A Very British Coup Page 11

  While a chauffeur put their luggage in the boot of the first Mercedes the three men each shook hands with the Algerian official. Then they climbed into the car and were driven away to a secluded villa on the Mediterranean coast. The crew of the plane followed in the second Mercedes.

  The three Englishmen were the Foreign Secretary, Tom Newsome; his parliamentary private secretary, Len Fuller; and a political adviser, Ray Morse.

  In London the IMF team were commuting between the Bank of England and the Treasury. At the Bank they talked about interest rates and devaluation. At the Treasury they discussed the Public Sector Borrowing Requirement and income policies.

  Between officials at the Bank, the Treasury and the men from the IMF there was little disagreement about what was necessary. They had all been brought up to believe that borrowing was basically immoral and should be heavily penalised. They believed that government spending was far too high and that free trade was sacred. The only problem was how to convince the government. As Sir Peter Kennedy said, “The government has just won a huge election victory based on exactly the opposite analysis of the situation.”

  When, after two weeks of deliberation, the IMF men unveiled their terms for a loan, even Wainwright was taken aback. They wanted £10,000 million off public spending in two years. Even on Treasury estimates that would add another million to the dole queues. It would also require a rigid incomes policy, something the government was pledged not to introduce. On top of this the IMF also wanted guarantees that the government would not introduce import controls or any other restrictions on free trade. “I’ll never get that through the Cabinet,” Wainwright told them.

  “Your problem, not ours,” said the American member of the IMF team, and it was he who did most of the talking. He went on, “We’re bankers, not politicians. We don’t make any distinction whether we are dealing with British social democrats or Turkish Generals.”

  “All very well,” replied Wainwright, “but Turkish Generals have ways of dealing with public opinion that aren’t open to British social democrats.”

  At 0800 GMT (ten o’clock local time) Tom Newsome had an audience with the Algerian President at the Casr Es Shaab Palace. Later he spent an hour with the Prime Minister and the Finance Minister after which he was driven to the airport. At noon local time Newsome was airborne again, this time bound for Tripoli.

  In London Annette Newsome phoned the private office and said that her husband was unwell and would work from home. She added that since he had lost his voice he could not be contacted by telephone. Arrangements were made for the red despatch boxes to be delivered by car to his home in Camberwell.

  The Foreign Office press department issued a short statement saying that the Foreign Secretary was indisposed and had cancelled all engagements until further notice.

  When the IMF terms were put to the Cabinet there was uproar. “What do they think we are, some banana republic?” raged Jock Steeples.

  “Tell them where they can stuff their bloody money,” said Jim Evans, the Defence Secretary.

  The Home Secretary, Mrs Joan Cook, was more rational. “Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t get a package like that through the Parliamentary Labour Party, let alone the National Executive Committee,” she said quietly.

  In the end it was agreed to defer any decision until Wainwright and the Prime Minister had had another talk with the IMF. If necessary the managing director of the Fund was to be invited over from Washington.

  Evans was asked to prepare a paper outlining drastic cuts in Britain’s NATO budget, including the complete withdrawal of the British Army on the Rhine. News of this decision was to be leaked to the lobby correspondents when Perkins had them in for an off-the-record briefing later that day. As Perkins told Fred Thompson over a whisky in the Prime Minister’s study that evening, “When our friends in NATO realise that defence will be the first casualty of any cuts, they may take more interest in getting the IMF off our backs.”

  In Libya Newsome lunched with the young colonel who had succeeded Gaddafi in a bloody coup two years before. Then he was driven back to the airport by the colonel’s personal chauffeur. There was an awkward moment when it was discovered that the British ambassador was there seeing his wife off to London on a shopping trip. Fortunately the ambassador did not notice the DC10 with British markings parked a discreet distance from the terminal buildings. Heaven knows what he would have said had he known his Foreign Secretary was hiding from him in the Men’s lavatory of the VIP lounge.

