A Very British Ending (Catesby Series)

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby declined the help of his host in finding his way out. He was careful not to step on to a ‘staircase that wasn’t there’ and was relieved when he found himself in the cold night air. He felt that he had spent two hours swimming in a cesspit. As he opened the car door, she loomed out of the shadows. Catesby wondered where ‘the niece’ had been while they were dining. Had she been waiting there the whole time? She suddenly extended her right arm in a clenched fist salute and shouted something in Chinese – a language Catesby didn’t know. She remained rigid like a soldier on parade and then shouted again in English: ‘The East is Red! Long live Chairman Mao!’

  Catesby gave an ideologically non-committal wave and got in his car. The drive back to Bonn was going to be long and thoughtful.

  Catesby looked at Gerald who had just entered the office carrying a folder bearing the parallel red stripes that denoted top secret. ‘Have you signed the card for Miss Greenwood?’ asked Catesby.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t mind a bob or two as your contribution to the flowers and bath stuff.’

  ‘Not D marks?’

  ‘No, I got the stuff from the NAAFI.’

  Gerald searched his pocket and put a half crown on Catesby’s desk.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Cheers.

  ‘What else have you got for me, Gerald?’

  ‘Can I ask a question first?’

  Catesby yawned.

  ‘Why did you wait until after your visit to give the baron a butcher’s?’

  ‘I don’t want to frighten him off. If he knew that someone like you was poking around in the undergrowth he might have cancelled the invite.’

  ‘You thought the Schloss was a dodgy one, didn’t you?’

  Catesby nodded. ‘Not the castle, but him being in it.’

  Gerald opened the file. ‘This wasn’t easy. The owners of the castle no longer live in Germany – and the person representing them refused to provide a forwarding address. In fact, they refused to talk to me at all until I went back with a frightening Polizei type from the BfV.’

  Catesby doodled BfV on his notepad and drew an arrow from it pointing east. The BfV – Bundesamt für Verfassungsschutz – was the Federal Office for the Protection of the Constitution, the West German equivalent of MI5. ‘I wish,’ said Catesby, ‘you hadn’t done that without asking me.’

  Gerald gave a sly smile. ‘I think I know why.’

  ‘I bet you do. Why?’

  ‘The BfV have been heavily infiltrated by the HVA.’ Gerald was referring to the Hauptverwaltung Aufklärung, the foreign intelligence branch of the East German Security Service.

  ‘And you thought you were being really clever?’

  ‘Yes, and that’s why I used Fritz the Violin.’

  ‘Fucking hell.’ Catesby winced. Fritz the Violin, a BfV officer who played and made his own violins, was under high suspicion of being a double agent, but they didn’t arrest him because they hoped leaving him free would lead to others.

  ‘And it paid off.’ Gerald handed Catesby a piece of paper with a typed name and an address in Paraguay.

  ‘If they’re not careful, they’re going to blow Fritz’s cover.’ Catesby closed his eyes and tried to piece together the chess moves involved. The East German intelligence service was not being helpful and idealistic by exposing a Nazi on the run. They wanted to smear the West Germans for protecting war criminals – and the smears were not completely untrue. The HVA also wanted to cause friction and suspicion between the Western intelligence services.

  ‘Have you got it now?’ said Gerald.

  ‘This is dangerous. We can’t be suspected of cooperating with any East Bloc intelligence service, even if we have mutual interests – like stopping the earth being destroyed by a giant meteor.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the Americans will use it against us and start shouting about Reds under the bed.’

  ‘Or in the bed.’

  ‘That too. Okay, let’s go back to the beginning.’ Catesby waved the piece of paper with the Paraguay address. ‘How did you get this?’

  Gerald smiled. ‘No dead letter box, no brush pass or clandestine RV – it arrived in the post.’

  ‘Where from?’

  ‘It had a Bremen postmark.’

  Another piece of paranoia bait, thought Catesby. But probably just a coincidence. ‘Destroy the envelope, but file the letter.’

  ‘Sure, boss.’

  ‘Tell me about the castle.’

