The important thing about telephone rendezvous was split-second timing. You don’t dial the number of the other public phone until the person is in place and waiting with phone in hand and finger depressing the cradle. Cauldwell checked his watch and slowly walked to Piccadilly to find an unoccupied kiosk. At the precise second, he dialled the number and the other phone answered immediately with the code name, ‘Sholto here.’
Cauldwell gave the verification answer: ‘Did you place the bet?’
‘Lady Somers is a real runner for the Deputy PUS stakes at Cannon Fodder. The filly has an interesting history.’
‘She didn’t fall down an elevator shaft by any chance?’
The minister laughed. ‘No, you’re confusing her with someone else. But I would say that Lady Somers has even more interesting history.’
Cauldwell sensed that the minister enjoyed passing on gossip and that the threat of blackmail gave him carte blanche to do it. ‘Please tell me more; don’t be a tease.’
‘No.’ The minister brayed an even louder laugh and the line went dead.
Cauldwell hung up and hailed a taxi. He told the driver to take him to 30 Queen’s Gate Mews, but that wasn’t where he was going. You never tell taxi drivers your exact destination in case the Security Services question them about a curious fare, but it was near enough. Cauldwell settled into his seat and watched London flash past as he worked out the minister’s cryptic message. PUS was an acronym for Permanent Under-secretary of State, the highest-ranking civil service mandarin in a Whitehall department. So a deputy PUS would be second in rank to the PUS. ‘Cannon Fodder’ was easy – the War Office. Cauldwell had vaguely heard of Lady Somers. He wondered if she was one of les grandes horizontales sapphiques that his cabinet minister sometimes talked about. In any case, Lady Somers, sapphique or not, seemed lined up for a pretty big job at War. But what was her ‘interesting history’?
»»»»
It was a quick walk from Queen’s Gate Mews to the Hereford Arms on Gloucester Road. Cauldwell used to meet the agent at the Bunch of Grapes on Old Brompton Road, but too many Sovs had started to hang around the Grapes – and that meant MI5 had put the pub under surveillance. But the Sovs were the clever ones. They knew that if you frequented a place, it wouldn’t be long before ‘watchers’ from Five would flock there like wasps to rotten apples. By deflecting surveillance manpower, you could rendezvous more safely at other places.
The Hereford Arms agent was a scientist. He was a difficult agent to run because he was so frightened and fucked up. Cauldwell didn’t like meeting him face to face, but there was no other way because the scientist refused to use DLBs – dead letter boxes – or to get the hang of clandestine telephone calls. He also needed a lot of personal support, which was tiresome. The scientist wasn’t upper-class – far from it – but he did have his own niche kink. It wasn’t, in fact, one that toffs – as far as Cauldwell knew – ever practised. The scientist’s kink was paraphilic infantilism, also known as adult baby syndrome. He liked to be dressed up in diapers and to be bathed, powdered and changed. The proclivities split up his marriage. The scientist was talent spotted by the KGB Rezident at the Soviet Embassy and his file passed on to Cauldwell – who wondered whether he was worth the bother and risk. He taught at Imperial College and was a specialist in aerodynamics, but his research was inferior to that being carried out by Sov scientists. So what was the point of using him? The point wasn’t what he knew, but who he knew. The scientist was part of the RAF research establishment and also had contacts in the Admiralty Underwater Weapons Establishment at Portland in Dorset. The latter was what really interested Cauldwell.
The Hereford Arms was a Victorian pub painted purple black. It was famous for having been the local of Arthur Conan Doyle – and there were rumours that Jack the Ripper used to drink there too. The current lunchtime crowd was also a bit odd. There were naturalists from the Natural History Museum and arty curator types from the V&A. This worried Cauldwell. He was afraid that one of the V&A crowd might recognise him from his CultAt post. As he ordered a gin and tonic, one of them winked at him. Cauldwell hoped it was flirtation and not recognition. At that moment, the scientist walked in and came to the bar.
‘What are you having?’
‘A pint of Fuller’s.’
