The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  ‘Go on.’

  The DCI’s presentation lasted fifteen minutes. The President sat stony-faced and noncommittal throughout. He was going to give nothing away. As he finished, the DCI said, ‘I suppose there are those who would call this treason.’

  The President remained expressionless. He finally got up from his rocking chair and limped over to his desk. The back pain had returned. ‘Thank you, Allen.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr President.’

  As soon as the DCI had left the Oval Office, Kennedy pressed the button on his desk intercom. ‘Evelyn, can you tell Bobby and McNamara to see me as soon as possible?’

  London: September, 1961

  Henry Bone’s celebration of the fall of Allen Dulles was short-lived. The latest cable from his man in Washington signalled new troubles.

  It’s certain that John McCone is going to succeed Dulles. McCone is far more competent than his predecessor and a shrewd businessman – and, as such, he doesn’t trust anyone and certainly not us. Brits are not popular in this town. I have the impression that something big is happening and we are being excluded. We are no longer consulted or even informed. It is even worse than in the aftermath of Burgess and Maclean when SIS was regarded as the London branch of Moscow Central. At one time Britain was a refined Greece to Washington’s brash Rome, but they now look upon us as a bankrupt post-colonial Sodom and Gomorrah. One reason could be the rumours about John Profumo and others. I cannot overstate how damaging these rumours are – nor how well informed the Americans are, or think they are, about British sex scandals. The CIA chief in London must have a very prurient mind and a large team of informants. He should re-title himself as The Tart Finder General. Many of the rumours circulating in Washington are patently false, but there are others that have a ring of truth. The problem is that the puritanical Americans assume that sexual impropriety in high places equates to a security risk. Scratch an adulterous minister and find a Sov spy. I hope that your friend Lady Somers is running a very tight ship at the MoD. The Profumo connection and that other unfortunate business casts a shadow over her department just at a time when Britain desperately needs US military and intelligence cooperation.

  Bone put the cable in the burn bag. It wasn’t a document that was going to be filed for posterity. He then stared for a long time at his telephone and wondered what he should say to Lady Somers. Bone wasn’t happy about one of her recent appointments. Perhaps it could still be reversed. On the other hand, why should he interfere? Whitehall was a bear pit – and when the hounds were let loose it was best to keep your distance from the bear involved. It was called survival.

  »»»»

  Euan was pleased that his appointment as acting 2nd PUS at the MoD had finally, after two years in limbo, been confirmed as permanent. It was the same post that Lady Somers had occupied when he had first begun to work with her. In a way, she seemed to be looking after his career, but Euan knew there were strings attached. And one of the strings was named Tyler. Lady Somers had finally ascertained that Euan’s involvement with Tyler was more than just a close working relationship within the MoD. And Lady Somers wasn’t the only one who knew.

  Euan was now part of the Dolphin Square crowd in Pimlico. They were louche and slightly bohemian, a lot more fun than his previous neighbours in Kensington. Euan’s new flat was not only closer to Tyler, but also to Whitehall. When the weather was fine he would often walk to work along the Embankment with the Thames gleaming in the sunlight. On this occasion, the weather wasn’t fine – but he was still walking, hunched as the drizzle and swirling wind whipped around him. He was also tired and bleary-eyed for he hadn’t slept at all the previous night.

  Euan kept looking at his watch. The note that had come with the photographs had been very specific. It said he had to be at Vauxhall Bridge at exactly eight-twenty in the morning. It was rush hour and the Embankment was full of cars, buses, bicycles and others on foot also hunched against the drizzle.

  The photos of him and Tyler had been taken in a hotel in Brighton. They had spent the weekend there with some Dolphin Square friends who had recommended a nightclub called the Blue Gardenia. The owner had a beard that made him look like a cross between a jazz musician and a beat poet. And a much younger wife who flirted with everyone. It was an anything goes atmosphere.

  Euan had been told to carry a copy of The Daily Worker tucked under his right arm. He found it embarrassing and hoped no one he knew would notice. In fact, he hid the newspaper until the last possible minute. At precisely eight-twenty he reached Vauxhall. He was waiting for the traffic lights to change to cross over when he heard the voice behind him.

