by Duncan James
CHAPTER SIX – SPECIAL RELATIONS
Andrew Groves and Pierre van-Leengoed had greeted one another like long lost brothers when they met at Zaventum, Brussels’ International airport.
It had been some twelve years since their first meeting, and they had immediately got on well together. In those days, van Leengoed had been working in the Dutch Government Transport Department, in charge of their railways directorate, while Groves had been Head of Information at the Department of Transport in London. Their paths had crossed at a United Nations meeting of Transport Ministers in Geneva, when they had both been part of their respective delegations. They had immediately struck up a rapport, which, over the years, had developed into a strong friendship. The Dutchman had moved into public relations work, still as a civil servant, which had meant that he and Groves had even more in common, and that their professional paths tended to cross even more than they used.
Now they were both top of their profession, although, if he was honest, Groves was rather envious of van Leengoeds’ job as Director General, Press and Communication at the EU. He wouldn’t have minded that himself. Not that he was grumbling about the job he had instead - far from it. But perhaps NATO would come up one day - that would be nice.
Groves and van-Lee, as he was known, both enjoyed the 18km rail trip from the airport to the centre of Brussels. They shared an interest in railways that had developed during their work in their respective transport ministries, and their interest in the subject had lingered on. They each pumped 4 Euros into the machine for their single ticket, and sat in animated conversation during the 20 minute journey, Groves clutching his overnight bag. They left Centraal station, and headed for the Grand Place, a short walk away. Over their first glass of draught Kronenbourg, sitting outside at their favourite bar opposite the Hotel de Ville, Groves changed the subject from personal affairs to the real purpose of his visit.
“There’s something very odd going on in London,” said Groves, “and I don’t understand what it’s all about. What’s more, no-one seems about to tell me, either.”
“That’s unusual,” said his friend, “You usually get to know just about everything that’s worth knowing.”
“Well, not this time,” replied Andrew.
“I must say,” said Pierre, “I did think it odd that you should be sent over here just because some fat-head - is that OK English?” Groves nodded. Like most Dutchmen, Pierre spoke excellent English. “Just because some fat-head mentioned the advantages of straight cucumbers! People here are always getting stupid quotes in the papers.”
“That’s not confined to Brussels, either,” said Groves. “But we’ll talk about bloody cucumbers tomorrow, if we must. That’s only the excuse - the official reason - for me being here. The Prime Minister has asked me to make discreet enquiries about something else, quite different and unrelated, and that’s why I want your special help.”
“Sounds interesting.” said van-Lee.
“It is, and it’s the bit I don’t understand,” replied Groves. He took a long sip of his beer, looking around him to make sure they were not being overheard. “The PM specifically wants to know about the activities of Sinn Fein within the EU,” he continued, leaning forward. “As you may remember, they are the political wing of the IRA, and they have an office here in Brussels. He’s asked me to find out who they’ve been briefing recently, what sort of line they are taking, what press coverage they’ve had over here, that sort of thing. But I don’t know why, which means I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”
“Well,” said Pierre, philosophically, “it’s not the first time, and it probably want be the last, that Ministers have asked you and I to do something which sounds screwy.”
“Quite,” said Andrew. “I can understand people getting cross about idiots who bang on about straight cucumbers - we have enough problems in the UK at the moment trying to convince people that the EU is a good thing, and with the debate hotting up about the single currency, this sort of thing doesn’t help.”
“Of course not. I can see that.”
“But the sudden interest in the Brussels office of Sinn Fein is beyond me,” said Groves.
“Well,” said van-Leengoed, “it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out what they’re up to. I’ll get one of my guys on to it.”
“No, please don’t do that.” said Groves. “I hate to ask you this, but could you possibly take it on yourself? The PM has asked for the utmost discretion and for only you and me to know that he has shown this interest. That means we have to do the leg-work ourselves somehow.”
“Still no problem,” grinned his colleague. “I had hoped we might be able to dash home to Bergen op Zoom this evening - I know Marie-Ann is dying to see you again - but we don’t have much time as you are flying home tomorrow. So I suggest we stay at my flat tonight, instead.”
“As it happens,“ said Groves, “I could be persuaded to stay on a bit! The PM is going to the States this evening, and is staying over for a quiet weekend with President Minton. They seem to get on almost as well as we do! But I shan’t be going - the Foreign Office is taking the lead - so I don’t have to report to Tony Weaver until Monday. And I did warn Joan that this might take longer than just one day, so she won’t be too surprised if I ring to tell her I shan’t be home until later on Saturday.”
