by Tom Black
“These files. How did they come into the possession of Vienna station?”
“They were acquired by a field agent tailing a known British operative.”
“How ‘known’?”
The undersecretary rifled through his notes. “He… he was first identified four months ago.”
“There is little doubt, then. Or if there is, the risk if we are wrong is still too great.”
“How should we proceed?”
Behind his glasses, the eyes of the Commissar for State Security hardened.
“Get him out. Now.”
As aides rushed from the room, wheels began to turn.
“The damn thing is still on the blink!”
Joe Haines, Press Secretary to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, bashed the top of the television with a snarl. Already midnight, it was still a matter of confusion to him why the Prime Minister had suddenly decided to take an interest in an urgent statement from the Soviet Foreign Minister to the United Nations. Harold Wilson, a man whose views of international affairs were as parochial for all that they were Hobbesian, had blundered up from dinner half an hour ago and demanded that a television be brought into his office. Since then, both Haines and Marcia had been trying to find clear signal within the rambling Georgian terrace as their paymaster paced backwards and forwards in front of the window.
It had been an unusual day for the Downing Street Private Office. Wilson, never a man prone to distraction, had been off-keel for most of the afternoon. He had barely spoken at Cabinet, seemingly content for Healey and Foot to vent their spleens at one another, leaving Callaghan as an unwilling mediator. Most of the meeting had seen the Prime Minister slumped unhappily in his chair, puffing away on the ubiquitous pipe, while he heard that sterling had fallen another quarter per-cent against the Deutschmark. Wilson had only stirred only twice during the entire two-hour discussion, once to talk against Benn’s latest demands to deal with the crisis at Leyland, the other to give Mason some vague praise over Northern Ireland.
Outside immediate family, Haines and Marcia were the people who probably knew Harold Wilson’s mannerisms the best, yet a murmured conversation between the two had left both nonplussed as to what had sapped his energy so much over the past two weeks. It was clear to both of them that the Prime Minister had already made a decision to stand down prior to the next election. A tasteful moment to exit was required, but the Silver Jubilee was still almost two years away, and neither of them were confident that he could make even to Christmas.
“Got it!”
With the Baroness Falkender almost leaning out into the freezing November air, the signal finally cleared. Wilson’s reaction was immediate, rushing to an armchair and almost collapsing into it. As far as Haines could make out, he was devoting almost an obscene amount of attention to Gromyko’s speech. Why? It wasn’t as though there were a shortage of matters requiring his attention. The Bank of England had released yet another warning of the financial situation and with the Department of Employment’s latest warnings regarding the newest setback for the Social Contract, all seemed to point towards fiscal disaster. Meanwhile, the furore over the IRA hit on Hugh Fraser, which had spectacularly failed to kill the MP for Stafford and Stone whilst blowing his neighbour, one of the world’s leading cancer specialists, to smithereens, had contributed to a sense of the entire capital being under siege. As the weak light of the reading lamp illuminated Wilson’s yellowing skin and drooping jowls, both staffers shared a glance that was tinged with emotion. Being Prime Minister at a time of national crisis such as this would break any man, and while Harold had led Labour from the front since Hugh’s death, it was clear that he was fading away.
“...demand clarification from both President Ford and acting-Head of State Carlos to ensure that the democratic will of the Spanish people will be fully recognised...”
Haines sometimes wondered if there was a sweepstakes at the UN to see who could provide the most mismatched translator. Andrei Gromyko, the second or third most important man in the Kremlin, appeared to be miming to a high-pitched woman’s Maritime Canadian accent. Wilson was now leaning forwards, his jaundiced nose almost touching the screen. The acrid tobacco smoke was obscuring Haines’ vision, but it was clear that the Prime Minister was less interested in the rhetoric than in the picture. Despite everything, Wilson’s eyes had not lost any of their characteristic sparkle as they focused intently on the figure on the podium below the watchful eyes of the UN Secretary General. Generalissimo Franco was still dead, but Harold Wilson, it appeared, was very much still alive.
