The Complete Yes Minister

19 The Whisky Priest

September 4th

A most significant and upsetting event has just taken place. It is Sunday night. Annie and I are in our London flat, having returned early from the constituency.

I had a mysterious phone call as I walked in through the door. I didn’t know who it was from. All the man said was that he was an army officer and that he had something to tell me that he wouldn’t divulge on the phone.

We arranged an appointment for late this evening. Annie read the Sunday papers and I read The Wilderness Years, one of my favourite books.

The man arrived very late for our appointment. I began to think that something had happened to him. By the time he’d arrived my fantasies were working overtime — perhaps because of The Wilderness Years.

‘Remember Churchill,’ I said to Annie. ‘During all his wilderness years he got all his information about our military inadequacy and Hitler’s war machine from army officers. So all the time he was in the wilderness he leaked stories to the papers and embarrassed the government. That’s what I could do.’

I realised, as I spoke, that I’d chosen inappropriate words to express my feelings. I felt a little ridiculous as Annie said, ‘But you’re in the government.’ Surely she could see what I meant!

Anyway, the man finally arrived. He introduced himself as Major Saunders. He was about forty years old, and wore the de rigueur slightly shabby baggy blue pinstripe suit. Like all these chaps he looked like an overgrown prep school pupil.

He was not a frightfully good conversationalist to start with. Or perhaps he was just rather overawed to meet a statesman such as myself.

I introduced him to Annie and offered him a drink.

‘Thanks,’ he said.

‘Scotch?’

‘Thanks.’

I told him to sit down.

‘Thanks.’

I told him there was no need to keep thanking me.

‘Thanks,’ he said, then corrected himself. ‘Sorry.’

Annie told him there was no need to apologise either.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I mean, thanks. I mean…’

Clearly my eminence was reducing this chap to a sort of jelly.

Annie offered to go and let us chaps talk in private, but for some reason he seemed anxious for her to stay. Can’t think why. Anyway, he asked if she could stay and of course I agreed.

‘I have no secrets from Annie,’ I explained. ‘I tell her everything.’

‘Several times, normally,’ she added cheerfully.

I do wish she wouldn’t make jokes like that. People might think that she means them.

I decided to establish whether the slightly cloak-and-dagger air about our meeting was, in fact, necessary. ‘Is this matter highly confidential?’ I asked.

‘Well, fairly,’ he replied, rather on edge. Clearly ‘fairly’ was a bit of traditional British understatement.

‘Shall I turn on the radio?’ I offered.

He seemed surprised. ‘Why — is there something good on?’

I don’t know what they teach these army chaps nowadays. I explained that I was suggesting that we play the radio to avoid being bugged. He asked if it was likely that we were being bugged. How does one know the answer to that? But then Annie reminded me that, as I am the Minister in charge of bugging politicians, it wasn’t awfully likely.

But Saunders was quite clear that he didn’t want our conversation to be on the record, even though I made it clear that I would take notes at the meeting if necessary (which indeed it was). He began by saying that what he was about to tell me he was telling me on a personal basis.

I asked him what he meant, precisely. I do like clarity in language.

‘I’m telling you personally,’ he repeated. ‘Not as Minister of Administrative Affairs.’

I could sort of see what he meant. But, on the other hand, I am Minister of Administrative Affairs. I sought further clarification.

‘Yes, I know you are,’ he said. ‘But I’m not telling you in that role. I’m telling you as a journalist.’

‘Are you a journalist?’ I was surprised. ‘I thought you were an army officer.’

‘No — you are a journalist.’

‘I’m a Minister.’

‘But — what were you before you became a Minister?’

‘Your starter for ten, no conferring,’ interrupted Annie facetiously. She’s always watched too much television and has always had a rather silly infatuation with Bamber Gascoigne merely because he’s charming and clever.

In any case, I’d now seen what Saunders was driving at. I put it into simple language, so that we were both clear about what we were both saying.

‘You’re telling me that what you’re telling me — and, incidentally, I don’t yet know what you’re telling me — but, whatever it is that you’re telling me, you’re telling me as the former Editor of Reform. Is that it?’

‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘You were a very fine editor.’

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ I said modestly.

‘You’ve often said that,’ said Annie. Another of her bloody jokes. Sometimes she’s more hindrance than help.

We still hadn’t found a basis for my receipt of his confidential information. So I had to pursue our talks about talks, as it were. ‘How,’ I wanted to know, ‘do I prevent myself from knowing what you are telling me as a former journalist?’

I couldn’t see how I could help the Minister knowing if I knew.

‘I think he means it’s a question of hats, dear,’ said Annie. Of course it was. Perfectly bloody obvious. I tried to disguise my irritation.

‘Fine,’ I said, smiling. ‘I’m not wearing my Ministerial hat tonight. I understand that. But…’ and here I think I impressed him with the solemnity of my high office under the Crown, ‘… I must warn you: if I need to tell myself what you tell me, I won’t hesitate to do my duty and see that I am properly informed.’

‘Fine,’ agreed Major Saunders.

It seemed that at last we had some basis on which to open up our conversation. I waited with bated breath.

