CHAPTER FOUR – THE SEED IS SOWN
“I hardly know where to begin,” repeated Weaver, “because I hardly know where it all began.”
Sir Robin Algar shuffled uncomfortably. He hoped this wouldn’t take too long, or be a waste of time.
“But I’ll tell you straight away what I aim to achieve,” continued the Prime Minister, “and that is an end to all the nonsense surrounding Northern Ireland.”
The Cabinet Secretary heaved an inward sigh. It was going to be a waste of time. Yet another solution to ‘the problems’, he thought, as if he hadn’t heard enough of them in the past. He had imagined that Weaver would be above thinking he could resolve that particular issue.
“I believe there really is a workable solution, given good will, total secrecy, and good deal of support and loyalty from a very few people. Let’s face it, the Irish, both north and south, have been a thorn in our side for far too long now, and people are totally fed up with the situation - not just people here, but the good people over there too, on both sides of the political divide. And the situation has been a monumental strain on the Treasury for years and years, as you know, not to mention the military.”
The Prime Minister’s face was grim but determined. He looked strained.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking, Robin, and you may well end up being right,” he said. “I may end up with egg on my face, like all the others before me who believed they had found the ultimate solution.”
Sir Robin Algar nodded, and this time sighed audibly.
“I’m afraid I do think so, Prime Minister. Although of course you haven't yet spelt out any detail of your proposals, but I can see you believe America will have a major role to play - or rather, you hope they will.”
“I believe they will. My proposals for Northern Ireland will benefit America and help to solve a few problems for the US administration as well, and my job will be to persuade them of that. If they are with us, and we get the planning right, then the whole thing should not take too long at all. First, though, I must persuade you that we may not, after all, be wasting our time.”
He took a sip of his Scotch, frowning to assemble his thoughts into a logical order.
“Cast your mind back to our most recent visit to the Province. It was an unusual trip in many ways. For a start, it lacked some of the formality of earlier visits. We had a very useful informal lunch in the Officer’s Mess at the Army Headquarters in Lisburn. It was then,” continued the Prime Minister, “that I began to get a feeling of a possible way out of the mess which successive Governments, our own included, have got us into over the years. In fact, two of the people we met there first put the thought in my mind. And they damn well wouldn't have done, but for that informal setting - not least because I would probably never otherwise have met them. They were both thinking along the same lines, it seemed, although in fact they had only met a few times before I butted in on their conversation. And they both believed, from their independent and totally different backgrounds, that a solution was possible and achievable, if radical.”
“I certainly remember the lunch well,” recalled Sir Robin. “Drinks in the crowded bar first, then a self-service buffet in the dining room across the hall. A mix of people, too. Junior military officers there as well as top brass, civil servants from both MOD and the Northern Ireland Office, and a couple of junior Ministers accompanying the Secretary of State.”
“Exactly,” said Tony Weaver. “Men and women there who one would never ordinarily meet on a visit like that, and because it was a small, rather cosy Mess...”
“...Especially the bar,” interrupted Robin.
“... Yes, especially because the bar was small and intimate, it was possible to get away from the people who usual surround me, and talk informally to some very interesting people with very interesting views - convictions even.”
“Yes, I was able to do that, too,” said Sir Robin. “And like you, I found it very welcome and refreshing to get away, as you put it, from ‘the people who usually surround us’.”
“I don’t know whether you managed to speak to them yourself, but there were two individuals I remember in particular. And I will tell you now that I have spoken to them again since, privately.”
It had been obvious since the troubles started that there was never going to be a political solution to Northern Ireland's problems. The balance had always been wrong. Since partition: that's where the cock-up had been made. Dividing Ireland at all had been a mistake in the first place, and then they got it all wrong as well. Asking for trouble, that was. And now they've got it, and can't sort it.
At least, they could; but probably not in a democracy. Churchill had said that democracy was the worse form of government - apart from all the others. And he was usually right about most things.
Bill Clayton wondered how he knew that. Not the sort of thing that usually stuck in his mind, that wasn't.
Major William Jefferson Clayton did not appear to be one of the brightest of Army officers by any means, but somehow or other they'd managed to find him the perfect job. His father, a retired General of some repute, claimed he had been put where he could do least harm. He was by no means convinced that Bill was upholding the family's military tradition, although he did grudgingly admit that not everyone could survive in the Intelligence Corp.
Bill wasn't actually surviving at all. He was doing very well indeed, thank you. Academically, he had always struggled. He gave up History at school because he couldn't remember the dates, and did woodwork instead. He could do that while thinking about something else.
