The Complete Yes Minister

9 The Death List

March 28th

It’s become clear to me, as I sit here for my usual Sunday evening period of contemplation and reflection, that Roy (my driver) knows a great deal more than I realised about what is going on in Whitehall.

Whitehall is the most secretive square mile in the world. The great emphasis on avoidance of error (which is what the Civil Service is really about, since that is their only real incentive) also means that avoidance of publication is equally necessary.

As Sir Arnold is reported to have said some months ago, ‘If no one knows what you’re doing, then no one knows what you’re doing wrong.’

[Perhaps this explains why government forms are always so hard to understand. Forms are written to protect the person who is in charge of the form — Ed.]

And so the way information is provided — or withheld — is the key to running the government smoothly.

This concern with the avoidance of error leads inexorably to the need to commit everything to paper — civil servants copy everything, and send copies to all their colleagues. (This is also because ‘chaps don’t like to leave other chaps out’, as Bernard once explained to me.) The Treasury was rather more competent before the invention of Xerox than it is now, because its officials had so much less to read (and therefore less to confuse them).

The civil servants’ hunger for paper is insatiable. They want all possible information sent to them, and they send all possible information to their colleagues. It amazes me that they find the time to do anything other than catch up with other people’s paperwork. If indeed they do.

It is also astonishing that so little of this vast mass of typescript ever becomes public knowledge — a very real tribute to Whitehall’s talent for secrecy. For it is axiomatic with civil servants that information should only be revealed to their political ‘masters’ when absolutely necessary, and to the public when absolutely unavoidable.

But I now see that I can learn some useful lessons from their methods. For a start, I must pay more attention to Bernard and Roy. I resolve today that I will not let false pride come between Roy and me — in other words, I shall no longer pretend that I know more than my driver does. Tomorrow, when he collects me at Euston, I shall ask him to tell me anything that he has picked up, and I shall tell him that he mustn’t assume that Ministers know more secrets than drivers.

On second thoughts, I don’t need to tell him that — he knows already!

As to the Private Secretaries’ grapevine, it was most interesting to learn last week that Sir Humphrey had had a wigging from Sir Arnold. This will have profoundly upset Humphrey, who above all values the opinions of his colleagues.

For there is one grapevine with even more knowledge and influence than the Private Secretaries’ or the drivers’ — and that is the Permanent Secretaries’ grapevine. (Cabinet colleagues, of course, have a hopeless grapevine because they are not personal friends, don’t know each other all that well, and hardly ever see each other except in Cabinet or in the Division Lobby.)

This wigging could also, I gather, affect his chances of becoming Secretary to the Cabinet on Arnold’s retirement, or screw up the possibility of his finding a cushy job in Brussels.

Happily, this is not my problem — and, when I mentioned it to my spies, both Bernard and Roy agreed (independently) that Sir Humphrey would not be left destitute. Apart from his massive indexlinked pension, a former Permanent Secretary is always fixed up with a job if he wants it — Canals and Waterways, or something.

As for Bernard, I have recently been impressed with his loyalty to me. He seems to be giving me all the help he possibly can without putting his own career at risk. In fact, I am almost becoming concerned about the amount of rapport, decency and goodwill that exists between us — if he exhibits a great deal more of these qualities he will almost certainly be moved elsewhere. There may come a time when the Department feels that the more use he is to me the less use he is to them.

March 29th

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon going through some letters when Bernard sidled in holding something behind his back.

‘Excuse me, Minister,’ he said. ‘There’s something in the press about you that I think you ought to see.’

I was pleased. ‘About me? That’s nice.’

Bernard looked bleak. ‘Well…’ he swallowed, ‘I’m afraid it’s in Private Eye.’

Trembling, I took the offending rag and held it away from me with my forefinger and thumb. I didn’t have the courage to open it. Normally the press officer brings you your own press cuttings. If he’d given his job to Bernard, it meant terrible news. No prizes for guessing which, in the case of Private Eye.

‘They’re… um… exposing something,’ said Bernard.

Panic thoughts flashed through my mind. In that instant my whole life passed before me. Was it that IOS Consultancy, I wondered? Or that character reference I wrote for Dr Savundra? Or that wretched party at John Poulson’s?

I didn’t even dare mention them to Bernard. So I put a good face on it. ‘Well,’ I said, chin up, ‘what have they made up about me to put in their squalid little rag?’

‘Perhaps you’d better read it yourself,’ he said.

So I did.

It was acutely embarrassing.

I sent for Humphrey at once. I had to establish whether or not this lie was true.

One aspect of this squalid little story puzzled me in particular — ‘What does egregious mean?’ I asked Bernard.

‘I think it means “outstanding”… in one way or another,’ he explained.

That’s okay, if that’s what it means, but it seems a little too generous for Private Eye. I must remember to look it up sometime.

Humphrey arrived, was shown the piece, and actually had the temerity to laugh at the bugger joke.

‘Is this true?’ I demanded.

‘Oh absolutely not, Minister,’ he replied firmly. I was relieved for a moment, until he went on, ‘It’s only one of their little jokes. I don’t think that anyone actually supposes that you are a bu… I mean… that is…’

I exploded. ‘Humphrey, I’m not talking about that tasteless little joke. I’m asking you if the gist of this story is true — was I once under surveillance and am I now responsible for the bugging equipment?’

