A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (25 page)

The Conservatives had not had sufficient time to prepare for the election. There had been little time for Edward Heath to become well known among the public.

Pimlico, London:
1 April 1966

Catesby wanted out. Britain was changing, but SIS and the rest of Whitehall were not changing with it. Harold Wilson, in a careful deliberate way, was part of that change and the old guard hated him for it. Catesby was fed up with being part of an organisation that was not only at war with the Security Service, but at war with itself. He respected and looked up to the DG, Sir Dick White, but knew that White would be retiring in a year or two and that SIS might quickly degenerate into a jungle of backstabbing and recrimination. Catesby’s old joke, that SIS was an organisation where half the staff were spying for Moscow and the other half spying for Washington, was an exaggeration but highlighted the problem.

If Catesby’s bosses discovered that he was anonymously contributing to journals dealing with politics and foreign policy, he might find himself out even sooner than he wanted. Catesby was
passionately opposed to the Vietnam War and it was one of the things he wrote about. The war was not only inhumane, but was stupid and counter-productive even in terms of the coldest
realpolitik
. A reunited Vietnam would be a counterbalance to the regional power of China.

Catesby’s covert journalism started when he began to hang around with Ralph Miliband and the North London intelligentsia – many of whom he knew through Frances. Catesby was more interested in intellectual stimulation than spying, but there was scope for both. The London bureau of the Russian news agency,
Tass
, was located on the same road as a friend of Frances. The flat opposite
Tass
was rented by MI5 who used it to record the comings and goings from the news agency. ‘The couple’ in the flat were colleagues of Frances. She and Catesby used to wave when they passed them in the street.

Like the Milibands, many of the intelligentsia were refugees who had fled the rise of the Nazis. Catesby didn’t spy on them, but their networks were very impressive. In fact, they often had a better grasp of what was going on than SIS or the FO. Nonetheless, many in the intelligence services regarded North London with suspicion – and Catesby too for having friends there. When confronted by colleagues about his connections with the intelligentsia, Catesby responded with the excuse that he was ‘keeping an eye on them’. He felt two-faced about having to play this game. Many of the intelligentsia were certainly left-wing, but none of them were Soviet spies or traitors. Their being largely foreign, intellectual and bohemian was, however, more than enough to smear them as such.

London:
1 April 1966

The exclusive Mayfair gentlemen’s club was not a happy place. The five had again gathered in the billiard room, but this time the colonel had left his cue in the rack. There was an ice bucket, a soda siphon and two bottles of whisky, which were rapidly diminishing.

‘Well Richard,’ said JJ pointing his whisky glass at the
hereditary peer, ‘your prediction that Wilson would soon “fuck up” doesn’t seem to have come to pass.’

‘Bad call, total disaster. I hope my racing tips are better.’

‘I don’t know where we go from here,’ said the general. ‘Heath’s another bloody socialist.’

‘And a bender,’ said JJ.

‘So you said,’ said the retired colonel.

‘And the blighter wants to take us into the Common Market,’ said the banker.

‘Getting rid of Heath,’ said JJ, ‘will be even easier than getting rid of Wilson. He’s more brittle – and doesn’t have the power of the Soviet Union behind him.’

‘By the way,’ said the banker, ‘I’ve heard there was a lot of Moscow gold financing this election.’

‘And the trade unions,’ added the colonel. ‘Those Bolsheviks are awash with Sov money. Speaking of which, I’ve got a plan.’

‘Go on,’ said the general.

‘We pop a few of them off. I could easily arrange it. Chap riding pillion on a motorbike takes out one or two of them close range on a London street or someone with a sniper rifle while they’re on holiday or pruning their roses. Easy peasy. I could arrange it.’

‘Sounds a bit dodgy,’ said the banker. ‘What do you hope to achieve?’

‘First of all, we get our friend in the Security Service to leak disinfo to the press saying the killings were the result of feuds within the unions – or corruption, missing membership fees…’

‘Or Moscow gold going into the wrong pockets?’

‘That sort of thing. In any case, the comrades in the unions are going to go berserk: strikes, general strikes, complete disruption of public services. See where we’re going? No gas, electricity or telephones. Transport breakdown, food shortages – and, of course, rioting. At this point, the Communist cell in Downing Street is no longer in control or in the equation.’ The retired colonel nodded to the general. ‘It is now the Army’s patriotic duty – and its humanitarian duty as well – to step in and restore order. And, of course, by then, no one is going to give a toss who knocked off a union leader or two. Totally forgotten.’

