Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

He found the Prime Minister sitting alone in the Cabinet room.

Simon went over the final plan with her in great detail, explaining that everything was ready and would be over by the time most people were having their breakfasts.

“Let me know the moment you hear anything, however trivial,” she concluded, before returning to the latest gloomy study of the economy from the Wynne Godley team, who were suggesting the pound and the dollar would be on an equal parity by 1988. “One day you may have all these problems on your shoulders,” she said.

Simon smiled and left her to walk back through the private tunnel to his office on the other side of Whitehall.

He took the lift back up to his room on the sixth floor and joined the Joint Chiefs. Although it was past midnight none of them looked tired despite their all having shared the lonely vigil with their comrades 2,000 miles away. They told stories of Suez and the Falklands, and there was frequently laughter. But it was never long before their eyes returned to the clock.

As Big Ben struck two chimes, Simon thought: four o’clock in Libya. He could visualize the men falling backward over the side of the boat and deep into the water before starting the long, slow swim toward Broadsword.

When the phone rang, breaking the eerie silence like a fire alarm, Simon picked it up to hear Charles Seymour’s voice.

“Simon,” he began, “I’ve finally got through to Gaddafi and he wants to negotiate.” Simon looked at his watch; the SBS men could only be a few hundred yards from Broadsword.

“It’s too late,” he said. “I can’t stop them now.”

“Don’t be such a bloody fool — order them to turn back. Don’t you understand we’ve won a diplomatic coup?”

“Gaddafi could negotiate for months and still end up humiliating us. No, I won’t turn back.”

“We shall see how the Prime Minister reacts to your arrogance,” said Charles and slammed down the receiver.

Simon sat at his desk and waited for the telephone to ring. He wondered if he could get away with taking the damn thing off the hook — the modern equivalent of Nelson placing the telescope to his blind eye, he considered. He needed a few minutes, but the phone rang again only seconds later. He picked it up and heard Margaret Thatcher’s unmistakable voice.

“Can you stop them if I order you to, Simon?”

He considered lying. “Yes, Prime Minister,” he said.

“But you would still like to carry it through, wouldn’t you?”

“I only need a few minutes, Prime Minister.”

“Do you understand the consequences if you fail, with Charles already claiming a diplomatic victory?”

“You would have my resignation within the hour.”

“I suspect mine would have to go with it,” she said. “In which case Charles would undoubtedly be Prime Minister by this time tomorrow.” There was a moment’s pause before she continued. “Gaddafi is on the other line and I am going to tell him that I am willing to negotiate.” Simon felt defeated. “Perhaps that will give you enough time, and let’s hope it’s Gaddafi who has to worry about resignations at breakfast.”

Simon nearly cheered.

“Do you know the hardest thing I have had to do in this entire operation?”

“No, Prime Minister.”

“When Gaddafi rang in the middle of the night, I had to pretend to be asleep so that he didn’t know I was sitting by the phone.”

He laughed.

“Good luck, Simon. I’ll phone and explain my decision to Charles.”

The clock read three-thirty.

On his return the bevy of admirals were variously clenching their fists, tapping the table, or walking around it, and Simon began to sense what the Israelis must have felt like as they waited for news from Entebbe.

The phone rang again. He knew it couldn’t be the Prime Minister this time as she was the one woman in England who never changed her mind. It was Charles Seymour.

“I want it clearly understood, Simon, that I gave you the news concerning Gaddafi’s desire to negotiate at three-twenty. That is on the record, so there will be only one minister handing in his resignation later this morning.”

“I know exactly where you stand, Charles, and I feel confident that whatever happens you’ll come through your own mound of manure smelling of roses.” He slammed down the phone just as four o’clock struck. For no fathomable reason everyone in the room stood up, but as the minutes passed again one by one they sat back down.

At seven minutes past four radio silence was broken with the five words, “Shoplifter apprehended, repeat Shoplifter apprehended.”

Simon watched the Joint Chiefs cheer like schoolchildren reacting to the winning goal at a football match. Broadsword was on the high seas in neutral waters. He sat down at his desk and asked to be put through to No. 10. The Prime Minister came on the line. “Shoplifter apprehended,” he told her.

“Congratulations, continue as agreed,” was all she said.

The next move was to be sure that all the Libyan prisoners who had been taken aboard Broadsword would be discharged at Malta and sent home unharmed. Simon waited impatiently for radio silence to be broken again, as agreed, at five o’clock.

Captain Lawrence Packard came on the line as Big Ben struck five. He gave Simon a full report on the operation: one Libyan guerilla had been killed and eleven injured. There had been no, repeat no, British deaths and only a few minor injuries sustained. The thirty-seven SBS men were back on board the submarines Conqueror and Courageous. HMS Broadsword had two engines out of action and currently resembled an Arab bazaar, but was sailing the high seas on her way home. God Save the Queen.

“Congratulations, Captain,” said Simon. He returned to Downing Street, no longer bothering to use the secret tunnel. As he limped up the road journalists with no idea of the news that was about to be announced were already gathering outside No. 10. Once again he answered none of their shouted questions. When he was shown into the Cabinet room he found Charles already there with the Prime Minister. He told them both the latest news.

“Well done, Simon,” said Mrs. Thatcher.

Charles made no comment.

It was agreed that the Prime Minister would make a statement to the House at three-thirty that afternoon.

“I must admit that my opinion of Charles Seymour has gone up,” said Elizabeth in the car on the way to Oxford to watch Peter play in his hockey match.

“What do you mean?” asked Simon.

“He’s just been interviewed on television. He said he had backed your judgment all along while having to pretend to carry out pointless negotiations. He had a very good line to the effect that it was the first time in his life that he had felt honorable about lying.”

“Smelling like roses,” Simon said sharply. Elizabeth didn’t understand her husband’s response.

He went on to tell his wife everything that had gone on between them during the last few hours.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“And admit that the Foreign Secretary and I were quarrelling throughout the entire operation? It would only show up the Government in a bad light and give the Opposition something to latch on to.”

“I’ll never understand politics,” said Elizabeth resignedly.

It amused Simon to watch his son massacred in the mud while he stood on the touchline in the rain only hours after he had feared Gaddafi might have done the same to him. “It’s a walkover,” he told the Principal when Peter’s college were four goals down by half-time.

“Perhaps he’ll be like you and surprise us all in the second half,” came back the reply.