Agent Lavender: The Flight of Harold Wilson

by Tom Black

  “Interesting,” murmured Heath, before adding, “have you given any thought to a sideways move?”

  “‘Move’?”

  “Out of the Commons,” Heath said, quick as a flash.

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “You should,” said Heath, now pacing.

  “All right, Ted, look—”

  “There are people who have you in mind for the vacancy at MI5.”

  Airey stopped his mouth falling open.

  “There are?”

  “Yes. Although, to be more accurate, it’s actually a new role. Not Director-General any more, just ‘Director’. A publicly-known figure, providing oversight and the final say on the Service’s day-to-day operations. There will be an Operations Director who takes on some of the roles the DG had, though he won’t be in charge overall and I believe the post has been locked up by the current head of the Prague Station.”

  Leaning forward slightly, Airey interjected.

  “Publicly-known? No more secrecy about the head of the Service?”

  “No. Six is still going to be rather more hush-hush, both for the obvious reasons and because it... well. Let’s just say its copybook isn’t as blotted as Five’s as we near the end of the Mountbatten era.”

  “But Five is ushering in a new age of transparency.”

  “Within reason, yes. But this transparency must be accompanied with genuine expertise. Your service in the War captured the public imagination, but it’s your time at MI9 that makes you truly credible.”

  Airey suspected it would be best not to mention that he had been Michael Bentine’s superior.

  “You are popular,” Heath continued, “you are experienced, and you are believed to be a man of integrity. While I’m inclined to snort somewhat at that, I know that party matters aside, you are a patriot and a lover of democracy. However hamfisted your absurd rebellion was in September, you were clearly doing it for reasons that were, at their core, admirable.”

  “I’m grateful for your approval,” said Airey, his voice dripping with something vaguely unpleasant. Heath gave a chuckle. Why? Why enjoy this so outwardly? Obviously the next thing to come out of his mouth was going to be ‘however, I’m not so sure you’d be quite right for the role’-

  “So I think you should put yourself forward. I would support you.”

  What?

  Airey repeated his thought out loud.

  “I think you should do it, Airey,” Heath reiterated, his eyes quite genuine now, “with respect, your time in the Commons is nearing its end, but this is a role that you could easily spend a decade on. It’s an opportunity and a duty – our security services need reshaping. You could be the man to decide that shape. And of course, as is custom, the job comes with a Knighthood.”

  Heath’s mouth had contorted itself into his favourite, shark-like grin. Airey didn’t really pay attention to what came next. He nodded a few times, asked for a few more details, was assured the process for selecting a new Director would be fair but that he would be by far the strongest candidate, and the next thing he knew, he was shaking hands with the man he’d tried desperately to destroy and was on his way out.

  “Airey,” said Heath as Neave reached the door, “it goes without saying that this position is entirely apolitical.”

  “Of course, Prime Mi—” Airey went red and muttered, “Chancellor.”

  “Jolly good. Let me know before the end of the week.”

  It had been a remarkably polite way to tell him he was to be neutered, Airey thought to himself as he closed the door to the Member for Sidcup’s Parliamentary office. Heath had proved just as slippery as he had been in his prime – the old bastard seemed to be ‘back’. And where did that leave Airey? Out, it would appear. What was Iago’s phrase for the fate of ‘honest, knee-crooking knaves’?

  “And when he’s old: cashiered,” he muttered, bitterly. The Directorship of MI5 sounded important, but it wasn’t part of ‘the plan’. The plan had been in motion ever since that blasted heart attack: after years of loyal service to the Party, decisive action in ’75 to get Margaret in and save the lot of them from Heath, everything had been on track. And now, barely more than a year later, the biggest political catastrophe since the General Strike had put Margaret on the back benches (and the Saturday pages). Airey, meanwhile, was to be ‘cashiered’, almost as collateral damage. The whole thing seemed a dreadfully unfair way to prematurely end a Parliamentary career.

