by Peter Watson
‘Ready?’ Molyneux whispered. For reply a stick was handed to him, one end wrapped in rag. The smell gave away the fact that the rag was soaked in petrol. They had to move quickly now, before their handiwork could evaporate into the night sky.
He ran again to the office building, holding the stick. He took a lighter from his pocket and flicked it. It flared and went out in the breeze. Damn. He tried again. The lighter flared and went out once more. He tried a third time, getting nervous. This time the rag caught and burst into flame. Quickly he laid it against a wooden wall he had well doused and which still reeked of petrol. Then he ran.
The other man was waiting. As soon as he had seen Molyneux’s stick in flames he had lit his own. He stood now, as Molyneux ran past him to the gate, then tossed his torch into a pile of narrow wooden timbers which had been fully soaked in petrol. Then he too ran.
Out through the gate, they pulled the socks from their shoes. Then away. The others had already vanished.
The flames caught immediately on the timber. The offices, which were made from harder wood, took a little longer. The paintwork caught first, then the wood underneath began to smoulder. In three minutes the fire had taken hold and the first orange-white fingers of flame began to poke above the walls of the yard. In six minutes the fire was out of control. It was another three minutes before a milkman on his way to work spotted the glow. It took him two more minutes to find a phone and another six for the first fire engine to arrive.
By then it was too late to save anything. And by then Michael Molyneux and the others were a long way from Foley’s.
‘… Hans Holbein did charity work. Lorenzo Lotto and Vincenzo Catena left money in their wills for the sons of poor painters. Veronese helped out his friend Schiavone, even the great Titian himself tried to get work put in the way of his friend, the architect Sansovino. Hogarth was a governor of the Foundling Hospital in London. I therefore conclude, Mr President, that painters and other artists have historically been as concerned with the relief of suffering and the alleviation of poverty as any group of people. And so I can see nothing odd, nothing unusual, nothing unpalatable in Her Majesty’s desire to sell some of her collection in order to help the world’s poor. In fact, quite the contrary. I believe this is as noble a purpose for art as the original impulse which created these works. Mr President, I beg to oppose.’
With a flourish, David picked his notes from the wooden box in front of him, and flopped back on the bench behind. Lusty applause broke out all around, spiced with cries of ‘Shame’.
He had been in two minds whether to accept the invitation to take part in this debate. Ever since the 1930s when the undergraduates had voted not to fight for king and country, the Oxford Union Debating Society had attracted more than its fair share of publicity. It was, without doubt, a curious institution. A small room crowded with young men and women, clever above everything else, all tucked up in white tie and tails, who—when they had the floor—were as pompous as they were self-confident, as wet as they were witty. And yet it was undeniable that, over the years, the undergraduates who held office in the Union very often went on to become prominent politicians or government officers. The Union, despite its anachronisms, despite its ridiculous rituals, or perhaps because of them, still retained its appeal.
The motion this evening was: ‘This House believes that the Royal Collection should remain royal.’ David had found himself in a dilemma when the invitation had arrived and not a little irritated. On the one hand he was drawn to the debate. But he was also irritated, because the debate’s choice of motion showed that, as he had feared, the indignation felt by some people at the Queen’s sale would just not go away.
David was opposing the motion, of course, with Sir Edgar Seton. Proposing was Walter Haffner, of Cambridge, one of the three professors who had originally written to The Times, and Euan Metcalfe, a Tory backbencher who was widely regarded as voicing the Prime Minister’s views. Metcalfe was an art dealer as well as an MP.
The professor had opened the debate and, though a university man himself, he clearly had no experience of the Oxford Union for his contribution was too earnest, too pedantic, too moral in tone. Oxford wanted its erudition heavily larded with wit. On the other hand Seton had been an even worse disaster. His jokes had been feeble and he had hectored the audience, claiming in so many words that the Queen could do as she pleased and the sale was no one else’s business. He had offered no intellectual arguments, had not treated the national heritage issue, and had made no one laugh.
