Джеффри Арчер - And Thereby Hangs a Tale

Despite his impatience to fulfil his dream, Percy didn’t leave the house until he’d checked that his one-eyed, three-legged cat was sound asleep on the kitchen boiler. ‘I did it, Horatio, I did it,’ whispered Percy as he left the kitchen. Once he’d locked the front door, he hailed a passing taxi.

‘The Foreign Office,’ said Percy as he climbed into the back seat.

When the taxi drew up outside the King Charles Street entrance, Percy said, ‘Please wait, cabbie, I’ll only be a minute.’

The security guard at the FCO was about to prevent the dishevelled tramp from entering the building when he realized it was Mr Forsdyke.

‘Please deliver this to Sir Nigel Henderson immediately,’ said Percy, handing over the bulky envelope.

‘Yes, Mr Forsdyke,’ said the duty clerk, giving him a salute.

Percy sat in the cab on the way back home chanting the ‘Nunc Dimittis’.

The first thing Percy did on returning to Pimlico was to feed the cat. He then fed himself and watched the early evening news on television. It was too early for any announcement about his triumph, although he did wonder if it would be the Foreign Secretary or perhaps even the Prime Minister who would be standing at the dispatch box in the House of Commons to deliver an unscheduled announcement. He climbed into bed at ten, and quickly fell into a deep sleep.

Percy wasn’t surprised to receive a call from Sir Nigel the following afternoon, but he was surprised by the Permanent Secretary’s request. ‘Good afternoon, Percy,’ said Sir Nigel. ‘The Foreign Secretary wonders if you could spare the time to drop in and have a chat with him at your earliest convenience.’

‘Of course,’ said Percy.

‘Good,’ said Sir Nigel. ‘Would eleven tomorrow morning suit you?’

‘Of course,’ repeated Percy.

‘Excellent. I’ll send a car. And Percy, can I just check that no one else has seen any of the documents you sent me?’

‘That is correct, Sir Nigel. You’ll note that everything is handwritten, so you are in possession of the only copies.’

‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Sir Nigel without explanation, and the phone went dead.

A staff car picked up Percy at ten-thirty the following morning, and drove him to the Foreign Office in Whitehall. He was dressed in his only other Savile Row suit, a fresh white shirt and a new, old school tie, in anticipation of his triumph.

Percy always enjoyed entering the FCO, but even he was flattered to find a clerk waiting to escort him to the Foreign Secretary’s office. He savoured every moment as they walked slowly up the broad marble staircase, past the full-length portraits of Castlereagh, Canning, Palmerston, Salisbury and Curzon, before continuing down a long, wide corridor where photographs of Stewart, Douglas-Home, Callaghan, Carrington, Hurd and Cook adorned the walls.

When they reached the Foreign Secretary’s office, the clerk tapped lightly on the door before opening it. Percy was ushered into a room large enough to hold a ball, to find the Foreign Secretary and the head of the Foreign Service awaiting him at the far end.

‘Welcome back, Percy,’ said the Foreign Secretary as if he were greeting an old chum, although he had only met him once before, at his retirement party. ‘Come and join myself and Sir Nigel by the fire. There are one or two things I think we need to have a chat about. Didn’t we do well to win the Ashes?’ he added as he sat down. ‘Although I suppose you missed the entire series, remembering that—’

‘I was able to follow the ball-by-ball commentary on Radio Four,’ Percy assured the Foreign Secretary, ‘and it was indeed a magnificent series.’ Percy relaxed back in his chair, and was served with a coffee.

‘That must have helped kill the time,’ said Sir Nigel, who waited until the coffee lady had left the room before he addressed the subject that was on all their minds.

‘I read your report yesterday morning, Percy. Quite brilliant,’ said Sir Nigel. ‘And I must congratulate you on identifying an anomaly in the 1762 Act that we’d all previously overlooked.’

‘For well over two hundred years,’ chipped in the Foreign Secretary. ‘After Sir Nigel had read your memorandum, he phoned me at home and briefed me. I went straight to Number Ten and had a private meeting with the PM, at which I was able to tell him what you’ve been up to since leaving the FCO. He was most impressed. Most impressed,’ repeated the Foreign Secretary. Percy beamed with delight. ‘He asked me to send you his congratulations, and best wishes.’

‘Thank you,’ said Percy, and only just stopped himself from saying, ‘And please return mine.’

‘The PM also asked me to let him know,’ continued the Foreign Secretary, ‘what decision you’d come to.’

‘What decision I’d come to?’ repeated Percy, no longer sounding quite so relaxed.

‘Yes,’ said Sir Nigel. ‘You see, a problem has arisen that we felt we ought to share with you.’

Percy was prepared to answer any queries relating to treaty rights, sovereign status or the relevance of the Territories Settlement Act of 1762.

‘Percy,’ continued Sir Nigel, giving his former colleague a warm smile, ‘you’ll be pleased to know that the Lord Chancellor has confirmed that your claim on behalf of the Sovereign is valid, and would stand up in any international court.’ Percy began to relax again. ‘And indeed, should you press your suit, Forsdyke Island would become part of Her Majesty’s Overseas Territories. You were quite correct in your assessment that if you occupied the island for ninety days, without any other person or government making a claim on it, it would become the sole possession of the occupier, and would be governed by the laws of whichever country the occupier is a citizen of, as long as that claim is ratified within six months — if I remember the words of the 1762 Act correctly?’

Almost word perfect, thought Percy. ‘Which means,’ he said, turning to the Foreign Secretary, ‘that we can lay claim not only to the fishing rights, but also to the oil reserves within a radius of one hundred and fifty miles, not to mention the obvious strategic advantage its location gives to our defence forces.’

‘And thereby hangs a tale,’ said the Permanent Secretary.

Percy wondered which of four possible Shakespeare plays Sir Nigel was quoting from, but decided this wasn’t the time to enquire. ‘I am also confident,’ continued Percy, ‘that should you present our case to a plenary session of the United Nations, it would have no choice but to ratify my claim on behalf of the British Government.’

‘I’m sure you’re right, Percy,’ said Sir Nigel, ‘but it is the responsibility of the Foreign Office to look at the wider picture and consider all the implications.’ As if on cue, both men rose from their places. Percy followed them to the centre of the room, where they halted before a vast globe.

Sir Nigel gave the globe a spin. When it stopped, he pointed to a tiny speck in the Pacific Ocean. ‘If the Russians were to lay claim to that island, it could turn out to be a bigger problem for the Americans than Cuba.’

He spun the globe again and when it stopped he pointed to another apparently unnamed island, this time in the middle of the South China Sea. ‘If either country laid claim to this, you could end up with a war between Japan and China.’

He spun the globe a third time and, when it stopped, he placed a finger on the Dead Sea. ‘Let us pray that the Israelis never get to hear about the Territories Settlement Act of 1762, because that would be the end of any Middle East peace process.’

Percy was speechless. All he had wanted was to prove himself worthy of his father and grandfather, and emulate the contribution they had made to the Foreign Office but, once again, all he’d achieved was to bring embarrassment to the family name and to the country he loved more than life itself.