The Envoy

by Edward Wilson

  Before he boarded the train, Kit made one last phone call. Vasili’s voice had laughter in it: ‘Chocolate chip cookies,’ he said. Kit hung up the phone and breathed easy. Thank God, they had found the mines.

  The London train was half-full. A large number of soldiers and sailors were heading back to London for weekend leaves. They all seemed half-asleep. The British wore uniforms with reluctance, but with natural poise. Americans, on the other hand, tried too hard. There were other differences too. The Americans had ‘unknown soldiers’, the British had ‘unknown warriors’; the US military used ‘power’, the British wielded ‘might’. There was something about the British that was inexplicable, something primal and tribal. Kit leaned back in his dusty train seat – why did train carriages always seem coated in a thin film of dust? Maybe it was because of the coal. There were men on the tracks in boiler suits – men old enough to wear flat caps and jaunty scarves. Wherever you went in Britain, they were always there: a Greek chorus leaning on shovels. The engine chuffed and the train lurched forward. Ten minutes later Kit was – for the first time in three days – sound asleep.

  Kit woke up after Basingstoke and set off to find the buffet car. He needed a drink, but the buffet was closed. It happened on the way back to his seat when he was passing between two carriages. The hard push in the centre of the back came a second before the words. ‘You fucking bastard.’ Kit felt his forehead slam hard against the glass window of the train door. His left arm was bent up hard against his back. He felt a blast of cold air as the door opened. It was a long drop and the blackness was passing in a loud whirl of chaos. Kit pulled free and flung himself away from the abyss. He was now facing his attacker. It was Smith. He didn’t have time to duck. Smith landed a straight right on the side of Kit’s mouth. The wind blew the door shut.

  Kit collapsed on to his haunches with his hands over his head to ward off further blows. Smith started to wade in with kicks, but his foot got caught in the folds of Kit’s coat. Then a train guard opened the door between the carriages. The guard had a gold watch chain and a silver moustache. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘gentlemen, please. May I see your tickets?’ The guard’s manner suggested that stopping passengers from murdering each other was just another part of his job.

  Smith gave Kit a last look. ‘Don’t worry, Fournier, we’re going to get you.’ He then opened the carriage door and disappeared towards the front of the train.

  The guard then helped Kit to his feet. ‘Let’s get you back to your seat, sir.’

  The news of Crabb’s disappearance broke ten days later. The Kremlin press office called the incident ‘shameful espionage’. The Soviet Embassy in London informed the British Foreign Office that it ‘would be grateful to receive an explanation’.

  Kit now had a copy of the FO’s explanation on his desk and read it a second time trying to tease out the coded significance of each word. ‘Commander Crabb was engaged in diving tests and is presumed to have met his death while so engaged. The diver, who, as stated in the Soviet note, was observed from the Soviet warships to be swimming between the Soviet destroyers, was presumably Commander Crabb.’ Kit smiled. The reference to ‘diving tests’ was the flimsiest of fig leafs. In the very next sentence the Foreign Office virtually admits that Crabb was spying. ‘Presumably’ was merely inserted as a diplomatic caveat to avoid pleading guilty to a serious breach of international law. ‘Yes, your honour, it was my finger on the trigger and presumably I shot the bastard.’

  Kit found the last sentence of the British statement the most revealing. ‘His approach to the destroyers was completely unauthorised and Her Majesty’s government desire to express their regret at the incident.’ No more wheedling ‘presumablies’; the key phrase is ‘completely unauthorised’. It’s a bit like inviting a couple around to dinner. Five minutes after they arrive at your house, your guest’s wife goes to powder her nose and one of your servants follows her up the stairs and sticks his hand up her dress. If you had done it, the friendship would be over and you might get punched on the nose, but since it was one of your staff – behaving in a ‘completely unauthorised’ manner – you’ve got a way out. Of course, you now have to dismiss the horny servant. Kit knew the Prime Minister had no alternative. Eden was going to have to sack the Head of MI6, Major General John Sinclair. Kit had bagged the biggest beast of his career. The self-loathing was still there, but there was exhilaration too. Is that why people became assassins? Little vermin with small dicks wanting to make their marks. He wondered if Allen Dulles would be pleased. Kit wished that he had drowned himself in Portsmouth Harbour.

  Neither the British nor the Soviet statement mentioned the Ordzhonikidze: the cruiser was the elephant in the room. Nor would the limpet mines be mentioned – ever. That file wouldn’t see the light of day for another hundred years. But other powers and other intelligence services would pore over each word of the British apology like scholars of Biblical exegesis – and come to the conclusion that something was being held back. In terms of coded diplomatic language, the Foreign Office statement was far too repentant to be an apology for something as relatively minor as a bit of underwater spying. And everyone in the trade knew it.

  Kit invented a mugging incident to explain his split lip and black eye. Only Cauldwell was sceptical about the cover story. ‘I bet you took on two Sov agents with your bare hands and crippled both of them.’

  ‘Actually, there were three of them.’

  ‘What a hero.’

  ‘And now I’ve got to go back to Washington so the President can give me a medal in the rose garden.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘No, I’m fibbing. It’s just a routine consultation at the State Department. I’ll be gone about eight days.’

