A Very British Coup

by Chris Mullin

  The Special Branch man did not attempt a smile. He refused an offer of coffee and sat down without so much as unbuttoning his raincoat. “You in debt to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Have you a girl-friend?”

  “Several.”

  Solemnly the man recorded each answer in his standard issue notebook. “Which system do you support?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Our system or theirs?” There was irritation in his voice. Thompson was not treating him seriously.

  “What do you mean, ours?”

  “The King, Parliament …”

  “And theirs?”

  “The Russians.”

  Thompson struggled to keep a straight face. The man sat waiting, biro poised, for an answer. “I am a member of the Labour Party. There’s all sorts in the Labour Party.”

  “Which sort are you?”

  “Is that really relevant?”

  The man’s voice hardened. “I’ll decide what’s relevant and the longer you piss about the longer this will take.”

  It took two hours and as he left the man did not attempt to conceal his annoyance. Civil servants treated the Special Branch vetting with respect because their careers depended on security clearance, but political appointments were made by ministers who usually did not give a toss what the Special Branch dredged up. Thompson could afford to be cocky.

  “You’ll be hearing from us again,” said the Special Branch man as he departed, but he knew he was wasting his time.

  When Thompson left Downing Street, it was already getting dark. He walked up to Whitehall and took a number 24 bus back to his flat in Camden. Indoors he switched on the kettle for a cup of tea and just caught the headlines at the end of the radio news. Sterling was still sliding. That day it had dipped under two dollars for the first time since the early 1980s.

  Before the kettle had boiled the phone rang. It was Elizabeth Fain. “Fred, at last. I’ve been trying to get you all week.”

  Thompson told her about his new job and then asked about her weekend in the country. She sounded agitated. “That’s what I want to talk to you about. It’s important.”

  “Fire away.”

  “No, Fred, not on the phone.”

  “Now who’s paranoid?”

  They met that evening in a Holborn wine bar. At eight o’clock next morning Thompson saw Perkins alone in his study.

  7

  Every morning at ten a blue Mercedes deposited the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lawrence Wainwright, at the main entrance to the Treasury. Despite the Prime Minister’s memorandum ordering ministers to limit their use of government cars, Wainwright insisted on being driven the 300 yards from Number Eleven Downing Street. Not that Wainwright was lazy or incapable of walking. On the contrary, he was a man of iron constitution. He insisted on being driven to the Treasury each morning only because Perkins had asked him not to. It was as simple as that. Had Perkins insisted ministers go by car, Wainwright would probably have walked.

  Wainwright was a bitter man. By rights he and not Harry Perkins should have been in Number Ten. At least, that was what he told himself. That was also what the newspapers said. And so did a surprising number of Labour MPs in the privacy of the tea rooms. Wainwright knew that had history taken its natural course he would have been leader of the Labour Party. It was no secret that a comfortable majority of Labour MPs would prefer him to Perkins any day of the week. But just as Wainwright had been poised to enter upon what he regarded as his rightful inheritance, the rules had been changed. Instead of leaving the choice of leader up to the MPs, the party had set up this damn fool electoral college. The result was Harry Perkins.

  Wainwright had toyed with the idea of leaving politics, of taking a job with the World Bank or NATO and coming back to haunt Perkins in a new incarnation. There had been no shortage of offers, but in the end he had decided to stay. For one thing it was only a question of time before Perkins and his friends ran into deep trouble. When that happened there might well be a role for Wainwright. He might be just the man to step in and fill the breach when Perkins ran aground. This was what Wainwright’s friends were saying. Stick around, Lawrence, they said. We may need you soon. So Wainwright had stuck around. The result was an offer of a senior Cabinet post.

  At first Wainwright had been surprised when Perkins offered him the Chancellor’s job, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised he was doing Perkins a favour by accepting. Firstly, because he probably represented more of a threat outside the government than inside. Second, because his contacts in the City were impeccable. In opposition Wainwright had accepted directorships on the board of a leading merchant bank and a multinational chemical company. He had of course to resign the directorships when he went back into government, but the contacts were still there. Wainwright moved very easily in the world of high finance. Being the only moderate in the Cabinet he was virtually a prisoner. The more he thought about it, he was an obvious choice for Chancellor.

