A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (32 page)

Catesby smiled smugly. He had never bossed around a general before. How he wished his stepson had been there to see it.

Most of the Cabinet Room was taken up by a forty-foot-long table shaped like a boat. Another Downing Street newcomer leaned over to Catesby and said, ‘Did the Prime Minister bring in this table because it reminds him of sailing
Morning Cloud
?’

‘No,’ said Catesby beginning to relish his status as a Number 10 insider, ‘it was actually Harold Macmillan who commissioned this table. He wanted one shaped so that he could make eye-contact with his entire cabinet.’

Just as the meeting was about to begin the clock on the mantelpiece began to chime – and five seconds later, a clock on a table opposite the PM’s vacant chair began to chime. Harold Wilson had brought in the second clock so he could time his meetings without awkwardly looking at his watch or twisting around.

‘I suppose,’ said the general, ‘that one is Washington time and the other is Moscow time.’

The only smiles were bleak ones. Catesby felt vaguely sorry for the general and hoped that he would never have to shoot him to prevent a military coup.

The first part of the JIC meeting was taken up by Northern Ireland where the situation continued to deteriorate rapidly. Last month’s shooting in Londonderry was already known as Bloody Sunday. The Army officer gave an update on the situation and the state of the casualties. Many were still in a critical condition. Catesby listened with horror and fear. If it could happen in Londonderry, why could it not happen in London or Yorkshire? In Ipswich or Norwich? Once again, Catesby realised that he didn’t have much of a stomach for violence. He wished that he could weave a magic protecting veil that he could spread over the island nation that he loved.

The second agenda item was ‘SIS and SALT’. Although the UK was not directly involved in the Strategic Arms Limitation Talks
that now alternated between Helsinki and Vienna, it was important that HM’s government had some idea what was going on behind the scenes. The DG began with a summary and then passed over to Bone and Catesby who provided details and helped answer questions.

The next item belonged to Catesby alone. It was about a discussion document entitled, ‘An Intelligence Assessment: Defectors and Double Agents’, Catesby had written and that had been circulated to JIC members.

‘I don’t want to bore you,’ began Catesby.

Bone gave an ironic smile.

‘Thank you, Henry. I will be as quick as possible. Most of you know that I am not a big fan of defectors as intelligence assets, particularly walk-ins. Most defectors fall into two categories. The worst, but only arguably the worst, are fake defectors who have been planted by foreign intelligence services to spread disinformation and cause chaos in our intelligence services. The other type of defector is what the Americans call “bona fide”; I prefer calling them “genuine” or “not planted”.

‘As opposed to “unplanted”,’ said a JIC member from the Lords who had had a good lunch, ‘such as seed potatoes chitting in one’s greenhouse.’

‘Quite,’ said Catesby smiling at the peer and reminding himself that he still hadn’t bought his seed potatoes. ‘The so-called genuine defector,’ continued Catesby, ‘can cause just as much damage as a planted one. They are usually motivated by ego rather than ideology. Their reasons for defecting are often shallow: they’re bored with their job; they’re unhappy in their marriage – or they want a lot more money than they could ever make as a KGB colonel. The intelligence provided by such defectors is always contaminated by embellishment and the need to impress their handlers with their own importance.’

The head of the Security Service was nodding approval – which made his odd-shaped ears jiggle. Catesby trusted him because of his suburban ordinariness. He played tennis, went bird-watching and loved amateur dramatics. In fact, the head of the Security Service lived in the same garden suburb as Harold Wilson – and they both loved Gilbert and Sullivan.

‘I think,’ said the head of Five in his most portentous am-dram voice, ‘that we know to whom you are referring.’

Catesby looked at the JIC chairman. The chairman turned to the stenographer, ‘Don’t copy or minute this.’

‘We’re obviously talking about EMPUSA,’ said Catesby, ‘who in my view, is a confidence trickster who has split the CIA into two camps. The problem is that EMPUSA has an enormous influence on ADDOCI.’

‘In plain English,’ said DG SIS, ‘ADDOCI translates as CIA Head of Counter-intelligence. Our code name for him is FURIOSO, but his actual name is James Angleton.’

‘I’m not sure,’ said the JIC chairman, ‘that we should continue this discussion. I hope that all of us present realise that we have strayed on to a very sensitive area.’

