Kompromat

CHAPTER THIRTY

With one week to go before polling day, Barnard took the day off. He spent the morning on farm chores, went for a ride after lunch (his bay mare, Jemima, though getting on in years, was still good for a day’s outing with the local hunt), then worked on his papers at the table in the drawing room.

The French windows opened out onto the terrace. In the middle distance, beyond the water meadows, the gentle hills of the Wiltshire Downs glowed in the afternoon sunshine.

What a lucky man he was, Barnard thought. When all this was over, he could spend a bit more time at Coleman Court: dam a chalk stream, make a pond, build a folly. That kind of thing.

His musings were interrupted by his wife, Melissa, carrying a tray of goodies.

‘Scones, clotted cream and strawberry jam,’ Melissa proclaimed. ‘Only seven more days left. Let’s celebrate.’

‘Let’s wait at least till tomorrow before we open the champagne,’ Barnard cautioned. ‘I may fall flat on my face tonight.’

‘I’m sure you won’t, darling.’

Truth to tell, Edward Barnard, who was usually as unflappable as they come, was just the tiniest bit nervous about the event in which he would be participating that evening. Not since 1933 when the Oxford Union had considered the motion ‘this House will in no circumstances fight for its King and Country’ had an occasion been so widely heralded.

Back then, the whole country had awaited the outcome with bated breath, and when the Oxford Union decisively approved the motion, waves of anger and disgust had risen across the land. The Daily Express trumpeted: ‘DISLOYALTY AT OXFORD: GESTURE TOWARDS THE REDS’. Cambridge University threatened to pull out of the annual boat race. Winston Churchill made a tub-thumping speech calling the result ‘That abject, squalid, shameless avowal’.

There was every chance, Barnard thought, that the evening’s debate in the Oxford Union, more than eighty years later, would prove equally if not more controversial. The Referendum was rapidly descending into a free-for-all knockout contest with Marquess of Queensberry rules suspended for the duration.

Melissa Barnard was just clearing the tea things away when she heard the sound of tyres crunching on gravel. She looked up to see a black four-wheel drive Range Rover with tinted windows enter the courtyard. She put the tray down and went outside.

Jerry Goodman, thirty-four years old, ex-Royal Marines and now a member of the Met’s Special Security Squad, got out of the vehicle.

‘Good evening, Ma’am,’ he greeted Melissa.

‘Hello, Jerry,’ she said, Then, as two other plain-clothes officers emerged from the vehicle, she added, ‘Hello, Tom; hello, Anna. Come in and have some tea. We’ll be ready in a jiffy.’

She took them into the kitchen and left them there, cradling mugs of tea in their hands, while she went upstairs. Barnard had already put his dinner jacket on.

‘The team’s here,’ she said. Strange, wasn’t it, she thought, how quickly they had got used to having ‘security’ around.

The Barnards had a Range Rover too. They left in convoy.

‘You go first,’ Jerry said. ‘You may as well head straight for the Union. They’ve got parking spaces for us there.’

‘That’s something,’ Barnard said. ‘Last time I made a speech at the Union in Oxford, I spent half-an-hour looking for a place to park.’

Barnard studied the order paper while his wife drove. The terms of the motion, he observed, deliberately echoed that famous ‘King and Country’ debate so many years ago. It stated ‘that this House will in no circumstances vote to leave the European Union’.

The motion was due to be proposed by Lord Middlebank. It was to be seconded by none other than the current chancellor of the exchequer, Tom Milbourne. The first speech for the opposition was to be made by Andromeda Ledbury, one of the rising stars of the Leave campaign, with Barnard himself scheduled to fire the last salvo against the motion before the floor debate and the final vote.

‘Do you know what you’re going to say tonight?’ Melissa asked as they turned off the A34 into Oxford. ‘The whole debate’s going to be televised apparently. Have you got some notes at least?’

Edward Barnard laughed. ‘If I can’t make a speech about Europe without notes, after months of campaigning, it’s time I headed for the knackers’ yard.’

Harriet Marshall was waiting for them at the entrance to the Oxford Union building. She ushered Melissa to her seat in the chamber, while Barnard met the other speakers in the anteroom. Lord Middlebank of Upper Twaddle had already arrived. His flowing fair hair had turned a silvery colour with the years, but he was still strikingly handsome.

‘Hello, Edward.’ Though he proffered his hand there was a frosty edge to his voice. ‘I sincerely hope you lose this debate and lose the vote next week. You are doing great damage to the country.’

