A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (18 page)

Intelligence reports also suggest that there are tensions between Khrushchev and the Soviet high command. Khrushchev’s economic reforms are aimed at cutting military expenditure in order to meet the pressing needs and rising expectations of the civilian economy. Sabre-rattling on the part of Western leaders would strengthen the hand of the Soviet military.

In summary, Soviet military strategy has two objectives: deterring a Western attack and preserving its East European buffer zone. It is important that the West does not confuse traditional Russian geo-political interests – hegemony over the Baltic and Eastern Europe – with an ideological campaign to spread Communism. In fact, the Kremlin is just as hostile to Communist rivals – such as China and Yugoslavia – as it is to Western Capitalism.

This paper was discussed by JIC and approved on date.

Catesby smiled and put the paper back in its folder. The Americans couldn’t complain. In fact, he had cribbed the first paragraph from a CIA report. Dealing with the Americans, Catesby had come to
realise, was like working with someone who had schizophrenia or some sort of multiple personality disorder. He was convinced that every American intelligence agency had a Team A and a Team B. Team A were, generally, rational and sane. They were willing to consider détente and nuclear test ban treaties. They were pleasant to know socially – and even had a sense of humour. Team A types often had an interest in the arts and could speak a language or two. In the aftermath of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Kennedy had begun to lean towards Team A. Team B, on the other hand, thought that Kennedy ‘chickened out’ over Cuba and should have let the missiles fly. While Team A were in favour of containing the Soviet Union, Team B wanted to roll it back. Catesby dipped back into the safe to find a CIA Team B document that had been circulated prior to a JIC. It had the rather bizarre name of ‘The Soviet Strategic Military Posture’.
Posture?
Catesby wondered if the CIA imagined that Soviet soldiers adopted various poses before they struck:
the malevolent lean-forward; the deceptive slouch; the coiled crouching spring.
It was a document that revealed more about the Americans than it did the Russians.

The aim of the Soviet Union is world domination and they will pay any price to achieve this. That it was a Communist rocket that first ventured into space proves to them that they are marching in the vanguard of history. They think they see a response to their doctrines and influence in the revolutionary struggles of Asia, Africa and Latin America. The Soviet leaders expect to associate the peoples emerging from colonialism and backwardness with their own cause, mobilizing them against a more constricted world position of the Western states. The relative stability of Britain and Western Europe at present they see only as a transient phrase.

Catesby stared into the fire. The Team B Americans seemed unaware that Trotsky’s scheme for world revolution had been rejected long before Trotsky had been murdered with an ice axe. Since then, the Soviet Union had turned into a paranoid
and inward-looking state. Catesby reflected – and not for the first time – what would have happened if Trotsky had come to power instead of Stalin. And what role, thought Catesby, would he himself have played in such an alternative universe? Despite the cold, he felt a tingle of sweat rolling down his spine. Catesby got up. It was after all New Year’s. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.

Catesby had never been a big fan of JFK, but hoped that Kennedy would rein in the Team B faction. They were already spoiling for a fight in Laos and Vietnam – which, Catesby was certain, would end badly for the Americans. Team B were touting something called ‘The Domino Theory’. The problem, as Catesby well knew, was that the British intelligence services were also divided into Team A and Team B. The big danger – and it was already happening – was that the British Team B would link up with the American Team B.

The battles between allies and friends are always more vicious than battles between enemies. It’s painfully evident at National Day receptions when embassies roll out booze and food to celebrate. The NATO dips always get on better with the Warsaw Pact dips than they do with their own side. Embassy receptions are also notorious for recruiting double agents or defectors. Catesby remembered a St Patrick’s Day bash when a Sov dip swayed up to him reeking of Jameson and said, ‘Are you thinking of defecting?’

Catesby shrugged and said, ‘No, I can’t be bothered.’

‘Good choice,’ said the Sov, ‘my country is shit.’ He then headed back to the bar for a refill.

At first, Catesby had assumed that the diplomat was pretending to be drunk and playing a double game. Perhaps, the Sov wanted Catesby to think he was disaffected and ripe for recruiting – and when they met again, the fake double would pass on disinformation. It happened all the time. But on reflection, Catesby could see that the Russian really was drunk and meant what he said. On the other hand, the world of spying was a maze of mirrors where gut instincts, warmth and sincerity could be just as false as a string of fake pearls. The problem is: you have to cut the pearl in half to see if it’s genuine.

