A Very British Ending (Catesby Series)

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby saw it coming as he was walking back from the Rumburgh Buck. He liked going to a pub full of people who did useful things – like ploughing, looking after livestock, nursing, repairing tractors, cooking school meals and building houses. If you wanted someone to repair your electricity line or unblock your drains, the Rumburgh Buck would be a better place to find them than the common room at All Souls College Oxford – or anywhere in Whitehall. The people in the pub knew that Catesby was a Suffolk person, but they still treated him with suspicion – which is why he left after a single pint of bitter. Billy-No-Mates, he thought, as he set off down the lane with bleak frozen fields on either side. Hunched against the cold east wind, Catesby watched the sky turn a dirty yellow. It was an odd colour for a Suffolk sky. Then it began to snow, not the usual big wet flakes that melted as soon as they hit the ground, but small steely ones – and it didn’t stop.

  It was three o’clock in the morning on New Year’s Day and Catesby was alone in his draughty rambling house. He had gone to bed at 10 p.m. on New Year’s Eve and slept through the fireworks at a nearby farm. Midnight on New Year’s was, of course, the ideal time to shoot someone if you didn’t have a silencer for your gun. Catesby ran his fingers over his temples and forehead – there weren’t any holes. Otherwise, it would have been easier to sleep. He put on a dressing gown. It was absolutely freezing. When he went for a pee, he had to break the ice in the toilet bowl. Catesby went back to bed and crept under heaps of blankets. But he still couldn’t sleep – and it wasn’t just the cold. He got up again and went downstairs. A fire was still smouldering in the inglenook. Catesby picked up an old copy of the East Anglia Daily Times. He glanced again at the two leading news items. Harold Macmillan had agreed to buy Polaris missiles from the United States and the Beatles had become the first British band to reach Number One on the American charts. Catesby smiled. It was a trade-off – and, as usual, the Americans had got the better end of the deal. He crunched up the newspaper, piled on kindling and poked the fire back into life.

  The early hours of New Year’s Day were always a time for personal reflection. Even though Catesby had moved up the career ladder and was in line for an OBE, his position was precarious. The hoof-beats of the dark knights of comeuppance always echoed in the distance. The OBE was in recognition of the role he had played in helping resolve the Cuban Missile Crisis. Catesby had ping-ponged back and forth between London, Havana and Washington more as a back channel diplomat than as a spy. No one, thought Catesby, would ever know how close the world had come to nuclear war. And he realised that most of the credit for averting the nuclear apocalypse belonged to a KGB general who sacrificed his life and to a submarine officer called Vasili Arkhipov. Unlike war, peace required heroes on both sides.

  In the course of his career, Catesby had made a lot of enemies with scores to settle. It probably wasn’t a brilliant idea being alone in a remote rural cottage – especially at night. At first, Catesby had taken precautions. During times of particular paranoia, he set warning devices along the path to his house. The devices varied from tins with stones in them to loud electronic alarms. When the neighbours began to gossip about jealous husbands and London villains that had it in for him, Catesby decided to abandon the warning alarms. Instead he kept his Browning 9mm close at hand, but he wished that he still had his old Webley revolver – they never jammed. The Webley, of course, had blood on it – and Catesby had made sure that it had been melted down. He didn’t want a forensic team to have a look at it at the eleventh hour.

  In a way, the dark knight of death was the one Catesby feared least – and there were times when he would have greeted him with a welcome. But the other dark knights stalking him were the ugly ones, the ones who preferred torture and humiliation to a clean kill. The knights were prison, dismissal, exposure and shame. Catesby had never been a traitor, even though he had covered up for those who were. When shapes changed so often in the mists of bluff and double bluff that Catesby wasn’t always certain what he had done. But he had protected his sister and would never regret that.

