A Very British Coup (11 page)

He looked around the table. He had the attention of everyone present. “At the moment we have the advantage of surprise. This will not last long, but while we have it we must use it. As my old Dad used to say, ‘Hit 'em hard and when they're down, hit 'em again.'” This elicited smiles from everyone except the Cabinet secretary who sat stone faced.

Item one on the agenda was a paper on the economic situation prepared by the Treasury. Wainwright reviewed the main points and stated his opinion. “They want us to go for higher interest rates and a large IMF loan.”

“They don't waste any time at the Treasury, do they?” interrupted Jock Steeples, the Leader of the House. “Before
we know where we are they'll be asking for spending cuts and an incomes policy.” From around the table there was a sympathetic murmur.

Wainwright ignored the interruption. “As far as the IMF's concerned we don't have much choice. If the pound continues to fall at the present rate our entire reserves will be gone by the end of the month.”

Perkins went round the table seeking the opinion of each minister. After each had spoken briefly he summed up, “So we steer clear of the IMF for the moment and talk to the Germans, the French and the Dutch about the possibility of a stand-by credit. If that fails, we'll think again. Meantime interest rates will stay as they are.”

The main item was the draft of the King's Speech, which had been cobbled together by civil servants in the Cabinet Office. The law providing for the detention of suspected Trotskyists was to be repealed. A special department, headed by a minister, was to be set up to supervise the reconstruction of the riot-torn inner cities.

All the main manifesto pledges were covered, although one or two had been watered down a little. On the American bases, the draft said simply that “negotiations would be opened with the United States government regarding the future of US military bases in Britain.” After some discussion, in which the only strong dissent came from Wainwright, ‘withdrawal' was substituted for ‘future'.

On British nuclear warheads the draft said simply that they would be phased out. ‘Dismantled' was the word the Cabinet preferred.

“Christ Almighty,” said Steeples as they filed out into Downing Street two hours later, “the King will have a heart attack when he reads that little lot.”

When the details of the King's Speech began to leak sterling went into a nosedive. By the time the markets in New York closed, the pound was a staggering six cents down against the dollar.

It was starting to rain when Marcus J. Morgan's bullet-proof Cadillac swept into Downing Street. The Cadillac was preceded by two police motorcycle outriders and a carload of American secret service agents. Behind came a second Cadillac with aides and advisers. Officers of the Metropolitan Police Diplomatic Protection Unit brought up the rear in an unmarked car.

The waiting cameramen scarcely glimpsed the Secretary of State's portly frame as he was propelled through the door of Number Ten surrounded by the secret service men. After him came the American ambassador and a man from the US Treasury.

There was a minor scene in the lobby when Inspector Page told the secret service men that they would not be allowed to accompany their charge to the door of the Prime Minister's study. “If this were America …” one of them was heard to say before the inspector cut him short by stating sharply, “This is not America, this is Great Britain and I'd thank you to remember that.”

Morgan, happily unaware of the contretemps, was taken to see Perkins. His bodyguards were left pacing up and down in the hallway, chewing gum and muttering curses.

Perkins was waiting on the landing when Morgan, slightly out of breath, reached the top of the stairs.

“Mr Prime Minister,” said Morgan without smiling as he extended his hand.

“Mr Secretary of State.”

Perkins was nervous. A nerve in the left side of his face twitched uncontrollably and he wondered whether Morgan had noticed. He knew this was going to be an important meeting and he also wondered whether he would manage to conceal his dislike for fat American lawyers. Morgan had a
reputation for crudeness and dealing with him might require more tact than Perkins could muster.

Inside the study, Morgan introduced the ambassador and the man from the US Treasury. Perkins in turn introduced his team, Newsome the Foreign Secretary, and Wainwright, the Chancellor.

