A Very British Coup Page 3

  “Simply frightening that a man like that could become Prime Minister,” said a slightly balding young man parked next to a bottle of champagne. “Shows how low the country’s sunk.” He was addressing nobody in particular.

  “That’s Roddy Bluff. He’s microchips. Frightfully rich,” whispered a slim blonde girl in a Fiorucci skirt. Lady Elizabeth Fain was the daughter of a Somerset landowner. Although she had left a fashionable girls’ boarding school in Sussex at sixteen, and her higher education consisted of a finishing school in Switzerland, she knew more about the world than most girls of her background. For a start she read newspapers, a habit that made her unusual among the female clientele of Annabel’s. She had also travelled, with a girlfriend, around India and Thailand, staying in cheap hotels and using only public transport. She even had friends who were left-wingers.

  One in particular, Fred Thompson, was a journalist working for an impoverished publication called the Independent Socialist. Fred often joked that she was his one contact in what he called the master race. “I’m relying on you to use your influence to get me out when the coup comes,” he used to say.

  They had last met about three weeks ago, just as the election campaign was getting under way. Fred had been in a serious mood. “They’ll never let a Labour government headed by Harry Perkins take power,” he told her.

  “Who’re ‘they’?” she had asked innocently.

  “Your friends in the City, the newspaper owners, the civil servants, all them sort of people.”

  Elizabeth had laughed at him. “You socialists are all the same – paranoid. Always thinking somebody’s tapping your phone or blaming all your troubles on the capitalist press. Of course Perkins will take power, if he wins the election.”

  “I don’t mean he’ll be chucked in jail or anything crude like that,” Fred had countered. “They’ll do what they did at first in Chile. Slowly strangle us by cutting back trade and investment and delivering us into the hands of the IMF and the World Bank. I wouldn’t be surprised if our ruling class don’t team up with the Americans to help de-stabilise us.

  “This is Britain, not Chile,” Elizabeth had responded firmly, “and Britain is a democracy. That sort of thing will never happen here.”

  Sitting in Annabel’s with the television pundit now predicting a Labour majority of 100 seats, she reflected on her argument with Fred. She had not taken him seriously at the time because, quite apart from the fact that she had been brought up to believe that parliamentary democracy was the greatest thing since sliced bread, it never really occurred to her that Harry Perkins would win. After all, he was an extremist, and she had also been brought up to believe that the British people would never vote for an extremist.

  On the night of the Labour landslide in the 1945 general election a woman at the Savoy Hotel is reputed to have said: “My God, they’ve elected a Labour government. The country will never stand for it.” And now at Annabel’s on this fateful night history was repeating itself. “The trouble with the socialists,” intoned the lady with the pearls, “is that they don’t give a damn for the ordinary people of this country. Like us. They dish out wages to the unions all right, but what about the ordinary people of this country?”

  Nearby a straight-faced waiter was presenting a folded bill to a young man sprawling shoeless on a pile of floor cushions. His girl-friend was glued to the television and eating chocolate peppermints. “Con Hold? Julian, where’s Con Hold?”

  Outside there was a slight drizzle and the young man in the red velvet dinner jacket was puking in Berkeley Square.

  Harry Perkins first entered the in-tray of the American President at about 8.30 pm Washington time. The President was giving a dinner party for the executive members of the John Birch Society and their wives when an aide came to whisper the news.

  “Jeeeesus Christ,” hissed the President, his cigar quivering in sympathy and causing ash to spill on to his lapel. Those nincompoops in the CIA had screwed it up again. For months they had been telling him not to worry. This Perkins fellow did not stand a cat in hell’s chance, they said. Trust our boys in London, they said. Never been wrong yet. Until tonight.

  The President stayed just long enough to make a short speech to the John Birchers, who had made some generous contributions to his campaign funds. Then without going into details he referred to a threat to the Free World which required his urgent attention and headed for the elevator with a posse of secret service agents in tow.

