The headlines, on the morning after the dinner in Fishmongers’ Hall, had a simple but pleasing eloquence. ARMED SERVICES ALL-IMPORTANT: then, in smaller letters, ‘No Substitute for Fighting Men. Minister’s Strong Speech,’ said the Daily Telegraph (Conservative). SECURITY COMES FIRST, ‘Mr R. Quaife on World Dangers,’ said The Times (moderate Conservative). SPREAD OF ATOMIC WEAPONS, ‘How Many Countries Will Possess the Bomb?’ said the Manchester Guardian (centre). CHANCE FOR THE COMMONWEALTH, ‘Our Lead in Atomic Bomb,’ said the Daily Express (irregular Conservative). TAGGING BEHIND THE US, said the Daily Worker (Communist).
The comments were more friendly than I had expected. It looked as though the speech would soon be forgotten. When I went over the press with Roger, we were both relieved. I thought he felt, as much as I did, a sense of anti-climax.
In the same week, I noticed a tiny news item, as obscure as a fait divers, in the ‘Telegrams in Brief’ column of The Times.
‘Los Angeles. Dr Brodzinski, British physicist, in a speech here tonight, attacked “New Look” in British defence policy as defeatist and calculated to play into hands of Moscow.’
I was angry, much more angry than apprehensive. I was sufficiently on guard – or sufficiently trained to be careful – to put through a call to David Rubin in Washington. No, he said, no reports of Brodzinski’s speech had reached the New York or Washington papers. They would carry it now. He thought we could forget about Brodzinski. If he, Rubin, were Roger, he’d play it rather cool. He would be over to talk to us in the New Year.
That sounded undisquieting. No one else seemed to have noticed the news item. It did not arrive in the departmental press-cuttings. I decided not to worry Roger with it, and put it out of mind myself.
A fortnight later, in the middle of a brilliant, eggshell blue November morning, I was sitting in Osbaldiston’s office. We had been working on the new draft of the White Paper, Collingwood having contorted Douglas’ first. Douglas was good-humoured. As usual, he took no more pride in authorship than most of us took in the collective enterprise of travelling on a bus.
His personal assistant came in with an armful of files, and put them in the in-tray. Out of habit his eye, like mine, had caught sight of a green tab on one of them. ‘Thank you, Eunice,’ he said equably, looking not much older than the athletic girl. ‘A bit of trouble?’
‘The PQ is on top, Sir Douglas,’ she said.
It was part of the drill he had been used to for twenty-five years. A parliamentary question worked like a Pavlovian bell, demanding priority. Whenever he saw one, Douglas, who was the least vexable of men, became a little vexed.
He opened the file and spread it on his desk. I could see the printed question, upside down: under it, very short notes in holograph. It looked like one of these questions which were rushed, like a chain of buckets at a village fire, straight up to the Permanent Secretary.
With a frown, a single line across his forehead, he read the question. He turned over the page and in silence studied another document. In a hard, offended tone, he burst out, ‘I don’t like this.’ He skimmed the file across the desk. The question stood in the name of the Member for a south coast holiday town, a young man who was becoming notorious as an extreme reactionary. It read: ‘To ask the Minister of—’ (Roger’s department) ‘If he is satisfied with security arrangements in his department, especially among senior officials?’
That looked innocuous enough: but Douglas’ juniors, thorough as detectives, had noticed that this same member had been making a speech in his own constituency, a speech in which he had quoted from Brodzinski’s at Los Angeles. Here were the press cuttings, the local English paper, the Los Angeles Times, pasted on to the file’s second page.
With a curious sense of déjà vu, mixed up with incredulity and a feeling that all this had happened time out of mind, I began reading them. Brodzinski’s lecture at UCLA: SCIENCE AND THE COMMUNIST THREAT: Danger, danger, danger: Infiltration: Softening, Conscious, Unconscious: as bad or worse in his own country (UK) as in the US: People in high positions, scientific and non-scientific, betraying defence; best defence ideas sabotaged; security risks, security risks, security risks.
‘This isn’t very pleasant,’ said Douglas, interrupting me.
‘It’s insane.’
‘Insane people can do harm, as you have reason to know.’ He said it with tartness and yet with sympathy. He knew of my first marriage, and it was easy for us to speak intimately.
‘How much effect will this really have–’
‘You’re taking it too easily,’ he said, hard and sharp.
It must have been years since anyone made me that particular reproach. Then I realized that Douglas had taken charge. He was speaking with complete authority. Because he was so unpretentious, so fresh, lean and juvenile in appearance, one fell into the trap of thinking him light-weight. He was no more light-weight than Lufkin or Hector Rose.
