【Prologue】S01E00 Tautological
Friday, January 18th, 1980.
Fog, layer upon layer, crept from the surface of the Thames onto Whitehall, swirling between the ancient buildings' stone walls and cornices, silently enveloping the entire government district. The biting memory of the so-called "Winter of Discontent" of 1979 had not entirely faded, and the third hung parliament since the start of 1980 cast a new, weary gloom over this centre of power. The Conservatives held 306 seats, Labour 285. The Liberal Party's unexpected surge to 27 seats became the delicate counterweight on the scales.
A photograph of the Conservative leader, David Northcote, and the Liberal leader, Richard Trevelyan, signing their coalition agreement at No. 10 Downing Street occupied a not-insignificant spot on the front page of the following day's Times, the headline suggesting cautious optimism.
Necessity, not zeal.
Commentators encapsulated it all in a cold, hard maxim, as if that precise yet antiquated Whitehall machine only ever truly turned its gears when absolutely compelled.
Charles Hyde didn't read the newspaper. He was pacing in front of an old, black rotary telephone, the coiled telephone cord tangled into anxious geometric patterns around his feet. He knew he would secure a position in this reshuffle. The question was, which one? The suspense was like a fishbone, lodged in the throat of Charles's political ambitions, neither up nor down.
After a brief internal debate, he dialled the number of Victor, a friend he'd met at a Christmas Eve party the previous year. Though their acquaintance was short, a few intellectual skirmishes where they had proved evenly matched had made Charles feel they were sufficiently close to share some innocuous complaints.
"Vic," he deliberately made his tone sound light, "where do you think Richard will consign me to gather dust?"
"Charlie?" The voice on the other end, tinged with a weariness that suggested he'd been forcibly pulled from quiet contemplation, corrected him gently and precisely: "I feel compelled to remind you that it's the Prime Minister, not the Deputy Prime Minister, who determines your post."
"Oh, come now, Victor, you always fuss over protocol." Charles conceded unconvincingly. "I know it's the PM who determines my post, and it's the Queen who bestows it." He dragged a chair closer and pulled the rotary phone an inch towards him. "This time, don't get sidetracked. Help me analyse this, with your 'Observer' perspective. What do you think Richard will 'wangle' for me from the PM? He's got to get me something decent, hasn't he? He can't put this old fox in charge of filing, can he?"
"Charles," the other man seemed to sigh, "you're forty-one. I would have thought age might bestow more than just physical maturity."
But Charles ignored him, continuing his monologue, his thoughts racing down his own track: "Let's try a process of elimination first. Firstly, Treasury, Home Office, Foreign Office, Defence – these core red boxes, the Conservatives will never put them in our hands. Out of the question. Not a hope. Door firmly shut."
"'Our'?" The voice on the other end shrewdly caught the pronoun.
"If I may offer a correction," his voice carried a familiar resignation and a deliberate detachment, "I am not a Liberal. I take no whip. I take the crossbench view." He paused, his tone hardening slightly, like an invisible full stop: "And... certain sentiments are best kept under one's hat."
"For God's sake, Vic! This is just a private call! MI5 hasn't got time for bugging two codgers in mid-prattle!" Charles waved his hand dismissively, though the other man couldn't see it.
A pause heavy with unspoken caution filled the line.
"I think..." The voice, low and clear, carried an almost fated sense of prophecy: "Your future Permanent Secretary will tirelessly, assiduously, inculcate in you the art of discretion. It will be quite the... induction. A protracted and necessary... immersion."
"A truly anticipated induction, then... So what's left?" Charles pulled the conversation back, continuing his solo performance. "Education Secretary? Not a cat in hell's chance. Energy or Industry? Rather hot potatoes just now. What about Secretary of State for Scotland or Wales? Perhaps they'll be symbolically 'tossed to' the Liberals, but surely they wouldn't shunt me off to manage those? Please, not Northern Ireland. My God!" His voice suddenly rose. "It couldn't possibly be the Ministry of Agriculture, Fisheries and Food, could it? Am I to soothe angry farmers, or negotiate with melancholic cod? Though these days, the cod might prefer to lobby the Defence or Foreign Secretary."