  The Washington trip bothered him, but he wasn’t going to show it. Kit didn’t know why he’d been summoned and wasn’t looking forward to it. Another bad omen was the fact that he was being called in for an ‘interview’ by counter-intelligence. The reason could be anything from a minor breach of security regulations to suspicion of spying for a foreign power. It could be bad shit – and you were never told in advance the reasons why you were being interviewed. Counter-intelligence always wanted to keep their interviewees on the back foot so they couldn’t fabricate alibis. It also worried Kit that the interview was scheduled to take place the very day of his flight to the States – they might decide to send him back in handcuffs.

  The interview room was in the embassy cellar. There were no windows, no wall coverings – not even a carpet. Nothing but exposed heating pipes, an overhead florescent light, metal desk, metal chairs, polygraph lie-detector and tape recorder.

  ‘How you doing, Kit?’ The interviewer, Bill Shepherd, limped over to shake hands. ‘Nice to see you.’

  ‘Fine, nice to see you too, Bill.’ Kit knew that Shepherd’s limp came from an injury sustained parachuting behind communist lines in Korea. No one in the Agency, absolutely no one, enjoyed more respect than Bill Shepherd. Kit was relieved to see that his interrogator would be an old friend. Bill and he had been GI Bill classmates at the University of Virginia after the war.

  ‘Sorry about this,’ said Bill, as he finished threading a tape through the recording machine. ‘I hope we can get through this as quick as possible and then go for a beer.’

  ‘Bill.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Spare me the “make a friendly rapport with the prisoner” shit. We’ve both done the course on interrogation techniques – so give me some professional dignity.’

  Shepherd sat down and sighed. ‘Listen, Kit, I was being genuine – it wasn’t a trick. To be perfectly frank, I feel totally fucking embarrassed by this.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m feeling a bit touchy. Let’s just get on with it.’

  ‘The most embarrassing bit comes now.’ Shepherd took a Bible out of his briefcase.

  ‘You can’t be serious – you mean I’ve got to fucking swear.’

  ‘Yeah, I know, it’s stupid, but the shadow of
McCarthy is still with us. Thomas Jefferson must be turning over in his grave.’ Shepherd picked up the Bible and turned on the machine. ‘30 April 1956, the US Embassy, London, England. Minister Counsellor Kitson Fournier, you are being interviewed under section five of the National Security Act. By agreeing to this interview, you are waiving your rights guaranteed under the Fifth Amendment to the US Constitution. Any statements you make may be cited as evidence and used against you in any future proceedings. Do you agree to proceed with this interview?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Shepherd winked and held up the Bible. ‘Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you make a total of two telephone calls from public phones in Portsmouth, England to the Soviet Embassy on 17 and 18 April of this year?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘To whom were you speaking on these occasions?’

  ‘Refer to DCI.’ It was a standard response indicating the answer had to be withheld on security grounds. The question could only be answered with the permission of the Director of Central Intelligence.

  ‘Did you make and file a transcript of these telephone conversations?’

  ‘There were no conversations as such. They were simply coded signals consisting of a single word or two.’ Kit frowned and pointed to the recording machine.

  Shepherd pressed the pause button. ‘Listen, Kit, I’m not supposed to stop this thing. It’s not SOP. I’ll have to write a note.’

  ‘Bill, who the fuck are you working for? British intelligence or US intelligence?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. You know what I mean – the only people who have phone taps on the Soviet Embassy are the Brits. We don’t. I know that because I tried to tap the Sov lines as soon as I got here – and was told off.’

  ‘OK, Kit, it’s shared intelligence.’

  ‘They’re pretty selective about what they share.’

  ‘And so are we.’

  ‘Listen, Bill, this interview is a sop to the Brits. The British Foreign Office has been leaning on the Ambassador to beat me up a bit and put me back in my box – so they called you in.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m guessing.’

  ‘Listen, I’m just given a brief and background information to carry out a section five interview – the intelligence isn’t sourced or evaluated. Shall we carry on?’

  ‘OK.’

  Shepherd pressed the record button and the wheels started turning. ‘What were you doing in Portsmouth on April 17 and 18?’

  ‘Refer to DCI.’

  ‘Would you consent to being monitored by polygraph for the rest of this interview.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Shepherd attached the lie-detector sensors. The polygraph measured heart rate, blood pressure, breathing and hand perspiration. When Kit was finally wired, the questioning continued. ‘Have you ever paid for sex with a prostitute of either sex?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever taken illegal drugs?’

  ‘I visited an opium den in Saigon in 1945. I mentioned this when I was interviewed for a top secret clearance in 1951 – so it should still be part of my records.’ Kit knew it was an entrapment question.

  ‘Have you ever attended a meeting of a socialist, communist, fascist or national socialist party?’

  ‘No, not in the sense of an official party function. But I have attended numerous social functions with persons who are members of such parties.’

  ‘Was your attendance consistent with carrying out your official duties?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you currently engaged in a sexual relationship?’

  Kit frowned. It was another cum-stains-on-the-cassock question from the puritan legacy that lumped together sexual sin, witchcraft and national security. ‘No, I am not having a sexual relationship of any sort.’

