‘Why are you telling me that?’
‘To sharpen your mind. The risks and complications of letting you live appear greater than those of killing you. It’s a simple mathematical equation.’
Catesby tried not to smile. His last interrogator was a fan of Max Planck. This one seemed to prefer Blaise Pascal. Being on death row was an education.
‘Perhaps,’ said the wizened man, ‘you can change that equation.’
‘It’s about China, isn’t it?’
The man gave a barely perceptible nod.
Catesby continued. ‘You’ve lived in awe and fear of your giant northern neighbour for thousands of year. Your love of China would be undiluted if the Chinese lived on a different planet or continent, but China is too close. You prefer their calligraphy to the written language that the French forced upon you. And I bet that you, personally, would rather speak Mandarin than French.’
The wizened man spoke sharply, as if Catesby had touched a raw nerve. ‘I do not need you to give me a lesson on my country’s culture and history.’
‘I apologise, but I’m trying to save my life. China is now a nuclear power. The Americans aren’t happy about it, but the Russians are even less happy because that’s where China’s bombs are aimed. There’s a big mystery about how China got her nuclear weapons so quickly. The Soviet Union stopped giving China technical and military aid in 1959, but China still managed to test an atomic bomb five years later in 1964. But the biggest and most frightening mystery is what happened afterwards?’
The eyes of the wizened man sharpened into tiny black pinpoints. ‘Go on.’
‘It took the United States seven years to successfully test an H-bomb after they managed to make the As that obliterated Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The Soviet Union took almost as long, six years, to go from A to H-bomb. But China made it from A to thermonuclear hydrogen bomb in three years. We’d love to know how they did it. And to what extent stolen British nuclear secrets were involved. And that is why I want to interview Miranda Somers.’
‘Why should we permit that? Why is it in Vietnam’s national interest?’
‘It is in your country’s interest to stop China from acquiring advanced military technology that China might very well use against Vietnam in a future war.’ Catesby wondered if he had gone too far, but it was too late to stop. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing, China doesn’t want this war to end. It’s in China’s national interest to keep Vietnam weak and dependent while keeping the United States drained and politically divided about the war.’ Catesby paused. ‘Foreign policy is a dirty, vicious, cynical business.’
The man’s eyes looked unconvinced and sceptical. He reached forward to switch off the East German tape recorder that had been running throughout the interview. ‘I’ll have to write a report as well as get everything translated and transcribed. I’m not sure Hanoi will be convinced.’ The wizened man then put a canvas folder on the table. He looked at Catesby with bored annoyance, like a form tutor dealing with a recalcitrant pupil. ‘Do you know what this is about?’
Catesby nodded.
The man took the confession statements out of the folder. ‘Your refusing to sign these is absolutely pointless. They are worthless documents that will never see the light of day, but it is a procedure that my superiors in Hanoi insist upon.’ He nodded at the tape recorder. ‘You’ve already made statements that are far more compromising.’
‘But those statements are true.’
‘You are being tedious. Truth is relative.’ The man paused. ‘I don’t want to submit you to the indignities of force, after which you will sign in any case. But I will offer you an incentive. If you sign these documents, I will strongly recommend to Hanoi that you be allowed to interview Mademoiselle Miranda.’
Catesby knew that the promise was worthless, but he knew that the threats were real. In any case, the worst that the ‘confession’ entailed was an admission that he had been working for the Americans – which, although repugnant to Catesby personally, was not an admission regarded as a high crime in many parts of Whitehall. ‘Pass them over.’
As soon as Catesby had finished signing the documents, the wizened man picked up a landline telephone and said something in Vietnamese. A few seconds later the guards arrived to take him back to his cell.
