Bertie and the Kinky Politician (8 page)

‘Not so, sir,' observed Hugo at his most pontifical. ‘My observation is merely an intellectual deduction. Degeneration through poor planning is a story common to almost all the shire towns nowadays, and if that wasn't enough of a burden, the city is unfortunate enough to suffer from annual flooding. The Severn is a dreadfully mucky river down there. Quite filthy.'

‘Yes, I seem to recall they're always pestering us to spend more money on flood defences, but it's not exactly the Home Counties, is it. Not the stockbroker belt, or an area of industrial or commercial importance. I mean, they don't contribute much to the economy so we can afford to ignore them without it tarnishing our image unduly. It is an unfashionable part of the country, after all.'

‘Quite so. The county itself is notably delightful, as several members of the Royal Family have known for years, but as for Gloucester, well, let's just say Cheltenham is infinitely more agreeable. You really must go. Most pleasant architecture and beautiful parks.'

‘I shall endeavour to remember that when next planning a visit.' The PM made a mental note to arrange an immediate trip to Gloucester, just to annoy Chaplain. ‘Anything else? Don't tell me he's a sheep-shagging, cross-dressing, alcoholic dope fiend!'

Chaplain smiled indulgently. The PM only spoke like that to a select number of trusted advisors. Very select. He flicked through his notes as if to confirm the PM's interesting thumbnail sketch. ‘Nothing here to suggest anything so flamboyant, although it would indeed be unfortunate to have a second such colourful character in your Cabinet. No, on the contrary, our boy's never been as wild as that, more's the pity.'

The significance of Chaplain's last aside was not lost on either man. What would have been taken by others as simply a casual observation was of vital importance to them both. Indeed, the entire conversation hinged on the remark.

‘Damn,' was all the PM said. Chaplain nodded, pursing his generous lips, and the most critical point of their discussion passed by without any further comment.

‘Although still suspiciously a bachelor, Timbrill is most certainly heterosexual, and despite the debilitating misfortune of being an accountant, enjoys an active social life both here in London and in his constituency. He is apparently well liked by women and has had an acceptable number of liaisons over the years, enough to prove his sexual inclinations are mainstream but not enough for him to be considered in any way promiscuous. There is no evidence of an impending marriage at the moment, but he's a regular visitor to a spinster by the name of Celeste Gordon who currently lives in Greenwich.'

Pages turned slowly. The premier watched Chaplain's restless gaze flick over the salient points. The man fascinated him. His head was entirely out of proportion with the rest of his body, like an apple resting on a water melon. Chaplain's hair had long abandoned the lofty reaches of his scalp and now resided in a furtive tonsure around the back of his head like a swath of spumed driftwood washed up on an inhospitable beach. He had a fine nose that barely separated close-set black eyes, eyes as cold as a January walk on the Northumberland coast. Despite his bulk, his hands were slender and delicate, the nails perfectly manicured; Chaplain had never done a day's manual labour in his life and clearly had no intention of doing so in the future.

‘Miss Gordon returned from Brazil two years ago after the death of her father. Her mother died eight years ago. She is an only child and appears to be lucky enough not to have to work since her estate provides sufficient income for her to live in reasonable comfort. It seems her father was a capable man who invested wisely in several sound South American companies. Enquiries concerning her former connections abroad have revealed nothing unusual and it appears she has never fallen foul of the authorities either here or in Brazil.' He glanced at a note granting a certificate of importation for an endangered species of macaw but decided not to bother the PM with such trivial detail. ‘Their relationship appears reasonably intimate – he stays overnight on most weekends. Nothing unusual or scandalous there, I'm sure. Miss Gordon appears to be of good character but we'll take a peek anyway. In short, I think you've picked a good one. Unlike his predecessors, I would say young James woefully lacks the ability to conceal any indiscretions.' Chaplain's avuncular condescension made the Prime Minister smile grimly.

‘And as you well know, my dear Hugo, therein lies both our salvation and our problem.'

