Mightier than the Sword

17

Giles hadn’t given a moment’s thought to how he wanted to spend his fiftieth birthday, but Gwyneth had.

Whenever Giles thought about his marriage — and he thought about it a great deal — he still couldn’t pinpoint when things had begun to go wrong. The tragic death of their son Walter at the age of three, and the realization that Gwyneth couldn’t have another child, had turned her from a bright spirit who lit up everyone’s lives, to a melancholy shadow, lost in her own world. Instead of the tragedy drawing them closer together, Giles found they were slowly drifting apart, not helped by a Member of Parliament’s unsocial hours and then a minister’s demanding schedule.

Giles had hoped that time would prove a healer, but in truth they began to live separate lives almost as if they weren’t a couple, and he couldn’t remember the last time they had made love. Despite this, he was determined to remain loyal to Gwyneth, as he didn’t want a second divorce and still hoped they might be reconciled.

Whenever they were together in public, they attempted to hide the truth, hoping Giles’s constituents, his colleagues, and even their family wouldn’t realize their marriage was a sham. But whenever Giles saw Harry and Emma together, he envied them.

Giles had rather assumed that on his birthday he’d be on his way to, or on his way back from, representing Her Majesty’s government in some foreign field. Gwyneth, however, was insisting that the milestone should be properly celebrated.

“What do you have in mind?” asked Giles.

“A dinner, just the family and a few close friends?”

“And where would it be held?”

“The House of Commons. We could book one of the private dining rooms.”

“That’s the last place I want to be reminded that I’m fifty.”

“Do try and remember, Giles, for most of us who don’t go to the Palace of Westminster every day, it’s still something rather special.”

Giles knew when he was beaten, so invitations were sent out the following day, and when he looked around the dining room table three weeks later, it was clear that Gwyneth had been right because everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves.

Emma, who was seated on his right, and their sister Grace, on his left, were chatting to their respective neighbors. Giles used the time to think about his speech, jotting down a note or two on the back of his menu.

“I know we shouldn’t talk business on an occasion like this,” said Emma to Ross Buchanan, “but you know how much I value your advice.”

“And an old man,” said Ross, “is always flattered by a young woman seeking his advice.”

“I’ll be fifty next year,” Emma reminded him, “and you are an old flatterer.”

“Who will be seventy next year,” said Ross. “Perhaps by then it will be time to put me out to grass, so while I’m still sixty-nine, how can I help?”

“I’m having trouble with Desmond Mellor.”

“I never understood why you put him on the board in the first place.”

“Force majeure,” whispered Emma. “But now he’s pushing for deputy chairman.”

“Avoid it at all costs. He’ll see it as nothing more than a stepping stone to the job he really wants.”

“All the more reason to hold on until I think Sebastian is ready to take my place.”

“Seb thinks he’s ready to take your place right now,” said Ross. “But if Mellor were to become your deputy, you’d spend your life looking over your shoulder. It’s a golden rule for any chairman only ever to appoint a deputy who, one, isn’t after your job, or two, has unquestionably been overpromoted, or three, is too old to take over from you.”

“Good thinking,” said Emma, “but there’s not a lot I can do to stop him if he can convince a majority of the board to back him. To make matters worse, Seb thinks Mellor may have been in touch with Giles’s first wife.”

“Lady Virginia Fenwick?” said Ross, spitting out the words.

“And possibly Alex Fisher as well.”

“Then you’d better start looking over both shoulders.”

“Now tell me, revered aunt,” said Seb, “are you chancellor of the university yet?”

“The Duke of Edinburgh is our chancellor, as you well know,” said Grace.

“Then what about vice-chancellor?”

“Not everyone is quite as ambitious as you, Seb. For some of us, doing a worthwhile job, however humble, is reward enough in itself.”

“Then have you thought about principal of your college? After all, no one is more admired by their colleagues.”

“It’s kind of you to say so, Sebastian, and I will tell you in confidence that when Dame Elizabeth retired from the post recently, I was approached by one or two people. However, I made it clear that I wasn’t born to be an administrator but a teacher, and am happy with my lot.”

“I can’t argue with that,” said Seb.

“But tell me, Seb, as you’re on your own tonight, should I assume there’s still no one special in your life?”

“There hasn’t been anyone special, Aunt Grace, since I was stupid enough to lose Samantha.”

“I agree that wasn’t your most glorious hour. I realized the first time I met her that she was an exceptional young woman, and on that particular subject I speak with some authority.”

“You were right. I’ve never met anyone since who even comes close.”

“I’m sorry, Seb, it was tactless of me to raise the subject, but I’m sure, given time, you’ll find someone.”

“I wish.”

“Are you still in touch with Samantha? Is there even the slightest chance...?”

“Not a hope. I’ve written to her several times over the years, but she doesn’t reply.”

“Have you thought of going over to America and admitting you were wrong?”

“Every day.”

“How’s your campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released progressing?” asked Priscilla.

“I fear progress may not be the right word,” said Harry, who was seated on the opposite side of the table from Giles. “Mind you, one can never be sure with the Soviets. One day you think they might be about to release him, but the next you’re convinced they’ve thrown away the key.”

“Could anything happen to change that?”

“A change of leadership in the Kremlin might help. Someone who wants the world to know what Stalin was really like. But there’s not much chance of that while Brezhnev is in power.”

“But he must know that we know that he knows.”

“He does, but he’s just not willing to admit it to the outside world.”

“Does Babakov have a family?”

“His wife escaped from Russia just before he was arrested. She now lives in Pittsburgh. I’ve been in touch, and I’m hoping to visit her when I’m next in the States.”

“I hope you succeed,” said Priscilla. “Please don’t think even for a moment that we onlookers have forgotten about your campaign. Far from it, we are inspired by your example.”

“Thank you,” said Harry. “You and Bob have been so supportive over the years.”

“Robert is a great admirer of your wife, as I’m sure you know. It just took me a little longer to appreciate why.”

“What’s Bob up to now the company is flourishing again?”

“He’s planning to build a new factory. It seems that most of his equipment belongs to the Stone Age.”

“That won’t come cheap.”

“No, but I don’t think he’s got a lot of choice now it looks we’re about to join the Common Market.”

“I saw him having dinner in Bristol with Seb and Ross Buchanan.”

“Yes, they’re plotting something, but I’ve only been able to piece together one or two clues. If I was Detective Sergeant Warwick...”

“Detective Inspector Warwick,” Harry said, smiling.

“Yes, of course, I remember, he was promoted in your last book. No doubt Inspector Warwick would have found out what they were up to some time ago.”

“I may be able to add one or two nuggets of my own,” whispered Harry.

“Then let’s swap notes.”

“It’s important to remember that Seb has never forgiven Adrian Sloane for appointing himself chairman on the day of Cedric Hardcastle’s funeral.”

“In Huddersfield,” said Priscilla.

“Yes, but why’s that relevant?”

“Because I know Robert has taken the ferry across the Humber several times in the last couple of months.”

“Could he be visiting another woman, who just happens to own fifty-one percent of Farthings?”

“Possibly, because Arnold Hardcastle recently stayed with us overnight, and apart from meals, he and Robert never came out of the study.”

“Then Adrian Sloane had better keep both his eyes wide open, because if Bob, Seb, and Arnold are working together as a team, heaven help him,” he said, glancing across the table at Priscilla’s husband.

“Bingham’s Fish Paste seems to have fallen out of the headlines lately,” said Gwyneth, turning to the chairman of the company.

“And that’s no bad thing,” said Bob. “Now we can get on with feeding the nation and not titillating the gossip columnists.”

Gwyneth laughed. “I have a confession to make,” she said. “We’ve never had a jar of your fish paste in the house.”

“And I must confess I’ve never voted Labour, though I might if I lived in Bristol.”

Gwyneth smiled.

“What odds would you put on Giles holding on to his seat?” asked Bob.

“Clinging on by his fingernails seems the likely outcome,” said Gwyneth. “Bristol Docklands has always been a marginal seat, but the opinion polls suggest that this time it’s going to be too close to call. So a lot will depend on who the local Conservatives select as their candidate.”

“But Giles is a popular minister, much admired on both sides of the House. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“About a thousand votes in Griff Haskins’s opinion. But his constituency agent never stops reminding me that if the national swing is against you, there’s not a lot you can do about it.”

“I suppose you have to come up to the Commons fairly regularly,” said Jean Buchanan.

“Not that often actually,” said Griff. “We agents have a tendency to remain at the coal face, making sure the voters still love the member.” At that moment the dining room door opened, and all conversation stopped as he entered the room.

“No, no, please sit down, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” declared a broad Yorkshire accent that hadn’t been affected by several years as an Oxford don.

“How kind of you to join us, prime minister,” said Giles, leaping to his feet.

“Only too delighted,” said Harold Wilson. “It gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes from a dinner with the executive of the National Union of Mineworkers. Mind you, Giles,” he added, looking around, “I wouldn’t be surprised if we were outnumbered by the Tories in this room. But not to worry, Griff will sort them out.” The prime minister leaned across the table and shook hands with Giles’s agent. “And who are these two delightful ladies?”

“My sisters, Emma and Grace,” said Giles.

“I bow before you both,” said the prime minister. “The first woman chairman of a public company, and the renowned English scholar.” Grace blushed. “And if I’m not mistaken,” he added, jabbing a finger across the table, “that’s Bob Bingham, the fish-paste king. My mother always had a jar of your paste on the table for what she called high tea.”

“And at Downing Street?” inquired Bob.

“We don’t do high tea at Downing Street,” said the prime minister, as he made his way slowly around the table, shaking hands and signing menus.