Metcalfe was different again, and a great success. He was clearly a professional. He had a fund of stories, largely irrelevant to the debate but very funny, and had even David helpless with laughter at one point. Metcalfe also felt very strongly on the issue and this came across. He had the sense, however, to wrap his feeling in a simple—but forceful—argument, concentrating by way of demonstration on just one of the pictures in the royal sale, a Claude which had arrived in Britain after being seized when an eighteenth-century French warship sailing from Italy to France was intercepted and captured. The captain of the vessel had given the Claude to his monarch, Metcalfe said. ‘But we should not forget that the captain himself was paid in part out of public taxes,’ he went on. ‘It was public taxes that helped capture the Claude, so we all own a little piece of it. Indeed,’ said Metcalfe, ‘if the Claude were to fetch say five million pounds at the sale, which would not be unusual these days, then I suggest that, with fifty-seven million people in Britain today, we each have about a ninepenny share in the Claude. And I can tell this house,’ he wound up amid smiles, ‘I want to keep my ninepence right here in Britain.’
His was a hard act to follow but David had some experience of appearing in public. He was an auctioneer, after all, and it was as an auction that he treated the debate. Metcalfe had left his notes on the box which acted as a lectern at the union. David leaned across picked them up and held them aloft. With his other hand he reached into the pocket of his dress trousers and, with a deliberate flourish, took from it his gavel. A cheer went up.
‘What!’ he shouted above the cheers, ‘What am I bid for this manuscript? I can’t claim it’s in good condition. The jokes are medieval, the sentiments are Victorian, the paper is cheap but you would only expect that from its previous owner.’ They were at least laughing, Metcalfe included. ‘Do I hear a sou? A sequin, an ecu, a scudo?’
‘How about a sovereign?’
It was Metcalfe, his quickness earning him further applause.
‘Bought in!’ David yelled above the laughter, dropping the papers on the lectern in front of him. At least he had shown that his side had a sense of humour. From then on he had their attention. He made no other attempt to be as funny as Metcalfe, but he kept his argument light. His main thesis had been provided by Bess, it was an account of the plans of earlier Popes to sell off the Vatican treasures and why they hadn’t succeeded. His aim was to show that throughout history conservative forces in matters of art were as narrow-minded as the Queen’s critics were now being.
It was fun, the speech went over well, and he sat now, chatting to Metcalfe, as the votes were counted. David wanted to win this vote. He knew the union was a small place and unimportant. He knew that the debate was judged strictly on the merits of the arguments, not on the audience’s own convictions and thus its result would be no gauge of public feeling. Even so, he wanted to win. His attention wandered from what Metcalfe was saying. He had never imagined Seton would speak so badly. Strange.
The union president got to his feet. He was a small, rather chubby man, already going bald though he was barely twenty-two. But he had a big voice, which he clearly liked the sound of. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he barked. ‘I will remind you of the motion: That this House believes the Royal Collection should remain royal. And the result is: for the Ayes—112; for the Noes—103.’
David’s heart sank. They had lost.
The first inkling David had that the Dead Sea Scrolls sale migh
t present real problems came when he received a visit, in London, from the CIA officer attached to the American Embassy in Grosvenor Square. To begin with the man seemed interested in the exact route which the scrolls were taking on their journey from Jerusalem to New York. Given the scrolls’ religious importance, the CIA believed it was at least possible that one or other terrorist group would try to hijack them. But then the conversation moved on to three employees of Hamilton’s who the man clearly regarded as security risks. One was an Iranian, another was a young French woman who had been born in the Lebanon and the third was an American girl with an Egyptian boyfriend. David knew little of his staff’s private lives, but he resisted the CIA man’s suggestion that these three individuals be put on other duties, away from the Manhattan offices, until the sale was over. Apart from the fact that there was really nowhere he could send them, he refused to believe any of them was a security risk.
