The Eighty-Five Billion Euro Man

by Donal Conaty

  I would enjoy passing that information on to Dermot.

  Dermot came back a day early from his spa break. He would have looked ashen if his face wasn't the colour of a sunset.

  ‘What happened to you?’ I asked him.

  ‘The bitch locked me in the tanning machine,’ he said bitterly. ‘I'm completely the wrong colour. I'm going to have to change my entire wardrobe. Nothing matches.’

  Although he was upset that Sinéad had tricked him I could tell he was suffering from a deeper malaise.

  ‘What else is wrong, Dermot?’ I asked him. I had expected him to be energised by the fact that no less than five government ministers, including his beloved Mary Harney, had resigned in the space of a couple of days.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said and he led me to the room Liam had called the Harney Room. Dermot looked quite emotional as he put the key in the door and turned it. ‘I've never shown anyone else this room,’ he said. ‘You may have noticed my regard for our Minister for Health, or should I say our former Minister for Health. I always cherished the hope that Mary Harney would one day be Finance Minister. Now that hope is gone,’ he said sadly. ‘I kept this room ready for her just in case.’

  Dermot showed me into the most sumptuous room I have ever been in. There was a beautiful conference table with what I can only describe as a throne at the head of it. There was a magnificent fireplace, and, to my astonishment, the fire was lit. Dermot noticed my gaze. ‘I kept the fire going all day every day,’ he said. ‘She often arrived unannounced. Mary would have liked it here,’ Dermot leaned on the throne. He looked like he might start crying. ‘I kept it for her ever since Bertie left Finance. No one else was worthy. But it wasn't meant to be.’

  Dermot sat on the throne, looking dejected.

  ‘It suits you,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘Perhaps you should become Minister for Finance.’

  ‘Perhaps I should,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should indeed.’

  Dermot was lost in thought for a few moments, but then he jumped up off the throne and seemed to be immediately back in good spirits.

  ‘You should be delighted Mary Harney is stepping down,’ he said. ‘It will save a fortune on fuel. Maybe even enough to pay you lads back.’

  ‘How would that be possible, Dermot?’ I asked.

  ‘Mary had a sort of unspoken authority. We did things for her that we would not have contemplated for any other minister. Fuel was just one of them. We left the engines running on the government jet, the helicopters, her ministerial car. Anything we thought she might want to use. She had a habit of just turning up, wanting to go somewhere, and we would never keep her waiting.’

  ‘You kept a jet on the runway with its engines running?’

  ‘Yes, we did. Twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, for years and years. There was something about Mary,’ he said.

  As we left the Harney Room we ran into the Finance Minister with his aunt, who was holding him by the hand. ‘My nephew didn't get a double ministry,’ she said sharply to Dermot. ‘O'Cuiv has so many jobs he falls asleep trying to remember them and my nephew is still only the Minister for Finance,’ she hissed.

  ‘What are you talking about, Mammy?’ Dermot asked her.

  ‘Bloody Gormley wouldn't let Cowen appoint new ministers,’ she protested. ‘So he gave all the jobs to existing ministers. My Brian got nothing!’

  ‘Oh, that is disappointing, Mary, but don't worry,’ said Dermot brightly. ‘That gives us more time to focus on a leadership challenge, doesn't it?’

  The Minister for Finance just looked confused.

  SIX

  BUNGA BUNGA

  Ihad my longest ever conversation with Ajai on Skype a few days later. After he hung up I realised we had been talking for nearly four minutes. Naturally he wanted a briefing on the state of play with the Government and whether it would last long enough for the Finance Bill to be passed.

  ‘It's impossible to call at the moment,’ I said. ‘Lenihan wants to delay the election until March so the bill can be passed. He says it won't be possible to pass it before then.’

  ‘What about the opposition?’ Ajai asked.

  ‘They're threatening a vote of no confidence if the election isn't brought forward. They think the bill can be passed sooner.’

  ‘Where does Cowen stand on all this?’

  ‘To be honest I think he's stepped down in all but name,’ I said. ‘He's gone back to his constituency, supposedly to discuss his plans with his family.’

  ‘Supposedly?’