Giles was touched by how long the prime minister stayed, only leaving when a dutiful PPS reminded him that he was the guest of honor at the miners’ dinner where he was due to make a speech. Just before he left, he took Harry to one side and whispered, “Thank you for your help in Moscow, Mr. Clifton. Don’t think we’ve forgotten. And don’t give up on Babakov, because we haven’t.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Harry, and they all stood again as the prime minister left the room.

After they’d resumed their seats, Jean Buchanan said to Griff, “It must be such fun being an old friend of the PM.”

“I’ve only met him once before,” admitted Griff. “But like an elephant, he never forgets,” he added as Harry stood up, tapped the side of his wineglass with a spoon, and waited for silence.

“Fellow guests, I invite you to join me in a toast to my oldest and dearest friend. The man who introduced me to his sister, and is godfather to our son Sebastian. Will you rise and join me in a toast to the Right Honorable Sir Giles Barrington, Her Majesty’s first minister of state at the Foreign Office, and a man who still believes he should be the captain of the England cricket team.”

Harry waited for the laughter to die down before he added, “And we all hope Giles will retain his seat at the next election, and perhaps even fulfill his life’s ambition and become foreign secretary.”

Warm applause and cries of “Hear hear!” echoed around the room as Giles rose to respond.

“Thank you, Harry, and it’s wonderful to have not only my family, but my closest and dearest friends around me, who have come together for only one purpose, to remind me just how old I am. I’ve been blessed with a wonderful family and real friends, and surely any sensible man could wish for nothing more. However, many of you have been kind enough to ask me what I would like for my birthday.” Giles looked slowly around the table before saying, “To be prime minister, foreign secretary, and chancellor of the Exchequer all at the same time.” Laughter and applause broke out spontaneously before he added, “But for the moment, I’d be satisfied with holding on to Bristol Docklands at the next election.”

Applause, but no laughter this time.

“No, what I really want is for all of you here tonight, to prosper, and flourish—” Giles paused — “under a Labour government.”

The jeers drowned the cheers, proving the prime minister to be right about Giles being outnumbered by Tories at his own birthday party.

“So let me end by saying, if I don’t win, I shall sulk.” The laughter returned. “A wise man once told me that the secret of a great speech is timing...” Giles smiled and sat down, as everyone rose and gave him a standing ovation.

“So where are you off to next?” asked Emma as the waiters returned to serve the guests with coffee and After Eight mints.

“East Berlin, a meeting of foreign ministers,” replied her brother.

“Do you think they’ll ever tear down that barbaric wall?” asked Grace.

“Not as long as that stooge Ulbricht is in power and simply carries out the bidding of his masters in the Kremlin.”

“And closer to home,” said Emma, “when do you think the general election will be?”

“Harold wants to go in May, when he’s confident we can win.”

“I feel sure you’ll hold on to Bristol,” said Emma, “barring some accident. But I still think the Tories will scrape home with a small majority.”

“And you’ll remain loyal to the Labour Party?” Giles asked, turning to his younger sister.

“Of course,” said Grace.

“And you, Emma?”

“Not a chance.”

“Some things never change.”

18

Gwyneth groaned when the alarm went off, and didn’t bother to check what time it was. She had perfected the art of falling back to sleep within minutes of Giles leaving the room. He always took a shower the night before, and laid out the clothes he would need in his dressing room so he wouldn’t have to turn on the light and disturb her.

He glanced out of the window overlooking Smith Square. His car was already parked outside the front door. He didn’t like to think what hour his driver had to get up to be sure he was never late.

Once Giles had shaved and dressed, he went down to the kitchen, made himself a cup of black coffee, and devoured a bowl of cornflakes and fruit. Five minutes later he picked up his suitcase and headed for the front door. Gwyneth only ever asked him one question when he was going away: how many days? Two, he’d told her on this occasion, and she’d packed accordingly. He wouldn’t even have to check before he unpacked in Berlin, because he knew everything he needed would be there.

His first wife had been a whore, while his second turned out to be a virgin. Giles tried not to admit, even to himself, that he would have liked a subtle combination of both. Virginia in the bedroom, and Gwyneth everywhere else. He often wondered if other men had the same fantasies. Certainly not Harry, who was even more in love with Emma than he’d been on the day they married. Giles envied that relationship, although that was something else he would never admit, even to his closest friend.

“Good morning, Alf,” said Giles as he climbed into the back of the car.

“Good morning, minister,” replied his driver cheerily.

Alf had been Giles’s driver since the day he’d become a minister, and he was often a better source of information about what was happening in the real world than most of his Cabinet colleagues.

“So where are we off to today, sir?”

“East Berlin.”

“Rather you than me.”

“I know how you feel. Now, what have you got for me?”

“The election will be in June, probably the eighteenth.”

“But the press are still predicting May. Where are you getting your information?”

“Clarence, the PM’s driver, told me, didn’t he?”

“Then I’ll need to brief Griff immediately. Anything else?”

“The foreign secretary will announce this morning that he’ll be standing down from the cabinet after the election, whatever the result.”

Giles didn’t respond while he considered Alf’s casually dropped bombshell. If he could hold on to Bristol Docklands, and if Labour were to win the general election, he must be in with a chance of being offered the Foreign Office. Only problem: two ifs. He allowed himself a wry smile.

“Not bad, Alf, not bad at all,” he added as he opened his red box and began to look through his papers.

He always enjoyed catching up with his opposite numbers across Europe, exchanging views in corridors, lifts, and bars where the realpolitik took place, rather than in the endless formal gatherings for which civil servants had already drafted the minutes long before the meeting was called to order.

Alf swept through an unmarked entrance onto runway three at Heathrow and came to a halt at the bottom of the boarding stairs that led up to the aircraft. If Giles didn’t retain his seat in the cabinet after the election, he was going to miss all this. Back to joining baggage queues, check-in counters, passport control, security checks, long walks to the gate, and then an endless wait before you were finally told you could board the plane.

Alf opened the backdoor and Giles climbed the steps to the waiting aircraft. Don’t get used to it, Harold Wilson had once warned him. Only the Queen can afford to do that.

Giles was the last passenger to board and the door was pulled closed as he took his seat in the front row, next to his permanent secretary.

“Good morning, minister,” he said. Not a man who wasted time on small talk. “Although on the face of it, minister,” he continued, “this conference doesn’t look at all promising, there could be several opportunities for us to take advantage of.”

“Such as?”

“The PM needs to know if Ulbricht is about to be replaced as general secretary. If he is, they’ll be sending out smoke signals and we need to find out who’s been chosen to replace him.”

“Will it make any difference?” asked Giles. “Whoever gets the job will still be phoning reverse charges to Moscow before he can take any decisions.”

“While the foreign secretary,” the civil servant continued, ignoring the remark, “is keen for you to discover if this would be a good time for the UK to make another application to join the EEC.”

“Has De Gaulle died when I wasn’t looking?”

“No, but his influence has waned since his retirement last year, and Pompidou might feel the time has come to flex his muscles.”

The two men spent the rest of the flight going over the official agenda, and what HMG hoped to get out of the conference: a nudge here, a wink there, whenever an understanding had been reached.

When the plane taxied to a halt at Berlin’s Tegel airport, the British ambassador was waiting for them at the bottom of the steps. With the help of a police escort, the Rolls-Royce whisked them across West Berlin, but came to an abrupt halt when it reached Checkpoint Charlie, as the Western Allies had dubbed the wall’s best-known crossing point.

Giles looked up at the ugly, graffiti-covered wall, crowned with barbed wire. The Berlin Wall had been raised in 1961, virtually overnight, to stop the flood of people who were emigrating from East to West. East Berlin was now one giant prison, which wasn’t much of an advertisement for Communism. If it had really been the utopia the Communists claimed, thought Giles, it would have been the West Germans who would have had to build a wall to prevent their unhappy citizens from escaping to the East.

“If I had a pickax...” he said.

“I would have to stop you,” said the ambassador. “Unless of course you wanted to cause a diplomatic incident.”

“It would take more than a diplomatic incident to stop my brother-in-law fighting for what he believes in,” said Giles.

Once their passports had been checked, they were able to leave the Western sector, which allowed the driver to advance another couple of hundred yards before coming to a halt in no-man’s-land. Giles looked up at the armed guards in their turrets, staring down grim-faced at their British guests.

They remained parked between the two borders, while the Rolls-Royce was checked from the front bumper to the boot, as if it were a Sherman tank, before they were eventually permitted to enter East Berlin. But without the assistance of a police escort, it took them another hour before they reached their hotel on the other side of the city.

Once they had checked in and been handed their keys, the golden rule was for the minister to swap rooms with his permanent secretary so he wouldn’t be troubled by call girls, or have to watch every word he said because his room would certainly be bugged. But the Stasi had caught on to that ruse and now simply bugged both rooms.

“If you want to have a private conversation,” said the ambassador, “the bathroom, with the taps running, is the only safe place.”

Giles unpacked, showered, and came back downstairs to join some Dutch and Swedish colleagues for a late lunch. Although they were old friends, it didn’t stop them pumping each other for information.

“So tell me, Giles, is Labour going to win the election?” asked Stellen Christerson, the Swedish foreign minister.

“Officially, we can’t lose. Unofficially, it’s too close to call.”

“And if you do win, will Mr. Wilson make you foreign secretary?”

“Unofficially, I have to be in with a chance.”

“And officially?” asked Jan Hilbert, the Dutch minister.

“I shall serve Her Majesty’s Government in whatever capacity the prime minister thinks fit.”

“And I’m going to win the next Monte Carlo Rally,” said Hilbert.

