Agent Lavender: The Flight of Harold Wilson Read online

  He lost track after that, trapped in the labyrinthine darkness for another five minutes. The coat was removed to reveal an elegantly proportioned office, a clock on the wall that told him it was approaching seven o’clock, a window looking out onto an angry-looking crowd on Whitehall and an exhausted-looking Cabinet Secretary.

  “Sir John,” the deposed Home Secretary said, “has there been a coup d’etat?”

  “With your help, Mr Jenkins,” the haggard mandarin said, “hopefully not.”

  Peter Wright, the newest Deputy-Director in the Security Service, pondered.

  The map of Norfolk that covered one wall of his office had become a mesh of pins and string, colour-coordinated to show the viability of each eye-witness account. Despite his best intentions, either Wilson had eloped at just the right time to coincide with the East Anglia All-Comers Prime Ministerial Look-Alike Competition, or the inbred loons of the county had over active imaginations.

  “I can’t see him making his way towards either Ipswich or King’s Lynn, sir,” one of the agents was saying, “it would be very hard for any submarine to make their way up towards the ports without being detected, and the Reds know it.”

  Wright had not slept for over thirty hours. Even Sir Michael had caught forty winks just before lunch. Sleep was an irrelevance though, he thought, especially when there was a traitor to catch. He walked over to the map, one of the new boys was standing by it, pushing another drawing pin – green, for ‘likely’ – into a field near Walsham.

  “What do you have there, Stephen?”

  “Report from a potato farmer, sir, he says he lent his tractor to Mr Wilson.”

  Wright gave the acolyte a withering look.

  “Was he drunk?”

  “Sober as a judge, sir. That said, he did seem very bothered about the Common Agricultural Policy.”

  “Same difference.”

  “Perhaps, it does tally rather well with the two agents that were shot though. It’s only about half-a-mile away, which would be the right direction for him to go in, if he wanted to make it to the coast.”

  Wright thought back to the agents. They were still lying out on a stone slab twenty meters below him. He sniffed, for all that he quietly respected the KGB, they really needed to rethink their field operative recruitment policy. The dead men really were a real pair of mattresses. No, not mattresses. Pillows. No. Not pillows. A real couple of warm duvets. What they deserved was a nice warm bed. No, hang on…

  He noticed that the agent was looking at him again.

  “You okay, sir?” he was saying sixteen miles away, “you look tired.”

  Wright didn’t even remember hitting the floor.

  Harold Wilson had never really liked the sea. Scilly had been an effective way to draw attention away from any public suspicion of internationalism, but the smell of rotten seaweed every summer had often left him ruing his decision. He should have chosen somewhere more landlocked to holiday in, like the Peak District, or Coventry.

  That said, it was with a heavy heart that he turned his back on the jetty and jogged back up to Brimley’s house. He’d been crouching behind the beach hut for over three hours, watching the sun turn the sea through every shade of blue he could think of. There was no doubt in his mind this time that the submarine had failed to appear, rather than him missing it. He had been concentrating so hard that at one point he had almost tried to flag down an irate looking gull.

  What was it Fuchsia had said to him again? Something like “three strikes at each extraction point, then you are on your own.” Poor grasp of idioms or not, there was little doubt that this window of escape was starting to close – and he had no interest in hiking overland to another.

  The aroma of fish pie wafted past him as he walked back into Brimley’s kitchen. His old college friend gave him a worried smile as he sat down at the table, head in his hands.

  “So, either you have fond memories of my cooking, or they didn’t show?”

  The former Prime Minister – the radio had sounded as though his resignation had been taken as implied – looked up.

  “At the risk of sounding ungrateful to your culinary skills, Jacob, I am afraid that it is the latter.”

  “No worries, Hal, no offence taken.”

  Brimley said nothing as he dished out the meal; Wilson frowned to himself, wondering why the man had so obviously made enough supper for two.

  “You assumed that they wouldn’t turn up?”

