A Very British Coup

by Chris Mullin

  “That’s when you start to take it easy. Throw a spanner or two in the works. Tell the government it’s more complicated than you thought. Get the workers to go-slow.” Morgan chuckled. “Going-slow is what you British are good at, isn’t it?”

  The air marshal managed only a weak smile. At home he would have been the first to laugh at any joke about the idleness of the British working man, but he did not like to see a foreigner running down his countrymen. “That might not be as easy as you imagine,” he said, “the running down operation is likely to be in the hands of the chief scientific adviser to the MoD, an old Pole named Kowalsky. We’re not sure we can count on him to play ball. At Chequers on Sunday I rather got the impression that he might actually be in favour of doing away with nuclear weapons.” The air marshal’s voice betrayed incredulity, as though he could not conceive a scientist, let alone one working for the Ministry of Defence, who would be against the bomb.

  “A pinko?” asked Morgan, one eyebrow raised.

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” said Sir Richard quickly.

  They talked for another half hour. Mainly about the chain of communications bases run by the American National Security Agency. This was really not Sir Richard’s department. More an intelligence matter. But he knew enough to venture an opinion. He was slightly taken aback when Morgan remarked casually that it was being used to monitor all British government communications, including the Downing Street switchboard. “There’s virtually nothing that bastard Perkins says that won’t find its way to this desk within six hours,” said Morgan patting a file of computer print-outs in his in-tray. At first Sir Richard assumed that American bugging the British government communications had been prompted by recent events, but Morgan soon put him straight. America, he said, had been bugging friendly governments for the last thirty years. Including all British governments, Conservative and Labour. “We started during the Suez crisis,” beamed Morgan, “and never kicked the habit.”

  From the State Department Sir Richard was taken to see the President. They went in Morgan’s car. To avoid leaks the meeting took place not in the Oval Office, but in a suite in the Executive Office Building which the President used for off-the-record meetings. The President asked mainly about the political situation in Britain. How long did Gibbon think Perkins would last? Was there anyone else in the Labour Party who could take over if Perkins was ousted? Gibbon had replied that being a military man he was not well up on politics, but it was his impression that Perkins would lead the Labour Party into the next election and that he stood a good chance of winning.

  With that Gibbon was driven to a house in Georgetown which the State Department used for VIP guests. Here he bathed, shaved and changed into his air marshal’s uniform. From there he was taken to the Pentagon where he lunched with the USAF Chief of Staff. Even here the F-18s were discussed only perfunctorily. Most of the talk was about the bases in Britain. Finally he was driven back to the RAF DC10 which was refuelled and waiting for him at Andrews Air Force Base. By the small hours of Tuesday morning he was back in London.

  15

  The spring brought out the crocuses and daffodils in St James’s Park. On the Thames the pleasure boats made their first trips of the season to Kew Gardens, and in Hyde Park military bands began playing again on Sunday afternoons.

  Spring also saw the launch of a huge offensive against the government’s plan to do away with nuclear weapons. It started a few days after the Chequers conference with a statement from the US State Department to the effect that while the United States would always respect the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the United Kingdom and any other NATO member, there were wider issues at stake. By effectively withdrawing from the alliance, the statement continued, the government of the United Kingdom places in jeopardy not merely the security of their own people, but that of Western Europe as a whole. The German, the Spanish, Belgian and Italian (though not the Dutch) governments each delivered separate protest notes. Meanwhile the Chiefs of Staff made what was supposed to be an unpublicised visit to Perkins to protest at the decision, but when they arrived at Downing Street batteries of cameras were waiting to record the event.

  Press coverage grew steadily more outrageous. Ministers were presented as unwitting agents of the Soviet Union. One cartoon depicted Perkins standing on a map of Europe and opening a door for Russian tanks. Another showed a column of Russian tanks in front of the Houses of Parliament with America, Germany and other NATO allies, standing to one side, saying to Britain “Serves you right”. The Daily Mail described the decision to ask the Americans to leave as the “biggest betrayal of Europe since the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact”. The Times said that Britain would never be able to hold her head high again and the Guardian commented that while a case might be made out for severing military ties with the United States, now was not the time. Attempts to point out that Sweden and Switzerland had prospered as neutral countries were brushed aside, as was all mention of Canada which had unilaterally renounced nuclear weapons three decades before without any discernible ill-effects.

  The public was still being given a wholly false picture of the balance of forces in Europe. Despite a personal memorandum from the Secretary of State’s office and several reminders from Downing Street, the MoD press office continued to brief journalists using tables which omitted all mention of French forces and which excluded all British and American troops stationed outside central Europe.

  Perkins staged a slight recovery in the opinion polls, which recorded a majority of British citizens in favour of the government’s stand, but the findings were not widely reported. Only in May when in the face of a continuous propaganda barrage the majority against the bomb started to decline, were the opinion polls headline news again.