‘Surely…’ said Humphrey evasively, and how well I recognise the tactics by now! ‘Surely you don’t believe what you read in that squalid little rag?’

[‘Squalid little rag’ was clearly Whitehall general slang usage for Private Eye at about this time — Ed.]

I asked him again. Was it accurate?

Sir Humphrey again declined to give a straight answer. ‘I don’t think we should take it too seriously, Minister,’ he replied suavely.

I saw red. I told him that I regard this as an outrageous and intolerable intrusion into my privacy. If he didn’t see anything wrong with it, I certainly did. And I propose to take it very seriously indeed. I reminded Humphrey that the article stated that I, a free citizen, and furthermore an MP, have been under total surveillance. Surveillance is an attack on democracy. I asked Humphrey if he was aware that it contravenes the European Convention on Human Rights.

He remained calm. ‘Surveillance,’ he said, ‘is an indispensable weapon in the battle against organised crime.’

I was incredulous. That’s no reason for bugging me, a politician. ‘Humphrey,’ I asked, ‘are you describing politicians as organised crime?’

He smiled. ‘Well… disorganised crime too,’ he joked. I was not amused. He realised that he was going too far, and hastily started to repair the damage. ‘No, seriously, Minister…’

I cut him short. I reminded Humphrey of my own track record, one which made this situation particularly awkward for me.

‘While I was editor of Reform I wrote a leader criticising this kind of intrusion. Furthermore, I started a nationwide petition against bureaucratic busybodies snooping and phone-tapping. And now I learn,’ I continued angrily, ‘— from Private Eye, please note, and not from you — that I, of all people, am in charge of the whole technical side of it.’ It was all profoundly embarrassing.

Sir Humphrey merely nodded.

I asked the inevitable question.

‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

‘Because,’ came the inevitable answer, ‘you didn’t ask.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘thank God for the free press. Thank God for at least one brave, open and fearless journal in this country.’

Bernard started to remind me that I had previously described it differently, but I stopped him. However, I took the opportunity to explain to him that he really must sharpen up his political antennae. He needs to learn to adjust more flexibly to a developing situation.

He took my point, I think — I hope!

The next question inevitably raised by these revelations concerns the tapes and/or transcripts that must have been made of my bugged conversations. Where are they?

‘I imagine,’ said Humphrey carelessly, as if it didn’t really matter all that much, ‘that they must have been put into a report.’

‘And who got those reports?’ I wanted to know.

‘I imagine that the Home Secretary gets… got them.’ He corrected himself quickly. But not quickly enough.

‘Gets them?’ I shrieked. ‘You mean it’s still going on?’

He tried to pacify me, but without success. ‘No, Minister, not you, not now. Now he will be getting reports on current members of Her Majesty’s Opposition.’

The mechanics were still unclear to me. ‘Who gives these reports to the Home Secretary?’ I demanded.

He shrugged. ‘MI5, presumably.’

‘You seem very calm about all this.’

He smiled. He was really getting right up my nose, the complacent… [expletive deleted — Ed.]

I certainly wasn’t calm about it. I threw one of my real fits. I denounced the whole business. ‘It is horrifying,’ I insisted. ‘A British citizen — in my case, a distinguished British citizen — one who has dedicated his life to the service of his fellow countrymen… and all the time those gloating, faceless bureaucrats are listening to his every word. All his private calls. His rows with his wife. His shouting matches with his daughter. His private arrangements with his accountant.’ Perhaps I’d gone too far — maybe the room was bugged! ‘Not that I have anything I’d be ashamed to reveal, my life is an open book.’

‘Quite, quite,’ agreed both Humphrey and Bernard.

‘But it’s the principle of the thing!’

I stopped. I waited. The ball was in his court. Surely Sir Humphrey would have something to say. But no explanation or justification was forthcoming.

Sir Humphrey just sat there, head sympathetically inclined to one side, listening, for all the world like a Freudian psychoanalyst who has been sitting at the head of a couch listening to the rantings and ravings of a neurotic patient.

After he’d said nothing for quite a long time, I realised that he didn’t realise that the ball was in his court.

‘Why?’ I asked.

Sir Humphrey jumped, and focused his eyes in my direction. ‘Why what?’ he replied. ‘Why surveillance, or why you?’

‘Both.’

‘In any case,’ he smiled blandly, ‘it’s the same answer.’

My blood boiled. ‘Then why,’ I snapped, ‘did you split it into two questions?’

There was no reply to that.

[Sir Humphrey could hardly explain to Hacker that he did not want to risk answering a question that Hacker had not asked — Ed.]

Then Humphrey began his general explanation. ‘I should have thought it was perfectly obvious. Before the election it was rumoured that you might be appointed Secretary of State for Defence. If the PM were to consider giving you Defence, you can surely see that it would be in the national interest for MI5 to satisfy itself that you were not a security risk?’

‘But my privacy was invaded,’ I pointed out.

He smiled his smuggest smile. ‘Better than your country being invaded, Minister.’

I must say, I could see that point. There was a valid argument there.

But I was sure that Humphrey had never experienced the feeling that I was feeling. And democracy is about the feelings and rights of the individual — that’s what distinguishes a democracy from a dictatorship.

I said to him: ‘Have you ever been under surveillance, Humphrey?’

He was astounded. ‘Me?’

‘You. You, Humphrey.’

He got on to his highest horse. ‘I am a civil servant,’ he said, as if that absolutely closed the discussion.