Morgan seated himself in one of the two armchairs. Perkins took the other. Newsome, Wainwright and the rest arranged themselves in a semi-circle of hard chairs between the Prime Minister and the Secretary of State. An aide of Morgan's placed a small voice-activating tape recorder between the two men. Tweed, the private secretary, did likewise. He then busied himself serving drinks from a cocktail cabinet at the far end of the study. Morgan had a neat whisky, Perkins an orange juice.

Morgan did not stand on ceremony. “Mr Prime Minister, I'm here because the President is very concerned that your government's programme constitutes a threat to the security of the West.”

A pained expression appeared on the face of the American ambassador. In the car on the way to Downing Street he had spent ten minutes advising Morgan to warm up slowly.

“According to your programme,” the Secretary of State continued, “you are intending to remove all foreign bases from British soil, scrap nuclear weapons and go neutral.” Morgan spat out ‘neutral' as though he were referring to a contagious disease which, in a manner of speaking, he was.

He was heard in silence interrupted only by the clink of glasses as Tweed served drinks. “Mr Prime Minister,” growled Morgan, “I am authorised to warn you that any attempt to detach Britain from the Western alliance would be regarded by my government as a hostile act and one which would have grave consequences for the United Kingdom.”

Morgan was not a man of many words and when he had made his point he stopped. Perkins' face remained expressionless. When it was his turn to speak he did so quietly and slowly. “First, I would like to thank the Secretary of State for
stating his government's position so frankly. I will now try to state our position with equal clarity.”

Perkins' opening remarks were heard in silence. “For a long time the British Labour Party has been of the view that the presence of American nuclear weapons on our soil, far from offering us protection, actually makes Britain into a target for Russian missiles. The pledge to remove nuclear weapons was a prominent part of our election manifesto and it was on the basis of that manifesto that we recently won an overwhelming popular mandate.”

At this Morgan's lips moved almost imperceptibly. What he said was only audible to those closest to him, but one of the stenographers said afterwards that it sounded suspiciously like “Popular mandate, my ass.” The ambassador's face was white.

If Perkins had seen Morgan's lips move, he gave no clue. He went on speaking quietly, “I therefore take the opportunity to inform you that we will shortly be making a formal request to your government to begin the withdrawal of troops and weapons from British soil.” He paused to sip his orange juice. “Obviously the details are a matter for negotiation, but we are thinking in terms of a phased withdrawal over two or three years.”

Morgan's cheeks flushed. His eyes dilated. “Prime Minister,” his voice had acquired a harder edge, “this is grossly irresponsible.” He paused to think of something to add. “It's like telling the Soviets, ‘We're coming out with our hands up.'”

Perkins could not suppress a smile. “Nonsense,” he said firmly, “we are just telling the Russians and anyone else who cares to listen that we don't wish to be annihilated, and inviting them to follow our example.”

“And the West Germans,” said Morgan, “what about the West Germans? Are you going to abandon them to the Soviets?”

Perkins was feeling confident now. The nerve in his left cheek had stopped twitching. “The West Germans,” he said quietly, “have no more interest in being annihilated than we
do. If they want to defend themselves against a possible Russian invasion, they would be wise to develop local militia capable of fighting guerrilla warfare. That is what the Swiss and the Yugoslavs have done and that is how British defence policy will develop in future.”

Tweed appeared with the whisky bottle and refilled Morgan's glass. Perkins took another sip of orange juice. Since Morgan had not responded, Perkins added unkindly, “Look at Vietnam. All the nuclear bombs in the world didn't help you there.”

At the mention of Vietnam, Morgan's chins began to quiver. He had not come here to have salt rubbed in America's wounds by the leader of some third-rate, clapped-out colonial power. “Prime Minister,” he sneered, “I don't think we understand each other very well. Let me spell out our position in words of one syllable.”

Tweed lingered in the background, whisky bottle in hand, his ears flapping. The ambassador wished that the ground would open up.

“Let me tell you plain,” snarled Morgan. There was a meanness in his voice which had not been apparent until now. “If you kick out our bases, you can kiss goodbye to any help from the United States in putting this ramshackle economy of yours back together again.”