In an odd sort of way, the sanest people in the international power game were the arms dealers. They weren’t interested in ideology, even if they mouthed the slogans, they were interested in profit.

Catesby’s rise in status inevitably meant more Christmas cards. He turned to the mantelpiece above the fire and looked again at the one from the Wilsons. He loved it because it was so splendidly non-Christmassy. It was a family photo that had been taken the previous summer on the Isles of Scilly. It included Harold and Mary, their two sons – who had grown very tall. Catesby loved the solid ordinariness of the card – absolutely no pretentiousness.

Catesby counted the cards. There were forty-one altogether, not bad for an estranged husband living alone. He wondered if he got more Christmas cards than Henry Bone. He would ask when he got back to London. Bone had, in fact, shown him one of his cards – after warning Catesby that the card was more hush-hush than the most secret document. It was from Kim Philby in Beirut. It featured the Three Wise Men on camels in a starlit desert. Philby had drawn an arrow pointing to the third wise man and written, ‘That’s me!’ A very dangerous joke, but typical of Philby’s arrogance. The fire was now warming the room. Catesby poured himself another drink and was soon dozing on the sofa.

Catesby didn’t know how long he had been asleep when he heard a tapping at the window. He wished it was the ghost of a woman he had loved and betrayed so he could say sorry, but he reached for his pistol in case it wasn’t. The wisteria needed pruning. It was probably a loose branch in the wind – but there wasn’t any wind. Catesby turned out the light and went into the boot room. He silently slipped on a pair of wellies. The tapping was there again – it was a very persistent wisteria branch. Catesby put on a heavy coat and slipped the Browning automatic into one pocket and a torch into another. He wrapped a scarf around his face as camouflage and made his way to a back door.

The cold was piercing and the snow was crisp. The utter silence was broken by the long woo of a male tawny owl – a few seconds later the shrill shriek of a female tawny answered. Catesby paused
and said to himself, ‘What the fuck?’ The owl noises were mating calls – and tawny owls don’t mate until March. He stood still and reached for the Browning in his pocket. On cue, the male owl hooted and a second later the female gave a long response – and they both seemed to be calling from the same place. Catesby didn’t know how to creep silently in crisp snow. Instead, he drew his automatic and ran quickly around to the front of the house. There was a dark figure standing next to the window. Catesby knew it would be rash to pull the trigger, so he flicked on the torch instead.

She was smiling and had something that looked like a recorder in her hand. She put it to her mouth and the night was pierced again by the mating call of the female tawny owl. She reached out with her other hand, which was holding a second recorder-like thing. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this one does the male tawny. Why don’t you blow it?’

‘Happy New Year, Frances.’

‘And Happy New Year to you, William.’

‘How did you get here?’

‘I walked over from Dunwich – it was beautiful when the moon was out.’

Catesby took the male tawny whistle from Frances and blew a good long woo. His estranged wife replied with hers.

‘They were stocking fillers,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they clever?’

‘But we’ve hopelessly confused the local owl population.’

‘I think they’ve ignored it – as they do must human eccentricity.’

‘Speaking of human eccentricity, why are you here?’

‘Because I wanted a walk in the cold beautiful night – and because I thought you might be lonely on New Year’s morning.’

‘I’m never lonely.’

‘I don’t believe that.’

‘You’ve never seen the ghosts.’

‘Which ghosts, William?’

‘Don’t ask.’

‘Nothing has changed, but I was so hoping it had.’

‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m glad that you’re here. Please come in.’

‘I don’t want to impose on you, William. Maybe I should turn around and leave you in peace. I am exhausted, but I will walk back and most likely collapse in a heap on the footpath – and then freeze to death orphaning my children.’

‘That wouldn’t be fair. Let’s go in.’

They sat in silence for a few minutes basking in the glow of the inglenook fire. Catesby spoke first. ‘I’ll make up a spare bed for you.’

‘That won’t be necessary – I might just lie here, in front of your glorious fire.’ Frances stretched out on the sofa. Catesby sat on a cushion on the floor.

