Fifty-First State (34 page)

Haver said, ‘I don't know about you, but 1 always discuss business over food.'

‘So do I,' replied Gott. ‘Though I've known it to give me indigestion.' He looked at Haver, challenging him to try.

A platter of oysters arrived. The two men started to swallow them.

‘Always put heart in you,' observed Haver, taking another. ‘I gather you've been making a lot of changes in your investment policies recently.'

Gott took an oyster. He suddenly knew Haver would not let him have six of the dozen on the table, that Haver must and would have seven, and that if he took his share Haver was prepared to order and pay for another dozen, just to make sure of the lion's share.

‘I have made changes,' Gott agreed. Unprepared to embark on an eating competition with Haver, he took the fifth oyster, swallowed it, ate
some bread and butter, sipped a little of his wine and leaned back. ‘That's it,' he said. ‘Delicious. I hope you can manage the rest. Yes, well – I can't tell you everyone's pleased with my decisions.' He wasn't telling Haver anything – news of the director's meeting, and his own imminent departure, was all round the City.

Haver then surprised him greatly. ‘If you'll have me, I'd like to come in behind you. There's a Greatorex meeting this afternoon. I'm Chairman, as you know. I'm going to try to persuade the Board to switch twenty-five per cent of our investments to Clough Whitney. Under your personal supervision, of course.'

Greatorex was the second largest pension fund in the UK. The value of a quarter of its funds to Gott's bank was enormous.

Gott said, evenly, ‘That's very good news, Lord Haver.'

‘I can't guarantee I'll swing it. What I'll be telling them is that I'm moving some of my personal money to you. Which is the other thing – I want you to take charge of some of my holdings.' Haver's personal fortune was estimated at four billion.

Gott was even more amazed, victory bells ringing distantly in his mind. He asked, ‘You want me to invest for you on the same basis I'm using for my other clients?'

‘Those who are left,' Haver said. ‘Have you followed the policy with regard to your own money?' As is well known, the last taboo is one man asking another about his private funds. Moreover, Gott was still very wary of Haver. He looked straight into his hard, narrow eyes and remembered that this man was capable of almost anything. He answered, ‘I never recommend my clients or my bank to do anything I wouldn't do myself.'

‘That's probably as close to integrity as a banker can get,' Haver said.

Gott almost smiled, hearing the word integrity coming from Haver's mouth. ‘I'm surprised. What makes you think I'm right in doing what I'm doing? Not everybody feels the same.'

He thought Haver might know something he did not. But if he did, he wouldn't tell.

Haver said, looking at the menu, ‘Scallops look good – are they fresh?'

‘Of course, sir,' the waiter replied.

‘He would say that, wouldn't he?' Haver said to Gott. ‘Well, all right then, I'll have them anyway. What about you, Gott?'

‘Salmon,' Gott said.

Haver gave the order and asked, ‘Where were we – yes—why? Why indeed. Well, I was in Moscow last week talking to the Finance Minister there and he told me they were quietly dumping their dollars. They're brooding about fixing the rouble to the euro. Fat chance, but – straws in the wind, Gott. Straws in the wind. The last great takeovers, eh? The dollar absorbs the pound, the yuan absorbs the yen, the euro hooks up
with the rouble. Yesterday, I was told by a very serious individual that another government, more important than Russia, was going to dump its dollar holdings. Meanwhile, there's you – I'm guessing you've looked into the UK's future and seen a picture, not a pretty one. Am I right?'

Gott did not answer but responded, ‘I'm pleased you're planning a move to Clough Whitney, of course. That goes without saying. But we're a small bank and I'm curious about why you aren't going to your own bankers.'

‘I've had a word,' said Lord Haver. ‘But they don't understand. They'll follow instructions, but they'll drag their feet, they'll show no enthusiasm and they won't understand the principles. Part of it's that their own percentages will drop. Anyway, I've no desire to talk to my bank and know they think they're dealing with a madman. It's the sanctions, isn't it, Gott? You think the Europeans will go ahead and cut off our oil supplies?'

‘I think they might. And even the possibility is enough for me to want to restructure investments.' He paused. ‘But an American I spoke to told me Petherbridge thinks the European Finance Ministers are bluffing.'

