by Tom Black
“Hello, Dickie.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Don’t. How are you?”
“I’m well. And you?”
“Fine,” she replied, sounding bored, “do you know what’s going on? Nobody is really telling me anything.”
“I’m afraid I only know what everybody knows. Although, come to think of it, two gentlemen visited me this morning and seemed very interested in telling me a lot more than that.” He thought back to the McWhirters, then continued.
“I’ve been asked to join the government. Minister for Information.”
“Oh, I think that would be splendid,” came the reply.
“Really?”
“But of course. You were born for public service.”
Mountbatten smirked. “I believe the Americans have a saying. ‘Look who’s talking.’”
She tittered, then regained her composure. “I do think you should do it.”
“I think so too, in my heart of hearts. You know about what happened in 1968, don’t you? I was… approached. They could have caught him. I was a fool. I didn’t think it possible.”
“I don’t think anyone did, Dickie. I certainly didn’t. He is one of my favourites. Well, he was.”
“Was?”
“Well, now that I know he probably spent every one of our meetings fantasising about putting a bullet in my head in some godawful cellar somewhere, I’m less inclined to think kindly of him.”
“A fair point, Your Majesty.”
“I told you to stop that,” came the exasperated reply, followed by a sigh. “You’d better be off. Get a cab to Whitehall and sort this whole mess out for me, will you?”
Mountbatten stood to attention, even though no-one could see him.
“As ever, I serve the Crown and my Sovereign.”
“Oh, you’re a pompous ass.”
There was a click as the Queen hung up, and Louis – Dickie to his friends, among them the Queen of England – chuckled as he reached for his hat.
“Visitor for you.”
Tony Benn’s cell door opened with a creak, the light blinding him for a moment. Through the haze, he thought for one horrible moment that Mrs Thatcher had come along to deal with him personally. As his eyes recovered, the altogether more welcoming figure of his wife appeared.
“They got you then, darling?”
The former Secretary of State for Energy gave a dark smile at that, which faded as he noticed the two Special Branch officers standing outside the hallway, clearly listening to every word.
“I’m sure that my innocence in all of this will be proven in the next few days.” Benn eventually responded, “there’s clearly not much to talk about until then.”
He shunted over slightly as Caroline sat beside him on the bench.
“The kids hope that you are well,” she said, “we’re all safe, although Stephen hates having to ask for permission every time he wants to leave the house.”
Benn smiled – more warmly this time – at the stability that family seemed to be affording him.
“Tom Driberg sends his regards as well,” she continued, passing over a copy of the Guardian, “also, I rather figured that you would fancy reading some news, rather than straining your ears towards the bakelite antique in the hallway.”
The pointed way in which she spoke to him forced Benn to take more attention than he normally would have done at half-past eight on a Saturday morning.
“Thanks Caroline – I’ll certainly... mull it over, if you haven’t already done the same.”
That was subtle enough.
“You’ve had other things on your mind. Anyway, hopefully I’ll be out of here at the end of the day.”
“I wouldn’t count on it, Mr Benn,” the other guard said, leading Caroline back outside, “I hope she was worth your only phone call.”
“You know,” Benn said as the couple shared an infinitesimally brief moment of eye contact, “I rather think that she was.”
“...while Mr Donoughue, Baroness Falkender and Mr Haines are all still being questioned, Mrs Wilson was released from custody an hour ago. The police are obviously treating her delicately but it’s quite clear she knows nothing about all this. All the same, she’s in no hurry to go anywhere and is under police guard.”
“Thank you, Sir Michael,” said Mrs Thatcher, turning to make sure the rest of her cabinet echoed her thanks, “although, with respect, I hope this is the last time you are required to brief us on the security situation in person. The Home Secretary now being in place, I am sure he will be able to oversee the operation from a more... proper standpoint.”
Sir Michael bristled inwardly and suppressed a dirty look.
