‘We must regard her as the oyster regards the grain of sand,’ Niall says. ‘An irritant that may, nevertheless, be capable of producing a pearl.’
‘I’ve heard her special area of interest is Lithuanian prostitutes.’ Bradley raises an eyebrow. ‘The trafficking of.’
Niall smiles. ‘I’m sure the new Secretary of State will be interested in all aspects of immigration.’
‘Smart?’
‘Brain so big it crosses time zones.’
‘And a liberal, right?’
‘Liberal as a leotard.’
‘First priority?’
‘Hers? A phone call from Washington, I should think. She’ll want to feel loved. They all do.’
‘And ours?’
‘Iran going nuclear. Afghanistan. Timetable for withdrawal. Should we or should we not be negotiating with the Taliban.’
And mine? Niall thinks. My priorities are more opaque. Mine will be to deflect attention away from recent history, concentrate on the present, move on …
‘So?’
Niall glances at Bradley. ‘Sorry, what?’
‘So should we or should we not be negotiating with the Taliban?’
Niall shakes his head as if to clear it. ‘Not sure. What do you think we should tell her?’
‘That we should. We have to show Downing Street that the FCO still matters; that it would be madness to even consider cutting our
budgets at this delicate time; that when it comes to diplomacy, English has become the lingua franca.’
‘Well, that will annoy the Francas.’
Bradley chuckles. ‘Exactly. We must send them a communiqué about it.’
‘And Pakistan?’
‘And Pakistan is going to do everything in its power to queer our pitch with the mullahs in the peace talks, unless we give them a seat at the top table.’
‘And as long as we let the Taliban keep the profits of the opium and heroin trade they will let us pull our troops out without any more humiliation than is absolutely necessary?’
Seeing a motorbike turn into the quadrangle, Niall adjusts his tie and takes the gum out of his mouth. He looks around for somewhere to throw it, then, on a second thought, puts it in a tissue in his pocket. ‘Thought this lot were going to dispense with out-riders,’ he says out of the corner of his mouth.
When the Jaguar comes to a halt and the new Foreign Secretary waits for the car door to be opened, the two mandarins standing under the arch exchange a glance. At fifty-five, Sonia Ross is almost ten years older than Niall. She is a slightly stooped woman with wavy silver hair and a tendency to glance sideways at people through wire-rimmed glasses.
They have already met, briefly, a few weeks earlier on an ‘orientation’ day at King Charles Street, a tour that didn’t include the Foreign Secretary’s room. It was as much a hedging of bets as a gesture of civil service good will and impartiality, and the balance of power had been with Niall then. Now it has swung the other way. And Ross has a reputation for being chippy. State school then straight into local government. Her Geordie accent is not a problem as far as the FCO is concerned. Unlike Birmingham and Liverpool accents, it tests well with focus groups – ‘warmth’ and ‘canniness’ being the words most associated with it. No, of more concern to them is her Jewishness. How is that going to play in the Middle East peace talks? Appointing a Muslim junior minister to
travel with her, that would be the obvious answer. Tonal balance.
‘Sir Niall, good to see you again.’ Ross turns towards the photographers as she shakes hands. ‘I’ve pronounced that right, haven’t I?’
‘Actually it’s pronounced Neil. It’s Scottish.’
‘You don’t sound Scottish.’
‘I know, I know. My father is so ashamed.’ A grin. ‘Welcome to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Congratulations on your victory.’
The introductions over, Niall leads the way through the black entrance door, across the echoing marble floor of the Durbar Court and towards the Grand Staircase. When the welcoming party reaches its smooth balustrade, they pose for a group photograph and then peel off. At the point where the red-carpeted stairs divide, Niall stops and looks up at the barrel vaults above and, beyond them, the painted dome. ‘The best view of it is from here,’ he says.
‘It was all restored quite recently, wasn’t it?’
‘Yep, not that long ago. Did the outside too.’
‘Is it true you use a hawk to keep the pigeons away?’
‘Twice a week. Really works. No more shit on the statuary.’ Niall wonders whether the word ‘shit’ is well judged. Might the new Foreign Secretary think she is being patronized as an uncouth northerner? But ‘guano’ or ‘pigeon mess’ would be too twee. Send out the wrong signal. They will need to talk tough in the coming weeks.
‘Don’t they use an electric current to keep the pigeons off Nelson’s Column?’