Chapter Five

Hugo Chaplain felt a smug pride in the achievements of the last two weeks. He returned to his scruffy office in the MoD building immediately after the short conversation at Downing Street and sat in solitude, surrounded by a comforting blanket of clutter. He liked being tucked away. Out of sight. It suited him, and while his sniggering fellow executives poured scorn on his modest empire, to all intent and purposes he ran the country.

Very few officials were actually aware of his true role or that of the tiny agency he so ably ran. The Joint Services Operations, Non-Military comprised merely a half dozen or so personnel, but its importance to the survival of the Government was entirely out of proportion to its scanty resources.

Bluntly, JSON was the covert operations wing of No. 10, specialising in clandestine political manipulation and control. It was a black organisation embedded deep within the Ministry of Defence, shrouded by a screen of absolute secrecy.

Established by necessity, JSON massaged statistics, collected interesting snippets of information, was well versed in the subtle mechanics of blackmail, exerted pressure on those troublesome to Downing Street, cleared up the detritus of ministerial blunderings and, when required, used every method, legal or otherwise, to ensure No. 10 rose above the embarrassment of its mistakes. Hugo offered an absolutely vital service to an accident-prone executive, ensured nothing unpleasantly noxious came to the attention of the press and public. JSON possessed intimate details of every minister, employed its knowledge to ensure their compliant behaviour, held those of lesser importance in an iron grip of fear and was a personal and very private do all, hear all, see all and report all service for the Prime Minister.

Since its formation neither the media, the police, nor the Cabinet had any idea of its existence, and Chaplain was utterly determined to keep it that way. The very uppermost echelon of MI5 knew and occasionally seconded one or two of their more astute political officers to JSON, but then as MI5 never, absolutely never, told Parliament anything of importance anyway, it was unlikely JSON's secrecy would be compromised from that direction. It was perfectly concealed within the most shadowy of government institutions, a tiny group who reached out to intimidate and control through a tentacular web of influence. If MI5 were occasionally a law unto themselves, JSON was even more so and infinitely less accountable.

Paradoxically for the Prime Minister, the more he relied on JSON to make him look good, the more he became susceptible to their influence. This was the essential bedrock of Hugo's stratagem, underpinning his position, making him increasingly invulnerable to even the PM.

Chaplain
was
JSON. In no other agency was the essence of its leader more pervasive. He manipulated on an astonishing scale, had become so entwined in policy decisions and involved in concealing so many unsavoury episodes that he could exert political pressure in a way MI5 could only dream of, and as a result there were times when, effectively, he controlled the Government – and Hugo enjoyed wielding this power very much. Consequently, when he received rumour of storm clouds gathering to darken his unique position, he exerted all his considerable intellect to deflect the threat.

Ruthlessly.

As Quentin Austerly and Wallace Sharples had just discovered.

Having already rumbled a number of their lesser scams, Hugo rightly guessed they were disposed to more significant levels of corruption. A little routine sifting had produced all the evidence he needed. He knew it would be there if he dug deep enough. Austerly, in particular, seemed to be profiting almost uncannily each time a generous defence contract was awarded by Sharples' department. The route the dirty money took was certainly devious, involved several offshore accounts, a Central American bank of dubious honesty and more laundering than a pair of favourite Y-fronts, but Chaplain was skilled and tenacious and the link was forged.

All because of a chance remark by Austerly, overheard in passing, that plans were in the process of being prepared to convert the part of the building containing JSON's very modest offices into an entertainment and fitness suite for the exclusive use of senior ministers. The prospect of losing his comfortable lodgings to make way for Austerly's own private cinema and hot tub proved too much for Hugo. To be bundled out of his secluded corner and dumped who-knows-where would inevitably raise JSON's profile. The danger was immediately apparent. Awkward questions would inevitably result. Who were these people and what was their function? The protective veil of secrecy surrounding JSON would be breached, a consequence to be avoided at all costs. In Chaplain's experience, it would then only be a question of time before the media picked up on the story, and that would be the end of JSON. Fortunately, Chaplain was a consummate master of manipulation and knew that although his chief dangers lay in the direction of the press, he could also use them to his advantage.

