A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (5 page)

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I think it came from Admiral Darlan’s private cellars.’

‘We don’t talk about that.’

The assassination of the pro-Vichy Darlan in Algiers was hush-hush – and Frances’s father had been involved. His father-in-law would never even hint at what had happened. But Catesby
suspected that the British had done the dirty work as a favour to de Gaulle? Spying was her family’s business too.

‘It’s a pity,’ said Catesby, ‘that the children aren’t here.’

‘I think they need some time to get used to you again.’

‘Does that mean…’

‘I don’t know what it means.’

Catesby looked at his plate; then continued to eat in silence. Their marriage seemed permanently on hold. He didn’t know what she wanted – and he wasn’t sure what he wanted. Frances had been wild during the war. It was a frightful time, but a glamorous time. She celebrated VE day by giving birth to twins. She was seventeen – and the Royal Canadian Air Force officer who had fathered them had already slimed off back to Saskatchewan where he had a wife and three kids.

At times, Catesby and Frances had been incredibly close. But there were problems that neither of them talked about. Their jobs kept them apart too. Frances certainly needed to work for the money, but also for her self-esteem. She came from a family who, when they weren’t throwing themselves under horses at the Epsom Derby, were devoting themselves to making the world a better and fairer place. They were anarchists, socialists, Fabians, feminists, humanist aesthetes and members of the Bloomsbury group. You could find them at literary salons and in the Houses of Parliament. Some were conscientious objectors, while others commanded infantry regiments. Frances felt she had to do her part, but didn’t know what that part was. She juggled child care with a secretarial course – and then, through the inevitable network that encased women of her class, drifted into MI5.

‘Your collar’s frayed and you need a haircut. Sometimes, William, you look like you’ve been dragged backwards through a blackthorn hedge. You need looking after.’

Catesby smiled. ‘I’m practising the Fitzrovia look. I’m going to quit SIS and go to art school. You’ve never seen my creative side.’

‘You’re not serious?’

‘I suppose not. But my new cover story is as a very junior dip, a tenth secretary or something, in the cultural attaché’s office – so I’m trying to look the part.’

‘Oh no, William, that’s not the part at all!’

‘I knew you were going to say that.’

‘You’ve got to be very polished, suave and elegant.’

And not, Catesby thought, carry a greasy gun in a stained mackintosh and execute Nazi war criminals in the ruins of a rat-infested U-boot bunker surrounded by the ghosts of slave workers. She didn’t understand. It was one of the things that separated them – but he immediately felt a pang of guilt. She was a loving person who understood pain and loss: both her brothers died in the war. Maybe he was the one who didn’t understand, who was too self-pitying.

‘I’ve got a pair of jade cufflinks that I can lend you.’

‘The Canadian’s?’

‘No, someone else’s.’

Catesby didn’t bother to enquire further.

Frances saw the pained look on her husband’s face and gave him a warm smile. ‘They’re my dad’s. He wanted you to have them.’

Catesby gave a bleak smile, his only smile. Was she telling the truth – or quickly making up a story? MI5 trained their staff well.

‘You look a million miles away, William. What’s wrong?’

‘I was thinking of something.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You do know. Why don’t you ever talk?’

‘Don’t be cross.’

‘I have every reason to be cross.’

Catesby reached out a hand and put it on her wrist. ‘I do care about you.’

‘Then why don’t you spend more time with me?’

‘It’s difficult when I’m in Germany saving Britain from the Russians and the Americans.’

‘Which ones are more dangerous?’

‘The Americans because they’ve got more money and think they speak our language.’

‘You know, William, those views don’t make you very popular at Leconfield House.’ Frances was referring to the not-so-secret headquarters of MI5 in the heart of Mayfair.

Catesby laughed. ‘On the other hand, the Russians are more likely to blow us up with atom bombs – which, I suppose, is an even worse fate than being inundated with chewing gum and Hollywood films.’

‘I don’t think that you’re going to be assigned to Washington anytime in the near future.’

‘What a pity? I was hoping that I was going to replace Guy Burgess.’

Frances frowned and looked away.

‘Sore point, isn’t it?’ Catesby gave Frances a sly look. ‘Why don’t you admit it?’

