The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  Fiona had two weaknesses: drugs and wanting to be like Miranda. Esteban was okay about coke and marijuana – and even supplied the girls from his own sources. But he didn’t like heroin, which was getting to be a big problem for Miranda, or LSD, which had become Fiona’s drug of choice. She felt her transition from Holloway to Cliveden was a weird and wonderful trip and she wanted to heighten that sense of hallucination and exhilaration even more.

  But Fiona’s wanting to be like Miranda was just as dangerous as LSD. A secret part of Fiona wanted to be posh – which was exactly what Miranda loathed about herself. In a strange way both women were striving to be their opposites, and that striving knitted them ever closer. Miranda was Fiona’s role model. Her conversion to Miranda’s radical left-wing politics was a far deeper conviction than anything the socialists of her native Hackney could have achieved. Fiona found the Hackney reds boring. Miranda, on the other hand, was bringing down capitalism from the very highest level. Fighting for the oppressed was what posh girls did. It was more chic than anything you could buy on King’s Road or Carnaby Street.

  Neither of them liked the sex part. But it was something they had to do for the revolution. And it was also an education. Before Brighton neither woman had known the difference between a ‘plushy’ and a ‘furry’ – and neither had Esteban, who seemed an encyclopaedia of depravity. It was something they could share a laugh about.

  ‘Furries’ were the less complicated of the two. They liked to dress up as furry cartoon animals. The senior civil servant was a plump jolly man who knew all about plutonium handling facilities. He liked to dress up, quite aptly, as Pluto the Disney dog to have cross-species sex with Bambi. The worst thing for Fiona was that they both got so sweaty in the furry suits.

  ‘Plushies’ were a difficult target for honey-trap agents. ‘Plushies’ preferred having sex with inanimate furry objects like teddy bears. And teddy bears and other inanimate furry objects aren’t very good at making blackmail threats. The ‘plushy’ that Miranda was trying to entrap was a top nuclear physicist at the Atomic Energy Research Establishment in Harwell, the same place where Soviet spy Klaus Fuchs had worked. Miranda met him at the Kicking Donkey pub in Harwell. She found him a pleasant boyish man with an air of innocence. Part of her hated the idea of trapping him. They became good friends. Miranda invented an imaginary brother and started dropping hints about his ‘strange’ behaviour and lack of girlfriends or boyfriends. The scientist opened up like a neglected book longing to be read. He wasn’t the only one. At last, he had found someone with whom he could share his dark secret.

  He began by leaning over his pint and whispering, ‘Have you read Brideshead Revisited?’

  Miranda frowned. She knew a lot of the real-life people on whom the characters were based. ‘Yes, but it’s not my favourite book.’

  The scientist smiled. ‘Ah, but maybe that’s because you don’t know the book’s secret; it’s sort of a roman à clef.’

  Miranda gave a conspiratorial smile. ‘But I think I’m starting to guess.’

  ‘The relationship between Sebastian Flyte and Aloysius is deeper than most readers realise.’

  ‘But Aloysius is only a teddy bear.’

  ‘How dare you say only a bear!’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The scientist lowered his voice. ‘In fact, I’ve got my own Aloysius – and, like Sebastian’s Aloysius, he has an ivory-handled hairbrush inscribed with his name that I comb him with. He can’t, of course, comb himself. Would you like to meet Aloysius?’

  ‘I would love to.’

  ‘I’ll ask him if he’ll let you comb him, but I can’t promise that he will say yes. He can be very tetchy around strangers.’

  Miranda and the scientist began to date in a very chaste way. She eventually visited his house and met, not only Aloysius, but five hundred other furry creatures. His dry cleaning bill, thought Miranda, must be enormous. As they got to know each other better, the scientist began to explain some intimate things – such as that selected furry creatures were equipped with SPAs (Strategically Placed Appendages) or SPHs (Strategically Placed Holes).

  As a birthday treat, Miranda threw a surprise party for the scientist at Esteban’s Brighton hotel. The best part of the surprise was that the scientist’s hotel room was filled with fifty new plush creatures – many of whom were equipped with SPHs. The largest was a five-foot-high teddy with dewy seductive eyes. As the scientist consummated his new relationships, the camera in the ceiling rose whirred away.

