Michael Curzon QC was an unusual choice for UK ambassador to Iraq. He was not a career diplomat but a barrister destined to sit in judgement at the High Court. Widely known for his intense intellectual skills – and extraordinary cynicism – he was also politically conservative. This made him an unlikely candidate for such a key position in the British government’s Iraqi operational equations. Nevertheless, he spoke fluent Arabic, got on well with senior civil service personnel, and had made a great impression on certain notable US industrialists in his capacity as a commercial barrister.
A commercial background was considered a significant component for one who, it was supposed, would have to wrestle with major issues of contract and tender. ‘A tall, cool customer with his finger on the pulse’ was how the US ambassador to the Court of St James described him.
Curzon had a great knowledge of US mores and sensitivities and had, much to his surprise, impressed the PM. Perhaps it had something to do with the case he had assisted Cherie Blair with during the previous year. Curzon was also popular with a number of senior British military personnel, having been called upon to assist in various procurement debacles that had reached the High Court over the past years.
All in all, his was the kind of appointment that could only have been made when the government felt itself under extreme pressure, even crisis, when pure competence and fresh thinking were deemed more important than political positioning. War would always erect an invisible barrier between the PM and his party; the man at the top had entered the real world – and there was no way back.
Ashe himself was not surprised. He’d known Curzon as a postgraduate at Brasenose College, Oxford. Each had eyed the other’s career and lifestyle choices with interest and, on occasion, a little envy. Their friendship was strong, though distant, and not a little mysterious to the friends of both.
‘Congratulations, Mick.’
‘Sshh! No one calls me Mick around here.’
Curzon took a seat and smiled at his old pal. ‘Toby, I’d love to socialise, but you couldn’t have come at a worse time. I’ll be back in London, hopefully, for a week’s leave some time in the summer. We can meet up then.’
‘Bloomsbury seems a long way from here.’
‘Don’t remind me. I’d far rather be downing a few pints with you in the Plough in Museum Street.’
‘I understand, Michael. I wasn’t expecting a reception party. But just tell me briefly, what’s it like?’
Curzon whispered, ‘Fucking awful. Let me give you an example of the insanity here. This morning, I had arrangements to meet the Australian ambassador. So, the tosspot decides, “Wouldn’t it be nice to go on a shopping expedition?” So I say, “Maybe when things are a bit quieter”. “No,” he says, he’d told colleagues that Baghdad was not as bad as the newspapers made out. Wanted a taste of life outside the Green Zone.’
‘Or death, presumably.’
‘You get the picture. Anyhow, imagine this. We’re walking round the suq wearing suits and body armour – looking like pricks – surrounded by bodyguards and Special Forces and he’s putting his fucking shopping into three LAVs.’
‘LAVs?’
‘Armoured cars. Meanwhile, he’s got a photographer – I don’t know if it was his idea or not – taking snapshots and video for the evening news in Sydney or something. Or maybe for when he decides he wants to be premier of Australia. So I’m looking round nervously trying to appear in control – he’s carrying on like he hasn’t a fucking care in the world – and there’s this bloody great explosion. Everyone stops dead still – and he’s still negotiating over a bunch of flowers.
‘The guy from US special forces tells me his presence is urgently required elsewhere, and could I inform the Aussie ambassador he’s got better things to do than fill the ambassador’s grandchildren’s Christmas stocking? So I have to bundle the tosspot into the armoured car and all the while he’s complaining he hasn’t finished his shopping, and what will his daughter say, and why is everyone panicking, and—’
‘The explosion?’
‘I’m getting to that. I’ve just had a report. Two insurgents were doing their duty for the sake of whatever the fuck they think they’re doing it for. They’d dropped off a suicide bomber near the UN Food Programme.’
‘My escort told me about that one.’
‘Yeah, well, what he didn’t tell you was that these two charlies in the Toyota pickup then made their way round to the al-Rashid.’
‘Al…?’
‘Used to be a big tourist hotel. It’s Coalition now. Anyway, they’ve got a rocket launcher welded to the back of the pickup truck. And what do they do? They stand right behind the bloody rockets to video themselves and the rockets doing this great service. I ask you Toby – stand directly behind the rocket launcher! Anyhow, we’ve got the video of their jolly japes. They’re not looking too pleased with themselves now. We’d show it on the evening news but a) it would probably only encourage others, and b) it’s probably against their fucking human rights!’
Curzon looked at his watch. ‘Right, you’ll be wanting to see the SIS desk head.’
‘Crayke.’
‘Yes, Crayke. Strange fellow, but impressive in his way. Oh, and by the way, welcome to Baghdad!’
Curzon led Ashe back into the compound’s main building and down a long, cool, busy corridor. At its end was a door marked ‘Authorised Personnel Only’, in English and Arabic. Curzon took out a bunch of passkeys, punched a number onto a keypad, pressed his thumb onto a small screen and played with the lock.
The door opened onto a rough set of concrete steps. As everywhere in the embassy, CCTV cameras tracked every move.
‘Watch your step, Toby. No compensation allowed. The insurance people regard everything that happens here as an act of God. Very convenient. It gets narrower at the top.’
Three flights up, the men came to another exterior door.
‘Ambassador’s Department. Please pronounce your name clearly.’
‘Curzon here. One guest.’
‘Please insert your five-digit code.’
Curzon typed in three digits.
‘What happened to the other two, Mick?’
‘There are no other two. It’s a security trip.’
The door opened onto a red-carpeted corridor.
‘You never know who’s going to turn up. Actually, it’s so the blood doesn’t show. Only kidding. My suite is next to Crayke’s current office. Follow me.’
At the end of the corridor was a thick metal door; to its right, an open-plan office. Sitting outside the suite were two plain-clothes security men of distinctly Anglo-Saxon appearance, carrying Uzi machine guns.
‘Papers please, sir.’
Ah, Essex, thought Ashe. The Thames estuary blends uneasily with the Tigris.
‘Recommendation of the ambassador insufficient, eh?’
The security men had heard it all before. ‘Papers, sir.’ One of them scanned Ashe’s papers with a small magnifying glass he placed over his eye, while the second man frisked him. ‘Leave your bag here, sir, unless you require a particular item.’
Curzon put his hand on Ashe’s shoulder. ‘Gotta go, Toby. Maybe see you later – if not, the Plough. Don’t let the goons get you down.’
‘How about the Hemlock?’
‘You must be joking. Bunch of nutters.’