A Very British Ending (Catesby Series)

by Edward Wilson

  The woman had spread the documents over the bed and many had spilled on to the floor. There was a wealth of information: it included all of Catesby’s files, including those from the SOAS lecturer; all of the art historian’s files and recollections and much else that Bone had personally garnered and guessed. Bone was helping her tie various leads together. Much of the information expanded intelligence that the woman’s organisation already had in part, but which led to cul-de-sacs.

  ‘I hope you will find these documents useful,’ said Bone.

  ‘They fill in many missing spaces in the jigsaw – and will bring people to justice. That is certain.’ The woman paused and stared hard at Bone. ‘But your gifts have come wrapped in a mystery. And you are a mystery too. Aren’t you warm in that jumper?’

  Bone smiled. Women were often very interested in his art historian friend too. Was it because of Blunt’s refinement and good looks? Or was it the challenge of the unattainable? Except that, on occasion, Anthony had, not so much given in or succumbed, but complied.

  ‘I would,’ said Bone, ‘like to ask for your help.’

  The woman smiled. ‘With your jumper? I’d love to buy you a new one.’

  ‘Thank you, but with something else too.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I need a very special type of listening device. Most bugs, as you know, are activated by voice or a radio signal. They are small and very difficult to detect.’ Bone was thinking of the very excellent one that had been installed in the billiard room of the Mayfair gentlemen’s club. ‘But I would like a large, lumpy listening device that can be easily discovered – by emitting, say, a tell-tale sound that appears to be accidental. Something such as a cassette-tape recorder with an internal microphone.’

  ‘But surely you could easily buy one in any shop.’

  ‘Ah, I left out an important detail. I should have said, something that appears to be a large listening device.’ Bone paused. ‘What I am really looking for is a bomb disguised as a bug.’

  The woman looked perplexed. ‘Why have you come to us? I know who you are and I am sure your own technical support teams could provide exactly what you want.’

  ‘The operation I want to carry out is not one sanctioned by the UK Government or by British law. It is, in fact, an illegal operation, but one intended to save my country. I am sure that your organisation has faced similar dilemmas.’

  ‘How do you know that you can trust us with this information?’

  ‘Because I am ruthless enough to expose your operations if you expose mine.’

  The woman stared at Bone. ‘That sounds fair. Tell me more about this explosive device.’

  ‘I want a bomb that will appear to have been a typical IRA device. Therefore, please don’t use anything that the Provos would not have access to. I will provide you the technical details.’

  ‘That would be useful.’

  When Bone had finished his briefing on the bomb, the woman put down her pencil – and then picked it up again. ‘Do you mind if I sketch you?’

  ‘If it pleases you.’

  ‘Sit over there by the window. I’m not, however, going to do it in this notebook.’ She took a sketch pad out of her bag. ‘I like drawing. It also teaches you to notice things and people.’

  ‘What have noticed about me?’

  ‘You would be surprised, milord.’

  After an hour the woman handed the completed sketch to Bone. He looked old, troubled and conflicted. She hadn’t signed it, but she had given it a title: Un vieil homme dans une saison sèche.

  The woman leaned close to Bone and whispered, ‘Maintenant, regardez-moi.’ Her voice was worn and hoarse.

  Green Park, London: 20 March 1975

  Catesby and Bone had just been to a meeting at the FCO about the effects the fall of Saigon, which now seemed inevitable, would have on UK foreign policy and intelligence needs. The most immediate problem would be the evacuation of British passport holders. The next issue would be refugees and asylum seekers. These problems mostly concerned Dir/FarEast, but there were wider implications that concerned all of SIS. The most important was how the Americans were going to react to the humiliation of losing in Vietnam. There were already signs that Washington was going to lash out and pursue even tougher and more aggressive policies to prove that America was still the world’s most powerful country. This could lead to tenser confrontations with the Soviet Union and a greater risk of war. There was also a possibility that Washington would want to ‘punish’ the allies who ‘didn’t do enough’ to support the US in Vietnam. These would include Britain, Canada and the Gough Whitlam government in Australia.

  It was the first time that Catesby and Bone had a chance to talk since Bone had gone to Paris. When the FCO meeting was finished, they made their way to a bench in Green Park for a private chat amid the daffodils and primroses.

  ‘How was Paris?’ said Catesby.

  ‘I accomplished what I set out to do.’

  ‘You’re not going to tell me more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I had,’ said Catesby, ‘an interesting chat with Sir Maurice while you were gone. He’s not as mild and cuddly as he seems.’

  ‘You’ve just noticed that?’

  ‘I had my suspicions before, but I came away feeling that I had just been to a meeting with a Borgia prince plotting murder and torture. But he’s holding off until the summer. He wants to give his victim more time to incriminate himself.’

  ‘Who is the intended victim?’

  Catesby told him.

