by Tom Black
Agent Lavender
The Flight of Harold Wilson
Tom Black and Jack Tindale
Sea Lion Press
The following text is a work of fiction. It derives its characters and some of its events from reality, but being as it is a work of counterfactual history, diverges from them substantially. The authors wish to make clear that they do not believe Harold Wilson, nor any members of the British government, to have been agents of the KGB, and nor do they intend to suggest that the behaviour of any real world figures in this work has been written with anything other than a compelling story in mind.
The main essentials of a successful Prime Minister
are sleep and a sense of history.
Harold Wilson
Events in the prologue are a fictionalisation of a real episode. All events from chapter one onwards are entirely fictional.
Prologue
Wednesday 8th May 1968 – 11:00pm
In almost all moments of great importance in modern British history, someone has been pouring the drinks.
On this occasion, that individual was Sir Solly Zuckerman. It was a task he objected to, quite understandably. For the Chief Scientific Adviser to Her Majesty’s Government to be decanting whisky, the occasion and company would both have to be fairly stellar.
In fairness, they were. Sir Cecil King, the most powerful newspaper baron since Beaverbrook, had brought with him Hugh Cudlipp, a Welshman who had turned King’s Daily Mirror into the best-selling paper in the land. Lord Mountbatten of Burma, in whose drawing room the group were now sat, removed any doubts about the seriousness of the enterprise simply by his presence. Zuckerman handed him his whisky first.
“Thank you, Sir Solly,” Mountbatten said, “sorry to have imposed like this.”
“Not at all,” lied Zuckerman, “at this hour we cannot expect our host to wait on us like a servant.”
“I remain grateful,” said Mountbatten with a warm smile, before gesturing to Cecil King, who he had interrupted. “Please continue.’
“As I was saying, the Wilson project is getting out of control,” King said, “and those around him are just as bad. The entire government is tainted by his repeated failures on inflation, productivity, and our international position.”
“Our international position?”
“Our closest ally is bleeding itself white in the name of democracy in South East Asia, while our Prime Minister is fiddling while Saigon burns.”
Cudlipp, who had until now remained completely still, grimaced. Mountbatten allowed himself a frown.
“The Vietnam issue is divisive, Sir Cecil, and the British people – whose sons would be doing the fighting – do not appear to share your position,” he said.
“I do not dispute that, but it tells us something about Wilson’s priorities.”
Mountbatten was now barely masking his irritation as he took a sip of his whisky. “Does it?”
“He is blinkered. Simultaneously erratic and inactive. Devaluation mortally wounded him, but the man just won’t realise it himself. You must have a view on all this.”
“I don’t talk about my politics with individuals I do not consider close friends, Sir Cecil. Forgive me.”
“I take no offence, sir. But, if I may, there is then the worrying question of where Mr Wilson’s loyalties truly lie.”
Mountbatten was certain that if he had dropped a pin, everyone in the room would have heard it. He broke the silence.
“Please explain what you mean by that.”
“That there are concerns in Whitehall and around the nation that Mr Wilson is in fact in the pay of a foreign power. There is a degree of–”
Mountbatten held up a hand to interrupt. “Nonsense and rumour. Scaremongering. I have heard this before, Sir Cecil.”
King leant forward, his eyes shining with excitement now. “But consider it again, in light of all the evidence. Here we have a man who is supremely intelligent, we must accept that. The finest First Class degree in Oxford’s history. A skilled politician who manoeuvred his way into the Labour leadership, and then Downing Street, through an expert understanding of the media. This man, this apparent titan of British politics, then leads a government that appears unable to tie its own shoelaces. What, then, might we conclude?”
“That government is more difficult than giving a television interview,” said Mountbatten drily.
“But when combined with what we know of his travels to Russia, the various friendships he has had throughout his life, his politics, his associations with known communists as a student…”
“When combined with all that, it remains a mish-mash of circumstantial evidence and conjecture, Sir Cecil. Forgive me, but it is getting quite late.”
King leapt to his feet, and for a moment Mountbatten wondered if he was about to come under attack. “You are right. It is. The reason myself and Mr Cudlipp asked to meet you this evening, and invited Mr Zuckerman–”
Mountbatten glanced over at Zuckerman, who declined to point out that he was in fact ‘Sir Solly’.
“The reason,” King was saying, “was because we believe that a crisis is just around the corner. Blood will soon be shed on the streets of the United Kingdom, and the centre will not hold. A new administration will need to be formed, one made up of apolitical figures. Captains of industry, leaders in science – this, Mr Zuckerman, is where you come in – and proven military officers. Purely temporarily, of course. Lord Mountbatten, it is my belief that you, as a renowned leader of men, would be uniquely well-placed to be the titular head of this administration.”
Zuckerman had managed so far to avoid choking on his whisky. He failed to do so now. As he struggled to regain his composure, King stood powerfully before a thoughtful Mountbatten.
