A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (39 page)

‘Is twenty-five-year-old VSOP brandy all right with you, Catesby – or would you prefer a cup of tea? It will have to be Typhoo from a bag.’

‘Brandy, please.’

Bone poured and served the brandy. Catesby noticed that his hands were shaking. He suddenly realised how much Bone had aged in the past few years. He must be approaching retirement age.

‘I would,’ said Bone, ‘appreciate it if you transcribed Captain Zero’s letters into a typed document. Please don’t photocopy them. It would be tempting fate to have examples of his handwriting lying around. I will, of course, closely guard the typed copies.’ Bone sighed and sipped his brandy. ‘That young captain is taking an awful risk.’

‘How do you know he’s young?’

‘All captains are young nowadays – and an older man wouldn’t be so foolish.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

‘Well, I suppose, Catesby, that you are an argument to the contrary.’

‘Touché,’ said Catesby raising his glass. ‘I never thought we would be in this position. I always thought Britain was destined for decades of reassuring dullness alternating between One
Nation Tory fossils and Labour government pragmatists bent on betraying their socialist principles. It wasn’t ideal, but it was safe.’

‘Remember, Catesby, what I said to you all those years ago when I gave you that somewhat drunken tour of the Q-Whitehall tunnel system?’

‘Spain.’

‘Well remembered – and I bet you thought at the time that I was mad?’

Catesby smiled and nodded.

‘There’s no reason,’ said Bone, ‘why 1930s Spain can’t happen here.’

Catesby raised his fist in salute: ‘
¡No pasarán!
’

Pimlico, London:
1 November 1974

The latest letter from Captain Zero was disturbing for a number of reasons. Not just for the information it contained about Operation Clockwork Orange, but because of what it revealed about the captain’s precarious position. Catesby picked it up and read it again.

Greetings Mr Catesby,

Things are increasingly strange here at Operation Clockwork Orange. I’ve been bollocked a few times for being too nosey and asking ‘too many fucking questions’ – especially about mysterious meetings with the press. Part of our job is briefing foreign and British journalists who come to Northern Ireland to experience the thrills and spills of a war zone, but on most days there is very little happening. The sleight-of-hand skill required is to turn a briefing about the situation in Northern Ireland into a briefing against Harold Wilson and members of his government. One standard technique is to feign a weary sigh before whispering, ‘This is off the record and strictly confidential’. The briefing officer then complains that the security services in Northern Ireland are underfunded – and things are going to get worse because Wilson’s Labour government are cutting spending on defence and the intelligence services. Another covert briefing line is that Wilson has alienated the CIA on whom the UK relies for much Cold War intelligence and expertise in SIGINT and other expensive technical matters. From there on, provided the journalist is a sympathetic right-winger, it’s easy to move on to rumours of Communists, orgies, unspeakable sexual practices and mysterious Eastern Europeans with deep pockets.

One of the most worrying things is proliferation of forged documents – and I think I know the identity of a few of the forgers. The motto seems to be: ‘If you can’t find it; make it up.’ One line, which is difficult to conceive even with the most twisted leaps of illogic, is a link between Moscow, Wilson and the IRA. It’s like saying the Pope is a Soviet agent. These people have leapt into another dimension.

I want out and hope to be leaving the Army in the near future. Meanwhile, I feel that I am under suspicion and being spied on – so I must be careful. But I will stay in touch.

I’ve just found out that I’m Night Duty Officer this weekend. Being alone in the office means that I will have a chance to check out a few secret files. I know that there is at least one bombshell I should be able to get my hands on. I will tell you about it when I write again early next week.

Best wishes,

Captain Zero

PS: I would describe what is going on as a black propaganda in preparation for a coup d’état.

At first, Catesby had an ominous feeling about the letter, but then thought that Captain Zero was indulging a taste for self-dramatising. It wasn’t an unusual trait for members of the intelligence community. He continued to stare at the letter and hoped that he was right.