“And I’m going back to my suite to check over my papers,” said Giles, aware that only debutants sat around drinking just to end up spending the next day yawning. You had to be wide awake if you hoped to catch the one unguarded revelation that often made hours of negotiating worthwhile.

The conference opened the following morning with a speech by the East German general secretary, Walter Ulbricht, who welcomed the delegates. It was clear that the contents had been written in Moscow, while the words were delivered by the Soviets’ puppet in East Berlin.

Giles leaned back, closed his eyes, and pretended to listen to the translation of a speech he’d heard several times before, but his mind soon began to wander. Suddenly he heard an anxious voice ask, “I hope there’s nothing wrong with my translation, Sir Giles?”

Giles glanced around. The Foreign Office had made it clear that, although every minister would have their own interpreter, they came with a health warning. Most of them worked for the Stasi, and any unfortunate remark or lapse in behavior would undoubtedly be reported back to their masters in the East German Politburo.

What had taken Giles by surprise was not so much the concerned inquiry made by the young woman, as the fact that he could have sworn he detected a slight West Country accent.

“Your translation is just fine,” he said, taking a closer look at her. “It’s just that I’ve heard this speech, or a slight variation of it, several times before.”

She was wearing a gray shapeless dress that nearly reached her ankles, and that could only have been purchased off the peg from a comrades’ cooperative store. But she possessed something you couldn’t buy at Harrods, luxuriant auburn hair that had been plaited and wound into a severe bun, to hide any suggestion of femininity. It was as if she didn’t want anyone to notice her. But her big brown eyes and captivating smile would have caused most men to take a second look, including Giles. She was like one of those ugly ducklings in a film that you know will turn out in the last scene to be a swan.

It stank of a setup. Giles immediately assumed she worked for the Stasi, and wondered if he could catch her out.

“You have a slight West Country burr if I’m not mistaken,” he whispered.

She nodded and displayed the same disarming smile. “My father was born in Truro.”

“Then what are you doing here?”

“I was born in East Berlin. My father met my mother when he was stationed here with the British Army in 1947.”

“That can’t have been met with universal approval,” suggested Giles.

“He had to resign his commission, and he then took a job in Germany so he could be with her.”

“A true romantic.”

“But the story doesn’t have a romantic ending, I’m afraid. More John Galsworthy than Charlotte Brontë, because when the wall went up in 1961, my father was in Cornwall visiting his parents and we’ve never seen him since.”

Giles remained cautious. “That doesn’t make any sense, because if your father is a UK national you and your mother could make an application to visit Britain at any time.”

“We’ve made thirty-four applications in the past nine years, and those that were answered all came back with the same red stamp, rejected.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Giles. He then turned away, adjusted his headphones and listened to the remainder of the welcoming speech.

When the general secretary finally sat down an hour and twelve minutes later, Giles was one of the few people in the room who was still awake.

He left the conference chamber and joined a subcommittee to discuss the possible lifting of certain sanctions between the two countries. He had a clear brief, as did his opposite number, but during the meeting he had the distinct impression that his interpreter was including the occasional observation that came from the Stasi, and not from the minister. He remained skeptical and cautious about her, although when he looked her up on the briefing notes he saw that her name was Karin Pengelly. So it seemed she was at least telling the truth about her heritage.

Giles soon became used to being followed around by Karin as he moved from meeting to meeting. She continued to pass on everything said by the other side, without the expression on her face ever changing. But Giles’s responses were always carefully worded, as he still wasn’t sure whose side she was on.

At the end of the first day, Giles felt the conference had yielded some positive results, and not least because of his interpreter. Or was she simply saying what they wanted him to hear?

During the official dinner held at the Palast der Republik, Karin sat directly behind him, translating every word of the interminable, repetitive speeches, until Giles finally weakened.

“If you write a letter to your father, I’ll post it to him when I get back to England, and I’ll also have a word with a colleague in the immigration office.”

“Thank you, Sir Giles.”

Giles turned his attention to the Italian minister sitting on his right, who was pushing his food around the plate while grumbling about having to serve three prime ministers in one year.

“Why don’t you go for the job yourself, Umberto?” suggested Giles.

“Certainly not,” he replied. “I’m not looking for early retirement.”

Giles was delighted when the last course of the endless meal was finally served and the guests were allowed to depart. He said good night to some of the other delegates as he left the room. He then joined the ambassador and was driven back to his hotel.

He picked up his key and was back in his suite just after eleven. He’d been asleep for about an hour when there was a tap on the door. Someone obviously willing to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign. But that didn’t come as a surprise, because the Foreign Office had even issued a briefing note to cover that eventuality. So he knew exactly what to expect and, more important, how to deal with it.

He reluctantly got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and went to the door, having already been warned that they would try to produce a lookalike of his wife, but twenty years younger.

When he opened the door he was momentarily stunned. Before him stood the most beautiful blonde, with high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and the shortest leather skirt he’d ever seen.

“Wrong wife,” said Giles once he’d recovered, although he was reminded why he had fallen so hopelessly in love with Virginia all those years ago. “But thank you, madam,” he said as he took the bottle of champagne. He read the label. “Veuve Clicquot 1947. Please pass on my compliments to whomever. An excellent vintage,” he added, before closing the door.

He smiled as he climbed back into bed. Harry would have been proud of him.

The second day of the conference became more and more frenetic as the delegates attempted to close deals so they wouldn’t have to return home empty-handed. Giles felt quite pleased when the East Germans agreed to remove their import tariffs on British pharmaceuticals, and delighted, although he tried not to show it, when his French counterpart hinted that if the British government were to issue an official invitation for the French president to visit Britain in the new year, it would be seriously considered. He wrote down the words “seriously considered” so there could be no misunderstanding.

As always happens on these occasions, meetings began to run late and to continue into the evening; so Giles ended up scheduling one before dinner, with an East German trade minister, one during, with his Dutch counterpart, and finally one after dinner with Walter Scheel, the West German foreign minister. He asked Karin to join them for dinner, having decided that if she was working for the Stasi, she was a better actress than Peggy Ashcroft. And if she agreed, he just hoped she’d let her hair down.

Karin reminded him that the Dutch minister spoke fluent English, and suggested that they might prefer to dine alone. But Giles thought it would be helpful for her to be there, just in case anything was lost in translation.

He couldn’t help wondering if any of his fellow delegates had noticed how often he had turned around during his afternoon session with the trade minister to look more closely at his interpreter, pretending to listen intently to her translation while in fact hoping to be rewarded with that smile. But when she turned up for dinner wearing a stunning off-the-shoulder red silk dress, which certainly hadn’t been purchased from a comrades’ cooperative store, with her auburn hair hanging loosely below her shoulders, Giles couldn’t take his eyes off her, although she continued to feign not to notice.

When he returned to his suite for the final meeting of the evening, Scheel wasted no time in pressing his government’s case. “Your import tax on BMW, Volkswagen, and Mercedes is hitting our car industry hard. If you can’t lift it, can you at least lower it?”

“I’m afraid that’s just not possible, Walter, as we’re only a few weeks away from a general election, and the Labour Party is hoping for large donations from Ford, BMC, and Vauxhall.”

“You’ll have no choice when you become a member of the EEC,” said the German, smiling.

“Amen to that,” said Giles.

“At least I’m grateful for your candid response.” The two men shook hands, and as Scheel turned to leave, Giles put a finger to his lips and followed him out of the room. He looked up and down the corridor before asking, “Who’s going to replace Ulbricht as General Secretary?”

“The Soviets are getting behind Honecker,” said Scheel, “and frankly I can’t see anyone beating him.”

“But he’s a weak, sycophantic man, who’s never had an original thought in his life,” said Giles, “and would end up being nothing more than a stooge, just like Ulbricht.”

“Which is precisely why the Politburo is backing him.”

Giles threw his hands up in the air. Scheel could only manage a wry smile. “See you in London after the election,” he said, before heading off in the direction of the lift.

“Let’s hope so,” murmured Giles. When he returned to his room, he was pleased to find that Karin was still there. She opened her bag, took out an envelope, and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Sir Giles.”

Giles looked at the name and address on the envelope, placed it in an inside pocket, and said, “I’ll post it to your father just as soon as I’m back in England.”

“I know my mother would appreciate that.”

“It’s the least I can do,” said Giles as he walked over to the side table, picked up the bottle of champagne, and handed it to her. “A small token of my gratitude for all your hard work. I hope you and your mother will enjoy it.”

“It’s very kind of you, Sir Giles,” she whispered, handing the bottle back, “but I wouldn’t get as far as the front door before the Stasi took it away from me,” she added, pointing at the chandelier.

“Then let’s at least share a glass together.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, Sir Giles, considering—”

“Now that we’re on our own, I think you can call me Giles,” he said as he uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. He raised his. “Let’s hope it won’t be too long before you’re reunited with your father.”

Karin took a sip and then placed the glass on the table. “I must go,” she said, and thrust out her hand.

Giles took it and drew her gently toward him. She pushed him away.

“This mustn’t happen, Giles, because then you’ll only think—”

He started to kiss her before she could say another word. As they kissed, he undid the zip on the back of her dress, and when it fell to the ground he took a pace back, wanting to touch every part of her body at once. He took her back into his arms and when they kissed again, her lips parted as they fell onto the bed. He looked into her brown eyes and whispered, “If you work for the Stasi, don’t tell me until after I’ve made love to you.”

19

Giles was sitting on the front bench in the House of Commons listening to the foreign secretary deliver a statement to the House on the Test and County Cricket Board’s decision to cancel South Africa’s England tour, when he was handed a note from the chief whip. Could I have a word with you following the statement?

