A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (33 page)

Century House, Lambeth, London:
12 September 1973

Catesby was depressed. He had just read the cables from Santiago – and they were grim. In a way, thought Catesby slipping on his Machiavellian mask, it was a pity that no one had been hurt at the embassy – not seriously, of course. It would have given HM Government an excuse to make a diplomatic protest against the junta.

It was still too soon to know how the Foreign Office was going to react to the coup, but Catesby suspected that, after some wriggling, the FCO would give their blessing to the junta. When the smoke cleared, it was all about business and exports.

The Western Hemisphere wasn’t really any of Catesby’s business, but that didn’t stop him from poking his nose around and getting top secret docs from Registry. Occasionally, he got a memo from Dir/Americas telling him to ‘get off the grass’, but
Catesby had enough weight of his own to ignore it. In fact, he impressed Dir/Americas by mentioning that he had actually met the woman who had originally said, ‘Get your tank
orf
my lawn.’ She was an upper-class Englishwoman married to a wealthy and elderly Bremen merchant. They lived in the staid Schwachhausen district of Bremen. In the aftermath of the Battle of Bremen, the Englishwoman twitched her curtains and was shocked to see a tank from the Scots Greys parked on her lawn. The corporal in charge of the tank apologised and quickly moved his tank back on to the street. If Catesby had been there, he would have ordered him to move it back again. The woman wasn’t a Nazi supporter, but she was oblivious.

One of the files on Catesby’s desk was from the SIS man in Santiago, who had been Catesby’s protégé in Bonn. Gerald had moved up from a clerical grade to become a fully fledged intelligence officer. Gerald, who still ruffled feathers by flaunting his proletarian origins, had been a good choice to send to Allende’s Chile. Gerald’s cables from Santiago, dating back to the beginning of Allende’s presidency, were now heartbreaking.

Allende government initiatives are bringing the arts to the mass of the Chilean population for the first time. Cheap editions of great literary works are produced on a weekly basis, and in most cases are sold out within a day. The government is also transforming Chilean popular culture through changes to school curriculum, state-sponsored music festivals and tours of Chilean folklorists.

The Women’s Secretariat, established in 1971, has been a great success. It has improved social and economic conditions for women through public laundry facilities, public food programs, day-care centres, and women’s health care (especially prenatal care). The duration of maternity leave has been extended from 6 to 12 weeks.

The Allende government is making education available for poorer Chileans by expanding enrolments through government subsidies. University education has been ‘democratised’ by making the system tuition-free. This led to
an 89 per cent rise in university enrolments between 1970 and 1973.

Since 1970 there has been a dramatic increase in social spending particularly for housing, education, and health. A major effort has been made to redistribute wealth to poorer Chileans. The redistribution of income has seen wage and salary earners increase their share of national income from 51.6 per cent to 65 per cent. Family consumption increased by 12.9 per cent in the first year of the Allende government.

Catesby pushed the file aside and stared out the window. No wonder they killed him. And what would they do to a British Allende? Ten years ago talk of a British coup would have been unthinkable, but times were changing. Why? Was it because America was more aggressive? Because big money was becoming more ruthless? Catesby didn’t know the answer, but once again he wanted to weave a protecting veil and spread it over his country.

Mayfair, London:
13 September 1973

‘Good news from South America, eh?’

‘Cheers,’ said the general toasting with his gin and tonic.

The mood in the billiard room of the exclusive gentlemen’s club was better than of late. The retired colonel and JJ were also members and contributors to a think tank called the Forum for Conflict Studies, usually known as the FCS. Also present in the room was the founder of FCS, an Australian-born journalist named Brian. The FCS had been formed three years before as a limited company. It had struggled at times, but recently funding had become more lavish.

‘Chile,’ said Brian, ‘was a domino that couldn’t be allowed to topple. Allende was a virus that could have infected all of Latin America. I think that we will see what happened in Chile marks a turning point in US foreign policy. Neither Johnson nor Nixon was tough enough in Vietnam.’

‘I hope so,’ said JJ. ‘There’s already a lot of claptrap flying around in the left-wing press about Allende having been democratically
elected. The people of Chile don’t deserve democracy if they are duped into voting for a Communist.’

‘And what about the people of Britain?’ said the colonel. ‘It has happened in the past – and seems likely to happen again in the future.’

The banker shook his head. ‘It will be Heath’s fault. He turned out to be a useless twat.’