“Of course, Prime Minister. I just believed—”
“I know, Sir Michael, and your assistance is greatly appreciated. We will catch Mr Wilson, we will put him on trial and we will move forward from this crisis, and it will be thanks in no small part to you.”
Airey Neave leant back in his chair and gave a satisfied nod. Margaret seemed to be back on form. Ian Gilmour, the new Home Secretary, looked rather daunted at the prospect of organising the manhunt for Wilson, but Keith Joseph, his eyes shining, had never looked happier than he had when Margaret told the room he would be Chancellor. That, of course, was the post Geoffrey had been shadowing, and his appointment as Attorney General had surprised everyone and didn’t seem to be exciting him very much. Airey looked up as the door was opened and Sir John Hunt entered.
“My apologies, Prime Minister, but the Minister for Information has arrived.”
Thatcher had no time to voice the question that rose to her lips. There was an intake of breath from some quarters of the room as Lord Mountbatten glided effortlessly through the open door.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he began, “I’m very sorry I’m so late.”
“Lord Mountbatten!” Thatcher said, momentarily stunned.
“Prime Minister. My apologies again, but my thanks for the invitation. I came as soon as I received the telegram.”
“The… telegram. Yes.” Margaret Thatcher was now looking directly at the inscrutable face of Sir Michael Hanley, while Sir John Hunt was hiding directly behind Sir Michael Hanley.
Apparently oblivious, Mountbatten scanned the room for a seat and sat down between Whitelaw and Prior before looking quizzically around the table.
“No Ted?” he asked. There was an uncomfortable silence. Thatcher broke it.
“I have decided, in the interests of unity, to initially invite only those figures who we can be certain will focus on the immediate crisis at hand.”
That was a bit strong. Airey could see eyebrows rising around the room. Jim Prior spoke.
“Prime Minister – and may I say how much pleasure I take in calling you that – have you determined a timetable for the election?”
“There isn’t going to be an election just yet, Jim.”
Geoffrey Howe visibly gagged. Thatcher continued.
“In time, of course, a mandate will be sought. But at present, the Labour Party is under de facto house arrest and in no position to campaign or seek a mandate of its own. Paradoxically, it would be undemocratic to hold an election.”
“They’re a bunch of traitors, why shouldn’t we take the opportunity to destroy them electorally?” snarled Joseph.
“The Prime Minister is right,” Mountbatten said with a commanding tone, “now is not the time to divide the nation further. But, if I may, I would like to register my concern that the former Prime Minister – I mean Mr Heath, not Mr Wilson – is not being given enough credit here. He could—”
“Thank you, Lord Mountbatten,” cut in Thatcher with a hint of ice, “your objection is noted.”
Sir John cleared his throat and attempted to casually walk out from behind the Director-General of MI5.
“Might I enquire as to the immediate priority, Prime Minister?”
“I will be telephoning Moscow this afternoon, within the hour, to be exact. NATO Co
mmand has been watching troop movements and we have no reason to believe that an attack is imminent. MI6 believe the Soviets are more frightened of us than we are of them – but none of that is certain until I speak to Mr Brezhnev. After that, in the early evening, I will be making another television broadcast.”
Sir Michael coughed. Sir John nodded.
“Prime Minister,” Sir John began, with all the tact and grace a civil servant could muster, “given the demands on your attention that the current crisis is making, and will continue to make, perhaps public information would best be conveyed by another. The Minister for Information springs to mind as an obvious candidate.”
Airey swore you could cut the air in the room with a knife. Thatcher turned to face Sir John and opened her mouth to say something that may have ended matters then and there. But fate intervened, in the form of Geoffrey Howe.
“I have to say I agree, Sir John.”
Thatcher shot him her best ‘et tu, Brute?’ look, but the newly emboldened Attorney General continued.
“I mean no disrespect to the Prime Minister, and she will know that, but the public need a reassuring, confident and familiar face to lead them at this time. If we had been elected, with a public mandate, then perhaps this would not be an issue, but...”
