The Queen's Envoy (The Barsetshire Diaries) Read online

  “How can I help you, Mr. Threadneedle?” I asked.

  “Actually it's Sir Bertram”, he said, “and I'm here on behalf of Her Majesty's Government. I don't know if you're aware that your cousin, Lord Roberts of Bouldnor, did, on occasion, do some small errands on behalf of Her Majesty in a diplomatic fashion where the government could not act directly. He was sort of a roving diplomat”.

  “I was not aware of this, but pray continue”, I said.

  “There was a delicate task your late cousin had agreed to help with that we hope you might undertake for us as his successor”.

  “Of course”, I replied, “if there's a way in which I might help, please don't hesitate to tell me”.

  “Marvellous”, he responded. “Then if your passport is up to date I shall have a case file and some travel documents sent over”.

  Passport? Travel documents? What did he mean? Leaving me a little dazed, Sir Bertram got up, shook my hand and left. I was on the doorstep watching him get into a chauffeured Rolls Royce before I came out of the daze, too late to ask questions.

  When Julia returned later I tried to explain what had happened, but as laconic as ever, all I got from her was, “You have your duty David, I'm sure you'll do it well”.

  Wednesday, Jan 23, 1991

  The Wad of Money

  Later in the morning the Rolls Royce returned with a file of photographs and documents plus an itinerary and tickets for travel. They even included a wad of money in English pounds and Beritana dinars. The photographs confirmed that Beritana was my destination and showed me pictures of a palace and of various people there. I viewed them all and then tested myself on them. Quite good really, I remembered one name in three and even attached it to the right person sometimes.

  The documents told me that there had been a new oil find there and the UK was anxious to own it. It would have been my late cousin’s job to persuade the sultan to let us buy it. It seemed my late cousin was quite important and I was a little flummoxed that they'd asked me to take his place. I read that Sultan Ibrahim had a British wife and a young daughter and that he had been educated in England. That was handy as I didn’t speak Arabic.

  Lady J came back from the stables and we decided to eat out at Cass E Dees, a local cafe. I know we ate, but the problem on my mind of how to succeed in this mission made me forget what. I do remember at some stage Lady J saying, “Don’t be so silly David, of course you can do it”, before the subject was officially dropped.

  At home again a little later, Sir Bertram arrived and I was fully expecting him to apologise and say that there had been a mistake and that a more suitable candidate had been found. Instead he was short, sharp and to the point.

  “You leave on Friday, My Lord. Good luck in your endeavours which I leave entirely in your hands”, he said, leaving me stunned and speechless.

  After he had left I set Julia and Ysabel the task of sorting me out a suitcase and packing the right clothes. I asked them to let me know if I needed anything. I just sat there in shock.

  Friday, January 25, 1991

  The Oil Treaty

  Lady J dropped me at the airport at 7.45 am. All would have been OK if I hadn't noticed that I'd forgotten my passport. I phoned home and asked Ysabel to call a taxi and have it delivered to me as quickly as possible. I didn’t want her to lie to Julia but I did hope that she’d forget to mention it to her, or that Julia herself suffered amnesia before I got back.

  Anyway, the taxi arrived complete with passport with half an hour to spare. Then, because I'd explained the problem to the cabin crew, they'd agreed to bend the rules for me, Lord David. But, I hadn't had time to change my passport and was expecting to be summarily ejected. Luckily for me Ysabel had placed the solicitor’s letter inside so that I could verify that I was who I’d said.

  I settled into my seat and awaited take-off. I was still very nervous about the whole journey and the thought of letting my country down. The stewardess didn't make me feel any better when she started waving her arms like a windmill and talking about emergency chutes, and worse still, sick-bags. I asked for a drink.

  The journey to Saudi took forever. This was mainly due to the fact that I was sitting next to a sweet old lady (from hell) who insisted I share her joy by showing me photographs of her grandchildren. Every pocket in her coat and her hand luggage was full of pictures. I was able to follow each child from meal to meal, from going to bed to getting up, from school gate going in to school gate coming out again. The pictures alone must have covered her entire baggage allowance. I knew the children's ages, shoe sizes and favourite meals.

  After what seemed like two years the plane finally landed and I was able to say goodbye to grandma. I disembarked, entered the airport terminal and found my suitcase on the carousel. I walked over to the customs desk.

  “You bring alcohol?” asked the officer.

  “No”, I replied.

  “You have dirty pictures?” he asked.

  “No”, I replied.

  “You go”, he said looking sad. I felt almost guilty at disappointing him.

  Out on the concourse I looked for the person who’d been despatched to meet me. I saw people carrying signs for 'Herren Baumfart und Schwartz', 'Ivana Gohome', ‘Lord Daud', 'Smith and Jones'... just a minute, Lord Daud? Could that be me?

  I approached the chap holding the sign and expecting the same lack of English I'd experienced with customs officers and their learned lines, said, “Me Daud. Go Beritana yes?”

  “Ah wonderful”, came the response. “Allow me to introduce myself old chap. Mustapha Phag at your service. I'm the sultan's factotum and will drive you to Beritana and the palace”.