“Brilliant!” van-Leengoed was obviously delighted. “But I still think we should stay at the flat this evening, and head for Holland later tomorrow if we can. It’s only an hour away in the car, I know, but the flat is so handy for the office, it will give us more time. I’ve fixed for you to see a close colleague of mine in DG VI tomorrow morning at about ten to talk cucumbers. As you can imagine, I have quite a lot to do with the Agricultural directorate and its people. But we can nip into my office at the Berlaymont Building later this evening so that I can raid the files, look at the briefing material on the EU computer network, check the press cuttings and so on, when there’s no-one much about. There’s one man I might have a quiet word with tomorrow - or even at home this evening. He works in DG I, the external relations directorate, and keeps his ear very close to the ground. He could be a useful source. He won’t mind, he can be trusted and he will have a finger on the Irish pulse. I promise I will be tactful - he won’t have a clue why I’m asking, and he’s sensible enough not to enquire. And he certainly won’t know you’re over here. Now let’s have another beer!”
Which is what they did.
“I’d heard,” said van Lee’, “on the news at lunchtime, I think - that Weaver was going to America. Something about a public show of support over their new Middle East initiative.”
“That’s right”, said Groves. “That’s why the Foreign Office is taking the lead, and my No.2 is going as well just to look after the boss. But they are all coming back after the meeting and Press briefing, except the PM and the Cabinet Secretary, who are staying on for a quiet, private, weekend with the President.”
“That could be quite a good weekend you’re missing, by the sound it. US Presidents don’t usually go wanting for anything!”
“But I think there’s more to it than that,” said Groves. “It all seems to have been arranged in a great hurry, and as you know, these trips, especially those ending in a ‘quiet weekend’, are normally in the diary weeks in advance. I think the Middle East thing is just an excuse for going.”
“Like your cucumbers!”
“Exactly! If the two leaders really wanted a quiet weekend on their own, fishing or something, why is Sir Robin Algar staying as well?”
“And if he is, why aren’t you?”
“Something odd there somewhere, if you ask me,” said Andrew Groves. “Unless I’m just getting unduly suspicious of politicians in my old age.”
“Could be that!” agreed Pierre, jokingly.
“What about some dinner, then?” said Groves, tipping back his glass.
“Good idea. We’ll eat first, and go to the office afterwards. Everyone will have gone home by then
. Where shall we go?”
“Anywhere but your flat, if don’t mind. With all due respect, Mr Director General, I could do without your cooking tonight! I’ve had a bad day already!”
“Well, we could try ‘The King of Spain’ over there on the corner, or cut through to the Rue des Boucher, where there’s more choice.”
“Let’s pretend we’re tourists, and find somewhere in the Rue des Boucher. There are some quite cheap little places there, as I remember, and I insist on paying.”
The taxi from their chosen restaurant took little time to get to the EU Headquarters building, which was, by then, almost deserted of the usual hoards of European civil servants. Groves sat himself at the conference table in van-Lee’s office, and started to wade through the folders of press cuttings that Pierre had retrieved from registry. Van-Leengoed himself sat at his desk, frowning into the computer, and they worked in virtual silence for well over an hour.
“There’s damn-all in these folders, Pierre,” said Groves eventually. “It seems as if Sinn Fein hardly existed, never mind had an office here.”
“It’s funny you should say that, but I’ve found nothing of any significance either. Perhaps I should ring Fabienne Pithan in External Relations - see if he knows anything.”
“Why not, if he can be trusted.”
“I’ll say I’ve had an enquiry from a foreign editor.”
It wasn’t a long conversation. The Sinn Fein officials in Brussels did very little to draw attention to themselves, and were rarely seen at any official functions, mainly because they weren’t often invited. When they were, they went, but very few people went out of their way to be sociable to them. They occasionally called a press conference to brief about the latest atrocity by the British Army, but few journalists bothered to attend, and even fewer wrote anything. Fabienne really wasn’t sure why they bothered with an office in Brussels at all, or what the occupants of it did all day.
“How very odd,” said Groves. “There’s really no evidence of them doing any active or serious lobbying at all.”
“Interesting, too, that hardly anyone within the Commission takes much notice of them, either,” added van-Leengoed. “No obvious power-base or field of influence at all.”
“I wonder if this is what Tony Weaver expected,” pondered Groves.
“And why he didn’t just ask your Ambassador”, asked van-Lee.
