The Ambassador (27 page)

Lisa had always felt more secure than the average person, knowing that the genetic programme was run in government laboratories by civil servants like herself. That decision had been made half a century before, in rebuttal of the previous trend, which had allocated most activity to private corporations. Like health, embryology was regarded in Europe
prima facie
as a public service. Access should be as wide as possible, and not denied because of
inadequate wealth. The state gained if cleansing and enhancement, and the concomitant educational incentives, were open to all.

Private business would be too commercial, it had been successfully argued. There would inevitably be a ‘dumbing-down’, in the jargon of those decades. The finest enhancements would be on offer to the highest bidder. Look what had happened to broadcasting, to publishing. If the public good were to be paramount – and how, with such a powerful weapon to alter future generations, could it be anything else? – then the government had not only to regulate but to operate it as well.

Lisa raised a hand and tentatively touched the writhing tendrils of the tree of life. To play with it was such a – a privilege; such an extraordinary responsibility. She had always felt overawed, honoured, to have been able to take on this work. It mattered so much for itself. Above all, it mattered that it was done well, and honestly.

That was the reasoning behind that detailed legislation which gave government such overweening controls. The European preference was for state action; the European Commission had led the way. Discussions and consultations had been swift and thorough, though long before she was born. Action had had to be taken speedily before the technology got into the wrong hands – the analogy had been drawn with nuclear weaponry back in the days of the Cold War. The early, years of embryo science offered another helpful model: if access were easy, it had been shrewdly argued, there would be no need for families to resort to underground or unlicensed facilities. Risk could be contained. And scientists’ wilder imaginings could be channelled and monitored, it was believed, by comprehensive, even fierce, directives, not by waiting until a disaster occurred and then trying to pick up the pieces.

The disaster had happened, with the mid-twenties explosions. After that, the bishops went silent. The programme had advanced and become a proud part of European life. The relative decline of the USA could, at least partly, be put down to their unwillingness to embrace the latest technology; it was as if, in a previous age, they had refused on religious grounds to make use of computers.

But the powers? Lisa dug her hands deep into her pockets. Down the corridor a camera was trained on her; it would learn nothing from her body language. What had gone wrong?

She sighed. One element was obvious; and all the efforts to foresee it, and to counteract it, were bound to fail. People would get round the system. The human ingenuity that had toiled over the new science was not averse to hijacking it for quirky or private tastes. Silly things to which she had turned a blind eye, as if they were harmless, were commonplace. Genetic manipulation could be employed to avoid the consequences of
over-indulgence
– heart disease or obesity. Toy breeds of dog led to toy breeds of
homo sapiens
. The idea was hideous to her, but undeniably attractive to a large part of the population. And, of course, it was done. Under licence. By men and women she had trained herself, and who had been lured away from the public service by fat salaries and facilities in palm-fringed locations.

Something else dug at her. It wasn’t simply the fickleness of human aspirations. The controls were there; the licences could have been denied. Except that politicians, elected by those same voters, would have forced the issue.

And what if …? She found herself holding her breath and let it out with almost a sob. What if the guardians became just as irresponsible? If the controls were in the hands of those who had different motives? Or whose
motives
remained impeccable, who still saw themselves as charged with maintaining the public good – but who began to see it differently?

If that were the case, then where could she turn?

In her pocket her fingers closed on a piece of paper. For distraction she took it out. It was Strether’s vidphone number given to her on his first visit, long ago committed to memory. What she had learned since, about the programme and the man – and herself – made that original contact seem as though it had occurred in another millennium. Common sense warned that her vidphone might be monitored. In any case she would see him shortly if she took up the invitation to join him for lunch with Prince Marius in Parliament. And the Prince himself – if he could be persuaded to take an interest…

She started to walk away. The wall-mounted camera picked up her motion and swivelled to follow, its black eye incurious and efficient. Perhaps all her actions were now under surveillance. Perhaps everyone’s were. In which case the fact that the gate cameras had been off suggested human intervention, not an accident. Or that the film had been erased. Somebody knew about that – that
shipment
. Somebody who did not want it made public.

Lisa stared up at the camera, a new malevolence welling in her heart. She raised her right hand and formed the index and middle finger into a V shape, much as she had seen done in old films, and gestured at the lens. Then she strode on.

