Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  ‘As you say, Prime Minister, it is a bloody mess. If this had happened in my businesses, heads would have rolled by now.’ He looked very pointedly at the Chief of the Naval Staff, Admiral Cooke-Davis. ‘But let me give my honest assessment of what we can do. Well, first, we could throw money at the project to finish it as quickly as possible and get the ships into service. We could pay for them by jettisoning not just the planes but also surface ships to defend them. Fill the decks with helicopters or something else to use the space. But, big buts. The naval people say that without planes or protection the carriers will be as much use in a fire-fight as cruise liners. We shall be slated by our own chaps on the back benches and in the press. And we shall have revolting Scots telling us we have stabbed them in the back over the frigates. So, no go.

  ‘Second, we could pull the plug completely. Park the damn things in the Cromarty Firth with all those oil rigs. But we have gone too far for that. Her Majesty has already blessed the Queen Elizabeth, and the Prince of Wales is half built. Portsmouth is already kitted out to maintain and service them. Revolting Scots are one thing. We can’t have south coast marginal seats also put at risk. And the navy and its friends in the media would crucify us. No go.

  ‘So my recommendation is that we press on with the programme as best we can – finish equipping, build the destroyers and the frigates, buy some jets for appearance’s sake. But sell the second carrier rather than keep it.’

  ‘Who on earth will buy a carrier that we don’t want and can’t afford?’ piped up the Scottish Secretary who hadn’t been kept in the loop.

  ‘Ah! Our people in Delhi have been talking to the Indians about this for several years,’ Chambers replied. ‘The Indians have a carrier building programme like us – two vessels and also horribly behind schedule and over-budget. One, the Vaishal, is in service; the other, Vasant, is years away. There is a lot of national pride involved in building their own. But the recent trouble with Pakistan has seriously rattled them. They need money to press on with missile defence. They also have the Chinese in the background with a new naval presence in the Indian Ocean. An extra carrier delivered quickly from us (at a discount!) would be timely – and they can put their converted MiGs on it, I believe.’

  ‘Brilliant, Jim. Spot on,’ the Prime Minister crowed. ‘And after your recent success with the Indian missile defence project – now up and running again, I am glad to say – I have every confidence we can carry it off.’

  ‘We did have some casualties.’

  ‘Yes, the gorgeous Kate, poor girl. But she will get over it. You might try to use her Indian contacts – you know who I mean…’

  The Chief of the Naval Staff set out all the reasons why the export proposal was a terrible idea and why the Treasury should pay for the full programme of naval modernisation. But his service colleagues pointedly declined to endorse spending commitments that would impinge on their own budgets.

  It was left to the Foreign Secretary to warn of unintended consequences. ‘Sorry, colleagues. Someone has to spoil the party. Even assuming the Indians want the wretched thing and can afford to pay for it – I assume we are not giving it away – we need to think about the wider implications. India and Pakistan have been involved in a confrontation that has been perilously close to war. Things are still very tense.

  ‘Now the Chinese are involved. At Pakistan’s request they have a flotilla of vessels including their own aircraft carrier circling India. We hear they may have strayed into Indian territorial waters. The Americans are seriously alarmed; this is the first time the Chinese have ventured militarily west of the Malacca Straits, in strength, since Admiral Zheng-He went to Africa in the fifteenth century. If we get involved in fuelling an escalating naval arms race in the Indian Ocean, it could be highly destabilising. Please think again.’

  ‘Thank you, Foreign Secretary,’ the PM said with a nod. ‘But I am going to have to overrule you. The rest of us are agreed – aren’t we? No more Boy Scouts. It’s “export or die”. Post-Brexit, India is our best hope of breaking into big non-European markets. We have to get our priorities right. So, gentlemen, we are agreed. But hush-hush. I don’t want to read about this meeting in the press. The Cabinet has been leaking like a paper boat recently. It must not happen again.’

  It did not take many minutes for the report of the National Security Council to reach the Red Admiral. And as soon as he could organise a secure line, calls were placed to Louisiana, Delhi, Tel Aviv and Moscow.

