A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (36 page)

‘How would you describe those reports?’

‘There’s nothing I have to add to the statement, which was just relayed to us, from the Chief of the Intelligence Staff.’

There were sighs and a shuffle of feet. The Permanent Secretary to the Civil Service, the one they nicknamed ‘Deputy Prime Minister’, cleared his throat and shifted his bulk.

The colonel came in first. ‘The armoured units that went to Heathrow are a rapid reaction force – and the essence of rapid reaction is just that. With all respect to our colleagues from SIS, military intelligence is a different animal. Military intelligence serves the rapidly shifting contingencies of the battlefield. A commander in the field does not have the luxury of waiting for raw intelligence to be processed, analysed and evaluated before acting.’

The colonel nodded at Sir Maurice. ‘Nor can we wait for feedback, however considered and valuable, from our intelligence colleagues in other agencies. We perceive a suspicious shape in the fog, metaphorically of course, and react to deter a possible threat. We will never know for sure, but our presence at Heathrow may have saved lives.’

Catesby realised that he had been wrong about the colonel. He wasn’t out of his depth – and was probably doing a better job than
his boss would have. But there was also something sinister and too cocky in his manner. Catesby could imagine him on a BBC bulletin after normal broadcasting had been suspended.

Sir Maurice smiled bleakly. ‘SIS face the same dilemma that stifled religious sceptics through the centuries. We cannot prove a negative. Just as a Renaissance sceptic, walking a tightrope between rationality and death by burning at the stake, could not offer definitive proof that the supernatural did not exist, we cannot prove that a terrorist armed with an anti-aircraft missile – or an atom bomb – does not exist. But we do have to operate within the limitations of budget and staffing – and, therefore, have to evaluate levels of risk with the detached professionalism of a triage doctor at a motorway pile-up.’

The man from Treasury nodded approval.

The Permanent Secretary didn’t seem pleased. ‘Terrorists are not imaginary demons dancing on the head of a pin. Monday’s coach bombing was bloody and real. And last month’s bomb attacks at Madame Tussauds and the Boat Show were just as real. We are a country facing a serious crisis. I fully endorse the measures taken by the Army – and hope they go much further.’

The recent bomb attacks, as Catesby and everyone else around the table well knew, were the works of the IRA. But as he feared, the Troubles were being used as an excuse for security measures and spying that had nothing to do with Northern Ireland.

The discussion of the Heathrow deployment droned on. Catesby closed his eyes and pretended to be listening intently, but was actually fantasising about a woman he desired and how nice it would be to disappear with her to a hotel with clean sheets. The Heathrow discussion ended with an agreement – largely cosmetic – on improved methods of intelligence sharing.

As soon as the meeting passed on to the FLUENCY agenda item, Catesby was again fully alert and the adrenalin was flowing. There were three things to remember: no one believed anyone else; no one knew what the other one knew, and the war between Five and SIS was approaching fever pitch.

There were two representatives from Five at the meeting: the DG and Ferret. The latter, like Catesby, was co-opted to JIC. The
interesting thing was that the DG didn’t know all the secrets of Ferret and FLUENCY. But Sir Maurice and Catesby did know – and had decided to dance a carefully choreographed ballet around their rival service.

The discussion began with the DG reminding JIC that FLUENCY was a top secret committee set up ten years previously to investigate Soviet penetration of Britain’s security and intelligence services. The problem with FLUENCY, and the reason it was on the agenda, was its failure to catch a single mole. But, as Ferret would maintain, it depended on how you defined ‘catch’. He would claim that Soviet moles – including a former DG – had been caught and identified, but not prosecuted. And why not? Obviously, a cover-up instigated by other Soviet moles to protect their comrades. Madness beckoned. In Catesby’s view, FLUENCY was a dangerous and deadly American import concocted by FURIOSO – who was completely insane. And the person exploiting FURIOSO’s madness and orchestrating FLUENCY was the defector EMPUSA. But he couldn’t quite say that at JIC.

After the Security Service DG had finished, Ferret began. He glanced hard at the JIC members from SIS and bowled the first ball. ‘FLUENCY will not succeed without the full and enthusiastic cooperation of other intelligence agencies – and that cooperation hasn’t always been forthcoming.’

