A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (3 page)

Catesby looked through the huge hole in the ceiling. The clouds had parted and starlight poured into the bunker illuminating the rubble like ancient ruins. He knew that he was alone and safe from anyone other than himself. He touched the revolver again and wondered if the American was going to turn up. Kit Fournier wasn’t always reliable. Catesby knew that Fournier had his own demons. He had bribed Fournier’s
Putzfrau
to do some snooping. The
Putzfrauen
, the cleaning women of post-war Germany, were Catesby’s most reliable agents. Fournier’s
Putz
didn’t even require training; she had used a Minox spy camera before. The snaps of Fournier’s private diaries, letters and sketches revealed a private passion that had tortured the American since adolescence, if not before. The blackmail card would always be ready if Fournier didn’t do what was asked.

The ruined bunker wasn’t a quiet place. There were drips of water and the scuffling of rats – and the grinding tectonic shifts of loose rubble. But a footstep was distinct and human. Catesby froze and gripped the handle of his revolver. He was good at
making enemies – and his extracurricular vendetta against Nazis had singled him out as a troublemaker. The problem – and a constant source of friction with his American intelligence colleagues – was the Gehlen Organisation. Reinhard Gehlen, the
Wehrmacht
’s former Chief of Intelligence for the Eastern Front, had cut a deal with the CIA. In return for generous funding and immunity from prosecution for their agents, the Gehlen Org provided intelligence to the Americans about what was supposedly going on in the East Bloc.

Catesby knew that Gehlen Org intelligence was useless. Nazis were terrible spies. The real purpose of the Org, thought Catesby, was to save war criminals and mass murderers from the Nuremberg hangman. One Org operative had been in charge of the Drancy concentration camp in the bleak northern suburbs of Paris and was responsible for the deaths of 140,000 Jews. But it was too late to get him – he had escaped to the Middle East. Others had winged their way to South America – a place that cynical US intelligence officers called the Fourth Reich. Catesby and a French colleague were still on the trail of Klaus Barbie, the Butcher of Lyon. When the French found out that Barbie was in American hands they demanded that he be handed over for execution, but the US High Commissioner for Germany, John McCloy, refused. Catesby had since heard that Barbie had been ‘ratlined’ to Bolivia with the help of a Croatian Catholic priest. That’s why Catesby was wearing a Roman collar – Nazis on the run always expected priests to help them. Catesby was sure there were good priests – and tried hard to think of one.

Another footstep echoed in the bunker. Catesby checked that he wasn’t silhouetted by the starlight pouring in from the broken roof and took out his revolver. Someone coughed. Catesby called out: ‘
Ich sehe dich; Hände haut
.’ Catesby was bluffing. He couldn’t see the other person in the darkness and would have had no idea whether or not their hands were up.

A disembodied voice answered, ‘
Wer sind Sie, bitte?
’ The ‘who are you, please’ was unmistakeably American and disarmingly polite. It was Kit Fournier.

‘It’s me – Catesby.’

‘Golly,’ said Fournier, ‘you had me worried. You sounded just like a genuine kraut. Where are you? The sound in this place bounces all over the place.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes. I left your present in the car.’

‘Have you got a torch?’

‘No, but I’ve got a flashlight.’

‘Same thing. Shine it in your face so I can see where you are.’

A light flashed on and Fournier’s boyish smile appeared – a cheerful out-of-place Disney-esque cartoon in a tomb where thousands of slave labourers had sweated out their lives. But there was something fragile and false about Kit’s smile – he only pretended to be the American naïf. It was part of his act. Spies shouldn’t only be taught to stalk and use secret codes – they should go to drama school too.

Catesby removed his hand from the revolver and crunched across the rubble to the American. ‘Why didn’t you bring your friend?’ said Catesby.

‘He isn’t my friend.’

‘Is he alone in the car?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘How do you know he won’t run away?’

‘He thinks I’m his friend – and he knows this is his last chance.’

Catesby looked at Fournier. His face was shiny with sweat and beads were forming under the brim of his trilby. ‘You don’t look well, Kit.’

‘Kraut food gives me wind.’

‘And too much schnapps?’

‘Maybe.’

Catesby was afraid that Fournier was going to blow it. ‘Do you want to practice your lines again before you hand him over? It could be awkward if he smells a rat.’

‘Maybe I’m not going to hand him over.’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘You haven’t done your part of the deal.’

