Labour remain 17 seats short of a majority and a new election looms.
Lord North Street, London: Midnight, 4 March 1974
Harold Wilson may have returned to Downing Street as prime minister, but they weren’t going to live there. Mary didn’t like the flat at 10 Downing Street. Her favourite house had been the one in Hampstead Garden Suburb, but Lord North Street was infinitely preferable to the Downing Street goldfish bowl. They had both decided to remain in their Lord North Street house.
Wilson poured himself another whisky and stared into the darkness. It wasn’t an election that he had particularly wanted to win – and in a way he hadn’t won it. Labour had, in fact, won fewer votes than the Tories, but they had taken more seats, 301 against 297. After the votes had been counted, there were four days of tense uncertainty as Heath wooed the Liberals to form a coalition. In the end, the coalition attempt collapsed and, at four o’clock that afternoon, the Prime Minister’s Principal Private Secretary had telephoned to say that Heath was on his way to the Palace. Three hours later, Wilson kissed Her Majesty’s hands and once again became prime minister.
Wilson was feeling very tired. He would now have to deal with the almost impossible challenge of heading a minority government that could fall at any time – and the spark and energy was no longer there. He knew he wasn’t a charismatic figure like Kennedy or Churchill, but he also knew that he was a decent human being with considerable political and technocratic skills. He was a realist, but one with a vision. But some parts of that vision he couldn’t express in public, because he would have been derided. He hated war and violence. His refusal to send British troops to Vietnam was personal as well as political. Likewise, and somewhat shamefully, he demurred from sending British troops to oust Ian Smith’s racist regime from Rhodesia. But, and this was a worrying question, would the generals have obeyed his orders if he had sent them to Rhodesia?
There were other things too that Wilson couldn’t admit, but these views would have opened him to attack from the left of his party. He aligned himself with the socialist wing of the Labour Party, but he was a pragmatist rather than a socialist. Just as part of him was a pacifist, another part of him – and a very Northern part of him – believed in trade, enterprise and hard work. And that coincided with his pacifist instincts. Trading partners don’t go to war with each other. The trade links he tried to forge with the Soviet Union were not just to secure valuable materials for the UK from the vastness of Russia, but also to turn Soviet missiles into consumer goods – and bring peace. How silly and ludicrous were the lies smearing him as an undercover Communist agent.
But Wilson was well aware that his most dangerous enemies were on the Right. A book that he had written in 1953, The War on World Poverty: An Appeal to the Conscience of Mankind, had raised a lot of hackles on the British Right and also in Washington. The book was a radical anti-imperialist manifesto and blueprint for first-world aid to developing countries. World poverty was never going to be solved unless the Soviet Union became part of the international financial community. Washington hated that – and also his plea that ‘peaceful co-existence had to be turned into peace.’ That wasn’t on the Pentagon’s agenda. But Washington’s agendas had to be ignored. It was no secret that Wilson wanted Britain to break away from the USA’s political and economic stranglehold. And unfreezing the Cold War and creating economic relationships with the East Bloc was the best way to do so. No wonder the Americans had wooed the slavishly pro-US Gaitskell and tried to split the Labour Party.
For a fleeting moment Wilson felt his old energy come back. He remembered one of his finest hours, his ‘White Hot Heat of Technology’ speech in 1963. His vision of Britain was that of a scientifically and technologically advanced society earning her living through trade, but with a strong welfare safety net that would protect the vulnerable, the elderly and the ill. People are happiest and work hardest when they don’t have to worry. And education – it must be available to all. If you don’t educate your people, ‘the white hot heat’ will fizzle out.
Wilson poured another whisky and gave himself the luxury of reading the sports pages of yesterday’s Sunday papers. He knew that his beloved Huddersfield Town had drawn with Halifax Town – as if they were copying Labour’s election result – and seemed to be heading for a mid-table finish.
The Prime Minister peered into the darkness of his dim midnight study. He tried to discern the future, but there was only uncertainty and confusion. Price rises looked out of control, the balance of trade deficit was massive and inflation continued to rise. He knew that he would soon have to call another election – if possible, in the autumn. And then what?
He tried to soothe his jabbing worries by imagining a summer’s day in the Isles of Scilly. They had both fallen in love with the damp gentle warmth of the islands. So far and so different from his native Yorkshire. But the islands, the remotest southwestern traces of Britain’s archipelago, had become part of him. And one day he would be buried there.
Back to harsh reality. The smears and lies were taking their toll. One thought from the past came back to haunt him. So long ago. It had been a beautiful early spring day when they lived in Southway in the Hampstead Garden Suburb. A young SIS officer named Catesby, pretending to be an FO diplomat, had turned up out of the blue and warned him:
There’s one thing that you should never forget. The Americans will never forgive you for selling those Rolls-Royce jet engines to the Soviet Union.
They were out to get him – and it wasn’t just the Americans.
A Regimental Officers’ Mess, London: June, 1974
Once again, it was an informal meeting of a select group of officers. But this time, the general had asked officers to contribute to the drinks bill.
‘As most of you know,’ said the general, ‘we will soon be deploying once again to Heathrow.’