He took a large gulp of his whisky, put down his glass firmly on the coffee table, and fixed me with a bloodshot stare. ‘Who is in charge of selling British weapons to foreigners?’

‘Bzzzzz. Hacker, LSE,’ said Annie. I silenced her with a filthy look. Then I waited for more from Saunders. After all, he’d requested the meeting because he’d had something to tell me, not to ask me.

Saunders realised the ball was still in his court. ‘You wrote an article in Reform about the sale of British weapons to undesirable foreign buyers.’

I remembered it well. I had called it ‘The Dreadful Trade’. In it I argued — as I have always argued — that while it is wholly patriotic to manufacture arms for our defence and even for the defence of our allies, even though some of our allies are scarcely commendable people, we should never sell British weapons to buttress enemies of the realm or Nazi-style dictators. I repeated the gist of my argument to Saunders. He nodded. ‘What about terrorists?’ he asked.

‘Or terrorists,’ I added firmly.

He nodded again. I began to have the feeling that I was being led somewhere, as if by a good interrogator or a prosecuting counsel. But I still had no idea of the enormity of the shock that he had in store for me.

‘As you know,’ he began to explain, ‘I recently returned from Rome.’ He had told me on the phone that he’d been there as part of a NATO military delegation. ‘While I was there I was shown something that they’d captured in a raid on a terrorist HQ. It was a computerised bomb detonator. Very new, very secret and very lethal.’

‘Who showed it to you?’ I asked.

‘I can’t possibly tell you. An absolute confidence.’

I was mildly interested in this computerised detonator thing and invited him to continue.

‘You set it to calculate the weight of the victim, the speed of his car and so on, to be sure of getting him. And you can reprogramme it remotely by radio after setting it.’

‘Gosh,’ I said, walking straight into it. ‘You don’t connect the Italians with that sort of technology, do you?’

‘It wasn’t made in Italy,’ he countered swiftly. ‘It was made here.’

It took me a moment or two to grasp the full implications of what he was saying.

‘Here?’

‘Yes. Under a Ministry of Defence contract.’

I could hardly believe what he was telling me. As a matter of fact, I still find it incredible. And appalling. British weapons being used by Italian Red Terrorists.

I asked him how they got them.

‘That’s what I want to know,’ he answered.

I asked him who else he’d told. He says he’s told no one, because he can’t. ‘If I reported it officially I’d have to disclose the source. But I thought if I told someone near the top of government…’

‘At the top,’ I corrected him firmly.

He paused and nodded. Then he went on to explain that someone at the top of government would be able, in his opinion, to find out how these weapons are being supplied. Because the investigation would have to start here in Britain, and at top level.

I couldn’t see how he thought I was to do this, since he had made it clear that he was telling me on a personal basis.

He spelt it out to me. ‘You see, now you know personally, even if you don’t know officially, you can use your personal knowledge to start official enquiries to get official confirmation of personal suspicions so that what you now know personally but not officially you will then know officially as well as personally.’

After a year in government I can now make sense of, and recall such sentences. Perhaps in another year I’ll be speaking like that myself.

‘You’re not related to Sir Humphrey Appleby, are you?’ I enquired semi-humorously. But no. This is not a family talent, this is the language of the governing classes as they try — as always — to have everything both ways.

Saunders heaved a sigh of relief, finished the rest of his Scotch, and remarked that he had just had to tell somebody.

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed, at my most understanding. ‘Well, now I know. Personally.’ Two could play this game.

‘Marvellous. Going to do something about it, aren’t you?’

‘Indeed I am,’ I agreed emphatically. ‘Oh yes. Definitely.’

‘And right away?’

‘Right away.’ I was employing my most decisive manner.

‘What are you going to do?’

I hadn’t actually expected such a direct question. I couldn’t see what that had to do with him. He’d done his duty by informing me, it’s not for serving army officers to question Ministers of the Crown. Anyway that’s the sort of irritating question that you tend to get from backbench MPs and other awkward busybodies who keep wanting to find out what the government’s doing.

However, both he and Annie were sitting waiting for an answer. I had to say something. ‘Well, I’m going to think about what you’ve told me.’ They didn’t look too impressed. ‘Right away!’ I added decisively.

‘And then?’ Persistent bugger.

‘And then I’m going to consider various courses of action, without delay.’

He insisted on seeking clarification. Or trying to pin me down. ‘You’re going to take action without delay?’

‘I’m going to consider taking action without delay.’ I thought I’d better be clear about this.

‘Are you related to Sir Humphrey Appleby?’ enquired Annie.

I rose above it, ignored her, and offered Major Saunders another drink. He declined, stood up preparatory to leaving, and asked for my assurance that he could rely on me to tackle this shocking matter. Naturally I gave him that assurance.

After he left Annie and I discussed him and his extraordinary information. I asked Annie what she made of it.

She didn’t reply directly. She just told me that I really was going to do something about it wasn’t I?

And I certainly am. If it’s true. But I find it hard to believe. Could it happen? It couldn’t happen! Could it? I mean, it’s not just that it shouldn’t but it couldn’t. And even if it could, it wouldn’t. Would it?

I’ve just played that last paragraph back. Perhaps I am related to Sir Humphrey Appleby.