  ‘Could you describe your financial situation?’

  ‘I am entitled to draw up to thirty thousand dollars a year out of a family trust fund managed by Medler and Gower, but I haven’t withdrawn any money from it since leaving university. I live well within my government salary and, in fact, nearly fifty per cent of my net pay is reinvested by Medler and Gower in a personal fund.’

  ‘For what purpose.’

  ‘I don’t know – maybe to give to a charity. I don’t think about money very often – in fact, I consider the topic vulgar.’ Kit was completely aware that the purpose of this line of questioning was to establish a pattern on the lie-detector readout for the purpose of comparison with the questions that really mattered.

  ‘Do you ever buy works of art?’

  ‘The last painting I bought of any value was one called Mestizo by the Brazilian artist, Portinari.’ Kit smiled. He was full of admiration for the deft way that Shepherd had sprung the pseudo-McCarthy trap. ‘I would like to amend my previous answer where I said that I only met members of socialist and communist parties when carrying out official duties. Portinari, whom I met and conversed with at an art exhibition, is a member of the Brazilian Communist Party. I’ve also met the artists Kahlo and Diego Riviera, whose politics could be described as left wing, at a family party in Georgetown.’ How, thought Kit, Senator McCarthy would have loved this – East Coast blue stockings with red paintings. But it was better to own up than be caught in a lie.

  ‘What attracted you to the Portinari painting, the Mestizo?’

  ‘The subject’s face, as the title Mestizo suggests, contains features of all the races – Indian, African, European – that inhabit the Americas. I also like his calmness and dignity.’

  ‘Could you describe the painting as homoerotic?’

  Kit wanted to say, probably a lot less than the image of Jesus on the cross, but knew it would only make things worse. ‘I don’t see it that way.’

  ‘How do you see the painting?’

  ‘I’ve already said – as the universal everyman of the New World.’

  ‘Some critics would describe the painting as socialist realism – like those brawny workers you see on Soviet propaganda posters.’

  ‘I think they’d be wrong. The Mestizo has a lot more subtlety and complexity. In any case, I bought it for my father, who always said he admired Portinari.’ Kit waited for the next question. He knew he’d been skewered. If anyone on the House Un-American Activities Committee got hold of this interview, his career would be finished. You weren’t allowed anything that didn’t conform. You were condemned by the very paintings on your walls and the books on your shelves.

  Shepherd continued. ‘Have you ever passed on information to a member of the Soviet Mission that could be detrimental to the security interests of the United Kingdom?’

  This was the question that Kit had been waiting for. This was the reason he had gone without sleep for forty-eight hours and taken a mild dose of barbiturates before the interview. He was going to lie and the polygraph readout would continue as flat and bland as a pancake. ‘No, I have not.’

  Shepherd turned off both machines. The interview was finished and Kit was more certain than ever that the tape and polygraph results would soon be on their way to the British Foreign Office – and thence to MI6 and MI5. The whole episode reeked of host country pressure.

  ‘Sorry, Kit,’ said Shepherd, ‘I really put you through it. I had to.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to ask for a urine sample?’

  ‘No, I’d have to watch you do it.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Yeah, in case you swap someone else’s piss for yours. And there’s no way I’m going to ask you to whip your cock out without a half dozen medical witnesses to sign a disclaimer.’

  Kit was relieved. A barbiturate bearing pee sample would have sunk his boat. ‘Come on, Bill, who do you think pushed for this interview?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know.’ Shepherd paused, then looked closely at Kit. ‘You were lucky you weren’t PNG’d. Come on
, let’s go for that beer.’

  ‘It’ll have to be a quick one. I’m flying to Washington this evening.’

  Chapter Eight

  ‘War without death.’ Uncle George smiled and picked up a document file from his desk. An old friend of George’s was a Brigadier General in the US Army Chemical Corps and passed on copies of the latest research. ‘They’ve just carried out trials using volunteers from the 82nd Airborne Division. Listen to this.’ George opened the file and read, ‘The next time I saw Sergeant Lynch he had left the ward and was taking a shower in his uniform while smoking a cigar.’

  The enthusiasm was worrying. Kit looked into George’s watery blue eyes and tried to detect signs of incipient madness. Perhaps, he thought, the Chemical Corps friend had passed on samples of the drugs too.

  ‘Don’t you see, Kit, this is the dawning of a new era. Nuclear bombs are soon going to be as obsolete as the crossbow. We’ll saturate the battlefield of the future with chemical clouds of this wonder drug. It won’t burn lungs or harm bodies, but it will change consciousness. Trained killers will turn into lotus-eaters. War without death.’

  The project that Uncle George was enthusing about was MK-ULTRA, the Agency’s mind-control programme. Nothing was ruled out: hypnosis, mental telepathy, psychic driving, hallucinogenic drugs, mescaline, psilocybin, marijuana, heroin, induced amnesia, prolonged paralysis and intense auto-suggestion were all part of the mix.

  ‘The problem is,’ said Kit, ‘how do we stop our own troops from being affected by the LSD?’

  ‘We’re working on that one. There might be an antidote.’