The press baron’s argument for action began with the economy. Gold had been pouring out of the Treasury in an unsuccessful attempt to prop up the pound. A second devaluation seemed inevitable. Wilson and his inner cabinet, code-named MISC 205, prepared an emergency contingency plan code-named Operation Brutus. Brutus called for import quotas; compulsory acquisition of all privately held overseas securities; the freezing of foreign sterling balances in Britain; crash cuts in defence expenditure. Essentially, Brutus meant that foreign travel would be banned and no cash allowed out of the country. Operation Brutus was a top secret emergency plan unlikely to be ever invoked, but it was too juicy to be kept secret. Inevitably, someone in the Treasury leaked it to a banker friend – and the news spread like a grassfire out of control. As far as the City of London was concerned, Brutus marked the end of civilisation.
Meanwhile, massive demonstrations and strikes were spreading across France and bringing Europe’s largest capitalist economy to a virtual halt. The political leaders of France genuinely feared civil war or revolution – and there were those in Britain who feared protest and social breakdown would soon leap across the Channel.
‘We must realise,’ said the press baron, ‘that Wilson’s government is no longer in control of events. The best solution would be for him to resign and make way for a national government composed of businessmen, civil servants, all political parties – and the military.’
Sir Solly Zuckerman bristled and looked closely at the member of the Royal Family.
‘But,’ continued the press baron, ‘Wilson isn’t going to do the sensible patriotic thing and resign. He’s going to cling to power like a limpet while everything disintegrates around him. We are going to see mass unemployment as factory after factory closes its doors. We’re going to see a breakdown of civil order and bloodshed on the streets – and the distinct possibility of the hospitals, lacking power supplies, medicine and staff, being unable to care for the sick and wounded. In this situation,’ the press baron looked at the member of the Royal Family, ‘the military will have to come in to restore order – and, yes, we may see tanks and machine guns on street corners. It’s better than anarchy and bloodshed.’
Sir Solly, the Chief Scientific Advisor, stirred as if he were about to speak, but the press baron cut him off. ‘And may I remind you,’ said the press baron, ‘that there is no constitutional problem involved. The oaths of allegiance taken by the military are to the Crown, not to elected Members of Parliament.’
Sir Solly stood up. His voice was loud and firm. ‘What you are suggesting is rank treachery – treason. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m not going to listen to another word. And,’ he turned to the member of the Royal Family and addressed him by the familiar name that only intimates used, ‘have nothing to do with this. I know you won’t.’
The Chief Scientific Advisor went to the door without looking behind him and shut it with a bang that resonated.
The press baron looked at his Royal host. ‘We must act quickly and I will put it directly to you, sir – will you be the head of an emergency government?’
The member of the Royal Family first looked at the press baron and then at his editor. ‘Absolutely not. Leave now and don’t ask to come back. There’s nothing more to be said.’
Muckle Flugga: June, 1968
It was the best assignment the captain had ever had in his Army career. He had prepared for it by packing stout walking boots, waterproof clothing, binoculars, maps and bird guides. He wasn’t supposed to be turning his recce into a bird-watching holiday, but the activities were compatible – and the bird-watching provided an excellent cover story.
The recce began on Unst where he met the most aggressive birds he had ever encountered. The great skuas dive-bombed the captain even when he was well away from their nests. The Shetlanders called them bonxies, but after several close calls the captain thought ‘great skewers’ would be a better name. There were also fulmars, gannets, shags, guillemots and puffins – all in large numbers. But the captain’s favourite was the red-throated diver, a rare ungainly bird that only came on land to breed. He loved the diver’s piercing call: ‘We’re a weet, we’re a weet; waur wadder, waur wadder – which the locals translated as ‘we’re all wet, we’re all wet, worse weather, worse weather.’
But the captain hadn’t spotted any red-throated divers on Muckle Flugga. The island was all cliff and probably too sheer for the ungainly diver to nest – but all the other birds were there in loud number. Muckle Flugga was uninhabited except for the lighthouse keepers – the lighthouse was a listed heritage building that had been built by Robert Louis Stevenson’s father. The captain took several photographs of the island and made notes.
The utter inaccessible isolation of Muckle Flugga was a plus factor – escape would be well nigh impossible – the captain, however, wasn’t sure it would be possible to build an internment camp on those steep cliffs. But they had managed the lighthouse in the previous century. Stevenson wouldn’t have had helicopters to ferry in supplies and building equipment. The captain made a pencil sketch showing how various sites could be used for internee accommodation, interrogation centres – and, of course, quarters for the guards. Muckle Flugga would not, of course, be a camp for ordinary internees, but only for those whose status and ruthlessness posed a serious danger to national security. They would include, first of all, high-ranking government officials and members of the intelligence services who were Soviet agents. The harsh steep island was a long way from the Isles of Scilly – at the very opposite extreme of the British archipelago. But, thought the captain, we live in a time of extremes. On the other hand, the camps were just part of a ‘contingency plan’ and might never be used. But, as the man from MI5 had said, you always have to prepare for the worst.
