by Tom Black
“Sir John, always a pleasure. Is the First Lord of the Treasury joining us?”
“Yes, Lord Mountbatten will be with us in a moment.”
“Good.”
Sir Michael turned to look at the clock on the wall, apparently believing the conversation to be over for the time being. Sir John decided to rectify this error.
“Sir Michael, now seems a good opportunity to say I have some reservations about how you and your apparatus have been making use of Downing Street recently.”
The Director General turned his head, surprised.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Sir John. Would you mind elaborating?”
Sir John swallowed.
“You have briefed the Prime Mi- First Lord of the Treasury more than any of his ministers have in the three days since he came to power. This is highly irregular, even allowing for the situation—”
“It is an exceptional situation, Sir John.”
Sir John decided to change tack.
“Look, we worked very well together in the first days of this crisis – I would like to see that relationship continue.”
“I am very glad. I suggest, therefore, that you get on with your work, and I with mine.”
The Cabinet Secretary was taken even further aback.
“Now, look here—”
“No,” interrupted Hanley, turning his enormous bulk and advancing on Hunt, “you ‘look here’. My duty is the defence of the realm. Yours is its smooth running. Our roles ought never to intersect, but in this crisis, they do. You may object to some of the decisions which I and my colleagues in the services have taken since Monday, but with the greatest of respect, Sir John, those decisions are none of your concern. If you for a moment believe that you have the power to stop them, be my guest and inform the First Lord of the Treasury of your objections. I am sure he will be interested to hear your concerns about these measures, measures that down to the last detail are in the interests of this country and her people!” Hanley hissed the final syllables, spraying Sir John with saliva. Neither man spoke for some time.
“I am only trying to preserve the British constitution,” Hunt eventually said quietly.
“And I am defending it. And,” Hanley softened, “you are an exceptional administrator. Do not believe for one moment that you would still be in post if you were not.” The softness evaporated as quickly as it appeared.
“Sir Michael,” Hunt began desperately, “this is improper—”
“We shall have no impropriety in this office, not after last week’s revelations, by Jove!” cried the First Lord of the Treasury in a cheery tone as he let himself into the room. Hanley stepped quickly away from Hunt and held out his hand to Mountbatten.
“Pleasure to see you again, sir,” he began, “and congratulations on bringing an end to the industrial unrest.”
“Oh, that. It is what I am here to do, and thankfully I knew more about what the unions actually wanted than they expected me to.”
Sir Michael smiled dutifully.
“I know we are all excited to see how the workers’ veto fares when it comes to legislation, sir. This is a fine day for the country. Now, my colleagues in the Service have drawn up that list you asked for.”
“List?” remarked Mountbatten absently as he picked up his daily briefing from his desk.
“Yes, sir, the list of far-left groups and other subversives that are worthy of immediate investigations – some already warrant forced dissolution—”
“By which you mean banning?” Mountbatten said, stony-faced.
“Yes, sir. And in one or two cases, arrests are recommended.”
“On what grounds?”
“Suspicion of treason, sir. The network which Wilson was at the head of is only now becoming clear.”
Sir John was growing increasingly uncomfortable. Mountbatten, perhaps, noticed.
“Only now becoming clear?” he echoed, “and why is that?”
Hanley frowned.
“Sir?”
“Why is the Service only now discovering the scale of the operation Wilson was a part of? For that matter, why did Five not catch Wilson years ago?” snapped Mountbatten in irritation.
“Sir—” began Hanley smoothly.
“And stop calling me sir. We’re not on a bloody boat, and I have resigned my commission.”
“As was entirely proper,” Sir John chipped in, receiving a nod from Mountbatten and a sideways glare from Hanley.
“Yes, well,” began Sir Michael again, visibly put off and frantically searching for a change of subject, “perhaps if you would take a look at the list inform me how you would like to proceed.”
“Perhaps. Yes.”
