A Very British Coup (8 page)

He entered diffidently and stood at the top of the long table, down either side of which were arranged chairs covered in red leather. Each place at the table was marked with a leather-bound blotter and crystal decanters of water. Perkins made one slow circuit of the table, peering cautiously out of each window overlooking the garden. When he had completed his lap of the room Tweed gestured that he should sit. Perkins sat.

“One or two things we must attend to immediately, Prime Minister.”

“Don't I even get to wash my hands?”

“This won't take a moment,” said Tweed.

Three private secretaries had now filed into the room and they stood in a crocodile behind Tweed, waiting to be introduced. The first bore a letter from Perkins to his defeated predecessor, placing the Prime Minister's country residence, Chequers, at the disposal of the outgoing Prime Minister until he had made arrangements to go elsewhere. “Just a formality,” said Tweed: “Sign here, Prime Minister.” Perkins signed.

The second private secretary presented figures showing that three cents had been wiped off the value of sterling in the two hours since the London market opened. Heavy selling was also reported from Hong Kong and Tokyo. “The Governor of the Bank wants an appointment as soon as possible.” One was agreed for the afternoon at five o'clock. The Cabinet secretary also wanted an appointment. He was told to come at six.

The third secretary said that the White House had telephoned. The President wanted to congratulate Perkins personally and it had been agreed that the Prime Minister should receive the call in his study in three hours' time.

Formalities complete, Perkins was shown to a small lift in the rear of the building which conveyed him up two floors to the attic flat built into the roof of Number Ten. “This will be your private quarters,” said Tweed, as he unlocked the door. “You are planning to live here, of course?”

“Not likely,” said Perkins.

“But, Prime Minister, we've already brought your wardrobe here.” Tweed ran a manicured hand through his thinning hair.

“You what?”

“We got the key to your flat from your secretary and I sent someone round this morning.”

“Then you can just send them back again.”

Although it was scarcely an hour since the flat had been vacated there was no trace of the previous occupant. No hint of cigar smoke from the night before. No sign of the whisky bottles that had littered the hearth as the outgoing Prime Minister, surrounded by his closest aides, watched his majority crumble. Before departing for the Palace, Tweed had given instructions that not a trace of the old régime was to remain. The thick carpet had been scrupulously vacuumed. Windows had been flung open. The bed linen and the curtains changed. Even the David Hockney that hung above the fireplace had been replaced by a Lowry print of a Lancashire fairground which Tweed had brought up from the basement. The private office thought of everything.

In a wardrobe in the main bedroom Perkins found his suits, all neatly pressed, in accordance with Tweed's instructions.

“My goodness, you lads work fast,” said Perkins.

While he was changing there came a knock on the bedroom door. “Inspector Page and Sergeant Block of the Special Branch,” intoned Tweed, who was still loitering in the living room. “These gentlemen will be responsible for your safety from now on.”

“That's right, sir,” said Page. A thickset, balding man with a Zapata moustache and a face like a closed book. “Sergeant Block and I will take it in turns to accompany you at all times of the day and night outside of Downing Street and the House
of Commons. Naturally we will try to be as unobtrusive as possible.”

Perkins nodded as he selected his brightest tie from a rail along the inside of a wardrobe door.

“One other thing, sir. I understand that you're in the habit of travelling around on buses.”

“That's right, Inspector.”

“Is that strictly necessary, sir? Makes life very difficult for Sergeant Block and me.”

“I am afraid it is necessary, Inspector. You see, my party wants to phase out the private motor car in cities and encourage people to use public transport instead. If we want to be taken seriously, then I've got to set an example.'

“I see, sir,” said Page, who clearly didn't see. Not one of my voters, thought Perkins as the Inspector and the Sergeant withdrew. As they left, a private secretary entered to say that the Governor of the Bank had been on again. “He says sterling's going down fast. Can't wait till five o'clock. Must see you immediately.”

