The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  ‘No, William, it will not. You’ll be undercover as a journalist – and will be going to Vietnam entirely for British interests.’ White paused. ‘It’s a matter of unfinished business that needs clearing up. I don’t want to leave this matter for my successor.’

  Catesby glanced at a photograph that had spilled out of the open file on White’s desk. ‘Who is that attractive young woman?’

  ‘The Right Honourable Miranda Somers – Lady Somers’ daughter and only child.’

  ‘I’ve heard that she’s a bit of a wild thing.’

  ‘You heard correctly. I suppose you know that she was part of the Brighton honey-trap ring that was blackmailing Aldermaston scientists for nuclear secrets?’

  ‘I did know, but I thought it wise to keep my mouth shut about it.’

  ‘You were very wise to do so. In fact, Miranda Somers and her mother were the only suspects who were not interviewed.’

  ‘Too establishment and too sensitive?’

  ‘It’s more complicated than that.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘In any case, William, Miranda decided it best to disappear after the Brighton ring was busted. She enrolled as a student at the Sorbonne where she did postgraduate work in drugs, sex and radical politics.’

  ‘Was she part of last May’s demonstrations?’

  ‘Not very much. I don’t think she found the Paris protests sufficiently left-wing or radical.’ White paused and picked up the photo. ‘So Miranda decided to go to Vietnam instead. She wants to help the Viet Cong and the North Vietnamese fight the Americans.’

  Catesby shrugged. He didn’t disagree with her idealism, but it wasn’t something you could shout about in SIS’s headquarters at Century House. The change to a modern glass tower didn’t include a change in attitude.

  ‘You look puzzled, William.’

  ‘I’m not sure what you want me to do.’

  ‘I want you to find Miranda and interview her about her mother’s involvement – or lack of involvement – in the passing of nuclear secrets to Peking.’

  ‘Why would she tell me?’

  ‘Because you are a persuasive interrogator – and you are also authorised to grant her complete immunity from any future prosecution when she comes back to the UK.’

  ‘Why don’t we cut out the middleperson and go straight to Lady Somers?’

  ‘Indeed. There are a lot of questions we want to ask Lady Somers,’ White flashed a sly smile, ‘but we want to know the answers to those questions before we ask them.’

  ‘Of course.’

  White picked another photo out of the file. ‘We also need to flesh out your journalistic cover story. This man is First Lieutenant Francis Lopez. He is a Special Forces officer who is suspected of having betrayed his camp to the Viet Cong – and then to have deserted to fight on their side.’

  ‘With Miranda?’

  ‘We hope so. Trying to find Lopez would be perfect cover to track her down.’

  ‘So I’m going to be a Fleet Street hack trying to score one of the biggest scoops of the Vietnam War?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘Can I file the story? It would help my retirement fund.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be wise. There are bigger issues – such as the future of British democracy.’

  ‘Are the rumours true?’

  ‘Yes, there is a plot to stage a military coup to overthrow the Wilson government. But to make sure it will never succeed, we must resolve all the questions concerning Lady Somers. Evidence that the first female head of the Ministry of Defence was part of a plot to pass nuclear secrets to China would provide the plotters with lethal ammunition.’

  Saigon: October, 1968

  The CIA man in Saigon wouldn’t have recognised Catesby even if he hadn’t been in disguise. Their paths had never crossed because the American was a ‘Third World’ specialist who had never been to Britain or Europe. At first, Catesby had reservations about the way the costume section at Broadway Buildings had changed his appearance. He was supposed to be undercover as a journalist, but felt he looked more Carnaby Street than Fleet Street. Catesby didn’t much care for the Ringo Starr moustache and shaved it off. But he rather liked his hair dyed surfer blond and grown to collar length. The disguise was irrelevant for the CIA guy, who was so whacked out on drugs and Jim Beam that he didn’t give a flying fuck whether Catesby was a journalist, SIS, KGB or a front man for The Rolling Stones.

  Catesby offered the CIA man his passport, press credentials and the ID issued by the US Department of Defense – all were in the name of Easton, James. The ID was identical to the one carried by US soldiers except Catesby’s status was ‘non-combatant’ and his rank and branch were ‘British Correspondent’.