  Dumbfounded and not a little embarrassed I offered my hand.

  “Delighted to meet you”, I stuttered.

  He escorted me to a vintage Rolls Royce and our journey started.

  “There will be only one other guest”, he told me. “He’s a Russian envoy called Mikhail Gottakov. Pleasant chappie”.

  Mustapha pointed out various sites on our three hour drive to the border; they were few and far between as it was mostly deserted. To be honest, most of the sites he pointed out seemed to me to be desert as well.

  At the border the car was waved through, and after that it was less than an hour to Beritana's capital, Beritana City, and to the palace.

  The palace itself was a magnificent edifice standing on a small hill at the centre of the city, with all other buildings radiating out from it. Built of what looked like pink blocks of stone, it was lit up by floodlights from below and seemed to shine. If it was intended to impress it did its job.

  Servants dashed to the car as we drew up. They seemed to squabble over my single suitcase. I was shown to my rooms by Mustapha who informed me he'd see me later at dinner which would be at eight and would be very informal. As it was by then almost six o'clock I decided to relax on the bed for a while. I must have dozed off because the next thing I knew there was a man shaking me and asking if I wished to shower before dinner. I did so and was escorted downstairs to eat wearing an informal cream linen suit which appeared to have been freshly ironed.

  Sultan Ibrahim himself greeted me in what I assumed was the dining room.

  “Come in, old chap, and make yourself comfortable”, he said, indicating a variety of cushions at floor level by very low tables.

  “Thank you, Your Highness”, I replied.

  “No, no dear Bouldnor”, he said, “call me Ibrahim, and allow me to present my wife Jenny”. He indicated towards a slim, pretty, blonde woman of about his age, which I remembered reading was thirty.

  “Enchanted, Your Highn..er Jenny”, I said.

  “I’m pleased to meet you too, Lord David”, she said. “So nice to meet someone from home”.

  Although amongst all the Etonian accents I'd been hearing, I was surprised she ever got the chance to miss England at all.

  Over dinner, which was lamb with rice, I was also introduced to Gottakov, saw Mustapha again and
met a few of the sultan’s dignitaries. Gottakov was a short man who had adopted the wearing of a pince-nez, and while pleasant to speak to, did appear to be a rather picky and pedantic man.

  After the meal everyone chatted generally. It really was a very informal affair. Ibrahim asked Gottakov and me if we had considered wearing the typical Bedouin robes for comfort in the heat, to which I replied that had I been able to avail myself of some in the UK, then I should have been delighted to adopt this method of attire during my trip. Gottakov said he preferred his suits.

  Soon afterwards we all retired for the night, Ibrahim saying he would see us tomorrow.

  Saturday, January 26, 1991

  Russian Face Off

  I woke quite early this morning. After stepping into the shower I heard someone enter my room. I washed quickly and stepped out to find Mustapha sitting on my bed.

  “Morning old man”, he said. “Ibrahim sends you his greetings and a gift. Some Bedouin robes for you to try”.

  “I'm overwhelmed at His Highness’s kindness”, I replied. “I'll be happy to try them if you can give me a moment to dress”.

  “His Highness hopes you will join him on the battlements before breaking your fast, David”, he said. I dressed quickly, finding the robes most comfortable, and then Mustapha led the way to the battlements.

  “Ibrahim is hawking”, he told me.

  “Oh dear, I do hope he's not ill”, I replied, misunderstanding.

  Mustapha seemed to find this hilarious. “No, no old chap, I mean he's flying his hawk”. And indeed he was. It was a magnificent bird. I saw it swooping in the air as I approached and then return to its master's gloved hand.

  “Good morning Daud”, said Ibrahim, adopting the Arabic equivalent of my name. “A most beautiful day don't you think?”

  I agreed and told Ibrahim how much I admired his skill with the hawk.

  “It's a marsh harrier”, he told me, “and coming along nicely in training”. He called to an elderly man to come and take the bird. The man came and transferred the bird to his own hand, and gripping the jess tightly, put a hood on the bird and then took it back to the mews where it was kept.

  “Come”, said Ibrahim, “lets breakfast together”. Mustapha and I followed him in.

  This morning the table was laden with fruit. With just the three of us there, Ibrahim asked me what I thought of his country. I told him that what I had seen of it looked wonderful. He told me that he wanted to do great things with his people and intended to start with education. I said I thought that was the way forward for all people.

  At that moment Gottakov came in and wished us all good morning. He sat and joined us as we wished him the best of the day.

  No sooner had he started to eat than a young child, probably about four years of age, came in. Without a word she rushed over to Gottakov and plumped herself in his lap. She plumped, he jumped.

  “Go away child”, he said. “Have you no manners?” I saw a smile play about Ibrahim's lips as the child got up from where Gottakov had unceremoniously dumped her when he jumped. (I hope you appreciate my poetry here, plumped, jumped and dumped).

  She looked at him with disdain and then turning in my direction launched herself into my lap. With a bit of a wriggle she made herself comfy and picked up a few grapes from the table. She dropped one in her mouth and then selecting another from the bunch dropped one in mine too.