A soft sigh, laced with restrained weariness. "Charles," the voice, now strangely calm as if exhausted, said, "you didn't call me just for a breathing sounding board to recite the list of cabinet ministers, did you?"
Silence fell between them, only the low hum of the line remaining.
"Good Lord..." His voice was unusually tinged with disbelief. "You truly called me for this? On a Saturday... at this hour?"
"For pity's sake." The tone was bordering on a plea, or perhaps a supremely restrained command. "Spare me – and spare No. 10 the busy line. I imagine you wouldn't want the Prime Minister's first summons to his new Minister to be met with an engaged tone, would you? That would be an inauspicious beginning."
"He can call back later, or I'll return his call." Sensing the renewed silence on the other end, Charles quickly added: "It was a joke." He then supplemented: "I have two extension phones installed."
"Charlie," the other man uttered his name like a deeper sigh, "I think you'll be receiving notification very soon."
No sooner had he spoken than a telephone rang sharply. Charles said "Hold on," placing the receiver on the desk, then picked up the other phone. "Charles Hyde here... Yes, Prime Minister... Naturally, deeply honoured... At your service... Right, understood."
The call ended. Charles hung up, standing still for a moment, then replaced the receiver on its cradle. He picked up the phone still connected to Victor. "Vic, your political nose is simply uncanny, the timing precise to the second. Though I don't know where you're employed – I really should persuade you to run for MP; you'd be a first-class Minister."
"Perish the thought." The voice on the other end held an elusive amusement, as if savouring an interesting paradox. "'Charlie Foxy' is far better suited to the Greenwood of Westminster. My place lies... elsewhere. It seems your destination isn't on your rehearsed list? At least not 'Cod Minister' of the 'Cod Ministry'."
"An unheard-of department," Charles's voice drifted.
"The Prime Minister has established a new cabinet department to place you." The other man's tone was a statement, not a question, as certain as if reading a document already drafted, awaiting only a signature.
"The Prime Minister has established a new cabinet department to place me..." Charles was still dazed, repeating the words, then suddenly reacted. "Wait, how did you know it was a new department?"
"Then—" The other man ignored the question directly, his voice steady and unruffled, betraying no emotion: "Its name?"
"The Department of Synergy Coordination." Charles replied, this time it was his turn to sigh. "An utterly peculiar name. Synergy? Coordination? A tautological monstrosity."
"On the bright side, I at least won't have to rush off on a train to Cardiff or Edinburgh for now," he added with a touch of self-mockery. "I suppose I can kick my heels here until they go numb, awaiting word that my new department's office has been fitted out."
"Charlie— No, Minister Hyde. It won't take long." The other man paused meaningfully, the shift in address carrying an almost imperceptible formality and distance. "Your... Permanent Secretary will see to it with characteristic efficiency." His voice held an unquestionable certainty: "Of that, I have no doubt."
The line disconnected cleanly, leaving only the hum of the heating system in the room.
---
That afternoon, Charles met the Prime Minister at No. 10 to confirm his appointment as Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination. Then came Monday of the following week. In the morning chill, Charles followed the usher through Buckingham Palace's gilded, carved, yet cold and echoing corridors.
Her Majesty's audience was brief and ceremonial; he knelt on one knee, listening as the regal yet detached voice read out the appointment, officially accepting the heavy, royal-wax-sealed instrument of appointment – Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination, a position with a name like a tongue-twister. This was followed by the Privy Council oath, in a room so solemn, the air seemed to have stood still for centuries. He stood alongside several other newly appointed Ministers, repeating ancient vows, swearing an oath of secrecy regarding cabinet affairs. His voice resonated under the vaulted ceiling, a hollow echo. Secrecy? About what? A department whose purpose even he didn't yet know?
A sense of absurdity seized him, refusing to dissipate. Charles lowered his voice, hoping to shorten the echo and with it, the discomfort. Stepping out of the Privy Council, a long string of handshakes and photographs ensued. He managed to maintain a smile, dealing with the shoal of Fleet Street goldfish. Just when he thought the lengthy ceremony was finally over and he could go home for a strong cup of tea and shake off all the ceremony, he was instead directed to a waiting black Austin official car.
