by Tom Black
“You’re right there,” he said, trying to think, “where and when’s the next possible pick-up? Do you remember?”
Stonehouse closed his eyes.
“Stay with me, John, come on!” hissed Harold, grabbing him by the shoulders and doing a good job of looking like he wasn’t acting entirely selfishly. He needed an extraction point and John was his last chance at finding one. Stonehouse’s eyes opened again, and he spoke between coughs.
“G… Great Yarmouth. Sunday the sixteenth. That’s the only one I can… recall. I remember because I spent a weekend there once. It was fucking awful.”
Before he could continue his complaint, Stonehouse realised he was alone. To his credit, Wilson looked conflicted as he ran away. It took almost two minutes for him to make his way to the cliffside path before falling into the midnight gloom.
There were shouts behind him as the first of the police officers reached the back garden. John Stonehouse limped towards the cliff edge as the torchlight flared around him. In the lulls between demands that he surrender, the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs merged into a single hum.
John Stonehouse glanced out to sea.
“May as well do it properly this time,” he muttered, pitching himself forwards.
Chapter thirteen
Wednesday 12th November 1975 – 11:20pm (Moscow Standard Time)
The Deputy Chairman of the Ukrainian Council of Ministers had been in this office before. For, Vladimir Semichastny mused to himself, he had not always been the Deputy Chairman of the Ukrainian Council of Ministers. Allowing his eyes to roam around the room, he ran a hand through his greying hair and settled in the chair.
“I am on the wrong side of this desk,” he muttered to himself, absently. Recent events in London had recalled him from Kiev, and now he awaited the arrival of the man who had succeeded him as Commissar for State Security eight years ago.
“Those were the days,” he murmured again, thinking back to one particular meeting in the middle of winter. When had it been? Vladimir tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling as he tried to remember. Furrowing his brow, he tried to recall the exact date. He couldn’t. But, he remembered, it had been early in October 1964.
What had he said? After eleven years in shoes only previously filled by the Man of Steel, it was no surprise Nikita Sergeyevich had looked exhausted. Vladimir had gone to the briefing already angry with ‘reform’ and everything associated with it. Still, he told himself now, he hadn’t been completely in agreement with Leonid Ilyich. If there was hope of reasoning with Khrushchev, the man who still commanded popular authority and international credibility might be allowed to stay in post. And Brezhnev’s plan to assassinate him was beyond the pale – the one thing Vladimir would always applaud Nikita Sergeyevich for was an end to all that bloodthirsty chaos. No. The KGB would support the move against Khrushchev only if the situation absolutely called for it.
Smiling absently at his memories, Vladimir straightened his tie. Rising to help himself to the bottle of vodka he knew was kept in a discreet filing cabinet, Vladimir thought he heard Khrushchev’s voice – and his own – echoing toward him from the past...
“...Nikita Sergeyevich—”
“Absolutely no fucking way!” bellowed the First Secretary, hurling the papers across the room. Vladimir rubbed his eyes in exasperation.
“First Secretary, this is the single biggest opportunity we have had since 1945—”
“It is the single biggest risk of annihilation since 1962!” spat Khrushchev, “they will find him out! They will arrest him! And then the bombers will fly for Moscow…”
The Commissar for State Security sighed and bent down to pick up the nearest pile of papers. Taking in quite how many were strewn across the room, he felt a flash of anger rise within him. To hell with it, he thought, straightening up and looking Khrushchev straight in the eye.
“Thirty years of work, Comrade First Secretary Nikita Sergeyevich!” he cried, “and you would throw it away just when it is about to become useful!”
The First Secretary leant forward, placing his hands flat on his desk. It was his preferred intimidating pose. Vladimir had to admit he could see why. Khrushchev licked his lips slightly before speaking.
“You will bring about the end of everything else we have worked for, everything the workers and peasants have slaved for, Vladimir. Everything—”
“First Secretary—”
Khrushchev waved him away and continued speaking, walking around the desk until they were face to face.