  “I had an inkling. I doubt that it is anything to do with them abandoning you, but the entire Royal Navy is going to be out there now, firing at anything that hasn’t filed a sailing route in triplicate signed by Winston Churchill.”

  “Well, at least the Icelandic trawlermen won’t notice any changes.”

  “Very witty. So, you’re stuck here, then?”

  “For the time being.”

  “Any plans?”

  “Wait and see how things develop, I suppose. They’re going to put two and two together at some point and realise that you may know something about me, so I will head off in five minutes and take a risk in the open. I am not prepared to drag you and your good lady wife down with me.”

  Brimley made the international sign for Wilson to stop talking.

  “Given that you haven’t taken the Chiltern Hundreds yet, Hal, I think that you will be able to find some loyalty from the fair citizenry of Norfolk, but I am not having you go away and end up getting shot in a field.”

  “But...”

  “No buts. I’m sure that something – be it submarine, helicopter or pedalo – is going to turn up for you. We both know enough about the KGB to know that they always have a Plan C.”

  Where waking up a catatonic Peter Wright was concerned, “Plan C” consisted of a slap in the face.

  “Wake up, Deputy-Director.”

  Wright pulled himself off the couch, his cheek smarting from the impact of a palm belonging to a member of the Special Boat Service.

  “You...”

  “Woke you up, sir, as instructed by Sir Michael,” Paddy Ashdown said smoothly, adjusting a smart mustard tie. Peter Wright glowered.

  “I usually prefer to greet people with a handshake, but I think I have met you before. Helsinki, wasn’t it?”

  “That’s right sir. The name’s Ashdown, Paddy—”

  “Yes, yes,” Wright replied, cutting the introduction short, “lovely to see you again.”

  He looked around, noticing for the first time that the two men were not alone. Ten officers, some of whom he did not recognise, filled the room.

  “And these men are...?”

  “Oh, you may have missed the Home Secretary’s memo before you fell asleep, sir,” Ashdown said, “Mr Gilmore, with Mr Jenkins’ support, has instructed you to take command of the operation to find the former Prime Minister.”

  Wright smiled at that.

  “Ah, I rather wanted the chance to—” he paused, his smile already fading, “Jenkins? What does that Marxist have to do with anything?”

  The team looked at one another before suddenly finding their shoes fascinating. One of them, a Peterhouse graduate Wright vaguely knew, hesitantly spoke.

  “Sir Michael wanted to tell you personally, sir,” he said, “but in the event of him not being around, he asked me to inform you that Mr Jenkins has been released without charge and asked to assume the leadership of the Labour Party.”

  An innocent glass inkwell experienced an unfortunate end as Wright hurled it towards a street map of Great Yarmouth.

  “Released?! Without charge? He’s probably helping Traitor Wilson onto a submarine as we speak!”

  “Mr Jenkins appeared on television fifteen minutes ago, sir,” Ashdown said calmly, his shirt slightly splattered by Indian Red, “I can assure you that he seemed concerned by the seriousness of the allegations, but seemed entirely at ease with the chance to rebuild the Labour Party from opposition.”

  It took another five seconds for Wright to realise the meaning of tha
t sentence, but only three to destroy another desk ornament.

  “Don’t worry, sir,” Ashdown said, “the Parliamentary Party is not being released on an entirely ad hoc basis, the Service is going over everything with a fine-toothed comb to make sure that we aren’t letting anyone go if we suspect that they have ever done so much as look at a Union Flag cross-eyed.”

  “Why?” Wright snarled.

  “We got a call from a barrister, Peter,” Sir Michael Hanley said, gliding into the room. A few of the more junior agents bowed their heads.

  “A call? From a barrister? I see, we have to listen to them, don’t we?” Wright said sarcastically, “of course. I assume that Her Majesty did not want to have too many people at her pleasure?”

  “Afraid not,” Sir Michael replied, “The Queen has decided to take a step back in the current crisis. The decision was made after consultation with a legal colleague of Tony Benn.”

  Peter Wright literally screamed.

  “Have you finished?” Sir Michael said with an eyeroll. Wright was almost hyperventilating.

