Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  ‘I don’t know how you can help. Maybe you can’t. But I need to have one or two people outside government whom I can trust and to whom I can turn for advice and perhaps help. I also want to make contact with your colleague Shaida Khan. Perhaps you can help me set that up.’

  ‘OK. But meeting is difficult. How do I get through your ministerial defences?’

  ‘We can’t meet publicly. I have learnt from painful experience that in a high-profile political job I am under more scrutiny than I thought possible. And, however much we have in common, you know that, in both our parties, the greatest crime is fraternisation with the tribal enemy. But there is a way. My private secretary, Susan, has your contact details and these are hers.’ She handed over a note. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’

  Steve was left to find his own way out of the parliamentary labyrinth. But if all went to plan he would soon be here in his own right.

  Kate landed in Delhi the following morning on the mission agreed with the Secretary of State. It was clear, soon after arrival, that this would be a difficult visit. The High Commissioner was bristling with irritation that he had been misrepresented in London by ministers looking for a way of lessening the pain of defence cuts. Yes, he had said that a carrier sale was ‘possible’; but his many qualifications and negatives had been studiously ignored. He was hardened by three years of battering on the Indian door for big arms contracts that had delivered little. Kate Thompson, Indian Trade Envoy, would have to discover for herself that the warm Indian words and friendly reminiscences about life in the UK were usually a prelude to disappointment.

  And so it proved. The Prime Minister, the Finance Minister, the Commerce Minister and the Defence Minister were all busy. But, since Mrs Thompson was such an important and valued visitor, a key government adviser, Dr Sanjivi Desai, would be able to see her. She had heard from Deepak about Desai’s extreme nationalist and anti-Muslim views, and his seemingly sinister role in Deepak’s company. She was intrigued.

  His office was Spartan and small by ministerial standards. There was none of the clutter and endless coming and going she was becoming used to. Everything was spotless and meticulously organised: neat and fastidious like its occupant.

  ‘Dear Mrs Thompson – Minister?’ Desai began.

  ‘Trade Envoy.’

  ‘Much more important. Delighted to have you back in the country. I am told you cut quite a dash with my colleagues on your last visit.’

  ‘It was certainly a successful visit. Paved the way to an agreement that will hopefully strengthen your anti-missile defences and provide the UK with valuable exports.’

  ‘Absolutely. But tell me more about how things are in the UK. As you will know I was an engineering student at Cambridge before I went to the US. Always go up to the alma mater whenever I can.’

  ‘I was at the other place.’

  ‘Poor you. But no hard feelings. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Aircraft carriers.’

  ‘Ah yes. I was warned that you would raise this issue. The High Commissioner already knows where things stand. Our philosophy is “buyers’ navy to builders’ navy”. But the building of the second of the new class of Indian carriers – the Vaishal, a nuclear-powered, state of the art ship – is delayed. Because we feel threatened by the rapid build-up of the Chinese navy, as well as our old friends in Pakistan, we want to plug a gap in our defences, quickly.’

  ‘I think that is where we can help.’

  ‘Help from our British friends is always very welcome. But let me take you through our options. First, the Americans: now that India is an economic, political and military superpower we have developed a close relationship with the superpower that most closely aligns with our national interests: the USA. The Americans understand the Chinese threat in a way that – with respect – you may not; we keep reading about Britain’s close friendship with President Ji and his Communist regime. The Americans have a clearheaded view about the threats posed by China and also about the threats posed by militant Islam. I know Western intellectuals make fun of President Trump. We don’t. We admire his clear thinking. And the Americans now have a production line of carriers following Gerald R Ford and John F Kennedy, very much along the lines of our requirements.

  ‘And if that doesn’t work, we have our longstanding Russian friends. Never let us down – Soviet or post-Soviet. I don’t want to be rude, Mrs Thompson, but your country has a less than stellar record when it comes to supplying us in our hour of need. And we respect Putin. Proud of his country. Good man. Taught those Chechens a lesson. We, of course, are a proper democracy and can’t deal with Kashmiri subversives in that way. I should add that the Russians also have surplus carriers that can take MiG-29s, our fighters of choice.’