“Everything that we fought and died for. We smashed the fascists, but we suffered more than any people ever should. Now, our land of Red Plenty is but a generation away. And you cannot possibly say with a straight face that all that will not end in nuclear fire if you continue with this. When he is caught—”
“He won’t be caught,” said Vladimir, without thinking. Khrushchev was caught off-guard. He stepped back, raising his eyebrows in mock confusion.
“And why, Comrade, is that?”
“Because he’s good. Look at his file, First Secretary! Look at all he has done for us so far!” Vladimir mined the papers in his hand for photographs, thrusting an image of blueprints for the De Havilland Comet at Khrushchev. Then he tossed picture after picture onto the desk, pointing out the photographed documents, the reams of blackmail material and, finally, as it landed with a satisfying slap on the table, the extensive profile of Aneurin Bevan that had ensured Lavender’s position. Vladimir paused for effect, then went on.
“There is not so much as a whisper against him in London. And in two weeks, he will become Prime Minister.”
Khrushchev was breathing heavily. He looked up from the photographs.
“As if you could predict that,” he scoffed, “this whole operation sounds like it was cooked up last night. To manipulate the world’s oldest democracy in such a way that our agent ends up at its helm? You expect me to believe your agency is capable of that now, let alone in the 1930s? As I recall, it was mainly concerned with torturing friends of mine to death.”
Vladimir ignored the jibe, as well as the massive hypocrisy. Clearing his throat, he spoke slowly and clearly – he could sense Khrushchev had softened, at least to the point where he was no longer demanding he leave the room.
“Of course, Comrade First Secretary, such a prediction would have been impossible. Lavender is but one of many candidates who were approached as part of the operation. There are many who have a similar profile who are now, we believe, dormant. They took jobs elsewhere, or left public life – or simply died. The original main subject of the operation, Agent Petunia, died in 1952. You met him once, I believe – he was ambassador here at the start of the Great Patriotic War.”
Khrushchev only grunted. Vladimir tried to maintain the initiative.
“Do you see now, Comrade First Secretary? Lavender is but one move away from placing the entire British establishment in checkmate. Think of what it would mean for our interests if he is allowed to stay there!”
The First Secretary closed his eyes and lowered his head. He was thinking. Vladimir simply stared. After an eternity, Khrushchev looked up at him and leant in, very close indeed.
“Shut it down. A friend in the British government is useful. A known quantity can have its uses. But this? This is a risk.”
After an infinitesimal glance to the red telephone on the desk, Khrushchev’s eyes flickered back to Vladimir’s.
“I am done taking risks.”
Vladimir had realised a situation was hopeless a hundred times before. Hanging up on operational commanders in Yugoslavia as he heard the sound of Tito’s men knocking on the door, realising a Frenchman in custody really was not going to break under torture, and more recently, accepting that the Dnepropetrovsk Fertiliser Plant was not going to be able to exceed production targets unless it broke the laws of physics. With an audible sigh, he bowed his head and turned to leave.
“Comrade Commissar,” Khrushchev said
with an upwards lilt in his voice. Vladimir turned in the doorway.
“Yes?” he said quietly.
“Make sure the whole programme is shut down today. When I return from my holiday, I expect a full report on the dismantling of Operation Horticulture.”
“I understand, First Secretary. Enjoy Pitsunda.”
Khrushchev frowned.
“I don’t recall telling you where I would – ah. I see.”
Vladimir forced a smile.
“My apologies, First Secretary. But it is rather my job to know such things.”
Vladimir walked out and closed the door behind him. Halfway down the stairs, he realised that situation was, for once, not hopeless after all. His pace quickened, and he made the journey to the Lubyanka Building in silence, speaking only to his secretary when he asked for a call to be connected. When he was put through, he spoke again.
“Leonid Ilyich. Yes, it’s me. You have my support...”
Vladimir Semichastny became aware of a hand on his shoulder.