  ‘Don’t turn around, comrade, you’re working for us now. We know all your dirty secrets.’

  As the light changed, Euan felt a hand drop something into his coat pocket. It was a perfect brush pass that no one had noticed. It was now raining harder and umbrellas were sprouting open. Euan was too frightened and confused to try to spot the person who had spoken to him. The voice had been a strange one. It certainly wasn’t a British voice – nor an accented foreign one. If anything, it carried a hint of American. Not surprising; the Russians recognised where power had shifted and tended to learn American English.

  Euan turned away from the river into Ponsonby Place. There was nowhere to shelter among the perfect Georgian terraces, but he had to see what had been dropped in his pocket. A postman walked past and gave him a funny look. It must have been the sight of The Daily Worker under the arm of someone wearing a city suit and a bowler hat. He folded up the newspaper and dropped it in a bin. He then reached into his coat pocket. It was a single typed page folded into four, a shopping list of secrets and where and how to deliver them. There was also a blackmail threat that went beyond sexually explicit photographs. You were the one who passed secrets on to Tyler. We’ve got proof of that too.

  Euan found himself shaking and breathing hard. He imagined dozens of pairs of eyes staring at him from the identical Georgian sash windows of Ponsonby Place. Lady Somers had instructed him to promote Tyler and to pass on ‘disinformation’ to mislead Moscow. But who would believe that? He felt a wave of nausea. Had he been duped? Was Lady Somers a spy?

  »»»»

  ‘Hello, John. How nice to see you again.’

  It was a beautiful early evening and Tyler had just crossed Horse Guards into St James’s Park. The voice was different and the face was completely different, but Tyler still knew it was him. He avoided eye contact and quickened his pace. ‘I don’t want to get involved again. It’s finished.’

  ‘You are wrong, John. It’s never finished – not as long as you’re still on this side of death and Wormwood Scrubs Prison. It wasn’t finished when Konon was running you. What did he call himself – Lonsdale or Johnson? You don’t have to answer that. It doesn’t matter because Konon was busted and is now in jail – as you well know.’

  ‘I’m actually meeting someone in a club in Pall Mall – and I’m late so I’m in a hurry.’

  ‘What has Euan told you?’

  ‘Our conversations are none of your business.’

  ‘Doesn’t he even tell you how pretty you are?’

  Tyler stopped. ‘I must say I’m a bit confused by all this. What do you want?’

  ‘You’re in a desperate situation, an extremely dangerous situation.’

  ‘I’m not unaware of it.’

  ‘Does Vasili have any proof that you’re passing things on to him? You don’t need to look confused. Vasili– or whatever he’s calling himself – is the agent who reactivated you after Konon was busted. Vasili is dangerous. We expect that he has been doubled by the British. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

  Tyler gave a slight nod.

  ‘A lot of us are certain that Vasili betrayed Konon. You must have no more contact with him. We fear that the British are using him to betray agents such as yourself.’

  ‘What if you’re wrong?’ Tyler paused. ‘Or what if you’re lying?’

  Th
e other man shrugged. ‘I might be wrong, but I’m not lying.’

  For the first time, Tyler looked uncertain.

  ‘Things are bad. Our agency is at war with itself. I know for certain that Vasili betrayed me – but I escaped. And now he denies it. You’ve got to make a choice.’

  ‘What sort of choice?’

  ‘I want you to trust me as your agent handler. By the way, how much has he been paying you?’

  ‘Five hundred pounds every other month.’

  The other man laughed. ‘He’s a cheat as well. He’s pocketing half the money.’

  Tyler’s eyes gave a flicker of interest.

  ‘I’ll pay you the full amount – and with any luck Vasili will be recalled to Moscow to answer some hard questions.’

  ‘Maybe you’re bluffing. Let’s see the money first.’

  ‘Sit on that bench as if we’re having a chat. When we get up, you take my briefcase – you’ll find a roll of two hundred five-pound notes in it, as well as cipher pads and a new Minox camera – and I’ll take yours.’