»»»»
The outcome wasn’t the one Catesby had expected. Once again, there was a wait of three days. There was no ill treatment. The guards simply treated him as a non-person – a domestic animal that required regular feeding and toileting. The only problem was the boredom. There was no reading matter in the austere room other than a worn and tattered Russian-Vietnamese dictionary. Catesby’s Russian wasn’t fluent, but it was pretty good and he was able to use the dictionary to learn some Vietnamese. He no longer had to use sign language to the guards to indicate that he wanted water or a trip to the latrine. But when he asked for paper, so he could practise writing phrases, the answer was a firm khong, no. When Catesby asked the guards if they would like to learn Russian, there was a flicker of interest before their faces turned stony again. Little did Catesby know that he was hoisting himself by his own petard.
Catesby knew that his imprisonment was going to come to an end one way or another. He still hadn’t discounted the possibility of ‘a stick of brass candy’ – Vietnamese slang for a bullet. If Catesby were in their position, that’s what he would do. So he wasn’t going to whine. It was a tough game – ‘big boys’ rules’, as they said in Belfast.
But when the end came, it was unexpected – especially the bottle of Stolichnaya vodka. The bottle and the news of his release arrived via the Jesuit who looked like Sartre. ‘The most difficult thing,’ he said, ‘was getting it chilled. Our hospitals have refrigerators for certain drugs, but only one of them has a freezer and the bac si, the doctor in charge, required some persuasion. I know that it is early in the morning, but shall we drink to your release?’
The fact that Catesby was still bleary with sleep made the dawn meeting even more surreal and incomprehensible. ‘I am surprised,’ he said rubbing his eyes, ‘that you store vodka in the camp.’
‘Oh, this vodka isn’t from our camp supplies. Far too much of a luxury. It’s a present to you from your comrades in the Soviet Embassy in Hanoi.’
‘What the fuck!’ Catesby had lapsed into English.
‘Pardon, I didn’t understand.’
‘Sorry,’ he went back to French, ‘it’s all such a surprise.’ But Catesby knew that disinfo ops should never be a surprise.
The Jesuit lowered his voice. ‘We have to be very careful. We can’t let it be known that Moscow put our government under pressure to release you. Many of us are pro-Russian, but we don’t want to offend the Chinese as we still need their supply lines. And I also know that it is essential that you keep your cover as a loyal British intelligence officer. The Soviet Embassy made it clear that we must treat the matter as top secret, but that we must render you every assistance in your interrogation of Miranda and Jeffers Cauldwell.’
Catesby’s brain was now fully awake and clicking like a telex machine spewing out encrypted reports that needed decoding and evaluation. The Hanoi rezident, KGB head of station, must have been overjoyed to hear that Catesby was tracking down Miranda Somers and had infiltrated behind PAVN lines. The rezident was certainly running his own Vietnamese agents – the Jesuit might be one of them – who had passed on news of the mission. The KGB rezident had then concocted a plan with Moscow Central to try to kill three birds with one clumsy rock. The bird they wanted to kill most was Jeffers Cauldwell. He had started out as a Soviet double agent and then defected to China – and took his London spy ring with him. Miranda needed neutralising too. The Aldermaston scientists, politicians and MoD officials that she had honey-trapped had provided – and might, as far as Moscow knew, still be providing – strategic intelligence to Peking that could damage the Soviet Union in a future conflict. And then there was Catesby. Normally, starting a rumour that one of t
he other side is working for you was a crude disinformation ploy. But when intelligence agencies were as uptight and paranoid as the CIA and SIS had become during recent years, these false rumours could be lethal. The intelligence world was as incestuous as an East Anglian village and spewed out just as much gossip. If some Neanderthal pinstriped blimp stood up on his knuckles and accused Catesby of being a Sov spy, Catesby could only hope that his signed confession to being a US poodle would also surface.
‘I think,’ said Catesby, ‘we should taste this vodka.’
The Jesuit smiled and poured as if it were communion wine.
»»»»
Cauldwell wasn’t wearing his Mao suit; he was wearing a Pathet Lao uniform. It was a compromise between Chinese and North Vietnamese influence. The peaked soft cap with its leather visor was definitely Chinese, but the green tunic with two breast pockets and side flaps was definitely North Vietnamese. Catesby wasn’t sure about the trousers. They weren’t baggy like the standard PAVN ones that had straps at the bottom so you could fasten them around your ankles. Maybe, he thought, Cauldwell had them especially tailored.
