EDWARD WILSON
The Envoy
For Julia, Tim and Edward
She’s all States, and all Princes I;
Nothing else is;
John Donne, ‘The Sun Rising’
Who is so safe as we? where none can do
Treason to us, except one of us two.
John Donne, ‘The Anniversary’
Under the spreading chestnut tree,
I sold you and you sold me.
George Orwell, 1984
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Prologue
May, 1948. In a small posting, like the one in Nice, the consul is on call twenty-four hours a day. Kit was asleep in his one-bedroom apartment on the rue Marengo. It was a very nice dream involving a passionate mouth. The phone rang just as things started to get interesting. Kit rubbed his eyes and let it ring. He fumbled for the bedside lamp. He turned it on and looked at the alarm clock: two a.m. He let the phone ring three more times; they could wait. He assumed it was the commissariat de police, the local cops – yet again – for the US Navy was in port. Kit finally picked up the phone and answered in French. ‘Bonsoir, what sort of shit are our sailors causing now?’
There was an awkward pause before the caller spoke. The language was French, but the accent was angry American and wanted to know who was on the phone.
‘It’s me, Kit Fournier. Is that you Mr Patterson?’ Patterson was DCM, Deputy Chief of Mission, at the US Embassy in Paris.
‘Yes, Kit, it’s me. You didn’t sound like you were fully awake.’
‘I am now, sir.’
‘Listen, something serious has happened and you need to get moving. Is the car gassed up?’
‘I think so – but I’ve got some spare cans anyway.’
‘There’s been an airplane crash in the Ardèche – and it looks like a US citizen may have perished. The gendarmes have found an American passport naming the holder as Lady Hartington.’
‘Sounds like she’s a Brit. Maybe the gendarmes got it wrong. They don’t always recruit geniuses you know?’
‘No, Kit, I think they got it right. Lady Hartington used to be known as Kathleen Kennedy, Joe Kennedy’s daughter. Her British husband was killed in the war, but she kept the title. Did you ever meet her?’
Kit cast his mind back. He was still at school. It was a late spring day in 1940 and America was still at peace, but the Brits were getting hammered in France. ‘Yeah, I did meet her, but only briefly. They came down for the Maryland Hunt Cup. Kathleen and her brother Jack were staying at Zeke Coleman’s place.’
‘Do you remember her well enough to identify the body?’
Kit closed his eyes tight and thought, Why me? He hated dealing with dead bodies. After a moment, he said, ‘I think so, she wasn’t a great beauty, but she was a bubbly girl.’
Kit ended up giving a lift to the British consul who dozed for most of the first part of the journey. The Brit’s own car, a 30s Citroën, had blown its head gasket. From time to time Kit studied his passenger’s face. The burns were hideous; one ear had melted into a jagged swirl like a broken conch shell. Kit assumed it was a war face from a burning ship or plane – or a tank that had ‘brewed up’.
The British consul began to yawn and stretch as Kit weaved his way through the streets of Aix-en-Provence. The pollarded plane trees that lined the boulevards were already in full leaf. Aix smelled of lavender and drains. ‘How are we for time?’ The Englishman’s voice was standard Foreign Office languid, but the vowels were flat and he said ‘uz’ instead of ‘us’. The only English accents that Kit recognised – upper-class and Cockney – were from films. And his passenger certainly didn’t speak either of those. Nor did he sound like the British officers he had briefly encountered in the Far East.
‘We’re doing OK,’ said Kit.
‘I could murder a croissant and a bowl of café au lait.’
Kit parked the car on a square with peeling green benches and a memorial for the ’14–’18 war. An elderly woman wearing a white apron was standing outside the Café des Sports. She looked at the corps diplomatique badge on the bumper of Kit’s Ford and frowned. The two consuls chose an outside table. The woman’s expression softened when she saw the Englishman’s face. She seemed to know what had happened. When the Englishman ordered for both of them in perfect French his regional accent disappeared. As the woman padded off to the kitchen, Kit turned to his companion. ‘I don’t recognise your accent.’