  10 Downing Street: August, 1975

  The Prime Minister’s visitor had arrived via Q-Whitehall, the secret tunnel system that linked the seats of government. The visitor’s purpose was largely bureaucratic infighting – and also an attempt to protect himself and his agency when the simmering volcano erupted. The visitor was hoping for a peaceful transition that would still leave him in a position of power and influence. He didn’t want a military coup, which would leave him vulnerable. The visitor had personal secrets of his own.

  The visitor declined tea, coffee or something stronger and launched straight in. ‘Your secret personal file, Prime Minister, bears the pseudonym Norman John Worthington. Such a person, of course, has never existed.’

  ‘And only those who know I am Mr Worthington have access to my file?’

  ‘That is correct, Prime Minister. If, on the other hand, you were to go to Registry and try to find Harold Wilson in the central index, your search would come back “No Trace”.’ The visitor paused and frowned. ‘And in the past year, the DG has taken further measures to conceal the existence of your secret file.’

  The Prime Minister lit his pipe with shaking hands. ‘When,’ he said, ‘did all this begin?’

  ‘It began in 1947 just after you were appointed President of the Board of Trade.’

  Wilson looked out the window across Horse Guards. A squadron of cavalry in red plumes were practising a drill. He remembered what Sir Stafford Cripps had said to him as he handed over his Board of Trade post: ‘I hope, Harold, that the jet-engines-to-Moscow deal doesn’t prove to be a poison chalice.’ It had.

  ‘What in essence,’ said Wilson, ‘does the file contain?’

  ‘Quite a lot. But what seems to concern the Security Service most are your past and present contacts with suspected or real KGB officers, Communists, Russians and Eastern Europeans in general.’

  ‘It sounds like the file is also a recipe book for how to smear me and my government.’

  ‘That’s a point of view that one could understand.’

  ‘Have they,’ said Wilson, ‘ever kept files on any other British prime minister?’

  ‘No, they haven’t – and, I must say, not all of the information that they have compiled is accurate.’ The visitor reached into his briefcase and handed over a photograph. ‘This particular one is blatant – and I’ve attached a note explaining why.’

  When Sir Maurice Oldfield left 10 Downing, via the same Q-Whiteha
ll tunnel by which he had arrived, he was feeling very pleased with himself.

  10 Downing Street: August, 1975

  The Prime Minister was on the warpath and had fortified himself for the confrontation with a whisky or two. The head of the Security Service hadn’t been invited to Downing Street at a time that would be mutually convenient, he had been instructed to cancel all other appointments and come immediately.

  ‘You and your service have been waging a smear campaign against me and my government that has been going on for years. You have conducted illegal activities, including burglary and bugging, which you have succeeded in covering up.’

  The Security Service DG was a large man with a red face, nicknamed Jumbo. He wasn’t used to being carpeted – and wasn’t completed prepared to refute the Prime Minister’s accusations. He was aware, however, that someone had stabbed him in the back – and he had a good idea who it was. Whitehall was a bear pit and things were getting worse. The best thing to do in his current situation was the tried and tested one: shit over your subordinates.

  ‘There may, Prime Minister, be a small number of disaffected officers who have been plotting against you. They do not represent the Security Service as a whole – and their activities have been completely unauthorised. I am currently engaged in a root and branch review to put an end to it.’

  ‘And you have never been personally involved in a campaign to smear me or my ministers?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘That’s a lie – an outright lie.’ The Prime Minister was seething. ‘You have repeatedly tried to smear Judith Hart, until recently my Minister of Overseas Development. You have made her life and the lives of her family a misery with false accusations and innuendo.’

  Jumbo turned even redder. ‘I am not sure, Prime Minister, that I know what you are talking about.’

  ‘This is what I’m talking about.’ Wilson pushed an old photograph from the Daily Worker across his desk. The photograph showed a ‘Mrs Tudor-Hart’ at a Communist-sponsored meeting in Warsaw. ‘Your smear describes the woman in this photo as Mrs J. Tudor-Hart, my former minister. The woman in this photo is Edith Tudor-Hart, an Austrian-born British photographer, who died two years ago. She was a Communist sympathiser, married to a GP called Alex Tudor-Hart. It is possible that she spied for the Soviet Union in the 1930s, I’m not denying that.’ The Prime Minister raised his voice. ‘But Edith Tudor-Hart, as you well know, was no relation to Judith Hart – who was never a Tudor-Hart – and they never met. The only J. Tudor-Hart in the equation is not even a woman, but Edith’s son, Julian, who, like his father, is a GP in Wales.’ Wilson picked up the photo and pointed it at Jumbo. ‘This is not just a vile smear, but a feeble one too. And yet you have been passing this photo around – and the lies that go with it – to the press in unattributable briefings.’ Wilson paused. ‘How do you explain it?’

  Jumbo twisted in his chair. ‘It is unfortunate.’

  ‘And you have tapped her telephone as well. You have targeted her because she is a fierce opponent of apartheid and Pinochet’s coup in Chile. You hate her because she stands up for fairness, peace and human decency – everything you despise.’ Wilson stared hard at the head of the Security Service. ‘You are a shit – and a fucking disgrace to your office. Get out.’

