The Complete Yes Minister (67 page)

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Scotch?’

‘Thanks.’

I told him to sit down.

‘Thanks.’

I told him there was no need to keep thanking me.

‘Thanks,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘Sorry.’

Annie told him there was no need to apologise either.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I mean, thanks. I mean . . .’

Clearly my eminence was reducing this chap to a sort of jelly.

Annie offered to go and let us chaps talk in private, but for some reason he seemed anxious for her to stay. Can’t think why. Anyway, he asked if she could stay and of course I agreed.

‘I have no secrets from Annie,’ I explained. ‘I tell her everything.’

‘Several times, normally,’ she added cheerfully.

I do
wish
she wouldn’t make jokes like that. People might think that she means them.

I decided to establish whether the slightly cloak-and-dagger air about our meeting was, in fact, necessary. ‘Is this matter highly confidential?’ I asked.

‘Well, fairly,’ he replied, rather on edge. Clearly ‘fairly’ was a bit of traditional British understatement.

‘Shall I turn on the radio?’ I offered.

He seemed surprised. ‘Why – is there something good on?’

I don’t know what they teach these army chaps nowadays. I explained that I was suggesting that we play the radio to avoid being bugged. He asked if it was likely that we were being bugged. How does one know the answer to that? But then Annie reminded me that, as I am the Minister in charge of bugging politicians, it wasn’t awfully likely.

But Saunders was quite clear that he didn’t want our conversation to be on the record, even though I made it clear that I would take notes at the meeting if necessary (which indeed it was). He began by saying that what he was about to tell me he was telling me on a personal basis.

I asked him what he meant, precisely. I do like clarity in language.

‘I’m telling you personally,’ he repeated. ‘Not as Minister of Administrative Affairs.’

I could
sort of
see what he meant. But, on the other hand, I
am
Minister of Administrative Affairs. I sought further clarification.

‘Yes, I know you are,’ he said. ‘But I’m not telling you in that role. I’m telling you as a journalist.’

‘Are you a journalist?’ I was surprised. ‘I thought you were an army officer.’

‘No –
you
are a journalist.’

‘I’m a Minister.’

‘But – what were you before you became a Minister?’

‘Your starter for ten, no conferring,’ interrupted Annie facetiously. She’s always watched too much television and has always had a rather silly infatuation with Bamber Gascoigne merely because he’s charming and clever.

In any case, I’d now seen what Saunders was driving at. I put it into simple language, so that we were both clear about what we were both saying.

‘You’re telling me that what you’re telling me – and, incidentally, I don’t yet
know
what you’re telling me – but, whatever it is that you’re telling me, you’re telling me as the former Editor of
Reform
. Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You were a very fine editor.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I said modestly.

‘You’ve often said that,’ said Annie. Another of her bloody jokes. Sometimes she’s more hindrance than help.

We still hadn’t found a basis for my receipt of his confidential information. So I had to pursue our talks about talks, as it were. ‘How,’ I wanted to know, ‘do I prevent myself from knowing what you are telling me as a former journalist?’

I couldn’t see how I could help the Minister knowing if
I
knew.

‘I think he means it’s a question of hats, dear,’ said Annie. Of course it was. Perfectly bloody obvious. I tried to disguise my irritation.

‘Fine,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m not wearing my Ministerial hat tonight. I understand that. But . . .’ and here I think I impressed him with the solemnity of my high office under the Crown, ‘. . . I must warn you: if I need to tell myself what you tell me, I won’t hesitate to do my duty and see that I am properly informed.’

‘Fine,’ agreed Major Saunders.

It seemed that at last we had some basis on which to open up our conversation. I waited with bated breath.

He took a large gulp of his whisky, put down his glass firmly on the coffee table, and fixed me with a bloodshot stare. ‘Who is in charge of selling British weapons to foreigners?’

