Mightier Than the Sword

by Jeffrey Archer

  Alf swept through an unmarked entrance onto runway three at Heathrow and came to a halt at the bottom of the boarding stairs that led up to the aircraft. If Giles didn’t retain his seat in the cabinet after the election, he was going to miss all this. Back to joining baggage queues, check-in counters, passport control, security checks, long walks to the gate, and then an endless wait before you were finally told you could board the plane.

  Alf opened the backdoor and Giles climbed the steps to the waiting aircraft. Don’t get used to it, Harold Wilson had once warned him. Only the Queen can afford to do that.

  Giles was the last passenger to board and the door was pulled closed as he took his seat in the front row, next to his permanent secretary.

  “Good morning, minister,” he said. Not a man who wasted time on small talk. “Although on the face of it, minister,” he continued, “this conference doesn’t look at all promising, there could be several opportunities for us to take advantage of.”

  “Such as?”

  “The PM needs to know if Ulbricht is about to be replaced as general secretary. If he is, they’ll be sending out smoke signals and we need to find out who’s been chosen to replace him.”

  “Will it make any difference?” asked Giles. “Whoever gets the job will still be phoning reverse charges to Moscow before he can take any decisions.”

  “While the foreign secretary,” the civil servant continued, ignoring the remark, “is keen for you to discover if this would be a good time for the UK to make another application to join the EEC.”

  “Has De Gaulle died when I wasn’t looking?”

  “No, but his influence has waned since his retirement last year, and Pompidou might feel the time has come to flex his muscles.”

  The two men spent the rest of the flight going over the official agenda, and what HMG hoped to get out of the conference: a nudge here, a wink there, whenever an understanding had been reached.

  When the plane taxied to a halt at Berlin’s Tegel airport, the British ambassador was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. With the help of a police escort, the Rolls-Royce whisked them across West Berlin, but came to an abrupt halt when it reached Checkpoint Charlie, as the Western Allies had dubbed the wall’s best-known crossing point.

  Giles looked up at the ugly, graffiti-covered wall, crowned with barbed wire. The Berlin Wall had been raised in 1961, virtually overnight, to stop the flood of people who were emigrating from East to West. East Berlin was now one giant prison, which wasn’t much of an advertisement for Communism. If it had really been the utopia the Communists claimed, thought Giles, it would have been the West Germans who would have had to build a wall to prevent their unhappy citizens from escaping to the East.

  “If I had a pickax…” he said.

  “I would have to stop you,” said the ambassador. “Unless of course you wanted to cause a diplomatic incident.”

  “It would take more than a diplomatic incident to stop my brother-in-law fighting for what he believes in,” said Giles.

  Once their passports had been checked, they were able to leave the Western sector, which allowed the driver to advance another couple of hundred yards before coming to a halt in no-man’s-land. Giles looked up at the armed guards in their turrets, staring down grim-faced at their British guests.

  They remained parked between the two borders, while the Rolls-Royce was checked from the front bumper to the boot, as if it were a Sherman tank, before they were eventually permitted to enter East Berlin. But without the assistance of a police escort, it took them another hour before they reached their hotel on the other side of the city.

  Once they had checked in and been handed their keys, the golden rule was for the minister to swap rooms with his permanent secretary so he wouldn’t be troubled by call girls, or have to watch every word he said because his room would certainly be bugged. But the Stasi had caught on to that ruse and now simply bugged both rooms.

  “If you want to have a private conversation,” said the ambassador, “the bathroom, with the taps running, is the only safe place.”

  Giles unpacked, showered, and came back downstairs to join some Dutch and Swedish colleagues for a late lunch. Although they were old friends, it didn’t stop them pumping each other for information.

  “So tell me, Giles, is Labour going to win the election?” asked Stellen Christerson, the Swedish foreign minister.

  “Officially, we can’t lose. Unofficially, it’s too close to call.”

  “And if you do win, will Mr. Wilson make you foreign secretary?”

  “Unofficially, I have to be in with a chance.”

  “And officially?” asked Jan Hilbert, the Dutch minister.

  “I shall serve Her Majesty’s Government in whatever capacity the prime minister thinks fit.”

  “And I’m going to win the next Monte Carlo Rally,” said Hilbert.

  “And I’m going back to my suite to check over my papers,” said Giles, aware that only debutants sat around drinking just to end up spending the next day yawning. You had to be wide awake if you hoped to catch the one unguarded revelation that often made hours of negotiating worthwhile.

  * * *

  The conference opened the following morning with a speech by the East German general secretary, Walter Ulbricht, who welcomed the delegates. It was clear that the contents had been written in Moscow, while the words were delivered by the Soviets’ puppet in East Berlin.

  Giles leaned back, closed his eyes, and pretended to listen to the translation of a speech he’d heard several times before, but his mind soon began to wander. Suddenly he heard an anxious voice ask, “I hope there’s nothing wrong with my translation, Sir Giles?”

