Jeffrey Archer - Mightier than the Sword

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 Ja s 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.