  On his next visit to the hotel, Miranda tried to convert the scientist from ‘plushy’ to ‘furry’. She realised that Bambi wouldn’t work, so she dressed up in a teddy bear suit and spoke in a gruff petulant voice. The scientist spent a long time combing her with Aloysius’s hairbrush. She finally managed to get him to do it. It was the scientist’s first time with a human being. He was tearful and distraught afterwards and full of guilt.

  ‘Aloysius,’ he said, ‘will never forgive me – and I used his hairbrush.’

  When confronted with the photographs as a blackmail threat to obtain nuclear secrets, the ones that upset the scientist most were the ones of him doing it with Miranda. The scientist seemed more terrified that the photos would be shown to Aloysius and his other plush friends than to his superiors at Harwell. He agreed to cooperate.

  Zhongnanhai compound, Peking: April, 1962

  The Great Helmsman is no longer at the helm. He no longer takes part in day-to-day decision making, but devotes his days and nights to pleasure and to developing his theory of ‘continuous revolution’. But despite his apparent withdrawal, he is still very much in power. The People’s Liberation Army will always follow his bidding and remove any opponent.

  Feifei still visits him almost every day and continues to show great deference and to hide his growing personal dislike of the Chairman. As the women providing his pleasure grow in numbers, they decrease in age. The Chairman believes he reinvigorates himself by absorbing the life energy of the young. And despite his doctor’s pleading, he refuses to take antibiotics for a sexually transmitted disease that he passes on to his young partners. ‘If it doesn’t hurt me, why should I bother?’ And he still refuses to brush his green teeth. ‘Has anyone ever seen a tiger brush his teeth?’

  The two men sit in silence for a long time before the Chairman looks up from the notebook in which he has been writing. ‘The Great Leap Forward, Feifei, is part of a process which is unending.’

  ‘I completely agree, Comrade Chairman.’

  ‘With what do you agree?’

  ‘That our revolution has liberated a quarter of the world’s population from feudalism, ignorance and poverty and that it must continue.’

  ‘And what is your role, Feifei?’

  ‘My role is implementing your ideas on a daily basis.’

  Feifei cannot say what he really thinks. He cannot explain that he is one of a group of pragmatists who are repairing the Chairman’s colossal errors of judgement.

  ‘Tell me, Feifei, when are we going to test our first A-bomb?’

  ‘We are making rapid progress. We hope to have the first test in 1964. Our great technological advances are the direct results, Comrade Chairman, of the wisdom of your Great Leap Forward.’

  Feifei was lying. The truth of the matter was the greatest secret of the many secrets that he had to keep from the Chairman.

  Broadway Buildings, London: December, 1962

  The intelligence community in London were still celebrating the fact that the Cuban Missile Crisis hadn’t destroyed their homes and families. The spooks, more than anyone, realised how close Britain had come to annihilation. Bone and Catesby were elbow to elbow in the tiny rickety lift that went to the Director’s fourth-floor office.

  ‘If,’ Catesby said, ‘the public knew what was really going on, there would be a revolution.’

  ‘And that’s all the more reason why we have to keep it from them. By the way, William, you are in for a gong in appreciation o
f the work you did in Havana and Washington. It will be announced in the New Year’s honours.’

  ‘I don’t want a gong. It’s all a load of feudal nonsense.’

  ‘If you don’t accept it, you are going to be hung, drawn and quartered. More feudal nonsense.’

  The lift door wheezed open and they stepped on to the thick burgundy carpet that led to Dick White’s office. There was a famous Turner hanging in the corridor that depicted a red and yellow sunset over London with swirling apocalyptic clouds. Catesby wondered how anyone who knew how close London had come to a nuclear holocaust in the past few weeks could bear to look at the painting.

  The green light next to the door flashed on, which meant they could walk in without knocking. Dick White was there to greet them. Catesby was surprised how much the Director had aged since he had last seen him.

