‘I know.’
It wasn’t a big exhibition. Most of the paintings were works that hadn’t been shown before. Many were nudes.
‘As you know,’ said Bone as they walked through the gallery, ‘Grant was influenced by the Post-Impressionists, but couldn’t be described as one. He was, and remains, far more radical than most critics realise.’
There was one nude of Vanessa Bell, but most were of men – often beautiful young men. Catesby stopped in front of a male nude that was only a torso – the head and lower legs were not visible.
‘I bet,’ said Catesby, ‘that one is a self-portrait. That’s why you can’t identify the sitter.’
‘I don’t think so.’ There was a faint smile on Bone’s face, a smile of nostalgia. He would never admit that he was looking at the body of his younger self. ‘I think your being in the Tate, Henry, is just as much of an honour as your great-great grandfather hanging in the National Portrait Gallery.’
‘Let’s move on,’ said Bone, ‘there are far more interesting paintings.’
After an hour they emerged from the gallery on to the Embankment. The weather was clear, but still bitterly cold. The Thames was in full ebb and a stiff easterly breeze whipped up the river into white horses.
‘The Fournier debriefings,’ said Bone turning up his collar, ‘continue to reveal gems – although in some cases, jewels that we would rather had never existed.’
Catesby sensed an ominous note in Bone’s voice, but, as usual, he knew that Bone wouldn’t unveil the reason for the dark note until he was ready. Bone was a master at keeping people twisting on tenterhooks.
‘Now,’ said Bone, ‘let’s look again at the bright shining gems from Chez Fournier.’
‘The identity of the SIS mole is absolutely priceless.’
‘Do you mean,’ said Bone with a bleak smile, ‘that there is only one mole chez nous?’
‘I mean only one mole who was spying for Washington.’
Bone gave another bleak smile. ‘And, by the way, Catesby, please don’t agree with the Americans when they accuse SIS of being the London branch of Moscow Central. They don’t understand irony – particularly your irony.’
‘I wasn’t being ironic.’
‘Touché. Let’s get back to SM/HOUND.’
‘Totally barking and fanatically right-wing. I’m not surprised that Fournier revealed him as the CIA mole. Was he pushed out?’
‘No, he left of his own volition. He thought Macmillan was dangerously left-wing.’
‘God knows what he would think of a Wilson government.’
‘He will be a problem. JJ,’ said Bone using the initials by which HOUND was generally known in SIS, ‘has already linked up with a few very right-wing groups.’
‘What’s he doing for money?’
‘He’s topping up his pension as a consultant to a merchant bank.’
‘Passing on secrets that could be useful for insider trading?’
‘I’d rather not comment.’
Catesby remembered a vile and embarrassing rant that JJ had delivered in the senior officers’ canteen in the bowels of Broadway Buildings the year before he retired. JJ later printed it off as a pamphlet, a sort of farewell letter. Catesby had kept a copy. At the centre of JJ’s rant were accusations of ‘moral degeneracy’. JJ had somehow linked homosexuality with non-white immigration and Communist infiltration to explain Britain’s decline into lawlessness and corruption. It was, according to JJ, the role of the spy to put things right by covert action to override the failures of parliament, diplomats and priests. An old hand from the Middle East and Africa P section had leaned over to Catesby and whispered, ‘We all need a jolly good spanking. Your place or mine?’
‘Another of Fournier’s jewels,’ continued Bone, ‘is the identity of SM/DOGGED.’
‘But we always knew it was him.’ Catesby had long suspected that Ferret was leaking information to the CIA and selected members of the press.
‘But we now know there is also a close bond between DOGGED and FURIOSO.’
‘Angleton.’
‘I prefer calling him FURIOSO. It also turns out that FURIOSO suspected Fournier long before we did – but then again, he suspects everyone. I am sure that FURIOSO’s bosses realise there are mental problems, but they seem powerless to do anything about it. He is dangerous.’
Catesby suspected that there was a transatlantic battle going on between Bone and Angleton, but he wasn’t going to mention it.
Bone stared across the river towards Vauxhall. ‘I used to scull and row past here. The school used to keep the boats at Putney – and, I believe, still do. There’s nothing like a vigorous row on a cold clear spring morning. Do you know the difference, Catesby, between sculling and rowing?’