September 5th

Today I had a serious conversation with Humphrey. Perhaps the most serious conversation that I have ever had or will ever have.

I’m still not quite sure what to make of it.

He came in for his regular Monday morning meeting with me. I hurried through all the usual items on the agenda, and then set the tone for the discussion that I intended to have.

‘Humphrey,’ I began, ‘there is something that I must talk to you about. Something that concerns me deeply. Really profoundly important.’

He enquired whether I was referring to the amendment to the Administrative order on stock control in government establishments, or the procedures for the renewal of local authority leaseholds in Special Development Areas.

This is the level at which he operates. But I was patient. ‘No Humphrey,’ I explained, ‘I’m concerned about a great issue of life and death.’

‘Shouldn’t that wait till after work?’ he asked. You can see what I’m dealing with.

‘It is work.’

‘Really?’ He was surprised. ‘Then please go on.’

I asked him how British arms manufacturers sell arms to foreigners. He explained the whole system to me. The manufacturer has to get an export licence from the Department of Trade. Both private companies and government agencies sell arms abroad. They usually sell to foreign governments, but sometimes they sell to arms dealers. Third parties. In other words, perhaps a little man in Manchester buys on behalf of a party in the Channel Islands who has a contract in Luxembourg, and so on.

So I wanted to know if there was any way of controlling who the arms are really going to. Humphrey assured me that there is control. The dealer has to provide a document known as an end-user certificate. This certificate must have a signature on it from the ultimate customer who is an approved user acceptable to HMG.[54]

I found myself wondering if this end-user certificate is a real guarantee. I wonder if Humphrey would be surprised if, for instance, an aircraft carrier turned up in the Central African Republic.

[Sir Humphrey would undoubtedly have been surprised, as would everybody else, as the Central African Republic is one thousand miles inland — Ed.]

Sir Humphrey stated that it was ‘officially impossible’ for weapons to turn up in non-approved hands. ‘There is stringent security, there are rigorous inspection procedures, and meticulous scrutiny.’

Officially impossible. I know what that phrase means. It means that it’s all a façade.

I challenged him with this. He smiled benignly and inclined his head a little. ‘I think perhaps this conversation should stop here, Minister, don’t you?’

I refused to play the game this time. ‘No,’ I said. ‘But it is as I thought. Last night a confidential source disclosed to me that British arms are being sold to Italian Red Terrorist Groups.’

He nodded gravely. ‘I see. May I ask who the confidential source was?’

I was staggered. ‘Humphrey! I just said that it’s confidential.’

He was unashamed. ‘Oh I’m sorry, Minister, I naturally assumed that meant you were going to tell me.’

He waited. I waited too. As I sat there, quietly watching him, I observed that he did not seem to be awfully worried about the information that I had just given him. So I questioned him on this. And indeed, he seemed to find it quite unremarkable.

‘These things happen all the time, Minister. It’s not our problem.’

‘Robbery with violence happens all the time. Doesn’t that worry you?’

‘No Minister. Home Office problem.’

I was almost speechless. He seemed to see himself only as an official, not as a citizen. Of course, that is the hat that he wears when at the office advising me, but there are moral issues involved.

‘We are letting terrorists get hold of murderous weapons,’ I expostulated.

‘We’re not.’

I was confused. ‘Well, who is?’

‘Who knows?’ He was at his most bland. ‘The Department of Trade? The Ministry of Defence? The Foreign Office?’

I was getting impatient. This was wilful stupidity, no doubt about it. ‘We, Humphrey. The British Government. Innocent lives are being endangered by British weapons in the hands of terrorists.’

‘Only Italian lives, not British lives.’

‘There may be British tourists in Italy,’ I replied, letting the wider issue go temporarily by default. (The wider issue being that no man is an island.)[55]

‘British tourists? Foreign Office problem.’

I was wearying of this juvenile buck-passing. ‘Look, Humphrey,’ I said, ‘we have to do something.’

‘With respect, Minister…’ the gloves were coming off now, ‘… we have to do nothing.’

It seemed to me that he was somehow suggesting that doing nothing was an active rather than a passive course. So I asked him to elaborate.

He was perfectly willing to do so. ‘The sale of arms abroad is one of those areas of government which we do not examine too closely.’

I couldn’t accept that. I told him that I have to examine this area, now that I know.

He said that I could say that I didn’t know.

I wanted to be quite clear what he was saying that I should be saying. ‘Are you suggesting that I should lie?’

‘Not you, no,’ came the enigmatic response.

‘Who should lie, then?’ I asked.

‘Sleeping dogs, Minister.’

We were getting no further. Trying to have an argument with Humphrey can be like trying to squash a bowlful of porridge with your fist. I told him that I intended to raise the question and take the matter further as I was not satisfied with such reassurances as Sir Humphrey had been able to give me.

Now he looked upset. Not about bombs or terrorists or innocent lives, but about taking the matter further. ‘Please Minister, I beg of you!’

I waited for him to explain further. Perhaps I would now learn something. And I did. But not what I expected.

‘Minister, two basic rules of government: Never look into anything you don’t have to. And never set up an enquiry unless you know in advance what its findings will be.’

