下一章 上一章 目录 设置
3、存一下英文版 ...
-
Note from Charles Hyde's Diary (Addendum):
...and since you've prepared a stage for me in the spotlight, you can hardly blame this old fox for a little improvisation under the glare.
Let's see if your precision instrument can handle true... chaos.
---
[Maiden Voyage] S01E01 Information Currency
Wednesday, 23rd January, 1980.
A rare sun broke over London, casting a pale rectangle of light across the carpet through the tall window on Whitehall.
Inside the office mockingly dubbed the "gilded cage," the air was thick with the almost tangible frustration of its occupant, Secretary of State Charles Hyde.
He was pacing before his new "toy," fingers drumming a light, unconscious tattoo on the edge of the white-clean board.
Charles was dressed in a sharp, dark grey pinstripe suit. His tie, a diagonal stripe of gold and yellow—the Liberal Party colours—was knotted in an uncharacteristically perfect half-Windsor, complete with a deliberately crafted dimple. He was attempting to combat the absurdity of the impending meeting with an armour of sartorial gravity.
A gentle knock, and Cyril Astley entered, carrying two red boxes, with several letters balanced on top.
"Minister, the replies from the departments have all arrived." He placed the letters on Charles's desk, setting the red boxes aside for the moment. "Regarding this afternoon's meeting."
Charles picked up the top letter. Treasury. The language was polite, the content hollow. The gist of it: "We look forward to a productive exchange." The second, from the Home Office, was couched in nearly identical officialese. The third, Defence...
"The same boilerplate nonsense." He tossed the letters back onto the desk, nudging them with a fingertip so they fanned out.
"Productive exchange, constructive dialogue, full information sharing... Cyril, what do these words actually mean in Whitehall?"
"They mean, Minister," Cyril ventured, "that they will all be sending a representative."
"Splendid. Another layer of boilerplate. A Whitehall tradition?" Charles shot him a look, then turned back to the board. He uncapped a black marker and wrote the meeting's title: Inter-Departmental Information Sharing Liaison Meeting.
"Couldn't they have devised a name that doesn't require a second breath to say? IDISLM? It sounds like some sort of intestinal ailment." He drew several lines branching from the title, adding the acronyms of various departments.
"That, I'm afraid, is also a Whitehall tradition, Minister," Cyril said, rising slightly on the balls of his feet. "A long-winded title serves to lower external expectations, increase internal mystique, and ensure its true purpose—or lack thereof—is not easily deciphered."
"Lack of purpose? Good. You're being 'honest' too." Charles gave a humourless smile, circling a space on the board. "Then let us begin with purpose."
"A unified data-sharing platform. A central database, with authorised access for all departments, updated in real time. Transparent, efficient, irrefutable. We break down the departmental silos, let information flow freely, and drive decisions with data and logic, not with precedent and prejudice. We could pilot it with... employment and tax data. Establish standardised data interfaces, introduce new analytical models..." A web of boxes and arrows spread across the board.
"A... rather ambitious vision, Minister," Cyril commented, with careful neutrality.
"It is not a vision, Cyril, it is a solution." Charles tapped the board with the marker, turning to his Principal Private Secretary. "This is synergy, and this is coordination. This is the reason our department exists, not to drown in a sea of worthless intelligence."
He gestured with his chin towards the newly-stacked red boxes. "Those boxes, the lists of departments' 'willingness to share'—all of them summaries, trends, publicly available information. Utterly worthless. If departments cannot even share basic information, what hope is there of optimising efficiency?"
Cyril looked as if he wished to speak, but simply pursed his lips.
Charles paid him no mind, continuing to sketch and write, until a soft knock came from the door connecting to the Permanent Secretary's office.
Alistair Cavendish entered, a folder in hand.
"Good morning, Minister." His grey-green eyes flickered over the passionate blueprint on the whiteboard, without lingering. "Regarding this afternoon's Inter-Departmental Information Sharing Liaison Meeting, I've prepared a preliminary draft agenda." He offered the file to Charles.
Charles took it, and his brow furrowed after a single glance.
