A Very British Coup

by Chris Mullin

  “Frightfully sorry, Fred, I’m going to the country this weekend.”

  “Too bad. You’d have enjoyed it. Lots of left-wing extremists coming.”

  “No left-wing extremists where I’m going,” said Elizabeth. “Chap who’s invited me is an army officer, his brother is a Tory MP and his father was something big in the City. They’ve got a huge house in Oxfordshire.”

  “Sounds fascinating,” said Fred.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it when I get back – providing you manage to keep the tumbrils out of Sloane Square.”

  At noon precisely Fiennes of DI5 strolled into the coffee shop of the Churchill Hotel in Portman Square. Under his arm he was carrying a folded copy of the Financial Times. He glanced to right and left until his eyes came to rest upon a clean-cut man in his late thirties, in a white, open raincoat.

  “Ah, there you are, Jim.” Fiennes approached and sat down opposite the man in the raincoat. They shook hands over the table. “Guess you know what I’ve come about,” said Fiennes.

  “Sure do.” The man’s accent was East Coast American.

  “Thought we ought to meet on neutral territory. Not wise for me to be seen at the embassy.”

  The American lit a cigarette without offering one to Fiennes, who went on, “The Old Man thought we’d better liaise directly with your people instead of going through DI6. In any case they’d only balls it up.”

  “Okay by me.” The American took a drag of his cigarette and placed it on the edge of an ashtray. A waiter approached and they ordered two black coffees. “Now what are you guys planning to do about Perkins?”

  “The Old Man thinks we ought to take it easy at first. Just feed out a little dirt to the newspapers. Let the civil service and the City do the rest, for the time being.”

  “What dirt you got on him?”

  “That’s the problem. There’s nothing on our files. We were hoping you might have something.”

  “Nope. He’s clean at our end too. I had the boys at Langley run him through the computer last night. Clean as a whistle.”

  “Should have more to go on when he starts naming ministers and camp followers,” said Fiennes.

  “We’ll run ’em all through the computer and anything we get we’ll pass over to you.”

  “Better be discreet. No point in going through the usual channels or we’ll have DI6 whining to be let in on the act.”

  “Anything we get I’ll hand over personally to you.”

  The waiter came with the coffees and the bill. They drank in silence. Fiennes paid the bill with a pound note and some coins and got to his feet. “Keep in touch, Jim.”

  “Sure will.”

  *

  Perkins took the call from the President on the scrambled line in the Prime Minister’s study.

  “Harry.”

  “Mr President.”

  “Harry, I just wanted to congratulate you personally on your magnificent victory.”

  “Very generous of you, Mr President,” said Perkins, reflecting that a flair for hypocrisy was going to be one of the specifications of his new job.

  “Harry, we ought to get together just as soon as possible to iron out any little points of difference that may arise between your government and mine.”

  “Early days yet, Mr President. I’ve only been in this job three hours so far and as yet I don’t have a government.”

  “Of course, of course, Harry. What I had in mind was to send my Secretary of State, Marcus Morgan, over for a chat as soon as possible. Some time next week, perhaps?”

  “Okay by me.”

  “Fine, Harry, fine. I know how much you share my desire for world peace and I reckon we’re going to work together real well. Like you, I have spent my life fighting oppression and exploitation, so you see we got a lot in common.”

  Perkins listened patiently as the President elaborated on his lifelong crusade for freedom. The conversation, or rather monologue, was finally brought to a close with the President saying that he had to go because he was keeping ‘some general from Paraguay’ waiting outside the Oval Office.

  Scarcely had Perkins replaced the receiver when he was interrupted by a call from the private office to say that the Governor of the Bank of England was at hand.