  Kate was wilting under the barrage and the High Commissioner was, conspicuously, leaving it to her to defend her near-impossible brief.

  ‘I think you will find we can more than match whatever the US and Russia can offer,’ she began. ‘But why don’t you come and see for yourself? The Prince of Wales, the carrier we are talking about, will be in Portsmouth – where the carriers will be based when in service – in a few weeks’ time. There is to be a big ceremony. Perhaps the Royal Family will be there. We would be delighted if you could come as one of our guests of honour. We believe you may well be in London at around that time with your Minister for the big defence sales exhibition?’

  ‘Yes, that is the plan. But Prince of Wales? Can’t have an Indian ship called the Prince of Wales! The Empire is over; though I know some of your countrymen want to bring it back now that you are no longer in Europe. So it would need a proper Indian name. We have Vikrant and Vaishal. Why not Trishul – Trident – a good maritime name?’ He laughed loudly at his own joke, perhaps, she thought, too loudly, as if there was more in the joke than was initially apparent.

  On the way out she reassured herself by suggesting to the High Commissioner that ‘at least the invitation got a good response’.

  ‘I would be careful what you wish for, Mrs Thompson,’ the diplomat replied. ‘He’s a notorious Muslim baiter and will not be universally well received back home.’

  The search for Mo intensified. The police and intelligence services had mugshots, mobile numbers and email access codes to intercept. But there was silence. The distraught Khan family turned to the mosque and community groups for help and in particular to Steve. The worst case scenario had him travelling to Libya, Afghanistan, Yemen or some other ISIL stronghold to train and prepare for battle. A more optimistic view was that he was holed up with friends, perhaps in London, waiting to make the next move. Either way there was no news.

  Shaida and Steve decided to convene a meeting at the mosque, bringing together the earlier group to seek their help. The mood was not good. There was still simmering anger over the protest demonstration. Steve’s lack of sustained interest was criticised, as was the failure (for which he was blamed) of the council leadership to put out a statement supporting the demonstrators and condemning the police and Indian government provocation. There was angry condemnation of ‘traitors’ in the community who were ‘grassing’ to the police, leading to complaints of police harassment of several local Muslim women. They did, however, agree to meet every couple of days to pool information; Mo was, after all, one of their friends and seemed likely to do harm to himself and to others.

  At the second meeting there was a modest breakthrough. One of Mo’s friends who was monitoring jihadi websites – and was something of an apologist for them – reported a video featuring five masked young men, one of whom had a physique similar to Mo’s. The video dealt not just with the usual enemies of Islam but featured in particular the ‘atrocities’ being committed by anti-Muslim Hindu ‘fascists’ in India. The video had been shot rather carelessly and showed in one corner a window opening onto a British townscape and what someone claimed was – or perhaps was not – Waltham Forest town hall. But at least they – whoever they were – were in the UK.

  Kate
arrived in Mumbai at a bad time for the Parrikars. The press stories around the spill of poisonous chemicals still featured prominently in the newspapers: ‘Environmental Disaster at Parrikar Chemicals’. The main casualties were fish, not that many were left in the highly polluted waters around Mumbai. But the spillage had also occurred as the tide was rising and carried poisons into a village upstream where the poorer residents washed their clothes and themselves. There were reports of serious inflammation of the skin and damage to eyes. No fatalities, at least yet. But Indian reactions were coloured by the still outstanding damages claims and political toxicity from the Union Carbide Bhopal disaster in 1984 that had killed thousands and injured thousands more. Even a limited chemical disaster was capable of making big political waves.

  All of this was explained to Kate when she had barely had time to reacquaint herself with her convalescing lover in his hospital bed. Veena took her into a side room to reveal another major development.