"'A discussion on principles of intent'? 'A working group for a feasibility study'?" He practically threw the document onto his desk. "Formalism."
"This is an invitation to a tea party and a collective nap. We are here to solve problems, not to form a committee to debate how to define the problem." Charles tapped the whiteboard behind him. "Not a hope I'll let a meeting be a meeting, Victor. We either do something, or we don't meet."
"Formalism is function's exoskeleton, Minister," Alistair stated calmly. "Building consensus is the first step to solving a problem. And consensus begins with a set of non-threatening terms that all parties can accept."
"And are my terms so threatening?" Charles gestured at the board. "'Unified data platform', 'real-time updates', 'standardised interfaces'... These are engineering terms, not a declaration of war."
"In Whitehall," Alistair tilted his head fractionally, his gaze returning to Charles, "any proposal that implies a change to the existing power structure is a declaration of war. And information, Minister, is the fundamental form of power."
Charles stared at him. After a few seconds, he picked up his marker and drew a large 'X' across the draft agenda. "No. We will use my agenda. Direct, candid, and focused on solutions."
Alistair offered no argument, merely inclining his head and retrieving the rejected document.
"Yes, Minister. Your agenda, your meeting."
His compliance was so swift, so clean, that it left Charles's prepared battery of counter-arguments with no target.
"Good," Charles cleared his throat, trying to regain the initiative. "Cyril, prepare a new draft from my key points. On my desk before luncheon."
"Yes, Minister," Cyril replied.
Alistair's gaze rested on Cyril for a fleeting moment before returning to Charles. "Then I wish you a productive meeting this afternoon, Minister. The Private Office will ensure all necessary briefing materials are prepared for you."
With that, he turned and returned to his office, the door closing softly behind him.
Charles stared at the door, the feeling of frustration not diminishing, but growing.
He took a deep breath, forcing his attention back to the whiteboard. Whatever else, this was his first battle. He had to win it.
---
---
---
The efficiency of the Private Office was beyond question. Despite the Minister's last-minute change of agenda, the seconded civil servants produced a concise and clear draft before noon.
Once approved, two dozen copies were swiftly made, lying in silent anticipation in the designated meeting room, awaiting their masters.
Shortly before three o'clock, Charles strode into the conference room, accompanied by Cyril.
Alistair was already present, seated to the immediate right of the head of the table, speaking in low tones to a civil servant beside him.
As Charles approached with a purposeful stride, Alistair excused himself from the conversation and rose.
He pulled out the chair at the head of the table for Charles, a natural gesture. "Good afternoon, Minister."
"Good afternoon." Charles took his seat. Cyril sat to his left, opening his notebook.
His eyes swept the room. The attendees had already arrived, one by one.
Treasury, Home Office, Defence, Employment, Energy, Industry... a roll-call of the core departments. But their representatives were mostly Assistant Secretaries or Principals. Senior enough to speak for their departments, but not senior enough to make any substantive commitments, able to deflect anything with the all-purpose excuse of "needing to consult a superior."
He cleared his throat, and the room fell silent.
"Good afternoon, everyone," Charles began, wasting no time. "Thank you for attending. We are gathered today not merely for a meeting, but for a more practical purpose—to discuss how this vast machine of government can, at least in certain key areas, cease its grinding friction and learn to speak to itself."
"My proposal is simple. A central information hub, accessible to all departments under appropriate clearances, with data available in real time. Decisions would no longer stem from anecdote or habit, but from fact. The locks on filing cabinets and the doors to our offices should not be the ramparts of our governance." He gestured for them to consult the agenda.
"We could begin with a pilot programme for employment and tax data. Imagine, Treasury tax data cross-referenced in real time with the Department of Employment's unemployment figures. We could assess the social impact of any economic policy with a speed and precision previously unheard of. Information ought to flow like blood through the body of government, not be hoarded in disparate organs, leading to the necrosis of the entire organism."
A few indistinct coughs echoed in the room.