  Giles glanced around. The Foreign Office had made it clear that, although every minister would have their own interpreter, they came with a health warning. Most of them worked for the Stasi, and any unfortunate remark or lapse in behavior would undoubtedly be reported back to their masters in the East German Politburo.

  What had taken Giles by surprise was not so much the concerned inquiry made by the young woman, as the fact that he could have sworn he detected a slight West Country accent.

  “Your translation is just fine,” he said, taking a closer look at her. “It’s just that I’ve heard this speech, or a slight variation of it, several times before.”

  She was wearing a gray shapeless dress that nearly reached her ankles, and that could only have been purchased off the peg from a comrades’ cooperative store. But she possessed something you couldn’t buy at Harrods, luxuriant auburn hair that had been plaited and wound into a severe bun, to hide any suggestion of femininity. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to notice her. But her big brown eyes and captivating smile would have caused most men to take a second look, including Giles. She was like one of those ugly ducklings in a film that you know will turn out in the last scene to be a swan.

  It stank of a setup. Giles immediately assumed she worked for the Stasi, and wondered if he could catch her out.

  “You have a slight West Country burr if I’m not mistaken,” he whispered.

  She nodded and displayed the same disarming smile. “My father was born in Truro.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  “I was born in East Berlin. My father met my mother when he was stationed here with the British Army in 1947.”

  “That can’t have been met with universal approval,” suggested Giles.

  “He had to resign his commission, and he then took a job in Germany so he could be with her.”

  “A true romantic.”

  “But the story doesn’t have a romantic ending, I’m afraid. More John Galsworthy than Charlotte Brontë, because when the wall went up in 1961, my father was in Cornwall visiting his parents and we’ve never seen him since.”

  Giles remained cautious. “That doesn’t make any sense, because if your father is a UK national you and your mother could make an application to visit Britain at any time.”

&nb
sp; “We’ve made thirty-four applications in the past nine years, and those that were answered all came back with the same red stamp, rejected.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Giles. He then turned away, adjusted his headphones and listened to the remainder of the welcoming speech.

  When the general secretary finally sat down an hour and twelve minutes later, Giles was one of the few people in the room who was still awake.

  He left the conference chamber and joined a subcommittee to discuss the possible lifting of certain sanctions between the two countries. He had a clear brief, as did his opposite number, but during the meeting he had the distinct impression that his interpreter was including the occasional observation that came from the Stasi, and not from the minister. He remained skeptical and cautious about her, although when he looked her up on the briefing notes he saw that her name was Karin Pengelly. So it seemed she was at least telling the truth about her heritage.

  Giles soon became used to being followed around by Karin as he moved from meeting to meeting. She continued to pass on everything said by the other side, without the expression on her face ever changing. But Giles’s responses were always carefully worded, as he still wasn’t sure whose side she was on.

  At the end of the first day, Giles felt the conference had yielded some positive results, and not least because of his interpreter. Or was she simply saying what they wanted him to hear?

  During the official dinner held at the Palast der Republik, Karin sat directly behind him, translating every word of the interminable, repetitive speeches, until Giles finally weakened.

  “If you write a letter to your father, I’ll post it to him when I get back to England, and I’ll also have a word with a colleague in the immigration office.”

  “Thank you, Sir Giles.”

  Giles turned his attention to the Italian minister sitting on his right, who was pushing his food around the plate while grumbling about having to serve three prime ministers in one year.

  “Why don’t you go for the job yourself, Umberto?” suggested Giles.

  “Certainly not,” he replied. “I’m not looking for early retirement.”

  * * *

  Giles was delighted when the last course of the endless meal was finally served and the guests were allowed to depart. He said good night to some of the other delegates as he left the room. He then joined the ambassador and was driven back to his hotel.

  He picked up his key and was back in his suite just after eleven. He’d been asleep for about an hour when there was a tap on the door. Someone obviously willing to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign. But that didn’t come as a surprise, because the Foreign Office had even issued a briefing note to cover that eventuality. So he knew exactly what to expect and, more important, how to deal with it.

  He reluctantly got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and went to the door, having already been warned that they would try to produce a lookalike of his wife, but twenty years younger.

  When he opened the door he was momentarily stunned. Before him stood the most beautiful blonde, with high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and the shortest leather skirt he’d ever seen.

  “Wrong wife,” said Giles once he’d recovered, although he was reminded why he had fallen so hopelessly in love with Virginia all those years ago. “But thank you, madam,” he said as he took the bottle of champagne. He read the label. “Veuve Clicquot 1947. Please pass on my compliments to whomever. An excellent vintage,” he added, before closing the door.

  He smiled as he climbed back into bed. Harry would have been proud of him.

  * * *

  The second day of the conference became more and more frenetic as the delegates attempted to close deals so they wouldn’t have to return home empty-handed. Giles felt quite pleased when the East Germans agreed to remove their import tariffs on British pharmaceuticals, and delighted, although he tried not to show it, when his French counterpart hinted that if the British government were to issue an official invitation for the French president to visit Britain in the new year, it would be seriously considered. He wrote down the words “seriously considered” so there could be no misunderstanding.