“Comrade, you have my apologies for my lateness. I hope you have not been here too long?”
Vladimir blinked, then looked down at his hand. He was still in his office, but he was no longer holding the telephone. He was holding a glass of vodka. With a soft groan, he realised he had been daydreaming. It was 1975, not 1964. November, not October. And though he was stood in the office of the Commissar for State Security, his name was no longer on the door.
“Now, Comrade,” said Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, pouring himself a glass of vodka and raising it, “I want you to tell me everything you can about how Lavender was handled during your tenure.”
“With pleasure, Comrade,” replied Vladimir, entirely honestly. He clinked Andropov’s glass with a smile. Endless discussions over when to replace Kiev’s MTV-82s could go hang. For now, at least, he was back.
One thousand five hundred miles (and three time zones) to the West, Enoch Powell was trying to enjoy a pint of Greenall’s. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was coming up to half past eight.
If he had been a less philosophical person Enoch Powell would have placed the public house as the fulcrum of English nationhood, rather than Thomas More. Nevertheless, there was a certain aura within the Marquis of Westminster that hinted at a gradual shift in opinions amongst the clientele.
Pimlico had never been the most downtrodden of areas, but the Marquis had always been more representative of the general public than the rest of the local hostelries. From his annex in the snug – which, frankly, was the only place where he could avoid being asked to launch a coup every five minutes – Enoch cast an eye and ear around the midweek huddle, a mixture of office workers from Millbank Tower, clerks from the House and a handful of trade unionists. In many respects, it was the most egalitarian place in the entire city.
Even more surprisingly, the furious arguments of the previous ten days had turned into covert whispering campaigns from one side of the political spectrum, with smug smiles of self-satisfaction coming from the other. The Member for South Down was not someone who especially enjoyed Schadenfreude, but even he had permitted himself a slight upturn of the mouth when Malcolm at the Post Office had leaned over to him at the counter and muttered, “well, I suppose an innocent man wouldn’t have run away for quite as long as this, would he?”
Not that the Trotskyites gave a damn about what the UCW had to say, Enoch noted, as one of the more active campaigners from SOAS, a lecturer who he vaguely knew from a couple of streets away, suddenly started blaring, “Well obviously the CIA have fucking murdered him, and this is all just a cover-up!”
There had been similar outbursts in the House, although they tended to be treated with slightly more derision in the Tea Room than in the Stranger’s Bar, although even the Member for Liverpool Walton was starting to sound as though he was going through the debating motions, rather than actually believing in them. In any case, the majority of the Chamber had seemed more bothered about having to submit themselves to the whims of a retired Admiral than they did about being overly concerned with the motives of the man at the centre of the largest manhunt in British history.
It would have been an exaggeration to say that the Palace was in a state of siege, but more a feeling of hopeless irrelevance. Earl Mountbatten had held a majority in the House of Commons for all of twenty-four hours, but it had been whittled away as the last of the Labour MPs had returned to London. The lack of any meaningful legislation beyond the “Everything Turns Out For The Best (Let’s Hope) Act, 1975” had not led to many dissenters beyond the faction of the Labour Party who had always wanted the country to be run from Leningrad, but as the rubbish had continued to be piled high in the streets – it was only going to be a matter of time before some blowhard on the Conservative benches tabled the “Something (Has To Be Done) Bill,” “Social Reform (Retrospective Abolition of Homosexuality) Act” and another handful of articles that would probably be based on similar ones that had been passed by a certain Mittel-European country that had been having a couple of problems with some irritating minority groups several decades ago.
It was also so troublesome, Powell thought to himself, as he walked over for another pint of bitter. There was no doubting the fact that the fall of Wilson presented some positive chances for ending the consensual support for managed decline that had persisted since 1945. As he silently ordered another drink, he noticed that the Trotskyite was still yelling at the stony-faced landlord, his eyes bulging.
“...and as for that fascist bastard over there,” he ranted, gesturing towards Parliament, “I would go so far as to suggest that this has all been concocted by the establishment since the war. Obviously he enjoyed being a Viceroy!”