  ‘Kate, I am not a politician like you. But I am learning the hard way that politicians can make or break businesses like ours.’

  ‘That isn’t unique to India by any means.’

  ‘No, but we have this link between family businesses, political parties and – to a degree – organised crime that you don’t have. It is a bit like Italy, or the US in the Wild West.’

  ‘So what has all this to do with me?’

  ‘A few days ago Deepak had a group of visitors from the ruling party. Seriously big hitters. He hasn’t recovered and didn’t take it all in. But they were offering him a “ticket” for the next general election in a seat they expect to win.’

  ‘But I thought he couldn’t stand these nationalist, religious types. He always describes himself as secular.’

  ‘True. But he did vote for them. Our father gave money last time round. Deepak likes the pro-business bit. And the Prime Minister is – apparently – wanting Deepak to be a champion of his New Industrial Policy. He sees Deepak as part of his efforts to improve his party’s image – make it more inclusive: what you call a “big tent”.’

  ‘But Deepak isn’t in a fit state to embark on a political career or even make decisions about it.’

  ‘That is true. But he understands the importance of protecting his family and the company, which are under siege. He has to have political allies. And he has little time for the opposition: hopelessly divided and still revolving around the Gandhi family, discredited though they now are by corruption and general incompetence. That is why he asked me to advise him; decide what is best for the family. And you are, for me, part of the family.’ Veena reached out and took Kate’s hand.

  ‘I am, really, very touched by that,’ Kate answered, the gesture of solidarity prompting a hint of tears. ‘It is the nicest thing anyone has said to me for quite a while. My feelings for Deepak are quite simple. I love him and I think he feels the same. But I am painfully aware that marriage or living together is out of the question. We both have families at opposite ends of the earth. Political career apart, I am not going to abandon my girls to come and live here. So I am reconciled to the idea that there will be occasional, snatched, moments when I visit India or he is in London. Not ideal. But better than nothing.’

  Veena nodded. ‘That makes it easier to tell you what I plan to tell Deepak. He should take it. Do as they ask. You have a British expression: if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em. That is where we are. I really don’t know how far all these incidents are connected – the gangland killings in Mumbai, the attack on Deepak, this latest sabotage of our plant; lots of other things you don’t know about. I am not a believer in conspiracies but because we are outsiders, because we have no protection, we are vulnerable.

  ‘The family is under terrible strain as a result: my father is broken: my elder brother – next door – has barely survived; my younger brother is becoming an alcoholic; I am really struggling to cope. I have a lovely husband and two small children, and I am failing them, worrying twenty-four hours a day about the company. If Deepak becomes an MP for the ruling party, it won’t solve all our problems but it gives us a shield. One thing Deepak will hate is seeing his factory slipping back under the control of that man Desai and his associates – it was made clear that, under the deal with the ruling party, Desai and his cronies will back off. And Deepak can, I am sure, find a way to promote his ideals.’

  ‘Yes, I think I understand,’ Kate replied. ‘Very few of us are cut out to be great or heroes, taking on the world: a Mahatma Gandhi or a Mandela, or for that matter a Mrs Gandhi or a Mrs Thatcher. I am also a small fish in the big sea of Conservatism in Britain. I detest a lot of the people I have to deal with. Cynical and nasty. I don’t even like the party all that much; I drifted into it. But they seem likely to be running the country for the next generation, so I want to stay where I am and do a few small good things. I guess we have both come to the same conclusion in our different countries for much the same reasons.’

  The shared intimacy and frankness were infectious. Kate was eager to find out more about the man she loved; his childhood, the things about him that she could only discover second hand. Veena, for her part, was able to shed the fears and responsibilities of recent weeks, and forget, for a while, that she was now the family matriarch. After sharing some of the funnier family secrets, the time came for Kate to leave. She felt that she had found a true friend.