  By the time the President reached the Oval Office the head of the Central Intelligence Agency, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Secretary of State and the President’s National Security Adviser were already waiting.

  “Okay, George,” the President addressed the CIA chief, George McLennon, “how do you explain this one? Only two days ago your people were assuring me that Perkins was a busted flush. Now it seems he’s going to be around for some time.”

  “Sorry, Mr President,” stumbled McLennon who was already dreaming of the arses he was going to kick when he got back to Langley. “All I can tell you is what the British boys have been telling us and they’ve been saying everything was under control.”

  “That’ll teach you guys to take any notice of what that pack of amateurs in London have to say,” said the President with venom. Then he nodded towards a man with white cropped hair and cold blue eyes. “Anton, what’s your assessment?”

  Anton Zablonski, National Security Adviser, an old school world conspiracy man, big on bombing and direct action. Zablonski looked the President straight in the eye, “Mr President, this could be bigger than El Salvador. Perkins’ boys have been talking about making Britain a neutral country. That means withdrawing from NATO, kicking out our Third Air Force and doing away with their nuclear submarines. We also lose a base for our cruise missiles. In budget terms Britain is the biggest contributor to NATO, but the main effect would be political, not military. Without Britain the whole alliance could disintegrate.”

  Despite forty years in the United States Zablonski had not lost his thick Polish accent. The more doomladen his pronouncements, the thicker it became. “Italy’s always been wobbly,” he went on. “France opted out years ago and the Dutch have never taken the Soviet menace as seriously as we have. Until now Britain has always been our strongest ally, almost a sort of satellite state. We only had to say jump and they jumped.”

  “Vernon?”

  The President had turned to Admiral Vernon Z. Glugstein, chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the man who had once described ‘peace’ as the most dangerous word in the English language. Glugstein gave a deep sigh before speaking. “I agree with Anton, Mr President. For all practical purposes Britain’s gone over to the other side. Neutrality and Communism are the same thing in my book.”

  “Easy, Vernon,” McLennon interrupted, “it’s early days yet. The British Labour Party’s notorious for saying one thing in opposition and doing the opposite in government. Let’s wait and see what happens.”

  “Nobody’s suggesting we should rush into anything,” said the President, “but we’d better make darn sure we’re prepared. I don’t want any more fuck-ups. The future of Western security is at stake. George, what have we got on the files for de-stabilising Britain?”

  “Nothing much, I’m afraid, Mr President. Last thing I can find is dated July 1945. Apparently the Defense Department threw together a plan for a full-scale invasion if the Attlee government went too far. All looks a bit crazy to me.”

  “Perhaps I can help,” interrupted Marcus J. Morgan, the Secretary of State, a corporation lawyer, very fat and very rich. “I had the backroom boys at the National Security Council throw together some options.”

  “Go ahead, Marcus.”

  “The key is the British economy. It’s in pretty bad shape and not in a position to stand up to much pressure. The first point is, we own about ten per cent of it. Bought it up cheap, after the war. We could easily persuade one or two of the bigger corporations to pull out
. Some of them want to anyway.”

  He was interrupted by the rustle of silver paper. The President was unwrapping a spearmint chewing gum. The President was big on spearmint chewing gum. “Go on Marcus, go on.”

  “Secondly, there’s trade. We account for about twelve per cent of Britain’s exports and, if necessary, we could go elsewhere. Thirdly, there’s the IMF. Britain is running a very big balance of payments deficit and before long they are going to have to look for a loan. Since we are the biggest contributors to the IMF, we’re in a strong position.”

