‘Bad for security.’
‘I know.’
‘Listen,’ said Kit, ‘there’s a change of plan.’
‘I don’t like the sound of this.’
‘I want you to do the business when the flood tide is at its strongest.’
‘Shit, do you think I’m some sort of Olympic swimmer?’
‘You won’t have any problem getting there.’
‘But how am I going to get back?’
‘You’ll manage, but if you can’t, I’ve marked some alternative ex-filtration points on your chart.’
‘It’s a stupid state of tide to do a job like this.’
‘I know, but I want to keep you as far away from Crabb as possible.’
‘So I won’t have to kill him.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Good. He may be a Brit officer, but I don’t like killing other divers – we’re like brothers, but you wouldn’t understand.’
‘You’re right, Driscoll, I don’t understand anything.’
Kit couldn’t tell Driscoll the whole truth about the dive. He couldn’t tell him that the Russians knew that Crabb was going to be spying and supposedly doing worse things to their ship. Likewise, Kit had deceived Vasili. He had told him nothing about Driscoll. The whole point of Kit’s double deception was to convince Vasili and the Sovs that the mines had been planted by Crabb. Kit knew that the Russians would be expecting Crabb at slack water because the ageing diver wasn’t fit enough to do the job at any other time. Kit reasoned that the Russians would be least vigilant when the tide was running strongest: they couldn’t maintain constant guard underwater, not enough divers and oxygen tanks. Therefore, a hard running tide was Driscoll’s best chance of escaping capture or being killed.
‘You want me,’ said Driscoll, ‘to have a look at the bottom of the hull for sonar and mine laying ports?’
‘You won’t have time. You’ve got to get in and out really quick.’ Kit undid the black leather bag. ‘The only thing I want you to do is put these on the hull.’
Driscoll stared at two identical lumps bulging in their black waterproof covers. ‘I didn’t think you were serious. You made me think we weren’t going to go that far.’
‘Will you do it or not?’
‘I’m not sure. You’re asking me to do something which is just too fucking serious. I don’t want to cause another world war.’
‘We’re not going to sink that ship, and there wouldn’t be a war even if something went wrong and we did.’ Kit hoped he wasn’t giving away too much. ‘Look, the purpose of this op is to ruin Britain’s reputation as a responsible world power. With any luck Russia will break off diplomatic relations and the British government will fall – and that would be a big step to a united Ireland. I thought that’s what you guys want.’
Driscoll lifted one of the limpet mines out of the bag. ‘Mark ones. The timers have a maximum delay of seventy-two hours – we should put these on just before she sails, otherwise she might sink in the harbour.’
‘Don’t worry, the timers have been altered. I’ve already set them.’
Driscoll picked up a mine. ‘They’re heavy on land, but light as a feather in water.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘You’re not a diver, are you?’
‘No.’
‘Limpets have neutral buoyancy, which means they almost float. Otherwise, the magnets wouldn’t be strong enough to hold them to a hull.’
Of course, thought Kit, the clear logic of destruction and war. If only we organised our lives and loves as cleverly as we organised the killing of others. ‘I think,’ said Kit, ‘you’d better get changed. I’ll drive.’
Driscoll still had the mine in his hand and was looking at it as if it were an evil genie. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’
As Kit helped Driscoll get into his diving suit, something else began to bother him. He realised that the diver’s first loyalty was to Irish Republicanism. And although there had been a falling out with one IRA commander, Kit suspected there may have been reconciliation with another. The movement was riven with sects and factions – a fact exploited by the British. Could Driscoll, thought Kit, have passed on something about the dive? And what if his new IRA unit had been infiltrated by MI5?
The tide was flooding hard when they reached King’s Stairs. It would be another three hours before slack water. Kit was certain that Crabb and his handler would wait until the tide had begun to slacken. He was sure that Crabb would follow the same routine as when they spied on the Sverdlov. A quick swim up to the ship on the waning flood, then back again on the new ebb. It was effortless: just a matter of drifting with the changing current – perfect for an elderly frogman. Also perfect for any Soviet divers waiting in ambush.
