Hey, Radio Boy, are you at the Royal View? A few of us telly types are heading your way (nearest open bar); come down and join? All fun people – promise. Viv
Patrick chucked the phone to one side. He’d been planning to call Rebecca but it was probably too late to do that now. He was tired but maybe not so tired that he couldn’t have one drink. It’d be the polite thing to do too, especially since Vivian had been kind enough to help him and William out earlier.
Carver and Jean had said their goodnights in the hotel lobby; he’d given his teeth a quick brush and was in bed when there was a knock on the door. He opened it to see Jean holding a bottle of red wine in one hand and two plastic glasses in the other.
‘I got to thinking … it’s not that late, maybe you’d be up for a nightcap?’
Carver stared at Jean. ‘Are we talking sex?’
‘Yes.’
‘I should warn you, there’s no guarantee I’ll be able to get it up.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll probably change my mind before we get anywhere near the bed.’
Carver smiled at Jean and opened the door wide. ‘Fair enough.’
The Way of Sorrows (iii)
Asmara, Eritrea
Mr Adam was as good as his word in one respect at least. Two days after having met Gebre and Solomon, their grandfather received a call from a nameless man saying that his boys should be waiting outside the derelict cement plant on the edge of Godaif district at six o’clock the following morning.
‘One bag only.’
‘One bag each?’
‘One bag in total. No exception.’
For this reason the brothers spent their last night repacking: making the already modest pile of clothes and worldly possessions that they had in their individual suitcases smaller still and packing these into a single case. The boys had their travel documents in a waterproof envelope along with their phones and chargers, a small torch, Gebre’s educational certificates and a handful of photographs including one of them as children, dressed in their best clothes, sitting in between their parents at a restaurant table. The other piece of paper the boys’ grandfather insisted they take with them was the name and contact details for a man Gabriel used to know:
‘A young theology student from Sudan – quite a character. He is a priest now. I helped him once, a long time ago, but perhaps he will remember.’
They took three shirts, two sweatshirts and one extra pair of trousers and trainers each. On their grandfather’s advice they took several packs of Marlboro cigarettes: not to smoke but to use as currency. They stuffed a roll of notes – around two thousand nakfa – down the side of the case.
‘It is the first place a thief will look, but it is an amount that you can afford to lose and also just enough that they might think it is all you have.’
The extra money that Gabriel had given them – five hundred American dollars and the same in euros – was split into two equal shares and sewn into the lining of the jackets they were travelling in. Once all of this was packed, together with a tin of biscuits and a few lemons that their mother insisted they take to combat Gebre’s travel sickness – the case was full.
They rose at five and dressed quickly; both boys had said goodbye to their mother the night before and although they could hear her moving around in her bedroom she did not appear and Gebre thought it best not to disturb her. They pulled the front door closed behind them and Solomon hesitated before deciding that he would keep the key with him. They took one last look at the only home they’d ever known and left, walking the couple of kilometres to the cement factory at a good pace. Their grandfather was already waiting for them when they arrived, standing outside the padlocked factory gate. He had already spoken to the nervous-looking taxi driver, who was sitting on his haunches some distance away, chain-smoking cheap Turkish cigarettes. Gabriel told the boys that this first leg of the trip would only take an hour or two, that this yellow cab would transport them, together with Titus and Dumac, to a pick-up point – a service station the cabbie said – eighty kilometres outside Asmara where the real journey would begin.
Solomon pushed their case into the boot and the brothers were about to climb into the car when Gebre saw something and stopped. There, at the far end of the street, was a woman, a tiny figure. His mother took a few steps in his direction but then changed her mind and stopped. Gebre could see that she was speaking to herself. He watched her now with tears welling in his eyes, knowing that it was some kind of prayer or promise that his mother was making. He saw her pull her tattered shawl tighter across her chest.
She raised a hand and held it there – hanging in the air – and the boys waved back. Then she lowered her arm, turned and walked away. Half a dozen small steps took her to the corner and then she was gone. Gebre felt a stabbing pain in his heart as he climbed into the back of the car.
17 Arms and the Men
DATELINE: Old Kent Road, London SE11, January 30 2011
Rob could have kicked himself for ever mentioning the dinner to Lindy.
‘It’s not really a party.’
‘That’s what you called it last night. I don’t understand why you don’t want me to come.’
‘It’ll be a bunch of arms dealers, dealing arms and drinking brandy. You can’t drink in your condition, so unless you’re looking to buy a surface-to-air missile I really don’t see the point.’
Lindy liked attention and she wasn’t overly concerned about the direction that it came from. She also liked an occasion. ‘I’ve always wanted to see inside the Tower of London – I’ve never been.’
‘We’ll go another time, when it’s not packed full of the most reprehensible people on the planet.’
‘And you.’
‘Yeah, and me.’
‘So why are you going?’
‘You know why I’m going, Lindy, it’s my bloody job. My boss wants me to go, so I’m going.’
