by Tom Black
It was clear that Jackson was no wet fish. Years of Senate-level foreign affairs experience had propelled him to the nomination after the ‘England’ Crisis dominated the media cycles of the pre-primary season, and the primaries themselves were played out on a backdrop of ‘just what in holy heck is going on in Moscow?’. Heath had been intrigued to learn that, unlike some other Western nations, the nominally leftist party in the United States had not fallen victim to a spate of ‘Wilsonian tu quoque’. The American establishment were still haunted by the spirit of Joe McCarthy, it seemed. Still, the fact that Scoop Jackson was almost as good at making anti-Communist statements as Tony Benn had certainly helped him win the nomination.
Virulent anti-Communism was about the only thing Jackson had in common with Benn, however. Ted had laughed at the thought of a committed hawk like Jackson doing a joint press conference with a Prime Minister who believed Britain’s best foreign policy was to retreat, retreat, and retreat again. But, if the right elections went the wrong way, that thought might just become a reality.
As Heath considered the word ‘reality’, he was rapidly brought back to it.
“Mr Chancellor,” his warm host was saying, “I want to thank you once again for addressing us tonight. We’d like to take a few questions now.”
“Certainly,” Heath beamed. One hand rocketed into the air before any of the others. The host called upon its owner, a bearded man in a jacket and jumper, to speak.
“Thank you for addressing us, Mr Heath, sir. That was certainly a spirited defence of the British government. But if you’ll forgive me, how can you defend the actions of a dictator for whom no-one has voted?”
There was an outcry from around the room, though some audience members remained noticeably still, while others nodded their approval. Heath sweated as the host tried to calm down the room.
“Lord Mountbatten is not…” Ted began, “he is not... a dictator. You say ‘no-one voted for him’, well, we do not elect our leaders directly in Britain. Lord Mountbatten commands the confidence of the House…”
“He commands it with tanks, sir!” shouted the bearded man. Ted frowned.
“The incident to which you are referring was an unfortunate accident, and we should remember that no-one was seriously hurt. Furthermore...”
“Orwell was right! 1984 will soon come true in England!” the bearded man shouted again, now on his feet and turning very red. Ted blankly stared at his notes as the would-be rabble-rouser was escorted from the room. When calm had been restored, the host asked for a few more questions.
“Mr Heath,” said a nervous-looking young man as he stood up, “I hope you will forgive me, but… can you tell us anything about how they got Wilson?”
There were gasps, and some laughs, but Heath raised his hands.
“It’s alright, it’s alright. The Wilson Affair was a national trauma for my country, but there is no doubt that it was a terribly interesting turn of events. In answer to your question, sir, I’m afraid I must disappoint. The official version of the story, however, is accurate – I can assure you of that.”
“But what about the man who caught him, sir?” the man said, “who was he? Is it true he tracked him single-handedly and arrested him in a rowboat?”
Over more murmurs of disapproval, Ted regained control.
“The man in question was and is an officer of the security services, and as such cannot be named. I’m afraid that’s all I can say.”
“We’ll wait for the memoirs, then!” someone shouted. There was a brief burst of laughter, then a new questioner was called. A woman with a pencil behind her ear looked Ted in the eye and spoke with a hint of cheekiness.
“Mr Heath, who do you hope wins the election over here?”
Ted chuckled and awkwardly attempted to roll his eyes.
“I think you know very well that I won’t be giving you a straight answer on that one. But I will say that the high calibre of both candidates is a testament to the strength of America’s democracy, and the pride which your great nation places in public service. I wish both the President and Senator Jackson good luck.”
As another burst of nonsensical applause broke out, Ted wondered who he’d actually prefer. Ford, probably. Better the oaf you know than the hawk you don’t.
If only Nixon could go to China, then only Mountbatten could go to Dublin. Meetings between the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and the Taoiseach of the Republic of Ireland had happened before, of course, but when the Prime Minister was insisting that he should be called ‘First Lord of the Treasury’, was a cousin of The Queen, and had said that he wanted to talk about ‘renegotiating the present situation in the North of the island of Ireland’, the media tended to take a greater interest than they may otherwise have done.
“One for the Examiner, Mr Cosgrave?” one photographer cried as the two men walked across the Castle’s courtyard. The Taoiseach grinned and raised a dutiful hand. Mountbatten smiled and gave a small nod.
The visit had been one of Lord Home’s last ideas before his retirement. An excuse to ‘harmonise’ relations between London and Dublin in the face of the ‘Republicans’ War’ north of the border, whilst also allowing for the two heads of government to have a proper discussion about more constructive matters relating to trade, Europe and defence. For Mountbatten, it was an easy way to show to the press of another nation that he wasn’t just a colourless military officer, but a Man of Action (he could hear the capital letters!) who wanted to improve the general peace and prosperity of Europe.
“How was Mullaghmore?” the Taoiseach asked as they shook hands.
“Beautiful, as ever, thank you.”
“Sligo is gorgeous at this time of year,” Cosgrave said through a toothy grin. The two leaders were ostensibly making polite conversation, but within earshot of the small gaggle of journalists that were milling around the entrance of the State Apartments.