Mountbatten furrowed his brow and put on his glasses, reading through the list.
“The Workers’ Revolutionary Front of West Essex? Peckham Citizens For Angolan Liberty? Students For A Levantine Republic? ...Solidarity 73?”
“A group of anti-Pinochet protesters,” offered Sir Michael helpfully.
“I can work out what they are, thank you,” replied Mountbatten sharply, before going on, “some of these I can understand, but others I am left baffled by. The Neo-Leveller Front Of Shoreditch? Clydeside Co-Operative Union? Statisticians For Proportional Representation? Labour Friends Of Beamish?”
“The research is all sound,” Sir Michael said, straightening his tie, “and often the product of years of infiltration. These groups are all known to have expressed pro-Moscow tendencies at some point.”
Mountbatten’s eyes narrowed but did not leave the list. Then, he glanced up. Sir John was on tenterhooks. Slowly and deliberately, Mountbatten’s tall, powerful frame walked towards Hanley. The Director General was used to intimidating others with his own size, though it was more a horizontal affair than a vertical one. With Mountbatten now toe to toe with him, he looked up into the ex-Admiral’s eyes as he spoke in something slightly louder than a whisper.
“If I give my permission for this to go ahead, will it prevent further loss of life?”
“Undoubtedly,” said Sir Michael.
“Very well,” said Mountbatten, turning around and heading for his desk, “was there anything else?”
Sir Michael, visibly sweating, spoke again.
“Yes, I had some informal thoughts about the postponement of Remembrance Sunday.”
“It is to be pushed back no further, Sir Michael,” warned Mountbatten, “security will have to be tight, but it was only cancelled last Sunday because the national situation was untenable.”
“No, that was not what I wanted to suggest. I have here some thoughts from colleagues from my own and other services, who explain how the event could function as a show of strength for you and the nation – nationally and, crucially, internationally, we will demonstrate that Britain is united, functioning and ready for action.”
Sir John gasped audibly. Mountbatten and Hanley turned to look at him.
“Something to say, Sir John?” Mountbatten asked. Sir John floundered.
“No, si- well, yes, actually. An attempt to militarise Remembrance Sunday would be extremely improper. It is a day of—”
“I agree,” said Mountbatten, “I do hope this was not what you had in mind, Sir Michael.”
“Not at all,” said Hanley with a deferential smile, “the proposal outlined here is to have a military parade on Saturday, featuring volunteers and members of civilian organisations as well. The following day, Remembrance Sunday would occur as normal, but with many more thousands present. It could be a powerful image.”
Sir John, unable to bear any more, stepped forward.
“Excuse me please, sirs.” With that, he bowed his head and walked to the door.
As he closed it behind him, he caught the final fragment of the two men’s conversation.
“...this proposal to bring experience Civil Assistance members into the police force – temporarily, of course, as these so-called Special Constables…”
Sir John walked away from the Prime
Minister’s office (albeit an office without a Prime Minister in it) as fast as he could.
Chapter fifteen
Thursday 13th November 1975 – 10:00pm
Whatever else could be said about him, Jacob Brimley had possessed an exceptionally well-stocked book collection. Paddy Ashdown glanced over at the shelves again to take his mind off of his predicament. In the two days since Wilson had slipped through his fingers, his superiors had determined he would be shouldering most of the blame. That Wright had gone ahead without backup was apparently immaterial. Paddy could see it was clearly a case of Five looking out for Five while one of Six’s lot could be hung out to dry.
“Has its benefits, though,” he muttered drily. It did indeed. Being told to stay at Winstanley Cottage until a concrete lead could be found was physically much more preferable to the legwork in the freezing rain and wind that Wright had had him doing every day.
He closed his eyes when he thought of Wright. He hadn’t liked the man – and he was certain the feeling was mutual – but he hadn’t deserved what he got. If – when – Paddy caught up with Wilson, he’d make sure he paid for what he’d done.