Giles always felt that a summons from the chief whip was rather like being called to the headmaster’s study: more likely to be a caning than paeans of praise. Although the chief whip doesn’t sit in the Cabinet, his power is disproportionate to his rank. He was the company sergeant major who was there to make sure the troops were kept in line so the officers’ lives ran smoothly.

As soon as the foreign secretary had answered the last question from the member for Louth about strengthening government sanctions against South Africa’s apartheid regime, Giles slipped out of the chamber into the members’ lobby and strolled across to the chief whip’s office.

The chief’s secretary was clearly expecting him because he was ushered through to the inner sanctum without having to break stride.

As soon as Giles entered the office, he knew from the look on the chief’s face that it had to be a caning, not paeans of praise.

“Not good news, I’m afraid,” said Bob Mellish, taking a large buff-colored envelope from a drawer in his desk and passing it to Giles.

Giles opened the envelope with trembling fingers and pulled out a set of black and white photographs. He studied them for a few moments before he said, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“I’m not sure I understand you.”

“I just don’t believe Karin was working for the Stasi.”

“Then who else can it have been?” said the chief whip. “Even if she wasn’t on their payroll, God knows what pressure they must have put her under.”

“You have to believe me, Bob, Karin just wasn’t like that. I realize I’ve made a complete fool of myself and let the government and my family down badly. But one thing I’m certain of, Karin is not to blame.”

“I must confess, it’s the first time the Stasi have used photographs. They’ve only ever sent tapes in the past. I’ll have to brief the Foreign Office immediately.”

“I can assure you, we never discussed any government business,” said Giles. “And if anything, she was even more frightened of being caught than I was.”

The chief whip raised an eyebrow. “Nevertheless, I have to deal with the here and now. I’m assuming these photographs are already in the hands of one of the tabloids, so you’d better prepare yourself for an unpleasant phone call. And I have only one piece of advice, Giles — tell Gwyneth before the news breaks.”

“Should I resign?” said Giles, as he gripped the edge of the desk to try to stop his hands shaking.

“That’s not for me to decide. But don’t do anything too hasty. At least wait until you’ve seen the PM. And let me know the moment the press get in touch with you.”

Giles took one more look at some of the photos of himself and Karin, and still refused to believe it.

“How could you, Giles? To fall for such an obvious honey trap,” said Gwyneth. “Especially after Harry told you what happened to him in Moscow.”

“I know, I know. I couldn’t have been more stupid. I’m so sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”

“Didn’t you give me or your family one moment’s thought when this little tart was seducing you?”

“She wasn’t a tart,” said Giles quietly.

Gwyneth was silent for some time before she asked, “Are you saying you knew this woman before all this happened?”

“She was my interpreter.”

“So it was you who seduced her, and not the other way around?”

Giles made no attempt to contradict her. It would have been one lie too many.

“If you’d been set up, or drunk, or just made a fool of yourself, Giles, I might have been able to live with it. But you’d clearly given it some thought before...” She stopped mid-sentence and rose from her chair. “I’m going down to Wales this evening. Please don’t try to get in touch with me.”

Giles sat alone as dusk settled over Smith Square and considered the consequences of having told Gwyneth the truth. Not much point if Karin had been nothing more than a Stasi whore. How easy it would have been for him to tell his wife that Karin was just a tart, a one-night stand, that he didn’t even know her name. So why hadn’t he? Because the truth was, he’d never met anyone quite like her before. Gentle, humorous, passionate, kind, and bright. Oh so bright. And if she didn’t feel the same way about him, why did she fall asleep in his arms? And why did she make love with him again when they woke in the morning, when she could so easily have stolen away in the night, having done her job? Instead, she chose to take just as big a risk as him and was probably suffering the consequences every bit as much as he was.

Every time the phone rang, Giles assumed it would be a journalist on the other end of the line — We are in possession of some photographs, Sir Giles, and wondered if you’d care to comment...

The phone rang, and he reluctantly picked it up.

“There’s a Mr. Pengelly on the line,” said his secretary.

Pengelly. It had to be Karin’s father. Was he also involved in the setup? “Put him through,” said Giles.

“Good afternoon, Sir Giles. My name is John Pengelly. I’m calling to thank you for your kindness in helping my daughter when you were in East Berlin.” The same gentle West Country burr. “I’ve just read the letter from Karin that you kindly forwarded. It’s the first I’ve had from her in months. I’d almost given up hope.”

Giles didn’t want to tell him why that hope was likely to be short-lived.

“I write to Karin and her mother every week, but I never know how many letters get through. Now you’ve met her, I feel more confident, and will contact the Home Office again.”

“I’ve already spoken to the Home Office department that’s responsible for immigration. However—”

“That’s very kind of you, Sir Giles. My family and I are in your debt, and you’re not even my MP.”

“Can I ask you a personal question, Mr. Pengelly?”

“Yes, of course, Sir Giles.”

“Do you think it’s possible that Karin could be working for the Stasi?”

“No, never. She detests them even more than I do. In fact I keep warning her that her unwillingness to cooperate with the authorities could be the reason they won’t grant her a visa.”

“But they gave her a job as an interpreter at an international conference.”

“Only because they were desperate. Karin wrote in her letter there were over seventy delegates from more than twenty countries, and she felt very lucky that she was allocated to you.”

“Not so lucky, because I have to warn you that the press might have got hold of some photographs showing the two of us together, that at best can be described as unfortunate, and at worst—”

“I can’t believe it,” Mr. Pengelly eventually managed. “Karin is normally so cautious, she never takes risks. What came over her?”

“She is in no way to blame, Mr. Pengelly,” said Giles. “It was entirely my fault, and I must apologize to you personally, because if the press find out you’re Karin’s father, they’ll make your life hell.”

“They did that when I married her mother,” said Pengelly, “and I’ve never regretted it.”

It was Giles’s turn to remain silent, as he thought how to respond. “The truth is quite simple, Mr. Pengelly, and I haven’t even been able to share it with my wife.” He paused again. “I fell in love with your daughter. If I could have avoided it, I most certainly would have and, let me assure you, I am quite willing to go through the same pain you must have endured just to be with her. What makes it worse, I don’t even know how she feels about me.”

“I do,” said Pengelly.

The call came on a Saturday afternoon, just after four o’clock. It quickly became clear that the Sunday People had an exclusive, although Giles accepted that by midnight most editors would be resetting their front pages.

“I assume you’ve seen the photographs we have in our possession, minister?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Do you wish to make a statement?”

“No, I do not.”

“Will you be resigning from the government?”

“No comment.”

“How has your wife reacted to the news? We understand she’s gone to stay with her parents in Wales.”

“No comment.”

“Is it true you’re getting divorced?”

Giles slammed down the phone. He couldn’t stop shaking as he looked up the chief whip’s home number.

“Bob, it’s Giles. The story will break in tomorrow’s Sunday People.”

“I’m so sorry, Giles. For what it’s worth, you were a damned good minister and will be sorely missed.”

Giles put down the phone, only one word ringing in his ears — were. You were a damned good minister. He took a sheet of House of Commons paper from the letter rack in front of him and began to write.

Giles entered the Privy Council office on Whitehall so he could avoid the scrum of Fleet Street hacks waiting for him in Downing Street, or at least those who didn’t know about the back door entrance to No.10.

One of the memories he would regale his grandchildren with was that as he entered the Cabinet room, Harold Wilson was trying unsuccessfully to relight his briar pipe.

“Giles, good of you to drop in, considering what you must be going through. But believe me, and I speak with some experience in these matters, it will blow over.”

“Possibly, prime minister. But it’s still the end of my career as a serious politician, which is the only job I’ve ever really wanted to do.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you,” said Wilson. “Just think about it for a moment. If you were to hold on to Bristol Docklands at the next election, and I’m still convinced you can, the electorate would have expressed their views in the ballot box, and who am I to disagree with their judgement? And if I’m back in Downing Street, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask you to rejoin the Cabinet.”

“Two ifs, prime minister.”

“You help me with one, Giles, and I’ll see what I can do about the other.”

“But, prime minister, after those headlines...”

“I agree, they were not edifying. It was perhaps unfortunate that you were minister for foreign affairs.” Giles smiled for the first time in days. “But several of the comment pieces,” continued Wilson, “as well as one or two leaders, have pointed out that you were an outstanding minister. The Telegraph, of all papers, reminded its readers that you’d won an MC at Tobruk. You somehow survived that dreadful battle, so what makes you think you won’t survive this one?”

“Because I think Gwyneth is going to divorce me, and frankly she has good reason to do so.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Wilson, once again trying to light his pipe. “But I still think you should go down to Bristol and test the waters. Be sure to listen to what Griff Haskins has to say, because when I called him this morning, he left me in no doubt that he still wants you to be the candidate.”

“Many congratulations, major,” said Virginia. “You’ve been single-handedly responsible for bringing Giles Barrington down.”

“But that’s the irony,” said Fisher. “I didn’t. It wasn’t our girl who spent the night with him.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I flew to Berlin just as you instructed, and it wasn’t difficult to locate an escort agency with offices on both sides of the wall. One particular girl came highly recommended. She was paid well, and promised a bonus if she could supply photographs of the two of them in bed.”

“And there she is,” said Virginia, pointing to a selection of that morning’s papers that normally wouldn’t have found their way into the flat in Cadogan Gardens.

“But that’s not her. She rang the following morning and told me that Barrington had relieved her of a bottle of champagne but then slammed the door in her face.”

“So who’s that then?”

“No idea. The agency say they haven’t come across her before, and assume she must work for the Stasi. It had sound and surveillance equipment in all the delegates’ hotel suites during the conference.”

