A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (29 page)

It was a fine drawing. Catesby sipped his wine and admired it. At first, he thought he should follow the Chief Scientific Adviser’s way of dealing with hate mail and destroy it. On the other hand, the artist had rendered his house and garden with skilful attention to detail. Catesby decided to have it framed and hung on his office wall as a trophy.

Agency News:
19 June 1970

Surprise Victory for Tories

Edward Heath’s Conservatives have defied the opinion polls to defeat Harold Wilson’s heavily favoured Labour Party. The Tories, with their Ulster Unionists allies, won by a majority of 31. The victory ends six years of Labour rule.

In the run-up to the election, most opinion polls had pointed to a comfortable Labour victory. One poll had given the Labour Party a lead of 12.4% over the Conservatives.

Factors which may have contributed to Labour’s defeat included a particularly bad set of balance of payments figures and England’s loss to West Germany which eliminated the team from the World Cup in Mexico. Both disappointments occurred in the week before polling day and may have affected the national mood.

Other factors that may have worked against Labour included rising prices, union indiscipline, the continuing risk of devaluation and a set of unemployment figures that showed joblessness at its highest level since 1940.

It was also a bad night for the Liberal Party under their new leader Jeremy Thorpe. The Liberals lost half their seats.

Pimlico, London:
19 June 1970

Catesby was up watching the election results as they came in – and it was a gloomy business. His job forbade him to be a party member, but it didn’t stop him from being a Labour voter. Wilson, for all his faults, at least wasn’t a right-wing Gaitskellite. But how, thought Catesby, could anyone have been so reckless as to call an election in the middle of the World Cup?

The quarter-final loss to West Germany in Mexico was the most depressing sporting event that Catesby had ever witnessed, albeit by television. England had the game in the bag leading 2–0 with twenty-two minutes left. Everyone was blaming the substitute England goalkeeper for having given the game away with
three howlers. Catesby was more generous: he thought the keeper had only committed one howler – or maybe one and a half. In any case, England would have won the game and Labour would have won the election if England’s usual goalkeeper, Gordon Banks, hadn’t come down with a serious tummy bug. If, thought Catesby, you really wanted to uncover the conspiracy to get rid of Harold Wilson, find out who slipped a poison pill into Gordon Banks’s beer at the Guadalajara Country Club. In fact, he wondered if he should minute it as a serious line of inquiry. His colleagues might laugh, but rumours were still rife – particularly from rogue elements at Five – that the Soviet linesman in 1966 had been a KGB agent tasked with gifting England the cup. That was clearly nonsense, but a conspiracy aimed at eliminating the England team from the 1970 World Cup wasn’t.

Catesby had already exchanged cables with the SIS man in Mexico who did, in fact, share Catesby’s suspicions. The SIS man had already spotted something fishy about team captain Bobby Moore being arrested in Bogotá just before the start of the World Cup. Moore had been accused of stealing a silver bracelet from a jeweller’s shop. The charges were clearly trumped-up and the case was dropped. The poisoning of Gordon Banks, England’s least replaceable player, was the second stage of the conspiracy.

In Catesby’s view, the finger pointed at the CIA – for two reasons. Sure, they wanted to get rid of Harold Wilson, but they also wanted to make sure that the military junta ruling Brazil stayed securely in place. And getting England out of the tournament was a big help. England was the only team in Mexico that had had the ghost of a chance of stopping Brazil. In two days’ time, Brazil would face Italy in the final and would surely trounce them. And that would be great news for the junta and their CIA backers.

Catesby got up and turned off the television – then laughed and put his face in his hands. He slumped back in his armchair listening to the bumps and sounds of dark hours London. Was he going mad?

He opened his eyes and tried to focus on objective reality. With Wilson gone, what would happen to the conspiracy to get rid of him? Heath was a Tory, but not a particularly noxious one; at
least not as noxious as the stuff they put in Gordon Banks’s beer. Catesby knew he wasn’t mad – something fishy had happened in Mexico. But what was now going to happen in England?

Heath wasn’t a right-winger. The dark forces of the Secret State didn’t like that. Heath wanted to take Britain into the Common Market. They liked that even less. And Heath was a bachelor – but oh, how the dark forces would love that. The innuendo and the rumours would soon be flowing.

Harvey’s Restaurant, Washington, DC:
September, 1971

‘You did an excellent piece of work last year, a masterpiece, and I’m putting you in for a commendation.’

