The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby decided to break with the script. He wasn’t going to play their game. He reached forward and touched her hand. ‘Do you want me to leave you alone? I think I should leave.’

  She looked up. The tears had come and her mascara was smeared. Catesby picked up a napkin and passed it so she could wipe her eyes.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘Please tell me what happened.’

  Catesby told the story.

  When he was finished, Lady Somers got up and looked out the window with her back to Catesby. He could tell that she was crying because her back was shaking – and that the tears were bitter ones. At last, she came back and sat down again.

  ‘Miranda never forgave me.’

  ‘No, she did forgive you.’

  ‘She killed herself to punish me.’

  ‘She didn’t kill herself. The overdose was an accident.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘Not for sure. But I do know that, in the end, Miranda loved you – believe me.’

  ‘But she would never believe me.’ Lady Somers raised her voice, almost to a shout. ‘I did not take her mother away from her. Penelope took herself away.’ She lowered her voice again. ‘But what’s the point of self-justification now?’

  ‘It might help you understand yourself and your daughter.’

  ‘Did you like her?’

  ‘Not at first, but I grew very fond of her.’

  ‘A lot of people would say that. She was so much like her mother.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘It is odd, isn’t it? Penelope never loved me. To be honest, I’m not sure she ever loved Miranda either. Maybe it was because I was the father. I was shocked when she agreed to leave Miranda behind in London. She was only two.’

  Lady Somers was talking about something to which Catesby had been denied access. The war-time files on both Lord and Lady Somers had either been destroyed or put in a hundred-year folder.

  Catesby leaned forward and whispered, ‘What happened?’

  ‘Towards the end of the war they were looking for agents with local knowledge for clandestine missions behind Japanese lines in Malaya. Penelope, to my surprise and chagrin, volunteered. We were both landed by submarine on the western coast – a husband and wife SOE team – to rendezvous with a Chinese resistance movement that was fighting the Japanese. Penelope, of course, was a brilliant agent because she spoke all the Chinese dialects of Malaya and knew the country so well. It was, perhaps, inevitable that she would fall in love with Li. She never forgot him. When the Malayan insurrection began in 1948, Li became a key leader in the Malayan National Liberation Army. Penelope went off into the jungle to join him – not just because she loved him, but because she believed in the cause.’

  ‘Did Miranda know this?’

  ‘She did and admired her mother’s idealism – and in some way I became the villain. Perhaps I should have gone off to fight alongside Penelope and Li. But who would have looked after Miranda? I couldn’t leave her behind again. She was five years old and needed a mother.’

  ‘And you became that mother?’

  ‘Yes – and that is what I always wanted.’

  ‘What happened to…’ Catesby didn’t know which name to use, ‘to your then wife.’

  Lady Somers smiled. ‘It’s okay – call her Penelope. That was her name. Penelope was badly wounded in a British ambush. She later died, but her body was never found. Few, of course, know that any of this happened. The cover story was that Penelope had run off to the South of France with another man and disappeared during a drunken late-night swim – once again, no body. A few of her family knew what had really happened, but found the truth more distasteful than the cover story. They were typical colonial plantation owners and traders – fabulously wealthy. Penelope hated them. In any case, I became Penelope and I brought Miranda to England to begin again.’ Lady Somers smiled. ‘In a sense, both of us became Penelope.’

  ‘But some people must have known?’

  ‘Of course, but our secrets were never revealed beyond a select few. The British upper class may not be stiff-lipped, but they are incredibly tight-lipped.’

  Catesby sat in silent reflection. There was a certain symmetry between mother and daughter, but also between both of them and Jeffers Cauldwell. Inherited wealth often carried a host of inherited diseases. Arrogance and cruelty were two, but guilt was another. And yet, there was something about Lady Somers’ story that did not ring completely true. But it no longer mattered.

  ‘I’m really going to miss Miranda,’ she said, with hot tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Sweet Miranda, you were all I had.’

  Catesby had done the worst bit, but there was more to follow. He was back on script. ‘Miranda told me that you had a secret pleasure, a love of The Beatles.’ He reached for the package beside the armchair. ‘So I have brought you something to remember her by.’ Catesby took the LP out of the bag. John is barefoot and conspicuously dressed in white as the four walk across the zebra crossing.

  Lady Somers accepted the album with a faint smile. ‘Thank you. How kind.’ She touched the cover gently and handed the album back to Catesby. ‘Would you please put it on the phonograph for me? Your hands are steadier.’ She pointed. ‘It’s over there under the bookshelf.’

  Catesby turned on the record player and gently put the needle in place. He turned up the volume full. The lyrics were about loneliness and cold and winter. The lines were simple and moving. Years had passed, but there was still hope.

  He walked back to where Lady Somers was sitting. She was crying and swaying in time to the music. Catesby put his hand inside his jacket and took the 9mm Browning out of the shoulder holster. He placed the gun on the coffee table in front of Lady Somers. He leaned over and gently kissed her and then left the room and closed the door behind him.

  Catesby stood on the landing and leaned against the banister. He was sick inside with cold sweat rolling down his spine. He looked down the staircase and waited and listened to the song. The smiles were coming back. Years had passed, but the sun was coming back.

  »»»»

  The shot was a quick sharp bark.

  »»»»

  The sun had come, but it would never be all right.