Mountbatten turned to look at Solly. “What is your opinion of this?”
“My opinion?”
“Your opinion.”
Solly was surprised, and took a moment to reply.
“Well… it’s just not on, is it? You are talking about machine gun nests on every street corner. In effect, this is treason.”
“Thank you,” Mountbatten replied.
“I would like to leave now, sir.”
“Of course. Thank you for coming.”
Without another word, Zuckerman rose from his seat and left the room. Mountbatten detected an unpleasant change in the room’s mood. King’s eyes had begun to dart from him, to Cudlipp, to the door, and everywhere in between.
“Lord Mountbatten,” he began, but Mountbatten interrupted him.
“Having given this some thought, I can come to no other conclusion than that which Sir Solly has drawn. I will play no part in this scheme, and would strongly discourage you to abandon any plans you may have to bring it about.”
King fumed. He rose violently from his chair, and gestured aggressively with his finger.
“You are turning your back on your country, sir.”
Mountbatten, a man who did not take kindly to being pointed at, remained calm.
“Fuck off, Cecil.”
PART ONE
The Flight of Harold Wilson
Chapter one
Wednesday 29th October 1975 – 1:00am
‘Termination’ was not particularly subtle, as British euphemisms went. As Agent Temple entered the service stairwell of the Hotel Stadt Berlin, he mused that the country responsible for ‘closed for the duration’ and ‘powdering one’s nose’ could have drummed up a less explicit shorthand for cold-blooded murder.
Temple was an old hand, but had always felt there was something a bit sordid about actively killing someone on the other sid
e. Turncoats did not weigh on his conscience. Double agents, or local players duping both sides, they were easily dispatched without a moment’s thought. But ‘terminating’ chaps engaged in the careful waltz of international intrigue just as honestly as the next man? Temple supposed it had to be done, but it didn’t sit well with him.
The target this evening – or by now, this morning – was a KGB figure, so the briefing said. He was, apparently, simply too good at his job to be left alive. Neither side of the Cold War wanted to set a precedent for massacring each other’s best and brightest; but sometimes an agent achieved that unenviable accolade of transcending his job and becoming an ‘asset’. And assets, be they radio transmitters or living, breathing men, sometimes needed to be eliminated.
Temple reached the door. Taking a moment to recall the exact layout of the hotel room, he retrieved the key (it had been left for him under a newspaper in the panorama restaurant, where he had enjoyed a light supper three hours ago) and placed it in the lock. The sounds coming from the other side of the door suggested Temple would be entering in a moment of some intimacy. From experience, Temple knew that would either simplify or complicate matters.
It always happened very quickly. This time was no exception. As expected, a woman’s scream was heard first, and the bitch actually put herself between Temple and the target. This was another scenario which did not trouble Agent Temple.
Two shots to the torso felled the woman, by which time the target had cleared the bed and got halfway across the room. Temple fired twice more, the gun bucking in his hand.
And that was that. Another job done, and no further instructions. Just turn around, take the stairs, tip the doorman and hail a cab. Textbook, just like the rest of the operation. Temple turned and stepped towards the door, but something stopped him.
The target had not tried to defend himself. Even in the brief window of opportunity that his late mistress had granted him, he had not chosen to launch himself at Temple, nor make his way to the window. Instead, he had lunged for his own attaché case, opened it up, and headed not for safety, but for the fireplace. His naked body lay still now, glowing a light orange thanks to the flames. Temple knew his orders were to get in and get out. But the attaché case was there, and the fellow’s first thought had placed its destruction ahead of saving his own life. What was the harm in picking it up?
It wasn’t particularly heavy. But Temple had a feeling that whatever it was, it was important.
“We must stop meeting like this.”
Sir Michael Hanley and Sir Maurice Oldfield met often enough for Sir Michael to have become thoroughly tired of that joke. It was almost enough to make him miss the days when MI5 and MI6 barely spoke to one another at all and operated simply in a spirit of mutual contempt. As Big Ben distantly struck seven, Sir Michael, the Director-General of MI5, stirred his tea and tapped his spoon against the side of the cup. Sir Maurice, the Chief of MI6, sat down.
“Good morning, Maurice. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I’ll skip to business, if you don’t mind. Rather a long one today.”
Sir Michael sipped his tea. “Of course.”
“It’s about something one of my people in East Berlin picked up. It could be nothing.”
“I doubt you would have wanted to meet before breakfast if it were nothing.”
Sir Maurice reached into his briefcase. “You can judge for yourself. I have it here.”
“What is it?”
“It seems to be a summary of Soviet ‘agents of influence’ in the West, in the aftermath of Guillaume’s exposure in Germany. Part of what makes it so interesting is that it’s in the Soviets’ most complex cipher, which of course makes it much harder to glean exactly what’s going on, but…” Sir Maurice trailed off.
“Well?” said Sir Michael, sipping his tea.
“One thing that our boys very swiftly picked up on was a lot of information coming from… well.”