  “I – ...how? Why?”

  “Almost coherent, Peter. Before you break anything else, the Home Office and this Service have decided to suspend some of the detention orders before public morale deteriorates any further. Sir John and many members of the new government agree, there is nothing to be gained from detaining more than half of the House of Commons when public trust in the Establishment is already so frayed.”

  “If it is frayed, Director-General, it is because the likes of Benn and his ilk have sought to undermine our liberties and our constitution.”

  “Mr Benn remains in custody for assault but is no longer under suspicion for anything more serious. His was the third file we looked at. The man leans further to the left than someone who’s had his leg blown off, but he’s loyal to this country, not another one.”

  “So they are all out then?” Wright finally managed to say, his nose deciding to throb again, as if remembering the punch.

  “They were never in, Peter,” Sir Michael said, “but myself and the Home Secretary gave the order just before I came here. The police guards should be standing down within the next few minutes, ending what the left-wing press have been hysterically calling ‘house arrest’. Now, I shall be off to bed, I suggest that you do the same.”

  As the Director General swooped out, Ashdown turned to look at the still-apoplectic Wright.

  “Orders, sir?”

  With barely disguised contempt for Ashdown, Sir Michael and everyone to the left of Sir Keith, all Wright could do was gesticulate at the map behind him, which, thanks to the inkwell, still seemed to be haemorrhaging from Thetford Forest.

  “Norfolk. Tomorrow,” he barked.

  Outside Charing Cross police station, Chris Mullin held his watch under a streetlight. It was almost eleven. Caroline was pacing anxiously.

  “I’m sure everything will go off without a hitch,” he began.

  “I’m not,” she replied with a glare, “this is different to the others, Jimmy’s in there on an assault charge, not some generic trumped up ‘suspicion’.”

  “He’ll be entitled to bail – and Bill will make it happen,” Chris said in his best ‘this is what’s going on in the world right now’ voice.

  “I hope—”

  Caroline stopped as the doors opened. Emerging like Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin from the landing module, Jimmy and Bill strolled out side by side. Caroline ran to her husband.

  “Hello, dearest,” he said, clasping her with unusual affection.

  “Oh, Jimmy. Did they... did they—”

  Benn laughed.

  “No, no, we’re not in the Third Reich yet, Caroline. Come come.”

  Bill had ambled over to Chris and given him a firm – perhaps too firm to be painless – handshake.

  “Good show today, let’s keep in touch,” he said with a similarly sharp clap on the back.

  “We will, no question about it,” Chris replied with his first smile all day, “how about a drink to celebrate? The Harp should still be serving,”

  Bill turned to the happy couple, now walking arm in arm towards him and Chris.

  “So, pub?” he called.

  “I’d like to, but I need to get home and begin making calls. Caroline was just telling me that Roy wants to become leader unopposed.”

  “That sounds unconventional,” said Mullin.

  “Yes. So no pub for me, I’m afraid. The last thing we need right now is a fight for the soul of the Labour Party – but I fear that is what we are going to get.”

  Thanks to the efforts of the Benns, Bill Birtles and young Mr Mullin, the men and women of the Police Force were carrying out their new orders. Around the country, police radios crackled with instructions to stand down. PC William Schoon of the West Midlands Police shook his head as the radio in his Panda told him what to do.

  “Go home?” he said with disbelief, “leave him be? It’s not right.”

  “Come on, Bill,” said Derek from the passenger seat, “let’s get back. If they say there’s no reason to suspect them any more then there’s no reason to suspect them.”

  “You would say that, you vote for them.”

  “Yeah, but I won’t be doing it again in a hurry,” Derek replied, quick as a flash.

  It was a conversation being had in hundreds of cars, homes and workplaces up and down the country at that very moment. But, parked outside this particular house, it had a greater significance. PC Schoon’s objection was stronger than that of his more relaxed colleagues because he remembered that the individual he had been asked to stop watching was already on bail at the time of the Wilson allegations breaking. He hadn’t been under house arrest, but he had still had people keeping an eye on him. To leave him alone now had to be an oversight, surely? As Schoon reluctantly put the car in gear and pulled off down the street, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone, somewhere, had cocked up.

