Читать книгу A Scandalous Man - Gavin Esler - Страница 10

ROBIN BURNETT’S STORY

Middleburg is fox-hunting country. It’s about thirty miles from Washington in the rolling Virginia hills, but it’s a different world. The day I arrived was a Friday. The Washington Post that day reported that the murder rate in the District of Columbia was going to hit 500 deaths in a year – in a city of 600,000 people. Fifteen times the murder rate in Northern Ireland, where we thought we had a problem big enough to send in troops. Some of the liberal commentators in the US were blaming the socially divisive policies of the Reagan administration. They criticized the President for designating tomato ketchup as a vegetable in school meals as a cost-saving device. How any of this was linked to the murder rate, I never understood, except that it was the usual liberal media elite sociological mumbo-jumbo, where you began with tomato ketchup and ended with blood on the streets, and it was always the government’s fault. The Reaganauts blamed individual human wickedness for the crime rate, though that did not entirely explain why more people were more wicked under Reagan either. It looked to me like simple market forces. Drug dealers were competing for customers and eliminating their rivals. As the cocaine market matured, things would settle down. Supply, demand. Gunfire to settle market share, the emergence of a monopoly supplier. Peace on the streets. Eventually.

Anyway, the next day, the Saturday, the British embassy driver picked me up at my hotel and whisked me away from the war zone that Washington had become to spend the weekend at Don Hall’s stud farm on the outskirts of Middleburg. We drove through a huge white arch inscribed with the words ‘Hall Estate’. The driveway must be about a mile long, cutting through deep-green fields with white picket fences in between.

We stood around at a lunchtime barbecue in Don’s capacious ‘yard’ – an enormous area between the house and the main barn – surrounded by horses grazing peacefully, a bucolic picture of pastureland and all-American contentment, a different planet to the street battles down the road in Washington.

When I first saw him, the Director of Central Intelligence, David Hickox, was squirting mustard from a yellow plastic bottle on to his hotdog. He was talking with his mouth full to Don Hall. I joined the half dozen others who were listening. Introductions were made.

‘So, Robin, it looks like you have the Chileans on-side in the Falklands,’ Hickox said, tearing at the bun and meat and nodding in my direction.

He was a surprisingly big man, more than six feet tall, I’d guess all of 250 pounds, but with no fat on him. Don had told me he was a former college football star who never quite made it professionally as a result of injuries.

‘We do?’ I replied.

‘You do. And I believe you know you do. The Argies certainly know it. They think you have British special forces operating out of Chile right now. SAS and SBS.’

David Hickox was right about that. The Argies were right. The government of Chile hated the Argentine junta more than we did. They were being very helpful. In secret.

‘Most of South America wants those arrogant Argie bastards to lose,’ Don Hall said.

‘And who can blame them?’ I responded, insistently. ‘They will lose. Now is a good time to be with the eventual winners.’

‘And we will help you in any way we can,’ Hickox said, looking at me directly.

That was a big admission. It made me think that for me this was already mission accomplished.

‘I am very pleased, Director. Thank you. The Prime Minister will be very grateful.’

‘I know she will,’ Hickox said, and then he paused, wiping a slick of bright yellow mustard and grease from his lips with the back of his hands. ‘So let me say it clear. We will be helpful in any way we can – consistent with our national interests and the directives of the President.’

I swigged at my beer. It was a reasonable caveat. Don Hall had already made it plain that anything the Royal Navy wanted from the US Navy would be forthcoming. There would be no problems at sea. It was all coming together.

‘And I know we both agree that maintaining a strong trans-Atlantic relationship is absolutely consistent with your national interests,’ I insisted. ‘And ours.’

Hickox tore at the remains of his hotdog.

‘So is maintaining the sanctity of the Monroe Doctrine,’ he said.

The Monroe Doctrine was a 150-year-old piece of convenient US strategic high-flown self-interest much loved by Jeanne Kirkpatrick and a few of the others. It stated that the United States would not tolerate outsiders interfering in Latin America – except, of course, if that outsider were to be the United States itself. I thought Hickox was teasing me.

‘Speaking personally,’ I replied, ‘I think we can agree that, once this war with the Argies is over, the biggest question facing both of us as allies will not involve this hemisphere at all. It will be how to stand up to the Soviets in Europe, Afghanistan and elsewhere, and how to roll them back.’

Hickox reached for more food, accepting a hamburger.

‘I like the way you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

‘The Prime Minister has instructed me to say that it is in British interests to accept a new generation of US mid-range nuclear weapons on our soil. We are well aware what is on offer, and we are sure our abilities to persuade other European countries of the need for Cruise and Pershing will ultimately outweigh any interests your government might have with the undemocratic military junta which temporarily runs Argentina.’

Hickox smiled.

‘You Brits,’ was all he said, and then slapped me on the back with a thump that made my teeth rattle. ‘You Brits.’

As I was trying to recover, suddenly Hickox put his hamburger on the table and fell to the ground on his front. It was one of the strangest things I had ever seen and I was completely unprepared for it. David Hickox, Director of Central Intelligence, began doing a series of one-arm push-ups on the dirt, counting out loud as he did so.