Perkins said nothing. Wainwright and Newsome looked blankly at each other. The US Treasury man looked at the floor. The ambassador fidgeted. No one seemed to know what should happen next. Morgan solved the problem. Heaving himself to his feet, he towered over Perkins for a few seconds, then he turned and lumbered towards the door. The man from the US Treasury followed. The aide with the cassette recorder paused only long enough to scoop up his machine. The ambassador, without speaking, stayed to shake hands with Perkins and then scurried after the Secretary of State.

Surrounded by secret service men Marcus J. Morgan climbed back into his bullet-proof Cadillac and was swept away to the ambassador's mansion in Regent's Park. In place
of a press conference, scheduled for noon at the American embassy, a statement was put out saying simply that the Secretary of State and the Prime Minister had a frank exchange of views.

When they heard the King's Speech the executive of the Confederation of British Industry went into special session at its tenth floor offices in Centre Point. Two hours later a statement was issued saying that government plans to force the pension and insurance funds to invest in manufacturing industry would lead to a final collapse of confidence in the currency. They begged the government to think again.

The newspapers next day were rather more forthright. “Recipe for Ruin”, screamed the front page headline on the
Daily Mail
. “Downright looney,” said the
Sun
. The
Guardian
agonised for ten column inches before concluding that, although Labour's plans made sense, “Now was not the time.” Perkins' honeymoon with the press was over. It had lasted just six days.

The weekly meeting of permanent secretaries takes place in the boardroom of the Cabinet Office overlooking Horse-guards' Parade. As the senior civil servants in charge of each of the main Whitehall departments, they meet, in theory, to co-ordinate government policy. In practice they also sometimes co-ordinate resistance to government policy.

The Cabinet secretary, Sir Richard Hildrew, was a Balliol man. He had a first in classics and had spent most of his career at the Treasury before taking charge of the Cabinet Office three years previously. “Obviously,” Sir Richard was saying, “they can't carry on like this. It's only a matter of time before we get a U-turn. Our job, meanwhile, is to minimise the damage.”

“Peter,” he turned to a man in a double-breasted, chalk-stripe suit seated on his right. “Peter, any news of the stand-by credit yet.”

“Nothing final.” This was Sir Peter Kennedy, permanent secretary at the Treasury responsible for overseas financial
relations. “My chaps have been on to Bonn and Paris and they seem most unlikely to stump up the funds. The Americans have been putting the screws on and urging them not to co-operate.”

“Hardly surprising after yesterday's débâcle.” The newcomer to the discussion was Sir Michael Spencer, who was in charge of Defence. Although none of the permanent secretaries had been present at the meeting between Perkins and the American Secretary of State, every one of them knew exactly what had taken place. News travels fast on the Whitehall network.

Spencer paused from doodling logarithms on his blotter: “As I see it we have at least six months before we have to start giving the American bases the heave-ho. By that time the government will have had a taste of the real world and may be in a mood to think again.”

“The IMF loan is going to be the key.” It was Kennedy of the Treasury again. “With any luck the terms will be so stiff that the foreign bankers will do our job for us.”

Outside, the rain had stopped for the first time in two days. Shafts of sun streamed through the Regency windows to form puddles of light on the floor in front of each window.

Sir Richard gathered his papers into a neat pile. “So we're agreed, then, gentlemen.” He glanced around the table. “No one does anything precipitate until we see which way the wind blows. Delay is our strategy.”

In the distance the chimes of Big Ben could be heard striking eleven o'clock. From nearby came the clip-clop of horses' hooves at the Changing of the Guard.

“Three Communists, one Trotskyite and a queer.” Fiennes was almost licking his lips as he placed the last beige file on the desk in front of Sir Peregrine. The other files, about twenty in all, were arranged in three piles. “Not to mention that His Majesty's Foreign Secretary seems to be screwing some ripe little twenty-one year old from Hampstead Labour party.”

Sir Peregrine leaned back in his chair. “Not the sort of stuff that brings down governments,” he sighed.