“Security, I guess,” said Andrew. “I know the Ambassador was told I was coming over, to try to persuade you to stop these unhelpful press stories, but as you know that was little more than an excuse for seeing you. He certainly wasn't asked about Sinn Fein activities over here, and so doesn't know that the Prime Minister is interested. Nobody does, apart from you and me.”
“And even you don’t know why he is.”
Groves frowned. “It would help to know what we’re looking for and why, wouldn’t it?” He looked at his watch. “Can we spend another hour or so just double-checking? I don’t propose to take any notes - I have to brief verbally, so I must make sure I have a clear idea about what I’m going to say.”
They slept well at the flat, after a decent nightcap, and took a breakfast of coffee and croissants at a small restaurant near the Berlaymont building, which was full of Eurocrats doing the same thing.
“Can’t get near this place at lunchtime,” observed Pierre. “You wouldn’t think we had a half-decent restaurant in the building - heavily subsidised, too.”
“Just nice to get out, I suppose,” said Andrew.
“Probably,” agreed van-Lee. “Especially as many of them come from the member states, and can only get home at weekends. It saves them cooking in their pokey little apartments after work.”
“I never really understood why you have an apartment here, living only an hour away,” said Groves.
“Well, the office pays for it, it’s very handy after official evening functions that I can’t dodge, and Marie-Ann stays there sometimes too, when shopping, or when we go to a theatre.”
“Very nice,” said Groves. “I only live about an hour from Downing Street, too, but I have to battle through the traffic every night, or go by train which would be even worse.”
“You’re only jealous! But if we grab lunch in the building today, I can try to get away early so we can have a bit of time at home.”
“Don’t worry about me,” said Groves, “If I can have access to today’s papers and a phone, I can check in to see what’s going on at home while you do whatever you must, catch up on the news, and make a few notes about your attitude towards cucumbers, if I really feel I should! And I’ll change my flight to one tomorrow afternoon, if that’s all right with you and Marie-Ann?”
Andrew Groves, Pierre van-Leengoed and his colleague who acted as spokesman on agricultural affairs - a harassed, rather worried young German, who was aging before his time - duly met the chosen official in DG VI on the dot of ten. Groves let forth about cucumbers and the dangers of unguarded comments to the media, while DG VI and its spokesman claimed that it was all the fault of the anti-European media, mostly based in UK, who grabbed at any chance to knock the CAP in particular and the EU in general. Groves already knew of the delightful openness of the Berlaymont building, and the ease with which almost anyone could gain access to almost any official. It was an attribute of the Commission that he almost envied, except that it made controlling and keeping in touch with what officials said to the media, virtually impossible. Coffee flowed, views were exchanged, and at the end of the meeting, both sides concluded that they had made their point. DG VI, however, were impressed and slightly alarmed that the UK Prime Minister had chosen to send his top man to deliver a bollocking personally, rather than have a minion ring them up, which is what usually happened.
In the end, it was about four o’clock when they eventually hit the A12 out of Brussels towards Antwerp and Bergen op Zoom, in Pierre’s new Audi.
On Saturday morning, Marie-Ann was in the kitchen, bustling about preparing lunch, when she answered the phone.
“Andrew, it’s for you,” she said, bringing in the portable. “Says his name is Tony Weaver,” she announced.
Pierre sat bolt upright, and Andrew grinned, taking the phone.
“Thanks,” he said, “It’s the Prime Minister!”
“And he just spoke to me,” said Marie-Ann, in awe.
“’Morning, Prime Minister,” said Andrew, as Pierre and his wife beat a hasty retreat. “I hear from the news that you had a good meeting in the States.”
“Very good indeed”, replied Weaver, “and I’m glad it got positive coverage in Europe. I’ll tell the President. He was well pleased to have our support for this new initiative, and, although I say it myself, I think it was because we were here that the Russian President managed to bring himself to have a long telephone conversation with the President last night to offer his support as well. Every little helps.”
“That was reported here, too,” replied Andrew. “I’ve been in touch with the office, by the way, and there’s nothing for either of us to worry about, so I’m told.”
“I am getting the same message,” replied Weaver. “How have you been getting on?”
“Fine. A good meeting about cucumbers, and they’re in no doubt about how unhelpful that sort of thing is. Of course, they blame the media, but they realise they shouldn’t make unguarded comments in the first place. You’ll have my report on Monday, unless you'd like it e-mailed now.”
“No thanks, Andrew. I’m really rather more interested in the other matter. What did you find out?”
“As a matter of fact, Prime Minister, it’s almost a nil return,” replied Andrew, who had just worked out what time it was in Washington. He briefly, but guardedly, outlined what little he and Pierre had discovered.
