Part 23 - Think It's Gonna Be All Right (Friday, 4 July, 1969) The prisoner's name is unimportant. Under the Geneva Convention he would only be required to give his name, rank and serial number. But he has been captured out of uniform and is not under the protection of the Convention. And when he was being briefed it was made very clear to him, "As always, should you or any of your force be caught or killed, the Director will disavow any knowledge of your actions." The interrogator is Major Ian Spandle, of the British Army's Intelligence Branch. He has an impressive record in Kenya, Borneo, South Vietnam, Ulster and now Ireland. While he will not rise higher than his current rank he is very good at his job. He is hated by the men of IRAM in the North and now the re-formed IRA in Eire, Spandle believes, because he treats the Paddies in the same way that he treated the Jig-a-boos.[1] The Major is looking forward to his 72 hours leave starting tomorrow and the chance spend some time with Penelope and the little ones at their home in Essex. The prisoner recognises the name of Ian Spandle. The reputation of the Major precedes him. There is no point giving a false name, a false story. Spandle will see through that. "You were part of a group of eleven on the Shannon. Five of you stayed behind to cover the others." The Major is pacing towards the prisoner and away. Five slow steps from the prisoner, one second per step. Then turning and returning with steps of equal deliberation. "Two were killed in the fire-fight, you and two others were taken, carrying weapons and a quantity of plastic explosive. Out of uniform, in a war zone," the Major paused as he turned, "You will tell me the truth and the whole truth or you will surely die." The prisoner again recalls the words, "As always, should you or any of your force be caught or killed, the Director will disavow any knowledge of your actions." Betrayal is not an option. Spandle is at the other end of the room, turning to walk towards the prisoner again. The British have not retrieved all the plastic explosive, a small quantity is still secreted on the prisoner's person. He will self destruct in five seconds.

(Friday, 18 July, 1969) Jimmy noticed that if he listened to Radio One just before coming into Westminster the last song he heard stayed in his head all day. Today was no exception. I should have known you'd bid me farewell. Driberg stuck his head into the cramped office that Jimmy enjoyed as Shadow Secretary of State for Energy in Her Majesty's Loyal Opposition. In the rabbit warren that was Westminster the offices allocated to Ministers of the Crown weren't much larger than those for HMLO but there was a difference. And for Jimmy that difference grated. How long would they continue to be in opposition? There's a lesson to be learned from this and I learned it very well. Only it wasn't Driberg. For every ten Tory time servers and hacks that were ennobled PM Powell made a point of putting forward the name of one Labour worthy to be made a life peer, in consultation with the Leader of HMLO. Enoch and Peggy agreed that Tom should be kicked upstairs Now I know you're not the only starfish in the sea. Tom was now Lord Bradwell. Jimmy was surprised that Tom was even in Westminster during the summer recess, as he wasn't a shadow minister. Most of the backbenchers were on holidays or else in their constituencies. But as a Lord, Tom had no constituency to worry about. Why did Tom stick around? Perhaps it was just the Houses of Parliament ambience. If I never hear your name again, it's all the same to me. "Going to watch the moon landing?" asked Jimmy conversationally. And I think it's gonna be all right. "No. I sat up all night six months ago. This one'll be the same." Yeah, the worst is over now. "Even with that little motor car thingie the cosmonauts[2] will have, Tom?" The mornin' sun is shinin' "Even so." Tom paused, "Penny for your thoughts, Jimmy?" he asked conversationally. "Like a red rubber ball," replied Jimmy, saying the first thing that came into his head.[3] "Me too," agreed Tom, "Say! That's not a bad idea for a party fund-raiser."

(Saturday, 19 July, 1969. Almost Sunday.) Dave Nellist backed up the lorry. "Six more feet, Comrade," observed Peter Taafe, leaning out the passenger window. Dave backed up two feet, to allow room to take the bills from the back. They had plastered all of Brighton with the little posters but now they were doing something far more daring. They were approaching the inner sanctum of Torydom - the Grand Hotel during the annual convention of the Conservative and Unionist Party of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Peter was particularly proud of the poster. The central image was a head and shoulders portrait of PM Powell, only Enoch's already trim moustache had been airbrushed to one of toothbrush proportions. The Private Eye style speech bubble had Powell proclaiming, "Today Ireland, tomorrow the world!". And a little caricature of Powell's deputy and Defence Minister Iain Macleod saying, in cod German, "Ja mein Fuehrer. Und zer final solution in South Vietnam ist almost complete!" "This will make the people sit up and take notice!" declared Peter. Dave was in agreement. The pair moved stealthily with bills and glue pot, eyes peeled for the policemen who would inevitably be around the hotel.