The captain had fallen a bit in love with the northern wilderness of the Shetlands – and had bought a bottle of Muckle Flugga whisky to toast the austere beauty of the islands. At midnight, it was still so light that he could read his notes without switching on the lamp in his guesthouse. He wasn’t looking forward to going back to Templer Barracks in Kent. It was an ugly depot full of soulless modern brick buildings with barred windows. Templer was the home of the Intelligence Corps – not a branch that was held in high esteem by the rest of the Army. They were nicknamed ‘the green slime’ owing, partly, to their cypress-green berets. Their corps cap badge was often referred to as a ‘rampant pansy resting on its laurels’. They were said to be good at sticking pins in maps, colouring in maps and putting stickers on maps. But with things hotting up, all that might soon be changing.
The captain sipped the Muckle Flugga whisky, which tasted faintly of roasted oak and barley. His next task, when he got back to England, was making a list of ‘acceptable’ trade union leaders. Was it, he thought, just as hopeless a task as making a list of fulmars that don’t eat fish? On the other hand, learning to be ‘acceptable’ might be preferable to spending a winter on Muckle Flugga.
Agency News: 28 October 1968
Explosion Damages JFK Memorial at Runnymede
Surrey police are investigating a bomb blast that seriously damaged the memorial to the American President John F. Kennedy. The seven-ton block of Portland stone was split down the middle by the explosion and may be beyond repair. A spokesman for the Surrey Constabulary has confirmed that the explosives used were ‘high quality plastic explosives which are only available to the military’. An inventory is now underway to ascertain if the explosives may have been stolen from a UK military base.
Police have not ruled out the possibility that the explosion may be linked to yesterday’s anti-Vietnam march in London at which demonstrators hurled staves, bottles and fireworks at police. The protest was not as violent as last May’s, but the presence of a hard core of extremists was evident. US and Australian flags were burnt. At the Whitehall Cenotaph, wreathes of poppies were trampled and a Union Jack was burnt.
Century House, Lambeth, London: 1 November 1968
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No one, except the Russians and Catesby, was happy when SIS had to relocate their HQ from Broadway Buildings to the twenty-two-storey steel and glass tower block in Lambeth. Catesby was happy because it was such a short walk from his flat in Pimlico – and also because of the river views from his office. But, for the time being, Catesby wasn’t there to enjoy the views. He was on a mole chase in Southeast Asia. But the Russians were in Lambeth – and they were happy because security for SIS in their new glass home was absolutely shit. From rented rooms in the neighbouring streets, the Sovs could casually observe and photograph anyone entering or leaving Century House on foot. The rented rooms also gave the Sovs an excellent view of the entrance and exit of the underground car park. This gave them a collection of number plates – including those of cars that swapped number plates. The windows of Century House were also a security nightmare. You could draw a blind to block people looking in, but the Russians were developing technologies that could pick up conversations from window vibration. Henry Bone, however, was always ahead of the game and had his office windows hung with special curtains that absorbed sound.
Bone wished that there was someone with whom he could share his latest bugged recording from the Mayfair gentlemen’s club. But Zadok was back with his owner and Catesby was abroad. Bone thought about inviting the new DG to listen in, but didn’t want to embarrass him. Bugging that club was, for SIS, strictly illegal. And what a pity. Otherwise, the recording would be evidence for a prosecution. But, thought Bone, that isn’t the way we do things. Criminal prosecutions are a public way of dealing with matters that are best dealt with covertly. That’s why Anthony Blunt had made a full confession in exchange for full immunity from prosecution. It would have been so embarrassing – and what had he done that was so wrong? These thoughts were something that Bone could never share with Catesby.
Bone made sure the curtains were fully drawn and turned to the tape recorder. His neighbour’s friend was still a steward at the club and had proved an invaluable asset. Bone switched on the recorder to listen once again to the juicy bit. The colonel’s voice came first.
…a pity there’s not more indignation from across the Atlantic. The Americans ought to be boiling with rage at this insult to their martyred President.
Perhaps, it was too close to the American election, which seems to be occupying the media. Bone recognised the voice as the banker’s.
Or maybe… This one was the peer. …the King and Robert Kennedy assassinations have made the American public a lot more difficult to shock.
The next voice was immediately recognisable. JJ had been an SIS colleague for almost twenty years. Our psychological operations need to be aimed at the British public. In any case, who cares – among the supporters we are targeting – about a monument to a left-wing American President being scratched.
Split in half. It was the colonel again. Credit where credit is due – and what a great lump of stone it was. Disappointing, however, that it wasn’t linked more closely to the anti-Vietnam protest. We must create public fear and loathing of left-wing extremism. Pity the memorial wasn’t in Ireland – I suspect Kennedy was a bit of a Sinn Féiner.
We need… It was JJ again. …to concentrate on the Communist threat to Britain. We’ve still got a KGB agent in Downing Street and trade unions led by Communist subversives.
The colonel again. I’ve still got some C4 plastic left. Let’s try a public utility next time.