  ‘Well, the rumours are bad, Mr Chopra,’ I said.

  ‘Spit it out.’

  ‘People are saying that he hasn't been singing. The rumour is that he said he'd never sing again.’

  There was a silence as Ajai digested this information. ‘OK,’ he said finally, ‘so Mr Cowen is yesterday's man. What about the other fella? What's his name? Kenny.’

  ‘He seems to have been sent into hiding,’ I said. ‘His people are all gung ho, though. His finance guy, Michael Noonan, turns up on every news bulletin.’

  ‘Noonan,’ said Ajai. ‘Is that the creepy one?’

  ‘That's him. He's everywhere but there's no sign of Kenny.’

  ‘Makes sense. Kenny isn't the most impressive character.’

  ‘What about Dermot? How are you getting on with him? Is he buying into austerity for Ireland?’

  ‘He has no problems with austerity for Ireland,’ I assured Ajai, ‘as long as it doesn't mean austerity for Dermot. Other people's poverty doesn't bother him in any way.’

  ‘That's not entirely unreasonable,’ said Ajai. ‘Keep a tight leash on him. If we have some sort of control over him we have a chance of preventing the new government from doing anything stupid.’

  ‘OK, Mr Chopra,’ I said. ‘But if you rule out stupid you don't leave them much room to manouevre.’

  ‘Don't I know it!’ Ajai replied and hung up.

  The following morning, a Saturday, I was enjoying a lie-in when Dermot burst into the room. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We're going to work.’

  ‘It's Saturday, Dermot,’ I groaned.

  ‘I know what day it is,’ Dermot said. ‘The Taoiseach's driver just phoned me. Mr Cowen is going to announce he's standing down. We have to go to work now.’

  ‘Oh, right, of course,’ I said. ‘We'd better reassure the EU, the ECB and Ajai that everything is under control.’

  ‘Whatever,’ said Dermot. ‘They can figure that out for themselves. We have to make sure that Mr Lenihan secures the Fianna Fáil leadership.’

  ‘Whatever for? That's a party political matter. It has nothing to do with us.’

  Dermot was aghast. ‘Nothing to do with us? It would be a black day in the Department of Finance if a Minister for Foreign Affairs became Taoiseach. Even if it is only for a few days. They're not fit to run a country. They're not fit for anything other than handing out Ferrero Rocher. And my department pays for the Ferrero Rocher.’

  Dermot spent the morning writing a speech for the Minister, who had been persuaded by his aunt and Dermot to throw his hat in the ring for the leadership. Dermot worked feverishly, hunched over a page, deep in concentration. His seemingly intense efforts made it all the more surprising when I saw the product of his labours. There were four short lines.

  Strength of character

  Courage of my convictions

  Good communicator

  Inspirational leader

  ‘Is that it?’ I asked. ‘Has he nothing tangible to offer?’

  ‘Any more than that would leave him hopelessly confused,’ Dermot said. ‘Anyway, they're Lenihan buzzwords. As long as he says them with his trademark fervour, the parliamentary party will go mad for it.’

  The prospect of becoming leader of Fianna Fáil caused the Minister to question his relationship with Dermot. He told Dermot he didn't want him to stand beside him when he announced his candidacy. Dermot was very annoyed, having worked so hard on the Minister's speech. I think
that's why he booked the Banking Hall in the Westin Hotel for the press conference. Mr Lenihan didn't seem to notice the journalists sniggering at the choice of location. He didn't seem to notice them sniggering at the very idea of his candidacy either.

  ‘Minister,’ said one journalist snidely, ‘do you not think your candidacy will be compromised by your disastrous record in managing the banking crisis?’

  ‘I believe I have shown great strength of character and inspirational leadership in managing the banking crisis,’ Mr Lenihan replied.

  ‘Do you recall saying that the bailout would be the cheapest in the world?’ the journalist asked with a smug grin.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Mr Lenihan, ‘I acted on the best advice available to me. Sadly some of that advice turned out to be flawed.’

  The Minister stared pointedly at Dermot as he said this and I could see that Dermot could barely contain his anger. The sooner Ireland got a new government the better as there was no longer a functioning relationship between the Department of Finance and the Minister – not, I had to admit, that it had been functioning that well in the first place.