  The slamming of a committee room door and a shouting match between David Steel and one of the Penhooligans caught Airey’s attention. On the other side of the corridor, two brutes from the BLP were laughing themselves silly and lighting cigars in celebration of something or other. At that moment, some bright young thing from a sinecure on the south coast knocked Airey’s arm as he breezed past, a set of acolytes in his wake oozing proposals for ‘what he ought to ask for’ after the general election. None even nodded a greeting.

  Airey Neave had made a name for himself as a man who knew a thing or two about escaping. Heath obviously had an ulterior motive for offering him this particular rope ladder. But, by golly, he would be able to have a lot of fun climbing it.

  “Good morning, Sir Airey,” Neave muttered to himself as he walked toward the exit.

  Taking another sip of coffee that tasted like mud, Harold Wilson reread the letter he had been holding in his hands for half an hour. It was quite unlike the various pieces of fan-mail (generally written in capital letters by young men and women pledging a commitment to The Revolution) and hate-mail (usually even less legible, and often smelling of human waste) he had grown accustomed to receiving. It was neatly-typed, on London Weekend Television-headed paper. It was fairly official, but made some very concrete proposals. And it was bloody brilliant.

  Apparently David Frost, of That Was The Week That Was fame, wanted to meet him and do a few no-holds-barred interviews. LWT were prepared to engage their lawyers to see if such a thing would ever be possible.

  There was only a slim chance of it, of course. It couldn’t possibly happen before the trial, and the odds of it occurring by arrangement with one of Her Majesty’s fine custodial establishments were slim, despite there being some precedent. But all the same, it could play into his plans very well indeed.

  Because, as had been the case since Christmas Eve 1976, Harold Wilson was out for revenge.

  He thought back to the expression on Mary’s face. The look of expectation, of a life wasted just before she had cried “I’ve changed my mind” and left his life forever.

  That had been all there was, a turn on the heel and then a final few seconds of a grief-wracked run. It had been all the worse that he had genuinely relished the chance to see her again. Dreamt of it, even. To have one last dance with her, hold the boys one more time... It had all gone. Moscow had taken everything from him – and there was nothing he could do to make them pay.

  Except there was.

  Feverishly, Harold had begun to formulate a plan. He spoke to Mansfield about it as soon as he could, leaving out the details, of course. He wanted everything on-record, so it would be best to do it all in court. He began to giggle as he wondered what would be the most traumatic for everyone. For the Russians, there was probably too much to mention. Even a fraction of what he knew about their apparatus over here would bring it all crashing down.

  For the English? Well, that was easy. It would take them decades to come to terms with the fact their fairytale victory at Wembley in ’66 was the result of a calculated set of orders to a Russian linesman, all in the name of boosting the national mood in advance of a snap election.

  Mansfield, bless him, had seemed genuinely confident of acquittal. Harold smiled, knowing that the young barrister was probably the only person in the country outside of Broadmoor who had entertained even a modicum of such a thing. Harold knew that he was fucked. There was always the chance that he would be let off on the charges of murdering Peter Wright (obviously, they would have had a far better ch
ance had they known about Lord Lucan), but on the allegations of treason? With a paper trail stretching from Huddersfield to Vladivostok? He would have rather taken his chances with Mephistopheles.

  Harold Wilson did not fear death, but he also had no intention of swinging for his crimes (an unlikely outcome, given that Teddy Taylor’s Private Member’s Bill on bringing back capital punishment For Entirely Coincidental Reasons was still stuck in committee). A colossal, impossible, indefatigable plea of ‘guilty’ would surely spare him the rope. Telling the truth would be breaking the habit of a life-time, but in the grimmest of times, it seemed to be a sensible enough volte-face by the Prime Minister.

  It would be a public service. Although it probably wouldn’t be deemed enough to reverse the decision to strip him of his OBE.

  Not that he minded too much about gongs. He had already debased them enough when he gave them out to The Beatles. That had been the intention anyway, although it had not quite been enough to entirely destroy the dreadfully bourgeois fixation on shiny baubles, it had still served to marginally undermine the establishment.

