Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

Charles asked the Permanent Under-Secretary to link him up with Britain’s ambassador at the United Nations.

“And keep trying to raise Gaddafi.”

Simon listened to Sir John go over the latest version of Operation Shoplifter. Thirty-seven men from the crack Special Boat Service, the Marine equivalent of the SAS regiment which had been involved in the St. James’s Square siege in April 1984, were now in Rosyth on the Scottish coast, preparing to board HMS Brilliant , the sister ship to Broadsword.

The men were to be dropped from a submarine a mile outside Rosyth harbor and to swim the last mile and a half under water until they reached the ship. They would then board Brilliant and expect to recapture her from a mock Libyan crew in an estimated twelve minutes. Brilliant would then be sailed to a distance of one nautical mile off the Scottish coast. The operation was to be completed in sixty-five minutes. The SBS planned to rehearse the procedure on Brilliant three times before first light the following morning, when they hoped to have the entire exercise down to one hour.

Simon had already confirmed the order to send two submarines from the Mediterranean full steam in the direction of the Libyan coast. The rest of the fleet was to be seen to be conspicuously going about its normal business while the Foreign Office appeared to be searching for a diplomatic solution.

Simon’s request to the Joint Chiefs came as no surprise and was granted immediately. He phoned Elizabeth to explain why he wouldn’t be home that night. An hour later the Secretary of State for Defense was strapped into a helicopter and on his way to Rosyth.

Charles followed the proceedings at the United Nations live in his office on a satellite link-up. At the end of a brief debate a vote was called for. The Secretary General announced 147–3 in Great Britain’s favor, with twenty-two abstentions. Charles wondered if such an overwhelming vote would be enough to get the Prime Minister to change her mind over Kerslake’s plan. He checked over the voting list carefully. The Russians, along with the Warsaw Pact countries and the Americans, had kept their word and voted with the UK. Only Libya, South Yemen, and Djibouti had voted against. Charles was put through to Downing Street and passed on the news. The Prime Minister, although delighted with the diplomatic triumph, refused to change course until she had heard from Gaddafi. Charles put the phone down and asked his Permanent Under-Secretary to call Ambassador Kadir to the Foreign Office once more.

“But it’s two o’clock in the morning, Foreign Secretary.”

“I am quite aware what time it is but I can see no reason why, when we are all awake, he should be having a peaceful night’s sleep.”

When Mr. Kadir was shown into his room it annoyed Charles to see the little man still looking fresh and dapper. It was obvious that he had just shaved and put on a clean shirt.

“You called for me, Foreign Secretary?” asked Mr. Kadir politely, as if he had been invited to afternoon tea.

“Yes,” said Charles. “We wished to be certain that you are aware of the vote taken at the United Nations an hour ago supporting the United Kingdom’s Resolution 12/40.”

“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

“In which your Government was condemned by the leaders of ninety percent of the people on the globe” — a fact the Permanent Under-Secretary had fed to Charles a few minutes before Mr. Kadir had arrived.

“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

“My Prime Minister is still waiting to hear from your Head of State.”

“Yes, Foreign Secretary.”

“Have you yet made contact with Colonel Gaddafi?”

“No, Foreign Secretary.”

“But you have a direct telephone link to his headquarters.”

“Then you will be only too aware, Foreign Secretary, that I have been unable to speak to him,” said Mr. Kadir with a wry smile.

Charles saw the Permanent Under-Secretary lower his eyes. “I shall speak to you on the hour every hour, Mr. Kadir, but do not press my country’s hospitality too far.”

“No, Foreign Secretary.”

“Good night, Ambassador,” said Charles.

“Good night, Foreign Secretary.”

Kadir turned and left the Foreign Office to be driven back to his Embassy. He cursed the Right Honorable Charles Seymour. Didn’t the man realize that he hadn’t been back to Libya, except to visit his mother, since the age of four? Colonel Gaddafi was ignoring his ambassador every bit as much as he was the British Prime Minister. He checked his watch: it was two forty-four.

Simon’s helicopter landed in Scotland at two forty-five. He and Sir John were immediately driven to the dockside, then ferried out to HMS Brilliant through the misty night.

“The first Secretary of State not to be piped on board in living memory,” said Sir John as Simon made his way with difficulty, his blackthorn stick tapping up the gangplank. The captain of the Brilliant couldn’t disguise his surprise when he saw his uninvited guests and took them quickly to the bridge. Sir John whispered something in the captain’s ear which Simon missed.

“When is the next raid due?” asked Simon, staring out from the bridge but unable to see more than a few yards in front of him.

“They leave the sub at 0300, sir,” said the captain, “and should reach Brilliant at approximately three-twenty. They hope to have taken command of the ship in eleven minutes and be a mile beyond territorial waters in under the hour.”

Simon checked his watch: it was five to three. He thought of the SBS preparing for their task, unaware that the Secretary of State and the Chief of the Defense Staff were on board Brilliant waiting for them. He pulled his coat collar up.

Suddenly he was thrown to the deck, a black and oily hand clamped over his mouth before he could protest. He felt his arms whipped up and tied behind his back as his eyes were blindfolded and he was gagged. He tried to retaliate and received a sharp elbow in the ribs. Then he was dragged down a narrow staircase and dumped onto a wooden floor. He lay trussed up like a chicken for what he thought was about ten minutes before he heard the ship’s engines revving up and felt the movement of the ship below him. The Secretary of State could not move for another fifteen minutes.

“Release them,” Simon heard a voice say in distinctly Oxford English. The rope around his arms was untied and the blindfold and gag removed. Standing over the Secretary of State was an SBS frogman, black from head to toe, his white teeth gleaming. Simon was still slightly stunned as he turned to see the Services Chief also being untied.

“I must apologize, Minister,” said Sir John, as soon as his gag was removed, “but I told the captain not to inform the submarine commander we were on board. If I am going to risk 217 of my men’s lives I wanted to be sure this rabble from the SBS knew what they were up to.” Simon backed away from the six-foot-two giant who towered over him, still grinning.

“Good thing we didn’t bring the Prime Minister along for the ride,” said Sir John.

“I agree,” said Simon, looking up at the SBS commando. “She would have broken his neck.” Everyone laughed except the frogman who pursed his lips.

“What’s wrong with him?” said Simon.

“If he utters the slightest sound during the first sixty minutes he has no hope of being selected for the final team.”

“The Conservative party could do with some back-bench Members of Parliament like that,” said Simon, “especially when I have to address the House tomorrow and explain why I’m doing nothing.”

By three-forty-nine Brilliant was a mile beyond territorial waters. The newspaper headlines that morning ranged from “Diplomatic Victory” in The Times to “Gaddafi the Pirate” in the Mirror.