‘Another threat from terrorists wielding SAM-7s?’ said a cheeky major.
‘No, this time our terrorist chums have been absolutely no help at all.’
‘Maybe we frightened them off with our deployment in January,’ said a colonel of infantry.
The general looked at the colonel and tried to discern whether he was being ironic or just stupid.
‘Perhaps,’ said the general, ‘but since then the Secret Intelligence Service has cast doubts upon our own intelligence gathering methods.’
The colonel with the perfect triangle of a moustache spoke out. ‘Why don’t you call SIS by their proper name: the London Office of the KGB?’
The general smiled. ‘I think their bosses in Moscow must be concerned about the thinness of their cover story – I am joking, of course. May we get back to Heathrow?’
The colonel nodded.
‘In the future, our deployments to Heathrow – and other facilities – will be referred to as “exercises”. We need no longer justify our presence as a response to a specific threat. One can truthfully say that the threat is constant, both from abroad – and from within. We will be carrying out such exercises on a fairly regular basis – perhaps once every two months.’
‘As a press officer,’ said the cheeky major, ‘how should I respond to questions?’
‘You will be issued a briefing paper – and asked to make your own contributions and alterations. Crisp professionalism is the key.’ The general paused and looked at the others. All the officers were fine soldiers, but not all of them were the brightest pebbles on the beach. ‘Listen carefully. This is our official Heathrow line. In normal times, the policing of Heathrow and other airports is the responsibility of the British Airports Authority Constabulary – the BAAC. Please do not confuse them with the airline with similar initials. The BAAC was not set up to deal with the sort of threat that we are now facing and it has, therefore, to receive assistance from elsewhere. For a number of years, armed members of the Metropolitan Police have assisted the BAAC. There is now an ongoing contingency plan for the Metropolitan Police to obtain the assistance of the military.’
A colonel from an elite reconnaissance unit weighed in. ‘What if the police decide that they don’t need our help and refuse to request it?’
The general frowned. ‘We’ll deal with that problem when it arises.’
10 Downing Street: June, 1974
The Prime Minister and his closest advisors were gathered in his study overlooking Horse Guards Parade. His political secretary seemed particularly troubled and annoyed. She looked around at those present.
‘Was,’ she said, ‘no one informed in advance that the exercise at Heathrow was going to take place?’
Her question was met by silence and shaking heads.
‘Do you suppose,’ said the Prime Minister, ‘that the troops at Heathrow could be used in a different way? Could that lot be turned against the government?’
The Political Secretary stared out the window and pointed. ‘There. I reckon they’ll put the guns in Horse Guards.
The Prime Minister wanted to say more, but didn’t want to sound paranoid. He had recently asked MI5 to show him his own secret file. They had replied that no such file existed. There were, however, rumours that Conservative ministers had been allowed to see secret files on Labour shadow ministers. But now, having been returned in power, Labour ministers were not allowed to see their own files.
There was another reason why Wilson was reluctant to say more. He feared that Number 10 had been bugged. But if he complained or even expressed suspicions of bugging, the Tory right wing and others would accuse him of undermining confidence in the Security Service. They got you both ways.
Suffolk: July, 1974
Over much of Britain it was an unsettled month with Atlantic frontal systems bringing in rain and strong winds, but in Suffolk it was drier than normal for July. Catesby had a week’s leave and was trying to leave London and his job as far behind as possible. Each day began with a cycle ride to Walberswick and a long swim in the sea. In the afternoons he worked in the garden – and then cycled to the Waveney for a fresh water swim. In the evenings, he either cooked for himself or friends or went to the pub.
At the end of Catesby’s blissful week, his stepson turned up with his Malawian girlfriend for the weekend. As a favour, the stepson had gone to the Pimlico flat and picked up Catesby’s post. Catesby wished that he hadn’t.
‘There were,’ said the stepson, ‘several letters with Moscow postmarks, but I thought they might be urgent, so I dropped them off at MI5 instead.’
‘I don’t work for MI5; your mum does. I work for the Foreign Office.’
‘Sure, Will.’
‘In any case, the KGB never send me letters. They pay my salary directly into a numbered Swiss bank account.’
The banter was a private family joke that had been going on ever since the twins twigged their parents did something in the spook world. Outside the home, the children were totally discreet and never talked about their parents or their jobs. The Malawian girlfriend, who was in the garden gathering vegetables for a meal that she and his stepson were going to cook, really did think that Catesby was a middle-ranking civil servant crunching numbers at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office.
Catesby looked at the post. It was all ordinary stuff: two postcards from friends on holiday, a building society statement and some insurance stuff. But there was one personal letter. Perhaps it was best that the stepson had picked up the post. He recognised the handwriting and the Northern Ireland postmark. It wasn’t a letter that Catesby would have liked lying about for a week on his doormat in London while the Security Service were merrily burgling and bugging across the capital. Catesby surreptitiously slipped the letter into his pocket.
‘Something interesting?’ said the stepson.
‘It’s something you didn’t see.’
‘Sorry, Will. Maybe I shouldn’t have gone around, but Mum also wanted to check the locks and the burglar alarm. She says there are a lot of problems with break-ins when people are away.’