‘Maybe he's bluffing,' said Haver. ‘A politician'll say anything because he's nothing to lose. You and I are talking money. That's serious. This bill – are you going to win?'

Gott shook his head. ‘I don't know. There's a good chance, no better.'

‘Out on a limb, aren't you?' asked Haver, enjoying it. ‘Several, in fact.'

‘A bit of risk never hurts,' Gott said. ‘Life's a risk.'

‘Very true,' said Haver. ‘I only ask about the bill because it'll have a bearing on everything else. Trouble is, Gott, as a banker you're judging the situation – as a politician, you're influencing it. We don't really want a war with the US, do we? Terrible for business.'

‘It's not a challenge, just a return to the status quo,' Gott said defensively.

‘That's what you think and that's what I think, but what will they think? Proud and touchy folk, the Americans. Still, there are situations and reactions you can't predict.'

Gott put down his knife and fork. ‘Indigestion?' Haver questioned with a tight smile. He finished his own food and looked round immediately for the waiter.

‘Oh,' he said. ‘I'd like to insist on one thing. Nothing about these transactions – if I can get the board to agree to them. It'll get known soon enough but I'd be pretty unhappy to see this in tomorrow's papers.' Gott, who had been contacted by the press, refused to give interviews and had been subsequently criticized if not mocked by them, would have preferred to leak the news of Lord Haver's support immediately. But the important thing was that his own board should know.

Haver, menu in hand, looked up at the waiter by his side and said, ‘Bread and butter – sticky toffee – cheesecake, what the hell is that?—don't they ever change the menu here?'

The waiter made a suggestion.

‘Don't be foolish, man,' Haver said. ‘Ice cream? In February? I'm not a child.' ‘Never mind,' he said to Gott. ‘Let's try the cheese. Might as well,' he urged. ‘If the Frogs put on these sanctions we'll be reduced to smuggling in Camembert.'

He put more wine in Gott's glass. ‘No more for me, with Greatorex to face,' he told Gott. ‘I'll call you after the meeting. They're never long. Should be around four.' He paused. ‘You know what,' he said, ‘I think we're heading for the hell of a mess. No knowing how bad it's going to get.'

Haver's attendant came through the restaurant and he looked up. ‘I'm sorry,' he said. ‘I must go – I'll have to leave you to enjoy your cheese in peace.'

Gott was pleased to be relieved of Haver's difficult presence. He was now half-convinced that Haver's offers were sincere. But only half. Nevertheless, at 3:45 p.m. Jasmine Dottrell put Lord Haver through. The Greatorex board had agreed to put a quarter of its funds in Gott's hands. Haver's personal bankers would be in touch tomorrow. Gott's career was saved.

And now he, or his group, had won the vote.

Standing by the laden buffet, he said to Joshua, ‘Funny about how things can turn around in one day.' Joshua agreed, though he imagined Gott was only referring to the vote. Gott made way for Amelia Strange, who said, ‘Congratulations, Lord Gott. Radio car outside your house tomorrow, eight a.m.'

‘Tell the driver I'll be the man on the pavement in pyjamas,' Gott said jovially. To Joshua he said, ‘Another splash of champagne?'

‘Not really,' Joshua said. ‘I've just had a text from the PM—“See me, 9.00 p.m. tomorrow.”'

‘It'll be nasty,' said Gott. ‘But you won, he lost, them's the facts.'

‘He won't go,' Joshua said. It was not a question.

‘No. He won't go. He'll stay and make your life a misery, as much as he can. But I'll tell you what I think. He won't back the US in the Iraq War because he can't now. But he's going to have to explain this to the President and I'm guessing that won't be the end of it. There'll be a plan. I just don't know what it is. But one thing's certain, we can't retreat now. We have to get those bases back under exclusively British control.'

He turned to a man behind him who had overheard him and said, ‘I never said that, Jake.'

‘Course you didn't,' said the other, and drifted away.

‘It's a big one, though,' said Joshua. ‘There'd be hell to pay.'

‘There already is,' said Gott. Briefly, he told Joshua about the prospect of European trade sanctions against the UK. ‘If that happens it would be devastating. It can only be prevented by cutting some ties with our old friends. And those bases are the biggest ties – ties or shackles, I don't know which. I wish to God I knew what Petherbridge was planning.'