  Gradually the going got rougher. The West German railways cancelled a ninety million pound order for locomotives and rolling stock to be built in Huddersfield. Spain pulled out of an order for two naval patrol vessels being built at Barrow. Saudi Arabia, which had been on the point of signing a contract with a British company for a huge construction project at a port on the Red Sea, withdrew at the last moment. These were the first in a spate of cancellations. The Boston Globe reported that American embassies around the world had instructions to persuade friendly governments to take their business elsewhere than Britain. Only the Financial Times took up the story.

  Also about this time American-owned multinational corporations began transferring huge sums of money out of Britain. At first there appeared no reason for the transfer since British exchange rates compared favourably with those in Europe and the United States. Later a rumour circulated the money markets that the corporations were acting in response to pressure from the US Treasury which had privately guaranteed them against losses arising from these transactions. When the rumour persisted the American ambassador was summoned to the Foreign Office and asked to confirm or deny. His denial was less than watertight.

  At the same time it was reliably reported from Washington that the Secretary of State had told a group of right-wing congressmen in an off-the-record briefing that America had no intention of vacating its bases in Britain. “When the time comes,” he was quoted as saying, “we’ll just sit tight and see what happens.”

  At this news the colour drained from Perkins’ face. “I’m beginning to think we’ve bitten off more than we can chew,” he said to Fred Thompson during one of their late night chats. Thompson was amazed. It was the first piece of pessimism he had ever heard from Perkins. “You know, Fred,” Perkins had continued, “membership of NATO is about as voluntary as membership of the Warsaw Pact.” He spoke as though he was kicking himself for not having realised that earlier. “We aren’t going to be allowed to leave. If economic pressure doesn’t work, they’ll try blackmail. If that doesn’t work, they’ll try and subvert us. And if that fails, they’ll send tanks. Just like the Russians did in Hungary.”

  Trade Unionists for Multilateral Nuclear Disarmament was launched at a crowded press c
onference at a suite in the Dorchester Hotel. The Dorchester was not an obvious venue but then, as Reg Smith never tired of saying, nothing is too good for the working classes. Smith was the chairman of TUM, as it became known. The secretary was a dapper young man called Clive Short who had lately graduated from Oxford. At Oxford he had formed a breakaway Labour club because the original one had, it was alleged, been taken over by extremists. It was in this capacity that he had come to the attention of Reg Smith.

  Two other general secretaries, the leaders of the steel workers and the shop workers, shared the platform with Smith at the Dorchester. They were, however, careful to emphasise that they were present in a personal capacity. Also on the platform were shop stewards from union branches at Aldermaston, Burghfield and the Devonport dockyard. Their interest was easily identified: their members’ jobs were at stake.

  In answer to questions, Smith did most of the talking. TUM, he said, was his brainchild. It was designed to act as a rallying point for the millions of moderate, sensible trade unionists who realised that Harry Perkins and his government were surrendering the country to the Russians. He wanted to stand up and show that it was not only Tories who cared about their country and about freedom.

  Was TUM in favour of nuclear disarmament? Yes, of course, but not at any price. It was not right to ask the Americans to pull their bases out of Britain, unless the Russians pulled out of Eastern Europe.

  Where was TUM’s money coming from? From affiliation fees and a large bank overdraft. So far only the United Power Workers’ Union had affiliated at national level, but a number of union branches had already signed up and at least one of the major civil service unions, which had a lot of members in the defence industry, was expected to affiliate shortly.

  Was TUM a CIA front organisation? This question came from a reporter on the Independent Socialist who had managed to slip in to the invitations-only press conference. But Smith was an old hand at his game. He easily parried the question with just the right blend of indignation and humour to be convincing. “And while we’re on the subject of front organisations,” he added to general laughter, “is there any truth in the rumour that the KGB is funding the Independent Socialist?”

  Press coverage the next day was lavish. Every paper carried a picture of Smith and ten to twenty column inches of sympathetic reporting. Papers which had only half heartedly supported the power workers’ go-slow a few weeks earlier now had a campaign they could get their teeth into. The Daily Mirror was particularly effusive. Here at last, said an editorial, was a man prepared to stand up to Perkins on his own ground. A trade unionist who put the security of Britain before party politics.

  TUM placed a series of advertisements in national newspapers appealing for members and money. Donations poured into its third-floor office in a terrace of early Victorian houses near the Euston Road headquarters of the United Power Workers’ Union. So great was the flood of mail that Smith had to second a couple of union secretaries to help. By the end of the first week, Smith was able to announce donations totalling forty thousand pounds. He wisely declined to speculate as to the kind of people who would contribute funds to Trade Unionists for Multilateral Nuclear Disarmament. For one thing, many of the donations were anonymous. For another, as many of the accompanying letters made clear, much of TUM’s support was coming from people who believed neither in trade unionism nor disarmament.

  Sir Peregrine Craddock knew even before most CND members that the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament were planning a major demonstration. Quite apart from the routine telephone taps, he had a man on the CND general council. It was one of DI5’s most successful penetrations, yielding a complete set of minutes, not only of executive meetings but also of the secret discussions that took place between leading members of CND and Harry Perkins when he was leader of the opposition.