‘You scull with two oars, one in each hand. You row with both hands on one oar.’
‘Good. You love boats, don’t you?’
Catesby nodded.
‘The problem with spying,’ said Bone, ‘is that we’re almost always rowing and not sculling. We’re not in control of the boat. We hope the other oars are pulling in the same direction, but we can never be sure. And if something – or someone – goes wrong, we all sink.’
Catesby reminded silent. He pretended to be entranced by the river, but he was really thinking about Bone. Could he be the rogue oarsman?
‘The wretched EMPUSA,’ continued Bone, ‘appeared on the scene long after Fournier was out of the loop. Sadly, he can’t give us any background – but one can deduce that EMPUSA’s theatrical ravings have found an appreciative audience in paranoid FURIOSO.’
Catesby detected a defensive note in Bone’s voice and manner.
‘Do you know,’ said Bone, ‘that EMPUSA is coming to London for a debriefing?’
‘I had heard rumours.’
‘The situation has to be handled with delicacy – politeness and not even a hint of a wry smile.’
‘On the other hand,’ said Catesby, ‘provoking him could bring forth even more bizarre accusations.’
‘But that would make us look as if we had something to hide – and we were trying to cover up by provoking him to get him angry and irrational.’
‘We’ll play it your way, Henry.’
‘But we might not even get invited to the debrief.’ Bone stopped walking and looked at Catesby. ‘But there is one more thing – and it concerns you directly.’
Catesby braced himself against the cold wind.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Bone, ‘why Fournier didn’t mention this sooner. Perhaps, he thought no one would believe him – and it does seem bizarre.’
‘I can’t imagine,’ lied Catesby, ‘what he was talking about.’
Bone took a deep breath. ‘Fournier claims that you murdered a Nazi war criminal in Bremen in May 1951. The victim was a PAPERCLIP German the Americans wanted to ratline to South America. Fournier said his plan was to swap the war criminal for information about Harold Wilson and his sending Rolls-Royce jet engines to the Soviet Union. The Americans, as Fournier now realises, got the wrong end of the stick about Wilson and the engines.’
‘But that doesn’t make any difference if you want to smear someone.’
‘That’s another matter. Let’s get back to you, William. Fournier says that you refused to give him any insider information about Wilson, presumably because you didn’t have any?’
Catesby nodded.
‘In any case, Fournier decided to let you have the PAPERCLIP war criminal after all.’
‘Why?’
‘For two reasons. Fournier was disillusioned with the PAPERCLIP op and thought the war criminal deserved it. But less idealistically, Fournier wanted to get back at you. He thought you had burgled his flat – but couldn’t be sure. In retrospect,’ smiled Bone, ‘he thinks you’re innocent.’
‘I am. I paid a Putzfrau to do it.’
‘Fournier says he now regrets doing it, but…’
‘But what?’
‘He passed on the det
ails of you murdering the war criminal to his boss. Of course, Fournier sanitised his version of the story so that he had nothing at all to do with you getting hold of the PAPERCLIP German.’
Catesby smiled. ‘Typically Kit.’
‘Fournier told his boss that your murder of the German could be used as a blackmail lever against you at sometime in the future.’ Bone paused and looked hard at Catesby. ‘What I can’t understand is why Fournier would concoct such an absurd story. What does he have to gain by telling lies in his situation?’
Catesby looked down the river.
‘Is he lying, William?’
Catesby shook his head.
‘Why did you do it?’
‘I wanted to put the ghosts of Oradour-sur-Glane to rest.’
‘Did it work?’
‘No.’
‘There is, William, one disturbing new development.’
‘Go on.’
‘JJ knows about it. Not all of his new friends are as mad and right-wing as he is. One of them, whom I know slightly – from rowing actually – says that JJ refers to you as “Killer Catesby”. JJ is passing around a rumour that you killed the PAPERCLIP Nazi because he had information linking you – and myself – to Maclean and Burgess. Apparently, we’re part of the same ring.’
‘And Harold Wilson?’
