Agent Lavender

By Tom Black and Jack Tindale

Harold Wilson dominated British politics for almost two decades. His political skill saw him make powerful enemies and bitter rivals, both inside the Labour Party and out. Conspiracy theorists, some in very high places, even circulated rumours that he was an agent of the Soviet Union. In reality, of course, there was not a shred of truth to these malicious claims.

But what if there had been?

In Agent Lavender, Harold Wilson flees Whitehall in the dead of night, with MI5 and the police soon in hot pursuit. Taking place in late 1975 in a Britain weary of trade union disputes and fearful of military coups, the Establishment must move quickly to restore order without appearing heavy-handed. But then again, the Prime Minister has just been outed as a communist spy…

Part-historical epic, part-pulpy thriller, and featuring a cavalcade of 1970s public figures from Enoch Powell and Gerald Ford to Jack Jones and Michael Bentine, Agent Lavender takes readers into a maelstrom of intrigue, civil disobedience, satire, Cold War tensions, and downright farce.

The winner of eight Turtledove Awards including Best Story, Best Cold War Timeline and multiple Best Character awards, this acclaimed alternate history novel blends politics with espionage and adds a sprinkle of the absurd.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sea Lion Press
• Release date: Jul 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386716853

Book preview

Agent Lavender

The Flight of Harold Wilson

Tom Black and Jack Tindale

First published by Sea Lion Press, 2016

Copyright © 2016 Tom Black and Jack Tindale

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 1533389772

ISBN-13: 978-1533389770

The following text is a work of fiction. It derives its characters and some of its events from reality, but as a work of counterfactual history, diverges from them substantially. The authors wish to make clear that they do not believe Harold Wilson, nor any members of the British government, to have been agents of the KGB, and nor do they intend to suggest that the behaviour of any real world figures in this work has been written with anything other than a compelling story in mind.

The main essentials of a successful Prime Minister

are sleep and a sense of history.

Harold Wilson

Events in the prologue are a fictionalisation of a real episode. All events from chapter one onwards are entirely fictional.

Prologue

Wednesday 8th May 1968 – 11:00pm

In almost all moments of great importance in modern British history, someone has been pouring the drinks.

On this occasion, that individual was Sir Solly Zuckerman. It was a task he objected to, quite understandably. For the Chief Scientific Adviser to Her Majesty’s Government to be decanting whisky, the occasion and company would both have to be fairly stellar.

In fairness, they were. Sir Cecil King, the most powerful newspaper baron since Beaverbrook, had brought with him Hugh Cudlipp, a Welshman who had turned King’s Daily Mirror into the best-selling paper in the land. Lord Mountbatten of Burma, in whose drawing room the group were now sat, removed any doubts about the seriousness of the enterprise simply by his presence. Zuckerman handed him his whisky first.

‘Thank you, Sir Solly,’ Mountbatten said, ‘sorry to have imposed like this.’

‘Not at all,’ lied Zuckerman, ‘at this hour we cannot expect our host to wait on us like a servant.’

‘I remain grateful,’ said Mountbatten with a warm smile, before gesturing to Cecil King, who he had interrupted. ‘Please continue.’

‘As I was saying, the Wilson project is getting out of control,’ King said, ‘and those around him are just as bad. The entire government is tainted by his repeated failures on inflation, productivity, and our international position.’

‘Our international position?’

‘Our closest ally is bleeding itself white in the name of democracy in South East Asia, while our Prime Minister is fiddling while Saigon burns.’

Cudlipp, who had until now remained completely still, grimaced. Mountbatten allowed himself a frown.

‘The Vietnam issue is divisive, Sir Cecil, and the British people – whose sons would be doing the fighting – do not appear to share your position,’ he said.

‘I do not dispute that, but it tells us something about Wilson’s priorities.’

Mountbatten was now barely masking his irritation as he took a sip of his whisky. ‘Does it?’

‘He is blinkered. Simultaneously erratic and inactive. Devaluation mortally wounded him, but the man just won’t realise it himself. You must have a view on all this.’

‘I don’t talk about my politics with individuals I do not consider close friends, Sir Cecil. Forgive me.’

‘I take no offence, sir. But, if I may, there is then the worrying question of where Mr Wilson’s loyalties truly lie.’

Mountbatten was certain that if he had dropped a pin, everyone in the room would have heard it. He broke the silence.

‘Please explain what you mean by that.’

‘That there are concerns in Whitehall and around the nation that Mr Wilson is in fact in the pay of a foreign power. There is a degree of–’

Mountbatten held up a hand to interrupt. ‘Nonsense and rumour. Scaremongering. I have heard this before, Sir Cecil.’

