A Very British Coup (12 page)

“Surely, sir, three Communists?”

“But that was thirty years ago, Fiennes. People do all sorts of silly things at university.” He picked up one of the files and flicked through the pages of computer print-out. “In any case we can't make too much of the Communist angle. One of them was Wainwright and he's ours now.”

“How about the Trot?” Fiennes passed another file.

Sir Peregrine opened it and read aloud: “‘Ted Curran, aged sixty-two, Minister for Overseas Development, until 1962 a member of the Socialist Review Group, a forerunner of the Socialist Workers' Party.'” He looked up at Fiennes. There was the merest hint of a smile on his lips. “Nineteen sixty-two; that's leaving it a bit late to go respectable. What have we got in the way of pictures?”

A pile of full plate black and white pictures lay on the desk beside the files. Fiennes picked them up and quickly leafed through them. “This one's not bad. Taken at a CND demonstration in the late Fifties.” He passed the picture to Sir Peregrine. “Curran's in the donkey jacket on the left, the fellow next to Jim Thomas. Today he's National Secretary of the SWP.”

Sir Peregrine held the picture close to his face while he studied it carefully. “Hmm, promising. Even shows the SWP banner in the background.” He laid the photo on the desk. “Any evidence that Curran is still in touch with Thomas?”

“Not as far as we know.”

“Pity. Still, we can't have everything.”

Fiennes stood up and gathered an armful of files. “Shall I pass this on to Fison?”

Sir Peregrine thought for a moment. “No, I wouldn't do that. A cheap rag like his is a bit too obvious for this sort of thing. How about
The Times
? We've got a man on
The Times
, haven't we?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And while you're about it,” Fiennes was almost at the door when Sir Peregrine spoke again, “why don't you check out that girl Newsome's sleeping with?” He smiled thinly.
“Quite a turn-up for the books, if we found the Foreign Secretary sleeping with a Trot.”

By the end of his first week in Downing Street, Fred Thompson was only halfway through the backlog of mail. It was mostly letters of congratulation. Requests for interviews he passed on to the press secretary who had an office off the main hallway. Invitations to speak at Labour Party or trade union functions were passed to Perkins' personal secretary, Mrs Kendall, a plump, greying lady in her late fifties who had worked for Perkins since he entered Parliament. She took the invitations through to the Prime Minister and he would simply write ‘Yes' or ‘No' in the top right-hand corner. Mrs Kendall would return them to Thompson and he would reply accordingly. Abusive letters he filed without replying. Threatening letters were passed to the Special Branch.

If a letter was received from a trade union general secretary, a Labour Member of Parliament or a personal friend of Perkins, Thompson would draft a reply and take it to the Prime Minister for signature. Usually Thompson would take the letters for signing to the Prime Minister's study in the early evening, after Perkins had returned from the House of Commons. Before setting out Thompson would buzz Mrs Kendall and she would tell him if the Prime Minister was free. Sometimes Perkins would make them both a cup of Nescafé, using the kettle behind his desk, and then they would sit and gossip for ten minutes.

During the day Thompson saw little of Perkins. Once, after he had been in Downing Street three days, Perkins had put his head round the door and enquired how he was getting on. The Prime Minister's flat was on the same floor, but since he was still living in Kennington he only used it as a changing room.

The attitude of Tweed and the other private secretaries towards Thompson can best be described as ‘correct'. They were never rude, but never went out of their way to be helpful. The men from the Church of England in the office next door gave Thompson little more than the time of day. He assumed they were sulking over their impending eviction and
after the first day he gave up trying to make friends with them.

To Thompson's surprise the garden girls were on the whole friendly. Since they had worked for the previous régime they knew their way about and Thompson went to them when he needed help.

Mrs Kendall was a dear. She was always neatly turned out and with long grey hair tied in a bun at the back of her head. She had strong political views of her own and was, if anything, to the left of Perkins. She did not hesitate to tick him off if she thought he was pulling his punches. Thompson got on well with her and since she was on better terms with the private office he channelled requests for such things as filing cabinets through Mrs Kendall.