He was still obsessed with rules of government, in the face of a moral issue of these proportions. ‘Humphrey, I can’t believe it. We’re talking about good and evil.’

‘Ah. Church of England problem.’

I was not amused. ‘No Humphrey, our problem. We are discussing right and wrong.’

‘You may be, Minister,’ he replied smoothly, ‘but I’m not. It would be a serious misuse of government time.’

I thought at first that he was joking. But he wasn’t! He was serious, absolutely serious.

‘Can’t you see,’ I begged emotionally, ‘that selling arms to terrorists is wrong? Can’t you see that?’

He couldn’t. ‘Either you sell arms or you don’t,’ was his cold, rational reply. ‘If you sell them, they will inevitably end up with people who have the cash to buy them.’

I could see the strength of that argument. But terrorists had to be prevented, somehow, from getting hold of them.

Humphrey seemed to find this a ridiculous and/or an impractical approach. He smiled patronisingly. ‘I suppose we could put a sort of government health warning on all the rifle butts. NOT TO BE SOLD TO TERRORISTS. Do you think that would help?’ I was speechless. ‘Or better still, WARNING: THIS GUN CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH.’

I didn’t laugh. I told him that it was rather shocking, in my view, that he could make light of such a matter. I demanded a straight answer. I asked him if he was saying that we should close our eyes to something that’s as morally wrong as this business.

He sighed. Then he replied, with slight irritation. ‘If you insist on making me discuss moral issues, perhaps I should point out that something is either morally wrong or it is not. It can’t be slightly morally wrong.’

I told him not to quibble.

He quibbled again. ‘Minister, Government isn’t about morality.’

‘Really? Then what is it about?’

‘It’s about stability. Keeping things going, preventing anarchy, stopping society falling to bits. Still being here tomorrow.’

‘But what for?’ I asked.

I had stumped him. He didn’t understand my question. So I spelt it out for him.

‘What is the ultimate purpose of Government, if it isn’t for doing good?’

This notion was completely meaningless to him. ‘Government isn’t about good and evil, it’s only about order and chaos.’

I know what he means. I know that all of us in politics have to swallow things we don’t believe in sometimes, vote for things that we think are wrong. I’m a realist, not a boy scout. Otherwise I could never have reached Cabinet level. I’m not naïve. I know that nations just act in their own interest. But… there has to be a sticking point somewhere. Can it really be in order for Italian terrorists to get British-made bomb detonators?

I don’t see how it can be. But, more shocking still, Humphrey just didn’t seem to care. I asked him how that was possible.

Again he had a simple answer. ‘It’s not my job to care. That’s what politicians are for. It’s my job to carry out government policy.’

‘Even if you think it’s wrong?’

‘Almost all government policy is wrong,’ he remarked obligingly, ‘but frightfully well carried out.’

This was all too urbane for my liking. I had an irresistible urge to get to the bottom of this great moral issue, once and for all. This ‘just obeying orders’ mentality can lead to concentration camps. I wanted to nail this argument.

‘Humphrey, have you ever known a civil servant resign on a matter of principle?’

Now, he was shocked. ‘I should think not! What a suggestion!’

How remarkable. This is the only suggestion that I had made in this conversation that had shocked my Permanent Secretary. I sat back in my chair and contemplated him. He waited, presumably curious to see what other crackpot questions I would be asking.

‘I realise, for the very first time,’ I said slowly, ‘that you are committed purely to means, never to ends.’

‘As far as I am concerned, Minister, and all my colleagues, there is no difference between means and ends.’

‘If you believe that,’ I told him, ‘you will go to Hell.’

There followed a long silence. I thought he was reflecting on the nature of the evil to which he had committed himself. But no! After a while, realising that I was expecting a reply, he observed with mild interest, ‘Minister, I had no idea that you had a theological bent.’

My arguments had clearly left him unaffected. ‘You are a moral vacuum, Humphrey,’ I informed him.

‘If you say so, Minister.’ And he smiled courteously and inclined his head, as if to thank me for a gracious compliment.

Bernard had been in the room for the entire meeting so far, though taking very few minutes, I noticed. Unusually for him, he had not said a word. Now he spoke.

‘It’s time for your lunch appointment, Minister.’

I turned to him. ‘You’re keeping very quiet, Bernard. What would you do about all this?’

‘I’d keep very quiet, Minister.’

The conversation had ground to a halt. I’d thrown every insult at Sir Humphrey that I could think of, and he had taken each one as a compliment. He appears to be completely amoral. Not immoral — he simply doesn’t understand moral concepts. His voice broke in on my thoughts. ‘So may we now drop this matter of arms sales?’

I told him that we may not. I told him that I would be telling the PM about it, in person. And I told Bernard to make the appointment for me, as it is just the sort of thing the PM wants to know about.

Humphrey intervened. ‘I assure you, Minister, it is just the sort of thing the Prime Minister desperately wants not to know about.’

I told him we’d see. And I left for lunch.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[56]

I well remember that I felt fearfully downcast after that fateful meeting. Because I couldn’t help wondering if the Minister was right. I voiced this fear to old Humphrey. ‘Most unlikely,’ he replied. ‘What about?’

