Dirty Tricks, page 8
‘No, he couldn’t,’ Quinn said confidently. ‘It would be too easy for him to make direct contact with the KGB in Washington. Anyway, you needn’t worry. I’m certainly not going to put my head on a block by feeding his stuff to Moscow. I may be inclined to agree with him that it would be the best thing to do with it – as I’ve always told you, Soviet fear of nuclear retaliation is our only hope against the Russian military machine – but to any British court it would look like arrant treachery.’
‘But if “D.J.’s” idea might do the trick, why doesn’t the President simply make a public announcement about the nuclear weapons, you know, like Kennedy did over Cuba?’
‘I can see exactly why he can’t,’ Quinn replied. ‘In the first place it would brand him as a liar. He’s publicly assured the Russians and the rest of the world that he wouldn’t produce or deploy neutron weapons. So he can hardly announce that they’ve been stockpiling them for months.’
‘I still think he should – even though it is election year.’
‘He can’t because there’s a second factor. He promised to seek the West Germans’ permission before deploying neutron ‘weapons on their territory. I don’t think he’s done that because it would have leaked from Bonn weeks ago. He certainly hasn’t told us and I’ve little doubt that some are in American stockpiles here. So an announcement would touch off a hell of a row in NATO, and every leftie in Europe would latch on to it to get the weapons removed. No. There couldn’t possibly be an announcement.’
Angela accepted the argument but remained puzzled. ‘I still find it hard to understand why the President has agreed to this step – if in fact he has. I always thought you were convinced that if the crunch came the Americans would avoid using nuclear weapons in Europe because of the danger of retaliation against New York.’
‘I’m not alone in that fear, Angela. It’s rife through Whitehall. But the President’s in a corner because for the last decade the US has done what we’ve done – spent far too much on social welfare and far too little on defence. Either he has to let the Russians have an easy ride in Europe and accept heavy American casualties, or use this ace-in-the-hole.’
‘I suppose you must be right,’ Angela conceded.
‘I’m sure I’m right. But is “D.J.’s” information accurate? And how the hell am I going to check it out? I suppose I could sound out Archie.’
Archie was the Director of Defence Intelligence, a recently retired admiral who had taken on the direction of all Services’ Intelligence in the Ministry of Defence. Quinn collaborated well with him and they met frequently, not only on committees but at the ‘Eye Club’, the exclusive gatherings of those involved in Whitehall Intelligence work. But what could Archie do in the time available? Quinn asked himself. He would have to make inquiries in West Germany and security there was almost a farce, with politicians leaking their heads off and their personal assistants defecting to East Germany. No, he would have to make his own assessment of what he felt historically might be known as ‘The Diamond Jim Report’.
If the information was accurate he would have to act on it in some way or other. He couldn’t just sit on it. He could offload the responsibility right away by just informing the Foreign Secretary. That was what the protocol demanded. But what a hornets’ nest that would split open! The Foreign Secretary was too keen to curry favour with his American counterpart to be trusted. He’d be on to the telephone to Washington in a flash and that would be the end of ‘D.J.’ as a source.
‘It’s a right bastard having this problem on my plate on top of the dreadful doubt about the Prime Minister,’ he said. ‘There are too many straws and not enough wind.’
He remained silent for several minutes, carefully avoiding closing his eyes, having once been told that it was damaging to concentration since it immediately shut down a large part of the brain, allowing the reveries of fantasy to intrude. The immediate idea presented by the facts was raw and risky and he would have much preferred a more sophisticated move. But time being critically short he recalled, by no means for the first time in his career, advice his boisterous father had often given him in a brogue you could cut with a knife – ‘When all else fails use bloody great nails!’ And any thought of his father, who had been too fond of drink to make much of his own life, never failed to recall his more frequent admonition, ‘Mark’s your name and that’s what I expect you to be makin’.’
Suddenly Angela, who knew her master’s mind, realized that light had dawned within it. The tension in his face relaxed to be replaced by a faint smile. ‘You know I don’t think I’m going to be needing that hot bath after all.’ The significance of the remark was not lost on Angela.