  The President palmed the silver paper into a neat ball and, with expert aim, lobbed it into a wastepaper bin by the door. Morgan turned the page of his NSC brief and continued. “Fourthly, there’s sterling: the United States and the oil-producing countries hold large deposits in London banks. We could start selling and persuade the Arabs to do likewise. We’d have them by the balls, if we did that. Finally, there’s covert action: our embassy in London has a few small programmes running. We could expand these. Buy up a few trade union leaders, some Labour MPs, that sort of thing …”

  “We gotta be careful, Mr President,” cautioned McLennon, a veteran of too many failed State Department spectaculars to want to be rushed into a new one. It was always the same. A Secretary of State whose knowledge of the geography was largely gleaned from a Time-Life Atlas and the currency markets. A President who wanted to be seen acting tough. And when the whole thing blew up in their faces, nobody would want to know. The CIA would be left to take the rap.

  “Britain’s not some third-rate banana republic,” said McLennon. “If we move too fast, we could create a backlash and turn the other European allies against us.”

  “Sure, George,” said the President irritably. Deep down he knew the CIA Director was right. But just now George McLennon was not his favourite person. “What I want to know,” said the President, “is can we expect any help from the inside?”

  “I reckon we can, sir.” McLennon had perked up a bit. “Fact is there are going to be a lot of very unhappy people in Britain after tonight. A lot of very important persons are about to get their toes trodden on and they aren’t going to like it. We can expect to find friends in the top levels of the armed forces, the business community and the civil service, not to mention our cousins at DI5. As far as propaganda goes, we can start the fightback right now, since most of the British press is in friendly hands – although Perkins has said he’s going to do something about that.”

  There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of the President chewing, then he summed up: “Right, gentlemen. Agreed we wait and see how things turn out. Meantime, George, get your people in London to take some soundings and find out who our friends are going to be. Marcus, you get the NSC boys to put some flesh on that de-stabilisation blueprint. And, very discreetly, sound out the rest of the Alliance to see who we could take with us if the worst comes to the worst.”

  The President paused, took a deep breath, and looked in turn at each man. “Let’s be clear. The election of Harry Perkins could be the biggest threat to the stability of the Free World since Joe Stalin. We have to do everything possible to keep him in his place. Everything short of landing the Marines at Dover.”

  2

  Harry Perkins did not intend to become a Labour MP. Having left school at fifteen he followed his father into Firth Brown, the Sheffield special steels plant. From the start he was active in the union, first as assistant branch secretary and later as treasurer.

  After five years at Firth’s the union paid for him to go on a scholarship to Ruskin College, where he gained a first class honours degree in politics and economics before returning to Sheffield. Before long he was elected convener for the whole plant, which made him chief negotiator for the union side in all dealings with the Firth management. His relations with management were cordial, but not matey. The managing director once remarked, “If I stepped under a bus tomorrow the mills would still be rolling the next day, but if Harry went under a bus the whole place would grind to a halt.”

  “So long as you realise,” Perkins had responded cheerfully.

  One evening after he had been back from Ruskin for four years, there came a knock on the front door. It was the secretary of a constituency Labour party on the other side of Sheffield, where a by-election was pending. “We want someone local, someone who knows about steel and who’s on the left. So far all we’ve got applying are bleeding London barristers and sociology lecturers. Some of the lads thought you might be interested.”

  Perkins was not keen. His father had been dead twelve years and his mother was getting on in life. Who was going to look after her if he was running up and down to London all the time? But Mrs Perkins, when consulted, said she rather fancied the idea of her Harry being an MP.

  Then there was the union, what about the union? They hadn’t wasted all that precious money sending him to Ruskin just so he could be a Labour MP. But a phone call to the district secretary confirmed that this was exactly what they had in mind.

  Perkins said he’d think about it. He thought for two days before agreeing to let his name go forward. The selection was a walkover; as for the election itself, in Sheffield they weigh the Labour votes. His majority was massive. Next morning his workmates from Firth’s turned out in force at the station to see him off to London.

  Like many working men who find themselves catapulted into Parliament, Harry Perkins let the place go to his head a little. Although he stayed out of the bars and ate mainly in the Strangers’ cafeteria the House of Commons brought out a streak of vanity which had hitherto lain dormant. As time passed he lost the ability to concentrate on what other people were saying. His appreciation of events began to revolve around the part he had played in them. His eyes would start to wander during conversation or he would butt in before the other person had finished speaking.