Suffolk:
16 November 1974

Catesby had waited in London until the Saturday post was delivered, but still no letter from Captain Zero. Nor had the letter arrived the previous week as promised. Catesby now knew that there weren’t going to be any more letters. Ever. He looked again at the newspaper story which was brief and relegated to the inside pages.

Body of British Army Officer Found in Carlingford Loch

The body of a British Army captain, missing for a week, has been found in Carlingford Loch. He is thought to have been abducted and executed by the IRA. It has not been confirmed, but the missing captain is thought to have been an intelligence officer who was kidnapped while operating undercover…

Catesby continued staring at the newspaper. No one would ever know the truth. The article didn’t give the officer’s name, but indicated that he originally came from Wales.

It was nearly midnight when Catesby found the tape and put it in the recorder. When the twins were young, before the stepson’s voice broke, they had been in a choir. One of Catesby’s favourite pieces had been the choir’s rendition of the Welsh lullaby,
Suo Gân
.

Huna blentyn ar fy mynwes

Clyd a chynnes ydyw hon;

Breichiau mam sy’n dynn amdanat…

Sleep child on my bosom

Cozy and warm is this;

Mother’s arms are tight around you,

Mother’s love is under my breast;

Nothing may affect your napping,

No man will cross you;

Sleep quietly, dear child…

The words were still ringing in Catesby’s ears when he went to the village war memorial in the churchyard. There were nine names on the memorial – a lot for so small a village – and there were nine poppies from Remembrance Day. Catesby added a tenth poppy – even though he knew it was so far from the captain’s native Wales. ‘Rest in peace … whoever you were.’

CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia:
20 November 1974

Angleton knew his days as Head of Counter-intelligence were numbered. He knew that he had lots of enemies – and several of those enemies were KGB moles who had penetrated Western intelligence agencies. But his more numerous and powerful enemies – if power is defined as bureaucratic weight – were those who were the dupes of the Soviet agents. These latter were the ones who were going to get rid of him.

Nixon’s resignation hadn’t helped either. Angleton was no great admirer of Nixon, but it had been the President himself who had encouraged him to continue HT/LINGUAL and MH/CHAOS

HT/LINGUAL was the sort of operation that any intelligence agency worth its salt would have undertaken. It involved opening mail addressed to and received from the Soviet Union, Red China and other Communist countries. The letters were opened and recorded at CIA facilities in New York and LA. HT/LINGUAL certainly provided an impressive list of fellow travellers, pinkos and Soviet agents. Peace groups and civil rights organisations in particular were ridden with covert and overt Communist sympathisers.

MH/CHAOS had been set up on the urging of Lyndon Johnson. Its purpose was to uncover foreign influences on the anti-Vietnam war protests. And there was certainly a lot of anti-war stuff coming from Britain. In fact, a lot of the culture of anti-establishment protest came from Britain – not just the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, but from art-house films and Communist intellectuals like Eric Hobsbawm. And the influence of Bertrand Russell, although he was now dead, had done a lot of damage too. Russell’s lordly manner and breeding had made cowardly pacifism smart and fashionable. He was largely responsible for CND, which still threatened the future of US nuclear bases in Britain. Angleton lit a cigarette and smiled. Russell had also been screwing T.S. Eliot’s first wife. Sexual betrayal and national betrayal often went hand in hand. All of Britain’s Soviet spies had either been homosexual or serial adulterers.

Angleton stared through the haze of smoke. And now LINGUAL and CHAOS had been turned against him. Someone within the CIA, perhaps one of the Soviet moles, had leaked information about the two operations to the press. You weren’t supposed to spy on American citizens. It was a violation of the CIA charter. So what? The charter was only a piece of paper – but the CIA was a secret intelligence organisation tasked with protecting America’s security. And now they were using the bureaucratic nicety of the charter to get rid of him.

But, for the time being, he had still had a job to do. Angleton opened his latest cable from London.

