Cometh the Hour: A Novel (26 page)

With the help of a policeman and a messenger, she found her way to the tearoom, where Margaret Thatcher was standing by the door waiting for her.

“Come and join me,” she said, before leading her guest to an empty table. “I’ve already ordered tea as I had a feeling you were the kind of person who wouldn’t be late.”

Margaret, as she insisted on Emma calling her, bombarded her with questions about her thoughts on education, the NHS and even Jacques Delors. When Emma asked Margaret, if Ted Heath were to lose the next election and was forced to resign, whether she would consider standing as party leader, she didn’t hesitate in giving her opinion.

“A woman can never hope to be prime minister of this country,” she said without hesitation. “At least not in my lifetime.”

“Perhaps the Americans will show us the way.”

“It will take the Americans even longer to elect a woman president,” said Thatcher. “They are still at heart a frontier society. There are only fifteen women in Congress, and not even one in the Senate.”

“What about the Labour Party?” said Emma. “Some people are suggesting that Shirley Williams—”

“Not a hope. The unions wouldn’t stand for it. They’d never allow a woman to be their general secretary. No, we elected the first Jewish prime minister, and the first bachelor, so we’ll elect the first woman, but not in my lifetime,” Thatcher repeated.

“But other countries have already chosen women to be their PM.”

“Three of them,” said Thatcher.

“So if you can’t be the fourth, and we do win the next election, what job are you hoping to get?”

“It’s not a question of what I’m hoping to get, it’s what Ted will reluctantly offer me. And remember, Emma, in politics it’s never wise to let anyone know what you want. That’s the quickest way to make enemies and detractors. Just look surprised any time anyone offers you anything.” Emma smiled. “So tell me, what’s your brother Giles up to?”

“He’s been put in charge of the marginal seats campaign, so he spends most of his life trudging up and down the country trying to make sure Harold Wilson is returned to No.10.”

“A brilliant choice. He fought and won Bristol Docklands against the odds again and again, and there are many on our side who would have preferred to see him back in the House rather than that second-rater, Alex Fisher. And if Labour were to win, Giles might well become Leader of the Lords, which would see him back in the Cabinet. Anyway, that’s enough politics. Tell me what’s happening in the real world. I see Barrington’s Shipping had another record year.”

“Yes, but I’m beginning to feel I’m repeating myself. It may not be too long before I’m ready to hand over to my son.”

“Then what will you do? You don’t strike me as the type who’ll take up golf or start attending basket-weaving classes.”

Emma laughed. “No, but I’ve recently been appointed a governor of the Bristol Royal Infirmary.”

“A great hospital, but I’m sure you will already have discovered, unlike my socialist colleagues, that there just isn’t enough money to give every hospital not only what it would like, but even what it needs, with the development of so many new drugs. The biggest problem the health service faces is that we are no longer conveniently dying at the age of seventy, but many more people are living to eighty, ninety, even a hundred. Whoever wins the next election will have to face that problem head on, if they’re not going to saddle future generations with a mountain of debt they will never be able to repay. Perhaps you could help, Emma.”

“How?”

Thatcher lowered her voice. “You may have heard the rumors that if we win, I’ll be offered Health. It would be helpful to have a friend who works at the coalface and not just go on attending endless meetings with experts who have three degrees and no hands-on experience.”

“I’d be delighted to help in any way I can,” said Emma, flattered by the suggestion.

“Thank you,” said Margaret. “And I know it’s asking rather a lot, but it might prove useful in the long term to have an ally on the West Country area Conservative committee.”

A loud, continuous bell began clanging, almost deafening Emma. The door of the tearoom swung open and a man in a black jacket marched in and shouted, “Division!”

“Back to work, I’m afraid,” said Thatcher. “It’s a three-line whip, so I can’t ignore it.”

“What are you voting on?”

“No idea, but one of the whips will guide me into the right corridor. We were told there wouldn’t be any more votes today. This is what’s called an ambush: a vote on an amendment that we thought wasn’t controversial and would go through on the nod. I can’t complain, because if we were in opposition, we’d be doing exactly the same thing. It’s called democracy, but you already know my views on that subject. Let’s keep in touch, Emma. We Somerville girls must stick together.”