  Catesby was less of an outsider than he had been in the early years – and the OBE would prove it. Maybe, he thought, a gong went with the house. Catesby had bought the property from a retired colonel who also had an OBE. And now money was no problem either. Catesby, as an SEO, made twice the average male wage – and had little to spend it on. But most important, and satisfying to his vanity, was having influence. He was often co-opted to JIC, Joint Intelligence Committee, and sometimes asked to write reports for the committee, which were thoughtfully discussed. Catesby’s intelligence analyses maintained that the Soviet threat to Britain and Western Europe was greatly exaggerated. His views playing down the Russian threat didn’t make him popular with the barking anti-Commie brigade. But Catesby fastidiously supported his analyses with statistics, facts and constantly updated intelligence. He eventually won over a general and a Tory MP. There were, however, still those who regarded Catesby as a closet Lefty – and probably worse.

  He got up and drew the curtains. Catesby reckoned the retired colonel from whom he bought the house might have known more about him than he let on. The colonel, after showing Catesby around the property prior to the sale, winked and touched his nose. He made sure that no one was looking before he unveiled it. The safe was brilliantly hidden. The only gems that Catesby kept in it were documents that he shouldn’t have – and it was time for a New Year’s inventory. It was a serious disciplinary offence to keep them in his home, but many of the docs were there for Catesby’s own protection – to prove that he hadn’t been acting without authority. Copies of documents like that had a funny way of going missing when there was an enquiry. The important thing about the JIC document was the list of signatures affirming that Catesby’s views had been openly presented.

  JOINT INTELLIGENCE COMMITTEE REVIEW OF SOVIET MILITARY CAPABILILITIES AND INTENTIONS AGAINST UK AND WESTERN EUROPE

  UK EYES BRAVO: STRAP 2 CAN/AUS/US EYES ONLY

  LEDGER DISTRIBUTION:

  FO – PUSD

  CABINET OFFICE

  ODA US EMBASSY

  CANADIAN HIGH COMMISSION

  AUSTRALIAN HIGH COMMISSION

  1 DECEMBER 1962

  FROM: WILLIAM CATESBY, HEAD OF PRODUCTION SECTION EASTERN EUROPE AND WEST GERMANY, SECRET INTELLIGENCE SERVICE

  This estimate reaffirms previous judgements that the USSR does not at present intend to initiate military action against Western Europe and the United Kingdom and is not now preparing for a general war at any particular future date.

  During the last ten years there has been a substantial decrease in Soviet troop levels from a high of 5.4 million in 1953 to a middle estimate of 3.8 million today. Khrushchev’s claim of 4.8 million troops is clearly false and in line with previous exaggerations about ICBM capabilities. The infantry and tank divisions deployed in Eastern Europe and the Democratic Republic of Germany are, in most cases, severely under strength. Many of the formations are divisions in name only. The intention seems to be to deceive the West as to actual troop numbers.

  There are sixty operational airfields in the Baltic/East German region capable of serving heavy and light bombers. The number of heavy bombers deployed in the region has halved since 1959 and the light bombers are down by a third.

  Although there has been a decrease in Soviet conventional forces, there has been an increase in nuclear forces in the region. This development, in the context of fewer tanks and troops, suggests a strategy focused on deterrence and defence. Although there is little or no danger of a deliberate offensive strike from Soviet forces, there is a high danger of accidental war as the result of the USSR misreading Western intentions. The Kremlin is clearly bluffing about Soviet military capabilities. The more astute Soviet and East Bloc intelligence officers are aware that Western intelligence officers know that the Soviet leaders are bluffing. The great fear among Soviet commanders is that the West, having perceived Soviet military weakness, will launch a pre-empti
ve strike. A Soviet response to a real or falsely perceived imminent attack by the West would completely devastate Britain and Western Europe. It is essential that Western military commanders make absolutely certain that military exercises – or surveillance over-flights of Soviet territory – are not construed as preludes to an attack.

  Intelligence reports also suggest that there are tensions between Khrushchev and the Soviet high command. Khrushchev’s economic reforms are aimed at cutting military expenditure in order to meet the pressing needs and rising expectations of the civilian economy. Sabre-rattling on the part of Western leaders would strengthen the hand of the Soviet military.

