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the distant chimes of which were just audible. Sir Peregrine took a sip of coffee and then resumed in the discreet tones he reserved for distasteful subjects: “In order to help people see sense we may have to cut a few corners, if you get my meaning. Float the odd rumour, organise the occasional punch-up.” The expression‘punch-up’ tripped uneasily off Sir Peregrine’s refined tongue and he winced as he pronounced it.
    â€œAbsolutely,” said Fison, slapping his knee with the flat of his podgy hand. Fison came from a tougher school than Sir Peregrine. He knew exactly what was required. He had started life as an East End barrow boy and a follower of Oswald Mosley. He even had a couple of convictions for incitement under the 1936 Public Order Act. That was a long time ago, of course, but when it came to a bit of bother George Fison could mix it with the best of them. Not that this stopped his newspapers taking a hard line on law and order.
    Fison’s obvious relish made Sir Peregrine unhappy. “Obviously one doesn’t like to think in these terms,” he said quickly. “We are supposed to be a democracy and all that, but it’s important that people realise what’s at stake. Not just the national interest, but the future of the Western alliance.” Sir Peregrine’s voice rose. He was happier talking global strategy.
    Fison slapped his knee again. “Entirely agree, dear boy.” The ‘dear boy’ was an affectation. People didn’t speak like that where he came from, but it had been forty years since he moved from Stepney to Chelsea and Fison had been working ever since to adopt what he believed to be the mannerisms of a gentleman.
    Sir Peregrine paused to light a pipe. His first of the day. When the blue smoke cleared he continued. “To start the ball rolling, what I had in mind was, I hesitate to use the word,” he resumed the
sotto voce
reserved for distasteful subjects, “a smear campaign.” He drew on his pipe and then breathed out again, emitting more blue smoke. “Nothing too heavy at first. Just enough to sow the seeds of doubt in the public mind about Perkins and his gang. For the time being we will lay off Perkins himself. His popularity is running high and anything we try to stick on him could blow up in our faces.” He looked across at Fison who was nodding intently. “To start with we must concentrate on ministers and advisers. That way we can discredit Perkins without attacking him directly.”
    With graceful movements of his left hand Sir Peregrine brushed tobacco ash from the lapels of his smoking jacket. He wasn’t keen on Fison. The man lacked breeding. He was crude and unsubtle. It stood out a mile. Still, one couldn’t choose one’s friends in a situation like this. He went on, “I’ve got a team of chaps standing by and the moment we get details of ministerial appointments they’ll be going through the files looking for anything that may be useful. Shady business deals, illicit love affairs, trips to Moscow, articles in the
Morning Star
. Naturally we’ll pass everything over and you and the other Fleet Street boys can take it from there.”
    Sir Peregrine stretched his legs, sank back into the armchair and puffed his pipe. The smoke mingled with the incoming rays of sunlight and caused a cloud to form between himself and Fison. When it cleared he went on, “Normally we’d just shove this sort of stuff in plain brown envelopes and stick it in the post to a few reliable old hands, but this time we want something bigger. That’s where you come in.” He looked across at Fison, through the haze. Fison was already composing the lecture he was going to give to his senior editors. The nation, he would tell them, was facing catastrophe. In the battle that was to come there were only two sides. Anyone with doubts about which side they were on could collect his cards