“And let’s face it, you do have some presentation issues, Margaret,” added John Biffen. Airey wanted to step in, but Gordon Reece and his image consultants had been right about Margaret’s hats. And sometimes – sometimes – her voice.
Thatcher finally got a word in.
“I understand these concerns, really, I do, but—”
“Why not ask the Minister for Information to make regular television and radio broadcasts on the situation as it unfolds?” asked Sir John, his heart pounding hard against his chest.
All eyes turned to Mountbatten, who spoke with a delicate coolness.
“I will serve this government in whatever capacity I am asked to.”
The Prime Minister usually knew when to fall onto the right side of an argument.
“I think that would be an excellent idea.”
Biffen nodded.
“You can keep us all in line here, Margaret, and run the country – God knows you know what needs to be done – but the Lord here can tell people what’s going on in a way that doesn’t make them want to build an Anderson Shelter.”
“I assume you are not suggesting,” Thatcher thundered, “that I should not represent my government in the public eye.”
“Of course not,” came the reply, from Keith Joseph this time, “there’s nothing wrong with interviews, statements et cetera – I don’t think anyone here wants to gag you, Margaret,” he shot Howe a look, “it’s just that until things have calmed down and you’re in a better position to speak to the country, Lord Mountbatten is the perfect mouthpiece for the Transitional Authority.”
“Honestly?” Thatcher said.
“I am afraid so, Margaret,” Norman St John-Stevas piped up from the far end of the table, “really, there is no alternative.”
There was another long silence. Airey felt Margaret’s eyes searching for him, but he could not bring himself to look at her. He had nothing to say.
“Very well then,” Thatcher said at last, “Lord Mountbatten shall make broadcasts on behalf of the government, provided he is happy to do so.”
Mountbatten nodded his consent.
“For what it’s worth, Margaret,” John Biffen said, “there’s no-one I’d want on the phone to Moscow more than you. And if the unions give us trouble, you’ll show them no quarter. It’s just a presentation issue.”
“I understand, John, thank you,” Thatcher said through pursed lips.
Sir John interjected.
“Shall I inform the BBC that they should expect Lord Mountbatten tonight, Prime Minister?”
“Yes,” replied Thatcher, sounding somewhat cool, “yes, I suppose you’d better.”
Sir John nodded, turned and exited the cabinet room, Sir Michael following him out. As they walked briskly down the corridor, Sir John was sure that the Director of MI5 was humming the theme tune from The Dam Busters.
In a phone box on Kingsway, Caroline Benn finished dialling. She looked ahead, noting the two burly men who had followed her through Covent Garden.
In an office on the other side of London, a phone rang, for the third time in five minutes. Exasperated, its owner pushed his glasses up onto his head and pressed the receiver to his ear.
“World In Action. This is Chris Mullin.”
Chapter seven
Saturday 1st November 1975 – 5:45pm
By a combination of copper wiring, dampness and constantly delayed maintenance, Downing Street’s telephones had not enjoyed a reputation for reliability since the Second World War. With yet another click and whir, Mrs Thatcher sighed to herself. Moving the receiver down her head, she glanced over at the other members of the kitchen cabinet. Sir John, once again notable by his very presence, stood directly at her side, an arm away from the telephone. Next to him was Lord Mountbatten, attempting to feign boredom, with Airey Neave sat beside him, biting his lower lip.
The final member of the gathering, a flustered young translator from the Foreign Office, sat beside Margaret with his pen in hand. Looking at him out of the corner of her eye, the new Prime Minister noticed that his forehead was already wet with sweat, and his brow furrowed with concentration. Between promotion and starting a nuclear war, it was obvious that it had been a difficult job to take on a weekend off.
Mrs Thatcher took a deep breath as the final connection was made and an overworked member of the Kremlin’s telephone exchange was sent running to interrupt the General Secretary’s dinner.