Bill Strether shaded his eyes and squinted back, forth and up at the pale yellow masonry that soared vertically above his head, its gilded towers and gargoyled turrets yellow in the morning sun. To his left Big Ben pounded out ten o’clock. He whistled softly. ‘Well,’ he mused, ‘it sure beats the J. C. Penney building in New York.’

To their left brooded the black statue of Cromwell, ‘our chief of men’, who had once led Parliament to victory over a recalcitrant king. Some had protested that, in these days of monarchy, the statue should be discarded but in the end the dying embers of republicanism had been appeased. To the right pranced the oversized equestrian portrayal of King Richard the Lionheart, who had lived in France, mostly, and had spoken no English. Other than to glorify royalty
per se
, it had never been clear why this commemoration, of dubious artistic value, was given prominence. But it was popular with tourists, though many asked where to find the matching tribute to Robin Hood.

‘The Palace is breathtaking,’ Marius agreed. ‘Wordsworth wrote, “
Earth has not anything to show more fair;/Dull would he be of soul who could pass by/A sight so touching in its majesty
.” Actually, that was two palaces ago, and for balance I should mention that Dickens called it “the Great Dust Heap”.’

Strether took his bearings. Opposite was the Bank of England, resplendent in fluted columns and architraves. Westminster Abbey had been moved several blocks nearer the shopping quarter; St Margaret’s in its shadow was now bijou boutiques. Parliament Square, an oasis of palm trees, fountains and frangipani, was entirely a pedestrian precinct. The copper dome of the New British Library, built to replace an earlier version that had developed brick cancer and collapsed in a heap of dust, peeked around the far corner.

‘There was no choice about moving once the Thames barrier failed,’ Marius explained. ‘Guy Fawkes’s cellars were awash with dirty water, the Commons rifle club and the crèche in the basement had been abandoned and the stink in summer was horrendous. Or so I’ve been told.’

He walked with Strether up the broad white steps from St Stephen’s entrance, handed over his swipe card, planted his palm on the DNA tester, waited for the all-clear and paused while the Ambassador also cleared security. ‘With that experience you’d have thought the MPs would have preferred dry land, but no. The bulk of the Union grant wasn’t spent on relocating the Palace of Westminster itself, block by block, but on creating the artificial lake on the far side so that the Members’ Terrace would overlook water. Mad, I call it.’

Strether chuckled. He wiped his palm on his trousers. The DNA machinery was so heavily used that the surface was sticky. ‘But it’d have been a tragedy to let this place sink beneath the waves,’ he remarked.

‘Sure. And it could be improved on. Barry’s masterpiece had no electricity, no elevators or escalators, and only the most rudimentary air-conditioning. This building’s four storeys taller, though you can’t tell. Everyone’s on the same site, with staff and library in six floors underground and the MPs on the top floors. They love it – wonderful views. Of course, the cut in the numbers of Honourable Members down to three hundred made for a lot more room – and they were better paid as a result – though the total’s crept up again since. And mostly women.’

‘Can’t have too much of a good thing,’ Strether responded judiciously.

‘Oh, you can. We in the Lords take the view that two hundred and fifty’s ample for a legislative assembly. Any more is sheer pomposity, and then they’re scrabbling around for something to do. The MPs can’t see that the
fewer
of them, the greater the prestige. They think it’s the other way round. Just about sums them up.’

The two were walking down the reconstituted St Stephen’s passage, past white marble statues of Walpole, Burke, Pitt, Thatcher, Mandelson and Hague in characteristic pose. Most of them wore or carried hats, though the reason behind Hague’s sporting headgear had been lost in history. A few more steps and they stood in the great octagonal cathedral of Central Lobby.

Marius straightened his midnight-blue tunic and pointed at vaulted arches lined with gilded Venetian mosaic. ‘Quaint, isn’t it? The old British constitution in stone. This way to the Lords, the other to the Commons. Up there St Andrew, St George, St David, St Patrick. It didn’t matter that by the date the building moved here, neither Scotland, Ireland nor Wales were under this Parliament’s jurisdiction. The sole concession to modernity is that each has a tiny symbol of the European Union added somewhere. See it? St Patrick’s got it under his shamrock, and St David has a blue leek. St Andrew was originally shown as a fisherman, but is now carrying a golf bag with gold stars on it. For St George, it’s the dragon at his feet breathing starry blue fire. An ultranationalist, the restorer, or so it’s alleged.’