"No, no more deliveries until Monday," explained the publican, "Heard it on the news a few hours ago. Strike's been settled but it's going to take a couple o' days to get all the lorries back on the road." "But I heard a lorry," Denis said before deciding to stride out to investigate. Something very rum was going on.

The waxing moon was partly hidden by cloud on this warm summer's night but the street lamps allowed Denis to make a quick if somewhat weaving half-circuit of the pavements around the hotel. And then he saw them. A couple of young tear-aways gluing up placards in violation of the 'Bill Posters will be Prosecuted' signs on all the walls. "Oi, you!" he yelled. "Leg it, Comrade," urged Peter. Dave needed no further prompting. The youths ran in opposite directions. Denis decided to chase the older one. More chance of securing a prosecution if the villain wasn't so baby-faced. Still, he was an evil-looking specimen. Denis weighed up the advantages of not calling for assistance - the chance of giving the culprit a good hiding he wouldn't forget for a long time - against the reality of the situation. "Police! Help! Police!" he cried.

Enoch Powell was a man of fixed habits. There was no doubt that he would aim to arrive by chauffeured Rover at the Brighton Hotel on the dot of 8 o'clock, Sunday morning. But plans could always go awry. So the plastic explosives were wired to detonate not by a timer but a radio control. The planning was exquisite. It had been ascertained that the bins would not be emptied until the usual time in the small hours of Monday morning. So there was no chance of a violent jostling that could prematurely trigger an explosion.

"Stop! Stop you ruffian!" Denis yelled. Of course the blighter didn't. Ill-kempt that the youngster may be, he was still gaining on Denis. Must be all that bitter lemon disagreeing with me, Denis thought. Fortunately a policeman, armed with truncheon and blowing his whistle, hove into view in the opposite direction. The little thug would be trapped in front of the Grand's entrance. Peter saw an alleyway across the road opposite the hotel's entrance. It was too dark to see clearly but it must offer his best chance of escape. Curse the bourgeois vigilantism of the fogy who was chasing him! Too late he saw two green lights in the alley. And too late the grey cat on the garbage bin saw Peter. "Yeeow!" she yelled as he collided into the bin. There was a large explosion.[4]

[Monday, 21 July, 1969] It was another tense 'phone hook-up between London and Whitehall. Enoch must have a bug up his ass about that bombing of his convention. At least this time Lyndon was properly briefed. "Mr Prime Minister, we are as shocked as you are by this despicable terrorist attack. We grieve for those killed, especially Denis Thatchell... "Thatcher, sir," whispered Bobby. "...Thatcher. Yet these days you have so many enemies. IRAM. IRA. FWA. You have to be lucky always. They only have to be lucky once." "Mr President. Let us not insult each other's undoubted intellects. You and I both know it was not any of those quasi-capable cadres of cut-lunch cut-throats that launched this outrage." "It wasn't?" Damn! Bobby had assured him it was most likely the re-invigorated IRA. "Mr President. Do not pretend you are unaware that we captured operatives of your Central Intelligence Agency's Directorate of Operations." Lyndon stared at Bobby dumbfounded. Bobby stared right back. Both turned and stared at Hank. Hank did not look particularly innocent even when he was. This time he looked far from blameless. Lyndon resumed the conversation, "Mr Prime Minister, let me give you my word as a Texan politician that I had no advanced knowledge of this terrible attack that took place in your sovereign country. And please let me reiterate my sorrow for the deaths that were caused." "Your apology is accepted Mr President. We must speak again." The line went dead. Goddamnit, thought Lyndon, that wasn't an apology! He turned on Kissinger. "Hank, you're through. I want two resignation letters on my desk in the next hour. The first one is dated sixty days from today. Unspecified reasons. If, and it's a big if, Powell doesn't go public, that's the one we use. The second one is undated. You go the full contrition route. We use that one if Powell produces evidence. "If we can keep this hushed up, you leave in two months time and no-one will link your departure to the bombing. In the meantime, since you can't be trusted, you'll be reporting directly to Bobby. "Bobby, from now on Hank doesn't take a crap that you don't now about. Any decisions he needs to make, you make for him. Got it?" "Yes, Mr President", Bobby and Hank chorused. "Now go! And I want an oral briefing from you, Bobby, at 5pm so I won't look like an idiot next time I talk to Enoch. Christ Almighty, Henry!"

