Egypt was to have a ‘free hand’ in Libya; to be at liberty to restore order to that ‘sadly perturbed land’ and thus ‘secure the southern flank’ of the Central and Eastern Mediterranean ‘theatre of operations’. Moreover, the British had no objection ‘in principle’ to Cairo extending its ‘influence’ further west into, for example, Tunisia, or south into Sudan, etcetera. However, if Iraq succumbed to invasion, not just Arabia was threatened and ‘British interests’ robbed of a hitherto relatively secure supply of oil, Egypt’s own position in the region was inevitably undermined ‘perhaps, for all time’.
Sir Thomas Harding-Grayson had proposed a pact; albeit the sort of diplomatic pact that nobody in their right mind would dare to write down in black and white, let alone append his signature to.
The British wanted three things.
Firstly, at least one, preferably two Egyptian armoured divisions, with supporting infantry and logistics support to somehow be transported around the Arabian Peninsula by sea to be ready for full scale offensive operations not later than 30th June. No, at this stage Sir Thomas was not at liberty to discuss the significance of that date or any other ‘military matter’.
Secondly, the above mentioned forces would be placed at the disposal of and under the orders of the Allied Commander-in-Chief, Middle East for a period of not less than thirty days after the ‘commencement of offensive operations’.
Thirdly, after the cessation of hostilities in Iraq — there had been no mention of Iran in the contract — the United Kingdom and the Arab Republic of Egypt would seek to establish good relations based on shared economic and geopolitical interests including a mutual defence pact covering the Eastern Mediterranean and ‘those territories’ surrounding the Persian Gulf.
Both Nasser and Sadat were military men who understood exactly what was on the table.
‘Let us be clear; after we fight the Soviets in Basra Province?’ Nasser had inquired of the British Foreign Secretary. ‘You understand that it may not be possible for my tanks to retire immediately to their initial start lines?’
‘Yes. That is not a problem.’
That was when Nasser and Sadat had known the gamble was worth the candle.
‘It is all very simple,’ the Englishman had explained. ‘You have a free hand in the Western Desert all the way to the Tunisian border. Simultaneously, your Army has a chance to earn a glorious victory in the east. Thereafter, with your oilfields secure for a generation you will be able to afford to purchase the fruits of regenerated British industry with which to modernize your economy.’
Nasser had ordered the 1st and 3rd Armoured Divisions of the Egyptian Army to twenty-four hours readiness to move several days ago. At the same time he had ordered units under the command of several of his most trusted men to ‘guard’ key installations and facilities within the capital. In a revolutionary state all large troop movements caused ripples of alarm and sparked in dissidents sudden hopes of a new coup d’état.
“What is your advice?” Nasser asked his friend.
Sadat hesitated. When it became obvious that the regime was, to all intents, siding with the British against the Soviets the remaining stay behind elements of the phalanx of Russian experts and advisors who had avoided the round ups after the Ismailia strike, would almost certainly attempt to foment an uprising. The streets of Cairo would run with blood well before this thing began to play out, and if the adventure ended in failure both he and Nasser would probably pay for it with their heads.
“There are those who will never forgive us,” he observed sadly. “But the British are right.” The words stuck in his throat. “If we do nothing in a few years we will either have to bow to the Russians again, or perhaps, the Americans. Before the October War we believed that this was our destiny; that and the endless conflict with the Israelis.”
“Ah,” Nasser sighed, “the Israelis.”
“I think the British are right that the Israelis will sit this thing out. In any event Palestine is a matter that we cannot resolve at this time.”
“I agree.” Nasser forced a grim smile. “Summon the Chief of Staff of the Army and the commanders of the 1st and 3rd Armoured Divisions to the Presidential Palace. I will personally give them their orders.”
Chapter 34
J. William Fulbright was having a hard time containing his anger and this was patently obvious to every member of the Embassy welcoming committee that morning. This was hardly surprising since he felt like he was not so much walking barefoot over hot coals, as tiptoeing into an invisible wall of disdain as he was ushered into the Ambassador’s spacious private office. The fact that Lord Franks, the United Kingdom’s Ambassador to the United States of America was at pains to pretend that nothing whatsoever was amiss, did not help; nor did the charming pleasantries of Lady Franks, or the immaculately neutral tones of the Chargé d’Affaire, or the grim, fixed expression on the face of the tall, angry-eyed young naval officer who completed a reception line whose civility was of that particularly English, coldly polite variety.
The Secretary of State waited for the Ambassador to separate himself from his retinue but when Lady Franks made her excuses and left to supervise the provision of tea and coffee, the Chargé d'Affaire, fifty-five year old Sir Patrick Henry Dean, and Captain Sir Peter Christopher, VC, remained.
Fulbright had known Dean from before the October War, when Dean had been the last Representative of the United Kingdom to the United Nations. As for Peter Christopher, his only previous meetings had been those of the polite nodding acquaintance type which had given him no real insight into the younger man’s temper or character. This was unfortunate because right now Peter Christopher looked like he wanted to hit him with a baseball bat.
“I know that the President has written to you,” Fulbright said to Lord Franks while he looked to the young naval officer, “but I would like to take this opportunity to personally apologise to you, Sir Peter and to send my best wishes and hopes for her swift recovery from her injuries to Mrs Hannay.”
The ‘personal security detachment’ provided by the Philadelphia Police Department had permitted an imposter dressed in one of their uniforms — riding a Harley Davidson — to drive unchallenged up to the first of two Embassy cars transporting the two couples back to the compound after attending Mass at the Cathedral Basilica of Saints Peter and Paul. The assassin had been able to fire several shots into the passenger compartment of the vehicle — carrying Marija and Rosa Hannay — with Navy Colt forty-five and would have dropped a hand grenade through the shattered offside window of the car had not Jack Griffin, while the vehicle was travelling at over thirty miles-an- hour thrown open his front passenger side door and hurled himself under the wheels of the assassin’s Harley.
The grenade had skittered away and exploded on the pavement some distance from either Embassy car, killing an elderly man and seriously wounding his wife as the cars sped away, leaving Jack Griffin, bloodied but incandescent with rage beating seven bells out of the attacker. Needless to say the first Philadelphia PD men on the scene had attempted to arrest Griffin for apparently attacking one of their own, and had it not been for his ankle having been broken when he came off his motorcycle, the assassin would probably have escaped in the melee.
The end result of the whole outrageous farrago was that Rosa Hannay had received superficial injuries from flying glass, and mercifully, Marija had not suffered so much as a scratch but Jack Griffin was still in hospital nursing injuries entirely consistent with those one might reasonably expect to sustain in falling out of a moving car, unseating a motor cyclist by the reckless, nevertheless effective expedient of rolling under his wheels, and from the subsequent brutal pummelling he had received at the hands of the Philadelphia PD.