Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  Then, without warning, the instruction came to pack their small collection of personal possessions and to prepare to leave for a safe house, nearer the planned action, where final detailed instructions would be given.

  Steve was concentrating on union work. And this currently involved representing the union on a trip to Portsmouth to celebrate a major milestone in the dockyard’s history. The process of transforming the Portsmouth dockyards from a shipbuilding centre to a base for servicing the navy’s two new carriers and other warships had been industrially and politically difficult. But his union had been credited with a tough but pragmatic, rather than disruptive, approach that had borne fruit in a minimum of redundancies, and deadlines being met. There would continue to be a role for the skilled craftsmen and engineers who made up his union’s membership at the base.

  He had never been to this city before and on arrival at the harbour station was struck by the force of the naval presence: Nelson’s Victory, a symbol of past glories, and the giant Spinnaker Tower, a powerful and optimistic statement of belief in a maritime future. He wandered around the city centre where seamen had drunk, eaten, boasted, brawled and womanised for centuries before looking for his Premier Inn. His allowance permitted something a little more luxurious but he had already discovered that even relatively minor public figures lived under scrutiny. After unpacking he went in search of an evening meal.

  By the time he left the restaurant, the city centre was filling up with young people, some of them already quite far gone with alcohol. Despite the cold evening many of the boys wore nothing more warming than T-shirts, the better to display tattooed arms, and the girls had flimsy tops and ridiculously short dresses. Lack of inhibition gave vent to some raucous but good-natured singing and shouting. Steve felt a twinge of sadness that his early marriage, caring duties and night school had circumvented this stage of growing up. But his isolation had also fuelled his ambition, the hunger to succeed, that had lifted him above his contemporaries.

  As he moved away from the centre he saw a group of young Asian men gathered on a street corner. Most were slumped inside oversize jackets, hoods up, hands in pockets, and there was an edginess and awkwardness quite different from their white contemporaries a few hundred yards away. Street lighting was poor and the darkness masked whatever it was they were doing. But something caught Steve’s eye in a brief exposure to reflected light. The profile of one of the youths looked very familiar. The more he looked, the more he became convinced that he knew who it was.

  Steve sternly reminded himself that there were tens of thousands of Asian men in the UK of roughly the same age and appearance and the probability of one of them appearing in the same city as him at the same time was slim. Unless, of course, it was not a coincidence. His mind raced with possibilities. An obvious one was that there were a lot of VIPs in town. But he prevaricated.

  He wanted to talk to Shaida about the episode but then realised that there was little concrete to go on. A half-baked story about, maybe, sighting her brother would simply agitate her without helping. He hovered, watching the group from a distance. He was tempted to go across and present himself. Then the young men broke up, embracing each other before departing in different directions. The object of Steve’s attention slipped away into the darkness of a side street. But his suspicions hardened into near certainty when he saw a characteristic hand gesture in the seconds before the youths disappeared into the gloom.

  Who should he contact? He realised that he had other options apart from Shaida. In his phone he had the number Kate Thompson had given him in the Commons. He decided to ring. He was surprised to discover that she was in the same city for the same reason, albeit in the rather more comfortable Marriott. In explaining the call, he introduced a sufficient number of caveats to make her irritated.

  ‘Is this an emergency or not?’ she said tersely. ‘If you are asking me to alert the security guys, I need to be clear that this is serious. Yes, or no?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In that case I will alert the people who need to know.’

  Until she was interrupted by the telephone call, Kate had been preparing for an uneventful day as part of the supporting cast. She was there to represent her department and support the Secretary of State for Defence who was to visit the city and tour the naval base and to thank the navy, the base commander and his staff, the workforce, and the city fathers for their work in getting the base port ready on time for the arrival of the first of the carriers. And, no doubt, to tell local voters, through the national media, that the government should get the political credit.

  Someone in Whitehall had joined up the dots and realised that a lot of senior overseas visitors would be in London for the biennial DSEI, the defence and security equipment exhibition. Wouldn’t it be a good idea to show some of them around the naval base and some of the fighting ships in part? Make them feel important as esteemed guests of Her Majesty’s Government?

  Kate’s mentor, Jim Chambers, let it be known that her presence would be expected in her capacity as Trade Envoy, since among the visiting VIPs was India’s Dr Desai. She wasn’t expected to do much as the Red Admiral would act as his chaperone. Kate’s job was the usual: ‘Smile sweetly and look pretty… not difficult, my girl. Just make the Indians feel at home.’ And besides (‘and very much for your ears only’), ‘The PM has said that in the next reshuffle you will have a big job in the government. You are now one hundred per cent on board.’ She let the blandishments wash over her; she had decided to go with the flow and not to think too deeply about the motives of the men who were, for the moment, inclined to give her a helping hand.

  Had she been fully briefed on Desai’s recent activities she might have found a good excuse not to be there; but the ripples hadn’t yet reached her. Following her visit, the Indian Prime Minister had asked Desai to carry out a wide ranging review of India’s defence procurement practices, and this responsibility further pricked the interest of the UK High Commissioner in Delhi and the MOD and Department of Business back in London. They made sure that the grand tour of major prospective suppliers – the US, Russia, France – had a good slot reserved for the UK and, fortuitously, the dates coincided with this splendid opportunity to show off the best of the British navy, along with a shopping trip at the defence exhibition.

