‘Shit, maybe I should go back and tell him.’
‘I shouldn’t bother. Just don’t,’ said Kit, ‘lie to me … more than you have to.’
The side chapel smelled of spilt candlewax and incense. For a second, Kit saw Pepita’s coffin in the country church near her family’s home. He remembered the rosary beads woven through her strong brown fingers; the lush fleshy tropical flowers heaped high. And hundreds of candles, each villager carrying one. Kit was ten years old when Pepita died of a burst pancreas. She was in great pain, but kept working thinking it was just a cramp that would go away. His mother found him another nanny a week later.
‘I went,’ said Vasili, ‘to see Monsieur Poêle, but he had nothing for me.’
‘I couldn’t leave anything – I was being followed.’
‘They shouldn’t do that – you’re supposed to be allies.’
Kit was desperate to tell something to Vasili, but the Oratory worried him. It was becoming notorious as a DLB – dead letter box – for the Soviet Embassy. Oddly, however, no one ever bugged it. None of the competing secret services involved wanted to frighten agents away from Brompton Oratory. There seemed an unspoken agreement to keep the venue clean – otherwise agents and handlers would have to disperse all over the metropolis and things would be more difficult for everyone. Spies, like everyone else, want an easy life at the office.
Vasili turned around and looked at Kit. ‘Who have you pissed off now?’
‘I think you know.’
‘I know,’ said Vasili, ‘that it is a very long list.’
He shifted to safer ground. ‘We’re worried about British policy.’
‘What’s new? We’re worried about American policy, French policy, Chinese policy. Is this all you want to talk about?’
‘No, but I might be giving you something later – and I want you to know why I’m passing it on.’
‘And what do you want in return?’
‘First of all, I want you to listen.’
‘So talk.’
‘My personal view – the one I feed to Washington – is that the British ruling class, especially the Prime Minister, suffers from a collective form of madness.’
‘We like Eden.’
‘I’m sure you do.’
‘What do you call this British madness?’
‘Schizophrenic delusions of post-imperial grandeur.’
‘I didn’t know that you were a qualified psychiater.’
‘Psychiatrist, Vasili, you’re getting your languages confused.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Schizophrenia is the inability to differentiate between fantasy and reality. The scary thing about schizophrenics is that they never lie. They really believe what they say is true. The British still think they are a world power – and that’s why they keep doing stupid things, irrational things.’
‘What sort of things?’
‘You know, the military bases east of Suez, the oversized fleet, large troop deployment in the Middle East …’
‘And,’ Vasili leaned his face close to Kit’s and whispered hoarsely, ‘trying to develop their own hydrogen bomb.’
‘Yeah, that too.’ Kit fiddled with a hymn book: the H-bomb business was too sensitive to discuss with any Russian, particularly their KGB chief in London. The Rosenbergs went to the high voltage toaster for less. Kit answered in safer, more general terms. ‘British military expenditure is way out of proportion to their status as a power. They should spend the money making life better for the people of Britain. That, Vasili, is what socialism is all about. Not the sort of militaristic shit your country does.’
‘We need military might to defend our people against your aggression.’ Vasili paused and smiled. ‘And please don’t tell me what socialism is about – tell President Eisenhower. Let’s cut the bullshit. Tell me, Kit, what have you really got to say?’
‘We want to teach the British a lesson about their post-imperial delusions.’
‘You mean,’ said Vasili, ‘that you want to show them that they are no longer a world power – because all the strings are pulled from Washington.’
Kit shrugged. ‘That’s right – and let’s see what happens when Hungary or Poland get out of line.’
Vasili frowned. ‘So how do you intend to give this lesson?’
‘You know the Ordzhonikidze, the cruiser that’s bringing First Secretary Khrushchev to Portsmouth next month.’
‘What about her?’
‘We’d love to know all her secrets – particularly the ones she’s got hidden beneath her hull.’
‘If there was anything secret below the Ordzhonikidze’s waterline, we would not risk bringing her into an English port, as well as mooring her in a Royal Navy dockyard.’