On his first morning Thompson was given a long form to complete and return to a box number in the Ministry of Defence. He was asked to list every address he had lived at over the last ten years, the names of any Communists, Trotskyites or Fascists with whom he had ever had dealings, and to give two referees.

Two days later a Special Branch man with a rolled umbrella and a navy blue Marks and Spencer mackintosh came to see him. An ex-CID sergeant in his fifties who had been pushed sideways, he was bitter at never being made inspector. “My job is to make sure there are no subversives in Whitehall,” he said without a trace of humour.

“According to the newspapers the place is crawling with subversives,” replied Thompson mischievously. “Only problem is they're all elected.”

The Special Branch man did not attempt a smile. He refused an offer of coffee and sat down without so much as unbuttoning his raincoat. “You in debt to anyone?”

“No.”

“Have you a girl-friend?”

“Several.”

Solemnly the man recorded each answer in his standard
issue notebook. “Which system do you support?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Our system or theirs?” There was irritation in his voice. Thompson was not treating him seriously.

“What do you mean,
ours
?”

“The King, Parliament …”

“And
theirs
?”

“The Russians.”

Thompson struggled to keep a straight face. The man sat waiting, biro poised, for an answer. “I am a member of the Labour Party. There's all sorts in the Labour Party.”

“Which sort are you?”

“Is that really relevant?”

The man's voice hardened. “I'll decide what's relevant and the longer you piss about the longer this will take.”

It took two hours and as he left the man did not attempt to conceal his annoyance. Civil servants treated the Special Branch vetting with respect because their careers depended on security clearance, but political appointments were made by ministers who usually did not give a toss what the Special Branch dredged up. Thompson could afford to be cocky.

“You'll be hearing from us again,” said the Special Branch man as he departed, but he knew he was wasting his time.

When Thompson left Downing Street, it was already getting dark. He walked up to Whitehall and took a number 24 bus back to his flat in Camden. Indoors he switched on the kettle for a cup of tea and just caught the headlines at the end of the radio news. Sterling was still sliding. That day it had dipped under two dollars for the first time since the early 1980s.

Before the kettle had boiled the phone rang. It was Elizabeth Fain. “Fred, at last. I've been trying to get you all week.”

Thompson told her about his new job and then asked about her weekend in the country. She sounded agitated. “That's what I want to talk to you about. It's important.”

“Fire away.”

“No, Fred, not on the phone.”

“Now who's paranoid?”

They met that evening in a Holborn wine bar. At eight o'clock next morning Thompson saw Perkins alone in his study.

Every morning at ten a blue Mercedes deposited the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Lawrence Wainwright, at the main entrance to the Treasury. Despite the Prime Minister's memorandum ordering ministers to limit their use of government cars, Wainwright insisted on being driven the 300 yards from Number Eleven Downing Street. Not that Wainwright was lazy or incapable of walking. On the contrary, he was a man of iron constitution. He insisted on being driven to the Treasury each morning only because Perkins had asked him not to. It was as simple as that. Had Perkins insisted ministers go by car, Wainwright would probably have walked.

Wainwright was a bitter man. By rights he and not Harry Perkins should have been in Number Ten. At least, that was what he told himself. That was also what the newspapers said. And so did a surprising number of Labour MPs in the privacy of the tea rooms. Wainwright knew that had history taken its natural course he would have been leader of the Labour Party. It was no secret that a comfortable majority of Labour MPs would prefer him to Perkins any day of the week. But just as Wainwright had been poised to enter upon what he regarded as his rightful inheritance, the rules had been changed. Instead of leaving the choice of leader up to the MPs, the party had set up this damn fool electoral college. The result was Harry Perkins.

Wainwright had toyed with the idea of leaving politics, of taking a job with the World Bank or NATO and coming back to haunt Perkins in a new incarnation. There had been no shortage of offers, but in the end he had decided to stay. For one thing it was only a question of time before Perkins and his friends ran into deep trouble. When that happened there might well be a role for Wainwright. He might be just the man to step in and fill the breach when Perkins ran aground. This was what Wainwright's friends were saying. Stick around,
Lawrence, they said. We may need you soon. So Wainwright had stuck around. The result was an offer of a senior Cabinet post.