“But why did he reject your girl, then allow himself to be taken in by this one?”

“That I can’t explain,” said Fisher. “All I am sure about is that your ex-husband isn’t necessarily finished.”

“But he resigned this morning. It was the lead story on the morning news.”

“As a minister, yes, but not as a Member of Parliament. And if he were to hold on to his seat at the next election...”

“Then we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t.”

“How can we do that?”

“I’m so glad you asked that question, major.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been left with no choice but to resign as your Member of Parliament,” said Giles.

“Just because you went to bed with a tart?” said Griff.

“She wasn’t a tart,” Giles replied, as he did to everyone who made that assumption.

“If you resign, we may as well hand the seat to the Tories. The PM won’t thank you for that.”

“But if the polls are to be believed, the Tories are going to win the seat anyway.”

“We’ve defied the polls before,” said Griff. “And the Tories haven’t even selected their candidate yet.”

“Nothing is going to persuade me to change my mind,” said Giles.

“But you’re the only person who can win the seat,” said Griff as the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. “Whoever it is, tell them to bugger off.”

“It’s the editor of the Bristol Evening News,” said his secretary.

“And the same applies to him.”

“But he says he has a piece of news you’ll want to hear immediately. It’s the lead story in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Put him on.” Griff listened for some time before he slammed the phone down. “That’s all I need.”

“So what’s the news that can’t possibly wait?”

“The Tories have announced their candidate.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Major Alex Fisher.”

Giles burst out laughing. “I can’t believe how far you’re prepared to go, Griff, just to make sure I stand.”

20

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth. Vote Labour. Vote Barrington on June eighteenth. Good morning, my name is...”

Giles had fought seven elections in the last twenty-five years, and won all seven of them, gradually increasing his majority to 2,166. The last two had resulted in Labour governments, when the Conservatives hadn’t been expected to win Bristol Docklands, and the Liberals knew they couldn’t.

The last time Giles had called for a recount was when his opponent was Major Alex Fisher, and on that occasion Giles had won by just four votes, and only after three recounts. It had been a dirty, personal campaign from beginning to end, with Giles’s ex-wife Lady Virginia entering the fray when she came down to Bristol to support the major, who she described as “an honest and decent man.”

Now, fifteen years later, Giles was facing a rerun against the same opponent, and talk of another divorce. Gwyneth, thank heavens, had made it clear that she would not be filing papers until after the election, and although she had no intention of visiting the constituency, she would not be suggesting that anyone should vote for Fisher.

“Thank the Lord for small mercies” was all Griff Haskins had to say. He didn’t raise the subject again.

When the prime minister asked the Queen to dissolve Parliament on 29 May 1970, Giles returned to Bristol the following day to begin the three-week election campaign. As he took to the streets and started canvassing, he was pleasantly surprised by the welcome he received, and by how few people raised the subject of Berlin, or asked where his wife was. The British are not a judgemental lot, Griff observed, although Giles didn’t admit to his agent that Karin was rarely out of his thoughts. He wrote to her every night, just before going to bed and, like a schoolboy, eagerly checked the post each morning. But there was never an envelope with an East German stamp on it.

Emma, Harry, and Seb, plus the redoubtable Labour Party stalwart Miss Parish, who had taken three weeks off work as she did for every election campaign, regularly accompanied Giles when he was out canvassing. Emma dealt with those women who expressed their doubts about Giles following his resignation from the Cabinet, while Seb concentrated on the eighteen-year-olds, who would be voting for the first time.

But the surprise package was Harry, who proved popular on several levels. There were those constituents who wanted to know how his campaign to have Anatoly Babakov released was coming along, while others wondered what Detective Inspector Warwick would be up to next. Whenever he was asked who he’d be voting for, Harry always replied, “Like all sensible Bristolians, I’ll be voting for my brother-in-law.”

“No, no,” said Griff firmly. “Say Giles Barrington, not your brother-in-law. ‘Brother-in-law’ isn’t on the ballot paper.”

There was a third group who thought Harry was Bristol’s answer to Cary Grant, and told him they would certainly vote for him if he was the candidate.

“I’d rather walk barefoot over hot coals,” Harry would reply, raising his hands in horror.

“Are you jealous, Mum?”

“Certainly not,” said Emma. “Most of them are middle-aged matrons who simply want to mother him.”

“As long as they vote Labour,” said Griff, “I don’t care what they want to do with him.”

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth. Vote Labour...”

Every morning began with a “prayer meeting” in Griff’s office, so the agent could bring the candidate and the core campaign workers up to date, before allocating them their daily tasks.

On the first Monday, Griff opened the meeting by breaking one of his golden rules.

“I think you should challenge Fisher to a debate.”

“But you’ve always said in the past that a sitting member should never acknowledge the existence of his opponents because it only gives them a platform to air their views and establish themselves as credible candidates.”

“Fisher is a credible candidate,” said Griff. “He’s got a three percent lead in the polls to prove it, and we desperately need to find some way of eating into his lead.”

“But he’ll use the occasion to launch a personal attack on me and capture cheap headlines in the press.”

“Let’s hope so,” said Griff, “because our private polls show that what happened in Berlin is not a high priority for most voters, and our daily postbag confirms it. The public are far more interested in the NHS, unemployment, pensions, and immigration. In fact, there are more voters complaining about overzealous parking wardens in the Broad than about your nocturnal habits when you’re not at home. If you want proof,” he said, extracting some letters from the pile on his desk, “just listen to any of these. Dear Sir Giles, if everyone who slept with a tart or had an affair were to vote for you, you’d double your majority. Good luck.”

“I can see it now,” said Giles. “Vote for Barrington if you’ve had an extramarital affair.”

Emma scowled at her brother, clearly disapproving of Griff’s casual attitude to Giles’s behavior.

“And here’s another one,” said Griff, ignoring Giles’s comment. “Dear Sir Giles, I’ve never voted Labour before, but I’d prefer to vote for a sinner than for someone like Alex Fisher who poses as a saint. Yours reluctantly, etc. But this one’s my favorite. Dear Sir Giles, I must say I admire your taste in women. I’m off to Berlin next week and wondered if you could give me her phone number.”

I only wish I knew her phone number, thought Giles.

“He’s made his first mistake,” said Griff, turning the paper around so they could all see the headline on the front page.

“But he’s the one with a three percent lead in the polls,” said Giles. “That’s not a mistake, it’s just common sense.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” said Griff, “but it’s his reason for turning you down that’s the mistake. I quote, ‘I wouldn’t want to be seen in the same room as that man.’ A foolish error. People don’t like personal attacks, so we must take advantage of it. Make it clear that you will turn up, and if he doesn’t the electorate can draw their own conclusions.” Griff continued to read the article, and it was not long before he smiled for a second time. “It’s not often that the Liberals come to our aid, but Simon Fletcher has told the News that he’ll be happy to participate in the debate. But then, he’s got nothing to lose. I’ll issue a press statement immediately. Meanwhile, you lot get back to work. You’re not winning any votes sitting around in my office.”

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on Thursday June eighteenth...”

Just as Giles was beginning to feel a little more confident about the outcome, a Gallup Poll in the Daily Mail predicted for the first time that Edward Heath and the Tories were on track to win the election with a thirty-seat majority.

“We’re thirty-fifth on the list of seats the Tories will need to capture if they hope to get an overall majority,” said Giles.

“Read the small print,” responded Griff. “The same poll is saying that Bristol Docklands is too close to call. And by the way, have you seen today’s Evening News?” He passed the first edition to the candidate.

Giles rather admired the neutral stance the News always took during an election campaign, only coming out in favor of a particular candidate on the day before the election, and in the past it hadn’t always backed him. But today it broke its rule with a couple of weeks to go. In a leader, the paper made its position clear, below the damning headline:

It went on to say that if Major Fisher failed to turn up for next Thursday’s debate, they would be recommending that their readers vote Labour, and return Giles Barrington to Westminster.

“Let’s pray he doesn’t turn up,” said Giles.

“He’ll turn up all right,” said Griff, “because if he doesn’t, he’ll lose the election. Our next problem is how we handle him when he does.”

“But surely it ought to be Fisher who’s worried,” said Emma. “After all, Giles is a far more accomplished debater, with over twenty years’ parliamentary experience.”

“That won’t matter a damn on the night,” said Miss Parish, “if we don’t find a way of dealing with the elephant in the room.”

Griff nodded. “We may have to use our secret weapon.”

“What have you got in mind?” asked Giles.

“Harry. We’ll put him in the front row, facing the audience, and get him to read the first chapter of his next book. Then no one will even notice what’s happening on stage.”

Everyone laughed except Harry. “What are you implying?” he asked.

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands at the general election on...”

I’LL BE THERE, screamed the headline on the front page of the Bristol Evening News the following day.

Giles read the article that followed, and accepted that the debate might well decide who would be the next Member of Parliament for Bristol Docklands.

Griff agreed and suggested Giles should take time off to prepare as if he was being cross-examined by Robin Day, the BBC’s political interrogator. He asked Seb to play the role of Alex Fisher.

“Do you feel that a man with your lack of morals should be standing for Parliament?”

“Whose side are you on, Seb?”

“He’s on your side,” said Griff, “and you’d better have an answer to that question by next Thursday night.”

“May I ask why we haven’t seen your wife in the constituency during the election campaign?”

“She’s visiting her parents in Wales.”

“That’s at least a thousand votes down the drain,” said Griff.

“Tell me, Sir Giles, do you plan to make another trip to Berlin in the near future?”

“That’s below the belt, Seb.”

