Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  But this was surely paranoia: conspiracy theory run riot. The theory had a coherent logic, but conspiracy theories often did. Like the internet fantasy stories peddled by dangerous cranks about 9/11 being orchestrated from Tel Aviv. But, then again, Mr Le Fevre was one of those people on the American extreme right who were reported as believing and promoting the story that, although Hitler was a bad man, the Holocaust was really the creation of the grand Mufti of Jerusalem and the Islamists.

  What persuaded Deepak to believe the worst of the people threatening his family firm was the reaction of his father, who had sunk into self-pitying despair after his public humiliation in Bharat Bombay. But when Deepak had hesitantly set out his theory, his father sprung to life, finding it totally believable and exactly the kind of stunt that could have been pulled in the smaller universe of Mumbai slumland. He knew from experience that the frenzied religious massacres that occurred every generation or so owed far more to political manipulation than to any real difference or division. He had seen the religious militant nationalists increasing their power in Mumbai and believed them capable of anything. Fortified by this insight, his father’s street fighting instincts resurfaced. They decided to stand and resist rather than capitulate to the people trying to control their company. And that involved following the advice of the policeman. They needed political friends.

  Kate had returned to her constituency routine. She declined the very junior ministerial role she had been offered, a sop to her pride, but such a minor sop that leaving the government seemed more dignified. She was welcomed with open arms into the club of the dismissed, overlooked, angry, mischievous, disloyal and congenitally rebellious who occupied a corner of the tea room. She enjoyed her first experience of defying the whips.

  Her constituency surgeries swelled in size, she suspected, because her brief notoriety had attracted the curious as well as the needy. Coming to the end of a long and tiring session a man came into her office with a pretty Asian woman, who looked vaguely familiar, to discuss what he had described when making the appointment as a planning problem. When they sat down he said, looking at Stella: ‘We would like to see the MP alone. We have something highly confidential and political to discuss.’

  ‘Planning?’ Kate asked.

  ‘No, when you have heard what we have to say you will understand the need for privacy.’

  ‘This is very irregular. I am not sure I wish to have such a conversation.’

  But Stella, her sense of affront getting the better of her curiosity, was already on her way to the door. When it was closed the man began. ‘Let me come clean. I gave a false name and I am not a constituent. In fact, I am a Labour councillor. My colleague here is chief finance officer of Pulsar, the company you visited recently.’

  ‘I could hardly forget,’ Kate replied. ‘But, look, I really think you should leave. You are completely out of order.’

  ‘Please hear me out. What I have to say has a direct bearing on your departure from the government and, also, on your friend in India – if the newspapers are right about that. I am the union man at Pulsar.’

  ‘So I can thank you for the eggs and tomatoes, can I?’ Kate said, still bristling with annoyance at the invasion of her advice surgery on false pretences.

  At this point Shaida endeavoured to steer the conversation towards the reason for the visit. ‘We briefly met after you were manhandled by that mob. We have come to show you these.’ She took out her bundle of documents and talked Kate through the Global story as quickly and clearly as she could.

  Kate listened with mounting incredulity, and then anger. ‘If all this is true, we have been well and truly done over. But it is history; water under the bridge. I don’t know about you but I am trying to move on.’

  Steve insisted: ‘No, it isn’t history. This American operation is closing in on Pulsar; probably on your Indian friend’s company too for all we know.’

  ‘Well, in that case, why come to me? Why not take it to the press? Your Labour people can publicise it; raise it in parliament.’

  ‘Yes, I could do that. I could take it to the Guardian. They would have a lot of fun with the story: right-wing extremist American destabilising and taking over British high tech company. I could also take it to our front bench people who would no doubt make hay with it and demand that the government use its powers to block takeovers where national security is involved. But, as you know, our politics is tribal. Grandstanding is satisfying but it is less likely to get results than working on the inside.

  ‘We have come together because we are not just concerned for ourselves – but with the people I have represented in the factory. We genuinely believe that this Global outfit is sinister and needs to be stopped. You have contacts in government that I don’t have and they, in turn, have contacts in the US. You also have direct access to people at the Indian end.’

  ‘I think you overestimate my influence,’ responded Kate. ‘I am not exactly flavour of the month at the moment. As you know I am now on the back benches and persona non grata with the people you wish me to influence.’

  Steve felt they had done enough to press her. ‘All we can ask is that you do your best. I suggest the following. I understand that there is an important debate in parliament on Monday. You will get a chance to corner your former boss, Jim Chambers, at the division, even if he won’t see you before. Tell him what is going on. I will try to line up some press publicity for the Wednesday that might prompt a question in PMQs or could be the basis of an Urgent Question. Ideally, you could raise it. But that is for you – I am not an MP and not sure how these things operate. The key point is that all of this will come out. Let’s work together to make sure it comes out in a good way.’

  Kate drove home trembling with fear, excitement and nervous exhaustion and had to pull in to a layby to compose herself. She had been through the most difficult and traumatic few weeks in her entire, admittedly rather cosseted, existence and, just as she was coming to terms with her stalled career, she was being thrown back into the maelstrom.