"A refreshing proposal, Minister." Mr Pinkerton from the Treasury, a silver-haired man with spectacles, was the first to speak. "In principle, the Treasury naturally welcomes any initiative that could improve efficiency. However... to establish a system of this magnitude—the hardware, the maintenance, the training... the initial outlay would far exceed established frameworks and may not entirely align with the 'value for money' principle. In the current climate of fiscal restraint, I fear it would be difficult to secure parliamentary support. Moreover, it may run counter to the cost-control objectives of the ongoing 'Review of Government Service Efficiency'."
"Cost is of course a consideration, but we cannot allow initial investment to blind us to long-term benefits. This is a strategic investment," Charles countered.
"The benefits, yes." Pinkerton nodded with profound empathy. "I understand your thinking completely, Minister."
He removed his spectacles, polished them meticulously, and took a long moment before putting them back on.
Pinkerton opened a leather-bound notebook, his finger tracing a line of dense script. "But according to... ah, yes, the Government Expenditure Control Act of 1978, section forty-three, sub-clause B, any new IT project exceeding fifty thousand pounds requires a three-tier approval process. Tier one is an internal departmental feasibility study, which takes six to eight weeks. Tier two is an assessment by the Inter-Departmental Resource Allocation Committee, which meets for at least two quarters. Tier three is a comprehensive review by the Treasury."
"Considering the current backlog..." He looked up at Charles. "Optimistically, we might have a preliminary opinion before the end of the next financial year."
"The next financial year?" Charles was incredulous. "Mr Pinkerton, do you know how much unemployment benefit was incorrectly disbursed last year because the Department of Employment and the Inland Revenue's data couldn't communicate? We must act now."
"Of course, Minister Hyde," Pinkerton agreed with another nod. "A detailed and quantifiable 'Report on Anticipated Benefits' would be the first step in initiating the feasibility study. I would be more than happy, after this meeting, to have the relevant formatting requirements and guiding principles sent to your office via internal telex."
He had just erected a high wall, built of statutory instruments and procedural red tape.
Charles's fingers drummed silently on the arm of his chair. He turned to Mrs Davies from the Home Office. "The Home Office?"
"Minister, we all admire your enthusiasm." Her phrasing was even more watertight. "The Home Office is equally committed to improving efficiency. It's simply that a great deal of the information we hold pertains directly to citizen privacy, public safety, and indeed, national security. A unified platform, accessible to multiple departments simultaneously—the weakest link in that security chain would be catastrophic. We must put the privacy and data security of the nation first. Any data breach could have disastrous consequences for national security and public trust."
As she spoke, Mrs Davies produced a newspaper from her briefcase and spread it on the table.
A copy of The Daily Mail.
The headline screamed: "GOVERNMENT LOSES 300 CITIZEN FILES. IS YOUR PRIVACY SAFE?"
"The incident in Birmingham last month, I'm sure we all recall. A temporary clerk left three hundred social security records on a bus. The result? The Home Office complaints line was jammed for a week." Her finger tapped the paper. "And those were merely paper files. Can you imagine the Daily Mail headline if an electronic system accessible to all departments was breached?"
Before Charles could speak, she continued: "'GOVERNMENT SPYING ON EVERY CITIZEN'? Or perhaps 'WHITEHALL SELLS YOUR SECRETS'? Minister, at a time when the Opposition is looking for any stick to beat us with, such a risk..."
Mrs Davies left the sentence hanging, but her meaning was clear.
She gave Charles an apologetic look. "This is not to say we are unwilling to share, Minister. It is to say that we must ensure all data transfer and storage meets the most stringent encryption standards, which would require immense technical investment and an entirely new legal framework for authorisation. Until these issues are comprehensively resolved, the Home Office believes any large-scale data sharing must be approached with extreme caution. Any proposed data-sharing agreement should first be submitted to the Law Officers' Department for a detailed legal review."
"We can establish different access levels, use the most advanced encryption..." Charles attempted to argue.
"Minister Hyde," Mrs Davies interrupted. "A security chain is only as strong as its weakest link. One more user is one more point of risk. It is a risk we cannot afford to take."
A second wall, this one built of public safety and fear of the press.
Charles turned to Major Sampson from the Ministry of Defence.
"The Ministry of Defence? Major Sampson, I'm sure the military has the keenest appreciation for the efficient processing of information."
