Charles was speechless.
“With all the problems we are going to encounter with the trade unions during the next few months, that should keep you fully occupied.”
“It certainly will,” said Charles.
He still hadn’t been asked to sit down, but as the Prime Minister was now rising from behind his desk it was clear that the meeting was over.
“You and Fiona must come and have dinner at No. 10 as soon as you’ve settled into your new department,” said the Prime Minister as they walked toward the door.
“Thank you,” Charles said.
As he stepped back on to Downing Street a driver opened the back door of a shiny Austin Westminster. It was several moments before Charles realized the car was his.
“The Commons, sir?”
“No, I’d like to return to Eaton Square for a few minutes,” he said, sitting back and enjoying the thought of tackling his new job.
The car drove past the Commons, up Victoria Street, and on to Eaton Square. He wanted to tell Fiona that all the hard work had been rewarded. He felt guilty about how little he had seen of her lately, although he could not believe it would be much better now that he was to be involved in trade union legislation. How much he still hoped for a son, perhaps even that would prove possible now. The car came to a halt outside the Georgian house. Charles ran up the steps and into the hall. He could hear his wife’s voice from the first floor. He took the wide staircase in bounds of two and three at a time, and threw open the bedroom door.
“I’m the new Minister of State at the Department of Trade and Industry,” he announced to Fiona, who was lying in bed.
Alexander Dalglish looked up. He showed no sign of interest in Charles’s elevation.
When Andrew rang Angus Sinclair at the Procurator Fiscal’s office to find that nothing was known of Ricky Hodge and that Sinclair was able to confirm that he had no criminal record, Andrew felt he had stumbled on a case with international implications.
As Ricky Hodge was in a Turkish jail any inquiries had to be made through the Foreign Office. Andrew did not have the same relationship with the Foreign Secretary as he did with Simon, so he felt the direct approach would be best and put down a question to be answered in the House. He worded it carefully: “What action does the Foreign Secretary intend to take over the confiscation of a British passport from a constituent of the Honorable member for Edinburgh Carlton, details of which have been supplied to him?”
When the question came in front of the House on the following Wednesday the Foreign Secretary rose to answer the question himself. He stood at the dispatch box and peered over his half-moon spectacles and said:
“Her Majesty’s Government are pursuing this matter through the usual diplomatic channels.”
Andrew was quickly on his feet. “Does the Right Honorable Gentleman realize that my constituent has been in a Turkish prison for six months and has still not been charged?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the Foreign Secretary. “I have asked the Turkish Embassy to supply the Foreign Office with more details of the case.”
Andrew leaped up again. “How long will my constituent have to be forgotten in Ankara before the Foreign Secretary does more than ask for the details of his case?”
The Foreign Secretary rose again showing no sign of annoyance. “I will report those fi
ndings to the Honorable member as quickly as possible.”
“When? Tomorrow, next week, next year?” Andrew shouted angrily.
“When?” joined in a chorus of Labour back-benchers, but the Speaker called for the next question above the uproar.
Within the hour Andrew received a handwritten note from the Foreign Office. It read: “If Mr. Fraser would be kind enough to telephone, the Foreign Secretary would be delighted to make an appointment to see him.”
Andrew phoned from the Commons and was invited to join the Foreign Secretary in Whitehall immediately.
The Foreign Office, known as “The Palazzo” by its inmates, has an atmosphere of its own. Although Andrew had worked in a Government department as a minister he was still struck by its grandeur. He was met at the courtyard entrance and guided along yards of marble corridors before climbing a fine double staircase at the top of which he was greeted by the Foreign Secretary’s Principal Private Secretary.
“Sir Alec will see you immediately, Mr. Fraser,” he said, and led Andrew past the magnificent pictures and tapestries which lined the way. He was taken into a beautifully proportioned room. The Foreign Secretary stood in front of an Adam fireplace over which hung a portrait of Lord Palmerston.
“Fraser, how kind of you to come at such short notice. I do hope it has not caused you any inconvenience.” Platitudes, thought Andrew. Next the silly man will be mentioning my father. “I don’t think we have met before, but of course I have known your father for many years. Won’t you sit down?”
“I realize you are a busy man. Can we get down to the point at issue, Foreign Secretary?” Andrew demanded.
“Of course,” Sir Alec said courteously. “Forgive me for taking up so much of your time.” Without a further word, he handed Andrew a file marked “Richard M. Hodge—Confidential.” “Although Members of Parliament are not subject to the Official Secrets Act I know you will respect the fact that this file is classified.”