A Very British Ending (Catesby Series)

by Edward Wilson

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘The mid-fifties. In fact, it was 1956 – a year we all remember well.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘What a year indeed. Kit Fournier got appointed CIA Head of London Station, Buster Crabb disappeared, probably with Fournier’s help – and Eden made a complete mess of Suez.’

  ‘Actually, I was thinking of something more low-key, but perhaps not less important.’

  ‘You’ve lost me.’

  ‘You and Frances went to a party at the Gaitskell’s house in Frognal Gardens to check out the US labour attaché who was hobnobbing with the Gaitskell crowd.’ Bone lifted a file on his desk. ‘And you wrote a report on the evening for me – for which I am very grateful.’

  ‘I’m starting to remember. Please go on.’

  ‘You met a man who spoke French with, as you so astutely noted with your excellent ear for nuances of language, “an Eastern European accent”.’

  Catesby nodded. ‘And he looked a very tough customer – not someone you would want to meet in a dark alleyway.’

  ‘But what disturbed you at the time, William, was that the man knew about the Nazi that you had killed in Bremen.’

  ‘And he thanked me for it.’

  ‘And said that he would help if you ever wanted to take part in other retribution killings.’

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Catesby, ‘it takes much imagination to work out who he represents.’

  ‘And we don’t want to know who he represents.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Bone looked at Catesby’s yellowing notes from so long ago. ‘I hope they haven’t forgotten you.’

  ‘They never forget.’

  ‘In any case,’ continued Bone, ‘I was impressed by the dramatic flair of the contact details you so accurately reported: Go to the grave of Charles Baudelaire in the Montparnasse Cemetery. You will see a likeness of the poet recumbent on his grave. Put a tiny chalk mark on his left big toe – then return to the cemetery at noon on the first Friday of the month. Someone will be there to meet you and will say, “Venge-moi”.’ You will identify yourself by replying, “Demain, aprés-demain et toujours!” Then tell them what you want.

  Catesby frowned. ‘And now you want me to go to Paris and take up their offer?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘Then why have you brought this up?’

  ‘I’ve always been fond of Baudelaire,’ said Bone smiling. ‘I’ve booked a brief leave in March when I will be visiting his grave in Paris.’

  ‘Don’t forget the chalk.’

  ‘I won’t,’ said Bone. ‘Meanwhile we must compile a present for them – a present so useful to their cause that they will do us a big favour in return.’

  ‘What sort of present?’

  ‘A package of files on ODESSA and their networks – and as many details and addresses of PAPERCLIP émigrés as we can find.’

  Suffolk: Christmas, 1974

  Catesby was cooking a goose for Frances, his stepchildren, his sister and his eighty-seven-year-old mother. Moeder was in a grump and refusing to speak English or French. It meant that the only people she could communicate with were Catesby and his sister, no one else being fluent in West-Vlaams Nederlands.

  Catesby had tried to humour his mother by taking her to Midnight Mass in Southwold. She brightened up when she noticed that the Italian priest was another foreigner. She whispered to Catesby that the priest looked ‘very aristocratic’ and the ‘very image’ of the late Pope Pius XII. Catesby said, ‘Shh, he’s his son.’ Either his mother didn’t get the joke or really did believe that the priest was the Pope’s son. Catesby had slowly come to realise that his mother was more sophisticated about what Popes and other people got up to than she let on.

  Even though he had taken her to Mass, Moeder knew that Catesby and his sister were non-believers. One of the things Catesby most admired about his mother was the way she gave up on lost causes. When they were children, she had tried to bring them up as good Roman Catholics. But as puberty beckoned, she realised that neither her son nor her daughter had any interest whatsoever in religion and stopped trying. Or maybe, thought Catesby, she herself had just got bored of catechism and rosary reciting. In any case, what fascinated Catesby was the languages his mother used when discussing religion. When she talked about God – all Three of Them – she spoke Nederlands. When she talked about the Blessed Virgin, she shifted into French. But when she talked about Satan, she always spoke English.