Cauldwell ordered the beer and whispered to the scientist: ‘Pretend we’re a couple of boys about to do something naughty.’
‘I don’t like that sort of thing. It’s disgusting.’
‘Not as disgusting as what you do like.’ Cauldwell had shifted his voice from American to London spiv. He didn’t want to attract attention. ‘Sit in the corner, sweetheart, and keep up the act. We need an excuse for talking in whispers.’
Cauldwell took the chair with his back to the bar and the lunchtime crowd. The scientist fidgeted nervously. ‘They’re staring at us.’
‘They’re staring at me. You’re too dull and boring. Maybe that’s why your wife left you, nothing to do with soiled nappies.’
‘You’re a nasty piece of business, aren’t you?’
Cauldwell smiled. ‘We all have our faults. Mine is being a completely evil bastard.’
‘And that’s the reason why I want out now. I’ve decided to confess.’
‘They’ll love you at Wormwood Scrubs. Nice fresh boy like you. As soon as they see your face in the newspapers, they’ll get out their tubes of Vaseline and warm them on the radiators.’
The scientist turned pale and sipped his beer. ‘I still want out.’
‘How are you for dosh?’ Cauldwell knew that the divorce had cost the scientist a lot of money.
‘That’s another thing I want to talk about.’
‘We can give you more money, but we’ll want something in return.’
‘But I’ve already given you everything I had access to when I was at Boscombe Down.’ The scientist was referring to an RAF R&D project he had worked on. The information he had passed over was of little value, but the purpose of the op had been to entrap the scientist for the future. And the future was now.
‘I don’t want information. I want an introduction to your friend from Portland Bill.’
»»»»
Three days later, Cauldwell was on the last train from Waterloo to Weymouth. The train was nearly empty and the two men were alone in the compartment. Cauldwell was reading a newspaper. The naval officer was in civilian clothes and looked slightly drunk, but not so drunk that he had forgotten his lines.
‘I say, is that the evening edition?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Would you mind if I have a look when you’re finished? I want to check the racing results.’
‘You can have it now.’ Cauldwell smiled and handed him the paper.
When the naval officer looked at the sports page, he found the racing results were excellent. A hundred pounds in used notes was pinned to the page – enough to buy the new car he needed.
‘And there’s more where that came from,’ said Cauldwell.
The naval officer needed the money. Booze, women and gambling had drained him. ‘We must meet more often, Mr…’
‘Hood, just like your battleship.’
‘Actually, she was a battlecruiser.’
‘I should have known that. There’s a lot more you can teach me.’ Cauldwell could see that the naval officer was going to be a straightforward agent to run. Greed was always easy. But Cauldwell knew he was taking a big risk. The Admiralty Underwater Weapons Establishment at Portland was not his patch. Vasili, his KGB London control, had warned him off it before.
The naval officer slipped the bank notes into his pocket and winked at Cauldwell. ‘I’m glad we’ve met, Mr…’
‘Hood.’
‘Silly me, memory like a sieve.’ The naval officer’s voice was now slurred. ‘Actually, I was expecting to meet someone else. Have you a colleague called Gordon?’
Cauldwell gave a weary smile. ‘There’s been a bit of a problem with Gordon, but I can’t gi
ve you the details.’
‘Just a little clue?’
Cauldwell shook his head, then whispered, ‘Have you got suspicions about him?’
‘I just want to be careful.’
‘And this is how you can be careful. If Gordon approaches you, have nothing to do with him. Don’t even give him the time of day.’
The naval officer gave a knowing smile. ‘He’s a nark.’
Cauldwell kept a straight face. ‘I’m not saying anything more.’
‘Capisco.’
Cauldwell stared out the train window into the damp night. He feared he had gone too far. It seemed that Konon Molody, aka Gordon Lonsdale, was already running the naval officer. Portland belonged to Molody – the best Soviet spy in the UK – and messing about with Portland was the most dangerous thing that Cauldwell had ever done. Molody could report him back to Moscow if he heard.
‘Bloody hell,’ said the naval officer, ‘I’m dying for a piss.’
