Southend U3A

February 2023

Witness - Malcolm Fyfe

Approaching an oak panelled set of double doors I paused, opened one side and entered the beautifully proportioned conference room.

Immaculately styled and furnished as one would expect in one of his majesty’s principal offices of state, the Foreign and commonwealth Office.

Entering the room, I walking soundlessly on the thick woollen carpet to a small antique writing desk placed at the far end of the room equipped with a swan necked microphone with a set of headphones.

I opened my briefcase as a sharp knock announced the entrance of a technician from the security section.

‘Morning Sir, I’ll come in for a few minutes, need to set things up.’

He unlocked a small metal case, taking out what looked like a small radio tuner, inserted a set of headphones and then attached a long lead with what looked like a small grey disc on one end.

Flicking on switches, he studied a small green coloured display on the box. Nodding to himself he walked around the room passing the sensor around and under the table, even around the pictures of passed bewigged politicians.

On a side table were bottles of sparkling water that chinked as he worked. With no obvious results he turned, ‘That’s fine sir, know you like to keep things confidential, don’t want someone planting little ears in here do we,’ he said with a tight smile, a comment that I was to reflect on ruefully in the days and months to come.

The conference started and, as the official translator for the last two days, I had observed and listened to the usual promises and indications of good will flowing across the table from the Chinese delegation. As usual, the Chinese played hard ball, but that wasn’t unusual, they wanted access to a medical facility and in return would give us a stake in a development on an offshore oil platform they controlled off the west coast of Africa.

In translation, both idiom and context are everything at this level of translation and well as understanding the unintentional body language we all display.

Now, somebody had their fingers crossed behind their backs and studied their chief negotiator. A few pointers stood out, a flare of a nostril, an unconscious touch of a pen followed by a gesture of good will, I saw them and knew a lie when I heard one but I kept that thought to myself at the post meeting conference.

In the evening I sat down with my partner Lee Jing, she listened carefully, I needed her help to untangle my thoughts as we discussed the day’s exchanges. She listened carefully as we discussed the stance the UK side were taking and how far we were prepared to go.

‘Sounds like it’s going well, just the way we want it, ‘she smiled, leaning back, offering a toast in chilled rice wine, whilst rattling off a text to a business colleague, Chinese characters dancing across the screen.

I’d also discussed the predicament with my language tutor who as always was helpful but rather questioning about the Chinse delegation.

In a few days, passing down a corridor on the way to the translator’s office, I paused as I passed the partly open door of the of the Trade ministers office.

‘Sounds like we had a lucky escape; the oil deal was bent from the start.’

‘Yes, one of our analysts dug into the future production figures the Chinese gave us, she was concerned they were a bit optimistic and contacted a French geologist who did estimates when they were involved in the field, what, ten years ago. Turns out they knew the field would run out in in a few years’ time, that’s about now or fairly soon, so they promptly sold it to the Chinese who were left holding the parcel and they’ve tried to hand it to us, crafty devils.’

‘So the figures we’ve been given were cooked up, if we’d gone ahead the wells would be drying up in the next year or so, that’s the way it looks, top marks to the analyst, pass that on please but not to David the translator, he didn’t give us a clue which way the wind was blowing, strange that.’

‘We’ve been lucky right, deals off, we were due to sign Monday, I’ll send a note: much regret and all that.’

The mention of my name had made me pause, had I slipped up, no I reassured myself.

Several days later I was on my second cup of expresso when the office door opened and a hefty man dressed in a leather jacket, jeans and trainers came in to the office. My first thought was he was oddly dressed for a government office when the dress code was suit and tie. He was accompanied by a young woman who, in contrast, was dressed in a well-cut tailored suit produced from a light material that contrasted with her dark skin.

In response to a question, our secretary swivelled in her chair and pointed to me. Coming over he enquired pleasantly, ‘David Turner, ‘a word please,’ whilst reaching into a pocket and producing a small wallet which he flicked open. The pass on one side had the usual bearers photograph and details of his office, the other, an imprint of a portcullis surrounded by a ring of small circular gold stars and a red diagonal stripe.

His colleague produced a similar pass and had a set expressionless face. I recognised those passes and the sight sent a jolt through me and I fought to control my breathing which had suddenly gone very tight.

‘Probably best we talk in private, follow me please,’ was the terse request.