‘So were Burgess and Maclean, and Philby,’ I observed.

He was rattled, but he swiftly produced a counter-argument. ‘They were not Permanent Secretaries! One becomes a Permanent Secretary only after a lifetime of personal responsibility, reliability and integrity. The most rigorous selection procedures winnow out all but the most upright, honourable and discreet of public servants.’

I noted the emphasis on ‘discreet’. The secrecy thing again, here openly acknowledged. I also noted that in giving this glowing description of Permanent Secretaries he thought that he was, in fact, describing himself. And I also noted that he had begged the question: even if Permanent Secretaries are never security risks, Humphrey said that he had never been bugged. But he hasn’t been a Permanent Secretary all his life, has he?

As Humphrey had described the qualities of Permanent Secretaries in a way that argued that they need not be subject to surveillance, I inquired how he felt about Ministers. It was as I expected.

‘Ministers,’ he said, ‘have a whole range of dazzling qualities including… um… well, including an enviable intellectual suppleness and moral manoeuvrability.’

I invited him to explain himself.

‘You can’t trust Ministers,’ he said bluntly. I was appalled at his rudeness. ‘I’m being quite candid now,’ he added unnecessarily. Bloody insolent, I’d call it. ‘I don’t mean, by the way, that we can’t trust you, Minister — of course we can. But in general terms Ministers, unlike civil servants, are selected completely at random — by Prime Ministerial whim, in recognition of doubtful favours received, or to avoid appointing someone of real ability who might become a threat — not you, of course, Minister. You can certainly be trusted. You might almost be a civil servant yourself.’

[Sir Humphrey almost certainly meant this as a compliment. Indeed, the ultimate compliment. However, Hacker should certainly have taken this as a hint that he might be house-trained. Regrettably, he allowed the flattery to get the better of him — Ed.]

I was mollified. I didn’t think he was bullshitting.

I let him continue. ‘Minister, would you trust every one of your Cabinet colleagues never to betray a confidence?’

I couldn’t really give an answer to that, without appearing somewhat disloyal to my Cabinet colleagues.

‘And what about all the Opposition Front Bench?’ he asked.

That was an easy one. ‘You certainly can’t trust that lot,’ I exclaimed.

‘Quite so,’ he said, checkmating me neatly, ‘and you were on the Opposition Front Bench at the time.’

It has always been hard to win this kind of argument with Humphrey. But he’s into winning arguments — whereas I’m into getting things done!

So I cut the discussion short. I made my decision. Which is to stop all surveillance. It’s a matter of principle.

He countered by informing me that this is a Home Office matter, and in many cases not within our purview.

This didn’t bother me. I can certainly make it much more difficult in future. If I’m responsible for the apparatus, I intend to make myself responsible for some proper democratic safeguards for us all (before the apparatus can be used).

‘Are you perhaps going to suggest,’ he enquired sarcastically, ‘that people will not be able to be put under secret surveillance until they’ve signed a form saying that they agree to it?’

I rose above it. ‘No,’ I said gently but firmly, ‘I propose that we shall have a Select Committee of both Houses chaired by a Law Lord to decide on every application. And no surveillance will be allowed to go on for more than two weeks without reapplying.’

Then I told him to set the wheels in motion.

He argued no further, but took his leave of me in a very frosty manner.

I was full of ideas today. After Humphrey had stalked out I told Bernard to send a minute to each member of the Cabinet.

I also thought of planting a question from one of our backbenchers to the Home Secretary. Something like: Will the Home Secretary assure the House that none of his Cabinet colleagues has ever been placed under government surveillance? That will shake him. And it will bring the matter out into the open. We’ll see if it’s just a Home Office matter! I think not!

Finally, I asked Bernard to make an appointment for me to meet Walter Fowler of the Express for a quick drink in Annie’s Bar at the House, later this week.

‘What for?’ Bernard wanted to know.

‘First law of political indiscretion,’ I replied. ‘You always have a drink before you leak.’

[Walter Fowler was the Lobby Correspondent of the Express. This meant that he would probably have been their political editor or head of the paper’s political staff. The Lobby was a uniquely British system, the best way yet devised in any democracy for taming and muzzling the press.

This is because it is hard to censor the press when it wants to be free, but easy if it gives up its freedom voluntarily.

There were in the 1980s 150 Lobby Correspondents, who had the special privilege of being able to mingle with MPs and Ministers in the Lobby behind both chambers of Parliament. As journalists, however, they were — quite properly — not allowed to sit down on the leather-covered benches. Neither were they allowed to report anything they saw — e.g. MPs hitting one another — nor anything they overheard.

You may ask: who stipulated what they were not allowed to do? Who made all these restrictions? Answer: The lobby correspondents themselves!

In return for the freedom of access to Ministers and MPs, they exercised the most surprising and elaborate self-censorship.

The Lobby received daily briefings from the Prime Minister’s Press Secretary at Number Ten Downing Street, and weekly briefings from the Leader of the House and the Leader of the Opposition. All these briefings were unattributable.

The Lobby correspondents argued that, in return for their self-censorship, they would learn infinitely more about the government, its motives, and its plans. The politicians loved the Lobby system because they could leak any old rubbish, which the Lobby would generally swallow whole. As they had heard it in confidence, they believed it must be true.

