Chapter 24: Cry Havoc

September 1971, age 16

To quote Ernst Stavro Blofeld, we were about to inaugurate a little war. It would be brief and relatively bloodless. Hopefully. Perhaps more of a skirmish. Its purpose was to make the defence solution my company was providing to the Emirates utterly indispensable. It would take place on Monday 29th November, so we had the best part of three months. The villain of the piece: Iran.

But first, the small matter of going back to school. When we got our new timetables the first day back, I had to laugh at mine. I was doing just two A-Levels, whereas most people did three and super-nerds like Peter did four. But the school liked keeping us under the thumb, so large chunks of my week were marked ‘Library Study’. Well, that wasn’t going to happen!

I had to go and see the head of sixth form to explain that the whole idea of only doing two A-Levels (other than because I was a dunce) was to have time available for flying lessons. Turns out Mr Thompson was actually very interested in that news, and readily permitted me to leave school for flying, so long as I kept him up-to-date and promised to take him up once I had my license. Nice man.

It was one such afternoon during the second week of term, on my way from school to the airfield that Ewan casually announced, “We’ve got a tail”.

We’d been tailed before, but it was the first time Ewan had warned me while it was happening. We kept going for a couple of minutes, Ewan speaking on his radio occasionally. Then the plot thickened when a police car pulled in front of us and indicated for us to stop. The radio calls sounded urgent now. As Ewan pulled to the side of the road, he told me, “Lock your door, and lock mine too after I get out.” I nodded, worried at how serious this seemed.

Ewan got out of the car to talk to the police, and I saw that our backup car had pulled up behind us with two of its three heavies getting out.

“How can we help you, constable?”, Ewan asked as two coppers approached.

“We have a warrant for the arrest of Finnley Henry Harrison. He’ll need to come with us.” What the fuck?!

“Ah, now that’s interesting. That warrant signed-off by the Home Office, is it? Because Finnley has armed protection ordered personally by the Home Secretary. Let’s have a look at it.”

The officer not speaking to Ewan had come around my side of the car and tried the door handle. Finding it locked, he ordered me, “Unlock this door!”

Ewan answered for me, “Not until I see that warrant and verify it with the Home Office.”

The two officers exchanged a glance, then the one near me made the mistake of escalating the situation, pulling out his truncheon. (Most British cops don’t carry guns.) “Unlock this door now, or I’ll smash the window.”

That caused a flurry of motion with Ewan and his two colleagues drawing their pistols. As the cops’ eyes widened in fear, Ewan ordered, “Step away from the car right now! We are authorised by the Home Secretary to use lethal force to protect Mister Harrison. If you swing that truncheon, I’ll put a bullet in you. Step back! Now!”

The guy’s common sense kicked in, and he did as he was told. I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking the danger was over.

It wasn’t.

A shout came from the backup car, and we all turned to see a new car screech up beside us, two guys stepping out. And these two had guns. I didn’t have the best view from inside the car, but I heard Ewan scream “drop the guns”, then less than a second later a chorus of shots rang out. It was over before I even had a chance to duck. Next thing I remember was Ewan yelling into his radio “Shots fired! Shots fired! Two x-rays down! Backstroke secure. No casualties. Execute plan Horizon! Repeat, Horizon. Returning to Cottage.”

Then he looked at the coppers and growled at them, “In about a minute, you’re going to get a call from Scotland Yard telling you that the Home Secretary has taken a personal interest in your careers. Good luck with that!”

In our security control room, a well-rehearsed procedure required a series of phone calls, the first being to 999. “Shots fired on A3 Portsmouth Road, westbound near Cobham. Codeword follows. Codeword is JOURNAL-HORIZON. Repeat, codeword JOURNAL-HORIZON. Notify the Home Secretary and send a coroner’s van for two bodies. Acknowledge.”

I spent the short journey home replaying events in my head on a loop. Why the hell would the police want to arrest me? Had we just killed two plainclothes cops? Or were the KGB trying to snatch me using fake police officers? Or was it a kidnap attempt? And how the hell were we going to cover this up and keep Ewan out of prison?

