Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  The Patel episode was a turning point. Parrikar told Deepak that he had come to a decision. He would quit the Mumbai property market. He would sell the land and property freeholds that he had accumulated. The tax-wallahs would take a big share – but he knew how to minimise the hit. A sizeable sum would be invested in the businesses his family would inherit. But much of the money would fund the Parrikar Foundation. This would be to India what Ford or Rockefeller was to the US. It would be bigger and grander than the Tatas’ charitable arm. His head was reeling with ideas for schools and hospitals for the poor. All the details would be ready when Deepak returned from London.

  ‘Daddy-ji, stop worrying,’ his son comforted him. ‘The family understand that you want to get out of this dirty business and become a respectable company. It will happen. Look, I now have to tie up this big deal. I go tonight. If it succeeds, we will have a strong business for years. It gives us good links to US and UK companies. And with the big chiefs in Delhi. Then I want to launch a capital raising issue in London and New York. You will be there: the founding father, the man who turned a small-time Mumbai company into a global business empire.’

  Deepak’s next meeting was in London and its purpose was far removed from the family business. Kate had come to see him at the earliest opportunity. It only needed a few seconds to establish that neither was in the mood for polite, exploratory, conversation. A dam broke sweeping away their pent-up emotional and physical restraints. It was late in the night before, exhausted, they slept a little and then talked until the morning, sharing their past and beginning to map out a possible future together.

  When she caught a taxi back to the office in Victoria Street the following morning she tried to rationalise her emotions. There was no sense of guilt. No regret. But a deeper feeling, tinged with worry that she was falling in love with Deepak.

  The sense of detachment and calculation she had maintained with her previous lovers, and her husband, had largely gone. She found her emotions difficult to explain and that was the point. There was something new that went beyond attraction and physical compatibility. She needed to see him again but without any clear sense of where it would lead and conscious of the risks. He had said something very similar about his own feelings.

  Kate forced herself, nonetheless, to focus on the dangers. She inhabited a world where risk taking was a way of life, but also where there was little room for error. There were many politicians with lovers or mistresses, of the same or opposite sex. In an increasingly secular and liberal culture such behaviour shouldn’t matter. But there was also an insatiable appetite for scandal: for exposing the hypocrisy of politicians who preached family values and practised the opposite; for ‘love rats’ whose ‘betrayals’ proved that they couldn’t be trusted with the nation’s secrets. Or, simply, the all too understandable pleasure of powerless, anonymous people, seeing the powerful and celebrated caught with their pants down. She remembered the chief whip’s warning about envious colleagues. So far she had covered her tracks well, she thought.

  When she arrived at the front door of her department, her team had assembled to set off for her next visit – to the Pulsar factory. She hoped that her face would not betray too much evidence of her wonderful night.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE RIOT

  Russia Today, 9 July 2019:

  Sources in the Indian Ministry of Defence report that a Pakistani F-15 fighter was, several days ago, shot down by Indian ground to air missiles after encroaching into Indian air space. Both Indian and Pakistani official spokesmen have denied knowledge of the incident. But there are reports of a heavy Indian military presence in the desert area in Rajasthan where the fighter has allegedly been downed.

  BBC World Service, 9 July 2019:

  Reports by the Indian Defence Ministry state that its forces are on ‘heightened alert’ and there has been some movement of troops to disputed areas in Kashmir. The Pakistan military authorities and an unusually high number of reported military flights close to the border are believed to be responsible.

  Kate’s magic carpet sped up the M1 on the way to her factory visit. The quiet hum of the official car; the aromatic smell of the polished upholstery; the space to stretch her legs; the simple luxury of being chauffeured around by the ever obliging Denis: these were part of the ministerial lifestyle she could definitely get used to. She was tempted to daydream and there were pleasant memories of last night to daydream about.

  But she also felt a nagging discomfort when she had time to reflect on where her magic carpet was heading. The breezy salesmanship of the Secretary of State and the Prime Minister had obscured, initially, what her job entailed: that and her instincts to get behind British business. Over the last few days, however, Susan’s drip-feeding of confidential files had left her in no doubt. She was a salesman in an arms bazaar for technologically advanced weapons that were being sold into a dangerous and tense conflict zone.

  She looked in vain in the morning papers for any evidence that the British press took the matter seriously. Her office had, however, equipped her with clippings from news agencies that showed precisely how serious the matter was. But it was too late now to have a fit of conscience. The factory was fast approaching.

  At the factory, final preparations were under way for the visit: business as usual; no fuss; no one to get excited. But, naturally, everyone wanted to create a good impression. Long-serving, loyal employees like Mr Khan would have a chance to shake the ministerial hand. Steve’s message to the union – forget that the Minister is a Tory; jobs are at stake – was received without dissent. He had also had a quiet word with council officials to ensure that there were no disruptive traffic works planned and that refuse lorries didn’t trundle past the front door at the wrong time. As agreed, there was a low-key media presence: one TV camera for regional television and to take a pooled clip for other channels should the Minister choose to say anything significant; and a couple of journalists, school leavers sent along by the local free newspaper. There was to be a plaque unveiled by Calum and the Minister and Calum had prepared a short speech purged of any controversial references to Scottish nationalism or irresponsible capitalism.