We believe, with the advantage of hindsight, that the Lobby was merely one example of the way in which the British establishment dealt with potential danger or criticism — it would embrace the danger, and thus suffocate it.

The Lobby certainly discouraged political journalists from going out and searching for a story, as they only had to sit on their bottoms in Annie’s Bar (the bar exclusively reserved for the press, with the highest alcoholic consumption of any of the thirteen bars within the Palace of Westminster — which was saying something!) and a ‘leak’ would come their way.

Finally, a word on leaks. Because there was no free access to information in Whitehall, everybody leaked. Everybody knew there was no other way to make the wheels go round.

Equally, everybody pretended that leaking was ‘not on’, ‘not cricket’, ‘below board’ or underhand in the same way. This is because discretion is the most highly valued talent in Whitehall. Even above ‘soundness’. Or perhaps discretion is the ultimate indication that you are ‘sound’!

Whenever a ‘leak’ occurred there would be cries of moral indignation, and a leak inquiry would be set up by the Prime Minister. Such enquiries seldom reported at the end, for fear of the embarrassing result — most leaks came from ‘Number Ten’ (a euphemism), most budget leaks from ‘Number Eleven’ (another euphemism) — Ed.]

March 30th

I met Walter Fowler in Annie’s Bar, as arranged, and leaked my plans for curtailing surveillance.

Walter seemed a little sceptical. He said it was a worthy cause but I’d never see it through. This made me all the more determined. I told him that I intended to see it through, and to carry the Home Office on this matter in due course. I asked him if it would make a story — I knew it would, but journalists like to feel that their opinions are valuable.

Walter confirmed it would make a story: ‘MINISTER FIGHTS FOR PHONE-TAP SAFEGUARDS — yes, there’s something there.’ He wheezed deeply and drank two-thirds of a pint of special.

I asked where they’d run it. He thought fairly high up on the Home News Page. I was slightly disappointed.

‘Not on page one?’

‘Well…’ said Walter doubtfully. ‘Can I attribute it? MINISTER SPEAKS OUT!’

I squashed that at once.

‘So where did I get the story?’ asked Walter plaintively. ‘I presume I can’t say it was “officially announced” or a “government spokesman”?’

I told him he presumed right.

We silently pondered the other options.

‘How about “sources close to the Minister”?’ he asked after a minute or two.

‘Hopeless,’ I pointed out, ‘I don’t want everybody to know I told you. Isn’t it possible for you to do a “speculation is growing in Westminster…”?’

Walter shook his head sadly. ‘Bit weak,’ he said, and again he wheezed. He was like an old accordion. He produced a vile-looking pipe from his grubby pockets and stuffed tobacco into the bowl with a stubby forefinger that had a thick black line of dirt under the nail.

I watched fascinated. ‘What about “unofficial spokesman”,’ I suggested, just before the first gust of smoke engulfed me.

‘I’ve used that twice this week already,’ replied Walter, contentedly polluting the atmosphere of central London. I choked quietly.

It was true. He had used it twice this week. I’d noticed. ‘Cabinet’s leaking like a sieve, isn’t it?’

He nodded. ‘Yes — um…’ he poured some more bitter past his nicotine-stained molars into his smoking mouth, ‘… could we attribute it to a leading member of the sieve?’ I looked at him. ‘Er… Cabinet?’ he corrected himself hastily.

I shook my head.

‘How would you like to be an “informed source”?’ he offered.

That seemed a good idea. I hadn’t been an informed source for some weeks.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘That’s what I’ll be.’

Walter chuckled. ‘Quite a joke, isn’t it?’

‘What?’ I asked blankly.

‘Describing someone as “informed”, when his Permanent Secretary is Sir Humphrey Appleby.’

He bared his yellow teeth at me. I think it was a smile. I didn’t smile back — I just bared my teeth at him.

March 31st

Annie came up to London today from the constituency.

So this evening I told her about the surveillance we’d been under. I thought she’d be as indignant as me. But she didn’t seem to care.

I tried to make her grasp the extent of the wrongdoing. ‘Everything we said on the phone, everything we said to each other — all recorded. Transcribed. It’s humiliating.’

‘Yes, I see…’ she said thoughtfully, ‘it is a little humiliating that someone at MI5 knows just how boring our life is.’

‘What?’

‘All will be revealed,’ she said. ‘Or has already been revealed. That what you talk about at home is what you talk about in public — the gross national product, the public sector borrowing requirement, the draft agenda for the party conference…’

I explained that I didn’t mean that. I meant that all our private family talk had been overheard.

‘Oh dear, yes,’ said Annie. ‘I hadn’t thought of that… “Have you got the car keys?”… “No, I thought you had them”… “No, I gave them to you”… My God, that could bring the government down!’

‘Annie.’ I was cross. ‘You’re not taking this seriously.’

‘Whatever gives you that idea?’

‘You still haven’t grasped how our privacy has been intruded upon. They might have heard what we say to each other… in bed.’

‘Would it matter?’ she asked, feigning surprise. ‘Do you snore in code?’

I think she was trying to tell me something. Only last week she caused me great embarrassment when she was interviewed in some juvenile woman’s magazine. They asked her if the earth moved when she went to bed with me. ‘No,’ she’d replied, ‘not even the bed moves.’

Perhaps this was part of a campaign.

It was. She went on. ‘Look, it’s the Bank Holiday weekend coming up. Why don’t we go away for a long weekend, two or three days, like we used to?’

