Agent Lavender: The Flight of Harold Wilson Read online

  “Hardly surprising, not every day that you elope to the Motherland is it?”

  Wilson smiled at that, wincing when his back started playing up again.

  “I think that you would be best off having a bath frankly, there’s no point you leaving until nightfall anyway. I think that you will be a wanted man by now.”

  “Funny that,” the Prime Minister pondered aloud as he looked his friend in the eye, “I always thought that Mary would have been the first person that I would have told.” Brimley gave a wry smile.

  “I’m honoured, Harold. Now, get yourself upstairs, I’ll see if I can find some spare clothes for you.”

  Wilson leaned out of his chair, staggering back into the hallway. Brimley followed him, carrying a tea-tray.

  At the foot of the stairs, he pointed at a stone bench built against the wall.

  “Priest hole.” Brimley said by way of explanation. “Twenty Catholics were hidden here during the Reformation.”

  Wilson looked at him.

  “Nineteen of them managed to smuggle themselves out of the country.”

  They continued upwards to the house’s remarkably modern bathroom. Wilson winced at the decor. The avocado clashed horribly with the Elizabethan timbers.

  “Not my fault Hal, the wife insisted on it. You are just fortunate that she is out of the country. There’s a conference on Muscovite Rivers at Moscow State. If you hurry, you may be able to see her before she comes home.”

  Wilson smiled, but not as broadly as he did when he saw the clouds of steam coming out of the taps.

  “I shall leave you in peace,” Brimley said, placing the teapot on the windowsill. “I may as well get cracking on breakfast I suppose, as I have a guest now.”

  The two men shared a handshake, with the Fellow allowing the Prime Minister some privacy.

  “Oh, Jake?”

  Brimley turned around, his hand on the door.

  “What happened to the twentieth priest?”

  “I think that he had his skin burned off, a pike shoved up his arse and then had his head stuck on a pike outside Norwich Guildhall. Enjoy your bath.”

  “Just to put your mind at rest Mrs Thatcher, the actual kissing of hands has not been required since William IV’s time.”

  The Leader of the Opposition stood in the anteroom of Buckingham Palace. A few bleary-eyed flunkies flunked around, looking confused. Thatcher took another look at the Private Secretary to the Queen.

  “You wouldn’t have been the first person to make that mistake, Lord Home did it back in ’63.”

  “Sir Martin, I am not Lord Home.”

  Her Majesty’s Private Secretary said nothing to this, choosing instead to open the door in front of them.

  “Mrs Margaret Thatcher, Your Majesty.”

  As the door closed behind the member for Finchley, Sir Martin Charteris, the Queen’s Private Secretary, was already being put through to Sir John Hunt.

  “Martin?”

  “Sir John, I am about to begin speaking, I do not expect to hear your voice until I have finished.

  “Do you know why we have a constitution, Sir John? Don’t answer, I am asking a rhetorical question. We have a constitution, of sorts, so that we can stave off revolution by ensuring that the common man feels that he has a government that, even though he may not have voted for it, he can understand why it exists. As of the past twelve hours, I have come to the conclusion that neither you nor the security services seem to have any respect for that. I was woken three hours ago to realise that the Prime Minister had decided that he would prefer to seek employment in the Soviet Union. Fair enough, thought I, we all want to have a change of scenery at some point. However, I then receive a call that, contrary to every area of convention since William of Orange, you have decided to take it upon yourself to dismiss the Cabinet and place half of Parliament under threat of imprisonment. Then, I have to rouse Her Majesty and ask her to appoint a woman with no experience of government beyond closing a few Grammar Schools to somehow rebuild public confidence in the entire political system, to stop the Americans reducing us to the strategic equivalent of Belgium and to shepherd a mass inquiry into six million people in the run-up to an inevitable General Election. Content though I am to do all that, I am then informed that the entire military establishment have arrived at Downing Street, apparently as part of a Cabinet Office idea to have the world’s largest re-enactment of Duck Soup. I can only assume that, as part of this grotesque charade, you expect Her Majesty and I to endorse the present state of affairs entirely retroactively and completely illegally?”