‘In French?’
‘No, in English. Where are you from, if you don’t mind my asking?’
The Englishman looked amused. ‘Rotherham.’
Kit was none the wiser. His fellow consul might just as well have mentioned one of Jupiter’s lesser moons. For Kit, England was just as strange and foreign.
When they crossed the Rhône at Montélimar, a gendarme on a motorcycle waved them down. Kit’s big American Ford stood out like an elephant in the French countryside. The gendarme informed them that the bodies had been removed from the village hall at Saint-Bauzille and transferred to the district council offices, the préfecture at Privas. The gendarme then saluted and gave them a motorcycle escort for the last twenty miles. Kit was embarrassed by the attention and stares of roadside peasants. The Englishman’s ironic smile made things worse.
Arriving at the préfecture, they were greeted with some ceremony by a high-ranking gendarme and a very elderly man in a black suit with a Legion of Honour in his buttonhole. The old man introduced himself as the mayor, but everyone else referred to him as ‘the chief’. There were also reporters with notepads, but the gendarme kept them at bay.
Kit and the Englishman were ushered into an office that was lined with dark polished wood. There was a crucifix on the wall behind the desk and a framed military citation describing an action that had taken place in Quang Nam Province in 1886. Christ, thought Kit, this guy really is old. The mayor invited them to sit down. The door opened and an elderly woman in black entered the room bearing a tray of coffee and petits fours. The loose heels of her espadrilles slapped loudly on the polished floor. Kit wondered if the patronne from the cafe in Aix had somehow followed them – they could have been twins. The woman poured the coffee into Limoges china cups and left. Kit felt engulfed by a wave of happiness and peace. He would have been content to spend the rest of his days in that dark room listening to the clock tick and smelling the furniture polish and must of age. He wondered if he could have it all dismantled and re-erected – including the old man and his Legion of Honour – in the garden of his home in Maryland. The ultimate tourist souvenir.
As they sipped the coffee the mayor explained that there were only four bodies, not eight or ten as originally reported. ‘This confusion,’ he said, ‘may have been because this type of aeroplane has seats for eight passengers. But there were only two passengers – and with the two pilots – that makes four.’ The old man turned to the Englishman. ‘Three of them were carrying British passports. But you must confirm their identities before we will sign a permit allowing the repatriation of their remains. Are you capable of doing this?’
‘I have been telegraphed detailed physical descriptions of
the two pilots – a Mr Peter Townshend and a Mr Arthur Freeman. The passenger, Peter Fitzwilliam …’
The Frenchman interrupted. ‘The passport identifies the bearer as Earl Fitzwilliam.’
‘Yes, that was his title. In any case, Fitzwilliam was a prominent figure in French horse racing and breeding. I not only have recent photographs of him, but his trainer is coming down from Paris to help identify the body.’
‘Very good.’ The mayor turned to Kit. ‘And the young lady, how sad. Her passport bears the name Lady Hartington, but it is an American passport.’ The Frenchman sounded like a naturalist describing a rare hybrid butterfly. ‘And I believe her father was a close friend of Roosevelt and a former American ambassador …’ the old man’s eyes flicked to the Englishman, ‘to Great Britain.’
‘Yes,’ said Kit, ‘that is correct.’
‘And can you identify her?’
‘I knew her personally.’
‘That is very good. Her father is at this moment on the way to Privas – and it might be kind to spare him the pain of seeing his daughter. Her face is …’ The Frenchman frowned and made a gesture against his own face suggesting disfigurement.
Kit felt sick at what he was going to have to do. He was also surprised to hear that Joe Kennedy was in France. Patterson hadn’t mentioned it.
‘We have had to turn our conference room into a temporary morgue. The bodies are now being transferred into zinc-lined coffins that we had sent from Montélimar. It enables them to be packed in ice.’