“And the rest,” he said under his breath. He’d become somewhat numbed to the whole thing now, but every so often he recalled the scale of what was going on; the PM a traitor, the country in disarray and the Security Services at each other’s throats over petty politics while they tried to find him.
Boat patrols were in constant effect along the coast, but everyone knew there were holes in the metaphorical net. With the Navy on high alert since Wilson’s disappearance, there was only so much available. Some fishermen had volunteered to work shifts near any stretch of coast a small boat might be able to reach a Hunter Killer submarine from. A modern-day Dunkirk, Paddy thought, turning to face the hastily-pinned up Ordnance Survey map on the wall. Deliberately, he closed his eyes and opened them again. He’d been doing this for two days, with little success. Trying again, he took in the ruled out routes – indicated with a thick red string held up by pins. Wilson had been heading south, according to the tracking experts. By the time they’d followed his trail to the cliffside path, the wind and rain had done for anything more than that. There were dozens of places he could have clambered back up to the clifftops via some snaking path and resumed his journey.
“And he might have hopped into a submarine there and then,” Paddy said to himself. But no, that was unlikely. The cove outside Winstanley Cottage had been under searchlights since Monday, and a patrol boat was now anchored in the middle of it. Something told him Wilson was headed for another extraction point. But where?
His thoughts were interrupted by the telephone ringing. He grabbed it, not taking his eyes off the map. He’d had a niggling feeling about something for the last twenty-four hours, but he’d not had the guts to call it in.
“Ashdown,” he said into the phone.
“You’ve had long enough,” said the disembodied and unhappy voice at the other end of the line.
“Excuse me?”
“The trail’s been cold since Tuesday morning. If we don’t narrow down where we’re sending most of our personnel tonight, he’s gone. Where is he headed, Paddy?”
There was a hint of a regional accent in the usually cut-glass tones of the new head of the operation. Paddy sensed years of London refinery had been rapidly worn down by the phenomenal stress of the last ten days.
“I—”
“If you say you don’t know, you’ll be packed off to Geneva tonight, and you’ll find your work is actually that of a real cultural attaché for the rest of your career.”
Paddy furiously scratched the back of his head. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes one last time, and opened them on the map.
Of course.
There was no other serious option. He wasn’t certain, of course not, but… sometimes you had to take a risk. If he was ever asked, he’d never tell them the decision he was about to take came down to a hunch.
“Great Yarmouth. He’s heading for Great Yarmouth.”
Paddy hung up. If he was right, they stood a chance of ending a long national nightmare that made Watergate look like VE Day. If he was wrong… well, he could always retire to East Anglia. He now knew plenty of rambling routes for those long Sunday afternoons.
Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev had been having trouble sleeping. Stifling a yawn as Andropov continued his briefing to the politburo, he glanced around the room. Everyone else, from Gromyko to Suslov, seemed to be listening raptly. Brezhnev thought he’d best give that a try.
“This operation,” Andropov was saying, “began in 1937 and has had differing periods of activity. Yesterday night I was briefed by my predecessor –” whom he did not name, for obvious reasons, “on how the operation proceeded around the time of Lavender’s being elected as First Minister of the Great Kingdom.”
Brezhnev’s ears pricked up. Something hadn’t been quite right there, but he couldn’t put his finger on what.
“Comrade,” he interjected, “I think it is important that you reiterate the main point of this briefing. Would you do so?”
“Certainly,” replied Andropov, reshuffling his notes, “I was aware of this operation, and was informed of it when I took charge of the Committee for State Security eight years ago. Until this week, however, I was alone among Politburo members in having this knowledge.”
Brezhnev watched the eyes of each man around the table as this sentence was repeated. He believed it. He knew it to be true of himself. It was understandable for such a high level operation – remarkable that it worked for so long. Andropov would have to receive another medal for this. And Wilson – whom he’d met, and never suspected! – would receive a hero’s welcome. Yes. That was what was fitting. Gromyko was speaking now.