Half an hour later I was on the phone to Dan, who sounded grim. “I’m at the Home Office. There’s a lot of pale faces here. The two men that our guys killed were CIA. It seems the Americans have a spy inside the Kremlin, who reported that you’re a Soviet agent. So the CIA asked the British government for permission to interrogate you, which was denied, obviously. But the only explanation given was ‘you’re too valuable’. So it seems the CIA paid off a couple of cops to help snatch you. The rest you know. It’s a shit storm here. Half of them are afraid of the fallout from the Americans, the other half the fallout from the press! And intelligence are afraid it’s blown your cover with the KGB. It’s a mess.”

I closed my eyes and tried to think calmly. This was unfortunate, but at least it wasn’t someone trying to kill me. Then a sneaky idea sprang into my head. Damn, I was getting good at being sneaky.

“Dan, get a pen and something to write on.” Could I really do this? It would be cheeky beyond belief. The Home Office might object, but MI5 would like it as it would protect the KGB angle. Yes, it could work. By the time Dan was ready, I’d refined the idea in my head.

“You need to persuade the spooks to put a story out to the press ... write this down. ‘The Metropolitan Police have today foiled a plot to assassinate the sixteen-year-old owner of The Standard newspaper. The two American assassins were shot dead when, despite warnings, they pointed weapons at the teenager, his bodyguards, and police officers. Sources say the police are investigating links to the Lockheed Corporation. If true, the hit may have been ordered in retribution for The Standard’s recent exposé of corruption at the American defence giant.’ Got that?”

There was no response for a moment, then laughter.

That was basically the story that dominated the newspapers and airwaves that night. The police gave a news conference and laid it on a bit thick. The two cops on the scene were extolled as heroes, and the Americans labelled gangsters. The bodies had been spirited away, their IDs pronounced fakes. The police didn’t mention Lockheed by name, but they did say they were looking into ‘individuals and corporations with a grudge against the Harrison business empire’. The name Lockheed had been leaked to the press by then anyway, so reporters joined the dots.

The Foreign Secretary summoned the American Ambassador and finally read him in on Operation Editor. (Editor is my MI5 codename.) That was swiftly communicated back to Langley and put the Yanks in a bind. They would never have acknowledged the deaths of CIA agents, but now they were forced to disavow the agents entirely, purging any evidence connecting these criminals to the CIA. Nothing could be allowed to risk compromising Editor’s pipeline to the KGB. It was too valuable. So poor old Lockheed didn’t get any cover from the American government. A Lockheed executive went on camera to vociferously deny that the company would sink to such depths. But with their corruption scandal still unfolding, they struggled to be convincing.

In the mean time, I had a panic attack. I mean, a full-blown, uncontrollable rapid breathing, walls closing in around me type panic attack. The adrenaline from the incident had worn off, and the enormity of two people being killed right in front of me had struck hard — two people that had been trying to kidnap me at gunpoint. I was upstairs in my room when I felt myself losing control, unable to do the slightest thing about it. Perhaps I knocked something over or managed to shout, because my blurred recollection has Ewan appearing out of nowhere, a paper bag, an arm around my shoulders and the growing sensation of safety.

That was a day I didn’t want to repeat in a hurry.

In the days that followed, Lockheed took a real pounding. It was a hatchet job, but they kind of deserved it. Our next move was to make a large donation to a newly constituted charity in the States, Americans Against Corruption. They, at our urging, made a series of TV ads and bought prime network air time to run them. The logos of various airlines flashed on screen with a voiceover: “These are the airlines that are buying new planes from Lockheed. Were they bribed? We don’t know. But if you’re one of their customers, please make your opinions known. Our country should never tolerate corruption. Each of us shares the solemn duty to stamp it out.”

That put pressure on airlines to cancel their orders for Lockheed Tristars. (BAC and their American partner would be happy to fill the gap!) It also pushed the airlines into proactively demonstrating that their decision-makers had never been swayed by a bribe. Of course, proving a negative is rather tricky. Oops. Careful who you buy from!

