The Envoy (21 page)

Kit was used to sharp criticism: harsh words were background music in the corridors of power. ‘I’m sure that assassination plans exist, but…’

‘But you haven’t been able to penetrate the secrecy around them.’

‘It depends on how you define penetrate.’ Kit began to feel resentful. It wasn’t Foster’s job to question his role as an
intelligence
officer. On the other hand, you can’t tell the US Secretary of State, the second most powerful man in the world, to fuck off. ‘I know that experiments have been carried out at Porton Down …’

The Secretary of State’s face looked blank.

‘Porton Down is the British Ministry of Defence laboratory for chemical and biological warfare. In any case, there have been recent experiments involving nerve gas, ricin and poison-tipped darts. They carry out practice assassinations on sheep.’ Kit paused and remembered his father’s tales of how tethered farm animals were used to measure blast and radiation effects at the US nuclear test sites.
We use animals,
he said
, to harden our souls for cruelty to our own species
.

‘If a Nasser assassination is planned, how likely is it to succeed?’

‘Less than ten per cent. Most of Britain’s undercover
intelligence
assets in Egypt have been blown and rounded up. Their only hope is a handful of dissident army officers.’

‘What a pity. We would not be adverse to such an
assassination
, but we can’t be seen to have anything to do with it. We have to protect our reputation in the Arab world. But it would suit our policy just fine if the British got rid of Nasser – and then,’ Dulles smiled for the first time, ‘we would condemn them for having carried out a beastly and illegal act.’

Kit was surprised by Foster’s open cynicism, but then he
realised
that it was the first time that he had ever been alone with him. Perhaps the high-minded pulpit persona was something the Secretary of State saved for more public settings – or for his kid brother. Different people, different faces.

‘The problem,’ continued Dulles, ‘is that Nasser thinks he can play ball with both sides. He accepts Soviet military aid with one hand while his other hand is grabbing American aid to build the Aswan dam. We’re not going to let Nasser get away with that. We’re going to pull out of the Aswan project.’

Kit wasn’t surprised. Development aid wasn’t about helping the world’s poor; it was about blackmailing Third World
countries
to follow US policy. Without the Aswan dam, Egypt would end up an economic cripple. No food, no power, no jobs. The Gringo Dollar was just as deadly as poison gas and nuclear bombs. If a country gets out of line, you wreck their economy and starve their kids.

‘Well,’ said Dulles, ‘we know that Nasser is going to be mad as hell. But since he won’t be able to get back at us, he’s going to take it out on the Brits instead. What do you think?’

‘I suspect,’ said Kit, ‘that Nasser will kick the British out and seize the Suez Canal.’

‘And how are the British going to respond?’

‘Eden will go bananas – he might even take military action.’

‘And that,’ said Dulles, ‘is where we are going to fall out with our British cousins. We’re going to have to tell them that it’s
finished
, that their empire is over.’

Kit looked at the Secretary of State with detached amazement. Dulles came from a family of diplomats: John Foster was, in fact, the third member of his family to occupy his present post. And yet, thought Kit, this man goes about international diplomacy with all the grace of a trained chimpanzee putting out a grass fire with a wet sack.

Dulles took out a penknife and began to sharpen a pencil as if it were his personal view of world history. ‘They have to understand that “Pax Americana” is the only song that the West is going to sing. As things develop, we’ll keep you informed of what lines to take and who, on the British side, to groom and cultivate.’

Kit began to get up for he assumed the interview was over.

‘Stay there for a second.’ The Secretary of State frowned at his pencil and shaved off another sliver. ‘It is not in the interest of the United States that Britain possesses an independent nuclear deterrent. We’ll keep you briefed on what line to take.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘But I won’t keep you, Kit, I believe you’ve now got a meeting with my brother over in the Kremlin.’

The Kremlin wasn’t
that
Kremlin, not the one in Moscow. It was State Department slang for the dreary complex of office buildings on E Street that housed the CIA. There were plans to move to a pleasant site called Langley across the river in Virginia – where the DCI could watch deer and other woodland wildlife through his office window while he plotted overthrows of disobedient governments.

The DCI seemed flushed and ebullient as Kit entered his office. Kit suspected that Allen Dulles had got laid over his lunch break. The Director’s womanising was gossip so stale that it was no longer mentioned.

The DCI got up and held Kit in a manly bear hug. His jacket carried a whiff of cheap perfume. ‘You did a fantastic job in Portsmouth Harbour.’ Dulles hugged him tighter and for a
second
Kit thought his boss was going to kiss him on both cheeks like a French general handing out a Croix de Guerre.

‘I hope I didn’t go too far.’

Dulles let him go. ‘No, not at all. But any more British
nonsense
about unilateral détente with the Sovs has been truly
scuppered
. The Russians will never again trust perfidious Albion. And, by the way, I’ve just heard that John Sinclair has resigned as Head of MI6.’

Kit already knew, but feigned surprise.

‘I hear,’ continued Dulles, ‘that Sinclair’s replacement is Dick White, the fellow who was running MI5.’

‘I’ve met him – we call him Blanco.’

‘What’s your impression?’

‘Smooth and devious – not to be underestimated.’

‘Add your impressions to his file before you leave.’

‘Sure.’

Kit watched the DCI walk back to his desk and noticed the limp. Like Lord Byron, Allen Dulles had a club foot – not a fact that either man had tried to make known.