Joshua looked wary, ‘OK. But not here, Edward. Let's talk about it later.'

‘I didn't want to spoil your party, but you had to know,' Gott told him.

At the thought of the next day's meeting, Joshua's face stiffened. Gott clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don't worry – he daren't do anything to you straight away.'

He was seized by one of Graham Barnsbury's pretty daughters who said, ‘Lord Gott – someone told me you're a dancing man. All the other men here seem to have two left feet.'

‘That's the best offer I'll get tonight,' Gott said and led her to the dance floor.

In a small room leading from the main reception room Julia Baskerville and Mark Moreno were alone. Above the sound of the band playing Julia said to Mark, tall and handsome in a black suit and red tie, ‘You're ready to go for it, then?'

‘This is the time,' he said. ‘With the Lands Sale Bill lost we have to strike hard now, while public feeling is with us. We must get those bases back before Petherbridge obeys American orders, commits us to this re-invasion of Iraq and starts using the bases to ferry troops and materiel out, and suspected terrorists in—' He broke off as a couple came in, he in a dinner jacket, she in a tiny gold dress, and went, entwined, to the window. Moreno said, in a lower voice, ‘I've had a tip-off from the Treasury that they're working night and day on this Transatlantic Trade Agreement. It's more than a rumour. If Petherbridge pulls that off the European Union will come down hard on us. Trade sanctions could be the least of it.' He looked sideways, following Julia's eyes, to where the couple embraced. The woman was leaning against a wall, the man pressed hard against her. Moreno continued. ‘The EU could kick us out. Even if they don't we'll be pariahs – any power and influence we might have in Europe will be gone. Petherbridge is acting fast – we've got to act faster to stop him.'

‘It means getting rid of Chatterton—'

‘That's long overdue, Julia. He'd do too little, too late. The delay would give Petherbridge the victory.'

The woman's straps were now off her shoulders. One of her legs was
hooked round the man's. Julia smiled. ‘I'm with you,' she said. ‘But I think we have to get out of here. You first.'

Moreno left. Julia followed on a little later. Re-entering the crowded room she realized suddenly that Moreno had been taking almost no notice of the amorous couple. He had been too fixed on his planned coup. You had to be like that to be a successful politician – oblivious to the outside world.

Up came Joshua, grinning, a drink in his hand. ‘All these years together,' he said, ‘and I still don't know if you can do the tango?'

‘Try me,' she countered. Joshua put his drink down and they tangoed off together, under the chandeliers.

The White House, Washington DC, USA. February 24th, 2016. 3 p.m. (EST)

Ray Hollander was spared the sight of his President's furious face that afternoon. Instead, as he listened to her enraged voice on the phone he found himself staring at the long, calm face of George Washington, in a portrait which hung on the wall of her private sitting room. The voice was enough, though. ‘Great!' she said. ‘Petherbridge defeated, the airbases lost and millions of people in that miserable little island out on the streets yelling opposition like some mob in Baghdad or Beirut.'

‘We knew this could happen, Madam President,' Hollander said carefully. ‘We planned accordingly.'

‘Let's hope the plans work better than the first ones,' she told him.

‘There's no doubt—'

‘Who's this Lord Gott?' she interrupted.

‘A disappointed man, a lightweight, backed by a few disgruntled Conservative MPs and a rabble of liberals,' Hollander told her. ‘It's not a tough opposition.'

‘I think you'd better talk to Drew Caldicott,' she told him, and cut the connection.

Hollander breathed in and rang Drew Caldicott, the CIA chief, a man said to frighten everybody, including his wife, his children and his dog. Hollander looked into the terrifying eyes and forced himself to be calm. ‘This is a setback, Drew,' he said. ‘It's not a defeat. This can be resolved. But there are a couple of problems you can help with.'

‘Tell me what you need,' said Caldicott.

7 Adam Street, Shepherd's Bush, London W12. February 24th, 2016. 11.55 p.m.

‘So, Jemal, how's the family?' William had weakly enquired on finding Jemal Al Fasi on his couch, wearing his clothes.