  The Treasury was a gloomy place. The building was designed originally for the British Raj in New Delhi and intended to exclude the Indian sunlight. For some reason it ended up being built in Whitehall rather than Delhi and excluding British rather than Indian sunlight. The corridors are built around a circular courtyard and account for more than a quarter of the entire surface area. They are wide enough to accommodate six people walking abreast and all day long messengers pushing little wicker baskets ply back and forth.

  The Chancellor’s office is on the second floor overlooking King Charles Street. Sir Peter Kennedy, the senior permanent secretary, was waiting when Wainwright arrived.

  “Bad news, sir.” Kennedy’s eyes betrayed a tiny gleam of satisfaction as he spoke. “No go with the stand-by credit. The Americans didn’t want to know. The Germans said only if the Americans co-operate and the French said ‘Get stuffed’. Only the Dutch seem prepared to lend a hand.”

  Wainwright placed his red despatch box on the oak desk, walked to the other side and sat down. “Do the markets know?” he asked Kennedy.

  “Not yet, sir, but it’s only a matter of time,” said Kennedy, affecting regret.

  “When they do, I suppose they’ll wipe another billion off sterling.” Wainwright was toying with a paper knife.

  Kennedy did not reply, but remained hovering like an obsequious butler. “I told the Cabinet,” said Wainwright self-righteously, “I told them we were wasting our time even asking, but they would insist.” He placed the paper knife by the base of a large lampshade on the right hand corner of the desk. “That only leaves us one option, the IMF.”

  That was Kennedy’s cue. “I’ve already been on to Washington,” he said quickly. “They say they could have a team here by Wednesday.”

  “Wednesday?” Wainwright raised an eyebrow. “They don’t waste any time, do they?”

  “Actually, sir,” said Kennedy with a smile, “we did warn them we might be calling.” And then he added hastily, “Unofficially of course.”

  “Of course,” said Wainwright, who knew very well that behind his back the Treasury mandarins were in daily contact with the IMF. For all he knew they may even have agreed the conditions. Probably all that remained was to get the Chancellor’s signature on a letter of application.

  He looked up at Kennedy. The man never put a foot wrong. Yet everyone in the Treasury knew that it was he and not Wainwright who was boss. Long after Wainwright had gone from the Chancellorship, Kennedy would still be steering the British economy.

  “We’ll need a summary of our financial position to show the IMF.”

  “There’s a draft in your tray, sir.”

  “And a position paper for the Cabinet.”

  “The first draft is being typed now,” said Kennedy, clasping his hands and tilting his head to one side. Will that be all? he seemed to say.

  “I’d better tell Perkins.” Wainwright pressed a button on the intercom connecting him to his private office. “Get me the PM,” he sai
d.

  Marcus J. Morgan was back in his Washington office when he heard that the British were sending for the IMF. He thumped the desk in triumph. “Now we’ll screw the bastards.”

  Morgan was a mean man and he was proud of being mean. “I didn’t get where I am today by helping old ladies across the street,” he was fond of telling subordinates.

  That night top secret cables went out from the State Department to American ambassadors in Nigeria, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and other countries holding reserves in sterling. The cables instructed the ambassadors to apply all legitimate pressure to persuade the governments to which they were accredited to start converting their reserves into any currency but sterling. Legitimate pressure included offers of increased military aid.

  The British were on the run. Morgan planned to make them run even faster.

  Sir Philip Norton, the Co-ordinator of Intelligence in the Cabinet Office, had just returned from lunching at the Reform Club when he was summoned by the Prime Minister. “PM’s in a bit of a flap,” said Tweed as he ushered Sir Philip into the presence.

  “Ah, there you are, Norton,” said Perkins, indicating the seat in front of his desk. “I’ve got a little job for your fellows.”