‘The thing about our British cousins,’ said Dulles, ‘is that they seem to be becoming more secretive and furtive. Which is a pity, because they’re pretty damned good at knowing what’s what on Arab Street. There’s a certain sort of upper-crust Britisher that likes nothing more than to dress up like a Bedouin and learn the lingo – T.E. Lawrence, Wilfrid Thesiger, St John Philby. I suppose we could be crude about the reason why – but even some of the girls, like Gertrude Bell, get into it. And, I have to admit, they do it with dash and style. Replacing them in the Middle East won’t be easy.’

‘Are you going to send me somewhere to learn Arabic?’ 

‘No, Kit, but I want you to keep us posted on Eden – and also keep an eye on Macmillan and Butler. See which one is more, shall I say,
congenial
to our interests. Did you know that Macmillan’s mother was an American? It seems we’ve crossbred most of their ruling class. As for Wallis Simpson … your Baltimore girls get everywhere.’

‘My mom never liked her.’

‘Clover can’t stand her either.’ Dulles lowered his voice. ‘It might, you know, be jealousy. Wallis is, of course, ugly – and they all wonder what her secret is. Have you heard of something called the Singapore Grip?’

‘I believe it is achieved through endless hours of exercise over a number of years. It probably helps if one trains the appropriate muscles from an early age and refrains from bearing children.’

‘Exactly. In any case, we digress. What more can you tell us about the British H-bomb.’

‘They still haven’t got one.’

‘I know, Kit, but they have got something up their sleeve – and are being very furtive about it. The stuff you send us about
recruitment
patterns at Aldermaston is priceless. There has recently been a shift away from pure research recruitment to applied
science
and engineering. Ergo…’ The DCI paused and waited for Kit to complete the analysis.

‘Ergo, they already know the science of creating a
thermonuclear
fusion device, but are now looking for specialists who know how to glue one together.’

‘That, Kit, is the
obvious
conclusion, but my intuition tells me there’s a lot more to it. In any case, I understand you’re keeping a close eye on the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment in Suffolk.’

‘Yes, it’s on a long bleak spit called Orford Ness. I’ve had aerial reconnaissance photos taken – and, quite fortuitously, I have a cousin who is married to the chief scientist at the Orford Ness site.’

‘How serendipitous. But I think I knew that already.’ Dulles paused. ‘This cousin of yours – is she, by any chance, George Calvert’s daughter? I think her name’s Jennie?’

‘That’s the one. We’re still good friends.’

Dulles aimed a trademark wink at Kit. ‘That Jennie’s a real beauty. Have you recruited her as an agent?’

Kit felt his mouth go dry. ‘Not quite an agent, perhaps an unwitting asset.’

‘Good.’

‘I’ve also bought a boat that I’ll be keeping on the river at Orford. In fact, I’ll be able to see the research labs from my mooring.’

‘Excellent. We can pay for that boat if you like.’

‘No thanks, I’d like to keep it as a personal possession.’

‘Foster loves boating too. Have you been to that island of theirs on Lake Ontario.’

‘No.’

‘Foster becomes a different person up there. He chops wood, fetches water, catches fish and cooks them. It’s his
dacha
– he ought to invite Khrushchev. By the way, did you know that Khrushchev has just announced that the Sovs are going in for missile delivered H-bombs?’

Kit nodded.

‘The Russians are way ahead of us on rocket science, there are even rumours of a satellite launch in the offing – but that, I am sure, is wild exaggeration. But we still have a lot of catching up to do.’ Allen smiled. ‘And that’s why Britain, three and a half thousand precious miles closer to Moscow, has to be our nuclear front line and a base for
our
nuclear weapons. A separate British H-bomb would create practical problems of command and
control
– and would also invite policy differences.’

‘What, sir, if the Brits don’t want to go along with this?’

The DCI gave Kit a cold look that carried a hint of anger. ‘The British are going to have to learn to like it or lump it. No time for sentimentality about thatched cottages, quaint accents and unarmed cops on bicycles. Sometimes, Kit, I fear that you might be going native?’

Kit smiled. ‘I drink tea, sir, but I draw the line at pints of
lukewarm
bitter.’

‘Good. But there’s one more thing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Our listening station in Tromso has been picking an
unusually
heavy amount of traffic in the North Sea – and SIGINT hasn’t been able to decode anything. So the level of security seems
unusually
high too.’

‘British?’

The DCI nodded. ‘And Russian too.’

Kit could see that Cord and Mary Meyer were having problems with their marriage. Their façade of happiness and mutual respect was too perfect. Both were too well brought up to discomfort a visitor by revealing the slightest flaw in their relationship. Kit knew they were showcasing the marital harmony: he would have felt more comfortable if they had thrown crockery at each other.

After a simple dinner – Chincoteague oysters, steak and salad – Mary went to work in her studio where she was trying to adapt oil and canvas to the sort of severe minimalism that Anne Truitt was developing with sculpture. Both Kit and Cord knew it was best not to comment. They shifted themselves to Cord’s study to drink Scotch on the rocks.

Kit was a little surprised to see that Cord had framed his Bronze Star and Purple Heart decorations and had them
hanging
on his study wall. He knew that Cord had been rattled by his experiences as a marine lieutenant in the Pacific – and thought he would have thrown his medals in a drawer just like everyone else. Cord had lost an eye and been left for dead when a Japanese grenade landed in his foxhole. A week later, Cord’s twin brother had been killed on Okinawa. There was a savage symmetry: you lose an eye and then you lose a twin. Spooky. Cord smiled wanly and stuck a thumb at the framed medals. ‘My dad had that done when I was in hospital. Can’t really throw them away.’ Kit had the queer feeling that his mind had been read. That was spooky too. Cord offered the Scotch and steered the conversation away. ‘How do you like England?’