‘Grocer’s son,’ said the peer.

‘And he’s queer,’ added JJ.

‘By the way,’ said the general pointing at JJ, ‘can’t you use your connections and wiles to get copies of those photos the Czechs took of him in bed with that ballet dancer?’

‘Organist,’ said JJ.

‘Are you sure those photos even exist?’ said the colonel.

Brian laughed. ‘What difference does that make?’

‘Heath,’ said the banker, ‘has been absolutely feeble – doesn’t have the balls to stand up to the miners or any other union.’

‘The Conservative Party will get rid of him as leader,’ said JJ. ‘I know that for certain.’

‘But not before the next election,’ said the colonel.

JJ shrugged.

‘We must,’ said the general, ‘make completely certain that Wilson doesn’t get back in.’

‘The problem,’ said JJ, ‘is that a Tory election victory will make it more difficult to get rid of Heath. In a way, Wilson getting back in power may be a good thing.’ JJ smiled slyly. ‘It opens up … possibilities.’

‘In any case,’ said the colonel, ‘I am pleased to see that our various, uh, policy institutes, are well and thriving.’

‘I believe,’ said the banker, ‘that the Americans call them “think tanks”.’

‘Steel tanks,’ said the general, ‘are much more effective.’

‘Don’t underestimate the power of propaganda,’ said Brian.

‘Is FCS,’ said the colonel with a mischievous smile, ‘still getting dosh from the CIA?’

There was an embarrassed hush.

‘Oh, come on,’ said the colonel, ‘everyone knows that FCS is
part of the Congress for Cultural Freedom – and everyone knows where their cash flow comes from.’

‘The answer,’ said JJ, ‘is obviously yes, but I hope that soon the bulk of funding will come from elsewhere.’

‘Totally agree,’ said the colonel. ‘In fact, I would one day like to see privately funded organisations – or even actual limited companies – replace the likes of MI5 and MI6.’

‘And the Army?’ said the general.

‘Absolutely,’ said the colonel, ‘and as I’ve said many times, “Who pays wins”.’ He looked at the former MI6 man and gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘Come on, JJ, tell us more about our new and mysterious benefactor.’

‘It’s complicated,’ said JJ. ‘The source of our funding doesn’t wish to make his identity known – and that requires a complicated process of…’

‘Money laundering,’ said the banker.

‘Oh dear,’ said the peer, ‘I hope this room isn’t bugged.’

London:
28 September 1973

Catesby knew that he was being followed and it wasn’t the first time. Until now, he hadn’t been taking counter-surveillance measures. There was no reason to. He wasn’t slinking off to a rendezvous with a secret agent; he was merely going back to the flat after a day at the office. His usual route was down Westminster Bridge Road to the river, then left along Lambeth Palace Road to Lambeth Bridge, across the Thames and then left down Millbank. Sometimes, he didn’t cross over the river until Vauxhall Bridge: he liked the view of the Tate in the setting sun. But today, being a Friday, he suddenly veered up York Road and into Waterloo Station. The place was heaving with City types off for a weekend to the West Country and Catesby quickly lost his tail. But he didn’t lose sight of her. Catesby circled back around a news kiosk and found the woman staring into the mass of commuters and weekenders trying to ascertain which bowler hat was his. She was tall, East Asian and fortyish – and looked vaguely familiar.

Catesby came up behind her and said, ‘Can I help you? You look as if you’re lost.’

She looked directly at him. There was no apology. ‘I think it’s time that we had a talk.’

‘Then why didn’t you stop me sooner.’

‘First of all, I wanted to make sure it was you.’

‘We’ve met before,’ said Catesby.

‘Yes – can you verify where?’

Catesby could see she wasn’t taking any chances. ‘At a castle overlooking the Rhine in 1951.’ Catesby smiled. ‘I must look a lot older.’

‘And so do I.’

Catesby was too polite to agree. But she was no longer the winsome eighteen- or nineteen-year-old she had been at the time. Her face was lined and worried-looking.

‘Just before I left,’ said Catesby, ‘you said, “The East is Red. Long live Chairman Mao.” Did you mean that?’

‘Of course I did – and I still do.’

‘You must have political differences with your uncle.’

‘We argued bitterly and he finally disowned me. Which was a good thing, because it liberated me.’

‘Why are you in London?’

