Chapter 12

CHAPTER 12

O NE THING THE G OVERNOR OF ‘Ulaysha Prison hadn't taken into consideration after he'd moved Simon Hartley into his new cell was that he had built his career on reading people – and Sean O'Driscoll made a particularly interesting case study, uneducated but no fool, and in different circumstances …

After three weeks in solitary, Simon accepted that he needed Sean to be on his side if he had any chance of beating the system, let alone the Governor who held most of the cards in his hand.

It had taken Simon twenty-four hours to work out O'Driscoll's strengths. He was amoral, ruthless and, as he had less than a couple of months to live, feared nobody. It took Simon a little longer to identify his one weakness: Sean had a wife and three children back in the Emerald Isle. His oldest son, Patrick, had written to tell his father he wanted to be a teacher, but his mother couldn't afford to send him to Trinity College, Dublin, on a cleaner's salary while she had two other children to support, however many hours she was willing to work.

By the end of their second week together, Simon had convinced his ‘new best friend' that providence had thrown the two of them together. Providence consisted of Simon writing a letter to an old Harvard friend, now a professor at Trinity, to see if there was any way he could help young Patrick.

‘What do you want in return?' Sean asked after Simon's old friend wrote back confirming a place had been found for his son at Trinity.

‘Help to get me out of here,' said Simon, without guile.

‘There's only one way out of this shithole,' said Sean, accompanied by several expletives, ‘and that's in a coffin. I know, because that's the way I'll be leaving in twenty-three days' time after the bastards have hanged me in the market square, but at least then you'll have the cell to yourself.'

Sean had just given him the one piece of information he needed to plan his escape, but he still needed Sean's help.

Whenever one of the guards slid open the little shutter in the door to check up on the two prisoners, they were surprised to find them chatting away as if they were old friends – an observation they reported to the Governor, who wasn't pleased by the news.

After another fortnight, the Governor had no choice but to grant prisoner A6175 a second meeting with the British Ambassador. He couldn't hold up Sir Bernard Anscombe's persistent demands indefinitely, however much Khalil paid him.

By the time the meeting took place, Simon was well prepared, as he realized he wouldn't have a moment to waste.

He was accompanied from his cell by two officers who took him to a room at the other end of the prison that bore no resemblance to the life Simon led a block away. Neither man was fooled.

The first thing the Ambassador noticed when his countryman entered the dimly lit room was that, although Hartley's beard had grown, it was neatly trimmed. At first, Sir Bernard was relieved to find that Simon appeared to be surviving, despite the telltale signs of lack of sleep not helped by a prison diet. The poor man looked exhausted.

‘I have spoken to your mother and your wife,' he said, even before he'd sat down, recalling that their last meeting had been cut short without warning.

‘How are my family bearing up?' asked Simon.

‘As well as can be expected given the circumstances,' Sir Bernard replied, ‘but neither of them could disguise how anxious they are about your present situation. However, I think I was able to convince them both that it will only be a matter of time before you are released. The good news is that, with the Defence Minister's plan to visit London and Paris going ahead the week after next, the authorities are expecting you to be deported within days of the arms deal being signed.'

Simon wasn't convinced, but didn't offer an opinion.

‘I suspect the Chief of Police hasn't yet decided which horse to back,' continued the Ambassador, ‘as he knows only too well that Prince Ahmed is the guilty party.'

‘But while he's receiving handouts from Khalil …' began Simon.

‘That will all change when the King gets to hear what his young nephew has been up to.'

‘But who will have the courage to tell the King?' asked Simon.

After a diplomatic silence, the Ambassador said, ‘That's a question I'm not at liberty to answer.'

Simon recognized the uncommunicative expression on the diplomat's face and accepted it was pointless to press him.

‘But, in return,' said the Ambassador, ‘you'll be expected to remain silent about Prince Ahmed's involvement in Conti's death.'

‘And if I don't agree?'

‘I'll have to retire and you'll be found guilty of Conti's murder and hanged by the neck until you're dead. But,' the Ambassador assured Simon, ‘I will attend the ceremony on the government's behalf, before reporting back to my masters.' He paused. ‘That's what we in the Foreign Office call gallows humour.'

Simon managed a laugh. ‘And Avril Dubois, will she also be safe once the arms deal has been signed?'

‘Yes, but not before, and the police are still protecting her night and day.' He paused, ‘On a personal note,' commented the Ambassador, ‘you look a little better than you did when I last saw you.'

‘Only thanks to my cellmate,' said Simon, ‘who gets double rations and more time out of his cell than any other prisoner.'

‘How come?'

‘His days are numbered, so no one wants to cross him, including the Governor.'

‘But doesn't that put you at risk?' asked Sir Bernard, sounding anxious. ‘After all, he has nothing to lose.'

