Didn’t see or do much. Best ignored.’ Everyone smiled understandingly.
She left the meeting rather dazed. She had never before been entrusted with confidences beyond her girlfriends’ love affairs or her husband’s rather obscure business deals. Now there were Star Wars, spooks and an Indian George Clooney. And people who seemed to know everything about her, even things she had managed to forget. Try as hard as she could to be calm and sensible she looked forward to this mission with a mixture of excitement and grave apprehension.
CHAPTER 5
BHARAT BOMBAY
BBC World Service, 30 June 2019:
The Pakistani Prime Minister, Imran Khan, has reshuffled his cabinet, introducing three ministers closely aligned to religious parties. They include a junior defence minister who is reputed to have been a volunteer with Al Qaeda-linked anti-Assad forces in Syria and to have been involved in training Kashmiri rebels. The Indian press has reacted furiously to a ‘terrorist sympathiser’ having a key position in the Pakistan government.
Inspector Mankad sat in a corner of his favourite café munching Mumbai street food and drinking mango lassi. He liked to spend time here clearing his mind. The police station was not conducive to quiet reflection: a hive of activity, most of it not very productive.
The case of Mr Vijay Patel troubled him. He had found lots of leads and he knew he would have no difficulty finding the people who had committed the grisly murder. But he knew that there was a lot more behind the men who pulled the trigger and disfigured the corpse. They were almost certainly hired hands, minor criminals who would carry out a ‘job’ for a few thousand rupees. The issue was who was paying them and why.
One of his first interviews had been with the ‘slumlord’, the unofficial head of the community where the body was found. Within twenty-four hours of the body’s discovery, Mankad’s slumlord had been able to provide details of how a vehicle had arrived at the Shiv Sena hut in the early hours of the morning and a group of men had emerged, one with a sack over his head. There had been muffled cries from the hut, shots were heard and shortly afterwards a heavy object, presumably the body, had been dragged outside and thrown into the stream then flowing strongly after a monsoon storm.
Mankad sent a detective, disguised as a scavenger, to nose around the site when the hut was empty and he observed footmarks and blood stains that were consistent with the account. Mankad also pulled rank to enable one of his officers to go through the records of the traffic department where the SUV could be traced back to a brother of the Corporator who was, in turn, a known associate of a powerful member of the Maharashtra Legislative Assembly. This was exactly the kind of connection that set the alarm bells ringing in Mankad’s head. Especially as the killers had made few serious efforts to dispose of the body or cover their tracks: either they wanted to be traced or calculated that the police would not pursue the case.
Separate enquiries established that Vijay Patel was a law abiding project manager who had acquired a reputation for refusing to pay protection money and was widely regarded as an innocent abroad in the construction industry: unlikely to survive long. More confusingly, Patel worked for Parrikar Senior, a well-known property developer whose reputation as a survivor did not encompass innocence.
What Mankad really wanted was a good look at the Parrikar connection. Something odd there. Old man Parrikar had a reputation for being very shrewd and for keeping out of the limelight. There was a juicy scandal somewhere.
In a darkened corner of the lounge of a five star hotel in Mumbai a thin, ascetic, prematurely grey and distinguished-looking Indian was trying to direct a rambling conversation with one of his country’s political class. The object of his attention was a very large, fleshy, supremely self-confident man sinking contentedly into the soft furnishings, his discursive wanderings fuelled by the bottle of whisky in front of him.
Desai preferred water. He despised such people utterly: the crude corruption advertised by the gold necklace and Swiss watch; the political promiscuity (the man had arrived at his present destination via four other parties); the bovine slow-wittedness overlaying animal cunning; the vulgarity and absence of elementary manners. But Desai had learnt to hide his contempt for such people; they could be useful. And this man was a powerful political figure in the city and the state. He was well connected to the criminal underworld that controlled much of the money on which political parties depended and had invaluable intelligence networks.
Desai had flown down from Delhi to meet this man encouraged by his associates in the intelligence and security community. They had picked up reports of heightened Pakistani activity leading, perhaps, to another major terror raid. In all probability they would try to use the gang networks, especially those with loose, ancestral ties to Pakistan. Money trumped religion in this murky world, but ‘conviction criminals’ were particularly dangerous and not all were under lock and key. And Desai had his own private interests to pursue.
When the politician was three quarters of his way through the bottle, Desai judged that this was the time to raise sensitive issues. ‘One group that worries the government in Delhi is the criminal group around the so-called Sheikh. His brother was involved in the 2008 terrorist raid on Mumbai. We need your help in dealing with him.’
‘And why should I do this? I am now a senior, respected member of the state administration. I don’t get involved with such people.’
Desai rolled his eyes, suppressing his irritation that the man felt it necessary to pretend. ‘Our Prime Minister has specifically asked for your cooperation and I know we can rely on you. I am not a politician; merely an adviser. But I know that the ruling party will look after you and your associates in the Assembly.’
‘This Sheikh: not a problem.’
‘Not a problem?’
‘He cooperates with my friends these days.’
‘I need more than that.’
‘You don’t need to know more. He is under control. Leave the details to me.’
‘I understand that he is close to old man Parrikar, no?’
‘No more. The old man is finished.’
‘What about the son? We worry about him.’
‘He is clean. Not involved in goonda business.’
‘We think he is unreliable. National security concerns.’
‘What’re you saying? Do you want the help of my friends? My friends are expensive.’
‘We can pay… I think we understand one another.’
The politician celebrated his understanding with a loud belch, which echoed ab
ove the gentle cadences of the hotel’s Muzak, and then drained the whisky bottle before demanding another.
Desai congratulated himself on a job done. He reflected on the juggling of patriotism, politics and personal enrichment in which he also indulged, though in a more cerebral and sophisticated way than this nasty piece of Mumbai low life.
CHAPTER 6
THE VISIT
The Statesman, 1 July 2019:
The Indian Defence Minister made a speech yesterday telling the Pakistani government ‘not to mess with India’. Mr Subramanian Iyer is a recent appointment, the former Chief Minister of Rajasthan and known to have been active in the nationalist R.S.S., like other prominent members of the government: a ‘hard liner’ on communal matters and on relations with Pakistan. Mr Iyer referred to a recent escalation of incidents on the Line of Control and blamed this on a ‘more aggressive anti-Indian stance by the Pakistani High Command’. He expressed particular concern over the delivery to Pakistan of M-11 missiles from China as ‘an aggressive move’. He said: ‘India is ready. There will be no weakness.’
Kate and her entourage touched down in Mumbai in the early afternoon. She hadn’t slept much but had dutifully immersed herself in the encyclopaedic briefs prepared by the department and the High Commission, tried to memorise the bewildering collection of names of ministers and other VIPs she would meet, rehearsed a few words of Hindi and taken to heart the long list of ‘elephant traps’ and ‘subjects to avoid’. She had even boned up on the current test series – India versus Australia – as part of her planned small talk, suppressing her memories of the mind-numbing tedium of days spent at the Oval when her husband wanted her to help chat up clients in the hospitality suite. She felt greatly reassured now that she had, in Susan, her new private secretary, a bright and warm-hearted young woman who had understood, on first acquaintance, that her job was to bring solutions rather than problems. Any tricky questions could be left to the High Commissioner. There was also the Red Admiral, whose role she couldn’t quite work out and whose status as a ‘consultant’ somehow enabled him to travel first class while she, her civil servants and business delegation were more modestly seated.