‘I live and work here. I’m a lecturer at SOAS. I’ve also worked with Ralph Miliband at LSE. He knows you and says you’re a diplomat, but I suspect he knows the truth.’

Catesby smiled. ‘Sticking a bunch of spies in a glass tower block wasn’t a brilliant idea. How is Ralph?’

‘Not very well. They’ve moved to Leeds and he’s finding the admin of being a head of department a strain.’

Catesby personally knew Ralph Miliband, Eric Hobsbawm and a number of other London academics and intellectuals. They knew he was an intelligence officer, but gave him information and points of view that they hoped would make HM’s government a more thoughtful and rational place. Other spies cultivated industrialists and bankers, which was also useful, provided you didn’t get used by them. Catesby made a mental note to remember to send a present to the youngest Miliband boy. Born on Christmas Eve, it was important not to let the holiday overshadow Edward’s birthday.

‘Shall we go someplace for tea or coffee?’ said Catesby.

‘The station caff will be fine.’

‘Grab a table.’

As Catesby queued for a pot of tea he gave the woman a furtive glance. She was quickly brushing her hair and checking her face in a compact mirror. Maoist revolutionary academics were just as insecure and concerned with their appearance as everyone else. Catesby smoothed his own forelock with a bit of saliva.

The first part of the conversation was about mutual acquaintances and life in London. The polite pleasantries of British life were a gentle web that had bound together, however temporarily, an anti-imperialist revolutionary and an officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. The polite dreariness of Britain, along with weak tea and warm beer, were something worth keeping – even dying for.

‘You must be wondering,’ she said, ‘why I contacted you.’

Catesby remained silent.

‘My uncle is not just mad and eccentric; he is dangerous and associates with dangerous reactionaries.’

‘There are a lot of them about.’

‘I hardly ever see my uncle, but he is getting very old and he is my nearest living relative. I recently combined a research trip to South America with a visit to where he lives most of the year in Paraguay.’

‘Did you argue?’

‘I endured several rants about Allende being a Communist disease that could infect the whole continent if it wasn’t eradicated. Little did I know at the time that a coup was about to take place.’

‘It must have been difficult for you.’

The woman smiled. ‘I didn’t argue back – it would have been pointless. Instead, I humoured him and cooked his favourite meals.’ She looked at Catesby. ‘I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t poison him.’

‘I wasn’t.’

‘But, if you were wondering, I do have some family sentiment – and, besides, I wouldn’t have got out of Paraguay alive.’ She smiled. ‘Also, my uncle wouldn’t eat anything unless I tasted first. He made a joke of it, calling me “the Great Khan’s food-taster-in-chief”. In any case, after a couple of days he began to trust me and gave vague hints about what he was up to. He was bragging, trying to impress. He even began to leave his study door unlocked, but not the safe or filing cabinet.’ She reached inside a large leather satchel and handed over a fat envelope. ‘The only documents I could copy were ones left on his desk.’

‘Thanks. But why are you handing these to me?’

‘Ideologically or personally?’

‘Both.’

‘From an ideological point of view, it is a good strategy to have the imperialists fight among themselves. It weakens the forces of oppression.’

‘Personally?’

‘I like living in Britain – and so did Karl Marx. I don’t want to
see this country torn apart by mad reactionaries as now seems likely.’

We are an odd lot, thought Catesby. What other country could have produced Magna Carta, the Industrial Revolution,
Das Kapital
and The Beatles?

Catesby took the documents the woman had given him to his house in Suffolk. He knew they would be much safer there in the previous owner’s ingeniously hidden safe than anywhere in London – including the SIS registry, which gave access to officers with secret agendas. You could trust no one.

Catesby loved the unearthly quiet of rural Suffolk on a calm autumn night. The quiet and darkness – no street lamps for miles – soothed the body and calmed the nerves. But he decided to have one more look at the documents before he put them away. Catesby was impressed. The woman’s uncle may have been a mad follower of Genghis Khan, but he was also a brilliant and thorough accountant. Everything was dated, invoiced and numbered. The ODESSA bureaucracy was as meticulous as it was chilling. As soon as Catesby was finished, he put the papers back in their envelope and carried them to the secret place. He removed the loose block of fifteenth-century oak and opened a panel that was disguised as rough rendering over wattle and daub. The safe was now exposed. Catesby twirled the dial to the combination and the safe door popped open with a welcome hiss. The safe was empty – except for a single piece of paper that read: FUCK YOU CATESBY.