Margaret Thatcher: The Autobiography (86 page)

The debate was rank with anti-American prejudice but my speech steadied the Party and the debate was a success. There was still a large measure of incomprehension even among our supporters. Yet the Libyan raid was also a turning point; and three direct benefits flowed from it.

First, it turned out to be a more decisive blow against Libyan-sponsored terrorism than I could ever have imagined. We are all too inclined to forget that tyrants rule by force and fear and are kept in check in the same way. There were revenge killings of British hostages organized by Libya, which I bitterly regretted. But the much-vaunted Libyan counter-attack did not take place. Gaddafi had not been destroyed but he had been humbled. There was a marked decline in Libyan-sponsored terrorism in succeeding years.

Second, there was a wave of gratitude from the United States which is still serving this country well. The
Wall Street Journal
flatteringly described me as ‘magnificent’. Senators wrote to thank me. Our Washington embassy’s switchboard was jammed with congratulatory telephone calls. And it was made quite clear by the Administration that Britain’s voice would be accorded special weight in arms control negotiations. The Extradition Treaty, which we regarded as vital in bringing IRA terrorists back from America, was to receive stronger Administration support against filibustering opposition. The fact that so few had stuck by America in her time of trial strengthened the ‘special relationship’, which will always be special because of the cultural and historical links between our two countries, but which had a particular closeness for as long as President Reagan was in the White House.

The third benefit, oddly enough, was domestic, though it was by no means immediate. However unpopular, no one could doubt that our action had been strong and decisive. I had set my course and stuck to it.

As the spring of 1986 moved into summer the political climate began slowly, but unmistakably, to improve.

East-West relations during the second term 1983–1987

A
S 1983
DREW ON
, the Soviets must have begun to realize that their game of manipulation and intimidation would soon be up. European governments were not prepared to fall into the trap opened by the Soviet proposal of a ‘nuclear-free zone’ for Europe. In March President Reagan announced American plans for a Strategic Defence Initiative (SDI) whose technological and financial implications for the USSR were devastating. Then, at the beginning of September the Soviets shot down a South Korean civilian airliner, killing 269 passengers. Not just the callousness but the incompetence of the Soviet regime, which could not even bring itself to apologize, was exposed. Perhaps for the first time since the Second World War, the Soviet Union started to be described, even in liberal western circles, as sick and on the defensive.

We had entered a dangerous phase. Both Ronald Reagan and I knew that the strategy of matching the Soviets in military strength and beating them on the battlefield of ideas was succeeding and that it must go on. But we had to win the Cold War without running unnecessary risks in the meantime.

Such was the thinking which lay behind my decision to arrange a seminar at Chequers on Thursday 8 September 1983 to pick the brains of experts on the Soviet Union. We discussed the Soviet economy, its technological inertia and the consequences of that, the impact of religious issues, Soviet military doctrine and expenditure on defence, and the benefits and costs to the Soviet Union of their control over eastern Europe. The purpose of this seminar was to provide me with the information on which to shape policy towards the Soviet Union and the
eastern bloc in the months and years ahead. There were always two opposite outlooks among the Sovietologists.

At the risk of oversimplification, these were as follows. On the one hand, there were those who played down the differences between the western and Soviet systems and who were generally drawn from political analysis and systems analysis. They were the people who appeared on our television screens, analysing the Soviet Union in terms borrowed from liberal democracies. These were the optimists, confident that somehow, somewhere, within the Soviet totalitarian system rationality and compromise were about to break out. I remember a remark of Bob Conquest’s that the trouble with systems analysis is that if you analyse the systems of a horse and a tiger, you find them pretty much the same: but it would be a great mistake to treat a tiger like a horse. On the other hand, there were those – mainly the historians – who grasped that totalitarian systems are different in kind, not just degree, from liberal democracies and that approaches relevant to the one are irrelevant to the other. These analysts argued that a totalitarian system generates a different kind of political leader from a democratic one and that the ability of any one individual to change that system is almost negligible.