‘You’re never going to … ’
‘I damn well am! We don’t get many chances to kill two birds with one brick in this game. I’m going to beard the “Prince of Peace” in his den tonight.’
He picked up his red telephone. ‘Get me the Cabinet Secretary please,’ he asked as Number Ten answered.
As he waited he could not resist a gibe at Falconer.
‘I wonder what John would think if he knew that “D.J.’s” information, which he may not know himself, travelled to me on the same Concorde that brought him to London.’
Quinn relished any opportunity to score off the CIA, but only when the motive was productive. The integrity of the Anglo-American alliance on Intelligence was paramount in his book. That was why he made such personal effort to keep the ‘Uncle Vanya’ contact in being, nothing and nobody being allowed to prejudice it. Britain was dependent on the Reconnaissance Intelligence provided by US orbiting satellites and other long-range surveillance techniques: ‘Uncle Vanya’ was the quid pro quo which kept it flowing. Satellites could tell you what war material an enemy possessed and where it was, but not what he intended to do with it. And for the all-important intentions, defectors-in-place, like ‘Uncle Vanya’ – and, of course, ‘Diamond Jim’ – were still the only reliable source.
‘Sir David?’ Quinn confirmed, as the familiar voice of the long-serving Cabinet Secretary came on the line. ‘This is “C”. I must have a few minutes alone with the Prime Minister. It’s most urgent. No, David, I can’t do it through you or anyone else. This is for the PM’s ears only. And I mean ears. There’s going to be nothing in writing.’
There was a pause while the Cabinet Secretary repeated his arguments against an immediate visit.
‘I’m sure he’s overloaded,’ Quinn said sharply. ‘Who isn’t at the moment? But I must insist. The truth is that he could be wasting his time seeing other people without seeing me first. Let me know when I can come over to Number Ten. I’ll use the garden entrance. I’ll stay by the telephone until I hear from you.’
Angela refilled his coffee mug and he leaned back in his chair and sipped it, stretching out his legs so far as to display the crêpe soles of his suede half-boots, which he always called ‘brothel-creepers’, and fixed a cigarette into the short, amber holder, which had been a present from his former mistress.
‘You know how I was complaining that the KGB gets all the executive action. Well I’m going to take some for a change,’ he announced. ‘You never learned Ancient Greek did you? Well there’s some character in Herodotus who says, “Of all the human troubles the most hateful is to feel that you have the capacity to wield power yet no field in which to exercise it.” Well, the field has suddenly presented itself.’
Angela almost had to bite her tongue to avoid asking him if he was sure he was taking the right step, but she knew the futility of argument once Quinn’s mind had been made up. He must have calculated the risks he was taking.
Quinn locked the strong-box containing the numerous messages and tapes which ‘Uncle Vanya’ had managed to send and put it in the office security cabinet, which had a combination lock. Then he strolled over to a corner of the room where, under an aluminium cover which nobody else was permitted to remove, a giant jigsaw puzzle, its difficulty compounded by being composed of very small pieces, was partially completed on a green baize card-table.
It was a garishly coloured picture showing one of the May Day parades in Moscow’s Red Square, with the propaganda array of rockets, tanks and troops designed to give foreigners an exaggerated idea of Russia’s military strength. Each time the diplomatic bag from the British Embassy in Moscow contained a contribution from ‘Uncle Vanya’ it was accompanied by one more piece of the puzzle. As proof of authenticity it was always a piece which fitted into the existing structure on Quinn’s card-table.
He stared at it, visualizing ‘Uncle Vanya’s’ face and wondering how much it had changed since he had seen it years before, when he himself had operated in that grey, hostile city. What would the next piece be tomorrow if ‘Uncle Vanya’ responded as he expected? More of the grim, forbidding wall enclosing such enormities of power? One of the onion domes of St Basil’s? The red star on top of the Kremlin Tower? He noted that apart from the red star – and, of course, the weapons of destruction and the regimented crowd – there was nothing in the picture which owed anything to Communism. It had all been there before the revolution.