The recognition had been a long time coming, but Jim Angleton was a lone and closeted manager who sometimes went years without meeting his staff. But better late than never. Angleton raised his glass of bourbon and toasted his counter-intell man from Mexico City.

‘I second that,’ said the counter-intelligence officer from Rio de Janeiro. ‘And if Emílio Médici were here, he would cover you in kisses.
Futebol
is the religion of the masses – and they needed that win to keep them among the faithful.’

Angleton smiled. Médici was a former general and his military dictatorship was one of the strongest and most repressive in South America.

‘You guys are on a roll,’ said the man from Mexico nodding to his fellow counter-intell specialist. ‘You nailed Marighella last year – so much for the urban guerrilla movement.’

‘And we’re going to splatter Lamarca this year.’

‘Good luck,’ said Mexico, ‘but to be truthful, I don’t think England would have gone on to beat Brazil even if my man didn’t manage to slip their goalie a Mickey Finn.’

‘Tuck into your crab cakes,’ said Angleton lighting up another cigarette.

‘You’re a man of the arts,’ said Brazil – Angleton was well known in the Agency as a man of culture and learning – ‘not a gun-slinging goon like us two.’

‘I’m not ashamed to admit it,’ said Angleton.

‘We’ve a problem,’ said Brazil, ‘with a few of our PAPERCLIP Germans – and I’ve heard there are similar problems with the PAPERCLIPs in other parts of the Fourth Reich.’ The term was CIA slang for Latin America – even though they were told not to use it.

Angleton nodded. ‘I’ve heard a rumour or two from Paraguay.

‘Well, you know what the Germans are like,’ said Brazil. ‘They love
Kulture
, they can’t get enough of it. And the PAPERCLIP guys and girls like spending their ill-gotten gains on the odd masterpiece. We’re not talking about a water colour that your maiden auntie’s girlfriend knocked up on a trip to Venice, but the real thing. And, as you know, the PAPERCLIPs have a lot of money to splash around – not just the stuff they looted from Europe, but the cash they’re making locally.’

Angleton smiled. ‘Brazil’s economy grew by ten per cent last year.’

‘Military dictatorship is good for business.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mexico, ‘Britain should try it – the Limeys I met during the World Cup all said their economy is shit.’

‘Moaning,’ said Angleton, ‘is part of their culture.’

‘In any case,’ continued Brazil, ‘we’ve got all these rich PAPERCLIPs with more money than they know what to do with, so they invest their loot in works of art. They say fine art is better than shares, not just because they grow faster in value, but because you can look at them while you’re eating your bratwurst or spanking your maid. Except…’ Brazil paused and smiled.

‘Except what?’ said Mexico.

‘Except when you get screwed by a crooked art dealer. The worst case I know is a PAPERCLIP farmer who owns a ranch twice the size of Belgium. He paid out the equivalent of a hundred thousand Gringo dollars for a Pussy that wasn’t the real thing.’

Mexico laughed and slapped the table. ‘Was this in Thailand?’

‘I believe,’ said Angleton, ‘that the painting to which you are referring was supposed to have been a Poussin.’

‘You’re right,’ said Brazil, ‘that’s the one.’

Angleton sipped his bourbon and smiled. ‘This is getting very interesting. What do you know about the dealer?’

‘He was half-Spanish and half-English; his name was Tommysomething. Now, the thing about selling paintings by famous artists is you can’t just put one up for sale and say this here sunflower is by van Gogh.’

‘It’s called attribution,’ said Angleton lighting another cigarette.

‘That’s the word,’ said Brazil snapping his fingers, ‘and the attribution has to come from someone who knows the game and is trusted and respectable. Well, this Tommy guy had the best giver of attribution that money could buy. The guy was a proper English “sir” who even helps Queen Elizabeth with her pictures. Getting this guy to say a painting was genuine was as good as having the Pope sign your kid’s baptismal certificate. In any case, Tommy and this “sir” ran a racket cheating PAPERCLIP Germans for more than ten years – until Tommy got killed in a car crash six years ago.’

Angleton stared sphinx-like through the haze of tobacco smoke. He knew more about Tommy and the ‘sir’ than he was going to let on.