Mysteriously, within the week, reports of serious financial irregularities within the MoD began to surface in the papers. Reliable but unidentified ‘sources' leaked like a rusty bucket used for shotgun practice, pointing the press in the right direction. Their tenacity was admirable, once they had been teased with a few tasty morsels. Chaplain smiled. It had all been so easy and now the pair had fallen from grace, never to return. Austerly knew he'd been shafted by JSON but could not prove a thing, and that made Hugo's victory even sweeter.

And all because Hugo really rather liked his shabby office.

His pleasant reverie was interrupted by a knock on the door. He adjusted his tie to carefully conceal a tea stain garnered earlier at No. 10. ‘Come!'

‘You look pleased.' A wiry but powerful man in his early forties slipped his head around the door. Chaplain waved him in and the two sat at their ease on either side of the plain deal desk. The newcomer was strongly built, easily filling his shirt with an excess of well-developed musculature no normal person could possibly possess. His face resembled that of a clothing catalogue model, handsome in a nondescript way, with a long nose, blue eyes, and short dark hair. He lit a cigarette with an old-fashioned Zippo, then slid packet and lighter across the table. Chaplain helped himself. For some strange reason the smoke detector above the desk was always faulty. Chaplain didn't give a damn about anti-smoking legislation, political correctness or the injured sensibilities of his fellow non-smokers. ‘My boy, there are times when I think I was born in the wrong century.' He leaned back and blew a thick blue cloud directly up into the detector overhead.

‘Machiavelli? De' Medici? Edmund Blackadder?'

‘All unfairly persecuted because of their extraordinary skills in the art of diplomacy.'

Bob Pritchard, his Number One, exhaled a fresh assault on the smoke detector. ‘Hogwash! What's the colour of the sky in your world, Hugo?'

Chaplain chuckled softly. ‘Look at the motto,' he said, nodding at the desk. A small plaque carried the inscription,
Sowing The Dragon's Teeth
, a reference to the ancient Greek mythological tale of Jason and his quest for the Golden Fleece with the Argonauts. Their enemies cast dragon's teeth on the ground to create a troop of armed men who Jason cunningly hoodwinked into fighting each other instead of himself. Chaplain liked the multi-layered inferences, not only to the abbreviated title of his agency, but also to the aims and methods of JSON. ‘Is Greg in?'

‘He's still checking on that dodgy timber deal between the forestry people and the Japs. This one's going to run and run.'

‘I can imagine the outrage when our oriental cousins clear cut the New Forest and ship the whole lot back to Yokohama.'

‘What happened up at the bunker?'

‘We've got our new Secretary of State for Defence.'

‘Squeaky Clean Timbrill?'

‘The very same, and don't sound so surprised. He was the only option for the PM.'

‘You mean he was the man
you
wanted for the job.'

‘I can't deny friend James will make our lives tolerably pleasant in the short term. At least we can now cancel the removal men. Timbrill is the sort of chap who would never dream of wasting money on such an extravagance as a personal cinema.'

‘Good. I like it here. We're well buried.'

‘Exactly so, and I'm not moving anywhere just so Questionable Quentin can put his feet up and catch a flick after lunch.'

‘Will Timbrill be able to cope?'

‘Doubt it, but our need to remain invisible takes precedent over the security of the country. I suspect the poor man will struggle to understand even the basics of his job, which will keep his mind nicely occupied. The PM intends him to be a temporary appointment at best and I'm sure his successor, when eventually found, will be prone to the kind of weaknesses that fill our files with such salacious reading, providing us with the usual leverage.'

‘Dangerous.'

‘What is?'

‘Having a top line minister with no vices. Very difficult to control.'

‘Possibly, but Timbrill will be far too busy struggling to comprehend the significance of first strike capabilities, CINCNAVHOME and collateral damage. The poor man is only an accountant, when all's said and done, and not even a particularly accomplished one at that, judging by the parlous state of his personal fortune.'

‘Is it a good idea having a total dunce in control?'