  Then, about ten minutes before the scheduled arrival, down the road came a group of demonstrators waving banners – ‘Stop the Arms Trade’, ‘Aid Not Arms’ – chanting and singing hymns. They were orderly, polite and respectful towards the two police officers deployed at the entrance to the factory. A radio message was sent to the ministerial car, alerting the Minister and suggesting a brief, courteous greeting to the protesters.

  Then down the road came a much larger group, not earnest and white but angry and brown. Their placards were less polite – ‘Tory Murderers’, ‘Stop Killing Muslims’. The Socialist Worker and Respect banners vied with green flags with Arabic script and, at the back, the black flag of ISIL. As the crowd of around two hundred reached the entrance, the ministerial Jaguar arrived. The driver, acting on the earlier intelligence, pulled up and, before he could reconsider, the car was surrounded. Kate decided to face what would be a critical but polite crowd and demonstrate character for whatever media was observing. As she left the car, it was clear that the crowd was anything but polite. ‘Tory scum’ was one of the kinder barbs. Eggs and tomatoes were among the objects thrown and her blue business suit and elegantly groomed blonde hair were soon streaked with red, yellow and brown. One man, his face contorted with rage, spat in her face. The police presence had been swept aside and she was largely on her own.

  Nothing in her previous experience had exposed her to angry crowds and personal abuse. She was well aware that her government and party weren’t universally liked but to meet hatred face to face was new. She realised with hindsight that a streetwise and courageous politician would have seized the moment, demanded to address the crowd and bravely defended free speech in the hope that posterity – and the evening news – would witness her courage under fire. But she was shaking like a leaf and thought only of reaching the
safety of the entrance, which, with the help of the outnumbered policemen and a few other helping hands, she eventually managed.

  By the time she had calmed down and cleaned up there was no time and little appetite for the formal business. A hastily convened meeting with Calum did not advance far beyond acrimonious exchanges about the security failure. The Minister’s aides were beginning to panic over the media impact. The first images were appearing on YouTube. Twitter was trending at vertiginous rates. The TV camera intended for a tame pooled clip had captured enough to be running on the news channels. Something needed to be done.

  Frantic calls back to the No. 10 press room produced confused reactions: yes, the Minister needs to be out there calming the storm and being the voice of authority; but, no, we don’t want to advertise a security screw-up; we don’t want speculation about what Pulsar is doing; and we don’t want to advertise the fact that the black flag of ISIL has spread from Raqqa and Mosul to the streets of an English town (the holding line was that these were British anarchists). After some bad-tempered exchanges, Kate was pushed in front of the camera to address one question with a bland answer.

  ‘A new and challenging experience for me. But we live in a free country. Critics of government have to have their say. There are some people who believe in unilateral disarmament, who don’t seem to care about the British jobs that go with having a defence industry. They are entitled to their point of view but the government won’t change its policy. Thank you. No more questions.’

  By then the police riot teams had arrived. But too late. The crowd had already dispersed. The Minister was able to leave with more dignity than when she arrived.

  The post-mortems began immediately. Calum sat with his head in his hands in the boardroom. ‘Shit; shit; shit. I never wanted this fucking visit. Fucking politicians. Trouble. Now we shall be like those animal experiment people: hounded from pillar to post by single issue fanatics.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that bad,’ interjected Justin Starling, the head of security. ‘A one-off. Nobody mentioned the Indian contract, thank God. We can get on with business as usual.’

  ‘I am not so sure. What troubles me is that the protesters knew exactly what was happening and when. They got under the radar. They must have an inside source.’

  Back at the department, Kate was rushed into a meeting with the Secretary of State and a number of officials responsible for the visit planning, security and media who looked as if they were preparing themselves for a public execution.

  When the group had assembled, Jim Chambers paused for effect, watching the officials visibly shrink into their chairs. ‘So, what the fuck was that all about? Which idiot told the local police that this was just a nice, informal, low-key visit that didn’t merit any extra security? Who was the clown who managed the media operation that made our Minister a laughing stock – through no fault of her own? Absolute bloody mess. We’ve got the PM lined up to sign an important arms contract of which this is a key part. His people are on the phone to me asking what the hell is going on. Grip. The PM’s favourite word. He wants to know that we are gripping the situation. What do we know about this company? Security?’

  There was a bit more bluster from the Secretary of State and a few pointed references to the Overheads. But he had achieved his objective: to reassure Kate; to shake up the officials from their culture of buck-passing and complacency; and to be able to report back to the PM that he was, indeed, gripping the situation.

  The main post-mortem took place shortly afterwards in the COBRA meeting room below the Cabinet Office. The PM had pulled in the heads of SIS and MI5, the Metropolitan Police Commissioner to speak for the Counter Terrorism Command, the National Security Adviser and the Secretaries of State for Defence and Business, with the High Commissioner participating via Skype from Delhi. The PM was at his best in these emergencies and opened the discussion with quiet authority.