  By 1500 GMT Newsome was en route to Baghdad.

  8

  Fourteen direct telephone lines connect the office of the Chancellor of the Exchequer with the outside world. They lead to Number Ten Downing Street and to each of the main government departments. Two lines connect with the official residence of the Chancellor at Number Eleven Downing Street (one to the sitting room and the other to the study). But the most important line connects the Chancellor’s office with the Bank of England, which is obliged to clear with the Treasury every £10 million of reserves spent defending the value of sterling.

  All the telephone lines pass through a concentrator in the Chancellor’s private office. Incoming calls are indicated by a light flashing above the appropriate line on the concentrator. During a sterling crisis the light above the Bank of England line flashes with increasing frequency. Every time that light flashes everyone in the private office knows that the Bank has kissed goodbye to another £10 million.

  When word reached the foreign exchanges that negotiations with the IMF had broken down the light above the Bank of England line to the Chancellor’s private office began to flash every fifteen minutes. Tiny beads of sweat formed on the brow of the normally imperturbable Sir Peter Kennedy.

  “Reserves down to £500 million, sir,” said the junior private secretary who took the last call from the Bank. He handed Sir Peter a scribbled note with the latest details. The Bank was spending £30 million an hour from the reserves. At that rate they would be bankrupt in two days.

  Kennedy crossed the red lino corridor which separated his office from the Chancellor’s. He entered without knocking. Although Wainwright’s desk was by the window most of the light was excluded by the Foreign Office building opposite. On the wall behind Wainwright hung an oil of the Relief of Lucknow. Sepia was the predominant colour and it only added to the gloom.

  “The Saudis and the Nigerians are selling,” said Kennedy, his voice doomladen. “We’re down to $1.47 and the cupboard’s almost bare.”

  Wainwright was already preparing his alibi. “I told them,” he said, “but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Couldn’t you try the PM again?” Kennedy pleaded. “Something’s got to give soon.”

  “I had Perkins on ten minutes ago. All he could say was we should keep our nerve.” Wainwright did not attempt to conceal the contempt in his voice. “Seemed to think something would turn up by the special Cabinet tomorrow morning.”

  Kennedy withdrew shaking his head and mumbling to himself. He now seemed certain to go down in history as the permanent secretary who had presided over the collapse of the currency.

  In the private office the intervals between the calls from the Bank of England grew shorter. And every time the light flashed on the concentrator apprehension shivered through the inner sanctum of the Treasury.

  The DC10 bringing Newsome and his two colleagues from Baghdad touched down at Northolt at 0932 GMT. The Cabinet was due to meet at ten o’clock and the London foreign exchange market opened at the same time.

  An official Mercedes was waiting to take them to Downing Street. Newsome sat in the front passenger seat; Len Fuller and Ray Morse in the back. Although tired the three men were exhilarated.

  As they were passing through Willesden, Newsome dialled Downing Street on the radio telephone. “He’s just gone into the Cabinet.” It was Tweed’s voice on the other end.

  “Then get him out,” said Newsome.

  There was a delay of about forty-five seco
nds, most of which was spent waiting for traffic lights in Willesden High Street, before a voice said, “Perkins here.”

  “Harry, we’ve got it,” Newsome was hardly able to contain his excitement.

  “Everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Well done, lads,” said Perkins. “How quickly can you get here?”

  Newsome consulted the driver. The traffic was bad, but he said he knew a short cut through St John’s Wood.

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll put the kettle on,” said Perkins.

  Newsome replaced the receiver on its rest between himself and the driver. Then, reaching in his briefcase, he took out a small battery operated shaver and began to shave.

  Ministers were glum as they arrived for the Cabinet. Everybody knew this was the crunch. Batteries of television cameras waited outside.

  “It’s so unfair,” said Mrs Cook to Jock Steeples, as they went in. “We never even had a chance.”