Sandhurst had been a nightmare in the classroom, and a doddle everywhere else. Bill was as tough as old boots and very fit, without really trying to be. And in spite of appearances, he was by no means brain dead either. The fact was, he was good - very good - at anything that interested him. It was that sort of brain.
And what had always interested him was finding out what people were up to. What they were really thinking. What they were really planning to do, rather than what they said they were going to do. Call it inquisitive, if you like, or even down right nosy, but give him a pile of seemingly unrelated facts and he could very soon sort the wheat from the chaff and work out what was going on.
He also had a gift for knowing what information he needed, and the skills to make sure he got it. Uncanny, really. He'd tasked any number of soldiers to seek apparently daft bits of intelligence, but they had eventually come to see how crucial they were to him. It was as if he was doing a giant jigsaw in his mind. He, and only he, knew what bits he'd got, how they would fit together, and what bits he needed to complete the picture. Indeed, only he knew what the picture was. Not the sort of thing they teach you at school. At least, not the schools he went to. It was a natural skill he had been able to fine-tune in the Army, to their great advantage. There simply weren't enough around like him.
The Army had not been slow to recognise his value in Northern Ireland. He was a widower, which gave him all the time in the world without any domestic pressures to divert his attention. He loved what he was doing and where he was doing it, and didn’t want to be posted away from the Province. So, as long as it suited the Army and Bill Clayton, that was where he was going to stay. His Headquarters at Chicksands desperately wanted him there, to lecture. But he desperately didn't want to go there, of all places. So normal rules and regulations had been bent, and his Corps had to put up with the fact that one of their men was effectively missing - at least, for the time being. And higher ranking officers at the Army’s Lisburn HQ in Northern Ireland also had to get used to the fact that he was special, and was likely to be called upon at any time to brief very senior people direct and at short notice. Where he was concerned, the chain of command virtually didn’t exist. It wasn’t always, either, that Bill chose to share all his intelligence with anyone else as a matter of routine - they’d had to get used to that, too. Altogether, an unusual situation for a relatively junior officer, but he was altogether a rather unusual man.
Those in the Security Services who knew him, - and in the other two armed services - recognised his razor sharp mind, and weren't slow to take advantage of it when they could. Some - mostly in the RAF - maintained that the words ‘Army’ and ‘Intelligence’ were contradictory. They hadn't met Bill Clayton.
He knew exactly how to sort out the Irish problem.
And he thought it was just - just - possible to get away with it, even in a democracy.
But he wasn't about to tell anyone. They wouldn't listen, anyway. Far too busy trying to recoup all that had been lost during the cease-fire. Somehow, they hadn't realised that that was all it was - a bloody cease-fire, not a surrender.
So far as he knew, he and his team had been able to keep up to speed, more or less, with what had been going on. And plenty had, of course. That's what cease-fires are for.
New people recruited. New plans drawn up. New arms and explosives bought - and some delivered. New active service units formed and trained. Some of those had been deployed to the mainland, too, like the one that did Docklands. They were new. And they were good.
But not as good as he was.
He knew who they were and where they were and all about them.
Not that he could do much about it. The normal system of justice simply wouldn’t work, in spite of all the evidence they had. It was impossible to get any witnesses to come forward. Like many magistrates and members of the judiciary, they were scared stiff - and with every cause. So it was a waste of time trying to get these people into court. There were other ways of dealing with them though, and it could be done, but not in a democracy, where nobody listened to anything at all out of the ordinary. Which is why he wasn’t about to tell anyone that he really thought they could put an end to all this nonsense, if they had the will and really put their minds to it.
But then he met junior Minister, James Anchor, quite by chance. It was an informal occasion, he remembered, and they chatted quite amicably over their drink. They got on well, swapped ideas, and there it was. They had both, it seemed, been thinking along much the same lines. They agreed to meet again. The more they met, the more their ideas developed, the military mind playing off the political. It became almost a game for them. But they resolved never to mention it to anyone else, because they knew that no one else would take it seriously.
It was extraordinary what Northern Ireland did to politics. On the mainland, the parties were united, generally speaking, in their approach to the troubles. In fact, it was about the only subject where there was ever agreement.
But across the water, the parties never agreed about anything, and probably never would. They didn't even agree about uniting against what some - as if they were governed by some other body - called "the British Government". But then they had religion, which was a stronger influence than politics. Except that it never was able to influence events, or the people who had control of events. But it did influence politics and politicians. What church you went to, or what religion you belonged to, was more important than anything else. You didn't need to think about politics - not in the democratic sense. Your religion decided your politics, where you lived, where you went to school and everything.
Being a mainland politician, representing one of the major parties in your constituency, and representing your constituency in Parliament, was a relatively straightforward affair. True, there were often divided loyalties to be reconciled, between what the whips wanted you to do, and what your constituents thought you should do. Almost without exception or question, you obeyed the whip, especially if you were ambitious. Almost without exception, too, your constituency party understood that.
