A Spy by Nature (2001) Page 7

  ‘I think that’s quite a patronizing view of America.’

  This comes from Elaine. I had made the mistake of perceiving her as an ally. In my peripheral vision I can see Rouse and Pyman duck into their pads.

  ‘OK, perhaps it is. But consider this.’

  This had better be good or I’m finished.

  ‘Any lasting export ban of radioactive shellfish to America will quickly become an international ban. No one wants to eat contaminated food. If we don’t put a stop to it soon, other countries, even in Europe, will refuse to buy shellfish and fish from British and French waters. It’s a domino effect.’

  This goes down well. Both Ann and the Hobbit nod respectfully. But Ogilvy has decided he has been silent too long. He leans forward, like a chess grand master on the point of making a telling move in the endgame. He’s going to make me look ineffectual. A little puff of his aftershave drifts across the room and a bird sounds territorially outside.

  ‘The question is an interesting one,’ he says, drawing us into his web of good-naturedness. ‘Is this a direct face-off between the United States of America and a United States of Europe? Do we as British citizens want to see ourselves that way, as part of a federal Europe? Or do we value our sovereignty too much, our prerogative to dictate terms to other European states and to the world at large?’

  This is inch-perfect, not a fluffed line. He goes on.

  ‘I suggest that we see this problem in those terms. There are too many conflicting European interests to mount an effective British campaign. We must do it with the assistance of our European partners and present a united front to the Americans. We hold many of the cards. Our major problem is Germany, and that is what we have to address. Once they’re onside, the rest will follow.’

  This is the smart move. He has set the foundations for the conversation, given it a clear starting point from which it can develop and assume some shape. To all intents and purposes Ogilvy has proposed to chair the discussion, and this aptitude for leadership will not go unnoticed.

  Ann takes up the argument.

  ‘I don’t see why we have to present pan-European resistance to America as the civil servant in this document suggests.’

  As she says this, she taps the printed sheet quite vigorously with the point of her middle finger. But she is not as good at this as Ogilvy is, and she knows it. Every contour of her body language betrays this to the rest of us, but some dark stubbornness in her, some Ulster obstinacy, will not allow her to back down. So she will wade in, deeper and deeper, pretending to know about things she barely understands, feigning a self-confidence which she does not possess.

  ‘To put it bluntly, this is France’s problem,’ she says, and her voice is now over-excited. ‘It’s a French nuclear reprocessing’ - her tongue trips on this last word several times - ‘plant that is leaking. I suggest that, perhaps with EU funding, you know, we conduct some definitive checks on the plant with American observers on site. On the site. If it proves to be clean, then there’s no reason why the Americans shouldn’t begin re-buying European fish. If it’s leaking, we demand that the French get it fixed. We then try to persuade the Americans to buy fish and shellfish from non-French, uncontaminated waters.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting we just abandon the French?’ I ask, just so that my voice is heard, just to make it look like I’m still taking part.

  ‘Yes,’ she says impatiently, hardly taking the time to look at me.

  ‘There’s a problem with that solution.’

  Ogilvy says this with the calm bedside manner of a family GP.

  ‘What?’ says Ann, visibly unsettled.

  ‘The plant was built in 1978 with joint British, French and Dutch co-operation.’

  This trips everyone up; nobody had recalled it from the printed sheet except Ogilvy, who is happy to let this fact make its way across the room to the impressed examiners.

  ‘Yes, I’d forgotten that,’ Ann admits, to her credit, but she must know that her chance has passed.

  ‘I still think Ann has a point,’ says a gallant Hobbit. He is surely too kind to be caught up in this. ‘The French facility needs to have a thorough check-up with American observers. If it’s leaking, we all have to put it right collectively and be completely open about that. But I suspect it’s fine and that these American claims are disingenuous.’

  In the tight lightless classroom, this last word sounds laboured and pretentious. Ann’s face has flushed red and the hand in which she is holding her pen is shaking. Ogilvy inches forward.

