Catesby gave it a heave. It was heavy, but not impossible.
Bone switched on his head torch and disappeared into a vertical unlit shaft. Catesby followed him down a steel ladder.
As they reached the bottom, Bone said, ‘I hope they haven’t changed the combination.’ There was a heavy, round iron door that looked like the door to a bank vault. Bone began to turn the combination wheel. ‘If Charon is on duty you might have to put an obolus in your mouth to gain entry. If you haven’t got one, I’m sure a sixpence would do.’
‘Woof,’ said Catesby.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Cerebrus.’
‘You should have said, “woof, woof, woof” – Cerebrus has three heads.’
Catesby smiled bleakly at Bone’s compulsive one-upmanship as the door swung open smoothly with a hiss. The other side of the door was a brightly lit tunnel about twenty feet wide. Each side of the tunnel had layered racks laden with heavy cables.
‘This,’ said Bone, ‘is the main tunnel of Q-Whitehall – and they don’t call it the Styx, but simply Tunnel L. A lot of people know about this one. It requires so much engineering and maintenance that it’s impossible to keep its existence totally secret. Most of the cables were laid during the last war by the GPO and Signal Corps so that communications could be maintained during heavy bombing or an invasion.’
‘A lot of people at the MoD still complain about the drilling and noise.’
‘They shouldn’t. The bunkers and tunnels under the Admiralty and Horse Guards are being deepened and reinforced to provide protection against an atom bomb attack. Follow me. I’m going to show you some things you shouldn’t know about.’ Bone lowered his voice. ‘But may have to know someday.’
It was a short walk, only about five minutes, before Bone suddenly stopped and turned to Catesby. ‘How many side tunnels have we passed?’
‘One on the left and two on the right.’
‘Good. I’m glad you were counting.’ Bone turned right from the main tunnel into one that was dimly lit and about eight feet wide. After a hundred yards or so, Bone pointed to a steel door on the left, ‘That’s number 20, originally the Tithe Commission, now part of the Treasury.’
‘Should I be taking notes?’
‘Mentally, yes.’
They walked fifty more yards and came to an impressively heavy steel door that looked blast reinforced. That part of the tunnel was also better lit.
‘And that’s where they keep the gold bullion,’ said Catesby.
‘No, that’s where they keep the Prime Minister, Number 10.’
Catesby smiled. ‘There’s a doorbell.’
‘Yes, but I wouldn’t advise pressing it. This tunnel is an escape route, but it is frequently used when the PM wants to avoid press cameras and have a quiet chat with someone in Whitehall.’
‘He could pop over to Broadway Buildings for a cup of lapsang souchong.’
‘I think a strong brandy would be more likely – and he has visited.’ Bone paused. ‘Did you hear something?’
‘Movement behind the door – you shouldn’t have mentioned brandy.’
‘Let’s go. Our tour isn’t finished.’
Catesby and Bone retraced their steps to the lower bowels of Broadway Buildings. The air was warm and dry.
‘There are twelve miles of tunnel under Whitehall alone,’ said Bone.
‘Can we get under the Houses of Parliament?’
Bone smiled. ‘Absolutely not. Completely forbidden – for historical reasons. And, if there was a tunnel under the Palace of Westminster, I wouldn’t want to be found in it with a Catesby. Do you know, by the way, that Fawkes had stored twice as much gunpowder as was needed? If it had gone off the king’s head would have landed in the Oval cricket ground.’
‘So, in one way, not having a tunnel makes the Houses of Parliament more secure. But, in another way, it makes it more difficult for Members of Parliament to escape. If, say, there was a full sitting and … something awful happened. And having the river blocking one side makes it even more difficult.’
‘I am sure, Catesby, that there are people less loyal than yourself who have had the same thoughts – which is worrying. But if, say, there was a whiff of serious danger in the air, any MP with half a brain wouldn’t go near the Palace of Westminster.’
‘I suppose,’ said Catesby, ‘that the MPs not attending could be of two sorts: those who were part of a conspiracy and those who had very good intelligence antennae.’
‘Or those who were simply seriously paranoid. What’s wrong, you look pale?’
‘Are you sure we should be having this conversation?’
