A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (16 page)

Catesby turned his hand palm upwards. There was a lot of rucked-up dress material, but he managed to grab a handful of flesh through the fabric.

‘Squeeze hard. Squeeze as hard as you can – I want you to hurt me.’

Catesby squeezed, but not as hard as he could. He didn’t want to leave bruises for Gaiters to ask questions about.

‘You ought,’ she said, ‘to grow your fingernails longer. You can stop now.’

‘But you don’t want me to.’

‘You are perceptive, but this isn’t the place.’

Catesby removed his hand when he was sure no one was watching.

‘Where do you live?’ she said.

‘I’m a dip stationed in Bonn.’

‘Where do you stay in London?’

‘Pimlico.’

‘When I visit, make sure there are lots of towels and ice. Hugh doesn’t hurt me enough. Why are you smiling?’

‘I’m thinking about what I’m going to do to you.’ Catesby lied. He was really thinking how much fun it would be to pass their conversation on to the left wing of the Labour Party. But he wasn’t going to play politics. It was one thing to expose intelligence officers who did, but it wasn’t a game that he was going to play.

‘I’ve heard, by the way, that being a diplomat isn’t your real job.’

Catesby smiled and nodded towards a guest who had just entered the kitchen. ‘Ask him.’

Kit Fournier was waving an empty glass and exuding American
boyishness. The woman filled his glass with the remains of the champagne. Then she pointed to Catesby. ‘Do you know this gentleman. He’s being very mysterious.’

‘He has every reason to be mysterious,’ said Fournier, ‘he’s the Third Man. Kim Philby is completely innocent.’

Catesby smiled bleakly. Kit had obviously been drinking.

‘Sorry, William, how rude of me to expose you in such an uncouth manner.’ He turned to the woman.
‘Excusez-moi, madame, je suis un américain sauvage et grossier – absolument sans manières et culture.’
Fournier was dangerously swaying with his wine glass.

‘I think,’ said the woman, ‘I’d better help Dora with the canapés.’

As she disappeared, Fournier winked at Catesby. The American wasn’t drunk at all. ‘Talking French always gets rid of Englishwomen like that. I was afraid I might have to tell her about the anaconda
caché dans mon pantalon
– or pour my drink down her cleavage. I hope, by the way, I haven’t spoiled anything for you.’ Fournier lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘By the way, do you know who she is?’

‘I was hoping you were going to tell me?’

‘She’s Ann Fleming, Gaitskell’s mistress. And I must say, Catesby, it is rather bad manners to get invited to a party like this and then try to screw your host’s girlfriend.’

‘Thanks for your advice on etiquette.’

‘Sure.’

‘And congratulations on your promotion.’

Fournier shrugged. ‘I didn’t really want to come here. I wanted to go back to France.’

‘But the French aren’t an unsinkable aircraft carrier.’

‘They certainly weren’t in 1940, but I prefer them to you guys – they don’t bother with hypocrisy and duplicity. Or maybe they’re just lousy at doing them.’

‘You can’t make generalisations about people.’

‘You can if you’re an American.’ Fournier looked closely at Catesby. ‘Why have you been telling fibs?’

‘Because it’s part of my job.’

‘Yeah, but telling fibs is pretty damn stupid when you know you’re going to get found out. And now you’re doing the supercilious smile.’

‘Actually, Kit, I don’t know what the fuck you are talking about.’

‘It was an insult to Joe.’

‘Joe who?’

‘Joe You-goddamn-well-know-who: Joe, the labor, without a ‘u’, attaché. You told him you were an old friend of Gaitskell’s and went dancing with him at a jazz club in Manhattan after he became Secretary of the Treasury.’

‘Chancellor.’

‘Or whatever. Anyway, Joe thought you were a Member of Parliament – and maybe even part of the shadow cabinet – and felt he made a damn fool of himself when he asked Gaitskell about you. You owe Joe an apology.’

‘Okay. Let’s find Joe. I’ll apologise – and also give him a lesson on the English sense of humour.’

‘Which isn’t meant to be funny.’

‘Not always, but sometimes.’

‘In any case, let’s forget about Joe, he can take it. He’s a tough guy and a great labor attaché.’