King leant forward, his eyes shining with excitement now. ‘But consider it again, in light of all the evidence. Here we have a man who is supremely intelligent, we must accept that. The finest First Class degree in Oxford’s history. A skilled politician who manoeuvred his way into the Labour leadership, and then Downing Street, through an expert understanding of the media. This man, this apparent titan of British politics, then leads a government that appears unable to tie its own shoelaces. What, then, might we conclude?’

‘That government is more difficult than giving a television interview,’ said Mountbatten drily.

‘But when combined with what we know of his travels to Russia, the various friendships he has had throughout his life, his politics, his associations with known communists as a student…’

‘When combined with all that, it remains a mish-mash of circumstantial evidence and conjecture, Sir Cecil. Forgive me, but it is getting quite late.’

King leapt to his feet, and for a moment Mountbatten wondered if he was about to come under attack. ‘You are right. It is. The reason myself and Mr Cudlipp asked to meet you this evening, and invited Mr Zuckerman–’

Mountbatten glanced over at Zuckerman, who declined to point out that he was in fact ‘Sir Solly’.

‘The reason,’ King was saying, ‘was because we believe that a crisis is just around the corner. Blood will soon be shed on the streets of the United Kingdom, and the centre will not hold. A new administration will need to be formed, one made up of apolitical figures. Captains of industry, leaders in science – this, Mr Zuckerman, is where you come in – and proven military officers. Purely temporarily, of course. Lord Mountbatten, it is my belief that you, as a renowned leader of men, would be uniquely well-placed to be the titular head of this administration.’

Zuckerman had managed so far to avoid choking on his whisky. He failed to do so now. As he struggled to regain his composure, King stood powerfully before a thoughtful Mountbatten.

Mountbatten turned to look at Solly. ‘What is your opinion of this?’

‘My opinion?’

‘Your opinion.’

Solly was surprised, and took a moment to reply.

‘Well… it’s just not on, is it? You are talking about machine gun nests on every street corner. In effect, this is treason.’

‘Thank you,’ Mountbatten replied.

‘I would like to leave now, sir.’

‘Of course. Thank you for coming.’

Without another word, Zuckerman rose from his seat and left the room. Mountbatten detected an unpleasant change in the room’s mood. King’s eyes had begun to dart from him, to Cudlipp, to the door, and everywhere in between.

‘Lord Mountbatten,’ he began, but Mountbatten interrupted him.

‘Having given this some thought, I can come to no other conclusion than that which Sir Solly has drawn. I will play no part in this scheme, and would strongly discourage you to abandon any plans you may have to bring it about.’

King fumed. He rose violently from his chair, and gestured aggressively with his finger.

‘You are turning your back on your country, sir.’

Mountbatten, a man who did not take kindly to being pointed at, remained calm.

‘Fuck off, Cecil.’

PART ONE

The Flight of Harold Wilson

Seven years later

Chapter one

Wednesday 29th October 1975 – 1:00am

‘Termination’ was not particularly subtle, as British euphemisms went. As Agent Temple entered the service stairwell of the Hotel Stadt Berlin, he mused that the country responsible for ‘closed for the duration’ and ‘powdering one’s nose’ could have drummed up a less explicit shorthand for cold-blooded murder.

Temple was an old hand, but had always felt there was something a bit sordid about actively killing someone on the other side. Turncoats did not weigh on his conscience. Double agents, or local players duping both sides, they were easily dispatched without a moment’s thought. But ‘terminating’ chaps engaged in the careful waltz of international intrigue just as honestly as the next man? Temple supposed it had to be done, but it didn’t sit well with him.

The target this evening – or by now, this morning – was a KGB figure, so the briefing said. He was, apparently, simply too good at his job to be left alive. Neither side of the Cold War wanted to set a precedent for massacring each other’s best and brightest; but sometimes an agent achieved that unenviable accolade of transcending his job and becoming an ‘asset’. And assets, be they radio transmitters or living, breathing men, sometimes needed to be eliminated.

Temple reached the door. Taking a moment to recall the exact layout of the hotel room, he retrieved the key (it had been left for him under a newspaper in the panorama restaurant, where he had enjoyed a light supper three hours ago) and placed it in the lock. The sounds coming from the other side of the door suggested Temple would be entering in a moment of some intimacy. From experience, Temple knew that would either simplify or complicate matters.

It always happened very quickly. This time was no exception. As expected, a woman’s scream was heard first, and the bitch actually put herself between Temple and the target. This was another scenario which did not trouble Agent Temple.

Two shots to the torso felled the woman, by which time the target had cleared the bed and got halfway across the room. Temple fired twice more, the gun bucking in his hand.