It drove symbolically past a few buildings, stopping in front of an unremarkable building, still on Whitehall. Compared to the imposing Treasury or Foreign Office buildings, this one seemed somewhat... utilitarian. A young man, looking to be in his thirties and wearing a charcoal grey three-piece suit, swiftly stepped forward to greet him. The young man's short, golden-brown hair was impeccably groomed, cut above the earlobes with a sharp hairline, the top slightly longer with a natural wave, his fringe falling naturally without disarray as he bent to open the car door.
"Good morning, Minister." He stepped back half a pace, making space for Charles. "Or rather, good afternoon?" His well-judged, tentative humour broke the stern atmosphere, and blue eyes sparkled with alertness and discretion. Charles shrewdly caught the scent of something different in him, distinct from a common civil servant.
Interesting.
He smiled, extending his hand. "Good afternoon."
"Cyril Astley," the young man introduced himself after a clean handshake. "I'll escort you to your office."
"...Sir Relahstlee?" Charles repeated with slight hesitation. The final 'l' of "Cyril" and the initial 'A' of "Astley" blended in his pronunciation, sounding like a non-existent honorific.
"Cyril. Astley, Minister." Cyril led the way slightly ahead, turning his head slightly at the sound, his body half-facing, indicating his focus, his movements fluid and natural. "Apart from those formally knighted, Sir, we generally reserve 'Sir' for the most senior officials in a department." He paused briefly, adding: "You may just call me Cyril, Minister."
"You'll see my name on the Principal Private Secretary (PPS) candidate shortlist provided by the Cabinet Office. I look forward to serving you, should you wish it." Cyril's phrasing exuded confidence, yet was humble and left room for choice.
"I trust we'll get along well, Cyril." Charles nodded. His intuition told him this young man would be a reliable guide through the labyrinth of Whitehall.
They ascended to the third floor, turning right down a slightly dim corridor. After pushing open two heavy wooden doors, they entered a spacious yet unusually empty office. The room was spotlessly clean, though its interior had a hurried feel. A solid, Victorian-style oak desk stood in the centre, holding only an old black rotary telephone, an almost empty In-tray, a vacant Out-tray, and a few basic stationery items. Visitor sofas and armchairs in the corner looked distant, and several empty filing cabinets leaned against the walls. The walls were bare, save for a large, somewhat aged map of Britain. Besides the entrance door, there were two other doors and a tall window overlooking Whitehall.
"This will be your workspace, Minister." Cyril introduced him. The phone on the desk connected directly to the Private Office, and the In-tray contained his welcome letters from the secretaries and a draft schedule for the week. He then explained the minimalist setup: civil servants had only equipped the office with basic furnishings, with specific layout adjustments to be completed within one to two days once Charles had confirmed his preferences. "Of course, if you have no particular preferences, we can arrange it according to standard Whitehall layout," he maintained a professional demeanour.
Charles set down the welcome letter, his gaze sweeping the room, finally resting on a slightly incongruous empty space beside the desk. "I have no special requests. If possible, could you install a large wipe-clean board there, with some space for movement around it? I tend to doodle when I think, and I might pace around that area. As for the rest, a standard arrangement will be fine."
"Yes, Minister." Cyril agreed crisply. "It will be in place by tomorrow."
"What do these two doors lead to?" The newly appointed Minister turned his curiosity to the unknown spaces behind the two doors.
Cyril pushed open the first door. "This is the office's adjoining annex, typically used as a storage room for your coat, files, or books. If needed, we can also prepare beverages, tea, coffee, as well as light snacks like biscuits or bread here. It can also serve as a more private discussion space when you have other visitors in your main office. Of course, should you have other plans for its use, this annex can also be adjusted accordingly."
"And this one." Cyril moved to the second door, but did not open it. "This one... connects to your Permanent Secretary's office. He is currently... temporarily unavailable. However, if you wish, you can certainly take a look inside."
"Lunchtime?" Charles asked with a hint of sarcasm. Was his supposedly "efficient" Permanent Secretary enjoying a long Whitehall lunch?
"No, Minister." Cyril adjusted his stance slightly. "I believe... Sir... Alistair... he's gone to collect his formal instrument of appointment as Permanent Secretary."