Catesby knew more about Joe than he was going to let on. The problem with the CIA is that they occasionally let people with consciences slip through their recruitment net. One such was Paul, a CIA man who had been acting undercover as US labor attaché in Paris when Catesby met him. After a few Pernods, Paul confided that Washington was ‘paranoid as hell’ about European trade unions coming under Communist influence. He explained that any trade union that wanted CIA money simply needed to smear their rivals as being Communist-controlled. The ‘Commie’ smear tactic worked a treat in Marseilles and turned over the docks to unions with criminal connections who swapped socialism for drug trafficking. Paul also warned him that Joe was a rising star and on his way to England.

‘I bet,’ said Catesby fishing, ‘that Joe is finding the British Trade Union movement a bit difficult. If he goes up North, he might even need an interpreter-translator.’

‘He’s already been – and made a great friend of a Durham miner leader named Sam Watson. We’re not as naive about Britain as you think.’

Catesby smiled inwardly. Watson’s name was on two lists. One had been passed to him by Paul and contained ‘CIA agents of influence’ in the UK. The other was a list of attendees – along with Joe, Gaitskell and Fournier’s predecessor as CIA London Head of Station – at a series of secret meetings at the Russell Hotel. The purpose of the meetings was to discuss ways of expelling the left wing – including Wilson – from the Labour Party. At what point, thought Catesby, does scheming with spies from a foreign country to influence domestic politics become treason?

‘What we’re trying to do,’ said Fournier, ‘is help Britain. We love your country and we want to help make you strong and secure.’

Catesby nodded and hoped that his smile wasn’t supercilious again. The only British thing that Washington cared about was the British defence budget – and, if spending less on health and welfare was the best way to spend more on guns and bombs, so be it.

‘I need another drink,’ said Catesby, ‘I’ll see you later.’

Catesby wandered out of the kitchen into a maelstrom of sumptuous sociability. The house was bursting with refined British voices and urbane British elegance, but the strings were being pulled by American puppeteers. The power strategists in Washington weren’t always as stupid as they seemed. They were grooming the non-socialist pro-American wing of the Labour Party for power – an Oxbridge-led elite that felt comfortable within the traditional ruling circles of Britain. There was no way that Washington was going to let its unsinkable aircraft carrier be taken over by mutineers who wanted to rid its decks of US planes and nuclear weapons.

A woman in a strapless cocktail dress was walking around with canapés on a tray. Catesby helped himself to a caviar blini – and then made his way to a sideboard where there were pink cocktails with sticks of fruit. Upon closer inspection, he decided to look for wine. Meanwhile someone nibbling an olive on a stick smiled at Catesby and gestured to a bottle of wine in an ice bucket.

Catesby nodded a thank you to the man and refilled his glass. The man, who looked to be in his late forties, was bald and solidly muscled. He looked a lot rougher and harder than the other guests. He came over to Catesby and started speaking French. His French was fluent, but with a strong hint of Central Europe. After sociable small talk about the party, the man’s voice dropped to a whisper. ‘May I shake your hand?’

Catesby smiled and shook his hand.

The man continued in a throaty whisper. ‘I want to thank you for what you did – and my people want to thank you too.’

‘Are you sure you’re not mistaking me for someone else?’

‘No. We know who you are, Monsieur Catesby.’

Catesby replied in a guarded tone. ‘What exactly are you thanking me for?’

‘What you did in Bremen.’

Catesby felt his bowels turn with dread. It was a ghost that wouldn’t stay buried.

‘If,’ said the man, ‘you ever want to do something like that again, let us know and we will help you.’

‘What if I’m not in a position to do so?’

‘Then tell us what you know – and we will do it ourselves.’

‘If I ever need your help, how would I contact you?’

‘Go to the grave of Charles Baudelaire in the Montparnasse Cemetery. You will see a likeness of the poet recumbent on his grave. Put a tiny chalk mark on his left big toe – then return to the cemetery at noon on the first Friday of the month. Someone will be there to meet you and will say, “
Venge-moi
”.’ You will identify yourself by replying, “
Demain, aprés-demain et toujours
!” Then tell them what you want.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You are our friend.’ The man saluted with his wine glass and drifted off.

Catesby had a good idea who the man worked for, but wasn’t going to make enquiries. Meanwhile, Stuart had turned up again.

‘Who,’ said Stuart, ‘do you see when you look in the mirror?’

‘Sometimes I see a murderer; other times, I see a traitor.’

‘Do you tell them that when you go for positive vetting?’

‘I lie. Everyone lies. The only ones who get caught are the ones who aren’t very good liars.’