  Sir Peter Kennedy had been busy overnight preparing a brief outlining in the direst terms the consequences of a crash. By eight o’clock that morning every permanent secretary in Whitehall had a copy of the document in their hands. By 9.30 every Cabinet minister had been briefed on the alternatives facing them: the IMF or bankruptcy.

  Jock Steeples came prepared to resign rather than accept the IMF terms, but he was in a minority. In the face of three days’ intense pressure the majority against the IMF at the last Cabinet had melted. They had only been in office six weeks and already the hope that had attended their election was about to evaporate. The bankers had outwitted them in record time. They felt ashamed.

  Only Perkins had a spring in his step when he returned to the Cabinet room after taking the telephone message in the private secretary’s office. “What’s he so cheerful about?” whispered Jim Evans, the Defence Secretary, to his neighbour as the Prime Minister sat down. He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  “Comrades.” The Cabinet Secretary winced at the use of the word. Such language simply was not used in Downing Street. “Comrades,” repeated Perkins, “I have an important announcement.”

  They listened, not expecting to hear anything that would make the day more bearable. “Half an hour ago the Foreign Secretary arrived back in this country after a visit to Algeria, Libya and Iraq.” Jim Evans’ eyes widened. It was only half an hour since he had phoned Tom Newsome to find out if he would be well enough to make the Cabinet. Newsome’s wife had said he was propped up in bed inhaling Friar’s Balsam.

  Perkins went on, “The Foreign Secretary has concluded an arrangement with these countries to make available to us a standby credit of up to £10,000 million on very generous terms.”

  From around the baize-covered table there was an audible gasp. First of disbelief, then relief. A miracle had happened. “The cunning old bugger,” said Steeples. It was not clear whether he was referring to the Prime Minister or the Foreign Secretary.

  Perkins allowed a few seconds for the good news to sink in and then tapped his pen on the table to call order. “The Foreign Secretary will be here in fifteen minutes and he will then be able to fill in the details.”

  When Newsome came through the door the Cabinet stood and applauded. Like the use of the word ‘comrade’ to address Ministers of the Crown, standing ovations are not a common feature of Cabinet meetings. Only the Cabinet Secretary remained in his seat.

  Newsome outlined the details briefly. The new credit facilities would be available for an initial period of two years, renewable for a further two should the need arise. Interest payable at ten per cent annually on any money drawn.

  Questions about the terms went on for twenty minutes. “What did you give away on Israel?” asked Wainwright, his voice betraying a note of sourness. He, after all, should have been told what was going on.

  “Only what’s in our programme.” Newsome smiled benignly. “A homeland for the Palestinians.”

  “And what did you tell them about our relationship with the Americans?” persisted Wainwright.

  “Told them we were going to kick out the bases,” said Newsome looking round at his colleagues. “We are, aren’t we?”

  “You bet your life,” growled Steeples.

  From around the table there was a murmur of assent.

  After the Cabinet, Newsome was driven home to Camberwell where he kissed his wife on the forehead, bathed, changed his clothes and left again. By three o’clock he was on his feet in the House of Commons.

  The Chancellor’s statement drew prolonged cheers from the Labour benches. The only note of dissent came from the Zionist lobby who feared that Israel had been sold out, but their doubts were swept aside in the general euphoria.

  Scenting blood, the Conservatives had turned out in droves for the Chancellor’s statement. They were stunned by the announcement. Questions to the Prime Minister followed. Perkins rubbed in the news. “You can tell your friends in the City,” he roared at the subdued Tories, “that their attempt to subvert the democratically elected government of Great Britain has failed.”

  News of the Arab loan came too late in the day to have much effect on the London exchange, but by the time it closed at 4 pm the slide had eased. When the New York market closed five hours later the pound was one cent up on its value at the start of business.

  As the Far East markets opened buying was feverish. The Arabs and the big corporations appeared to be leading the spree. The value of sterling began to climb fast. By the end of the week it had passed $1.60 and was still rising. Disaster had been averted.