I explained that I too was worried about ends versus means. I asked Humphrey if I too would end up as a moral vacuum. His reply surprised me. ‘I hope so,’ he told me. ‘If you work hard enough.’

This made me feel more melancholy than before. At that time, you see, I still believed that if it was our job to carry out government policies we ought to believe in them.

Sir Humphrey shook his head and left the room. Later that day I received a memorandum from him. I have it still.

Memorandum From: The Permanent Secretary To: B.W.

I have been considering your question. Please bear in mind the following points.

I have served eleven governments in the past thirty years. If I had believed in all their policies I would have been:

1) passionately committed to keeping out of the Common Market.

2) passionately committed to going into the Common Market.

3) utterly convinced of the rightness of nationalising steel.

4) utterly convinced of the rightness of denationalising steel.

5) utterly convinced of the rightness of renationalising steel.

6) fervently committed to retaining capital punishment.

7) ardently committed to abolishing capital punishment.

8) a Keynesian.

9) a Friedmanite.

10) a grammar school preserver.

11) a grammar school destroyer.

12) a nationalisation maniac.

13) a privatisation freak.

14) a stark, staring, raving schizophrenic.

H.A.

The following day he sent for me, to check that I was fully seized of his ideas and had taken them on board.

Of course, his argument was irrefutable. I freely admitted it. And yet I was still downcast. Because, as I explained to Appleby, I felt that I needed to believe in something.

He suggested that we should both believe in stopping Hacker from informing the PM.

Of course he was right. Once the PM knew of this business, there would have to be an enquiry. It would be like Watergate, in which, as you know, the investigation of a trivial break-in led to one ghastly revelation after another and finally to the downfall of a President. The Golden Rule is, was, always has been and always will be: Don’t Lift Lids Off Cans of Worms.

‘Everything is connected to everything else,’ Sir Humphrey explained. ‘Who said that?’

I ventured a guess that it might have been the Cabinet Secretary.

‘Nearly right,’ Sir Humphrey encouraged me. ‘Actually, it was Lenin.’

He then set me the task — to stop my Minister from talking to the PM.

At first I couldn’t see how this could be achieved, and was unwise enough to say. This earned me a sharp rebuke.

‘Work it out,’ he snapped. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a high-flyer — or are you really a low-flyer supported by occasional gusts of wind?’

I could see that this was one of those make-or-break moments in one’s career. I went off and had a quiet think, and I asked myself some questions.

Could I stop my Minister from seeing the PM? Clearly not.

Could Sir Humphrey? No.

Could my friends in the Private Office at Number Ten? Or the Cabinet Office? No.

Therefore the approach had to be through the political side. I needed someone close to the PM, someone who was able to frighten Hacker.

Suddenly it was clear. There’s only one figure whose job it is to put the frighteners on MPs — the Chief Whip.

I planned my strategy carefully. Hacker had asked me to phone the diary secretary in the PM’s private office for him, to make an appointment. I worked out that if Sir Humphrey had a word with the Cabinet Secretary, he (the Cabinet Secretary) could have a word with the PM’s diary secretary, then all of them could have a word with the Whip’s office.

The Chief Whip would see the point at once. When Hacker arrived to see the PM the Chief Whip would meet him, and say that the PM was rather busy and had asked him to talk to Hacker instead.

I requested a meeting with Appleby, and told him of my plan. He nodded approvingly. So I lifted up his phone.

‘What are you doing, Bernard?’ he asked.

‘I thought you wanted to talk to the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Humphrey,’ I replied with mock innocence.

He took the phone from me, and made the call. I sat and listened. When it was done Appleby replaced the receiver, sat back in his chair and eyed me speculatively.

‘Tell me, Bernard, do you — as his Private Secretary — feel obliged to tell the Minister of this conversation?’

‘What conversation?’ I replied.

He offered me a sherry, congratulated me, and told me that I would be a moral vacuum yet.

I believe that it was at this moment that my future was assured. From then on I was earmarked as a future head of the Home Civil Service.

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

September 8th

I feel rather guilty and not a little stupid this evening. Also, somewhat concerned for my future. I just hope that Vic Gould [the Chief Whip — Ed.] presents me in a favourable light to the PM next time my name is put forward for anything.

I think that Vic owes me a big favour after today. But he’s a strange fellow and he may not see it that way.

I wasn’t expecting to see him at all. My appointment was with the PM, at the House. When I got to the PM’s office I found Vic Gould waiting there.

Vic is a tall imposing figure, with the white hair of an elder statesman, a face like a vulture and a manner that shifts at lightning speed from charm and soft soap to vulgar abuse. A party man to his fingertips.

He was a bit casual, I thought. He said that the PM was rather busy today and had asked him to see me instead.

I felt slightly insulted. I don’t report to Vic. He may be responsible for party discipline but he’s one of my colleagues, an equal member of this government. Actually, I had no idea that he was so close to the PM. Or maybe he isn’t — maybe it’s just that he persuaded the PM (who didn’t know why I wanted the appointment) that it was a party matter rather than a political one. But what I can’t work out is how did Vic know what I wanted? And how did the PM arrive at the decision that Vic should see me instead? Sometimes I really do feel a little paranoid.