Mountbatten gave a polite response and did his best to appear interested. He was aware that the Taoiseach was not an especially popular man at the moment, a bombing campaign and economic downturn tended to do that for you, but fair play to him for making the effort.
They continued talking as they walked through to the drawing room that had been set up for their talks. Pym was already there, deep in conversation with Garret FitzGerald. A few chaps from the British Embassy were also in attendance, although their duties mainly seemed to consist of checking the decanters of water that had been placed along the table.
“...and indeed, you really would be most welcome to visit, Mr Cosgrave,” Mountbatten concluded, also aware of the value of sounding amicable but non-committal with someone who you were still getting the measure of.
The line-up had been prepared several weeks ago. Mountbatten and Cosgrave, obviously, had not put anything in writing to one another – opting instead to leave it to intermediaries. However, the two men had worked out a positive working relationship, soon realising that their initial impressions of one-another had been somewhat unfair. Cosgrave, the First Lord of the Treasury realised, was not the aloof and somewhat distracted intellectual that he had been made out to be, whilst Mountbatten, the Taoiseach had noted, was not the bumbling aristocrat that the somewhat more populist elements of the press had insisted upon portraying him as (the other elements of the populist press had – of course – continued to characterise him as the natural successor to William III – with predictable results.)
Nevertheless, the negotiations retained an element of unease, a point that was emphasised as Pym huffily vacated his seat in order to prevent himself from making eye-contact with the Tánaiste.
After a few muted words of introduction, during which Cosgrave and Mountbatten both said a few words of comfort regarding the British Ambassador, Christopher Ewart-Biggs, who was nursing the wounds of an assassination attempt the previous week. Private condolences were also offered to Mountbatten over the fishing rights treaty with Iceland he had been forced to sign the previous month. Mount
batten gave a polite reply, some bitterness slipping through the mask when he explained he had come within half an hour of sending HMS Ark Royal to Reykjavik. With all pleasantries now out of the way, the meeting began.
It had begun as a sudden, strange fantasy. Britain and Ireland had come to an accord over their membership of the EEC. Mountbatten was an Hibernophile, Cosgrave an Anglophile. Both had become head of government in trying circumstances, and both were understandably keen to see their respective nations see a return to greatness. Diplomats had been consulted, Foreign Ministers had met and – only a few months later – the First Lord of the Treasury and the Taoiseach of Ireland were sitting down, amicably discussing the future of the Province of Ulster.
A bold opening was required, Mountbatten mused.
“Our geo-political position was, and to an extent is, unprecedentedly weak,” he began, prompting Pym to half-choke on his glass of water. Undeterred, the First Lord pressed on, “we are, all of us, gravely concerned regarding the future peace and prosperity of these Isles during this time of unprecedented domestic and intra-national strife. The IRA, and other terrorist agencies, have sensed our weakness in this regard, and this is why they felt the time was right to increase the viciousness of their bombing campaign.”
It was a stifling day, and even with the electric fan whirring incessantly in one corner, it did little to cool the air. However, Mountbatten’s opening words had roused the emotions of the room, and he continued unabated.
“It has become abundantly clear that the present constitutional stalemate in the north of Ireland cannot be sustained, and with this in mind – I wish, on behalf of Her Majesty’s government, to open general negotiations into the future administration of the Government of Northern Ireland, preparatory to the involvement of the Republic of Ireland in a consultative role into the workings of Northern Ireland’s government.”
There was a respectful silence. Mountbatten took that as a sign to continue.
“Mr Cosgrave,” the First Lord pressed on, “it is wrong, in two nations as tightly-linked and as well developed as ours, to have sectarianism and assassination as a matter of course for the lives of our citizens. Restoring the internal stability of Ulster is key to the futures of both our countries, as is the view that the future of Northern Ireland must be left in the hands of the people of Northern Ireland.”
“My primary concern,” Cosgrave responded, “is that this brings my own country into a problem that emerged entirely out of the foreign policy of Balfour and Asquith.”
“Domestic policy, surely?” Mountbatten countered.
Cosgrave frowned, but his expression softened as his counterpart continued to explain the rationale behind ‘Co-Governance’.
“Measures of such vital importance as this must be bedded in. They must be trialled,” the Taoiseach interjected.
“They must, but only by action can we see outcomes.”
“You sound as if you are finding a change in events as an excuse for such action!”
“And I fear that you are using it as an excuse not to act,” Mountbatten replied. You would not, I hope, be recanting the principles of Article 2?”
The Irish Constitution, which continued to claim control over the whole of the island of Ireland, was clearly going to be an issue in the debates. Cosgrave winced.
“I would certainly not, Lord Mountbatten.”
The First Lord of the Treasury smiled and consulted a sheet of paper that had been pressed into his hand by Francis Pym. He decided that the time was right to show his hand. It was probably no better than a Three-of-a-Kind, but he was always more of a Bridge player anyway. He made his gambit.
“The British government is minded to enter into a discussion, after the end of the Republican bombing campaign, regarding the future constitutional position of Northern Ireland.’
The intake of breath was enough.
