The Envoy (24 page)

‘Why did they do it? What did these – how do you describe them – crazy or mad…’

‘Crazy.’

‘What did these
crazy
British secret agents want to achieve?’

‘They wanted to go all the way. They wanted to sabotage détente between Britain and the Soviet Union. They wanted to bring down Eden’s government … I suppose they wouldn’t have minded a military coup.’

‘I see.’ The Russian nodded slowly.

‘Listen, Vasili, rogue agents are a real problem in the West – not just in Britain. The French secret services are even worse – that’s why no French government dares pull out of Algeria. The Secret State breeds monsters who get drunk on power. They think that if they sink an
Ordzhonikidze
– or burn a
Reichstag
– they can create a crisis so dire and dangerous that the generals will have to take over. We didn’t only save your ship – we saved the British people as well.’

Vasili looked away, almost embarrassed. ‘You’re not a good actor, Kit. Your lines are too well rehearsed. Try to be more
natural
and spontaneous.’

Kit looked at the Russian. ‘Why don’t you believe me?’

‘Because the results of the Portsmouth Harbour incident – a wrecked Soviet friendship visit, a broken UK détente policy, a weakened Eden government – are all aims of United States
foreign
policy.’

Kit breathed deeply. ‘Your problem, Vasili, is that you see
conspiracies
everywhere. I thought you had enough of that under Stalin.’

‘Do not, my American friend, lecture me on a tragedy that affected me, my family and every Soviet citizen.’ Vasili’s voice was shaking with anger. ‘You have no right, no right …’

Kit looked at the gravel beneath his feet. He felt as significant as a cockroach. ‘I’m sorry.’

Suddenly the Russian was laughing. ‘Why are
you
sorry?’

‘Listen, Vasili, if you think I’m lying, keep asking Commander Crabb until he confesses.’ Kit was a little ashamed that he was condoning torture, but they were all players.

‘What?’

‘Crabb, the British diver, you captured him, didn’t you?’

‘Crabb’s dead.’

‘Where’s the body?’

‘It’ll turn up – bit by bit.’

Kit felt his head was on fire. He wiped a drop of sweat from his brow. ‘How did you kill him?’

Vasili turned away and looked across the park. The great oaks had finally begun to unfurl their leaves. ‘Commander Crabb’s mission was to examine the ship’s propellers. British Naval Intelligence wanted to know why our cruiser was so fast.’

Kit felt his sweat and blood turn cold. He had heard nothing about a plan to examine the cruiser’s propellers. Why did Vasili know this?

The Russian continued. ‘While Commander Crabb was
looking
at the propellers, the
Ordzhonikidze’s
engines were fired up. Then the giant propellers were put in gear – first forwards, then reverse.’

The manner of the diver’s death was horrible, but there was something that shocked Kit even more. ‘How did you know that Crabb was sent to spy on the propellers?’

The Russian didn’t answer. He simply looked across the Serpentine with a face of stone. But Kit didn’t need to know more. The penny had finally dropped; a big bent British penny. It wasn’t the third man or the fourth man – everyone knew about Philby and Blunt – it was the fifth man. That mythical beast bred by paranoia whose existence was denied by all except a few
conspiracy
crackpots on E Street. Kit looked closely at Vasili. ‘You’ve penetrated the British Secret Service at the highest possible level – and you want me to know it.’

Vasili’s face softened. ‘You are a man, Kit, who loves poetry. That’s the most important secret we share. May I recite you some Pushkin?’

Kit nodded.

Vasili looked across the Serpentine. His eyes glazed over as if the London pond had turned into the vast waters of Lake Ladozhskoye on the outskirts of nineteenth-century St Petersburg. The words came in a melodic flood with sorrow chasing laughter – and ended on a note of dry weary resignation. ‘Now,’ said Vasili in English, ‘I have taken my flute to pieces and returned it to its case.’

A young mother was showing her toddler how to feed scraps of bread to the ducks. The child dropped a piece of bread near the water’s edge. A duck darted forward to grab the bread, the child reached out to stroke the shining feathers and the duck beat a noisy retreat. The toddler looked disappointed and ready to cry. The mother kissed the child and explained the way ducks were – then put the child back in the pushchair and wheeled away.