  Rákosi would have called it a ‘salami-slice’ tactic – the concept of achieving tiny aims without others realising that you were actually chipping away at a much larger whole. Taking the Honours System, slowly turning the Georgian medals and sashes into little more than celebrity tickets? Why, it was only a hop and a skip away from hosting “The Generation Game” at Buckingham Palace.

  Harold put down the letter and banged his cup against the metal table as a sign that he wanted more coffee. Some of the guards had got into the habit of topping him up. After all this time, he could still wrap people around his little finger if he really wanted to. His smile turned to a black look as he remembered Mary’s face once more. He’d make them pay. He’d make them all pay. He just needed the right platform.

  The door opened and a guard entered, carrying not coffee but another envelope. Harold grabbed it and pulled out the letter (it had, of course, already been opened). Registering it was from the Director of Public Prosecutions, his eyes scanned the letter for information, years of speed-reading being one of the experiences his recent mental troubles had not been able to take from him. Realising that the letter was a confirmation of his trial date, he found himself unable to stop smiling.

  The Old Bailey, next week, would make a most excellent platform.

  “‘Services to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office’?”

  Paddy Ashdown had seen a lot in the last year. But this was still hard to fully believe. In front of him, the great-great-granddaughter of Queen Victoria was holding a medal that would make him a Commander of the Order of the British Empire.

  “‘Services to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office’?” The Queen repeated. Paddy nodded.

  “Yes, ma’am. This is a great honour.”

  “Particularly at your age,” Elizabeth II said enigmatically.

  “Well, yes, ma’am—”

  “I would normally be giving one of these to an ambassador of some distinguished period of service.”

  “As I said, it is a great honour,” Paddy said, feeling himself starting to sweat.

  “It certainly is, for a Cultural Attaché.”

  Paddy said nothing at all. The Queen, for the first time since his arrival, looked him in the eye.

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  Paddy froze.

  “I b-beg your pardon, ma’am?” he stammered.

  “You caught him,” the Queen replied, flatly.

  Paddy considered denying everything, as he had done a few times recently. But then again, his silence was required thanks to the Official Secrets Act. And if one couldn’t breach the OSA when speaking to the wearer of the crown it protected...

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Paddy, trying to look steely. The Queen gave a small sigh.

  “This country owes you a great debt, Mr Ashdown.”

  “I was just in the right place, ma’am. A great many men were involved in Operation Woodrow.”

  “That is true. And poor Mr Wright made the ultimate sacrifice. It pains me to know he was ignored for so long.”

  Paddy thought it best not to mention that Wright had not been the easiest man to take seriously. Her Majesty was also correct – Wright had been a hothead, perhaps a madman, but he hadn’t deserved to die at the hands of a traitor. As Paddy blanked out the image of Wright’s dented skull from his mind, the Queen continued.

  “It further pains me that you, Mr Ashdown, will not be publicly acknowledged for all this.”

  “I am a young man, ma’am,” Paddy said with a small shrug, “I have no interest in retirement, and my career in the Service would come to an abrupt end if I became a celebrity. Secrecy is key.”

  “Is that secrecy not somewhat compromised by the police officers you commanded during the operation?”

  “All have signed the OSA, and none are considered a risk.” Fipps was an idiot, but he wasn’t a turncoat. Paddy had heard that, incredibly, he’d been promoted to Sergeant after everything had settled down. The others – and there weren’t many of them – were all good men.

  “Well,” Her Majesty remarked, “that all seems very neat. I wish you the best of luck out there – wherever ‘out there’ may be.”

  Paddy stopped himself from telling the Queen he was booked on a flight to Moscow the next day. Her Majesty stepped forward, and held out the medal. Paddy took it, gave a small bow, and detected it was time to leave. Before he could turn away, however, she spoke.

  “I liked him, you know.”

  Ashdown bowed his head.

  “Ma’am, I voted for him.”

  Paddy looked up, and monarch and subject held eye contact for a few moments. It was an extraordinary meeting, but an ordinary conversation. It was, Paddy supposed, another moment of soul-searching in the world Harold Wilson had made.