"Is it Sir? Or Sir Alistair?"
"Sir, Minister, though you need not address him as such." He subtly shifted onto the balls of his feet, an almost imperceptible movement. Cyril chose his words carefully: "Sir has not yet received a knighthood, er... strictly speaking, you could address him as Lord... but Sir himself does not... prefer that address."
"Lord?" Charles raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, Minister. Sir... Lord Alistair Cavendish, your future Permanent Secretary."
"No, Minister. Your Acting Permanent Secretary."
A calm, low voice came from behind them. The corridor entrance door was quietly pushed open, and a platinum-blonde young man entered, holding a thin document.
"Victor?" Charles's voice caught.
"...Victor?" Cyril unconsciously repeated, his confused gaze darting between Charles's stunned face and the young man's calm features.
The newcomer smiled faintly, quietly closing the door behind him.
"Good afternoon, Minister. Good afternoon, Cyril."
A well-tailored charcoal grey herringbone single-breasted three-piece suit, worn over a cool white shirt. A solid dark green matte silk tie, knotted in a perfect half-Windsor, and a pocket square of a slightly brighter dark green silk, peeking demurely from his breast pocket, perfectly echoed the deep emerald ring on the fourth finger of his left hand, which held the document. His platinum-blonde short hair was side-parted, neatly tapered at the ears and collar, framing a refined, classically sculpted face. The shadows cast by his brow made his grey-green eyes appear even deeper, holding a quiet, almost inhuman intensity.
His face instantly overlaid with the "Victor" from Charles's memory, yet it carried a cold, unsettling unfamiliarity. The Victor he knew always exuded a casual languor, like a lazy cat in the afternoon sun, whereas this young man concealed a sharp edge, like a blade sheathed.
"You... uh..."
Charles's voice was still caught in his throat; the shock momentarily froze his thoughts. The young man nodded almost imperceptibly at Cyril, who immediately understood and quietly retreated half a step to the side and rear.
"Welcome to the Department of Synergy Coordination, Minister." He stepped forward, stopping before Charles, extending his right hand, his gaze meeting Charles's startled, uncertain eyes. "Allow me to introduce myself." His voice was steady and clear, as if rehearsed countless times: "Alistair Cavendish, your Acting Permanent Secretary."
"Please accept my apologies for the delay in rectifying the earlier misunderstanding."
---
Charles stared at him, remaining silent for a full two seconds. The "friend Victor" whose lazy nasal voice had predicted his long immersion in "the art of discretion" just two days ago, and the impeccable, quietly imposing "Acting Permanent Secretary Lord Alistair Cavendish" before him – two utterly distinct images clashed violently in his mind, attempting to merge, and finally exploded into a dizzying blur. The world seemed to slow down by half a frame; he almost instinctively reached out, shaking the hand that had been suspended in the air. It was dry, slightly cool, with an undeniable firmness.
The moment the handshake ended, Charles abruptly found his voice, tinged with incredulous dryness and belated realisation. "Ah... Not protocol..." He gave a short, humourless laugh, "But red tape all along."
"Minister. Protocol is the protocol that ensures the red tape is correct; red tape is the red tape that ensures the protocol is observed. The one is indispensable to the other; together, they form the lubricant of this machine." Alistair withdrew his hand calmly, his posture impeccably elegant.
"So, my dear 'Observer'," Charles's voice sharpened abruptly, and he stepped forward, closing the distance. He could almost feel the rhythm of the other man's breathing. "You knew all along I'd tumble into this Synergy Coordination 'rabbit hole', yet you took such keen delight in watching me play the fool on the phone, guessing riddles? Is that your noble 'protocol'?" He lowered his voice, imbued with a dangerous, probing edge, "All those predictions, all those perfectly timed suggestions... were they all written down in your 'red tape'?"
Cyril held his breath, subtly shifting further back, attempting to extract himself from the invisible force field. Alistair stood perfectly still, not even a flicker in his eyebrow. He merely tilted his head slightly, his grey-green eyes fixed intently on Charles, as if meticulously weighing every syllable of Charles's words, that posture as elegant as if savouring a difficult Latin poem.
Silence lasted for a few seconds, so heavy that the distant hum of traffic on Whitehall could be heard through the window.
