Cometh the Hour

by Jeffrey Archer

  “But what can I possibly tell them that you can’t, Griff? Let’s face it, you were organizing elections when I was still in short trousers.”

  “But not as the candidate, that’s a unique experience. So will you accompany him—”

  “Or her—” said Giles, smiling.

  “—or even her,” said Griff, “when they’re out walking the streets and canvassing the estates?”

  “If you think it will help, I’ll make myself available whenever you want me.”

  “It could make the difference between just winning, and securing a large enough majority to make it tough for the Tories to overturn at the next election.”

  “My God, the Labour Party’s lucky to have you,” said Giles. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”

  “Thank you,” said Griff. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. Truth is, I’ve always been a cynic. Goes with the territory, I suppose. So let’s hope I’m wrong this time. Mind you, I’ve never gone much on fairy tales. So if you do change your mind about standing, I can hold off appointing a selection committee for at least a couple of weeks.”

  “Won’t you ever give up?”

  “Not while there’s the slightest chance of you being the candidate.”

  * * *

  As Giles sat alone in the first-class carriage on the way to Truro, he thought carefully about what Griff had said. Was he sacrificing his whole political career for a woman who might not even have given him a second thought since Berlin? Had he allowed his imagination to override his common sense? And if he did meet Karin again, would the bubble burst?

  There was also the possibility—the strong possibility, which he tried to push to the back of his mind—that Karin had been no more than a Stasi plant, simply doing her job, proving that his veteran agent was not a cynic, but simply a realist. By the time the Penzance Flyer pulled into Truro station just after six, Giles was none the wiser.

  He took a taxi to the Mason’s Arms, where he had agreed to meet John Pengelly later that evening. Once he had signed the register, he climbed the stairs to his room and unpacked his overnight bag. He had a bath, changed his clothes and went down to the bar a few minutes before seven, as he didn’t want to keep Karin’s father waiting.

  As Giles walked into the bar, he spotted a man seated at a corner table, at whom he wouldn’t have taken a second look had he not immediately stood and waved.

  Giles strode across to join him and shook his outstretched hand. No introduction was necessary.

  “Let me get you a drink, Sir Giles,” said John Pengelly, with an unmistakable West Country burr. “The local bitter’s not half bad, or you might prefer a whisky.”

  “A half of bitter will be just fine,” said Giles, taking a seat at the small, beer-stained table.

  While Karin’s father was ordering the drinks, Giles took a closer look at him. He must have been around fifty, perhaps fifty-five, although his hair had already turned gray. His Harris Tweed jacket was well worn, but still fitted perfectly, suggesting he hadn’t put on more than a few pounds since his army days, and probably exercised regularly. Although he appeared reserved, even diffident, he clearly wasn’t a stranger to these parts, because one of the locals seated at the bar hailed him as if he were a long-lost brother. How cruel that he had to live alone, thought Giles, with his wife and daughter unable to join him, for no other reason than that they were on the wrong side of a wall.

  Pengelly returned a few moments later carrying two half-pints, one of which he placed on the table in front of Giles. “It was kind of you to make such a long journey, sir. I only hope you’ll feel it’s been worthwhile.”

  “Please call me Giles, as I hope we’ll not only be friends, but that we’ll be able to help each other’s causes.”

  “When you’re an old soldier—”

  “Not so old,” said Giles, taking a sip of his beer. “Don’t forget we both served in the last war,” he added, trying to put him at ease. “But tell me, how did you first meet your wife?”

  “It was after the war when I was stationed with the British forces in Berlin. I was a corporal in the supply depot where Greta was a stacker. The only work she could get. It must have been love at first sight, because she couldn’t speak a word of English, and I couldn’t speak any German.” Giles smiled. “Bright though. She picked up my language much quicker than I got the hang of hers. Of course, I knew from the start that it wasn’t going to be plain sailing. Not least because my mates thought any Kraut skirt was only good for one thing, but Greta wasn’t like that. By the time my tour of duty came to an end, I knew I wanted to marry her, whatever the consequences. That’s when my problems began. A leg over behind the Naafi canteen is one thing, but wanting to marry one of them was considered nothing less than fraternization, when neither side would trust you.

  “When I told the orderly officer that I intended to marry Greta, even if it meant I had to stay in Berlin, they put every possible obstacle in my path. Within days I was handed my demob papers and told I would be shipped out within a week. I became desperate, even considered deserting, which would have meant years in the glasshouse if they’d caught me. And then a barrack room lawyer informed me they couldn’t stop me marrying Greta if she was pregnant. So that’s what I told them.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Giles.

  “All hell broke loose. My discharge papers arrived a few days later. Greta lost her job, and I couldn’t find any work. It didn’t help that a few weeks later she really was pregnant, with Karin.”

  “I want to hear all about Karin, but not before I’ve ordered another round.” Giles picked up the two empty glasses and made his way over to the bar. “Same again please, but make them pints this time.”