"Of course, Minister," Major Sampson replied with a smile. "Information is combat power, we couldn't agree more. Your proposal is, in principle, quite stimulating. However..."
His tone shifted. "When it comes to military data, its sensitivity is unique. Much of it pertains not only to national security, but to our... operational deployments and intelligence sources. This makes it impossible to simply 'unify' and 'update in real time'. We already have a mature, multi-layered encryption and access control system. To connect it rashly with civilian data systems would be tantamount to opening a breach in a fortress."
"As you know, Minister, the current global situation does not permit us to risk any data leakage. For instance, our recent patrol missions in the South Atlantic... our patrol vessels experienced a delayed return to port due to certain... ah, 'coordination issues' on the budget and maintenance front. If that data were to become available on your unified platform..." Sampson leaned back, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. "The Ministry of Defence is not unwilling to cooperate, Minister. But when it's a matter of national survival—I'm afraid our data must remain where it belongs."
This time, a wall of national security.
Charles's patience was wearing thin.
He felt as though he were trying to melt an iceberg with a single match.
He understood now. This meeting, from the moment he had proposed his unified platform, had been destined for absolute failure.
This was not an Information Sharing Liaison Meeting. It was a masterclass in how to politely refuse to share information. Every word was civil, every reason unimpeachable, but together they formed an impenetrable fortress of budget, law, and security.
The meeting continued.
The Department of Trade and Industry stressed the protection of commercial secrets and sensitive international market data.
The Department of Employment claimed centralisation would stifle local initiative and flexibility.
The Department of Health and Social Security cited local data sovereignty and patient confidentiality, arguing that data from local clinics and hospitals belonged to local authorities, which the central government had no power to compel.
The Scottish and Welsh Offices seized upon the uniqueness and sovereignty of devolved data, raising concerns about cuts to their funding...
Charles tried to interject, to rebut, but each attempt was deftly parried with a citation of some regulation, some Act of Parliament, some committee resolution. They never said "no". They simply proposed "further study," suggested "forming an expert panel for a feasibility assessment," deferred to "an opinion from the legal department," or claimed it was "beyond my remit and must be taken back to the department for discussion," drowning his proposal in a torrent of officialese.
"...in conclusion, Minister," the representative from the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food finally summarised, "we are confident your department will prove invaluable in coordinating the work of government. But just as we find in coordinating fishing quotas—a process that involves balancing multiple interests and complex local practices—information sharing requires a long and meticulous, gradual approach. We look forward to the DSC providing further guiding principles in the future, to ensure our efforts are, within the existing framework, truly productive."
Charles almost groaned aloud.
"So, your collective conclusion is that we can do nothing at present? That because of procedure, budget, and so-called risk, we must continue to tolerate this inefficient, siloed status quo?" He tapped his fingers on the tabletop.
"No, Minister," Mr Pinkerton said, speaking again. "That is not our intention at all. We are in unanimous agreement that the principle you have outlined—of strengthening information sharing—is a laudable one. Therefore, I propose that we form a standing working group, composed of representatives from each department, to... ah... explore potential avenues and guiding principles for enhancing inter-departmental communication. We could begin by drafting a terms of reference document."
"An excellent suggestion. This working group could meet regularly—quarterly, perhaps—to ensure the continuity of the dialogue," Mrs Davies immediately seconded.
Major Sampson nodded in agreement.
Charles looked at Cyril. The young PPS was writing furiously, documenting this utterly pointless meeting, the nib of his pen scratching across the page.
He then looked at Alistair. The Acting Permanent Secretary had not uttered a single word throughout. He had merely listened, occasionally noting a word or two in his notebook. Now, he met Charles's gaze and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. The message was clear: This is as far as it goes.
"Very well," Charles squeezed the words out from between his teeth. He suppressed the urge to slam his hand on the table. "Since you are all in agreement that doing nothing constitutes progress, then by all means, let us form a working group. Cyril, you will draft the minutes after the meeting. Be sure to highlight this... 'constructive' outcome."
"Yes, Minister."
The meeting concluded in an atmosphere of mutual, unspoken understanding.
