The Midnight Swimmer (4 page)

‘Nothing.’
Catesby let go of Andreas’s lapel and smiled.
‘Nothing … that could be traced back to Her Majesty’s representatives on the Allied High Commission.
We used local talent: nothing written down, no names, no dates – just a sack full of used banknotes to pay them off.
In fact, it was a pretty gruesome business.’
Catesby paused.
‘Have you ever been in a coal-fired power station?’

Andreas shook his head.

‘Well, I hadn’t been in a power station before that night either.
It’s all very efficient and logical.
The coal is tipped on to conveyer belts which carry the coal to the furnaces.
You can adjust the speed of any conveyer belt according to how much power you want to put out.
In fact, you can lower the rate down to one centimetre per minute – so slow as to be almost imperceptible.’
Catesby looked hard at Andreas.
‘Except, of course, for the person lashed to a plank being fed into a furnace.’

The woodland around them was totally, eerily, still.

‘Quiet, isn’t it?’
said Catesby.
‘I thought about stopping them when they got out the bolt cutters – but I realised it was part of their procedure, part of the ritualised horror they use to keep other Vienna gangsters in awe and in line.
In any case, they started by snipping off each toe beginning with the littlest … Do you know the nursery rhyme, “This little piggy went to market?”’

Andreas nodded.

‘Well, they were singing it as they did the business … What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Don’t worry, Andreas, they stopped with the toes.
They saved his other bits for the furnace.’
Catesby cleared his throat.
‘It was amazing how long it took him to lose consciousness – and then to die.
Those guys are experts.
Apparently, the gang are still at large – I suppose the cops don’t want to tangle with them … And I’ve still got their number.’

The harsh rasping alarm call of a blue jay split the silence like a rusty saw.

Andreas looked up startled.
‘What’s that?’

‘It’s a jay, they can be noisy buggers.
You’re not a country person, are you?’

Andreas shook his head.

‘They usually make that sound when they spot a hawk or a magpie.
So don’t worry, the warning wasn’t meant for you.
But … I have a warning for you.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t ever, ever tell me a lie.’
Catesby looked directly into
Andreas’s
eyes.
‘Tell me the truth.
Have you passed on a copy of the letter to the East German Security Service?’

Andreas slowly nodded.

‘That’s bad.
Have you passed it on to anyone else?’
Catesby meant Washington, but didn’t specify.

‘No.’
Andreas’s face turned from chalk colour to grey.

Catesby tried not to laugh.
Andreas was what the Americans called ‘scared shitless’.
Catesby had used the furnace story before and it never failed.

‘I swear to you,’ said Andreas, ‘I’m not lying.’

‘Don’t worry, my friend, if you’re straight with us we’ll look after you.’

Andreas shifted nervously in the path looking at the ground.

It was good, thought Catesby, that Andreas realised the stakes and the sanctions.
The Vienna double dipper may not have been slow roasted, but he hadn’t got off scot-free.
He had been shot, by Catesby personally, and deep-sixed in the Danube.
The furnace story was a frightener tale that had been doing the rounds for some time.
There were KGB versions, East End villain versions and Mafia versions.
Catesby hoped it had never really happened.

In fact, Catesby hated violence.
It was odd that both his adult jobs – soldier and spy – relied on violence.
He justified his actions by rationalising that they prevented greater acts of violence.
And now the greatest violence of all was hanging like an angry cloud over Britain and Europe – nuclear obliteration.
Catesby didn’t want his side to ‘win’: he wanted both sides to survive.
And that was his biggest secret.
A secret that some called treason.

‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Catesby, ‘I don’t want anyone to see us
standing here.’
He touched the German’s elbow.
‘Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.’

They pushed their way through low-hanging pine branches.
The ground sloped gently down towards the Müggelsee.
The stillness was again shattered as a pair of jays swooped through the trees.
Their warning cries were even more strident than before.
It reminded Catesby how Suffolk gamekeepers can tell that poachers are about by watching for unexplained flights of woodpigeon or by listening for the bark of a cock pheasant.

Catesby suddenly stopped, took off his rucksack and removed a thermos flask.
‘Would you like some coffee laced with
Weinbrand
?’

‘Yes, please.’

While Andreas sipped the drink, Catesby unfastened the base of the flask by releasing a hidden latch and removed the rolls of bank notes that were hidden in the false bottom.

‘Have you got the stuff?’

Catesby watched Andreas use a house key to unstitch the lining of his coat pocket.
It was a feeble precaution, but better than nothing.
Andreas reached deep into his coat.
He finally fished out a film cartridge and handed it over.

‘How do I know this is it?’
Catesby hadn’t expected to be given a film.

Andreas shrugged.
‘If you don’t think it’s what I say it is, don’t pay me.’

‘Who has the original letter?’

‘I didn’t take it – I just photographed it.’
Andreas smiled.
‘I’m not brave enough to steal a letter like that.
If Katya’s husband had found out, he would have had me killed.’

Catesby turned over the film in his hand.
Something else didn’t add up.
‘You just said you passed this stuff on to the DDR Security Service.
How could you?
It hasn’t been developed and copied.’

Andreas smiled again.
‘I photographed their copy on a separate roll of film.’

