The next thing he did was pull up a floorboard and take everything out of a hidden metal box. It was the last of the hoard and would soon be on its way.
»»»»
Hop didn’t even blink when he saw how much Esteban had changed. The Cuban now looked almost Scandinavian. There was no moustache and his hair was floppy and blond. Hop, on the other hand, always looked the same. His wire-framed spectacles sank into his fat face like an old piece of barbed wire moulded into an oak tree. His too-small white brimmed hat balanced precariously on his head. His white linen suit draped over his bulk like a loose tent held up by red braces. Hop looked as if he had never left Southeast Asia.
Hop was a Hong Kong businessman based in London who specialised in Chinese traditional medicine. He was a crook and a fraud, who knew that rhinoceros horn was identical to toenail clippings from domestic animals. He collected the nail clippings from a friendly vet and ground them up in a coffee grinder. His tiger penis love potion was indeed made from genuine penises, but not tiger penises. He collected the penises from the same vet whenever the vet had the sad task of putting down a pony or large dog.
Esteban smiled grimly as he handed over the pouch containing microfilms, unprocessed Minox films and miniaturised documents to Hop. He could also have provided Hop something for his tiger penis love potion.
Esteban trusted Hop – and so did the authorities in Britain and Hong Kong. They regarded Hop’s medicine business as a ruse that harmed no one and duped the party apparatchiks of Peking out of rare and valuable foreign currency. Hop’s exports of bogus cures to the People’s Republic of China were always waved through customs at the crossing point in the New Territories without search or query.
Broadway Buildings, London: 18 January 1963
Catesby had just finished briefing Bone on what happened in Moscow. It was the first stage of the reporting procedure. The two of them, mostly Bone, would then produce a slightly sanitised version for Dick White. And then, a rather more sanitised and edited version would go to the JIC and Cabinet Office. The version that would finally wend its way to select Privy Council members in the House of Commons was sanitised enough to be used as a surgical dressing.
Bone peered over his steepled fingers and smiled. ‘Semichastny is a consummate professional. Refusing to let you have the torn photo corner, or even a copy of it, was a masterstroke. He knows that a lot of people won’t believe you when you tell them it was Lady Somers posing naughty. Semichastny is trying to create divisions between us.’
‘You think he’s lying.’
‘No. I think he’s telling the truth, but an unverifiable truth that will cause trouble.’
‘And what about his claim that most of Moscow Central’s agents in Britain have turned Maoist?’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised. The Sovs have very little reason to spy on us. In terms of military technology, we’re far behind them. The only things we’ve got that Moscow could be interested in are the secrets we get from the Americans. Britain is a washed-up busted flush.’
‘How unusual of you, Henry, to mix your metaphors – and also to express unpatriotic sentiments.’ Catesby wondered if Bone had been drinking.
‘I am not being at all unpatriotic. I want to see Britain devote itself to sex and depravity, which is where our true strengths lie.’
‘You seem in an odd mood, Henry. Has something brought it on?’
Bone closed one eye and gave Catesby a very cryptic look with the other. ‘Actually, there are a number of things.’
‘Can you share them?’
‘The first one is obvious. The Profumo business is about to blow sky high. There’s speculation that the Minister for War has been sharing a girl with Ivanov, the Soviet naval attaché – and, of course, there’s silly press speculation of a security breach. Total nonsense.’
‘What is nonsense?’
‘That Jack Profumo would be so stupid as to use post-coital pillow talk about state secrets to impress a mistress. And I’m now doubtful about the Ivanov connection too. But here’s another bombshell.’
‘What is?’
‘Hugh Gaitskell died today.’
‘Really? What happened?’
‘I don’t suppose, Catesby, that you were a big fan of Gaitskell.’
‘I wasn’t. To be frank, I thought he was selling out Labour and its values – and Gaitskell’s foreign policy was too pro-American. Worse than the Tories. But I’m shocked that he’s dead – a great pity. I wish the Party had voted him out instead.’