And that was that. Another job done, and no further instructions. Just turn around, take the stairs, tip the doorman and hail a cab. Textbook, just like the rest of the operation. Temple turned and stepped towards the door, but something stopped him.

The target had not tried to defend himself. Even in the brief window of opportunity that his late mistress had granted him, he had not chosen to launch himself at Temple, nor make his way to the window. Instead, he had lunged for his own attaché case, opened it up, and headed not for safety, but for the fireplace. His naked body lay still now, glowing a light orange thanks to the flames. Temple knew his orders were to get in and get out. But the attaché case was there, and the fellow’s first thought had placed its destruction ahead of saving his own life. What was the harm in picking it up?

It wasn’t particularly heavy. But Temple had a feeling that whatever it was, it was important.

‘We must stop meeting like this.’

Sir Michael Hanley and Sir Maurice Oldfield met often enough for Sir Michael to have become thoroughly tired of that joke. It was almost enough to make him miss the days when MI5 and MI6 barely spoke to one another at all and operated simply in a spirit of mutual contempt. As Big Ben distantly struck seven, Sir Michael, the Director-General of MI5, stirred his tea and tapped his spoon against the side of the cup. Sir Maurice, the Chief of MI6, sat down.

‘Good morning, Maurice. To what do I owe the pleasure?’

‘I’ll skip to business, if you don’t mind. Rather a long one today.’

Sir Michael sipped his tea. ‘Of course.’

‘It’s about something one of my people in East Berlin picked up. It could be nothing.’

‘I doubt you would have wanted to meet before breakfast if it were nothing.’

Sir Maurice reached into his briefcase. ‘You can judge for yourself. I have it here.’

‘What is it?’

‘It seems to be a summary of Soviet ‘agents of influence’ in the West, in the aftermath of Guillaume’s exposure in Germany. Part of what makes it so interesting is that it’s in the Soviets’ most complex cipher, which of course makes it much harder to glean exactly what’s going on, but…’ Sir Maurice trailed off.

‘Well?’ said Sir Michael, sipping his tea.

‘One thing that our boys very swiftly picked up on was a lot of information coming from… well.’

‘Coming from where?’

‘From us.’

Sir Michael’s eyes narrowed. ‘We both know there’s still the odd mole here and there, Maurice. In Five and in Six. If you’ve got something about one of ours…’

‘I would share it with you so it could be dealt with internally. I know you would do me the same courtesy. But that’s not why I’m here.’

‘Then why are you here?’

There was a long silence before Sir Maurice spoke again. He seemed to be considering how best to phrase whatever he was going to say.

‘I fear the inescapable conclusion from this document – unless it’s a ruse, which we can’t rule out – is someone outside the Services themselves.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘The positioning of this agent. According to this document – again, if we’re deciphering it correctly – he’s on a level higher than anyone else. Higher than Guillaume, and he was an aide to the West German Chancellor, for God’s sake!’

‘What are you saying?’

Sir Maurice leant forward and spoke as slowly and as clearly as possible.

‘I’m asking if you still have that file on Norman John Worthington.’

Sir Michael turned white.

Thirty hours later, the senior staff of the Security Service, along with one middle-ranking officer, were assembled in the Director-General’s office. In a break with protocol, the middle-ranking officer was dominating the conversation.

‘I have been saying this for years,’ Peter Wright was saying fiercely, ‘and none of you listened. Not one.’

‘We should not get ahead of ourselves,’ Sir Michael said, raising a hand, ‘the Worthington file is not, frankly, good intelligence. It is full of speculation and, as far as I can tell, no small number of paranoid ramblings. Yesterday’s findings in Berlin may well suggest some of the allegations are correct, but at present we have no reason to believe that this is any more than coincidence. Worthington—’

‘Wilson.’

There was an icy silence. Until Wright’s flat interjection, nobody, not even the Director-General, had yet said Worthington’s real name out loud. Now, it was as if a seal had been broken.

‘Yes,’ Sir Michael said slowly, ‘but the question is how to proceed, from an operational standpoint.’

‘The obvious answer is to send that bobby outside Number 10 upstairs, get the cuffs on the bastard and let us take it from there.’

‘Peter, we cannot arrest him. Not without more evidence. If you are wrong, it would destroy the Service.’

‘If I am right, he will destroy the country.’

‘Pithy. But my point stands.’

Wright scowled and paced. ‘Isn’t this what the civil service are for? Couldn’t the men in grey suits sit him down in a room and explain the game is up?’

‘And what would that prove? If he’s innocent, he will protest and demand a purge of the Service. If he is guilty, he will protest even louder and we will be unable to tell the difference.’

