Mightier Than the Sword (The Clifton Chronicles 5)

During the official dinner held at the Palast der Republik, Karin sat directly behind him, translating every word of the interminable, repetitive speeches, until Giles finally weakened.

“If you write a letter to your father, I’ll post it to him when I get back to England, and I’ll also have a word with a colleague in the immigration office.”

“Thank you, Sir Giles.”

Giles turned his attention to the Italian minister sitting on his right, who was pushing his food around the plate while grumbling about having to serve three prime ministers in one year.

“Why don’t you go for the job yourself, Umberto?” suggested Giles.

“Certainly not,” he replied. “I’m not looking for early retirement.”

* * *

Giles was delighted when the last course of the endless meal was finally served and the guests were allowed to depart. He said good night to some of the other delegates as he left the room. He then joined the ambassador and was driven back to his hotel.

He picked up his key and was back in his suite just after eleven. He’d been asleep for about an hour when there was a tap on the door. Someone obviously willing to ignore the Do Not Disturb sign. But that didn’t come as a surprise, because the Foreign Office had even issued a briefing note to cover that eventuality. So he knew exactly what to expect and, more important, how to deal with it.

He reluctantly got out of bed, pulled on his dressing gown, and went to the door, having already been warned that they would try to produce a lookalike of his wife, but twenty years younger.

When he opened the door he was momentarily stunned. Before him stood the most beautiful blonde, with high cheekbones, deep blue eyes, and the shortest leather skirt he’d ever seen.

“Wrong wife,” said Giles once he’d recovered, although he was reminded why he had fallen so hopelessly in love with Virginia all those years ago. “But thank you, madam,” he said as he took the bottle of champagne. He read the label. “Veuve Clicquot 1947. Please pass on my compliments to whomever. An excellent vintage,” he added, before closing the door.

He smiled as he climbed back into bed. Harry would have been proud of him.

* * *

The second day of the conference became more and more frenetic as the delegates attempted to close deals so they wouldn’t have to return home empty-handed. Giles felt quite pleased when the East Germans agreed to remove their import tariffs on British pharmaceuticals, and delighted, although he tried not to show it, when his French counterpart hinted that if the British government were to issue an official invitation for the French president to visit Britain in the new year, it would be seriously considered. He wrote down the words “seriously considered” so there could be no misunderstanding.

As always happens on these occasions, meetings began to run late and to continue into the evening; so Giles ended up scheduling one before dinner, with an East German trade minister, one during, with his Dutch counterpart, and finally one after dinner with Walter Scheel, the West German foreign minister. He asked Karin to join them for dinner, having decided that if she was working for the Stasi, she was a better actress than Peggy Ashcroft. And if she agreed, he just hoped she’d let her hair down.

Karin reminded him that the Dutch minister spoke fluent English, and suggested that they might prefer to dine alone. But Giles thought it would be helpful for her to be there, just in case anything was lost in translation.

He couldn’t help wondering if any of his fellow delegates had noticed how often he had turned around during his afternoon session with the trade minister to look more closely at his interpreter, pretending to listen intently to her translation while in fact hoping to be rewarded with that smile. But when she turned up for dinner wearing a stunning off-the-shoulder red silk dress, which certainly hadn’t been purchased from a comrades’ cooperative store, with her auburn hair hanging loosely below her shoulders, Giles couldn’t take his eyes off her, although she continued to feign not to notice.

When he returned to his suite for the final meeting of the evening, Scheel wasted no time in pressing his government’s case. “Your import tax on BMW, Volkswagen, and Mercedes is hitting our car industry hard. If you can’t lift it, can you at least lower it?”

“I’m afraid that’s just not possible, Walter, as we’re only a few weeks away from a general election, and the Labour Party is hoping for large donations from Ford, BMC, and Vauxhall.”

“You’ll have no choice when you become a member of the EEC,” said the German, smiling.

“Amen to that,” said Giles.

“At least I’m grateful for your candid response.” The two men shook hands, and as Scheel turned to leave, Giles put a finger to his lips and followed him out of the room. He looked up and down the corridor before asking, “Who’s going to replace Ulbricht as General Secretary?”

“The Soviets are getting behind Honecker,” said Scheel, “and frankly I can’t see anyone beating him.”

“But he’s a weak, sycophantic man, who’s never had an original thought in his life,” said Giles, “and would end up being nothing more than a stooge, just like Ulbricht.”

“Which is precisely why the Politburo is backing him.”

Giles threw his hands up in the air. Scheel could only manage a wry smile. “See you in London after the election,” he said, before heading off in the direction of the lift.

“Let’s hope so,” murmured Giles. When he returned to his room, he was pleased to find that Karin was still there. She opened her bag, took out an envelope, and handed it to him.

“Thank you, Sir Giles.”

Giles looked at the name and address on the envelope, placed it in an inside pocket, and said, “I’ll post it to your father just as soon as I’m back in England.”