by Tom Black
“I was.”
“All Bentine’s idea. He’s a bit of an armchair commando – obsessed with the special forces. Apparently keeps begging to meet the fellow who caught Wilson, who is rumoured to have served with the SAS or suchlike. No-one knows who he is, though.”
Powell took a long drink from his glass of beer and exhaled.
“Mr Mullin, this sounds like a lot of achievements to lay at the feet of five men.”
“You’re right. They’re not alone, but the League are the men at the top. It’s imperative we find out who their moles in Civil Service are, because that’s where most of their subterfuge takes place. They never referred to them by name when my source was around. They just talked about their network of ‘Downing Street Irregulars’. Another cultural nod. You have to hand it to them, they’re a poetic bunch.”
“A very British coup, by the sounds of things,” mused Powell.
Mullin’s eyes widened.
“I’ll write that down, if I may,” he said as he fumbled with his notebook.
“Be my guest,” replied Powell, “but you said ‘we’ a moment ago.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“You said ‘it is imperative we find out who their moles are’. Have I been surreptitiously recruited today?”
“Ah. No. Well… yes.”
“But why me? I do not think you would normally see me as a likely ally.”
“We’re not living in normal times, Mr Powell. But you’re not the only person I’ve spoken to. I have had conversations with other Members, including a former Viscount, if you catch my drift. My sources assure me that despite my misgivings about your statements in the past, your character is not one that will put up with this sort of thing. I hope they are right.”
Powell said nothing.
“Regardless,” Mullin went on, “I must swear you to secrecy – we’re trying to gauge how much they know, and how much those on the side of the angels know.”
Enoch Powell had not been referred to as ‘being on the side of the angels’ for quite some time, and allowed himself a smile.
“You have my silence,” he said, “and I think that is as good a juncture as any to end our meeting, Mr Mullin. I must make my way home.”
“I had better be going, anyway,” Mullin said brightly, “I have a book to write.”
“Until next time, then. Thank you.”
“I’ll be in touch, Mr Powell. Good luck out there.”
The men parted with a curt nod rather than a handshake, and Powell pondered what he had heard as he made the journey home. He could not contain his lack of surprise when he saw two men in dark grey overcoats stood on the steps up to his front door.
“Good evening, Mr Powell,” said one, flashing some identification, “we’re from Special Branch, Metropolitan Police. We’d like you to come with us.”
Enoch shot both men a withering look.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not in the least, sir.”
“Then where are we going?”
“Downing Street, sir.”
Enoch considered asking whether they were going to try to make him Prime Minister, but thought better of it.
Chapter thirty
Monday 1st November 1976 – 9:30pm
“The First Lord of the Treasury will see you now, Mr Powell.”
Enoch returned from the depths of his memory, immediately casting aside a memory triggered by a photograph on the opposite wall of Lord Mountbatten in military garb. It had been an unfamiliar sight after a year of the country’s premier wearing crisp, charcoal grey suits. More relevant had been the date of the photograph – 1944. Mountbatten looked as he had done the day he and Enoch first met some months earlier, when Enoch had arrived at South East Asia command in 1943. He’d briefed the then-‘acting’ Admiral on a dozen occasions during the war, and the two men had shared a respect – or so he hoped.
That respect had been tested over the years. Until the mid-1950s, Powell found himself unable to say Mountbatten’s name aloud. It was often said in Westminster that ‘all Enoch ever wanted was to be Viceroy of India’, and Powell had to admit he’d coveted little else during the war – other than death on the battlefield, of course.
Rising to his feet, he walked heavily into Mountbatten’s office. To his surprise, the Earl was not alone.
“Thank you for coming to see us, Mr Powell,” said Cecil King.
Enoch stood, ramrod straight, his eyes bulging as he listened. As the former Supreme Allied Commander South East Asia Command spoke, everything Powell had thought about the National Government crumbled to dust. The friendly, upbeat explanations by Hanley, King and Bentine as to what they were doing made his stomach churn, and he wondered whether he would need a bucket when every last detail of what Mullin had told him was confirmed. And as Mountbatten continued, Powell became aware of the man’s age. As his voice cracked at the mention of ‘the bloodshed in Leeds’ and ‘the continuing stresses of executive power’ Powell developed a strong suspicion as to why he had been summoned here today.
“Finally,” continued Mountbatten, “it is felt by my colleagues that my seniority, once an asset, has become a liability. I am exceptionally proud of what my government and I have achieved. But it is time for me to step aside.”
Enoch remained silent, merely raising his eyebrows questioningly.
“The present situation,” breezed Sir Michael as he moved to the centre of the room, “offers a number of benefits over the mess that preceded it. The national government is stable, and it is effective.”
“‘Stable’?” queried Enoch coolly, “I was at the Anglo-Irish vote.”
Sir Michael smiled thinly. Cecil King spoke.
“Indeed you were, and you are quite right to question Sir Michael’s logic. But those cracks which do emerge in the governing coalition are, at present, successfully sealed by the strength of the First Lord of the Treasury’s character and personal popularity. In order to continue the government, therefore, a figure of similar strength is required. We believe you are such a figure.”