The old man, reflected Kit, clearly thought of everything
The mayor steepled his fingers and continued. ‘There are no embalming facilities in the region. Personally, I find the practice barbaric and unnatural.’
Kit nodded agreement.
‘There is,’ said the Frenchman, ‘also the matter of taking an inventory of the belongings of the deceased. We follow strict guidelines. Everything must be witnessed and countersigned.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kit as he finished his coffee. He left the petits fours untouched.
‘When you are ready, you may view the deceased.’
Kathleen’s face wasn’t as bad as the old man had suggested. Her jaw was crushed and bruised purple – and there was a wide gash down the left side of her face. But the worst thing was the way her lips were half open as if trying to utter a cry. Kit could also see that her teeth had been broken and shattered by the impact. He gently touched her forehead and said, ‘Sorry.’ That’s the thing about being born a Catholic: you always feel guilty even if it isn’t your fault. You can stop believing – it’s all infantile nonsense after all – but you can’t stop the guilt.
The Englishman came over to the coffin and stood beside Kit. ‘She’s in much better shape than my lot. The gendarme says she was seated in the back of the plane – and got less impact. You ought to see the pilots.’
‘No thanks.’
‘They were both ex-RAF. They must have known they were going to die, but still remembered to stuff handkerchiefs in their mouths.’
‘What’s that for?’
‘Stops you from biting your tongue off when you crash.’
On the other side of the room, the gendarmes had set up four trestle tables. Each table was laden with the belongings of one of the deceased. The pilots’ tables were nearly empty. Fitzwilliam’s contained only a small suitcase and its contents – but Kathleen’s table was heavily burdened and overflowing.
The men’s belongings were quickly dealt with. The most valuable thing was Fitzwilliam’s signet ring – there was also a lot of cash. Kit stood by while the gendarme officer counted out every note and coin. When it was all finished, Kit signed his name under the Englishman’s as a witness.
Kathleen’s belongings were going to take a lot more time. The gendarme began with the most valuable items: a number of necklaces and heirloom brooches that were on loan from her dead husband’s family. It didn’t seem right to Kit that she should have taken them to glam up for a weekend with a married man on the French Riviera.
When the jewels were all inventoried and signed for, the gendarme began on the clothing – and there was a lot of it. Kit’s brief memory of Kathleen had slotted her as a wholesome ‘skirt and sweater girl’. She reminded him of the Mother Seton girls with their white bobby socks and saddle shoes kicking through mounds of autumn leaves on North Charles Street. But the contents of her suitcase suggested that ‘skirt and sweater’ was no longer her image. The poor gendarme was aware of the solemnity of the occasion – and tried not to smile as he waded his way through silken mounds of negligees, brassieres, stockings and knickers. There were also camisoles embroidered with her initials, KKH, and a pair of black lacy suspender belts. Kit heard a door open as he signed another inventory, but didn’t turn around. The remaining items were even more intimate: a douche and a contraceptive diaphragm. These weren’t the toilet items of a fresh-faced convent girl.
The voice behind Kit spoke with a strong Boston twang. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Kit handed the diaphragm back to the gendarme as he turned to face the man asking the question. He recognised Ambassador Joseph Kennedy at once. Kit knew, instinctively, that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time – and that nothing he could say or do was going to make any difference. ‘Good afternoon, sir, my name’s Kit Fournier, I’m the US consul in Nice.’
‘I didn’t ask who you were – I asked what you think you’re doing?’
‘I am very sorry, Ambassador Kennedy, to have to inform you …’
‘You don’t inform me of anything, young man. Where’s my daughter?’
Kit pointed across the room to the coffin. For the first time, he became aware of the smell of chrysanthemums. The funereal flowers seemed suddenly to flood the room. ‘She’s there, sir, next to the wall.’