A week after the incident, I was ready to exact vengeance on the world for all it had put me through recently. One of our companies had a board meeting scheduled, so they had the misfortune of being in my line of fire. Poor them.

The Rolls-Royce Motors boardroom at their headquarters in Crewe was opulent and a little pretentious, as I suppose you’d expect of a luxury car maker. I was directed to a seat at what was clearly the bottom end of the long table. Dan and Freya were with me, seated against the back wall. When all the remaining seats were filled, but before the big boss could call the meeting to order, I stood up and stole his thunder.

“Good morning gentlemen. My name is Finnley Harrison, and as I’m sure you know, I own this company.” There was shocked silence and looks of surprise or annoyance. “I intend to be more actively involved here from now on, so you can either replace the horror on your faces pretty damn quick or start looking for new jobs. I’m young, but I’m not stupid, and I have an expert team at Harrison Holdings who advise me. I have a number of things I want to deal with this morning, so let’s start with the briefing I requested on our current line.”

Anyone have a pin to drop? There was a pregnant pause as I sat, people looking at the chairman to see how he’d respond. He did the only thing that he could do: he acquiesced. I got a half hour illustrated presentation on the Rolls-Royce line, with lots of dry sales data and projections. Perhaps they were trying to bore me into submission.

Essentially the company had four models: Phantom, Silver Shadow, Corniche and Camargue, the latter still in development. Phantom was the old-fashioned-looking ultra-exclusive car intended for heads of state. Silver Shadow was the quintessential Rolls, and Corniche was a two-door convertible version of the Shadow. Midway through the briefing on Camargue, I jumped in.

“Can you explain to me the logic behind having a car that’s aerodynamically sleek at the rear, but built like a brick at the front?”

The only answer I got was five seconds of silence while some pained looks were exchanged.

I continued, “It’s not a trick question. I’m obviously not an engineer, but even I know from O-Level science that this is pretty pointless. So why are we making this car?”

“I’m not sure that aerodynamics were the motivation behind the design”, one of the design guys ventured.

“This is our first car by a foreign designer”, an executive added. “A very highly respected Italian designer. His brief was to create a coupé that would complement our existing range.”

I wasn’t impressed. “So he took the front half of a Rolls-Royce and the back half of a coupé and stuck ‘em together?!” I knew that Camargue would be considered one the worst and ugliest cars in history, so I’d decided to kill it. “We already have the Corniche as a convertible, and that at least looks and feels like a Rolls. I’ll ask again, why should we build this car?”

This time, no one was in a hurry to stick their neck out.

“Silence. Fine. Effective immediately, this project is cancelled. What’s next? What does Bentley have?”

The sole design guy representing the Bentley brand gave what I recognised as a ‘please don’t shoot the messenger’ answer. “Company policy has been that Bentley only offer re-badged versions of current Rolls-Royce models, so at present Bentley has the T1, equivalent to the Silver Shadow except for its radiator grill, and the Corniche, ditto. We only have early sketches of a Bentley Camargue, and no other designs in development.”

I did wonder what the Bentley team did all day, but I kept that question to myself.

“Very well. Anyone have anything to add to that?”

The executives at the top of the table were so red faced they looked like they were nearing heart attacks. I stood to take charge of the meeting again.

“Then let’s move on. Today I’m commissioning three new cars. First is an update to Silver Shadow.” I picked up the first of the folders I’d brought with me and propelled it down the table. “In there are some drawings of what I think it should look like and some specifications. You have thirty days to improve on my amateur scribblings. If you can’t, then you don’t deserve your jobs. I look forward to seeing your progress.”

It was amusing to note which faces were horror-struck and which showed nervous interest. It was broadly executives versus the designers and engineers. When one guy opened the folder and stared at the first of my drawings, he even looked a little impressed. I couldn’t take credit of course. The drawings were copies of pictures of the future Rolls-Royce Silver Seraph from the history books. But as far as these guys knew, the ideas had come out of my head.