  The CIA man opened the stiff blue passport, looked at the back of the front cover and smiled. ‘You guys are something else: listen to this, “Her Britannic Majesty’s Secretary of State requests and requires in the name of Her Majesty all those whom it may concern to allow the bearer to pass freely without let or hindrance…”’ He handed the passport back. ‘What’s Her Britannic Majesty gonna do if I don’t let you pass freely?’

  ‘She’ll probably have your balls cut off and roasted on a spit in front of you. A Royal Navy gunboat with a contingent of marines is now hove-to off the Mekong entrance waiting to hear if you’re going to cooperate.’

  ‘Really?’

  Catesby nodded.

  ‘Sheeee…it. Well, I’d better help you then. What do you need?’

  ‘I want help in finding someone. One of your lads who did something naughty.’

  The CIA man fixed Catesby with a wary look. ‘Who are you talking about? Which branch of service?’ An alarm bell had rung and the mood of light banter was gone.

  ‘The tabloid rags I work for are mostly interested in tits and football – soccer in your speak. But they also like war stuff and spy stuff if it’s sensational enough. In any case, they want me to investigate a rumour about a Green Beret officer who is supposed to have defected to the Viet Cong.’ Catesby laughed. ‘It’s probably all bullshit – but I’ve got to come up with some copy that justifies the expense of sending me here.’

  The CIA agent flashed a smile that was as bleak as it was insincere. ‘You’re right. It is bullshit. Sounds like a dragon story to me. This war is full of myths – that’s why we call this place Disneyland East.’

  Catesby noted the American’s relaxed expression. He seemed relieved to be off the hook. But Catesby spoiled it by pulling a brown envelope from the pocket of his safari jacket – the Brits in Vietnam dressed like they were plantation owners in Kenya. ‘There is, however, evidence that the Green Beret defector story is true.’ Catesby spilled a photo from the envelope and handed it to the American. ‘At first, I thought your rogue SF officer was another Vietnamese, but then someone pointed out his features are Hispanic. I can see the difference now, but he does blend in.’ The CIA man’s face had turned, to paraphrase the song, ‘a paler shade of fish-belly white’.

  There were three other photographs and a copy of a news clipping. The American studied each photo closely. In one of the snaps, the Green Beret deserter and another Westerner were surrounded by smiling Vietnamese wearing black pyjamas and brandishing Kalashnikov AK-47 assault rifles.

  The CIA man pointed to a tall plump middle-aged man. ‘Who’s the fat round-eye?’

  ‘His name’s Wilfrid Burchett. He’s an Australian journalist of very left-wing persuasion.’

  ‘Is Burchett a friend of yours?’

  ‘I’ve never met him.’ Catesby was telling the truth.

  The American tapped a finger on Burchett’s image. ‘We know about this fucker. And we’d like to waste the son-of-a-bitch. He keeps trying to pretend to be an American and to call in air-strikes on our own troops. But our guys are wise to him because he doesn’t sound like an American – they think he’s some kind of Englishman.’ The CIA man looked closely at Catesby. ‘And how the fuck do you know Bur
chett?’

  ‘I said I didn’t know him.’

  ‘You said you’d never met him.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll explicate. I’ve never spoken to him, written to him or communicated in any way. My editor gave me those photos and all the details about Burchett and your rogue Green Beret. My editor is a cowardly fuck who wants the story, but doesn’t want to get his arse shot off getting it. So he uses an alcoholic hack like me to take the risks. And, by the way, it’s well past gin o’clock.’ Catesby reached into a deep pocket of his safari jacket and pulled out a hip flask. ‘Would you like a snifter? It’s not gin; it’s whisky – the sort you call scotch.’

  The CIA man’s face softened. ‘Let me find a couple of glasses.’ The American went to a cabinet that obviously had its own drink supply and returned with two heavy-bottomed glasses that were none too clean. He held up one of them to the fading sunlight.

  ‘The hooch girl does a lousy job. I inherited her from George.’ The American shrugged and put the glasses on the table. ‘But I think your scotch will disinfect the dysentery bugs.’