‘We have geese in Siberia that come to England for the winter and smaller birds too called,’ Vasili paused and pursed his lips to make sure he got the pronunciation right, ‘waxwings.’

‘How do you know these things?’

‘Sometimes I come here with a bird book to learn the names. Birds and animals are far more cosmopolitan than we are. At Stalingrad rats would eat dead German for breakfast, dead Russian for lunch and dead Romanian for supper – they were far better fed than the soldiers. Humans aren’t very clever,
considering
the size of their brains.’

Kit decided that Vasili sounded more profound in Russian than in English. The spell was broken. There was a dry American side to Kit that had little time for philosophical platitudes – unless they were his own. He suddenly wanted to bring their meeting to a close. ‘Have you anything else to tell me?’

Vasili took a deep breath. He seemed to be shaking his head.

Kit knew that something was wrong. It was a cool day, but beads of sweat were forming on Vasili’s brow. ‘Are you all right? Would you like a drink?’

‘No, Kit, I’m not all right.’ The Russian paused. ‘Remember the story I told you about Boris having to go to the Lubyanka? It’s something like that. “The good news, Vasili, is that you feel better today than you will tomorrow.”’

It suddenly occurred to Kit that his Russian counterpart might be making a pitch for defecting or turning double. Handling that sort of thing was the trickiest task in the business. He
remembered
his training: keep listening, stay open and always be
available
. Kit counted to a hundred; he made to get up to leave, then said, ‘I can help you.’

Vasili looked closely at Kit and laughed, then leaned close to his ear and whispered, ‘It’s not what you fucking think –
defectors
are weak assholes. They’ll never be happy anywhere.’

Kit stayed silent. There was something about Vasili that was uncanny. It was as if the Russian could see straight into his mind. It gave him the creeps. It was like playing chess with one of those masters who knew every move you were going to make before you had even thought about it.

‘No, Kit, I’m worried because I’ve got to tell you something that no one must know about – not even Khrushchev or Bulganin.’ Vasili paused and looked at the ground. ‘It’s my decision – and it’s the decision of a loyal Soviet citizen. But if it goes wrong, I’ll be called back to Dzerzhinsky Square – the first stop on the way to Donskoi crematorium. That reminds me, did I ever tell you how they executed my old boss, Lavrenty Beria?’

Kit shook his head even though he knew the story.

‘There is a big wall lined with thick wooden planks – birch.’ Vasili smiled. ‘You have to be careful shooting in a concrete
cellar
– the bullets, they could bounce around and hit a guard or witness. We are a careful people. There’s a big hook bolted to this wooden wall – like you hang a carcass on in a butcher shop. This is where they bring Beria. He has his hands tied behind his back. There’s extra rope hanging down from the knot tied around his hands. The rope reaches to the backs of his knees and makes him look like a monkey with a long tail. They use this to tie him to the hook. Beria begins to speak, “Let me talk to Georgy.” He meant Malenkov. He kept writing to Malenkov during the trial begging mercy and forgiveness. He knew the letters would make Malenkov cry – and they did. But Beria just won’t shut up – so Roman Rudenko wraps a towel around his head to stop him
talking.
You can still see the towel moving over his lips and hear
muffled
sounds coming out. Rudenko pulls the towel tighter and the lips stop moving. Then General Batitsky aims his pistol at Beria’s forehead – but just before he pulls the trigger, the towel slips down over Beria’s right eye. For a second or two, that eye is
staring
all over the place like a trapped animal looking for a way out. There isn’t a way out. Finally, the eye seemed to grow so large that Batitsky thought it was going to pop straight out of Beria’s head. It was looking straight at the gun barrel when the general pulled the trigger.’

‘I don’t want that to happen to you.’ Kit was surprised by how much he really meant it.

Vasili smiled. ‘It’s the way the system works. I can’t complain – my chief knows I’m meeting you. Of course, if it goes wrong he will deny all knowledge. The chief said this to my face – he laughed and slapped me on the back as he told me.’

For a second, Kit thought that Vasili might be playing a game. Then he looked at the Russian’s face. There was no artifice: only the world-weary sorrow of a man staring into the abyss.