‘Believe they do, yes. But we try not to waste electricity here. We have energy-saving lights throughout the building. Movement-sensitive. If you sit still for long enough at your desk the lights go out.’
‘All over Europe?’
Niall gives a thin laugh. The new boss has a sense of humour, it seems. ‘Let me show you something.’ At the top of the Grand Staircase, Niall leads the way into the Foreign Secretary’s room and,
as the carpets give way to oak flooring, the soles of his leather shoes clatter. It smells of polish and with its tall windows looks more like a museum gallery than a working office. Niall stops at a window case comprised of marquetry panels of mahogany, walnut and cedar. He taps his foot. ‘We had this put in.’
Ross looks down at a small metal plaque that is inscribed with the words ‘ “The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.” Lord Grey, Foreign Secretary, August 1914’.
‘People always ask which window he was standing at,’ Niall says, ‘and though he doesn’t specify in his memoirs, the consensus is that it must have been this one. And that,’ Niall points down at a lamp-post below, ‘must have been the one that inspired the quote.’ He turns to face the room and, with a sweep of his arm, takes in the ornate gilding of the cornice, the red leather armchairs, the green-shaded desk lamps. ‘Anyway, here we are. The largest office of any cabinet minister, far bigger than the PM’s, and the one with the best views. You can see Horse Guards Parade there and,’ he directs a thumb over his shoulder, ‘St James’s Park to the west.’
Ross steps forward and gives a large and ancient globe a spin, causing her jacket to ride up a little and show that her shirt has come untucked from her waistband. ‘Imagine the foreign secretaries who have put their fingerprints on this …’ She looks up. ‘Not sure about him.’ Glowering down at her is a painting of an Empire-period Nepalese prince clutching a curved sword.
‘No one ever is. One of your predecessors even had it put in storage, but a painting couldn’t be found that fitted the space, so our Nepalese friend was brought back.’ Niall points to a document two inches thick on the desk, next to two red boxes with the letters ‘ER’ embossed in gold underneath a crown. ‘We’ve prepared a report for you. It’s a bit bulky but it will get you up to speed on most areas. Perhaps once you have had a chance to digest it we can have a proper brief.’
Ross sits down and, in what Niall takes to be another little power play, indicates for him to do the same. He undoes the middle button
on his jacket but realizes too late that the buttons on his shirt underneath are straining against his paunch. As he eases himself into the chair and crosses his legs stiffly, he can feel the bottom button give up its struggle and pop open.
‘I think my first call should be with Washington,’ Ross says. It is obvious she’s trying not to stare at the shirt. ‘Do I phone them or do they phone me?’
‘We are expecting a call shortly.’
Ross makes as if to fold her arms and then appears to change her mind halfway through the manoeuvre, resting them on her desk instead. ‘I imagine they will want to talk about the withdrawal from Afghanistan. What channels do we have with the Taliban?’
Niall hesitates. ‘We’ve been calling them “indirect talks”, as opposed to “direct talks”. The President of Afghanistan has been having “indirect talks” with one of the senior mullahs and he has taken an offer to the Taliban Ruling Council.’
‘But no indirect talks with al-Qaeda, right?’
‘Right. As you know, the British government doesn’t talk to terrorists. But we will sometimes talk to insurgents. We always get mocked for our pedantry here at the FCO, but it does matter and it is useful.’
‘Yes, well. We are where we are.’
Niall studies her face. Is this impatience or nervousness?
‘And what other issues should I know about before I talk to Washington?’
Nervousness, then. ‘I’m sure it will be a courtesy call, you won’t need to go into specifics.’
‘Yes, but if we do …’
Niall smiles. Thinks: you don’t need to worry, pet, the President won’t be able to penetrate your accent. ‘The opium and heroin trade in southern Afghanistan is the thing that most concerns the Taliban,’ he says. ‘It’s the equivalent of Sicily, with mafia godfathers running the drug rackets. Increasingly they see Western forces as a sideshow. As far as they are concerned they are fighting a civil war – a rebellion by the Pashtuns of the south against the Kabul regime,
which is controlled by northern Tajiks, Uzbeks and Hazaras. It’s essentially the Corleone family taking on the Barzinis and the Tattaglias.’
‘You have to answer for Santino, Hamid. You fingered Sonny for the Uzbek people.’
