A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (27 page)

The demonstrators managed to break through the police cordon and poured onto the lawn of the embassy breaking down a fence and pulling up a hedge. A vicious and prolonged battle ensued during which stones, sticks, fireworks and smoke bombs were thrown.

Earlier, a counter-demonstration numbering a few hundred Conservatives and Monday Club supporters had taunted the first protesters to arrive in Grosvenor Square with shouts of ‘Bomb, bomb the Vietcong’ and ‘Treason’. They were later separated by police.

The battle at the embassy continued for more than an hour before the demonstrators were finally forced to disperse by the police. Scattered groups of protesters and anarchists then headed for the Dorchester and Hilton hotels, but failed to get in.

A senior police officer accused the organisers of having exercised ‘no control over their supporters’ and of ‘failing to abide by the agreed arrangements.’ ‘This,’ maintained the senior police officer, ‘is why the demonstration degenerated into a disorderly rabble. As soon as they entered Grosvenor Square, it was obvious that a hard core of troublemakers were determined to provoke a violent response.’

More than 300 people were arrested and over 100 were injured. Fifty people required hospital treatment including 23 police officers.

Pimlico, London:
17 March 1968

Catesby hadn’t been at the demo, but his stepchildren had and they came to his flat to tell him all about it. The stepson was full of it. He had obviously enjoyed himself and was still cruising on an adrenalin high. Catesby recognised the symptoms. He had felt the same way the first time he had been in battle. It was exhilarating – particularly if it was your first time and neither you nor your friends got badly hurt.

‘The police attacked first,’ said the stepson, ‘and then all hell broke loose.’

‘Were you,’ said Catesby, ‘part of the group that broke away and attacked the US embassy?’

‘Yes, but don’t tell Mum that. Basically, it got really exciting and I wanted to see what was happening.’

‘I was there too,’ said the stepdaughter, ‘but I wasn’t there for the excitement. I was there to make a point – to let the fucking American Ambassador know what we thought of his fucking war.’

‘Right on,’ said Catesby without a hint of irony.

‘I wish that you had come with us,’ said the stepson.

‘I think in my position,’ said Catesby, ‘it’s best that I operate from the shadows.’

‘I bet,’ said the stepdaughter, ‘it’s because you don’t want to lose your OBE.’

‘I wouldn’t have worn it.’

‘You ought to have worn it, Will. That would have been really cool.’

‘I keep it in a safe place, because someday I want you to inherit it as an heirloom.’ Catesby kept it in the safe at his house in Suffolk – along with important papers. There had been a spate of burglaries in London involving people in his position.

‘Do you really think you should have accepted the OBE?’ said the stepdaughter.

‘It would have blown my cover story if I hadn’t.’

‘Wow, who do you really work for?’ said the stepson.

‘I was joking,’ said Catesby.

‘Back to the demo,’ said the stepdaughter, ‘there were some
strange people there who were not only very violent, but didn’t seem to belong.’

‘In what way didn’t belong?’ said Catesby.

‘They didn’t look or sound like students or protesters.’

‘And one of them,’ said her brother, ‘had 2 Para tattooed on his forearm.’

Catesby smiled bleakly and nodded.

‘What is it, Will?’ said the stepdaughter.

‘Thank you for being so observant – and, one more thing, I admire you for your idealism.’

‘We got it from you.’

Catesby choked back the tears.

Belgrave Square, London:
17 March 1968

The group, except for the general who was on duty, had gathered at the peer’s lavish townhouse. They were in the smallest sitting room of the four-storey house where the peer kept his only television. They had just finished watching the BBC News on the anti-Vietnam demo.

‘Did you hear that idiot socialist MP blaming the violence on the police?’ said the banker. ‘He was what? “Particularly outraged by the violent use of police horses which charged into the crowd”? That’s exactly what mounted police are supposed to do.’

The retired colonel put his hands around the cut crystal glass reflecting the amber glow of twenty-five-year-old single malt whisky. The colonel winked at JJ. ‘I don’t believe Mungo has been fully briefed on what happened today.’

JJ looked away and said, ‘Hmm.’

‘You’re looking more than usually enigmatic, JJ, behind those National Health specs of yours.’

‘You shouldn’t make fun of my spectacles.’ JJ cracked a rare smile. ‘I hate Socialism, but I’m not going to pass up a bargain.’