‘I wish we weren’t,’ said Bone, ‘but power is a poison – and even more deadly when it exists in confined spaces and among a group as small as…’
‘Our ruling class?’
Bone shook his head. ‘That’s the usual answer – and the ruling class may well decide the budget and how we conduct international relations. But who are the people on our beautiful island who could – in a fabricated emergency – actually take over?’
‘The military, the police, those in control of communications and transport, the press and the Security Service.’
‘Not bad, Catesby, not bad.’
‘Is there a tunnel that leads to Leconfield House?’
‘Would you like to break into the Registry?’
Catesby smiled. ‘Of course not.’
‘In fact, there is no tunnel to Leconfield House – and MI5 have always regarded it as a slight. They feel that not having direct access to Q-Whitehall somehow devalues them. But they do have machine-gun loops on the top floors. Most of the gun positions face north – as if the real threats would emanate from Islington, Hackney and Tottenham.’ They reached a tunnel junction. Bone pointed down a tunnel that was even more dimly lit and mysterious. ‘Which direction is that?’
‘To the west, towards Buckingham Palace.’
‘Well done. Who knows, Catesby? You may one day get a gong – and how impressive it would be if you, as a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service, turned up for your investiture through a trapdoor in the ballroom floor.’
One question that bothered Catesby was why Henry Bone had never been ‘gonged’. Most officers of his rank had been given, at the very least, OBEs.
‘We’re coming up to an important tunnel, Catesby. One of the most important.’
‘The Ritz Hotel – I’ve been there, you know.’
‘Who hasn’t? But the Ritz is too far north – as well as gauche and ostentatious. By the way, keep your voice down, it’s here.’
The tunnel branching off was wider and less obstructed than the other side tunnels. There was a slope with wooden slats that had a sprinkling of fine sand.
‘Look at that,’ said Catesby pointing with his head torch.
Bone frowned staring at the manure.
‘Have they got pit ponies down here?’
‘No, the cavalry have been exercising.’
They continued for another fifty yards until they came to a large steel door emblazoned with regimental colours. ‘That,’ said Bone, ‘leads to the Wellington Barracks.’
‘Ideally positioned, I suppose, to protect Her Majesty from subterranean attack.’
‘You ought, Catesby, to be running their press office.’
‘You think it could be something more sinister?’
Bone remained silent.
Catesby found himself breaking into a cold sweat.
‘How,’ said Bone, ‘would you block that door and this tunnel?’
It was Catesby’s turn to be silent.
‘We have, William, to think the unthinkable – it’s our job. What do you do if an army turns against its lawfully elected government? It happened in Spain.’
‘It’s not going to happen.’
‘You’re more optimistic than I am. We’d best be getting back.’
‘Aren’t you going to show me the underground entrance into Buc
k House?’
‘Actually, I’ve never seen it. But I’ve heard there’s an escape tunnel under Green Park and on to Heathrow.’ Bone gave a bleak smile. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, Catesby, but I don’t know every secret.’ Bone gave a sideways look. ‘There is, however, one more thing I have to show you.’
Bone led Catesby back to the main tunnel where they retraced their steps back towards Broadway Buildings. They came to a set of steps that led over the cables to a door. ‘Executive loo,’ said Bone taking out a key.
It was, indeed, an ordinary gents with urinals, cubicles and sinks. They both had pees and, while Catesby was washing his hands, Bone opened a door to a closet full of extra loo rolls and mops. ‘Look closely, Catesby, what do you see on the ceiling?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘It’s well hidden. What you need to do is press the end of a mop handle onto a spot two inches from the corner at thirty degrees. Just like this.’ Bone picked up a mop and demonstrated. At the precise point, the ceiling slightly gave way and there was a distinct click. ‘The opening button is covered by a circle of rubber which blends perfectly with the surrounding plaster. Then you push on this shelf with the bleach bottles and, hey presto.’ The back wall of the cleaning closet swung open. Bone reached in and flicked a light switch. Bare light bulbs revealed an austere dormitory of bunk beds in tiers of four. ‘It’s pretty basic,’ said Bone, ‘but this is the bunker of last resort.’