‘I am relieved, Catesby, to see that you are shocked and surprised.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it shows that you weren’t part of the plot.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Mad speculation of the most dangerous sort.’
‘About Gaitskell’s death?’
‘Absolutely. Five are splitting from top to bottom with conspiracy theories.’
‘You’re losing me, Henry.’
‘Apparently, Gaitskell’s GP contacted MI5 about the illness. He claims that Hugh Gaitskell had a rare form of lupus that is seldom diagnosed outside equatorial Africa.’
‘Had Gaitskell been to Africa?’
‘No, but he had been to the Soviet Embassy here in London to get a visa for a forthcoming visit to the USSR – which, obviously, he will not now be taking.’
‘Are there really people in Five who think the Sovs poisoned him? That’s ridiculous.’
‘The usual swivel-eyed lunatics who also think that we here are the London branch of Moscow Central.’
‘I thought we were.’
‘Don’t, Catesby, ever, ever make that joke again. In any case, my speculation is that the lunatic fringe in Five are going to claim that whoever replaces Gaitskell as leader of the Labour Party is an undercover Soviet agent who was an accessory to murder.’
‘How does this tie in with the Profumo thing?’
‘It means our country is about to go through a very dangerous period. When the Profumo business explodes, the government is going to fall. If Labour wins the election and lurches to the Left, the knuckle-dragging press barons and elements of the military are going to be apoplectic. Cue for the loonies in Five to hiss their poison about a Sov plot involving Gaitskell’s murder, which might very well provoke the generals to take action.’
‘Are you serious, Henry?’ Catesby smiled. ‘You’re pulling my leg. You don’t really think there is danger of a military coup?’
Bone replied with his own cold supercilious smile. He picked up a manila folder and handed it over.
‘Thank you.’ As Catesby leafed through the folder he felt his blood run cold. ‘It can’t happen here. Not in Britain.’
‘Keep reading, William.’
Catesby went back to the file. It contained contingency plans for military exercises around government buildings in Whitehall and at Heathrow airport to practise ‘security arrangements’ for a ‘national emergency’. Finally, Catesby gave a nod and closed the file. ‘You’re right, Henry. It is serious.’
‘Can we now go back,’ said Bone, ‘to your interesting meeting with Semichastny and his showing you that picture of Lady Somers? What do you think we should do about it?’
‘I think Lady Somers has some questions to answer.’
‘And whose job is it to ask those questions? Remember, William, SIS are not allowed to conduct operations or interrogations within the UK. Sure, it is a rule that we sometimes ignore. But we can’t in her case. Any doubts about her are an internal security matter and the only people who can legally question Lady Somers are MI5. Is that what you want?’
‘I see your point, but…’
‘No buts, William. The only way to deal with Lady Somers is to do absolutely nothing. Our present situation is too volatile and dangerous. Providing evidence to MI5 that the Whitehall mandarin in charge of defence may be a spy – even if she is not guilty – could pull the final brick out of the foundation wall. I don’t want this beau
tiful house, this Britain, to come tumbling down for the sake of punishing one person.’
Catesby wasn’t impressed by Bone’s rhetoric. He suspected there were hidden agendas. ‘But what,’ Catesby lowered his voice, ‘if she is a risk to national security?’ He paused. ‘You know, Henry, it sounds like you might be trying to protect Lady Somers – but I won’t speculate why.’
‘You don’t know the latest, William. If you did you would eat your words. I don’t think that Lady Somers was ever a risk to national security, but if she was … she is no longer.’
‘Is she dead?’
‘No, but two others are. And, if the Maoist spy ring that Semichastny alleged really did exist, it certainly won’t be sending any further British secrets to Peking. They are busted.’
‘What happened?’
‘It began with what the Home Office coroner called a “radical reduction phalloplasty” – medical types have a very dark sense of humour. An Aldermaston scientist, who is suspected of having passed on nuclear secrets, got his cock cut off by a drugcrazed tart.’