  Afterword

  I try to weave my fiction into an historical background that is accurate and well researched. This is sometimes difficult or impossible because key historical records are missing or have been suppressed. The great enigma of the present time is the rapid rise of China into an economic and military superpower. No one has adequately explained how this happened – and for years no one seemed concerned. The lid began to lift in June 1995 when a walk-in agent turned up at the CIA office in Taiwan and handed over an official People’s Republic of China document marked Top Secret that contained design information on all seven of America’s nuclear warheads. Further revelations led to the creation of the United States House of Representatives Select Committee on U.S. National Security and Military/Commercial Concerns with the People’s Republic of China, better known as The Cox Committee. The complete findings, known as the Cox Report, are still classified, but a redacted version was released on 25 May 1999 blaming China for espionage. This simplistic explanation does not stand up to scrutiny. In December 1999 four Stanford University professors (Alastair Iain Johnston, W. K. H. Panofsky, Marco Di Capua, and Lewis R. Franklin) released a report rebutting the Cox Committee: ‘The language of the report, particularly its Overview, was inflammatory and some allegations did not seem to be well supported … Some important and relevant facts are wrong and a number of conclusions are, in our view, unwarranted.’ A number of other reports, including one from the National Academy of Sciences, reached similar conclusions. In any case, the Cox Report concentrates on alleged covert operations which occurred in the 1980s and 1990s. But no report explains what happened in the 1960s. It took the United States seven years and three months to pr
oceed from A-bomb to thermonuclear H-bomb. China made the same technological leap in two years and eight months. When the trail of historical evidence disappears, the novelist has permission to speculate. But it is important that the novelist offers speculations that are probable and rational. I hope I have done so.

  A number of real historic events are mentioned in this book and real places are mentioned, but I would like to emphasise that this book is a novel. There are echoes of the Profumo affair, the Portsmouth spy ring and the running of Oleg Penkovsky as a double agent. Consequently, a few real names are used, but no real people are portrayed. This is a work of fiction. When I have used official titles and positions, I do not suggest that the persons who held those positions in the past are the same persons portrayed in the novel or that they have spoken, thought or behaved in the way I have imagined.

  Finally, I would like to point out that most of the characters in this book are completely fictional and bear no resemblance at all to anyone living or dead. Lady Penelope Somers, her daughter Miranda, William Catesby, Henry Bone and a host of minor characters are totally the product of my imagination.

  Acknowledgements

  The core of this book was written while I was recovering from a badly shattered right wrist – ‘mush’ as my excellent saviour of a surgeon described it. Warmest thanks to Julia who looked after me with loving care during a time when I was unable to drive or do domestic chores. Likewise, thanks to all the staff in the orthopaedics department at James Paget Hospital and to my physiotherapist at Cutler’s Hill who also helped me keep writing in adversity.

  My agent Maggie Hanbury has once again been a valuable source of guidance and good sense. Thanks also to Henry de Rougement and Harriet Poland at the agency.

  A very special thanks to my publisher, Gary Pulsifer. It is a privilege to have a publisher who genuinely loves good writing and does so much to promote it. And a fond thanks to Arcadia’s Karen Sullivan for her contagious enthusiasm and to Piers Russell-Cobb for valuing me as an author.

  Thanks again to Angeline Rothermundt, who has now polished four of my books into shape, for her flawless proofreading. Gill Paul was the perfect copy editor. Her eye for detail and accuracy is remarkable. Finally, a most grateful thanks to my editor, Martin Fletcher, who was absolutely fantastic. Martin is the ultimate professional. His advice on structure, always accepted, was insightful and creative.

  In my attempt to recreate the espionage world of the 1950s and 1960s, I am particularly indebted to Gordon Corera for his MI6: Life and Death in the British Secret Service. Corera’s book is the best and most readable history of post-war British intelligence that you are likely to find. I would also like to single out Richard Davenport-Hines’s An English Affair: Sex, Class and Power in the Age of Profumo, a book that perfectly captures the mood of the time. Both books were also a treasure trove of names and places that led the way to further research. I am also indebted to Nora Nickerson for ‘A Poem to Paul Tibbets’. The poem explores the mind of the man who dropped the A-bomb on Hiroshima. It is a disturbing poem, but one that I urge everyone to read.

  Bibliography

  Aldrich, Richard J. The Hidden Hand: Britain, America and Cold War Secret Intelligence. The Overlook Press, Woodstock and New York, 2002.

  Carter, Miranda. Anthony Blunt: His Lives. Macmillan, London, 2001.

  Corera, Gordon. MI6:Life and Death in the British Secret Service. Orion Books Ltd, London, 2012.

  Davenport-Hines, Richard. An English Affair: Sex, Class and Power in the Age of Profumo. William Collins, London, 2013.

  Deustcher, Isaac. ‘Maoism – Its Origins, Background and Outlook’ from The Socialist Register 1964. The Merlin Press, London, 1964.

  Hermiston, Roger. Greatest Traitor: The Secret Lives of Agent George Blake. Aurum Press, London, 2013.

  Leigh, David. The Wilson Plot: The Intelligence Services and the Discrediting of a Prime Minister. William Heinemann Ltd, London, 1988.

  Miliband, Ralph; Saville, John. The Socialist Register 1964. The Merlin Press, London, 1964.

  About the Author

  Edward Wilson is a native of Baltimore. He studied International Relations on a US Army scholarship and later served as a Special Forces officer in Vietnam. He received the Army Commendation Medal with ‘V’ for his part in rescuing wounded Vietnamese soldiers from a minefield. His other decorations include the Bronze Star and the Combat Infantryman’s Badge. After leaving the Army, Wilson became an expatriate and gave up US nationality to become a British citizen. He has also lived and worked in Germany and France. He is the author of four previous novels, A River in May, The Envoy, The Darkling Spy and The Midnight Swimmer, all published by Arcadia Books. The author now lives in Suffolk where he taught English and Modern Languages for thirty years.

  Copyright

  Arcadia Books Ltd

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  First published by Arcadia Books 2014

  Copyright © Edward Wilson 2014

  Edward Wilson has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  This Ebook edition published in 2014

  ISBN 9781909807716

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