  Pengelly took a long draft before he continued with his story. “Karin made all the sacrifices bearable, even the suspicion and ridicule we’d both had to endure. If I adored Greta, I worshipped Karin. It must have been about a year later that my old duty officer at the depot asked me to fill in for someone who was on sick leave—time is a great healer—and I was invited to act as a civilian liaison officer between the British and German workers, because by then, thanks to Greta, my German was pretty fluent. The British have many fine qualities, but they’re lazy when it comes to learning someone else’s language, so I quickly made myself indispensable. The pay wasn’t great, but I spent every spare penny on Karin, and every spare moment with her. And like all women, she knew I was a sucker for a cuddle. It may be a cliché, but she had me wound around her little finger.”

  Me too, thought Giles, taking another sip of his beer.

  “To my delight,” said Pengelly, “the English school in Berlin allowed Karin to sit the entrance exam, and a few weeks later she was offered a place. Everyone assumed she was English. Even had my Cornish accent, as you may have noticed. So from then on, I never had to worry about her education. In fact, when she reached sixth form, there was even talk of her going to Oxford, but that was before the wall went up. Once that monstrosity had been erected, Karin had to settle for a place at the East German School of Languages, which frankly is nothing more than a Stasi recruitment center. The only surprise came when she chose to study Russian as her first language, but by then her English and German were already degree standard.

  “When Karin graduated, the only serious offer she got as an interpreter came from the Stasi. It was them or be out of work, so she didn’t have much choice. Whenever she wrote she would say how much she enjoyed her work, especially the international conferences. It gave her the opportunity to meet so many interesting people from all four sectors of the city. In fact, two Americans and one West German proposed to her, but she told Greta that it wasn’t until she met you that she’d fallen in love. It amused her that you had picked up her accent straight away, although she’s never been outside Berlin.”

  Giles smiled as he recalled the exchange.

  “Despite several attempts to return to my family, the East German authorities won’t let me back, e
ven though Greta has recently become seriously ill. I think they distrust me even more than the British.”

  “I’ll do everything I can to help,” said Giles.

  “Karin writes regularly, but only a few of her letters get through. One that did said she’d met someone special but that it was a disaster because, not only was he married, he was English, and had only been in Berlin for a few days. And worst of all, she wasn’t even sure if he felt the same way as she did.”

  “How wrong she was,” said Giles softly.

  “She didn’t mention your name, of course, or why you were visiting the Russian sector, because she was only too aware that the authorities would be reading her letters. It wasn’t until you contacted me that I realized it must be you she’d been writing about.”

  “But how did Alex Fisher become involved?”

  “A few days after you’d resigned as a minister, he turned up in Truro unannounced. Once he’d tracked me down, he told me that you had publicly disowned Karin, implying that she was either a prostitute or a Stasi spy, and you’d made it clear to the Whips’ Office that you had no interest in ever seeing her again.”

  “But I tried desperately to contact her, I even traveled to Berlin, but I was turned back at the border.”

  “I know that now, but at the time…”

  “Yes,” sighed Giles, “Fisher could be very persuasive.”

  “Especially when he’s a major, and you’re just a two-stripe corporal,” said Pengelly. “Of course, I followed every day of Mrs. Clifton’s libel trial in the papers, and like everyone else, I read the letter Fisher wrote before committing suicide. If it would help, I’d be happy to tell anyone there was no truth in it.”

  “That’s good of you, John, although I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

  “But I heard on the radio only yesterday, Sir Giles, that you were still thinking about standing in the Bristol by-election.”

  “Not any more. I’ve withdrawn my name. I can’t think of doing anything until I’ve seen Karin again.”

  “Of course, as her father I think she’s worth it, but it’s still one hell of a sacrifice.”

  “You’re worse than my agent,” said Giles, laughing for the first time. He took a sip of beer and they sat in silence for some time, before he asked, “Is Karin really pregnant?”

  “No, she’s not. Which made me realize that everything else Fisher had said about you was a pack of lies, and his only interest was revenge.”

  “I wish she were pregnant,” said Giles quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Because it would be far easier to get her out.”

  “Last orders, gentlemen.”

  9

  “WHAT A FUNNY old game politics is,” said Giles. “I’m marooned in the wilderness, while you’re the West German foreign minister.”

  “But our positions could be reversed overnight,” said Walter Scheel, “as you know only too well.”

  “That would take some change of fortune for me, as I’m not even standing in the by-election and my party isn’t in power.”

  “But why aren’t you standing?” said Walter. “Even with my rudimentary knowledge of your parliamentary system, it looks as if Labour is certain to win back your old seat.”

  “That might well be so, but the local party has already selected a capable young candidate called Robert Fielding to take my place. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with all the enthusiasm of a recently appointed school prefect.”

  “Just like you used to be.”

  “And still am, if the truth be known.”

  “Then why did you decide not to stand?”

  “It’s a long story, Walter. In fact, it’s the reason I wanted to see you.”