  Sometimes, thought Catesby, dealing with his mother was like dealing with a foreign agent. And Catesby never forgot her Jesuit friend from Ireland who, after a few sherries one Christmas, had pronounced Protestantism as ‘the religion of the cash register’. The remark reminded Catesby of other issues too. No Roman Catholic could ever be King or Queen – and merely marrying a Catholic disqualified a person from succeeding to the Crown. Would, Catesby thought, British Catholics ever be completely trusted? It was a more subtle issue than the hysteria about undercover Communists. But maybe, in a historical context, not completely unrelated.

  The Queen’s Christmas broadcast broke the ice – and Catesby’s mother deigned to speak English again. She admired the Queen – and was proud that they were both the same diminutive height. She had briefly met the Queen when Catesby got his OBE.

  It hadn’t been a bad Christmas in many ways. The goose in Catesby’s oven wasn’t the only one cooked. The mad and paranoid FURIOSO had finally been forced to resign and John Stonehouse had been arrested in Melbourne. But in neither case was the news completely good. No longer distracted by FURIOSO’s mad mole-hunts, the CIA could now be more aggressive abroad. And Stonehouse turning up alive in Australia would add fuel to the rumours of Communists in Downing Street.

  Agency News: 11 February 1975

  Margaret Thatcher is New Tory Leader

  Margaret Thatcher’s sudden rise to become leader of the Conservative Party has sent shock waves across the political landscape. When Ted Heath called a leadership election just one week ago, many expected the contest to be a walkover. There appeared to be no alternative to Heath from the right of the party. The standard-bearer of the Tory right, Keith Joseph, had effectively ruled himself out after his controversial comments calling on poor people to have fewer children.

  In a surprise move, however, Margaret Thatcher opted to stand and rallied the right-wing behind her with. At first, Thatcher’s support seemed minimal with the Conservative daily newspapers backing Heath. As the election ground on, however, it became clear that the race was going to be much closer as Thatcher gained the support of discontented backbenchers. Thatcher forced Heath to resign when she trounced him in the first round of the leadership race with 130 votes to his 119.

  Key to Thatcher’s victory was the support of the influential right-wing 1922 Backbench Committee whose 276 members have become important power brokers. Edward du Cann, Chairman of the 1922 Committee, described Margaret Thatcher as ‘a new and rather exciting leader’ who will ‘make the Tory Party distinctive’.

  Mrs Thatcher, who served as Edward Heath’s Secretary of State for Science and Education, exclaimed, ‘It’s like a dream.’

  But the new leader rejected suggestions of a victory celebration: ‘Good heavens, no. There’s far too much work to be done.’

  Courtauld Institute, London: 13 February 1975

  There were several reasons why Henry Bone had visited the famous art historian. One of the reasons being that Anthony Blunt was in a terrible gloom and needed cheering up – not that there was much cheer that Bone could convey. At one time, the two had been close friends – and Bone still felt a brotherly compassion for him. They began by talking about the MI5 officer that Catesby called Ferret.

  ‘I know that Catesby despises Peter, but after half a bottle of gin, he becomes almost bearable. He begins to show his insecurities and vulnerabilities.

  Very touching in some ways. Little outward hostility, we even exchange Christmas cards.’

  ‘How ofte
n,’ said Henry Bone, ‘do you have these interviews?’

  ‘At present, hardly at all. Almost a mere formality – perhaps twice a year, just to keep in touch. But after my so-called confession in 1964, he would interview me every month – often until the early hours of the morning.’

  Henry Bone found Blunt’s private rooms at the Courtauld extremely austere. The floors were covered in curling grey linoleum with a few worn rugs, but on the walls above the lino were a Rubens nude and a Picasso Blue Period etching. The Picasso was of a lean couple in threadbare clothing sitting at a table with empty bowls and an empty wine bottle. The man is wearing a homburg hat. The only clue that the woman is female is her meagre hanging breasts. Blunt noticed Bone staring at the etching.

  ‘That one’s called A Frugal Meal. I’ve hung it here,’ said Blunt with a bleak smile, ‘because it suits the room – a counterpoint to the lush Rubens.’