Like the rest of the Soviet population, Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev didn’t know much about Margaret Hilda Thatcher. He vaguely remembered reading a paragraph about her shortly after she had become the Leader of Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition, but aside from the novelty of being a woman, any initial interest in her election had rapidly dissipated, meaning that it took a good thirty seconds of staring in a bemused fashion at his turbot before the name registered.
Five minutes later, having summoned a flustered young translator from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, he was if anything, more bemused.
“So, there has been a coup, Andrei Andreyevich?” he said to the jet-lagged Minister.
“Technically, I suppose it could be classed as one,” Gromyko said, yawning.
Brezhnev put the receiver to his ear briefly before rapidly putting it down. The Prime Minister was still babbling away. He looked over at the interpreter, who was tapping his temple in an unworkable attempt to stave off a headache. He glanced at the transcript of the Thatcher woman’s monologue. It seemed to be making as little sense as ever.
“...notwithstanding the KGB’s persistent attempts to infiltrate the very heart of our government...”
“Is she still talking?” Gromyko asked, growing increasingly panicked as he realised the possible repercussions of the conversation.
The General Secretary nodded, growing fatigued. It probably hadn’t been the best idea to take the valium before eating, he thought. As he did so, the translator finally stopped writing and passed the transcript over the table.
“Mrs Snatcher,” Brezhnev opened, speaking as slowly as he could manage for the translator at the other end of the line, “It is as surprising to me as it is to you that your Mr Wilson is apparently in our employ.”
Several time zones away, the new Prime Minister’s eyes narrowed in incongruity.
“Indeed, if even half of what you have told me is true, then such an operation must have begun under Marshal Stalin.”
Poring over the transcript of the two leaders’ conversation so far, Gromyko reached for his pocket in order to mop his brow. As his eyes travelled over a particularly fantastical claim, he found himself staring at the garish colour of his handkerchief. Suddenly, he wondered why the middle-ranking aide from the Ministry had been s
o keen for him to wear it in New York.
Another exchange began, in which the General Secretary’s translator decided to omit the reference to his senility and the Prime Minister’s scribe decided to avoid mentioning the assumption that she was menopausal.
“Whilst major intelligence gatherings are obviously presented to myself and the rest of the Central Committee as they are directed, the way in which such information is gathered is rarely discussed.”
Gromyko made a mental note to check the reliability of that assertion. The General Secretary went on, once again formally stressing that, of course, the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had no intelligence agents operating in any western nations, but, in the highly unlikely event that certain unauthorised figures were conducting espionage for the USSR, there was no evidence in the Kremlin that Mr Wilson was one such figure.
“Regardless,” Brezhnev continued, “this obviously presents numerous problems for the future of relations between our two countries. I have discussed the matter with the Foreign Ministry and I assure you that Mr Wilson has made no contact with any of our consulates or embassies. Even if he had done so, we would find it difficult to offer him asylum.”
“Secretary Brezhnev, if you would just let me continue...”
Secretary Brezhnev decided to just let her continue.
Now almost completely dry after his bath, Harold Wilson was putting on one of the cardigans Jacob had left for him in the guest room when his host knocked on the door.
“I hope they’re to your satisfaction,” Jacob said as he entered, gesturing to the cardigans.
“They’re handsome. Thanks, Jake.”
“I see you’ve chosen the one I call ‘Christmas 1973’. A gift from Enid.”
“She has excellent taste.”
“And a wicked sense of humour. This thicker one was ‘In Celebration Of The Three Day Week’. Anyway, I thought you might fancy a wee dram.”
Jacob produced a tray from out in the hall, on which were two tumblers of whisky.
“Ah, many thanks,” said Harold, smiling and reaching out to take one. As his hand closed around the cool glass, something stirred in the recesses of his mind. As Jacob looked slightly queerly at him, Harold once again found his thoughts transported to the past...