Catesby smiled. ‘You always look good, Jeffers. Back in London, in the old days, I remember your ambassador describing you as a perfectly turned-out diplomat. His exact words were comme il faut. In contrast, I’ve always been a bit of a mess.’
‘But you’re real, William, you’re real.’
‘How little you know about me.’
It was Cauldwell’s turn to smile. ‘How very true, William. You are a very complex person. I knew that when I first met you.’
‘Are you taking the piss?’
Cauldwell smiled.
They were sitting in Catesby’s quarters, which had improved since his recent change of status. There were books, writing paper, bright propaganda posters on the walls and changes of clothing. Normally, Catesby would assume there were hidden microphones, but the earth floor and bamboo walls seemed incapable of hiding listening devices. And maybe the North Vietnamese intelligence officers simply didn’t care what they talked about.
‘Thank you for having lunch with me,’ said Catesby. ‘There’s caramelised fish in that clay pot.’
‘They’re treating you like a celebrity.’
‘It’s just the normal hospitality I should expect as a representative of Her Majesty’s Government.’
‘Are you still sticking to that line?’
‘Yeah, because it’s so easy to remember.’
‘I think you’re telling the truth, William. You’re not a Sov spy.’
If, thought Catesby, the Vietnamese were listening to the conversation, they would find it an incomprehensible game of chess where an admission of truth meant checkmate. But if anyone could understand that, it would be the embattled and ambiguous Vietnamese. They weren’t merely walking a tightrope between Moscow and Peking; they were doing pirouettes on it.
‘Nor,’ continued Cauldwell, ‘does Lopez think you’re a Moscow man.’
‘I’ll ask him personally.’
‘Good. He’d like to have a talk.’
‘How do you and he – fellow Americans as it were – get along?’
‘We have our differences.’
‘He comes across as more sincere than you.’
‘How little you know, William.’
‘Have some Lao whisky. They only sell it by the bucket and I’m trying to use it up.’
Cauldwell held out a porcelain cup painted with mountain scenery and Chinese ideograms. ‘The characters mean happiness and long life.’
‘Well here’s to both for both of us. Have you started to learn Mandarin?’
‘I am taking lessons.’
Catesby sipped his drink and stared at Cauldwell.
‘Why are you staring at me like that?’
‘Because I want to strip off your outer layers and reveal your soul.’
‘Very funny, William.’
‘I’m not being funny. England has changed and I’ve changed with it.’
‘Is that why you’ve grown your hair long?’
‘You’ve never understood me, have you, Jeffers? You’ve never realised that I’m a bit of a rebel.’
‘Your feeble attempts at rebellion, William, are the products of your bourgeois mind.’ Cauldwell smiled. ‘You remind me of Tony Hancock in that film, The Rebel.’
‘I’m impressed by your knowledge of popular British culture.’
‘You are a ridiculous character, William. You’re self-deprecating, but narcissistic at the same time. You’ve always been so lonely – by the way, I always recommended you as ripe for sexual entrapment.’
‘I’ll tell you something, Jeffers; your sexual practices aren’t going to be very popular in Chairman Mao’s Cultural Revolution. All that stuff is bourgeois decadence.’
‘You’re right. Romance and sexual obsession are symptoms of bourgeois decadence. England, by the way, is the world’s most sex-obsessed society. That’s why it’s so easy to recruit English spies.’
‘And you did a fine job of that.’
‘When it comes to spreading the revolution, the use of any form of vice is permissible.’
‘Are you being ironic?’
‘No.’ As he spoke Cauldwell got up and walked over to the bookshelf where there was a writing pad. He picked up the pad and took a biro out of his pocket.
‘It sounds as if you are a true believer in the cause.’
‘I always have been. I explained that to you all those years ago when you beat me up in that bunker at Lakenheath Air Base.’
‘You were a loyal Soviet spy in those days.’
Cauldwell smiled. ‘Maybe I wasn’t – perhaps I was getting fed up with Khrushchev’s revisionism.’