  In summary, Soviet military strategy has two objectives: deterring a Western attack and preserving its East European buffer zone. It is important that the West does not confuse traditional Russian geo-political interests – hegemony over the Baltic and Eastern Europe – with an ideological campaign to spread Communism. In fact, the Kremlin is just as hostile to Communist rivals – such as China and Yugoslavia – as it is to Western Capitalism.

  This paper was discussed by JIC and approved on date.

  Catesby smiled and put the paper back in its folder. The Americans couldn’t complain. In fact, he had cribbed the first paragraph from a CIA report. Dealing with the Americans, Catesby had come to realise, was like working with someone who had schizophrenia or some sort of multiple personality disorder. He was convinced that every American intelligence agency had a Team A and a Team B. Team A were, generally, rational and sane. They were willing to consider détente and nuclear test ban treaties. They were pleasant to know socially – and even had a sense of humour. Team A types often had an interest in the arts and could speak a language or two. In the aftermath of the Cuban Missile Crisis, Kennedy had begun to lean towards Team A. Team B, on the other hand, thought that Kennedy ‘chickened out’ over Cuba and should have let the missiles fly. While Team A were in favour of containing the Soviet Union, Team B wanted to roll it back. Catesby dipped back into the safe to find a CIA Team B document that had been circulated prior to a JIC. It had the rather bizarre name of ‘The Soviet Strategic Military Posture’. Posture? Catesby wondered if the CIA imagined that Soviet soldiers adopted various poses before they struck: the malevolent lean-forward; the deceptive slouch; the coiled crouching spring. It was a document that revealed more about the Americans than it did the Russians.

  The aim of the Soviet Union is world domination and they will pay any price to achieve this. That it was a Communist rocket that first ventured into space proves to them that they are marching in the vanguard of history. They think they see a response to their doctrines and influence in the revolutionary struggles of Asia, Africa and Latin America. The Soviet leaders expect to associate the peoples emerging from colonialism and backwardness with their own cause, mobilizing them against a more constricted world position of the Western states. The relative stability of Britain and Western Europe at present they see only as a transient phrase.

  Catesby stared into the fire. The Team B Americans seemed unaware that Trotsky’s scheme for world revolution had been rejected long before Trotsky had been murdered with an ice axe. Since then, the Soviet Union had turned into a paranoid and inward-looking state. Catesby reflected – and not for the first time – what would have happened if Trotsky had come to power instead of Stalin. And what role, thought Catesby, would he himself have played in such an alternative universe? Despite the cold, he felt a tingle of sweat rolling down his spine. Catesby got up. It was after all New Year’s. He went to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a brandy.

  Catesby had never been a big fan of JFK, but hoped that Kennedy would rein in the Team B faction. They were already spoiling for a fight in Laos and Vietnam – which, Catesby was certain, would end badly for the Americans. Team B were touting something called ‘The Domino Theory’. The problem, as Catesby well knew, was that the British intelligence services were also divided into Team A and Team B. The big danger – and it was already happening – was that the British Team B would link up with the American Team B.

  The battles between allies and friends are always more vicious than battles between enemies. It’s painfully evident at National Day receptions when embassies roll out booze and food to celebrate. The NATO dips always get on better with the Warsaw Pact dips than they do with their own side. Embassy receptions are also notorious for recruiting double agents or defectors. Catesby remembered a St Patrick’s Day bash when a Sov dip swayed up to him reeking of Jameson and said, ‘Are you thinking of defecting?’

  Catesby shrugged and said, ‘No, I can’t be bothered.’

  ‘Good choice,’ said the Sov, ‘my country is shit.’ He then headed back to the bar for a refill.

  At first, Catesby had assumed that the diplomat was pretending to be drunk and playing a double game. Perhaps, the Sov wanted Catesby to think he was disaffected and ripe for recruiting – and when they met again, the fake double would pass on disinformation. It happened all the time. But on reflection, Catesby could see that the Russian really was drunk and meant what he said. On the other hand, the world of spying was a maze of mirrors where gut instincts, warmth and sincerity could be just as false as a string of fake pearls. The problem is: you have to cut the pearl in half to see if it’s genuine.