It was he who was going to handle this matter, not Roger. From the moment he read the question, he showed his concern. Why it should be so acute, I could not make out. At a first glance, Brodzinski was getting at Francis Getliffe, perhaps me, perhaps Walter Luke, or even Roger himself. It would be a nuisance for me if I were involved: but, in realistic terms, I thought, not much more. Douglas was a close friend: but his present gravity would have been disproportionate, if it had just been on my account.
No. Was he, as a high bureaucrat, troubled when open politics, in particular extremist open politics, looked like breaking out? He was both far-sighted and ambitious. He knew, as well as anyone in Whitehall, that in any dog-fight, all the dogs lose: you could be an innocent victim, or even a looker-on: but some of the mud stuck. If there were any sort of political convulsion, his Treasury friends and bosses would be watching him. His name would get a tag on it. It would be unjust, but he would be the last man to complain of injustice. It was his job to see that the fuss didn’t happen. If it did, he might find himself cut off from the topmost jobs for life, a second Hector Rose.
There was another reason why he was disturbed. Though he was ambitious, he had high standards of behaviour. He could no more have made Brodzinski’s speech than he could have knifed an old woman behind her counter. Although he was himself Conservative, more so even than his colleagues, he felt that the PQ could only have been asked – and he would have used simple, moral terms – by a fool and a cad. In a heart which was sterner than anyone imagined, Douglas did not make special allowances for fools, cads, or paranoids like Brodzinski. For him, they were moral outlaws.
‘The Minister mustn’t answer the questions himself,’ he announced.
‘Won’t it be worse if he doesn’t?’
But Douglas was not consulting me. Roger was himself ‘under fire a bit’. He had to be guarded. We didn’t want too many whispers about whether he was ‘sound.’ It was at just this point in politics where he was most vulnerable. No, the man to answer the question was the Parliamentary Secretary, Leverett-Smith.
What Douglas meant was that Leverett-Smith hadn’t an idea in his head, was remarkably pompous, and trusted by his party both in the House and at conferences. He would, in due course, make, Monty Cave had said with his fat man’s malice, a quintessential Law Officer of the Crown.
Within a few minutes, Douglas had been inside Roger’s office and had returned.
‘He agrees,’ he said. Since Douglas must have spoken with the wrappings off, just as he had spoken to me, it would have been difficult for Roger not to agree. ‘Come on. You may have to speak for some of the scientists.’
In Roger’s room, Douglas had already written on the file the terms of a reply. When we called on Leverett-Smith, two doors down the passage, the pace of business became more stately.
‘Parliamentary Secretary, we’ve got a job for you,’ Douglas had begun. But it took longer. Leverett-Smith, bulky, glossy-haired, spectacled, owlish, stood up to welcome us. Very slowly, he read the civil servants’ comments as the question had made its way up. Douglas’ draft, the newspaper clipping. Again very slowly, in his reverberating voice, he began to ask questions. What was the definition of ‘bad security risk’ in British terms? What were the exact levels of security clearance? Had all members of the scientific committee been cleared for Top Secret, and for the information none of us mentioned?
Leverett-Smith went inexorably on. The method of slow talk, I thought, as Keynes used to say. Had all the civil servants been cleared? What were the dates of these clearances?
Like his colleagues, Douglas kept his relations with the Security organs obscure. He did not refer to documents, but answered out of his head – as accurately as a computer, but more impatiently. This was not the kind of examination a Permanent Secretary expected from a junior Minister – or, so far as that went, from a senior Minister either. The truth was, Leverett-Smith was not only cumbrous and self-important: he disliked Roger: he had no use for rough and ready scientists like Walter Luke, while men like Francis Getliffe or me made him uncomfortable. He did not like his job, except that it might be a jumping-off board. This mixture of technology, politics, ideology, moral conscience, military foresight, he felt odious and not quite respectable, full of company he did not choose to live his life among.
Actually, he lived his life in one of the odder English enclaves. He wasn’t in the least an aristocrat, as Sammikins and his sister were: he wasn’t a country gentleman, like Collingwood: to Diana’s smart friends, he was stodgy middle-class. But the kind of middle-class in which he seemed never to have heard an unorthodox opinion – from his small boys’ school in Kensington, to his preparatory school, to his house at Winchester, to the Conservative Club at Oxford, he had moved with a bizarre absence of dissent.
‘I don’t completely understand, Secretary, why the Minister wishes me to take this question?’
After an hour’s steady interrogation, he made this inquiry. Douglas, who did not often permit himself an expression of God-give-me-patience, almost did so now.
‘He doesn’t want to make an issue of it,’ he said. Then, with his sweet and youthful smile, he added: ‘He thinks you would carry confidence with everybody. And that would kill this bit of nonsense stone-dead.’
Leverett-Smith tilted his massive, cubical head. For the first time, he was slightly placated. He was interested to know if that was the Minister’s considered judgement. He would, of course, have to consult him to make sure.
Douglas, still smiling sweetly, as though determined to prove that pique did not exist in public business, reminded him that they had only a few hours to play with.
