A Single Source Page 7

  ‘Your father is a firebrand. Dictators needs firebrands for a time and then, later, they need yes-men. Your father never said yes to any man if the word in his head was no.’ The first three times they arrested his son, Gabriel somehow managed to arrange a release. The fourth time he could not, despite pulling every string he knew and practically setting up camp outside the Justice Ministry.

  Losing his son to the system took a toll on old Gabriel and an even heavier toll on the boys’ mother. Every time that Solomon or Gebre walked into the house and their mother looked up from whatever it was she was doing – it was disappointment they saw. Disappointment before love. Solomon had it worst. The bigger he became, the more he came to resemble his father: strong in the shoulders, stern in the face. The likeness was so great that it often took his mother a second or two to realise that it was her elder son she was looking at and not her husband.

  ‘No, Mother, I am still not him. I am just me.’ It was devastating for both of them and every time it happened his mother would cry – with shame and from grief. She would go to her room and stay there for as long as it took Gebre to coax her back.

  Back in the Taxi Café, Gebre and his grandfather sat in silence, the boy picking at his pizza. After a while the old man raised a hand and called the young waiter over.

  ‘One more orangeade for my grandson and I think I will have a glass of araki now.’

  Gebre gave his grandfather a look of concern, which the old man ignored.

  The drinks arrived and Gabriel took a gulp of the spirit, the aniseed taste making him wince. ‘I believe your brother is probably right, he is a full-grown man – his affairs are none of my business.’

  ‘He didn’t mean to be rude, he is just frustrated.’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Does he talk a lot about leaving?’

  ‘We both do, but it is more urgent for Sol. If the cycling team do not take him then next school term he’ll be sent to Sawa.’

  Gabriel nodded; the Sawa military camp was where almost all Eritrean youngsters were sent in their last year of school. The camp was nearly two hundred miles north of the capital and a byword for hard living and hard luck. Depending on how you did there, how you had performed at school or how well connected your family was, you were either assigned a job back in Asmara or conscripted directly into the army for an unspecified period of time.

  ‘Everyone has to spend some time at Sawa, it is inevitable. I am sure I will be able to help with travel permits, medical leave, things like that.’

  Gebre shook his head. ‘Sol is not very good at keeping his head down and doing what he’s told. Sawa will not suit him, and he knows that. You know it too.’

  Gabriel nodded. ‘Do you think the cycling team will select him?’

  ‘They have to. His times are easily the best, he works harder than anyone else.’ Gebre stared at the old man, who seemed unconvinced. ‘But if they don’t then he will find another way out.’ He paused. ‘I have said that I will go with him.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We could do what others do and walk to the refugee camps in Ethiopia or Sudan. Or find someone to take us north.’

  The frown on Gabriel’s brow deepened. He had heard stories of young men and women being shot at by their own army as they tried to run over the border into Ethiopia. Some were killed outright, others were badly injured. The lucky ones made it to the refugee camps; the unlucky were eaten by hyenas. As for paying a trafficker to drive you north across the Sahara? He knew the sort of men who organised those trips. Gabriel finished his araki with one swallow and called for another.

  ‘Maybe it will not be necessary, my grandson. Things can change – quickly sometimes – all empires fall, even the strongest. History shows us this: the Greeks, Imperial Rome and fascist Rome.’ The old man laughed. ‘Manchester United, nothing lasts for ever.’ He jutted his chin back in the direction of the gaunt-looking spy, sitting at the bar. ‘Not even our current, glorious leader … not even he can go on for ever.’ His voice was louder now and Gebre was growing nervous. ‘Where’s my drink?’ He looked round and saw that most of the bar was looking his way. Gabriel sighed and turned back towards his grandson. ‘You should leave me now, Gebre. The spirit has loosened my tongue …’ He waved his empty glass in the direction of the thin man at the bar. ‘And I’ll be damned if I buy that bastard spy another drink. Where is that new waiter? I promised him I would tell him about the Fiat Tagliero.’

  8 The Story of the Ship

  DATELINE: Old Kent Road, London SE11, January 27 2011

  ‘Have you seen the almond milk?’