Margaret Thatcher stood up and shook hands with Emma before joining the stampede of members who were deserting the tearoom to make sure they reached the division lobbies within eight minutes, otherwise the door would be slammed in their faces.

Emma sank back into her chair, feeling simultaneously exhilarated and exhausted, and wondered if Margaret Thatcher had the same effect on everyone.

*   *   *

“Good of you to pop over, John. I wouldn’t have asked for a meeting at such short notice if there hadn’t been a development.”

“Not a problem, Alan, and thank you for the tip-off, because it allowed me to dig out the relevant file.”

“Perhaps you could start by bringing me up to date on Miss Brandt.”

Sir John Rennie, Director General of MI6, opened the file on the table in front of him. “Miss Brandt was born in Dresden in 1944. She joined the communist youth party at the age of sixteen, and, when she left school, went to the East German School of Languages to study Russian. After graduating, the Stasi recruited her as an interpreter at international conferences, which we assumed was no more than a front. But there’s no proof that she did much more than pass on fairly mundane information to her superiors. In fact, we were of the opinion that she’d fallen out of favor until the Giles Barrington affair.”

“Which I assume was a setup.”

“Yes. But who was being set up? Because she certainly wasn’t on our list of operatives who specialize in that sort of thing and, to be fair to Barrington, he’s steered well clear of any honey traps while on government trips behind the Iron Curtain, despite several opportunities.”

“Is it just possible that she really did fall for him?” asked the Cabinet Secretary.

“There’s nothing in your file to suggest you’re a romantic, Alan, so I’ll take your question at face value. It would certainly explain several incidents that have taken place since she arrived in the UK.”

“Such as?”

“We now know that Giles Barrington’s rescue of a damsel in distress from the other side of the Iron Curtain was actually nothing of the sort. In fact, it was a well-organized operation overseen and approved by Marshal Koshevoi.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

“Yes. When Brandt was attempting to cross the border with Barrington by bus, she was questioned by a young officer who nearly blew the whole operation. He was posted to Siberia a week later. That was what caused us to suspect they’d always wanted her to cross the border, although it’s just possible she only fell in with their plans because she really did want to escape.”

“What a devious mind you have, John.”

“I’m head of MI6, Alan, not the Boy Scouts.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“Nothing concrete. However, at a recent meeting Brandt had with her handler in Truro, our observer reported that Pengelly’s body language suggested he wasn’t at all pleased with her. Which isn’t surprising, because one of our double agents recently passed some information to her that Pengelly would certainly have reported to his masters back in Moscow, and I can tell you he didn’t, which means she didn’t.”

“That’s a risky game she’s playing. It won’t take them long to work out she isn’t keeping her side of the bargain.”

“Agreed. And once they do, she’ll be on the next flight back to East Berlin, never to be heard of again.”

“Perhaps she’d make a good candidate for turning,” suggested Sir Alan.

“Possibly, but I still need to be convinced she’s not taking us for fools. I plan to use the same agent to feed her with a piece of information Pengelly will be desperate to hear about, so I’ll know within a few days if she’s passed the message on to him.”

“Has the time come to let Barrington know he’s sleeping with the enemy? If Labour win the next election he’ll certainly be back in the Cabinet, and then someone is going to have to brief the prime minister.”

“Let’s clear that hurdle when…”

*   *   *

“What are you up to today, darling?”

“A little shopping this morning. Your socks either have holes in them, or they don’t match.”

“How exciting,” said Giles. “And to think I’m only opposing the new education bill.”

“I’m also hoping to find something for your sister’s birthday,” she added, ignoring the comment. “Any ideas?”

“A soap box? We’re barely on speaking terms at the moment.”

“It’s not her fault. You spend your life attacking Mrs. Thatcher.”

“Not Mrs. Thatcher, but the government’s philistine education policy. It’s never personal. You save that for your own side.”

“And I’ve been invited to have tea in the Lords’ this afternoon with Baroness Forbes-Watson, but I’m not altogether sure why.”