‘I can assure you, Ambassador, my life will be in far more danger after he's executed, when I'll be joined by another murderer, who I suspect this time won't speak English.'

Before Simon could say anything more, a guard entered the room grabbed him by the arm and said, ‘Time's up!'

‘Then let's hope you'll be back in England before then,' said the Ambassador, as his countryman was dragged out of the room.

‘Let's hope so,' said Simon, ‘as my cellmate only has a few more weeks to live.'

···

‘Order, order!' declared the Speaker. ‘Questions to the Foreign Secretary. Question number one, Mr Peter Bottomley.'

The member for Bucklebury rose from the opposition back benches and said, ‘Thank you, Madam Speaker. May I ask the Foreign Secretary if any progress has been made on securing the release of my constituent, Mr Simon Hartley, who remains incarcerated in a Saudi Arabian jail?'

The Rt Hon. Robin Cook MP rose from his place on the government's front bench, placed a thick file on the dispatch box, opened it and began to read an answer that had been prepared for him by Mr Trevelyan.

‘I can tell the Honourable Member that I have been in touch with my opposite number in Riyadh, and he assures me due process is being carried out, while further investigations take place.'

‘Playing for time!' shouted a Tory backbencher.

‘Flimflam!' offered another, before Mr Bottomley rose again to ask his supplementary question.

‘The Foreign Secretary's reply, Madam Speaker, can hardly be described as encouraging, remembering how long my constituent has been languishing in prison, and that he still hasn't appeared in court to enter a plea to the charge made against him. And should the Foreign Secretary be interested to know what that plea might be, I can tell him, it's Not Guilty!'

Hear, hear! echoed around the chamber, and Robin Cook looked uneasy as he glanced down at his brief.

‘I would like to know, Madam Speaker, why we will be entertaining diplomats from the Saudi Arabian government in ten days' time as honoured guests, when one of our countrymen continues to be falsely imprisoned on that government's authority. Is it just possible, Madam Speaker,' continued Bottomley before the Foreign Secretary could reply, ‘that the government is more interested in securing a lucrative arms deal than in pressing for the release of an innocent man?'

‘Shame!' came from several members on the government benches, but Bottomley ploughed on. ‘And if that is the case, Madam Speaker, I am bound to ask if this is just another example of how much his much vaunted "ethical foreign policy" seems to have evaporated into thin air within days of the Right Honourable Gentleman taking office.'

Hear, hear! came from all sections of the House when Mr Bottomley sat down. The Foreign Secretary resumed his place at the dispatch box. This time Mr Cook left the thick file unopened and pronounced, ‘I sympathize with the Honourable Gentleman …'

‘A fat lot of good that will do,' came back a cry from someone on the opposition benches, which was greeted with even louder cries of, ‘Hear, hear!' and not just from his own side.

‘Let me assure the Honourable Member,' continued Cook once the House had settled, ‘that my department is doing everything in its power to speed up the process, and I will of course keep the Honourable Member informed of any progress.'

‘Don't hold your breath,' shouted another backbencher as the leader of the opposition rose from his place on the front bench and placed his hands on the dispatch box.

‘Mr William Hague,' said the Speaker.

‘Madam Speaker, I'm bound to ask if we now live in a country where our opinions carry no weight beyond our own shores, as it's clear my Honourable Friend's constituent is being denied legal rights that by any standards are taken for granted in a law-abiding country. Perhaps the time has come for the Foreign Secretary to call for the Saudi Ambassador and explain to him the meaning of the words "habeas corpus".'

The Foreign Secretary returned to the dispatch box, drowned out by ‘Hear, hear' now emanating from all sides of the House. Had he looked up at the press gallery, Cook would have seen pens furiously scratching across paper as journalists began to realize this was a story that could run and run.

‘I can assure the Right Honourable Gentleman,' began Cook, ‘that Her Majesty's government has made our position abundantly clear when it comes to their treatment of Mr Hartley. But following these exchanges on the floor of the House, I have no doubt the Saudi Arabian Ambassador will have been made well aware of our colleagues' strong feelings on the subject.' Robin Cook looked up to see the Saudi Ambassador peering down at him from the Distinguished Strangers' Gallery, not that he showed any sign of remorse.

The Foreign Secretary sat down, clearly embarrassed, and was relieved when the Speaker moved on. ‘Question number two,' she declared, ‘Mr Jack Ashley.'

Mr Trevelyan, who was seated on the benches behind the Speaker's Chair, reserved for civil servants representing the minister taking questions, was penning a note for his master to let him know that Lady Hartley had been present for the exchange and was now leaving the Strangers' Gallery.