  ‘The agent responsible for letting the Schloss finally started spilling the beans after some ungentle persuasion from Violin Fritzie. The person who rented it was a woman…’

  ‘Did she look Asian?’

  ‘No,’ Gerald looked at his notes, ‘she was about fifty and very glamorous – tall, blue-eyed. She spoke fluent German, but with a slight accent – probably American or Canadian. She said they – the people she represented – wanted to rent the castle as a film set.’

  ‘For a remake of Frankenstein or Dracula?’

  ‘She didn’t say, but the let was for two months.’

  ‘How did she pay? In American dollars?’

  Gerald smiled and shook his head.

  ‘You’re really full of yourself, aren’t you?’

  ‘It is, Mr Catesby, totally delicious. She paid the rent in gold.’

  ‘In bullion?’

  ‘No, in gold Tsarist roubles.’ Gerald paused. ‘You don’t look as surprised as you should be.’

  ‘Don’t assume you know what I’m thinking or feeling – you’re not my wife.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, I managed to get some info out of a Putzfrau.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘Go on.’

  ‘You weren’t the only visitor to the castle.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘The Putzfrau wasn’t there, of course, when the dinner parties took place, but she knew that they were frequent – two to three a week.’

  ‘Any idea who the visitors were?’

  Gerald shook his head.

  Catesby closed his eyes and reflected.

  Near Walberswick, Suffolk: 1 January 1952

  The weather was windy and mild; light rain and patches of sunlight. Frances and Catesby were dressed in jumpers and unbuttoned waterproofs as they crunched along the beach. They were at the head of a dispersed and untidy line of family. The twins and grandparents were closest behind and then a scattering of cousins and in-laws. But none of Catesby’s family.

  ‘Next year,’ said Frances, ‘why don’t you ask your mother and Freddie to stay with us for Christmas? There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘And there’s Tomasz too.’

  ‘Fine – and it doesn’t matter if they share a bed. My parents are open-minded.’

  ‘My mother likes to do things her way – and she isn’t open-minded.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ said Frances, ‘I think you want to keep us apart – that you don’t want Freddie and me to compare notes.’

  Catesby looked out to sea. There were no ships. The docks were shut down for the holidays.

  ‘Why haven’t you answered me?’

  ‘I didn’t know you had asked a question.’

  ‘You’re being beastly, William. I’m going to push you into the sea where you belong.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  Frances was the same height as Catesby. She gave him a strong shove down the shingle bank. He finally dug his feet in, but still got one foot wet.

  ‘Children,’ shouted her father, ‘early to bed and no supper.’

  Catesby climbed back up the bank and turned around. He smiled a thank-you to his father-in-law

  ‘That,’ said Frances, ‘is the first time you’ve smiled all day.’

  ‘Let’s have a race.’

  They ran through the loose shingle for a hundred yards and then slowed to walking pace again.

  ‘I don’t want the others to hear,’ said
Catesby.

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you everything, but the last few weeks have been difficult.’

  ‘What’s wrong, William?’

  ‘I think I’m losing my mind.’

  ‘Would you like to talk about it?’

  ‘No.’ Catesby stared at the shingle.

  Christmas was an awful time of year for him. It was supposed to be a time of joy and family warmth. But when he played games with his stepchildren or read stories to them, the memories flooded back. He turned cold and uncommunicative. He no longer saw happy and live children next to him, but the burned corpses of Oradour-sur-Glane. It was ruining his marriage – his life. But he couldn’t talk about it. And he couldn’t talk about killing a Nazi war criminal in a ruined U-boot bunker. Catesby’s worst fear was that he might become the person he had killed. He often imagined the body floating face down in the Weser back and forth on the tides. The body was found three days later. Catesby was certain that the Polizei knew the corpse’s identity, but weren’t admitting it. The investigation was ongoing, but Catesby was not going to expose himself by taking an interest in it. He didn’t feel guilt, but he was guilty – of murder. Worrying about it made Catesby feel selfish and squalid. If the crime was traced back to him, he doubted that diplomatic immunity would protect him from prosecution. In retrospect, murdering the Nazi war criminal had been as pointless as it was illegal. No one had told him to do it. And killing the German hadn’t wiped the images of Oradour from Catesby’s mind. He still had nightmares and sleepless anxiety.

