The Crocus List

5

The advance party from the White House had landed on the embassy car pool like footsore locusts. Looking at the mass of dark Granadaswith their Dand X plates jamming St James's Palace courtyard, George Harbinger had commented to Ferrebee that if the ambassador himself was going anywhere today, he must be jogging there. Anticipating the crush, George himself had walked over from Defence, certainly not jogged. Like murder ("And I imagine it must bevery like murder") he believed that jogging needed means, motive and opportunity, and whenever opportunity offered, his well-rounded figure gave him an insurmountable lack of means and motive.

"Though if it wasn't for the exercise," he went on, "I can't see why on earth they wanted me over here. Didn't understand a word of it."

"You added tone, George," Ferrebee assured him.

"Hmm. Well, at least we've established the President's spending an hour with the kitchen Cabinet. Don't know how much damage you can undo in that time, but… When's the ODmeeting now?"

"Not my field, George. But I understand it's to be late Friday, after the President leaves. Papers in by first thing Wednesday."

"Why the rush?" George grumbled. "I'm the last person to invite the public into the business of governing itself, but in this case…"

"Perhaps somebody Up There wants to appear to be crisp and decisive in world affairs. D'you mind if we change the subject?"

"Putting a Little Englander inas Foreign Sec-"

"George." It was a breach of protocol to criticise another civil servant's minister quite so bluntly.

"Sorry." George stared gloomily across the cars squirming free of the pack in brief clouds of steam from their cold exhaust pipes; on the bright October morning he was already resolutely sunk in a November mood. "You managed to sound very knowledgeable about helicopters in there."

"Lucky I was, with a Presidential visit." Ferrebee was a big, loose-jointed man, with the handsomeness of art ageing cowboy film star savaged by the fire-scars on one side of his face that had ended his Naval career. "If the chopper hadn't existed, the White House would have had to invent it. I must away. "

The pack had almost dispersed, leaving the lone Foreign Office Rover in the early comer and Ferrebee's bagman already holding the door open. He walked across the courtyard that became a lone prairie (or the deck of an aircraft carrier?) under his feet, pausing to light a cigarette halfway. George turned slowly to see why he had the impression that somebody was waiting in the shadowed doorway behind him.

The tall American pounced, grabbing his hand and forearm in a politically experienced handshake. "George! How're you doing? You look great-and I mean that dimensionally. " He tapped George's waistcoat and laughed freely.

"Well, Clay. I thought in there that you'd forgotten your old classmates. "

"In there? I was just trying to stay awake and look like I understood what those Secret Service guys were going on about. I only^ot off the plane three hours back." The conference had been dominated by the demands of the White House Protective Detail which would bodyguard the President; George and Clay Culliman had barely acknowledged each other although they had been intermittent friends for twenty years and more. "Look, would you expect me to let on I knew any Limeyspersonally? There's a little thing called job security at the White House, or maybe I mean there isn't."

George's gloom began to melt in memories. They had met during his year at Princeton, when Culliman was a graduate law student, frankly, as frankly as only ambitiousyoung Americans can be, torn between an odyssey in politics and the oak-panelled security of the law. But America had solved that one already, allowing the campaign trail to wind also through oak-panelled territory, although Culliman had found there were more rides offered to loyalists than candidates. Now his wagon had climbed the ultimate hill, albeit only from the inside, which meant there would be no crowd to catch him if he fell. Merely a big Chicago law firm patiently waiting to list an ex-White House aide among its partners.

George had always liked Clay,- and had never tried to disentangle that from the thought that he would one day prove useful. He was content to assume that Culliman felt the same about him, particularly if this was the day.

"Hey, if you're walking back to Defence, may I stroll along?"

"Be my guest." Today might indeed be the day; Culliman, he now noticed, had sent on his briefcase with someone more junior.

"I like London in the fall," Culliman prattled on. "Not so many Americans." When he grinned, his mouth opened mostly upwards, showing big front teeth. "I just don't think of London as a tourist city, though I guess there'll be plenty coming to watch the big parade. Are you going to the service?"

