Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

“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.”