Intelligence was over-staffed, mired in procedural antecedents. The RUC Special Branch, which considered itself the owner of the turf, was clumsy, under-resourced and, more to the point, part of the problem – a Protestant fiefdom. And who else could have made such a mess of internment in ’71?
Five had been right to keep its distance from the dubious interrogation techniques, torture in anyone’s book. Now it was doing its best in a crowded field. But even if each agencywas staffed by geniuses and paragons of efficiency, four in collaboration could never defeat the monolithic entity of the Provisional IRA, one of the most formidable terrorist groups the world had ever known. Northern Ireland was a vital concern of domestic security. The Service must get a grip and advance its claim through the Whitehall corridors, suborn the other players to its will, become the rightful inheritor of the estate, and move in on the root of the problem.
There was no applause, partly because the brigadier’s tone was close to exhortation, and that sort of thing didn’t go down well here. And everyone knew that an assault on Whitehall’s corridors would hardly be enough. I didn’t take notes during the discussion between the brigadier and the Director General. From the question session I recorded only one of the questions, or ran a couple together as representative of the general drift. They came from the ex-colonial officers – one in particular I remember was Jack MacGregor, who had a dry, gingerish look and the tightly swallowed vowels of a South African, though he originally came from Surrey. He and some of his colleagues were particularly interested in the proper response to social breakdown. What would be the role of the Service? And what about the army? Could we stand aside and watch public order break down in the event that the government couldn’t hold the line?
The Director General answered – curtly and with excessive politeness. The Service was accountable to the Joint Intelligence Committee and the Home Secretary, the army to the Ministry of Defence, and that was how it would remain. The emergency powers were sufficient to meet any threat and were something of a challenge to democracy in themselves.
A few minutes later, the question returned in a more pointed form from another ex-colonial. Suppose at the next general election a Labour government was returned. And suppose its left wing made common cause with radical union elements and one saw a direct threat to parliamentary democracy. Surely some form of contingency planning would be in order.
I wrote down the DG’s exact words. ‘I rather think I’ve made the position perfectly clear. Restoring democracy, as it’s called, is what the army and security services might do in Paraguay. Not here.’
I thought the DG was embarrassed to have what he would have thought of as ranchers and tea planters reveal their colours before an outsider, who was nodding gravely.
It was at this point that Shirley startled the room by calling out from her back-row seat next to mine, ‘These berks want to stage a coup!’
There was a collective gasp and all heads turned to look at us. She had broken several rules at a stroke. She had spoken unbidden by the Director General, and had used a dubious word like ‘berk’, whose provenance as rhyming slang some must have known. She had thereby insulted decorum and two desk officers far senior to herself. She had been uncouth in front of a visitor. And, she was lowly, and she was a woman. And, worst of all, she was probably right. None of that would have mattered to me but for the fact that Shirley sat nonchalantly before the collective glare, while I blushed, and the more I blushed the more certain everyone was that I was the one who had spoken. Aware of what they were thinking, I blushed even more, until my neck was hot. Their eyes were no longer fixed on us, but on me. I wanted to crawl under my chair. My shame rose in my throat for the
Five had been right to keep its distance from the dubious interrogation techniques, torture in anyone’s book. Now it was doing its best in a crowded field. But even if each agencywas staffed by geniuses and paragons of efficiency, four in collaboration could never defeat the monolithic entity of the Provisional IRA, one of the most formidable terrorist groups the world had ever known. Northern Ireland was a vital concern of domestic security. The Service must get a grip and advance its claim through the Whitehall corridors, suborn the other players to its will, become the rightful inheritor of the estate, and move in on the root of the problem.
There was no applause, partly because the brigadier’s tone was close to exhortation, and that sort of thing didn’t go down well here. And everyone knew that an assault on Whitehall’s corridors would hardly be enough. I didn’t take notes during the discussion between the brigadier and the Director General. From the question session I recorded only one of the questions, or ran a couple together as representative of the general drift. They came from the ex-colonial officers – one in particular I remember was Jack MacGregor, who had a dry, gingerish look and the tightly swallowed vowels of a South African, though he originally came from Surrey. He and some of his colleagues were particularly interested in the proper response to social breakdown. What would be the role of the Service? And what about the army? Could we stand aside and watch public order break down in the event that the government couldn’t hold the line?
The Director General answered – curtly and with excessive politeness. The Service was accountable to the Joint Intelligence Committee and the Home Secretary, the army to the Ministry of Defence, and that was how it would remain. The emergency powers were sufficient to meet any threat and were something of a challenge to democracy in themselves.
A few minutes later, the question returned in a more pointed form from another ex-colonial. Suppose at the next general election a Labour government was returned. And suppose its left wing made common cause with radical union elements and one saw a direct threat to parliamentary democracy. Surely some form of contingency planning would be in order.
I wrote down the DG’s exact words. ‘I rather think I’ve made the position perfectly clear. Restoring democracy, as it’s called, is what the army and security services might do in Paraguay. Not here.’
I thought the DG was embarrassed to have what he would have thought of as ranchers and tea planters reveal their colours before an outsider, who was nodding gravely.
It was at this point that Shirley startled the room by calling out from her back-row seat next to mine, ‘These berks want to stage a coup!’
There was a collective gasp and all heads turned to look at us. She had broken several rules at a stroke. She had spoken unbidden by the Director General, and had used a dubious word like ‘berk’, whose provenance as rhyming slang some must have known. She had thereby insulted decorum and two desk officers far senior to herself. She had been uncouth in front of a visitor. And, she was lowly, and she was a woman. And, worst of all, she was probably right. None of that would have mattered to me but for the fact that Shirley sat nonchalantly before the collective glare, while I blushed, and the more I blushed the more certain everyone was that I was the one who had spoken. Aware of what they were thinking, I blushed even more, until my neck was hot. Their eyes were no longer fixed on us, but on me. I wanted to crawl under my chair. My shame rose in my throat for the
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