‘That’s the problem with these trains.’ They were in a no-corridor carriage with full-width compartments.
‘Yeah, but they’re jolly good for having a shag. But I’m bursting.’
‘I’ll hold the door open for you.’
‘Thanks.’ The naval officer wagged his finger. ‘But promise not to look.’
‘Of course not.’
It wasn’t unusual for drunken passengers to fall to their death when peeing from such trains. Cauldwell left the empty compartment at the next station.
»»»»
The next day in London was creepy, dead creepy. Cauldwell had itchy feet and knew something was wrong. He worked late at the embassy doing Cultural Attaché stuff, largely preparing a press pack about Elvis Presley being declared 1a and eligible for US military draft, and keeping a low profile. He took counter-surveillance measures on the way back to his flat that evening but Cauldwell knew something was wrong even before he saw the van. He had just come out of Pimlico underground station. It was a sixth sense, a feeling of eyes boring into the back – and then the tradesman’s van at a time of night when no tradesmen would be working. Cauldwell turned into Moreton Street. As soon as the van pulled up beside him, he reached for the Smith & Wesson in his Mackintosh pocket. If there was only one of them, he would put a bullet in the driver and take the van. If there were several, he would empty the clip and run back to the underground station – assuming no one could follow him. The passenger door swung open and Cauldwell aimed at the shadow. And the shadow called out in a hoarse whisper: ‘Put that away, Jeffers, and get in. You’ve been busted.’ He recognised the hoarse voice. It was Youseff, the Syrian shirt-maker.
The Admiralty is the finest set of government buildings in London. There is always a mounted horse guard with drawn sword and gleaming breastplate on duty in the Adam-designed arch that leads into a small courtyard off Whitehall. The pomp of the sentinel may be symbolic, but the secrets of the Admiralty are real.
The guarded arch is not an entry for visitors on foot. It would be undignified to squeeze past the stony-faced guard. You would also have to dodge a pile of horseshit. So you go through the narrow pedestrian entrance where a policeman from S01, the Special Protection Branch, will check your credentials and your reasons for visiting. If, however, you are a senior mandarin, the policeman will simply touch his helmet in salute and nod you through with a ‘Good morning, Sir X or Lord Y’ – or ‘Lady Somers’.
It was a warm and sunny day, but Lady Somers was hatless. She had forgotten her hat because she was in a hurry. She was pleased that she didn’t need to stop and show her ID. As the first woman ever to become 2nd PUS, Deputy Permanent Undersecretary of State, everyone knew who she was. And now, as she had been elevated to ‘acting PUS’ owing to her boss’s long-term illness, she was in charge. As the duty cop saluted, Lady Somers flashed a quick smile in return and click-clacked across the courtyard on her stilettos. The policeman turned back into the kiosk where tea was being poured by the night rota. He winked and nodded at his off-duty colleague: ‘Yeah, I’d give her one.’
‘But I don’t think you’ll ever get the chance.’
Somers was late because a last-minute problem had delayed her. She was a widowed single parent with a difficult daughter. She hated being late and hated it when others used contrived lateness as a tactic. There was one particularly irritating chap from SIS who always arrived late at the Joint Intelligence Committee juggling teacup, reading glasses and files and never managed to shut the door behind him – despite a balletic attempt to do so with a back heel that he must have learned on the football pitch. He used his late arrivals to disrupt JIC meetings so he could insert his own agendas. It was a tactic that was as successful as it was annoying.
The person waiting for her was an ex-cop with a file full of photos. Skardon had been an inspector in the Met who had transferred to MI5 during the war. It was a good career move. He was now head of A4, the surveillance section, better known as ‘the watchers’.
Skardon was waiting in the music room of the building known as ‘the Old Admiralty’. He was wearing a trilby and an old Mac and looked a bit out of place amid the eighteenth-century grandeur of gilt chairs and crystal chandeliers. He passed the time by staring at an oil painting of a nineteenth-century sea battle in which one of the ships has capsized and the sea is full of sailors drowning and luckier ones in longboats.