Both Enoch Powell and Lord Home cradled their receivers. "Prime Minister," asked the Foreign Secretary, "Do you really think Johnson is ignorant?" "In this instance, Alec, yes. It sounds like one of his subordinates is playing a lone hand. Kennedy, I'm guessing, with his fenian sympathies and that marxist wife of his." "Could be a case of man overboard." "Let us hope so. Really. The Americans don't want to get engaged in attempted assassinations. The tit-for-tat could get rather nasty. And history shows that American presidents are far more vulnerable to assassination than British prime ministers. Alec, could you gently draw this fact to the attention of the next Secretary of State?" Yes, Prime Minister." Lord Home moved to stand up but had a second thought. "We should romp home in the by-election for Denis' constituency." "By-election? There'll be no by-election. We'll go to the country." "But Enoch. In a by-election we're shoo-ins. The whole focus will be on the martyred Thatcher. But with a general election there are imponderables. "Very few. Tell me Alec, who knows about the Americans' involvement in the bombing?" "Well they do obviously." "But they won't admit it if we say nothing. It's too embarrassing for them. And everyone on our side who knows of it is bound by the Official Secrets Act." "What are you saying, Prime Minister?" "Our present margin is slender, almost unworkable. When this blows over we are at risk with every by-election. And look who is blown up. An honest constable; Denis Thatcher MP the true-blue Conservative; and Peter Taafe a young firebrand from Lord Stansgate's private office. Taafe was innocent, of course, but the only associate who knows this for a fact is David Nellist, who is being held incommunicado under the Prevention of Terrorism Act. To the public it will look like a murderous Communist from the Labour party, with links to the Leader of the Opposition herself, has attempted a latter day gunpowder plot and blown himself up in the process. We can hint at some hideous conspiracy of mass-murder to create a wave of by-elections to sweep the bloody-handed Labour killers into power. Something was troubling Lord Home. "But that's not quite true, is it Prime Minister?" "Oh, Alec! Honestly! We issue manifestos each election. Nobody seriously quibbles afterwards about whether they are true or not. It's just how the game is played. Anyway, we'll get those young long-hairs at Ogilvy & Mather to come up with a campaign. They'll do it with innuendo rather than outright lies, so your conscience need not be troubled."

Hank set his steno-sec to typing the two letters before he and Bobby flopped down in his inner office. "Jesus, Hank! Why did you go behind the Old Man's back with a stunt like that?" "I just wanted to give him plausible deniability," the National Security Advisor pro tempore said miserably. "But you know he's a micro-manager, Hank! He likes to know everything. You saw how mad he got looking like an idiot over the line to Enoch." "I just wanted to get in a new Prime Minister like Macleod without any fuss. He'd pull out of Ireland, we'd maintain the alliance in SEATO and NATO and everything will be all right." "Well everything is not all right. There is fuss, there's going to be a lot more of it, and Powell is more entrenched in power than ever." "I know," said Hank quietly, a tear forming in the corner of his right eye. He was abandoning his dream of become the 20th century Metternich. "Hank, pull yourself together, it's not over yet!" Bobby commanded. Hank looked up, "It's not?" "You've got 60 days. All we gotta do is come up with something to get you back in the Old Man's good books. But you hafta do things my way. You don't fart without my say so. I'm now the Dean of foreign policy and we can't afford snafus." Whatever Bobby thought of Hank he was relishing this situation. He now had Hank's pecker in his pocket as surely as Lyndon had Hubert's. He'd be damned if he'd let Lyndon bring a new man in and have to fight all the turf wars all over again. Kennedy smiled, "I think it's gonna be all right."

The second general election of 1969 started well. It was called right after the last of the funerals, with the theme of "Who's governing Britain?" Lord Stansgate was taken for police questioning about his relationship with the late Peter Taafe and released 6 hours later sans passport. Powell was reluctantly persuaded not to use The Seeker's 'World of Our Own' as his campaign song. Then the wheels began to fall off. General Walker was killed during a storm, with five high ranking intelligence officials, when his helicopter crashed into St George's Channel. General Farrar-Hockley was recalled from Vietnam to be Powell's new Strategos in Ireland. But worse was the headline in the first edition of the Observer on the 3rd of August. "US Brighton Bomb Plot Shock!" By the second edition all the Sundays were running the story, although the Sunday Times ran it below their major headline, "Ex-Beatle Dead From Overdose!"

"Ono, I feel guilty about John's death." "Don't feel guilty about John, John! John's life was about the choices he made. You feel guilty about too much. You feel guilty about that band. Those Bonzos are a dead weight to you. It is you the audience wants to see. You go solo, you make as much as you do now, and you don't have to share it six ways." "Eight ways," said John absently. "My point!" she crowed, "John was free to make his choices, you are free to make your choices. You should choose to leave the Bonzos." "Yes, dear."

The President was not in a good mood. "I said that if this leaked Kissinger would go faster than greased lightning. I want his ass outta here!" "Mr President" said his Secretary of State in as soothing a tone as his Boston twang would allow, "we agreed he would have to go immediately if Powell released evidence. Powell hasn't released evidence. Almost the opposite. He's..." Kennedy cast around for a word that might appeal to a Southerner, "stonewalling. A newspaper has printed some allegations but they've got nothing to go on." I know, thought Kennedy. He continued out loud, using a phrase Hank had taught him, "We've got plausible deniability on this one, sir."