Kennedy walked over to the coffin, glanced quickly down at his daughter. Then he half-turned and looked at Kit. ‘Why are you still here? Get the hell out and don’t come back.’
A week later Kit was sitting in the office of Jimmy Patterson, the Deputy Chief of Mission at the Paris embassy. Patterson leaned back in his chair and smiled. ‘I feel sorry for you, Kit. He’s not an easy man to deal with – and, poor you, you were only carrying out your consular duties as survivor assistance officer.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I can understand how Kennedy must have felt.’
‘He’s an almighty powerful man, Kit, and men like that are even more dangerous when they’re grieving. First of all, let me give you some instructions. One, don’t ever, ever mention what you saw and heard in Privas on 14 May. Two, Kathleen Kennedy Hartington was not involved with Peter Earl Fitzwilliam who was, of course, a happily married man. Ambassador Kennedy’s daughter was just a friend of the family and, after a chance encounter with Lord Fitzwilliam in London, was offered a seat on a chartered plane to the south of France to meet her father. That’s the line, got it?’
‘Got it.’
‘Now, Kit, what are we going to do with you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think that, in your own interest, a little career change might be in order.’
‘Does Kennedy want me kicked out of the diplomatic corps?’
‘Not quite, but it might be an idea to lie doggo for a while.’
‘Long unpaid leave?’
‘No, Kit, you can still be a diplomat, but I think you need to add another string to your bow.’
‘Oh, I know, one of those God-awful courses learning some obscure language that no one can pick up after the age of five.’
‘You are a good linguist, but that’s not what I had in mind.’ Patterson looked closely at Kit. ‘You were in the OSS at the end of the war.’
‘Yeah, but I wasn’t any good at that cloak and dagger stuff – I was too young and naive. The only reason I ended up in the unit was because my dad pulled strings.’
‘By the way, how is your dad?’
Kit knew that Patterson�
�s question had overtones. His father had retired from the army a few months after the war ended – and there were rumours that he had ‘gone a bit funny’. He spent a lot of time trying to organise medical help for atomic bomb radiation victims in Japan. ‘Dad’s fine,’ said Kit.
Patterson could see that he had touched a raw nerve and returned to Kit’s career prospects. ‘You know, Kit, there has never been a clear line between diplomacy and intelligence gathering. To a certain extent every envoy is a spy, and …’
‘And what?’
‘And I think, Kit, that if you’re not prepared to get your hands dirty, you’re not going to survive in this business.’
‘Ergo?’
‘Ergo, take my advice. Listen, Kit, your old outfit, the OSS never disappeared; they’re just operating under a different name – and recruiting like mad. With your experience and background you’d be perfect.’
Kit realised that he wasn’t being offered a choice. ‘Would it mean that my career as a diplomat is over?’
‘No, far from it, you’ll still be an accredited diplomat carrying a black passport – only your post will be called “cover”– “diplomatic cover”. Who knows, you might even get two pay cheques.’
Kit smiled. ‘And will it keep Kennedy and his pals on the Seventh Floor off my back?’
‘That’s for sure.’
The Agency’s next training intake was scheduled for September. Kit spent several weeks of accumulated leave on a walking tour in the south of France. He returned to Paris at the end of August so he could say goodbye to various friends before catching a boat train to Le Havre, from where he had booked a liner berth to New York. On his last night in Paris, Kit ran into Porfirio Rubirosa at Abélard’s – not one of Rubi’s usual hangouts. Kit had first met Rubirosa in Santo Domingo where his father had been US military attaché. Kit was only eleven at the time and Rubi, then a captain in the Dominican army, had become a family friend. At the time Rubirosa was married to President Trujillo’s daughter – and had very little to do. He treated Kit like a little brother, teaching him to ride and shoot. Rubi’s excursions with young Kit were partly genuine kindness, but also gave him a cover to visit various ladies. Kit spent a lot of time leading Rubi’s rider-less horse around in circles.
The Envoy Page 1
