"How I see it now," Culliman went on smoothly, "is that since we've gotten the go-ahead to land the President's helicopter on the Horse Guards Parade, it's only the distance between there and the Abbey that we have to worry about."
"Less than half a mile."
"Right. So he comes down to the Abbey in the usuallimo. It's there we assume will be the critical time: everybody in one place for just over an hour, the timings all fixed and everyone knowing about them. So it's just that half-mile, less, back to the helicopter if the indications say Go. That's where the President would be grateful for your assistance. "
"Any help I can give-but it's an Army job. I'll have tosell it to the sixth floor somehow. Still, I think they'd be prepared to go a fair distance if there's a chance of your President talking some backbone into the Cabinet over Berlin."
"The President's meeting with the Prime Minister will be only a courtesy call," Culliman said diplomatically.
"Well, if he doesn'tcourteously try to talk some sense into the old fool before the ODCommittee meets on Berlin, then God help us all." George's lack of discretion, even loyalty, was opportunistic but deliberate for all that. He wanted the White House to know that the Ministry of Defence at least was totally opposed to any unilateral talks on Berlin.
"The, ah, ODCommittee?"
"Overseas and Defence. One of those Cabinet committees that aren't even supposed to exist. Theoretically it's part of the Cabinet, the PM chairs it, so it can reach a decision and hand it to the full Cabinet as a fait accompli. "
After a moment, Culliman said thoughtfully: "I guess the President will be aware of this."
"They've held the meeting over until after the service and everybody's gone home," George said, determinedly topping up the President's awareness. "Friday afternoon."
"Is there any, ah, talkof negotiation?" The word fell like a broken icicle in the mild morning. For forty years the Allies had been prepared todiscuss Berlin whenever the Russians felt inclined, but never tonegotiate. To some, but perhaps no longer to enough, the word meant 'sell-out'.
George shrugged. "When do unilateral talks become negotiation? The old fool's got an attack of statesmanship, always worst when it hits late in life, like measles. Sees a statue of himself in Parliament Square, the man who bridged the East-West gulf, the great Peacemaker."
"Were you still at Number 10 when he came in?"
"For about five minutes." George had been a senior Private Secretary to the old Prime Minister, a man of shrewd judgement, as proven by his decision to take George with him from the Ministry of Defence when the top job beckoned. "Then I was hove out into the cold cold night and only the kindly Mo D saved me from a pauper's grave."
For a moment Culliman took that seriously, then a glance at George's style of dress restored the rumour that George was, at least potentially, one of the richest men in the British Civil Service. "So, will you be talking to your people about the, ah, potential evacuation?"
"Will you be using the President's own cars?" They, of course, were being flown in as well, just ahead of the main party.
"That's kind of the key to the business. Those cars are good tough ones, but you can fix a whole lot of Kevlar and armoured glass on a Lincoln and, at the baseline, it's still a Lincoln.1 want to tell you, if I was sitting in the Kremlin and planning to start a new war by dumping a strike on London, I wouldn't want any chance of missing the Big One. No chance at all. I'd have the word out to the hard-assed boys to stop anything that looked like the President getting away. And those boys would be experts, really trained. I don't mean anybody on your Scotland Yard lists. Or ours," he added politely.
"I'm sure they'd be there," George agreed. "So you want us to lay on what? Armoured personnel carriers?"
"That kindofthing. With an armed escort."
George stopped in his tracks and let his view lift from the squabbling wildfowl on the lake to the modest Whitehall skyline and its flagpoles. He had to take this seriously. It had begun once at Sarajevo, another time at Gleiwitz, now a forgotten name on the German-Polish border, and it could begin again here.
"That's as far as our thinking goes at this time," Culliman prompted.
"It's an Army matter, all right. The Met couldn't handle that."
"The, ah, Met?"
"Metropolitan Police, Scotland Yard. Well, atthis time my thoughts go as far as pouring myself a modest drink. Care to come up to the office and join me?"
He was pleased to see a flicker of apprehension on Culliman's face.
"Hold on, George, we're not back at the Colonial now, and I'm jetlagged to hell… But if you have a little Scotch…"
"I have a lot of Scotch. And I may need most of it before I lay this in front of the DCR."
The Directorate of Crisis Relocation was staffed in the main-and it was a very small staff- by Retired Officers. This is not rare in posts concerning security and intelligence. You get men with training and experience but no longer distracted by ambition, who can concentrate on one narrow task and do it for far longer than a still-serving officer who might move on after only two years, so above all you get continuity. Of course, you also get occasional bursts of bad temper.
"APCs? He wants us to send a column ofarmour charging up Whitehall in the middle of the service?"
"Only if the indications say Go. It's very unlikely to happen, but then, we hope the whole of CR is unlikely."
"What indications? Have they got hold of something they haven't been telling us?"
"No, I don't think there's anything new at all. They're just covering themselves." George knew his own capacity to the fluid ounce, and had reached the DCR office in a well-planned state of mellow soothingness.
"Won't we be getting the sameindications that they will? If we decide it's time for Playpen, isn't that good enough?" The Deputy Director glowered at George over his gold-rimmed spectacles, some way yet from feeling soothed. He was a retired Major-Generalin an ROÍpost, equivalent to a serving colonel, and he did the real work in the Directorate, issuing orders that began "I am instructed by…"a series of come-and-go Directors. He also had an ulcer.
"You know how they are," George said winningly; "they haul in tons of communications kit wherever the President goes, and if we don't squawk at that we can't really object to them using it for its intended purpose. And I dare say they get their satellite read-outs a little earlier than we do."
The DDCR grunted. "But they're rather forcing our hand. Just suppose the President decides to haul ass-do they still say that? You're more up to date on America than I am. They all seem anally fixated to me, callingaeroplanes 'big-assed birds' and telling you 'Get your ass out of here.' "
"Whereas we'd say politely Fuck Off."
"Hmm… But suppose he does decide to go in the middle of the service? Aren't we forced to do the same? -just to show solidarity, save their face?"
"A matter for the Defence Staff. I don't know if they feel forced by the Americans… and we had foreseen the possibility for ourselves." Indeed, stage one of Playpen -helicopters grounded, London troops on Alert-was planned to come into force twenty-four hours before the service began.
"We obviously can't stop them," the DDCR brooded, making invisible doodles with the blunt end of his pen; "it's the whole businessof helping them…"
"I imagine we can manage it more tactfully than having them import a company of Marines." Tact was always a tactful word to invoke. "And laying out the winged carpet seems a small price for what he'll be doing over here. He'll be meeting the inner Cabinet-"