Enoch realised that his suspicions were right about where this was going.
“We’re not fools, Enoch,” said Michael Bentine as he stubbed out a cigarette, “we know that, with respect, you aren’t held in the same esteem by everybody.”
“But your popular support outweighs the dismay of a few ivory-tower intellectuals with an obsession with building a—” the final few words were almost spat out, “multicultural society,” assured one of the McWhirters, which drew a gasp from Sir Michael and a sizeable frown from Mountbatten.
“And it’s widely known that many in the House of Commons respect you, even if they disagree with you,” said the other McWhirter.
“So,” said Sir Michael Hanley, stepping forward, tall and broad but bowing with some grace, “we would ask that you bring the Ulster Unionists back into the national government – under your leadership, which we will assist in arranging – and thereafter take office as Prime Minister.”
“What about Mr Heath?” asked Powell immediately.
“Mr Heath is leader of the Conservative Party, admittedly,” said Sir Michael, “but we feel he can be convinced to allow an Ulster Unionist to lead the country. He is out of the country at present, which means the situation could be presented to him as a fait accompli on his return.”
“And I would call a snap election at once, I presume?” said Powell.
Sir Michael floundered. Bentine actually stifled a laugh.
“We do not feel such a measure would be necessary at present, Mr Powell,” said King, “the Parliament still has three years or so until it expires.”
“And we are already drafting a new Parliament Act,” chimed in Ross McWhirter, “exploring the possibility of extending the current term. Not to mention a rearrangement of Royal Prerogative and the powers of the Cabinet.”
Mountbatten nodded. Enoch said nothing, his heart pounding and his palms sweating as he realised the
true magnitude of the opportunity before him. Unparalleled power in a time of uncertainty. The ability to reshape the country in a way not seen since 1945. The single biggest chance to change course on foreign policy that any British government would ever get. The men looked at him expectantly. As Enoch’s mind ran wild and calculation after calculation rocketed around his brain, Cecil King spoke.
“So…” he began.
“Mr Powell,” continued Michael Bentine.
“Will you…” said one of the McWhirters.
“...do your country the great honour…” finished the other.
“...of serving it in its hour of need?” said Cecil King, rising from his armchair, a cool smile across his face.
Enoch looked around the room, from man to man. From Bentine to King, from Mountbatten to Hanley, from McWhirter to McWhirter. He looked above the mantelpiece and saw Her Majesty looking back. The painting was unremarkable. Her gaze was not. Enoch suppressed a sigh and gave The Queen a mental apology. With a rising warmth in his stomach, and thinking he could hear the sound of a distant tenor, Enoch Powell took a step towards his benefactors, and spoke.
“No.”
“...I beg your pardon?” said Cecil King after a stunned silence. The McWhirters looked like a pair of disappointed children. Hanley was rooted to the spot.
“No,” Enoch repeated, loudly and clearly, “I will not play any part in this sordid affair.”
“Mr Powell…” began King.
“Mr King,” Powell thundered, “you asked me to serve this country in its hour of need. But who calls upon me to do so? The masses? The electorate? No. I see only a cabal of unelected fools, tired of manipulating a man three times their superior.”
“Sir Winston Churchill was not called upon by the electorate in 1940, Mr Powell, but there can be no denying—”
“Do not patronise me!” Powell shouted, with such force that King fell back into his chair, “I am not Churchill. You are not King George. And the Continuity Labour Party is not the Third Reich!”
Mountbatten was utterly frozen, his eyes almost glazed over. Sir Michael Hanley stepped forward, preparing a change in tack.
“Mr Powell, I understand your commitment to the democratic tradition, but there is a clear mandate for you to take power.”
“There is not,” scoffed Powell.
“Then one can be created!” strained Hanley, his unwise smile disappearing from his face almost immediately. Enoch shook his head in pity.
“Sir Michael, the democratic will of the British people may be fickle. It may be wrong. It may even be dangerous. But without it, this nation’s government has no legitimacy. When this – whatever ‘this’ is – began, it was to weld the broken pieces of the British state back together. Gentlemen, you have done so. But I would wager that this success came from the First Lord, not your own efforts. I say again: no. Be grateful I say no more.”
Enoch picked up his coat and turned, stopping himself as he neared the door. He turned to face the First Lord of the Treasury. He looked Mountbatten in the eye. The old man – his commanding officer, once upon a time – looked ashen. Enoch took a deep breath.
“And as for you, sir,” he began, “I stand here before you more disappointed than angry. Together, we fought fascism in the Far East. I am unable to say what I find more upsetting – the fact that you have gone along with this plan so far, or the suggestion that you viewed me as a willing successor in this abomination. That I once considered you a man most admirable is now… desperately laughable.”
Without pausing to take in the First Lord of the Treasury’s grey, pitiful expression, Powell turned on his heel and strode toward the door.
“Brigadier Powell,” Mountbatten said suddenly as Enoch placed his hand on the doorknob. Powell turned back. Mountbatten, his eyes narrow, spoke again.
“I am very relieved that you said that.”
“...sir?”
