‘What would you like to see after that?’
‘A new world order based on religion and monarchy. The Great Khan, by the way, was tolerant of most religions. Like myself, he was a Tengrist, a follower of a religion that combines shamanism with animism and ancestor cults. Tengrist shamans have the power of prophecy – and so do I.’
‘What can you prophesy?’
‘I prophesy that I am going to have some of that lunggoi katsa.’ KHAN smiled and spooned a large portion of stewed sheep’s head into his bowl. ‘Thank you for arranging Tibetan food. I am a great admirer of all things Tibetan and a practitioner of Tibetan Buddhism as well as Tengrism.’
Angleton smiled. They hadn’t been able to find any Mongolian caterers who were security cleared for the safe house, but CIA regularly used the Tibetan cooks when the Dalai Lama or his brothers, Tak-teer and Gayalo, were guests at the house. Tibet had been part of a strategy to roll back Red China.
‘But,’ said KHAN, ‘I will give you another prophesy – and one that may well happen within our own present incarnations.’
Jim Angleton poured himself another bourbon. The safe house drinks cupboard was well stocked with beverages other than the yak butter tea that KHAN was happy with.
‘Tengri,’ said KHAN, ‘is the force which determines everything from rain or snow to the fate of nations and empires.’
Angleton knew it was best not to press him about the prophecy that he had promised. He could see that KHAN was difficult to predict. The Tengrist admirer of Tibet hadn’t turned up in a Mongol caftan, but in a perfectly cut Savile Row suit. On the other hand, KHAN wore a Genghis-style beard and had his hair tied back into a bun.
‘Tengrism,’ continued KHAN, ‘was once the predominant religion of Central Asia. Its spread followed the Great Khan’s conquests. One must not forget that the Mongols invaded and lay waste to much of Bulgaria, Hungary and Poland – and annihilated all of the major cities of Russia.’ KAHN paused and stared at his host with a look that seemed oddly sane and reasoned. ‘I prophesy that the Soviet Union will fall by the end of this century and that the new millennium will see Communism and other forms of godless materialism replaced by religion.’
‘You speak of materialism with contempt,’ said Angleton, ‘and yet Genghis Khan needed currency, gold and other financial assets to carry out his great conquests.’
‘Money is a means to an end,’ smiled KHAN, ‘not an end in itself.’
‘And you have access to huge quantities of it.’
KHAN wiped his lips and sipped his yak butter tea.
Angleton could see that he was a person of refinement and breeding – and far from mad. Later they would talk about poetry.
‘Yes,’ said KHAN, ‘I am rich, but my personal fortune is of no importance.’
‘You manage the money and assets of others.’
‘Of course,’ said KHAN, ‘it is part of our plan to bring down Communism. Communists are hopeless with wealth. They destroy it rather than create it. Look what Stalin did to the kulaks. It is fine to rid a country of useless mouths, but not of those who produce.’
‘And what of artists – and works of art?’ Angleton fixed KHAN with a knowing stare.
‘We love art, but something in your look suggests you know about the scandal.’
Angleton nodded.
‘The people I represent were very upset. In fact, I was cheated myself. But I believe the dealer responsible is no longer with us.’
‘The art dealer was killed in a car crash in Spain.’ Angleton smiled. ‘I knew him. The circumstances were suspicious – and there are those who say it was an act of revenge carried out by ODESSA.’
KHAN remained silent.
‘The enemy of your enemy is your friend,’ said Angleton. ‘And ODESSA have no greater enemy than Communism. It was Communism that destroyed their land and raped their women.’
‘What are you offering?’
‘Britain, once the world’s greatest empire, is falling apart. The Labour Party and the trade unions are controlled directly from Moscow. Britain will be the next domino to fall to Communism.’
‘I once met…’
‘William Catesby?’
KHAN nodded.
‘Catesby deceived you. He is a long-serving Soviet double agent.’
‘I am disappointed.’
‘But we have true friends in Britain; friends who can reverse the rot.’ Angleton paused. ‘Can you help them?’