The tall, gaunt head of interrogations gave a polite cough. Sir Michael shot him a look.

‘Whatever you are picturing in your mind, Hopkins, cease at once.’

Hopkins dutifully cast his eyes to the floor.

‘There is another way,’ Wright said.

‘And what is that?’

‘Smoke him out.’

‘You have a way with words, Peter, but you are trying my patience. What do we actually do?’

‘I am glad you asked.’

Peter Wright reached into his shoulderbag and retrieved a folder marked ‘Plan B’.

Four hundred miles away, and fifteen hours later, a Viennese barman jogged into the street, waving a briefcase.

‘Mein herr!’ he shouted after the Englishman who had left in a hurry, ‘you forgot your–’

‘I will take it to him,’ said a tall man in a dark coat. His accent was not English. Before the barman could object, the man’s firm grip had taken the case from him, and the Englishman, his case, and its new owner were gone as quickly as they had appeared. The barman could have sworn the second man went in the opposite direction to the first.

Within ninety minutes, a man in shirtsleeves was shouting orders into a telephone. He was stood in the basement of a building in Vienna that purported to be a wholesalers for haberdashery, though nobody had successfully carried out a transaction there in recent memory. It was, of course, the headquarters of the Austrian station of the KGB, and unbeknownst to either side of the Cold War, was located only five hundred yards away from the Viennese home of the French DSGE. At this moment, it was early afternoon, and the head of the station was sweating. The man in the dark coat was stood at his side, as well as a wiry man in glasses and a knitted pullover.

‘Are you sure of what it says?’ barked the shirtsleeved man, known to everyone in the building only as K. He was covering the receiver now.

‘I am as sure as can be,’ said his chief codebreaker, the man in the pullover, ‘they are about to expose a high ranking agent operating in England.’

K frowned and listened to see if he had been connected to Moscow yet. He had not. The man in the dark coat, Pyotr, spoke up.

‘It is irregular for an English agent to simply leave papers behind in a café. We cannot be sure it is not a trick.’

K hushed Pyotr with some urgency. Moscow was on the line. Stating the required code-phrases to be connected directly to Lubyanka, he gripped the received tightly as he began to speak as calmly and as clearly as he could.

Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov had his hands clasped together, and his face in a pondering expression. Like most things the head of the KGB did, it was at least partly an act, but he was very definitely deep in thought.

‘And you are certain?’ he asked.

‘As certain as it is possible to be.’

All the same, the chain-smoking undersecretary could not look more nervous. Andropov mused for a few moments.

‘These files. How did they come into the possession of Vienna station?’

‘They were acquired by a field agent tailing a known British operative.’

‘How known?’

The undersecretary rifled through his notes. ‘He… he was first identified four months ago.’

‘There is little doubt, then. Or if there is, the risk if we are wrong is still too great.’

‘How should we proceed?’

Behind his glasses, the eyes of the Commissar for State Security hardened.

‘Get him out. Now.’

As aides rushed from the room, wheels began to turn.

‘The damn thing is still on the blink!’

Joe Haines, Press Secretary to the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, bashed the top of the television with a snarl. Already midnight, it was still a matter of confusion to him why the Prime Minister had suddenly decided to take an interest in an urgent statement from the Soviet Foreign Minister to the United Nations. Harold Wilson, a man whose views of international affairs were as parochial for all that they were Hobbesian, had blundered up from dinner half an hour ago and demanded that a television be brought into his office. Since then, both Haines and Marcia had been trying to find clear signal within the rambling Georgian terrace as their paymaster paced backwards and forwards in front of the window.

It had been an unusual day for the Downing Street Private Office. Wilson, never a man prone to distraction, had been off-keel for most of the afternoon. He had barely spoken at Cabinet, seemingly content for Healey and Foot to vent their spleens at one another, leaving Callaghan as an unwilling mediator. Most of the meeting had seen the Prime Minister slumped unhappily in his chair, puffing away on the ubiquitous pipe, while he heard that sterling had fallen another quarter per-cent against the Deutschmark. Wilson had only stirred only twice during the entire two-hour discussion, once to talk against Benn’s latest demands to deal with the crisis at Leyland, the other to give Mason some vague praise over Northern Ireland.

Outside immediate family, Haines and Marcia were the people who probably knew Harold Wilson’s mannerisms the best, yet a murmured conversation between the two had left both nonplussed as to what had sapped his energy so much over the past two weeks. It was clear to both of them that the Prime Minister had already made a decision to stand down prior to the next election. A tasteful moment to exit was required, but the Silver Jubilee was still almost two years away, and neither of them were confident that he could make even to Christmas.