My own view was much closer to the second, but with one very important difference. I always believed that our western system would ultimately triumph, if we did not throw our advantages away, because it rested on the unique, almost limitless, creativity and vitality of individuals. Even a system like that of the Soviets, which set out to crush the individual, could never totally succeed in doing so, as was shown by the Solzhenitsyns, Sakharovs, Bukovskys, Ratushinskayas and thousands of other dissidents and
refuseniks.
This also implied that at some time the right individual could challenge even the system which he had used to attain power. For this reason I was convinced that we must seek out the most likely person in the rising generation of Soviet leaders and then cultivate and sustain him, while recognizing the clear limits of our power to do so. That is why those who subsequently considered that I was led astray from my original approach to the Soviet Union because I was dazzled by Mr Gorbachev were wrong. I spotted him because I was searching for someone like him.

At the time of my Chequers seminar it did seem that there would soon be important changes in the Soviet leadership. Mr Andropov, though he was no liberal, did undoubtedly want to revive the Soviet economy, which was in fact in a far worse state than any of us realized at the time. In order
to do this he wanted to cut back bureaucracy and improve efficiency. Although he had inherited a top leadership which he could not instantly change, the high average age of the Politburo would present him with the opportunity of filling vacancies with those amenable to his objective. There were already doubts about Andropov’s health. If he lived for just a few more years, however, it seemed likely that the leadership would pass to a new generation. The two main contenders appeared to be Grigory Romanov and Mikhail Gorbachev. I asked for all the information we had about these two.

It was soon obvious to me that – attractive as was the idea of seeing a Romanov back in the Kremlin – there would probably be unpleasant consequences. Romanov as First Secretary of the Communist Party in Leningrad had won a reputation for efficiency but also as a hardline Marxist which, like many of the sort, he combined with an extravagant lifestyle. And I confess that when I read about those priceless crystal glasses from the Hermitage being smashed at the celebration of his daughter’s wedding some of the attraction of the name was lost as well.

Of Mr Gorbachev what little we knew seemed modestly encouraging. He was clearly the best educated member of the Politburo, not that anybody would have described this group as intellectuals. He had acquired a reputation for being open-minded; but of course this might be just a matter of style. He had risen steadily through the Party under Khrushchev, Brezhnev and now Andropov, of whom he was clearly a special protégé; but that might well be a sign of conformity rather than talent. Nevertheless, I heard favourable reports of him from Pierre Trudeau in Canada later that month. I began to take special notice when his name was mentioned in reports on the Soviet Union.

For the moment, however, relations with the Soviets were so bad that direct contact with them was almost impossible. It seemed to me that it was through eastern Europe that we would have to work.

Hungary was the choice for my first visit as Prime Minister to a Warsaw Pact country for several reasons. The Hungarians had gone furthest along the path of economic reform and a certain amount of liberalization had occurred, though outright dissent was punished. János Kádár, officially First Secretary of the Hungarian Communist Party but in fact unchallenged leader, used economic links with the West to provide his people with a tolerable standard of living while constantly asserting Hungary’s loyalty to the Warsaw Pact, socialism and the Soviet Union: a
necessary consideration, given that some 60,000 Soviet troops had been ‘temporarily’ stationed in Hungary since 1948.

I stepped off the plane at 10 o’clock on the night of Thursday 2 February 1984 to be met by the Hungarian Prime Minister, Mr Lázár. My first official engagement the next morning was a private discussion with him. He gave every sign of loyalty to the communist system. But what he had to say showed the roots of that loyalty. He warned me that the worst possible thing I could do on my visit was to cast doubt on Hungary’s remaining part of the socialist bloc. The Hungarians had been concerned at what Vice-President George Bush had said to this effect in Vienna after making a successful visit to the country. I realized that formal adherence to the Soviet system was the price of the limted reforms they had been able to make. I immediately said that I understood and I was careful to keep my word.