  ‘Thank you both for coming,’ said White. ‘I know it’s very late.’ It was nearly midnight. ‘Events are moving rapidly and not the way we want them to move.’ The Director smiled wearily. ‘But don’t worry. It’s not a crisis about missiles being launched – at least, not yet. Please sit down.’ White gestured to the chintz-covered armchairs in front of a fireplace where a real coal fire defied Westminster’s smokeless zone regulations. ‘Tea? Or something more relaxing? I’m having a whisky.’

  ‘Nothing for me,’ said Bone.

  ‘I’ll join you, sir, with a whisky.’ Catesby’s ‘sir’ was sincere. Dick White was one of the few Whitehall mandarins whom Catesby genuinely respected.

  ‘The problem,’ said White pouring the drinks, ‘concerns either HERO, our crown jewel in Moscow Central, or something more serious.’

  ‘I think,’ Catesby said, ‘this doesn’t come as a surprise to any of us. It’s HERO. The autumn gales must have blown the last pan tiles off his shed roof.’

  ‘Perhaps that is the case,’ said White nodding and putting on his reading glasses as he opened a manila file with red stripes indicating UK EYES ALPHA. ‘Until recently we had a steady backflow of intelligence from HERO indicating the usual level of intelligence gathering by known or unknown Soviet agents in the UK. This seems to have dried up.’

  ‘Moscow,’ said Bone, ‘is an impossible place to operate. I was never impressed by the use of Vanessa’s baby’s pram as a DLB.’

  Catesby nodded. He knew that Bone was referring to the way HERO used to pass on intelligence during walks through Gorky Park. For his part, he disapproved of the way his SIS colleague had used his infant daughter as an unwitting agent. But at least the baby had diplomatic immunity.

  ‘I agree,’ said White, ‘but since Giles has taken over as head of station, exchange methods have become much more varied and sophisticated.’

  ‘Such as?’ said Catesby.

  ‘Bathroom bleach bottles with false bottoms, toilet cisterns, dead drop spikes.’

  ‘Good,’ said Catesby. He was a big fan of the dead drop spike. You pushed it into the ground as you pretended to tie your shoelace and did likewise when you recovered one. The agent had to remember to wear shoes with laces.

  ‘In fact,’ said White, ‘until very recently, the number of dead drop exchanges had been increasing – even though the amount of intelligence contained decreased. HERO was very aware of this and expressed his concern.’

  ‘Did he,’ said Catesby, ‘fear that he might be under suspicion – and, therefore, temporarily or permanently out of the loop?’

  ‘At first that was what he feared, but then he became aware that his colleagues at Moscow Central were also alarmed at the lack of intelligence coming from their agents in Britain. HERO reckons that three-quarters of the intelligence flow from the UK has dried up – and very suddenly.’ White took a document out of the manila folder and stared at it. ‘Some of this drying up is probably the after-effects of our busting Molody and the Portland ring, but that wouldn’t explain why Moscow’s man in the Admiralty has also gone quiet.’ White was referring to Tyler, who had been left in place as an unwitting agent to pass on disinformation.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Catesby, ‘Moscow Central twigged that Tyler was a plant because he was passing on duff stuff.’

  ‘That is possible,’ said White, ‘but it doesn’t explain why so many other agents – the ones we hadn’t identified and were hoping to trap through HERO – have also ceased communication.’

  ‘Maybe they’re running scared because of what happened to Molody.’

  White shrugged. ‘That may well be the case. But we don’t know and need to find out. In any case, HERO is certainly running scared. He’s virtually disappeared off the radar.’ White paused and looked at Catesby. ‘We can’t afford to lose an agent as valuable as this one.’

  ‘HERO,’ said Bone, ‘is now refusing to communicate through the usual methods.’

  Catesby looked up, displeased. ‘So, Henry, you knew about this all along?’

  ‘I didn’t know everything until this evening.’

  White intervened. ‘I asked Henry not to mention anything until now. So, William, if anyone has kept you in the dark, it has been me.’

  Catesby felt a chill run down his spine. ‘I know what’s coming next.’

  ‘I sincerely wish,’ said White, ‘that there was another way. But please allow me to continue briefing you. HERO sent a very worried and desperate note to Giles…’

  Catesby frowned. Giles, as the new SIS man in Moscow, shouldn’t have to handle this. He didn’t know the vagaries of HERO.