‘Admit what?’

‘You were ordered to let Guy and Maclean do a quiet fade.’

Frances pursed her mouth and looked away.

‘You look as if someone just made an indecent suggestion,’ said Catesby.

‘I don’t think you understand our limitations – and the pressure we’re under.’

‘I do. We’ve both got shit jobs.’

Catesby knew that Frances was part of A4, the MI5 section responsible for surveillance. A4 was composed of three women and nineteen men. A total of twenty-two MI5 officers were responsible for keeping an eye on all Britain’s enemies the width and length of the entire UK twenty-four hours a day – except they didn’t work evenings or weekends. Consequently, there were no trench-coated, trilby-wearing shadows on the Southampton docks when Burgess and Maclean hopped on board the
Falaise
for a trip to St Malo – it was late on a Friday and A4 had clocked off for the weekend.

‘You would have thought,’ said Catesby, ‘that you could have altered the duty rotas to put a tail on them.’

Frances smiled. ‘I volunteered to work overtime that evening, but couldn’t get a childminder.’

‘Being a good parent is more important than catching spies – but you could have taken the kids with you; no one would have ever guessed you were a watcher.’

Frances shook her head. ‘No, William, no.’

Catesby did, in fact, advise his agents to take children with them when picking up dead drops or making rendezvous. It was a perfect cover.

Frances lowered her voice, ‘But they didn’t need me. There was someone on their tail.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t ever tell anyone. It was the DG himself.’

‘Good lord.’

‘But…’ Frances had a fit of giggles, ‘…he couldn’t follow them to France because he’d forgotten his passport.’

Catesby shook his head. ‘He didn’t forget his passport and he wasn’t on their tail. The DG went to Southampton to see them off and wish them
bon voyage
.’

‘By the way,’ said Frances, ‘I’ve got something else for you.’

‘Let me guess.’

‘Don’t you remember, you asked me?’

‘I shouldn’t have – it was too risky for you.’

‘I didn’t get it. Hortense got it for me.’

‘Does she still live downstairs?’

Frances nodded. ‘She’ll do anything for you.’

Hortense had been parachuted into France at the same time as Catesby. She had fallen in love with a member of the resistance who was captured and shot by the Germans. Catesby was certain that the relationship had never been consummated. Hortense was one of a small army of genteel spinsters that managed the Registry. The Registry was a vast catacomb of vaults and shelves that contained all the files and archives of MI5. The women were the only ones who could decode the arcane index cards and navigate the labyrinth.

Frances got up and unlocked an oak roll-top desk. ‘She even copied it for you. Here it is.’

Just as Fournier had said, the document was dated 26 March 1947, titled East-West Trade and classified top secret. Catesby smiled and looked up. ‘I owe Hortense a bottle of Harvey’s Bristol Cream. Have you read this?’

‘Yes.’

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m suspicious of why it was classified top secret. It simply reiterates the objections of the Chiefs of Staff about the proposed sale of Rolls-Royce jet engines to the Soviet Union. Not a big surprise – and it was even referred to in
The Times
.’

Catesby read the document again. Fournier had lied. There was absolutely no reference to Harold Wilson – the only politicians mentioned were Cripps and Attlee. The decision to sell the engines had been made months before Wilson became President of the Board of Trade. Catesby looked up. ‘Do you know why they’ve classified this top secret?’

‘It is strange.’

‘It’s an old trick. By denying access to a file you create suspicion about what it contains. You make people think there is fire when there isn’t even a whiff of smoke.’

‘Don’t patronise me, William. I know more than you think.’

‘Sorry. What do you know?’

‘They’re trying to smear Harold Wilson – and they’re doing it to curry favour with Washington. They want the Americans to think that Wilson is the sole villain involved – a sort of evil genius – and entirely responsible for selling those jet engines to Moscow.’ Frances sipped her wine. ‘I keep my ears open, William – they think I’m just a compliant girlie, part of the wallpaper – and I hear things that chill my blood.’

‘Usually after lunch.’

‘Lunch is a big tongue-loosener at Leconfield House. They’ve mastered the art of the high volume whisper that you can hear through two walls and a ceiling.’ Frances paused and smiled. ‘When the indiscretions end, the postprandial snoring begins. By three o’clock the place sounds like the sea lion enclosure at Regents Park zoo.’