  ‘Let’s look at it this way,’ he says. ‘We don’t know all the facts. What we do know is that the Americans are playing games. And in my view the best way to deal with a bully is to bully them back.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I’m suggesting, Alec, that if the Americans are proposing to squeeze us, then we in turn should squeeze them.’

  They’ll like this. We’re supposed to play hardball. We’re supposed to be capable of a trick or two. Ogilvy glances across at Rouse, then back at the Hobbit.

  ‘Matthew, you seem to know about the levels of import and export of fish and shellfish going to and fro between Britain and America.’

  The Hobbit, flattered, says ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I suspect that the Americans export significantly higher numbers of fish and shellfish to Europe than we export to them. Is that right?’

  ‘Off the top of my head, yes, as much as three times the amount,’ says the Hobbit.

  It’s just between the two of them for now and it’s an impressive thing to watch. Ogilvy is giving us all a lesson in man management, in how to make the little guy feel good about himself. A trace of sweat has formed above the Hobbit’s upper lip, a little vapour of nerves, but he is otherwise entirely without self-consciousness. Just getting the words out, happy to talk in facts. Maybe even enjoying himself. Ogilvy has rested his elbows on the table, fingers interlocked and raised up to his dark face.

  ‘So a ban on American fish and shellfish imports would hit them even harder?’

  ‘In theory,’ says Elaine, a dismissiveness in her voice.

  ‘Of course,’ says Ogilvy, cutting her off before she has a chance to tell him how unworkable a trade embargo with the United States would be. ‘I actually don’t think that we’ll have to go as far as reciprocating their ban with one of our own.’

  He wants to show Rouse and Pyman that he’s seen all the angles.

  ‘The key to this, as I’ve said, is the Germans. If we can get them onside, and as long as any problem with the reprocessing plant can be addressed, I can’t foresee the Americans continuing with their demands. It’s important that we be seen to stand up to them.’

  It’s time to steal some ideas off Ogilvy, before he runs away with it.

  ‘The sticking point is the automobile manufacturer. We have to make sure that that contract is secured and goes ahead. At the same time, we might offer the Germans a sweetener.’

  ‘What kind of a sweetener?’ Elaine asks. She lingers on ‘sweetener’ as if it is the most absurd word she has ever heard.

  ‘Sell them something. At a bargain price. Or we could buy more of their exports.’

  This sounds meek and ill-informed; it is clear that I have not thought it through. But Ogilvy bails me out, saying ‘Yes’ with a degree of enthusiasm that I had not anticipated. Ironically, however, this leads to a bad mistake. He says:

  ‘We could offer to buy up deutschmarks, to push up their value briefly against the pound.’

  This is ludicrous and Elaine tells him so.

  ‘You try it. You’d have to be owed some pretty big favours at the Exchequer to get something like that done.’

  She delivers this in a tone of weary experience and for a moment Ogilvy is stumped. His square jaw tremors with humiliation and it gives me a small buzz of pleasure to watch him ride it out. It’s important that I don’t let this opportunity slip. Shut him down.

  ‘I have to agree with Elaine, S
am. We mustn’t pass the buck to another department. It’s difficult, without knowing more about our other negotiations with the Germans, to determine how exactly we might go about persuading them to side with us. It may not even be necessary, for two reasons. The first has already been made clear. The French plant may in fact be safe and the Americans may be acting illegally. If that’s the case, we’re in the clear. But if it does prove necessary to get the Germans onside, we could try another tactic.’

  ‘Yes, I -‘ says Ann, but I’m not about to be interrupted.

  ‘If I could just finish. Thank you. If we succeed in convincing a majority of other European states to form a united front against the Americans, the Germans will not relish being isolated. Whilst they may not want to be seen to be taking issue with the United States, at the same time they won’t want to be seen by their European partners to be forming an unholy alliance with America. We can, in effect, shut them up.’

  ‘We shouldn’t underestimate the Germans, or their influence,’ the Hobbit mumbles. ‘Nobody here wants to acknowledge the truth of this situation, which is that the Germans are the dominant economic force in European politics. They are, in effect, our masters.’