  “Let’s order first,” said Walter, opening the menu. “Then you can take your time telling me why you could possibly need the assistance of a West German foreign minister.” He began to peruse the fare. “Ah, the dish of the day is roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. My favorite,” he whispered. “But don’t tell any of your countrymen, or mine for that matter, or my guilty secret will be out. So what’s your guilty secret?”

  By the time Giles had fully briefed his old friend about Karin and his failure to be allowed back into East Germany, they were both enjoying a coffee.

  “And you say she was the young woman who was in your hotel room when we had that private meeting?”

  “You remember her?”

  “I certainly do,” said Walter. “She’s interpreted for me in the past but never gave me a second look, although it wasn’t through lack of trying on my part. So tell me, Giles, are you willing to fight a duel over this young woman?”

  “Name your weapon, and your second.”

  Walter laughed. “More seriously, Giles, do you have any reason to believe she wants to defect?”

  “Yes, her mother has recently died, and the East German authorities won’t allow her father, who’s English and lives in Cornwall, back into the country.”

  Walter took a sip of coffee while he considered the problem. “Would you be able to fly to Berlin at a moment’s notice?”

  “On the next plane.”

  “Impetuous as ever,” said Walter as a waiter placed a brandy in front of him. He swirled it around in the balloon before saying, “Do you have any idea if she speaks Russian?”

  “Fluently. It was her degree subject at language school.”

  “Good, because I’m hosting a bilateral trade meeting with the Russians next month, and they just might agree—”

  “Can I do anything to help?”

  “Just make sure she’s got a British passport.”

  * * *

  “My name is Robert Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the Bristol Docklands by-election on May twentieth.” The young man tried to shake hands with a woman who was laden down with shopping bags.

  “What are you doing about Concorde?” she asked.

  “Everything in my power to make sure the plane will be built at Filton and not Toulouse,” said Fielding.

  The woman looked satisfied. “Then I’ll be voting for you. But I’d rather have voted for him,” she said, pointing at Giles. As she walked away, the young man looked despondent.

  “Don’t worry about her. On May twenty-first you’ll be the member and I’ll be history.”

  “And Concorde?”

  “You gave the only credible response. The French will put up a hell of a fight, but then they have every right to, and in the end I suspect the work will be divided fairly equally between the two countries. Just be sure you never spell it with an ‘e,’” said Giles. “You might have asked if her husband worked at Filton because I suspect that’s why she asked the question.”

  “Of course. I should have thought of that. Anything else?”

  “Perhaps Bob Fielding rather than Robert. Don’t want to continually remind your supporters that you went to a public school and Oxford.”

  Fielding nodded and turned to the next passerby. “Hello, my name’s Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on May twentieth. I hope you’ll be supporting me.”

  “Sorry you’re not standing, Sir Giles.”

  “That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve chosen an excellent candidate. I hope you’ll be voting for Bob Fielding on Thursday May twentieth.”

  “If you say so, Sir Giles,” said the man as he hurried away.

  “Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Always say Thursday,” said Fielding. “God knows you’ve told me often enough.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Giles. “It will soon become a habit, and frankly you’re a much better candidate than I was at my first election.”

  The young man smiled for the first time. “Hello, my name is Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday May twentieth,” he said as Emma walked up to join her brother.

  “Are you beginning to regret not standing?” she whispered, continuing to hand out leaflets. “Because it’s pretty cl
ear that the voters have either forgiven or forgotten Berlin.”

  “But I haven’t,” said Giles, shaking hands with another passer-by.

  “Has Walter Scheel been back in touch?”

  “No, but that man won’t call until he’s got something to say.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” said Emma, “otherwise you really are going to regret it.”

  “Yes, but what you going to do about it?” another constituent was demanding.

  “Well, bringing the country to a standstill with a three-day week isn’t the answer,” said Fielding, “and the Labour party’s first priority has always been unemployment.”

  “Never unemployment,” whispered Giles. “Employment. You must always try to sound positive.”

  “Good morning, my name is Bob…”

  “Is that who I think it is?” said Emma, looking across the road.

  “It most certainly is,” said Giles.

  “Will you introduce me?”

  “You must be joking. Nothing would please the lady more than to have her photo on every front page tomorrow morning shaking hands with the former member.”

  “Well, if you won’t, I’ll have to do it myself.”

  “You can’t—”

  But Emma was already halfway across the road. Once she was on the other side, she walked straight up to the secretary of state for education and science and thrust out her hand.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Thatcher. I’m the sister of Sir Giles—”

  “And more important, Mrs. Clifton, you were the first woman to chair a public company.”

  Emma smiled.

  “Women should never have been given the vote!” shouted a man, shaking his fist from a passing car.

  Mrs. Thatcher waved and gave him a magnanimous smile.

  “I don’t know how you cope with it,” said Emma.

  “In my case, I’ve never wanted to do anything else,” said Thatcher. “Although I confess that a dictatorship might make one’s job a little easier.” Emma laughed, but Mrs. Thatcher didn’t. “By the way,” she said, glancing across the road, “your brother was a first-class MP as well as a highly respected minister both at home and abroad. He’s sadly missed in the House—but don’t tell him I said so.”