Marcia and Haines shared another slightly concerned glance as Gromyko continued to pontificate about the situation in Madrid. The Baroness Falkender looked again at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece that had belonged to one of the Pitts as it chimed the quarter-hour. Whilst Wilson’s attention to matters in the Mediterranean was certainly a welcome change, the stock market seemed to represent a more pressing concern than package holidays to Torremolinos. She sighed again, clearly hoping that the Belarusian would just get on to whatever the Prime Minister was waiting for so she could get an early night. As Haines moved to sit down, Wilson suddenly spoke, not taking his eyes off the screen.
“Marcia, what colour would you say that Mr Gromyko’s napkin is?”
Squirming slightly at Wilson’s terminal insistence on refraining from any vaguely aristocratic term, Williams squinted at the screen.
“I can’t really tell from this distance, it looks like... lilac.”
It was indeed a strange flash of colour to see on the Politburo member’s otherwise utilitarian suit. The Private Secretary was not an expert on Russian tailoring, but the rather garish pocket-square sat rather tastelessly against the grey lapels and white shirt in such a way that seemed as if it was out to deliberately clash with the monochrome outfit.
“Could quite well be for a national festival or something? I suppose that could be why he’s now waving it about like that.”
Wilson stared at the television for a few moments more, then swallowed hard. Putting the pipe to one side, he stood up and headed back towards the desk and started gathering some papers. He appeared to have made a decision of some kind.
He looked up at them both and spoke politely. “Could you get my overnight bag from the apartment, Marcia? Also, Joe, get the car ready.”
Both staffers jumped at the sudden change in tone and again shared a concerned glance at each other. Leaving Downing Street in the dead of night was not unheard of; but most late meetings, for obvious reasons, tended to involve others coming to Wilson. Haines made to ask a question, but quickly changed his mind when Marcia sharply narrowed her eyes. Joe opened the door for the two of them to leave the office; they walked nonplussed down the corridor, each mulling over the events of the past half-hour. Neither spoke.
Harold Wilson smiled humourlessly to himself as his Press and Personal Secretaries left the room. He surveyed his Kingdom for the last time, taking care to note the damp creeping up around the skirting board and the mousetrap left over in the corner.
Was this it? The ‘urgent briefing’ carried out by Gromyko himself matched the pre-agreed signal. The colour of the pocket-square was unarguable. There was some ‘certainty measure’ that meant he could listen to the dawn Radio Moscow bulletin and see if there was a specific reference to tractor production or something, but he couldn’t quite remember it now and besides, how often did the Soviet foreign minister give an unscheduled speech to the UN while waving a garish lavender hankie around? Yes, there was no getting away from it.
In spite of the rot, both literal and otherwise, he’d miss Downing Street. He’d miss Mary and the children, too, but there was always a possibility of them joining him if they wanted to. What mattered now was moving quickly and in a manner that did not arouse suspicion. A car to the coast, a rendezvous at the agreed co-ordinates, and onwards to… somewhere. All would become clear soon enough, he supposed as he
toasted a bust of David Lloyd George with his final whisky of the day.
Minutes later, Marcia Williams found the Prime Minister waiting in the downstairs service corridor. Handing him his bag, she nodded as he repeated his gratitude.
“Joe says the car is ready and waiting. Will you be wanting any further luggage packed?”
“No, I’m travelling light.”
“Right.”
The Prime Minister shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet, as he only ever seemed to do in private. “Well, goodbye.”
“Yes! Sorry. I’ll let you get on,” Williams said, “incidentally, I’m sure you’ve told the drivers and everyone, but where are you off to?”
“I’m just going to the East, Marcia.”
“Norfolk?”
“Something like that.”
And then he was gone.