‘Got it!’

With the Baroness Falkender almost leaning out into the freezing November air, the signal finally cleared. Wilson’s reaction was immediate, rushing to an armchair and almost collapsing into it. As far as Haines could make out, he was devoting almost an obscene amount of attention to Gromyko’s speech. Why? It wasn’t as though there were a shortage of matters requiring his attention. The Bank of England had released yet another warning of the financial situation and with the Department of Employment’s latest warnings regarding the newest setback for the Social Contract, all seemed to point towards fiscal disaster. Meanwhile, the furore over the IRA hit on Hugh Fraser, which had spectacularly failed to kill the MP for Stafford and Stone whilst blowing his neighbour, one of the world’s leading cancer specialists, to smithereens, had contributed to a sense of the entire capital being under siege. As the weak light of the reading lamp illuminated Wilson’s yellowing skin and drooping jowls, both staffers shared a glance that was tinged with emotion. Being Prime Minister at a time of national crisis such as this would break any man, and while Harold had led Labour from the front since Hugh’s death, it was clear that he was fading away.

‘…demand clarification from both President Ford and acting-Head of State Carlos to ensure that the democratic will of the Spanish people will be fully recognised…’

Haines sometimes wondered if there was a sweepstakes at the UN to see who could provide the most mismatched translator. Andrei Gromyko, the second or third most important man in the Kremlin, appeared to be miming to a high-pitched woman’s Maritime Canadian accent. Wilson was now leaning forwards, his jaundiced nose almost touching the screen. The acrid tobacco smoke was obscuring Haines’ vision, but it was clear that the Prime Minister was less interested in the rhetoric than in the picture. Despite everything, Wilson’s eyes had not lost any of their characteristic sparkle as they focused intently on the figure on the podium below the watchful eyes of the UN Secretary General. Generalissimo Franco was still dead, but Harold Wilson, it appeared, was very much still alive.

Marcia and Haines shared another slightly concerned glance as Gromyko continued to pontificate about the situation in Madrid. The Baroness Falkender looked again at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece that had belonged to one of the Pitts as it chimed the quarter-hour. Whilst Wilson’s attention to matters in the Mediterranean was certainly a welcome change, the stock market seemed to represent a more pressing concern than package holidays to Torremolinos. She sighed again, clearly hoping that the Belarusian would just get on to whatever the Prime Minister was waiting for so she could get an early night. As Haines moved to sit down, Wilson suddenly spoke, not taking his eyes off the screen.

‘Marcia, what colour would you say that Mr Gromyko’s napkin is?’

Squirming slightly at Wilson’s terminal insistence on refraining from any vaguely aristocratic term, Williams squinted at the screen.

‘I can’t really tell from this distance, it looks like… lilac.’

It was indeed a strange flash of colour to see on the Politburo member’s otherwise utilitarian suit. The Private Secretary was not an expert on Russian tailoring, but the rather garish pocket-square sat rather tastelessly against the grey lapels and white shirt in such a way that seemed as if it was out to deliberately clash with the monochrome outfit.

‘Could quite well be for a national festival or something? I suppose that could be why he’s now waving it about like that.’

Wilson stared at the television for a few moments more, then swallowed hard. Putting the pipe to one side, he stood up and headed back towards the desk and started gathering some papers. He appeared to have made a decision of some kind.

He looked up at them both and spoke politely. ‘Could you get my overnight bag from the apartment, Marcia? Also, Joe, get the car ready.’

Both staffers jumped at the sudden change in tone and again shared a concerned glance at each other. Leaving Downing Street in the dead of night was not unheard of; but most late meetings, for obvious reasons, tended to involve others coming to Wilson. Haines made to ask a question, but quickly changed his mind when Marcia sharply narrowed her eyes. Joe opened the door for the two of them to leave the office; they walked nonplussed down the corridor, each mulling over the events of the past half-hour. Neither spoke.

Harold Wilson smiled humourlessly to himself as his Press and Personal Secretaries left the room. He surveyed his Kingdom for the last time, taking care to note the damp creeping up around the skirting board and the mousetrap left over in the corner.

Was this it? The ‘urgent briefing’ carried out by Gromyko himself matched the pre-agreed signal. The colour of the pocket-square was unarguable. There was some ‘certainty measure’ that meant he could listen to the dawn Radio Moscow bulletin and see if there was a specific reference to tractor production or something, but he couldn’t quite remember it now and besides, how often did the Soviet foreign minister give an unscheduled speech to the UN while waving a garish lavender hankie around? Yes, there was no getting away from it.