  ‘The couple in the Picasso remind me of Beckett’s characters.’

  ‘One of my lovers,’ said Blunt, ‘thought the man, with his gaunt drawn look, resembled me. Too true. I’ve been very tired and my eyes are going – I find it difficult to read. I rely on others and I’m starting to crave company.’

  ‘Would you like another series of interrogations?’

  ‘In some ways I miss them. There is a symbiotic relationship between the interrogator and his victim. We often ended up talking about love, friendship and betrayal rather than espionage and spies.’ Blunt looked at Bone. ‘I assume, by the way, they have passed on copies of my interrogation transcripts to SIS?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘Is there any chance that I could see them? I can’t remember much of what I said. I’m always afraid they will try to catch me contradicting something I’d forgotten I said.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I’m also very depressed and worried about Thatcher becoming Tory leader. Have they lost their senses? Would you like more whisky?’

  Bone nodded and Blunt topped up their glasses – literally, to the top.’

  ‘I rather liked Heath,’ said Blunt. ‘He may have had very little personal charm, but he had an appreciation of the arts – and was a very fine amateur musician.’

  ‘And a superb yachtsman.’

  ‘And so, Henry, were you.’

  Bone had represented Britain as a yachtsman at the 1936 Olympics. It was part of his complex and mysterious hinterland – as was his decades long friendship with the art historian.

  ‘I’m afraid, Henry, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘If she ever becomes prime minister, she won’t respect the immunity agreement and she won’t keep my confession an official secret – which was also agreed. Until now, the confession hasn’t affected my life.’

  Bone nodded and took a pad and pencil out of his pocket. He began to scribble quickly, but then remembered that the art historian had difficult seeing. He wrote in large block capitals: THIS ROOM IS BUGGED. LET’S GO FOR A WALK.

  Anthony Blunt nodded. ‘I need some fresh air. Fancy a stroll to the off-licence?’

  It was a mild evening for February with only a hint of dampness. Bone and the art historian walked up Baker Street – to where there really was an off-license that was still open.

  ‘Officially,’ said Blunt, ‘I’m no longer Director of the Courtauld.’

  ‘Nothing to do with…?’

  ‘No, I need more time to write. Victor and Tess Rothschild have offered me lodgings. They’ve looked after me before when I’ve been ill.’

  Bone nodded. The couple had also taken care of Heath’s Permanent Secretary when he had a nervous breakdown in Downing Street the previous year. Their wealth and generosity provided warm embraces for those in need of protection – and kept them hidden from prying eyes.

  ‘I want,’ said Bone, ‘to talk about you and Tommy – and that little business you ran.’

  Blunt coughed and stumbled.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Oh dear, Henry, now I am in trouble. No wonder you wanted to get me away from the hidden microphones. In a way, it was great fun. Isn’t it odd?’

  ‘Isn’t what odd?’ said Bone.

  ‘That my MI5 interrogators never asked me about my most important betrayals – my betrayal of art? Giving false attributions and creating bogus masterpieces was far more insidious than anything I ever did for the Russians.’

  ‘We’ve had this conversation before.’

  ‘And, Henry, I want to have it again. Nothing I ever passed on to Moscow ever damaged Britain, but it did help Russia defeat Nazi Germany.’

  Bone stared blankly into the traffic headlights heading down Baker Street. There were many ways to define ‘damage’.

  ‘But,’ continued Blunt, ‘damaging the reputation of great artists with a false attribution is like hurling acid at a real Poussin.’

  ‘But it was lucrative,’ Bone paused, ‘and I helped too. What a pity that Tommy didn’t live to enjoy the proceeds.’

  ‘A lot of it went to good causes. But there’s one thing that has always bothered me and never been resolved.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you suppose they found out that Tommy had swindled them and then killed him in return? The car crash was very suspicious.’

  ‘If they did kill Tommy, now is your chance to get back at them.’

  ‘I’m not a vengeful person.’

  ‘But some people are – and have every right to be.’

  ‘What do you want, Henry?’

