“A chance to impress a few people beyond the boundaries of Leeds,” Kate assured him.
Raymond’s speech was scheduled for the Wednesday morning. He flew into Washington on the Sunday and spent Monday and Tuesday listening to the problems of other nations’ trade ministers while trying to get used to the dreadful earphones and the female interpreter.
The conference was attended by most of the leading industrial nations and the British Ambassador, Sir Peter Ramsbotham, told Raymond over dinner at the Embassy that this was a real chance to convince the hard-headed international bankers that Britain cared about economic realities and was still worth their financial backing.
Raymond soon realized that convincing such a gathering required a very different technique from shouting from a soap box on a street corner in Leeds or even addressing the House from the dispatch box. He was glad he had not been scheduled to present his case on the opening day. Over leisurely lunches he re-established his existing contacts in Congress and made some new ones.
The night before he was to deliver his speech Raymond hardly slept. He continued to rehearse each crucial phrase and repeated the salient points that needed to be emphasized until he almost knew them by heart. At three o’clock in the morning he dropped his speech on the floor beside his bed and phoned Kate to have a chat before she went to work.
“I’d enjoy hearing your speech at the conference,” she told him. “Although I don’t suppose it would be much different from the thirty times I’ve listened to it in the bedroom.”
Once he had said good-bye to Kate he fell into a deep sleep. He woke early that morning and went over the speech one last time before leaving for the conference center.
All the homework and preparation proved worthwhile. By the time he turned the last page Raymond couldn’t be certain how convincing his case had been, but he knew it was the best speech he had ever delivered. When he looked up the smiles all around the oval table assured him that his contribution had been well received. As the ambassador pointed out to him as he rose to leave, any signs of emotion at these gatherings were almost unknown. He felt confident that the IMF loan would be renewed.
There followed two further speeches before they broke for lunch. At the end of the afternoon session Raymond walked out into the clear Washington air and decided to make his way back to the Embassy on foot. He was exhilarated by the experience of dominating an international conference and picked up an evening paper: an article covering the conference suggested that Raymond would be Britain’s next Labor Chancellor. He smiled at the spelling. Just the closing day to go, followed by the official banquet and he would be back home by the weekend.
When he reached the Embassy the guard had to double-check: they weren’t used to ministers arriving on foot and without a bodyguard. Raymond was allowed to proceed down the tree-lined drive toward the massive Lutyens building. He looked up to see the British flag was flying at half mast and wondered which distinguished American had died.
“Who has died?” he asked the tail-coated butler who opened the door for him.
“The Foreign Secretary, sir.”
“Anthony Crosland? I knew he had gone into hospital, but...” said Raymond almost to himself. He hurried into the Embassy to find it abuzz with telexes and coded messages. Raymond sat alone in his private sitting room for several hours and later, to the horror of the security staff, slipped out for a quiet dinner at the Mayflower Hotel with Senator Hart.
Raymond returned to the conference table at nine o’clock the next morning to listen to the French Minister of Commerce put his case for renewed funds. He was savoring the thought of the official banquet at the White House to be held that evening when he was tapped on the shoulder by Sir Peter Ramsbotham, who indicated by touching his lips with his forefinger and pointing that they must have a word in private.
“The Prime Minister wants you to return on the midmorning Concorde,” said Sir Peter. “It leaves in an hour. On arrival in Britain you’re to go straight to Downing Street.”
“What’s this all about?”
“I have no idea, that was the only instruction I received from No. 10,” confided the ambassador.
Raymond returned to the conference table and made his apologies to the chairman, left the room, and was driven immediately to the waiting plane. “Your bags will follow, sir,” he was assured.
He was back on English soil three hours and forty-one minutes later, a little after seven-thirty. The purser ensured that he was the first to disembark. A car waiting by the side of the plane whisked him to Downing Street. He arrived just as the Prime Minister was going to dinner, accompanied by an elderly African statesman who was waving his trademark fan back and forth.
“Welcome home, Ray,” said the Prime Minister, leaving the African leader. “I’d ask you to join us, but as you can see I’m entertaining the President of Malawi. Let’s have a word in my study.”
Once Raymond had settled into a chair Mr. Callaghan wasted no time.
“Because of Tony’s tragic death I have had to make a few changes which will include moving the Secretary of State for Trade. I was hoping you would be willing to take over from him.”
Raymond sat up straighter. “I should be honored, Prime Minister.”
“Good. You’ve earned your promotion, Raymond. I also hear you did us proud in America, very proud.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ll be appointed to the Privy Council immediately and your first Cabinet meeting will be at ten o’clock tomorrow. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must catch up with Dr. Banda.”
Raymond was left standing in the hall.
He asked his driver to take him back to the flat. All he wanted to do was to tell Kate the news. When he arrived the flat was empty: then he remembered she wasn’t expecting him back until the next day. He phoned her home but after twenty continuous rings he resigned himself to the fact that she was out. “Damn,” he said out loud, and after pacing around phoned Joyce to let her know the news. Once again there was no reply.
He went into the kitchen and checked to see what was in the fridge: a piece of curled-up bacon, some half-eaten Brie, three eggs. He couldn’t help thinking about the banquet he was missing at the White House.
The Right Honorable Raymond Gould QC, MP, Her Britannic Majesty’s Principal Secretary of State for Trade, sat on the kitchen stool, opened a tin of baked beans, and devoured them with a fork.
Charles closed the file. It had taken him a month to gather all the proof he needed. Albert Cruddick, the private investigator Charles had selected from the Yellow Pages, had been expensive but discreet. Dates, times, places were all fully chronicled. The only name was that of Alexander Dalglish, the same rendezvous, lunch at Prunier’s followed by the Stafford Hotel. They hadn’t stretched Mr. Guddick’s imagination but at least the detective had spared Charles the necessity of standing in the entrance of the Economist building once, sometimes twice a week for hours on end.
Somehow he had managed to get through that month without giving himself away. He had also made his own notes of the dates and times Fiona claimed she was going to be in the constituency. He had then called his agent in Sussex Downs and, after veiled questioning, elicited answers that corroborated Mr. Cruddick’s findings.
Charles saw as little of Fiona as possible during this time, explaining that the Finance Bill was occupying his every moment. His lie had at least a semblance of credibility for he had worked tirelessly on the remaining clauses left for debate, and by the time the watered-down bill had become law he had just about recovered from the disaster of the Government’s successful retention of clause 110.