As it turned out perhaps it’s all for the best, if Vic can be believed. But can he? Can anybody?

Anyway, when Vic greeted me I refused to tell him what I’d come about. I couldn’t see that arms sales to Italian terrorists was a matter for the Chief Whip.

He refused to take no for an answer. ‘The PM has asked me to have a preliminary conversation with you, and write a background note. Save time later.’

I couldn’t argue with that. So I told Vic that I’d been given this pretty dramatic information. And I told him the whole story of Italian Red Terrorists being supplied with top-secret bomb detonators made in this country. In a government factory!

‘And you feel you should tell the PM?’

I was astonished by the question. The PM is in charge of security. I could see no choice.

But Vic disagreed. ‘I don’t think it’s something to burden the PM with. Let’s hold it over, shall we?’

I asked if he actually meant to do nothing about it. He nodded, and said yes, that was his recommendation.

I refused to accept this, and insisted that the PM had to be told.

‘If the PM were to be told,’ said Vic carefully, ‘there’d have to be an enquiry.’

That was my point. That was what I wanted.

But it was not what Vic wanted. He explained why. ‘An enquiry might perhaps reveal that all sorts of undesirable and even hostile governments had been supplied with British-made arms.’

This remark shocked me. Not so much on account of its factual content, but because of the assumption that such matters should not be looked into.

‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

‘I said perhaps. Which would — perhaps — be highly embarrassing to some of our Cabinet colleagues. Foreign Secretary, Defence Secretary, Trade Secretary. And to the PM personally.’

I stuck to my guns. ‘Doing what’s right can be embarrassing. But that’s not an argument for not doing it.’

Vic ignored that. ‘You know we already sell arms to places like Syria, Chile and Iran?’

I did know. ‘That’s officially approved,’ I explained, meaning that it was therefore beside the point.

‘Quite,’ agreed Vic. ‘And you’re happy about what they do with them?’

I hesitated. ‘Well, obviously not entirely…’

‘Either you’re in the arms business or you’re not,’ said Vic with relentless logic.

At that point I became emotional. A big mistake. It’s all right to pretend to be emotional, especially in front of the public (or even with the House if it’s the right ploy for the moment), but with one’s colleagues — especially a cold fish like Vic — it cuts no ice at all.

‘If being in the arms business means being among criminals and murderers, then we should get out. It’s immoral.’

Vic lost his temper. He glowered at me with a mixture of anger and contempt. ‘Oh great. Great!’

I felt he really despised me. I could see him wondering how a boy scout like me had ever been allowed into the Cabinet. Or even into politics. ‘And is it moral to put a hundred thousand British workers out of a job? And what about the exports? Two billion pounds a year down the tube for starters. And what about the votes? Where do you think the government places all these weapons contracts?’

‘Marginal constituencies, obviously.’

‘Exactly,’ he said. QED, he implied.

But I still couldn’t quite leave it alone. I tried again. ‘Look Vic, all I’m saying is that now I know this is happening I have to tell the PM.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ I couldn’t understand the question. It seemed self-evident to me.

‘Just because you’ve caught something nasty,’ said Vic, ‘why do you have to wander about breathing over everyone?’

While I was considering my answer — or to be precise, wondering if I really had an answer — he turned the anglepoise lamp on the desk in my direction. He wasn’t exactly shining it in my eyes, but I did have the distinct feeling that I was being given the third degree.

And his next question did nothing to dilute the impression that I was under interrogation on account of suspect loyalty.

‘Are you happy in the Cabinet?’

‘Yes, of course I am.

‘You want to stay in it?’

My heart sank into my boots. I couldn’t speak. My loyalty was now in doubt. Oh my God! I nodded mutely.

‘Well then?’ He waited for me to say something.

I was sweating. And no longer thinking clearly enough. This was not the meeting that I had expected. I had expected to be on the attack. Instead I found myself fighting a desperate defensive. Suddenly my whole political future seemed to be on the line.

And I still stuck to my guns. I’m not quite sure why. I think I was confused, that’s all.

‘There is such a thing as duty,’ I heard myself say rather pompously. ‘There are times when you have to do what your conscience tells you.’

Vic lost his temper again. I could see why. Telling a Chief Whip that you have to follow your conscience really is like waving a red rag at a bull.

And this time it wasn’t a quiet irritable loss of temper. It was the Big Shout, for which he is famous throughout the Palace of Westminster. He leapt to his feet. ‘Oh for God’s sake!’ he yelled, obviously at the end of his tether.

His face came close to mine. Almost nose to nose. His angry bulging eyes were so near that they were slightly out of focus. He was utterly contemptuous of me now.

‘Must you go around flashing your petty private little individual conscience? Do you think no one else has got one? Haven’t you got a conscience about the survival of the government?’

‘Of course I have,’ I muttered, when the storm seemed to have abated temporarily.

He walked away, satisfied that at least I’d given one correct answer. ‘Here’s the PM on the verge of signing an international agreement on anti-terrorism…’

I interrupted, in self-defence. ‘I didn’t know about that,’ I explained.

