by Alan Judd
‘The point, Secretary of State,’ Angela said, emphasising his formal title, ‘is what the press will make of it when news that Charles is to be the new head of MI6 gets out. Cosy, incestuous Whitehall cronyism, that’s how they’ll see it. Which is what it is, of course.’ She sounded exasperated. ‘At the very least we should give the press desk a line to take.’
George shrugged. ‘Sure, they can have an LTT. It’ll be a nine-minute wonder.’
The lights came on, illuminating the paintings and panelling and casting homely inviting pools on the Foreign Secretary’s desk. Then they flickered and went off again. No-one remarked on it.
‘Part of my plan to drag the Foreign Office forwards and upwards towards a glorious past’ – George Greene waved at the nineteenth-century paintings of naval battles that had replaced his predecessor’s choice of Brit Art – ‘is that, along with restoring our linguistic and subject expertise, we should avoid openness as far as legislation permits. You can have openness or you can have government, but you cannot have open government. Not effective government, anyway. It is therefore my intention that the reconstituted secret service you are about to command, Charles – MI6 or whatever you want to rename it and note I say command, not manage – keeps mum, shtoom, says sod all in public. No chiefly interviews or speeches, no PR, no profile or social media presence or nonsense of that sort. The secret service will do its work in secret. Your name and head office will be announced, of course – that can’t be helped – but that’s about it. The same will go for GCHQ. What happens with MI5, I don’t know. That’s the Home Secretary’s business. Are you okay with that?’
Charles was.
‘The Intelligence Services Committee may have views,’ said Angela. ‘They will expect to be consulted, at the very least.’
‘They will be. I’ll tell them. Get the chairman in for a briefing.’
‘The chair is a woman, George. You’ve met her.’ Angela emphasised ‘chair’.
‘Chairwoman, then. Nothing wrong with that, is there – no shame in being a woman? Why hide it?’
George Greene grinned again. He enjoyed baiting Angela, or indeed anyone baitable, but his off-the-cuff comments masked a powerful and unresting intellect. As a young man he had not come across as obviously ambitious, Charles reflected, but he could not have got where he was without ambition. Assuming he still had it, there was only one place to go.
George turned to Charles again. ‘I know you were expecting this to be a selection interview rather than confirmation of appointment and I know you weren’t looking for the job, so it’s only reasonable that I should give you time to think about it despite the formality of my recent offer and your kind acceptance. Ten minutes? Two? You were always a cautious chap.’
‘I’ve thought.’
‘Good. Start on Monday. There’s a nice new office. Well, a new old office, different office, probably not to your taste. I haven’t seen it. Angela will tell you all about it. Any questions?’
The door opened and the private secrety said, ‘Secretary of State, the Israeli Ambassador is here.’
‘Wheel him in.’ George bounced up from the sofa and held out his hand. ‘Thank you, Charles. Look forward to working with you again.’ The lights flickered and he smiled at them both. ‘Good to have the old team back together, isn’t it? Funny how things turn out. Only one problem: no money. Angela will tell you all about that too.’ He pointed at the lights. ‘She’ll also tell you it’s part of your job to sort out these bloody power failures. And she’ll be right. Get that sorted and there’ll be coffee and biscuits next time.’
Angela walked briskly down the corridor without pausing to check that Charles was following.
‘You look cross,’ he said.
‘I am.’
‘What did he mean about me sorting out the power failures? I’m not exactly technical. Nor is the job, is it? I hope.’
‘I’ll brief you. Meanwhile, you should know that we went to no end of trouble to set up a proper appointments procedure for heads of the intelligence agencies, getting agreement from the Cabinet Office, the Home Office, the MOD, the Treasury, Number Ten, everyone. Everything was to be open and above board, posts advertised, candidates interviewed by the heads of major customer departments, two to be put up to the Foreign Secretary, one to go forward to the Prime Minister for approval. All transparent, rational and defensible.’ She paused while they passed two very short women pushing a trolley laden with old paper files. ‘You see what we’re having to do now, go back to paper because of all these power cuts? Hopeless. Anyway, then – heigh-ho – a cabinet reshuffle and a new secretary of state who says he doesn’t need any damn committee to tell him what he wants, picks up the telephone to you and says come in for a chat and it’s done, wham, bang, thank you, ma’am. Just like the old days, as if we’d never modernised at all.’