  They sat down. Tyler stirred uneasily. His eyes darted around trying to spot a hidden watcher.

  ‘Just like old times, John. Isn’t it?’

  ‘How do I contact you?’

  ‘You don’t contact me. I contact you. You’ll need the cipher pads to decode my messages.’

  They got up, each lifting the other’s briefcase. The deal was done.

  Brighton: October, 1961

  Esteban cut up another lime and added it to the cocktail shaker with the white rum, mint leaves, sugar and ice. He danced salsa steps behind the bar as he shook the cocktail above his head. Miranda clapped her hands and laughed.

  After a final rattle, Esteban put the shaker back on the bar. ‘Have another mojito, mi querida. It is the Cuban national drink.’

  Miranda held out her glass. Her pupils were dilated from cocaine and, although it was only the afternoon, she wanted to party. ‘I hope you’re not going to break Pen’s heart.’

  ‘No,’ said Esteban suddenly serious, ‘you’re the only person who can break her heart.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right about that – and it’s a terrible responsibility.’

  ‘Will she always support you? No matter what you do?’

  Miranda nodded. ‘Yes – and that’s another terrible responsibility.’

  ‘Do you hate being a poor little rich girl?’

  ‘I’m not little – but I hate selfish rich bastards and bullies. And what about you? Do you hate being a rich bastard?’

  ‘What do you know about me?’

  ‘I know that you’re a lying bastard. You didn’t own a casino, as well as a string of whorehouses and a bank in Havana. And you’re not a refugee from Castro’s revolution.’ Miranda swept her arm towards the faded grandeur of the Regency ceiling. ‘And you didn’t buy this hotel to make money from dirty weekends and blackmail.’ Miranda pointed at the centre of the ceiling. ‘By the way, is there a camera lens in that ceiling rose too?’

  ‘No, only those in the bedrooms.’

  Miranda smiled. ‘It’s a good thing those two chaps from Mother’s office didn’t see me.’

  ‘Your glass is empty. Have another mojito.’

  ‘Why are you trying to get me drunk? You don’t want to have sex with me – and I think we know why.’

  Esteban smiled bleakly. ‘What else do you know about me?’

  She told him.

  ‘Since you seem to know so many of my secrets, perhaps you would consider working for me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be working for you; I’d be working for what I believe in – a Maoist revolution.’

  ‘I believe in that too, but our first task is to protect China as the cradle of that revolution.’

  »»»»

  At first, Miranda felt sorry for the scientist, but she soon began to despise him and to be disgusted by what he wanted. But she did it because Esteban assured her that he was one of their most valuable assets. The scientist was a specialist in aerodynamics and had been a professor at Imperial College when he was first spotted and compromised by Cauldwell. At the time, his career as a Soviet asset had been short-lived. The information that he was blackmailed into handing over was simply not valuable enough. For more than three years he had been left alone. During that time he had left Imperial College to take up a high security post at AWE, the Atomic Weapons Establishment in Aldermaston. His job involved ‘weaponising’ nuclear bombs, making them small enough to be shot from rockets – and making sure the rocket was the best aerodynamic shape.

  Miranda met him at a party at Aldermaston Court that she easily crashed with her self-assurance and upper-class accent. The manor house had been requisitioned during the war and, afterwards, turned over to a private research company who worked closely with AWE. Miranda pretended to be drunker than she was and ‘confessed’ that she was actually a CND activist who wanted to convert a nuclear scientist to the cause. At first, the scientist thought she was telling the truth and his ego was so inflated that he didn’t realise that Miranda was far too young and beautiful for someone like him to pull. He also reckoned that going to bed with a British CND type wasn’t the same as consorting with a Soviet spy. It was an unwise act, but not a criminal offence – or even one for which he could get sacked.

  When Miranda asked him what he ‘really wanted’ and what really turned him on, he shouldn’t have told her. And when she readily complied, it didn’t take him long to realise that he had fallen into a honey trap. But his need and desire were too strong to back away. He was obsessed. The scientist was trapped in a cage of passion.

