Jeffrey Archer - Cometh the Hour

“But why aren’t you standing?” said Walter. “Even with my rudimentary knowledge of your parliamentary system, it looks as if Labour is certain to win back your old seat.”

“That might well be so, but the local party has already selected a capable young candidate called Robert Fielding to take my place. He’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, with all the enthusiasm of a recently appointed school prefect.”

“Just like you used to be.”

“And still am, if the truth be known.”

“Then why did you decide not to stand?”

“It’s a long story, Walter. In fact, it’s the reason I wanted to see you.”

“Let’s order first,” said Walter, opening the menu. “Then you can take your time telling me why you could possibly need the assistance of a West German foreign minister.” He began to peruse the fare. “Ah, the dish of the day is roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. My favorite,” he whispered. “But don’t tell any of your countrymen, or mine for that matter, or my guilty secret will be out. So what’s your guilty secret?”

By the time Giles had fully briefed his old friend about Karin and his failure to be allowed back into East Germany, they were both enjoying a coffee.

“And you say she was the young woman who was in your hotel room when we had that private meeting?”

“You remember her?”

“I certainly do,” said Walter. “She’s interpreted for me in the past but never gave me a second look, although it wasn’t through lack of trying on my part. So tell me, Giles, are you willing to fight a duel over this young woman?”

“Name your weapon, and your second.”

Walter laughed. “More seriously, Giles, do you have any reason to believe she wants to defect?”

“Yes, her mother has recently died, and the East German authorities won’t allow her father, who’s English and lives in Cornwall, back into the country.”

Walter took a sip of coffee while he considered the problem. “Would you be able to fly to Berlin at a moment’s notice?”

“On the next plane.”

“Impetuous as ever,” said Walter as a waiter placed a brandy in front of him. He swirled it around in the balloon before saying, “Do you have any idea if she speaks Russian?”

“Fluently. It was her degree subject at language school.”

“Good, because I’m hosting a bilateral trade meeting with the Russians next month, and they just might agree—”

“Can I do anything to help?”

“Just make sure she’s got a British passport.”

“My name is Robert Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the Bristol Docklands by-election on May twentieth.” The young man tried to shake hands with a woman who was laden down with shopping bags.

“What are you doing about Concorde?” she asked.

“Everything in my power to make sure the plane will be built at Filton and not Toulouse,” said Fielding.

The woman looked satisfied. “Then I’ll be voting for you. But I’d rather have voted for him,” she said, pointing at Giles. As she walked away, the young man looked despondent.

“Don’t worry about her. On May twenty-first you’ll be the member and I’ll be history.”

“And Concorde?”

“You gave the only credible response. The French will put up a hell of a fight, but then they have every right to, and in the end I suspect the work will be divided fairly equally between the two countries. Just be sure you never spell it with an ‘e,’” said Giles. “You might have asked if her husband worked at Filton because I suspect that’s why she asked the question.”

“Of course. I should have thought of that. Anything else?”

“Perhaps Bob Fielding rather than Robert. Don’t want to continually remind your supporters that you went to a public school and Oxford.”

Fielding nodded and turned to the next passerby. “Hello, my name’s Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on May twentieth. I hope you’ll be supporting me.”

“Sorry you’re not standing, Sir Giles.”

“That’s kind of you, sir, but we’ve chosen an excellent candidate. I hope you’ll be voting for Bob Fielding on Thursday May twentieth.”

“If you say so, Sir Giles,” said the man as he hurried away.

“Thursday, Thursday, Thursday. Always say Thursday,” said Fielding. “God knows you’ve told me often enough.”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Giles. “It will soon become a habit, and frankly you’re a much better candidate than I was at my first election.”

The young man smiled for the first time. “Hello, my name is Bob Fielding, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday May twentieth,” he said as Emma walked up to join her brother.

“Are you beginning to regret not standing?” she whispered, continuing to hand out leaflets. “Because it’s pretty clear that the voters have either forgiven or forgotten Berlin.”

“But I haven’t,” said Giles, shaking hands with another passer-by.

“Has Walter Scheel been back in touch?”

“No, but that man won’t call until he’s got something to say.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” said Emma, “otherwise you really are going to regret it.”

“Yes, but what you going to do about it?” another constituent was demanding.

“Well, bringing the country to a standstill with a three-day week isn’t the answer,” said Fielding, “and the Labour party’s first priority has always been unemployment.”

“Never unemployment,” whispered Giles. “ Employment . You must always try to sound positive.”

“Good morning, my name is Bob...”

“Is that who I think it is?” said Emma, looking across the road.

“It most certainly is,” said Giles.

“Will you introduce me?”

“You must be joking. Nothing would please the lady more than to have her photo on every front page tomorrow morning shaking hands with the former member.”

“Well, if you won’t, I’ll have to do it myself.”

“You can’t—”

But Emma was already halfway across the road. Once she was on the other side, she walked straight up to the secretary of state for education and science and thrust out her hand.

“Good morning, Mrs. Thatcher. I’m the sister of Sir Giles—”

“And more important, Mrs. Clifton, you were the first woman to chair a public company.”

Emma smiled.

“Women should never have been given the vote!” shouted a man, shaking his fist from a passing car.

Mrs. Thatcher waved and gave him a magnanimous smile.

“I don’t know how you cope with it,” said Emma.

“In my case, I’ve never wanted to do anything else,” said Thatcher. “Although I confess that a dictatorship might make one’s job a little easier.” Emma laughed, but Mrs. Thatcher didn’t. “By the way,” she said, glancing across the road, “your brother was a first-class MP as well as a highly respected minister both at home and abroad. He’s sadly missed in the House — but don’t tell him I said so.”

“Why not?” said Emma.

“Because it doesn’t fit in with his image of me and I’m not sure he’d believe it.”

“I wish I could tell him. He’s rather low at the moment.”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be back in one house or the other soon enough. It’s in his blood. But what about you? Have you ever considered going into politics, Mrs. Clifton? You have all the right credentials.”

“Never, never, never,” said Emma vehemently. “I couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“You handled it well enough during your recent trial, and I suspect pressure doesn’t worry you when it comes to facing up to your fellow directors.”

“That’s a different kind of pressure,” said Emma. “And in any case—”