  She was, as the Prime Minister had suggested with heavy sarcasm, spending more time with her family. It was proving an ordeal. She had come to loathe her husband’s twin-track campaign of angry silence and icy politeness. She had been called ‘darling’ more frequently than ever before in the sixteen years of their marriage but he somehow imbued the word with accusation and malice. He had made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere and he was waiting for her to produce the white flag of unconditional surrender and an abject, grovelling, apology. The girls weren’t much help. After an initial display of solidarity with Mum, they had all retreated into adolescent sulks, making clear their embarrassment with their parents and their refusal to try to understand the world of adult emotions, let alone politics.

  The house was quiet so she rang Deepak, who tried to be supportive and as sympathetic as the intermittent mobile reception would allow.

  ‘I would like to be there with you. And I miss you,’ he said tenderly. ‘Things aren’t as bad for me but my father’s mental state is brittle and my mother’s health has taken a turn for the worse. How are you feeling?’

  ‘I am coping. Jonathan is insufferable. The girls are tricky. But, otherwise, I think the crisis is bottoming out. For the British media I am already ancient history. And this evening I learnt a lot more about the political background. About this company and what it is up to here and in India.’

  ‘Their man Desai is much in evidence here. I am beginning to see a way forward.’

  ‘Me too. Talking to you gives me more confidence. With luck, we’ll be together again soon.’

  She decided to act quickly rather than wait until Monday. She had kept the Secretary of State’s home number and, to her surprise, he was both in and willing to take her call. The bonhomie was almost overwhelming.

  ‘My dear Kate, how are you coping? I am so sorry things turned out badly. It must be awful. How is your lovely family? I am sure it will all work out for the best and we
will have you back in government before long.’ Even if she applied a high discount factor for his natural bombast and insincerity it was clear that, up to a point, Jim cared. Perhaps a guilty conscience that she had come to grief on his watch, on his project. And it was part of his character to enjoy being the saviour of damsels in distress.

  What she thought was a dispassionate account ran, however, into a wall of scepticism: ‘A Labour councillor…? That hopeless Scottish socialist trying to run the business… Eritrean asylum seeker…’ As she went on she realised that her list of witnesses for the prosecution making accusations against a well-connected US company was far from convincing. She hadn’t even got as far as the young British Pakistani woman. While he didn’t say so explicitly, she could imagine him formulating the obvious questions: ‘Are you on the brink of a nervous breakdown?’ and ‘Have you been reading too many spy thrillers?’

  She was able to keep his attention by referring to the documents about Global and Le Fevre that the two had given her and which she undertook to scan immediately. When he rang off, he gave little indication that he was persuaded of the need to take the matter further. But she knew him well enough to know that the one thing that would have got through to him was the threat of an ambush in parliament, and bad press, and that she had done the right thing by warning him.

  The Secretary of State never rang back, but then, she hadn’t asked him to.

  Other telephones were, however, ringing furiously. In his Sloane Square flat the Red Admiral was busy trying to retrieve a situation that was in danger of slipping out of control. All thanks to the carelessness of Starling, interfering politicians and some wretched African asylum seeker who would soon be back on his way to the jungle if he, the Admiral, had anything to do with it. So: favours called in across the Pond, in the Pentagon; Whitehall contacts alerted and suitably briefed; his friends among defence correspondents given the correct spin for when the story got out; and then, reassurance to his old friend, Jim Chambers, and his associates in Louisiana that everything was under control.

  Meanwhile, Kate waited on tenterhooks for several days until the story appeared in the Guardian as Steve had planned and predicted. It was backed up by an editorial that had the flavour of an anti-American rant and was, she judged, unhelpful. The piece was placed low down on page seven, having been bumped off the front page by a Labour ‘split’ story. There was no traction. The rolling news channels and social media took little interest.

  What did gain traction, however, was a powerful front page lead in the Telegraph under the headline ‘Asylum Seeker Betrayal’. Readers were told that ‘sources close to No. 10’ had given the paper exclusive background on ‘an act of treachery’ at one of the country’s important, high tech defence companies. ‘An African asylum seeker with a mathematics background’ had managed to hack through the security codes of the company where he was employed and was passing valuable information, for money, to commercial rivals. He had also stirred up trouble at the plant by informing Muslim militants and Marxist groups about an impending ministerial visit, leading to a violent demonstration. The article noted that the plant had a history of union militancy and Muslim extremism among the labour force.

  Fortunately, the Telegraph reassured its readers that ‘quick action by the company’s head of security and by the country’s intelligence services had contained the damage’. The Home Secretary was investigating how such breaches of security could be prevented in future, by ensuring that those foreign nationals who were allowed to work were excluded from sensitive sites.

  Talks were taking place, encouraged by the UK and US governments, to develop a ‘partnership’ with a leading US company, Global Analysis and Research, to ‘secure the long term future of the plant and ensure that Britain’s leadership in a key area of military technology is fully protected’.

  No one noticed that the Guardian story related to the same set of events, so different was the account.