  ‘The note came,’ explained Bone, ‘via a tin of Harpic bleach with a false bottom.’

  ‘It was,’ continued White, ‘left in the bathroom of a hotel room, not one of Gile’s usual dead drop locations, and passed on to the embassy by a very frightened businessman whom we sometimes use as a NOC.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ said Catesby. NOC was an acronym for a Non-Official Cover spy. If you were spying as a NOC, it meant you had no diplomatic immunity. If you got caught you went to a Soviet prison. Catesby knew that NOCs were the bravest spies in the business – and he dreaded being one.

  ‘By the way,’ said Bone, ‘the businessman suspected that his hotel room had been searched. It took a long time for reception to find his room key.’

  White picked up the document from the UK EYES ALPHA folder. ‘This is HERO’s note…’

  Bone flashed his undertaker’s smile. ‘It sounds like a last will and testament.’

  ‘I hope it isn’t one,’ said White, ‘but the tone is dramatic. Here it is: “Dearest Giles, I am very lonely and am desperate to see you, but it is too dangerous. I am sure that I am under constant surveillance. It is impossible to continue to use our usual means of communication. The air in Moscow Central is so thick with suspicion that one cannot see. I fear my own days are numbered, but I remain a loyal soldier of Her Majesty the Queen. I want to perform one last service before I die. But I don’t want to die. I want you to rescue me. I can serve you better as a live soldier in London than as a dead hero in Moscow. The best plan is for me and my family to go on holiday to a Black Sea resort and then in the dark of night you send a Royal Navy submarine to pick us up. Or Berlin? Or a rendezvous with a fast torpedo boat in the Baltic near Riga?”’ White paused and looked over his reading glasses. ‘Actually, getting him out is a good idea. And we have a plan in place.’

  Bone looked at Catesby. ‘Drugged in the boot of a car and over the Finnish border. Will fill you in later.’

  ‘We also,’ said White, ‘have contingency plans in place for HERO to contact us or for us to contact him in an emergency situation, such as the imminent outbreak of war or a Kremlin coup. It looks as though we’re going to have to put one of those in place.’

  Catesby nodded. ‘And that’s where I come in?’

  ‘I am afraid, William, that is the case. It came down to a choice between you and Shergy and you drew the lucky straw. In any case, allow me to finish HERO’s letter: “I fear that something awful has happened in London. But no one knows what it is. The K
GB rezident at the Soviet Embassy in London was recently recalled to Moscow for consultations. There was, apparently, an angry scene with insults and accusations flying back and forth. There is a rumour that our intelligence operations are in peril because of a traitor at the highest level. A traitor near the top may well be true. But you won’t find that traitor in the Kremlin. You will find that traitor in London. One of your very own has betrayed Britain. I still do not know who that person is, but my greatest service to you (and perhaps my last) will be to reveal that traitor’s name. Long live the Queen!”’

  Bone looked at Catesby. ‘You seem unusually thoughtful. What do you think?’

  ‘I am, Henry, more thoughtful than you realise. I am beginning to suspect, for the first time, that HERO may be a KGB plant.’

  ‘Why?’ said White.

  ‘Because that stuff about a British traitor at the highest level sounds like an attempt to throw a hand grenade into the middle of Whitehall – to get us at each other’s throats.’

  ‘We’ve considered that possibility,’ said White, ‘and that’s why we have to send you to Moscow. Other than Shergy, you know HERO better than any of us. We want you to meet him face to face…’

  ‘And,’ said Bone, ‘squeeze the truth out of him.’

  ‘How,’ said Catesby, ‘can we be sure that HERO’s letter isn’t a KGB forgery?’

  ‘We are,’ said White, ‘taking a calculated risk in assuming that the letter is genuine.’ The Director looked at Catesby with almost parental care. ‘But maybe it isn’t.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Bone with a wry smile, ‘if things go tits up I’m sure Downing Street will authorise swapping Molody to get you back. If not, it will be a great opportunity to improve your Russian.’

  ‘Thanks, Henry.’