‘Kit,’ the Russian’s voice seemed on the edge of tears, ‘
something
awful has happened.’

The following week there was a reception at Winfield House, the Ambassador’s new residence in Regent’s Park, to welcome the new DCM – Deputy Chief of Mission. Kit’s new boss was a ‘Yalie’ named Birch. Generally speaking, Kit didn’t get along with Yale graduates. He wasn’t a Protestant and his origins were too far south and too far removed from business. The American ruling class was a complex of rival tribes. Tribe membership was
determined
by family and region, but also by school and university. Princeton alumni – like F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Dulles
brothers
– were affable and dressed well, albeit in an old-fashioned way. Harvard men exuded well-bred intellectual aloofness, but weren’t afraid of unconventional and radical ideas. Harvardians were snobs who despised snobbery. The service academies – West Point and Annapolis – produced athletic war heroes and shrewd bureaucrats. Yale, however, was only about one thing: the power of money.

One out of every hundred Yale undergraduates is ‘tapped’ for the Order of Skull and Bones. This elite comprises the richest and most powerful students at the university. The initiation rituals of the society are supposed to be secret – and so are the names of its members, but everyone knows who they are. Total anonymity would be pointless and counterproductive. The essence of their power is that the members are known by rumour rather than by published list. The sham secrecy is intended to create an aura of mystery and awe. You might ‘know’ that someone is Skull and Bones, but you don’t know how lethal and far reaching is the
hidden
web of tentacles at their command. Kit was careful never to criticise Skull and Bones even in private conversation – lest his words be reported back to a member. He despised his own
cowardice
for he knew he had fallen into their trap. Skull and Bones don’t care if you like them – or even respect them. They want you to fear them. Kit was more afraid of Skull and Bones than he was of the KGB or the FBI. Birch, the new DCM, was Skull and Bones – and Kit knew that he would have to step carefully and to watch his back.

As soon as he was settled in, the new DCM invited Kit to his office for a ‘chat’. Birch was in shirtsleeves and leaning back in his chair. His desk and office walls were decorated with
photos
of his family, his naval flight squadron and the Yale varsity baseball team – nothing fancy or pretentious. Kit knew about the Birch family, but had never met them socially. They were Northerners who had become rich during the Civil War – and then stupendously rich in the 1920s and 30s. Birch’s father had been a notorious Wall Street rogue – and a friend and client of John Foster Dulles between the wars. Kit had also heard rumours that the DCM’s father had been one of the gang who had dug up and stolen the bones of Geronimo, the Apache chief. The grave robbery was a stunt carried out by a group of Yalies when they were young lieutenants stationed out West. It was rumoured that Geronimo’s remains were now part of the Skull and Bones
initiation
ritual. The reasons for the DCM’s rapid rise slid neatly into place. Maybe the State Department was frightened of Skull and Bones too.

Birch waved and said ‘Hi’ as Kit walked into the office, then got up and walked around the desk to shake hands. Birch put his arm around Kit’s shoulder as he pumped his hand and said, ‘How you doin’, nice to see you.’ While all this was going on, Kit noticed two personnel folders lying on the DCM’s desk: one was his own, the other was Cauldwell’s. Birch pulled up a chair for Kit then went back behind his desk and picked up a perforated teleprinter sheet. ‘Have you read the cable about Aswan?’

‘Yes I have. I was also briefed about the situation when I saw Foster in Washington last month.’

Birch seemed a little startled, as if he wasn’t sure that Kit should be referring to the US Secretary of State as ‘Foster’. Kit dropped the name intentionally in order to put his status cards on the table. ‘Well,’ said Birch, ‘now that the White House has formally endorsed the plan to withdraw funds from the Aswan project, we’ve got to see how Nasser reacts.’ The DCM looked closely at Kit. ‘We’ve now heard that it is certain that Nasser is going to nationalise the Suez Canal.’

Kit nodded. The news wasn’t unexpected, but he felt uneasy about the way Birch had said it. It was obvious that the DCM had access to top secret cables that weren’t passed on to him. It was, Kit realised, the first time he had been left off a top secret
circulation
list.

‘For the next few weeks,’ continued Birch, ‘we have to keep a close watch on British reactions and keep Washington informed.’