  Rob looked up from his breakfast, a frown on his face. ‘Was it in a green carton?’

  ‘Yes. Did you drink it?’

  ‘I threw it away, I didn’t know it was almond milk – I thought it was sour milk.’

  Lindy took the regular milk from the fridge and slammed the door shut. ‘You’ve only been watching me drink almond milk for the last two years.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ll get you some more. I thought it was off, I was thinking of the baby really. Didn’t want you drinking something dodgy.’

  Lindy’s hand went instinctively to her stomach. ‘Have you got that list of stuff I need you to get?’

  Mariscal smiled and patted reassuringly at his trouser pocket; the list wasn’t in there but he was pretty sure he remembered where he’d left it.

  ‘Anti-stretch cream, more of those vitamins: Vitachild, was it?’

  Lindy nodded. ‘And my baby magazines.’

  Rob pulled a face.

  ‘Please – my friends say they’re really helpful.’

  ‘Five quid a pop they’d have to be.’

  ‘Don’t start.’

  Rob finished the last of his coffee, pushed his chair from the table, and dropped his plate and cutlery in the sink.

  ‘I know I go on about it, but five quid? You can buy a baby for that.’

  ‘Rubbish.’

  ‘You can.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Ethiopia.’

  ‘Don’t be an arse.’

  Rob took a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket and counted how many he had left.

  ‘You can, I was offered one. It was a few years back but the point stands. I was offered a baby. It was a good baby too – not one of those fat-stomached starving ones.’

  ‘You’re an idiot.’

  Rob shrugged and took a look at his watch; he was late. He hurried around the flat, gathering together his briefcase, Lindy’s shopping list and the thick lever arch file that the permanent secretary had asked him to read. They were due to talk about it at their routine meeting that morning. As he paced up and down the Old Kent Road, looking for his cab, Rob recalled the Ethiopian woman who had offered him her baby: her name was Miracle and she didn’t want money, she just wanted him to take her son. It was a long time ago but he remembered how tempted he’d been and tried to remember why he’d felt that way. The thought of doing something good, he guessed. Something unquestionably good.

  The permanent secretary had held firm against the fashion for open-plan offices. Other people might be happy working that way, his own staff might be forced to work that way but he would not. Rob rapped on the dark wood door and waited. Nothing. The gold lettering spelling out Leslie Craig’s name had a good gleam on it, recently polished – possibly by Craig himself. Rob knocked again.

  ‘Enter.’

  Mariscal did as instructed. Inside the door there was an umbrella stand stuffed with half a dozen oversized golfing umbrellas and next to that a green foldaway bike, gathering dust.

  ‘Robert. How are you?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Permanent Secretary.’

  ‘Good, good.’ The civil servant glanced at Rob before turning his papers over and rising from his seat. He strode over to the wooden coat rack in the corner and took down a long black mackintosh.

  Mariscal stepped to one side. ‘Sorry, maybe I misunderstood? I’m here for our routine meeting; did you
cancel?’

  ‘No, I didn’t cancel, I’m looking forward to it. However I thought we might relocate. I missed my morning constitutional so I thought we might walk and talk. Kill two birds with one stone as it were.’

  Mariscal smiled. ‘Two birds? That shouldn’t be a problem.’ Rob waved the file in the civil servant’s direction. ‘According to this, we spent seventy million quid on ordnance last year.’

  ‘Very droll.’ Craig’s Belfast accent seemed particularly thick this morning. ‘I suggest you bring an umbrella, the forecast says rain.’

  Mariscal selected the most normal, least golfy umbrella he could find and followed Craig out the door. They walked side by side through the building, the permanent secretary half a pace ahead of Rob and moving quickly for a man of his bulk. As they progressed through the offices and along the corridors, heads turned. Leslie Craig kept himself to himself; he arrived at work before most of his staff and left well after – a sighting was rare. Several of his employees attempted a greeting but the permanent secretary was moving too quickly for anyone to land a successful Good morning. Mariscal nodded to a few people, including Craig’s deputy, who observed the pair with interest. The permanent secretary didn’t utter a word until he and Rob were through security and outside the building and even then it was small talk – bordering on the banal.