‘When are you due back in London?’

‘On Thursday, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to make it. Do you know the sea is frozen off Kent?’

‘Is that another gem from an A4 Watcher?’

‘No, it’s from
The Times
. What have you got to tell me?’

‘I hear that Nick Elliot’s off to Beirut to have a chat with Kim.’ As soon as he said it, Catesby wished that he hadn’t. The brandy must have loosened his tongue. On the other hand, it was important to swap intelligence with Frances. Her keeping him up-to-date with what was going on in MI5 was invaluable in the struggle between the two services. If her bosses knew, she would lose her job. Passing on information to SIS was worse than passing it on to the KGB – or, in the view of the cynics at Five, pretty much the same thing.

‘Everyone likes Nick,’ said Frances, ‘and I find him very kind.’

‘I don’t like him – and he’s also a complete idiot.’

In Catesby’s view, Nick was responsible for the debacle that cost Lionel Crabb his life in Portsmouth Harbour – and also for bugging Khrushchev’s suite at Claridge’s during the Soviet leader’s 1956 visit. Both ops had been expressly forbidden in writing by the Prime Minister – and both had failed miserably. The worst fallout was the resulting breakdown in Anglo-Soviet relations, which destroyed the possibility of détente between the two countries. But maybe, thought Catesby, that was why his SIS colleagues had disobeyed the Prime Minister’s instructions. And were the Americans involved?

‘Why is Nick off to meet Philby?’ said Frances.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ lied Catesby with a smile. ‘What have you got to tell me?’ He wanted to keep the conversation focused on their jobs. It was less dangerous than the personal. But there were places where the two overlapped.

‘I recently met someone who knows you,’ said Frances.

‘That sounds ominous. Who is he?’

‘It’s a she.’

‘That sounds even more ominous.’

‘I met her through Susan.’

‘Who’s Susan?’

‘Susan the journalist-author.’

Catesby smiled. They were playing a parlour game called ‘Whitehall Insiders’ Bluff’. The object was to trump the other person with superior insiders’ knowledge.

‘Point to you,’ said Catesby. ‘I still don’t know who you’re talking about.’

‘And you call yourself an intelligence officer? Tsk, tsk. Susan is Tony’s wife.’

‘I’m getting warmer.’

‘Go on then.’

‘Susan is the wife of Tony Crosland,’ said Catesby, ‘a Labour Member of Parliament. Tony, by the way, had an affair with Roy when they were at Oxford.’

‘You are clever. I didn’t know about the Roy business.’

‘It’s pronounced “Woy”.’

‘You mean Roy Jenkins,’ said Frances triumphantly. ‘But can you guess then, the name of the woman who knows you?’

‘Ann Fleming. She’s Hugh Gaitskell’s mistress.’

‘Well done,’ said Frances. ‘But how did you work it out?’

‘Her and Gaiters,’ said Catesby, ‘meet at Tony’s place to have sex.’

‘How do you know? Have you got the house under surveillance?’

‘Of course not.’ Catesby smiled. ‘As you know, we’re not allowed to do surveillance in the UK. No, she told me.’

‘Did you have an affair with her?’

‘No. I would describe it as a cross between a dalliance and a fact-finding mission.’

‘What facts did you find?’

‘That her husband, the one who writes the books, is a sadist – and she, although not completely masochist, liked the spanking a lot. But they no longer have sex – haven’t for years.’

‘What does she see in Gaitskell?’

‘Power, but she likes his brains too. She also wants to wield political influence behind the scenes. She thinks she has weaned Gaitskell from what she calls his “pathetic belief in equality” – not that he required much weaning.’ Catesby smiled. ‘She also fancies Tony, who she regards as “sleek and debonair”. In fact, she fantasises about Tony when she’s having sex with Gaiters.’

Frances had gone steely-eyed. ‘Who does she fantasise about when she’s in bed with you?’

‘Who do you fantasise about when you’re in bed with Kit Fournier?’

‘You have no right to say that – you know nothing.’

‘You’re supposed to be his agent handler, not his agent fondler.’

‘You’ve been misinformed, William. I was supposed to be his new agent handler, but I’ve been transferred to D Branch.’ Frances frowned. ‘Someone’s been winding you up.’