Chapter two
Saturday 1st November 1975 – 2:00am
Harold Wilson looked over at Nicholas Hampton, the man who two hours previously had been standing outside Number 10. In the back of the P5, it was difficult not to make eye contact with the man on occasion. Glancing forward again, Harold looked over the shoulder of Reg, the driver unlucky enough to have been on duty when the Prime Minister had decided he fancied a late night jaunt to Norwich. Harold had frowned when the car pulled up. Reg couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old. He was sure he could see a whitehead starting to emerge just above the man’s collar.
Turning to look out of the window, he cast his eyes not on the few cars still on the road at this time but on the street lights whisking by above them. They couldn’t be far now. There’d been a bit of a hoo-ha when he’d insisted he didn’t need a police escort, and he came within striking distance of talking Hampton out of coming with him, but the idea of sending the PM out in the middle of the night without any sort of bodyguard was simply not going to fly. Harold chewed the inside of his cheek fiercely, and his hands instinctively reached for his pipe and tobacco.
As the key components were successfully extracted from his pockets, his mind wandered, and he felt his eyes closing as if by themselves...
“...it’s an excellent paper, just a little too long,” George Cole said, reclining in his chair.
Hal smiled politely, his eyes flicking over to the scene playing out in the Quad, with the Stalinists having their usual shouting match with the Anarchists. It was such a waste of effort, he thought. So much division when, collectively, the left had the power to control the whole establishment.
“Anyway, no question of you getting that First,” Cole said, bringing Hal back to the matter of academics. Easing himself out from behind the desk, the Reader in Economic History poured two generous glasses of port. “Now, I wonder if you had any time to consider the other matter we discussed yesterday.”
“‘The other matter’?”
Cole smiled broadly. “You don’t need to play dumb, Hal. There’s no-one here but us. Chin-chin.”
Cole raised his glass of port and gave Harold a nod before taking a long sip. Harold, nervous but fundamentally excited, did the same. Cole spoke again.
“You know what I am referring to, Hal, and I’d like very much to discuss it further.”
“The Russians?” said Harold incredulously, “I assumed you were joking!”
“Oh, I was. It’s a very useful way of maintaining my innocence should I misjudge the discretion of any of the young men I’ve approached.”
“You’ve approached others?”
“Try not to sound too put out, dear boy. You’re not the only young man among these Dreaming Spires who’s destined for greatness.”
Harold held up a hand.
“Alright, alright. Just... explain this to me again. This is real?”
“If you want it to be real, it is. If not, I must ask you to leave this room, never discuss this with me again, and remember you have absolutely no evidence this conversation ever took place.”
That was an easy enough decision to make.
“I want it to be real. How can I not? Braver men than me are dying in the Spanish sun, laying their lives down against fascism. I... am not strong enough. I am not made for war.”
“Then what are you made for, Harold?” said Cole quietly.
“Lying. And being a bloody genius.”
“That’s the spirit,” grinned Cole.
“...we’re here, Prime Minister.”
Harold opened his eyes with a start and realised Reg had turned around and was addressing him directly. Squinting, Harold looked out of the window and saw signs of a country lane and a dilapidated cottage nearby. It was pitch black outside the car now and Hampton was outside stretching his legs, a look of resigned bewilderment on his face. Harold realised he didn’t have very much time, and sprang to life.
“Thank you, Reg,” he began, leaning forward to the driver, “But that will be all for tonight. You can leave me here, and take Constable Hampton with you.”
Reg looked puzzled.
“I don’t know about that, sir, I can’t go back to London and say I’ve left you in the middle of nowhere – what is this address, anyway, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Harold opened his door, exasperated, and got out of the car. He half-jogged round to the driver’s window and spoke again.
“Look, Reg, there’s no time to explain. You too, Nick. You can head back to London for the night. I’m meeting an old friend here and he doesn’t like pomp and circumstance. I’ll be quite alright, you can come and get me in the morning.”
Hampton began to shake his head and Harold’s eyes darted around the bushes near the road. The policeman spoke.