‘I appreciate that, Sir Stewart, therefore I will now proceed to discuss my paper,’ Catesby paused, ‘…in theoretical terms without reference to specific individuals.’ Catesby continued, ‘It is possible that certain defectors will try to impress their handlers with far-fetched conspiracy theories involving impossible assassinations…’

‘Mr Catesby,’ said the chairman.

‘I apologise, Sir Stewart.’

‘The truth of the matter,’ said Catesby, ‘is that it is almost impossible to tell the difference between a planted and a genuine defector. One test that agent handlers should apply is to tell would-be defectors that they would be much more useful by staying in place and passing on intelligence by spy-craft methods such as dead letter drops.’

The well-whiskyed JIC member from the Lords intervened. ‘Not an option for a spineless coward.’

‘Quite,’ said Catesby, ‘which is why the stay-in-place option is a useful test of commitment. Which brings us to another assessment problem, “the dangled double”. Once again, any Sov Bloc intelligence officer who freely offers his or her services should be regarded as highly suspect.’

‘Can you think of a single instance,’ interrupted the Chairman, ‘when a defector or double agent has been a woman?’

Catesby smiled. ‘I can think of several women spies – particularly the
Rote Kapelle
, who spied against Hitler’s Germany – and women spies have been excellent, brave and ideologically motivated.’

‘I believe that the
Rote Kapelle
, or Red Orchestra, were spying for the Soviet Union.’ The person who intervened was the Permanent Secretary of the Civil Service Department. He was a stout walrus of a man who some referred to as the ‘Deputy Prime Minister’. Catesby, and others, had concerns about him. He was normally a solid type, but had lately turned nervous and volatile.

‘At the time,’ said Catesby, ‘there were no Western agents in Berlin to whom the
Rote Kapelle
could have passed their information.’ Catesby realised that he had dropped himself in it by praising the Red Orchestra. It was rumoured that the Permanent Secretary had joined the ranks of those who believed Red monsters were lurking under every bed – and he was getting worse.

The Permanent Secretary stared at Catesby over arched fingers.

‘If an agent,’ said Catesby trying to return to the original subject, ‘is a dangled double, the intelligence provided will at first be highly accurate, but harmless to Moscow. The disinformation will begin once the agent is trusted by his handlers.’ Catesby glanced at the Permanent Secretary. ‘A standard tactic used by planted defectors or false doubles is to suggest that those who don’t believe them are, in fact, moles who are trying to protect themselves.’

The representative from GCHQ took off her reading glasses and looked at Catesby. She had known Catesby’s sister before she was forced to resign and her look was a mixture of sympathy and suspicion.

Catesby understood and smiled back.

‘Is it ever possible to be absolutely certain – 100 per cent certain – that a defector or double agent is genuine?’

‘Yes,’ said Catesby, ‘but not until they have been assassinated or executed by the service they betrayed.’

Manassas, Virginia:
April, 1972

It was the CIA’s best safe house: totally isolated in hilly woodland, but only a forty-minute drive from Langley. The house had a swimming pool, lake frontage and an outdoor bar and barbecue. But what Angleton liked most about it were the spectacular azaleas, which were bursting into full bloom. The house had been built in the 1950s using local stone and wood. There was nothing vulgar about it – except a water feature with Koi carp and a statue of Pan – but the overriding aesthetic style was unashamed American assertive.

It hadn’t been easy to lure the new Genghis Khan, code-named MH/KHAN to Northern Virginia, but Nixon’s recent visit to China persuaded him that it was time to talk to the CIA.

‘As you know,’ said KHAN sitting cross-legged at a low table that the Tibetan caterers had supplied especially, ‘I petitioned your President to make the visit. But whether or not he paid any attention to my petition, I have no way of knowing.’

‘What,’ said Angleton, ‘do you think Nixon’s visit will accomplish?’

‘It may be many generations before we know, but I think it will mean the end of Communism in China.’

‘What would you like to see after that?’

‘A new world order based on religion and monarchy. The Great Khan, by the way, was tolerant of most religions. Like myself, he was a Tengrist, a follower of a religion that combines shamanism with animism and ancestor cults. Tengrist shamans have the power of prophecy – and so do I.’

‘What can you prophesy?’

‘I prophesy that I am going to have some of that
lunggoi katsa
.’ KHAN smiled and spooned a large portion of stewed sheep’s head into his bowl. ‘Thank you for arranging Tibetan food. I am a great admirer of all things Tibetan and a practitioner of Tibetan Buddhism as well as Tengrism.’