London to East Anglia: November, 1969
Catesby was still wearing his black tie when he got on the train at Liverpool Street, but took it off as soon as the train left London. He didn’t want to carry signs of mourning back to a weekend in Suffolk. On the other hand, he had been invited to a bonfire night party postponed from the fifth, which had been the previous Wednesday – so perhaps he should put the tie back on in respect to Guy Fawkes and his own alleged ancestor, Robert Catesby. Although Catesby was a staunch atheist, his Catholic upbringing always made him feel uncomfortable in a season where Roman Catholics were gaily burned in effigy. Nonetheless, he kept the tie rolled up in his overcoat pocket in case he needed it.
The funeral had been subdued and depressing. It was the second funeral of a suicide that Catesby had attended in the past two years. Positive vetting was dangerous to your health – and carried out in an ever more vicious fashion by Ferret and his fellow inquisitionists in the Security Service. The breaking point was usually a past friendship – often as a university undergraduate – with someone who turned out at some point to have done something unwise at the behest of a charming person who worked for Moscow. And Ferret and his gang always found out, because they had broken so many others. In the end, little or no damage had usually been done. But to Ferret’s way of thinking, Communism was a disease that, once contracted, was incurable. Even the slightest flirtation with the Party as a student meant you were tainted for life. The person under investigation was usually trapped by being presented with proof that they had failed to tell all – however fleeting or insignificant – at a previous vetting. And to pile on the pressure, the supposed security breach was often linked to something sexual. All this usually pertained to indiscretions that had occurred thirty or forty years before. And yet, it was enough to ruin the career of someone headed for a cabinet post or a senior position in the civil service. The person faced with ‘disgrace’ chose death instead.
Catesby needed a drink. He got up and made his way to the buffet car, which was packed with the usual drunks on their way back to their weekend homes in East Anglia. Catesby tried not to be sniffy about them for, even though he was Suffolk born, he was doing the same thing. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder as he made his way to the bar.
‘Hello, William.’
It was a voice that Catesby knew well. It belonged to the government’s Chief Scientific Adviser.
‘Let me buy you a drink,’ said Catesby.
‘No, William, it’s my turn. What are you having?’
‘A double “ring-a-ding”.’
Sir Solly Zuckerman ordered the double Bell’s, then turned back to Catesby. ‘What do call you a Teacher’s?’
‘“A Sir with Love”. It’s a complicated family joke.’
‘Many family jokes are. How are Frances and the children?’
‘Fine – but we still live apart. How are Joan and your two?’
‘Great, they’ve gone up to Norfolk ahead of me.’
Catesby noticed that Solly had also taken off his black tie. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk afterwards.’
‘I had to rush off to a meeting. How did you find it?’
‘Bitter, depressing and short.’
‘And none of them were there.’
‘Their smiles of smug satisfaction would have been unbearable.’
‘I bet you would have punched one of them.’
‘That would have been playing into their hands.’ Catesby smiled. ‘But it would have been worth it.’
‘Shall we go for a walk?’
Catesby nodded. He could see that the scientific adviser wanted to have a private chat. They moved to the gap between the carriages – a cold, draughty no-man’s-land that swayed and clanked above the tracks.
Sir Solly stared out the door window into the dark. ‘The problem with this train is that you can’t see anything. I’m a South African-born Jew, but I love the English countryside – especially East Anglia. But you’re a real East Anglian.’
Catesby shrugged. ‘My background is complicated – but I can do the accent after a few pints.’
‘You are a superb linguist. Your rendering of Afrikaans was absolutely perfect.’
Catesby smiled. The language he had inherited from his mother was West-Vlaams Nederlands. His Flemish-accented Nederlands was close enough to Afrikaans that, with some coaching, Catesby could pass as a native Afrikaans speaker. At one point, Catesby and Zuckerman were part of an SIS operation aimed at uncovering South Africa’s role in breaking the oil embargo against t
he illegal regime in Rhodesia. But the op was cancelled because Catesby’s cover was blown. He suspected that it was the work of JJ conspiring with dissident elements in the Security Service who were sympathetic to white rule in Rhodesia. Finding a way to act against Rhodesia had proved one of Harold Wilson’s most intractable problems. And Catesby was certain that there would be more trouble from southern Africa in years to come.
Sir Solly looked at Catesby. ‘They’re now out to get me too.’
Catesby wasn’t surprised. He knew all about the scientific adviser’s role in thwarting the May 1968 coup. In fact, Catesby was the first person he had told about it. In the end, the plot had backfired and the press baron had lost his job – but conspiracy failures usually breed new conspiracies.
‘How do you know they’re after you?’ said Catesby.
‘An anonymous letter full of anti-Semitism, personal insults and threats.’
‘What did you do with the letter?’
‘I burned it. I wasn’t going to dignify them by going to the police. You should treat these people with contempt.’
‘You could have taken it to the Security Service.’ Catesby smiled bleakly.
Sir Solly returned a smile that was equally bleak.
Catesby always got a lift to his house from a cowman who worked on a neighbouring farm. The cowman timed finishing his pint at The Angel with the arrival of Catesby’s train. The cowman drove an ancient Commer van that needed a good bit of welding. There was, however, a loose metal plate in the foot-well that the passenger could keep in place by pressing down with both feet. The plate stopped some of the cold and some of the surface water from coming in – but it didn’t work with deep puddles.
A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) Page 22