‘I have,’ said Catesby. ‘I’ve told you everything I know and answered all your questions.’ Catesby was lying, but they all lied.

‘My boss in Washington keeps pestering me for more. He wants stuff that he can pass on to the state to put pressure on London. You guys aren’t doing enough – and you owe us a big favour after selling those jet engines to the Sovs.’

Catesby knew that the Labour government was under a lot of pressure from Washington to increase military spending and send more troops to Korea. The Chancellor, Hugh Gaitskell, had scrapped free NHS prescriptions and specs in order to spend more on defence. A handful of ministers on the Labour Left had resigned in protest – and the CIA man in London had ringed their names.

Fournier continued, ‘Last month was bad, real bad. The worst day was called “Black Thursday”. Did you know, Catesby, that most pilots shit themselves when they get shot down?’

‘So I’ve heard.’

‘And their last words are seldom a prayer, but almost always “shit” or “fuck”.’

Catesby knew that the Americans were taking a kicking in Korea on both the ground and in the air – and London’s biggest fear was that Truman might give into his generals and use atom bombs. It could spiral into another world war that would destroy Britain.

‘A lot of our guys,’ said Fournier, ‘are calling for blood, British blood. They think there are people in your government who betrayed the alliance and are siding with the Russians.’

Catesby sighed and shook his head.

‘Why did you sell Moscow those jet engines?’

‘We made a mistake,’ said Catesby.

‘I’m glad you admit that.’

‘We made a mistake because if we had known the Russians were going to use our jet engines in their MiG-15s, we would have made them display the Union Jack on one side of the fuselage red star and the Rolls-Royce trademark on the other.’

‘That’s not funny, Catesby.’

‘Then why are you laughing?’

‘Because I like your dark sense of humour. But, Catesby, don’t ever try making that joke in front of my American colleagues or they will have your guts for garters.’

‘Then maybe I’d remind them that Britain fought in the war twice as long as America and took five times as many casualties per head of population – and now you’re squeezing us dry over the war loans.’ Catesby smiled. ‘If you didn’t want Moscow to get those engines, why didn’t you outbid the Sovs?’

Fournier shook his head. ‘It doesn’t excuse trading with the enemy.’

‘What about Wall Street financing Hitler?’

‘We were neutral then – but we’re not now. We’re fighting to stop the spread of Communism.’

Catesby yawned.

‘Sorry if you find me tedious.’

‘Because we’ve had this conversation so many times before. Listen, Kit, you said I hadn’t done my part of the deal. What part of the deal?’

‘My boss wants dirt to throw.’

‘Which boss?’

Fournier smiled bleakly. ‘I can’t tell you that – but I think you can figure it out yourself.’

‘He thinks he’s a genius, but he isn’t.’

‘Regardless, my boss thinks there’s a Communist conspiracy at the heart of the British government. Why are you laughing?’

Catesby answered in Russian.

‘I don’t know the language. What did you say?’

‘It’s a Russian proverb: it’s about people who believe you can milk chickens and use cows to hatch eggs.’

‘Pigs might fly.’

‘That’s right; you got it.’

‘You’re being glib, Catesby. Americans don’t like smart asses – especially when they’re British.’

‘Washington has gone mad about Reds-under-beds. Your leaders need psychiatric help as much as they do lessons in foreign policy.’

‘No more lectures. Tell me more about the guy who sold the jet engines to the Commies.’

‘Look up the newspaper files. It’s all public. The decision was made by Stafford Cripps, the President of the Board of Trade, with the approval of the Prime Minister.’

‘We need dirt, Catesby.’ Fournier smiled. ‘The sort of dirt that only a London insider like yourself can provide. Tell me straight, is Cripps a Communist?’

‘No, he’s a vegetarian.’

‘Your so-called English sense of humour is getting on my nerves.’

‘I wasn’t being funny. Stafford Cripps is not just a vegetarian; he’s also a puritanical non-drinking evangelical Christian. Let me tell you, Kit, something about Britain that you might not know. We may be a complex people with many contradictions, but there are
no
British Communists who are teetotal vegetarian Christians – not a single one.’

‘You know something, Catesby?’ Fournier smiled. ‘You might be right. I understand Mr Cripps isn’t very well – too much tea and not enough meat. I believe he suffers from colitis which is aggravated by stress – and has been on sick leave.’