“Car number two is a special edition Phantom Six. The Queen’s silver jubilee is coming up, and we’re going to give Her Majesty a car as a gift. But it needs some refinements: bulletproof glass, armoured body, sealed ventilation system to protect from a gas attack, unburstable tyres ... you get the idea. It needs to be IRA-proof. We may end up using the same stuff to offer a high-security version of the new Rolls, so use this as a test bed.”

A few more looks of positivity around the table now, principally roused by a little patriotic fervour.

“Bentley, as of today, is no longer in the business of producing Rolls-Royce knock-offs. I want the Bentley brand to return to its roots by building a sports car.” I slid a second folder down the table, containing drawings and specs for a sleek and sporty coupé along the lines of the future Bentley Continental GT / GTC. “Again, thirty days to improve on that, or you’re fired. Team Bentley will need a radical change in attitude to get out from Rolls-Royce’s shadow. So we’re going to move Bentley into a new purpose-built headquarters over at Donington Park. I want your input on the plans: everything from R&D facilities through to production line. We’re also going to refurbish the race track which you’ll be able to use for testing. Any questions?”

I’m not going to lie, giving orders to a room full of adults was a real rush. What teenaged boy wouldn’t get off on that sort of power trip. There was some push-back of course, though surprisingly little in the room. Just one of the finance guys questioning how these new projects were to be funded. The main revolt came the following day when the company chairman resigned. I told Dan to take his seat and didn’t lose any sleep. Of course, the arsehole gave the press a very thorough briefing on his way out the door.

Britain’s avid automotive press had mixed reactions. The specialist magazines and more open-minded of the newspaper writers found Bentley’s return to sports cars exciting. The more conservative newspapers (and those wanting to humiliate the owner of The Standard) predictably went with the angle of inexperienced young pup pushing out the older and wiser man. Corporate Armageddon was nigh, obviously. The one that really pissed me off was Rupert Murdoch’s Sun newspaper, which had a cartoon of me wearing just a nappy (diaper), sat cross-legged on the boardroom table and throwing toy cars at the executives. The caption was ‘young executive throws a tantrum’. Arsehole!

My A-Level lessons were going really well. Neither Peter nor Tommy was doing my subjects, but I didn’t let that bother me. It was liberating only to study the two subjects that I was good at. History was still very academic, so it wasn’t easy by any means. But I seemed to be middle-of-the-pack in aptitude, which encouraged me no end.

Throughout the autumn term, Peter seemed determined to salvage my ailing social life. I’d got a few girls’ phone numbers and used them occasionally. But Pete kept pushing me to go on one-off dates with other girls. Though he never said it, I got the impression he was trying to get me to ‘sample the buffet’ after being hooked on a single main-course for so long. Of course, he’d been seeing Jacqueline longer than I’d gone out with Ellie. Perhaps this was vicarious.

Half-term arrived quickly, and with it a visit to Sheffield. We had got into the routine of a phone call every weekend, but it was still great to see Charlie in person. I was back staying at our hotel in the city, just as I had when visiting Harry years ago. Our days out were active, swimming, walking, generally messing about as brothers do.

School resumed on Monday the 1st November, but I was off on the 2nd with special dispensation to attend the State Opening of Parliament. This was a great privilege. I would be in the same room as the Queen, as the guest of the Home Secretary.

The Queen’s speech wouldn’t be till 11.30, but with rush-hour traffic and road closures for the royal procession, I had to get up horribly early. I couldn’t take bodyguards inside Parliament, so a policeman met me at the car and escorted me for the duration. I got breakfast at the visitors’ cafe, followed by a quick tour. The Palace of Westminster is a truly awe-inspiring building.

Guests had to be in their seats in the House of Lords visitors’ gallery by 10.30, but after just five minutes of sitting there, a young lady tapped me on the shoulder and said, “Finnley? The Home Secretary would like a word. Would you come with me please?” That earned me some very odd looks from those sitting within earshot.