  Deepak Parrikar wasn’t the only budding politician whose fortune was being mapped out by the women around him. The future Lord Thompson of Surrey Heights was pleasantly surprised to discover that his wayward wife had been scheming to get him a peerage. He was already daydreaming about making a big hit in the Lords and a quick move to a ministerial post, preferably in the Treasury where his well-developed views on freeing up market forces in the property sector could be put to use. Not, he believed, that his appointment was undeserved. Had it not been for the disparity between his salary and bonuses on the one hand and the pathetic pauper’s pay enjoyed by MPs on the other, he would now be the local MP. Kate would be doing what he thought she was best at: small talk at social gatherings and charming the old dears at the annual fete. After months of quiet bitterness and recrimination he could see his way to forgiving her, just.

  And so, when she returned home, the ‘dears’ and ‘darlings’ were not delivered with quite such venom. She discovered that it was possible to have a cordial coexistence: lacking in love or even affection but perfectly pleasant. The girls sensed the change of mood. They had become withdrawn and resentful of their parents: Maggie had taken to teenage rebellion, and to the fury of her father had dyed her hair bright orange. The other two hid behind their iPads in endless typed chatter with their friends. Now, as they picked up the more relaxed atmosphere around the breakfast table, they gradually opened up to talk to their mum again about the things that loomed large in their lives: the preparations for next month’s gymkhana, the agonies of GCSE maths, the love affair between the lesbian chemistry teacher and the head girl, the prospect of a skiing holiday. In reality they were enormously proud of their mother and greatly relieved that she was still with them and spending less time at her MP’s flat and more time at home.

  Shortly after returning from India Kate was called in to see the Secretary of State, the man responsible for the sudden turnaround in her personal and political life. She was surprised that he had moved so soon to deliver his side of the bargain when she had delivered so little.

  ‘My dear Kate,’ Jim said as she entered his office, opening his arms wide in greeting. ‘Back from communing with our friends in the subcontinent. How are you? How did they treat you?’

  ‘Thanks, Jim. You will have heard from the High Commissioner that we didn’t make any headway on the carrier issue. I tried.’

  ‘To be frank I didn’t expect you to get far on that one. Other options are beginning to emerge including a joint Anglo-German project now that Berlin are getting over their hang-ups over Brexit. They want to be involved with us in the Med and t
he Gulf. Very hush-hush. Please don’t talk about it. But the PM and the German Chancellor are enthusiastic and we may no longer need the Indians. What you did – brilliantly as always – was to get the powerful Desai interested in the UK. He is keen to follow up on your invitation for whatever reason.’

  ‘I appreciate that you moved very quickly on the promises you made to me. Even though you’ve never met my husband, you seem to understand him better than I do: after one of your people dropped a hint about the peerage he has been like a little boy with a new train set.’

  Jim gave a snort of laughter. ‘Good. And you will also find that there is no more nonsense about deselection. The next step is to have you back in a proper, senior, job in the government.’

  Kate saw her opportunity. ‘Provided I can do something worthwhile,’ she countered. ‘I am not interested in simply having a job, I want to do something useful. I thought social housing. As a constituency MP I see some of the havoc in the lives of ordinary people because of sky-high rents and the cost of buying.’

  ‘No, no, no. Far too left-wing. The party hates social housing. We are trying to get rid of it. We want the peasants to own their own huts – sorry! My sense of humour is getting the better of me, again. No, definitely not. Let us stick to our priorities. The PM is clear. Our top priority is the female vote: being on the side of aspirational women. What I had in mind was getting you into one of the departments where we don’t normally see many women: Defence perhaps, or the Treasury.’

  Kate was inwardly annoyed at his casual dismissal of her ambition to do something she cared about. But she found his brutal cynicism easier to deal with than the mealy-mouthed hypocrisy of most of their colleagues. She also suspected that he put on something of an act for her benefit. Try as she would, she found it hard to dislike the man.

  ‘Can I think about it?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Perhaps I can help you think about it over a nice dinner at my favourite restaurant.’