“She’s a sweet old bat, used to be something in the Foreign Office a hundred years ago but since her husband died she’s rather lost the plot. I know she likes to invite members’ wives to tea from time to time.”

“But I’m not your wife.”

“That’s hardly my fault,” said Giles, giving her a kiss. “I’ll try and drop into the tearoom after the vote. You may need rescuing,” he added as he picked up the
Times
. He smiled when he saw the headline. “I must call Emma.”

*   *   *

“She’s the statutory woman,” said Harry, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

“What did you just say?”

“I didn’t say it. Ted Heath did. the
Times
,” he continued picking his morning paper back up, “reports him as saying, ‘If it’s necessary to have a woman in the Cabinet, it may as well be Margaret.’”

Emma was speechless, but only for a moment. “That’s certain to endear him to fifty percent of the electorate,” she finally managed.

“Fifty-two percent, according to the
Times
.”

“Sometimes I despair for the Tory party,” said Emma, as the phone rang.

Harry put down his paper, walked across to the sideboard and picked up the phone. “Hello, Giles, yes, I did read the piece about Margaret Thatcher in the
Times
. Yes, of course. It’s your brother on the line, wants to have a word with you,” said Harry, unable to hide a smirk.

Emma folded her napkin, put it back in its ring, stood up and made her way slowly out of the room. “Tell him I’m out canvassing.”

*   *   *

After Karin had bought six pairs of gray woollen socks, size nine, and a black leather handbag that she knew Emma coveted, she boarded a bus in Sloane Square and headed for the Palace of Westminster. A badge messenger directed her to the Lords’ tearoom. “Never step off the red carpet, madam, and you won’t go far wrong.”

As she entered the tearoom, Karin immediately spotted a gray-haired old lady hunched up in the corner looking as if she might have been Margaret Rutherford’s older sister. She managed a wave, and Karin walked across to join her.

“Cynthia Forbes-Watson,” the old lady said, trying to rise from her place.

“No, no,” said Karin quickly, sitting down opposite her hostess.

“How lovely to meet you,” said the old lady, offering a thin, bony hand, although her voice was strong. “I read about your amazing escape from behind the Iron Curtain. That must have been quite an ordeal.”

“It would never have been possible without Giles.”

“Yes, he’s a fine man, if occasionally impetuous,” she said as a waiter appeared by their side. “Tea for two, Stanley, and a couple of those awful crumpets, slightly burnt. And don’t be mean with the butter.”

“Certainly, my lady.”

“I see you’ve been shopping.”

“Yes, Giles needed some socks. It’s also his sister’s birthday and he forgot to get her a present. She and her husband are joining us for dinner this evening.”

“It’s never easy to find the right present for another woman,” said the baroness, as a tray of tea and two slightly burnt crumpets was placed on the table between them. “I’ll be mother. Milk?”

“Yes, please,” said Karin.

“Sugar?”

“No, thank you.”

“How sensible,” said the baroness as she put two heaped spoonfuls in her own cup. “But then it’s a bit late for me to be worrying about my figure.” Karin laughed dutifully. “Now, you must be wondering why I wanted to see you.”

“Giles told me you regularly hold little tea parties.”

“Not like this one I don’t.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

The baroness put down her cup and looked directly at Karin. “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say, young lady.” Although she spoke softly, her words were clear. “This will be the only time we ever meet, unless you follow my instructions to the letter.”

Karin wondered if she was joking, but it was obvious from her manner she was serious.

“We British like to give the impression of being bumbling amateurs, but some of us aren’t that easily fooled, and although it made an exciting story for the press, your escape from East Berlin was just a little too convenient.”

Karin felt herself shaking.

“If the Labour Party were to win the next election, you would be well placed to cause considerable embarrassment, not only for the government, but for this country.”

Karin gripped the arms of her chair.

“We’ve known for some time that John Pengelly isn’t your father, and that he reports directly to Marshal Koshevoi. But what puzzles us is that although you’ve been living in this country for more than two years, you don’t appear to have passed any information of real significance to the other side.”