  This annoys me.

  ‘Well if that’s what they’re teaching you on your European Affairs course at Warwick, I’m not signing up.’

  Elaine, Pyman and Rouse all emit snorty laughs. I’m winning this, I’m coming through. The Hobbit’s cheeks rouge nicely. He can’t think of a comeback, so I carry on.

  ‘This notion of the Germans as the European master race is contrived. Their economy will slow in the next few years, unemployment is chronic since unification and Kohl’s days are numbered.’

  I read this in The Economist.

  ‘Let’s not get off the point.’ Ogilvy wants back in. ‘Let’s talk about how to get the Spaniards and the Danes on board.’

  Suddenly Ann sneezes, a great lashing a-choo which she only half covers with her hand. In stereo, Ogilvy and I say ‘Bless you’, to which he adds: ‘Are you OK?’ Ann, not one to be patronized, lets her guard drop and says ‘Yeah’ with sullen indifference. Her voice, with its sour accent, sounds impatient and spoiled, and in that brief moment we can all see her for what she really is: a tough-nut of steely ambition, looking for a one-way ticket to London and a better life. In the wake of it Ogilvy glides away, talking with great efficiency about how to get the Spaniards and Danes ‘on board’. As time ticks away, the stopwatch edging towards our thirty-minute limit, he is left more or less on his own, with occasional interjections from the Hobbit, whose knowledge of European Union by-laws is as extensive as it is tedious. He must be the star pupil at Warwick. Ann, for the most part, turns in on herself and merely disagrees for the sake of disagreeing. Elaine barely speaks. From my own point of view, I feel that I have done enough to please the examiners, both by what I have said and by my personal conduct, which has been forthright but respectful of the other candidates. I also feel that Ogilvy and the Hobbit are flogging a dead horse. Most of the points that were there to be made have been made saliently some time ago. Nevertheless, it will look good if I try to wrap things up.

  ‘If I could just interrupt you there, Sam, because we’re running out of time and I think we should try to reach some sort of conclusion.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  He gives me the floor. Don’t fuck it up.

  ‘I think we’ve covered most of the angles on this problem. Judging from the last ten minutes or so, we’re mostly agreed on a course of action.’

  ‘Which is?’ says Ann, coldly.

  ‘That we need to - as you pointed out right at the start - present a united front to the Americans. We must conduct conclusive tests on the French plant. If needs be, we should bargain with the Germans to get them on our side.’

  ‘We never said how we were going to do that.’ The manner in which Elaine says this, with just under a minute to go, implies that this is largely my responsibility.

  ‘No, we didn’t. But that’s not something that should worry us. I think the Germans would be unlikely to do anything that would undermine the EU.’

  ‘And what do we do about the American export ban?’ the Hobbit asks, looking in my direction as he tips forward on his chair. It was a mistake to take this on.

  ‘Well, there’s very little we can do…’

  ‘I don’t agree,’ says Ann, cutting me off short so that my incomplete sentence sounds weak and defeatist.

  ‘Me too,’ says Ogilvy, but he too is interrupted.

  ‘I’m afraid that your thirty minutes is up.’

  Rouse has tapped his pen twice - tap tap - on the hard surface of the examiners’ table. We all turn to face him.

  ‘Thank you all very much. If you’d like to gather up your things and make your way back to the common room where Mr Heywood is waiting for you.’

  I think we all share a sense of disappointment at not managing to conclude the discussion within the allocated time: it will reflect badly on the five of us, although I may score points for trying to tidy things up towards the end. Ogilvy is first up and out of the room, followed by the rest of us in a tight group, waddling out like tired ducks. Elaine is the last to leave, closing the door behind her. She does this with too much force and it slams shut with a loud clap.

  *

  Keith is waiting for us in the common room, idling near the coffee machine. But as soon as we are all inside, he instructs us to follow him back down the corridor to begin the first of the written examinations. There is no time to relax, no time to ruminate or grab a drink. They won’t let the pressure off until five o’clock this evening, and then it starts all over again tomorrow.