The Gaitskell news had shocked Catesby, but Bone’s latest revelations were veering into the surreal. For a second Catesby thought Bone had gone mad and was about to start dancing the Lobster-Quadrille as the Broadmoor nurses broke the door down.
‘I am not, William, making any of this up.’
Catesby nodded. ‘Was what the girl did some form of retribution?’
‘Not for passing on secrets. I believe the young woman was disgusted by the services she had to provide. Sadly, she can’t be interviewed because she took her own life. But, in any case, MI5 and Special Branch have been instructed to hush the whole thing up because it involves the great and the good – and, perhaps, some of their own.’
‘You’ve confused me, Henry. If what you say is true, why wouldn’t the Security Services keep hush about Lady Somers?’
‘They would keep quiet about her, but only until a Labour government comes into power. She would be their surprise trump card, the excuse they are looking for. But at the moment the tipping point hasn’t been reached. They want to keep the thing completely hush-hush. They are terrified of press coverage.’
‘Echoes of Profumo?’
‘Precisely. It all happened in a Brighton hotel run by a dubious Cuban. The hotel provided sexual services of all sorts, no matter how bizarre. It turned out it was frequented by the very finest of the British establishment at play. You couldn’t swing a whip without lashing a KCMG and a brace of hereditary barons. So the whole thing is being utterly and completely squashed. The government can’t bear another sex and spy scandal.’
Catesby frowned. ‘In some ways, I would like the whole thing to be out in the open. These people get away with murder because we cover them in a cloak of secrecy.’
Bone gave a slight smile. ‘I don’t think you’ve considered all the consequences and implications.’
‘Fine. But tell me, how can you be sure that the Peking spy ring is busted?’
‘I can’t be sure. I’m only guessing. Esteban, the Cuban who I suspect was more spy than pimp, has done a runner.’ Bone paused. ‘But here’s the interesting bit – and why I’m certain the spy ring is finished.’
‘You seem to know a lot about this.’
Bone smiled sagely. ‘I have my contacts. The cleaners from Five completely turned over the hotel. They didn’t find any nuclear secrets or cipher pads left lying around, but the film was still in the cameras.’
‘Which cameras?’
‘The ones in the bedroom ceilings. There will soon be a photo file of the hotel’s most recent clients and their favourite quirks. And it will be utterly priceless, a crown jewel of blackmail. It won’t be long before the confessions come pouring out – usually, I would think, in exchange for immunities from prosecution. The important thing is to keep this thing quiet.’
‘Why did Esteban leave the films behind?’
‘Good question. Maybe he just didn’t have time to empty the cameras. Or maybe he wants us to know who his spies are.’
Catesby shook his head. ‘That doesn’t make sense.’
‘It does if you want to wind up the network and make sure that no one else can use them. Perhaps China now has all the nuclear secrets it needs. Let’s see how long it is before Peking tests their first bomb.’
»»»»
Bone had predicted correctly. The confessions poured forth from all creatures great and small – even from a teddy bear using a human ventriloquist to explain what had happened. There was no point in prosecutions; the damage had already been done. The phrase used over and over again in the top-secret reports was: ‘It is not in the national interest to prosecute at this time.’
Buckingham Palace: April, 1963
The Queen was standing on a dais, which made her exactly the same height as Catesby. He gave a nod, what protocol calls a ‘neck bow’, and avoided eye contact while so doing. He had been coached by Henry Bone on what to do. When Catesby finally glanced at the Queen there was a mischievous smile on her face – as if one of the corgis had just nipped someone she didn’t much like. The Queen kept smiling as she pinned the Order of the British Empire Medal on the left lapel of Catesby’s morning suit.
‘Is it not odd,’ said the Queen, ‘that a Queen named Elizabeth should be giving this honour to a spy named Catesby?’
Catesby didn’t know whether it was proper etiquette to agree or disagree. He simply said, ‘I am most grateful, Your Majesty.’
‘We ought,’ said the Queen, ‘to have scheduled this for the 5th of November.’
Catesby laughed nervously.
‘Do you detect a whiff of gunpowder in the air, Mr Catesby?’