‘My friends might be interested – tell me how.’
Angleton told him.
Agency News: 11 September 1973
Salvador Allende, President of Chile, Overthrown in Military Coup
Salvador Allende, the world’s first democratically elected Marxist head of state, has died in a revolt led by Army generals.
It is still not clear how the Chilean President met his death. One report says that he committed suicide rather than surrender to the Army commanders who were bombing and besieging the presidential palace. The siege began when tanks opened fire after President Allende had rejected an ultimatum to resign.
Martial law has been declared throughout Chile and a curfew has been imposed. Tanks continued to blast buildings in the city centre until early evening in an attempt to root out pro-Allende supporters who were still holding out. Helicopters repeatedly machine-gunned the top floors of buildings near the British embassy. Bullets ripped through the windows of the embassy – but no casualties were reported.
Century House, Lambeth, London: 12 September 1973
Catesby was depressed. He had just read the cables from Santiago – and they were grim. In a way, thought Catesby slipping on his Machiavellian mask, it was a pity that no one had been hurt at the embassy – not seriously, of course. It would have given HM Government an excuse to make a diplomatic protest against the junta.
It was still too soon to know how the Foreign Office was going to react to the coup, but Catesby suspected that, after some wriggling, the FCO would give their blessing to the junta. When the smoke cleared, it was all about business and exports.
The Western Hemisphere wasn’t really any of Catesby’s business, but that didn’t stop him from poking his nose around and getting top secret docs from Registry. Occasionally, he got a memo from Dir/Americas telling him to ‘get off the grass’, but Catesby had enough weight of his own to ignore it. In fact, he impressed Dir/Americas by mentioning that he had actually met the woman who had originally said, ‘Get your tank orf my lawn.’ She was an upper-class Englishwoman married to a wealthy and elderly Bremen merchant. They lived in the staid Schwachhausen district of Bremen. In the aftermath of the Battle of Bremen, the Englishwoman twitched her curtains and was shocked to see a tank from the Scots Greys parked on her lawn. The corporal in charge of the tank apologised and quickly moved his tank back on to the street. If Catesby had been there, he would have ordered him to move it back again. The woman wasn’t a Nazi supporter, but she was oblivious.
One of the files on Catesby’s desk was from the SIS man in Santiago, who had been Catesby’s protégé in Bonn. Gerald had moved up from a clerical grade to become a fully fledged intelligence officer. Gerald, who still ruffled feathers by flaunting his proletarian origins, had been a good choice to send to Allende’s Chile. Gerald’s cables from Santiago, dating back to the beginning of Allende’s presidency, were now heartbreaking.
Allende government initiatives are bringing the arts to the mass of the Chilean population for the first time. Cheap editions of great literary works are produced on a weekly basis, and in most cases are sold out within a day. The government is also transforming Chilean popular culture through changes to school curriculum, state-sponsored music festivals and tours of Chilean folklorists.
The Women’s Secretariat, established in 1971, has been a great success. It has improved social and economic conditions for women through public laundry facilities, public food programs, day-care centres, and women’s health care (especially prenatal care). The duration
of maternity leave has been extended from 6 to 12 weeks.
The Allende government is making education available for poorer Chileans by expanding enrolments through government subsidies. University education has been ‘democratised’ by making the system tuition-free. This led to an 89 per cent rise in university enrolments between 1970 and 1973.
Since 1970 there has been a dramatic increase in social spending particularly for housing, education, and health. A major effort has been made to redistribute wealth to poorer Chileans. The redistribution of income has seen wage and salary earners increase their share of national income from 51.6 per cent to 65 per cent. Family consumption increased by 12.9 per cent in the first year of the Allende government.
Catesby pushed the file aside and stared out the window. No wonder they killed him. And what would they do to a British Allende? Ten years ago talk of a British coup would have been unthinkable, but times were changing. Why? Was it because America was more aggressive? Because big money was becoming more ruthless? Catesby didn’t know the answer, but once again he wanted to weave a protecting veil and spread it over his country.