Catesby walked in and noted the thin grey blankets folded, Army barracks-style, on each thin mattress.
‘Sheets and pillow cases will be issued,’ said Bone. ‘There’s accommodation here for eighty-four of us. I’ll show you the rest of the complex.’
There was a large kitchen well supplied with tinned food, sterilised water and dried food in rat-proof containers. There were toilets and sinks, but no showers – and a small medical room with dressings, splints and morphine. The centrepiece was a ‘command and control room’ with maps, desks, telephones and radios. ‘We have wireless communication,’ said Bone, ‘provided no one discovers our ground-level antennas, which are connected to road signs for better reception and transmission – not that the signs would survive an attack with atom bombs.’
‘So this is a command centre for World War III?’
‘Of course it is. Otherwise we would never have got the funding – but we’ve adapted it for other contingencies. Come into the costume section.’
The room was long and narrow and packed with racks of clothes on hangers. There were military and police uniforms – and kit for firemen, posties and even bus drivers. There were also wigs and women’s frocks. ‘Our disguise specialist,’ said Bone picking a maternity dress from a rail, ‘thinks that SIS officers impersonating pregnant women are a sure way to deceive sinister forces.’
‘But we employ real pregnant women as well.’
‘We’ll have to disguise those as police constables with moustaches.’ Bone put the dress back. ‘This is all utterly absurd – but the next room isn’t.’
The room was seriously locked and bolted, but Bone had the key and knew the lock combination too. ‘This, Catesby, is where power ultimately resides.’
The room smelt of gun oil, but there were few standard rifles.
‘As you can see,’ said Bone, ‘the emphasis is on street fighting.’
Catesby noticed a predominance of compact submachine guns including Stens, Thompsons and Swedish Kpist 45s. There were also light machine guns and boxes of hand grenades. The most impressive arms, however, were the anti-tank weapons. ‘I’ve seen enough,’ said Catesby, ‘the whole thing makes me sick.’
‘You’ve had enough war?’
Catesby nodded.
‘There are some, however, who like it and can never get enough.’
‘I know, I’ve met them – but the worst war, the most soul-destroying, is civil war. Can we leave this place?’
Bone nodded towards the entrance and shut the armoury door behind Catesby. ‘I’m not surprised at your anti-war views, William, but you’re not a pacifist – you’ve killed people.’
Catesby stiffened. He wondered how much Bone knew about Bremen.
Bone continued, ‘And how do you square your views with the ruthless things we have to do as members of SIS?’
‘The people we use and betray are not innocent civilians. In this game, we are all players and know the rules. What we do in the shadows is far less violent than war.’
‘But how far would you go if things escalated beyond covert dirty tricks?’
Catesby didn’t answer.
Bone smiled, but his eyes turned to blue steel. Bone was a mysterious man with a mysterious past. He looked hard at Catesby and finally raised a clenched fist in salute. ‘¡No pasarán!’
For a second Catesby thought it was a joke. But the smile faded from Bone’s face and he remained with his clenched fist against his temple. Finally, Catesby realised what was expected of him. He raised his own clenched fist. ‘¡No pasarán!’
Washington: February, 1953
Eisenhower had been elected President the previous November. As a result, Allen Dulles and his brother Foster were appointed to two of the highest offices in the new administration. But in the end, Allen Dulles’s promotion to Director of Central Intelligence had left him with a mouth full of ashes. His only son, Allen Macy Dulles, had been seriously wounded by a mortar fragment ten days after the Eisenhower landslide. The shell fragment had penetrated the right side of his son’s head and it seemed likely that Allen Macy would be permanently brain damaged.
Dulles had just returned from visiting his son at Bethesda Naval Hospital. When he looked into the young man’s eyes he could see that his former son was no longer there. Life had played a dirty trick on him – and, as often happens to people, grief made the new DCI harder and more ruthless than before.
The top item on the agenda was Guatemala – followed, as always, by keeping Britain under Washington’s thumb. The code name of the operation to overthrow Guatemala’s Jacobo Árbenz was PB/SUCCESS. Dulles had chosen the code name himself and it was going to be nothing less than that. No quibble about Árbenz being elected by a landslide even larger than Eisenhower’s, he had to go. Dulles opened the Director’s Log to see the latest horror from Central America.