Lady Elizabeth Fain slept until nearly noon in her mews cottage near Sloane Square, a twenty-first birthday present from her father. Still clad in her nightdress she tripped downstairs to the kitchen, raised the blind to let in daylight and opened the back door to let her dog, a cocker spaniel called Walpole, out into the tiny garden.

She was pouring a glass of grapefruit juice when the phone rang. It was Fred Thompson. “Hi, Lizzie, just called to see how my friends in the Master Race are coping with the revolution.”

‘Actually, I've just slept through the first ten hours of revolution.”

“Don't worry, the tumbrils will soon be rolling through Sloane Square, but I'll see you're okay,” said Fred with a chuckle.

“You should have heard them at Annabel's last night. Anyone would have thought Harry Perkins was going to send us all to Siberia the way some people were carrying on.”

“There are some people I wish he would send to Siberia.”

“Such as?”

“Such as that man Fison, for a start. He was on the radio half an hour ago prattling on about the threat to press freedom. Thinks Perkins is going to nationalise his newspapers.”

“Isn't he?”

“Course not. All we promised to do was look at alternatives to leaving the newspapers in the hands of fat slugs like Fison. Trusts, co-operatives, that sort of thing. That's not state ownership, is it?”

“If you say so, Fred.” At this point Walpole the spaniel passed through the kitchen on his way to the hall and returned with the mail between his teeth

Telephone in hand, Elizabeth stooped to extract the letters and continued, “I must say that for someone who only last week was predicting a coup if Perkins became Prime Minister, you're sounding remarkably cheerful this morning.”

“I never said anything about a coup,” protested Fred. “Only that we are going to get a lot of shit from the Americans and your friends in the establishment … Anyway, that's not what I rang about. I wondered if you want to come to a party on Sunday. We're celebrating the election result.”

“Frightfully sorry, Fred, I'm going to the country this weekend.”

“Too bad. You'd have enjoyed it. Lots of left-wing extremists coming.”

“No left-wing extremists where I'm going,” said Elizabeth. “Chap who's invited me is an army officer, his brother is a Tory MP and his father was something big in the City. They've got a huge house in Oxfordshire.”

“Sounds fascinating,” said Fred.

“Don't worry, I'll tell you all about it when I get back – providing you manage to keep the tumbrils out of Sloane Square.”

At noon precisely Fiennes of DI5 strolled into the coffee shop of the Churchill Hotel in Portman Square. Under his arm he
was carrying a folded copy of the
Financial Times
. He glanced to right and left until his eyes came to rest upon a clean-cut man in his late thirties, in a white, open raincoat.

“Ah, there you are, Jim.” Fiennes approached and sat down opposite the man in the raincoat. They shook hands over the table. “Guess you know what I've come about,” said Fiennes.

“Sure do.” The man's accent was East Coast American.

“Thought we ought to meet on neutral territory. Not wise for me to be seen at the embassy.”

The American lit a cigarette without offering one to Fiennes, who went on, “The Old Man thought we'd better liaise directly with your people instead of going through DI6. In any case they'd only balls it up.”

“Okay by me.” The American took a drag of his cigarette and placed it on the edge of an ashtray. A waiter approached and they ordered two black coffees. “Now what are you guys planning to do about Perkins?”

“The Old Man thinks we ought to take it easy at first. Just feed out a little dirt to the newspapers. Let the civil service and the City do the rest, for the time being.”

“What dirt you got on him?”

“That's the problem. There's nothing on our files. We were hoping you might have something.”

“Nope. He's clean at our end too. I had the boys at Langley run him through the computer last night. Clean as a whistle.”

“Should have more to go on when he starts naming ministers and camp followers,” said Fiennes.

“We'll run 'em all through the computer and anything we get we'll pass over to you.”

“Better be discreet. No point in going through the usual channels or we'll have DI6 whining to be let in on the act.”

“Anything we get I'll hand over personally to you.”