‘I’m sure you’ll say so this evening,’ Barnard replied. No point having a fight now, he thought. Fisticuffs could come later.

He moved out of range to study the photos displayed on the wall of the anteroom. Back in the day, he’d been a competent performer at the Oxford Union himself, though he had never made it to President. If he had, he too would be hanging on the wall in a silver frame. So many famous names, he thought, as he moved along the row. Gladstone, Wilberforce, Curzon, Asquith, Hogg, Foot, Heseltine, Bhutto, Johnson – what a galaxy!

The photographs were arranged in chronological order. When he came to the 1990s, he paused to peer more closely. Howard R. Marshall, it said. President, Trinity Term, 1995. How odd, he thought. Howard. R. Marshall could have been Harriet Marshall’s twin, the resemblance was so striking. Did Harriet actually have a twin brother, Howard? If so, why had she never mentioned him?

Sitting next to H.R. Marshall was another man whose face was familiar. Y. Yasonov, he read, Treasurer. Good God! This was really too much! If Harriet had a twin brother, Howard, she had kept very quiet about it. And why had the name ‘Yasonov’ not rung a bell with her? Yasonov had been more than Howard Marshall’s contemporary at Oxford. He had been a close collaborator. They had apparently both served as Officers of the Union at precisely the same time. How bizarre!

When he came back to Britain after that tiger-tagging expedition in Russia’s Far East, Barnard distinctly remembered telling Harriet that he’d had a private dinner in Khabarovsk with President Popov and his key aide, Yuri Yasonov. Popov, as he recalled, had said something about Yasonov having learned his ‘classy’ English at Oxford! Harriet hadn’t picked up on that at all. If Yasonov had been close to her twin brother, surely Harriet would have heard of him, even met him at some May Ball or at a Union debate or whatever.

And then the truth struck him. There was only one possible explanation. Howard. R. Marshall was actually Harriet Marshall! It wasn’t a question of there being twins. Howard had actually changed sex. For some reason, known only to him (or her), Howard had become Harriet!

Barnard was still trying to work it all out when the Union steward struck the gong. The debate was about to begin. The Officers of the Union, led by the current President, Arthur Pemberton, filed into the Chamber, followed by the speakers. The TV cameras began filming. Louisa Hitchcock, star presenter of the BBC nightly news digest, set the stage for millions of views around the world.

‘Tonight we come to you from Oxford,’ she began, ‘from the Oxford Union, one of the world’s most famous debating chambers, modelled on the House of Commons. Eighty-three years ago, the Oxford Union held a vitally important debate, a debate which resonated across the Continent of Europe. The topic then was: Should Britain go to war? The topic today is equally important. Should Britain leave the European Union?’

The cameras panned to the speakers. ‘And what a tremendous line-up of speakers we have,’ Louisa Hitchcock continued. ‘On the Remain side we have Lord Middlebank of Upper Twaddle; as well as Tom Milbourne, the chancellor of the exchequer. On the Leave side, we have Andromeda Ledbury, MP, and Edward Barnard, chairman of the Leave campaign. The vote will be taken at the end of the debate. Ladies and gentlemen, fasten your seat belts!’

Lord Middlebank, opening the debate, was in tremendous form. Before his elevation to the peerage, he had spent years in the House of Commons. At a time when good old-fashioned oratory was going out of fashion, Middlebank bucked the trend.

‘We shouldn’t be having this Referendum at all,’ he thundered. ‘I fail to understand why such a commitment was included in the Conservative manifesto. I can only conclude that the prime minister totally miscalculated. Maybe he assumed that the Conservatives would not win an overall majority in the election and therefore there would be no need to deliver on the manifesto commitment since it would be vetoed by their coalition partners. If that is the case, ladies and gentlemen, then I put it to you, this is cynicism of the highest order!’

Andromeda Ledbury, leading for the Leave side, did her best. With speaking engagements up and down the country, she had grown daily in confidence and stature over the weeks of campaigning. She was graceful. She was witty.

‘I am delighted to follow Lord Middlebank of Upper Twaddle. I am so sorry. I’ve got that wrong. I shouldn’t have said Upper Twaddle. I should have said Utter Twaddle!’ The young audience loved that. And they warmed to her too. She was the dark horse – dark filly, really – who had come up fast on the rails in the final furlong. Barnard mentally tipped his hat to her.

Up in the BBC commentary box, Louisa Hitchcock commented, ‘No one knew very much about Andromeda Ledbury before the start of the campaign but, so far, she hasn’t put a foot wrong.’