Charles knew all about George’s views. The call to his mobile had come that morning when he and Sarah were moving into their Westminster house. Charles was lingering in his old rooftop flat in the Boltons, mentally saying goodbye to the gardens and plane trees below as the removers struggled with boxes of books and the heavy oak desk his father had made. George Greene had been characteristically brisk.
‘Charles, it’s George Greene. Long time no speak. You’ve heard about my new job? Well, I’ve got one for you. Is this a good moment?’
‘No, I’m in the middle of moving house.’
‘You’ll have heard that we’re disbanding the Single Intelligence Agency and reverting to its original constituent parts, the three intelligence agencies as were. I want you to head your old bit, the MI6 bit. Smaller than it was, of course, money being what it is, but at least the chain of command and responsibility will make sense again. Daft idea to have the SIA answering to a single junior minister who knows sod all when all the fruits of its work – and all the dog-turds – land in the laps of the foreign and home secretaries. Typical of the last government. I’ve got Tim Corke to take over GCHQ. You know him? Good. Anyway, the officials here had set up some balls-aching appointments procedure for senior posts in the SIA which they fondly imagine we’re going to be using for the new heads of agency. Expect us to advertise the jobs and open them to anyone in the EU, if you’ve ever heard such crap. I’m ignoring it, of course. With the Prime Minister’s support. Come in and have a chat later today, unless you want to say yea or nay now.’
‘I can’t. I’m in the middle of moving house.’
‘Two minutes. This afternoon will do. Just two, I promise.’
Angela stopped in her outer office to say something about the permanent secretaries’ meeting, waving Charles on. Her office was about the size of the Foreign Secretary’s but lacked his double aspect. There were three paintings, one of a life-like turnip, one a green-and-white-striped rectangle and the other a medley of muddy colours with a single pinpoint of white just off-centre.
‘My predecessor’s choices,’ she said, closing the door. ‘I suppose I should find time to change them. It was the first thing George did, of course, on his first morning. He chose sea battles against the French and Spanish as – quote – reminders for Johnny Foreigner – unquote. His very words. Hardly communautaire for a foreign secretary.’ She dumped an armful of files and papers on the desk. Even as a young second secretary in Vienna she was always hurried, as if everything she dealt with was by definition important and urgent. Presumably it was, now. For a moment, however, the determined busyness of her expression softened into lined weariness. She looked older.
‘One damn thing after another,’ said Charles. ‘Life, that is. According to the Duke of Wellington. Surprised George hasn’t used it.’
‘He will if he hears it.’ She looked down and jabbed her keyboard but the screen remained blank. ‘So much for the paperless office.’
‘The lights are back on. Why isn’t it working?’
‘There’s more to it than that. You’ll hear soon enough. I won’t go into it now.’ She sat, indicatin
g a chair to Charles. ‘I’ve got the perm secs’ weekly meeting in ten minutes. What began as an informal update, exchange of views, KIT – which is what we now have to call keeping in touch – and coffee, has grown into something with an agenda that has to be minuted. It’s becoming a bureaucracy. Next we know it’ll be a department.’ She yawned. ‘Sorry, Charles. I’ve been trying to sort out my ailing mother, get her into a decent home. If there are any. Keeps me up half the night and awake the other half. Of course, it’s not clear whether you’ll be there or not.’
‘Not yet, I hope.’