“Which is exactly where Fisher will aim most of his punches,” said Griff. “So make sure you keep your guard up.”

“He’s right, Seb. Keep on punching.”

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate for Bristol Docklands...”

“They’ve changed the venue,” said Griff at the morning prayer meeting.

“Why?” asked Giles.

“There’s been such a huge demand for tickets that it’s been moved from the Guildhall to the Hippodrome Theatre.”

“But the Hippo holds two thousand people,” said Giles.

“I wish it held ten thousand,” said Griff. “You’ll never get a better chance to talk to the voters direct.”

“And at the same time expose Fisher for the fraud he is,” said Seb.

“How many seats have been allocated to us?” asked Griff, turning to Miss Parish.

“Each candidate is entitled to three hundred.”

“Any problem in filling our seats with the faithful?”

“None at all, the phone hasn’t stopped for the past week. It could be a Rolling Stones concert. In fact, I’ve been in touch with my opposite number at the Liberal Party, to see if they’ve got any spare tickets.”

“They can’t be stupid enough to release them to you.”

“It’s got nothing to do with stupidity,” said Miss Parish. “I have a feeling it’s something far closer to home.”

“Like what?” said Griff.

“I’ve no idea, but I’ll get to the bottom of it before next Thursday.”

“And what about the remaining tickets?” said Griff. “Who gets those?”

“First come, first served,” said Miss Parish. “I’ll have a hundred of our people standing in the queue an hour before the curtain goes up.”

“So will the Tories,” said Griff. “Better make it two hundred, two hours before.”

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington, and I’m the Labour candidate...”

For the next week, Giles didn’t let up for one minute, the weekend included. He canvassed, visited pubs, held evening meetings, and attended any gathering where more than half a dozen people were likely to turn up.

On Saturday, he put on his county tie and went to watch Gloucestershire play Middlesex at Nevil Road, but only stayed for about an hour. After walking slowly around the boundary perimeter, making sure all five thousand spectators had seen him, he made his way back to the constituency headquarters on Park Street.

On Sunday, he attended matins, communion, and evensong in three different churches, but during each sermon his thoughts often strayed back to the debate, testing out arguments, phrases, even pauses...

“In the name of the Father...”

By Wednesday, Griff’s polling was showing that Giles was still a couple of points behind, but Seb reminded him, so was Kennedy before his debate with Nixon.

Every detail of the encounter had been analyzed at length. What he should wear, when he should have a haircut, not to shave until an hour before he walked on to the stage, and, if he was offered the choice, to speak last.

“Who’s chairing the debate?” asked Seb.

“Andy Nash, the editor of the Evening News. We want to win votes, he wants to sell newspapers. Everyone has an angle,” said Griff.

“And be sure you’re in bed before midnight,” said Emma. “You’re going to need a good night’s sleep.”

Giles did get to bed before midnight, but he didn’t sleep as he went over his speech again and again, rehearsing answers to all of Seb’s questions. His concentration wasn’t helped by Karin regularly barging into his thoughts. He was up by six, and outside Temple Meads station half an hour later, megaphone in hand once again, ready to face the early morning commuters.

“Good morning, my name is Giles Barrington...”

“Good luck tonight, Sir Giles, I’ll be there to support you.”

“I don’t live in your constituency, sorry.”

“Where do you stand on flogging?”

“I think I’ll give the Liberals a go this time.”

“Don’t have a spare fag, do you, guv?”

“Good morning...”

21

Griff picked Giles up from Barrington Hall just before six. This was one meeting he couldn’t afford to be late for.

Giles was wearing a charcoal-gray single-breasted suit, a cream shirt, and a Bristol Grammar School tie. He suspected that Fisher would be wearing his usual blue pinstriped double-breasted suit, a white shirt with a starched collar, and his regimental tie.

Giles was so nervous that he hardly spoke on the journey to the Hippodrome, and Griff remained accommodatingly quiet. He knew the candidate was silently rehearsing his speech.

Thirty minutes later, they pulled up outside the stage door where Giles had once hung around after a matinee of Pride and Prejudice to get Celia Johnson’s autograph. Griff accompanied his candidate backstage where they were met by Andy Nash, who would be chairing the debate. He looked relieved to see them.

Giles paced up and down in the wings as he waited impatiently for the curtain to go up. Although there was still thirty minutes before the chairman would bang his gavel and call for order, Giles could already hear the buzz of an expectant audience, which made him feel like a finely tuned athlete waiting to be called to the starting line.

A few minutes later, Alex Fisher swept in, surrounded by his entourage, all talking at the tops of their voices. When you’re nervous, Giles decided, it reveals itself in many different ways. Fisher marched straight past him, making no attempt to engage him in conversation and ignoring his outstretched hand.

A moment later, Simon Fletcher, the Liberal candidate, strolled in. How much easier it is to be relaxed when you’ve nothing to lose. He immediately shook hands with Giles and said, “I wanted to thank you.”

“What for?” asked Giles, genuinely puzzled.

“For not continually reminding everyone that I’m not married, unlike Fisher, who mentions the fact at every opportunity.”

“Right, gentlemen,” said Nash. “Please gather around, because the time has come to determine the order in which you will speak.” He held out a fist that gripped three straws of differing lengths. Fisher drew the short one, while Fletcher pulled out the longest one.

“You have first choice, Mr. Fletcher,” said the chairman.

The Liberal candidate cocked his head to one side and whispered to Giles, “Where do you want me to go?”

“Second,” Giles replied.

“I’ll go second,” said Fletcher. Fisher looked surprised.

“And you, Sir Giles? First or last?”

“Last, thank you, chairman.”

“Right, that’s settled. You’ll be speaking first, Major Fisher. Let’s put our heads above the parapet.”

He led the three candidates out onto the stage, and it was the only time that evening that the whole audience applauded. Giles looked out into the auditorium where, unlike a theatre production, the lights wouldn’t be going down. Two thousand lions had been waiting patiently for the Christians to appear.

He wished he’d stayed at home and was having supper on a tray in front of the TV; anywhere but here. But he always felt like that, even when he addressed the smallest gathering. He glanced across at Fisher to see a bead of sweat appearing on his forehead, which he quickly mopped with a handkerchief from his top pocket. He looked back at the audience and saw Emma and Harry seated in the second row, smiling up at him.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, my name is Andy Nash, and I am editor of the Bristol Evening News. It’s my privilege to chair the meeting this evening, which is the only occasion on which all three candidates will appear on the same platform. Now, allow me to explain how the debate will be conducted. Each candidate will make an opening address of six minutes. That will be followed by thirty minutes of questions from the audience. The evening will end with all three candidates summing up for two minutes each. I will now call upon the Conservative candidate, Major Alex Fisher, to address us.”

Fisher made his way purposefully to the center of the stage and was greeted with warm applause from one section of the audience. He placed his speech on the lectern and immediately began to read it word for word, only occasionally raising his head.

Giles sat nervously in his seat listening carefully as he waited for the sarcastic comment, the barbed innuendo, but none came. Instead, Fisher concentrated on what legislation would be treated as a priority if the Tories formed the next government. He could have been reading out a shopping list that he regularly interspersed with the words “Time for a change.” At no point did he mention either of his opponents. And then Giles worked out what Fisher was up to. He was not going to indulge in any personal attacks himself; that would be left to his lieutenants, spread evenly throughout the audience. When Fisher returned to his seat, it was not difficult to spot where those supporters were seated from their enthusiastic applause.

The Liberal candidate opened his speech by thanking the packed audience for giving up Coronation Street to come and hear him, which was greeted with laughter and warm applause. He then spent the next six minutes discussing local politics, everything from potholes in the roads to rural bus fares. When he returned to his seat, another section of the audience was equally loyal and supportive.

Once Fletcher had sat down, Giles walked to the center of the stage, although he wasn’t as relaxed as he hoped he looked. He placed a postcard on the lectern on which were typed seven headings: Education, Unemployment, Unions, the NHS, Europe, Defense, and Bristol.

He barely glanced at the card as he spoke about each subject with confidence and authority, while looking directly at his audience. When he returned to his seat, his supporters rose as one, and a large number of undecided members of the audience joined them. Had the debate ended then, there would have been only one winner, but no sooner had Giles sat down than the chairman called for questions, adding, “I hope any contributions will be worthy of a debate of this importance, and that no one will resort to personal comments in the hope of getting a cheap headline in tomorrow’s paper, because I assure you, as its editor, they won’t.”

This statement elicited such a spontaneous round of applause that Giles began to relax for the first time that evening.

“Yes, madam. The lady in the fourth row.”

“With the population growing ever older, can the candidates tell us about their long-term plans for the state pension?”

Giles was back on his feet before the chairman had a chance to decide which candidate should answer the question first.

“The state pension has gone up year on year while the Labour Party has been in power,” he declared, “because this government considers that a civilized society is one that takes care of its young and old alike.”

Fisher then delivered the party line as outlined in a Central Office brief, after which the Liberal candidate talked about his mother being in an old people’s home.

“I’ll take you next, sir,” said Nash, pointing to a man in the dress circle who had to wait for some time before a microphone reached him.

“Do all the candidates feel that the United Kingdom should join the Common Market?”

Fisher was well prepared for this question, and reminded the audience of Ted Heath’s long-standing commitment to Europe, adding that if the Tories were elected, they would do everything in their power to ensure that Britain became a member of the EEC.

Simon Fletcher reminded the audience it was his party that had pioneered the idea of entry into the Common Market, and how glad he was that the two other parties were now jumping on the Liberal bandwagon.

