‘I know.’
‘The problem is that I fooled myself into believing there was a far-fetched conspiracy involving rogue elements of the KGB and the British security services.’
‘Which was?’
‘I blush with shame to admit it, but I came to the conclusion that a ring of corrupt KGB officers and Russian nuclear scientists had stolen a Soviet hydrogen bomb to sell to the British.’
‘What you’re telling me is very interesting, but you tell me your story first and then I might tell you mine.’
‘A number of loose threads and coincidences led me down this path. The first came from my cousin Jennifer who is married to the chief scientist at the Orford Ness Atomic Weapons Research Establishment.’
‘George Calvert’s daughter? You mentioned her when you were in Washington.’
‘That’s the one.’
‘A very beautiful young lady.’
‘She is stunning, but emotionally unstable. And because she’s family, sir, I don’t want any of this put in an official report.’
‘I can understand.’
‘I don’t think Jennie ever got over her brother, Peter, being killed in that Saigon mess – and then her mother is a hopeless alcoholic. Maybe she came to England to get away from it all. In any case, she recently lost a baby – and that makes things worse. But even before that, Jennie had been telling me that something awfully strange and mysterious was going on at Orford Ness. She seemed so intense that I began to believe her. Ergo, I ordered aerial reconnaissance photographs of the site.’
‘Yes, Kit, I have seen these photos and read the report. The analyst thinks the bunkers under construction are intended for containing a nuclear blast from within. So what? If the British are constructing a homemade H-bomb, they will still need containment bunkers.’
‘That’s true – I made a wrong assumption.’
‘On the contrary, Kit, you were right. You have to take into account the urgency and speed with which they were building these bunkers. Why did the Brits have their H-bomb containment bunkers completed years before they could build an H-bomb?’
‘I don’t know.’ Kit paused and pretended to think. ‘Maybe it’s a face-saving ruse. You’re right, sir. They’re years behind us and the Sovs.’
‘Take me a bit more, Kit, through this corrupt KGB conspiracy theory you now seem to have discarded.’
‘Three more threads. One, a conversation I had with a Russian cellist named Natalya Voronova whom I met at the Aldeburgh festival. She was trying to tell me that her husband, a nuclear physicist named Viktor Voronov, had defected to the Brits. But there’s no evidence to corroborate this. I suspect that Natalya is a KGB agent herself and that she was passing on misinformation to create distrust between us and the British.’
‘She is KGB, but that doesn’t mean the information is false. Natalya might genuinely have been warning us about what our closest ally is up to behind our back.’
‘In my view, unlikely. Second thread, a meeting I had with my contact, code-name Bacchus. You know who he is.’
Dulles nodded. ‘A key member of the Labour shadow cabinet – and a right-winger.’
‘That’s the one. In any case, Bacchus tried spinning me a yarn full of cryptic innuendo about the shipping company that has a former Secretary of Trade as one of its directors. According to Bacchus, the company imports timber to England from the Soviet Union. The purpose of the company isn’t so much profit, as the fostering of stronger Anglo-Soviet links. Bacchus tried to imply that the company was involved in some sort of conspiracy.’
‘Such as using one of their ships to transport a stolen Soviet H-bomb to England hidden under piles of timber.’
Kit struggled to keep his composure. ‘Frankly, sir, Bacchus is full of bullshit. There’s a hidden civil war within the Labour Party. The right wing of that party, such as Bacchus, takes every opportunity to smear the left of the party. We shouldn’t be naive about British game-playing. Bacchus was trying the same tactic as Voronova – misinformation. In any case, the implied smear is totally illogical. If the Labour left are controlled by the KGB, why on earth would they be conspiring with KGB traitors to nick an H-bomb?’
‘Or perhaps the Labour left are British patriots who want a British nuclear deterrent independent of American control?’
‘No, sir, the Labour left are nuclear disarmers – they don’t want any sort of A or H-bomb.’
‘And your third thread?’