  The Admiral’s stock was already high with his business colleagues and his expected commission would go a long way to paying for the ocean-going luxury yacht now on order. The Pulsar contract, if not the bigger aircraft deal, was now agreed and waiting for a formal signature. Now a big naval project offered tantalising opportunities for Global Analysis and Research and its network of associates. The carrier would need protection against attack from aircraft and missiles and the Pulsar/Parrikar Avionics technology would be invaluable. The carrier could also take adapted MiGs, and friends in Moscow could perhaps come up with an offer the Indians would find irresistible. The flourishing, but very secret, cooperation between India and Israel could find new possibilities in upgrading India’s rather antiquated naval communications system. The Admiral had learnt from experience not to get too excited or to over-promise. For that reason, he thought it better not to tell his colleagues about the progress he had made in getting Global established as a leading Tier 1 Supplier in the UK’s new Trident replacement programme. But the possibilities were mouth-watering.

  Steve and Shaida had their first row. The ‘date’ had proved less fulfilling than Steve, at least, had imagined: a drink after work in the chaste and discreet environment of a local coffee house. She had exaggerated her father’s endorsement. She knew he would never countenance a relationship with someone who, however admired, was not merely from a different cultural tradition but was divorced, with young children. She knew that at some point she would face an awful choice, a fork in the road, that would affect her destiny for ever. She also loved her family and dreaded the thought of having to choose.

  Not just that: her emotional energy was absorbed in steeling herself to snoop on her brother and his friends for the plausible, but demanding, Liam. And her mind was absorbed in unravelling the algorithms guarding Global’s secrets. Even for someone as self-disciplined and capable as Shaida the strain was beginning to show.

  Besides, Steve had become more distant. Since his election to the national executive of his union there had been growing numbers of absences on union business: meetings around the country as well as in London. He had explained that he was sinking under the weight of union responsibilities, the council and the local party. The meetings at the mosque had petered out: lack of time. She understood, but part of her resented being in a lengthening queue for his attention.

  Then, he had proposed that she accompany him on a visit to Glasgow where he was meeting the Scottish shipyard workers.

  ‘And what is my role? Researcher? Secretary?’ Shaida asked pointedly.

  ‘Well, I just wanted your company.’

  ‘So, this is a double room at the Grand Central?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘As your date?’

  ‘Well – I suppose… yes, isn’t that what we both want?’

  ‘God! Have you thought what this means? How do I explain it at home? Where do I go afterwards? Do you really know what you are asking of me?’

  ‘I understand… sorry… I should have thought.’

  ‘Yes, you should! I do want to come, but this is an impossible thing to ask of me.’

  She could see that their relationship was fizzling out thanks to her distractions and his impatience. She decided on a make or break move: total candour.

  ‘The truth is that you don’t begin to understand what makes me tick. I think you have this idealised picture of an exotic Asian female, probably a virtuous virgin, just waiting to be set free. You couldn’t be further from the truth.
I am tempted to shatter your illusions.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘OK. But you won’t like what you hear.’

  ‘I’ll risk it.’

  ‘Where do I start? Well, at school I was gifted and marked out for higher things: a girl who loved maths. The trouble began when I wanted to be a normal British teenager. Fooled around with my girlfriends. Experimented. One night I got totally plastered. Somehow got to bed avoiding my parents. Then boys. Had my first sexual encounter at – what? – fifteen, maybe less. Then one day on my desk at school there was a Pakistani newspaper with a picture of a girl, my age, disfigured by acid burns. Someone had written across it in red ink “SLAG”. Someone from my community had been spying on me.

  ‘My parents got to hear about some of this and I was on the next plane to Pakistan to find a husband. One of my uncles tried to marry me off to a disgusting old man with dyed ginger hair who spat all over the place. My dad – bless him – took pity on me and I was allowed to come back on the strict understanding that I stuck to my books. I did. Got a place at Cambridge. But the family thought this was too high a risk so I finished up doing accounting at the local uni.