Kit smiled; he knew Vasili was lying. ‘Sure, maybe there are no secrets to find, but boys like playing games. Now, if the Brits had invited us to play with them, this conversation would not be taking place. But they’ve decided that it’s their ball and their soccer field and we’ve been PNG’d.’ The abbreviation was embassy slang for being made Persona Non Grata.
Vasili’s face remained a blank throughout. There was no hint of surprise or indignation, but when he finally spoke his tone seemed bored and weary. ‘Are you telling me,’ his voice fell to a faint whisper, ‘that the British are going to send a frogman to espionage the bottom of the Ordzhonikidze?’
Kit nodded and passed Vasili an envelope containing the details.
The Russian folded the envelope into his breast pocket. ‘You’ve just stabbed your closest ally in the back.’
‘No, our closest ally stabbed herself in the back.’
‘You are warning us,’ Vasili’s tone suddenly became animated, ‘of what would be a serious breach of diplomatic etiquette. I’m not sure I believe you – maybe you want to make trouble between us and the British. I know that Prime Minister Eden would never …’
‘The Prime Minister knows nothing about it. It’s an MI6 decision, an entirely unauthorised op. Maybe they’re a bit out of control.’
Vasili folded his hands and closed his eyes as if recollecting something private. Finally he smiled and said, ‘Remember the story I told you about Boris?’
Kit nodded and said, ‘It might end like that one.’
‘No, it won’t: your societies are too soft. The British Boris will end up with a pension and a new set of golf clubs.’
Kit knew it was time to go. He shook the Russian’s hand, then got up to leave.
Vasili tapped the side of his coat where he had placed the envelope. ‘Remember, Kit, I owe you one.’
‘Thanks, I might need it one day.’
Vasili was alerted by something in the American’s voice. He lowered himself back into the pew. ‘What do you want Kit? Is it professional – or personal?’
‘I don’t know.’
Two days later, Kit found himself on his way to an appointment with Dick White, the Director of MI5. His summons to MI5 wasn’t totally unexpected. Kit, still convinced that he had been trailed by one of White’s ‘watchers’, had written a letter of official complaint to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. He didn’t identify himself as the surveillance target – nor did he provide details of what had happened. The letter observed diplomatic conventions and was signed and sealed by the US Ambassador.
Kit was more than a little surprised at how quickly the letter had winged its way from the FO to MI5 – that meant there were undercurrents. The letter inviting him to meet the Director had been motorcycle-despatched by a Royal Signal Corps Corporal – one so smartly booted and uniformed that he made the US Marine guards look slovenly. The letter was brief and offered the Director’s ‘sincere apologies’. It also expressed a desire to discuss the ‘general issues involved with the aim of preventing such incidents from happening again’. In truth, Kit suspected it was a ruse by the British Security Service to get him on their own turf for a private grilling. They even sent a long sleek Humber Pullman to pick him up – for a lif
t to an address that didn’t exist.
The building, functional and bland, had neither nameplate nor street number. But Kit knew it was called Leconfield House and occupied a squat rectangle between Curzon Street and Clarges Street. He was met by a man wearing a tweed suit and highly polished brogues. He stared at Kit through a monocle and said that ‘K’ was a little delayed, but would see him as soon as possible. The man, who smelled of whisky, left Kit in an office piled high with newspapers and magazines. Kit noticed the communist Daily Worker piled side by side with the Daily Telegraph. There were also arts and literary journals – and student newspapers from a variety of universities. It was funny, Kit thought, we all get the same stuff and probably collate the same information for the same reasons. There must be dozens of obscure quarterlies that only survive because the security services need to take out subscriptions to spy on their contributors. There was a thin partition separating Kit from the next office, from where there was the sound of snoring – but it was, to be fair, after lunch.
