A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (41 page)

‘Officially,’ said Blunt, ‘I’m no longer Director of the Courtauld.’

‘Nothing to do with…?’

‘No, I need more time to write. Victor and Tess Rothschild have offered me lodgings. They’ve looked after me before when I’ve been ill.’

Bone nodded. The couple had also taken care of Heath’s
Permanent Secretary when he had a nervous breakdown in Downing Street the previous year. Their wealth and generosity provided warm embraces for those in need of protection – and kept them hidden from prying eyes.

‘I want,’ said Bone, ‘to talk about you and Tommy – and that little business you ran.’

Blunt coughed and stumbled.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh dear, Henry, now I am in trouble. No wonder you wanted to get me away from the hidden microphones. In a way, it was great fun. Isn’t it odd?’

‘Isn’t what odd?’ said Bone.

‘That my MI5 interrogators never asked me about my most important betrayals – my betrayal of art? Giving false attributions and creating bogus masterpieces was far more insidious than anything I ever did for the Russians.’

‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

‘And, Henry, I want to have it again. Nothing I ever passed on to Moscow ever damaged Britain, but it did help Russia defeat Nazi Germany.’

Bone stared blankly into the traffic headlights heading down Baker Street. There were many ways to define ‘damage’.

‘But,’ continued Blunt, ‘damaging the reputation of great artists with a false attribution is like hurling acid at a real Poussin.’

‘But it was lucrative,’ Bone paused, ‘and I helped too. What a pity that Tommy didn’t live to enjoy the proceeds.’

‘A lot of it went to good causes. But there’s one thing that has always bothered me and never been resolved.’

‘What?’

‘Do you suppose they found out that Tommy had swindled them and then killed him in return? The car crash was very suspicious.’

‘If they did kill Tommy, now is your chance to get back at them.’

‘I’m not a vengeful person.’

‘But some people are – and have every right to be.’

‘What do you want, Henry?’

‘I want you to give me all the files and all the information you
have on your former customers in South America – especially the ODESSA ones.’

‘Why haven’t you asked before?’

‘Because we had no means of bringing them to justice – not to mention the fact that many of them are protected by the Americans and their host countries.’

‘How soon do you want this information?’

‘By the end of the month.’

‘You will have it – and I hope by so doing I can restore a few reputations too.’

‘There are things more important than art.’

‘Do you actually think, Henry, that I have not considered that many times lying awake in the dark watches of the night?’

‘And what’s the answer?’

‘Ask me when I’m on my death bed.’

Paris:
7 March 1975

It was a cold bleak day in the Cimetière du Montparnasse. Henry Bone was wearing a black roll-neck jumper and his black leather jacket. His Fitzrovia gear doubled as cover for blending into the Left Bank. Bone wondered whether he should stroll into Les Deux Magots on St Germain-des-Prés to test his cover and practice his French on Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Actually, there was a philosophical issue that Bone would have liked to discuss with them. Sartre had recently said that terrorism was a ‘terrible weapon, but the oppressed poor have no others’. And it was a question not unrelated to the reason Henry Bone had come to Paris.

Bone huddled inside his leather jacket; the wind was biting cold as only a March wind in a Parisian cemetery can be. He checked his watch. His contact – if there was going to be a contact – was already ten minutes late. Bone had done everything required, including the chalk mark on Baudelaire’s ‘left big toe’. But perhaps the network that contacted Catesby nineteen years ago was no longer active. In fact, it was unlikely. But Bone continued waiting. If necessary, he would freeze for another hour or try another month.

Bone looked across the graves. The cemetery wasn’t empty of the living, but few were about. The person nearest was a woman in black jeans wearing a scarf and heavy coat. She had a bouquet of hyacinths and seemed to be dawdling among the graves. She didn’t appear to be aware of Bone’s existence, but was getting closer. She finally approached. Her eyes were fixed on Baudelaire’s sarcophagus and completely ignoring Bone. In a gesture that was more violent than respectful she threw the hyacinths on to Baudelaire’s tomb and whispered a hoarse,
‘Venge-moi!’