  On the way to the classroom, Elaine and Ann peel away from the group to go to the loo. This flusters Keith. While Ogilvy, the Hobbit and I are taking our seats in the classroom, he lurks nervously in the corridor, waiting for their return.

  The Hobbit, who has taken a seat by the window, grabs this opportunity to tuck into yet another cereal bar. Ogilvy returns to his previous spot at the back of the room. To annoy him I move to the desk nearest his, close in and to the left. For a moment it looks as though he may move, but politeness checks him. He looks across at me and smiles very slowly.

  With no sign of Elaine and Ann, Keith trundles back in, head bowed, and starts handing out a thick pink booklet which he leaves face down on every candidate’s desk. The Hobbit thanks him through the crumbly munch of his mid-morning snack and Ogilvy begins twirling a pencil in his right hand, rotating it quickly through his fingers like a helicopter blade. It’s a poser’s party trick and it doesn’t come off: the pencil spins out of his hand and clatters on to the lino between our two desks. I make no attempt to retrieve it, so Ogilvy has to bend down uncomfortably to pick it up. As he is doing so, Elaine and Ann bustle in, sharing the cosy mutual smiles and solidarity of women returning from a shared trip to the loo.

  ‘This section of the Sisby programme is known as the Policy Exercise,’ Keith says, beginning his introductory talk before they have had a chance to sit down. He’s on a strict timetable, and he’s sticking to it. ‘It is a two-hour written paper in which you will be asked to analyse a large quantity of complex written material, to identify the main points and issues, and to write a thorough and cogently argued case for one of three possible options.’

  I stare at the pink booklet and pray for something other than shellfish.

  ‘You may start when you are ready. I will let you know when one hour of the examination has passed, and again when there are ten minutes of the exercise remaining’

  A crackle of paper, an intake of breath, the incidental noises of beginning. Here we go again.

  The document outlines the difficulties surrounding the planned construction of a by-pass near the southerly commuter town of Dorton. (To my knowledge no such town exists, so this must be the Civil Service’s idea of using their imagination.)

  The text inside takes the form of a series of mocked-up letters,
memos, newspaper articles, speeches, e-mails and faxes. These have been written by parties concerned with the building of the road: government ministers, civil servants, journalists, local residents, even the Mayor of Dorton. Some are in favour of its construction, others are not.

  The first item in the booklet, for example, is a ‘confidential’ two-page letter written by the Minister of State for Transport. She is keen to get a decision on the by-pass before Parliament’s summer recess, not least because the government wants to avoid the issue becoming a battleground for environmentalists. She points out the benefits of the five-mile ring-road both for Dorton itself, where traffic congestion would be sharply reduced, and for long-distance lorry drivers gaining quicker access to the Channel ports. There is the added benefit, too, of job creation through restaurants and petrol stations along the by-pass.

  In subsequent pages there are documents supporting the Minister’s view from, among others, a representative of the Transport and General Workers’ Union. But there are others, equally persuasive, criticizing it. In particular, there are several groups and individuals worried about the damage road construction would cause to an area around Dorton that is abundant with local history and rich in wildlife.

  Three possible solutions are presented to the problem: I have to choose one of them and say why I rejected the other two. Each solution comes with its own pros and cons.

  Option One supports the plan to implement construction. This would appease the majority of public - though not local - opinion. It would also stain the government’s already poor record on environmental issues.

  Option Two is to cave in to local pressure and shelve the plan. This would mean the loss of millions of pounds of taxpayers’ money, and set a precedent for future road-building projects which may prove damaging. On the plus side, a vast stretch of green-belt land would be preserved.

  Option Three proposes building the road along a different route, avoiding the area of outstanding natural beauty and historical significance. This would mean a greater cost to the taxpayer - the new by-pass would be one and a half miles longer - but disarm many of the arguments put forward by the green lobby.