‘I am not sure I could go along with that,’ said the general.

‘Would you prefer direct rule from Moscow?’ said JJ. ‘Because that’s where we’re heading.’

‘Well,’ said the general, ‘it is a difficult situation.’ He paused and chewed his moustache. ‘One could, I suppose, countenance military rule for a limited time.’

‘Meanwhile,’ said JJ, ‘what we need is a Conservative leader who is capable of ruling in difficult times.’

‘Someone who is endorsed by the Monday Club,’ said the peer.

JJ nodded. ‘We need to move away from Macmillan’s compromises with Socialism…’

‘And,’ said the colonel, ‘all that “winds of change” nonsense. Macmillan’s decolonisation policies bordered on treason.’

‘Our economy,’ said the banker, ‘absolutely needs white rule in Rhodesia and South Africa. British wealth and power were based on Britain’s overseas colonies – any fool can see that.’

‘Speaking of Heath,’ said the colonel. He gave the ex-SIS officer a sly look. ‘I believe, JJ, that you’ve got a plan.’

JJ smiled. ‘He likes music – and, apparently, is an excellent organist.’

‘Our choirmaster,’ said the peer, ‘was also an organist – and a filthy bugger. Goes with the turf.’

‘When I was in SIS,’ continued JJ, ‘we ran a Czech agent called RADKO – the name means happy and willing in Czech, in his case always for money. The Czechs, as you know, are the paymasters for the Communists in the Labour Party – and RADKO used to be part of the distribution system. In anycase, the StB, the Czech intelligence service, decided to entrap members of the Tory Party as well. They lured our musical friend to Prague to play the world famous organ at St Vitus Cathedral. He was greeted by a very handsome young organist, who was also a sexual athlete. The seduction began in the St Wenceslas Chapel which isn’t open to the public.’

‘Have you got the photos?’ said the colonel.

‘No, but I’m sure we can get them from RADKO – except they won’t be cheap.’

‘At least,’ said the colonel, ‘we can put the frighteners on him to resign. By the way, I must tell you about my wheeze to help
turn public opinion against our joining the Common Market. I believe,’ the colonel looked at the general, ‘that the Bundeswehr have been invited to conduct military exercises in Wales.’

‘It hasn’t yet been confirmed,’ said the general.

‘But let me know when they’re coming,’ said the colonel. ‘We’ll then find the nearest Jewish cemetery and dab black swastikas over the gravestones – and, of course, the German soldiers will get blamed for it. Can you imagine the outcry?’

‘Almost as good,’ said the peer, ‘as popping off a few trade unionists.’

Broadway Buildings, London:
5 April 1966

Henry Bone was sitting in an armchair with a cat curled on his lap. Both were purring.

‘Isn’t that Zadok?’ said Catesby.

‘Yes, it is. The old boy is getting on a bit, but he still likes shredding a silk curtain or sharpening his claws on a priceless piece of Chippendale marquetry. Zadok would never dream of putting a claw on something as common as late Victorian mahogany.’ Bone tickled the bottom of Zadok’s chin. ‘Would you, boy?’

‘I hope your neighbour isn’t in prison again.’

‘No, he’s on holiday in Italy.’

‘I must say, Henry, that you look more than usually pleased with yourself.’

‘How little you know about me, Catesby. I am hardly ever pleased with myself.’

‘But you are today?’

‘Somewhat.’

Catesby nodded towards a tape recorder that was set up on Bone’s desk. ‘Could it be because someone has given you a nice tape?
The Goldberg Variations
, perhaps?’

‘Actually, I prefer music live in concert.’ Bone lifted the cat off his lap and put him on the floor. ‘Sorry to disturb you old boy – go see William.’

The cat stared a few seconds at Catesby as if he were a vulgar late-Victorian sideboard, and then stalked away.

‘The thing about our trade,’ said Bone threading the tape, ‘is how much depends upon coincidence and luck. My neighbour has a friend – in fact, they’ve gone to Italy together – who is a servant at a very prestigious gentlemen’s club in Mayfair. For some years my neighbour’s friend has silently borne a grudge, not so much against the club itself, but against some of its members. On one occasion, a drunken lord, annoyed either with lack of service or deference, hurled my neighbour’s friend through a window. Fortunately, it was a ground-floor window and he wasn’t badly hurt.’