  ‘Didn’t stop me. I had a series of affairs. Very discreet. A group of Asian girls worked together to organise safe rooms and generally help each other. The nearest thing I had to a proper relationship was with a post-grad Israeli, a soldier with a family back home. I got used to living dangerously and enjoyed the thrill of it. Aren’t you shocked?’ Shaida looked challengingly at Steve, who knew it was now his turn to open up.

  ‘A different world from mine. I left school at sixteen to care for my dying mother. Never went to university. Then married my childhood sweetheart. When you were discovering yourself at college I was helping – or usually not helping – bring up three toddlers. I lost myself in politics and union work, not affairs.’

  ‘It gets worse,’ Shaida replied. ‘When I left uni and came here I wanted – needed – to continue my double life. A friend told me about internet dating. Sex without strings. So whenever I feel like it, I ask for permission to go to a “seminar” or “training course” in London and meet a man. Some bad experiences; mostly OK. I enjoy the control. At home I am a meek, submissive female lacking only a husband. I realise this can’t go on; deep down I am not a cold person. But I must have turned you off completely?’ Shaida studied Steve’s face closely for his reaction.

  ‘No. I suspected there was a lot more to you than meets the eye. And since my marriage broke down I haven’t exactly been celibate either.’

  ‘That’s a relief.’ They smiled at each other, glad that they had shared their personal stories at last.

  That night Shaida did not sleep: not just because of her own conflicts of loyalty and identity, which had led to this crisis point in her personal life, but because of growing worries about her brother’s slide back into the clutches of his militant friends.

  Steve’s mind was also in turmoil after this exchange. He adored her still, but her coquettish playfulness, alternating between Miss Brisk and her affectionate teasing, so that she was always just out of range, had become deeply frustrating. And while he thought he could live with the newly revealed Shaida it would require a degree of emotional maturity he had never achieved before. He could see that, short of a dramatic break with her family, nothing would ever happen and the love affair would gradually burn itself out, unconsummated.

  There was frustration on other fronts too. The union election was initially very satisfying: a recognition of his talents on a national stage. But the sudden switch from being a big fish in a small pond to swimming in the sea of national union politics was proving exceptionally difficult.

  His brushes with Brother Harking should have warned him that his youth, moderate Labour politics, south of England accent and manufacturing background put him in a small minority. The General Secretary was a hardened militant who had built up a fearsome reputation for skilful organisation and bloody-minded negotiating techniques. This ‘young lad’, closer to Mandelson than Marx, was not exactly welcome.

  And the talk around the table about the problems of nurses, council officers, bus drivers and Whitehall civil servants meant very little. He had one soulmate and he was dying of cancer: the gaunt figure of Kevin Dubbins, the legendary negotiator for the car industry whose guile and pragmatism was a key factor in attracting and keeping investment in Britain. All this, his tiff with Shaida, his ex-wife’s demands, and, now, another decision that was looming: whether to pursue the vacancy for a parliamentary candidate to replace the retiring local MP, a window of opportunity that might not be open in future.

  To clear his head, he decided to walk downtown after supper. He instinctively headed to the part of town where Shaida lived, one of the middle class, increasingly Asian, districts with well-tended, detached and semi-detached houses and expensive cars. Perhaps in his subconscious he hoped he would see Shaida and be able to signal his continuing commitment to her. He saw the house ahead and stopped, realising that his presence, if seen, would be difficult to explain to her parents. As he waited a familiar figure left the house, head covered by a shawl, and made off in the opposite direction.

  Curiosity as well as animal magnetism drew him after her. After ten minutes of fast walking she headed towards an unlit piece of open ground and sat on one of the benches. A figure emerged from the shadows and sat down beside her. A man who looked, from a distance, vaguely familiar. He saw them in close conversation until they stood up to go. She handed over a small package and then they walked off in opposite directions. Sexual jealousy was in danger of dominating his emotional response especially after what he now knew of her private life. But the couple showed no signs of affection and his attempt to fit the shape of the man into his database of physical profiles came up with a name that suggested something quite different from romance: Liam, the MI5 officer. This was something that hadn’t formed part of her full and frank disclosure.