Later that morning I saw Mr Kádár. He was a square-faced, large-boned, healthy-complexioned man with an air of easy authority and an apparently reasonable frame of mind in discussion. I hoped to gain from him a clear picture of the situation in the USSR.

The one surprise – and disappointment – of my visit was how far even Hungary was from a free economy. There were some small businesses, but they were not allowed to grow beyond a certain size. The main emphasis of Hungary’s economic reforms was not on increasing private ownership of land or investment but rather on private or co-operative use of state-owned facilities.

In retrospect, my Hungarian visit was the first foray in what became a distinctive British diplomacy towards the captive nations of eastern Europe. The first step was to open greater economic and commercial links with the existing regimes, making them less dependent upon the closed COMECON system. Later we were to put more stress on human rights. And, finally, as the Soviet control of eastern Europe began to decay, we made internal political reforms the condition of western help.

Just a few days after my return from Hungary Mr Andropov was dead. His funeral would give me the opportunity to meet the man who to our surprise emerged as the new Soviet leader, Mr Konstantin Chernenko. We had thought that Mr Chernenko was too old, too ill and too closely connected with Mr Brezhnev and his era to succeed to the leadership – and, as events turned out, we were more astute than his colleagues in the Politburo.

My party landed at Moscow Airport at 9.30 p.m. on Monday 13 February. I spent the night at our embassy – a magnificent house, facing the Kremlin across the Moskva river. (Later, when we would otherwise have had to give it up at the end of the lease, I did a deal with Mr Gorbachev for us to keep our splendid building in exchange for the Soviets keeping their current embassy in Britain when that lease expired. One of the few points on which the Foreign Office and I agreed was the need for British embassies to be architecturally imposing and provided with fine pictures and furniture).

The day of the funeral was bright, clear and even colder than when I arrived. At these occasions visiting dignitaries do not have seats: we had to stand for several hours in a specially reserved enclosure. Later I met the new Soviet leader for a short private meeting which was a formal affair, covering all the old ground of disarmament issues. I was unimpressed.

With long hours of standing I was glad that Robin Butler had persuaded me that I should wear fur-lined boots, rather than my usual high heels. They had been expensive. But when I met Mr Chernenko the thought crossed my mind that they would probably come in useful again soon.

I now had to consider the next step in my strategy of gaining closer relations – on the right terms – with the Soviet Union. Clearly, there must be more personal contact with the Soviet leaders. Geoffrey Howe wanted us to extend an invitation to Mr Chernenko to come to Britain. I said that it was too early to do this. We needed to see more about where the new Soviet leader was heading first. But I was keen to invite others and invitations went to several senior Soviet figures, including Mr Gorbachev. It quickly appeared that Mr Gorbachev was indeed keen to come on what would be his first visit to a European capitalist country and wanted to do so soon. By now we had learned more about his background and that of his wife, Raisa, who, unlike the wives of other leading Soviet politicians, was often seen in public and was an articulate, highly educated and attractive woman. I decided that the Gorbachevs should both come to Chequers, which has just the right country house atmosphere conducive to good conversation. I regarded the meeting as potentially of great significance.

The Gorbachevs drove down from London on the morning of Sunday 16 December, arriving in time for lunch. Over drinks in the Great Hall Mr Gorbachev told me how interested he had been to see the farmland on the way to Chequers. Agriculture had been his responsibility for a number of
years and he had apparently achieved some modest progress in reforming the collective farms, but up to 30 per cent of the crops were lost because of failures of distribution.

Raisa Gorbachev knew only a little English – as far as I could tell her husband knew none: but she was dressed in a smart western-style outfit, a well-tailored grey suit – just the sort I could have worn myself, I thought. She had a philosophy degree and had indeed been an academic. Our advice at this time was that she was a committed hardline Marxist; her obvious interest in Hobbes’s
Leviathan
, which she took down from the shelf in the library, might possibly have confirmed that. But I later learned from her – after I had left office – that her grandfather had been one of those millions of kulaks killed during the forced collectivization of agriculture under Stalin. Her family had no good reason for illusions about communism.