‘But that makes no sense, Mr Colwyn. If seemingly innocent people were not occasionally more than they seemed, there would be no such thing as terrorism.’
‘Yes, I understand. But these are people who have worked here for years. They’ve been trusted before and they can be trusted now.’
‘Can they? Have you ever sold anything of this religious significance before?’
‘No, but—’
‘That’s my point. These scrolls are so important—forget the monetary value for a moment—that the situation is unique. If a terrorist group got their hands on them their bargaining power would be unique also.’
David saw the American’s point. He promised he would think carefully about the people concerned but he would like firm evidence that, besides having Middle East connections, they were actually involved with illegal groups. He owed them that, at least.
The CIA man promised that as soon as they discovered anything concrete, David would be the first to know.
After he had gone, David felt uneasy. He could do without trouble over this Israeli auction. The royal sale was being difficult enough. The debate at the Oxford Union had received more publicity than he’d expected and Haffner, the Cambridge don, had written again to The Times. The issue simply refused to go away.
The government, too, was still putting pressure on Hamilton’s. When, in an unprecedented move, the Victoria & Albert Museum had decided to ‘de-access’—ie sell off—some of the less distinguished pieces which it kept out of sight in its basement, once again the business had gone to Steele’s. Even though these pieces were less distinguished in a museum sense, they still included some very fine works of art—paintings, furniture, Far Eastern jewellery and sculpture. Art worth millions. It was a blow to Hamilton’s prestige that the firm could ill afford.
On the other hand, the long queues outside the Queen’s gallery in Buckingham Palace Road testified to the popularity, among ordinary people, of Her Majesty’s decision. Thousands went to the gallery every day and paid two pounds to see the works on display. No figures had yet been released but David reckoned the money raised had to be significant. He hoped the palace would announce the figures soon: in his view the sale could do with some good publicity.
In the meantime Ned, thank God, seemed to be pulling round really well. His metalwork designs were very promising. David had looked through them when they had got back from the trip to the gold mine in Wales. They ranged from jugs to medals, from cuff links to brooches, from nut crackers to bells, and included a brooch based on Bess’s name in convoluted filigree. Because of the cost of working in solid gold, David had said Ned must start by learning the techniques for laying on gold leaf. In any case, that was something that could be done at school—he could decorate woodwork, leatherwork and pottery produced in the school’s workshops. Ned had been delighted and the pair had a date to visit together a forthcoming exhibition of gilt bookbindings at the British Museum. And, in addition, Tony Wilde was talking about terminating Ned’s treatment.
David’s meeting with the CIA was followed within a week by one with a man who said he was from the Israeli Embassy in London, though David suspected he was from Mossad, the Israeli security service. ‘I see from your confidential report to our government,’ the Israeli said, ‘that you expect the sale of the scrolls to fetch anything from ten million dollars to fifty million dollars. Can’t you be more specific?’
‘No. I’m sorry. Even those figures are guesses. With the Raphaels and Titians we sold for His Holiness we at least had something to go on—masterpieces we had auctioned earlier on. But nothing of this age and religious significance has ever come on to the market before.’
The Israeli shrugged. ‘The CIA, as I believe you know, are worried that one or other of the terrorist groups might try to steal these scrolls. That’s not our worry. Our worry is that Orthodox Jews, militant right-wingers, will intervene in the sale. They oppose the disposal of any part of Israel’s heritage. They didn’t fight for 2,000 years to get Israel back, they say, just to sell off bits now. And there are a lot of Jews in New York, Mr Colwyn. Many of them are orthodox and some of them can be very tough. I’m here to tell you that I think we can contain them. But—and this is an important “but”—it will be of great benefit to the Israeli government if we can announce very soon what we are going to do with the money. That will take the wind out of the orthodox sails, so to speak. Now, if you were able, as with His Holiness the Pope, to advance us some of the money beforehand you would be doing us all a very great favour.’