  This was Perkins’ second conversation with the Governor that day. The first had taken place in the small hours of the morning – minutes after the outgoing government conceded defeat. Perkins had been in Sheffield town hall when he heard the news and immediately went in search of a telephone. Since the Mayor’s parlour was locked up and the Mayor nowhere to be found, Perkins had had to telephone the Bank of England from a coinbox next to the porter’s lodge. Having obtained the Governor’s home telephone number from an astonished night duty officer Perkins had proceeded to rouse the Governor from his bed and order him to reimpose exchange control instantly. By moving so swiftly he had hoped to mitigate the impact of his election on the delicate constitution of the foreign exchanges, but it was not to be.

  The Governor did not waste time on pleasantries. “Prime Minister, I have bad news.”

  “Surprise me, Governor.” Perkins was given to mild bouts of irony.

  “The pound has fallen four cents in as many hours. If it carries on like this, we’ll have a slide of catastrophic proportions on our hands.”

  “Who’s selling?”

  “Everybody’s selling. The Arabs, the Americans, the oil companies. Everybody.”

  “So what are you proposing?”

  “Prime Minister, it is my duty to tell you that the markets need reassuring. Frankly, they are worried that they are going to get a government of …” The Governor hesitated.

  “… extremists?” suggested Perkins.

  “Something like that.”

  “In other words,” Perkins was looking straight at the Governor, “you are asking me to let a crowd of speculators dictate who I should appoint to my Cabinet.”

  “Not exactly, no.”

  “What, then?”

  “Only that you take account of feeling in the City.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  “Prime Minister, I could not be responsible for the consequences.”

  “Now let’s get one thing straight.” Perkins spoke quietly, but firmly. “As long as you are Governor of the Bank of England you will be responsible for the consequences. You and your friends in the City may not have noticed, but there has been an election. My side has won and your side has lost. What’s the point in having general elections if, regardless of the outcome, a handful of speculators in the City of London and their friends abroad continue to call the shots?”

  The Governor was taken aback. Accustomed as he was to being the bearer of bad news to a succession of Prime Ministers, he was unused to plain speaking.

  Perkins, who had been seated next to the Governor in the semi-circle of armchairs at the end of the study, rose and went over to the windows. They overlooked St James’s Park and were half covered by green bullet-proof glass. With his back to the Governor, Perkins continued, “Perhaps you could tell me how much the Bank has spent defending sterling today?”

  “Nothing yet,” the Governor said, almost under his breath.

  “Nothing,” said Perkins.

  “Nothing,” repeated the Governor.

  “Why not?”

  “Prime Minister, I was advised …”

  “Don’t give me that crap.” Still Perkins did not raise his voice. “I’ll tell you why you haven’t intervened. Because you thought you’d give me a bit of a scare, didn’t you? ‘New Prime Minister with all sorts of crazy Socialist ideas. We’ll soon teach him a lesson.’ That’s what you thought, isn’t it? Let sterling slide for a few hours and then rush round to Downing Street with a list of demands in return for calling a halt.”

  Perkins turned to face the Governor. “Those days are over. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get back in your Rolls-Royce, return immediately to your office and start buying.
Fast. If the pound hasn’t gained two cents by close of business, I want your resignation.”

  With that Perkins strode over to the double doors and pulled them open, indicating the exit with a gesture of his left hand. The Governor, his face drained of colour, swept past and on to the landing. He went down the main staircase almost at a trot. Past the portraits of former Prime Ministers, through the entrance lobby with its bust of Disraeli and into the back of his green Rolls-Royce.

  By close of business sterling had recovered 2.16 cents against the dollar.

  5

  Fiennes was pouring himself a coffee from the office percolator when the telex machine in the far corner came to life. Coffee cup in hand he went and stood over the telex. It was the Downing Street press office with the details of Perkins’ Cabinet.

  As the machine tapped out the first name Fiennes gave a low whistle. The Lord President of the Council and Leader of the House was to be Jock Steeples. Steeples was a former East End docker and veteran left-winger. Despite his undoubted ability he had never been given office of any kind during his thirty years in Parliament, largely because DI5 had fingered him as a possible Communist agent. Steeples would be in charge of pushing the new government’s programme through Parliament.

