Chapter 20: Billion Dollar Deal

June 1971, age 16

The world is a funny old place. As I lay on my back in the grass, staring up at the blue sky and listening to the hypnotic music from Glastonbury’s Pyramid Stage, the dichotomy between the psychedelic ‘love and peace’ atmosphere at Worthy Farm and the harsh reality of the outside world was stark. On the far side of the world in Vietnam, people were doing their utmost to annihilate each other. Intolerance was everywhere in society. Poverty and social inequality were rife. Still, there was music.

And, of course, there was the bonus of a rather pretty girl lying near me. I could quite easily have fallen in love with Freya. But I unintentionally threw a spanner in the works by saying something stupid. We had returned to our campsite for supper, Freya joining us, and the conversation meandering through the topics of hobbies, school and so on, before turning to her job. It went something like this:

Me: Do you enjoy your work?

Freya: Would you enjoy a job where you spend most of the day answering phones saying ‘Parson, Cubit and Lodge, how may I help you?’

Me: I think I’d probably go insane.

Peter & Tommy in unison: Too late! [followed by laughter and high-fiving]

Freya: Me too. I think I lost my mind my first week there.

Me: So why stay?

Freya: I don’t exactly have many options. I’m a girl. When I left school, my choices were either secretary, factory work or housewife.

Me: That’s a waste. You should come and work for me.

Peter: Or you could marry me? I might not be loaded like Finn, but I’m better in bed!

That, of course, prompted a mock fight between Pete and me followed by more banter and conversation. Meanwhile, my brain caught up with my mouth and realised that being Freya’s employer was not the kind of relationship I wanted with her. (Though a naughty secretary sex fantasy might be interesting!) So I tried to find ways to back-track from my off-the-cuff offer. I was glad when food put a stop to our conversation, and the topic got postponed for a while.

It was the next day that she mentioned it again. She and I had been exploring the site and came across someone that I wanted to meet.

“Excuse me? You’re David Puttnam, aren’t you?”

“I am”, he replied. “And you are?”

I offered him my hand and told him, “I’m Finnley Harrison. I own Marvel Studios.” Freya gave me an odd look.

“You’re kidding me!”, Mr Puttnam exclaimed but shook my hand nonetheless.

“Nope. Why? Not what you expected? And this is Freya...”

“His Executive Assistant”, she interrupted, shaking his hand too.

David Putnam was a film producer, who would make a name for himself as one of Britain’s best. I already knew that he and his crew were at Glastonbury making a documentary.

We chatted briefly about the festival and his shoot before I dropped in a strategic sentence. “Marvel is going to be expanding its production financing over the next few years, so if you ever have a project in need of money, please do keep us in mind.”

I didn’t know whether he would take me seriously, but movie producers are perennially in need of money, so the odds were good. Over the next ten years, he would produce successful films like Bugsy Malone and the Oscar-winning Charriots of Fire. If we could get involved in those, so much the better.

After saying our goodbyes and heading back toward camp, I commented, “Executive Assistant?”

Freya just shrugged and smiled sweetly.

There would be no further talk of jobs that week, and while we exchanged telephone numbers before parting, I warned her I would shortly be jetting off to America. While I was away, I knew security would find out all there was to know about Miss Freya Billingham.

The remaining three days at Glastonbury were really nice. The days were relaxing, the evenings energetic and the company awesome.

It was Sunday morning as we were packing up to go home that utopia was invaded. As I returned from taking some rubbish to the skip, some random guy walked up and thrust a padded envelope into my hands. By the time I turned to question him, he was long gone. The front of the envelope had ‘open in private’ written in handwriting that I recognised. My heart pounded as I looked around to see if anyone was paying attention to me. Festival-goers thankfully had more important things to deal with, like hangovers from hell, so I stuffed the delivery where it wouldn’t be seen and tried to act normally.

Back at home that night, in the privacy of my bedroom, I opened the package to find a small electronic device and an accompanying note.

Finnley, when you go to Westminster tomorrow, take enclosed bug and place somewhere in government offices. Be certain it cannot be seen. Use gloves for no fingerprints. Anatoly.

Shit.

I briefly looked over at the stupid Barcelona snow globe that my KGB handler had previously sent me and wondered for the thousandth time whether I was being monitored. Then I realised that, even if I wasn’t, I had a bug right in front of me.