My first thought was that I couldn’t. Then I thought: why not? And I couldn’t think of a reason. After all, even statesmen need holidays. I agreed.

‘Let’s go to Kingsbury Down,’ she said.

‘Fine,’ I said. ‘Where is it?’

She stared at me. ‘Only where we spent our honeymoon, darling.’ Funny, I’d forgotten the name of the place. I tried to remember what it looked like.

‘It’s where you first explained to me your theory about the effect of velocity of circulation on the net growth of the money supply.’

I remembered it well. ‘Oh yes, I know the place then,’ I said.

Annie turned towards her bedside lamp. ‘Did you get that, boys?’ she muttered into it.

[A startling development took place on the following day. The Special Branch contacted Sir Humphrey Appleby and Bernard Woolley with the news that a terrorist hit list had been discovered, and Jim Hacker’s name appeared on it as a potential target.

The list apparently was drawn up by a group calling itself the International Freedom Army — Ed.]

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[18]

We could not imagine who on earth could possibly want to assassinate the Minister. He was so harmless.

Nevertheless, Sir Humphrey Appleby and I were fully agreed that it was not possible to take risks with the Minister’s life, and so the whole paraphernalia of security would have to be brought out to protect him.

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

April 2nd

Bernard greeted me like a mother hen this morning. He asked after my health with an earnest and solicitous attitude.

I thought perhaps it was because I was a little late at the office. I hadn’t slept too well — ‘I feel like death,’ I remarked.

Bernard whispered to Sir Humphrey, ‘Perhaps that’s just as well,’ a comment which I did not understand at the time but which I now regard as having been in the poorest of taste.

I was actually rather cheerful. My leak had worked. A story had appeared in the Express: HACKER MOVES TO CURB PHONE TAPS. I was described as an informed source, as agreed, and Walter had not taken a by-line — the story was ‘from our Political Staff’.

Sir Humphrey wondered audibly where they’d got the information, and stared at me. Naturally I admitted nothing.

[It has been said that the ship of state is the only type of ship that leaks from the top — Ed.]

‘Anyway,’ I added, ‘this leak only confirms my determination to act on this matter.’

Humphrey asked me if I’d considered all the implications. This is generally the Civil Service way of asking me if I realised that I was talking rubbish. In this case, as it was to turn out, I had not quite considered all the implications.

So I replied that free citizens have a right to privacy. An absolute right.

How could I have said such a thing?

But I didn’t know then what I knew just five minutes later. Those bastards hadn’t told me.

‘Suppose…’ suggested Sir Humphrey smoothly, ‘suppose MI5 had reason to suspect that these “free citizens” were, shall we say to take a purely hypothetical example, planning to assassinate a Minister of the Crown?’

I made a little speech. I spoke of the freedom of the British people, and how this is more important than the lives of a few Ministers. I said that freedom is indivisible, whereas Ministers are expendable. ‘Men in public life must expect to be the targets of cranks and fanatics. A Minister has the duty to set his own life at naught, to stand up and say “Here I am, do your worst!” and not cower in craven terror behind electronic equipment and secret microphones and all the hideous apparatus of the police state.’ Me and my big mouth.

Sir Humphrey and Bernard looked at each other. The former tried to speak but I made it clear that I would brook no arguments.

‘No Humphrey, I don’t want to hear any more about it. You deal in evasions and secrets. But politicians in a free country must be seen to be the champions of freedom and truth. Don’t try and give me the arguments in favour of telephone tapping — I can find them in Stalin’s memoirs.’

‘Actually,’ quibbled Bernard, ‘Stalin didn’t write any memoirs. He was too secretive. He was afraid people might read them.’

Humphrey succeeded in interrupting us.

‘Minister,’ he insisted, ‘you must allow me to say one more thing on this matter.’

I told him that he might say one sentence, but he should keep it brief.

‘The Special Branch have found your name on a death list,’ he said.

I thought I must have misheard.

‘What?’ I said.

‘The Special Branch have found your name on a death list,’ he repeated.

This made no sense. A death list? Why me?

‘A death list?’ I asked. ‘What do you mean, a death list?’

‘An assassination list,’ he said.

He really is a fool. ‘I know what you mean by a death list,’ I said, ‘but… what do you mean?’

Sir Humphrey was now as baffled as I.

‘I don’t know how I can express it more clearly, Minister,’ he said plaintively.

Obviously, I wanted him to explain things like what the list was, where it came from, why I was on it — my mind was racing with dozens of unanswered questions, that’s why I was so inarticulate.

Sir Humphrey tried to answer what he thought I was asking him.

‘To put it absolutely bluntly, Minister, confidential investigations have revealed the existence of certain documents whose provenance is currently unestablished, but whose effect if realised would be to create a cabinet vacancy and precipitate a by-election.’

I didn’t know what he meant. I asked him.

‘You are on a death list, Minister.’

We were going round in circles. ‘Who…?’ I spluttered, ‘What…?’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I see. It is the International Freedom Army. A new urban guerrilla group, apparently.’

My bowels were turning to water. ‘But what have they got against me?’ I whispered.

Bernard reminded me of the vague rumours recently of a Cabinet reshuffle, and that my name has been mentioned in one or two of the papers in connection with the Ministry of Defence.

I asked who they could be, these urban guerrillas. Bernard and Humphrey just shrugged.