  Perkins paused to take off his reading spectacles. It was the first time Sir Philip had seen Perkins wearing glasses. They made him look more of an intellectual than his public image suggested. “I’ve had reports,” Perkins went on, “that civil servants in the Treasury have been privately advising foreign finance ministries not to provide the stand-by credit we have been trying to negotiate. Do you know anything about that?”

  Inwardly Sir Philip was aghast, but his face betrayed not a flicker of emotion. “New one on me, Prime Minister.”

  Perkins placed both hands palm downwards on the desk. “As far as I am concerned there is one word to describe a situation where a servant of His Majesty’s government conspires with officials of a foreign government against the British national interest: treason.” Sir Philip winced at the word. Really, this was laying it on a bit thick. “Tell DI5 I want the names of those involved. Tap the phones at the Treasury if necessary.” Perkins paused and then added with a smile, “About time DI5 had something useful to do. A change from photographing CND demonstrators and spying on trade union officials.”

  Sir Philip did not share Perkins’ amusement.

  “May I enquire what your source is for this information, Prime Minister?”

  “The source is my affair, but you can take it from me it’s reliable.”

  Too damn reliable, thought Sir Philip.

  “While you’re here,” said Perkins, “perhaps you can tell me, do DI5 keep files on members of my government?”

  “These days, Prime Minister, it’s all on computer. Curzon Street will have something on every Member of Parliament. Mostly just name, age, school, assets. Standard procedure.”

  “How do I get at them?” Perkins took a Kleenex tissue from a box on his desk and started to clean his glasses.

  “I beg your pardon, Prime Minister.” Sir Philip was sitting bolt upright.

  “The files, tapes or whatever you call them. How do I get them? It’s the ones on Cabinet ministers I’m interested in.” He breathed on the lenses of his spectacles, causing them to mist over.

  “Prime Minister, I must advise you that it would be most irregular for any member of the government to see those files.”

  Perkins cocked an eyebrow. “But I thought the Prime Minister is supposed to be the head of the security services. Surely I can see what I like?”

  In eight years as Co-ordinator of Intelligence and before that as head of DI5 Sir Philip had served three Prime Ministers and four Home Secretaries. Never had any of them asked to see files except on the recommendation of the security chiefs. Sir Philip was embarrassed, but firm. “Prime Minister, there is a convention that ministers do not concern themselves with particular cases. It was set out in a directive by the former Home Secretary, Sir David Maxwell Fyfe, in 1952. I can provide you with a copy.”

  Perkins was incredulous. “You are not seriously suggesting I should be bound by a memorandum from some Tory Home Secretary nearly forty years ago?”

  Sir Philip wrung his hands. That was precisely what he was suggesting.

  “Because if so,” Perkins replaced his glasses and leaned across the desk, “you are quite mistaken. I want copies of everything that damn computer has on members of my Cabinet. And I want it today.”

  Four hours later Tweed wheeled in twenty-four small bundles of computer print-out. One for each Cabinet minister. Perkins sent each minister his own and asked for comments. What he did not know is that before parting with print-outs, DI5 had carefully weeded out juicier snippets such as the Foreign Secretary’s affair with the girl in the Hampstead Labour party. The reference to the photograph of the Overseas Development Minister marching alongside the National Secretary of the Socialist Workers’ Party was also missing. It turned up a few weeks later on the front page of The Times. The photo was published under the headline “A Trot in the Cabinet” and the story underneath went on to imply that he was just one of many. The Times had even managed to dredge up a couple of Curran’s old SWP colleagues who reminisced at length about the minister’s days as a revolutionary Marxist.

  The story caused a mild flurry in the popular newspapers and the Daily Telegraph, and Tory backbenchers had some fun at question time in the House. By and large, however, the only people who were shocked were those who wanted to be, since Curran had never made any secret of his political past.

  “That’ll do for starters,” said Sir Peregrine when Fiennes placed the press cuttings in his in-tray. Then he added, with the nearest he ever came to a smile, “Next we’ll give the Foreign Secretary’s love life an airing.”