Mayfair, London: 13 September 1973
‘Good news from South America, eh?’
‘Cheers,’ said the general toasting with his gin and tonic.
The mood in the billiard room of the exclusive gentlemen’s club was better than of late. The retired colonel and JJ were also members and contributors to a think tank called the Forum for Conflict Studies, usually known as the FCS. Also present in the room was the founder of FCS, an Australian-born journalist named Brian. The FCS had been formed three years before as a limited company. It had struggled at times, but recently funding had become more lavish.
‘Chile,’ said Brian, ‘was a domino that couldn’t be allowed to topple. Allende was a virus that could have infected all of Latin America. I think that we will see what happened in Chile marks a turning point in US foreign policy. Neither Johnson nor Nixon was tough enough in Vietnam.’
‘I hope so,’ said JJ. ‘There’s already a lot of claptrap flying around in the left-wing press about Allende having been democratically elected. The people of Chile don’t deserve democracy if they are duped into voting for a Communist.’
‘And what about the people of Britain?’ said the colonel. ‘It has happened in the past – and seems likely to happen again in the future.’
The banker shook his head. ‘It will be Heath’s fault. He turned out to be a useless twat.’
‘Grocer’s son,’ said the peer.
‘And he’s queer,’ added JJ.
‘By the way,’ said the general pointing at JJ, ‘can’t you use your connections and wiles to get copies of those photos the Czechs took of him in bed with that ballet dancer?’
‘Organist,’ said JJ.
‘Are you sure those photos even exist?’ said the colonel.
Brian laughed. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘Heath,’ said the banker, ‘has been absolutely feeble – doesn’t have the balls to stand up to the miners or any other union.’
‘The Conservative Party will get rid of him as leader,’ said JJ. ‘I know that for certain.’
‘But not before the next election,’ said the colonel.
JJ shrugged.
‘We must,’ said the general, ‘make completely certain that Wilson doesn’t get back in.’
‘The problem,’ said JJ, ‘is that a Tory election victory will make it more difficult to get rid of Heath. In a way, Wilson getting back in power may be a good thing.’ JJ smiled slyly. ‘It opens up … possibilities.’
‘In any case,’ said the colonel, ‘I am pleased to see that our various, uh, policy institutes, are well and thriving.’
‘I believe,’ said the banker, ‘that the Americans call them “think tanks”.’
‘Steel tanks,’ said the general, ‘are much more effective.’
‘Don’t underestimate the power of propaganda,’ said Brian.
‘Is FCS,’ said the colonel with a mischievous smile, ‘still getting dosh from the CIA?’
There was an embarrassed hush.
‘Oh, come on,’ said the colonel, ‘everyone knows that FCS is part of the Congress for Cultural Freedom – and everyone knows where their cash flow comes from.’
‘The answer,’ said JJ, ‘is obviously yes, but I hope that soon the bulk of funding will come from elsewhere.’
‘Totally agree,’ said the colonel. ‘In fact, I would one day like to see privately funded organisations – or even actual limited companies – replace the likes of MI5 and MI6.’
‘And the Army?’ said the general.
‘Absolutely,’ said the colonel, ‘and as I’ve said many times, “Who pays wins”.’ He looked at the former MI6 man and gave him a conspiratorial wink. ‘Come on, JJ, tell us more about our new and mysterious benefactor.’
‘It’s complicated,’ said JJ. ‘The source of our funding doesn’t wish to make his identity known – and that requires a complicated process of…’
‘Money laundering,’ said the banker.
‘Oh dear,’ said the peer, ‘I hope this room isn’t bugged.’