  At first, the sessions at Esteban’s Brighton hotel were a weekly event. But then Miranda began to pull away – and sometimes not turn up at all or refuse to play the game. This made the scientist even more desperate. He knew that he was compromised and he knew there were photographs. He was afraid of blackmail, but he was more afraid of losing Miranda and the pleasure she gave him. He began to take more risks and to provide whatever secrets she demanded.

  Miranda hated every minute of it. She had to use drugs and alcohol to deaden her senses so she could go along with the scientist’s predilection for being treated like a baby. She had to feed him and also change him and powder him when he had a poo. Sometimes, when he was a good baby, he would lie next to her gurgling and sucking at her breast until he fell asleep. But at other times, he would kick out and throw tantrums – and Miranda began to bear bruises and black eyes. She soon realised that she wasn’t being a very good mummy.

  Nonetheless, the intelligence from Aldermaston continued to flow. Once every few weeks, at irregular intervals and never in the same place, Esteban would pass on rolls of film to his courier.

  »»»»

  Fiona was a waif from Hackney. She ran away from home for good when she was sixteen and her father said ‘good riddance’. She had a brief fling with a publican who wanted her to have sex with other men; she stabbed him with a kitchen knife. She did six months in Holloway for the stabbing and began a friendship with a woman who had also stabbed her lover. They called themselves ‘the surgeon girls’. The friend recommended to Fiona that she get a job in a club called Murray’s in Soho. ‘Pops treats the girls okay and lets you do what you want. He don’t ask questions.’

  Pops and his son David were both ex-military and Murray’s had an air of respectability that was fading fast. There were two jobs for pretty young women. One was dancing fully clothed; the other job was standing bare-breasted and completely motionless in the background. Fiona became one of the bare-breasted girls. She and the other semi-naked girls were kitted out in exotic oriental dress and had to stand completely still. The Lord Chancellor’s censorship laws meant that strippers had to pose as immobile statues. During breaks, they covered up so they could become animated again and mingle with the customers. The girls were expected to entice the customers into ordering over-priced champagne for themselves and non-alcoholic fake champagne for the girls. The girls w
eren’t supposed to meet the customers after the show, but the management turned a blind eye if they did.

  Fiona met Stephen at Murray’s. She was impressed by his wit and charm and the fact that he didn’t seem interested in using her for sex. And through Stephen she met Esteban at a Cliveden party. Fiona’s head began to whirl. In a few weeks she had progressed from cleaning toilets at HMP Holloway to rubbing shoulders with lords and ladies. She had become someone who mattered.

  Miranda became the sister that Fiona had always longed for. They complemented each other and even began to imitate each other’s accents and manners. They copied each other so perfectly that it was soon difficult to know for sure which was the posh girl and which the Hackney waif. The way the two could exchange identities became very useful. One of the ugly enigmas of the English class system is the preference of upper-class powerful men, be they hetero or homosexual, for sexual partners from the ‘lower orders’.

  In a way, Miranda enjoyed pretending she was Fiona during her honey-trap affair with the cabinet minister. She had, in fact, met the man at a country-house party, but the minister didn’t recognise her. He probably couldn’t see past her fake cockney accent. What surprised her was his kindness. He was probably nicer to her than he was to his wife – and without being patronising. Miranda hadn’t expected this; maybe the cabinet minister was an exception. But despite his kindness, she began to realise that his coming to meet her in the Brighton hotel was a form of arrogance. He must have known that he risked being compromised and the risk itself was part of the thrill. But the important thing was proving that he could get away with anything because of who he was. The joy of being a member of the upper-class elite wasn’t just power, but total freedom. You could fuck, murder and spy as you pleased – and then lie about it. You were part of an untouchable elite. But the thing that bothered Miranda most of all was the realisation that she was one of them. And, as she rewound the tape that had recorded the minister’s pillow talk revelation of security secrets, she realised that she was behaving true to form. Her being caught wouldn’t mean prison: it would mean a cover-up.