The truth was that Mariscal wasn’t sure why the permanent secretary wanted him there. The dinner at the Tower marked the end of the London Arms Fair, a trade show that according to press reports had been the most successful in years. Rob knew that the Ministry of Defence needed to be represented: the new Secretary of State, perhaps another junior minister and a couple of senior civil servants but he didn’t see why the press guy would need to be there. The reason was made slightly clearer by the permanent secretary himself as they were driving east down Embankment from Whitehall in a ministerial Rover.
‘I don’t enjoy these occasions, Robert. I invited you along for moral support.’
Mariscal nodded. ‘Of course.’
If it was moral support he was after then Rob couldn’t help thinking he’d chosen the wrong man. He wasn’t sure he believed this explanation anyway.
The government car dropped them at the main entrance to the Tower. Usually this whole area would be thronging with tourists but the Tower had closed early in order to host the event. Craig and Rob strolled round the ramparts looking down at thousands of bright ceramic poppies on display in the old moat below – a piece of public art that was travelling the country ahead of the anniversary of the First World War and had been widely lauded.
As they approached the welcoming desk for the arms fair dinner, Mariscal mumbled under his breath. ‘There’s another kick in the bollocks for satire.’
‘What was that?’
‘Nothing.’
Rob took his name badge and followed Craig up the gravelled path to the White Tower. No expense had been spared; there was even a ceremonial guard to greet the guests – four straight-backed Scots Guardsmen standing either side of the path in all their red splendour. Several people had stopped to take selfies on their phones. Inside the high-ceilinged dining hall, Rob was handed a champagne flute and ushered through. A skinny young man in a blue velvet suit and bow tie was having a good go at one of Bach’s cello suites; Rob couldn’t remember which – not the famous one.
Craig turned to Rob. ‘You go on ahead. I have to introdu
ce the Secretary of State to a few people, I’ll catch you up.’
Mariscal made his way to the far corner of the room, stood in a corner and looked around. He was aware of the revolving door that operated between government departments and the private sector and he knew that the door between the Ministry of Defence and business span faster than most – well-oiled by the amounts of money involved. Nevertheless the number of familiar political faces in this room surprised even him: former ministers, political advisers and senior military figures who were now employed by defence companies, risk assessors and countries who felt like they needed defending. Mariscal counted a dozen political retreads without having to try very hard at all. He mentioned this to Craig when he returned.
‘That’s the world we live in, Robert – the bad old world we live in. There’s a fair few civil servants here too, faces you might not know so well but senior people. Breathtaking in their mediocrity – most of them. Come, I suppose we better go and sit down, we’re on one of the corporate tables.’
The gold-framed card in the centre of table ten read Quadrel Engineering & Defence in bold copperplate. Sitting at the end closest to the wall and just in front of a fine-looking medieval tapestry was a broad-shouldered man in dinner jacket and black tie, holding an unlit cigar in his hand. Bellquist’s blond hair was freshly cut and gelled back, his eyes pale blue. He was holding court and although he glanced briefly at Rob as he took his seat he made no attempt to acknowledge him, preferring to continue with his story, which seemed to have the table rapt.
‘Perception matters. Take young Paul here …’ He waved the cigar in the direction of a proud-looking fellow in a dinner suit and stud dress shirt identical to that of his boss. ‘I hired him to do our press work because of the sterling job he did with Formula One. He put that piece of research together that helped persuade people that motor racing brings in over a billion pounds a year for the UK economy, that it employs tens of thousands of people.’ He grinned. ‘It’s piffle of course …’
Paul cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s not—’
‘True or not, it doesn’t matter. What matters is it worked, those numbers got traction. So now he’s doing something like that for us – although it’s taking a little while, isn’t it, Paul?’
Paul’s smile didn’t quite reach the eyes.
For the most part, Mariscal let the dinner conversation flow around him; he only spoke when asked a question or in order to show that he was broadly in agreement with everyone else. He had expected to feel intimidated and rather out of his depth but he felt neither – most of the people at the table were spouting opinions based on the same Economist articles he’d read. Nevertheless it seemed wise to keep a low profile and go easy on the red wine. This was difficult because it was Château Musar and very good. When the waitress arrived to fill his glass he smiled up at her with a look that he hoped might communicate the fact that he was not really with these people, or rather that he was with them but not one of them. He was an outsider, an observer – like her. The young woman filled his glass and moved on; as far as she was concerned, he looked exactly the same as all the others.
During the starter course the conversation revolved around what Mariscal began to think of as geopolitics for dummies. When these arms dealers and buyers actually got around to talking about arms and weapons – over the main course – the conversation became allusive and acronym-heavy. Several different countries were represented at Quadrel’s table: Arab thawb sat next to black tie next to Indian jodhpuri but there were only two women and not a single representative from the world’s next great superpower. It was an absence that clearly irked their host.
‘I wanted to invite one or two of our Chinese friends but the good people from the Ministry of Defence are reluctant to sit at the same table …’ He was looking directly at Craig as he said this. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘I prefer not to.’
‘Why? You could have brought your long spoon, Permanent Secretary … supped with that.’ Bellquist was grinning.
‘I’m already using that particular spoon, Mr Bellquist.’