  Everyone at Government Buildings was preoccupied with the Fianna Fáil leadership contest. My requests for documents relating to departmental expenditure were ignored as the staff concentrated on inventing and spreading gossip via Twitter and Facebook. However, Liam and another clerical officer impressed me hugely with their discipline in the face of such distraction. They ignored all the fuss and worked non-stop, shredding documents.

  Meanwhile the opposition parties’ demand for an early election led to their finance spokespeople coming to the Department to meet with the Minister. They were insisting that the Finance Bill could be passed more speedily than Mr Lenihan had suggested. Of course Dermot was delighted to be hosting them and laid on canapés and drinks for them. He was disgusted, however, when they ignored his presence and his efforts and made straight for Mr Lenihan's office.

  ‘Ah, Ms Burton,’ Dermot said as the Labour spokeswoman passed him by, ‘you are very welcome to the Department of Finance. We are going to do our absolute best to see if we can formulate an actual policy for you and your excitable friends in the Labour Party.’

  Ms Burton was well able for him, however. ‘Honesty is the best policy, Mr Mulhearn,’ she said. ‘And I am honestly not about to listen to you. If only Mr Lenihan had done the same, the country might not be in the gutter.’

  As she spoke, she gripped Michael Noonan's elbow and brought him into the conversation.

  ‘I don't think there's any need for Dermot to attend this meeting, do you, Michael?’ she said.

  Mr Noonan walked over to Dermot and fixed him with beady eyes.

  ‘You remind me of a weasel,’ he said, ‘like Richard Bruton. Or perhaps ye are both snakes, without any backbone at all. I wouldn't attend the meeting if I were you. In fact, don't.’

  There is something quite fearsome about Mr Noonan, and Dermot, wisely I thought, kept his mouth shut for once. Mr Noonan then turned his attention to me.

  ‘So you're the IMF fella. You should come to the meeting. You can report back to Mr Chopra that a Fine Gael government will have an entirely different style of negotiating with him and his boyos.’

  I wasn't comfortable with the idea of attending the meeting, but I got the impression that I didn't have much choice in the matter. Dermot was absolutely livid. ‘What are they talking to Lenihan and you for? He doesn't know anything and you're only a blow-in,’ he exclaimed angrily before we went into the room without him.

  To be fair to Dermot, he had a point. The Minister seemed at a loss as to how to conduct the meeting without anyone to prompt him.

  ‘So, here we are ... yes ... well ... let me see ... would anyone like tea?’ he asked in an earnest tone.

  ‘Tea!’ said Ms Burton, as though he had offered her cocaine. ‘The economy is collapsing around our ears and the Minister for Finance is making tea!’

  ‘Milk and one sugar,‘ said Mr Noonan. ‘Calm down and have a cup of tea, Joan. This is going to be thirsty work.’

  There was an awkward few minutes of silence as Mr Lenihan waited for the kettle to boil and smiled inanely at us.

  ‘Would anyone like a biscuit?’ he said eventually. ‘I have Jammie Dodgers.’

  ‘Jammie Dodgers, is it?’ said a clearly disappointed Mr Noonan. ‘I suppose Rich Tea wouldn't be good enough for the likes of you.’

  We all declined the offer, but the minister put a few in his pocket and returned to the table with a pot of tea and four cups.

  Cup of tea in hand, Mr Noonan took charge of the meeting.

  ‘Now, Brian,’ he said, ‘we need to pass this bill quickly. The public wants an election to get rid of you feckers for once and for all.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Mr Lenihan.

  Just then there was a knock and Dermot stuck his head around the door.

  ‘I have an important note for the Minister,’ he said. He handed a Post-it note to Mr Lenihan, winked at me and left the room. I was sitting beside Mr Lenihan and I could see that it said, in Dermot's handwriting, that it would take three weeks to pass the Finance Bill. Mr Lenihan put the note in his pocket and gravely told the opposition politicians the position according to the note from Dermot.