  Catesby unscrewed the top of the silver hip flask that bore the coat of arms of an ancient and noble English family. The costume section had decided it was a useful prop to impress Americans. While being coached for his undercover role in Vietnam, Catesby had been tasked to invent a back story to explain how he came into possession of the heirloom hip flask. His first invention was a tale about having nicked it at a country house party that he had crashed. The thief option was rejected and replaced by a story that the flask was a present from a toff who had an unrequited crush on Catesby. The idea was to tick as many US-held British stereotypes as possible. The CIA man looked at the hip flask with envy.

  ‘Have you ever met Queen Elizabeth?’

  Catesby shook his head and lied: ‘No. But I’ve seen her on television – my mum always watches the Queen’s Christmas broadcast.’

  ‘You guys have Christmas?’

  ‘Oh yeah – and then we go foxhunting on Boxing Day.’

  ‘What’s Boxing Day – you have fights?’

  Catesby explained and feared that he was laying it on too thick. But after all, this was Disneyland East and cartoon images were the ones they understood. The graceful brown people they were burning and blowing apart were not human beings, but brainwashed robots controlled by an evil international conspiracy.

  The American pushed the smudged glasses forward. ‘Aren’t you gonna pour some of your scotch?’

  Catesby noticed the company logo for the first time. There was a horizontal red diamond on each glass with DOW inscribed in block white capitals. Catesby realised he was not just in Disneyland, but at a forward control centre of the Military Industrial Complex. Perhaps the glasses were dirty because the Vietnamese housekeeper hadn’t wanted to touch them. Dow Chemicals was the company that produced napalm and Agent Orange. Catesby hesitated before pouring. It seemed wrong to pour good honest malt into those glasses, but he finally flashed a Judas smile and decanted two fingers of whisky into each.

  The American sipped. ‘Tastes funny. Are you trying to poison me?’

  ‘No, I’m not. I’m told poisoned whisky tastes faintly of almonds. This stuff comes from Laphroaig on the Isle of Islay and their water is flavoured by the peat bogs. Maybe it’s an acquired taste.’

  ‘Expensive?’

  ‘Over twenty dollars a bottle.’

  ‘Then maybe I’ll get used to it.’

  Catesby gestured at the photos on the table. ‘Getting back to Lopez…’

  ‘How did you know his name was Lopez?’

  ‘You haven’t looked at the news clipping. We weren’t sure until we matched up Burchett’s photos with one that appeared in the Baltimore Sun, your Green Beret’s hometown.’

  The CIA man picked up the clipping. It reported that First Lieutenant Francis Lopez of the Fifth Special Forces Group (Airborne) had been reported Missing in Action following a battle at Nui Hoa Den, where a remote Special Forces outpost had been overrun. There were no American survivors and a massive search and rescue operation had failed to locate the missing officer.

  The CIA man frowned. ‘The USARV press officer stepped on his dick when he briefed that newspaper. He should have checked with us first.’

  ‘How did you want Lopez reported?’

  ‘BNR.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Body Not Recovered. It’s not like MIA. It means the fucker is definitely dead, but there were no bits to shovel up and bag.’ The CIA man finished the whisky and Catesby recharged the Dow glass. ‘The idea was that if Lopez popped up, we could say it wasn’t him but some other greaseball pretending to be him. Maybe a Cuban who spoke good American.’

  ‘Are there Cubans fighting with the Viet Cong?’

  The CIA man smiled. ‘Don’t we wish. Catching one of those bastards in South Vietnam would be the Holy Grail. It would give us an excuse to nail Castro once and for fucking all. We got Che last year. He was an absolute shit guerrilla. He hadn’t done his homework and didn’t speak Quechua. Our guys did.’

  ‘Were you there?’

  The American’s smile turned enigmatic. ‘Let’s get back to Lopez.’

  ‘I bet you would like to establish some link between Lopez and Cuba.’

  The American leaned forward and stared hard with undisguised menace in his eyes. ‘Who the fuck is Lopez? What’s this shit about Cuba?’

