Peace on Earth. Gordon Stevens

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ lighting in the room on the third floor overlooking Horse Guards Parade was subdued, in the semi-gloom he could see the outlines of the mementoes he had brought with him from the sanitised corridors of the Department of Energy. None of them referred to himself, at least not directly. On the left of the antique clock on the wall facing his desk was a portrait of his grandfather, below it a letter signed personally by George V. On the wall to the left of the desk, an original newspaper report of the Balfour Declaration, to which the same grandfather had been an advisor, in the gloom to the right a black and white photograph of his father standing behind the seated figures of Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin at Yalta in 1945.

      John Kenshaw-Taylor had dreamt of the Foreign Office, had savoured its charisma and its power, ever since his father had brought him there when he was eight years old. He had taken it with him when he returned to his prep school that evening, held on to it through Eton and Oxford, even during his days in the City, when his natural instincts, as well as his undoubted connections, had amassed him a considerable personal wealth. He remembered the decision to enter politics, the bye-election, his first ministerial post, remembered above all the evening a few short weeks ago, the telephone call inviting him to see the Prime Minister at Number Ten, the suggestion that he should leave Energy and take over as Number Two at the Foreign Office. He sipped the manzanilla and looked at the winter sky gathering outside the window. What a way to start Christmas, he thought, recalling his first day in the building itself, the portraits, their oils glinting in the strange light which seemed to stalk the corridors, the images of the men who had directed the nation’s course and its relationship with the rest of the world, the men who had led the nation itself.

      ‘Thank you, Minister.’ The Under-Secretary rose to leave, placing his glass on the silver tray on the side. ‘Perhaps it has been a good day after all.’ He meant it. For forty years, the British Foreign Office had presided over the dissolution of an empire; after the Falklands campaign, it had been said by some, even the Prime Minister had seen fit to question what remained of its role on the world stage. The new minister, the civil servant felt, was not long for the Number Two job, and when he was at the top, things would change. An old wind blowing through the corridors, someone had remarked. ‘Thank you, Minister,’ he said again.

      Kenshaw-Taylor watched the man leave, staring for a few moments out of the window, looking through the darkness towards Buckingham Palace, then turned back to his desk. Kenshaw-Taylor’s mind was the epitome of clarity and logic. He took pride not only in organising to the last degree whatever he was doing, but in sticking to it, whether in the day-to-day management of his personal affairs, or the advancement of his political career.

      It was seven fifteen. He picked up the telephone and dialled his home in the country; the phone rang for thirty seconds before his wife answered. ‘Samantha, darling, it’s me.’ They talked for ten minutes about what she had done that day, what he had done. That evening, because of his commitments in London, she was due to open the Christmas fayre at the village hall in his stead; tomorrow, she reminded him, the children would be home from school. He assured her he would be back by the following afternoon, and that he was looking forward to Christmas. She said she was already late and would have to go. ‘OK, darling. Love you. Bye.’

      He put the phone down and turned his attention to the despatch boxes. Three to get through. He already knew what they contained and worked out his timetable for the evening. One hour on the first box, the reception he had to attend for fifty minutes, a couple of hours in the flat to finish off the other two. Thank God he wasn’t still at Energy, the midnight meetings about the miners’ strike, the problems about the instability of North Sea oil prices. The move had come just at the right time, and to the right department, kept him away from the law and order problems at the Home Office and the financial worries at the Exchequer.

      He was in an enviable position, he knew, not just because he was in the Foreign Office, but because of his position within it, aware that he would look back on these days with just a tinge of nostalgia. His hands were on the first trappings of power, real power, but he was still far enough from that power not to be encumbered with its disadvantages. He could still take his wife to dinner, could still go Christmas shopping with the children without the armed bodyguards who were always just a pace away from his senior colleagues. He could ask his driver to wait for him, or he could tell the man to drop the despatch boxes at his flat and make his own way home.

      He shut his mind off and opened the first box.

      At eight thirty, precisely according to the schedule he had mapped out earlier, he finished the box. At eight forty-five his driver dropped him at the reception and continued to Pimlico where he left the two remaining boxes at the minister’s London flat.

      Kenshaw-Taylor stayed at the reception until twenty minutes to ten. Pimlico is five minutes from Westminster by car, fifteen by foot. When the Foreign Minister arrived at the flat it was eleven thirty.

      The temperature in Rome was minus three and falling; it was also wet, the blanket of rain sweeping across the runway, sounding like the roll of kettle drums as it cascaded off the metal roof of the terminal building.

      The TWA jumbo was thirty minutes late, delayed by an air traffic control dispute. Abu Nabil hurried through immigration and customs, showered, shaved and changed his clothes in the gents’ toilet, made a telephone call to the hotel in the city centre explaining that he had been delayed, and was asked to attend as quickly as he could. On the cab rank outside he picked up a taxi, told the driver there was an extra tip for him if he could get to the city centre in record time, and settled back into his seat. The traffic was heavy, he did not feel it was the best preparation for the meeting ahead.

      He arrived at the hotel thirty-five minutes later, tipped the driver well, and was shown immediately to the suite on the fifth floor. Sheikh Saeed Khaled was waiting. Nabil apologised for being late, Khaled in turn apologised that he had little time to spare that day and had to leave the hotel for an appointment in thirty minutes. Breakfast arrived two minutes later.

      Whilst Khaled poured them both coffee they discussed the outline of their London meeting, concentrating on the sheikh’s suggestion that Nabil needed what they had called a friend, as well as the friend who would influence that friend.

      ‘That is why I have come to see you again,’ Nabil brought the conversation into focus.

      ‘You mean you have found the friend you were looking for?’

      ‘Possibly.’

      ‘Who?’ asked Khaled.

      ‘I am told that Henry Armstrong will be the next major United States Foreign Affairs negotiator and that he has a special interest in the Middle East.’

      Khaled smiled, nodding his head. ‘I wonder who told you that.’ He drew his hands together and rested his chin on them. ‘You’re probably right. Henry Armstrong has the right connections, the right ambitions. Who will influence him on your behalf?’

      ‘The British Foreign Minister, John Kenshaw-Taylor.’

      The choice did not appear to surprise Khaled. Nabil began listing the details contained in the brief Ahmad Hussein had given him in New York, but Khaled interrupted. ‘I know him. We met during the oil discussions before he was moved to the Foreign Office. How are they connected?’

      Nabil explained the Jacksonian Institute link.

      There is one thing about Kenshaw-Taylor that you should know,’ Khaled said slowly and carefully. Nabil noted that the sheikh still had not passed comment on his choice and feared he was preparing the ground for a rejection. ‘One thing,’ continued the sheikh, ‘that might make him an ideal target, but which might also prejudice you against him.’

      ‘What СКАЧАТЬ