The representatives rose, shook hands, and departed with murmurs of "Thank you, Minister," "Most constructive," and "Look forward to further cooperation," their faces relaxed, their duty done.
They had successfully attended a meeting and ensured that it would produce no actual results.
In Whitehall, this was, without question, a resounding success.
Charles Hyde's grand design had been neatly packed away into a harmless, and equally impotent, "working group."
---
---
---
"A farce!" Back in his office, Charles ripped off his tie and threw it on the desk.
He paced twice before collapsing into an armchair in the visitors' area.
Cyril entered with a cup of tea, placing it gently on the small table before Charles without a word.
"A joke... a complete and utter joke." Charles lifted his head from his hands and exhaled slowly. "They couldn't even be bothered to disguise it properly. Budget, law, security... they can find ten thousand reasons to say 'no', but not a single thought for 'why not try?'. A pack of ossified bureaucrats... a gaggle of feudal lords guarding their own petty fiefdoms!"
"That, I'm afraid, is their duty, Minister," Cyril said softly.
"Their duty? Is their duty to prevent the government from governing?" Charles scoffed. He picked up the teacup, took a large gulp, and grimaced.
"Too sweet."
"My apologies, Minister, I thought you..."
"Never mind." Charles put the cup down, pressing his fingers to his temples. "It's not your fault, Cyril. It was my own naivety. I thought if I came with a solution, they would at least... discuss it. Instead, I was treated as an irritant who had disturbed their afternoon tea."
He rose and returned to his whiteboard, staring at the blueprint he had spent all morning creating. It now seemed utterly pathetic. He picked up the eraser, intending to wipe it all away.
"I would advise against that, Minister."
Alistair's voice came from the doorway.
He was standing there, holding a familiar file.
"Have you come to gloat, 'Victor'?" Charles's voice was laced with anger and defeat. "You knew this would be the outcome, didn't you? That bloody draft agenda of yours was prepared for this very surrender ceremony."
"I did anticipate that a direct approach would not be accepted," Alistair said, stepping into the room. He placed the file on Charles's desk. "Information silos are a chronic condition in Whitehall. Every department treats information as its own asset, not a public resource. Because the moment it is shared, its value depreciates."
"The Treasury will not tell you its true budgetary position, as that is its primary bargaining chip with other departments. The Ministry of Defence will not disclose the details of its procurement, as that is tied to its budget requests. And so on and so forth." He explained, "In Whitehall, 'unification' implies a centralisation of power, and 'platform' implies a transfer of control. You believed you were selling an efficient sharing system, Minister. To them, you were launching a bloodless coup, attempting to establish an information Supreme Soviet."
Charles was momentarily silenced by the absurd analogy.
"But this was not a failed meeting, Minister. On the contrary, it was extremely valuable," Alistair continued.
"Valuable? In what way? Our only achievement was to agree to form a useless working group."
"Value, Minister, lies not only in the outcome, but also in the insight." Alistair came to stand beside Charles, meeting his eyes. "Do you know why I scheduled this meeting for you, Minister?"
"To fulfil our function. To make the DSC appear to be functioning," Charles said, his tone thick with sarcasm.
"No." Alistair shook his head. He picked up a marker. "May I, Minister?"
Charles gestured for him to proceed and stepped back.
"The Inter-Departmental Information Sharing Liaison Meeting—" Alistair first restored a small section of the diagram Charles had begun to erase. "This meeting was, in itself, the most revealing piece of information."
"They may not share information willingly, but they will expose their positions. Who sent which grade of representative, who came armed with the most material, who was defensive, who attempted to form alliances... this is all information. Information they are not aware they are leaking. Today's meeting has provided us with a rough, but vital... power-topography map of Whitehall."
He began to fill in the spaces beneath the department acronyms on the board.
"Firstly, it precisely calibrated our current threshold of influence. Which departments sent a Deputy Secretary or an Assistant Secretary, and which sent only a Principal or someone of a lower grade—this is in itself a clear map of relationships and priorities. It tells us who sees the DSC as a potential threat or tool, and who holds it in contempt. Who is willing to commit senior resources, and who is not."