Strether admired the view. ‘I shall get a crick in my neck if I gaze at it too long.’

Blue and pink-cloaked figures hurried past, papers and powerbooks under their arms. A mobile vidphone rang shrilly. Two police officers in navy tunics and Victorian-style helmets, boots and buttons polished, guarded a desk at which constituents sent in small green cards in the hope of enticing their MP from his office or the Chamber, Marius explained with a cheery cynicism that without an appointment most would ask in vain. ‘Legend has it that one wild-haired petitioner with an ancient grievance attended daily for twenty years. He used to sit, groaning to himself, on the same green leather bench over there.’

‘Poor man! Did he get what he wanted?’

‘Nobody knows. Late one night, when it seemed he had fallen asleep, he was shaken by a Serjeant. The body slumped slowly on to the tiled floor. The old man had died waiting.’ He pointed. A tiny brass plaque marked the spot.

The Prince consulted his watch. ‘The Commons debate has already started. It was opened by the opposition, so if we pop in now, we should hear the Prime Minister.’ The route took them out of the lobby to the north, towards the Commons chamber. He eyed his friend. ‘Did you say Dr Pasteur is joining us for lunch? If so, I’m delighted to hear it. I invited my mother. A grand old lady. I think you’ll get on very well.’

Strether remembered the previous time he had seen Princess Io, on the operating table, and wondered with a suppressed shiver how the grand old lady’s face would now look. ‘Lisa couldn’t manage time for the debate. She’s never been inside the chamber, though she’s been a professional witness upstairs to select committees.’

‘Well! She’s probably had more influence than most.’ It was the Prince’s turn to be diplomatic. A tall fair man in a braided cloak swung past and Marius bowed briefly. ‘You’re quite fond of her, aren’t you, Bill?’

‘I am, but I can’t figure her out exactly.’ Strether followed the Prince to the right, by a
war-damaged archway and past more forgotten heroes – Lloyd George, Churchill, Gladstone. Another statue, this time of the first British European President Anthony Blair in old age, bald and hook-nosed, smiled blankly back. Not an NT, that one. The toe had been rubbed shiny by the touch of superstitious visitors hoping that his outstanding qualities – and his talent at comebacks – might be contagious.

The two men stood before a small lift. Strether carried on: ‘She’s totally engrossed in the Porton Down genetic programme – it’s her
raison d’être
– but there’ve been some hitches with it lately, and it’s made her a bit short with me. Maybe she thinks I’m too stupid to understand. If so, she’d be right.’

‘Nonsense!’ The Prince smiled. The lift arrived and both stepped in. ‘Nobody’s smarter than you, my dear chap. But its employees are covered by the Official Secrets Acts so maybe she’s simply not allowed to talk. Especially about any – anxieties. It can be highly sensitive stuff, Strether. But I must say, you have taste.’

The Ambassador pursed his lips. Perhaps Lisa had told him too much already.

The two men found themselves on a narrow upper corridor, with the sound of a declamatory voice nearby. In a moment they emerged into the green-benched gallery above the opposition and were shown to seats.

Far below them Members lounged or listened attentively, on the government side in blue woollen or acrylic robes over their tunic suits, their opponents in pink or orange or green according to party. More senior Members, whom Strether took to be Ministers, bore two-toned stripes down the robe front with gold braid on the sleeves. The man to whom the Prince had bowed was apparently the Deputy Speaker. The gowns were a reversion to the sixteenth century when Sir Thomas More was Speaker, and had been introduced almost on a whim; the idea had been proposed after the interregnum, almost as a joke, to counteract attempts to abolish the wigs and court dress of the Speaker, Serjeant-at-Arms, Lord Chancellor and others. Instead the new garb had been an instant success. It gave Members, especially the ladies, an undoubted if unmerited dignity.

At the brass-bound dispatch box, the Mace displayed before him, a stocky figure was in full oratorical flow. He wore an embroidered black robe and chain of office but on him they sat sloppily and were flung about as he lunged across the table. Strether peered down and identified the Prime Minister, Sir Lyndon Everidge.