Life became more complicated when you were a Minister as well. There was now a third force seeking to influence what you did. In particular, you had far less time to bother with local, constituency affairs. There were, after all, grave departmental matters of State to be attended to now. Generally speaking, your constituency party understood that, too. Of course, you still had to spend a bit of time with them - a weekly surgery, or something equally tiresome. After all, they voted you in, and could just as easily vote you out if you weren't careful.
But being a junior Minister in the Northern Ireland Office had to be about the most bloody awful job in the world. James Anchor thought so, anyway, and he hadn't been there long. Not that he was about to say anything, mind you. Some quite senior people had whinged about going, gone anyway, and then been finished so far as their career was concerned. James was having none of that, scared as he was, like the rest of them.
Fascinating but frustrating, that’s what it was. There always seemed to him little chance of making any impact on anything much. It was like trying to square a circle with knobs on. It couldn't be done. Better men than him had tried and failed. No sooner did you seem to be doing something that pleased one bit of the equation, than other bits started to sound mightily displeased. And doing nothing didn't please anyone, either. It was because they said we'd done nothing for eighteen months that they set off the Docklands bomb.
Actually, things did start getting done pretty soon after that. Talks were set up that some people didn't attend, while others who hadn't been invited turned up and weren't allowed to attend. Elections were announced that nobody wanted. Dates were announced for more talks - that sort of thing. It wouldn't work, of course. None of it. It didn't stop the bombings, either. Nothing ever had.
But it did seem obvious to James that one thing might make an impact, and so far as he knew, it hadn't been tried before. Probably because it was so far right wing to be out of sight. The sort of thing that couldn't be done officially. But it could still be done, with care. Blind eyes had been turned before.
The trouble was, James had no idea where to start - not the slightest. It wasn't the sort of suggestion you made at a meeting, or even to close colleagues over a scotch. In fact it wasn't really the sort of idea you could ever mention, come to think of it. In spite of his excellent Cambridge degree, James had a reputation for being a bit of a scatterbrain, and a bit vague. Indeed he was, in a professorial sort of way, and he was sure that this would count against him if ever he should be brave enough to hint at his theory. But he had a sharp mind, was quick to reach the right conclusions, and had a sense of humour which helped him get by, often while others were catching up with his thought processes.
He remembered being told when he arrived that if he ever thought he had the solution to Northern Ireland's problems, he had either been there too long, or been wrongly briefed. But this was different, he was sure. This was his idea. And it seemed so blindingly obvious, that he was quite convinced that there must be others wandering about the Province with the same idea.
Like him, they were probably too frightened to mention it to anyone else. He certainly wasn’t going to.
But then he met Major Bill Clayton, quite by chance. It was an informal occasion, he remembered, and they chatted quite amicably over their drink. They got on well, swapped ideas, and there it was. They had both, it seemed, been thinking along much the same lines. They agreed to meet again. The more they met, the more their ideas developed, the political mind playing off the military. It became almost a game for them. But they resolved never to mention it to anyone else, because they knew that no one else would take it seriously.
Then they both met Tony Weaver over a pint in the Officer’s Mess at Lisburn.
James knew the PM quite well, as a matter of fact. Indeed, it was he who had suggested to James that it might be a very good career move if he went to Northern Ireland. He hadn’t been in Parliament all that long, and for the Prime Minister himself to suggest an appointment as a junior Minister was something ambitious politicians couldn’t refuse. Not that James liked it - Northern Ireland, that is. He would have preferred some rather quieter backwater, like Transport or Trade and Industry, to be honest. But this was not to be sniffed at, so he went.
He had been quietly chatting to Bill Clayton in a crowded corner of the bar. They’d met several times before, and had, in fact, become quite friendly. They were deep in quiet discussion when the Prime Minister hove into view, empty glass in hand.
“You chaps are looking a bit intense,” said Weaver. “Might I enquire what about?”
James introduced him to Clayton. Bill saw the empty glass, and set off to refill it and his and James’s. He’d been looking for an excuse.
“Interesting chap, that is, Prime Minister,” said James. “I came across him some time ago. He’s certainly got his head screwed on and seems to know everything there is to know about what’s going on around here. Delightfully un-stuffy for an Army officer, if you know what I mean.”
“I’ve certainly met a few of the more pompous variety this morning,” said Weaver. “What were you on about just now?”
“Oh! The usual thing,” replied the junior Minister. “How to sort this mess out - you know!”
“Is that all!” laughed the PM. “You’d better let me in on the secret, if you really do think you’re on to something.”