"Me? Not a chance, with the whole touring company of European Royals looking for a free lunch at the Palace. The old boy was related to half of them by his first marriage. Didn't the President know him, in the war?"

"I don't think you could say he knew him, exactly. They were on one of the planning committees together before the D-Day landings. When the President was in the Army Air Forces. Be kind of tacky to make too much of that."

"To say nothing of what it would do to the Chicago vote."

"Right." Culliman grinned again and, as George instinctively turned left in St James's Park, gently steered him straight ahead towards the lake and the long way round. They fell easily into the strolling park gait, not in step because Culliman was six inches the taller. With hisslight academic stoop, short dark hair and long wrists dangling from the oyster-white raincoat, he looked as if he had never left the campus. But the coarsened skin speckled with tiny ruptured veins and the jetlagged wary eyes were from the campaign trail; they must reach Washington very tired men, George thought.

"I guess this must be where you shoot all those spy movies. You know?-when your people have gotten a secret to discuss they put on their black derbies and swing their umbrellas…"

"Very appropriate," George hinted.

But Culliman went on squinting up into the tall plane trees whose leaves were just beginning to crisp in the autumn chill. "You'd think the Soviets would've seen those movies and planted directional mikes in all those trees… but maybe all they'd pick up would be showbiz gossip… Am I right, you handle security at the Department?"

"In broad terms, on the policy side. And intelligence, whenever one can find it. Supposed to be strictly military, but…"

"I'd say this had to be a military affair, I don't know that your Scotland Yard could really handle it… What concerns me is the strategic aspect of the President's visit." Seeing George's blank frown, he added: "Nuclear decapitation."

"Ah. Ah yes." Put that way, it was something that had already crossed George's mind, and desk. The President's decision to accept a routine invitation to the memorial service had taken them all by surprise, and spurred a number of other heads of state suddenly to find a blank space in their diaries. With only a few days to adjust their thinking, the London authorities would now have most of the free world's political leaders (and military, of course, with the old Duke's background; there'd be brass hats twinkling under every seat in the house) gathered in a space where a single missile… Nuclear decapitation was an outlandish idea, but it was there in the lexicon of Dire Contingencies, and for every Contingency there had to be a Plan.

"What sort of thing did you have in mind?" he asked carefully.

"Well now, we're aware of your crisis relocation scheme. We'd be hoping that the potential evacuation of the President could be kind of grafted on to that. But the final decision to, ah, go, would have to rest with our own people, relying on our own assessment of the indications."

"At affairs of this nature the Lists are reshuffled-as far as they can be-to cope with visiting Persons of Special Importance. And the degree of preparedness would naturally be enhanced." George slipped naturally into the jargon that gift-wraps non-commitment. "However, the US position has never been precisely clarified…"

"Sure." Culliman smiled. "I know something about that, too." The American embassy was the biggest in Britain; moreover, there were big Naval and Air Staffs based in or near London. And the USA not only preferred its own view of the 'indications' but also had the helicopters to act on that view: at Woodbridge in Suffolk, just half an hour away at the top speed of an HH- 53C, was the USAP's 67th Aerospace and Rescue Squadron. But the plan for using it in a Playpen situation seemed to change, if not seasonally, then at least with Washington's opinion of its London embassy-which was seasonal enough. By now the Ministry's view was that the embassy could run whatever airlift it liked from the residence in Regent's Park, away from Playpen airspace, while anybody who turned up at Famish could queue for a place.

"How I see it now," Culliman went on smoothly, "is that since we've gotten the go-ahead to land the President's helicopter on the Horse Guards Parade, it's only the distance between there and the Abbey that we have to worry about."

"Less than half a mile."

