LITMIR.BIZ

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picture of pastureland and all-American contentment, a different planet to the street battles down the road in Washington.

      When I first saw him, the Director of Central Intelligence, David Hickox, was squirting mustard from a yellow plastic bottle on to his hotdog. He was talking with his mouth full to Don Hall. I joined the half dozen others who were listening. Introductions were made.

      ‘So, Robin, it looks like you have the Chileans on-side in the Falklands,’ Hickox said, tearing at the bun and meat and nodding in my direction.

      He was a surprisingly big man, more than six feet tall, I’d guess all of 250 pounds, but with no fat on him. Don had told me he was a former college football star who never quite made it professionally as a result of injuries.

      ‘We do?’ I replied.

      ‘You do. And I believe you know you do. The Argies certainly know it. They think you have British special forces operating out of Chile right now. SAS and SBS.’

      David Hickox was right about that. The Argies were right. The government of Chile hated the Argentine junta more than we did. They were being very helpful. In secret.

      ‘Most of South America wants those arrogant Argie bastards to lose,’ Don Hall said.

      ‘And who can blame them?’ I responded, insistently. ‘They will lose. Now is a good time to be with the eventual winners.’

      ‘And we will help you in any way we can,’ Hickox said, looking at me directly.

      That was a big admission. It made me think that for me this was already mission accomplished.

      ‘I am very pleased, Director. Thank you. The Prime Minister will be very grateful.’

      ‘I know she will,’ Hickox said, and then he paused, wiping a slick of bright yellow mustard and grease from his lips with the back of his hands. ‘So let me say it clear. We will be helpful in any way we can – consistent with our national interests and the directives of the President.’

      I swigged at my beer. It was a reasonable caveat. Don Hall had already made it plain that anything the Royal Navy wanted from the US Navy would be forthcoming. There would be no problems at sea. It was all coming together.

      ‘And I know we both agree that maintaining a strong trans-Atlantic relationship is absolutely consistent with your national interests,’ I insisted. ‘And ours.’

      Hickox tore at the remains of his hotdog.

      ‘So is maintaining the sanctity of the Monroe Doctrine,’ he said.

      The Monroe Doctrine was a 150-year-old piece of convenient US strategic high-flown self-interest much loved by Jeanne Kirkpatrick and a few of the others. It stated that the United States would not tolerate outsiders interfering in Latin America – except, of course, if that outsider were to be the United States itself. I thought Hickox was teasing me.

      ‘Speaking personally,’ I replied, ‘I think we can agree that, once this war with the Argies is over, the biggest question facing both of us as allies will not involve this hemisphere at all. It will be how to stand up to the Soviets in Europe, Afghanistan and elsewhere, and how to roll them back.’

      Hickox reached for more food, accepting a hamburger.

      ‘I like the way you’re talking,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

      ‘The Prime Minister has instructed me to say that it is in British interests to accept a new generation of US mid-range nuclear weapons on our soil. We are well aware what is on offer, and we are sure our abilities to persuade other European countries of the need for Cruise and Pershing will ultimately outweigh any interests your government might have with the undemocratic military junta which temporarily runs Argentina.’

      Hickox smiled.

      ‘You Brits,’ was all he said, and then slapped me on the back with a thump that made my teeth rattle. ‘You Brits.’

      As I was trying to recover, suddenly Hickox put his hamburger on the table and fell to the ground on his front. It was one of the strangest things I had ever seen and I was completely unprepared for it. David Hickox, Director of Central Intelligence, began doing a series of one-arm push-ups on the dirt, counting out loud as he did so.

      ‘One … two … three…’

      A small crowd gathered to cheer him on. I recognized the smiling faces of the deputy defence secretary, the head of the National Security Agency, and the under-secretary of state at the State Department. Don Hall pointed out a couple of generals and admirals in the mix, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps. No women. A few of the wives had gathered near the house, well away from the show by the barn, but this was a gathering of men. We were all clapping rhythmically, as Hickox pumped on his right arm. I quickly understood it was some kind of party piece.

      ‘Twelve … thirteen … fourteen …’

      Each push-up pumped on his right arm. He held the left arm crooked behind his back.

      Don Hall walked towards me.

      ‘Twenty one … two … three …’

      ‘Did you upset him …?’ Don began.

      ‘I didn’t upset him,’ I protested.

      ‘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.

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