“Excellent - that’s good news, Andrew. Many thanks.”
“Is that why you rang?” asked Andrew with his usual bluntness. “It must only be about six in the morning where you are, and you had to track me down
, too.”
“You’re right on both counts,” replied the PM. “It is early, but it’s a glorious morning, and I’m told I’m being taken fishing later, so I thought I’d make contact before we both disappear for the weekend. See you Monday.”
And with that, Weaver hung up. He guessed that Andrew would be bewildered by his call, but he really did need to know the outcome of the Brussels investigation before he continued his private discussions with Bill Minton. Perhaps he should have explained, too, that he was no longer in Washington, but on some out-of-the way island in New York.
Events yesterday had gone well, he thought. All overseas visits seemed to start and finish with a press conference, and this had been no different. He had taken the lead outside Downing Street and at Heathrow, but on arrival at Dulles he had shared the platform with Foreign Secretary, Robert Burgess. They had taken a few of the political correspondents with them, as they did when there was room and when they thought the extra briefings on the aircraft would pay off.
The series of meetings in the White House had been both amicable and useful. At his level, he had been able to impress upon the President and the Secretary of State the importance which the UK attached to this new round of diplomacy as part of the war against terrorism, while at parallel meetings between officials, drafting the final communiqué had proved relatively easy. The UK’s offer of meetings at diplomatic level in the Middle East to further support the Secretary of State, had been warmly welcomed.
Lunch, as always at the White House, had been jolly good, although not as lengthy as it often was, as officials seemed to be working faster than usual and finding fewer obstacles in the way of reaching a finally agreed statement. So lunch was soon followed by a final meeting of the two leaders and their immediate senior officials behind closed doors, after which the final plenary session was held, where the communiqué was agreed. They had tea while it was being turned into a press release, in itself a more positive and hard-hitting document than usual.
In the end, it was late afternoon before Weaver and Minton appeared on the White House lawn to brief the assembled media, kept a respectful and safe distance away. They each made only the briefest of statements, and took no questions, as the main briefing was to be held inside by Robert Burgess and Miles Bragan. Plenty of time for questions there.
Eventually, they strode across the lawn, pausing now and then to wave at lurking TV and cameras, passed the immaculate Marines, and climbed into the waiting Presidential helicopter. As they turned at the top of the steps for a final gesture of solidarity and a cheery wave together, they could see their two wives, Millie and Susan, being escorted to a second helicopter, with Robin Algar and Colin Carlucci. Apart from security men, that was the size of the party heading off for a quiet and private day on a remote but lovely island off New York. But it was a day that was going to change the course of history.
“I hope you’re gonna like this place,” said Minton, as they took off. “It belongs to Millie’s brother, Chuck, and I just love it. He uses it for weekends, but every now and then I can get there, and we’re lucky he’s staying at his apartment in New York this weekend. Its real quiet, well secluded and secure - our guys make sure of that when I’m there - and it’s better than Camp David because it’s out-of-the-way, and not many people know I go there from time to time.”
“Where exactly is it?” asked Weaver.
Minton groped for a map. “Let me show you”, he said. “Now, see here’s New York, - Manhattan,” he stabbed a finger, “and here’s Brooklyn right at the bottom of Long Island. And here, sheltered between the north and south forks of eastern Long Island, is Shelter Island - that’s where we’re heading.”
“It doesn’t look very big,” commented Weaver.
“It’s about 8,000 acres, and most of that is nature reserve. It’s quiet and peaceful, with natural harbours and a couple of marinas for those who like boating, good fishing, plenty of bird life, and good beaches. There’s also a 35 mph speed limit!”
“Full of New York commuters, I suppose,” queried Weaver.
“Some. But it’s a village sort of life, although with some superb ranch-style properties, and many people just use it, like Chuck, to get away from everything at weekends. But some people commute, by sea-plane, even!”
“Sounds too good to be true.”
“I’m sure you’ll just love Beach House - certainly Susan will. It’s on a headland outside Dering Harbour Village. Eight bedrooms, all with en-suite, swimming pool, private beach and moorings, huge grounds, you name it.”
“What does Chuck do for a living to afford all that - presumably he owns the apartment in New York as well.” queried Weaver.
“Something to do with insurance - Millie knows, but I’m never sure. He certainly earns plenty. In fact sometimes that worries me, Tony. There are too many people in the States earning too much, and too many not earning enough. We can redistribute some of it through the tax system, but too much social engineering could well kill off the wealth that keeps the country as a whole going. It’s a difficult balance, as I’m sure you know. But we don’t need to talk that kind of shop, unless you want to,” said Minton.