"Right. So he comes down to the Abbey in the usuallimo. It's there we assume will be the critical time: everybody in one place for just over an hour, the timings all fixed and everyone knowing about them. So it's just that half-mile, less, back to the helicopter if the indications say Go. That's where the President would be grateful for your assistance. "

"Any help I can give-but it's an Army job. I'll have tosell it to the sixth floor somehow. Still, I think they'd be prepared to go a fair distance if there's a chance of your President talking some backbone into the Cabinet over Berlin."

"The President's meeting with the Prime Minister will be only a courtesy call," Culliman said diplomatically.

"Well, if he doesn'tcourteously try to talk some sense into the old fool before the ODCommittee meets on Berlin, then God help us all." George's lack of discretion, even loyalty, was opportunistic but deliberate for all that. He wanted the White House to know that the Ministry of Defence at least was totally opposed to any unilateral talks on Berlin.

"The, ah, ODCommittee?"

"Overseas and Defence. One of those Cabinet committees that aren't even supposed to exist. Theoretically it's part of the Cabinet, the PM chairs it, so it can reach a decision and hand it to the full Cabinet as a fait accompli. "

After a moment, Culliman said thoughtfully: "I guess the President will be aware of this."

"They've held the meeting over until after the service and everybody's gone home," George said, determinedly topping up the President's awareness. "Friday afternoon."

"Is there any, ah, talkof negotiation?" The word fell like a broken icicle in the mild morning. For forty years the Allies had been prepared todiscuss Berlin whenever the Russians felt inclined, but never tonegotiate. To some, but perhaps no longer to enough, the word meant 'sell-out'.

George shrugged. "When do unilateral talks become negotiation? The old fool's got an attack of statesmanship, always worst when it hits late in life, like measles. Sees a statue of himself in Parliament Square, the man who bridged the East-West gulf, the great Peacemaker."

"Were you still at Number 10 when he came in?"

"For about five minutes." George had been a senior Private Secretary to the old Prime Minister, a man of shrewd judgement, as proven by his decision to take George with him from the Ministry of Defence when the top job beckoned. "Then I was hove out into the cold cold night and only the kindly Mo D saved me from a pauper's grave."

For a moment Culliman took that seriously, then a glance at George's style of dress restored the rumour that George was, at least potentially, one of the richest men in the British Civil Service. "So, will you be talking to your people about the, ah, potential evacuation?"

"Will you be using the President's own cars?" They, of course, were being flown in as well, just ahead of the main party.

"That's kind of the key to the business. Those cars are good tough ones, but you can fix a whole lot of Kevlar and armoured glass on a Lincoln and, at the baseline, it's still a Lincoln.1 want to tell you, if I was sitting in the Kremlin and planning to start a new war by dumping a strike on London, I wouldn't want any chance of missing the Big One. No chance at all. I'd have the word out to the hard-assed boys to stop anything that looked like the President getting away. And those boys would be experts, really trained. I don't mean anybody on your Scotland Yard lists. Or ours," he added politely.

"I'm sure they'd be there," George agreed. "So you want us to lay on what? Armoured personnel carriers?"

"That kindofthing. With an armed escort."

George stopped in his tracks and let his view lift from the squabbling wildfowl on the lake to the modest Whitehall skyline and its flagpoles. He had to take this seriously. It had begun once at Sarajevo, another time at Gleiwitz, now a forgotten name on the German-Polish border, and it could begin again here.

"That's as far as our thinking goes at this time," Culliman prompted.

"It's an Army matter, all right. The Met couldn't handle that."

"The, ah, Met?"

"Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard. Well, atthis time my thoughts go as far as pouring myself a modest drink. Care to come up to the office and join me?"

He was pleased to see a flicker of apprehension on Culliman's face.

"Hold on, George, we're not back at the Colonial now, and I'm jetlagged to hell… But if you have a little Scotch…"

"I have a lot of Scotch. And I may need most of it before I lay this in front of the DCR."

The Directorate of Crisis Relocation was staffed in the main-and it was a very small staff- by Retired Officers. This is not rare in posts concerning security and intelligence. You get men with training and experience but no longer distracted by ambition, who can concentrate on one narrow task and do it for far longer than a still-serving officer who might move on after only two years, so above all you get continuity. Of course, you also get occasional bursts of bad temper.