Giles rose to face the audience. How he would have liked to tell them that when he was in Berlin he had received overtures from the French foreign minister, making it clear that France would welcome a dialogue being opened between the two countries. But any mention of Berlin would have been the red rag one section of the audience was waiting for. So he simply said, “When it comes to joining the Common Market, I think I can safely say that all three parties are broadly in agreement, so I suspect it will only be a matter of which prime minister finally signs the Treaty of Rome.”

Several more questions on local, national, and foreign issues followed without any blows below the belt, and Giles was beginning to think he might be home and dry. “I’ll take two more questions,” said Nash, glancing at his watch. “Yes, madam, the lady standing near the back.” Giles recognized her immediately.

“Can all three candidates tell us their marital status, and if their wives are with them tonight?” A well-rehearsed question delivered by a seemingly innocent old lady, whom Giles well remembered from her days as a Tory councillor.

This time it was Fisher who was first on his feet, and he delivered an equally well-prepared reponse. “Sadly, I’ve been divorced for some years, but that hasn’t stopped me hoping that one day I will find the right partner. But, whatever my marital status, let me assure you that I would never consider becoming involved in a casual sexual relationship.”

A gasp went up in the hall, and one section of the crowd applauded enthusiastically.

The Liberal candidate said, “I have just as much difficulty finding a girlfriend as I do finding people who will vote for me, but, like the major, I haven’t given up yet.” This was greeted with laughter and applause.

Giles felt sad that Fletcher wasn’t able to be open about his sexuality, and looked forward to the day when he could admit that his partner was seated in the front row, and that they had been living happily together for many years.

When Giles took his place, he stood to one side of the lectern, looked directly at the audience and smiled. “I’m no saint.”

“True!” shouted a Conservative supporter, but he was greeted only by an embarrassed silence.

“I admit that I’ve strayed, and, as you all know, that is why Gwyneth is not here tonight, which I deeply regret. She has been a loyal and faithful wife, who has played an active role in the constituency.” He paused for a moment before adding, “But when the time comes for you to cast your vote, I hope you will place on the scales of human frailty twenty-five years of service to the people of this great city against one foolish lapse of judgement, because I would like the honor and privilege of continuing to serve all of you for many years to come.”

Giles suppressed a smile when the audience began to applaud, and was just about to return to his seat when someone shouted, “Don’t you think it’s time you told us more about Berlin?”

A loud undercurrent of chattering broke out in the hall and the chairman immediately leapt up, but Giles had already returned to the lectern. He gripped the sides so no one could see how nervous he was. Two thousand people looked up expectantly as he faced his inquisitor, who was still on his feet. Giles waited for complete silence.

“I’m only too delighted to do so, sir. I found Berlin to be a tragic city divided by a twelve-foot concrete wall crowned in barbed wire. It wasn’t built to keep the West Germans out, but to keep the East Germans in, creating the largest prison on earth. Hardly a compelling argument for Communism. But I pray that I will live to see it razed to the ground. I hope that is something we can both agree on, sir.”

The man sank back into his place as Giles returned to his seat with the sound of thunderous applause ringing in his ears.

The final question was about the power of the unions, and both Giles’s and Fisher’s responses were unconvincing; Giles, because he had lost his concentration, while Fisher hadn’t recovered from his demon fast bowler being knocked out of the ground.

Giles had recovered by the time it came to deliver his summing up, and it took him some time to leave the hall, as he had to shake so many outstretched hands. But it was Griff who best summed up the evening.

“We’re back in the race.”

22

The Bristol Evening News made a valiant attempt to present a balanced account of the debate that had taken place at the Hippodrome theatre the previous evening, but you didn’t have to read between the lines to be in any doubt who it felt was the winner. Although it had some reservations, the paper recommended that their readers should send Sir Giles Barrington back to the House of Commons.

“We haven’t won yet,” said Griff, dropping the paper in the nearest wastepaper basket. “So let’s get back to work. There’s still six days, nine hours, and fourteen minutes to go before the polls close next Thursday.”

Everyone set about their allotted task, whether it was checking canvass returns, preparing voting sheets for polling day, double-checking who needed a lift to the polling station, answering queries from the public, distributing last-minute leaflets, or making sure the candidate was fed and watered.

“Preferably on the move,” said Griff, who returned to his office and continued to work on the eve-of-poll message that would be dropped through the letterbox of every registered Labour supporter the night before the election.

At 5:45 a.m. on polling day Giles was once again standing outside Temple Meads station reminding everyone he shook hands with to “Vote for Barrington — today!”

Griff had designed a schedule that accounted for every minute of election day until the polls closed at 10:00 p.m. He had allocated Giles ten minutes for a pork pie, a cheese sandwich, and half a pint of cider in the most popular pub in the constituency.

At 6:30 p.m., he looked up to the heavens and cursed when it began to rain. Didn’t the gods know that between eight and ten in the morning, and five and seven in the evening, were Labour’s peak voting times? The Tories always got their vote out between ten and five. From seven o’clock in the evening until ten, when the polls closed, was anybody’s guess. The gods must have heard his plea, because the shower only lasted for about twenty minutes.

Giles ended the sixteen-hour day standing outside the gates of the dockyard, making sure that those clocking on for the night shift had already voted. If they hadn’t, they were immediately dispatched to the polling station on the other side of the road.

“But I’ll be late clocking on.”

“I know the chairman,” said Giles. To those who were coming off duty before going to the pub, Giles kept repeating, “Make sure you vote before you order your first pint.”

Griff and his team constantly checked their canvass returns so they could “knock up” those who still hadn’t cast their vote and remind them that the polling stations didn’t close until ten.

At one minute past ten, Giles shook the last hand and, desperate for a drink, walked down the road to join the dock workers in the Lord Nelson.

“Make mine a pint,” he said, leaning on the bar.

“Sorry, Sir Giles. It’s gone ten, and I know you wouldn’t want me to lose my license.”

Two men sitting at the bar grabbed an empty glass and filled it from their own two pints.

“Thank you,” said Giles, raising his glass.

“We’re both feeling a little guilty,” one of them admitted. “We ran in during the shower, so we haven’t voted.”

Giles would happily have poured the beer over their heads. Looking around the pub, he wondered how many more votes he’d lost when it was raining.

Harry walked into the Lord Nelson a few minutes later. “Sorry to drag you away,” he said, “but Griff has ordered me to take you home.”

“Not a man to be disobeyed,” said Giles, downing his pint.

“So what happens next?” asked Harry as they set off in his car for Barrington Hall.

“Nothing new. The local constabulary will be collecting the ballot boxes from all over the constituency before taking them to the Guildhall. The seals will be broken in the presence of Mr. Hardy, the town clerk, and once the ballot papers have been checked, the counting begins. So there’s no point in turning up at City Hall yet, as we can’t expect a result much before three a.m. Griff’s picking me up around midnight.”

Giles was dozing in his bath when the front-door bell rang. He climbed slowly out, pulled on a dressing gown, and pushed open the bathroom window to see Griff standing on the doorstep below.

“Sorry, Griff, I must have fallen asleep in the bath. Let yourself in and fix yourself a drink. I’ll be down as quickly as I can.”

Giles put on the same suit and tie he wore for every count, although he had to admit he could no longer do up the jacket’s middle button. He was on his way downstairs fifteen minutes later.

“Don’t ask me, because I don’t know,” said Griff, as he drove out of the front gates. “All I can tell you is that if the exit polls are to be believed, the Tories have won by about forty seats.”

“Then it’s back to opposition,” said Giles.

“That’s assuming you win, and our polling returns are showing it’s too close to call,” said Griff. “It’s 1951 all over again.” Griff didn’t say another word until they pulled into the car park outside City Hall, when three weeks of pent-up frustration and not a great deal of sleep suddenly came bursting out.

“It’s not the thought of losing that I can’t stomach,” said Griff. “It’s the thought of Major fucking Fisher winning.”

Giles sometimes forgot how passionately Griff felt about the cause, and how lucky he was to have him as his agent.

“Right,” said Griff, “now I’ve got that off my chest, let’s report for duty.” He got out of the car, straightened his tie and headed toward City Hall. As they walked up the steps together, Griff turned to Giles and said, “Try and look as if you expect to win.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll have to deliver a speech you’ve never made before, which will be a new experience for you.” Giles laughed as they entered the packed, noisy room where the count was taking place.

A dozen long trestle tables filled the room, with council officials and selected party representatives seated on both sides, furiously counting or observing. Every time a new black ballot box was emptied onto the tables, a forest of hands stretched out and quickly sorted the names of the candidates into three separate piles, before the counting could begin. Little stacks of ten soon became stacks of a hundred, at which point a red, blue, or yellow band was placed around them and they were lined up like infantrymen at the end of the table.

Griff watched the process warily. A simple mistake and a hundred votes could be placed in the wrong pile.

“What do you want us to do?” asked Seb as he and Miss Parish came over to join them.

“Take a table each and report back to me if you spot anything you’re not happy about.”

“And what about you?” asked Giles.

“I’ll do what I always do,” said Griff, “scrutinize the votes from the Woodbine Estate and Arcadia Avenue. Once I’ve checked their returns, I’ll be able to tell you who’s going to win.”

Griff’s team took a table each and, although the process was slow, it was running smoothly. Once Giles had made a complete circuit of the room, deftly avoiding Fisher, he rejoined Griff.

“You’re two hundred votes down in Arcadia Avenue, and about two hundred up on the Woodbine Estate, so it’s anybody’s guess.”

After Giles had done another circuit of the room, only one thing was certain: Simon Fletcher was going to come third.

A few minutes later, Mr. Hardy tapped the microphone in the center of the stage. The room fell silent and everyone turned to face the town clerk.