“That’s not quite what I wanted to talk to you about privately, Bill,” replied Weaver.
“I guessed not. What I suggest is that we have a quiet evening - I’m sure you and Susan could do with a freshen-up and rest after all your travels today. Then we’ll have a leisurely supper - I thought something light after the White House lunch - and a look round the house and grounds together, and you and I can get down to business tomorrow, if that’s agreeable, with Robin and Colin. I take it that Robin knows what this is about, and that I can have Colin with me?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’ve arranged a fishing trip for the morning, in Chuck’s launch. I know you enjoy that when you get a chance, and there’s some excellent Striped Bass to be had with the right tackle. The girls can tour the island, or go shopping or whatever they want to do, but we’ll be able to talk quite freely together with no one to overhear what we’re saying. Two security guys will drive the launch for us, and help with the fishing tackle - the rest can tag along in another launch - it’s all laid on.”
“Thank you, Bill. That all sounds absolutely ideal,” replied Tony Weaver. “But I think we may need quite a bit of time to ourselves, as there are a lot of issues surrounding the subject I want to discuss. So could I suggest that we might start this evening after supper, perhaps while walking in the grounds? Then we can sleep on things and resume tomorrow. I wouldn’t want to totally ruin the fishing!”
“OK - that’s no problem,” replied Minton. “It won’t be dark ‘til gone ten tonight.”
Soon, they were touching down in the extensive and immaculately kept grounds of Beach House. It was easy to see why Bill Minton so enjoyed his visits - there was an immediate air of peace and tranquillity about the place. As they approached over the creek, Weaver had noticed large flocks of seabirds take to the air from the sky-blue waters. He had a good view of the marina and yacht club, and of the North Ferry terminal, as they swept over the beach, avoiding the village, and turned to land on the striped lawn. Peaceful though it seemed, he had also noticed the security personnel around the house and in the grounds. The whitewashed house itself was huge, and reminded him at first of a Spanish hacienda. Certainly there was an Hispanic influence in its architecture, but it still had the style of a southern-State ranch and the typical American homestead - although on a grand scale.
They waited for their wives to join them, and headed for the house, being met on the way by a matronly housekeeper, who took the Weavers to their suite on the first floor. They had arranged to meet for a drink on the patio by the swimming pool, overlooking the bay, at about seven - plenty of time to change and relax. Time too, for Tony to rehearse how he would approach the President with such a monumental proposal as he had in mind.
He went over his thoughts with Robin Algar, when they met as pre-ar
ranged shortly after six. He and Robin sat in earnest consultation on the balcony of the PM’s suite, while their wives chatted amicably in the sitting room. They all agreed that they had never seen such opulence and luxury - certainly not at Chequers!
Drinks on the patio in the warm evening sunshine were followed by a buffet supper of local prawns and fresh lobster, accompanied by a chilled sparkling wine from California. The whole party appeared totally relaxed - in fact, only the wives really were, and even they sensed that their men-folk were tense about their forthcoming discussions.
Eventually, Minton stood. “Come on Tony my friend. Let me show you the grounds - I can’t bear the suspense any longer of not knowing what you want to discuss so privately.”
They set off down the steps, and headed across the lawn to the wooded area behind the house, Algar and Carlucci following, closely but out of earshot.
Colin Carlucci turned to Sir Robin. “It won’t matter if we lose sight of them - I know my way around here. It’s almost a nature trail, although I guess you and I will be too engrossed to take much notice of our surroundings.”
“That’s a pity, but I’m sure you’re right,” replied Robin. “My instructions are to brief you on exactly the same areas that they will be covering,” - he nodded ahead of them - “so that if they need to talk things over with us, either together or separately, we’ll all know what we’re talking about.”
“That’s good”, replied Carlucci. “As you can imagine, we’ve been scouring the briefing books and Int. reports and everything, trying to work out what this is all about. We guess it’s something to do with Northern Ireland, but that’s as close as we’ve got,” he confessed.
“In broad terms, you’re right,” said Algar. “But it also has a lot to do with the fight against terrorism, and international politics. We have proposals to put to you that have wide ranging ramifications for both our countries. The Prime Minister has suggested that we deal with the terrorism aspects this evening, and move on to the political implications of our ideas tomorrow, after you have at least had a chance to digest some of what we have in mind”.
“Sounds like a pretty full agenda,” said Carlucci.