  ‘I want to be reassured that we are still on track for this defence contract. Pulsar is a part of a much bigger picture. Until this demo at the Pulsar plant everything seemed to be under control. I can’t overestimate how important it is. Potentially billions in new work. Thousands of jobs across the UK. And crucial for us and the Americans in our efforts to get closer to the Indians.

  ‘We don’t talk much about it, but we all know that the biggest threat of nuclear war comes from the subcontinent. We have done the war games. You will have seen some of the reports on the wires in the last few days. Sabre rattling, almost certainly, but these are nuclear powers with a history of real conflict. President Trump and I are agreed that we must help India acquire the capacity to intercept a first strike. Israel is kitted out. So is NATO. India has to be.

  ‘Yet the key technology is in a small British company run by a maverick Scottish socialist: a technological genius and a successful hustler in the funding markets, granted, but a shambolic manager who runs an operation that leaks like a rusting ship. Am I right? What do we do about it? Chief?’

  The head of MI5 spoke for the domestic security services. ‘We have been giving the place a thorough going over. Perhaps we should have done so sooner. The position is this. There have been the usual attempted cyber-attacks from China and Russia that all our defence subcontractors get. But the firm has the know-how to deal with them. And the bad guys don’t seem to have twigged how important the company is.

  ‘So far so good. But there are these reported break-ins. And we have established that someone has successfully hacked into some of the technical material. We suspect it is an inside job by someone who knows their way around. We don’t yet know who or why, nor what they found—’

  ‘But tell me,’ the PM interrupted, ‘how did the protesters know about Kate’s visit? They seemed to have access to details of the visit planning.’

  ‘Several possibilities including loose talk by someone in the know – a departmental official, a journo, one of Pulsar’s management team. We did discover that a key figure in the firm – the top union official, trusted by the CEO – is a local Labour councillor who has recently been meeting Muslim militants.’

  ‘You must be joking!’

  ‘No, Prime Minister. This man – Steve Grant – has met a group a couple of times that includes one of the extremists we have been keeping an eye on. That may be how the Muslim, anti-Indian, activists found out. There are also quite a number of Muslims of Pakistani origin in the factory, mostly Kashmiri, though all those in sensitive jobs have been carefully vetted, and none are known to be radical. And we still have to explain how the anti-arms trade people got their information.’

  At this point the National Security Adviser, who had remained silent hitherto, interjected. ‘There is another, delicate, matter that I need to mention within the strict confines of this room. We discovered that the Minister, Mrs Thompson, is having an affair with the CEO of Pulsar’s Indian collaborator. When he was in London, shortly before the Minister’s factory visit, she was tailed to his hotel and left the following morning. There appears to be an ongoing relationship. They try to be discreet but there is clearly an element of risk.’

  ‘I have already been briefed on this of course,’ the PM replied. ‘And I am the last person to want to lecture my colleagues on personal morality. I just hope she knows what she is doing. I had hoped this issue wouldn’t come up, but everyone here should know that this is another complication we don’t need.’

  The High Commissioner rushed in with reassurance. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Deepak Parrikar. Got to know him quite well. Good man. Totally straight and on side.’

  The National Security Adviser agreed. ‘Frankly, I am more confident about the Indian side of this operation than our own.’

  In his summary the PM was able to be reassuring. ‘The good news is that our media haven’t cottoned on to the strategic issues. They just loved the idea of a Tory minister being pelted with eggs and tomatoes and haven’t got beyond that. Our American friends haven’t picked up that we have a problem. The India
n operation seems to be under control. But, obviously, we need tighter surveillance and careful management at this end. So, we proceed? Any objection? No? Thank you.’

  Steve was shaken to the core when, next day, he saw the front of the Herald, a friendly local paper that he had slavishly provided with press releases ever since his election to the council. His full-on mugshot, making him look like a convict preparing for life in prison, appeared alongside that of a bearded militant waving a black flag. The front page had another picture – the selfie – showing him grinning among his Muslim friends. The headline, ‘Local Labour Man Link to Bombers’, was followed up by the ‘sensational’ revelation that he had held ‘clandestine’ meetings with local ‘extremists’ and is believed (‘according to well-informed sources’) to have ‘played a key role’ in managing the demonstration.

  He knew he had to get to Calum quickly. His position at the factory, years of close working and trust, would be destroyed if it were believed he had put his firm’s future, and workers’ jobs, at risk by an act of disloyalty. When he arrived at the factory he could feel the chill. Eyes were averted. There were no greetings. He could see Shaida in her glass office huddled over her PC, while her support staff were uncharacteristically silent. Calum had the newspaper in front of him. There was also a stranger in the corner of the room who didn’t introduce himself. Calum broke the ice.

  ‘You will be pleased to hear that I don’t believe what I read in newspapers. Muckrakers. But I want to know what this is all about, as does our friend here from the Spooks,’ he said, pointing to the silent man.