Mightier Than the Sword

Giles entered the Privy Council office on Whitehall so he could avoid the scrum of Fleet Street hacks waiting for him in Downing Street, or at least those who didn’t know about the back door entrance to No.10.

One of the memories he would regale his grandchildren with was that as he entered the Cabinet room, Harold Wilson was trying unsuccessfully to relight his briar pipe.

“Giles, good of you to drop in, considering what you must be going through. But believe me, and I speak with some experience in these matters, it will blow over.”

“Possibly, prime minister. But it’s still the end of my career as a serious politician, which is the only job I’ve ever really wanted to do.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you,” said Wilson. “Just think about it for a moment. If you were to hold on to Bristol Docklands at the next election, and I’m still convinced you can, the electorate would have expressed their views in the ballot box, and who am I to disagree with their judgement? And if I’m back in Downing Street, I wouldn’t hesitate to ask you to rejoin the Cabinet.”

“Two ifs, prime minister.”

“You help me with one, Giles, and I’ll see what I can do about the other.”

“But, prime minister, after those headlines…”

“I agree, they were not edifying. It was perhaps unfortunate that you were minister for foreign affairs.” Giles smiled for the first time in days. “But several of the comment pieces,” continued Wilson, “as well as one or two leaders, have pointed out that you were an outstanding minister. The Telegraph, of all papers, reminded its readers that you’d won an MC at Tobruk. You somehow survived that dreadful battle, so what makes you think you won’t survive this one?”

“Because I think Gwyneth is going to divorce me, and frankly she has good reason to do so.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Wilson, once again trying to light his pipe. “But I still think you should go down to Bristol and test the waters. Be sure to listen to what Griff Haskins has to say, because when I called him this morning, he left me in no doubt that he still wants you to be the candidate.”

*   *   *

“Many congratulations, major,” said Virginia. “You’ve been single-handedly responsible for bringing Giles Barrington down.”

“But that’s the irony,” said Fisher. “I didn’t. It wasn’t our girl who spent the night with him.”

“I’m not following you.”

“I flew to Berlin just as you instructed, and it wasn’t difficult to locate an escort agency with offices on both sides of the wall. One particular girl came highly recommended. She was paid well, and promised a bonus if she could supply photographs of the two of them in bed.”

“And there she is,” said Virginia, pointing to a selection of that morning’s papers that normally wouldn’t have found their way into the flat in Cadogan Gardens.

“But that’s not her. She rang the following morning and told me that Barrington had relieved her of a bottle of champagne but then slammed the door in her face.”

“So who’s that then?”

“No idea. The agency say they haven’t come across her before, and assume she must work for the Stasi. It had sound and surveillance equipment in all the delegates’ hotel suites during the conference.”

“But why did he reject your girl, then allow himself to be taken in by this one?”

“That I can’t explain,” said Fisher. “All I am sure about is that your ex-husband isn’t necessarily finished.”

“But he resigned this morning. It was the lead story on the morning news.”

“As a minister, yes, but not as a Member of Parliament. And if he were to hold on to his seat at the next election…”

“Then we’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t.”

“How can we do that?”

“I’m so glad you asked that question, major.”

*   *   *

“I’m afraid I’ve been left with no choice but to resign as your Member of Parliament,” said Giles.

“Just because you went to bed with a tart?” said Griff.

“She wasn’t a tart,” Giles replied, as he did to everyone who made that assumption.

“If you resign, we may as well hand the seat to the Tories. The PM won’t thank you for that.”

“But if the polls are to be believed, the Tories are going to win the seat anyway.”

“We’ve defied the polls before,” said Griff. “And the Tories haven’t even selected their candidate yet.”

“Nothing is going to persuade me to change my mind,” said Giles.

“But you’re the only person who can win the seat,” said Griff as the phone on his desk rang. He picked it up. “Whoever it is, tell them to bugger off.”

“It’s the editor of the Bristol Evening News,” said his secretary.

“And the same applies to him.”

“But he says he has a piece of news you’ll want to hear immediately. It’s the lead story in tomorrow’s paper.”

“Put him on.” Griff listened for some time before he slammed the phone down. “That’s all I need.”

“So what’s the news that can’t possibly wait?”

“The Tories have announced their candidate.”

“Anyone we know?”

“Major Alex Fisher.”

Giles burst out laughing. “I can’t believe how far you’re prepared to go, Griff, just to make sure I stand.”

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