Chapter twenty-five
Tuesday 26th September 1976 – 10:00pm (Moscow Standard Time)
The General Secretary of the Communist Party of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics had a difficult relationship with his office.
It wasn’t that his staff were uncooperative – not in the least, as they had been hand-picked and brought with him from his previous posting – but that the office itself did not seem receptive to its new occupier. Drawers were getting stuck, castors were coming off tables and, most irritatingly, the desk chair had proved unnaturally hard on the General Secretary’s posterior.
It was merciful, then, that his workload had significantly decreased in size in recent days. With the diplomatic crises of the spring behind them, and ‘Copenhagen I’ being adhered to by all sides, things were peaceful in the Kremlin. For the General Secretary, sleepless nights were a thing of the past, although his dreams were still occasionally invaded by the lumbering corpse of Kosygin. During a somewhat surreal night terror (brought on, he suspected, by a gift of ripe, Bulgarian cheese), he was confronted by the hapless face of poor Suslov, not undead but sentenced to a life of mundanity in the Presidium. ‘Spare me another handshake with the director of a tractor factory in Tartarstan,’ his hollow eyes seemed to say, ‘and if I have to dine with Willi Stoph one more time, I’m going to top myself.’
Yes, the new General Secretary had seen off all comers. He smiled to himself as he removed his glasses, and reached for his office intercom and asked for his guest to be sent in.
“General Secretary,” beamed Vladimir Yefimovich Semichastny. His host nodded.
“What do you have to tell me?” he asked, simply.
“Straight and to the point,” Semichastny observed, sauntering around the room with one hand in his pocket, “as always.”
“I did not invite you to return to Lubyanka for your wit, Vladimir Yefimovich.”
Semichastny smiled thinly. His promotion back to Moscow – to his old job, no less – had been incredibly welcome. Ukraine had become more tedious than ever in recent months, and he’d longed to get back into the thick of it. When he’d been informed of the upcoming vacancy at the KGB, he had walked straight out of a meeting on tramline standardisation and boarded a train to Moscow. Now, three months into the job, he felt like he was firing on all cylinders.
“He’s still not talking,” he said, finally, “but we do believe that he is now being offered legal representation, which suggests they are hoping some kind of bargain will loosen his tongue.”
The General Secretary frowned. Semichastny’s appointment had been a long-term choice. With such a high-profile ‘win’ in the Cold War having come not from space, nor from arms, but from espionage, the man who had turned the Cambridge Five into celebrities was the perfect man to run the KGB.
Of course, at this point, the KGB was more interested in turning Harold Wilson into a corpse, but Semichastny’s record in the 1950s and 1960s had shown he was more than capable of that, too. The spy-chief looked up from pouring himself a drink as he spoke.
“We are confident, comrade General Secretary, that in the event that he does decide to become talkative, we will hear of it within hours. Lavender aside, our standard intelligence operations have penetrated enough levels of the British state to be sure of that.”
The General Secretary only grunted. That sounded just about good enough.
“How are the preparations for a more... permanent solution?”
Semichastny made a face. It was not entirely caused by the sip of vodka he’d just taken.
“That is... proving more difficult. There is very tight security around Lavender, and no prison officers of less than six years’ service are allowed near him. Many of them are ex-servicemen, which the London Section assures me is nearly always a guarantee of incorruptibility.”
“So we are forced to deploy a strategy of containment?” mused the General Secretary, with a hint of frustration.
“For now, yes.”
The General Secretary frowned. All of this could have been avoided if Operation Pruning Shears had gone to plan. The ‘extr
action and removal’ of Lavender had been a top priority, and somehow it had been placed in the hands of a jovial Belarusian, a hotheaded Russian and a geriatric Englishman. All three men had failed, and had paid with their lives. The submarine commander who had permitted Crabb to go alone had almost done the same, though a bargaining session in the Defence Ministry in June had ‘commuted’ Commander Myshkin’s fate into a life ‘sentence’ overseeing a drydock in Vladivostok. He’d probably never know his life had been saved by Kremlin horse-trading.
“Is this the opinion of all of your senior officers?” the General Secretary asked.
Semichastny was taken aback. To seek other opinions was a suggestion that he himself had not considered all the options. Truthfully, but forcefully, he replied.
“Yes, General Secretary. And I do not think this is down to a failure of imagination—”
“I do.”
There was a pause.
“I see,” said Semichastny, icily.
“You have not long been back in your post, Vladimir,” the General Secretary consoled, rising from his chair and beginning to pace, “you cannot be blamed for a lack of creativity.”
“‘Creativity’?”
“Yes.”
Silence fell, and neither man moved for about a minute. Eventually, Semichastny spoke.
“...General Secretary? You look like you are plotting.”
“...I am, comrade,” replied Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, “I am.”
In a surprise to those who believed it impossible, Lord Mountbatten was actually getting greyer. Lord Home had not seen the First Lord of the Treasury for several months, and had been concerned when he’d received a message at his club that his counsel was being requested by Downing Street.
The small talk between the two peers had been brief, and but what Home had found most concerning was that Mountbatten appeared to have gone so far as to undo his top button and loosen his tie.