“Coming from where?”
“From us.”
Sir Michael’s eyes narrowed. “We both know there’s still the odd mole here and there, Maurice. In Five and in Six. If you’ve got something about one of ours...”
“I would share it with you so it could be dealt with internally. I know you would do me the same courtesy. But that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then why are you here?”
There was a long silence before Sir Maurice spoke again. He seemed to be considering how best to phrase whatever he was going to say.
“I fear the inescapable conclusion from this document – unless it’s a ruse, which we can’t rule out – is someone outside the Services themselves.”
“What makes you think that?”
“The positioning of this agent. According to this document – again, if we’re deciphering it correctly – he’s on a level higher than anyone else. Higher than Guillaume, and he was an aide to the West German Chancellor, for God’s sake!”
“What are you saying?”
Sir Maurice leant forward and spoke as slowly and as clearly as possible.
“I’m asking if you still have that file on ‘Norman John Worthington’.”
Sir Michael turned white.
Thirty hours later, the senior staff of the Security Service, along with one middle-ranking officer, were assembled in the Director-General’s office. In a break with protocol, the middle-ranking officer was dominating the conversation.
“I have been saying this for years,” Peter Wright was saying fiercely, “and none of you listened. Not one.”
“We should not get ahead of ourselves,” Sir Michael said, raising a hand, “the Worthington file is not, frankly, good intelligence. It is full of speculation and, as far as I can tell, no small number of paranoid ramblings. Yesterday’s findings in Berlin may well suggest some of the allegations are correct, but at present we have no reason to believe that this is any more than coincidence. Worthington—”
“Wilson.”
There was an icy silence. Until Wright’s flat interjection, nobody, not even the Director-General, had yet said ‘Worthington’s’ real name out loud. Now, it was as if a seal had been broken.
“Yes,” Sir Michael said slowly, “but the question is how to proceed, from an operational standpoint.”
“The obvious answer is to send that bobby outside Number 10 upstairs, get the cuffs on the bastard and let us take it from there.”
“Peter, we cannot arrest him. Not without more evidence. If you are wrong, it would destroy the Service.”
“If I am right, he will destroy the country.”
“Pithy. But my point stands.”
Wright scowled and paced. “Isn’t this what the civil service are for? Couldn’t the men in grey suits sit him down in a room and explain the game is up?”
“And what would that prove? If he’s innocent, he will protest and demand a purge of the Service. If he is guilty, he will protest even louder and we will be unable to tell the difference.”
The tall, gaunt head of interrogations gave a polite cough. Sir Michael shot him a look.
“Whatever you are picturing in your mind, Hopkins, cease at once.”
Hopkins dutifully cast his eyes to the floor.
“There is another way,” Wright said.
“And what is that?”
“Smoke him out.”
“You have a way with words, Peter, but you are trying my patience. What do we actually do?”
“I am glad you asked.”
Peter Wright reached into his shoulderbag and retrieved a folder marked ‘Plan B’.
Four hundred miles away, and fifteen hours later, a Viennese barman jogged into the street, waving a briefcase.
“Mein herr!” he shouted after the Englishman who had left in a hurry, “you forgot your–”
“I will take it to him,” said a tall man in a dark coat. His accent was not English. Before the barman could object, the man’s firm grip had taken the case from him, and the Englishman, his case, a
nd its new owner were gone as quickly as they had appeared. The barman could have sworn the second man went in the opposite direction to the first.
Within ninety minutes, a man in shirtsleeves was shouting orders into a telephone. He was stood in the basement of a building in Vienna that purported to be a wholesalers for haberdashery, though nobody had successfully carried out a transaction there in living memory. It was, of course, the headquarters of the Austrian station of the KGB, and unbeknownst to either side of the Cold War, was located only five hundred yards away from the Viennese home of the French DSGE. At this moment, it was early afternoon, and the head of the station was sweating. The man in the dark coat was stood at his side, as well as a wiry man in glasses and a knitted pullover.
“Are you sure of what it says?” barked the shirtsleeved man, known to everyone in the building only as ‘K’. He was covering the receiver now.
“I am as sure as can be,” said his chief codebreaker, the man in the pullover, “they are about to expose a high ranking agent operating in England.”
K frowned and listened to see if he had been connected to Moscow yet. He had not. The man in the dark coat, Pyotr, spoke up.
“It is irregular for an English agent to simply leave papers behind in a café. We cannot be sure it is not a trick.”
K hushed Pyotr with some urgency. Moscow was on the line. Stating the required code-phrases to be connected directly to Lubyanka, he gripped the received tightly as he began to speak as calmly and as clearly as he could.
Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov had his hands clasped together, and his face in a pondering expression. Like most things the head of the KGB did, it was at least partly an act, but he was very definitely deep in thought.
“And you are certain?” he asked.
“As certain as it is possible to be.”
All the same, the chain-smoking undersecretary could not look more nervous. Andropov mused for a few moments.
