The Complete Yes Minister

‘No Humphrey, I don’t want to hear any more about it. You deal in evasions and secrets. But politicians in a free country must be seen to be the champions of freedom and truth. Don’t try and give me the arguments in favour of telephone tapping – I can find them in Stalin’s memoirs.’

‘Actually,’ quibbled Bernard, ‘Stalin didn’t write any memoirs. He was too secretive. He was afraid people might read them.’

Humphrey succeeded in interrupting us.

‘Minister,’ he insisted, ‘you must allow me to say one more thing on this matter.’

I told him that he might say one sentence, but he should keep it brief.

‘The Special Branch have found your name on a death list,’ he said.

I thought I must have misheard.

‘What?’ I said.

‘The Special Branch have found your name on a death list,’ he repeated.

This made no sense. A death list? Why me?

‘A death list?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean, a death list?’

‘An assassination list,’ he said.

He really is a fool. ‘I know what you mean by a death list,’ I said, ‘but . . . what do you mean?’

Sir Humphrey was now as baffled as I.

‘I don’t know how I can express it more clearly, Minister,’ he said plaintively.

Obviously, I wanted him to explain things like what the list was, where it came from, why I was on it – my mind was racing with dozens of unanswered questions, that’s why I was so inarticulate.

Sir Humphrey tried to answer what he thought I was asking him.

‘To put it absolutely bluntly, Minister, confidential investigations have revealed the existence of certain documents whose provenance is currently unestablished, but whose effect if realised would be to create a cabinet vacancy and precipitate a by-election.’

I didn’t know what he meant. I asked him.

‘You are on a death list, Minister.’

We were going round in circles. ‘Who . . . ?’ I spluttered, ‘What . . . ?’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see. It is the International Freedom Army. A new urban guerrilla group, apparently.’

My bowels were turning to water. ‘But what have they got against me?’ I whispered.

Bernard reminded me of the vague rumours recently of a Cabinet reshuffle, and that my name has been mentioned in one or two of the papers in connection with the Ministry of Defence.

I asked who they could be, these urban guerrillas. Bernard and Humphrey just shrugged.

‘Hard to say, Minister. It could be an Irish splinter group, or Baader-Meinhof, or PLO, or Black September. It could be home-grown loonies – Anarchists, Maoists. Or it might be Libyans, Iranians, or the Italian Red Brigade for all we know.’

‘In any case,’ added Bernard, ‘they’re all interconnected really. This could simply be a new group of freelance killers. The Special Branch don’t know where to start.’

That was very encouraging, I must say! I couldn’t get over the cool, callous, unemotional way in which they were discussing some maniacs who were trying to kill me.

I tried to grasp at straws.

‘There’s a list of names, is there? You said a list? Not just me?’

‘Not just you, Minister,’ Sir Humphrey confirmed.

I said that I supposed that there were hundreds of names on it.

‘Just three,’ said Humphrey.

‘Three?’

I was in a state of shock. I think. Or panic. One of those. I just sat there unable to think or speak. My mouth had completely dried up.

As I tried to say something, anything, the phone rang. Bernard answered it. Apparently somebody called Commander Forest from Special Branch had come to brief me.

Bernard went to get him. As he left he turned to me and said in a kindly fashion: ‘Try looking at it this way, Minister – it’s always nice to be on a shortlist. At least they know who you are.’

I gave him a withering look, and he hurried out.

Sir Humphrey filled in the background. The Special Branch had apparently informed the Home Secretary (the usual procedure) who recommended detectives to protect me.

I don’t see how they can protect me. How can detectives protect me from an assassin’s bullet? Nobody can. Everybody knows that.

I said this to Humphrey. I suppose I hoped he’d disagree – but he didn’t. ‘Look at it this way,’ he responded. ‘Even if detectives cannot protect anyone, they do ensure that the assassin is brought to justice. After the victim has been gunned down.’

Thanks a lot!

Bernard brought in Commander Forest. He was a tall thin cadaverous-looking individual, with a slightly nervous flinching manner. He didn’t really inspire confidence.

I decided that I had to put on a brave show. Chin up, stiff upper lip, pull myself together, that sort of thing. I’d been talking a lot about leadership. Now I had to prove to them – and myself – that I was officer material.

I smiled reassuringly at the Commander, as he offered to brief me on the standard hazards and routine precautions. ‘I don’t really have to take these things too seriously, do I?’ I asked in a cavalier manner.

‘Well, sir, in a sense, it’s up to you, but we do advise . . .’

I interrupted. ‘Look, I can see that some people might get into a frightful funk but, well, it’s the job, isn’t it? All in a day’s work.’