‘If the Minister really wishes me to undertake this duty, then naturally I should be unable to refuse,’ said Leverett-Smith, with something of the air of a peeress pressed to open a church bazaar. He had a parting shot.
‘If I do undertake this duty, Secretary, I think I can accept your draft in principle. But I shall have to ask you to call on me after lunch, so that we can go over it together.’
As Douglas left the room with me, he was silent. Pique might not exist in public business; but, I was thinking, if Leverett-Smith remained in political office at the time when Douglas became Head of the Treasury, he might conceivably remember this interview.
Yet although time might have been spent in Leverett-Smith’s ceremonies, there had been no compromise. It was Douglas who had got his own way.
The question was down for Thursday. That morning, Roger asked me to go to the House, to see how Leverett-Smith performed. He also asked me, as though it were an absent-minded thought, to drop in afterwards at Ellen’s flat for half an hour.
It was a raw afternoon, fog in the streets, ghostly residues of fog in the Chamber. About fifty members were settled on the benches, like an ill-attended matinee. As soon as prayers were finished, I had gone to the box behind the Speaker’s chair. There were several questions before ours, a lot of backchat about the reprieve of a murderer whom a Welsh Member kept referring to, with an air of passionate affection, as ‘Ernie’ Wilson.
Then, from the back bench on the Government side, on my right hand, rose the man we were waiting for – young, smart, blond, avid. He announced that he begged to ask Question 22, in a manner self-assured and minatory, his head back, his chin raised, as if he were trying to get the maximum bark from the microphones.
Leverett-Smith got up deliberately, as though his muscles were heavy and slow. He did not turn to the back-bencher in his rear: he stood gazing at a point far down on the opposite side below the gangway.
‘Yes, sir,’ he said, as though announcing satisfaction, not only with security arrangements but with the universe.
The avid young man was on his feet.
‘Has the Minister seen the statement made by Professor Brodzinski on November 3rd, which has been widely published in the United States?’
Leverett-Smith’s uninflected, confident voice came rolling out: ‘My Right Honourable friend has seen this statement, which is erroneous in all respects. Her Majesty’s Government has a defence policy which is the responsibility of Her Majesty’s Government, and which is constantly being debated in this House. My Right Honourable friend acknowledges with gratitude the services of his advisers on the scientific committees and elsewhere. It does not need to be said that these men are one and all of the highest integrity and devoted to the national interest. As a matter of standard procedure, all persons including Her Majesty’s Ministers having access to secret information, are subjected to rigorous security procedure. And this is the case with each person consulted, on any matter connected with Defence whatsoever, by my Right Honourable friend.’
Subdued, respectful hear-hears. The blond young man was on his feet.
‘I should like to ask whether all scientific advisers have gone through security vetting during this past year.’
Leverett-Smith, standing once more, looked for an instant like an elephantine beast being baited. I was afraid that he would ask for notice of the question.
He stood there letting the seconds tick by. Then his voice resounded, once more impregnable.
‘My Right Honourable friend regards the publication of the details of security procedures as not being in the public interest.’
Good, I thought. That was all we wanted.
Again, hear-hears. Again, the pestering, angry voice.
‘Will the Minister produce the dates on which certain members of this scientific committee, the names of whom I am willing to supply, were last submitted to security vetting? Some of us are not prepared to ignore Dr Brodzinski–’
There were mutters of irritation from the Tory benches. The young man had gone too far.
This time, Leverett-Smith did not take so long to meditate. Solidly he announced to the middle distance: ‘This supplementary question is covered by my last answer. The question is also an unworthy reflection on gentlemen, who, often at great sacrifices to themselves, are doing invaluable service to the country.’
Vigorous hear-hears. Definite hear-hears, putting an end to supplementaries. Another question was called. Leverett-Smith sat broad-backed, basking in a job well done.
I was waiting for another question, further down the list, addressed to my own Minister. Douglas, who had been sitting beside me, left with a satisfied grin.
Sometime later, a debate was beginning. It was not yet time for me to leave for Ebury Street. Then I saw Roger coming into the Chamber. He must have picked up gossip outside, for on his way to his seat on the front bench he stopped by Leverett-Smith and slapped him on the shoulder. Leverett-Smith, turning to him, gave a serious contented smile.
Roger lolled in his seat, reading his own papers, like a man working in a railway carriage. At some quip from the Opposition benches that raised a laugh, he gave a preoccupied, good-natured smile.
As another speech began, he looked up from his scripts, turned to the box, and caught my eye. With his thumb, he beckoned me to meet him outside. I saw him get up, whisper to another Minister and stroll out.
In the central lobby, full of visitors, of little groups chatting earnestly, of solitary persons waiting with passive resignation, much like Grand Central Station on a winter night, he came up to me.
‘I hear Leverett was pretty good,’ he said.