‘May I have some more wine?’

‘Not if you’re going to snore.’

‘I didn’t know I was staying.’

Frances filled his glass.

Catesby stared blankly and tried to separate the professional from the personal. He wanted to concentrate on seducing his wife, but Kit Fournier’s words about Harold Wilson kept getting
in the way. ‘Are they passing on these rumours about Wilson to the Americans?’

‘Of course.’

‘To the CIA?’

‘Even worse, directly to Republican congressmen and to the right-wing Hearst press.’

‘Have you got proof?’

‘Of course not, but it wouldn’t make any difference. They’re not passing on state secrets; they’re passing on disinformation, lies.’

‘If they’re not guilty of treason, they’re guilty of libel and slander. It reeks.’

‘But there’s nothing we can do about it. They cover themselves. Nothing is in writing or ever said in front of witnesses – and they pass rumours on to Members of Parliament too, usually Conservatives. Keep your eye on Hansard for the latest.’

Catesby leaned forward and whispered. ‘You’re winding me up, aren’t you? None of this has ever happened.’

‘It would be better for me if you think so.’

Catesby knew it was all true, but didn’t want to know more. Power was a blood sport in which there were no rules.

‘But William, there are good people in MI5. Most of them are good and honourable people – Sir Percy, for example – but there is also a nest of vipers who can’t be controlled.’

‘Name them.’

She did.

Once again, Catesby had no regrets about his choice of career.
Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
Who guards the guardians? It was Catesby’s biggest secret. He would never say it because it sounded so sentimental, so embarrassing. But Catesby loved his country.

Frances pushed her chair back and stood up.

‘Let me help,’ said Catesby.

‘I’m just getting the pudding.’

Catesby was already up standing next to her. Their mouths met and he felt her arms entwining his neck like a spinning spider. It had been so long. She felt warm, sleek and silky. He brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck. Her breath was hot on his neck and they were so close. The telephone rang.

‘I’ll get it,’ said Frances.

‘Leave it.’

‘I can’t. It could be about the children.’

‘You’d better answer it then.’

Frances disappeared into the bedroom to pick up the phone, but didn’t close the door behind her. Catesby listened as her voice turned from concerned to annoyed: ‘Knightsbridge 1803 … Yes, he is here … Would you like to speak to him? … Of course, I will get him.’

She came back into the room. ‘It’s your sister. She said it’s urgent.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Don’t swear.’

‘I suppose I’d better speak to her.’

‘Why does she always disturb us?’

‘She doesn’t always disturb us.’

Catesby went into the bedroom. He knew the evening was ruined. His heart sank when he saw that Frances had laid out for him a neatly ironed pair of pyjamas. He picked up the phone. ‘Hello, is that you, Freddie?’

‘Thank god you’re there, Will.’

He shifted into Flemish. ‘What’s happened? Has
Moeder
died?’

‘That’s not funny, Will.’

He went back to English. He knew that Frances was listening and didn’t want to hide anything from her. ‘I suppose, then, she hasn’t. Why are you ringing?’

‘It’s about Tomasz. This is really serious. I’m frightened of him.’

Catesby sighed. They had been there before. Tomasz was Freddie’s mad Polish live-in lover. He had been an RA F fighter pilot during the Battle of Britain. During one encounter Tomasz had run out of ammunition so he rammed the German bomber with his Hurricane instead. Both planes had been destroyed, but Tomasz had somehow managed to parachute out of his mangled fighter. He had stayed in Britain after the war because he had no desire to return to a Poland under Soviet occupation: ‘They will execute me because I am member of
szlachta
.’ Whether or not Tomasz was really an aristocrat, one of the
szlachta
, was something that
Catesby had never determined. But he did have the arrogance to be one – and loads of charm too when he chose to turn it on. Tomasz worked irregular hours for the Polish Service of the BBC.

‘What’s happened?’

‘He’s having an affair – and now he’s accusing me of having a lover to justify himself. When he comes home drunk I think he might kill me.’

‘Have you got a lover?’

‘Of course not, but he’s suspicious about the move to Cheltenham.’