  Just as Mr Noonan was about to respond, Dermot appeared again with another note. This one said it would take just ten days to pass the bill and Mr Lenihan dutifully relayed the new information. Clearly, Dermot was determined to exact revenge on Mr Lenihan for not standing up for him. Mr Noonan and Ms Burton raised their eyebrows and looked at each other. ‘Minister,’ Ms Burton began, but Dermot interrupted proceedings again and handed the Minister a third note. This one had just a smiley face drawn on it. Mr Lenihan read it, folded it, put it in his pocket and smiled at the increasingly irritated politicians across the table from him.

  Two awkward minutes later, Dermot handed the Minister a note with a sad face drawn on it. Mr Lenihan read it, folded it, put it in his pocket and frowned across the table. As though to demonstrate his capacity for cruelty, the last advice note Dermot gave the Minister was blank. Mr Lenihan looked desperately confused as he looked from the note to me and back to the note. Eventually he reached a decision as to what it meant. With a look of great deliberation on his face, Mr Lenihan folded the note, put it in his pocket and looked blankly around the room. The meeting ended with the Minister sitting at the table, sweating, and Dermot looking triumphantly superior as he showed the opposition politicians out. ‘Goodbye, Ms Burton,’ he said. ‘We will see you in due course, Mr Noonan.’

  At home later that evening, Dermot was still very put out by the lack of respect the opposition politicians had shown him.

  ‘It's all the media's fault,’ he said. ‘They are destroying the relationship between politicians and the civil service. Did you see that woman in the Guardian calling our competence into question? And Matt Cooper has been squeaking with indignation about us on the radio. Who is he to criticise us? He could create employment in this country by doing one job instead of three. But what does he do? He attacks poor civil servants who have no right to reply. He is trying to destroy something that has worked for generations.’

  ‘What's that?’ I asked.

  ‘Why the natural order of things of course,’ he said. ‘A politician doing what a civil servant tells him. They are destroying trust. If politicians can't trust civil servants, who can they trust? Certainly not themselves.’

  We were sitting on the couch watching a current affairs programme. The economist David McWilliams was explaining for the umpteenth time why Ireland should not bail out its banks. Dermot was more interested in the huge tub of Haagen Dazs ice cream he was nursing but he looked up when he heard McWilliams.

  ‘Look at him,’ he said scornfully. ‘See the wink, the faint pout and the casual lick of his hyper-glossed lips? He's the economist with the sun in his hair.’ Dermot spat the words out with incredible venom. ‘But he won't run for public office
,’ he seethed. ‘And he won't work in the Department of Finance. Oh no, he's a typical economist. All he wants is power without responsibility.’

  ‘You know,’ said Dermot, ‘I think I should run for election. It's about time a civil servant told the truth about these economists and politicians. The public have a right to hear the truth.’

  ‘Run? You can't run,’ I said. ‘You're needed where you are. You have to see through four years of austerity, if not more.’

  ‘I might run,’ Dermot said. ‘I just might. The Irish people might just be ready to hear the voice of reason. And they deserve strong leadership.’

  ‘Ajai wouldn't like it,’ I said. ‘He wouldn't have allowed the bailout if he didn't think you'd be there to make it succeed.’

  I was working on the principle that if you're going to lie you should lie big. It didn't work.

  ‘Well that's all very nice,’ said Dermot, ‘but I can't stand by while my people are cast into poverty just because Ajai wants me to. Anyway, this is bigger than Ajai. This is destiny. This is the opportunity to put the civil service at the heart of government. We could build an Ireland that will no longer tolerate gombeen politics. Civil servants, with their unquestionable integrity, will build a brave new Ireland based on the best bureaucratic principles.’

  And exorbitant expense accounts, ridiculous holiday entitlements and bonuses for doing nothing, I thought, but kept my mouth shut.

  Happily, Dermot didn't mention his political ambitions the next day. I was hopeful that it was just a passing fancy. While the country fretted over the state of the economy and whether or not it should default, Dermot was topping up his tan. Life went on as normal.

  I was able to tell Ajai that a deal had been done on passing the Finance Bill into law. All it took was a bit of international ridicule and a few platinum buttons on the jacket of Jackie Healy-Rae's statue. The election date was set for 25 February and Dermot was unusually reflective.