“Well, it’s odd actually that, although we’re from quite different walks of life, so to speak, we do seem to have been thinking along much the same lines. Put my political assessment with his military judgement of what is possible, and we are beginning to arrive at something quite interesting, although probably totally impractical.”
Bill Clayton came back with the drinks, hotly pursued by a rather flushed looking civil servant.
“Could you spare a moment, Prime Minister? I’d rather like...”
“Actually, not now if you don’t mind,” interrupted Weaver, “I’d rather like to finish this conversation before I start another one. If you don’t mind.”
An even more flushed civil servant backed off, hovering near enough to keep away others anxious ‘to have a word’, or ‘catch the Prime Minister’s ear’, but without being near enough to actually overhear Weaver’s conversation.
Weaver turned to Clayton, thanking him for his newly charged glass.
“The Minister was telling me that you have been reaching some exciting conclusions between you, Major. I’m interested,” said Weaver. “Anything you can share with me?”
Clayton looked at Anchor, aghast, wondering what on earth he had said to excite the PM’s interest.
“If you insist, Prime Minister, then of course I’d be happy to share my thinking with you,” said Clayton. “But I must emphasise that they will be my own thoughts and not reflect any official thinking whatsoever.”
“Understood,” said Weaver.
“And they are,” continued Clayton, “unrefined to say the least. Simply an expression if you like, of what could be done, given the political will, and providing total secrecy could be guaranteed. Much of what I have in mind might not be strictly legal or within the bounds of what’s possible in a democracy.”
“Much the same in my case,” said James Anchor. “I hadn’t meant to suggest, Prime Minister that we had developed any profound thinking about the future of the Province - only that we had discussed some rather revolutionary ideas which, on the face of it, might just be capable of being put into effect. But Bill and I had agreed that it would be impossible to share our thoughts with anyone publicly, let alone consult with others. Now you want us to share them with you, of all people!”
“We’ll both get the sack,” grumbled Clayton.
The Prime Minister could see that he meant it.
“James, you know that I have always held you in the highest regard,” confided the Prime Minister. “It’s because I think you have a brilliant political career ahead of you, that you’re here in the first place, young as you are. So if you think that what you and Major Clayton have been discussing is worth discussing, then I think it’s probably worth listening to.”
“Thank you for that, Tony,” said Anchor. “But the bar is no place to even outline our thinking. Is there anywhere else, Bill?”
“Certainly. Come into the Mess Secretary’s office next door. If he’s in I’ll kick him out. We can shut the door, and we’ve got about five minutes before lunch, that’s all.”
“To solve the problems of centuries,” mused Weaver, as they moved out of the bar into the small next-door office.
On their way, Bill grabbed a colleague by the arm.
“Charlie, stand outside this bloody door and don’t let anyone come in - not even the General. Give us a knock when they go in for lunch. If anyone asks, tell them the PM and the Minister wanted a private word. No need to let on that I’m here, too. OK?”
A rather bemused subaltern, who was on his way to do something far more worthwhile, like catch another quick half before lunch, came smartly to attention and nodded. He wasn't quite sure what to do if challenged, as he didn’t even have his hat on, never mind a gun.
But the moment the door shut, a slim young fellow in a dark suit joined him.
“I’ll stand guard with you,” he said, showing his Special Branch ID card. “PM’s personal protection,” he said. “There are others outside, and I’m armed, which you probably aren’t. So what shall we talk about”?
Charlie felt better, but he knew another beer was out of the question this side of lunch.
“And I thought you’d gone to powder your nose before lunch!” the Cabinet Secretary laughed. “Instead of that, you were discussing how to change the tide of history!”
“Don’t joke about it, Robin. I really believed those two, between them and independently, were on to something. It's certainly a theory I intend to pursue and develop. Their thinking was very unrefined, and I suspect that they would never have taken it any further forward but for my intervention. They thought their original concepts were far too radical to be put in to effect, or to have the slightest chance of being taken seriously. But I have already taken their thinking a good deal further forward, and the more I do so the more I come to believe that there may just be the germ of a solution in what they have said. But we shall have to tread extremely warily. The political implications of getting it wrong are too ghastly to contemplate, both nationally and internationally. James Anchor’s role in this may already be drawing to a close, but we shall need to rely quite heavily on Major Clayton’s fund of knowledge if we agree to take this forward.”
“So what on earth did they say to you?” Sir Robin Algar looked serious again.
It was obvious that the PM, with such a sharp brain, would not be taken in by some hare-brained scheme, and it was equally obvious that Weaver did not think that this was one.
“In a nutshell, a three pronged assault. I hope you’re ready for this.”
“Try me,” said Sir Robin, leaning forward.