Mountbatten simply patted Enoch on the shoulder as he breezed past him on his way to the door. He knocked twice.
“Sir John, you can come in now.”
As Sir Michael Hanley opened his mouth to speak, Sir John Hunt entered the room, looking rather like the Cheshire Cat from Alice in Wonderland. Behind him were a group of uniformed police officers.
“What… what is going on?” stammered Powell.
“I must come clean, Enoch,” said Mountbatten as Sir John approached the lamp in the centre of the desk and retrieved the tape recorder, “my scheme required you to play a part that I knew you would best deliver if absolutely sincere.”
Before Enoch could reply, Mountbatten placed a hand on Sir John’s arm and spoke with some urgency, looking up at the police officers.
“These are exactly the men I requested?”
“Yes, sir. All uniform. No CID, no Special Branch.”
“Then we can proceed. Good work.”
The McWhirters were already in handcuffs. Cecil King appeared to be catatonic. Bentine – improbably – had one leg out of the window and was being hauled back inside. Only Sir Michael Hanley retained any dignity as a fresh-faced PC led him from the room.
“Mountbatten!” he said from the doorway, “this isn’t over!”
Mountbatten blinked.
“...yes, it is.”
As quickly as the commotion began, it subsided. Enoch Powell, Sir John Hunt, and Earl Mountbatten of Burma stood alone in the Office of the First Lord of the Treasury.
“I suppose we have Mr Mullin to thank for some of this,” Powell ventured, breaking the silence.
“Yes, indeed,” said Mountbatten, “I was unsure at first, but he seems to have come through. I must see that he is looked after.”
“There will be questions, First Lord,” Sir John said, “particularly when the men are charged.”
Mountbatten raised a hand.
“We shall deal with that when it arises,” he said, then turned warmly to Enoch, “I must thank you once again.”
“I apologise unreservedly for my rudeness,” Enoch said, staring straight ahead. Mountbatten laughed.
“Entirely unnecessary. You behaved as you should have towards the man you thought I was.”
“All the same,” said Enoch awkwardly, then, with courage, “but on that subject, sir…”
“...am I going to step down soon?” said Mountbatten.
“Yes, sir.”
“Early in the new year, I think. There will be this mess to clean up, and I am fond of the idea of having a new Prime Minister in office by the time of the Jubilee celebrations. Such an introduction will do him – and the country – some good.”
Powell simply nodded.
“I understand there is a chance you will succeed me after all, Brigadier Powell.”
Enoch frowned, then supposed it was probably an open secret by now.
“We believe the Unionist Party will have strong support when it is formally created, sir, but we are under no illusions about commanding a majority this side of the 1980s.”
“Stranger things have happened, Enoch.”
“After the last twelve months, you are most certainly correct.”
The men shook hands. After a promise to speak again at the Remembrance Day service the following week, Enoch left the room with Sir John and stood, for a moment, at the top of the staircase. He took a deep breath, thanked Sir John again, and began to descend.
Mountbatten sat down at last, and poured himself a brandy.
“Do sit down, Sir John,” he said as the Cabinet Secretary returned to the room, “you have earned one of these as well.”
“Thank you,” Sir John said, loosening his tie, “I will admit that I agree with you, First Lord.”
Mountbatten handed Sir John a glass and poured. The two men enjoyed their drinks in silence for a good five minutes, the magnitude of what had just occurred gradually sinking in.
“First Lord, if I may ask,” Sir John said quietly, “how did you know Mr Powell would refuse to go along with the plan?”
Mountbatten raised his eyebrows.
“I didn’t.”
“Really? Surely you expected him to say ‘no’?”
“Oh, yes. I was banking on the fact he was still the man I once knew. But power is an alluring mistress.”
“What… what was the plan were he to accept?”
Mountbatten thought for a moment.
“Well, I suppose I could have organised a military coup against him.”
Both men laughed, probably for longer than the joke really warranted. Outside, the distant sirens finally faded.
Pouring his third whisky of the night, Ted Heath gingerly shook himself awake as the television crackled back into life. He was grateful that he wouldn’t have to telephone room service yet again to fix the ageing set, as he was getting rather engaged with the whole thing. Election night was always exciting, even if it was one that the Colonials were having. And, when in Rome...
The Chancellor had a good memory for faces, but he rarely (if ever) paid attention to the American channels, so he had no way of knowing that presenters on NBC were David Brinkley and John Chancellor. Nevertheless, as the blizzard on the screen was replaced with a vast set filled with computers that made the BBC’s ones look like an abacus, and a map of the country that resembled the ransom scene from Thunderball, he roused himself, surprised.
“With all the states on the Eastern Seaboard having been decided long ago,” one of the presenters was saying, “Election ’76 has come down to the great state of California – whose 45 Electoral College votes will decide this election. California is four hours behind the Eastern Time Zone – so we are only just getting the initial results in from there, despite it being past almost half-past one here in New York City.”
Heath grumbled to himself – there was always an artificial quality to American news coverage. A tendency to create drama where none was required. He barely noticed the other man talking as another chunk of sickly yellow illuminated another slice of farmland in the Midwest.