Kit parked as near the harbour steps as he could. It was broad daylight, but it didn’t matter much if they were seen. It was normal to see divers carrying out underwater maintenance on the crumbling jetties in the spring after the winter gales. In any case, Driscoll was out of the van and into the dark swirling waters in less than half a minute. Kit watched the black-masked head bob through the rotting piles of the King’s Stairs jetty. Driscoll, thought Kit, looked more like a seal than a human. He wondered if he’d ever see him again.
Sending Driscoll in on a fast flowing tide was a calculated risk. Kit also assumed that the Sovs had Crabb under surveillance and wouldn’t send down their own divers until they had been warned that he was going in. On the other hand, Kit was perfectly aware that he himself might be under surveillance – and that in a very few minutes Driscoll might find his head being cut off by a Ukrainian Olympic weightlifter.
Kit picked up the tabloid that Driscoll had been reading. Grace Kelly had just married Prince Rainier III. They had to get married twice because Monaco, like France, required a civil ceremony before a religious one. The Chancellor, Harold Macmillan, had just come up with ‘something completely new for the savers of Great Britain’. It was called ‘a premium bond’, not ‘a pool or lottery’. You got your money back – without interest. Like the bedroom in a bored marriage. Kit tossed the paper into the back of the van and gazed out into the harbour.
Kit fought off a wave of self-doubt and fear; his hands were clammy and sweaty. He was only doing his job, carrying out US foreign policy. Washington disapproved of the Soviet goodwill visit. In fact, ‘the Seventh Floor’ – diplomat slang for the Secretary of State – was appalled that the British government was moving towards a policy of unilateral détente with the Soviet Union. Kit’s job was to destroy the Khrushchev-Bulganin goodwill visit and to poison Anglo-Russian relations. The West must speak with one voice and strike with one fist – and both had to be American. Kit fought off another wave of self-loathing. He wondered if Caesar’s envoys had ever felt the same – and yet the Gauls and the Celts had never built a single aqueduct bubbling with clean water or laid a single straight road of good stone.
Kit knew, or at least prayed, that the limpet mines would never go off. His note to Vasili had suggested that MI6 were using Crabb to plant mines. Crabb was, after all, a renowned limpet mine expert and had won the George Cross for de-mining British ships during the war. Kit felt sorry for Crabb. He knew that the Russian divers were just as likely to kill him as capture him. But the important thing was that the Russians search the hull of the ship to see if Crabb had left anything behind. The Sov divers would have to be totally incompetent if they didn’t find the limpets. Kit fervently hoped that Vasili had taken his warning about the mines seriously – and that the information had been passed on to the captain of the Ordzhonikidze.
But what if they didn’t find the mines? Kit had already made up his mind that he would own up to the Russians and send Driscoll back to show them where he had placed the mines. Kit’s own life and career were far less important than the risk of starting a nuclear war. He’d lied to Driscoll. The consequences of sinking a Soviet ship and drowning their leaders would be far more than the diplomatic isolation of Bri
tain. And what would happen to him then? Prison in the USA or USSR – or a bullet in the head. Kit put his hand deep in his overcoat pocket and felt the pill bottle – or cyanide? It’s a rough trade. Especially for Catholics who believe that suicide is a mortal sin. Worse than murder, Kit. Taking a life that God gave someone else is bad enough, but destroying the precious gift He gave to you alone is spitting in Creation’s face. But anyone with half a brain knows all that stuff is a load of shit. Double-think, Kit, keep practising – you’re getting good at it.
But, fingers crossed, the Russian divers would find the mines – and there would be one hell of a diplomatic incident. It would be bad for Britain, but not as bad as Kit had told Driscoll – the idea of the incident helping bring about a united Ireland was an exaggeration and a lie. And the mines themselves would never be mentioned in the press – all that would be too sensitive and not in the national interest of either country. The Russians would probably accept Eden’s explanation that MI6 had been acting totally without authorisation – which was true. But what assurance was there that it would never happen again? Was the elected British government capable of controlling its Secret Intelligence Service? And that, thought Kit, is a damned good question. In any case, relations between Britain and the Soviet Union would be poisoned for decades to come – and that would suit Washington fine. Kit was doing his job.