‘There’s a lot you don’t know,’ snapped Vic contemptuously.

[It is not surprising that Hacker did not know about a new international anti-terrorist agreement. So far as we have been able to find out, there was none. Vic Gould presumably invented this on the spur of the moment — Ed.]

He came and sat beside me again. He tried to be patient. Or rather, he looked as though he was trying to be patient. ‘Can’t you understand that it’s essential to deal with the major policy aspects, rather than pick off a couple of little arms exporters and terrorist groups?’

I hadn’t seen it like that. Furthermore, I realised that I’d better see it like that, and quickly, or else Vic would go on shouting at me all day. ‘I suppose it is only a couple of little terrorist groups,’ I said weakly.

‘They can’t kill that many people, can they?’

‘I suppose not,’ I agreed, with a little smile to show that I realised that perhaps I’d been a bit naïve.

But Vic had still not finished with the insults. He sneered at me again. ‘And you want to blow it all in a fit of moral self-indulgence.’

Clearly moral self-indulgence was the most disgusting thing Vic had ever come across. I felt very small.

He sat back in his chair, sighed, then grinned at me and offered me a cigarette. And dropped the bombshell.

‘After all,’ he smiled, ‘the PM is thinking of you as the next Foreign Secretary.’

I was astounded. Of course it’s what I’ve always wanted, if Martin’s ever kicked upstairs. But I didn’t know the PM knew.

I declined his offer of a cigarette. He lit up, and relaxed. ‘Still, if it’s martydom you’re after,’ he shrugged, ‘go ahead and press for an enquiry. Feel free to jeopardise everything we’ve all fought for and worked for together all these years.’

I hastily explained that that wasn’t what I wanted at all, that of course it is appalling if terrorists are getting British bomb detonators, but there’s no question that (as Vic had so eloquently explained it) one has a loyalty, the common purpose, and things must be put in perspective.

He nodded. ‘Of course,’ he said, making a concession to my original point of view, ‘if you were at the Ministry of Defence or the Board of Trade…’

I interrupted. ‘Exactly. Absolutely. Ministry of Defence problem. Department of Trade problem. I see that now.’ It’s just what Humphrey had been trying to say to me, in fact.

We fell silent, both waiting, sure that the problem was now resolved. Finally Vic asked if we could hold it over for the time being, so that we could avoid upsetting and embarrassing the PM.

I agreed that we could. ‘In fact,’ I admitted, rather ashamed of my naïvety, ‘I’m sorry I mentioned it.’

‘Good man,’ said Vic paternally. I don’t think he was being ironic, but you can never tell with Vic.

September 10th

Annie had spent the latter part of the week in the constituency, so I wasn’t able to get her advice on my meeting with Vic until this weekend.

Not that I really needed advice. By today it was quite clear to me what I had to do. I explained to Annie over a nightcap of Scotch and water.

‘On balance I thought the right thing was to let sleeping dogs lie. In the wider interest. As a loyal member of the government. Nothing to be gained by opening a whole can of worms.’

She argued, of course. ‘But the Major said they were terrorists.’

I couldn’t blame her for taking such a naïve approach. After all, even I had made the same mistake till I’d thought it all through properly.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But we bombed Dresden. Everyone’s a terrorist in a way, aren’t they?’

‘No,’ she said firmly, and gave me a look which defied me to disagree with her.

I had overstated it a bit. ‘No, well, but metaphorically they are,’ I added. ‘You ought to meet the Chief Whip, he certainly is.’

Annie pursued me. She didn’t understand the wider interest, the more sophisticated level on which decisions like this have to be reached. ‘But someone in Britain is giving bombs to murderers,’ she reiterated.

‘Not giving,’ I corrected her. ‘Selling.’

‘That makes it okay, does it?’

I told her to be serious, and to think it through. I explained that an investigation could uncover all sorts of goings-on.

She wasn’t impressed with this argument.

‘Ah, I see,’ she smiled sadly. ‘It’s all right to investigate if you might catch one criminal, but not if you might catch lots of them.’

‘Not if they’re your Cabinet colleagues, that’s right!’ She’d got the point now. But she sighed and shook her head. Clearly, she had not yet taken my new line on board. So I persisted. I really wanted her to understand. And to agree.

‘Annie, Government is a very complex business. There are conflicting considerations.’

‘Like whether you do the right thing or the wrong thing?’

I was infuriated. I asked her what else she suggested that I could do. She told me to take a moral stand. I told her I’d already tried that. She told me I hadn’t tried hard enough. I asked what else I could do. She told me to threaten resignation. I told her that they’d accept it.

And once out of office there’s no going back. No one ever resigned on a matter of principle, except a few people with a death wish. Most resignations that are said to be based on principle are in reality based on hard-nosed political calculations.

‘Resignation might be a sop to my conscience and to yours,’ I explained, ‘but it won’t stop the arms supply to the terrorists.’

‘It might,’ she retorted, ‘if you threaten to tell what you know.’

I considered that for a moment. But, in fact, what do I know? I don’t know anything. At least, nothing I can prove. I’ve no hard facts at all. I know that the story is true simply because no one has denied it — but that’s not proof. I explained all this to Annie, adding that therefore I was in somewhat of a fix.