"APCs? He wants us to send a column ofarmour charging up Whitehall in the middle of the service?"

"Only if the indications say Go. It's very unlikely to happen, but then, we hope the whole of CR is unlikely."

"What indications? Have they got hold of something they haven't been telling us?"

"No, I don't think there's anything new at all. They're just covering themselves." George knew his own capacity to the fluid ounce, and had reached the DCR office in a well-planned state of mellow soothingness.

"Won't we be getting the sameindications that they will? If we decide it's time for Playpen, isn't that good enough?" The Deputy Director glowered at George over his gold-rimmed spectacles, some way yet from feeling soothed. He was a retired Major-Generalin an ROÍpost, equivalent to a serving colonel, and he did the real work in the Directorate, issuing orders that began "I am instructed by…"a series of come-and-go Directors. He also had an ulcer.

"You know how they are," George said winningly; "they haul in tons of communications kit wherever the President goes, and if we don't squawk at that we can't really object to them using it for its intended purpose. And I dare say they get their satellite read-outs a little earlier than we do."

The DDCR grunted. "But they're rather forcing our hand. Just suppose the President decides to haul ass-do they still say that? You're more up to date on America than I am. They all seem anally fixated to me, callingaeroplanes 'big-assed birds' and telling you 'Get your ass out of here.' "

"Whereas we'd say politely Fuck Off."

"Hmm… But suppose he does decide to go in the middle of the service? Aren't we forced to do the same? -just to show solidarity, save their face?"

"A matter for the Defence Staff. I don't know if they feel forced by the Americans… and we had foreseen the possibility for ourselves." Indeed, stage one of Playpen -helicopters grounded, London troops on Alert-was planned to come into force twenty-four hours before the service began.

"We obviously can't stop them," the DDCR brooded, making invisible doodles with the blunt end of his pen; "it's the whole businessof helping them…"

"I imagine we can manage it more tactfully than having them import a company of Marines." Tact was always a tactful word to invoke. "And laying out the winged carpet seems a small price for what he'll be doing over here. He'll be meeting the inner Cabinet-"

"Like blowing a bugle at a tin of dog food. What else?"

"Doing the Guildhall speech, and the next day he's giving the word to their Air Force people at Lakenheath. He's sure to cover Berlin; it'll get plenty of space. It's all good for the Cause: we do want him to come."

The DDCR looked up sharply. "Did they say that? -that he won't come unless he gets his APCs?"

"Not in so many words… but one can see their point of view. Trying times." He sighed.

"Yes… My God, suppose the Met makes a bog of it and he just gets bumped offby some local loony. What I'd really like to see is our chaps handling the whole security side: some of those policemarksmen, as they call them, don't fire more than thirty rounds a year… All right then, I'll draw up an order for the Director's signature… But when you say it can be just an addendum to Playpen, I don't like shuffling Playforcearound. It's one operation that can only work if everybody sticks rigidly to his task. If we start changing those tasks now…"

"Form a special unit," George said promptly. "The President's group won't be more than seven, just a single vehicle. But better to have three-say, Saracens, you can borrow them off the TA- and no more than thirty men. Only a platoon-"

"George-"

"The obvious people would be the SAS, butit might be even better to get bods just back from Northern Ireland. They're more used to Saracens and street-"

"George!"There was a moment of heavy silence while George wondered if he hadn't over-mellowed himself. The DDCR took off his glasses and squeezed the bridge of his nose; he had a lined yellowish face and moved stiffly in his chair. "George… if you really want to give orders to soldiers why didn't you stay in the Army?"

Long ago in the days of National Service, George had spent two busy but carefree years in a Dragoon Guards regiment before going to Oxford.

"I thought I might be more use on the outside," he said humbly.

"I think so, too. So if you don't mind leaving a few of the mundane details to us… Where I need your help is fending off any flak from the political side. D'you expect any? What about the Foreign Office?"