A door opened. It was the Director, Dick White – El Blanco himself. The name was doubly apt for the Director had a great shock of fine white hair. He so looked the part of a senior civil service mandarin that Kit wondered if he had been appointed by a casting director. White shook hands and led Kit up a narrow staircase to his own office. Kit was surprised to find the Director’s office was more small and drab than his own. A single window that needed washing looked out over the chimney pots of Mayfair. The only decorations were an Ormolu clock on a mantlepiece and the Security Service’s coat of arms hanging above it. Kit had never seen the crest before – maybe it was a secret and you had to be invited to Leconfield House to have a peep. The coat of arms was a triangle and each corner of the triangle formed three miniature triangles. The top triangle boasted an all-seeing eye – like the pyramid on the back of a US one-dollar bill. The two base triangles enclosed M and 5 – M eye 5. The relationship of the symbols to another secret organisation was comically blatant.
The Director saw Kit looking at the coat of arms. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘we’re going to have to get around to changing that, it’s a little too …’
‘Masonic?’ said Kit.
The Director smiled wanly and nodded agreement.
‘Thank you, Director White, for taking the time to see me.’
‘I’ve wanted to meet you for some time, Kit. I met your father during the war. He was, I believe, the most senior agent to jump into France with a Jedburgh team.’
‘He was a complex man,’ said Kit. He wondered if Dick White knew that his father had been one of the first to enter Oradoursur-Glane after a unit from the SS division, Das Reich, had torched the village after massacring every single man, woman and child as reprisals. The men were shot, the women and children herded into the church and burned alive.
‘I was very sorry to hear what happened.’ The Director meant his father’s death.
‘Thank you.’ Kit stared at the Director’s necktie knot so he wouldn’t have to think about his father. He was pleased to see that White used a four-in-hand. The casual simplicity of the knot warmed Kit to Director White. At prep school, the nouveau riche kids – the sons of ‘the crass commercialists’ – always tied Windsor knots. Maybe they thought it was ‘better’ because it was more difficult to tie. Ironically, Khrushchev and all the other Soviet leaders sported Windsor knots: Khrushchev’s, in particular, was always a perfect isosceles triangle, the epitome of Windsor knot art. The Russian leader, of course, hadn’t been to an East Coast prep school so he didn’t know the subtle messages of dress code – but Dick White did.
‘I also wanted you to come here so that I could apologise in person for the surveillance incident and to reassure you – and your embassy colleagues – that it will never happen again.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kit.
‘You are entitled to further details,’ the Director paused, ‘and an explanation of what went wrong.’
Kit knew that Blanco was sparring and looking for an opening. He knew that White had an ‘explanation’ and was looking for an excuse to provide it. Kit decided to give him one. ‘It all seemed very strange. Firstly, that your agent was acting alone – no foot backup, no second eyeball, no mobile backup.’ The terms Kit used were a tacit admission that he wasn’t just a diplomat, but it was obvious that Blanco knew this already. ‘Your man also seemed, if you don’t mind my saying so, very inexperienced.’
‘You’re absolutely right. It wasn’t, of course, a genuine operation – it was a training exercise.’
Kit had seen that one coming. He let Blanco continue.
‘We use live unwitting targets for training exercises, I’m sure you do too.’
Kit nodded.
‘The training officer concerned overstepped his boundaries and has been reprimanded.’ The Director paused. ‘He decided, very wrongly, to spice things up by choosing a surveillance target from a real embassy rather than, say, a junior bank clerk from Barclays. Unfortunately, neither the trainer nor the trainee realised that their actions were a breach of diplomatic protocol.’
‘I apologise for not looking more distinguished. Next time I leave the embassy I’ll wear a cocked hat and a ceremonial sword.’
The Director gave Kit a sideways look. ‘Ours always do.’
‘But then, you’re British.’
White paused and toyed with a letter opener. ‘I hope you don’t mind my saying that I’ve read your file?’
Kit smiled. ‘It’s to be expected – I’ve read yours.’
White’s next question was totally unexpected. ‘Do you like us?’
Kit thought he meant MI5 and gestured at the office. ‘Do you mean …’
White smiled and clarified. ‘Do you like the British?’
‘I admire the British very much – perhaps too much, considering my role.’