As I organised my thoughts, two came to the fore. First, how the fuck did they know about tomorrow’s meeting? I hadn’t told anyone, so they must have a mole either in our company offices or somewhere in government. And second, how would I manage to place the bug in a government building without getting caught?

It turned out that I needn’t have worried about the second point. Dan was currently abroad on business, but Ewan knew the procedure for contacting MI5. By 8am the following morning I had a map of the building I was about to visit, and a note telling me precisely where to hide the bug. They had chosen a men’s bathroom, where they could easily stage conversations at the urinals for the KGB to hear while restricting access to everyone else. The bug would then be ‘found’ by a routine sweep a few days later. Five were using this as a way to establish my bona fides, so the information deliberately leaked would be genuine, but non-critical.

My journey to Westminster was tense, with the infernal gadget in my pocket presumably broadcasting our every word. We arrived in plenty of time, and the company’s head of operations, Andrew, met me at the door. He would accompany me to the meeting as designated grown-up. Having an adult along to ensure I didn’t screw up was a small concession for me doing this important, high-level meeting while Dan was away.

We got through security with no problem, which was the first hurdle. So after checking in with the Minister’s secretary, I excused myself to go to the toilet. My pulse was racing and my palms sweating as I navigated the maze of corridors. Then my heart stopped as I turned a corner to find a man ahead, standing guard at the very door I needed. I slowed my pace, desperately wondering what to do. I settled on a little-boy-lost act, but it wasn’t needed. He just winked at me and moved aside. Phew. So I had backup.

Inside the bathroom, I quickly put on the glove from my jacket pocket, extracted the bug, fumbled to remove the tape covering the bug’s adhesive strip, and stuck it underneath a sink as I’d been directed. I stepped back, checked it was hidden, and then went to empty my bladder in nervous relief.

After that bit of excitement, the meeting with two senior government ministers was easy, almost anticlimactic. I’d learnt my lines; I knew every facet of the deal I was there to propose, and I knew the Home Secretary had prepared the ground for us. The topic was the high-profile bankruptcy of a Scottish shipyard.

“Ministers, I’m here to propose a quid pro quo involving the Upper Clyde Shipbuilders. I know it’s not really your problem, but I’m told you’re getting serious heat over the job losses even so.”

That was certainly true, and it showed on their faces. The shipbuilders’ union had adopted the unusual tactic of a work-in and was gaining widespread support as a result.

“I am willing to buy UCS, take on its debts and guarantee all the jobs until after the next election. I imagine that might be helpful to you, especially if you’re seen brokering the deal. There’s a catch though. The Labour Party has made it very clear that they intend to nationalise the shipbuilding industry if they get back into government. Clearly, there’s not much benefit to me buying a troubled company and turning it around, only for it to be stolen away by the government. So before I buy it, I would need an assistance package from you with some protection. Let’s say, for example, the package included a contract to build two of the remaining Type-21 frigates. I would want an iron-clad penalty clause of at least a couple of billion in the contract to keep Labour’s grubby hands off my company.” I didn’t need to emphasise the point that a military contract would also help UCS get back in the black.

The Secretary of State for Trade and Industry was no fool. John Davies was an accountant by trade who had worked his way up through management, become head of the Confederation of British Industry, and was then headhunted as a Conservative parliamentary candidate. Less than six weeks after election he became a senior and unusually capable cabinet minister. He saw through my plan immediately.

“Hmm, doesn’t the Labour Party also want to nationalise the aerospace industry? Remind me, don’t you also own the British Aircraft Corporation?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Now that you mention it, I think I did hear talk of that, yes.”

“So let me get this straight”, he continued. “You are willing to take on a loss-making company, part of a loss-making industry if we’re being honest, in order to get a legal umbrella to shelter your entire company from nationalisation? You’re a wily little blighter, aren’t you!”

I had the feeling that I’d won him to my cause. But the MOD man was key.

“I’m not in a position to give away defence contracts”, said the Minister of State for Defence Procurement. “That will have to go through the usual channels. But if you were to offer a cut-down price on the frigates in exchange for us helping you with this little subterfuge, I think you might stand a reasonable chance.”

Nice try mister!

“I’m willing to take a reduced profit margin”, I told him. “The frigate idea is mainly about having jobs on the books to occupy my new workers. But I’m not about to accept a loss-making contract. You might perhaps like to check with the Home Secretary to see how my credit is on political favours!”