From OSO London Station to ADOCCI:

The Wilson regime is quickly proving to be the nightmare predicted. The Labor government have already declared an arms embargo against South Africa and Chile. Détente with Russia is already back on the table. And, most outrageously, Wilson has ordered the British secret services to stop trying to suborn and recruit Soviet diplomats stationed in the UK. His rationale is that it could affect trade relations. It’s almost as if Wilson’s foreign policy is being dictated directly from the Kremlin.

But there’s a bright side. Wilson won’t last long. There are rumblings on the ground and we’re doing everything to help.

By the way, we’ve just received news that a former Wilson cabinet minister has been reported missing in Florida. A pile of his clothes was discovered on a Miami beach this morning. The ex-minister in question was almost certainly a spy in the pay of the Czechoslovakian intelligence service. The London-based defector, RADKO, confirms this.

More information from your sources in Miami about the ‘drowning’ would be much appreciated.

We need, thought Angleton staring at the cable, to keep our side in London well supplied with ammunition. As Yeats said of Dublin in 1916:

All changed, changed utterly:

A terrible beauty is born.

It is now London’s turn.

Century House, Lambeth:
23 November 1974

Catesby and Bone had just spent an exhausting weekend going through files at the behest of Sir Maurice. John Stonehouse, the missing ex-minister now presumed a suicide drowning, was a big headache – and Sir Maurice had correctly predicted that he would be summoned to Downing Street to give the PM an intelligence briefing on Stonehouse.

‘What do you think?’ said Bone.

‘Once again, it all boils down to Wilson’s penchant for trade with the East Bloc. Stonehouse was a junior minister in the Ministry of Technology in Wilson’s last government. Stonehouse, following Wilson’s “white heat of technology” line, was particularly enthusiastic in supporting the export of technologically advanced products to the Soviet Bloc. It reminded the Cousins of the hated Rolls-Royce jet engines deal; they were furious and out to get Stonehouse.’

‘I think,’ said Bone, ‘he could have been more sensitive to the Washington perspective. But how did Five feel about letting you nose around in their Registry?’

‘Superficially friendly and cooperative, but I’m certain that the most interesting files had been pulled or were never there in the first place.’

‘What did you find?’

‘Stonehouse was very fastidious about reporting to Five all his contacts and conversations with anyone from the East Bloc. He obviously knew that he was under surveillance and suspicion.’

‘With good reason?’

Catesby smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have given Stonehouse a top secret security clearance, but I wouldn’t have put him in handcuffs either.’

‘Is there definitive concrete evidence that he accepted money from the Czechs?’

‘Absolutely none – and certainly not enough evidence to merit a prosecution.’

‘But you have your suspicions?’

‘I think Stonehouse was dodgy with money. If he did spy, it wasn’t ideological; it was for cash. At least Wilson had the good sense not to bring him back into the government.’

‘You think he was guilty?’

Catesby nodded. ‘But thinking it and proving it are two different things.’

Bone nodded. ‘Apparently, he was in deep financial trouble – which was why he went for a swim.’

‘Or didn’t go for a swim.’

‘Exactly.’

Catesby smiled. ‘If he turns up again, I bet it’s more likely to be in Melbourne than Moscow.’

‘You see where this is heading?’

‘They’re going to plant stories about Stonehouse and use them to smear Wilson.’

‘Go on.’

‘They’re going to say that Wilson had full knowledge that Stonehouse was a Czech spy and covered up for him – and the cover-up proves there is a Communist cell at the heart of Downing Street.’

‘I hope, William, you realise how serious this is.’

‘You think we’re heading for a
coup d’état
?’

Bone nodded.

Mayfair, London:
27 November 1974

‘I wonder,’ said the general, ‘how long it will be before the blighter turns up in Moscow?’

‘Or Prague,’ said JJ.

The colonel turned to a newcomer in the club. ‘Would I be correct in assuming that there is proof that Stonehouse accepted money from the Czechs when he was junior minister for aviation?’