The Ambassador scrutinised him, as had become a habit. The solid, bullock-like body was not in the same physical mould as other important NTs; maybe seventy years before a variety of styles had been in vogue. Strether took in the rest of the echoing chamber. Sir Kobin Butler-Armstrong, the head of the civil service was also present, discreet and robeless in the officials’ row behind the Speaker’s Chair, almost hidden. Seated, and still, and watchful, with a half-smile playing on those thin, clever lips.

‘This year, for the third year running, armed forces estimates have been held at the same level in real terms!’ The Prime Minister was saying, apparently in answer to some taunt in the preceding speech. ‘It is nonsense to suggest that we are warmongering. Indeed, I may point out, since the Right Honourable the Leader of the Opposition doesn’t seem aware of it, we are spending a smaller proportion of the national income on defence than in any year under the previous administration …’

Beside Strether, Marius snorted. ‘But that was nineteen years ago. Bretherton, the
opposition leader, was still at school. There’ll come a day when such comparisons won’t wash any longer.’

The man to whom he had referred threw down his papers in a theatrical gesture, a disdainful expression on his refined features. A rangy, fair man, wrapped in his magenta robe, he seemed excessively youthful in comparison with the bald and sleek grey heads close by. To Strether young Bretherton had ‘NT’ – and ‘Énarque’ – written all over him; it was not worth inquiring.

‘Right Honourable – they still stick to the traditions?’ he asked.

‘Absolutely. The more decision-making shifted elsewhere, the more members became sticklers for tradition. In fact extra ceremonial was invented to bamboozle the reformers – so now they have stately processions in and out every day, and the Speaker enters to trumpets on the first Monday of each month. I don’t think His Majesty relishes the State Opening of Parliament each year, golden coach and all – his predecessors tried so hard to get rid of the palaver. But that’s what MPs want. Rather what you’d expect, if you think about it. Those who preferred to exercise power moved as it moved – they’re beavering away in Brussels and Frankfurt. The ones who stayed put are enslaved by pomp and circumstance.’

A hissed ‘Hush!’ came from behind. Marius continued his commentary in whispers. ‘Bretherton’s being groomed. Parliaments are an essential part of the set-up and, however incompetent the bulk of ordinary Members, the front benches have to be capable. He chose to be elected, though he comes from civil service stock – an ancestor was the official Board of Trade observer at the original Messina talks in 1955. D’you know the story?’

Strether shook his head. He loved Marius’s anecdotes and the stylish courtesy with which they were offered.

‘He was pulled out by the Eden government. Britain still clung to nostalgic dreams of empire; equality with a clutch of other nations did not appeal. He wrote to a French colleague,
“I leave Messina happy because even if you continue talking, you will not agree. Even if you agree, nothing will result. And even if anything results, it will be a disaster.”
Two years later the six signed the Treaty of Rome. The Union was born.’

Strether snickered. ‘Another world,’ he remarked. Marius nodded agreement.

Sir Lyndon had reached his peroration. His berobed arms flailed like black sails in an uncertain wind, his face grew puce, spittle sprayed into the ether. ‘I am
proud
of this government, proud to be at its head! We have
doubled
average incomes in the last ten years, kept inflation below
a
fraction
of one per cent a year, seen interest rates
fall
to their lowest levels for two decades. The average age of our population has at last stabilised at sixty, an achievement which has eluded all previous administrations. When the election comes we will face the voters with confidence! That is my challenge to the Right Honourable gentleman, and my answer to his empty, mindless gibes. No party could go to the country with more certainty of success, based on sound principles and sound finance. I rest my case.’

He sat down, breathing heavily, to cheers and the waving of order papers by supporters behind him. Marius spoke directly into Strether’s ear.

‘The opposition has exactly the same policies, of course. We Europeans gave up experimentation ages ago – the Commission’s directives don’t leave much scope, anyhow. The election will be fought, when it’s due, on personalities, whatever the contestants claim – whether Sir Lyndon is past it or not, whether it’s time for a change, whether Bretherton’s
convincingly ready. The Perm Sec will hover in the background to guarantee no backsliding, whoever wins. Their brains all function in precisely the same way, so there will be no surprises.’

Something acerbic in Marius’s tone made Strether pull away and look sharply at his friend, but the mocking air had swiftly descended and the Ambassador could not judge whether the Prince was serious or not.