Bone answered with the agreed words,
‘Demain, aprés-demain et toujours!’

The woman replied in English, ‘You speak French like a very English “milord” who has come to Paris for a bit of fun – and, my god, don’t you look like one.’

Bone wasn’t often nonplussed, but when it happened it was usually a woman doing the nonplussing. He struggled to regain some semblance of dignity. ‘I am sure that your English is much better than my French.’

‘I was told that the person I was meeting spoke absolutely fluent French – and you look nothing at all like the description I was given. So who are you?’

‘I work closely with the person your representative met. The meeting occurred quite a long time ago – in 1956.’

‘Our records are very fastidious. Each contact is assigned a different dead poet and a different line of poetry. I was briefed to meet a certain William Catesby. Why hasn’t he come?’

‘He was more than willing, but I wanted to take personal responsibility for what I am giving you – and what I would like to get in return.’

‘I won’t ask your name, nor am I going to tell you mine, but I am sure we will both make accurate assumptions about our jobs.’

Bone nodded and looked closely at the woman. She was older than she appeared at first, probably more than fifty. Her face was thinly lined and her looks were Mediterranean or Middle Eastern. Her black hair was probably dyed.

‘Where,’ she said, ‘are the things you wish to give me?’

‘In a locked briefcase – with an incendiary device to destroy the contents if it is forced open – in a safe at my hotel.’

‘You take no chances. Were you followed?’

‘One can never be sure, but I follow standard counter-surveillance procedures.’

‘Are you alone?’

‘Utterly,’ smiled Bone.

‘Are you flirting?’

Bone was nonplussed once more. He tried French again:
‘Je suis un vieil homme dans une saison sèche.’

‘That was much better, milord.’ She offered her arm. ‘Shall we go, sir, to your hotel?’

The woman had spread the documents over the bed and many had spilled on to the floor. There was a wealth of information:
it included all of Catesby’s files, including those from the SOAS lecturer; all of the art historian’s files and recollections and much else that Bone had personally garnered and guessed. Bone was helping her tie various leads together. Much of the information expanded intelligence that the woman’s organisation already had in part, but which led to cul-de-sacs.

‘I hope you will find these documents useful,’ said Bone.

‘They fill in many missing spaces in the jigsaw – and will bring people to justice. That is certain.’ The woman paused and stared hard at Bone. ‘But your gifts have come wrapped in a mystery. And you are a mystery too. Aren’t you warm in that jumper?’

Bone smiled. Women were often very interested in his art historian friend too. Was it because of Blunt’s refinement and good looks? Or was it the challenge of the unattainable? Except that, on occasion, Anthony had, not so much given in or succumbed, but complied.

‘I would,’ said Bone, ‘like to ask for your help.’

The woman smiled. ‘With your jumper? I’d love to buy you a new one.’

‘Thank you, but with something else too.’

‘Go on.’

‘I need a very special type of listening device. Most bugs, as you know, are activated by voice or a radio signal. They are small and very difficult to detect.’ Bone was thinking of the very excellent one that had been installed in the billiard room of the Mayfair gentlemen’s club. ‘But I would like a large, lumpy listening device that can be easily discovered – by emitting, say, a tell-tale sound that appears to be accidental. Something such as a cassette-tape recorder with an internal microphone.’

‘But surely you could easily buy one in any shop.’

‘Ah, I left out an important detail. I should have said, something that
appears
to be a large listening device.’ Bone paused. ‘What I am really looking for is a bomb disguised as a bug.’

The woman looked perplexed. ‘Why have you come to us? I know who you are and I am sure your own technical support teams could provide exactly what you want.’

‘The operation I want to carry out is not one sanctioned by the
UK Government or by British law. It is, in fact, an illegal operation, but one intended to save my country. I am sure that your organisation has faced similar dilemmas.’

‘How do you know that you can trust us with this information?’

‘Because I am ruthless enough to expose your operations if you expose mine.’

The woman stared at Bone. ‘That sounds fair. Tell me more about this explosive device.’

‘I want a bomb that will appear to have been a typical IRA device. Therefore, please don’t use anything that the Provos would not have access to. I will provide you the technical details.’