"Minister," he finally spoke, his voice still steady, "Protocol is the protocol that preserves proper procedure. It ensures order and process, allowing regulations to be maintained and correctly executed. Red tape is the red tape that regulates right regulation. Sometimes it is a necessary path to achieving objectives, and sometimes it is a byproduct of the machine's own operation. I knew this door would open. The choice to step through it is yours, Minister."
"'Protocol preserves proper procedure; Red tape regulates right regulation'?" Charles repeated in an aria, leaning forward again, his voice trembling with the absurdity of the situation. "Ha! What a fine dialectic. So, Victor... or rather, Lord Cavendish – are you preaching to me, proclaiming that the suffocating, intricate chains of bureaucracy are, in fact, the sacred embodiment of procedural justice? And that we frontstage clowns, our only value being to obediently cooperate as the necessary parties in your meticulously choreographed backstage puppeteers' show?" His smile vanished.
The air seemed to drain from the room, leaving only the oppressive silence in the carpet fibres. Cyril stood motionless at the side, his gaze darting between his two superiors, like a bird cautiously observing the wind on the edge of a storm. Charles's gaze, like a probe, locked onto Alistair's flawless face, trying to find a crack, a hint of mockery, or even a ripple of offence in that calm, deep grey-green pool.
But there was nothing.
"No, Minister." Alistair met Charles's gaze. "Value is a relative concept, dependent on the coordinate system established by the observer. Frontstage and backstage are like two sides of a coin, each indispensable. Your 'performance' – forgive me for using your chosen word – provides indispensable democratic legitimacy, as well as... the political impetus to advance an agenda. We, backstage, endeavour to ensure this machine operates in accordance with its established protocols, and to achieve its predefined objectives as... precisely as possible."
"In this theatre called Whitehall, everyone plays their role. Ministers hold the reins of power, while civil servants are merely the necessary parts that ensure the carriage runs smoothly on its designated path."
"The doors of the Department of Synergy Coordination are open to you, Minister. And I, and the entire department, exist to serve your objectives, and to ensure their... coherent alignment with the government's overall agenda." He bowed slightly, an exquisitely elegant and restrained gesture: "Minister command is Civil Service writ."
"Established protocols? Predefined objectives?" Charles let out a short, sharp scoff, stepping closer again, closing the distance that Alistair's slight shift had created. "My dear Lord, we haven't even figured out what this damned machine does yet! A Department of Synergy Coordination with a name like a tongue-twister? Tell me, Victor, or Lord Cavendish, or whatever you prefer to be called. What are its predefined objectives? Hmm? Synergising what? Coordinating whom? And what protocols has your characteristic efficiency predefined for it?" His finger almost touched Alistair's pristine suit lapel, his voice rising slightly with agitation. "Or rather, is its very existence the red tape? A sophisticated, gilded cage, designed to house a 'Charlie Foxy' whom the Prime Minister finds too clever, too troublesome, yet for now, indispensable?"
Alistair's gaze followed his fingertip downwards, then quickly rose, his face still calm. He tilted his head slightly, his gaze drifting over Charles's shoulder as if examining the large map of Britain on the office wall. Then, he slowly turned his gaze back, refocusing on Charles's indignant face.
"A rather elegant metaphor, Minister." Alistair's lips curved in a faint, knowing smile. "Foxes are known for their acuity and... adaptability. As for a gilded cage, its value often lies not in confinement, but in display."
"It provides a stage, a... focal point."
Charles gave a dry laugh. "Display, not confinement – is that your phrasing? Elegant. Focal point, stage, lights in place. I perform, you pull the strings backstage."
"Display can be leverage." Alistair took a small step to the side, his grey-green eyes fixed immovably on Charles. "Synergy, its classical roots point to working together, pursuing an effect where the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. Coordination, is the art of guiding disparate parts towards harmonious collaboration. Simply put, the DSC's mission is to achieve the... optimisation of overall government efficiency by prompting different departments to work together and guiding their actions."
He raised his hand to stroke his jaw. "Or, to put it in a more... pragmatic phrase, Subtle Control."