  At the corner Craig stopped to retie a shoelace; he wore a pair of stout brown brogues. Mariscal stared at the shoes, polished to a shine and shade that reminded Rob of a freshly fallen conker. This done, Craig stood and stared at Mariscal. ‘Good to be out and about, is it not? Fresh air, touch of scenery?’

  Rob nodded. As far as he was concerned it was a terrible waste to be outside and not smoking but he knew Craig would not approve. They carried on walking and not really talking until they reached the next corner.

  ‘Here we are – Queen Mary’s Steps. She had Sir Christopher Wren design these for her you know?’

  Rob nodded. He knew.

  ‘And underneath all this, buried deep beneath, do you know what’s there?’

  Mariscal knew this too but, not wanting to spoil the permanent secretary’s story, he shook his head.

  ‘King Henry the Eighth’s Whitehall Palace. His Whitehall pad! How about that?’

  ‘Incredible. It’s a fair bit of history we’re stepping on here then?’

  ‘No doubt about it.’ Craig was heading for a well-situated bench, looking out on to a row of thick-trunked plane trees and beyond that the river.

  ‘Is this a favourite view of yours then, Permanent Secretary?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘You prefer your view of Horse Guards?’

  ‘Not too bothered about that one either. The best view of London – in my opinion – is to be had in the rear-view mirror of a fast-moving motor car.’ He turned and stared at Rob. ‘The sort of panorama I prefer lies elsewhere. Have you ever heard of Kinbane Head?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good. The fewer people know about it the better.’

  The pair propped their brollies against the bench and sat. The air was thick with unfallen rain – soon it would come, but not yet. Rob put the file down, a boxy grey bridge between the two men.

  Craig glanced at it. ‘So, you read it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rob had read it first page to last. The thick lever arch file – filled with the names of defence projects, manufacturer details, dates and eye-wateringly large numbers – a file that he’d fully expected to ruin his evening, had instead turned out to be quite a page-turner. At first he thought the nostalgic pleasure he was getting from removing interesting-looking pages and arranging them on the sitting room floor was because it reminded him of his student days, of university. It was the early hours of the morning before he realised that what his increasingly obsessive behaviour was reminding him of wasn’t college – he’d never worked that hard at college. What it reminded him of was journalism. ‘I read it all. Cover to cover.’

  ‘Good man. And?’

  Rob shrugged. ‘I guess the headline is we’re broke; we’ve got overspend on our overspend. I think the Department of Health is going to have to close a few more hospitals to make up the shortfall.’

  Craig gave a thin smile; his general policy was to acknowledge Rob’s humour without actively encouraging it. ‘Very funny.’

  ‘Thanks. Anyway, we’re overspent.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  Rob hesitated. ‘And that’s obviously before you take into account the next round of budget cuts.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘Twenty per cent is what people say the Treasury will go for.’ Rob glanced at his boss, who remained stony-faced. ‘That’s just a rumour of course.’

  Craig shook his head slowly. ‘It’s an accurate rumour. Twenty per cent is exactly what the Treasury will ask for.’

  ‘I see.’

  The permanent secretary sighed. The pair sat in silence for a time; the clouds above the Thames were unmoving, their colour darkening with every second that passed.

  ‘It’s been the story of my working life: bashing heads with those bean counters at the Treasury.’ Craig picked up the file and turned a few pages. ‘I sometimes wonder which of the great departments of state has done the most damage to this country over the past hundred years.’

  Rob gave an encouraging nod.

  ‘Most of the time I reach the conclusion that it’s a dead heat between the Treasury and the Foreign Office.’

  Rob grinned.

  ‘The main problem with the Treasury is their timeframe, they can only think in financial years; they never see any further than the following April.’ Craig closed the file and steepled his hands on top.

  Rob shrugged. ‘Yeah, but I guess it’s like this every year, isn’t it? Twenty per cent is just their opening bid. They want a finger, so they ask for an arm. Like any negotiation.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Craig acknowledged. ‘Very true. But there are a few cuts I’m not willing to countenance.’ He looked down at his folded hands and wiggled a thumb. ‘Some fingers I am particularly keen to keep.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So …’ Craig turned and met Rob’s eye. ‘Imagine you were a journalist reading this.’