  ‘I want you to give me all the files and all the information you have on your former customers in South America – especially the ODESSA ones.’

  ‘Why haven’t you asked before?’

  ‘Because we had no means of bringing them to justice – not to mention the fact that many of them are protected by the Americans and their host countries.’

  ‘How soon do you want this information?’

  ‘By the end of the month.’

  ‘You will have it – and I hope by so doing I can restore a few reputations too.’

  ‘There are things more important than art.’

  ‘Do you actually think, Henry, that I have not considered that many times lying awake in the dark watches of the night?’

  ‘And what’s the answer?’

  ‘Ask me when I’m on my death bed.’

  Paris: 7 March 1975

  It was a cold bleak day in the Cimetière du Montparnasse. Henry Bone was wearing a black roll-neck jumper and his black leather jacket. His Fitzrovia gear doubled as cover for blending into the Left Bank. Bone wondered whether he should stroll into Les Deux Magots on St Germain-des-Prés to test his cover and practice his French on Jean-Paul Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir. Actually, there was a philosophical issue that Bone would have liked to discuss with them. Sartre had recently said that terrorism was a ‘terrible weapon, but the oppressed poor have no others’. And it was a question not unrelated to the reason Henry Bone had come to Paris.

  Bone huddled inside his leather jacket; the wind was biting cold as only a March wind in a Parisian cemetery can be. He checked his watch. His contact – if there was going to be a contact – was already ten minutes late. Bone had done everything required, including the chalk mark on Baudelaire’s ‘left big toe’. But perhaps the network that contacted Catesby nineteen years ago was no longer active. In fact, it was unlikely. But Bone continued waiting. If necessary, he would freeze for another hour or try another month.

  Bone looked across the graves. The cemetery wasn’t empty of the living, but few were about. The person nearest was a woman in black jeans wearing a scarf and heavy coat. She had a bouquet of hyacinths and seemed to be dawdling among the graves. She didn’t appear to be aware of Bone’s existence, but was getting closer. She finally approached. Her eyes were fixed on Baudelaire’s sarcophagus and completely ignoring Bone. In a gesture that was more violent than respectful she threw the hyacinths on to Baudelaire’s tomb and whispered a
hoarse, ‘Venge-moi!’

  Bone answered with the agreed words, ‘Demain, aprés-demain et toujours!’

  The woman replied in English, ‘You speak French like a very English “milord” who has come to Paris for a bit of fun – and, my god, don’t you look like one.’

  Bone wasn’t often nonplussed, but when it happened it was usually a woman doing the nonplussing. He struggled to regain some semblance of dignity. ‘I am sure that your English is much better than my French.’

  ‘I was told that the person I was meeting spoke absolutely fluent French – and you look nothing at all like the description I was given. So who are you?’

  ‘I work closely with the person your representative met. The meeting occurred quite a long time ago – in 1956.’

  ‘Our records are very fastidious. Each contact is assigned a different dead poet and a different line of poetry. I was briefed to meet a certain William Catesby. Why hasn’t he come?’

  ‘He was more than willing, but I wanted to take personal responsibility for what I am giving you – and what I would like to get in return.’

  ‘I won’t ask your name, nor am I going to tell you mine, but I am sure we will both make accurate assumptions about our jobs.’

  Bone nodded and looked closely at the woman. She was older than she appeared at first, probably more than fifty. Her face was thinly lined and her looks were Mediterranean or Middle Eastern. Her black hair was probably dyed.

  ‘Where,’ she said, ‘are the things you wish to give me?’

  ‘In a locked briefcase – with an incendiary device to destroy the contents if it is forced open – in a safe at my hotel.’

  ‘You take no chances. Were you followed?’

  ‘One can never be sure, but I follow standard counter-surveillance procedures.’

  ‘Are you alone?’

  ‘Utterly,’ smiled Bone.

  ‘Are you flirting?’

  Bone was nonplussed once more. He tried French again: ‘Je suis un vieil homme dans une saison sèche.’

  ‘That was much better, milord.’ She offered her arm. ‘Shall we go, sir, to your hotel?’