The colonel smiled. JJ was oblivious to fashion or looking smart.

‘Both of you,’ said the peer, ‘seem to want to change the subject. Can you please tell Mungo – and myself – about what we have not been “fully briefed”?’

‘One of the oldest tricks in the book,’ said the colonel. ‘The agent provocateur – in this case several. Did you not notice the athleticism and professionalism of a small number of the protesters attacking the police?’

The banker nodded and the peer droned a ‘Yesss’.

‘The lads loved it,’ continued the colonel. ‘All of them are exparas who like a good punch-up. Of course, we provided them with “get-out-of-jail-free” cards to give to the police when they got arrested.’

‘Was anyone else involved,’ said the peer, ‘anyone more official?’

‘Yes, but they don’t want to be known at the time. Not leaving fingerprints is paramount. Which is why those of us who are not players on the government payroll are valuable assets.’

‘You’ve become a big fan of privatisation,’ said the banker.

‘The best people,’ said the colonel, ‘like adventure and money – and when you put the two together you get the best results. The regiment’s motto ought to be “Who pays wins”.’

‘The idea,’ said JJ, ‘is to raise the level of tension.’

‘We need to create a sense of dire national crisis,’ said the colonel. ‘Did you see the blood? We issued the lads with plastic bags full of artificial blood. It makes for good press photos.’

‘The US press,’ said JJ, ‘has handled the story much better. One TV station called it “a bloody riot such as Britain has never seen before.” The BBC coverage is appalling Lefty rubbish.’

‘The next phase is to ratchet things up to the breaking point.’ The colonel gave a sly smile. ‘By the way, I’ve managed to acquire some very nice plastic explosives.’

London:
May, 1968

The usual suspects – the barking madmen and the gin-soaked generals – were not part of the intended coup. At least, not at first. The press tycoon, who tried to organise it, was not a right-winger. In fact, his newspaper had supported Labour in the past two elections. But once the attack dogs had picked up the scent, they were let slip and the cry was havoc. The problem, as Napoleon had once observed, is that you can do anything with bayonets except sit on them.

The meeting took place in an elegant townhouse a five-minute walk from the peer’s London home in Belgrave Square. It wasn’t the home of the press baron, who had convened the meeting, but of a member of the Royal Family. The press baron’s plan was that the Royal would replace Wilson and lead an ‘emergency government’.

Originally, it was planned as a meeting of three: the press baron, the editor of his largest paper and the member of the Royal Family. The Royal, however, had summoned the government’s Chief Scientific Advisor to attend as well. He regarded the advisor, Sir Solly Zuckerman, as ‘safe and sensible’.

The press baron’s argument for action began with the economy. Gold had been pouring out of the Treasury in an unsuccessful attempt to prop up the pound. A second devaluation seemed inevitable. Wilson and his inner cabinet, code-named MISC 205, prepared an emergency contingency plan code-named Operation Brutus. Brutus called for import quotas; compulsory acquisition of all privately held overseas securities; the freezing of foreign sterling balances in Britain; crash cuts in defence expenditure. Essentially, Brutus meant that foreign travel would be banned and no cash allowed out of the country. Operation Brutus was a top secret emergency plan unlikely to be ever invoked, but it was too juicy to be kept secret. Inevitably, someone in the Treasury leaked it to a banker friend – and the news spread like a grassfire out of control. As far as the City of London was concerned, Brutus marked the end of civilisation.

Meanwhile, massive demonstrations and strikes were spreading across France and bringing Europe’s largest capitalist economy to a virtual halt. The political leaders of France genuinely feared civil war or revolution – and there were those in Britain who feared protest and social breakdown would soon leap across the Channel.

‘We must realise,’ said the press baron, ‘that Wilson’s government is no longer in control of events. The best solution would be for him to resign and make way for a national government composed of businessmen, civil servants, all political parties – and the military.’

Sir Solly Zuckerman bristled and looked closely at the member of the Royal Family.