‘The disappearance of our cultural attaché, Jeffers Cauldwell, and the murder of his lover – if it was murder. Cauldwell’s lover, Henry Knowles, was a rising member of the Labour Party – and, along with the former Secretary of Trade, a director of the timber import company. And, by the way, I bitterly regret my role in the attempted blackmail of the pair. In retrospect, I’m sure that the tragic outcome had nothing to do with politics or conspiracy.’
‘I wish I had known about that blackmail business before it all began. Birch was wrong to give you those orders. I’ve had words with him.’
Kit felt a cold trickle of sweat run down his back. He suddenly realised that Allen Dulles didn’t believe a single word he was saying – and, likewise, Kit realised that he was a trapped insect becoming more and more entwined in the Director’s web. But he had to keep denying the truth. If Cauldwell or the bomb conspirators found that he had blabbed to the Americans, there was no telling how they would react. Kit’s secret was intended for only one buyer and for only one price.
‘So Kit, in your judgement, you are certain that there is no H-bomb – Russian or British – on Orford Ness?’
‘None, sir, none at all.’
‘And the conspiracy?’
‘The only conspiracy is an attempt by the KGB to sow mistrust and friction between ourselves and our closest ally.’
‘Sometimes, Kit, I almost have the impression that you might be working for the British.’
‘To be honest, sir, MI6 would rather shoot me than recruit me.’
‘Maybe so. But I hope that you’re right about Britain not having an H-bomb, because if they did we would have to take some action – maybe even a covert raid to swipe it. You must never forget that the island of Britain is our unsinkable aircraft carrier – the cornerstone of US foreign and military policy. No British government should ever think that they can act independently of Washington – and that’s why this one is about to get its fingers burned over this Suez nonsense.’
‘By the way, I’ve got more information about Eden’s health and state of mind. Liddel-Hart got so exasperated with the Prime Minister, he put a wastepaper bin over his head.’
‘Sorry, Kit, I’ve still got some questions about you and the H-bomb business.’
‘Sure.’ Kit felt the sweat running down his back.
‘Birch tells me that you were absent from your office for three days at the end of July. What on earth were you doing?’
‘I was flat on my back in my apartment. It was my worst attack of recurrent malaria since coming back from Southeast Asia. And foolishly, I tried to treat it with large quantities of gin and tonic – used to work a treat in Saigon.’
‘I think we’re going to have to put you in for a medical, Kit. In fact, you’re not looking very well at the moment. And something else,’ Dulles reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out a press clipping. ‘That girl that runs the embassy press office is awfully damned efficient. She found this and passed it on to Birch who in turn gave it to me. Have a look.’
Kit took the clipping. It was from the East Anglian Daily Press:
SECOND BODY FOUND ON SHINGLE STREET
Corpse Found Missing Head and Hands
Kit glanced at the article. The body had been found by a woman walking her dog. Kit wondered if it was the same woman who found Knowles. She must be getting fed up. He passed the clipping back. ‘It’s a strange piece of coast, sir, bodies are always getting washed up there.’
‘You know what I’m thinking, Kit?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘I think this body might belong to that frogman that you recruited for the Ordzhonikidze job in Portsmouth Harbour.’
‘Or it could be a villain from the East End. London gangsters often use the sea as a dustbin for rivals.’
‘In any case, we’ll never find out who he was. MI5 has slapped a news blackout on the story. Why would they do that? Surely, underworld criminals are not a national security matter.’
‘I don’t know why. The Brits are often very secretive for no apparent reason.’
‘Who knows?’ Dulles looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to be off now. But I must say, Kit, you really must have a check-up, you’re not looking at all well.’
Kit shook hands with Dulles, then began to walk down the two flights of stairs to his office. Halfway down, he felt nauseous and had to cling to the banister. He breathed deeply and tried to suppress an urge to be sick. There was something that Dulles had said which came back to Kit like regurgitated vomit: ‘You tell me your story first and then I might tell you mine.’ Dulles hadn’t told his story – nor had he winked, not even once. Kit knew that he was no longer part of the inner circle. He had been discarded. He was a machine that could no longer be trusted.