“It is,” said Algar. “There are two things to emphasise, though, before we begin. The first is that we naturally don’t expect a considered reaction this weekend. The President will obviously need to consult with you, the Secretary of State, and others before any response will be possible. But the second point, which is absolutely crucial, is that your consultations be confined to the very minimum number of people necessary, and that they are absolutely, one hundred per cent, trustworthy. I can’t emphasise that strongly enough - you’ll see why total and absolute secrecy is imperative as I outline our thinking.”
“Understood,” replied Carlucci. “I’m sure the President will be happy to proceed on that basis, and so am I.”
“I must also ask you, as the President himself is being asked, not to take, or make in the future, any notes. There must be nothing in writing - no paper, no leaks. Neither the PM nor I have any notes to draw upon for our briefings this weekend. I just hope I remember everything!”
Sir Robin Algar took a deep breath. He knew he was embarking on one of the most important briefings of his career, but without the comfort of notes or slides or view foils or video clips or auto-cues - nothing but his own memory.
He started by outlining the background. The UK’s support for America’s fight against international terrorism had been unswerving, but that fight was increasingly being perceived as a war again the Muslim world. There was an urgent need to show that this was not the case, and the British Government wanted to suggest that America should now devote its attention to the terrorist gangs which operated in Northern Ireland. The United States had, after all, once identified the IRA as being one of the more formidable players in international terror, so here was a chance to do something about it.
“We have worked out a strategy for defeating terrorism in the Province, for bringing peace to the area, and for instituting a lasting political solution.” pronounced Algar. “But we can't do it without the total support of the United States. We are here this weekend to ask for that support, and to try to convince you that America has as much to gain from successfully prosecuting this policy as anyone else.”
“By God, that sounds ambitious,” exclaimed Carlucci. “And you are really convinced that all this is possible, after all these years of the troubles?” asked Carlucci.
“Certainly,” replied Algar. “I have to admit that I first I couldn’t believe that it would work. Nothing ever has in the past, as you hinted. But this is largely Weaver’s own plan, and I think that if he is politically brave enough to attempt it, then I can be brave enough to support it. And I do now believe it can be made to work, given speed and absolute security.”
“Tell me about the politics of it,” said Colin. “We've always been briefed that the gulf between the two sides is un-bridgeable.”
“Politics tomorrow,” replied Algar. “Let’s deal with beating the terrorists first, and get your views on that, because again we can't achieve this on our own.”
Ahead of them, they could see the President and the Prime Minister, both ambling towards the belt of trees, heads bowed, the President with his hands in the pockets of his jeans, the Prime Minister with his hands firmly clasped behind his back. Armed security men were comfortingly evident, but unobtrusive.
“Why don’t we sit here,” said Carlucci, as they approached a bench, overlooking Dering Harbour and the yacht club. “I can’t walk and think at the same time.”
“OK. Now let me briefly outline the problem as we see it, and how the PM believes we can overcome it,” continued Robin Algar. “It’s quite simple, really, if audacious. You know, I’m sure Colin, that the Unionists want to remain part of the UK, while the Republicans want to join the south and get Britain out of Ireland altogether. That’s the real and basic problem - all the others flow from it. As Weaver sees it, the first thing we must do is create peace in the province, and that means an end to talking. That is simply achieving nothing. But if we were to remove the terrorists, their funds and their weapons, then a political solution becomes possible.”
“And how do you remove the terrorists,” asked Colin Carlucci. “You can’t declare war on them, as we did in Afghanistan, and I seem to remember that internment was tried before and didn’t work.”
“Exactly,” replied the Algar. “That didn't work last time and it won’t work now. By ‘remove,’ the Prime Minister has in mind permanent removal, and he doesn’t mean new legislation to re-introduce the death penalty, either.”
Carlucci frowned. “If you mean what I think you mean, he surely can’t be serious, can he?”
Sir Robin Algar recognised exactly his own incredulity when Weaver had first suggested this to him.
“Deadly serious, if I may say so. There is enough evidence to send all these people to death row if it was just possible to get witnesses into court. But the level of intimidation and the power exercised by these evil men is such that the normal course of justice is denied us. The Prime Minister believes that, done carefully, we would be totally justified in removing them from civilised society. He believes, and I agree, that there is no need, either, to feel in any way sorry for any of them. They are terrorists, murderers, and operate huge organised crime syndicates without a moment’s thought for their victims, or even their own families. Weaver is quite convinced that we shall have right on our side in this crusade, and that in the end the majority of people in Northern Ireland and elsewhere will be heartily thankful when they come to realise that these thugs have disappeared from the scene and are no longer a threat to civilised life.”