  Next out of the machine was the new Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lawrence Wainwright. Wainwright was Oxford educated and had once been a merchant banker. Not an obvious choice for a left-wing government. Fiennes was pleasantly surprised. Maybe Perkins was going to play safe after all.

  Any illusions about Perkins being overcome by a sudden fit of moderation were, however, quickly dispelled by his choice of Home Secretary, Mrs Joan Cook. Mrs Cook was one of only a handful of women MPs, an honorary vice president of the National Council for Civil Liberties. She had campaigned for greater public control of the police and the intelligence services. DI5 also suspected she was a crypto Communist. Fiennes groaned.

  The Foreign Secretary, Tom Newsome, had been a Yorkshire schoolmaster. DI5 had a file an inch thick on him. In 1968 he had led the huge march to the American embassy in Grosvenor Square. He had been Chairman of the Chile Solidarity Campaign and led numerous deputations to the Foreign Office to protest against just about every military régime with which Britain traded.

  Fiennes placed his coffee cup on the windowsill and with unnecessary vigour ripped the first page of the telex from the machine.

  The Defence Secretary headed the second page. This was to be Jim Evans, a Welshman with a fine line in fiery rhetoric. Evans had been a ban-the-bomber since the early days of CND. By now Fiennes was beside himself. This was it. The revolution was unfolding before his very eyes.

  So it went on. Four pages of new appointments. Extremists almost to a man. The Northern Ireland Secretary was known to favour British withdrawal. The Minister of Agriculture was a former farm labourer.

  “This will send the pound through the floor,” said Fiennes half out loud as he tore the final sheet from the telex. He had to restrain himself from running as he went to tell Sir Peregrine the awful news.

  Sir Peregrine was composing a memorandum when Fiennes entered. He always composed in long hand, using a blue felt-tipped pen, and he did not like being interrupted. “Yes, Fiennes, what is it?” The irritation in his voice was barely concealed.

  “The new Cabinet, sir.”

  “Oh, yes; bad as we thought?”

  “Worse,” said Fiennes, handing over the sheaf of telex pages.

  There was a full minute’s silence as Sir Peregrine ran his eyes slowly down the list. When he looked up there was no hint of dismay in his voice. “Well, Fiennes, we’ve had a stroke of luck.”

  “Luck, sir?”

  “Wainwright, the new Chancellor. He’s on our payroll. We signed him up soon after he got into Parliament. He’s been reporting to us ever since.”

  With a flourish Sir Peregrine returned the telex pages to Fiennes and added, “Perkins has made his first mistake.”

  *

  Fred Thompson was already in bed at his flat in Camden Town when the phone rang. Putting on his dressing gown he stumbled into the living room.

  “Sorry to ring at this hour,” said a cheerful Yorkshire voice at the other end of the line.

  Suddenly Thompson was wide awake. “Harry, or should I say Prime Minister?”

  “Never mind about that, lad. Listen, I’ve got a job for you.” Perkins paused and then went on, “How would you like to work in my Private Office? I need someone to keep an eye on all these damn civil servants.”

  For a moment Thompson was stunned into silence. “Will you or won’t you?” said Perkins impatiently.

  “Of course, Harry, I’d be delighted. What do you want me to do?”

  “Just answer a few letters and generally keep your eyes open. I’ll tell you more when you start on Monday.”

  “Monday? But what about the Independent? I’ve got to give notice.”

  “I’ve already had a word with your editor. He says he’s been trying to get rid of you for years,” said Perkins drily.

  “What time on Monday?”

  “If you come to Downing Street at 8.30 in the morning we can have a cup of tea and I’ll show you what’s what.”

  “Okay, Harry,” said Thompson, who could think of nothing else to say, so overwhelmed was he by the dramatic change in his circumstances.

  “Right, lad, see you Monday.” And with that Perkins was gone, leaving Thompson still holding the receiver.