Vasili was sitting on a bench in the shadow of the Peter Pan statue reading a book. At first, Kit didn’t realise it was him: Vasili’s features seemed so sharp and ascetic. The Russian looked like a poetpriest rather than a spy. ‘Bless me father, bless me father,’ thought Kit, ‘for I have sinned and need absolution.’
As Kit sat down next to him, Vasili ignored him and continued reading. Finally the Russian spoke, but still didn’t look up from his book. ‘Rimbaud, do you know him?’
‘A little.’
‘Translate this, “La dernière innocence et la dernière timidité.”’
Kit looked up at Peter Pan. ‘“The last innocence and final timidity.”’
‘And this.’ Vasili continued, ‘“Ne pas porter au monde mes dégouts et mes trahisons.”’
‘“Not to carry my disgust and my treasons to the world.”’
‘Next, “A qui me louer?’” Vasili then paused. ‘I like these lines, may I translate them myself?’
‘Please.’
‘“To whom shall I hire myself? What beast must I worship? What hearts shall I break? What lies must I believe – In what blood will I walk?”’
Kit put his hand in his pocket and looked up again at Peter Pan. There was no turning back; innocence was long buried. He took the film out of his pocket and handed it to Vasili.
The Russian closed the book of poems. His face seemed to harden. ‘What do you want in exchange?’
‘I want asylum and peace.’
‘For yourself.’
‘No, for two of us.’
‘The scientist’s wife?’
‘Yes.’
Vasili closed his eyes and seemed to stare into an inner space. ‘We’ll need your passports – and recent photographs. Tape them to the bottom of the usual pew at Brompton Oratory – pretend you dropped your rosary. It will take about forty-eight hours to forge your new passports – we’ll choose your new names. On Friday evening there’s an Aeroflot service to Beirut from Gatwick. You’ll be on that plane. You’ll be met by an Englishman who will put you up for the weekend.’
‘Kim Philby?’
‘No questions, Kit, just follow instructions. On Monday morning you will board another Aeroflot flight to Moscow.’ Vasili got up to go.
‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t thank me, Kit. I’m not doing this out of friendship. I’m doing it out of duty. I wish this hadn’t happened. Your country needs you more than we do.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you blind, Kit, are you so in love with this woman that you are blind to your duty? Your country is going into a dark age. Big money buys power and office. The ignorant shout down the educated. You, as a person, had more power than you realised – the power of civilised thought and reason. How many like you are left? America is a drunken boat – adrift with no direction, laden with nuclear bombs primed to blow up the world five times over and madmen like General Curtis LeMay in charge of the gun decks. You could have tried to grab the tiller, but instead you chose a retirement dacha well stocked with vodka and caviar – and Comrades Burgess and Maclean as your regular dinner guests. Goodbye, Kit.’
Kit remained seated staring at the ground. He listened to the sound of Vasili’s footsteps crunching through the gravel as he walked away. Kit wanted to run after him and tell him how wrong he was, but he knew that the Russian wouldn’t understand – wouldn’t understand how a person that you loved could be more important than the universe.
Kit knew that he was paying too much for the Austin A30, but there was no time to haggle – he needed a car quick. He usually drove a new Ford from the embassy motor pool, but he knew that driving a car with diplomatic number plates to Gatwick so that he could defect on a Russian Aeroflot plane was a shit idea. As Kit handed over the cash in crisp pound notes, the dealer assured him that the A30 was ‘a real runner’.
‘Do you mind,’ said Kit, ‘if I keep her here for a few days?’
The dealer could hardly say no because the garage on Manor Road was huge and mostly empty. While the dealer scratched his head, Kit peeled off another note and the garaging was agreed.
‘What sort of business are you in … if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘I work in a bank in the City, I’m a commodities trader.’