···

When Lady Hartley arrived back in Bucklebury, dejected and weary, the first thing she did was take a card from her purse and dial the phone number below the name.

‘I'm sorry to bother you, Mr Booth Watson,' she said, once she'd been put through, ‘but there still seems to be no sign of my son being released,' she tried to remain calm, ‘while the bills continue to come in.'

‘I'm sorry to hear that,' said Booth Watson, who was absolutely delighted.

‘So, I've made up my mind,' she announced. She took a deep breath, before she added, ‘Please tell your client that I am ready to sell my Constable, and if he wishes to visit my home and consider any of the other watercolours left to me by my late husband, it can't be soon enough.'

‘I'll get in touch with my client immediately.'

Booth Watson was as good as his word, because no sooner had he put down the phone than he picked it back up and dialled Miles's number.

···

They agreed to meet outside the Cabinet War Rooms at two o'clock. Booth Watson arrived a few minutes before Big Ben chimed twice. Miles came strolling down Birdcage Walk some fifteen minutes later.

The two men began a routine they had regularly carried out over the years when they didn't want to be overheard, except by squirrels, ducks and the occasional pigeon. They crossed the road, entered St James's Park and continued to walk beside the lake, passing tourists, who rarely spoke English.

‘So what was so urgent it couldn't wait?' said Miles.

‘A call from an elderly widow who has bills to pay and, while her son is locked up in prison, has no immediate source of income so is unable to do so. However, she has inherited a Constable.'

‘Half the art world will also be aware if that's the case,' said Miles, ‘including Sotheby's and Christie's.'

‘Possibly,' said Booth Watson, ‘but then again, possibly not.'

Miles walked for a few more yards before he said, ‘I'm still listening.'

‘The Constable is nothing more than a sprat,' said Booth Watson.

‘So what's the mackerel?' asked Miles.

‘A unique example of the Declaration of Independence, known as the Fair Copy, the value of which she might not be aware.'

‘Why should that be of any interest to me?' asked Miles, as a duck waddled up to him and opened its mouth, but was not rewarded. Miles didn't deal in breadcrumbs, the only currency acceptable among the residents of St James's Park.

‘A printed copy of the Declaration, published in Philadelphia by Benjamin Franklin around the same time, of which there are several still in circulation, recently fetched over a million dollars at auction,' said Booth Watson, ‘and although I only saw this particular version for a few moments, I can assure you it was not a printed copy, but handwritten.'

‘By whom?' asked Miles.

‘None other than Thomas Jefferson.'

Miles stopped in his tracks. ‘How can that be possible?' he said.

‘It seems that Jefferson often visited London around that time. He was a friend of an MP called David Hartley, which would explain why it's still in the family.'

‘Then you can be sure one of the family will be well aware of its value.'

‘Possibly, but what I can tell you is that Lady Hartley only mentioned the Constable as being of any real value,' said Booth Watson, which caused Miles to stop once again.

‘So the Right Honourable Lord Hartley, the former Home Secretary, has to be the deceased, and no doubt you discovered this after one of your funeral visits.'

Booth Watson ignored the slight and simply said, ‘While the cat's away.'

‘The cat being Simon Hartley,' said Miles, ‘Lord Hartley's only son, who is locked up in a Saudi jail for a crime he didn't commit.'

‘How can you possibly know he's innocent?'

‘If you were to read the Financial Times and Private Eye instead of the Daily Telegraph, BW, you'd be far better informed. For weeks the papers have been full of speculation as to who the real culprit is – a young Saudi Prince seems the leading candidate. However, as the Saudi delegation is about to land on our shores, I suspect it won't be too long before Simon Hartley is released, and I suspect that may mean his mother will no longer need to sell the Constable or Jefferson's Declaration.'

‘You're right in theory,' said Booth Watson. ‘But as the dear lady approached me and not her family solicitor to solve the problem, we're still in with a chance. Her Ladyship also made it clear when I last spoke to her that she would be happy for you to visit Hartley Hall so you could view the Constable at your earliest convenience.'

‘Whereas what we really want to get our hands on is the Fair Copy of the Declaration,' said Miles.

Neither man spoke for some time as they continued to stroll along the narrow path that circled the lake and made their way back towards the War Rooms.

‘Make it Tuesday or Wednesday of next week,' said Miles, ‘so we don't look as if we're in a hurry, and that will still be a few days before the Saudis turn up.'

‘I'll call Lady Hartley this afternoon and fix a time,' said Booth Watson, as Miles stopped to stare at the recently constructed London Eye that dominated the landscape, before turning back to look at Buckingham Palace.

‘I can't believe,' said Miles, ‘that Her Majesty ever thought she'd be confronted with something quite that vulgar whenever she looked out of her bedroom window.'

A swan raised its imperious head, as if in agreement.