“Prime Minister, I’m afraid that under no circumstances could I countenance anything like that. We’ll happily accompany you to your friend’s home and wait outside if needs be, but even then I’d need to make sure you were entering a safe environment—”
“Fifty pounds!” Harold barked, “Each!” His fingers fumbled through his pockets, finding his wallet. It contained a great deal more cash than usual. He produced a wad of notes.
“Sir, there’s really—”
“A hundred each! There’s two hundred there, divide it amongst yourselves and I shan’t say a word. Just leave me here. Now!” he pleaded, the final word coming out more as a desperate hiss. Hampton frowned and Reg leant out of the car window to look at the bundle of money.
“I don’t know, Mr Wilson,” Reg began, “this all seems very—”
There was a sound of tinkling glass followed by the sickening splintering of bone as Reg suddenly slumped out of the open window. Harold cursed and threw himself to the ground while Hampton span around, helplessly fumbling for his Browning. Then another soft thud sent him to the ground, a neat hole in his temple. Harold whimpered and covered his face with his hands, trying not to think about what he’d just witnessed.
He heard a low whistle from the bushes. Taking a deep breath, he slowly but surely rose to his knees, then to his feet, putting his hands high in the air. A torch beam cut through the night and dazzled him for a moment. A strange, heavily accented voice came from its source.
“Lavenders blue, dilly dilly. Lavenders green.”
Harold swallowed and covered his eyes with his hands before replying in a soft, broken voice.
“When I am king, dilly dilly, red will be queen.”
The torchlight dipped down to his feet, allowing him to focus on the young, wiry man holding it as he emerged from the bush.
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Lavender. You can call us Lily and Tulip.”
Harold blinked.
“Us?”
“Yes, I am Tulip and he is Lily,” said a voice from directly behind him. Harold jumped with fright and span round to find a huge bear of a man with a full beard and thick woollen hat grinning at him.
“I see,” began Harold, “You’ll forgive me if I don’t particularly want to shake hands at this juncture.”
‘Tulip’ frowned.
“The
deaths were unfortunate, but Lily has always had a, what is the expression? Itchy trigger finger? Is this what you say?”
“In my whole life, I have never once said that,” replied the Prime Minister curtly. Tulip gave a polite smile.
“There was nothing else to do, Lavender. We should have been on our way to the cove thirty minutes ago. Your men were wasting time.”
Harold held his tongue. As valuable an asset as he was, he didn’t quite feel immune from a sock to the jaw that would come his way if he pushed Tulip any further. The man named Lily joined them in the middle of the road and picked up poor Hampton’s body. Tulip barked an order.
“Put him in that ditch. They will be looking for us anyway, but we will be long gone by the time they find him.”
Lily complied and did the same with Reg’s body after extracting it from the car. Harold breathed heavily and pulled out a cigar – no need to pretend he preferred his pipe any more, he supposed – and offered the box to Tulip. The Russian laughed.
“No thank you, comrade. I do not blame you, though – you will not be able to smoke for quite some time once we are in transit.”
So it was to be a submarine, Harold thought. Spectacular. He’d had his fill of banging his head on low doorframes and the ubiquitous smell of oil from visits to Gosport and Barrow-in-Furness. He smiled politely at Tulip and lit his cigar, before gesturing up the road.
“Shall we go, then?” he remarked a little too casually given the situation, “We have approximately one hour before they wonder why Hampton hasn’t made contact.”
“Da,” replied Tulip simply, turning and pointing in the same direction Harold was, “we have about four kilometres to cover, and then it is a relatively easy journey down a cliff. I hope you are feeling energetic.”
As the man laughed and began walking, beckoning Lily as he did, Harold didn’t let them see the grimace on his face. He hadn’t felt this energetic in years.
“And he just took off?” Sir John Hunt said, straining to stay awake. It was already half past two in the morning, and the Cabinet Secretary was not yet used to being roused at this hour.