Catesby smiled and shook his head.

‘I know it’s illegal, William, but there are no fingerprints leading back to SIS – I concocted a marvellous story involving private detectives and adultery. It’s a splendid device: compact and requiring no external power supply. I pick up the conversations on a radio receiver.’

‘Did your neighbour believe you?’

‘Perhaps not completely, but I am sure his friend did. In any case, it gave him a chance to get back at a member that he finds particularly pompous and unpleasant. And it was also a return favour for cat-sitting. Are you ready to listen?’

Catesby nodded and Bone switched on the tape recorder. An hour later, when the tape was finished, Zadok broke cover and attacked a curtain string. ‘I think,’ said Bone, ‘he’s had enough of human beings. Cats don’t talk about it, they just do it. What do you think?’

‘Are you asking me?’

‘Don’t be facetious, Catesby.’

‘I’m never surprised how vile they are, but I am surprised how stupid they are.’

‘What did you find particularly stupid?’

‘Their lack of evidence – their reliance on unsubstantiated rumours.’

‘That’s far from stupid, Catesby, that’s genius. Who needs facts when you have fear and hatred? Facts are boring. Take, for example, the story about Heath and the honey-trap organist. Did you believe it?’

‘It is, however, just the sort of thing the Czechs would do.’

‘Except it never happened. Heath never went to Prague to play an organ at St Vitus or anywhere else. The story is totally false. We got wind of the honey-trap plan through GUSTAV and I personally warned Heath not to go. Not that it would have made any difference. Ted Heath has never had sexual relationships of any sort.’

‘Just as Harold Wilson has never been a Soviet agent.’

‘But the actual truth – Wilson’s dull Nonconformist Northern background and his political pragmatism – isn’t as interesting as a Communist cell in Downing Street. It won’t sell newspapers or get people to form private armies. Why are you smiling?’

‘It just occurred to me, Henry, that you might be doing a double bluff.’

‘Do you really believe that?’

‘No.’

‘The problem, William, is that our trade is more about lying than spying.’

‘Do we create more problems than we solve?’

‘That’s a good question.’

Wembley Stadium:
30 July 1966

Catesby hoped that his stepchildren would never forget that he had taken them to the World Cup Final. He didn’t want them to be grateful, but he did want them to realise that it was a great historic event – if, that is, there wasn’t a draw necessitating a replay.

The West German equaliser in the final minute was the most painful sporting moment that Catesby had ever experienced. It began with a free kick that bounced off the England wall. It was pounced on by a German who shot across the face of goal and into the body of another German. Catesby watched breathless as the ball deflected across the England six-yard box. The England defence seemed momentarily stunned and confused.

Catesby shouted, ‘Clear the ball!’

But no one seemed to hear him, for Wolfgang Weber slid in and slotted the ball into the back of the net.

Catesby turned to his twin stepchildren. ‘Hey, listen you two. Don’t eat your ticket stubs – and try not to chew them into a complete pulp either. We’ll need them to get tickets for the replay.’

‘There isn’t going to be a replay,’ said the stepson, ‘Germany’s going to score in extra-time. England are tired and playing ragged.’

Catesby shrugged. He never contradicted his stepchildren, corrected them or lectured them.

‘I think anyone could win,’ said the stepdaughter.

‘I think you’re right,’ said Catesby. It was, he thought, a pretty neutral answer, but then realised that the other one might think he was taking sides. ‘But I suppose,’ said Catesby, ‘that your brother might be right too.’

‘What do you think, Will?’ said the stepson.

‘I’m not sure. Let’s watch the game. They’ve come out again.’

If Catesby had learned one thing from being an intelligence officer, it was that you could never be completely certain about anything or anybody. It wasn’t a life lesson that he wanted to pass on to his stepchildren, but what happened next did exactly that – and there was nothing that Catesby could have done to prevent it.
Eleven minutes later Geoff Hurst made history as he headed on to the bottom of the crossbar. What happened next? Who really knows?

At first, Catesby was one of those who really did think the ball had crossed the line. Otherwise, he thought, why hadn’t the English player next to the rebound tapped it in to make sure? But then, why was the linesman shaking his head? That’s when Catesby got confused. But perhaps the linesman had been shaking his head ‘no’ to the referee’s saying the ball hadn’t crossed the line. Except that the German-Swiss referee and the Azerbaijan linesman didn’t share a common language. In any case, a moment later the referee gave the goal.