Niall smiles again and speaks at the same time. ‘Very good.’
Ross tries to suppress her own smile and fails. Pleased at her joke. ‘And you’ve been working on a draft treaty?’
‘Yes. We are trying to decide whether to say we have come to an “agreement” or a “decision” over the release of prisoners. Like I said, nuance matters.’
‘We’re keen to set up a truth and reconciliation commission.’
Not if I can help it, Niall thinks. ‘That is certainly something to which our American allies will be receptive.’
‘How is that friend of yours who was kidnapped?’
A chill passes through Niall’s body like a path of electricity. ‘Much improved.’
‘Has he talked about what happened?’
‘Not yet. Our psychiatrist says we shouldn’t rush things. He’ll tell us when he’s ready.’
‘His pastoral care should be our main concern. I imagine his experiences have left him pretty traumatized.’
‘Yes, they have.’
‘Do we know who was holding him?’
Niall hesitates again, cracks the joints in his fingers. ‘We’ve known for some time.’
Ross studies her hands. ‘Is it going to prove an embarrassment?’
‘In what way?’
‘Will we be negotiating the peace terms with the people who kidnapped one of our diplomats?’
‘We can’t rule out that possibility.’
‘But there was no deal to have him released?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
Ross inclines her head. ‘So there
was
a deal?’
‘We entered into negotiations.’
‘We?’
Niall misses a beat. ‘I was involved.’
‘The Foreign Office was talking to al-Qaeda?’
‘Not directly. Our contact was with the Taliban.’
‘Was a ransom paid?’
‘The British government does not pay ransoms.’
‘That wasn’t my question.’
Niall stiffens. ‘As far as our partners in Europe are concerned, no ransom was paid.’
‘Well, if there was, that would get us off on the wrong foot. We can’t be seen to give in to blackmail. We need to come across as firm. Peace on our terms. The families of the British servicemen who have died out there deserve that.’
‘Indeed.’
Ross rises from her chair, goes to the window and stares out for a moment before turning back to face Niall with a cold smile. ‘Well, congratulations … You got our man back. And no one can know it was thanks to you because it will weaken our position in the peace talks? Is that it?’
Niall feels relieved now. Perhaps he might survive this one after all. ‘Quite.’
‘And you did well out of it.’
‘I don’t think “well” is the right word. He was my best friend. Is my best friend.’
‘Forgive me. I was given to understand that you were promoted to PUS as a consequence of your handling of it. Perhaps I have that wrong.’
‘I believe there were other contributory factors.’
‘And you are the youngest ever PUS?’
‘Only by a year.’
‘Will he be coming back to work, your friend?’
‘I’ve said he could.’
‘Perhaps he could take a holiday first. A long, long holiday. Somewhere the press won’t find him. Sorry, am I keeping you?’
Realizing he must have glanced at his watch, Niall sits up. Oh,
she’s good, he thinks. Taking a firm hand with him. He feels a frisson of personality compulsion, what he imagines Alan Clark felt when he described his encounters with Margaret Thatcher as
Führerkontakt
. ‘Actually, there is someone I am supposed to be meeting, but it’s OK, I can—’
‘No, no. You must go. Let us continue our conversation this afternoon when I have had a chance to get my bearings.’
The drive across Whitehall to the Mall takes two minutes. Niall would have preferred a less public meeting place than the Travellers Club, but his notice has been short and it is too late to arrange somewhere more discreet now.
‘Good afternoon, Sir Niall,’ the porter says as he holds open the heavy wooden door. ‘Your guest has arrived. He is in the smoking room.’
Friedrich Walser, recognizable from behind by his collar-length silver hair, has his back to the door. He is resting a polished leather shoe on the fender of the fire. A monsignor in a mahogany reading chair lowers his newspaper gripper rod and watches as the two men shake hands. A club barman approaches before Niall has a chance to reach for the iron bell pull.
‘G and T,’ Niall says. ‘Go easy on the T.’
Walser signals that he is not drinking.
Niall waits for the barman to leave before turning to his guest and saying: ‘So, Friedrich, what is it that couldn’t wait?’
V
WHEN HER MOBILE RINGS, HANNAH IS STANDING UNDER A BOWER
of gleaming copper pots, shaving Parmesan from a nubbly pale-yellow block. She tilts her head to hold it against her raised shoulder.