The word was that the British Guardsmen had orders to shoot anybody who attempted to break into the Embassy and that those orders came directly from the Prime Minister’s mouth. Irrespective of how disappointed she was with their ‘half-hearted transatlantic allies’, Margaret Thatcher was determined that the rule of law be upheld and that the niceties of ensuring the safety of diplomatic envoys, their staff and their families should be scrupulously observed.
‘Just because the Americans seem, self-evidently, to be incapable of protecting our people in Philadelphia that is no excuse for laxness on our part!’ She had declared angrily in the House of Commons only the previous evening.
Yesterday, soon after the news from Philadelphia had arrived there had been a near riot in two streets adjacent to the Embassy as protesters attempted to break through to the compound; presumably to exact their own rough justice for the outrage perpetrated against the ‘heroes of the Battle of Malta’.
“What on earth have you done with Walter today?” Pat Harding-Grayson inquired brightly. The Foreign Secretary’s wife knew exactly what her new friend had done with her hard-pressed husband; the thing was to break the ice and to attempt to cheer up Joanne Brenckmann.
The Ambassador’s wife rolled her eyes.
“He insisted on going down to Portsmouth as planned,” she complained resignedly. In a moment she smiled. “Actually, I knew he was really looking forward to meeting up again with Commodore Penberthy — he’s the new Deputy Superintendent of the Naval Dockyard — and I insisted that he go.”
“Commodore Penberthy?”
“He and Walter got to know each other last year. David Penberthy was captain of HMS Talavera, Peter Christopher’s commanding officer, last year and Walter, as the US Navy’s unwanted liaison officer with your Channel Fleet spent most of his time carrying out goodwill visits to ships in harbour. David Penberthy and his officers were always very welcoming and, frankly, very sympathetic and understanding of Walter’s position. David Penberthy was badly injured in the Battle of Lampedusa. He lost a foot…”
“Of course,” Pat Harding-Grayson recollected. “That was when Peter Christopher took command and saved the day.”
Joanne Brenckmann smiled uneasily.
“It is just dreadful that somebody could attack their cars like that!” She said shaking her head, ashamed for her countrymen. “Sometimes, I despair, Pat. I really do!”
The Foreign Secretary’s had no intention of letting her friend brood on this.
“Well, fortunately, there was hardly any harm done. Lady Marija and Mrs Hannay escaped with only very minor injuries. From what Lord Franks has said the whole American body politic has united in its condemnation of the attack.” She decided to change the subject. “So, Walter is spying on the Royal Navy at Portsmouth today?”
Joanne Brenckmann laughed.
“He’s always wanted to stand on the deck of HMS Victory and climb up her halyards.”
“Shouldn’t Walter be more interested in how soon the Ark Royal will be ready for sea again?” Pat Harding-Grayson countered mischievously.
“Possibly,” the US Ambassador’s wife agreed as coffees were brought in.
“I’d forgotten what proper coffee was, you know?” Her guest confessed.
Joanne Brenckmann raised her cup to her lips, viewing her visitor thoughtfully over the rim. She and Pat Harding-Grayson were ever firmer friends but, and it was a big but, she was the wife of the US Ambassador and Pat was the — very worldly, very astute wife — of the British Foreign Secretary and the confidante of Margaret Thatcher. The Ambassador’s wife could have no illusion that anything she said privately, or that anything either of them said to each other, was in any meaningful way private.
“What’s Tom up to. Nobody’s seen him in Oxford for several days?”
“My dear,” the Foreign Secretary’s wife laughed, “for all I know he could be tucked up in bed somewhere with his mistress!”
Joanne tried not to giggle like a schoolgirl.
Sir Thomas Harding-Grayson was far too busy to keep a mistress; even if he was that sort of man, which he was not.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t ask.”
Pat Harding-Grayson had been a little surprised by how adroitly her friend had ‘played the game’ virtually from the day she had arrived in England. For all that she gave the impression of never having been anything other than a Boston housewife and mother, a little down home and disinterested in politics and world affairs, Pat had always found Joanne Brenckmann to be a very shrewd kindred spirit.
“That’s quite all right, Joanne. Actually, Tom is in the Middle East. He flew out with the Chief of the Defence Staff to assess the situation. The man on the spot, General Carver is probably the best man we’ve got but the Prime Minister is determined to make sure that the political side of things does not get lost in the business of war fighting.”
Joanne Brenckmann absorbed this revelation.
Anglo-American relations were estranged but unlike in November and December last year, this time around, nobody was about to risk anything getting lost in translation via normal channels. The Kennedy Administration might not know anything about exactly how the British and their Commonwealth allies proposed to fight the rejuvenated Red Army in Iraq or Iran; but it knew that when Margaret Thatcher talked about ‘drawing a line in the sand’ she was in deadly earnest.
Joanne Brenckmann also knew that tomorrow there was to be yet another Parliamentary vote of confidence — the second in a month and the fourth in the short tenure of the UAUK — in the House of Commons in the Great Hall of King’s College. In a day’s time there might be a new government, a new leader and that the United Kingdom’s resolve to continue the fight could evaporate overnight. What then?
“And what is the political side of things?” Joanne Brenckmann asked innocently.
“What happens after the war in the Persian Gulf,” Pat explained pleasantly. The two women could have been discussing table settings or a cake recipe.
The Ambassador’s wife realised that in talking about ‘the Persian Gulf’ as opposed to Iraq or Iran her friend was making a big and potentially key distinction.
“The Gulf?”
Pat Harding-Grayson nodded.
“The Russians don’t want to rule Iraq, they don’t even really want Abadan. What they want is to control the Persian Gulf and to have access to the oceans of the World. They have oil enough for their own needs already; the oilfields of the Caucasus, and soon, if they haven’t seized them already, the oilfields of Iraqi Kurdistan. We’re the ones who need Abadan and you, the Americans, are the ones who will in a few years badly need the oilfields of north-eastern Arabia and Kuwait. Without that oil American industry will grind to a halt inside a decade and then there will have to be another, unimaginably bloody war over the control of the very same oilfields the Administration won’t lift a finger to defend unless or until JFK is re-elected in November.”