She smiled wearily. ‘Perm secs’, I mean. No-one’s even thought about your grading. Your predecessor was grade 1, like the others, but the SIA was much bigger than your MI6 slice of it will be. You can come if you’re 1a but there are no 2s there. Don’t know whether there are any precedents. I’ll have to ask the Cabinet Secretary. Congratulations on your marriage, by the way. I’m not sure I ever met your wife when she – when she was—’
‘Married to Nigel Measures. Possibly not. They kept their professional lives quite separate. Her name’s Sarah.’
‘Bad business about Nigel’s treachery and attempted cover-up. Can’t say I ever took to him, frankly, but he was able. She is your first wife – you weren’t married before?’
‘No, a late marriage. Hope for us all.’
She looked down again with the slightest shake of her head. When she looked up her expression had resumed seriousness and purpose. ‘There are various things to sort out. I take it your vetting’s up to date?’
‘It will have lapsed after I was kicked out of the SIA.’
‘Of course, Nigel had you arrested, didn’t he? Evil man. But the vetting can be quickly reinstated. I’ll get someone on to it.’ She made a note. ‘And there are briefings, of course. You’ll be briefed by your own board, which is already in place’ – she did not look at him as she said that – ‘and you should arrange early sessions with your main customer departments – MOD, Home Office, Treasury, Cabinet Office, the Bank – us, of course. And various others. Also there’s a meeting starting in two hours which you should come to. I won’t say any more about it now, it’s – well, we’re all sworn to secrecy. I’d better let the Chair indoctrinate you. Meet me outside the Cabinet Office and I’ll get you through security. You don’t have any passes now, do you? Finally, there’s your head office – Rosewood House, part of the old Home Office empire in Croydon.’
‘Croydon?’
‘Money’s tighter than ever and with so much of the Whitehall estate sold off and somewhere needed quickly it was a case of grab it while we could, I’m afraid. Nowhere else on offer within the M25.’ She looked as if she was suppressing a smile, just.
‘But we’ll spend half our lives on the train, coming up to see people. No-one will come to see us.’
‘Well, you are supposed to be a secret service, aren’t you?’
‘What about the former SIA building in Victoria Street? A few floors would do.’
‘Sold to Gulf developers. Luxury apartments. Plus affordable housing, of course.’
‘Where are MI5 and GCHQ?’
‘MI5 are returning to their old home in Thames House on the Embankment and GCHQ remain in Cheltenham but they’re getting a new London office as well, somewhere in Curzon Street. I dare say if MI6 had had a chief in place during the negotiations you might not have ended up in Croydon, but they didn’t and you have. You could always turn the job down, of course.’
Charles crossed Parliament Square in bright cool sunshine, cutting through Dean’s Yard into the quiet streets behind the Abbey. With a pleasing sense of novelty, he unlocked the door of the small terraced house – the smallest in the street – and picked his way between the packing cases and haphazardly placed furniture. Most of it had been moved in only the day before but already there was crockery on the shelves, food in the fridge, there were clothes in the wardrobe, flowers on the kitchen table and a platoon of pot plants in the tiny back garden. It was different, being married.
He texted Sarah, who had been called into work that afternoon. City lawyers, Charles was learning, were never off duty. He told her the job was agreed, which would please her, and added a moan about Croydon. She texted congratulations, had a client just arriving, would speak later. He had just put the kettle on when Angela rang: the Cabinet Office meeting had been brought forward, could he come now. He set off back through Dean’s Yard, where the trees had lost nearly all their leaves but the grass was strikingly green. Already it felt good to be back in harness, to be wanted again. Except for Croydon.
2
Sarah was in her office off the Blackfriars Road, billing clients. Hitherto a task for a secretary or clerk, billing was now complicated and multinational, even for part-time solicitors who did only private client work. And now, for no reason she could discover, a whole tranche of bills suddenly had to be done by yesterday. She had not responded to Charles’s moan about Croydon, partly because she had a new client arriving but partly too because she didn’t want to betray irritation. He had only one thing to do that afternoon, so far as she was concerned: meet the Foreign Secretary and get himself appointed. Well, he had got the job, a great thing after finding himself on the scrapheap or worse, yet all he had to say about it was that he didn’t like Croydon. Now, lucky man, he could spend the rest of the day arranging things in the new house.