‘Is Kim Philby a good liar?’

‘I’m not going to answer that question. What do you think? You knew him at Bletchley.’

‘I used to always say, “There’s something wrong with Philby.” But no one paid any attention – and they still don’t.’ Stuart paused. ‘And I don’t think Philby is a good liar. He doesn’t even try to be convincing. He’s almost bragging about being a liar – like at that press conference last year. It was as if he were saying, “I am lying, so what? What are you going to do about it?”’

Catesby kept a straight face. He wasn’t going to be drawn. Being an SIS officer was walking a tightrope between friends of Philby and friends of Washington. Catesby was neither – and it made him a very lonely man.

‘What do you think of this party?’ asked Catesby.

‘I’m enjoying the food, the drink, the people and the sparkling conversation. But I don’t like it. It’s a bit like that dinner party where the Goths cut the last emperor in half. Where’s your girlfriend?’

‘One of the Goths chased her away.’

‘She has an interesting history – used to be married to a press baron and still has powerful connections in the industry.’

‘Who do you see, Stuart, when you look in the mirror?’

‘I would love to see Spinoza, but I see the
collabo
the Maquisards executed after I interrogated him. He was, like me, a young intellectual who wanted to be an academic or writer – and movie-star handsome. We’d read the same authors – except he became a Fascist. Who knows?’

‘When we look into a mirror, Stuart, we’ve got to start seeing ourselves – we’re not bad people.’

‘Wouldn’t it,’ said Stuart, ‘be nice if that were true?’

The plot had succeeded. Catesby realised that as soon as he left the Gaitskell’s party in the early hours of the chill morning. The CIA and their British collaborators had won. They had vanquished the socialist wing of the Labour Party and installed their own
poodle, Hugh Gaitskell. Washington’s unsinkable aircraft carrier bristling with US nuclear weapons was more safely afloat than ever – a change of government wouldn’t make any difference.

During the years that followed, Catesby remembered Henry Bone’s advice that it was part of an intelligence officer’s job to be ‘politically astute’. He followed the power games of Westminster as closely as he followed those in the Kremlin. Catesby knew that Gaitskell’s becoming Labour leader hadn’t come without a price. He had to appoint Harold Wilson as Shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer in order to buy peace with the Left of the party. But being Shadow Chancellor didn’t mean that Wilson got invited to the smart cocktail parties at Frognal Gardens. The Gaitskellites snubbed him and even made snide remarks about the Wilsons having flying ducks on the sitting room wall. There were no ducks, flying or otherwise. Catesby knew there weren’t any, because he occasionally visited the family home to fill in Wilson on the latest dirty tricks his enemies in the Security Service were getting up to. The house was warm and tasteful – and totally without pretension. The visits were dangerous for Catesby. His briefing the Shadow Chancellor could be construed as gross misconduct. Not enough to go to jail, but sufficient to get sacked.

The anti-Wilson plot hadn’t been abandoned, but was slowly simmering on the back burner in case he ever came to power – which now seemed increasingly unlikely. But Wilson continued to make enemies who stored up grudges. The Americans were suspicious of his conciliatory line towards the Soviet Union – and suspected the worst. Wilson carried on working for the export-import firm Montague Meyer and made frequent trips to Russia and Eastern Europe. Catesby warned him to watch his back and not to trust the telephones at the company’s office in the Strand. Meanwhile, Wilson had begun to make serious enemies in the City. As Shadow Chancellor, he condemned insider trading and cartels. Big money, as Catesby came to realise, was the worst enemy of all. It could do anything it pleased.

As Catesby got to know Wilson better, he realised they had much in common. Both were grammar school outsiders who had clawed their way up via Oxbridge and government service. But
Catesby was more of a chameleon. He was a natural actor and linguist who could put on any voice from posh to proletarian with regional variations – and do the same in French or German. Wilson, on the other hand, stuck to stolid Yorkshire – although he might have cultivated it a bit. The pipe, as Catesby knew, was for public display. In private, Wilson preferred cigars. So, to an extent, he was an actor too. On several occasions, Catesby had heard Wilson’s detractors refer to him as ‘impersonal’. The charge rang a bell, for Catesby often heard it levelled at himself. But, once you got to know him, it wasn’t true of Wilson. Catesby found the politician’s pleasures simple – good food, drink, conversation and the holiday bungalow in the Scilly Isles – but the joy of being around Wilson was his jokes and sparkling wit.