‘Better than you’d have been.’
Roger drew down his lip in a grim chuckle. He was just going to speak, when I caught sight of Ellen walking past us. She must have come from the Strangers’ Gallery, I thought, as she gave me the slight smile of a distant acquaintance. To Roger she made no sign of recognition, nor he to her. I watched her move away from us, through the lobby doors.
Roger said: ‘She’ll be going straight home. We can follow in a few minutes. I think I’ll come along with you.’
In Palace Yard, the lamps, the taxi-lights, shone smearily through the fog. As we got near to the taxis, Roger muttered that it was better if I gave the address.
The click of the lift-door opening, the ring of the bell.
As Ellen opened the door, she was ready for me, but seeing Roger, gave an astonished, delighted sigh. The door closed behind us, and she was in his arms. It was a hug of relief, of knowledge, the hug of lovers who know all the pleasure they can give each other. For her, perhaps, it was a little more. Meeting him only in this room, pressed in by this claustrophobia of secrecy, she was glad, this once, to throw her arms round him and have someone there to watch. They would have liked to go straight to bed. Nevertheless, it was a joy to her, as well as a frustration, to have me there.
At last they sat on the sofa, I in an armchair. ‘That wasn’t so bad, was it?’ she asked, inquiring about the incident in the House, but her tone so happy that she might have been asking another question. His eyes were as bright as hers. He answered, in the same sort of double-talk: ‘Not bad.’ Then he got down to business.
‘Everyone seems to think that it passed off rather well.’
I said I was sure it had.
She wanted us to tell her: would the question do any damage now? Difficult to say: possibly not, unless something bigger happened. She was frowning. She was shrewd, but she had not been brought up to politics and found the corridors hard to see her way through.
‘Well, anyway,’ she said, ‘it must be the end of Brodzinski. That’s something.’
No, we said, that wasn’t certain. Never underestimate the paranoid. I was mimicking Roger and also scoring off him, going back to his handling of Brodzinski. Often they stayed dangerous, while saner men went under. Never underestimate them, I said. Never try to placate them. It is a waste of time. They take and never give. The only way to deal with paranoids is to kick them in the teeth. If a chap has persecution mania, the only practical course is to give him something to feel persecuted about.
I was being off-hand, putting on a tough act to cheer her up. But she wasn’t putting on a tough act when she said: ‘I want him done in. I wish to God I could manage it myself.’ He had done, or was trying to do, Roger harm. That was enough.
‘Can’t you set some of the scientists on to him?’ she asked me passionately.
‘They’re none too pleased,’ I replied.
‘Hell, what good is that.’
Roger said that she needn’t worry too much about Brodzinski. He would still have some nuisance value, but so far as having any practical influence, he might have shot his bolt. It wasn’t a good idea, making attacks in America. It might create some enemies for us there, but they would have been enemies anyhow. As for this country, it would damage his credit, even with people who would have liked to use him.
‘There’ll be plenty more trouble,’ he said, ‘but as for Brodzinski, I fancy he’ll stew in his own juice.’
‘You’re not going to do anything to him?’
‘Not if leaving him alone produces the right answer.’ He smiled at her.
‘I want him done in,’ she cried again.
His arm was round her, and he tightened his hold. He told her that, in practical affairs, revenge was a luxury one couldn’t afford. There was no point in it. She laughed out loud. ‘You speak for yourself. There would be some point in it for me.’
I had been trying to cheer her up, but it was not easy. She was worried for Roger, more worried than either he or I were that night: yet she was full of spirit. Not just because she was with us. She was behaving as though a wound were healed.
At last I grasped it. This attack had nothing to do with her. She was suspicious that, behind the telephone calls, might be someone Roger had known. For a time, she had been ready to blame Brodzinski. The inquiries I had set moving had already told us that this was unlikely. Now she could believe it. It set her free to hate Brodzinski more. She was blazing with relief. She could not bear the danger to come through her. She would, I thought, have lost an eye, an arm, her looks, if she could have lessened the danger for Roger: and yet, that kind of unselfish love had its own egotism: she would have chosen that the danger were increased, rather than it should have come from her.
I told her that the intelligence people hadn’t got anything positive. They now had all her telephone calls intercepted.
‘All that’s done,’ she said, ‘is to be maddening when he–’ she looked at Roger – ‘is trying to get through.’
‘They’ve got their own techniques. You’ll have to be patient, won’t you?’
‘Am I good at being patient?’
Roger said, ‘You’re having the worst of this. You’ve got to put up with it.’ He said it sharply, with absolute confidence.
She asked me, was there anything else she could do? Had she just got to sit tight?
‘It’s pretty hard, you know,’ she said.
Roger said: ‘Yes, I know it is.’
Soon afterwards, he looked at his watch and said he would have to leave in another half-hour. On my way home, I thought of them a little, free together, by themselves.