  By parliamentary standards it was nothing serious. Indeed, the trait was almost invisible to anyone who did not know Perkins well, but in Sheffield some of his old friends did remark quietly that Parliament seemed to be going to Harry’s head. Even so, no one questioned that Perkins was doing a splendid job of shaking up the parliamentary establishment. For a while he became the scourge of the Tory front bench at question time and on occasion did not hesitate to tear a strip off the Labour front bench as well.

  Like many before him, however, Perkins soon realised that wherever power lies in Great Britain it is not in the chamber of the House of Commons. Thus he began to concentrate on leading the fight outside Parliament. For three years there was hardly an invitation to speak which he turned down. The more meetings he addressed, the more the invitations multiplied. Gradually, the rise of Harry Perkins had begun.

  When Labour was returned to government Perkins was asked to be Secretary of State for the Public Sector, a new post designed to make the nationalised industries accountable to Parliament. It was a meteoric rise for someone who had never been so much as a junior minister. With no love lost between Perkins and the Labour leadership, he was under no illusions as to why he had been offered the job. “They’re just trawling for a left-winger to make the régime look respectable,” he told his friends. All the same, he accepted.

  Perkins’ spell in government was dominated by what was in later years to become known as the Windermere reactor affair. As Secretary of State for the Public Sector he was responsible for the Central Electricity Generating Board. The Board was in the process of choosing the type of nuclear reactor for a series of new power stations which would generate enough electricity to meet demand until well into the next century. By the time Perkins took office the decision involved a straight choice between a water-cooled reactor made by the Durand Corporation, an American multinational with a reputation for hard sell, and a gas-cooled reactor to be made by British Insulated Industries, a corporation with its head office in Manchester. To the winner the contract was worth a billion pounds.

  Every day delegations of hard-nosed businessmen and learn
ed scientists filed through the Secretary of State’s second floor office at Millbank. Behind them they left abstruse memoranda setting out their case. The Americans said their version was cheaper. The men from British Insulated claimed they could get back their costs by selling reactors to the Shah of Iran (whose demise at that time was but a twinkle in the eye of the Ayatollah). The Americans said their version was already in use and had proved as safe as houses. British Insulated brought in experts who alleged that it was not.

  And so it went on day after day, week after week. Each night when Perkins boarded a number 3 bus he took back to his flat in Kennington red despatch boxes brimming with memoranda arguing the comparative merits of water-cooled and gas-cooled reactors. There were times, as he sat up late into the night poring over papers he could scarcely comprehend, when he wished he was back at Firth Brown’s. Alone in the living room of his three-room flat in the small hours of the morning, the absolute self-confidence he carried through life deserted him. This was no job for a Sheffield steel worker. More than once he reflected on the irony that he, a product of Parkside Secondary School who had barely scraped an ‘O’ level in Physics, was in a position to over-rule the finest minds in the scientific establishment.

  In the end that is exactly what he did. Against the advice of his own civil servants, the Atomic Energy Authority and the CEGB itself, Perkins ruled in favour of British Insulated. The first reactor would be built on the shore of Lake Windermere. The recommendation went to the Cabinet and he talked it through in the face of bitter hostility from his own civil servants. So committed had they been to the American reactor that they refused point blank to provide him with the necessary briefing papers for the Cabinet. Instead he had to commission a report setting out the case for the British reactor from outside academics.

  For Perkins the deciding factor was jobs. It was no secret that British Insulated was on the edge of ruin. If they lost the contract a string of factories from Portsmouth to Port Greenock would close. The union men had been to see him. Delegations of shop stewards from every British Insulated factory in the country. In Greenock alone thirty per cent of the town’s labour force were employed at British Insulated. Perkins had no desire to be remembered as the man who closed down Greenock. Having satisfied himself that there was nothing to choose between the two reactors on safety grounds, he opted to buy British.