London: 28 September 1973
Catesby knew that he was being followed and it wasn’t the first time. Until now, he hadn’t been taking counter-surveillance measures. There was no reason to. He wasn’t slinking off to a rendezvous with a secret agent; he was merely going back to the flat after a day at the office. His usual route was down Westminster Bridge Road to the river, then left along Lambeth Palace Road to Lambeth Bridge, across the Thames and then left down Millbank. Sometimes, he didn’t cross over the river until Vauxhall Bridge: he liked the view of the Tate in the setting sun. But today, being a Friday, he suddenly veered up York Road and into Waterloo Station. The place was heaving with City types off for a weekend to the West Country and Catesby quickly lost his tail. But he didn’t lose sight of her. Catesby circled back around a news kiosk and found the woman staring into the mass of commuters and weekenders trying to ascertain which bowler hat was his. She was tall, East Asian and fortyish – and looked vaguely familiar.
Catesby came up behind her and said, ‘Can I help you? You look as if you’re lost.’
She looked directly at him. There was no apology. ‘I think it’s time that we had a talk.’
‘Then why didn’t you stop me sooner.’
‘First of all, I wanted to make sure it was you.’
‘We’ve met before,’ said Catesby.
‘Yes – can you verify where?’
Catesby could see she wasn’t taking any chances. ‘At a castle overlooking the Rhine in 1951.’ Catesby smiled. ‘I must look a lot older.’
‘And so do I.’
Catesby was too polite to agree. But she was no longer the winsome eighteen- or nineteen-year-old she had been at the time. Her face was lined and worried-looking.
‘Just before I left,’ said Catesby, ‘you said, “The East is Red. Long live Chairman Mao.” Did you mean that?’
‘Of course I did – and I still do.’
‘You must have political differences with your uncle.’
‘We argued bitterly and he finally disowned me. Which was a good thing, because it liberated me.’
‘Why are you in London?’
‘I live and work here. I’m a lecturer at SOAS. I’ve also worked with Ralph Miliband at LSE. He knows you and says you’re a diplomat, but I suspect he knows the truth.’
Catesby smiled. ‘Sticking a bunch of spies in a glass tower block wasn’t a brilliant idea. How is Ralph?’
‘Not very well. They’ve moved to Leeds and he’s finding the admin of being a head of department a strain.’
Catesby personally knew Ralph Miliband, Eric Hobsbawm and a number of other London academics and intellectuals. They knew he was an intelligence officer, but gave him information and points of view that they hoped would make HM’s government a more thoughtful and rational place. Other spies cultivated
industrialists and bankers, which was also useful, provided you didn’t get used by them. Catesby made a mental note to remember to send a present to the youngest Miliband boy. Born on Christmas Eve, it was important not to let the holiday overshadow Edward’s birthday.
‘Shall we go someplace for tea or coffee?’ said Catesby.
‘The station caff will be fine.’
‘Grab a table.’
As Catesby queued for a pot of tea he gave the woman a furtive glance. She was quickly brushing her hair and checking her face in a compact mirror. Maoist revolutionary academics were just as insecure and concerned with their appearance as everyone else. Catesby smoothed his own forelock with a bit of saliva.
The first part of the conversation was about mutual acquaintances and life in London. The polite pleasantries of British life were a gentle web that had bound together, however temporarily, an anti-imperialist revolutionary and an officer of Her Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. The polite dreariness of Britain, along with weak tea and warm beer, were something worth keeping – even dying for.
‘You must be wondering,’ she said, ‘why I contacted you.’
Catesby remained silent.
‘My uncle is not just mad and eccentric; he is dangerous and associates with dangerous reactionaries.’
‘There are a lot of them about.’
‘I hardly ever see my uncle, but he is getting very old and he is my nearest living relative. I recently combined a research trip to South America with a visit to where he lives most of the year in Paraguay.’
‘Did you argue?’
‘I endured several rants about Allende being a Communist disease that could infect the whole continent if it wasn’t eradicated. Little did I know at the time that a coup was about to take place.’
‘It must have been difficult for you.’
The woman smiled. ‘I didn’t argue back – it would have been pointless. Instead, I humoured him and cooked his favourite meals.’ She looked at Catesby. ‘I bet you’re wondering why I didn’t poison him.’
A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) Page 26