‘Of course, and one prominent Tory politician is also on the list. JJ hates Edward Heath.’
‘I think we know why.’
‘It’s madness, William – almost a form of rabies.’
‘How do you suppose JJ found out?’
‘I’m sure that FURIOSO has Fournier’s file on the incident stowed away in his safe. He might have leaked it to DOGGED who passed it on to JJ. FURIOSO’s grand plan is to turn Five into the CIA’s London branch and to do away with us altogether.’
‘By the way, Henry, there is no evidence linking me to the murder. The forensic files are now at the bottom of the River Weser. I blackmailed the Kriminalpolizist in charge of the case to deep-six them. He was involved in the black market and also lied about his Nazi past on his denazification questionnaire.’ Catesby gave a bleak smile. ‘Maybe I should have shot him too.’
‘You still might have to – oh what a web we weave.’
‘So where do we go from here?’
‘We make our enemies look like completely mad idiots.’
‘Even when they’re not?’
Bone smiled. ‘Especially when they’re not.’
Leconfield House, London: July, 1963
The meeting was over and Hollis and Bone were the only ones left in the conference room at the Security Service HQ. Roger Hollis had been head of the service since 1956 and was feeling battered. Bone had been at the meeting to deputise for the head of SIS – so it wasn’t strange that the pair should have lingered behind for a chat. And yet, there had been a few knowing glances exchanged as the others filed out of the room.
‘He’s costing us a lot of money,’ said Hollis rubbing his eyes, ‘ten thousand pounds into his Swiss bank account every month he’s in England – and taking up our best safe house. They say if you pay peanuts you get monkeys; well we’re paying gold bullion and getting nothing but unsubstantiated rumours.’
The purpose of the meeting had been to give EMPUSA a stage from which to address the heads of SIS and MI5 as well as members of JIC and the Privy Council.
‘And,’ said Hollis, ‘I’m sure you’ve heard that he also wants to interview the Prime Minister and the cabinet – all of them.’
‘And the Queen.’
‘He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t here.’ Hollis looked at his notes. ‘If I may, Henry, let me summarise EMPUSA’s version of Moscow Central’s cunning plan for taking over the United Kingdom. Please let me know if I leave anything out.’
‘Of course, Roger.’
‘Stage one was the assassination of Hugh Gaitskell, a friend of Washington and an enemy of the undercover Communists posing as members of the Labour Party. Thank you, by the way, for sending me Catesby’s report on systemic lupus erythematosus. How revealing that it isn’t a rare disease and not one that would generate concern as a cause of death. But, Henry, I’ve gone one up on you. I’ve now obtained a copy of Gaitskell’s post-mortem – and no lupus cells were found in his body. He died of a condition called ‘immune complex deficiency’ – an even more common condition, but one that resembles lupus.’ Hollis smiled. ‘But before I had the autopsy report, I contacted an imminent virus specialist who said it was completely impossible to devise a lupus poison pill or spray.’ Hollis paused. ‘Are you still with me?’
Bone nodded.
‘So let me summarise EMPUSA’s allegation. The KGB bumped off Gaitskell using a pill that is impossible to fabricate in order to induce a rare disease – which isn’t rare in any case – and a disease which, it turns out, Gaitskell didn’t have in the first place.’
‘I couldn’t put it better myself.’
‘I bet you could, Henry. But where are we now?’
‘With Harold Wilson.’
‘Now that Gaitskell is out of the way, the KGB had to manoeuvre their long-term sleeper-agent into becoming leader of the Labour Party. Not easy, because the person most likely to succeed Gaitskell was the deputy leader George Brown, a right-winger and fervent anti-Communist. I am sure you noticed that EMPUSA didn’t explain how the KGB got James Callaghan to stand in the first round and split the Gaitskellite vote.’
‘But he did say there was widespread concern among Labour MPs about Brown’s drinking.’
‘Fair enough. But the KGB still have to get Wilson into 10 Downing Street – and this is where it gets dirty.’ Hollis paused and stared at Bone. ‘And affects me personally. What do you know, Henry?’
‘I know that you’re being blamed for warning Kim that it was time to do a fade. But I’m being blamed for that too – and so is most of SIS.’