Angleton smiled. They hadn’t been able to find any Mongolian caterers who were security cleared for the safe house, but CIA regularly used the Tibetan cooks when the Dalai Lama or his brothers, Tak-teer and Gayalo, were guests at the house. Tibet had been part of a strategy to roll back Red China.

‘But,’ said KHAN, ‘I will give you another prophesy – and one that may well happen within our own present incarnations.’

Jim Angleton poured himself another bourbon. The safe house drinks cupboard was well stocked with beverages other than the yak butter tea that KHAN was happy with.

‘Tengri,’ said KHAN, ‘is the force which determines everything from rain or snow to the fate of nations and empires.’

Angleton knew it was best not to press him about the prophecy that he had promised. He could see that KHAN was difficult to predict. The Tengrist admirer of Tibet hadn’t turned up in a Mongol caftan, but in a perfectly cut Savile Row suit. On the other hand, KHAN wore a Genghis-style beard and had his hair tied back into a bun.

‘Tengrism,’ continued KHAN, ‘was once the predominant religion of Central Asia. Its spread followed the Great Khan’s conquests. One must not forget that the Mongols invaded and lay waste to much of Bulgaria, Hungary and Poland – and annihilated all of the major cities of Russia.’ KAHN paused and stared at his host with a look that seemed oddly sane and reasoned. ‘I prophesy that the Soviet Union will fall by the end of this century and that the new millennium will see Communism and other forms of godless materialism replaced by religion.’

‘You speak of materialism with contempt,’ said Angleton, ‘and yet Genghis Khan needed currency, gold and other financial assets to carry out his great conquests.’

‘Money is a means to an end,’ smiled KHAN, ‘not an end in itself.’

‘And you have access to huge quantities of it.’

KHAN wiped his lips and sipped his yak butter tea.

Angleton could see that he was a person of refinement and breeding – and far from mad. Later they would talk about poetry.

‘Yes,’ said KHAN, ‘I am rich, but my personal fortune is of no importance.’

‘You manage the money and assets of others.’

‘Of course,’ said KHAN, ‘it is part of our plan to bring down Communism. Communists are hopeless with wealth. They destroy it rather than create it. Look what Stalin did to the kulaks.
It is fine to rid a country of useless mouths, but not of those who produce.’

‘And what of artists – and works of art?’ Angleton fixed KHAN with a knowing stare.

‘We love art, but something in your look suggests you know about the scandal.’

Angleton nodded.

‘The people I represent were very upset. In fact, I was cheated myself. But I believe the dealer responsible is no longer with us.’

‘The art dealer was killed in a car crash in Spain.’ Angleton smiled. ‘I knew him. The circumstances were suspicious – and there are those who say it was an act of revenge carried out by ODESSA.’

KHAN remained silent.

‘The enemy of your enemy is your friend,’ said Angleton. ‘And ODESSA have no greater enemy than Communism. It was Communism that destroyed their land and raped their women.’

‘What are you offering?’

‘Britain, once the world’s greatest empire, is falling apart. The Labour Party and the trade unions are controlled directly from Moscow. Britain will be the next domino to fall to Communism.’

‘I once met…’

‘William Catesby?’

KHAN nodded.

‘Catesby deceived you. He is a long-serving Soviet double agent.’

‘I am disappointed.’

‘But we have true friends in Britain; friends who can reverse the rot.’ Angleton paused. ‘Can you help them?’

‘My friends might be interested – tell me how.’

Angleton told him.

Agency News:
11 September 1973

Salvador Allende, President of Chile, Overthrown in Military Coup

Salvador Allende, the world’s first democratically elected Marxist head of state, has died in a revolt led by Army generals.

It is still not clear how the Chilean President met his death. One report says that he committed suicide rather than surrender to the Army commanders who were bombing and besieging the presidential palace. The siege began when tanks opened fire after President Allende had rejected an ultimatum to resign.

Martial law has been declared throughout Chile and a curfew has been imposed. Tanks continued to blast buildings in the city centre until early evening in an attempt to root out pro-Allende supporters who were still holding out. Helicopters repeatedly machine-gunned the top floors of buildings near the British embassy. Bullets ripped through the windows of the embassy – but no casualties were reported.