Kit checked his watch. Driscoll had been gone for nearly an hour and a half. Twenty minutes later than the worst case ETA. Maybe he’d been spotted and had escaped by swimming up river with the tide behind him. Maybe, thought Kit, he ought to drive around to the ex-filtration point he had marked on the chart. It was near a posh yacht club. Kit could imagine the scene: ‘I say, d’you mind if I borrow your man? I want him to look at the rudder pinions on my yawl.’ Kit shielded his eyes against the late afternoon sun. The water had gone a glittery silver gold. He strained to see that black seal’s head – but nothing. I’ll give him, thought Kit, another fifteen minutes and then drive to the yacht club.
From King’s Stairs it was only possible to see the stern of the outermost Soviet destroyer. Kit took out his binoculars. There was a boat alongside the destroyer with a big blond sailor curling a rope. No frogmen or nervous officers looking over the side. Then it came, borne on the wind, a sharp popping sound – like a rifle shot. It could have been anything. Like what? Kit looked at his watch again; the fifteen minutes of grace had gone. He thought about the second room at the Sally Port Hotel: ‘I’m ever so sorry, but my colleague from the shipping agency has been delayed by some urgent business in London.’ ‘Yes, he’s Canadian too.’ Kit opened the van door and looked out towards the end of the jetty. It wasn’t a seal, it was Driscoll. He was struggling: the tide was dragging him sideways towards the jagged underwater pier pilings, but he kept fighting against it and coming closer to the stairs. After one more struggle, Driscoll finally found a firm footing and pushed the mask off his face. He was breathing hard.
Kit walked to the concrete steps on the side of the jetty. The tide was now two feet higher covering all but the top step. He gave a hand to Driscoll and helped him stagger ashore. ‘That fucking tide, you can’t imagine that fucking tide.’
‘We’ll talk later, get in the back of the van.’
Kit started the engine and spun the van around. Just as they got to the harbour gate, a large saloon car turned in off Queen Street. Kit recognised Crabb’s handler in the driving seat. He was an MI6 operative who went by the stupidly obvious alias of Smith. Kit saw ‘Smith’ give him a surprised glance and then turn around to say something to Crabb who was already in his diving suit.
‘What took you so long?’ said Kit.
‘They knew I was there. After I finished the job, I saw a diver above me in the gap between the nearest destroyer and the cruiser. There were probably others. I don’t think anyone saw me so I went deep and swam under the keels of both destroyers and out into the middle of the harbour – that’s when the tide caught me. I came to the surface once and someone took a pot shot.’
Kit stopped as soon as he saw a public phone. He dialled a number to a phone that was almost certainly tapped – but things had gone too far for that to make any difference. As soon as Vasili answered, he said the agreed word in Russian, then in English, ‘Cookees.’ The phone clicked as Vasili hung up. Kit leaned his head against the glass of the phone kiosk; he felt nauseous. ‘Poor Crabb,’ he said, ‘poor Crabb – whoever you are, give him peace.’
When they got to the Sally Port Hotel, Driscoll was dry and combed. He looked like an almost respectable businessman from a rough background – which fitted in perfectly with the hotel’s ambience. There was no one at reception, so Kit leafed through the hotel register to check out the other guests. ‘Shit,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Don’t ask. We’re not staying here.’
When they got back to the van, Kit paid off Driscoll – and gave him ten pounds extra. ‘Forget about checking out the sonar. There’s definitely not going to be another dive tomorrow – or the next day. Ditch the van as soon as you can and take a train back to London. Your Kilburn digs are still fine – stay there until you hear otherwise.’
‘What if I want out – after this shit?’
‘It might be safer to stay in.’
‘Is that a threat?’
Kit closed his eyes and breathed deeply. ‘Why the fuck, why the fuck can’t you take friendly advice?’ He looked at Driscoll.‘Do you think I like doing this shit?’
‘Then why do you do it?’
‘Maybe I’ve got six kids and a big mortgage? Maybe I need the money so I can go to college and become a lawyer?’ Kit took a notebook and pencil out of this pocket. ‘Or maybe I can’t get out either. Here, I want you to draw me a sketch of exactly where you placed those mines.’