  In an odd sort of way, the sanest people in the international power game were the arms dealers. They weren’t interested in ideology, even if they mouthed the slogans, they were interested in profit.

  Catesby’s rise in status inevitably meant more Christmas cards. He turned to the mantelpiece above the fire and looked again at the one from the Wilsons. He loved it because it was so splendidly non-Christmassy. It was a family photo that had been taken the previous summer on the Isles of Scilly. It included Harold and Mary, their two sons – who had grown very tall. Catesby loved the solid ordinariness of the card – absolutely no pretentiousness.

  Catesby counted the cards. There were forty-one altogether, not bad for an estranged husband living alone. He wondered if he got more Christmas cards than Henry Bone. He would ask when he got back to London. Bone had, in fact, shown him one of his cards – after warning Catesby that the card was more hush-hush than the most secret document. It was from Kim Philby in Beirut. It featured the Three Wise Men on camels in a starlit desert. Philby had drawn an arrow pointing to the third wise man and written, ‘That’s me!’ A very dangerous joke, but typical of Philby’s arrogance. The fire was now warming the room. Catesby poured himself another drink and was soon dozing on the sofa.

  Catesby didn’t know how long he had been asleep when he heard a tapping at the window. He wished it was the ghost of a woman he had loved and betrayed so he could say sorry, but he reached for his pistol in case it wasn’t. The wisteria needed pruning. It was probably a loose branch in the wind – but there wasn’t any wind. Catesby turned out the light and went into the boot room. He silently slipped on a pair of wellies. The tapping was there again – it was a very persistent wisteria branch. Catesby put on a heavy coat and slipped the Browning automatic into one pocket and a torch into another. He wrapped a scarf around his face as camouflage and made his way to a back door.

  The cold was piercing and the snow was crisp. The utter silence was broken by the long woo of a male tawny owl – a few seconds later the shrill shriek of a female tawny answered. Catesby paused and said to himself, ‘What the fuck?’ The owl noises were mating calls – and tawny owls don’t mate until March. He stood still and reached for the Browning in his pocket. On cue, the male owl hooted and a second later the female gave a long response – and they both seemed to be calling from the same place. Catesby didn’t know how to creep silently in crisp snow. Instead, he drew his automatic and ran quickly around to the front of the house. There was a dark figure standing next to the window. Catesby knew it would be rash to pull the trigger, so he flicked on the torch instead.

  She was smiling and had something that looked like a recorder in her hand. She put it to her
mouth and the night was pierced again by the mating call of the female tawny owl. She reached out with her other hand, which was holding a second recorder-like thing. ‘Here,’ she said, ‘this one does the male tawny. Why don’t you blow it?’

  ‘Happy New Year, Frances.’

  ‘And Happy New Year to you, William.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I walked over from Dunwich – it was beautiful when the moon was out.’

  Catesby took the male tawny whistle from Frances and blew a good long woo. His estranged wife replied with hers.

  ‘They were stocking fillers,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they clever?’

  ‘But we’ve hopelessly confused the local owl population.’

  ‘I think they’ve ignored it – as they do must human eccentricity.’

  ‘Speaking of human eccentricity, why are you here?’

  ‘Because I wanted a walk in the cold beautiful night – and because I thought you might be lonely on New Year’s morning.’

  ‘I’m never lonely.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘You’ve never seen the ghosts.’

  ‘Which ghosts, William?’

  ‘Don’t ask.’

  ‘Nothing has changed, but I was so hoping it had.’

  ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I’m glad that you’re here. Please come in.’

  ‘I don’t want to impose on you, William. Maybe I should turn around and leave you in peace. I am exhausted, but I will walk back and most likely collapse in a heap on the footpath – and then freeze to death orphaning my children.’

  ‘That wouldn’t be fair. Let’s go in.’

  They sat in silence for a few minutes basking in the glow of the inglenook fire. Catesby spoke first. ‘I’ll make up a spare bed for you.’