  Fred Thompson was one of those journalists who hover on the fringe of the big time, but never quite make it. He had started out on one of George Fison’s provincial papers and drifted in the general direction of Fleet Street via a publication called Municipal News which operated out of two rooms in Chancery Lane and which folded six months after he joined the staff. After a spot of freelancing, a euphemism for the dole, Thompson landed a poorly paid job with the Independent Socialist. It was the sort of journal that everyone had heard of, but nobody seemed to read. If long-serving members of its staff were to be believed, there was a time when the Independent had been required reading for every serious left-winger, but those days were long passed. By the time Thompson arrived it was tired and clapped out, snapping harmlessly at the ankles of the parliamentary establishment.

  His first encounter with Harry Perkins had been inauspicious. Perkins had telephoned to lambast the editor for transposing a paragraph in an article he had contributed the previous week on the steel industry. In the absence of the editor he lambasted Thompson instead. Next thing he knew Perkins had invited him for a drink at the House.

  It was a hot summer evening six months after Labour’s second successive election defeat and they sat on the terrace supping half pints of Guinness. Perkins did most of the talking. He was seething with anger at the way the election had been handled. “Serves us bloody right.” His brow glistened in the last rays of the sun. “We offer the electorate a choice between two Tory parties and they choose the real one. Now we find ourselves back in the wilderness for five years and the country’s going down the plughole.” For a moment they sat in silence looking out over the river. A police launch sped past throwing a cloud of spray in its wake. Perkins rested a hand lightly on Thompson’s arm in the manner of someone about to impart a great secret. “You mark my words, lad, come the conference heads will roll.”

  Six days later Perkins announced his intention to challenge the leader. The media had a minor bout of hysteria. Most of his colleagues were mildly amused. For some reason Perkins had never been taken seriously by the clever young lawyers and polytechnic lecturers who seemed to account for about half the Parliamentary Labour Party. In any case, it was whispered that the trade union leaders had met the Shadow Cabinet and agreed to back the status quo.

  But if there had been a stitch-up, it came unstitched. Looking back it was amazing that no one saw it coming. Not until the Transport and General Workers’ Union delegation met on the morning of the election and threw out the recommendation of the
ir executive, was it clear something was up. In the hours that followed, at delegation meetings in clubs and hotel suites all over Blackpool, the block votes began to shift. By evening Perkins was home and dry. In the elections for the National Executive Committee which followed, the left cleaned up. Heads had rolled, just as Perkins had predicted. From that day on he was taken very seriously indeed.

  Fred Thompson was the only journalist to tip a victory for Perkins. Week after week the Independent Socialist had carried articles documenting the rising tide of anger in the constituencies and at the lower levels of the trade unions. Since no one took the Independent seriously, it was not really surprising that Thompson’s articles had gone unnoticed. Unnoticed, that is, by all save Perkins.

  For some time before he became Labour leader, Perkins had been employing Thompson for occasional bits of research. It was not uncommon for Thompson to spend a morning burrowing in the House of Commons library for figures on West German coal subsidies or imports of special steels from Scandinavia. More and more they would be seen talking earnestly over a cup of coffee in one of the Commons cafeterias or poring together over notes in one of the dark recesses of the Committee Room corridor. After he became leader Perkins gradually came to look more and more to Thompson as his eyes and ears in the party. It was not uncommon, after a ten o’clock division, to see Thompson making his way across the Star Chamber court to the leader of the opposition’s rooms for a late-night whisky and a chat about the way the world turned round. So frequent a visitor had Thompson become that the policemen on duty in the lobbies no longer bothered to ask for his pass.

  The arrangement was never formalised but by and by it came to be taken for granted that if you wanted access to Harry Perkins, Fred Thompson was the man to speak to. This being so, it should have come as no surprise to Thompson to be awakened from his bed in the early hours by a telephone call from the Prime Minister with an offer of a job in Downing Street. Nonetheless Thompson was surprised and trembled slightly as he replaced the receiver and went back to bed. It was nearly dawn by the time he fell asleep.