Prince Mohammed sidled up to me, and observed softly that we were all receiving a great many urgent messages. There was no twinkle in his eye, no hint that he had spotted that all the British orange juice was turning steadily browner — and yet, I wondered if he realised what was going on. To this day, of course, I still don’t know.
Unwilling to prolong the conversation, I edged away. And I found myself face to face with a smiling Arab who had been close to me earlier in the evening when I was talking to Annie Hacker about the rosewater jar. This next conversation, with its fateful consequences, is the first reason why this whole evening is etched forever on my memory.
Although dressed in traditional Arab style, the smiling Arab spoke perfect English and clearly knew the West only too well.
‘Excuse me,
I was surprised. And grateful. And I asked if he had any idea how much it was worth.
He smiled. ‘Of course. An original seventeenth-century rosewater jar is very valuable.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said, thinking of Annie Hacker’s disappointment.
‘You are not pleased?’ Naturally, he was a little surprised.
I hastened to explain. ‘Yes — and no. I mean if it is too valuable, the Minister is not allowed to keep it. So I was hoping it wasn’t.’
He understood immediately, and smiled even more. ‘Ah yes. Well, as I was saying, an original seventeenth-century rosewater jar is very valuable but this copy, though excellently done, is not of the same order.’
‘Oh good. How much?’
He was a very shrewd fellow. He eyed me for a moment, and then said, ‘I should be interested to hear your guess.’
‘A little under fifty pounds?’ I asked hopefully.
‘Brilliant,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Quite a connoisseur!’
I asked him if he could sign a valuation certificate. He agreed, but added that our English customs are very strange. ‘You are so strict about a little gift. And yet your electronics company pays our Finance Minister a million dollars for his co-operation in securing this contract. Is that not strange?’
Of course, I was utterly horrified. I said that I hoped he didn’t mean what I thought he meant.
He smiled from ear to ear. ‘Of course. I work for the Finance Ministry. I got my share of the money.’
‘For what?’
‘For keeping my mouth shut!’
It seemed to me that someone would be asking for that money back from him any time now. But excusing myself as quickly as I decently could, I made my way hurriedly through the crowd, looking for Sir Humphrey. Not easy as he was still dressed up like one of the natives.
I found Sir Humphrey talking to the Minister, of all people. Rather clumsily, I asked if I could have a word with Sir Humphrey in private. Hacker told me that I could speak freely. Momentarily nonplussed, because of the enormity of the information that I was about to reveal to Sir Humphrey, I came up with a foolproof way of removing Hacker from the room for a couple of minutes.
‘Minister,’ I said, ‘you’re wanted in the Communications Room. The VAT man.’ He looked blank. ‘About your ’69 returns.’ He must have had a great deal too much already for he just stared at me as if I was mad, until I was forced to say, ‘Vat 69’.
‘Ah. Ah. Yes,’ he said, turned gleefully, bumped into a hovering prince, and spilt what was left of his previous drink.
‘Bernard,’ Sir Humphrey took me by the arm and led me quickly to one side. ‘I’m beginning to think that the Minister’s had almost as many urgent messages as he can take.’
I was glad he’d led me to a quiet corner. I immediately blurted out that I had just found out the most terrible thing: that the contract was obtained by bribery.
Sir Humphrey, to my intense surprise, was completely unconcerned. Not only that, he
I was pretty sure that the Minister didn’t know. I suggested telling him.
‘Certainly not,’ Sir Humphrey admonished me.
‘But if everybody knows…’
‘Everybody else,’ he said firmly. ‘You do not necessarily let Ministers know what everybody else knows.’
At the crucial moment in the discussion two people converged upon us. From our right, His Royal Highness, Prince Feisal. And from our left, the Minister, looking distinctly the worse for wear.
‘Ah, Lawrence of Arabia,’ cried Hacker as he lurched towards Sir Humphrey. ‘There’s a message for you in the communications room.’
‘Oh?’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘who is it this time?’
‘Napoleon,’ announced the Minister, giggled, then fell to the floor.
[
Back in England, and back at the office. Feel rather jet-lagged. I often wonder if we statesmen really are capable of making the wisest decisions for our countries in the immediate aftermath of foreign travel.