‘That would be useful.’

When Bone had finished his briefing on the bomb, the woman put down her pencil – and then picked it up again. ‘Do you mind if I sketch you?’

‘If it pleases you.’

‘Sit over there by the window. I’m not, however, going to do it in this notebook.’ She took a sketch pad out of her bag. ‘I like drawing. It also teaches you to notice things and people.’

‘What have noticed about me?’

‘You would be surprised, milord.’

After an hour the woman handed the completed sketch to Bone. He looked old, troubled and conflicted. She hadn’t signed it, but she had given it a title:
Un vieil homme dans une saison sèche.

The woman leaned close to Bone and whispered, ‘
Maintenant, regardez-moi.
’ Her voice was worn and hoarse.

Green Park, London:
20 March 1975

Catesby and Bone had just been to a meeting at the FCO about the effects the fall of Saigon, which now seemed inevitable, would have on UK foreign policy and intelligence needs. The most immediate problem would be the evacuation of British passport holders. The next issue would be refugees and asylum seekers. These problems mostly concerned Dir/FarEast, but there were wider implications that concerned all of SIS. The most important was how the Americans were going to react to the humiliation of losing in Vietnam. There were already signs that Washington was going to lash out and pursue even tougher and more aggressive policies to prove that America was still the world’s most powerful country. This could lead to tenser confrontations with the Soviet Union and a greater risk of war. There was also a possibility that Washington would want to ‘punish’ the allies who ‘didn’t do enough’ to support the US in Vietnam. These would include Britain, Canada and the Gough Whitlam government in Australia.

It was the first time that Catesby and Bone had a chance to talk since Bone had gone to Paris. When the FCO meeting was finished, they made their way to a bench in Green Park for a private chat amid the daffodils and primroses.

‘How was Paris?’ said Catesby.

‘I accomplished what I set out to do.’

‘You’re not going to tell me more?’

‘No.’

‘I had,’ said Catesby, ‘an interesting chat with Sir Maurice while you were gone. He’s not as mild and cuddly as he seems.’

‘You’ve just noticed that?’

‘I had my suspicions before, but I came away feeling that I had just been to a meeting with a Borgia prince plotting murder and torture. But he’s holding off until the summer. He wants to give his victim more time to incriminate himself.’

‘Who is the intended victim?’

Catesby told him.

10 Downing Street:
August, 1975

The Prime Minister’s visitor had arrived via Q-Whitehall, the secret tunnel system that linked the seats of government. The visitor’s purpose was largely bureaucratic infighting – and also an attempt to protect himself and his agency when the simmering volcano erupted. The visitor was hoping for a peaceful transition that would still leave him in a position of power and influence. He didn’t want a military coup, which would leave him vulnerable. The visitor had personal secrets of his own.

The visitor declined tea, coffee or something stronger and launched straight in. ‘Your secret personal file, Prime Minister, bears the pseudonym Norman John Worthington. Such a person, of course, has never existed.’

‘And only those who know I am Mr Worthington have access to my file?’

‘That is correct, Prime Minister. If, on the other hand, you were to go to Registry and try to find Harold Wilson in the central index, your search would come back “No Trace”.’ The visitor paused and frowned. ‘And in the past year, the DG has taken further measures to conceal the existence of your secret file.’

The Prime Minister lit his pipe with shaking hands. ‘When,’ he said, ‘did all this begin?’

‘It began in 1947 just after you were appointed President of the Board of Trade.’

Wilson looked out the window across Horse Guards. A squadron of cavalry in red plumes were practising a drill. He remembered what Sir Stafford Cripps had said to him as he handed over his Board of Trade post: ‘I hope, Harold, that the jet-engines-to-Moscow deal doesn’t prove to be a poison chalice.’ It had.

‘What in essence,’ said Wilson, ‘does the file contain?’

‘Quite a lot. But what seems to concern the Security Service most are your past and present contacts with suspected or real KGB officers, Communists, Russians and Eastern Europeans in general.’

‘It sounds like the file is also a recipe book for how to smear me and my government.’

‘That’s a point of view that one could understand.’