She wished she had the leisure to do that. The moment they had walked into the little house, she had felt it was one she could love. Snug, charming, secure, in a quiet, almost private, street, it was within walking distance of nearly everything they wanted in London. But instead of having a delicious few days to potter and domesticate, she had to return to the office and get all the wretched bills out while catching up on other business and handling their own conveyancing. She also had to complete the agreement on the Sussex cottage they were renting, an absurd extravagance given that they had between them an embarrassment of properties, each with an unsold country place on the market. It was too late to get out of the agreement now but she was determined they must not renew it unless their other properties were sold. Secretly, she was glad she still owned her Cotswold house and suspected Charles felt the same about his Scottish eyrie. So far, it was a conversation they had avoided.
Naturally, the conveyancing took longer than it should have, with the Land Registry seemingly in chronic decline. They blamed their computers, of course, perhaps this time with more justification than usual. Now, on top of the move, the conveyancing and the clients’ accounts, she had to see a woman whom one of the partners had wished upon her as ‘a potentially significant private client opportunity’. Charles, meanwhile, who only ever seemed to do one thing at a time, appeared blithely unaware of how much she was doing. That was really why she had shown no sympathy over Croydon.
Her secretary buzzed to say that the client opportunity had arrived. Sarah looked again at the name, Katya Chester. It was faintly familiar, associated with Charles, with something he’d said. She checked herself in her mirror and waited.
Katya Chester was tall, blonde and beautiful, with high Slavic cheekbones, green cat’s eyes and pouting lips. She was expensively dressed in a light grey suit, the jacket tailored. Her white blouse, open at the neck, revealed a large sapphire surrounded by diamonds on a gold chain, with matching earrings. She wore no wedding ring but had a diamond band on her wedding finger. Her handbag was expensive, probably Mulberry. She looked in her late twenties, possibly thirty, the sort of woman whose entry anywhere was an immediate provocation to her sex. When they shook hands her American celebrity smile showed a too-perfect set of too-white teeth.
‘It is very good of you to see me. I know how busy you must be but I hope I shall not waste your time.’
It was an educated foreigner’s English, careful, precise and overlaid by an American accent. She declined coffee, disappointing Sarah who had delayed her second cup in anticipation, and sat with a crossing of her elegant legs and susurr
ation of tights. It was bad luck for Ms Chester, thought Sarah, that she wasn’t received by a man.
‘I am buying a house, a house in Belgravia. Just a small house, not extravagant. I should be very grateful if you would handle the conveyancing for me. I also have a friend who is very rich and who wishes to buy other properties in London and who will need a good lawyer. I should like to introduce you to my friend.’ Her introductory paragraph ended with a wide smile.
Sarah opened her notebook. ‘That’s very kind of you but so far I have only your name and work telephone number.’ It was a 219 area code, which she remembered from Nigel’s political contacts included the houses of parliament.
Katya Chester was happily forthcoming. The house was perfect for someone like her, an American citizen on her own in London where it was necessary to be so careful. Belgravia was a nice area. The house needed improvement, of course, but that was to be expected. There were so many beautiful old houses in England, not only in London, but there was always a price to pay for charm. Fortunately, she was able to pay it. Another smile. She was a cash buyer, her husband, Mr Chester, having left her with more than enough money for her modest needs. Fortunately, too, she had an interesting job working for a member of parliament, a perfect sequel to her postgraduate studies in politics at university in New York. The MP she worked for was a very good MP, quite well-known, Jeremy Wheeler. His constituency was in Sussex – Sarah knew him, perhaps?
Sarah knew him; he had worked for her late husband and was the owner, she had discovered only that day, of the Sussex cottage they were about to rent. Charles, who had served with him in MI6, would be horrified. But she wondered why Katya Chester should associate her with Sussex. She had only been there once, to see the cottage. And she worked under her maiden name, Bourne, not as Mrs Thoroughgood.