She saw the point. Then she handed me a letter. ‘I don’t think you realise just how big a fix you’re in. This arrived today. From Major Saunders.’

This letter is a catastrophe. Major Saunders can prove to the world that he told me about this scandal, and that I did nothing. And it is a photocopy — he definitely has the original.

And it arrived Recorded Delivery. So I can’t say I didn’t get it.

I’m trapped. Unless Humphrey or Bernard can think of a way out.

September 12th

Bernard thought of a way out, thank God!

At our meeting first thing on Monday morning he suggested the Rhodesia Solution.

Humphrey was thrilled. ‘Well done Bernard! You excel yourself. Of course, the Rhodesia Solution. Just the job, Minister.’

I didn’t know what they were talking about at first. So Sir Humphrey reminded me of the Rhodesia oil sanctions row. ‘What happened was that a member of the government had been told about the way in which British companies were sanction-busting.’

‘So what did he do?’ I asked anxiously.

‘He told the Prime Minister,’ said Bernard with a sly grin.

‘And what did the Prime Minister do?’ I wanted to know.

‘Ah,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘The Minister in question told the Prime Minister in such a way that the Prime Minister didn’t hear him.’

I couldn’t think what he and Bernard could possibly mean. Was I supposed to mumble at the PM in the Division Lobby, or something?

They could see my confusion.

‘You write a note,’ said Humphrey.

‘In very faint pencil, or what? Do be practical, Humphrey.’

‘It’s awfully obvious, Minister. You write a note that is susceptible to misinterpretation.’

I began to see. Light was faintly visible at the end of the tunnel. But what sort of note?

‘I don’t quite see how,’ I said. ‘It’s a bit difficult, isn’t it? “Dear Prime Minister, I have found that top-secret British bomb detonators are getting into the hands of Italian terrorists!” How do you misinterpret that?’

‘You can’t,’ said Humphrey, ‘so don’t write that. You use a more… circumspect style.’ He chose the word carefully. ‘You must avoid any mention of bombs and terrorists and all that sort of thing.’

I saw that, of course, but I didn’t quite see how to write such an opaque letter. But it was no trouble to Humphrey. He delivered a draft of the letter to my red box for me tonight. Brilliant.

[We have managed to find the letter, in the Cabinet Office files from Number Ten, subsequently released under the Thirty-Year Rule — Ed.]

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

The letter is masterly because not only does it draw attention to the matter in a way which is unlikely to be remarked, but it also suggests that someone else should do something about it, and ends with a sentence implying that even if they do, they won’t get anywhere. So if at any future date there is an enquiry I’ll be in the clear, and yet everyone will be able to understand that a busy PM might not have grasped the implications of such a letter. I signed it at once.

September 13th

I congratulated Humphrey this morning on his letter, and told him it was very unclear. He was delighted.

He had further plans all worked out. We will not send the letter for a little while. We’ll arrange for it to arrive at Number Ten on the day that the PM is leaving for an overseas summit. This will mean that there will be further doubt about whether the letter was read by the PM or by the acting PM, neither of whom will remember of course.

This is the finishing touch, and will certainly ensure that the whole thing is written off as a breakdown in communications. So everyone will be in the clear, and everyone can get on with their business.

Including the red terrorists.

And I’m afraid I’m a little drunk tonight, or I wouldn’t have just dictated that deeply depressing sentence.

But it’s true. And I’ve been formulating some theories about government. Real practical theories, not the theoretical rubbish they teach in Universities.

In government you must always try to do the right thing. But whatever you do, you must never let anyone catch you trying to do it. Because doing right’s wrong, right?

Government is about principle. And the principle is: don’t rock the boat. Because if you do rock the boat all the little consciences fall out. And we’ve all got to hang together. Because if we don’t we’ll all be hanged separately. And I’m hanged if I’ll be hanged.

Why should I be? Politics is about helping others. Even if it means helping terrorists. Well, terrorists are others, aren’t they? I mean, they’re not us, are they?

So you’ve got to follow your conscience. But you’ve also got to know where you’re going. So you can’t follow your conscience because it may not be going the same way that you are.

Aye, there’s the rub.

I’ve just played back today’s diary entry on my cassette recorder. And I realise that I am a moral vacuum too.

September 14th

Woke up feeling awful. I don’t know whether it was from alcoholic or emotional causes. But certainly my head was aching and I felt tired, sick, and depressed.

But Annie was wonderful. Not only did she make me some black coffee, she said all the right things.

I was feeling that I was no different from Humphrey and all that lot in Whitehall. She wouldn’t have that at all.

‘He’s lost his sense of right and wrong,’ she said firmly. ‘You’ve still got yours.’

‘Have I?’ I groaned.

‘Yes. It’s just that you don’t use it much. You’re a sort of whisky priest. You do at least know when you’ve done the wrong thing.’

She’s right. I am a sort of whisky priest. I may be immoral but I’m not amoral. And a whisky priest — with that certain air of raffishness of Graham Greene, of Trevor Howard, that je ne sais quoi — is not such a bad thing to be.

Is it?