  *

  The mandarins were less than overjoyed to see the government get off the hook so easily. At their weekly meetings in the Cabinet Office the permanent secretaries indulged in a fit of collective pique.

  “You should have heard them crowing,” said Sir Richard Hildrew, the Cabinet Secretary. “Actually stood up and applauded him there and then. Have you ever known government ministers who behave as though they are at a football match?” He shook his head wearily. What was the country coming to?

  Sir Peter Kennedy had made a complete recovery from the prospect of going down in history as the permanent secretary who presided over the collapse of the currency. Now the threat had receded, his mind was turning to another vexing question. “Why wasn’t the Treasury told? That’s what I want to know.” He stabbed the air with the forefinger of his right hand. “Not even Wainwright knew. No one even told the Chancellor.”

  Sir Cedric Snow, Foreign Office, was even more indignant. “I was told that Newsome was ill in bed at home when all the time he was gallivanting around the Middle East. Lied to by my own minister.” He stressed the word lied as though it was the first time in the history of diplomacy that a lie had ever been told.

  “Anyone would think,” Sir Cedric went on, “that this government doesn’t trust its own civil service.”

  A full thirty seconds elapsed before anyone else spoke.

  When Marcus J. Morgan heard the news his chins began to quiver. He had barely finished reading the cable from the London embassy when the scrambled telephone on his desk began to bleep. It was the President, wanting to know “How the hell can a British Foreign Secretary travel 6,000 miles to three Arab countries and meet three heads of state without the CIA or the State Department picking up even a whisper?”

  Morgan didn’t know, but he was sure going to find out. “Meantime, Mr President, it’s back to the drawing board.”

  *

  Sir Peregrine Craddock was putting golf balls into a horizontal Nescafé jar as Fiennes entered with news of the Arab loan. He was in mid putt when Fiennes began describing the Foreign Secretary’s secret visit to Algeria.

  “Algeria?” He looked up just as the putter made contact with the ball. Fiennes was forced to side-step to avoid obstructing the ball as it rolled towards him, missing the Nescafé jar by more than three feet. Sir Peregrine now stood erect, brandishing the putter as though it were a sword. “Fiennes, do you
mean to tell me that the Foreign Secretary has spent the last thirty-six hours in Algeria and that those nitwits in DI6 didn’t even get a sniff?”

  The ball had come to a halt just short of the doorway that led to the outer office. Fiennes shifted uneasily. “And Libya and Iraq,” he said quickly.

  Sir Peregrine leaned the putter against his desk. In silence he walked around the desk and settled himself in his swivel writing chair. It was a full minute before he spoke again. Fiennes wondered whether his presence was still required. At length Sir Peregrine looked up; his hands were joined beneath his chin as if he were in prayer. “Fiennes,” he said slowly, “the time has come to sort out the Foreign Secretary’s love life.”

  9

  Maureen Jackson preferred older men. She was the youngest of the three daughters of a Politics professor at the London School of Economics. When she was still a third former at Camden School for Girls she was going to parties with her sisters, borrowing their clothes and reading their books. She was fifteen when she read Fanny Hill.

  Maureen had little to do with boys of her own age. Her first lover was a third year student of her father’s who came to their Hampstead house for tutorials. She was sixteen at the time.

  By the time she was twenty, Maureen was working as a reporter on the Hampstead and Highgate Express and going out with men ten years older. She had wide eyes, perfect teeth and a complexion that rendered make-up superfluous. Although abnormally intelligent she did not get good enough ‘A’ levels to go to university. Her poor results were put down to her active social life and the amount of time she spent working for the local Labour Party. At least that is what she said she had been doing. Her mother had doubts.

  Her parents took a tolerant view of their daughter’s sex life. Both Maureen’s elder sisters had been allowed to bring steady boyfriends home for the night. Even when her mother came home unexpectedly one weekday afternoon and found Maureen in bed with a man the fallout need not have been too disastrous.