‘One … two … three…’

A small crowd gathered to cheer him on. I recognized the smiling faces of the deputy defence secretary, the head of the National Security Agency, and the under-secretary of state at the State Department. Don Hall pointed out a couple of generals and admirals in the mix, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps. No women. A few of the wives had gathered near the house, well away from the show by the barn, but this was a gathering of men. We were all clapping rhythmically, as Hickox pumped on his right arm. I quickly understood it was some kind of party piece.

‘Twelve … thirteen … fourteen …’

Each push-up pumped on his right arm. He held the left arm crooked behind his back.

Don Hall walked towards me.

‘Twenty one … two … three …’

‘Did you upset him …?’ Don began.

‘I didn’t upset him,’ I protested.

‘Twenty eight … nine …’

‘Well, then, he really likes you if he’s giving this kinda performance. David Hickox only does his push-up thing when he wants to distract attention or celebrate. It works well with the Washington press corps, and other simple life forms.’

Hickox stood up, red in the face. He had managed thirty one-armed push-ups, which would have defeated most men half his age. I doubt if I could have managed a single one, even though I considered myself fit. The crowd cheered and slapped him on the back.

Hickox abandoned his half-eaten hamburger and instead went to grab ribs from the barbecue and another beer. When he had gone, Don Hall whispered to me, ‘Works every time.’

‘What? That?’ I said in disbelief. ‘But it’s just a circus act.’

‘And Washington is a circus, Robin. The biggest of big tops. You know the President says that being in the White House is just like showbiz? You have a helluva opening, you coast a little, and then you have a helluva close. It’s all showbiz. Acting. Something you might need to think about if you get the top job. You’ll make a great Prime Minister.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Though I’m not sure Hickox would make such a great president.’

I looked at him for a reason, but Don Hall just shrugged. I did not know what to say, so I just smiled, puffed up by the compliment he had paid to me. I could see that Hickox was still being congratulated as he fed himself pork ribs, licking the barbecue sauce from his fingers.

‘You know our boys really want to see how you do it,’ Don Hall changed the subject. ‘Hickox especially.’

‘How we do what?’

‘Force projection. If you can get your Task Force to re-take a bunch of rocks in the South Atlantic, thousands of miles from home, it proves at least one navy in NATO works.’

I laughed.

‘So, despite Jeanne Kirkpatrick, there are some people on this side of the Atlantic who do want us to win?’

Don laughed too, and then went off to attend to the chicken.

‘Go talk some more to Hickox,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He’ll be playing horseshoes behind the barn. He’s the one you want to use your famous British charm on. Now you’ve got started.’

Hickox was throwing horseshoes and cursing like a Marine every time he missed.

‘Here, British boy, take a turn.’

My first horseshoe missed the pole by a foot. Hickox hooted.

‘You do that to make me feel good?’

‘Absolutely. I usually get it right first time. I just wanted to see you do some more push-ups.’

My second attempt missed by a foot the other side.

‘Triangulation,’ I said.

‘Eh?’

‘Like artillery.’

The third horseshoe rang around the pole. Beginner’s luck.

‘Bullseye!’ Hickox yelled and then thumped me on the back again. If I had false teeth, the force of the blow would have knocked them out. I coughed and tried to smile.

‘Tell me something, Director…’

‘David. Or you can call me Wild Bill, like the press here do. It helps with the image if the Soviets think I am borderline crazy.’

After witnessing the push-ups, it wasn’t just the Soviets who thought he was borderline crazy, but I knew better than to show it. Besides, Hickox had his own charm, which I was slowly warming to. There was – how should I say it? – an honesty about his ruthlessness which I found refreshing. In Britain, it is necessary to hide such things.

‘Tell me, David, just straight here between us, you do know how important retaking the Falklands is to the British government?’

He nodded, then picked up the horseshoes and began throwing again.

‘An existential crisis,’ he muttered. ‘You lose the war, you’re gone. You win the war, you’re back, big time. Maybe for another ten years. We want you to win the war.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘I hoped you would say that. Then given the seriousness of the matter, we will, as I suggested to you a moment ago, be grateful for anything – anything – you or other US agencies come across which would be of interest. Very grateful.’

He said nothing. Threw a horseshoe. Missed. He collected the horseshoes and came back and stood in front of me.

‘I’m all ears,’ he said.

‘Beyond what I said about the Soviet Union, what is it that keeps you awake at night?’

Without missing a beat Hickox spoke softly, just one word.

‘Iran.’

He pronounced it ‘Eye-ran’. Jack Heriot had been right.

‘So,’ I said, riding a surge of thankfulness. ‘So, is there anything we can do about Iran that would help you sleep more easily?’

Hickox threw another horseshoe then stood up straight and looked at me.

‘Matter of fact, Robin,’ he said, putting a big arm round my shoulder, ‘I do believe there is.’

Now it really was Mission Accomplished, I told myself. Hickox squeezed me tightly. I could smell the barbecue sauce on his fingers. We both grinned.