“And you want us to help?” asked a stunned Chief of Staff.
“We shall certainly be asking for your total and unswerving support, as you have had ours so far. This is seen as just another step in the battle to rid the world of terrorism - but this time they are
not Muslims. And I dare say that there will be a time when we shall need your practical assistance as well.”
“Convince me, then. What’s the plan?” asked Carlucci.
“Nothing in detail yet, obviously, but we see three stages to the whole operation designed to bring peace to Northern Ireland, and something assembling normality for the people of the Province.”
“Keep going.”
At least Carlucci was still listening, thought Algar. He wondered how Weaver was getting on with Minton.
“The Prime Minister sees getting rid of the terrorist leadership and hard men on both sides of the divide as the first stage. Up to a point, we may just be helped by their own enemies on the opposing side of the political divide, through tit-for-tat retaliatory actions, if they can be made to believe that the opposition is carrying out the offensive. They won’t need much convincing of that. But we shall need to take great care how we go about it, too. Deaths must either look as if they have come about naturally, or there must be no bodies, and hence no post mortems. We simply must avoid accusations of a ‘shoot to kill’ policy by the security forces.”
“This looks a terribly risky policy, to me,” said Carlucci. “The political risks simply don’t bear thinking about.”
“That was my point exactly. Hence the need for absolute and total secrecy, and only telling those who are guaranteed to be trustworthy - like you”.
“Gee, thanks. I’m not sure whether I’m pleased to be hearing all this or not.” said Colin. “But you mentioned three stages - what are the others.”
He’s still with me, thought Robin. But for how long, that’s the question.
“We must then get rid of the huge stockpiles of arms and ammunition which are still held by both Unionists and Republicans,” he continued. “We know where most of the dumps are, and the decommissioning process simply hasn’t worked. Nothing worthwhile has been achieved, and even when some small quantities have been given up, it has only been a hollow gesture on the part of the terrorists, as they have immediately gone to their suppliers, and replaced their stocks. We simply can’t wait any longer for this process to work. There’s only one way to put their arms and ammunition beyond further use, and that is to decommission it all ourselves.”
“I seem to remember from our intelligence reports that most of the arms dumps are in the south, across the border,” said Carlucci. “How do you plan to square all this with Dublin?”
“You’re right.” said the Cabinet Secretary. “The people in Dublin know where most of the dumps are, too, but, apart from monitoring them, have so far chosen not to do anything about them. The idea is that we will deal with them, with or without their agreement, but hopefully with it”
“This brings us to the politics of it all,” said the Chief of Staff.
“Tomorrow!” said Robin Algar.
“OK. So what’s the third stage then?”
“So the third stage,” replied Algar, “must be to empty their bank accounts and neutralise their paymasters so that they have no cash with which to re-arm when we deal with their stockpiles.”
Carlucci stood and stretched. “Let’s walk on a bit. It’s beginning to get dark. We can cut off the corner, and catch up with our two bosses.”
They ambled off through the trees, into the gathering dusk.
“Tell me how you think you are going to deal with their funds,” demanded Colin.
“That’s going to be a job for me, apparently, since I have contacts in the City of London and in banking who I can trust, and who could be useful. We know where most of the accounts are, and I shall have to find a way of getting at them, clearing them of funds, and closing them down. Trying to get the international community to agree action to freeze their assets would take forever, and then largely be ineffective. It’s also too public, and could draw attention to what we are trying to do elsewhere. But I shall need help from this side of the Atlantic, especially where NORAID is concerned. We know the IRA and Sinn Fein have several accounts here.”
“Yea, we know that, too,” said Carlucci. “The problem is the Irish/American vote. That’s why we haven’t been able, or perhaps I mean willing, to do more to help you in the past. We rely too heavily on it. But given the will, and the political direction, we could help, for sure. It’s certainly true that ‘corporate America’ - the business community, which tends to give financial support to the Irish Republican cause - has become very disenchanted in recent years with the antics of people like McFosters. His visit to Cuba did him and his cause no good at all. He forgets that the States is largely anti-Castro, and that there’s a trade embargo in force between the two countries. And the IRA has even been training Colombian terrorists, so it seems, and that went down like a lead balloon here, too. Of course, it depends on the President, not least of all, and his perception of the political damage this could all do to the party. But I suppose that’s politics and tomorrow, again!”
“Correct, Colin!”