"Secondly, every 'no', every seemingly reasonable obstacle they raised—budget, law, security, privacy, local sovereignty—has precisely demarcated each department's boundaries of power and their sensitive territories."
"Mr Pinkerton of the Treasury, for instance. His quoting of acts, his listing of procedures, his estimation of timelines—he was not truly discussing cost. He was warning against any attempt to bypass established procedure. It was not a resistance to reform itself, but a defence of his department's control over the purse strings. Mrs Davies of the Home Office: that copy of The Daily Mail was not evidence, it was a weapon. Her core argument was not that it is technically impossible, but that it is politically unaffordable. The MoD built its wall with national security, Trade with commercial secrecy, Employment with local flexibility, Health devolved responsibility to local authorities, and the Scottish and Welsh Offices clung desperately to their thin sliver of sovereignty. These defensive fortifications are more revealing than any public data." Alistair analysed, point by point.
Charles had thought he was facing a group of ossified traditionalists. Alistair's analysis revealed something else: not rigidity, but a highly developed, logically coherent system of defence.
"So..." Charles's voice was a little dry. "Our great achievement today was to discover all the ways they have of refusing us?"
"No, Minister." Alistair put down the pen. "We have discovered how, in future, they will be unable to refuse us. We now know that we must arm our proposals with procedure, insulate them from political risk, and respect their territory in order to gain entry. We have acquired the blueprints to their fortifications."
"Information is not merely what they are willing to write on paper. Information is the fragments of their intentions, the shadow of their fears, the boundaries of their power. We find the hidden possibilities in every statement, we seize upon every detail. Through this process, we have systematically mapped who holds what, who is protecting what, who fears what, and who is trying to hide what."
"Furthermore, you witnessed firsthand their mastery of evasion and deflection. The knowing silences, the deft suggestions for 'further study', the practiced skill of delegating responsibility to a committee—this is the true, unwritten constitution of Whitehall. Understanding these patterns of behaviour is far more useful than any technical specification. It tells us where to find the cracks."
He walked back to the desk and picked up the file he had brought in—the very draft agenda Charles had crossed out.
"My original agenda, the 'discussion on principles of intent', was designed to draw out these walls. And the 'working group for a feasibility study' was the means to legitimately acquire these blueprints." Alistair offered the file to Charles. "You, in your own way, accomplished the reconnaissance in a single step. Albeit in a more... dramatic fashion."
"I know you desire a perfect, unified 'map'—a data-sharing platform, Minister. But today, our purpose was to understand the intricate 'terrain', the true relationships of power and flows of information. Your platform is not entirely unfeasible. Just not now."
"Then... what do we do now?" Charles slowly turned the pages of the draft.
"We accommodate them," Alistair replied. "We abandon the grand platform, at least in name. We will form the working group, but we will redefine its function. Its function will not be to 'explore potential avenues and guiding principles', but to 'facilitate the efficiency of existing information channels'."
He took a memo slip and wrote a few lines.
"We will establish a 'Departmental Liaison Officer' mechanism. We will write to each department, requesting they appoint a DLO to this group, responsible for providing the DSC with regular updates on their publicly available, non-sensitive policy changes, project progress, and summaries of quarterly reports. They cannot refuse this, because it was their own proposal. We will then regularly compile the public and non-classified information provided by these DLOs into a blandly worded, utterly unobjectionable Whitehall Information Flow Overview Briefing, and circulate it to all departments and the Cabinet Office."
"What's the use of that?" Charles asked. "It's all public, worthless information."
"Its use, Minister, is not in the content, but the form." Alistair shook his head. "We will have established a legitimate, ongoing channel for information gathering, leading directly into the heart of every department. It makes the DSC an official observation post for the flow of information across Whitehall." He handed the memo slip to Charles.
Charles stared at the slip, his mind a battlefield of conflicting thoughts.
The plan was... humble, circuitous, and full of bureaucratic cunning. It was the antithesis of the direct, candid, sweeping reform he had envisioned. Yet he could not deny that it was the only feasible, and perhaps even brilliant, path forward.
"So we are an intelligence-gathering operation? We've become... the secret service?" he muttered.