Hollis laughed. ‘It’s almost as if we were part of a pantomime audience: They’re behind you, Kim!’
Bone smiled bleakly. There might be some truth in Hollis’s words.
‘Did you know,’ said Hollis, ‘that my own staff have put me under surveillance?’
‘I have heard rumours.’
‘And I can’t do anything about it, because if I ordered the surveillance to be stopped, it would prove that I had something to hide, that I was a Sov agent.’
Bone gave a sympathetic smile. As far as he knew, Hollis had nothing to hide, other than the fact that he was having a long-term affair with his secretary. If, thought Bone, Hollis had a fault, it was not being ruthless enough.
Hollis seemed to have read Bone’s thoughts. ‘I have one officer in particular, and a few others, who ought to be disciplined – or even dismissed. But once again, if I do so, it will cast suspicion on me, that I got rid of them to protect myself.’ Hollis smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry, Henry, I digress. The next stage in Moscow’s grand plan is…?
‘Profumo.’
‘Totally agree. EMPUSA maintains that the KGB is choreographing the so-called Profumo scandal in order to discredit the Conservatives and get Labour elected next year. The Ivanov angle suggests that Tory ministers cannot be trusted with government secrets because they will pass the secrets on to their girlfriends who will then share them with their Russian boyfriends. How utterly absurd.’ Hollis paused. ‘And now I’m being accused of not having warned Profumo.’
‘A bit unfair.’
‘They’re out to get me, Henry. I’m going to retire as soon as I get to sixty – I’ve had enough. And, by the way, Macmillan has had enough too – the Profumo affair has worn him out. He’s going to step down in the autumn.’ Hollis smiled. ‘Macmillan was never a big fan of the intelligence services. He once told me that the government could save a lot of money by simply sending cabinet minutes and other secrets directly to Moscow and cutting out the middlemen.’
‘Dour.’
‘I suppose, Henry, that you are already aware that EMPUSA has a
big supporter in FURIOSO. It was love at first sight and they are now walking hand in hand into a sunset of shared paranoia.’
‘And power.’
Hollis nodded and looked at his notes. ‘It’s easy to be Nostradamus when you’re vague. Here’s what EMPUSA predicted when he first defected: An unknown political leader in an unknown country will be assassinated by the KGB.’
Rock Spring, Arlington, Virginia: 22 November 1963
It was a large detached house with a huge garden. The people who lived in the neighbourhood were the Washington elite: high-ranking government officials, members of Congress, lobbyists, consultants and the press corps. Despite the news, it was still a beautiful late autumn day and the air smelt of bonfire smoke. Angleton was a keen gardener and had a greenhouse full of rare and prize orchids. Orchids were the undercover agents of the natural world disguising themselves as bees and other insects in order to honey-trap unwitting pollinators.
Most of the neighbours were glued to the rolling television news about Kennedy’s assassination, but James Angleton was tidying up his garden. It was unusual for him to be home so early and before dark. He often stayed at the office until 10 p.m. or later – and the couple living nearest him did think it odd that he would be home so early on such a traumatic day. ‘Perhaps,’ said the wife, ‘he just needs time to himself, to get away from it all. It’s so awful.’
Any other neighbour watching Angleton would assume he was burning leaves and cuttings. But, amid the garden detritus, there was also a top secret 201 file turning into ash and smoke. Angleton’s file on Lee Harvey Oswald was completely toxic and had to go.
London: 24 November 1963
It was only the second time Catesby had seen someone shot at close range – and the first time he hadn’t been the person pulling the trigger.
It was a Sunday and Catesby had gone to Frances’s flat for supper and to see the twins who were home from university. After supper, they turned on the television to see the news. As a family they didn’t normally watch television, but recent events had made viewing compelling. The world was still reeling from the Kennedy assassination and the news was full of it to the exclusion of almost everything else. Aldous Huxley, the author of Brave New World and a writer Catesby much admired for his pacifism and humanism, had also died on 22 November, but Huxley’s death had been scarcely reported. A lesson to be learned, thought Catesby. If you want a good obituary, don’t die on the same day that a glamorous American President gets his brains blown out.
A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) Page 18