"The Department of Subtle Control?" Charles repeated, the anger in his voice briefly diluted by a sense of absurdity. "What a delightful euphemism, Vic – or rather, Lord Alistair – your classical scholarship is truly unparalleled. You've packaged bureaucratic shackles as the art of fostering harmony? You've glorified political exile as a focal point for displaying potential?" He, too, took a step back, widening the distance between them. Charles crossed his arms, watching the Acting Permanent Secretary as if scrutinising a particularly intricate exhibit. "Tell me, in this exquisite red tape, where are the true boundaries of my authority as this supposed helmsman? Am I to decide the height of this map on the wall, or the contents of afternoon tea? Or, as Cyril just now agreed to," he gestured with his chin towards his future Principal Private Secretary, "ordering a wipe-clean board for my casual doodling?"
Cyril, suddenly addressed, gave a slight start, almost instinctively looking at Alistair. He noticed that when Charles mentioned the wipe-clean board, Alistair's gaze flickered ever so briefly to the vacant spot beside the desk, his eyes betraying no surprise, only a knowing understanding.
Alistair did not directly answer Charles's question. He turned slightly, his gaze falling on the young man who had been trying hard to fade into the background. "Cyril."
"Sir?" Cyril straightened his back.
"Regarding the preliminary draft of the Minister's schedule, I believe you have already briefed the Minister?"
"Yes, Sir," he responded swiftly. "It has been placed in the In-tray, and I provided a brief explanation to the Minister."
"Excellent." Alistair's gaze returned to Charles. "Minister, in order to bring the Department of Synergy Coordination into operational readiness as quickly as possible and to fulfil its coordinating functions, I suggest we schedule the first formal Inter-Departmental Information Sharing Liaison Meeting (IDISLM). The tentative time is this Wednesday at 3 p.m. This will be a valuable starting point, allowing you to gain an initial understanding of the current landscape of information flow between Whitehall departments and their potential... synergistic potential." He raised the document he had been holding, opened it, and offered it to Charles.
Charles did not immediately take it. His gaze fell on the bolded title at the top of the document:
The Rt Hon Charles Hyde MP, Secretary of State for Synergy Coordination - Proposed Schedule Week 1 (DRAFT)
And at the very top of the dense list of meetings, briefings, and receptions, the first item on the agenda was clearly written in bold:
Monday, 21 Jan, Afternoon
Finalise & Execute: Ministerial Office Layout Adjustment
Item: Ordering & Installation of Wipe-Clean Board & Accessories
Action: C. Astley, PPS designate
By 14:00
Time seemed to freeze for an instant. Charles stared at the line, then sharply looked up at Alistair's face, calm and unruffled, as if everything was under control, then back at the vacant spot he had just pointed out to Cyril, where the whiteboard was to be placed.
"Your authority is to set objectives, Minister. My duty is to first ensure this machine appears to function." Alistair's hand remained steady, holding the document. He met Charles's complex gaze frankly. "Form is the lubricant; content requires time. Today, we shall ensure form exists."
Outside, on Whitehall, a black cab honked, its sound distant and indistinct.
"It seems..." Charles slowly exhaled, "...you truly are honest."
"Honesty is a prerequisite for efficiency," Alistair nodded. "Especially in the initial phase."
Charles reached out, flipped a page of the schedule, then flipped back, his fingertip pausing on "14:00" for a moment.
"Well, Alistair Cavendish." He pushed the document back. His voice had regained its sharp, light quality. "Your whiteboard, if it's not here by two o'clock, I'll make sure the entire building knows about it."
"It will be on time." Alistair gently closed the document, placing it in the In-tray. "Then, Minister, the voyage of the Department of Synergy Coordination officially sets sail." He gave a slight nod, turned, and left. The door closed silently behind him.
Charles stood there for a long time, then suddenly gave a humourless laugh. He raised his eyes to the bare wall, his gaze, like a nail, fixed on the spot where the whiteboard would be.
"Then let it function," he said. His voice was not loud, but the echo from the office's high ceiling made it clear.
The door of the gilded cage closed behind him, and in the mist ahead, the treacherous contours of the power game were just beginning to reveal themselves. Charles Hyde, Alistair Cavendish, Cyril Astley. The Whitehall story opens.
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