  There was nothing but the hum of the line.

  “I have now finished speaking, Sir John.”

  “I...”

  “Is my interpretation accurate?”

  There was another thirty seconds of hum.

  “Sir John?”

  “Yes. Yes...”

  “Good morning.”

  A click. The Cabinet Secretary, with the air of a man who had seen the rope above him give way for the third time, turned to the man next to him.

  “Well Sir Michael, I think we got away with it.”

  Colour at last returned to the Director-General of MI5’s face.

  “Good,” he whispered, “good.”

  The two men stood, in silence, breathing heavily. Eventually, Sir John spoke.

  “The Home Secretary is still in Brussels.”

  “Does he know?”

  “Probably not. But he will. House arrest is one thing, but cutting off 301 telephones is simply impossible when the Post Office is still asleep.”

  Sir Michael scratched the back of his head.

  “I think our friends in the Other Service will be able to help us. They’ve got a good man at Station S, I understand he spends a lot of time in Brussels.”

  Sir John nodded.

  “Get in touch. Frankly, he’s above suspicion, but we don’t want a mess on foreign soil. Tail Jenkins to make sure he doesn’t end up in the Bulgarian embassy or something, and we’ll do the rest once he’s on the tarmac at Heathrow.”

  Sir Michael clicked his heels and left the room. Things really were going a lot smoother than he’d feared.

  The problem with The Queen was that she was the sort of person who would vote for Jo Grimond, the Leader of the Opposition thought to herself, curtsying once. As she approached the centre of the room, barely remembering to bob a second time, she contemplated the farce of the scenario. Prime Minister or not, she rather felt like it was cheating to assume power in such circumstances.

  “I do not like this at all, Mrs Thatcher, but until we have heard what is to become of the Labour Party, will you take the offer of leading my government?”

  Thatcher stood stock still, rather perturbed. Was that it?

  “Your Majesty?”

  “I fully realise that this is not at all your fault, Mrs Thatcher, but the circumstances are unusual and I feel it best to inform you of my personal concerns now. Having taken the advice of Sir John and yourself, I feel that you represent the only suitable person to assume the Premiership, but I would strongly advise you to make arrangements for a General Election as soon as the situation permits.”

  The two women stood there and faced each other. Eventually, Thatcher spoke.

  “So, I am Prime Minister, ma’am?”

  The Queen bobbed her head curtly.

  “Yes, Mrs Thatcher, you are.”

  Shocked at the brevity of the meeting – after all, she noted, she had just become the first female premier in European history – the Prime Minister made to leave.

  “Oh, and, Mrs Thatcher?”

  Turning her head, the Member for Finchley turned around.

  “Yes, um, ma’am?”

  “The very best of luck.”

  Roy Jenkins had enjoyed his breakfast much more than he had expected to. It seemed he was finally developing a taste for waffles, and he was at this moment fully prepared to believe the boasts of the café owner that Brussels produced the
finest in the world. With a spring in his step at odds with the load in his belly, he nodded to the doorman at the Hotel Le Plaza and walked briskly to the front desk.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Jenkins,” said the pretty, brown-haired receptionist, “You have seventeen messages waiting.”

  Roy raised an eyebrow, something he had only learned he was able to do last year.

  “Seventeen?” he queried.

  “Oui, monsieur. Seventeen. Dix-sept,” the girl clarified, holding up the cards as proof, “the details are on the desk in your suite.”

  Jenkins frowned, before thanking the girl and walking to the lift. It was unusual for the Home Secretary to receive seventeen messages by this point in the day – and he’d had none when he left for his early morning walk around the Cinquantenaire. A handful would be understandable; this was his last day in Brussels after all, and there would be plenty of loose ends that the stiffs in Whitehall thought he’d left untied this time. But seventeen? All hell must have broken loose. Perhaps there’d even been a death. Crosland hadn’t looked well at last cabinet, but then he never did these days. As the doors slid open and he walked towards the Presidential Suite, Roy made a mental note to spend more time with Tony. It had been too long.