In spite of the rot, both literal and otherwise, he’d miss Downing Street. He’d miss Mary and the children, too, but there was always a possibility of them joining him if they wanted to. What mattered now was moving quickly and in a manner that did not arouse suspicion. A car to the coast, a rendezvous at the agreed co-ordinates, and onwards to… somewhere. All would become clear soon enough, he supposed as he toasted a bust of David Lloyd George with his final whisky of the day.

Minutes later, Marcia Williams found the Prime Minister waiting in the downstairs service corridor. Handing him his bag, she nodded as he repeated his gratitude.

‘Joe says the car is ready and waiting. Will you be wanting any further luggage packed?’

‘No, I’m travelling light.’

‘Right.’

The Prime Minister shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet, as he only ever seemed to do in private. ‘Well, goodbye.’

‘Yes! Sorry. I’ll let you get on,’ Williams said, ‘incidentally, I’m sure you’ve told the drivers and everyone, but where are you off to?’

‘I’m just going to the East, Marcia.’

‘Norfolk?’

‘Something like that.’

And then he was gone.

Chapter two

Saturday 1st November 1975 – 2:00am

Harold Wilson looked over at Nicholas Hampton, the man who two hours previously had been standing outside Number 10. In the back of the P5, it was difficult not to make eye contact with the man on occasion. Glancing forward again, Harold looked over the shoulder of Reg, the driver unlucky enough to have been on duty when the Prime Minister had decided he fancied a late night jaunt to Norwich. Harold had frowned when the car pulled up. Reg couldn’t be more than twenty-five years old. He was sure he could see a whitehead starting to emerge just above the man’s collar.

Turning to look out of the window, he cast his eyes not on the few cars still on the road at this time but on the street lights whisking by above them. They couldn’t be far now. There’d been a bit of a hoo-ha when he’d insisted he didn’t need a police escort, and he came within striking distance of talking Hampton out of coming with him, but the idea of sending the PM out in the middle of the night without any sort of bodyguard was simply not going to fly. Harold chewed the inside of his cheek fiercely, and his hands instinctively reached for his pipe and tobacco.

As the key components were successfully extracted from his pockets, his mind wandered, and he felt his eyes closing as if by themselves…

‘…it’s an excellent paper, just a little too long,’ George Cole said, reclining in his chair.

Hal smiled politely, his eyes flicking over to the scene playing out in the Quad, with the Stalinists having their usual shouting match with the Anarchists. It was such a waste of effort, he thought. So much division when, collectively, the left had the power to control the whole establishment.

‘Anyway, no doubt of you getting that First,’ Cole said, bringing Hal back to the matter of academics. Easing himself out from behind the desk, the Reader in Economic History poured two generous glasses of port. ‘Now, I wonder if you had any time to consider the other matter we discussed yesterday.’

‘The other matter?’

Cole smiled broadly. ‘You don’t need to play dumb, Hal. There’s no-one here but us. Chin-chin.’

Cole raised his glass of port and gave Harold a nod before taking a long sip. Harold, nervous but fundamentally excited, did the same. Cole spoke again.

‘You know what I am referring to, Hal, and I’d like very much to discuss it further.’

‘The Russians?’ said Harold incredulously, ‘I assumed you were joking!’

‘Oh, I was. It’s a very useful way of maintaining my innocence should I misjudge the discretion of any of the young men I’ve approached.’

‘You’ve approached others?’

‘Try not to sound too put out, dear boy. You’re not the only young man among these Dreaming Spires who’s destined for greatness.’

Harold held up a hand.

‘Alright, alright. Just… explain this to me again. This is real?’

‘If you want it to be real, it is. If not, I must ask you to leave this room, never discuss this with me again, and remember you have absolutely no evidence this conversation ever took place.’

That was an easy enough decision to make.

‘I want it to be real. How can I not? Braver men than me are dying in the Spanish sun, laying their lives down against fascism. I… am not strong enough. I am not made for war.’

‘Then what are you made for, Harold?’ said Cole quietly.

‘Lying. And being a bloody genius.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ grinned Cole.

‘…we’re here, Prime Minister.’

Harold opened his eyes with a start and realised Reg had turned around and was addressing him directly. Squinting, Harold looked out of the window and saw signs of a country lane and a dilapidated cottage nearby. It was pitch black outside the car now and Hampton was outside stretching his legs, a look of resigned bewilderment on his face. Harold realised he didn’t have very much time, and sprang to life.

‘Thank you, Reg,’ he began, leaning forward to the driver, ‘But that will be all for tonight. You can leave me here, and take Constable Hampton with you.’

Reg looked puzzled.