  Three quarters of an hour later, Schoon was driving back, siren blaring, twenty miles above the speed limit and with PC Derek ‘No Seatbelt’ Mills holding onto the dashboard for dear life. A chance mention of his concerns to his immediate superior had seen him propelled to the Super’s office, whereby a call to the Home Office had seen the usually red-faced man turn a peculiar shade of green. As Schoon gripped the wheel like a man possessed, the flecks of spittle from the Superintendent’s unusually animated rant were still faintly visible on his tunic.

  “Fuck, his car’s gone!” he hissed at Derek as he fumbled with his seatbelt. Derek, unhindered by any such device, had thrown open the passenger door and rushed up the front path already. Schoon caught up with him as he was knocking.

  “Open up! Police!” he shouted breathlessly. Derek banged louder and tried shouting himself. After ten seconds of silence, Schoon looked at his partner and nodded before taking a step back. Derek readied himself, then opened the door with a swift kick.

  “Police!” they shouted together as they barrelled into the hall. Derek turned on the lights while Schoon ran upstairs, checking each room until only one – the master bedroom – remained. The door was closed. Breathing heavily and noticing his hand shake as he reached it out towards the doorknob, Schoon swallowed and pushed open the door.

  “Mr Stonehouse?” he said quietly as he entered. The bedside lamp was on, but the only signs of life were a half empty suitcase and two ransacked drawers.

  Thirty miles away, at the wheel of an electric blue Vauxhall Viscount, the Member of Parliament for Walsall North was belting his way towards the A11. The scrambled voice on the phone had only given him the name of a town in Norfolk, but thanks to an introduction to ‘an old friend of the Prime Minister’ at a drinks party not too long ago, and a no doubt insincere invitation to a cottage near Cromer, John Stonehouse had a fairly good idea of where he was headed.

  In a meeting room in Congress House, cigarette smoke danced upwards. It lingered a moment below the ceiling tiles, tried in vain to make a beel
ine for the open window, then petered out. In a few hours’ time it would be another yellow stain among many. The cigarette which produced it burned on, though now partially stubbed out. Its owner tapped another out of his pack, lit it, and used it to violently gesticulate in favour of his point.

  “The whole thing hinges on whether we believe them,” he said in a throaty growl.

  “Hugh, I don’t trust them further than I could throw them,” another voice said.

  “There’s no conceivable way that Wilson’s in their pay,” the final member of the triumvirate added, “it’s a stitch up, probably led by Woy and that bloody woman.”

  “The Americans will have had some input,” Jack Jones said. “I cannot see why else Thatcher would have arrested Foot and sent Benn off to chokey.”

  There was a cough, followed by a map showing the national utility grid being unfurled.

  “We’ll have to ballot for it.”

  “No problem there, Hugh, the votes won’t take long to get in.”

  “They’ll try and stop us.”

  “And? They don’t have any legitimacy, especially now that The Queen’s cousin is managing their communications.”

  “He did alright on the telly though,” Ray Buckton replied, “he could be a problem.”

  “He did better in comparison to Mrs Thatcher,” Scanlon retorted, “that is not a difficult task.”

  “To bring us back to the matter at hand comrades,” Jones replied, “I am going to need formal agreement from the two of you to get this ballot initiative rolling before the EGM on Monday.”

  They were two vocal ‘Ayes’ from either end of the table.

  “Then that’s that.”

  PART TWO

  The Hunt for Harold Wilson

  One week later

  Chapter nine

  Saturday 8th November 1975 – Noon

  The average thickness of a male human skull is 6.5 millimetres. Inside it, the brain sits in a quantity of cerebrospinal fluid sufficient to keep it in a state of neutral buoyancy. Like much of the human body, its apparent robustness is but a ruse kept in place by a painfully maintained equilibrium of which most people never have any awareness.