“How are you, Natalie?” he asked plainly, neither a platitude nor a piece of bleeding-heart pastoral ministry.
I assured him I was fine, referenced my brief at the cathedral, and, just before it became too routine, he lobbed in a couple of mild indiscretions about Dean, rolling his eyes in a post-adolescent way. It didn’t amount to much – something like “. . . in that particularly exhibitive way he has made his own” – but it served to show we were on the same side.
“I hope the Dean indicated that we’re in the endgame of your little unlocal difficulty. It looks at last like we can say that there won’t be criminal charges. At any rate, the UN’s administrative tribunal seems to have lost interest in taking your case any further. The lawyers will send the paperwork to me and their letter will be copied to you. As expected, but good news nonetheless.” He coughed. “There will have to be the odd quid pro quo. While the Archbishop of Sydney no longer wants to make a martyr of you, they’ll want something to save face, I suppose. We’re now at the level of negotiating a settlement for you, so I’m hoping that it’s all about money rather than about something more vindictive like punishing you.”
“We’ve established what I am – we’re just discussing the price, right?” I said.
Some months previously a columnist in the Daily Mail had called me a media tart.
“That’s about the size of it, Natalie,” said the Bishop, ignoring the reference. “But I can’t be certain they won’t want an ounce or two of your flesh in some form or other. A grovelling apology or something.”
“And at the ICJ level?” We’d originally been threatened with the International Court of Justice when the Sudanese government was involved.
“Always too heavy-handed. It’s been a long haul at the diplomatic level, but I think that’s over. For appearances’ sake – and because it’s technically an Anglican Communion and not just a Church of England matter – it’ll have to be finished off at archbishop level. So it’s been knocked upstairs and you’ll have to go down to Lambeth and see the team there, I’m afraid. But after that we should celebrate.”
“Thanks for all your support, Bishop.”
“Now let’s move on. I think I may have something rather interesting for you, Natalie,” he said fairly quickly. I was conscious that Cerberus had this down as a half-hour slot, rather than the full hour.
“I do appreciate you’re not under my authority these days.” He chuckled and arched an eyebrow. “As if you ever were. But I was talking to a chap at the ADC, who tells me that DFID has made some progress with the Foreign Office and Number 10 in getting some proper support for the Palestinians in Jordan, Syria and Lebanon.”
A translator would have described how the Bishop had been briefed by an emissary from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office in the margins of the Archbishops’ Development Council. This was set up by the offices of Canterbury and York around the same time as the Quartet – the UN, the US, the EU and Russia, the foursome that had spent the best part of a decade wringing its hands and providing money-laundering services – allegedly to coordinate global Anglican efforts in aid and development with reps from government agencies.
“I need hardly tell you, of all people, how important that could be for the Palestinians,” added the Bishop.
I smiled in the face of such rank flattery. Silly boy, I thought. What I said was: “It’s been a long time coming. Why now?”
“It’s all wrapped up in the peace process of course.” Well, stone me. “I’m presuming the Quartet have brokered something when it comes to the repatriation of refugees. As you know, that’s a huge sticking point.”
And I thought I’d come to talk about women bloody bishops.
“What, money to stay where they are or to return home?” I asked eventually.
The Bishop paused just long enough to acknowledge “home”, clocking what was effectively my position statement.
“A mixture, it seems,” he replied, setting aside some paperwork from his previous meeting. “There would be money to raise conditions immeasurably for those who decide to stay where they are – and you’ll know how much that is needed. But then, crucially, vast investment for those who return to an unoccupied Palestine. As I understand it, the Western partners would effectively be subsidising an infrastructural rebuild of the West Bank and Gaza that, with some cooperation from the Israelis I might add, would bring living standards up to those of the settlements.”
I snorted in affable derision.
“I know, I know,” he said, holding his hands aloft and swinging his lowered head in theatrical disbelief. “I’d have thought there was a greater chance of the entire Knesset galloping through the eye of a needle than seriously examining the prospects of Arabs living the lives of Israelis behind 1967 borders, especially with American money. But there you go.”
“American?” I turned one ear towards him.
“Apparently so. Well, it’s UN money, funnily enough, but you’d look to three-quarters of the Quartet for its source. That’s who is really behind it.”
“No Russian money?” I asked.
“Actually, there is some,” he said as if he’d just remembered. “But it’s private, not state, capital. They wouldn’t want to be left out.”
“I have a friend who works with the Russians in the Middle East,” I said. “She may know.”
He said nothing.
“How much in total?” I pressed.
“I don’t know. I really don’t know.” He was swinging his head again and spoke softly. I wondered then and I wonder now if he did know the sums involved and just wasn’t letting on.