  “Why thank you little one”, I said. “And what's your name?”

  “I'm Suki”, she replied, and then repeated her formula with the grapes, one each.

  I stroked Suki's head unconsciously. She was a pretty little girl and obviously very lively. She was obviously well liked as neither Ibrahim nor Mustapha had berated her for coming in.

  “I'm four”, said Suki. “How old are you?”

  “Suki”, said Ibrahim, “that's a rude question to ask”.

  “I don't mind, Your Highness”, I told him, and then to Suki, “I'm for.....ty”.

  “That's old”, she said and I couldn't help but burst out laughing.

  “Lord Daud”, said Ibrahim, “I’m afraid my daughter can be a little forward at times. Please forgive her rudeness”.

  “Your Highness”, I told him, “my own daughter was such a delight as this at the same age. There's nothing to forgive”.

  As breakfast ended Suki took my hand and asked if I'd like to meet her pony. I answered that I'd be delighted if her Daddy didn't need me. The Sultan who obviously indulged his wonderful daughter gave his permission and told her not to keep me too long as he needed to talk with me later.

  With giggles she led me away and I spent a delightful hour being shown round the Royal Stables and meeting her horse Nightshade. She was an adorable child. After the tour she took me by the hand again and led me indoors. All the servants smiled as they saw her. Jenny appeared and with a pretend scowl said she'd been looking for Suki for ages. “Such a terrible, wilful child”, she said with a smile.

  I made my way back to the dining hall where I found Mustapha.

  “Would you like to go to the throne room?” he asked. “You can see His Highness dispense his justice and his wisdom”.

  We watched Ibrahim all morning and he treated all who came before him with seriousness and fairness. He dispensed justice like a modern Solomon and no one complained at all.

  In the afternoon Mustapha showed me the city and some Roman aqueducts that carried the water for the city from some distant hills. We returned to the palace at about six o’clock where I was greeted by Suki rushing up and asking me to come to dinner. Following her lead I came to the dining room where I found her father and mother waiting.

  “Ha”, said Ibrahim, “she brings a friend hoping for support when she refuses to eat her vegetables”. Jenny and he burst into laughter.

  I sat with Suki and watched as she manipulated food onto a fork. She managed to get it to her mouth and eat it. The next forkful also contained what looked like some carrots and she offered it to me.

  “No thank you sweetie, I can already see in the dark”, I told her.

  Puzzled, she asked why, and I said it was because I ate my vegetables.

  She ate the forkful herself.

  “Can we put the lights out, Daddy, to see if it works?” she asked.

  We were all laughing as I explained that it took more than one mouthful to accomplish it.

  She ate the rest of her meal without complaint though I was offered the occasional forkful out of kindness, I think.

  After the meal we all wished her goodnight and left her with her servant who would take her to bed. We then settled down to our own meal, at which point I noticed that Gottakov was missing. I enquired of Mustapha where Gottakov was and he told me that now a decision regarding the oil was made, Gottakov had left for Russia. I was very surprised as nothing had been said. I was also disappointed as it was obvious my mission had failed.

  The meal went well and I made every effort to chat despite my feelings. Afterwards I said I would return home on the following day and wished everyone a goodnight. I went to my room to complete my diary before going to sleep.

  Sunday, January 27, 1991

  The Threat of the Latex Glove

  The airport in Saudi was very helpful in finding me a flight when I phoned. I rang Julia and asked her to meet my plane and went down to breakfast.

  This morning Ibrahim was missing. Mustapha told me he had been called away urgently and I knew that it was really so that he didn't have to speak to me. After breakfast Jenny and Suki came to say goodbye to me and Mustapha brought the Rolls Royce round to take me to the airport.

  During the ride back to Saudi, Mustapha chatted and asked if I'd enjoyed my trip. I thanked him and said I'd enjoyed it very much, although I regretted not having been able to talk to Ibrahim. He ignored this opportunity to explain why the decision over the oil had been made without me having had the chance to put my case.

  When we reached the airport Mustapha offered me his hand. I shook it
gladly as I had found him a pleasant companion. Inside the airport I bought myself some cigarettes to hide from Julia, some perfume for Julia and some nail varnish for Ysabel.

  The plane was on time and the journey was nice and easy. Not a doting grandmother in sight. At home I collected my case and headed for the 'Nothing to Declare' line. A grim looking officer beckoned me over and asked if I had anything to declare. I answered in the negative and forbore asking him why he thought I'd chosen that line.

  “No cigarettes?” he asked.

  “Two hundred only”, I replied.

  “No alcohol?”

  “None”, I said.

  “Gifts?” he asked.

  “Just some perfume and nail varnish”, I replied. I thought that would be it but he asked me to open my case. Of course this was just the action to make me start feeling worried and I knew I had started to sweat. I was nervous as I opened the case for him even though I knew I'd done nothing wrong. The more he looked through the case the more nervous I became in case someone had planted something there. He noticed my nervousness and said he was just going to speak to someone.

  He returned moments later with another officer who was cheerfully donning a pair of latex gloves. I was beginning to fear the worst when I heard him say “Thank you, My Lord, you're clear to go”.