We pushed into a spare office and I immediately noticed an older man standing looking out of a window looking down into the inner quadrangle of the foreign office.

He turned and smiled. Now if you’ve ever read any of 'Le Carré, you would recognise the nearest thing to the fictional George Smiley, the difference was, he was real, very real.

Aged in the seventies, dressed expensively in a tailored dark blue suit with a regimental tie and polished shoes, that I think would only be bought in Jermyn street.

He was wearing a gentle half smile but, his eyes were cold and unmoving as they assessed me from across the office.

I felt sick.

He didn’t introduce himself; he didn’t need to, indicating a chair and pointed for me to sit down.

He sat down opposite me, crossing a leg and setting the crease of his trouser leg in neat alignment.’ We need to talk, don’t we?’

He took out a slim notebook from an inner jacket pocket together with an old-fashioned fountain pen. Unscrewing the top, he carefully pushed it onto the body of the pen and started to write in a small neat hand. The next few silent minutes were unnerving, I felt my hands becoming sweaty and my shirt damp.

Then he began. ‘Why didn’t you tell the Minister for Trade that the arrangement was suspect, after all, you spoke at the post conference meeting, it was your job after all?’

‘Not got an answer, I thought not. We wondered why so many recent negotiations seemed to go wrong but after a while it was obvious that you were the translator at various trade conferences, not just in London but in Europe too, rather careless of you, I think.’

And so, he continued methodically, question after question until it all came out, I was helpless in the quiet penetrating onslaught.

‘One answer is here,’ carefully unfolding a piece of paper which he had slipped from another pocket.’

‘Yes, your bank account is, or was, very healthy, had a donation from an overseas bank, I see. Fifty thousand Euros. Hm, very nice but you’ll tell us all about in due course I’m quite sure.’

‘I should add your language tutor was most helpful, he felt you were asking too many questions about matters that didn’t concern you, he’s one ours by the way, a talent spotter. How do we know all this? well if it helps, let’s say our people are rather clever.’

I thought of the technician that swept the conference room, it slowly dawned on me they were bugging my flat, they knew it all.

My nameless interrogator continued, ‘I have to say, your flatmate was rather good. With your help guiding the Chinese quietly in the background as to where the UK were going, during your discussions over that rather excellent Cantonise Lee made for you. Persuading you to keep that to yourself and not alerting your colleagues, not that you intended to anyway.’ ‘Now,’ peering at his notebook, ‘let’s see, she was born in in Shanghai, ninety ninety five, name of LI Cai, oh, of course, you know her as Lee Jing, good liar. Well trained in the dark arts. You met, I believe, in Honk Kong on your attachment.

Stunned I sat there as he continued, ‘bit of bad news for you, she got a flight to Hong Kong, oh, about an hour ago. We chucked her out, no use to us. Her card is marked, biometrics, fingerprints and every border post in the world knows all about her. She’s totally blown your joint bank account; we talked about not looking to good either. Her on-line banking was pretty busy this morning, we watched as it magically wafted away your worldly wealth to one of several accounts she has. As he spoke, he demonstrably waved his pen into the air.

‘Sorry about that. The Chinese aren’t very happy with you, I would imagine, for not tipping them off about us finding out about their little plan. ’They wanted to sign up the medical facility deal leaving us with a load of empty barrel as it were,’ he said, with half a smile, ‘plus the fact they slipped you a lot of money for nothing, it seems. But they’ll get it back, or I’m sure your Lee Jing will be in a spot of bother.

I thought of Lee, her welcoming warm smile and soft almond eyes. All of a sudden, I felt very much alone and betrayed.

‘Now, I think you need to go with my colleagues, I’m sure they will be helpful . . .’ methodically putting his notebook and pen away.

I left the office, my escort hard on my heels, feeling the hard stares of my now ex-colleagues on my back.

Accompanied by the unsmiling young man and the stony-faced young woman, we drove for a while in an unmarked car, eventually arriving at some military establishment, attentive armed guards by the closed gates.

Passes were shown and the gates slowly opened on well-oiled tracks. As we drove onto the perimeter road, looking backwards, I saw the steel gates close behind us with a thudding finality.

Strangely enough, I didn’t feel resentment towards Lee Jing, just glad that she didn’t witness the end game. I doubt that she would have cared anyway.