“I would like to register my displeasure at having been used as a signal post for a KGB operation,” he began, but Brezhnev held up a hand.
“Nonsense, Andrei Andreyevich. We have all played our parts in this—”
“In this colossal risk!” cried Suslov, banging his fist into the table. Brezhnev was surprised. Andropov, remembering his conversation with Semichastny, watched the Second Secretary of the Communist Party with interest.
“This is a great coup for the workers’ state, comrade,” offered Kosygin, but Suslov scowled.
“It is a risk, and that we were not told – that we did not seek to find it out, too – damns us all.”
“And it has shattered détente for a generation,” muttered Gromyko.
“Oh, and we all put so much faith in détente, did we not?” said Kosygin bitterly.
Leonid Ilyich was struggling somewhat to control the meeting as voices began to be raised and papers even hurled across the table. Thankfully, Andropov came to his aid.
“Comrades,” he said loudly, “might it be best if we move on to discuss Kissinger’s proposed summit in Copenhagen?”
Gromyko grumbled as he sat back down, then spoke.
“I think it is a good idea. We will meet the Americans, assure them that there is no military risk in all this – which there is not, if my reading of our agreements is accurate – and all the while, we have already won the great symbolic victory.”
“And a fine victory it is too, one that shows that the workers’ state is, in espionage as well as industry, in permanent revolution!” piped up Grigory Vasilyevich Romanov. There was a pause.
“Well, perhaps,” began Suslov, barely disguising the disgust in his voice, “but to the matter at hand: there is nothing they can do to undo the damage that has been done to the West’s reputation by last week’s events. We ought to meet, express an interest in an agreement – and then throw it away, propose our own and see that it is signed. We, for the first time in so very long, have the upper hand.”
“Do we?” asked a frowning Kosygin, “we were terrified a week ago that the Kremlin was about to be irradiated.”
“We also had to send half of the Baltic Fleet to recapture the Storoz
hevoy,” Defence Minister Grechko interjected.
“Andrei Antonovich raises a prudent point,” Romanov replied, “it is only the continuing chaos in the United Kingdom that prevented that incident from becoming a serious breach of international reputation.”
“But nothing has come of it,” replied Suslov, “from us, or from them. The ‘war scare’ was reduced to some confused headlines in their papers, and they quickly turned to the chaos in England. A Premier seems to just about trump an errant frigate with a treacherous crew.”
There were murmurs of agreement from around the table. Brezhnev was no longer really paying attention. Before he knew it, the meeting was over and people were packing away their things. With a smile, he stood up and thanked them all for their work. He was in good spirits. What a good day today was.
As the General Secretary ambled from the room, Suslov narrowed his eyes at his back. To think he’d truly known nothing of this. And now, to carry on as if all was well, when the summit in Copenhagen required focus and attention to detail more than anything since the Missile Crisis. Mikhail Andreyevich Suslov continued to stare after the General Secretary.
Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov watched him for a moment and thought about what he had decided to do the day before. About the conversation with Semichastny. About the lessons he had learned, and the ambitions he had for his country. He thought about all these things, took a long, deep breath, and tapped Suslov on the arm. Then he spoke.
“I wonder, Mikhail Andreyevich, how you think the General Secretary is handling the present situation?”
Suslov’s eyes widened, but he remained seated.
Chapter sixteen
Saturday 15th November 1975 – 6:30am
Whistling as he went, Gareth Stimpson buttoned up his overalls as he walked to work. Well, ‘work’. Today was something a little out of the ordinary, but needs must. A country in crisis and all that. Even lowly bods like Gareth apparently had their part to play in ‘national rejuvenation’, whatever that was.
It had been a journey and a half to get here. Gareth hadn’t been to London before, unless one counted a visit his father and pregnant mother once took in the 1950s. He’d leave navigation to Bill today, he claimed he knew the place like the back of his hand.