OSO Nueva Guatemala de la Asunción to DCI. Árbenz (ST/ANDEL) is determined to carry out his program of land reform. He refers to the peasants as ‘victims of debt-slavery’ – obviously parroting the language of Marxism. Árbenz’s latest policy is to expropriate large tracts of un-farmed private land and redistribute it to landless laborers. Just to show you how stupid he is, Árbenz himself has given up a large portion of his own land-holdings! This proposed land redistribution policy is greatly resented by UFCO (United Fruit Company), who had benefited greatly from Árbenz’s predecessor. UFCO has lobbied us to topple Árbenz – and pointed out that their investment in the entire region might be in danger if we do not act.
Dulles lit his pipe to calm his nerves, then picked up his pen: Is this the beginning of Soviet expansion in the Americas? One battalion of US Marines should be enough. The DCI went on to the next item in the log.
OSO London to DCI. The annoying thing about the Brits is that they always want to do things their own way – even when they’re on our side. The British equivalent of Operation Mockingbird is the IRD, Information Research Department, which is run by the FO. Do we need both? We could end up leaking information and payments to the same journalists.
But in the film industry, we certainly outsmarted the Brits in their own backyard. George Orwell’s Animal Farm is set for release next year. There is not a single fingerprint pointing at CIA funding. We’ve used go-betweens all the way and it looks like an authentic all-British production. Orwell, of course, was a socialist who was damning capitalism as well as Stalinism, so we’ve had to alter the script accordingly – and great credit to OSO operative E. Howard Hunt for masterminding the scripting. It’s going to be an o
utstanding example of anti-Communist PSYOP.
More good news: SM/REVEAL of the Daily Express remains firmly in our camp.
The new DCI had mixed feelings about the situation in Britain. British newspapers and British politicians could prove fickle. Dulles hoped that the US would never have to launch a PB/SUCCESS in the United Kingdom – and the best way of avoiding that was influencing the press, the politicians and even the trade union movement. Dulles went to the next log entry. It was from HICOG, High Commission Germany, and highlighted more Brit awkwardness.
OPC Pullach (POB) reports that WILLIAM CATESBY, the British rep at the BND negotiations, continues to be a ‘pain in the ass’. CATESBY has always been a ZIPPER (Gehlen Org) skeptic and opposes ZIPPER officially becoming the BND (Bundesnachrichtendienst, Federal Intelligence Agency.) CATESBY maintains that ZIPPER intelligence on Fremde Herr Ost (Foreign Armies East) is often out-of-date, easily acquired from open sources and sometimes wildly inaccurate. CATESBY’S own intelligence assessments are, we must reluctantly admit, often accurate and detailed (perhaps suspiciously so). When asked to share the personality data on his agents, CATESBY always replies that the files are held in London and he does not have access to them. When we request them through our London station, there are always delays and non-compliance.
On occasion CATESBY has had hot-headed arguments with members of Gehlen Org and General Gehlen himself in which CATESBY has insinuated that they have falsified their personal histories and war records.
Dulles put the log down and rubbed his forehead. There were skeletons to rattle in his own cupboard – few people at his level didn’t have them. And OPERATION PAPERCLIP was the biggest set of bones. After the war, Dulles had served as station chief in Berlin. In retrospect, he was given too much latitude on which Nazi scientists and intelligence officers should be helped to escape to the West. The biggest PAPERCLIP star was the rocket scientist Dr Wernher von Braun. Dulles knew that slave labour had been used in the rocket factories where von Braun had developed the V-2 rocket – and that as many as 20,000 of the slave labourers may have died from illness, harsh working conditions and executions. In an ideal world, von Braun should have been tried at Nuremberg. But they didn’t live in an ideal world and America needed rocket scientists. What concerned Dulles was that President Truman’s instructions about Nazi war criminals had been ignored by PAPERCLIP. And a lot of the Brits hadn’t been happy either. One British officer, normally a staunch US ally, had been furious because his wife and daughter had been killed by one of von Braun’s V-2 rockets. Dulles smiled grimly when he remembered the Scott quote that his father had so loved:
A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) Page 9