  *

  The first thing Sir Philip Norton did when he got back to the Cabinet Office was to ring his brother. The phone rang for a full minute before a refined voice said, “Watlington Priory.”

  “Andrew.” As Sir Philip spoke his secretary placed a cup of tea on the desk in front of him. “Andrew, I wanted to thank you for that awfully nice dinner the other evening.”

  From the other end of the telephone came a couple of minutes of “Jolly decent of you to come, old boy …” Sir Philip clasped the telephone receiver with one hand, stirred his tea with a spoon in the other, and, occasionally, uttered a “Yes” or “No”. When the babble at the other end subsided, he replaced the teaspoon in the saucer and came to the point. “Who was that girl with Roger?”

  “What girl? Oh, you mean Elizabeth? Fain’s girl. Charming …”

  Sir Philip had taken from an inside jacket pocket a gold-topped fountain pen. Fain he wrote on a sheet of Cabinet Office notepaper. “Any idea what she does for a living?”

  “Not a clue. Father was an equerry to the King.” There was a silence at the other end of the phone and then, “I say, old boy, nothing wrong?”

  “Of course not. Just curious, that’s all.” Sir Philip laid the pen on the desk and reached for his tea. “Sorry Andrew, must rush. Thanks again for dinner.”

  He replaced the receiver and put the top back on his fountain pen which he returned to his inside pocket. On the Cabinet Office notepaper Sir Philip had written under Fain the words Equerry and King.

  His next call was to Sir Peregrine Craddock to whom he related the details of his conversation with Perkins. When that was done he flipped a switch on his desk intercom. “Get me some background on Lady Elizabeth F-A-I-N,” he said into the machine. “And when you’ve found out where she lives tell Ebury Bridge Road to put a tap on her phone.”

  The men from the IMF arrived two days later. They checked into Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair under assumed names. Their anonymity did not last long. A story in the Financial Times the next day blew their cover. News of their arrival caused the pound to rally by half a cent, but the recovery did not last long.

  There were five of them: an American, a Dutchman, a Japanese, a Ge
rman and an Englishman, Bill Whittaker, a former deputy chief cashier at the Bank of England. Whittaker was a hard, humourless man, who had not come to look up old friends. He was here to look at the books and offer a diagnosis. He was not concerned with the political consequences of this diagnosis, only with the facts. The facts in this case were that Britain was asking for the biggest loan in the IMF’s history. Inevitably the price would be high.

  Everywhere the IMF team went they were trailed by pressmen. Photographers were waiting outside the Treasury, the Bank of England and Downing Street. As if to underline the gravity of the mission, rain started soon after the IMF team arrived in London and continued almost without respite until they left. Every day the newspapers published pictures of five unsmiling men in mackintoshes, getting in and out of chauffeur-driven cars, king-sized umbrellas held aloft. And with every day that passed the pound continued to fall until the reserves were nearly exhausted.

  Only a three per cent increase in Minimum Lending Rate staved sterling’s complete collapse.

  One rain-sodden night after the IMF team had been two weeks in Britain a Royal Air Force DC10 took off from Northolt in Middlesex. On board were three men whose identity was known only to the captain and the steward who were sworn to secrecy. The three passengers boarded the plane after darkness from a car which was driven to the aircraft steps. The DC10 left Northolt at 2100 GMT and flew west over the Atlantic until it was well clear of European airspace. Then it veered south, skirting Spain and Portugal. Just before the Canary Islands the DC10 turned east towards Morocco. It crossed Morocco behind the Atlas Mountains and then turned north east. At 0130 GMT the DC10 landed at Dar El Beidah airport, Algiers.

  The plane taxied to a dark corner of the airport and stopped. Two black Mercedes, one containing a high official of the Algerian government, were waiting. Even before the engines were switched off, a gangway was in place. The doors opened and the three passengers emerged, each carrying a briefcase and a small suitcase.