‘I don’t know about that, sir, I can’t go back to London and say I’ve left you in the middle of nowhere – what is this address, anyway, sir, if you don’t mind me asking?’

Harold opened his door, exasperated, and got out of the car. He half-jogged round to the driver’s window and spoke again.

‘Look, Reg, there’s no time to explain. You too, Nick. You can head back to London for the night. I’m meeting an old friend here and he doesn’t like pomp and circumstance. I’ll be quite alright, you can come and get me in the morning.’

Hampton began to shake his head and Harold’s eyes darted around the bushes near the road. The policeman spoke.

‘Prime Minister, I’m afraid that under no circumstances could I countenance anything like that. We’ll happily accompany you to your friend’s home and wait outside if needs be, but even then I’d need to make sure you were entering a safe environment—’

‘Fifty pounds!’ Harold barked, ‘Each!’ His fingers fumbled through his pockets, finding his wallet. It contained a great deal more cash than usual. He produced a wad of notes.

‘Sir, there’s really—’

‘A hundred each! There’s two hundred there, divide it amongst yourselves and I shan’t say a word. Just leave me here. Now!’ he pleaded, the final word coming out more as a desperate hiss. Hampton frowned and Reg leant out of the car window to look at the bundle of money.

‘I don’t know, Mr Wilson,’ Reg began, ‘this all seems very—’

There was a sound of tinkling glass followed by the sickening splintering of bone as Reg suddenly slumped out of the open window. Harold cursed and threw himself to the ground while Hampton span around, helplessly fumbling for his Browning. Then another soft thud sent him to the ground, a neat hole in his temple. Harold whimpered and covered his face with his hands, trying not to think about what he’d just witnessed.

He heard a low whistle from the bushes. Taking a deep breath, he slowly but surely rose to his knees, then to his feet, putting his hands high in the air. A torch beam cut through the night and dazzled him for a moment. A strange, heavily accented voice came from its source.

‘Lavenders blue, dilly dilly. Lavenders green.’

Harold swallowed and covered his eyes with his hands before replying in a soft, broken voice.

‘When I am king, dilly dilly, red will be queen.’

The torchlight dipped down to his feet, allowing him to focus on the young, wiry man holding it as he emerged from the bush.

‘Pleased to meet you, Agent Lavender. You can call us Lily and Tulip.’

Harold blinked.

‘Us?’

‘Yes, I am Tulip and he is Lily,’ said a voice from directly behind him. Harold jumped with fright and span round to find a huge bear of a man with a full beard and thick woollen hat grinning at him.

‘I see,’ began Harold, ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t particularly want to shake hands at this juncture.’

‘Tulip’ frowned.

‘The deaths were unfortunate, but Lily has always had a, what is the expression? Itchy trigger finger? Is this what you say?’

‘In my whole life, I have never once said that,’ replied the Prime Minister curtly. Tulip gave a polite smile.

‘There was nothing else to do, Lavender. We should have been on our way to the cove thirty minutes ago. Your men were wasting time.’

Harold held his tongue. As valuable an asset as he was, he didn’t quite feel immune from a sock to the jaw that would come his way if he pushed Tulip any further. The man named Lily joined them in the middle of the road and picked up poor Hampton’s body. Tulip barked an order.

‘Put him in that ditch. They will be looking for us anyway, but we will be long gone by the time they find him.’

Lily complied and did the same with Reg’s body after extracting it from the car. Harold breathed heavily and pulled out a cigar – no need to pretend he preferred his pipe any more, he supposed – and offered the box to Tulip. The Russian laughed.

‘No thank you, comrade. I do not blame you, though – you will not be able to smoke for quite some time once we are in transit.’

So it was to be a submarine, Harold thought. Spectacular. He’d had his fill of banging his head on low doorframes and the ubiquitous smell of oil from visits to Gosport and Barrow-in-Furness. He smiled politely at Tulip and lit his cigar, before gesturing up the road.

‘Shall we go, then?’ he remarked a little too casually given the situation, ‘We have approximately one hour before they wonder why Hampton hasn’t made contact.’

‘Da,’ replied Tulip simply, turning and pointing in the same direction Harold was, ‘we have about four kilometres to cover, and then it is a relatively easy journey down a cliff. I hope you are feeling energetic.’

As the man laughed and began walking, beckoning Lily as he did, Harold didn’t let them see the grimace on his face. He hadn’t felt this energetic in years.

‘And he just took off?’ Sir John Hunt said, straining to stay awake. It was already half past two in the morning, and the Cabinet Secretary was not yet used to being roused at this hour.

‘Essentially, yes,’ Marcia replied.