Chapter Six
Winifred Henderson, the Prime Minister’s wife, thoroughly disliked living ‘over the shop’ in Downing Street. Two up and two down in one of those quiet streets behind Westminster Abbey would have been much more suited to her lower middle-class tastes. That was why she preferred to spend most of her time in the small sitting-room of the top-floor private flat. It was as far as possible from the offices and the hundred-plus staff of Number Ten which, being three houses knocked into one, was much more rambling and more populated than the public suspected from the rather unimpressive main entrance.
While she waited for her visitor that evening, she busied herself with her embroidery, a plain, primish woman with little clothes sense, disinclined to use make-up and who was passing through the menopause with little emotional disturbance. Though somewhat overweight she could not resist dipping into the box of violet creams, which was usually within reach when she sat alone during the evenings, as she so often did.
Just being a politician’s wife was lonely enough: being the wife of a Prime Minister had made her almost a recluse, not that she would have minded if only Albert could have been there a little more often to keep her company. Born and reared in Overstrand, a village on the Norfolk coast, she had been used to only a neighbourly social life when she had met Albert in Cambridge and greatly disliked the large parties and banquets she could no longer entirely avoid. ‘We like ourselves’, was how she had first expressed her belief that a well-matched couple should be content with each other’s company, and be happy in each other’s silences.
There was a gentle knock on the door and a servant entered to announce the arrival of Sir Alan King-Lander, her husband’s physician, who had been a close friend of Henderson’s since he had read medicine at Cambridge, while the future Prime Minister had been reading history.
Sharing working-class origins, King-Lander’s in Darlington, Henderson’s in Liverpool, both had been ardent Socialists and, outside their studies, had been influenced politically by the same left-wing don.
‘Oh, Alan, it’s so good of you to come.’
‘It’s kind of you to ask me,’ her guest replied in a deep resonant voice which had never quite lost its northern accent. ‘It’s good to have a convivial drink before going out to dinner. I hate arriving at a strange house without benefit of what, in my part of the world, they used to call a “sneck-lifter”.’
‘But at least you’ve already met the Ambassador and it’s very informal tonight. Jane has only asked us and you, so far as I know. Frankly, I suspect that she’d rather be dining with you alone. She’s taken a real shiner to you.’
King-Lander smiled and raised his arms jestingly. ‘I do that to all the girls. The trouble I have with my women patients … ’
‘There’s many a true word spoken in jest,’ Winifred said, wagging her finger. ‘Seriously though, Bert will be delighted to see you. You seem to be the only person who can take him out of himself these days. He’s worried stiff about the international situation, even though he pretends he’s not. Do you think there’s going to be a war, Alan?’
‘Your husband should be able to answer that better than I can, Winifred,’ King-Lander replied as he settled his heavy frame into an armchair with a brightly coloured floral cover, and helped himself to a Scotch and soda from the tray which his hostess placed beside him.
‘Yes, but he never tells me anything,’ Winifred complained. ‘That’s his trouble, I think. He bottles all his worries up inside him. I know I couldn’t give him any worthwhile political advice, but I’m sure it would help him if he could just confide in somebody. What are we going to do with him, Alan?’
She looked imploringly at King-Lander who, in her eyes, was everything that a doctor should be: composed, impressive, physically attractive with his strong face and iron-grey wavy hair, with an aura of professional competence inspiring great confidence.
‘Well, as I’ve told you, time and again my dear, there’s nothing wrong with him. The pains he complains of always seem to be in different places. They are purely psychogenic – in the mind. There’s a golden rule in my profession – common symptoms have common causes. As we get older we all have pains and the odds are that Bert’s are nothing that matter. After all he’s had every kind of test and he seems to be rudely normal.’
Winifred inclined her head in doubt. ‘I still think he’s got a heart problem. That’s where the pains usually are, especially when he can’t sleep at night. And you know how many pills he takes for them.’