‘Hard to say, Minister. It could be an Irish splinter group, or Baader-Meinhof, or PLO, or Black September. It could be home-grown loonies — Anarchists, Maoists. Or it might be Libyans, Iranians, or the Italian Red Brigade for all we know.’

‘In any case,’ added Bernard, ‘they’re all interconnected really. This could simply be a new group of freelance killers. The Special Branch don’t know where to start.’

That was very encouraging, I must say! I couldn’t get over the cool, callous, unemotional way in which they were discussing some maniacs who were trying to kill me.

I tried to grasp at straws.

‘There’s a list of names, is there? You said a list? Not just me?’

‘Not just you, Minister,’ Sir Humphrey confirmed.

I said that I supposed that there were hundreds of names on it.

‘Just three,’ said Humphrey.

‘Three?’

I was in a state of shock. I think. Or panic. One of those. I just sat there unable to think or speak. My mouth had completely dried up.

As I tried to say something, anything, the phone rang. Bernard answered it. Apparently somebody called Commander Forest from Special Branch had come to brief me.

Bernard went to get him. As he left he turned to me and said in a kindly fashion: ‘Try looking at it this way, Minister — it’s always nice to be on a shortlist. At least they know who you are.’

I gave him a withering look, and he hurried out.

Sir Humphrey filled in the background. The Special Branch had apparently informed the Home Secretary (the usual procedure) who recommended detectives to protect me.

I don’t see how they can protect me. How can detectives protect me from an assassin’s bullet? Nobody can. Everybody knows that.

I said this to Humphrey. I suppose I hoped he’d disagree — but he didn’t. ‘Look at it this way,’ he responded. ‘Even if detectives cannot protect anyone, they do ensure that the assassin is brought to justice. After the victim has been gunned down.’

Thanks a lot!

Bernard brought in Commander Forest. He was a tall thin cadaverous-looking individual, with a slightly nervous flinching manner. He didn’t really inspire confidence.

I decided that I had to put on a brave show. Chin up, stiff upper lip, pull myself together, that sort of thing. I’d been talking a lot about leadership. Now I had to prove to them — and myself — that I was officer material.

I smiled reassuringly at the Commander, as he offered to brief me on the standard hazards and routine precautions. ‘I don’t really have to take these things too seriously, do I?’ I asked in a cavalier manner.

‘Well, sir, in a sense, it’s up to you, but we do advise…’

I interrupted. ‘Look, I can see that some people might get into a frightful funk but, well, it’s the job, isn’t it? All in a day’s work.’

Commander Forest gazed at me strangely. ‘I admire your courage, sir,’ he said as if he really thought I were a raving idiot.

I decided I’d done enough of the stiff upper lip. I’d let him speak. ‘Okay, shoot,’ I said. It was an unfortunate turn of phrase.

‘Read this,’ he said, and thrust a Xeroxed typescript into my hand. ‘This will tell you all you need to know. Study it, memorise it, and keep it to yourself.’

[The Museum of the Metropolitan Police at New Scotland Yard has kindly lent us a copy of ‘Security Precautions’, the document handed to Hacker. It is self-explanatory — Ed.]

I read the document through. It seemed to me as though I had little chance of survival. But I must continue to have courage.

After Commander Forest had left, I asked Humphrey how the police would find these terrorists before they found me. That seems to be my only hope.

Sir Humphrey remarked that telephone tapping and electronic surveillance of all possible suspects is the best way of picking these bastards up.

‘But,’ he added cautiously, ‘that does incur intolerable intrusion upon individual privacy.’

I carefully considered the implications of this comment.

And then I came to the conclusion. A slightly different conclusion, although I think that perhaps he had misunderstood what I’d been saying earlier.

I explained that, on the other hand, if the people’s elected representatives are to represent the people, it follows that any attack on these elected representatives is, in itself, an attack on freedom and democracy. The reason is clear. Such threats strike at the very heart of the people’s inalienable democratic right to be governed by the leaders of their choice. Therefore, the safety of these leaders must be protected by every possible means — however much we might regret the necessity for doing so or the measures that we may be forced to take.

I explained all this to Humphrey. He was in complete agreement — although I didn’t care for his choice of words. ‘Beautifully argued, Minister,’ he replied. ‘My view exactly — or else you’re a dead duck.’

April 5th

Today there was a slight embarrassment.

My petition arrived.

The petition against phone tapping and electronic surveillance, the one that I started a year and a half ago when I was in opposition and Editor of Reform. Bernard wheeled into the office a huge office trolley loaded with piles of exercise books and reams of paper. It now has two and a quarter million signatures. A triumph of organisation and commitment, and what the hell do I bloody well do with it?

It is now clear to me — now that I have the full facts which you cannot get when in opposition, of course — that surveillance is an indispensable weapon in the fight against organised terror and crime.

Bernard understood. He offered to file the petition.

I wasn’t sure that filing it was the answer. We had acknowledged receipt from the deputation — they would never ask to see it again. And they would imagine that it was in safe hands since I’m the one who began it all.

I told him to shred it. ‘Bernard,’ I said, ‘we must make certain that no one ever finds it again.’

‘In that case,’ replied Bernard, ‘I’m sure it would be best to file it.’

[This situation was not without precedent.