The waiter came with the coffees and the bill. They drank in silence. Fiennes paid the bill with a pound note and some coins and got to his feet. “Keep in touch, Jim.”

“Sure will.”

*

Perkins took the call from the President on the scrambled line in the Prime Minister's study.

“Harry.”

“Mr President.”

“Harry, I just wanted to congratulate you personally on your magnificent victory.”

“Very generous of you, Mr President,” said Perkins, reflecting that a flair for hypocrisy was going to be one of the specifications of his new job.

“Harry, we ought to get together just as soon as possible to iron out any little points of difference that may arise between your government and mine.”

“Early days yet, Mr President. I've only been in this job three hours so far and as yet I don't have a government.”

“Of course, of course, Harry. What I had in mind was to send my Secretary of State, Marcus Morgan, over for a chat as soon as possible. Some time next week, perhaps?”

“Okay by me.”

“Fine, Harry, fine. I know how much you share my desire for world peace and I reckon we're going to work together real well. Like you, I have spent my life fighting oppression and exploitation, so you see we got a lot in common.”

Perkins listened patiently as the President elaborated on his lifelong crusade for freedom. The conversation, or rather monologue, was finally brought to a close with the President saying that he had to go because he was keeping ‘some general from Paraguay' waiting outside the Oval Office.

Scarcely had Perkins replaced the receiver when he was interrupted by a call from the private office to say that the Governor of the Bank of England was at hand.

This was Perkins' second conversation with the Governor that day. The first had taken place in the small hours of the morning – minutes after the outgoing government conceded defeat. Perkins had been in Sheffield town hall when he heard the news and immediately went in search of a telephone. Since the Mayor's parlour was locked up and the Mayor nowhere to be found, Perkins had had to telephone the Bank
of England from a coinbox next to the porter's lodge. Having obtained the Governor's home telephone number from an astonished night duty officer Perkins had proceeded to rouse the Governor from his bed and order him to reimpose exchange control instantly. By moving so swiftly he had hoped to mitigate the impact of his election on the delicate constitution of the foreign exchanges, but it was not to be.

The Governor did not waste time on pleasantries. “Prime Minister, I have bad news.”

“Surprise me, Governor.” Perkins was given to mild bouts of irony.

“The pound has fallen four cents in as many hours. If it carries on like this, we'll have a slide of catastrophic proportions on our hands.”

“Who's selling?”

“Everybody's selling. The Arabs, the Americans, the oil companies. Everybody.”

“So what are you proposing?”

“Prime Minister, it is my duty to tell you that the markets need reassuring. Frankly, they are worried that they are going to get a government of …” The Governor hesitated.

“… extremists?” suggested Perkins.

“Something like that.”

“In other words,” Perkins was looking straight at the Governor, “you are asking me to let a crowd of speculators dictate who I should appoint to my Cabinet.”

“Not exactly, no.”

“What, then?”

“Only that you take account of feeling in the City.”

“And if I don't?”

“Prime Minister, I could not be responsible for the consequences.”

“Now let's get one thing straight.” Perkins spoke quietly, but firmly. “As long as you are Governor of the Bank of England you
will
be responsible for the consequences. You and your friends in the City may not have noticed, but there has been an election.
My
side has won and
your
side has lost. What's the point in having general elections if, regardless of
the outcome, a handful of speculators in the City of London and their friends abroad continue to call the shots?”

The Governor was taken aback. Accustomed as he was to being the bearer of bad news to a succession of Prime Ministers, he was unused to plain speaking.

Perkins, who had been seated next to the Governor in the semi-circle of armchairs at the end of the study, rose and went over to the windows. They overlooked St James's Park and were half covered by green bullet-proof glass. With his back to the Governor, Perkins continued, “Perhaps you could tell me how much the Bank has spent defending sterling today?”

“Nothing yet,” the Governor said, almost under his breath.

“Nothing,” said Perkins.

“Nothing,” repeated the Governor.