Their host laughed. ‘For most of us here, the good old yellow peril isn’t a peril at all – it’s just a different kind of opportunity. Of course China’s rise is unsettling, change is always unsettling, but as far as I’m concerned – it’s all good for trade. Like failed states and Arab Springs and whatever else …’
The table laughed nervously and as Bellquist raised his glass for a refill his press man Paul cleared his throat. ‘What I think Mr Bellquist means is that …’
His boss raised a hand to silence him. ‘Don’t do that.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Don’t contradict me.’
‘I wasn’t, I was just—’ His voice had risen an octave.
‘Spinning, I know. Well don’t.’ He studied his cigar. It had a fine-looking Cuban band on it and was as thick as his thumb. It was clear that Bellquist was keen to smoke it but he was sitting underneath the tapestry and alongside a no smoking sign – the warning written in a rich gothic script that Rob guessed was meant to make it blend with the room. Bellquist took a box of matches from his pocket and lit up anyway. The head waiter was at their table within seconds, his face an interesting mix of obsequiousness and panic.
‘I’m so sorry, sir, but you really can’t smoke in here.’ He gestured at the tapestry.
‘Of course, I understand.’ Bellquist continued to pull and puff on the cigar; the match had burned down to a point where the flame was almost at his fingers.
‘I have to ask you to put that out, sir. Or take it outside?’
Bellquist removed the cigar from his mouth; the end was wet with spit, the tobacco dark.
‘You’re a waiter, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘So … wait. I need to concentrate on this bit, get a nice even burn. As soon as I have, I’ll step outside. Mr Craig and I will continue our conversation in the fresh air.’
Around the corner from the entrance to the White Tower was a smoking area, empty apart from them. Bellquist pulled two cast-iron garden chairs together and they sat.
‘So, shall I update you on that charm offensive of ours?’
Bellquist took a long draw on the cigar, deep enough that the ash burned bright and lit his face yellow in the gloom.
‘Since that’s why I’m here, I suppose you should.’
Bellquist’s summary was a sunny one. His friends in the Egyptian military were willing to bide their time. They had been approached by other countries offering to fill the gaps left by the UK’s decision to clamp down on exports but had resisted those advances on the understanding that the tap wasn’t to be turned off entirely.
‘I agreed to that on your behalf. I hope that’s acceptable.’
‘Provided it’s carefully done. How will the shipments get to where they’re going?’
‘I assumed you wouldn’t want to know.’
Craig nodded. Bellquist was right – he didn’t want to know.
‘I thought not. But don’t worry about that one. The bottom line is the stuff’s not going to show up on any cargo manifest or FedEx docket.’
‘No paper trail?’
‘None whatsoever. That’s not the issue.’ Bellquist leaned down and tapped his cigar on the leg of Craig’s chair; a centimetre of ash fell to the ground next to his polished shoe. ‘The issue is who’s going to pay the bill? Thanks to your sanctions our Cairo friends don’t have two Egyptian quid to rub together. We’re going to need a line of credit or something like that.’
Craig glanced backwards over his shoulder then spoke. ‘The ministry will take care of that for the time being.’
‘Bankroll it and keep it off the books?’
Craig shook his gargoyle’s head slowly. ‘That would be illegal. On the books but hard to find is what I have in mind. You don’t need to know the details of that.’ He sighed and stood. ‘Is that everything?’
‘Not quite.’
Bellquist was staring at his cigar with a look that suggested he’d lost the taste for it. ‘There’s one little wrinkle.’
Craig sat back down. He was cold, he regretted not bringing his coat. He regretted a lot of things. ‘Tell me.’
Bellquist told him that Quadrel had sent a small consignment to Cairo a few weeks previously. ‘A belated Christmas present or early Ramadan or whatever.’
Bellquist grinned and glanced at Craig, who remained unsmiling. ‘A few boxes of kit, that’s all. Just some anti-insurgency stuff.’
‘Anti-insurgency when the government’s position is pro.’
‘Yes, well.’ He explained that some of the kit had gone missing, ending up in what Bellquist called the wrong hands.
Craig shook his head. ‘Why are you telling me this? What do you expect the ministry to do about it?’
‘For now – nothing. The chances are that our Egyptian friend will sort it out all by himself.’ Bellquist took one more puff of his cigar before letting it drop and grinding it into the grass with his shoe. ‘And I’ve put him in touch with a contact of ours who might be able to help. But in the spirit of belt and braces, I thought you could check how well your pal Mariscal gets along with his old BBC mates these days?’
‘Why?’
‘It’s one of those fellows who’s got a sniff of it. We might need Mariscal to weigh in on our side.’
Craig turned and stared at Bellquist’s profile. His slicked-back hair, his thick neck. ‘I feel it might be worth reminding you of something, Mr Bellquist.’
‘What’s that, Mr Craig?’
‘Your contacts mean that right now, you’re holding a pretty good hand.’
‘I know that.’
‘But you should remember that it’s possible to overplay, even a strong hand.’
Bellquist laughed. ‘Consider me warned.’ He stood up. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m neglecting my duties as host.’
Craig didn’t look up. ‘You go on ahead.’
A Single Source Page 16