  As the Home Secretary was entering his room, another Briton calmly put down his copy of the International Herald Tribune and walked to the front desk. Tall, chiseled and with a cool ruthlessness behind his eyes, he carried only a simple overnight bag and wore a functional – but fitted – suit. He was only in Brussels by chance, staying at the somewhat less impressive Hotel Le Metropole. His cover as a secretary to the UN mission in Geneva had brought him here half a dozen times. Less than two hours earlier, the telephone had rung and informed him that he was to tail Charlemagne – not the most creative codename, in his opinion – until he landed at Heathrow. Rolling out of bed, he had done twenty press-ups, taken a cold shower, and strolled to the much grander lobby of the Hotel Le Plaza. Finding after a brief enquiry that Monsieur Jenkins had gone out for petit dejeuner, he contented himself with the IHT’s crossword and letters page. There had been a hairy moment where his Browning Hi-Power nearly fell from its holster as he bent to pick up a pretty girl’s hat, but apart from that, it had been a pleasant enough start to the day.

  Now, two hours later and a hundred yards from his mark, he calmly strode to the desk and looked straight into the eyes of the receptionist.

  “Mademoiselle,” he began, “I will take that suite, after all.”

  The girl’s hands moved automatically to a large binder.

  “Certainly, sir. Your name?”

  “Ashdown. Paddy Ashdown.”

  Chapter five

  Saturday 1st November 1975 – 7:45am

  “It has to be Peter.”

  “Donaldson?” Charles Curran, Director-General of the BBC, frowned. “He’s a bit young.”

  “He is thirty. And listeners will not be able to see him.”

  Curran shook his head at the senior newsreader sat opposite him. Bryan Martin looked politely back.

  “I can’t say I agree, Bryan,” Curran protested, “This is a time for seniority and stability.”

  “With respect, Charles, this is a time for calm. I can ‘do’ seniority. I can ‘do’ stability. I can even ‘do’ gravitas. Peter, on the other hand, simply is all those things. His is the voice I would want to hear if I could see mushroom clouds over the Thames.”

  “We’re not at war, Bryan.”

  “Not yet. If half of what they’ve told us off the record is true, we might be by The World At One.”

  “You won’t read it?”

  “Charles, I will read whatever the Corporation tells me is the news. But this is more than the news. This is a declaration of a state of emergency.”

  “It’s not—”

  “A rose by any other name, Charles.”

  The two men looked at each other in exasperated silence. Curran thought for a moment. Donaldson was excellent, there was no denying it. His voice and tone probably was perfect. But Bryan was the senior newsreader. What did it say about the Corporation if it wasn’t him on the airwaves this morning? As if he could read the Director-General’s mind, Martin interjected.

  “Forget the politics, Charles. There are other things on the bastards’ minds at the moment.”

  Curran smiled for the first time since the gentlemen from Whitehall had left.

  “Is Peter even in Broadcasting House?”

  “Yes. He is scheduled do the eight o’clock regardless.”

  “Right. I’ll make a call immediately.”

  Martin rose from his seat as Charles left, calling out to him when he was at the door.

  “Who will it be on the television?”

  “I’ve got Robert in a cab already.”

  “Dougall?”

  Curran rolled his eyes.

  “No, Maxwell. Yes, of course Dougall. He was the face of Watergate, he can do it again.”

  “He is retired, Charles.”

  “It’s times like this we call up the reserves, Bryan.”

  Martin hoped the Red Army weren’t doing the same thing.

  Peter Donaldson reread the script in front of him. It had been thrust into his hands by a breathless runner four minutes ago. Humming and running his tongue around his mouth, he got into position behind the microphone and closed his eyes as the pips began.

  Pip.

  He breathed in.

  Pip.

  He breathed out.

  Pip.

  He opened his eyes.

  Pip.

  He cleared his throat.

  Pip.

  He nodded to the producer.

  Piiiiip.