That got a pointed exchange of looks between the ministers.

“As it happens,” John Davies cut in, “your name came up recently in cabinet. I won’t ask what you’ve done to earn yourself such a powerful ally, but I can tell you the Home Secretary got your pay-TV bill past the PM. From my department’s standpoint, I’d like nothing more that to assist you with this. I do also appreciate your nationalisation concerns. Without speaking for the MOD, I suspect we could fast-track a contract of some sort to give you the protections you need without holding up the purchase. So in principal, you’ve got a deal.”

Obviously, it wasn’t as simple as that to get a major deal through government. There would be many weeks of negotiations to follow between the government, Harrison Holdings, and the UCS bankruptcy receiver. But none of that would involve me — I was off on holiday!

My summer trip to America was the first time I’d gone abroad on my own (sort of). I had Ewan with me, and Dan was already in New York. But with Caity still at school and no entourage of family and friends, this was the most independent I’d felt since my work experience week with the RAF a year ago.

The long transatlantic flight is always tedious, so this time I cheated somewhat by borrowing Concorde. The two prototypes, one French and one British, were each about to go off on promotional tours of the world. The French bird was slated to make the first transatlantic crossing and thus get into the history books. Call me petty, but I couldn’t have that. So I requisitioned the British bird for my personal trip, cutting my flight time almost in half. The fact that we’d beat the French was entirely coincidental, honestly!

So I left my meeting in Westminster to return home for lunch, then picked up my suitcase and headed down to Bristol for an overnight there. First thing next morning, Ewan and I boarded Concorde at our company airfield, just as we had two years previously for the Paris Air Show trip. We also had the same pilots, which was great as Brian Trubshaw MVO CBE had agreed to give me flying lessons later that summer (though sadly not using Concorde).

Time flies when you’re going at Mach 2, and the wondrous machine got us to New York before we left the UK. (3.5-hour flight, five time-zones.) The flight had one highly memorable moment, as we were welcomed to US airspace by a greeting party of two fighter jets. Something about our speed had aroused their curiosity.

Our flight plan had deliberately kept us over water to minimise sonic booms being heard. But Concorde is not the quietest of aircraft, even sub-sonic, so slipping in unnoticed at JFK was never going to happen. By the time we had taxied to the corporate terminal, then been boarded and cleared by customs officials, we disembarked to find a reporter waiting alongside our security detail.

“HEY KID, ARE YOU THE NEW OWNER OF THE YANKEES?”

That stopped me in my tracks, as I’d only been expecting questions about Concorde. The young guy looked fairly harmless and wasn’t carrying a camera, so I wandered over.

“Quick tip for you: I don’t usually react well to being address as ‘kid’.” I offered him my hand. “I’m Finnley Harrison. You are?”

“Johnny Dorrington, New York Times”, he replied whilst shaking my hand.

“Nice to meet you Johnny”, I said, determined to stay casual and friendly. “Now what did you ask me?”

“I wondered if you could confirm whether you’re the new owner of the New York Yankees?”

“Interesting question”, I replied. “The honest answer is no I can’t confirm it. That’s because the last I heard we were still in negotiation. But your information could easily be more up-to-date than mine, so how about this: come to my hotel tomorrow morning, 9am, and I’ll get you a better answer. Alright? Now if you don’t mind I’d really like to get out of the airport before the press figures out I hijacked Concorde.” I didn’t tell him what I meant by ‘my hotel’, but if he couldn’t work it out, he didn’t deserve an interview.

A few minutes later we were safely on the motorway (or whatever Americans call them) and headed towards Manhattan. I asked the local guys, “Either of you happen to know whether I bought a baseball team recently?”

The man in the front passenger seat turned and replied “No sir, but the boss did ask me to give you this.” He handed me a sealed envelope, inside which I found a hand-written note from Dan.

Finn — we’ve discovered a bug in your hotel room. Source unknown. Orders from Curzon Street are to leave it in place and exercise caution. Dan.

“Shit”, I muttered, causing Ewan’s head to whip around. I was having way too much experience with bugs recently. I wasn’t sure how freely I should speak in front of the local guys, so after asking my travel companions for a pen, I added a single word to the note and passed it to Ewan: Russians?