Enoch Powell said nothing as the usual torrent of self-righteous bile was flung impersonally in his direction. Sometimes, it was probably for the best when people felt that Members of Parliament actually had power.
Lord Mountbatten, First Lord of the Treasury, sipped his fourth coffee as daintily as he could. There was an uneasy silence in the room, and he began to consider again whether he should look up Sir Solly Zuckerman and ask if he wanted a cabinet post, for old times’ sake.
Jack Jones had his head buried in the MI5 briefing notes on Wilson – finally released and hastily added to in recent days. Hugh Scanlon was peering over his shoulder, while Len Murray paced nervously, fag in hand. Mountbatten straightened in his seat and spoke.
“I can say quite candidly, Mr Jones, that I am entirely convinced by the Service’s findings.”
Jones murmured something Mountbatten couldn’t make out and continued reading. Mountbatten continued.
“Any doubts I may have had were assuaged by the behaviour of Mr Wilson in the last week. His flight, and his subsequent association with both a known communist and an agent of the Czechoslovakian intelligence services—”
“You’ve made your point,” snapped Scanlon. Mountbatten quietly glowered.
“With respect, Mr Scanlon, I do not believe I have. Above all, the murder of an agent of the Service leaves me no other option but to believe the case against Mr Wilson.”
Jones frowned and looked up.
“You’ve still not explained how they know he was in that cottage. They think they saw Stonehouse – before the bugger leapt off the cliffs – and this Brimston bloke killed himself, but why should we take their word that Wilson was involved?”
Mountbatten reached across the table to take the briefing notes.
“If I may,” he said, looking through them until he found the appropriate page, “here. Page seventy-one. ‘Items of clothing belonging to Mr Wilson, as well as notes in his handwriting – NB: content of notes not relevant, mainly dirty limericks – confirm suspicions that HW was at Winstanley Cottage for at least that night.’”
Mountbatten looked up. Jones was stony-faced. Scanlon was staring at his hands, his fingers interlocked on the table in front of him. Mountbatten decided to wait for them to break the silence. Eventually, Jon
es did so with a half-hearted scowl.
“I still don’t see that as conclusive.”
A voice came from behind them.
“I do.”
All four men – and the assorted aides to Mountbatten who had been quietly making notes and keeping the coffee topped up – turned and looked into the corner of the room. It had been at least an hour since the man sat there had spoken, and Mountbatten had assumed he had gone to sleep. Jones leaned forward.
“Really, Vic? You’ll just take their word for it?”
Vic Feather stood up, steadying himself on the chair. He didn’t look well, Mountbatten thought.
“Why doubt them now, Jack?” Feather said, stepping forwards, “what do they gain from sticking to a lie that no-one believes?”
Scanlon piped up.
“But it’s – it’s still—”
“Absurd. Yes. It is. But what other explanation is there now?”
Jones slammed his fist into the table and stood up, raising his voice.
“That the democratically elected Prime Minister of this country is dead in a cell somewhere and has been for two weeks!”
Feather laughed softly and shook his head. He glanced over to Len Murray.
“Do you believe that, Len?”
Feather’s successor as General Secretary of the TUC stopped pacing and looked at him, then slowly shook his head.
“Like it or not, brothers, this is what’s happened,” Feather said, “and I know all three of you are clever enough to know it.”
Jones frowned and turned back to Mountbatten.
“Say – just for a moment – that it’s all true.”
“It is, Mr Jones. I would not for one moment have entertained the possibility of assuming the role of First Lord of the Treasury if it were not.”
“Yes, yes. But say it’s true. And – say that we believe it.”
Mountbatten suddenly found himself thinking back to 1947. As he had then with Nehru and Jinnah, he had now to gauge what someone was really thinking when they spoke. He glanced at Jones’ eyes. His suspicions confirmed, he suppressed the urge to punch the air. Progress at last.