  CHAPTER 14

  REHABILITATION

  Reuters, 3 September 2019:

  There are uncorroborated reports of a major explosion having taken place several weeks ago in the naval shipyards in Kerala. Commentators speculate that, if there has been disruption to the aircraft carrier building programme, it would help to explain the rumours that the Indian navy is looking at overseas options for a new carrier, regarded as essential to counter the build-up of Chinese as well as Pakistani forces in the Indian Ocean theatre. Commentators have also linked the reported explosion to the Iqbal Aziz trial, warning that Pakistani terrorist cells are still active in India.

  The Prime Minister summoned the National Security Council to hear a report back from the High Commissioner, via Skype, on his round of discussions in Delhi about the aircraft carrier.

  ‘We are here to brainstorm,’ said the PM. ‘Unless we crack this we are left with some pretty gory alternatives. Secretary of State? You came up with this idea in the first place.’

  ‘Well,’ Jim Chambers replied, ‘we can obviously cut the price or throw in some sweeteners, give them an offer they can’t refuse. In effect, give the carrier away.’

  The Chancellor and the Defence Secretary both grimaced. The former spoke first. ‘We can’t be too cavalier. The Public Accounts Committee will be all over us like a rash. I can see the terrible headlines at this distance. And I have to balance the books – there will be a serious hit on the MOD budget.’ The Chiefs of Staff also grimaced.

  ‘Jim, back to you.’

  ‘I have had one idea for trying to shift the debate in India. That man Parrikar who was the conduit for the last deal is now a big player. I don’t know if you have been following events there but Parrikar has become some kind of hero. Shot up by a gang with connections to the extreme nationalist politicians. Now in hospital recovering from his injuries. If he were to endorse the deal, appeal to his secular friends not to embarrass the government, it might help. High Commissioner? I believe you have market-tested this idea in Delhi and i
t plays well.’

  ‘Yes, Secretary of State. But the man is in a bad way. Out of danger but still in intensive care. Not sure if the family will welcome dragging him back into controversy.’

  ‘There we have an ace card,’ Chambers responded. ‘Our Mrs Thompson. Currently giving our whips hell and threatened with deselection. She can reach the parts that others can’t.’ Jokes were not common currency in the National Security Council but he had made his point. ‘We can give her a political lifeline. Back to her former glory, serving the country. Back to being Minister of State? Special envoy? Trade ambassador? Foreign policy Tsar? Whatever.’

  The Prime Minister didn’t look convinced. ‘It’s a bit weak. Clutching at straws. But I guess we don’t have too many other options. Can I leave this to you, Jim? You know the girl better than I do.’

  Steve had agonised for several days about how to raise with Shaida her link to the British intelligence services. He didn’t want to acknowledge that he had been following her, late at night, around the town. That would appear distrustful and he found it impossible to explain to himself, let alone her, what had taken hold of him that night. He thought back to the violent clashes he had seen from his office window in the town hall, which could give him a reason to talk to her at their next lunch break.

  ‘Has Mo fully recovered now? He looked a bit of a mess after that demo.’

  ‘Looked worse than it was. But the experience has radicalised him further. “Why didn’t the police protect us?” he asks. He genuinely didn’t go to make trouble and he could see that the agitators were deliberately winding up the crowd. But being kicked in the head by British “patriots” in a peaceful demonstration has brought him closer to his radical friends. It is a pity you’re no longer taking an interest in him,’ Shaida said, looking Steve straight in the eye.

  ‘Yes, I am sorry. I could and should have done more. And I promise I will. But can he not see that he is heading for disaster? His card has already been marked by the authorities – who, incidentally, were filming the demo. After the recent wave of arrests, he is only one or two moves from joining them. I haven’t told you this, but a man from the security services, Liam, approached me for information about Mo and his group. I believe you contacted him after that article, to clear Mo’s name. I was wondering whether he has been on to you or your family since then.’