Lady Somers entered the music room, but Skardon continued to stare at the sea battle to show annoyance at her lateness. The ex-cop had a thick manila file tucked firmly under his left arm as if it were his most precious possession. He had spent his working life collecting such evidence. He liked nailing villains. It wasn’t a matter of personal satisfaction, but a matter of justice. He believed in public service.
Lady Somers drew level and quoted Kipling as she nodded at the painting, ‘If blood be the price of admiralty, Lord God, we ha’ paid in full!’
‘Someone has to pay.’
‘I agree, Jim, but it’s an awkward situation.’
Skardon bristled at the first name familiarity that couldn’t be reciprocated. He turned to stare at Somers. ‘It reeks.’
‘It wasn’t my decision.’
‘Whose was it then?’
‘The Prime Minister’s.’
‘Maybe I should have a word.’
Lady Somers smiled bleakly. ‘The PM thinks it’s a mistake to arrest this spy for a public trial. His exact words were, “When my gamekeeper shoots a fox, he doesn’t go and hang it up outside the Master of Foxhounds’ drawing room; he buries it out of sight.”’
Skardon raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you saying the PM wants us to kill Tyler and disappear the body?’
Lady Somers shook her head. ‘No, no – of course not. It’s just his manner of speaking. The PM would never condone that – or any form of state-sponsored assassination.’
‘And the cat always gets out of the bag.’
‘That too. But the PM – and SIS agree – thinks that we should turn Tyler around and use him as a conduit to pass on disinformation. We’ve done it before.’
The case in question referred, in fact, to the high-ranking SIS officer who never managed to shut the door behind him. He had been caught red-handed working for Moscow, but was never prosecuted. The case was a long-running sore between MI5 and the Secret Intelligence Service.
‘He ought,’ said Skardon, ‘to have been hung, drawn and quartered years ago. He’s taking the mick.’
Somers raised an eyebrow. ‘This one is a different situation.’
‘No, it isn’t.’ Skardon gave Lady Somers a long hard stare. ‘And you know it.’
‘I know that the Tyler case requires special handling. It’s not just a matter of using him to pass on disinformation. It also involves the UK’s relationship with an ally. There are complicated nuances.’
Skardon handed over the folder. ‘It’s out of my hands. I’m just a thick cop who can’t understand these complex affairs of state.’
‘That’s not tr
ue, Jim. You are the most respected officer in the Security Service. Your advice is sacred.’
‘Don’t patronise me. Take my advice instead. The best way to stop treason is to hang traitors. Make an example of those deceitful bastards.’
»»»»
Lady Somers’ office overlooked Horse Guards Parade. She had one of the best views of any civil servant in London. She tried not to waste too much time staring out the window over St James’s Park towards the palace. Or peeking over the wall into the garden of Number 10. It was a large garden, about half an acre, but not a very nice one. It was mostly grass except for shrubs in tubs and pollarded trees along the wall. It was functional rather than decorative. Nonetheless, on sunny days the Prime Minister sometimes sat alone in the garden in a wicker chair with a book. And on those days, Lady Somers wished that she had a powerful pair of ship’s binoculars so that she could see whether the PM was reading Aeschylus or Anthony Trollope – or some dull government report.
There was a knock on the door: a knock that she was expecting and partly dreading. ‘Come in, please.’
The man who came in greeted his boss with a nervous smile. He was very timid for someone who had been a senior and well-decorated naval officer.
‘You wanted to see me, Lady Somers?’
‘Yes, Euan. I hope you have time for a chat.’
‘No problem at all. I was expecting you.’
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you.’ Euan held a folder in front of his chest as if it were a bulletproof vest and stared out the window.
‘Are you all right?’
‘Sorry if I appear distracted. I was just admiring the view. It’s absolutely stunning – and that’s why I worry about these offices.’
‘What’s your worry?’
‘An assassin with a sniper rifle could wreak havoc – especially on Remembrance Sunday.’
The Whitehall Mandarin Page 2
