A Scandalous Man

‘Twenty eight … nine …’

‘Well, then, he really likes you if he’s giving this kinda performance. David Hickox only does his push-up thing when he wants to distract attention or celebrate. It works well with the Washington press corps, and other simple life forms.’

Hickox stood up, red in the face. He had managed thirty one-armed push-ups, which would have defeated most men half his age. I doubt if I could have managed a single one, even though I considered myself fit. The crowd cheered and slapped him on the back.

Hickox abandoned his half-eaten hamburger and instead went to grab ribs from the barbecue and another beer. When he had gone, Don Hall whispered to me, ‘Works every time.’

‘What? That?’ I said in disbelief. ‘But it’s just a circus act.’

‘And Washington is a circus, Robin. The biggest of big tops. You know the President says that being in the White House is just like showbiz? You have a helluva opening, you coast a little, and then you have a helluva close. It’s all showbiz. Acting. Something you might need to think about if you get the top job. You’ll make a great Prime Minister.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Though I’m not sure Hickox would make such a great president.’

I looked at him for a reason, but Don Hall just shrugged. I did not know what to say, so I just smiled, puffed up by the compliment he had paid to me. I could see that Hickox was still being congratulated as he fed himself pork ribs, licking the barbecue sauce from his fingers.

‘You know our boys really want to see how you do it,’ Don Hall changed the subject. ‘Hickox especially.’

‘How we do what?’

‘Force projection. If you can get your Task Force to re-take a bunch of rocks in the South Atlantic, thousands of miles from home, it proves at least one navy in NATO works.’

I laughed.

‘So, despite Jeanne Kirkpatrick, there are some people on this side of the Atlantic who do want us to win?’

Don laughed too, and then went off to attend to the chicken.

‘Go talk some more to Hickox,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘He’ll be playing horseshoes behind the barn. He’s the one you want to use your famous British charm on. Now you’ve got started.’

Hickox was throwing horseshoes and cursing like a Marine every time he missed.

‘Here, British boy, take a turn.’

My first horseshoe missed the pole by a foot. Hickox hooted.

‘You do that to make me feel good?’

‘Absolutely. I usually get it right first time. I just wanted to see you do some more push-ups.’

My second attempt missed by a foot the other side.

‘Triangulation,’ I said.

‘Eh?’

‘Like artillery.’

The third horseshoe rang around the pole. Beginner’s luck.

‘Bullseye!’ Hickox yelled and then thumped me on the back again. If I had false teeth, the force of the blow would have knocked them out. I coughed and tried to smile.

‘Tell me something, Director…’

‘David. Or you can call me Wild Bill, like the press here do. It helps with the image if the Soviets think I am borderline crazy.’

After witnessing the push-ups, it wasn’t just the Soviets who thought he was borderline crazy, but I knew better than to show it. Besides, Hickox had his own charm, which I was slowly warming to. There was – how should I say it? – an honesty about his ruthlessness which I found refreshing. In Britain, it is necessary to hide such things.

‘Tell me, David, just straight here between us, you do know how important retaking the Falklands is to the British government?’

He nodded, then picked up the horseshoes and began throwing again.

‘An existential crisis,’ he muttered. ‘You lose the war, you’re gone. You win the war, you’re back, big time. Maybe for another ten years. We want you to win the war.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘I hoped you would say that. Then given the seriousness of the matter, we will, as I suggested to you a moment ago, be grateful for anything – anything – you or other US agencies come across which would be of interest. Very grateful.’

He said nothing. Threw a horseshoe. Missed. He collected the horseshoes and came back and stood in front of me.

‘I’m all ears,’ he said.

‘Beyond what I said about the Soviet Union, what is it that keeps you awake at night?’

Without missing a beat Hickox spoke softly, just one word.

‘Iran.’

He pronounced it ‘Eye-ran’. Jack Heriot had been right.

‘So,’ I said, riding a surge of thankfulness. ‘So, is there anything we can do about Iran that would help you sleep more easily?’

Hickox threw another horseshoe then stood up straight and looked at me.

‘Matter of fact, Robin,’ he said, putting a big arm round my shoulder, ‘I do believe there is.’

Now it really was Mission Accomplished, I told myself. Hickox squeezed me tightly. I could smell the barbecue sauce on his fingers. We both grinned.

London, 1982 (#u60bab662-c2d4-5ae2-9072-fb5008b43070)

The trip to Washington was judged a success. Even better, it really was a success. Reality matched perception, which in British politics is quite unusual. The Lady went out of her way to praise me. She had heard from the Ministry of Defence that naval and intelligence cooperation had never been better. No complaints. GCHQ were delighted with assistance they had received from the US National Security Agency, their electronic eavesdropping and signals intelligence people, and the RAF were pleased with something from the National Reconnaissance Office. I never found out what all this was about, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t need to know. All I needed to know was that it was a triumph and that, apparently, was put down to me.

‘We were sure you were the right man for the job, Robin,’ the Lady told me, clapping her hands together in pleasure late one night over the customary whisky and soda at Number Ten. By this time the Marines had landed on the Falklands and were yomping to victory. The Gurkhas had also landed. Argentine conscripts were falling over themselves to surrender. It had been put about that the Gurkhas liked to cut the ears off the bodies of those they killed. We denied this story at every opportunity. There is nothing which promotes an outrageous story more effectively than a firm government denial. Of course, there had also been setbacks. HMS Sheffield. The terrible damage caused by the Exocet missiles supplied to the Argentines by our good friends, the French. But from that point onwards there was no doubt about the final result, no doubt the Argentine junta would collapse, and no doubt either that the Lady would call an election and we’d be back in power for another five years. Ten, I thought. Fifteen, as it turned out. I called David Hickox to thank him.

‘Congratulations,’ he said. ‘I hear it’s gone real well.’

‘Yes. But it would not have gone so well without your personal help. Thank you. I owe you.’

‘Indeed you do. The Lady gonna go for an election?’

‘Next spring,’ I replied. ‘Most likely. And we will win. Thank you for that, too.’

Hickox laughed.