"We've got a standing remit to lay on an anti-terrorist alert on these sort of affairs, we can wrap it up in amongst that. No, I don't think we should tell the FO, they'd probably prefer not to know. Then they can say it was just us playing favourites when the French President finds out we hadn't laid on a submarine for him. Not that he's going to find out," George added quickly. "Not unless the worst happens and he can always file a complaint with St Peter as he goes in."

"Nice to think there'll be a brown envelope waiting for us on the Far Side; gives one a sense of continuity. " The DDCR leant carefully back in his chair. "Good. I'll leave that to you. But we've still got to find somebody from Playforceto act as OC. Can't leave it all to the platoon commander. Somebody with the full Playforcebriefing, and if we're doing it properly, he should have stay-behind training as well."

"If I might make a suggestion…?"

"George…" A warning growl, then: "Oh bloody hell, go on then."

"Chap who's joined you quite recently but 1 don't think he's got a posting yet. A Major-that would be what you'd want, I imagine. And he's got a fair bit of experience working independently."

"Maxim, I suppose you mean. I wondered when you'd bring him up. Don't you think you've done enough to blight that poor man's career already? I was looking through his 'P' file the other day: the time when he was with you at Number 10 is just aboutblank. He never saw his reporting officer more than once a month and never told him anything then. All the chap could report was that Maxim seemed very security-conscious."

"There's worse things."

"Quite. But there's those, too. Rumours. Goings-on. He's got a reputation for being a bit hasty with a gun…" He grunted. "Funny Army when that tells against a man, but… Having his wife killed didn't help, either."

"You can't blame him for some terrorist bomb."

"Of course not. But if you really want to do something for him, find him some nice sensible girl close to his own age and get him settled down for a bit."

"I'm not marrying Harry off to some deb who's half horse and the arse end at the top."

"You're getting as fixated as the Americans. No, I don't mean anybody particularly County, he's the wrong regiment for that anyway. Just a steady mature girl-"

"Military or Whitehall parents, maybe a little money of her own…"

"Just so. Have you got anybody in mind? That's a good half of the reason he got a London posting again: give him a chance to meet somebody. A Playforcejob isn't an arduous one once you've settled in. And I don't imagine he's the type to go wasting his time jiving in discos or whatever."

"He likes Duke Ellington."

"Who?"

"Sorry. Phase One, then: get Harry married."

"I only mention it because you seem to have so muchtime for other people's affairs. The Army is actually doing its best to advance your friend's career."

"Is he likely to get a battalion?"

The DDCR sighed. He should never have let the conversation go this far. But it was no secret that a major in his mid-to-late thirties was at the cross-roads of his career. The next step, to command of a battalion-and preferably his own, the one he had joined twenty years before-was the biggest in an infantry officer's life. Many would retire fulfilled and die happy with that memory alone; most never made it. They might become lieutenant-colonels a few years later, but only in staff postings. They would never lead a fighting unit again.

Oh well: "You know his background as well as I do. Not having got to Staff College, and those tours in the SAS-all good work, -but he's been away from his battalion too long. They don't know him and he doesn't know them. And you know what I mean about being married. The CO's wife's an absolutely vital person, particularly overseas. All these seventeen-year-old frippets that soldiers marry these days, never been abroad before, trying to bring up babies where they don't know a word of the language… Your Annette would have been first class; you should have stayed in. Might even have stopped you coming to work dressed like a bookie."

George's usual style of dress was a light grey check, expensively tailored but nonetheless Highly Unsuitable for the Mo D, where the order of this and every day was a dark blue pinstripe. Given the defiant individuality of regimental dress-something the old Duke might have done something about if he'd had his way-Army officers never looked more uniform than in plain clothes.

The DDCR gave a little satisfied smile as George instinctively sucked in his stomach. "Very well: he probablyis the best man for the job. I'll get him detached from his course tonight. After Number 10, 1 don't suppose there's much they can be teaching him about dirty tricks."