At first Wainwright had been surprised when Perkins offered him the Chancellor's job, but the more he thought about it, the more he realised he was doing Perkins a favour by accepting. Firstly, because he probably represented more of a threat outside the government than inside. Second, because his contacts in the City were impeccable. In opposition Wainwright had accepted directorships on the board of a leading merchant bank and a multinational chemical company. He had of course to resign the directorships when he went back into government, but the contacts were still there. Wainwright moved very easily in the world of high finance. Being the only moderate in the Cabinet he was virtually a prisoner. The more he thought about it, he was an obvious choice for Chancellor.

The Treasury was a gloomy place. The building was designed originally for the British Raj in New Delhi and intended to exclude the Indian sunlight. For some reason it ended up being built in Whitehall rather than Delhi and excluding British rather than Indian sunlight. The corridors are built around a circular courtyard and account for more than a quarter of the entire surface area. They are wide enough to accommodate six people walking abreast and all day long messengers pushing little wicker baskets ply back and forth.

The Chancellor's office is on the second floor overlooking King Charles Street. Sir Peter Kennedy, the senior permanent secretary, was waiting when Wainwright arrived.

“Bad news, sir.” Kennedy's eyes betrayed a tiny gleam of satisfaction as he spoke. “No go with the stand-by credit. The Americans didn't want to know. The Germans said only if the Americans co-operate and the French said ‘Get stuffed'. Only the Dutch seem prepared to lend a hand.”

Wainwright placed his red despatch box on the oak desk, walked to the other side and sat down. “Do the markets know?” he asked Kennedy.

“Not yet, sir, but it's only a matter of time,” said Kennedy, affecting regret.

“When they do, I suppose they'll wipe another billion off sterling.” Wainwright was toying with a paper knife.

Kennedy did not reply, but remained hovering like an obsequious butler. “I told the Cabinet,” said Wainwright self-righteously, “I told them we were wasting our time even asking, but they would insist.” He placed the paper knife by the base of a large lampshade on the right hand corner of the desk. “That only leaves us one option, the IMF.”

That was Kennedy's cue. “I've already been on to Washington,” he said quickly. “They say they could have a team here by Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?” Wainwright raised an eyebrow. “They don't waste any time, do they?”

“Actually, sir,” said Kennedy with a smile, “we did warn them we might be calling.” And then he added hastily, “Unofficially of course.”

“Of course,” said Wainwright, who knew very well that behind his back the Treasury mandarins were in daily contact with the IMF. For all he knew they may even have agreed the conditions. Probably all that remained was to get the Chancellor's signature on a letter of application.

He looked up at Kennedy. The man never put a foot wrong. Yet everyone in the Treasury knew that it was he and not Wainwright who was boss. Long after Wainwright had gone from the Chancellorship, Kennedy would still be steering the British economy.

“We'll need a summary of our financial position to show the IMF.”

“There's a draft in your tray, sir.”

“And a position paper for the Cabinet.”

“The first draft is being typed now,” said Kennedy, clasping his hands and tilting his head to one side. Will that be all? he seemed to say.

“I'd better tell Perkins.” Wainwright pressed a button on the intercom connecting him to his private office. “Get me the PM,” he said.

Marcus J. Morgan was back in his Washington office when he heard that the British were sending for the IMF. He thumped the desk in triumph. “Now we'll screw the bastards.”

Morgan was a mean man and he was proud of being mean. “I didn't get where I am today by helping old ladies across the street,” he was fond of telling subordinates.

That night top secret cables went out from the State Department to American ambassadors in Nigeria, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait and other countries holding reserves in sterling. The cables instructed the ambassadors to apply
all legitimate pressure
to persuade the governments to which they were accredited to start converting their reserves into any currency but sterling. Legitimate pressure included offers of increased military aid.