‘None of them prescribed by me,’ King-Lander said firmly. ‘He takes so much proprietary rubbish that it’s probably causing the pain. But it’s useless talking to him. He says he can’t get through the day without his pills. So if Dr Bloggins’ Pink Pills help to keep the wheels of Government turning, then hats off to Dr Bloggins!’
‘Have a chocolate, Alan?’
‘No thank you. And neither should you. What’s happened to that diet we agreed about?’
‘It’s not working, though I’m only eating enough to keep a bird alive.’
Yes – a vulture, King-Lander thought as she reached for another violet cream.
‘Sorry, Alan,’ Winifred said with a little shrug. ‘But I can’t possibly cope with a diet while there’s all this wretched tension in the house – if you can call this place a house. You’ll see how strung-up he is when you see him. I’m so afraid that this trouble boiling up with Russia will be the last straw. You will take another look at his heart won’t you? For my sake?’
King-Lander sighed and finished off his drink. ‘I’ve already promised you I will, but it won’t help either of you. You are asking me to look for things that aren’t there. You know you remind me of the psychiatrist who was walking down Harley Street with a colleague when they passed an acquaintance who said, “Good morning”. The psychiatrist looked at his friend and said, darkly, “I wonder what he meant by that?” ’
As the response was no more than the wannest of smiles he poured himself another Scotch and decided that the time had come for plainer speaking. ‘Winifred, if I can be frank, as an old friend, the truth is that you want Bert out of this job whether he’s ill or not. You don’t like being the Prime Minister’s wife. You’ve never liked it. It’s a very selfish attitude when the nation needs leadership so much. You know that there’s nobody else who could keep the Labour Party together.’
‘I think that’s unkind,’ Winifred pouted. ‘It’s just that I know this is an impossible job for any man, and for someone as sensitive as Bert it’s a killer.’
‘He worked very hard to get it,’ King-Lander pointed out. ‘He went into it with his eyes wide open.’
‘That’s true, but it’s this nuclear business which has made all the difference. You know how horrified he is by the thought that millions of people might be killed by nuclear bombs. He’s felt that way since he was at Cambridge. Do you remember that jingle he used to sing: “Let not the atom bomb be the final sequel/In which all men are cremated equal.” ’
‘I certainly do. Don’t you remember, Winifred, we were both together with him on the day the Americans announced that they’d dropped an atomic bomb on Hiroshima.’
‘Yes, he was absolutely appalled, especially when the photographs came through.’
‘I know,’ King-Lander agreed. ‘A lot of us felt the same. But we haven’t been able to do much about it, have we? Bert’s presiding over a Government which still keeps the Polaris missiles and the American nuclear bases.’
‘That’s why he feels such a terrible responsibility, that it will be partly his fault if anything happens. Poor dear, it’s taking so much out of him. The sheer stress!’
‘My dear Winifred, the danger of stress is one of the myths of modern medicine. Most of us live under far less stress than our forbears did. Oh, I agree that Bert is taking a hammering and, naturally, he looks a bit harassed but he assures me that it is not getting him down.’
‘Ah, yes. But you know Bert. He would never quit, would never admit … You will keep an eye on him won’t you?’
‘Of course I will. I already see him at least every other day on some excuse or other which you manage to contrive. How’s the historical romance coming along?’ he asked, anxious to get his companion and patient off the subject of her affliction, which he called ‘displaced hypochondria’ – morbid concern about somebody else’s health.
‘It isn’t,’ Winifred answered. ‘I really need Bert to help me. He has all the historical facts I want in his head but he has no time to spare for me.’
King-Lander felt that she would be doing herself and the country a service if she could get off her behind and do the research in the London Library or the British Museum, but he knew that Winifred’s talk about writing a historical romance was no more than a fantasy. It had originated, he assumed, in a prideful wish to emulate one of her predecessors in Number Ten, Mary Wilson, who had made a name for herself writing poetry.