‘Bzzzzz. Hacker, LSE,’ said Annie. I silenced her with a filthy look. Then I waited for more from Saunders. After all, he’d requested the meeting because he’d had something to
tell
me, not to ask me.

Saunders realised the ball was still in his court. ‘You wrote an article in
Reform
about the sale of British weapons to undesirable foreign buyers.’

I remembered it well. I had called it ‘The Dreadful Trade’. In it I argued – as I have always argued – that while it is wholly patriotic to manufacture arms for our defence and even for the defence of our allies, even though some of our allies are scarcely commendable people, we should never sell British weapons to buttress enemies of the realm or Nazi-style dictators. I repeated the gist of my argument to Saunders. He nodded. ‘What about terrorists?’ he asked.

‘Or terrorists,’ I added firmly.

He nodded again. I began to have the feeling that I was being led somewhere, as if by a good interrogator or a prosecuting counsel. But I still had no idea of the enormity of the shock that he had in store for me.

‘As you know,’ he began to explain, ‘I recently returned from Rome.’ He had told me on the phone that he’d been there as part of a NATO military delegation. ‘While I was there I was shown something that they’d captured in a raid on a terrorist HQ. It was a computerised bomb detonator. Very new, very secret and very lethal.’

‘Who showed it to you?’ I asked.

‘I can’t possibly tell you. An absolute confidence.’

I was mildly interested in this computerised detonator thing and invited him to continue.

‘You set it to calculate the weight of the victim, the speed of his car and so on, to be sure of getting him. And you can reprogramme it remotely by radio after setting it.’

‘Gosh,’ I said, walking straight into it. ‘You don’t connect the Italians with that sort of technology, do you?’

‘It wasn’t made in Italy,’ he countered swiftly. ‘It was made here.’

It took me a moment or two to grasp the full implications of what he was saying.

‘Here?’

‘Yes. Under a Ministry of Defence contract.’

I could hardly believe what he was telling me. As a matter of fact, I still find it incredible. And appalling. British weapons being used by Italian Red Terrorists.

I asked him how they got them.

‘That’s what I want to know,’ he answered.

I asked him who else he’d told. He says he’s told no one, because he can’t. ‘If I reported it officially I’d have to disclose the source. But I thought if I told someone near the top of government . . .’

‘At the top,’ I corrected him firmly.

He paused and nodded. Then he went on to explain that someone at the top of government would be able, in his opinion, to find out how these weapons are being supplied. Because the investigation would have to start here in Britain, and at top level.

I couldn’t see how he thought I was to do this, since he had made it clear that he was telling me on a personal basis.

He spelt it out to me. ‘You see, now you know personally, even if you don’t know officially, you can use your personal knowledge to start official enquiries to get official confirmation of personal suspicions so that what you now know personally but not officially you will then know officially as well as personally.’

After a year in government I can now make sense of, and recall such sentences. Perhaps in another year I’ll be speaking like that myself.

‘You’re not related to Sir Humphrey Appleby, are you?’ I enquired semi-humorously. But no. This is not a family talent, this is the language of the governing classes as they try – as always – to have everything both ways.

Saunders heaved a sigh of relief, finished the rest of his Scotch, and remarked that he had just had to tell somebody.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, at my most understanding. ‘Well, now I know. Personally.’ Two could play this game.

‘Marvellous. Going to do something about it, aren’t you?’

‘Indeed I am,’ I agreed emphatically. ‘Oh yes. Definitely.’

‘And right away?’

‘Right away.’ I was employing my most decisive manner.

‘
What
are you going to do?’

I hadn’t actually expected such a direct question. I couldn’t see what that had to do with him. He’d done his duty by informing me, it’s not for serving army officers to question Ministers of the Crown. Anyway that’s the sort of irritating question that you tend to get from backbench MPs and other awkward busybodies who keep wanting to find out what the government’s doing.

However, both he and Annie were sitting waiting for an answer. I had to say something. ‘Well, I’m going to think about what you’ve told me.’ They didn’t look too impressed. ‘Right away!’ I added decisively.