In April 1965 the Home Secretary told the House of Commons that ‘no useful purpose’ would be served by reopening the enquiry into the Timothy Evans case. This was despite a passionate appeal from a leading member of the Opposition front bench, Sir Frank Soskice, who said: ‘My appeal to the Home Secretary is most earnest. I believe that if ever there was a debt due to justice and to the reputation both of our own judicial system and to the public conscience… that debt is one the Home Secretary should now repay.’

Interestingly enough, a general election had occurred between the launching and the presenting of the petition. Consequently the Home Secretary who rejected Sir Frank Soskice’s impassioned appeal — and petition — for an enquiry was Sir Frank Soskice — Ed.]

April 11th

I’ve just had the most awful Easter weekend of my life.

Annie and I went off on our quiet little weekend together just like we used to.

Well — almost like we used to. Unfortunately, half the Special Branch came with us.

When we went for a quiet afternoon stroll through the woods, the whole place was swarming with rozzers.

They kept nice and close to us — very protective, but impossible for Annie and me to discuss anything but the weather. They all look the other way — not, I hasten to add, out of courtesy or respect for our privacy, but to see if they could spot any potential attacker leaping towards me over the primroses.

We went to a charming restaurant for lunch. It seemed as though the whole of Scotland Yard came too.

‘How many for lunch?’ asked the head waiter as we came in.

‘Nine,’ said Annie acidly. The weekend was not working out as she’d expected.

The head waiter offered us a nice table for two by the window, but it was vetoed by a sergeant. ‘No, that’s not safe,’ he muttered to me, and turned to a colleague, ‘we’ve chosen that table over there for the target.’

Target!

So Annie and I were escorted to a cramped little table in a poky little corner next to the kitchen doors. They banged open and shut right beside us, throughout our meal.

As we sat down I was briefed by one of the detectives. ‘You sit here. Constable Ross will sit over there, watching the kitchen door — that’s your escape route. We don’t expect any assassins to be among the kitchen staff as we only booked in here late morning. I’ll sit by the window. And if you do hear any gunshots, just dive under the table and I’ll take care of it.’

I’m sure he meant to be reassuring.

I informed him that I wasn’t a bit worried. Then I heard a loud report close to my head, and I crashed under the table.

An utterly humiliating experience — some seconds later I stuck my head out and realised that a champagne bottle had just been opened for the next table. I had to pretend that I’d just been practising.

By this time, with all this talk of escape routes, assassins in the kitchen and so forth, I’d gone right off my food. So had Annie. And our appetites weren’t helped by overhearing one of the detectives at the next table order a spaghetti Bolognese followed by a T-bone steak with beans, peas, cauliflower and chips — and a bottle of Château Baron Philippe Rothschild 1961, no less!

He saw us staring at him, beamed, and explained that his job really took it out of him.

We stuck it for nearly two days. We went to the cinema on Saturday evening, but that made Annie even more furious. She’d wanted to see La Cage aux Folles but in the end we went to a James Bond film — I knew that none of the detectives liked foreign films, and it didn’t seem fair to drag them along to a French film with subtitles.

Annie was black with rage because I’d put their choice first. When she put it like that, I saw what she meant. I hated the Bond film anyway — it was all about assassination attempts, and I couldn’t stand it.

The detectives were very fed up with us when we walked out halfway through it.

Finally, back in our hotel, lying in the bed, rigid with tension, unable to go to the loo without being observed, followed and overheard, we heard the following murmured conversation outside the bedroom door.

‘Are they going out again?’

‘No, they’ve turned in for the night.’

‘Is the target in there now?’

‘Yeah — target’s in bed with his wife.’

‘They don’t seem to be enjoying their holiday, do they?’

‘No. Wonder why.’

We decided to get up and go home then and there.

But did we find peace and quiet? You bet we didn’t. When we got to Birmingham at 1.45 a.m. on Sunday morning, the front garden was knee-deep in the local bluebottles, all wanting to show that they were doing their bit. The flowerbeds were trampled underfoot, searchlights playing constantly on all sides of the house, Alsatians baring their teeth and growling… Bedlam!

So now we lay in our own beds, still rigid with tension, still unable to go to the loo without some flat-foot examining it first, still with detectives knocking on the bedroom door and barging straight in while saying, ‘May I just check your windows sir,’ but with the additional pleasures of dogs barking and searchlights lighting up the whole room at intervals of twenty-nine seconds.

I told Annie, pathetically trying to make the best of it all, that she’d soon get used to being a famous man’s wife. She didn’t say anything. I think she’d almost rather be a famous man’s widow.

Thank God we still weren’t subject to surveillance at home.

Secret photo (released by the Special Branch at New Scotland Yard after the passing of the Freedom of Information Act, 1994) showing Mr and Mrs Hacker in bed at their home on 12 April.

April 13th

Easter Monday I slept all day, since it’s impossible to sleep at night.

Today I was back in the office and trying to handle a difficult interview with the dreadful Walter Fowler, who had somehow got wind of the petition. He seemed to find it extraordinary that I had now suppressed the petition that I started the year before last. Of course, he didn’t know that my changed circumstances had made me see the whole matter of surveillance in a fresher and clearer way.

‘I don’t follow,’ he complained. ‘You say you’re out to stop bugging and phone tapping. And now you get this petition. Two and a quarter million signatures. A terrific boost to your case. And you won’t even give me a quote saying you welcome it?’

I made an unshakeable resolve to stay silent. Anything I said was liable to be quoted. You can’t ever trust the press.

‘What about making a promise to implement its main recommendations?’