  Mr Desai started his tour with the USA and, while there, agreed to speak at a seminar at America First, the new think-tank close to the Administration, and sponsored by his associates from Global. The subject was ‘The Military and Political Threat of Islam’ and fellow speakers included the President’s Director of Strategy, who predictably scooped the headlines by letting the audience know what the President really thought about Muslims. Almost as much attention was given to an Israeli Cabinet minister from an extreme settlers’ party who had advocated requiring all Muslims, including Israeli citizens, to wear green crescent badges at all times to identify them for security purposes. The British broadsheets picked up on both stories and reported them with suitably outraged comment.

  Much less attention was paid to the speech of an unknown Indian functionary who made a largely impenetrable presentation around a series of demographic projections that purported to show, for those who could follow, the convergence of the populations of Hindus and Muslims in India. Later in his speech he referred favourably to an aspect of Mrs Gandhi’s emergency in the 1970s when her son Sanjay had embarked upon a campaign of mass sterilisation, voluntary in theory but often compulsory in practice. The programme had been concentrated on poorer people (who had larger families) including Muslims, and the potential of such a programme for ‘stabilising India’s demographic profile’ was explored by the speaker and what was left of his audience. One listener, a young Muslim journalist who had got into the seminar under an assumed name, was paying particularly close attention and he ensured, through social media, that the speech was promptly reported in the subcontinent. Before long the reports, which had bypassed the British press, were reflected bac
k into the diaspora communities in the UK.

  The outraged response might well have burnt itself out had an alert junior diplomat in the Pakistani High Commission in London not spotted that the British government’s list of official visitors included the selfsame Desai. Questions were put down in parliament, predictably, by the Member for Islamabad East. The ethnic press became excited even if the mainstream press didn’t, and for militant Islamists this became yet further evidence of the complicity of the British state with Islamophobes. Something would have to be done. But, except for a few boffins in the security services tracking political noise on the internet, there was little sense of threat.

  The Portsmouth visit got under way smoothly. The Secretary of State for Defence was on time for a 9am start. Security checks were heavy but the cluster of senior officials, naval officers and VIPs, including the delegation from India, were waved through and headed for the ships at anchor. The crisp early autumn morning, with a cloudless sky, was a perfect backcloth to a modern naval pageant. Everyone expressed themselves massively impressed by the carrier whose grey bulk loomed over them: the largest naval vessel by far that the Royal Navy had ever operated.

  The VIPs were feeling peckish by 10.30 and the procession was directed to the gardens at the rear of the base commander’s residence where a marquee had been erected for morning refreshments, and a microphone gave warning of speeches and thank-yous to come. The group spread out over the lawn, soaking up the morning sun and finding, in companionable conversation over coffee and cakes, some relief from the barrage of facts and figures directed at them during the tour. There was an armed security presence in the background but it was unobtrusive and modest.

  After exchanging Oxbridge banter with Dr Desai, Kate did the rounds of Sheikhs and African generals and a group of suited, dapper, Asians who she discovered, through a translator, were from the Vietnamese politburo. She then found herself in conversation with the Lib Dem council leader who introduced her to his husband and she reflected how far the country had travelled in recent years so that such encounters were perfectly normal and drained of prurient interest. Desai was at the centre of a group of industrialists who were unsubtly peddling their wares, while the guardian Admiral was trying to moderate their shameless pitch for business. The Secretary of State moved towards the microphone and extracted his speaking notes before addressing the small crowd.

  After an eternity spent clearing his throat and tapping the microphone, the Defence Secretary began his speech and the platitudes reserved for such occasions poured out in thick profusion. Then there was a loud bang and a scream from the back of the refreshments tent. Within a split second a security detail dragged the politician off the microphone, while soldiers in battle fatigues appeared from nowhere and pushed the distinguished visitors to the floor. Kate and the Lib Dem council leader managed a synchronised dive. Then a group of commandos advanced on the rear of the tent, guns poised. When they rounded the corner, ready to fire, they encountered two naval ratings flat on the floor. One of them had managed to knock over a pile of metal containers causing the apparent sound of detonation that had caused the panic.

  When order was restored, the VIPs required some reassuring that this was a false alarm. The story quickly spread among the visitors that they had been rescued from a terrorist attack by a brilliant, rapid-reflex response from the UK military security. They were grateful and impressed and Kate for one was happy to allow the fiction to settle.

  As Steve left he saw Kate standing next to Liam, his presence a product of Steve’s phone call the evening before, and an officer who appeared to be responsible for the security operation. ‘Mr Grant, I assume?’ the officer said. ‘I believe we have you to thank for the tip-off. As you see, we countered the terror threat.’ The officer had a perfectly straight face but Steve sensed that the joke was on him.

  ‘We are all indebted to your men and women for their vigilance,’ he replied, chastened. ‘I’m sorry but I can’t explain the sighting yesterday evening.’