They were nearly back at the house now, and could see the two world leaders ahead of them, heads still bowed in earnest conversation. At least they were still talking, thought Robin, as we are.
“There’s one thing that won’t have escaped you, Colin, and that is that we must synchronise the anti-terrorism work very closely with all that needs to be done on the political front, and complete both with the utmost speed. Getting terrorism out of Northern Ireland must be done covertly and swiftly, whereas the political process which will follow, rather than parallel, must be completed with the utmost openness and public participation.”
“And shall we be involved in that, too?” asked Colin.
“Very much so, as you will see tomorrow.”
The four men met up again on the lawn.
“Well, Mr President?” queried his Chief of Staff.
“Well, indeed!” responded Bill Minton. “If you’ve heard half of what I’ve heard, you will be as breathless as I am. But I congratulate you, Tony, on some very creative and positive thinking. I’m almost sure that, provided we can so plan things that no finger of suspicion points at either of our two administrations, your plan to eradicate terrorism from Northern Ireland could just work.”
“I agree,” said Carlucci, “but Mr Secretary Bragan will need to be consulted and convinced, as will several others. I just hope we know enough people in the right places who we can trust enough to get in on it,”
“We shall have that problem, too,” said the Prime Minister. “Paramount in all this will be total and absolute secrecy in all areas of the anti-terrorist action, as well in the planning of the political effort which will be needed to complete the exercise. Then, total openness is called for, as democracy swings into action. I have to say, Bill that I am very grateful indeed to you and your staff for immediately realising that there was this need for total secrecy. Without my asking, you actually did exactly what we did - no public record of the phone call, nothing on paper, nobody briefed. Except that you have indicated to Miles Bragan that something is afoot and let him hear our taped conversation, and I haven’t yet told the Foreign Secretary. I’ll do that when I know whether or not you’re with us.”
“Colin”, said the President, after supper “you and I will need to talk about this later, although I guess you're not looking for a commitment this weekend, are you Tony?”
“No, of course not.”
“Then let’s have a quiet glass of something, and talk further as a foursome. But I do confess to being very puzzled indeed about the political solution you must have in mind,” said Minton.
“Me too,” said Carlucci. “Totally at a loss.”
“I really do think, Bill, that we all have enough to think about tonight, and that we should leave discussion of the political processes until the morning,” insisted the Prime Minister.
“I suppose you’re right, Tony,” conceded the President. “But there is such a gulf between the two sides in their political aspirations that I simply cannot see how they can ever both be sati
sfied with any sort of compromise.”
Tony Weaver sat back, sipped his cognac, and looked across at the Cabinet Secretary.
“Shall I give them a clue, Robin?”
“Entirely up to you, Prime Minister. This is your show.”
“Very well then.” he turned to Bill Minton, grinning. “Just a clue, then, until the morning. The great problem with Northern Ireland politics is that the Unionists want to remain part of the UK, while the Republicans want nothing to do with the UK. There is only one solution to any problem, and that is to remove its cause. In the case of Northern Ireland, the cause is the UK.”
There was silence.
“If you are seriously suggesting that you remove the UK from everything to do with Northern Ireland, and leave them to sort themselves out, which is what I assume, then you will have an even bigger mess, surely, and a complete political vacuum,” claimed the President. “That sort of action would surely lead to even more violence on the streets, rather than less, and something approaching civil war. I have to tell you Tony, that I most certainly would not be able to support such a policy, or recommend to others that it should be supported. The situation in Northern Ireland is not one where you can just walk away and leave that sort of vacuum.”
“But I have a proposal which would fill that vacuum,” responded Tony Weaver. “A formula for political action, which, hopefully and with your support, would be acceptable to both sides.”
“What sort of formula?” demanded the President. “Come on, Tony! It’s getting on for tomorrow already!”
“I know that,” replied Weaver, “and I’m already beginning to feel the effects of jet lag - it already is tomorrow in London! But my plan is to brief you both fully in the morning, and as we shall all be together, I assume on Chuck’s launch, I can brief you and Colin at the same time. Robin, you might actually be able to catch some fish while I do that!”
“Not likely,” said Robin. “I want to be there to hear the reaction.”
“Oh, all right.” said Minton, “But you did say you would give us a clue, Tony. If not, Colin and I will be up all night trying to guess at it.”
“OK then. Just a clue, and then I’m turning in. It’s been a long day,” said Weaver, standing. “It’s a formula drawn from your own history, Bill. I call it the Hawaii Formula. Goodnight, and thanks for an excellent day. See you at breakfast.”
***