I realised that I had to break my unshakeable resolve. ‘Well you see Walter,’ I began in most condescending manner, ‘things aren’t that simple.’

‘Why not?’ he asked.

‘Security considerations,’ I said.

‘There always were,’ he said. ‘But you said yourself that “security” is the last excuse of a desperate bureaucrat.’

Irritating bastard. I resolved to stay silent again.

Then Walter said: ‘Okay. I think I’ll make it an even bigger story. MINISTER REJECTS HIS OWN PETITION.’

My resolve shook again. ‘Steady on, Walter,’ I blurted out, ‘don’t be silly.’

‘Are you accepting the petition or rejecting it?’ he asked, giving me a simple choice.

‘No,’ I replied carefully.

Then it transpired that he did know all my circumstances. ‘My Editor wants me to ask if being on the Freedom Army death list has altered your views in any way.’

Of course it has! Obviously! I’d be a complete fool if it hadn’t.

‘Certainly not,’ I said. ‘What an absurd idea! Never have occurred to me till you mentioned it just now.’

He didn’t believe me but he couldn’t prove anything. ‘But how else am I to explain this sudden change of tune?’

I was getting a bit desperate by then, but thank God Bernard knocked on the door and appeared. Saved by the bell. He told me Humphrey wanted a word with me.

Humphrey came in. Walter didn’t leave till I asked him if he minded. And he didn’t leave the building — he just said he’d wait outside till we’d finished.

Humphrey asked me if I’d had a good weekend. Sadistic bastard. He must have known what my weekend would be like, with half the Special Branch present — all those romantic rozzers with Smith and Wessons under their armpits.

He nodded sympathetically. ‘The burdens of office,’ he said.

‘This can’t go on!’ I said. Why can’t I keep my big mouth shut?

‘I’m glad you said that,’ he replied smoothly, ‘because it isn’t going to.’ My jaw dropped open. ‘We’ve just heard from the Special Branch that your protection is being withdrawn.’

Withdrawn? I was appalled. I thought he’d misunderstood me. I asked why?

‘The police have suffered an acute personnel establishment short-fall.’

I was about to ask if anybody was hurt, when I realised what he meant. Short-staffed. He meant short-staffed! And because the police were short-staffed they were going to allow me to be killed? I was horrified.

‘There is a much more real and dangerous threat to the Soviet Premier at the Chequers meeting tomorrow,’ he continued.

Much more real and dangerous? More real and dangerous to him, maybe. I searched desperately for an argument for them to protect me rather than him. ‘He’s Russian,’ I said. ‘I’m British!’

Then Sir Humphrey revealed further reasons why my protection was to be withdrawn.

‘In fact, Minister, the Special Branch are confident that the threat to your life has diminished.’

Naturally I was anxious to know how they could be so bloody confident.

‘Surveillance, Minister. They overheard a conversation.’ Humphrey seemed reluctant to tell me. I told him to spit it out, that I had a right to know, and that I wanted a straight answer!

He nodded, and then went into his normal mumbo-jumbo. God knows what he said, I couldn’t unravel it.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[19]

I recall what Sir Humphrey said because I minuted it at the time. He explained that in view of the somewhat nebulous and inexplicit nature of Hacker’s remit and the arguably marginal and peripheral nature of Hacker’s influence on the central deliberations and decisions within the political process, there would be a case for restructuring their action priorities in such a way as to eliminate Hacker’s liquidation from their immediate agenda.

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

So I asked him to put it into English. He then said that the Freedom Army had apparently decided that I wasn’t really important enough for it to be worth assassinating me.

He put it as gently as he could, I could see that. Even so, it was a bit of a blow. Not that they’d decided not to assassinate me, of course, but a bit of a blow to my pride nonetheless.

I asked Humphrey what he thought of this new situation. ‘I don’t agree with them, of course,’ he said.

‘You mean,’ I asked, ‘you think I should be assassinated?’

‘No, no.’

‘You mean, I’m not important enough?’

‘Yes. No! I mean you are important enough but they shouldn’t assassinate you anyway.’ He breathed a sigh of relief.

Anyway, it seemed I was off the hook, and perhaps that’s all to the good. I mean, there’s no point in being important but dead, is there? But, if even terrorist loonies doubt my value to the government, there’s clearly some image-building to be done right away.

Bernard then asked me if I’d finish my interview with Walter Fowler. Of course, I was delighted to.

He was ushered in, and I opened up right away. I told Bernard to bring the petition along on the trolley, so that Walter could see how big it was.

Bernard said, ‘The petition? But I thought you said…’

‘Yes I did,’ I interrupted hastily. ‘Could you get it, Bernard?’ He still looked blank. ‘Antennae, Bernard,’ I explained.

The penny dropped. ‘Ah. Yes. Indeed, Minister,’ he said quickly. ‘You mean, I’m to get the petition that you said you were so pleased with?’

The boy’s learning.

Walter demanded an answer to his various questions. I told him to sit down. Then I told him that I welcomed the petition, warmly. That it is not just something you sweep under the carpet.

Bernard Woolley receiving the petition and wondering how to sweep it under the carpet (DAA Archives)

‘And as for death lists,’ I concluded. ‘Well — Ministers are dispensable, but freedom is indivisible. Isn’t that so, Humphrey?’

‘Yes Minister,’ replied my smiling Permanent Secretary, dead on cue.