‘He has nothing scheduled overnight or tomorrow morning.’

‘I know. That’s why I’m telling you I think this is odd.’

The senior civil servant made a noncommittal noise and walked back around his desk.

‘I’ll phone around. See where Hampton – it is Hampton tonight, isn’t it? – I’ll see where Hampton reported they were headed.’

Marcia only nodded and turned on her heel. As she left Sir John’s office, she became lost in thoughts that unnerved her for reasons she couldn’t put her finger on.

Harold Wilson enjoyed a good ramble as much as the next man. But in the company of two psychopathic Russians, even a bracing journey across the Dales with a flask of tea would have been uncomfortable. As things stood, he was hiking over what he was sure was private land in brogues and with an overnight bag that he now wasn’t sure he would even need. The moon was full and high in the sky, giving their escapade an eerie glow. As he squinted to avoid treading in cowpats, he tried to imagine what was next. Would the comrades greet him with a welcoming embrace and a radio broadcast? Would he take it? Or would his be a short trip to a cell where a charming man from the Caucasus stood waiting with a loaded Tokarev? He swallowed and assured himself that option did not seem particularly likely – it would be far simpler for Tulip and Lily to take care of him here and now. With a dark look he glanced at them both, but was satisfied that neither of them were holding their guns and all weapons appeared holstered.

‘How much further?’ he panted, trying to avoid thinking about de facto house arrest in some suburb of Moscow. Tulip stopped and turned round, calling back to him.

‘Not very far. Maybe one, two kilometres. Come!’ he barked the final syllable a little like an order, and Harold dutifully picked up the pace slightly. He was getting desperate for the loo, however, and he thought to himself that matters might have to come to a head before embarking on a cramped journey through the Baltic.

‘Just a moment,’ he called, hurrying over to the edge of the field they were in and undoing his flies. Tulip and Lily evidently didn’t hear him, continuing on towards the now just about visible clifftop. Harold sighed and relieved himself, allowing himself three shakes at the end (for what was this but a special occasion?) and turned back towards the two Russians.

Then someone shot them.

For the second time that night, Harold Wilson dived for cover as a gun spat death at his travelling companions, the first shot catching Tulip in the side of the head with a barrelful of buckshot and sending him sprawling into the dirt. Lily swore in Russian and drew his Makarov pistol, the bulky silencer silhouetted for a moment against the moon. Harold rolled over into the bush, conscious that he was now lying in his own urine, an unpleasant situation to find oneself in. But it was preferable to the shotgun blast that Lily received as he wildly fired into nothingness. He screamed for about a minute then fell silent. Harold thought his heart was going to leap out of his chest. A man with what looked like a Barbour, flat cap and a double-barreled shotgun walked towards the two bodies, shouting about trespassers and inspecting something that Harold couldn’t see. He surmised that it must’ve been Tulip’s body when the man stood up in shock and shouted back across the fields towards his house – the lights were on and Harold could see a figure standing in the doorway – in a loud, clear voice.

‘Miriam, call an ambulance!’ the farmer hollered, ‘I think I might’ve killed him!’ The man span round as Lily gave another soft cry and Harold’s eyes darted towards the patch of ground where he lay. He was trying to reach for his Makarov, which had fallen a few feet from where he lay, but his arm was torn to ribbons and he was bleeding heavily from the neck. The farmer sprinted over to him.

‘Oh, Jesus Christ,’ he uttered, kneeling down, ‘Look, son, you and your friend had no right to be here, you understand? This is private property and when you come trampling along—’

‘Yob tuboyo mat, zhopa…’ spat Lily, before biting down hard with a loud cracking sound. His mouth foamed up and the farmer sprang to his feet before backing slowly away in horror.

‘Miriam…’ he began, quietly, then spluttered into a full-throated roar as he sprinted to his home, ‘Miriam, forget the ambulance! Call the police! No, the army! Call the bloody government! There’s an invasion on!’

The nearby Prime Minister made a note to pass on the man’s concerns at the next opportunity, and rolled out of his bed of mud and human waste. Rising to his feet only once the farmhouse had turned out all its lights and, presumably, locked and barricaded all its doors, he looked about him, gave an apologetic glance towards Lily and Tulip, and started trudging towards an old barn. As had been the case for so much of his career, Harold Wilson was at the mercy of events.

The Cabinet Secretary winced as he took another sip of coffee. Neither the Car Service nor Home Office had replied to his hurried telephone calls of the past two hours. It was unusual enough for any senior minister to be out of contact for more than an hour, but having one leave under such circumstances augured rather ill. Sir John Hunt had been in Whitehall for his entire professional life and had made his