‘You preferred Stalin the monster?’
‘He had his faults, but not as many as those who followed him and completely sold out the revolution.’ While he was speaking Cauldwell was writing something on the notepad on the table between them. In case we are being bugged, I wouldn’t want to further embarrass our Vietnamese hosts by making them privy to this list of names. All of these are Brits who have worked for the Sovs.
‘You know,’ said Catesby ignoring Cauldwell’s scribbles, ‘that the Sovs betrayed you. Their head guy in London set you up for us – but at the time we didn’t know why.’
‘And you’ve since asked your friends in Moscow Central?’
‘But you just said that you’re sure I don’t work for the Sovs.’ Catesby smiled.
‘Nice food they’ve given us.’ But instead of picking up his chopsticks, Cauldwell was writing furiously. None of these is working for China or double dipping and working for both.
Catesby read the list as he spooned caramelised fish on to boiled rice and seasoned it with nuoc mam sauce. It was depressing reading. The list contained the names of a few who might have been Soviet agents, but it also contained names of people who were either totally innocent or simply indiscreet in their activities. Cauldwell was doing a disinformation exercise. He wanted to cause trouble for both Moscow and London. The highest profile name was that of the Prime Minister himself. Cauldwell had written next to the PM’s name: the KGB put this guy in Downing Street by assassinating his predecessor, Hugh Gaitskell. They poisoned him with a rare form of tropical lupus, administered in a biscuit, when he visited the Soviet Consulate for a visa.
‘I wouldn’t mind some of that Lao whisky,’ said Cauldwell.
‘Help yourself, there’s half a bucket left.’ Catesby winked at Cauldwell, folded the list and put it in his pocket. He knew what he was going to do with it – and then he would scatter the ashes in the latrine. The allegation that Harold Wilson was a Soviet agent was a tired chestnut that had been bouncing around London for ages. But it was also a toxic chestnut that right-wingers kept passing from media owners to military chiefs.
Cauldwell took a long swig of the whisky and looked at Catesby. ‘It’s a pity, William, that you’re not bright enough or brave enough to be one of us.�
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‘I’m getting fed up with your insults.’
‘I shouldn’t have said that.’ Cauldwell smiled. ‘You don’t win people over by insulting them.’
‘That’s right, Jeffers. Come over to us. We’ll send you on an interrogation course. You become the subject’s best fucking friend.’
‘You must have flunked the course, William. You never manage that.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. My way of being someone’s friend is not always obvious.’
‘How long have we known each other?’
‘Early 50s in Germany. About eighteen years.’
‘You used to go undercover as a Cultural Attaché. At first, we thought it was joke of miscasting. But you really are an arts man – you know your stuff.’
‘I wish I knew more about Poussin.’
‘Maybe you’ll soon find out.’
‘Are you going to tell me?’
‘We’ll see.’
‘I’ve never been able to understand where Poussin ends and Moscow Central begins.’
‘Maybe,’ smiled Cauldwell, ‘they’re completely separate and always were.’
The garden party for arty toffs that appeared to have turned into an orgy was something Catesby had still not worked out. He was pretty certain that the tableau vivant of Poussin’s The Triumph of Pan was a booze-fuelled jape that had been inspired by Sir Anthony Blunt. And he knew at least half the semi-dressed ‘Greeks’ had been involved in espionage. But maybe it had had nothing to do with playing games for Moscow. Or blackmail or honey traps. Maybe it was just the upper classes at play on a warm summer’s afternoon. And maybe there were deeper secrets involved than merely spying for foreign countries. The secrets of the ruling elite belong to them and them alone.
Cauldwell stared with a wry half-smile. ‘You don’t know what to do about them. You don’t know whether to hang them, spy on them or embrace them. You must have been awfully confused when the Queen gave you the OBE.’
Catesby smiled.
‘You said, William, in a joking way I’m sure, that you wanted to strip off my outer layers and reveal my soul. Maybe I’m now doing that to you.’
The Whitehall Mandarin Page 34