‘But,’ continued the press baron, ‘Wilson isn’t going to do the sensible patriotic thing and resign. He’s going to cling to power like a limpet while everything disintegrates around him. We are going to see mass unemployment as factory after factory closes its doors. We’re going to see a breakdown of civil order and bloodshed on the streets – and the distinct possibility of the hospitals, lacking power supplies, medicine and staff, being unable to care for the sick and wounded. In this situation,’ the press baron looked at the member of the Royal Family, ‘the military will have to come in to restore order – and, yes, we may see tanks and machine guns on street corners. It’s better than anarchy and bloodshed.’

Sir Solly, the Chief Scientific Advisor, stirred as if he were about to speak, but the press baron cut him off. ‘And may I remind you,’ said the press baron, ‘that there is no constitutional problem involved. The oaths of allegiance taken by the military are to the Crown, not to elected Members of Parliament.’

Sir Solly stood up. His voice was loud and firm. ‘What you are suggesting is rank treachery – treason. You should be ashamed of yourself. I’m not going to listen to another word. And,’ he turned to the member of the Royal Family and addressed him by the familiar name that only intimates used, ‘have nothing to do with this. I know you won’t.’

The Chief Scientific Advisor went to the door without looking behind him and shut it with a bang that resonated.

The press baron looked at his Royal host. ‘We must act quickly and I will put it directly to you, sir – will you be the head of an emergency government?’

The member of the Royal Family first looked at the press baron and then at his editor. ‘Absolutely not. Leave now and don’t ask to come back. There’s nothing more to be said.’

Muckle Flugga:
June, 1968

It was the best assignment the captain had ever had in his Army career. He had prepared for it by packing stout walking boots, waterproof clothing, binoculars, maps and bird guides. He wasn’t supposed to be turning his recce into a bird-watching holiday, but the activities were compatible – and the bird-watching provided an excellent cover story.

The recce began on Unst where he met the most aggressive birds he had ever encountered. The great skuas dive-bombed the captain even when he was well away from their nests. The Shetlanders called them bonxies, but after several close calls the captain thought ‘great skewers’ would be a better name. There were also fulmars, gannets, shags, guillemots and puffins – all in large numbers. But the captain’s favourite was the red-throated diver, a rare ungainly bird that only came on land to breed. He loved the diver’s piercing call: ‘We’re a weet, we’re a weet; waur wadder, waur wadder – which the locals translated as ‘we’re all wet, we’re all wet, worse weather, worse weather.’

But the captain hadn’t spotted any red-throated divers on Muckle Flugga. The island was all cliff and probably too sheer for the ungainly diver to nest – but all the other birds were there in loud number. Muckle Flugga was uninhabited except for the lighthouse keepers – the lighthouse was a listed heritage building that had been built by Robert Louis Stevenson’s father. The captain took several photographs of the island and made notes.

The utter inaccessible isolation of Muckle Flugga was a plus factor – escape would be well nigh impossible – the captain, however, wasn’t sure it would be possible to build an internment camp on those steep cliffs. But they had managed the lighthouse
in the previous century. Stevenson wouldn’t have had helicopters to ferry in supplies and building equipment. The captain made a pencil sketch showing how various sites could be used for internee accommodation, interrogation centres – and, of course, quarters for the guards. Muckle Flugga would not, of course, be a camp for ordinary internees, but only for those whose status and ruthlessness posed a serious danger to national security. They would include, first of all, high-ranking government officials and members of the intelligence services who were Soviet agents. The harsh steep island was a long way from the Isles of Scilly – at the very opposite extreme of the British archipelago. But, thought the captain, we live in a time of extremes. On the other hand, the camps were just part of a ‘contingency plan’ and might never be used. But, as the man from MI5 had said, you always have to prepare for the worst.

The captain had fallen a bit in love with the northern wilderness of the Shetlands – and had bought a bottle of Muckle Flugga whisky to toast the austere beauty of the islands. At midnight, it was still so light that he could read his notes without switching on the lamp in his guesthouse. He wasn’t looking forward to going back to Templer Barracks in Kent. It was an ugly depot full of soulless modern brick buildings with barred windows. Templer was the home of the Intelligence Corps – not a branch that was held in high esteem by the rest of the Army. They were nicknamed ‘the green slime’ owing, partly, to their cypress-green berets. Their corps cap badge was often referred to as a ‘rampant pansy resting on its laurels’. They were said to be good at sticking pins in maps, colouring in maps and putting stickers on maps. But with things hotting up, all that might soon be changing.