David had foreseen this. Indeed, he was a little surprised the Israelis hadn’t asked for cash up-front before now.
‘I will do what I can,’ he said. ‘But quite frankly this particular market is so uncertain that one of the possibilities we have to consider is that the auction receives no bids at all. Personally I don’t for a minute believe that will happen. Nevertheless, the Pope’s sales have involved known commodities for which there was a known demand. The sale of the Dead Sea Scrolls involves neither. Even if I can get an advance through my board, I doubt whether it would be more than five million dollars. That’s a lot of money for a manuscript but it’s not that much in political terms. I wonder if the social programmes you could put into effect with that amount of money would really steal the thunder of determined Orthodox Jews.’
‘Clearly put,’ said the man from the embassy. ‘But my government’s instructions are clear, too. We must ask for an advance before the sale. I repeat: your main problem will come from Orthodox Jews and, in my government’s judgement, an advance sum will help defuse that opposition.’
The board meeting which considered the Israeli request was very stormy. Probably, David reflected afterwards, he had mishandled it. He opened the discussion, describing his visit from the CIA and from the Israeli embassy. He put the arguments of the Israeli government and explained his own views. As soon as he had finished Sam Averne weighed in. He was ferociously against giving the Israelis any advance money at all. He used David’s own arguments, and, reversing what he had said at earlier board meetings, threw in a reason of his own: ‘Anyway, we are old-fashioned auctioneers, not bankers.’
David had a shrewd idea that Averne was motivated, among other things, by old-fashioned anti-Semitism but he couldn’t say so.
What Averne’s fierce attack did do, however, was to make it appear that Averne and David were on different sides. In fact David had simply put both sides of the argument fairly to the board but, by opposing the advance to the Israelis so strongly, Averne made it seem as if David was equally strongly in favour. So, when it came to a vote at the end of the discussion, and the board decided that it would not advance any money at all to the Israeli government, the impression to everyone present was that, for the first time, David Colwyn had lost a vote to Sam Averne.
The Israeli at the embassy was phlegmatic when David called him to tell him the bad news. ‘Well, Mr Colwyn, we shall have to do what we can to make sure the sale goes off well. All I can say is that by this decision you people have made my job harder. A lot harder.’
Behind the car several hundred mourners stretched back, their numbers swollen by the sense of outrage sparked the night before by a report in the Belfast Telegraph. The article had stated that Kelleher’s death had not been accidental. According to a confidential report prepared by the fire brigade the fire at Foley’s had been arson. Worse, again according to the Telegraph, it was rumoured that the fire had been started by Protestant rivals of Foley’s in the construction business. They hadn’t meant to kill Kelleher, it was said, because they didn’t know he was there. But he was dead all the same. Catholic firms in Ulster had been having it good lately, thanks to the low interest loans they enjoyed as a result of the St Patrick’s Fund money, and the Protestant firms were obviously hurting.
The driver turned the wheel and the car swung into St Brendan’s cemetery. Kelleher’s widow and relatives had only learned about the arson theory the day before, so there had been no chance to change the church which was obviously now going to be far too small for the crowd that had turned out. In no time it was full, with a hundred more outside.
The service was short and the sermon was not especially fiery or sentimental, at least not by Belfast standards. Nor was the priest particularly political. Afterwards, however, when the coffin was carried outside to the grave, the mourners noticed three men in long raincoats and dark glasses slip through the mass of people and position themselves on either side of the slit in the earth. Kelleher’s widow, a small dark woman with a pinched, angry mouth, stood at one end of the grave flanked by her grown-up children. As the coffin was lowered into the ground and the priest’s voice was the only sound, each of the men in raincoats donned a black beret. The coffin reached the bottom and was laid gently on the soil. From under their coats the three men took pistols. Kelleher, in view of recent events, was to be awarded a military funeral, IRA-style.