  Catesby wondered if this was the CIA man’s way of saying that his previous remarks were off the record. Or maybe the American was completely mad.

  ‘Let’s have some more of that scotch.’

  Catesby emptied the rest of the hip flask into the American’s glass.

  ‘You still haven’t told me how you got those photos of Burchett and that other piece of shit.’

  ‘I already explained. My editor gave them to me.’

  ‘How did your editor get them?’

  ‘He wouldn’t tell me. Investigative journalism is a bit like working for an intelligence agency. You only tell your underlings on a need to know basis – and you never reveal your sources.’

  ‘And I’m getting pissed off with you because you’re not telling me even the little bit you do know.’

  Catesby stretched out his hands. ‘Okay, I’ll spill the beans. But most of my beans are only guesses. My editor has connections with the British intelligence service that go back to the war.’

  ‘Which one? SIS or the Security Service?’

  Catesby was impressed that the American knew them by their less popular names. ‘Both, but mostly SIS. In fact…’ Catesby gave the editor’s name, ‘actually worked for them during the war.’ He wasn’t giving away anything that wasn’t already in the public domain, but the American took it for a crown jewel and scribbled it in his notebook.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I can only speculate. I suppose ASIO were involved – know them?’

  ‘Australian Secret Intelligence Organisation, something like our FBI.’

  ‘Maybe a bit better. In any case, ASIO are out to get Burchett. I’ve heard a rumour that a member of the Australian Communist Party and a close confidant of Burchett is an undercover ASIO agent and managed to get those photos.’

  ‘How did he or she manage that? The Australian government won’t issue Burchett a passport. Ergo, he can’t visit his homeland. He gets around on a North Vietnamese travel document.’

  Catesby smiled. The CIA man knew his stuff. ‘The ASIO agent didn’t get them in Australia. He met Burchett at a Black Sea resort in Bulgaria.’

  ‘Your speculations sound very detailed.’

  Catesby shrugged. ‘But maybe they’re wrong.’ And they were wrong. The photographs had been obtained in a black bag op. Burchett’s hotel room had been burgled.

  The American leaned back in his chair. ‘What I can’t understand is why Burchett has never published the story. It would be a big fucking scoop.’

  ‘Yeah, I don’t understand it eit
her. It must be that Burchett is afraid that publishing could endanger Lopez and his new comrades. Maybe he puts his ideological commitments before his journalism.’

  ‘But you haven’t got such scruples?’

  ‘None. I’m a journo whore.’

  The CIA man looked closely at Catesby. ‘Let’s do a deal. I’ll put gas in your tank and point you in the right direction. But if you find the little shit, you report back to me – every detail – before you file the story.’

  Catesby shook his empty hip flask.

  The American smiled softly. ‘You want a drink?’

  ‘Maybe I’d prefer to shoot up. Got any heroin?’

  ‘If this is your idea of a joke, you are one sick fucker.’

  ‘I could put you in contact with some London dealers. Would you like that?’

  ‘Get out of here, asshole. You’re a crazy…’

  ‘Not so fast,’ Catesby reached into a breast pocket – the safari suit was full of pockets – and took out three pages of a flimsy carbon copy document and spread it on the table. ‘And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  The American reached for the pages.

  Catesby pulled them back. ‘I want to explain things first.’

  The American stared. His eyes were dilated and fixed. Catesby suspected that the CIA man was feasting on a diet of uppers and downers. The booze and the downers made him vague and hallucinogenic. The uppers – probably amphetamines and bennies – made him sharp and aggressive. It was a lethal combination that often led to psychosis. Catesby knew he had to be careful.

  He raised his hands in a gesture of peace. ‘I’m not judgemental. I think you guys are great. You may have made some mistakes of political judgement, but your core business is great.’

  The American got up and walked over to the cabinet. He pulled out a record, placed it on a hidden turntable and turned up the volume loud. He had his back to Catesby and was reaching for something else as music flooded the room. It was a Buffalo Springfield song about guns and paranoia. The situation was turning surreal. Later, Catesby remembered that the CIA man had acted in perfect harmony with the music, as if he had choreographed and practised the scene.