‘I think Washington has to realise that the reactions of the British people and the reactions of the British government are not necessarily going to be the same.’

‘I suppose,’ said Birch, ‘you are something of an authority on British popular opinion.’

Kit thought there was a note of sarcasm in the DCM’s voice.‘What makes you think that?’

‘Well, living as you do in a working-class area of London’s East End, you must have your ear close to the ground.’

Kit felt his blood turn cold, but tried to hide his shock. It had, of course, been inevitable that his safe house address would
eventually
be blown. It happened to all safe houses, that’s why you needed to keep changing them. The shocking thing was that Birch, so newly arrived, had so quickly set up a net to spy on his own subordinates. Kit recovered his composure and gave Birch an easy smile. ‘I did the same when I was in Bonn. I think it’s the duty of an envoy to understand the host country. You can’t do this from a diplomatic ghetto of dinner parties and privilege.’

Birch looked closely at Kit, as if he were an outsider who had infiltrated an elite club. ‘What you say is true, but a lot of people in our business find such ideas …’ the DCM paused, searching for a word, ‘uncomfortable.’

‘Some people call it “going native”. But if you don’t “go native”, you’ll never find out what the natives think and what they’re up to.’

‘You’re ex-OSS, South East Asian Command, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, but I was barely out of my teens.’

Birch looked at his squadron photograph. ‘I was still in my teens when I was shot down. My crew didn’t bail out in time.’

Kit knew about the incident – and he also knew that there were a lot of unanswered questions. But to be fair, only those who have been in those dark places really know the truth. And it’s not always a truth that you want to wave around.

‘But,’ said Birch, ‘how can you go native in England? Our language is their language – our films are their films – Churchill is half-American. We’re practically the same people. Look at their music – big band, Sinatra and jazz.’

Kit remembered the rehearsal of Britten’s
Noye’s Fludde
at Orford Church and decided that it was pointless to answer. He suddenly felt very depressed. In the end, Chesterfields,
chewing-gum
and Hollywood were going to win.

The DCM saw that he had made his point and picked up a file. ‘How well do you know Jeffers Cauldwell?’

‘Fairly well. We were on the same FSO entry course – and later we served together at the embassy in Bonn.’

‘Do you see him socially?’

‘I often see him at official functions and in the staff canteen.’

‘That’s not what I meant by social. I mean outside work.’

‘On a few occasions, four I think, we’ve had a drink together in a pub. Usually to kill time when we’re early for a reception or a conference.’

‘What do you know of his personal life?’

Kit could see where the questions were leading and was
determined
not to help. ‘Very little. When we were on the FSO course, Jeffers used to spend a lot of time in the gym. He’s a pretty good boxer.’

‘Have you boxed with him?’

‘No, I don’t box.’

‘Well,’ said Birch, ‘I’ve heard that Cauldwell is quite a gadfly on the arts scene too – and has an especially keen interest in modern theatre.’

‘I don’t consider that part of his personal life – he is, after all, cultural attaché.’

‘Isn’t Cauldwell a friend of Tennessee Williams?’

‘I believe that Williams is an acquaintance, but not a close friend.’

‘Did you know that Tennessee Williams is a homosexual?’

‘Of course, it’s common knowledge in the arts world – and beyond.’

‘Does Jeffers Cauldwell associate with any other homosexuals?’

‘I’m sure he does. In fact, we all do. The diplomatic world, and the arts world too, are very cosmopolitan.’ Kit paused. ‘And, of course, part of my job is keeping files on the sexual preferences of diplomats, civil servants and politicians.’

‘Do you like doing that?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘I suppose,’ said Birch, ‘it is a bit tacky. But I’m a man of the world too – and I know these things happen.’

Kit wondered if the remark was a veiled reference to the Skull and Bones initiation. At one point, the initiate has to give a speech revealing in detail his complete sexual history. Sexual secrets are blank cheques – and each member of Skull and Bones carries a blank cheque with the signature of every other member. A secret cult based on blackmail bonding.

The DCM continued. ‘I don’t want to sound like a prude. My own views on private sexual behaviour are liberal, but the world around us is different. And, perhaps, not as cosmopolitan and permissive as you believe it to be. I don’t want any of my senior staff to be vulnerable to blackmail.’