‘Well, I’m sure we can do you a better motor than this. Mind you the A30 is …’
‘No, this car,’ Kit gave a leering wink, ‘isn’t really for me – so we don’t want anything too showy.’
‘Sounds like there might be a young lady involved.’
‘That might indeed be the case – so you can see why I want everything to be discreet, including the registration documents.’
The next morning, when Kit handed his ID to the embassy doorman, he thought it received more than the usual scrutiny. And, as he made his way through the foyer, there was neither eye contact nor a salute from the marine on duty. As usual, Kit shunned the unwelcome camaraderie of the elevator. But as he bounded up the stairs he sensed the paranoia demon jogging and laughing beside him. When he got to his office, the DCM, Birch, was seated at Ethel’s desk in the secretarial cubicle. Something was wrong, seriously wrong.
Birch looked up from a report he was reading. ‘Good morning, Kit.’
‘Good morning.’
‘You don’t need to be here today.’
Kit put his briefcase on the desk and looked down at Birch. ‘Why don’t I need to be here today?’
‘Because you are on leave.’
‘For how long?’
‘That depends.’
‘OK.’ Kit picked up his briefcase and turned to leave.
‘Kit.’
‘I’ll keep in touch.’
‘Kit, can I have your keys please?’
Kit reached in his pocket and dropped his office key ring on the desk. ‘Have I been suspended?’
‘I haven’t used that word.’
Kit turned to leave again.
‘And your briefcase.’
‘Sure, but can I keep my spare shirt?’
Birch nodded.
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome.’
Kit snapped open the case, took out a freshly laundered white shirt of Egyptian cotton and then left without looking back. As he walked back down the stairs, Kit felt awkward and embarrassed. He realised that he looked pretty silly carrying a shirt and nothing else. When he got to the door, a British doorman wearing a regimental blazer asked, ‘Would you like a bag for that, sir.’
‘Please.’
The doorman disappeared into a cubby hole and emerged with a small grey canvas holdall. ‘Can’t have a gentleman walking around carrying laundry. It’s not dignified.’ The doorman put the shirt in the holdall and did up the button
s. ‘Here you go, sir, that’s much better. Just drop the bag off next time you’re here.’
‘Thank you.’
Kit emerged blinking into the morning sunlight, his eyes dampened by the gentle gift of unexpected kindness.
Halfway between Colchester and Ipswich, Kit pulled into a garage to have the A30’s oil and water checked. While the mechanic was looking after the car, Kit walked into the village to find a phone. When he finished dialling, he put a finger on the cradle. If Brian answered, he would hang up – he didn’t care what suspicions he aroused.
‘Sudbourne 234.’ It was Jennifer.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Not for long,’ she whispered, ‘Brian’s in his study. He’s working from home.’
‘Tell him you’re going for a walk. Remember that abandoned boathouse I told you about on the Butley?’
‘Yes.’
‘There’s a path to it through the marshes. Can you find your way there?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll see there you in two hours – and bring your passport.’
‘I’m not scared, Kit.’
‘I love you. I must go now.’
As Kit walked back to the garage, he began to wonder why Brian was spending so much time at home. What did he know? Was he keeping an eye on Jennifer?
Kit turned off the main road after Woodbridge. As soon as he had crossed Wilford Bridge, where the headwaters of the Deben were dark and dappled by tree shadow, Kit knew that he was deep in hidden Suffolk. He loved that part of the county and wished that he could spend the rest of his life there. He wondered what Russia would be like. Maybe he could learn to love pure snow and endless birch forests too. Kit parked the car at a tiny hamlet called Chillesford where there was a church and five houses. The doorman’s holdall was on the seat next to him: Kit had packed it with a Polaroid camera and a white sheet to use as a backdrop. The holdall bothered him. How would he ever get it back? Maybe he could send it to London in a Soviet Foreign Ministry diplomatic bag.
The Envoy Page 28