‘What difference does it make?’
‘Just draw.’
Driscoll drew the underside of the Ordzhonikidze with fast sure strokes and put circles with x’s inside them to show the mines. ‘They’re both here – under the port quarter. It’s best to hole the hull in the same area – it sinks them quicker.’ He moved the pencil towards the bows. ‘By the way, there is a pair of large underwater doors here – big enough for laying large mines or putting out divers.’
Or, thought Kit, for saying hello to uninvited guests.
Kit got Driscoll to drop him off in a run-down area near the main station. There were numerous bombsites: cleared, but still not rebuilt. The British hadn’t been whacked as badly as the Russians or Germans, but the Americans hadn’t been whacked at all. A lot of his colleagues kept forgetting that.
It was a lousy hotel, but it was too late to be choosy. The desk clerk was smoking and dropped fag ash over the register as Kit signed it in the name of William Stewart. The room was loathsome. The sheets hadn’t been changed and – an especially nice touch – there was a pubic hair on the pillowcase.
Kit hadn’t bothered to check the names of the other guests. It wasn’t likely that Crabb and MI6 would lower themselves to such a dump. Besides they were all staying at the Sally Port. The thing that alarmed Kit most of all was that there were five of them. Crabb had signed in his own name, his handler had used his usual alias – and then added names for three more rooms in his own handwriting. Who were the other three? That’s why Kit had cleared off: he wasn’t going to stay in a hotel packed with SIS.
The following day dawned wet and overcast. Kit said ‘no thanks’ to breakfast and checked out. He left his bag in left luggage at the station and went for a walk along the docks. He constantly felt eyes in the back of his neck. Despite the rain, there were still large numbers of sightseers milling about on the South Railway Jetty and gawping at the Ordzhonikidze. If you walked to the edge of the quay, the Russian warship was almost close enough to touch. Kit looked down into the dark oily water between the grey hull and the jetty pilings: bottles, wood waste, drowned rats, chip papers and rubbish indescribable jigged along the s
hip’s waterline. For a second, Kit imagined a human face rising out of the filth. How can we do this to anyone? Kit suddenly jerked upwards and backed away from the quay’s edge. Had someone pushed him? He turned around. There was no one there at all – but the eyes were still boring into the back of his neck.
Kit pulled his collar up against the wet south-westerly wind and walked to the southern end of South Railway Jetty. He turned around and looked at the stern quarters of the Ordzhonikidze. Driscoll was right, it was there that she looked most slender and vulnerable. Kit wondered if the mines were still clinging to the cruiser’s undersides. Part of him wanted to run back to the ship and shout a warning to the nearest sailor. Kit turned away and looked south. The edge of the jetty was about two hundred yards from King’s Stairs. He was surprised to see that Smith’s saloon car was still there – along with another identical one. They were obviously pool vehicles. Smith was leaning against a car’s bonnet talking to a tall man wearing a trilby. Both were looking out into the harbour. Had there been another dive?
Kit turned around and retraced his steps into the town. He stopped at a restaurant called The Lighthouse for a lunch of fish and chips and strong tea. ‘Yes,’ he always told his American friends, ‘they really do put vinegar on their French fries.’ Now Kit found himself dripping the vinegar too.
Kit looked at his watch. There was still time for more snooping before the London train. Kit walked down Queen’s Road then turned towards King’s Stairs. He saw that the saloon cars were gone. He continued towards the jetty and harbour steps. The only evidence of drama was a scattering of cigarette butts around where the saloon cars had been parked. The only sounds were ship’s whistles, the mournful toll of bell buoys and gulls. Nothing.
It was risky, but Kit wanted to have one more look at the Sally Port Hotel. As soon as he turned the corner, he saw there were lots of cars. Some with police markings, but most were unmarked government pool cars – some looked like MoD police. Kit walked briskly down the street on the opposite side from the hotel. There was a hastily drawn sign stuck to the front entrance of the Sally Port: Temporarily Closed. Kit passed close by a uniformed policeman talking to a man in civilian clothes. The only words he picked up were ‘funny stuff’ and ‘Russians’.
The Envoy Page 14