  ‘I think I can. Overnight we checked out the ISIL operatives you identified, using local witnesses and CCTV footage. It turns out that they were a local five-a-side football team, celebrating in town after a tournament.’

  Deepak Parrikar decided to launch his entry into high-level politics with a symbolic event. He would commemorate the death of his protégé, the unfortunate Patel, by launching his father’s Parrikar Foundation on the site where the body had been found. The Foundation would commit to a scheme of community development in the baasti: improved sanitation, a primary school, a health clinic. Those who harboured doubts about the political colours Deepak now stood under would be reassured that he was a force for enlightenment, committed to helping the poor regardless of caste or religion.

  When the big day came, the Maidan in the centre of the baasti was transformed. A stage had been erected and decorated with gaudy bunting. The stage was packed with chairs for the VIPs, sheltering from the sun under a canopy. The VIPs threatened to outnumber the slum dwellers: they included the Parrikar family, relatives of the murdered Patel, the local politicians from the council and the state assembly, a police delegation led by Superintendent Mankad, various functionaries from the city council who (for a small consideration) would ensure that the promised improvements would be made, and assorted businessmen who had decided to match-fund the Parrikar Foundation, judging that this was a politically significant new force they would do well to join.

  Deepak had succeeded in persuading his father and mother to forsake the seclusion of their home in order to celebrate the Foundation launch, and even Rose, on one of her rare visits to Mumbai, had agreed to come, concealing her distaste behind her largest sunglasses. The real organisational triumph, however, had been the intense diplomacy that had resulted in the frail, tottering Sheikh to arrive, supported by his old friend. His freshly dyed beard and white robes advertised his religious identity, and few of those present were aware of his colourful CV.

  The slum dwellers initially numbered around fifty and the elected council man, who had been instructed to ensure maximum attendance, was beginning to feel rather uncomfortable. His trusted local representative, the slumlord, would have some explaining to do. But the crowd swelled as it became clear that the police were not here to make arrests or launch a tax collection, and the whiff of cooked food started to drift across the encampment. Tables were set out with savouries and sweetmeats that the slum dwellers encountered, if at all, only on special occasions like weddings or as leftovers scrounged or stolen from local hotels. As the more adventurous, or hungrier, residents tucked into the feast it soon became clear that the organisers had miscalculated. Those at the front of the queue positioned themselves to return for several helpings and scooped as much food as possible into their clothes to ensure that their families could eat well for the coming week. The late arrivals at the back of the queue seemed likely to miss out and scuffles broke out. Sergeant Ghokale had to deploy his two constables to restore order and calm was re-established with a loudspeaker announcement that more food was on its way; there would be enough for everyone.

  After fresh consignments of food arrived from a nearby shopping centre and all had had their fill, a troupe of dancers and musicians performed for the crowd, which was now in an altogether happier and less suspicious mood. Unfortunately, Deepak Parrikar had chosen the performers who reflected his classical tastes. The Bollywood hits the crowd had been waiting for failed to make an appearance. Before long the refined rhythms and delicate phrasing of the ragas could be heard only in the best seats and the crowd was again becoming restive.

  Deepak was advised by the organiser to proceed at once with the speeches and dedication and after much fiddling with the sound system he was able to begin, but only following a lengthy introduction from the council man. He expressed deep gratitude for the generosity of the Parrikars in terms of such obsequiousness that even those familiar with the style of such occasions winced inwardly. Deepak was used to public spe
aking in English but decided to speak in Marathi, the language of the state that he judged to be the lingua franca of the crowd. He noticed that his clap lines elicited applause from the authority figures on the platform but most of the crowd simply looked puzzled. In this polyglot community five or six different languages were spoken, and for those recently arrived from impoverished villages in other parts of India, Hindi, Telugu or Tamil would have been more accessible.

  Even if the crowd had fully taken on board the sweep and scale of the urban transformation Deepak envisaged, they would not have been easily impressed. The community already boasted the disused shell of a primary school promised after a visitation by a Scandinavian aid agency: the community worker left to supervise the project had pocketed the funds required to run it and disappeared. At the last general election, a new latrine had been promised in return for votes, had been half-dug and then abandoned. The Parrikars were made of sterner stuff but the crowd did not yet know that.

  The climax was to be a ceremonial digging of the ground to lay the foundation stone of the promised new school with a blessing from a Hindu priest, accompanied by the release of helium balloons that had been distributed among the children, who then howled with anguish when their new toys had to be released into the sky. Ravi, the now forgotten hero who had discovered Patel’s body, took the precaution of holding on firmly to his new red plaything.

  Then there were fireworks, which spread delight and terror in equal measure. Superintendent Mankad instinctively reached for his revolver as the firecrackers exploded around him. He was nervously watching the three goondas in dark glasses standing by the hut on the hillock nearby where the murder was committed and where his rescue of Deepak Parrikar had been effected. Following Deepak’s political baptism, the Trishul gang and its political mentors had achieved a state of coexistence with their improbable new ally. But the Superintendent knew the difference between a truce and a peace and was taking no chances. Deepak and the leading VIPs were bundled into a van and driven off to greater safety.