Tom Milbourne, when it was his turn to speak, seemed strangely hesitant. Maybe he knew that the tide was beginning to turn in favour of Leave. And when he started talking about the dire measures he would be forced to introduce if the country ‘voted the wrong way’ his audience sensed that he had made a colossal error of judgement.

Once again, Louisa Hitchcock summed it up. ‘The chancellor has already given us Project Fear. He has told us that the ice caps will melt if we vote to leave Europe. Financial markets will collapse. Granny will starve in the attic. But today, before this Oxford audience, he has gone one step further, promising the country a Punishment Budget, like a Punishment Beating, if we dare to vote Leave.’

Louisa Hitchcock looked straight at the camera. ‘Tonight the chancellor, normally so shrewd, may have made a fatal miscalculation.’

Sitting there, waiting his turn to come to the despatch box, Barnard found it hard to concentrate. He simply couldn’t put the photo he had seen in the anteroom out of his mind. The photo that showed Harriet (then Howard, of course) Marshall sitting next to Yuri Yasonov. If Harriet/Howard and Yasonov had been friends and colleagues at Oxford, were they still friends now? If so, why hadn’t Harriet/Howard ever mentioned it?

He decided to send an urgent message to Jerry Goodman. ‘Something fishy going on. Keep an eye on Harriet Marshall. Sitting next to my wife, left front.’

Arthur Pemberton, Oxford Union President in the Trinity Term of 2016, had a powerful voice which he did not hesitate to use.

Sitting in his high-backed chair in white tie and tails, he boomed, ‘I now call upon the Right Honourable, Edward Barnard, MP to make the final speech opposing the motion.’

As he stood up, Barnard could see Harriet Marshall a few feet away, waving the order paper in front of her face, like a fan. Funny, Barnard thought, it was almost as though she was signalling or something.

Jerry Goodman, standing by the door so as to keep an eye on the packed hall, glanced down at his mobile when Barnard’s message pinged in. He spotted Harriet immediately, waving the paper. Then he saw Harriet look up at the crowded balcony, turning her head to the right as she did so. What was Harriet looking at, he wondered? Then he saw it. At the far end of the hall, above and behind the balcony, was the old projection box, left over from the days when undergraduates came to the Chamber on wet Sunday afternoons, not to debate, but to watch classic films in their original celluloid. The box had to be big enough to hold the projectionist. Some of those old films, like The Manchurian Candidate, needed three or four reel changes before the film was over.

The Manchurian Candidate! Oh my God, thought Jerry Goodman! As he remembered it, the assassin chooses a high vantage point right at the back of the stadium to shoot the candidate at that giant rally in New York!

He quickly pulled out some pocket binoculars to scrutinize the projection block more closely and, as he did so, he saw the barrel of the rifle emerge.

Jerry Goodman spoke urgently into his lapel mike. ‘Anna, Tom, are you up there? There’s a guy with a gun on the balcony. In the old projection box. Take him out!’

Then Goodman hurled himself across the room, just as Barnard walked to the despatch box to begin his speech. You could have handguns, you could have Tasers but in the end the old-fashioned rugby tackle often worked best. Goodman’s shoulder hit Barnard hard, in the ideal spot for a good clean tackle, halfway up the thigh, and Barnard crashed to the floor like a wing three-quarter hurtled into touch by the corner-post. The sound of gunfire erupted in the room. First, a single shot, coming from the projection box, then a brief staccato volley, as both Anna and Tom returned fire.

The gunman’s bullet, which would surely have smashed into Barnard had he not been brought low by Goodman’s rugby tackle, demolished an antique plaster bust of former prime minister William Gladstone, scattering debris over the despatch box.

Goodman picked Barnard off the floor, slung him over his shoulder, and headed for the door. ‘We’ve got to get you out of here!’ he said.

In the BBC commentary box, Louisa Hitchcock barely missed a beat. ‘Extraordinary scenes here tonight in Oxford,’ she said. ‘The debate has broken up in confusion. A gunman has tried to assassinate Edward Barnard, leader of the Leave campaign, but that attempt appears to have failed. I have just watched Barnard being rushed from the debating chamber by security officers. As I speak, the search continues for the would-be assassin.’

There was a sudden commotion outside the BBC’s makeshift studio on the balcony, as a Swat team rushed past. The camera caught that too.

‘Next time I come to the Oxford Union, I’ll bring a flak jacket,’ Louisa Hitchcock announced, with studied nonchalance.