  Mariscal bristled slightly. ‘I am a journalist reading this. I mean I was, until recently.’

  ‘Apologies, of course. So while you were reading this document –with your journalistic eye – what jumped out? Bearing in mind what the Treasury agenda is, where are we most vulnerable?’

  Rob pulled himself a little straighter. ‘Well, obviously the bigger ticket items stick out – the stuff that costs billions rather than millions’ – his boss nodded – ‘so it’s the carriers, the aircraft carrier project. If it’s twenty per cent the Treasury are after then that’s where they’ll look.’

  Craig smiled. ‘I thought that was what you’d say. I feared so anyway. Of course you’re right, they’ll start sniffing around the aircraft carriers and they’ll encourage their friends in the media to do the same. Perhaps they’ve already started?’ Craig gave Rob a questioning look.

  ‘I’ve heard rumours.’

  ‘Right. So that is where they will push and I will need you to push back, Robert.’

  ‘Push back how, Permanent Secretary?’

  ‘I need you to tell people one of your stories. Your most persuasive story yet: The story of the ship!’

  He delivered this line with such bombast that Mariscal had to work hard to hold his face straight. ‘The story of the ship?’

  ‘That’s it. We need to remind people of England’s proud history as a sea-faring nation, how no Englishman lives more than forty miles from open water – all that buccaneering stuff: Trafalgar, Admiral Nelson, HMS Pinafore …’

  ‘“The Owl and the Pussycat”?’

  Craig gave Rob a sideways look. ‘If it helps persuade the great British public that we need aircraft carriers, then yes.’ Craig stood; he looked around on the off-chance that anyon
e else might be foolhardy enough to be taking the air on such a miserable day. No one was, but he lowered his voice anyway. ‘We need a story so powerful that those tooth-combers at the Treasury will be forced to leave the carriers alone and look elsewhere. Do you understand?’

  Rob looked past Craig and out across the dirty brown Thames. ‘I’m sure I can come up with something.’

  ‘I’m sure you can too.’

  Mariscal paused, and then tried his luck. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why is it so important to protect the aircraft carriers?’

  Craig met Mariscal’s eye. ‘They’re crucial to the defence of this nation. We don’t want China seizing Neptune’s trident, do we?’ Craig was smiling as he said this but he could see that Rob was unconvinced. ‘There are other reasons too and there might well come a time when I need for you to know them. But not now.’ He glanced up at the sky. ‘It’s going to rain. You should get back inside. Return that file to Miriam and start work.’

  ‘You’re not coming?’

  ‘Not quite yet.’

  Rob walked back, deep in thought. Imagine you were a journalist: that’s what Craig had said. Rob wasn’t a hack anymore; he was a PR guy – a flack – albeit a well-remunerated and grandly titled one. He’d been good at the old job and he’d loved doing it but there was no going back. Poacher turned gamekeeper, that’s what he was. Or possibly the other way around? Rob was around the corner and twenty yards up the road before he realised he was getting wet. Looking up he saw fat drops of rain exploding off the tops of black umbrellas all around him. He opened his own borrowed brolly, tucked the file under his arm and quickened his pace, back towards the ministry.

  9 Sins of the Fathers

  DATELINE: The Taxi Café, Asmara, Eritrea, January 27 2011

  Gabriel had delivered the new part for the espresso maker that he’d managed to acquire on behalf of the Taxi Café’s owner and was sitting watching the man attempt to fix the antique Milano-made machine. His payment came in the form of food, a table filled with all the old man’s favourites: injera and chicken stew. The chicken was a little stringy but the pancakes were perfect and he was complimenting the café owner on this when he saw his elder grandson standing outside the café window, his face like thunder. Solomon was looking for his grandfather. Gabriel raised a hand, waved and watched Solomon turn and wheel his bike in the direction of a nearby tree. He left it there – unlocked – and strode back into the bar.