  Frances put her arm through Catesby’s. He felt dragged back to a reality that wasn’t real.

  ‘Have you found out who took a shot at you?’

  ‘Three shots. I wish I hadn’t told you about it – and I hope you haven’t told anyone else.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t want your colleagues at Five to know. They’ll find a way to use it against me.’

  ‘You seem very nervous – nervous all the time.’

  ‘I can’t settle. I find it difficult to concentrate – I can’t sleep at night.’

  ‘It’s the war, isn’t it? But no one will admit it or talk about it.’

  ‘Like we can’t talk about your brothers?’ One of them had been killed in an air crash; the other had been burnt to death in a tank in Normandy. But Catesby had known neither of them.

  ‘Maybe we should – but not to Mum and Dad.’

  ‘But one mustn’t complain.’

  ‘That’s part of the problem.’

  Catesby pulled her to him. He hated talking about the war. ‘I want to run away.’

  ‘With me?’

  ‘With anyone.’

  Frances laughed. ‘You are so romantic!’

  ‘Okay, with you then.’

  ‘Thanks. Where will go?’

  ‘To the South of France – and we’ll breed snails to sell to restaurants.’

  ‘God, you are romantic.’ Frances brushed her hair aside and looked closely at Catesby. ‘Actually, it might not be a bad idea – and maybe the best way to stay together.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree.’ Catesby gave his wife a suspicious look. ‘Why did you say going to France might be the best way for us to stay together?’

  ‘Because I’ve been told that my being with you would not be useful to my career.’

  ‘Who told you?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Why? Are you having an affair with him?’

  Frances withdrew her arm from him. ‘You are awful. Maybe I shouldn’t be with you.’

  ‘Sorry. I’m paranoid – about everything.’

  ‘Then I shouldn’t tell you about the anti-Catesby whispering campaign at Leconfield House.’

  ‘I’ll be less paranoid if you do tell me.’

  ‘The chief whisperers are…’ Frances gave their names.

  ‘No surprises there.’ Catesby paused. ‘How did you respond to being warned that getting back with me would be bad for your career?

  ‘I became very angry and told him that my personal life was none of MI5’s business.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘But it is.’

  ‘Yes, my response was a bit naive – but there is another issue.’

  ‘He fancies you.’

  ‘Yes, but I assure you I find him utterly repulsive.’

  ‘I’m not really jealous you know.’

  ‘The problem, William, is that your job trained you to be a professional liar.’

  ‘And what about yours?’

  Frances shook her head. ‘No, absolutely not. My job isn’t like yours. I don’t recruit agents with lies and spread false rumours. I’m just a watcher, a mere surveillance operative.’

  ‘And you listen and eavesdrop too.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So what have they been saying about me?’

  ‘They say you’re too close to our enemies?’

  ‘Which ones? The Russians or the Americans?’

  Frances smiled. ‘I think, William, your response says it all.’

  Catesby smiled back. ‘What’s the latest from A1A?’ He was referring to the top secret MI5 subsection that burgled and bugged.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, I’m in A4.’

  ‘I think I’ve touched a rough nerve.’

  ‘A1A is a sensitive subject – I shouldn’t even talk to you about it.’

  ‘There shouldn’t be any secrets between us; we’re still husband and wife.’

  ‘Some of us are going on to the pub at Dunwich.’

  ‘Please, don’t be evasive.’

  ‘I’m worried about you, William. I don’t know who you are.’

  Catesby looked out to sea. That’s where he belonged – somewhere in that dank wet wilderness between Suffolk and his mother’s Europe. ‘I don’t know who I am either.’ He bent down and scooped up a handful of gritty shingle. ‘But this is my home and I love it.’

  ‘Oh dear, you are a drama queen. And speaking of queens – how’s Henry Bone?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be judgemental.’ Catesby smiled. ‘A minute ago you were bragging about being open-minded.’

  ‘I meant it affectionately.’ Frances gave him a lopsided look. ‘If we don’t keep secrets from each other, tell me the latest about the mysterious Bone.’