  “The Prime Minister, Harold Wilson, has resigned. It is also understood that the cabinet has resigned with him. A statement will be given from Downing Street at nine o’clock this morning by Margaret Thatcher, who has been asked to form a government by Her Majesty the Queen.”

  There followed the longest silence that had been heard on Radio 4 since Remembrance Sunday. Donaldson wet his lips before continuing.

  “The BBC has been informed that, pending a full investigation into extremely serious allegations, all members of Mr Wilson’s cabinet and government have been placed under temporary police guard at their homes. I will repeat that: the Parliamentary Labour Party has been placed under police guard at their homes. The Prime Minister, Mrs Thatcher, will explain the nature of the allegations, which are understood to be a matter of national security, in her statement at nine. There will now follow some music. In a change to regular programming, this bulletin has been recorded and will be repeated every ten minutes.”

  Donaldson breathed out as the producer gave a thumbs up. Removing his headphones as Holst’s Jupiter began to play, he stepped forward and tapped on the window.

  “Is it too early to start drinking?”

  Enoch Powell rarely listened to the radio on a morning, much preferring the half-hour of blissful ignorance between waking and walking to the newsagent’s at the other end of South Eaton Place.

  The November chill had had little effect on the number of people walking to work. Indeed, he mused, there were far more people milling around the southern end of Belgravia than he would have expected for 8:30am on a Saturday morning. The postman was being held up at every house, engaged in what appeared to be the hushed conversation.

  The street cleaners weren’t working either, but – he harrumphed – that was hardly new.

  “اسلام و علیکم” Powell hailed, walking to the counter. “The Telegraph, if you’d be so kind, Mr Chaudhry.”

  “Heard the news, Mr Powell?” Aziz said.

  “That would somewhat defeat the purpose of me purchasing one of your fine periodicals, Mr Chaudhry.”

  “Sorry sir, I just thought that you would have known...”

  Powell looked at the paper than he had been given. A thin sheet had been hurriedly wrapped around the front page. The former Minister of State f
or Health grasped it, the newsprint already coming away at his fingers.

  Each word stood out.

  “WILSON RESIGNS WITH CABINET, THATCHER TO FORM GOVERNMENT”

  Damnation.

  Paddy Ashdown closed the overhead baggage compartment and looked down at the seat next to the Home Secretary. To be seated next to Mr Jenkins had required only the flash of a smile and an oh-so-polite request of the girl at the flight desk. Ashdown’s instructions were to tail, but he saw no harm in making contact with a man he’d briefly met twice before, and Jenkins was to be met by someone at the airport anyway. He sat down just as Jenkins was trying to put on his seatbelt. With a turn of his head and an infinitesimally small raise of one eyebrow, he smiled curiously.

  “Mr Jenkins?” he said with polite mock-surprise. Jenkins looked up from his seatbelt with a jolt.

  “That’s right,” he said guardedly. Paddy could see he was hoping he wouldn’t get A Real Voter’s Opinion for the next ninety minutes.

  “I’m Ashdown. We met at Geneva a few months ago. And, indeed, a few months before that.”

  Jenkins’ face softened slightly as he did indeed recall an efficient cultural attaché helping him find somewhere in Switzerland that served fried bread.

  “Yes. I remember. Nice to see you again.”

  Paddy feigned a pout.

  “Oh, Home Secretary, please don’t give me the usual knockback. I recall we had a merry jaunt around the salon district one morning.”

  Jenkins, after a pause, smiled wryly.

  “We did, didn’t we? You must accept my apologies, I’m just very on-edge. Something’s happened in Whitehall and they won’t tell me over the phone.”

  “That sounds significant.”

  “It must be. Between you and me and the gatepost, I think it might be something to do with – no, I shouldn’t say.”

  “I quite understand, sir,” said Paddy, admittedly disappointed at a missed chance for Whitehall gossip, then added with a presumptively raised hand, “shall I have the girl bring us some drinks?”

  The Home Secretary shot Paddy a look.

  “Why not?”