Catesby knew that Fournier was showing off. The CIA and FBI had a reputation for ‘black bag ops’ – burglaries – and getting medical records was one of their favourite pastimes. But sex smears were even better.

‘Nah,’ said Fournier, ‘the guy we’re really looking at is the real Commie who succeeded Cripps – the one who actually went to Moscow to seal the jet engines deal with his comrades over generous libations of vodka. You know who I mean – Harold Wilson.’

Catesby laughed. ‘If your boss thinks that Wilson is a spy, he is absolutely barking.’ Catesby could see that Fournier didn’t know English slang. ‘Barking – it also means mad, crazy.’

The American smiled. ‘Why are you assuming that it was my boss who told me that Wilson was a Communist? Maybe you should look closer to home?’

Catesby felt a frisson of doubt run down his spine. Fournier wasn’t the American naïf he seemed.

‘I’m surprised, William, that they haven’t shown you the file.’

Catesby felt a twinge. A drop of sweat had begun to form on his spine. He had just remembered that in a short time he would be carrying out an execution, but there was also something in Fournier’s voice that was sinister and worrying.

The American was smiling. ‘Would you like to know more about this file?’

Catesby didn’t answer.

‘I’m not,’ said Fournier, ‘going to copy it down for you. It’s not the sort of thing I want in my own handwriting. But I’m sure you can remember it. There’s a report dated 26 March 1947 entitled East-West Trade. And it’s a purely British file – parallel red stripes and all. It’s classified top secret and was compiled by MI5. Maybe if you ask in a nice way and say please, they’ll let you have a peek.’

Catesby put his right hand in the pocket of his trench coat and touched the cold steel of the Webley.

‘I know,’ said the American, ‘you’re just dying to ask me how I know about it. But you don’t have to ask, I’ll tell you. One of your colleagues showed it to me last time I was in London. If you think I’m full of bullshit, Catesby, ask some questions next time you’re home in Limey Land.’

‘You’re playing games, Kit.’

‘If they let you have a look – and I don’t think they will – you ought to read MI5’s comments about the Russian Wood Agency. It’s a cover story for getting Soviet intelligence officers into Britain posing as timber merchants – and you need wood to build houses.’ Fournier paused. ‘Why don’t you tell me more about Harold Wilson? We know that you were a socialist candidate in the 1945 election – you must have been close comrades.’

‘We were Labour candidates.’ Catesby smiled bleakly. ‘And I got beaten. By the way, no Labour Party insider would ever describe Wilson as a socialist, much less a Communist. He’s being smeared. Mark that top secret and put it in your files.’

Fournier kicked a piece of rubble, which set rats scurrying. He could see that he wasn’t getting anywhere. ‘In any case, Wilson ought to be arrested for trading with the enemy.’

Catesby smiled. ‘I’ll pass your suggestion on to London.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Are you going to turn him over?’ said Catesby. He was getting pretty close to playing the blackmail card.

‘Who?’

‘Your German friend.’

‘Christ, I almost forgot. Stay here. I’ll fetch him.’ Fournier paused. ‘But before I get him, isn’t there anything else you can tell me?’

Catesby shook his head.

‘Fine. You’re like squeezing water out of a rock.’ The American turned to leave.

There was, however, one piece of intelligence that Catesby had withheld and would never let Fournier anywhere near. It was a toxic intelligence pill that would have sent the Pentagon into paroxysms of mass rage and carpet chewing. The MiGs over Korea were largely flown by elite Russian pilots. Catesby had first heard the rumour via a bribed and honey-trapped Soviet cipher clerk in East Berlin – and later had the information confirmed by a piece of used toilet paper. Soviet troops on exercise in East Germany were not provided toilet rolls and had to use whatever paper was available – training manuals, code books and unit rosters. The beshitten paper was an intelligence treasure trove and Catesby employed a small army of scavengers to collect them up under cover of foraging for mushrooms. At first, Catesby had been sceptical about the cipher clerk’s info, but an excrement-covered page from a Soviet flying manual resolved his doubts. The page contained a list of Korean-language flying terms spelled out phonetically in Cyrillic characters – just the sort of thing a Russian pilot pretending to be a Korean pilot needed. Catesby reported his find to London who quickly decided not to share it with Washington. They didn’t want to give an excuse to trigger-happy US generals. World War III was not in Britain’s national interest.