  As always happens on these occasions, meetings began to run late and to continue into the evening; so Giles ended up scheduling one before dinner, with an East German trade minister, one during, with his Dutch counterpart, and finally one after dinner with Walter Scheel, the West German foreign minister. He asked Karin to join them for dinner, having decided that if she was working for the Stasi, she was a better actress than Peggy Ashcroft. And if she agreed, he just hoped she’d let her hair down.

  Karin reminded him that the Dutch minister spoke fluent English, and suggested that they might prefer to dine alone. But Giles thought it would be helpful for her to be there, just in case anything was lost in translation.

  He couldn’t help wondering if any of his fellow delegates had noticed how often he had turned around during his afternoon session with the trade minister to look more closely at his interpreter, pretending to listen intently to her translation while in fact hoping to be rewarded with that smile. But when she turned up for dinner wearing a stunning off-the-shoulder red silk dress, which certainly hadn’t been purchased from a comrades’ cooperative store, with her auburn hair hanging loosely below her shoulders, Giles couldn’t take his eyes off her, although she continued to feign not to notice.

  When he returned to his suite for the final meeting of the evening, Scheel wasted no time in pressing his government’s case. “Your import tax on BMW, Volkswagen, and Mercedes is hitting our car industry hard. If you can’t lift it, can you at least lower it?”

  “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, Walter, as we’re only a few weeks away from a general election, and the Labour Party is hoping for large donations from Ford, BMC, and Vauxhall.”

  “You’ll have no choice when you become a member of the EEC,” said the German, smiling.

  “Amen to that,” said Giles.

  “At least I’m grateful for your candid response.” The two men shook hands, and as Scheel turned to leave, Giles put a finger to his lips and followed him out of the room. He looked up and down the corridor before asking, “Who’s going to replace Ulbricht as General Secretary?”

  “The Soviets are getting behind Honecker,” said Scheel, “and frankly I can’t see anyone beating him.”

  “But he’s a weak, sycophantic man, who’s never had an original thought in his life,” said Giles, “and would end up being nothing more than a stooge, just like Ulbricht.”

  “Which is precisely why the Politburo is backing him.”

  Giles threw his hands up in the air. Scheel could only manage a wry smile. “See you in London after the election,” he said, before heading off in the direction of the lift.

  “Let’s hope so,” murmured Giles. When he returned to his room, he was pleased to find that Karin was still there. She opened her bag, took out an envelope, and handed it to him.

  “Thank you, Sir Giles.”

  Giles looked at the name and address on the envelope, placed it in an inside pocket, and said, “I’ll post it to your father just as soon as I’m back in England.”

  “I know my mother would appreciate that.”

  “It’s the least I can do,” said Giles as he walked over to the side table, picked up the bottle of champagne, and handed it to her. “A small token of my gratitude for all your hard work. I hope you and your mother will enjoy it.”

  “It’s very kind of you, Sir Giles,” she whispered, handing the bottle back, “but I wouldn’t get as far as the front door before the Stasi took it away from me,” she added, pointing at the chandelier.

  “Then let’s at least share a glass together.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise, Sir Giles, considering—”

  “Now that we’re on our own, I think you can call me Giles,” he said as he uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. He raised his. “Let’s hope it won’t be too long befor
e you’re reunited with your father.”

  Karin took a sip and then placed the glass on the table. “I must go,” she said, and thrust out her hand.

  Giles took it and drew her gently toward him. She pushed him away.

  “This mustn’t happen, Giles, because then you’ll only think—”

  He started to kiss her before she could say another word. As they kissed, he undid the zip on the back of her dress, and when it fell to the ground he took a pace back, wanting to touch every part of her body at once. He took her back into his arms and when they kissed again, her lips parted as they fell onto the bed. He looked into her brown eyes and whispered, “If you work for the Stasi, don’t tell me until after I’ve made love to you.”

  19

  GILES WAS SITTING on the front bench in the House of Commons listening to the foreign secretary deliver a statement to the House on the Test and County Cricket Board’s decision to cancel South Africa’s England tour, when he was handed a note from the chief whip. Could I have a word with you following the statement?

  Giles always felt that a summons from the chief whip was rather like being called to the headmaster’s study: more likely to be a caning than paeans of praise. Although the chief whip doesn’t sit in the Cabinet, his power is disproportionate to his rank. He was the company sergeant major who was there to make sure the troops were kept in line so the officers’ lives ran smoothly.

  As soon as the foreign secretary had answered the last question from the member for Louth about strengthening government sanctions against South Africa’s apartheid regime, Giles slipped out of the chamber into the members’ lobby and strolled across to the chief whip’s office.

  The chief’s secretary was clearly expecting him because he was ushered through to the inner sanctum without having to break stride.

  As soon as Giles entered the office, he knew from the look on the chief’s face that it had to be a caning, not paeans of praise.

  “Not good news, I’m afraid,” said Bob Mellish, taking a large buff-colored envelope from a drawer in his desk and passing it to Giles.