"We are here to build connections. We are coordinators, Minister," Alistair corrected him gently. "But before you can change the rules, you must first understand them. And in the DSC, we need to know, better than any other department, what they know, and more importantly, what they prefer others not to know."
"In Whitehall, information is not blood, Minister," he concluded. "Information itself is the purest currency in Whitehall. It has different denominations, different issuers, and follows complex exchange rates. It encompasses intentions, fears, relationships, and patterns of behaviour. And today's meeting, Minister, was a perfect... currency inventory. This wasn't a failed transaction. It was a successful market survey. We have assessed their assets and liabilities, and understood their credit ratings and risk appetites."
"'Information is the purest currency'," Charles repeated, writing the words on the board. "Is that your personal creed?"
"It is the operating principle of Whitehall, Minister."
Charles put down the marker and turned to face his Acting Permanent Secretary. "Then tell me, in this currency system of yours, what is the exchange rate for trust?"
"Trust," Alistair's gaze fell on the chaotic scrawl on the whiteboard. He spoke slowly. "Is a luxury, Minister. In Whitehall, we rely more on predictability."
"Predictability," Charles chewed on the word. "Like predicting I would need a whiteboard?"
Alistair's eyes returned to Charles's face. "You had a habit of thinking on a blackboard at Oxford. Your tutor once complained that you were always covering his office blackboard in scrawl."
Charles froze. "How did you know..."
"Public information, Minister," Alistair said. "Your Oxford tutor mentioned the detail in passing, in a paper he wrote on non-linear thinking."
"You had me investigated."
"I familiarised myself with my Minister," Alistair corrected. "It is my duty."
"Then..." Charles's voice held a strange calm. "Since you know me so thoroughly, tell me, Alistair. What will I do next?"
Alistair was silent for several seconds. "You will accept the reality of the situation, but you will not cease your resistance. You will attempt to find your own way of operating within this system. You will turn this department—the one everyone assumes is a sinecure—into something... different."
"And why are you so certain?"
"Because that is your nature, Minister," Alistair said. "You cannot tolerate being marginalised. You have a need to prove your own value. And that need..." He paused. "Can be guided."
"Guided?" Charles's voice dropped. "Guided by you?"
"Guided by reality," Alistair said. "I merely help you to see the path."
Charles stared at him for a long time, and then he laughed. It was not a pleasant sound.
"Do you know, Alistair?" he said. "I'm beginning to understand why you concealed your identity. Because if I had known that 'Victor' was such a..." He waved a hand, searching for the word. "Such a calculating, bureaucratic machine, I would never have befriended you."
A brief silence fell in the room.
Cyril quietly placed a fresh cup of tea on the table, then took a step back.
"We were never friends, Minister," Alistair said, his voice level. "We were... interlocutors in a particular setting. In Whitehall, that is everything."
Charles's face went pale, then flushed with colour.
"Out," he said. The word was quiet, but charged with suppressed rage.
Alistair inclined his head. "Of course, Minister. The draft proposal for the DLOs will be sent over shortly. If you have any questions..."
"I said, get out."
Alistair said nothing more. He turned and left the room, the door closing almost silently behind him.
Cyril stood his ground, uncertain whether he too should depart.
Charles, seeming to have forgotten his presence, went to the window and stared out at the grey expanse of Whitehall.
"Cyril," he said suddenly.
"Minister?"
"Do you think he meant it? That we were never friends?"
Cyril chose his words with care. "I think... in Whitehall, the line between the personal and the professional can sometimes become blurred, Minister."
Charles turned, a bitter smile on his face. "Spoken like a true diplomat. You'll make an excellent civil servant, Cyril."
"Thank you, Minister."
Charles went back to his desk, opened a red box, and began to rifle through the papers inside.
After a moment, he looked up again. "Do something for me, Cyril."
"Transcribe every piece of nonsense spoken at that meeting. I want to see every 'but', every 'however', every last 'in principle, we agree'."
"Yes, Minister."
"And..." Charles turned, a dangerous light in his eyes. "Find me that paper on non-linear thinking. I want to see what other 'public information' my tutor saw fit to share."