‘She went with you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did she look at the letter?’
‘No, I just gathered up the post as we were leaving.’
‘I don’t have any secrets from your mother – personal or professional. I just don’t want to give her more worries than she already has.’
‘You’re both giving through hell, aren’t you?’
Catesby nodded and gave his stepson a hug. It wasn’t a usual gesture for Catesby’s generation – but Catesby wasn’t a usual product of his generation.
He waited until his stepson and his girlfriend had gone to bed before he looked at the letter. The thing that bothered Catesby most about Captain Zero was the risks he was taking.
Clockwork Orange is a work of Evil Genius! Being in this place is like doing a post-grad degree in dirty tricks psy-op. The mood music of the moment is how to do an effective smear campaign. One ingredient, but by no means an essential one, is a kernel of truth. If you can be bothered to find a kernel of truth, your next job is to attach as many lies to that kernel as you can. One does not simply have a friend from Eastern Europe; one has a ‘mysterious Eastern European benefactor bankrolling your political agenda’. Likewise, no one simply goes to a party. One goes to a drug-fuelled orgy involving unspeakable vices in a mysterious block of luxury flats. And there are no Russians who are not KGB colonels. And, of course, they are no homosexuals who have not been blackmailed or honey-trapped by KGB colonels into turning over state secrets.
Speaking of which, this leads us to ‘the double bubble’. This is a technique not intended to spread lies, but to bury uncomfortable truths. Say, for example, that a journalist has uncovered a lead linking BOSS, the South African secret service, to a British service – and that both services are trying to smear a British politician. And the story about BOSS interfering in Britain is painfully true and needs to be quashed. What you do is get a handsome young man or woman to go to that journalist and tell him that he or she was hired by someone with a South African accent to take part in an orgy with a certain politician that involved ‘unspeakable vices’ and filming. Once the story has been published, the pretty young thing goes to another newspaper and admits that he or she made up the whole thing because the investigative journalist paid for the story. Hey presto, the journalist’s reputation is wrecked and the true part of the story is also rubbished. You get rid of the truth by contaminating it with lies. Show me a hero and I’ll show you a secret vice.
Catesby folded up the letter for filing – under ‘Zero, Captain’. It was midnight on a summer Friday, too late to hear the nightingales and he was already back at work.
Agency News: 11 October 1974
Labour Win Slim Majority
The Labour Party led by Harold Wilson has won a small majority of three seats. The result was far from the decisive landslide that Wilson pulled off in 1966, but it ends the uncertainty of a hung parliament.
Wilson acknowledges that high inflation remains a problem, but ending the miners’ strike has returned some stability.
Wilson’s narrow victory means that Edward Heath’s days as Conservative Party leader may be numbered. After suffering three defeats in four elections, the Tories will be looking for a change at the top.
In addition to inflation, the key challenges for Wilson’s incoming government will be industrial relations and dealing with the cycle of violence in Northern Ireland.
Mayfair, London: 11 October 1974
‘Tactically,’ said the colonel staring at the amber liquor in his Waterford cut-crystal glass, ‘this is a good result.’
‘It means the end of useless Heath,’ said the peer.
‘And his replacement by a strong leader,’ said Brian the journalist, ‘who will put the unions in their place and get rid of the Reds in parliament and Whitehall.’
‘What do you think, JJ?’ said the colonel. ‘Did FCS do a good job?’
‘As you know, we didn’t let FCS off the lead. In fact, there’s a lot of CIA info and disinfo on Wilson that
we didn’t use – but we have kept it in reserve for a better time. The last thing we wanted was a successful press and media psy-op campaign that put Heath back in power. As it is, we’ve got a weakened and worried Wilson back in Downing Street with a slim hold on power.’
‘But the Army aren’t happy,’ said the general.
‘Good,’ said the colonel.
‘Another four or five years of Wilson,’ said the banker, ‘will totally wreck the economy.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the peer, ‘he won’t last half that long. ‘My astrologer says he’s doomed to fall in the Year of the Dragon.’
‘You mean,’ laughed the banker, ‘the Chinese guy who gives you acupuncture for your sciatica.’
‘Yes, he’s excellent. You ought to try him.’
‘You don’t,’ said the colonel, ‘need an astrologer to tell you that Wilson and his Communist cell are doomed.’ The colonel’s eyes twinkled. ‘I give him one year.’
JJ gave the colonel a knowing glance. ‘It might coincide with events in Australia.’
Brian nodded approval. ‘Whitlam is another Red who ought to bite the dust.’
‘Who knows,’ said the colonel, ‘it could be a practice run. We tested our nuclear weapons in Australia. We can now use Oz as testing ground to see how to explode Wilson.’
‘I understand,’ said the peer, ‘that the Heathrow exercises are going to become a regular occurrence.’
‘I think,’ said the general, ‘that we have to get the public used to seeing military deployments.’
‘Our soldiers,’ said JJ, ‘are a much finer example of British manhood than the sort of scum we see in our universities. It’s utterly ridiculous that the taxpayer pays their tuition fees and contributes towards their living expenses. We’re subsidising universities to indoctrinate our youth into becoming Marxist revolutionaries.’
A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) Page 30