‘No, ma’am.’
‘Then it must be my imagination.’ The Queen looked directly at Catesby and her smile was now warm rather than mischievous. ‘Thank you, Mr Catesby, for your loyalty and service.’
Catesby felt his eyes brim with tears. It was complicated.
»»»»
The first thing Catesby did after getting his gong was to find his mother and sister. Honours ceremonies were family events – and the Palace officials hadn’t demurred at all when Catesby named his GCHQ-dismissed sister as an attendee. As soon as it was all official, Catesby’s sister took their mother to Bonds in Norwich to buy a dress and hat especially for the event. It was Catesby’s money and his mother had complained that it was too much. She said she would rather have spent the money on coal to keep the house warm for the next winter. But when Catesby wrote her a cheque for the winter’s fuel bill, she refused to accept it. In any case, she finally gave in and looked aristocratic in rose-tinged beige with a silver trim.
When Catesby’s sister had finished taking photos, he unpinned his medal from his lapel and put it in a velvet-lined box that a courtier had provided. Catesby handed it to his mother without closing it. Her hands caressed the box while she gazed at the medal. The OBE is a silver medal that hangs from a rose-pink ribbon trimmed with pearl grey. The medal bears the likenesses of George V and his wife Queen Mary. Catesby’s mother read aloud the medal’s motto: ‘For God and the Empire.’ Catesby didn’t believe in either, but his mother did – even though she was Belgian-born.
A tear rolled down the old woman’s cheek. It was the first time Catesby had ever seen her display any emotion. She closed the medal box and held it close to her chest. Catesby realised his mother would die before she would let anyone take his OBE away from her. Catesby was ashamed that, at first, he had wanted to refuse the award. But now he realised taking that joy away from his mother would have been ten times worse than betraying his so-called principles.
‘Are you crying, Will?’ Catesby’s sister was at his elbow.
‘No.’
‘Have a tissue.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Well,’ said his sister, ‘shall we go to a pub?’
Before Catesby could answer, he heard distinctive footsteps behind him that he recognised. The man walked wi
th a slight shuffle as the result of a bad crash-landing after his Hurricane was shot to pieces. It was Wingco. At the embassy in Havana he had been known only by his rank. The RAF officer had been UK military attaché in Cuba during the missile crisis. Wingco was also in a morning suit and had received a CBE.
Catesby turned and shook hands. ‘How are you doing, Wingco?’
‘We’re in mufti now, please call me Peter.’
‘Great to see you, Peter. And congratulations.’
‘Thanks. And warmest congratulations to you as well.’
‘I don’t know why I got it. I was only a messenger boy.’
Wingco winked. ‘That’s not the story I’ve heard.’
Catesby smiled and put a finger to his lips. His role in the Cuban Missile Crisis had been that of a back-channel diplomat shuttling between London, Havana and Washington. It had been tense and nerve-racking.
‘What are you doing now?’ asked Wingco.
‘We’re going to a pub – or maybe a Lyon’s corner house.’
‘Why don’t you bring your lovely ladies to my club?’ Wingco winked again. ‘It would be nice to have a chat.’
»»»»
Wingco’s club wasn’t the grandest in London, but grand enough to impress Catesby’s mother. It was the most elegant place she had ever been, had ever dreamed about. Wingco’s family were all women: an elderly mother, a wife and their three daughters. The club had laid on a reception in honour of Wingco’s CBE. It was in a long reception room with crystal chandeliers and spectacular views over Green Park. Catesby realised the club provided a perfect view of the park bench where he often met agents or had confidential chats with Henry Bone. He hoped that none of Wingco’s fellow members were lip readers with a powerful set of binoculars.
Wingco touched Catesby’s elbow. ‘Let me give you a grand tour – and bring your drink with you.’ He winked. ‘We’ll leave the ladies here; they seem to be enjoying themselves.’
Catesby followed the RAF officer up a set of stairs that made his limp more pronounced – and then down a corridor. There was no one else about.
The Whitehall Mandarin Page 22