  ‘Your bosses want to know, don’t they?’ Catesby shook his head. The relationship between MI5 and SIS, never good, was turning venomous. And his boss, Henry Bone, was one of the reasons.

  Frances shrugged.

  ‘Actually,’ said Catesby, ‘Henry is an enigma to us as well.’

  ‘But he confides in you?’

  ‘Obliquely. I don’t think, by the way, you should make assumptions about his love life. He is the heart of discretion – a very prim and refined bachelor. And a very talented pianist.’

  ‘With an impressive art collection?’

  Catesby frowned. ‘Why don’t you just ask the question directly? Is he shagging Anthony Blunt?’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘No. And they haven’t been lovers for decades.’

  ‘But they’re still friends?’

  ‘Yes, they socialise occasionally.’ Catesby paused and looked at his wife. ‘He asked you to interrogate me.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought you found him repulsive?’

  ‘Yes, but if you only discussed things with nice attractive people you wouldn’t find out a lot in our business.’ She looked at Catesby without blinking. ‘Don’t you realise, William, that I’m more your spy than his?’

  There were shouts along the beach. The children were running towards them.

  ‘Tell me quickly,’ said Catesby.

  ‘There is a secret cabal, a sect within a sect, who are out of control.’

  ‘What are they doing?’

  She told him.

  Catesby turned and looked out to sea. His face was etched with pain and fear.

  Washington: January, 1952

  The DDP, Deputy
Director for Plans, began each day by reading the Director’s Log, a top secret summary of intelligence and operations from around the world. Allen Dulles had been DPP for exactly one year. He was in charge of CIA covert activities, but Dulles knew that after the next election – which General Eisenhower, barring a cardiac event or a flare-up of the Kay Summersby rumours, was sure to win – he would see himself promoted to the top job, DCI, Director of Central Intelligence. Things were looking up for both Dulles brothers. Foster was pencilled in to be Secretary of State.

  Allen Dulles took out his pipe and tamped it down with Dobie’s Four Square Mature. His man in London bought him tins of Dobie from a tobacconist in Pall Mall and dispatched them to Washington via the diplomatic bag – thus avoiding import duties. It was, thought Dulles, a good way to test diplo bag and courier security. That, at least, was his justification.

  As soon as his pipe was drawing well and filling his office with an aromatic haze, Dulles opened up the Director’s Log. Sometimes the pleasure of first reading was pre-coital, like the first sight of a young woman disrobing and the thought of what would ensue, or post-coital, the warm after-glow of a successful black op. For the DPP, intelligence operations and extra-marital sex were closely linked. Both were about the pleasure of exploring the unknown.

  Dulles’s man in London provided far more than pipe tobacco. He seemed to have penetrated the British Security Service to its very heart.

  Major General John Alexander Sinclair has won approval of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the Joint Intelligence Committee to replace Major General Sir Stewart Graham Menzies as Chief of the British Secret Service.

  The DPP sucked his pipe and frowned. He would miss Menzies whom he regarded as a wily coot. Menzies was a thorn in the side of the Labour Party, which from Washington’s perspective was a good thing. Dulles also suspected that Menzies had more to do than he ever admitted with the Zinoviev letter. The letter was a forgery, allegedly signed by Grigori Zinoviev, head of the Communist International, addressed to the Communist Party of Great Britain calling for a workers’ uprising. Copies of the forged letter were sent to the press four days before the 1924 general election scuppering Labour’s chances. Allen Dulles knew Sinclair only slightly, but he had heard that Sinclair was a man of ‘great personal integrity’. It was a quality that might be admirable in a husband, at least from the wife’s point of view, but Dulles wasn’t certain that ‘great personal integrity’ was the best character trait for the head of a secret intelligence service. The right-hand side of the Director’s Log was for ‘actions and comments’. Dulles uncapped his fountain pen and wrote a note for OSO (Office of Special Operations) London: Please send a frank assessment of Major General Sinclair. Opinions, please, from your contacts in MI5 and your man in SIS – and we need more contacts in the latter. AD. He went on the next item, which seemed indeed from SM/HOUND, OSO’s sole informant in SIS.