  Sir Peregrine had long regarded CND as the most subversive organisation on DI5’s books. Its subversive nature lay in the breadth of its appeal. Besides the usual gaggle of Communists, Trotskyists and layabouts, CND’s membership took in Christians, Social Democrats, Liberals, Buddhists, vegetarians and even a few Young Conservatives. In the early days DI5 had made a number of hamfisted attempts to discredit CND as a Soviet front. Sir George Fison’s newspapers even helped out with stories of CND delegations on expenses-paid trips to Moscow or by quoting from articles in Pravda in praise of CND. But none of this had the slightest effect on public opinion and CND’s membership continued to grow. Worse still, it was effective. For years DI5 had invested thousands of man hours and weeks of computer time meticulously infiltrating, bugging and logging the details of every little Trotskyist sect that had ever raised a placard outside Brixton tube station on a Saturday morning. Yet none of these had ever caused the slightest hiccup in the orderly conduct of the nation’s affairs. CND, meanwhile, had turned the nation’s defence policy upside down in the space of a decade. And there appeared to be nothing DI5 or any other organ of the State could do to stop it. Yes, thought Sir Peregrine turning a half circle towards the window in his swivel chair, CND was a very dangerous organisation indeed.

  From below in Curzon Street, a screech of car brakes momentarily penetrated the double glazing and lace curtains of Sir Peregrine’s inner sanctum. He spun his chair sharply back from the window towards the desk and pressed a button by the telephone which caused a red light to flash in the outer office. The door at the far end of the room opened and Fiennes entered. As usual he was wearing a white shirt with blue stripes, a dark blue suit and the thinnest of thin smiles.

  “Fiennes,” said Sir Peregrine without looking up, “I think we ought to lay something on for this CND demo next month. Get on to Special Ops and see what they suggest.”

  “Good idea, sir.” Fiennes would have said it was a good idea whether or not he thought so.

  “What I have in mind,” Sir Peregrine went on, “is a bit of a punch-up. Something that will detract from any favourable press coverage.”

  “I’ll get on to it right away, sir.”

  Fiennes had turned back towards the door when Sir Peregrine spoke again. “Just a punch-up, you understand, Fiennes. I don’t want anybody killed or maimed.” As an after-thought he added, “Above all, I don’t want any of those psychopaths from Hereford involved.”

  “No sir,” said Fiennes quietly, though he could not bring himself to think of the members of the Special Air Services as psychopaths.

  The crowd began to assemble at Speakers’ Corner long before midday. All weekend people had poured into London for what CND had promised would be the biggest demonstration in British political history. It had been billed in CND literature as “The Final Push”. The aim, according to the leaflets, was to show that “in spite of the unanimous hostility of the media and the establishment the British people stood behind their government’s decision to do away with the Bomb.”

  The organisers had confidently predicted a quarter of a million people and even by the normally cautious estimates of the Metropolitan Police it seemed they could be right. Special trains and coaches were streaming into London from Scotland and the North of England, from Wales and the West Country. To the dismay of Jim Chambers, who was observing from the American embassy, there were even contingents from the West German Social Democratic Party and from Holland, Italy, Greece, Norway, Belgium and Spain. Nearly every country in NATO was represented. The spectre of a neutral Europe which had haunted Pentagon defence planners for so long was looking more and more probable.

  As is customary at such gatherings, the Special Branch was well represented. Though not carrying banners they were readily identifiable. Heavy young men in green anoraks, faded jeans and plimsols. Some posed as press photographers, but gave themselves away by chatting too readily with the uniformed officers. Others were given away by the tell-tale bulge of a police radio under their jackets. They were to be glimpsed operating long-range cameras from rooftops all along the route of the procession, but particularly from vantage points overlooking Trafalgar
Square, which would be the climax of the demonstration.

  Fred Thompson was pointing all this out to Elizabeth Fain as they walked hand in hand along Park Lane towards Speakers’ Corner. “Those cameras are so powerful,” he was saying, “that they can identify an individual at a hundred and fifty yards.” Thompson waved cheerfully at the men on the roof of the Hilton.

  “By now,” he teased, “they’ll have you on file and before long all your friends in high places will know you have been seen in the company of a dangerous extremist. It’ll be the talk of Annabel’s.”

  “I wouldn’t be seen dead in that place these days,” said Elizabeth nudging him playfully. It was true, Elizabeth’s outlook on life had changed since she first met Thompson. She had started to read between the lines of what she read in newspapers and, at Thompson’s prompting, was now halfway through a book on the origins of the Cold War. Unlike many of her friends, Elizabeth had always been prepared to accept that the Americans were not necessarily the champions of freedom that she had been brought up to believe. However, it came as a revelation to discover the existence of a point of view, apparently supported by documentary evidence, which saw America as the centre of a worldwide network of tyranny, terrorism and suppression. It had turned her world upside down. She was not exactly converted. She was confused.

  “I can see it’s going to take a long time to repair the damage caused by that expensive education of yours,” Thompson had said when she questioned him one evening about the coup in Chile. He had added with a grin, “Count yourself lucky that you’ve been saved while there was still time.”