  Kate had, as recommended, put down an Urgent Question but it wasn’t called. Instead, the Labour MP in whose constituency Pulsar was based raised the matter with the Prime Minister, who replied with a carefully drafted statement:

  ‘I am aware of these accusations and the government is studying them carefully. There is a suggestion that criminal activity may have been involved concerning an asylum seeker and it will be dealt with firmly and quickly by the appropriate authorities. I also want to reassure the House that the government has been in contact with the US administration and with the Indian government and the contract is proceeding as planned. Furthermore, we are in contact with the Pakistani government and have reassured them that the contract is purely for defensive equipment.

  ‘I wish to reassure the House that the US company that is acquiring a controlling interest in the company has given the government a set of written undertakings to protect jobs at the factory. Demonstrating confidence in Britain’s future outside the EU, it has committed itself to establish a major new development facility close to the existing site, potentially employing several hundred scientific personnel. Britain is, truly, open for business. This is good news for jobs in the Honourable Member’s constituency and underlines this government’s commitment to jobs and to the defence industry. We are, after all, the Workers’ Party.’ (Jeers, hoots.)

  Calum called in Steve to brief him on the latest developments. Steve saw the empty tumbler on Calum’s desk and caught a whiff of the products of a Highland distillery. Calum normally never drank in the office, but today his face was flushed and looked seriously agitated.

  ‘Well, laddie, you came out of this OK. The Guardian story. Now there is the local paper: “Zero to hero”. The journalist who stitched you up a few weeks ago now has you as “the man who saved the plant”. Your lads have secure jobs, for now, that’s for sure. And, if you did half of what you are said to have done, I guess you deserve a medal. But this whole thing stinks. I have been completely fucking shafted. We have been taken over by a dodgy American company run by some right-wing ideologue, and this is supposed to be a great victory for our brilliant fucking government – and you for that matter. These people now have access to all our IP, or the bits they hadn’t already nicked. That fucking Admiral, who I trusted and who brought in that pervert to spy on us, now – believe this – has us under his fucking chairmanship.

  ‘They want me to stay and manage a handover delivering this contract. But – after my golden goodbye – I have to work out how to spend my early retirement. Can’t spend more time with my family: I don’t have one. Any ideas, Steve?’

  Steve had never encountered Calum in this morose, self-pitying, semi-alcoholic state. Their relationship had worked because it was not a friendship. Calum was the boss; Steve the worker who wore overalls and collected his pay cheque like the other workers. There was mutual respect but distance. Now, it was clear, Calum wanted to unburden himself. He unearthed a bottle of whisky from a cupboard, poured himself a full glass, neat; then remembered that Steve was in the room and offered him a drink, which he declined.

  ‘I realise now just what a bunch of fucking wankers we have running this country. Useless. PR men. Snake oil salesmen. Never done a proper day’s work in their lives. Probably never been inside a factory; certainly never worked in one.’

  He paced around the room gesticulating, spilling half the contents of his drink on the floor. But he was in full flow, absorbed in his own, drunken, eloquence. ‘What have those idiots done for our manufacturing? I go to my engineering dinners. Poor sods from Rolls-Royce and BAE. They’ve got bean counters at their elbows. Cut this. Cut that. Shareholders on their back the whole time. No interest in making anything any more: design, development – the things we used to be good at. Before long Rolls will be bought out by Ning Ping fucking Inc if the Yanks don’t get there first. Post-Brexit export drive? What a fucking joke.’

  Steve would normally agree with all of that. But he was desperate to leave as he saw Calum downing two more large glasses of whisky. ‘I kn
ow you want to go,’ Calum said as he put down his empty glass. ‘Just one word of advice. I’ve seen you eyeing up the Khan lassie. Her people don’t like us messing with their women. They’ll have your balls off if you’re not careful. Fighters. Once wiped out a British army.’

  ‘That was the Afghans.’

  ‘Same difference. Stick to your politics.’

  At the factory, Steve’s reputation was largely rehabilitated. He had been puzzled by the differing interpretation of events in the Telegraph and the Guardian. But these were not papers read by his workmates. Their jobs were safe. Expansion was on the way. The local paper and the local MP claimed it was a great outcome. Calum and Steve didn’t want to pour cold water on a good news story, just yet.

  The conversation with Calum had worried Steve more than he let on at the time. He was unlikely in future to have the intimate, trusted role he currently enjoyed. The new owners would presumably know of the part he had played in trying to expose their dirty tricks. Jump or be pushed?

  He would not be short of things to do. He had recently been voted onto the national executive of his union. And the ancient and anonymous local Labour MP had recently decided to stand down, creating a vacancy. He would start as favourite for the succession.

  As for the prospect of emasculation to protect the honour of a woman from the North West Frontier, that all seemed rather academic. Shaida had given little encouragement. Even on the trip to visit that MP in Surrey Heights, which she had managed to sell to her parents as essential for the benefit of Pulsar, she had remained aloof and rebuffed any sign of familiarity.

  So he was unprepared for their next encounter at the coffee machine. Shaida smiled as she walked up to him. ‘Good news,’ she said. ‘I plucked up the courage to tell my dad I was planning to go on a date with you. Told, not asked. There was no response. No fatwa.’