“Would the candidates please join me to check the spoilt ballot papers.” A little ceremony Griff always enjoyed.

After the three candidates and their agents had studied the forty-two spoilt papers, they all agreed that twenty-two of them were valid: 10 for Giles, 9 for Fisher, and 3 for Fletcher.

“Let’s hope that’s an omen,” said Griff, “because as Churchill famously said, one is enough.”

“Any surprises?” asked Seb when they returned to the floor.

“No,” said Griff, “but I did enjoy one the town clerk rejected, Will your girlfriend in East Berlin be getting a postal vote?” Giles managed a smile. “Back to work. We can’t afford one mistake, and never forget 1951 when Seb saved the day.”

Hands began shooting up all around the room to show that the counting had finished on that particular table. An official then double-checked the figures before taking them up to the town clerk, who in turn entered them into an adding machine. Giles could still remember the days when the late Mr. Wainwright entered each figure on a ledger, and then three of his deputies checked and double-checked every entry, before he was willing to declare the result.

At 2:49 a.m., the town clerk walked back to the microphone and tapped it once again. The momentary silence was broken only by a pencil falling off a table and rolling across the floor. Mr. Hardy waited until it had been picked up.

“I, Leonard Derek Hardy, being the returning officer for the constituency of Bristol Docklands, declare the total number of votes cast for each candidate to be as follows:

As soon as Giles heard the word eighteen and not nineteen, he felt confident he’d won.

“—994.”

The Tory camp immediately erupted. Griff, trying to make himself heard above the noise, asked Mr. Hardy for a recount, which was immediately granted. The whole process began again, with every table checking and rechecking first the tens, then the hundreds, and finally the thousands, before once again reporting back to the town clerk.

At 3:27 a.m., he called for silence again. “I, Leonard Derek Hardy, being the returning officer...” Heads were bowed, eyes were closed, while some of those present turned away, unable even to face the stage as they crossed their fingers and waited for the numbers to be read out. “... for each candidate to be as follows:

Giles knew that after such a close result he could insist on a second recount, but he did not. Instead, he reluctantly nodded his acceptance of the result to the town clerk.

“I therefore declare Major Alexander Fisher to be the duly elected Member of Parliament for the constituency of Bristol Docklands.”

An eruption of shouting and cheering broke out in one half of the room as the new member was raised onto the shoulders of his party workers and paraded around the hall. Giles walked across and shook Fisher’s hand for the first time during the campaign.

After the speeches were over, Fisher triumphant in victory, Giles gracious in defeat, Simon Fletcher pointing out that he’d recorded his highest ever vote, the newly elected member and his supporters went on celebrating throughout the night, while the vanquished drifted away in twos and threes, with Griff and Giles among the last to leave.

“We’d have done it if the national swing hadn’t been against us,” said Griff, as he drove the former member home.

“Just twenty-one votes,” said Giles.

“Eleven,” said Griff.

“Eleven?” repeated Giles.

“If eleven voters had changed their minds.”

“And if it hadn’t rained for twenty minutes at six thirty.”

“It’s been a year of ifs.”

23

Giles finally climbed into bed just before 5:00 a.m. He switched off the bedside light, put his head on the pillow, and closed his eyes, just as the alarm went off. He groaned and switched the light back on. No longer any need to be standing outside Temple Meads station at 6:00 a.m. to greet the early morning commuters.

My name is Giles Barrington, and I’m your Labour candidate for yesterday’s election... He switched off the alarm and fell into a deep sleep, not waking again until eleven that morning.

After a late breakfast, or was it brunch, he had a shower, got dressed, packed a small suitcase, and drove out of the gates of Barrington Hall just after midday. He was in no hurry, as his plane wouldn’t be taking off from Heathrow until 4:15 p.m.

If, another if, Giles had stayed at home for a few more minutes, he could have taken a call from Harold Wilson, who was compiling his resignation honors list. The new leader of the opposition was going to offer Giles the chance to go to the House of Lords and sit on the opposition front bench as spokesman on foreign affairs.

Mr. Wilson tried again that evening, but by then Giles had landed in Berlin.

Only a few months before, the Rt. Hon. Sir Giles Barrington MP had been driven out onto the runway at Heathrow, and the plane took off only after he’d fastened his seat belt in first class.

Now, squeezed between a woman who never stopped chatting to her friend on the other side of the aisle, and a man who clearly enjoyed making it difficult for him to turn the pages of the Times, Giles reflected on what he hadn’t missed. The two-and-a-half-hour flight seemed interminable, and when they landed he had to dash through the rain to get to the terminal.

Although he was among the first off the plane, he was almost the last to leave baggage reclaim. He had forgotten just how long it could take before your luggage appeared on the carousel. By the time he was reunited with his bag and had been released from customs and finally made it to the front of the taxi queue, he was already exhausted.

“Checkpoint Charlie” was all he said as he climbed into the back of the cab.

The driver gave him a second look, decided he was sane, but dropped him off some hundred yards from the border post. It was still raining.

As Giles ran toward the customs building, carrying his bag in one hand and his copy of the Times held over his head in the other, he couldn’t help recalling his last visit to Berlin.

When he stepped inside, he joined a short queue, but it still took a long time before he reached the front.

“Good evening, sir,” said a fellow countryman, as Giles handed over his passport and visa.

“Good evening,” said Giles.

“May I ask why you are visiting the Eastern sector, Sir Giles?” the guard inquired politely, while inspecting his documents.

“I’m seeing a friend.”

“And how long do you plan to stay in the Eastern sector?”

“Seven days.”

“The maximum period your temporary visa allows,” the officer reminded him.

Giles nodded, hoping that in seven days’ time all his questions would have been answered, and he would at last know if Karin felt the same way as he did. The officer smiled, stamped his passport, and said “Good luck” as if he meant it.

At least the rain had stopped by the time Giles stepped back out of the building. He set out on the long walk across no-man’s-land between the two border posts, not in the British Embassy’s Rolls-Royce accompanied by the ambassador but as a private citizen representing no one other than himself.

When he saw the guard stationed on the East Berlin border, he didn’t need to be reminded that they didn’t welcome tourists. He entered another building that hadn’t seen a splash of paint since the wall had gone up, and where no one had given a thought for old, tired, or infirm visitors who might just want to sit down. Another queue, another wait, longer this time, before he eventually handed over his passport to a young customs officer who did not greet him with good evening, sir, in any language.

The official slowly turned each page of his passport, clearly mystified by how many countries this foreigner had visited in the last four years. After he’d turned the final page, he raised the palm of his right hand in the air, like a traffic policeman, and said, “Stay,” clearly the one word of English he knew. He then retreated to the back of the room, knocked on a door marked Kommondant, and disappeared inside.

It was some time before the door opened again, and when it did, a short, bald-headed man appeared. He looked about the same age as Giles, but it was hard to be sure because his shiny, double-breasted suit was so out of date it might have been his father’s. His graying shirt was frayed at the collar and cuffs, and his red tie looked as if it had been ironed once too often. But the surprise was his command of English.

“Perhaps you would come with me, Mr. Barrington,” were his opening words.

“Perhaps” turned out to be an order, because he immediately turned on his heel and headed toward his office without looking back. The young official lifted the counter lid so Giles could follow him.

The official sat down behind his desk, if a table with a single drawer can be described as a desk. Giles sat opposite him on a hard wooden stool, no doubt a product of the same factory.

“What is the purpose of your visit to East Berlin, Mr. Barrington?”

“I’m visiting a friend.”

“And the name of this friend?”

Giles hesitated, as the man continued to stare at him. “Karin Pengelly.”

“Is she a relative?”

“No, as I said, a friend.”

“And how long are you intending to stay in East Berlin?”

“As you can see, my visa is for one week.”

The official studied the visa for a considerable time, as if hoping to find an irregularity, but Giles had had the document checked by a friend at the Foreign Office who confirmed that every little box had been filled in correctly.

“What is your profession?” asked the official.

“I’m a politician.”

“What does that mean?”

“I used to be a Member of Parliament, and a Foreign Office minister, which is why I’ve traveled so much in recent years.”

“But you are no longer a minister, or even a Member of Parliament.”

“No, I am not.”

“One moment please.” The official picked up a phone, dialled three numbers and waited. When someone answered, he began a protracted conversation of which Giles couldn’t understand a word, but from the man’s deferential tone, he was in no doubt that he was addressing someone far more senior than himself. If only Karin had been there to translate for him.

The official began to make notes on the pad in front of him, often followed by the word Ja. It wasn’t until after several more Jas that he finally put the phone down.

“Before I stamp your visa, Mr. Barrington, there are one or two more questions that need to be answered.”

Giles attempted a weak smile as the official looked back down at his pad.

“Are you related to Mr. Harry Clifton?”

“Yes, I am. He’s my brother-in-law.”

“And are you a supporter of his campaign to have the criminal Anatoly Babakov released from prison?”

Giles knew that if he answered the question honestly, his visa would be revoked. Couldn’t the man understand that for the past month he’d been counting the hours until he saw Karin again? He was sure Harry would appreciate the dilemma he was facing.

“I repeat, Mr. Barrington, do you support your brother-in-law’s campaign to have the criminal Anatoly Babakov released?”

“Yes, I do,” said Giles. “Harry Clifton is one of the finest men I have ever known, and I fully support his campaign to have the author Anatoly Babakov released.”

The official handed Giles back his passport, opened the drawer of his desk, and placed the visa inside.

Giles stood up and, without another word, turned and made his way out of the building, to find it had started raining again. He began the long walk back to the West, wondering if he would ever see Karin again.