‘Afghanistan … Taleban … hearts and minds … stay the course … democracy and freedom … al Qaeda … the Worst of the Worst … lessons of Iraq … shared values, shared sacrifice …’
It was warm and stuffy, Senator Black spoke quietly, and my mind wandered. I began to think of my own future.
Another two years as Ambassador to Washington and I would be in line for a knighthood, then promotion to Head of the Foreign Office, and eventually a peerage. Or–as Fraser Davis had hinted–I might be interested in quitting and thinking about going into politics. I could undoubtedly secure a safe seat under his patronage. As Bobby Black droned on, I started thinking of other things–of lunch, of the drive back to London, of seeing Fiona, and of the difficulties we had been having.
‘… Iranian threat … shadow on the Gulf … oil supplies … nuclear proliferation … Islamic bomb … generations to come …’
I love and admire the United States, especially ordinary Americans, but so many of their top-tier politicians struck me as even worse than ours–difficult though that may be to believe. The kind of people with whom, after you shake hands, you feel you should count your fingers just to check none has been stolen. Bobby Black made me especially nervous, which was one of the reasons I wanted him to meet Davis. Besides, it helped me enormously back in Washington that Black and others knew how close I was to the Prime Minister. I tuned in again. Bobby Black was offering clues about a future Carr presidency. It struck me as unlikely that I would ever need this information. Theo Carr worried, he said, that ‘Russia wants its Empire back and we’re not about to give it to them,’ but the main struggle would continue against ‘militant Islam.’ The new President would demand from all America’s allies ‘more commitment of blood and treasure’ in this ‘existential struggle against terrorism.’ Prime Minister Davis rolled his eyes.
‘Guts,’ Bobby Black was saying softly, waggling a fat white finger in our direction. I watched the finger’s reflection in the polished walnut of the table top. ‘Old fashioned guts, when it comes to facing down the Russians, the Iranians or al Qaeda. Guts, and leadership, Mr Prime Minister. Moral fibre.’
I sipped the weak black coffee and nibbled at the digestive biscuits that mark British hospitality on these occasions. Suddenly the man Black had called ‘Mister Prime Minister’ sprang into life.
‘Leadership demands Followership,’ Davis snapped, the wet, pouty lip directed at Bobby Black. ‘Don’t you agree, Senator? And what kind of leadership are you expecting to offer that others will follow?’
Bobby Black winced and then smiled. He did not like to be interrupted, and I did not like his smile. He replied softly and deliberately, so you had to lean towards him to hear.
‘There are some very Bad People out there, Mr Prime Minister, and—’
‘Forgive me, Senator Black,’ Prime Minister Davis interrupted again, with a degree of condescension that grated even on me. Johnny Lee Ironside shuffled uncomfortably in his chair and raised an eyebrow in my direction. The Prime Minister was in no mood to hold back. ‘Forgive me, but most people across Europe understand that there are “Bad People”, as you put it, “out there.” We’ve had terrorist attacks for years–decades. We had them in Belfast from Nineteen Sixty-nine, and in Glasgow, in London, Madrid, Amsterdam, Berlin, Istanbul, Rome. Our experience tells us that the challenge is to avoid creating more terrorists than you can possibly kill or arrest. So how do you propose to do that when the way you talk sounds like you are still making the same mistakes we made decades ago? The IRA taught us that subtlety and sophistication would help. That’s why Ireland is now–mostly–at peace.’
Like Harrow, Fettes, and Winchester, Eton is a school that produces many brilliant minds but very few humble ones. Bobby Black sat bolt upright and blinked behind his glasses at the Prime Minister. What I saw in his eyes was something akin to hatred. He did not like being interrupted and he certainly did not like being contradicted by a Prime Minister young enough to be his son. At that moment I hoped that the opinion polls were correct and that Black and Carr would lose the presidential election by a landslide. When he spoke, it was again so quietly I had to strain to hear him.
‘Mr Prime Minister,’ Bobby Black said coldly, stressing certain words as if they deserved to have capital letters, ‘the IRA did not do suicide bombings or fly planes into buildings. This is a different world. Neutrality is immoral. Appeasement is immoral. Subtlety and sophistication–as you call it–to folks where I come from in Montana, are just European excuses to do nothing except wring hands, wet the bed, and complain about the wicked Americans. There was nothing subtle about your British citizens trying to blow up American airliners halfway over the Atlantic Ocean. And let me be clear. When Governor Theo Carr is elected President of the United States next month, the Carr administration will expect and require full cooperation on matters of national security from all allies of the United States.’
Expect and require. Your British citizens. Oh, shit. I put my coffee cup down. Now it was Fraser Davis who looked as if he had been shot. He began finger-pointing as he spoke. His lower lip was exceptionally moist, the way it gets when he is irritated and wants to start lecturing. I do not usually get these things wrong, but the informal Chequers meeting was unravelling before my eyes and I could do nothing to stop it. I looked over to Johnny Lee Ironside who nodded. He shared my pain.
‘Senator Black, of course you will have our full cooperation and friendship. But for our part, we will expect the new President–whoever that might be–to lead an American administration that listens to its friends as opposed to lecturing them, and that upholds the way of life you say you want to defend. We urge you to look at the mistakes of the past and at your own country’s record on human rights, the detention without trial of terrorist suspects–including British nationals–and matters that clearly fall under the United Nations’ definition of torture.’
‘Fuck the United Nations,’ Bobby Black said softly. The room fell silent. Fraser Davis’s lower lip dropped an inch. Bobby Black said it so quietly but with such unmistakable anger that I thought for a moment I had misheard him. Looking at the stunned faces I knew that I had not. Everyone held their breath. Bobby Black’s eyes stared intensely from behind his glasses. The Prime Minister’s pouty lip formed a single response.
‘Pardon?’
‘Fuck the United Nations,’ Bobby Black repeated, without raising his voice. ‘Fuck ‘em. We’ll do it alone if we have to. We’d like help. Everybody likes help. But we’re the United States of America and we don’t need it.’
Prime Minister Davis smiled although, yet again, the smile could look just like a smirk. He tried to make light of what we had just heard.
‘Fuck the United Nations–would that be the official policy of the incoming Carr administration?’
I caught Johnny Lee’s eyes again. They had an expression that said, ‘Get us out of here.’
‘If necessary,’ Bobby Black answered, and brushed some imaginary fluff from his suit sleeve. ‘On international terrorism, there is no middle ground. There is Right, and there is Wrong. Any country or organization that is not with Right is with Wrong. It would be a sad day if the United States had to withdraw from the UN. A sad day for the United Nations. The US would get over it.’
He stopped speaking. A silence fell upon us while we thought about what he had said. The meeting was effectively over, after ten minutes of the allotted thirty. Bobby Black pushed his seat back so it scraped on the floor. Johnny Lee Ironside stood up.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Prime Minister. Our helicopter is waiting. I’m heading for the City of London.’
‘And thank you for sparing time in your busy