Among John's papers was a finished song that he did not get to record. When the tribute album _Lennon's Marks_ came out it was John Cale who sang 'Bathsheba'.

Things kept going wrong. No sooner was Farrar-Hockley ensconced in Ireland when the long-buried Bloody Friday report of Lord Denning was leaked, this time to the Guardian. Despite the misspellings it was a damning indictment of the conduct of the British Army in Northern Ireland just at a time when the loss of the intelligence chiefs was being felt most strongly in Eire. Powell reluctantly ordered Macleod to accept Farrar-Hockley's resignation. Nicky and Nigel's qualitative polling was showing that the perception of Powell, 'strong and intelligent' at the last election had changed to 'dangerous and devious'. The quantitative polling was worse.

(Saturday, 23 August, 1969) The timing of Lord Bradwell's fundraiser was serendipitous - the first weekend after the election victory. Everyone who was anyone was there. Tom had even been able to get the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, longtime Labour supporters, to play. The sound wasn't quite the same without the bald beanpole but Neil was making a solid effort once again as lead singer. They were playing 'Johnny Todd'. Tom and John Robinson, the suffragan Bishop of London, were trying to talk Denis Healey into joining a Morris Dance but he wasn't having a bar of it. Jimmy was wearing a lounge suit and a vulcanised cerise kipper tie that Hilary had picked up for him at Carnaby Street. Others were getting into the theme in an altogether larger way. The less said about Tom's crimson latex number, the better. Then the Bonzos changed into a soft, instrumental version of 'New Jerusalem Man'. It was time for The Speech. The Prime Minister stood up. All eyes would have been on her even if her dress had been other than the shiny carmine ball-gown. "I would just like to thank everybody who has made the victory of the proletariat a reality in Britain at this hour." There was some premature applause from those who did not know better. "If you'll just let me continue. The history of the class struggle in these isles is a long and proud one. From Father John Ball and Wat Tyler..." "What about Robert the Bruce and William Wallace you great Sassanach?" asked Jennie Lee under her breath. "...to Henry VIII..." There were blank looks and whispers of "Well, he's hardly the workers' friend." "Fought against foreign hegemony," was the Bishop of London's muttered explanation. "...Oliver Cromwell, great but flawed and all the Levellers, like John Lilburne..." Why was I never taught about him at school? wondered Jimmy "...to Marx and Engels in the last century. Great Englishmen all." Jennie Lee looked as if she could barely restrain herself. Peggy did not notice, "But the difference is that now, for the first time, the proletariat have true representation. Through us, the party that bears their historical mandate, guided by scientifically validated class theory. We control the means of production, distribution and exchange. We are the masters now." The audience counted, one, two, three. The pause was long enough. She must have concluded. There was prolonged, sustained applause. Mrs Wedgwood Benn held up one hand. "Thank you, comrades, thank you. But there is one person I have not thanked. One person without whom I would not be here with you today. Jimmy, will you take the next dance with me?" Husband and wife moved towards one another. The band broke into a cover of 'Red Rubber Ball'. As Peggy and Jimmy began to foxtrot a net released scarlet balloons from the ceiling which covered the dance floor. Other couples joined them. Neil was singing, fit to burst,       Always runnin', never carin', that's the life you live.       Stolen minutes of your time were all you had to give. "Come on everybody!" he shouted at the wallflowers who were not on the dance floor, "Join the chorus!"       And I think it's gonna be all right.       Yeah, the worst is over now.       The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball. As they danced, Jimmy whispered in Peggy's ear, "It's getting late, shouldn't we be getting back to Number 10 soon?" "You know me, Jimmy. I can get by on four hours sleep. There's time to change the world tomorrow. Tonight, let's just savour the moment."       And I think it's gonna be all right.       Yeah, the worst is over now.       The mornin' sun is shinin' like a red rubber ball. [If you'll just let me continue.]

[1] Major Spandle is a product of his time and his profession. We should not use such epithets today. [2] Relax. Jimmy means 'astronauts'. Sheer force of habit on his part. [3] The words to 'Red Rubber Ball' were written by Paul Simon in 1965 for the popular music group The Cyrkle. As John Forster reminds us in his endearing song 'Fusion', Mr Simon is often drawing upon the music of others, so it only seems fair for us to return the favor. [4] No animals were harmed in the writing of this episode. Words were carefully chosen to simulate feline death. Whereas Peter Taafe and Denis Thatcher are quite dead.