Catesby glanced at his own boss, ‘Should I answer that, Sir Maurice?’

‘Please.’

‘One recurring complaint against us,’ said Catesby, ‘is our failure to publish and circulate FLUENCY conclusions in my section and others. May I remind JIC, that FLUENCY has no formal or statutory status. It is an informal working party that does not have the power to issue instructions, but only to make recommendations.’ Catesby paused. He could see that Ferret was boiling.

‘And you’ve consistently ignored those recommendations.’

‘We certainly have ignored those recommendations which, if followed, would be a breach of security. On one hand, you recommend that certain officers be denied access to secrets until further
positive vetting. But, on the other hand, you criticise us for not widely circulating FLUENCY conclusions which contain sensitive secret information that should only be shared on a need-to-know basis.’ What Catesby really wanted to say was that FLUENCY created an atmosphere of fear that destroyed morale. Ferret and his ilk wanted to bring the McCarthy-ite witch-hunt to Britain.

Ferret tried to come back in, but Catesby caught the eye of the chairman. ‘May I continue, Sir Stewart?’

‘What point do you wish to make, Mr Catesby?’

‘I want to put FLUENCY investigations into the wider context of intelligence gathering and espionage – and explain what effect FLUENCY is having on those operations.’

‘Go on, but be brief.’

‘FLUENCY is counter-espionage – and counter-espionage is a defensive operation. The more time and resources you spend on counter-espionage, the less you have for offensive operations.’ Catesby paused and looked around the room. ‘An excellent strategy for an enemy intelligence service is to trick the services opposing them to spend more on counter-intelligence – hunting moles and threats that don’t exist. In fact, by creating an atmosphere of fear and paranoia, you can destroy an intelligence service.’ Catesby paused again. ‘I am not saying that this has happened here, but it is something of which we should be aware.’

The Permanent Secretary stirred. ‘Are you suggesting that dedicated counter-intelligence officers, our brave spy-catchers, may, in fact, be undercover Soviet agents?’

‘No, but they may be unwitting dupes of those who are.’ Catesby made an effort not to look directly at Ferret, but could see from the corner of his eye that the Security Service DG was restraining him. The committee room had descended into an embarrassed hush.

‘As Head of Sov Bloc T Section,’ said Catesby, ‘the essence of my job is keeping an eye on Soviet weapons and their deployment. One recent initiative – and please don’t minute this – is investigating the drinking habits of Soviet officers and personnel who have control of nuclear weapons. I’m not being facetious; this is a serious issue. At the moment, a nuclear war that destroys
Britain is more likely to begin by accident than intention. Such intelligence could prove a useful bargaining point for the Foreign Office and the Americans in their ongoing SALT discussions – an agreement about monitoring the alcohol use of personnel dealing with nuclear weapons could save all our lives. Vodka in the control room is more likely to cause a nuclear war than ideology. In any case, such intelligence gathering is seriously hindered when the officer leading the op is summoned to FLUENCY for his umpteenth positive vetting. Meanwhile, the Strategic Rocket Force boozers and the KGB are delighted, because we – too busy gazing into our own navels – are off their backs.’

The peer, even though he seemed a little more whiskyed than at the last JIC, gave a firm nod of assent.

The Permanent Secretary, on the other hand, wasn’t giving any sign of approval. As Catesby finished and sat back, he noticed that the Permanent Secretary was staring at him in a strange way. Catesby wondered if he should have had his hair cut before the JIC.

Before they could move on to the next agenda item, the Permanent Secretary intervened. ‘Your argument, Mr Catesby, against wasting money on FLUENCY and counter-intelligence in general is a very convincing one.’ He paused, but continuing staring. ‘In fact, just the sort of argument an undercover Soviet agent would make.’

The embarrassment was tangible. People didn’t know where to look.

‘Not,’ said the Permanent Secretary, ‘that I’m accusing you of being a KGB spy.’ He paused and looked around the table. ‘Which isn’t to say that there are no Soviet spies in this room. I am sure there are.’

Catesby noticed others exchanging glances and surreptitious nods. He obviously wasn’t the only one who had noticed that the Permanent Secretary had been strange of late.