‘And then?’ Persistent bugger.

‘And then I’m going to consider various courses of action, without delay.’

He insisted on seeking clarification. Or trying to pin me down. ‘You’re going to take action without delay?’

‘I’m going to
consider
taking action without delay.’ I thought I’d better be clear about this.

‘Are
you
related to Sir Humphrey Appleby?’ enquired Annie.

I rose above it, ignored her, and offered Major Saunders another drink. He declined, stood up preparatory to leaving, and asked for my assurance that he could rely on me to tackle this shocking matter. Naturally I gave him that assurance.

After he left Annie and I discussed him and his extraordinary information. I asked Annie what she made of it.

She didn’t reply directly. She just told me that I really was going to do something about it wasn’t I?

And I certainly am. If it’s true. But I find it hard to believe. Could it happen? It couldn’t happen! Could it? I mean, it’s not just that it shouldn’t but it couldn’t. And even if it could, it wouldn’t. Would it?

I’ve just played that last paragraph back. Perhaps I
am
related to Sir Humphrey Appleby.

Today I had a serious conversation with Humphrey. Perhaps the most serious conversation that I have ever had or will ever have.

I’m still not quite sure what to make of it.

He came in for his regular Monday morning meeting with me. I hurried through all the usual items on the agenda, and then set the tone for the discussion that I intended to have.

‘Humphrey,’ I began, ‘there is something that I must talk to you about. Something that concerns me deeply. Really profoundly important.’

He enquired whether I was referring to the amendment to the Administrative order on stock control in government establishments, or the procedures for the renewal of local authority leaseholds in Special Development Areas.

This is the level at which he operates. But I was patient. ‘No Humphrey,’ I explained, ‘I’m concerned about a great issue of life and death.’

‘Shouldn’t that wait till after work?’ he asked. You can see what I’m dealing with.

‘It is work.’

‘Really?’ He was surprised. ‘Then please go on.’

I asked him how British arms manufacturers sell arms to foreigners. He explained the whole system to me. The manufacturer has to get an export licence from the Department of Trade. Both private companies and government agencies sell arms abroad. They usually sell to foreign governments, but sometimes they sell to arms dealers. Third parties. In other words, perhaps a little man in Manchester buys on behalf of a party in the Channel Islands who has a contract in Luxembourg, and so on.

So I wanted to know if there was any way of controlling who the arms are really going to. Humphrey assured me that there
is
control. The dealer has to provide a document known as an end-user certificate. This certificate must have a signature on it from the ultimate customer who is an approved user acceptable to HMG.
¹

I found myself wondering if this end-user certificate is a real guarantee. I wonder if Humphrey would be surprised if, for instance, an aircraft carrier turned up in the Central African Republic.

[
Sir Humphrey would undoubtedly have been surprised, as would everybody else, as the Central African Republic is one thousand miles inland – Ed
.]

Sir Humphrey stated that it was ‘officially impossible’ for weapons to turn up in non-approved hands. ‘There is stringent security, there are rigorous inspection procedures, and meticulous scrutiny.’

Officially impossible. I know what that phrase means. It means that it’s all a façade.

I challenged him with this. He smiled benignly and inclined his head a little. ‘I think perhaps this conversation should stop here, Minister, don’t you?’

I refused to play the game this time. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But it is as I thought. Last night a confidential source disclosed to me that British arms are being sold to Italian Red Terrorist Groups.’

He nodded gravely. ‘I see. May I ask who the confidential source was?’

I was staggered. ‘Humphrey! I just said that it’s confidential.’

He was unashamed. ‘Oh I’m sorry, Minister, I naturally assumed that meant you were going to tell me.’

He waited. I waited too. As I sat there, quietly watching him, I observed that he did not seem to be awfully worried about the information that I had just given him. So I questioned him on this. And indeed, he seemed to find it quite unremarkable.