‘Bad luck for you if they ask you to account for all the film they gave you.’

‘I’ll say I accidentally broke the cartridges while practising with the camera.’

He seemed to have all the answers, but Catesby didn’t want to make an issue of it.
Instead he pressed a wodge of banknotes into
Andreas’s hands.
‘We’ll pay you the rest after we’ve had a look at the film.’

Andreas quickly stuffed them into his coat lining.

‘Aren’t you going to count them?’

‘If you trust me about the film, I’ll trust you about the money.’

‘Exactly.
And if your snaps of the letter are everything you claim, we’ll give you a bonus.’

‘Do you want me to break off with the Ministry for State Security?’

‘No, they mustn’t be suspicious.
Keep on good terms – and keep passing them information.
They’ll know if you’re holding back.
But don’t, my friend, tell them about this.’
Catesby paused and smiled at Andreas.
‘We’ll know too.’

Andreas nodded.
He didn’t seem as frightened as he had before.

‘Tell me more about Katya,’ said Catesby.

‘She’s a very intelligent and a very wise woman.’

‘Well educated?’

‘She trained as a chemist, but prefers literature and languages.
She’s given me the complete works of Pushkin in Russian and tests me on them.’

‘How good’s her German?’

‘Much better than my Russian.’
Andreas smiled.
‘And now she’s learning Spanish.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Maybe she thinks Spaniards are better lovers.’

Catesby was surprised to see Andreas blush.
He wondered if it was jealousy.
He turned the screw.
‘Has Katya any other lovers?’

‘I don’t think so.’
Andreas paused.
The question seemed to have touched a sore point.
‘I’m sure she hasn’t.’

‘If she’s unfaithful to her husband what makes you think she’s going to be faithful to you?’

‘Are you speaking from experience?’

Catesby smiled and looked coolly at Andreas.
‘I’m not sure.’

The German finished the brandied coffee and handed the cup back.
‘Don’t play me for a fool.
Who are you?
I’m sure I’ve seen you before.’

‘You’re confusing me with someone else.’

‘Maybe that’s because you take so many different forms.’

‘This is getting tedious.’

Andreas laughed and pointed a finger at Catesby.
‘I know who you are.
I remember.’

For a second Catesby was concerned that his cover was blown.
He stared back.
‘What’s my name?’

‘You’re Mephistopheles and you want to buy my soul.’

‘Wrong again.
We don’t buy souls.
They’re too expensive and they always turn rotten.’
Catesby screwed the cup back on the thermos.
‘But we might be able to give your mortal bits a new identity and resettle them in the West – if they proved valuable enough.
Tell me more about Katya.
We know she’s a lot older than you, she’s almost my age.’

‘Not that old.’

‘I look older because I’ve had a hard life, but I don’t want to talk about that.
I want to talk about Katya.
What does she like a lover to do?’

‘I think you should shut up.’

Catesby stopped.
He realised that he was sailing on a bad tack.
But ideally, he wanted to compile a complete and intimate file on Ekaterina Mikhailovna Alekseeva.
Catesby knew that she and her husband weren’t going to be stationed in Berlin forever.
In fact, Lieutenant General Alekseev must be nearing the end of his tour.
He realised that Andreas had just given an important clue.
‘You said that Katya was taking Spanish lessons.’

Andreas nodded.

‘What sort of Spanish?
Castilian or Latin American?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘See if you can find out.’

Knowing Alekseev’s next assignment would be a little gem.
Following
the ebb and flow of key players was a vital part of the business.
Where would the Russian turn up next?
Buenos Aires, Madrid, Mexico City?
It had to be somewhere important – not a backwater like Paramaribo or La Paz.
And when the time came, Katya might want another lover.
And how useful if that lover knew the ways to seduce her: where to touch and how to appeal.
It was also
important
that the new lover learn how to blackmail her.
It wasn’t only documents that needed photographing.
The camera was an essential bedroom accessory.
Blackmail, as Catesby had long discovered, wasn’t really such a cruel practice.
It often gave the person blackmailed an excuse, even a moral justification, to do what they wanted to do anyway.
Otherwise, it seldom worked.

‘If you don’t mind my saying,’ said Catesby looking closely at Andreas, ‘you seem awfully touchy about Katya.
Have you fallen in love with her?’

‘It began as a game – and then it became an obsession.’
Andreas shrugged as if he had missed a train connection and there was nothing he could do about it.
He clearly regarded his own character as a predetermined fate from which there was no escape.

‘Don’t you find it odd,’ said Catesby, ‘that you spy on her for money?’

Andreas blushed and shifted uncomfortably.
‘It seems,’ he said clearly groping for words, ‘to intensify it.’

‘You mean the sex – it makes it more exciting.’

‘Yes, damn you.’

Catesby tried not to smile.
He was amused by Andreas’s prudery.
He had once been like that.
It was a young man’s thing.
‘You must,’ said Catesby, ‘keep your emotions under control.
It’s dangerous if you don’t.
You and I are pawns in this game – just like Katya.
Her husband, I suppose, is a bishop or a rook.
But none of us can move ourselves and we can never know when we’re going to disappear as part of a gambit or tactical sacrifice.
Katya must know this too and she would respect you for …’