Kit was getting fed up with the endless circling around the question. ‘Are you suggesting, sir, that Jeffers Cauldwell is homosexual?’

Birch folded his hands on his desk blotter and looked at Kit. The DCM’s face had the ironic half-smile of a schoolmaster who had just trapped someone doing something wrong in the toilets. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s not part of my job to investigate embassy personnel, who are not in my department, as potential security risks.’

‘Well, let’s talk about someone in your department.’

‘Who?’

‘You.’

Kit was taken aback. ‘What about me?’

‘Why do people talk behind your back? Why do they think you’re an odd fish?’

‘You’ll have to ask them.’

‘I have and now I’m asking you.’

The aggressive questioning annoyed Kit, but he was used to it. It was part of US government culture. The military, the Agency and the State Department were not polite places. Being sworn at and getting ‘bawled out’ were a way of life for senior officers. Sometimes it was personal; sometimes it was just a character test. But Kit suspected that Birch’s attack was personal. ‘I’m not surprised that people talk behind my back. A lot of it is professional jealousy: a grade three who resents my promotion, a rival who wants to drop me in the shit because I did it to him. And the fact that I don’t socialise and spend all my time working.’

‘What do you do for sex?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Masturbation, prostitutes?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t do either.’ Kit wondered if Birch was
trying
to edge him towards a Skull and Bones type sexual
autobiography
. ‘I suppose I come from a culture where periods of celibacy – even life-long celibacy – are regarded as an ideal rather than a reason for suspicion.’

‘You see yourself as
un moine soldat
?’

Kit smiled. ‘Yes, a monk soldier.’ He found it a useful persona to hide behind: a modern Knight Templar, a sole combatant recruited from the
noblesse
. An image as romantic as it was false.

‘Is Jeffers Cauldwell a monk soldier too?’

‘No.’ Kit looked out of the window across Grosvenor Square. The terrace of shabby genteel Georgian houses on the western side was scheduled for demolition to make way for the new US Embassy.

‘Is it true that Cauldwell’s boyfriend has moved in?’

Kit completed the betrayal without even blinking. ‘Yes.’

‘What do you know about the boyfriend?’

‘Not much. He’s a concert violinist, highly respected. His name’s Henry something.’

The DCM paused like a lawyer preparing to sum up. ‘There are two issues here. The first is security. Cauldwell has access to
classified
information, including a list of Soviet artists whom we’re grooming as defectors. We can’t have someone in his position vulnerable to blackmail. Also, you must realise that male
homosexuality
is a criminal offence under British law – and, in a
worst-case
scenario, I’m not going to use diplomatic immunity to get Cauldwell out of jail for sodomy.’

‘Cauldwell is very discreet – and he isn’t vulnerable to
blackmail
. He’s not ashamed of his sexuality – he’s almost open about it. In fact, he’s one of the soundest and sanest FSOs in the service.’

‘You feel guilty, don’t you? That’s why you’re sticking up for him.’

Kit looked at the floor and nodded. He was tired of people reading his mind.

‘Well, Kit, you’re going to feel even more guilty when you find out what I want you to do?’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. Cauldwell’s lover is not just a violinist. His full name is Henry Westleton Knowles. His family are upper-class socialists. You know the sort – blue bloods with red hearts. And young Knowles is more than a talented musician – he studied economics at Oxford. What you might call a Renaissance man. In any case, Knowles seems to want a life outside music. He’s just been selected for a safe Labour seat for the next election.’ Birch paused; he was waiting for Kit to respond.

‘You don’t want to get Cauldwell – you just want to scare him. The real target is Knowles.’

Birch smiled as if he had just discovered penicillin. ‘Compromising the Englishman is not just the icing, it’s the cake itself. Knowles is an extremely able and ambitious young man. He’s tipped to rise quickly in the Labour Party – and, heaven forefend, might one day be a minister in a socialist government. Meanwhile, we’ll have the dirt ready for throwing or coercing.’

It was obvious that Birch took his intelligence brief much more seriously than had his predecessor as DCM. Kit realised that he was going to be losing a lot of his independence as Chief of Station. Or more? Had he been replaced?