‘Eventually,’ continued Brazil, ‘one of the PAPERCLIPs showed off his priceless masterpiece to another German who had been one of those responsible for cataloguing looted art treasure from Poland. This German knew his stuff and told the PAPERCLIP that he had been sold a load of steaming
Scheisse
. As you can imagine, word spread – and soon other PAPERCLIPs realised they had been truly shafted.’ Brazil paused and spread his hands. ‘But what could they do, the dealer who fiddled them was dead.’

‘But what,’ said Mexico, ‘about the “sir” guy who certified the fakes as genuine.’

‘They want his blood – and I think they’ll get it.’

‘The problem with the British,’ said Mexico, ‘is…’

‘You mean they’ve only got
one
problem,’ laughed Brazil.

‘Among their many problems,’ continued Mexico, ‘is that they never understood the importance of OPERATION PAPERCLIP. The Brits never realised the importance of the intelligence and the rocket technology that we gained. And the contribution those Germans have made to South American intelligence and security services.’

‘Like your pal, Klaus Altmann,’ said Brazil.

Mexico glowed with pride. He lifted his glass, ‘To Klaus!’

Mexico’s previous assignment had been in Bolivia. He was part of the team that tracked down and captured Che Guevara. Klaus Altmann, a.k.a. Klaus Barbie, a.k.a. the Butcher of Lyon (party membership number 4,583,085), was after Wernher von Braun (party membership number 185,068) the CIA’s most famous PAPERCLIP Nazi.

‘Klaus,’ said Mexico, ‘is the ultimate counter-insurgency expert: ruthless, thorough and cunning. He was essential in trapping Che. Klaus would never be taken in by an art dealer handling fakes.’

‘I don’t recall,’ said Angleton, ‘that Herr Altmann had much of an interest in art.’

‘He’s too busy. Klaus also makes a bundle in the arms trade – and the government looks the other way.’

‘Out of gratitude,’ said Brazil.

Angleton, now FURIOSO again, gazed through the smoke haze. Threads were twisting in the air linking up briefly – and then dissolving again. He had suspected for years that there had been a professional link between Tommy and Anthony Blunt, the spy turned art historian – and he also knew there was a close link between Blunt and Henry Bone. The FURIOSO in him knew that the British Secret Intelligence Service was even more riddled with Soviet agents than Harold Wilson’s government had been. And this could be a problem for Klaus Altmann.

‘How well,’ said Angleton, ‘does Altmann look after his own personal security?’

‘He has his own bodyguards as well as Bolivian government security – and he never discusses travel plans.’

Angleton, again the obsessive paranoid bureaucrat, looked at the agent who had been transferred from Bolivia to Mexico. He was an excellent counter-intelligence officer, but sometimes too arrogant and cocky

‘Getting back to Che,’ said Angleton, ‘why did you let the press photograph his body?’

‘Because we wanted to provide proof to the world that he was dead.’

‘But why were the photographers allowed so much time to take photos and from so many angles?’

The former Bolivian agent shrugged.

Angleton’s eyes flashed a hint of concealed anger. ‘You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?’

‘Sorry, sir, I don’t.’

‘One of those photographers must have been an ex-art student turned Communist sympathiser. Did it never occur to you that Che, picturesquely laid out on a concrete slab in the laundry room of
Nuestra Señora de Malta
, was the very image of the martyred Christ – and this in a continent as religion crazy as South America?’

‘To be honest, sir, we never considered that sort of thing. With hindsight…’

Angleton shook his head. It was like talking to a statue. At the time, an English art critic had compared one of the photos of the dead Che to Andrea Mantegna‘s
Lamentation over the Dead Christ
. In fact, thought FURIOSO, the resemblance was stunning. Another victory turned into defeat. Instead of killing Guevara and putting him in the trash can of history, the op had turned Che into a quasi-religious icon of revolution.

‘Well then,’ said Angleton pushing aside his food and lighting another cigarette from the stub of his last one. ‘Well then, leaving the Che fiasco aside for the moment, I am concerned about Altmann’s personal safety. The Nazi hunters are alive and on the prowl in South America. Aside from their moral self-righteousness and obsessive inability to bury the past, they are ripe for Communist infiltration. Would either of you two gentlemen care to explain how?’

Brazil answered first. ‘The archives of the KGB and the East Bloc intelligence agencies would be a treasure trove for such groups. I’ve heard, by the way, that at least one group of Nazi hunters have already been given files by the East German Stasi.’