The Permanent Secretary looked at his watch. ‘I must leave now. I have a meeting with the Prime Minister about something of urgent state importance. Utterly urgent. Please don’t stop on my account. Carry on the meeting and send me the minutes by courier.’

There was complete silence as the Permanent Secretary made his way to the door and down the stairs. The mandarin from Treasury got up and looked out the window, obviously checking on the Permanent Secretary’s exit and progress.

‘Is he all right?’ said the Chairman.

‘I think so,’ said the man from Treasury. ‘But I’d better check just in case.’

‘By all means.’

Treasury collected his papers and left.

The rest of the meeting went smoothly and quickly and ended twenty minutes later.

As Catesby emerged from the Cabinet Office building, Whitehall was bathed in a rare burst of winter sun. He was looking forward to a brisk walk back to Century House across Westminster Bridge, but with umbrella at the ready. It had been a wet winter, although a mild one. God only knows what would have happened if the current fuel shortage had been exacerbated by a winter like ’47 or ’63.

Catesby had got no further than Downing Street when he sensed someone at this elbow. It was the Treasury mandarin who had left the meeting early.

‘Mr Catesby, could I trouble you for a second?’

‘Of course, how can I help?’

‘We’re having a spot of bother at Number 10.’

‘Only a spot?’

‘Well, it is a rather large spot.’

Catesby smiled. ‘How can I help?’

‘I believe that you were in SOE during the war?’

Catesby nodded.

‘So you know all about hand-to-hand combat and first-aid.’

‘I’m sure the duty cop on the entrance would be better at both.’

‘But I think a member of the Secret Intelligence Service would be more appropriate.’

‘This sounds intriguing.’

The man from the Treasury gave a weary smile. ‘It is rather bizarre.’

*

The Permanent Secretary was lying on the floor in the Prime Minister’s study. He was totally naked and smoking a cigarette. At first, Catesby thought he looked like a Rubens’ nude. Although on reflection, Lucien Freud’s recent work would be a better comparison. The Permanent Secretary’s body was fleshy, but not sensuous. In fact, neither artist would have given the subject the human compassion he deserved. The Permanent Secretary was in a terrible state and Catesby felt sorry for him.

It was the first time that Catesby had met the Prime Minister and he seemed to be taking it very calmly. Heath looked at Catesby and said, ‘We’ve telephoned his wife and the hospital, but he won’t move – and he is a big man. He started behaving strangely this morning before the JIC meeting. He said he had something vitally important to tell me, but that we had to go some place that wasn’t bugged.’

Maybe, thought Catesby, the Permanent Secretary wasn’t as mad as he seemed.

‘When he came back from JIC,’ said the Treasury man, ‘he told all his staff to go home and prepare for the Battle of Armageddon.’

‘That,’ said Catesby nodding at an assortment of inkwells, teacups, fag packets and matches meticulously arranged in opposing battle formations, ‘explains the armies.’

The Permanent Secretary stirred and pointed across the carpet. ‘That is the Red Army. They landed in East Anglia last night and are wheeling south to capture London in a pincer movement with other Red forces who landed on the South Coast at midnight.’ He pointed to a line of bone china nearer him. ‘The Blue Army is here. I fear they’ve deployed too late. Frankly,’ the Permanent Secretary for once sounded oddly sane and articulate, ‘our system is collapsing and our world is coming to an end. And I’m sorry to report, Prime Minister, that there is very little we can do to prevent it. Calling a snap general election won’t help.’

The Prime Minister looked around at those present. ‘Even if you are not a member of the Privy Council, please treat that piece of information as if you are.’ The Prime Minister leaned over and spoke to the Permanent Secretary in a kind voice. ‘Thank you for
your advice. You need a bit of rest. Why don’t you go home and come back tomorrow which is going to be very busy.’

‘No, Prime Minister, I am not going to leave my post at such a crucial moment in our country’s history.’

Catesby remembered the tour Henry Bone had given him so long ago of the secret tunnel system known as Q-Whitehall. He turned to the Treasury mandarin and whispered, ‘I believe that 20 Downing Street is part of your patch.’

‘Yes, it is. Used to be the Tithe Commission, but we took it over.’

‘Have you got a discreet parking place for your vans full of gold bullion?’

‘There is a parking place on the Whitehall side.’

‘Can you get an ambulance there?’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem.’