  Chapter thirty-four

  Wednesday 19th January 1977 – 4:00pm

  “The damn thing is still on the blink!”

  Joe Haines, Head of Press for the Trades Union Congress, bashed the top of his television with a grunt. He had not had an especially productive fourteen months – working for traitors tended to be somewhat of a blot on one’s CV, regardless of whether the traitor in question had been Prime Minister of your country or not.

  The high profile of Haines’ former employer had been enough to make life very, very difficult for Joe and his colleagues during those awful few days in November ’75. Bernard had apparently begun singing like a canary, making up whole stories about hearing Harold speak fluent Russian in his sleep. Marcia had proved more resilient, though her sense of betrayal toward Wilson had always seemed a touch more personal than Joe’s. Haines hadn’t asked.

  Neither he, Bernard, or Marcia had eventually been charged with anything, but it had been a good while before any of them had felt comfortable enough to return from self-imposed exile, though he was fairly sure that The Baroness Falkender had found the House of Lords considerably easier to hide in. In April, Bernard had found Transport House unexpectedly receptive to his return, and he’d soon been forced to take sides in the Woy/Wedgie civil war. Joe understood the old Gaitskellite had jumped ship to Reform, and was managing policy for Jenkins these days, and probably on a salary that put Joe’s to shame. They hadn’t spoken in months.

  That said, even if Congress House was not quite 10 Downing Street, it was at least better than the work camp in the Orkneys that he had been threatened with by a number of irate letters – a couple, rather unhelpfully, from members of the BLP.

  Once a press secretary, always a press secretary, Haines had found it impossible to resist keeping abreast of the various fantastical headlines over the past year and a half. The Sun’s ‘TRAITOR!’ had, of course, been by far the most iconic, with original mint copies now selling at auction for more than eight hundred pounds. Less than a week after that announcement, the Mirror had almost given them a run for their money with ‘The Lady’s Not Returning’ as Tha
tcher was hounded out by her bumbling cabinet. During the General Strike itself, everyone on Fleet Street had run practically the same ‘blood on the streets’ picture and headline when the Nottingham Violence became infamous around the world, thanks to Civil Assistance. But the Guardian had definitely won the ‘most hysteria’ award of 1975, with its huge, bolded ‘Epaulettes on Whitehall’ headline accompanying the worst picture of Lord Mountbatten it could find.

  It would be curious to future historians, Haines supposed, that there were no front pages shrieking about ‘tanks on Horseguards’. The infamous altercation that had entered the public consciousness overnight had never actually been seen in a newspaper, thanks to the Mountbatten regime. The BBC had broadcast the footage, just once, which of course was enough, but the nation’s headline-writers had been denied possibly their biggest story since… well, the week before, when the Prime Minister had been exposed as a bloody spy.

  Haines had been released by this point, and so had experienced first hand the twin hysterias of the news of Wilson’s capture and the news that the IRA seemed to be trying to wipe out the population of Great Britain now. When matters became even more complicated, he’d actually moved in with a friend in the Lake District for some time. Haines had believed the UVF, INLA, IRA, UDA or (maybe) the CIA were unlikely to target Lake Buttermere, even if between them they seemed intent on blowing up a pub or bus station in every Catholic or Protestant neighbourhood from Derry to the Gorbals. The Anglo-Irish Agreement really had taken the wind out of the campaigns, and it was a bathtime reading of the numerous parliamentary sketches of that tense vote that made up Joe’s mind to have a shave, move back to London, and get a damn job.

  That had proved difficult at first. Rumours of a blacklist (with more than 180,000 names) were fun for students to shout about on the street. They were less fun for the men and women subject to the ‘Ted Scare’, which had taken its name from the then-Home Secretary. Haines had interview after interview end abruptly without success, and it was only a tiny note pressed into his palm during a handshake with a sub-editor at the Mirror that alerted him to what was going on. A quick read of a lecture by Ralph Miliband, transcribed by the New York Times, had been enough to make Haines put in a call to Chris Mullin, on the recommendation of some friends.