‘I thought,’ said White, ‘that what happened in Saigon in ’45 might have turned you against us. I can’t say I blame you if it did.’
Kit hadn’t expected that one. Blanco certainly knew the file. He looked hard at the Director. ‘Are you,’ said Kit, ‘inviting me to speak my mind?’
‘Please do.’
‘I thought that your General Gracey was a cretin who far overreached his authority. I hold him responsible for the death of my cousin Peter.’
‘I didn’t know that Major Calvert was a relation. I’m sorry.’
‘I must admit that I’m bitter about what happened – and it’s not just Peter’s death. We were sent to Vietnam to help Ho Chi Minh fight the Japanese – and he won. Or, I should say, the Vietnamese people won. But as soon as the dust settles, it’s the same old British-French colonial carve-up. The people of Vietnam were betrayed – and so were we.’
White folded his hands and looked pleased. Kit was annoyed that he had shown so much emotion, but still felt a need to explain. ‘We were very young then, I was barely in my twenties, all of us Roosevelt New Deal idealists. We thought we were the vanguard of a New World order – we all supported the United Nations charter and world government. No more war, no more exploitation of beautiful brown people just because … how does that rhyme go – Thank God that we have got / The Maxim gun, and they have not.’
‘And like many idealistic young men before you, you felt betrayed by those in command?’
Kit smiled. ‘I think we were entitled to. Don’t you understand the enormity of Gracey’s actions? He freed and armed Jap POWs to hunt down the same Vietnamese who, as our allies, had fought the Japanese. That paved the way for the French to come back and the nine bloody years to Dien Bien Phu.’
‘The outcome was unfortunate.’
‘And it’s going to happen all over again – there’s going to be another war.’ Kit paused and smiled. ‘But don’t worry, that one will be our fault.’
White stared hard without blinking. ‘Idealism can lead people to do strange things.’
Kit sensed that he was talking about Burgess and Maclean. But ther
e was another elephant in the room: Kit’s act of violence to the agent who had followed him.
Kit looked away embarrassed, afraid to show his self-loathing and guilt. ‘I hope he wasn’t badly hurt.’
The Director paused as if the matter were something that was best left unanswered. Finally he said, ‘He won’t be playing tennis for a while. He broke his arm in two places. Pity about the tennis, he was one of the best amateurs in the country. In any case, we’ve sent him home on extended convalescent leave. His parents need him there.’
Kit sensed there was more to the story. He was about to offer an apology, but White cut him off.
‘There’s one other child in the family, a younger sister who adores him. She’s bright as a button, but has a disease that affects her coordination – she trips and knocks things over a lot. Oddly, she loves tennis, but is totally hopeless at it. Her brother used to spend hours gently swatting balls to her over the net, ninety per cent of which she would hit out of court or miss completely. But her brother insisted it was worth it, because when she did manage one back, her face would glow.’ The Director paused and looked at something on his desk. ‘It’s all very sad, because her disease is a wasting one and she’s become worse. They have to feed her through a tube – she’s expected to die within days.’
Kit’s mind flashed back to that night. The dots suddenly joined up. The watcher’s distressed phone call from a box in Edgware Road had nothing to do with botched surveillance; he was phoning home. And later the young man’s tears at the top of the moving stairs: Kit had nearly killed him during a moment of private grief.
The Director looked away. ‘I don’t suppose any of this is very relevant.’
Kit got up to leave.
Kit turned down the offer of a lift. Grosvenor Square was only five minutes on foot. But Kit didn’t go back to the embassy: he just wanted to walk. London seemed wild. The strong equinoctial wind from the south-west threw dust, soot and scraps of paper high across the town – a brisk spring clean after a dull forgetful winter. The wind whipped short sharp waves across the Serpentine and swept grey frothy scum on to the lee bank and across the footpath. Across the water, ducks bobbed in the rushes under the windward bank like gale-bound boats. Boats, thought Kit, he must see Jennifer about that boat. Being afloat was a cure for madness.
The Envoy Page 11