  London: August, 1975

  Ferret was playing complex office politics. Neither his job nor his pension was secure. And FURIOSO’s sacking had deprived Ferret of his most important American ally. His vindictiveness was only tempered by his financial need. Aligning himself with JJ’s plots was an option, but there were other possibilities. Ferret was one who could run with the hares and the hounds at the same time. JJ had already heard the rumours – Whitehall was abuzz with them – and was pleased that Ferret had suggested a visit to his house. JJ’s home was spartan, except for a few artefacts received as presents from his time in the Middle East, but he did serve good whisky.

  ‘The leader of the Communist cell in Number 10 just threw his toys out of his pram?’

  ‘So, I’ve heard,’ said JJ, ‘pouring a top-up.’

  ‘Shouting, swearing; a force 10 tantrum.’

  ‘It sounds like Wilson is losing what little grip he ever had.’ JJ looked hard at Ferret. ‘I don’t suppose this incident had anything to do with you?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘There’s a rumour that someone, perhaps from your own department, might have leaked info – and disinfo – to SIS which made its way to Downing Street and prompted Wilson’s rage against Jumbo.’

  Ferret gave a sly smile. ‘Nothing to do with me personally. But it might have been a good idea for two reasons. One, it will help push Wilson over the edge. Two, it will keep Jumbo in his place.’

  ‘Why does he need keeping in his place?’

  ‘He’s a bit too ready to dump on other people to save himself.’

  ‘That’s not the way we play the game. You have to be true to the cause and to your friends even if it means taking a bullet or two.’

  ‘What’s next?’

  ‘The current situation,’ said JJ with what some would have called a demented stare, ‘cannot go on. The unions have got the country by the throat and are choking us to death. Every time you turn on the television you see factory car parks full of Communist-led trade unionists raising their fists to call for more strike action. Car parks, can you imagine? In the Russia, that our union leaders so much admire, the enslaved workers don’t have cars.’ JJ sipped his whisky. ‘And speaking of cars, why has no one done anything about Red Robbo?’ Red Robbo was the press’s nickname for Derek Robinson, a shop steward at Leyland.

  ‘The trade union movement is controlled by the Communist junta in Downing Street. They’re all protected.’

  ‘We can’t wait. We need to take action.’

  Century House, Lambeth: 11 November 1975

  It was 9 a.m. and Catesby was in his office staring at a bare blank wall. The last two months had been miserable and tense. The atmosphere in Whitehall was now so full of hate and malice that Catesby, still a firm non-believer, wouldn’t have objected if every Whitehall department was assigned a resident C of E exorcist. SIS and the Security Service would require several.

  Catesby was waiting for news from Australia, as were many of his colleagues, and couldn’t concentrate on anything else. The situation in Canberra was still on edge. Australia had nothing to do with Catesby’s job as Head of Sov Bloc T Section, but everything to do with his position as a worried British citizen who was privy to insider information. If it could happen in Canberra, it could happen in London.

  There was a firm knock on his door. Catesby got up and opened the door and took the cable from a cipher room clerk. It was from SIS Head of Station Canberra and was marked UNCLASSIFIED.

  Australian Prime Minister Dismissed by Governor-General

  Prime Minister Gough Whitlam of the Australian Labor Party has been sacked. Governor-General Sir John Kerr has appointed the leader of the opposition, Malcolm Fraser, as caretaker prime minister.

  FYI: The Australian Constitution firmly places the prerogative powers of the Crown in the hands of the Governor-General as the representative of the Queen of Australia. The only person with the authority to appoint an Australian prime minister is the Governor-General. The Queen has no part in the decisions that the Governor-General takes in his interpretation of the Constitution.

  Gough’s dismissal has received mixed coverage in the press ranging from approval to condemnation as a ‘constitutional coup’.

  An hour later, Catesby was in Bone’s office discussing the implications of the Australia situation.

  ‘It is ominous,’ said Bone. ‘The role of Governor-General is supposed to be ceremonial. What he’s done is like Black Rod arresting the Prime Minister.’

  ‘You know,’ said Catesby, ‘that the US Ambassador in Canberra is a total shit.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘His American colleagues call him “the coup maestro”. He helped bri
ng a general to power in South Korea. He got rid of Sihanouk in Cambodia – which was an open sesame for the Khmer Rouge. He had a role in the Suharto coup against Sukarno in Indonesia – which resulted in more than 500,000 dead. And now he’s done the deed in Australia.’ Catesby paused. ‘I wonder when they’re going to send him to London.’

  CIA HQ, Langley, Virginia: 11 November 1975

  The DCI was extremely pleased. After the partial institutional paralysis brought on by Angleton’s paranoia, the CIA was back on its front foot again – however cloven a foot – and waging offensive operations again. The CIA’s relationship with the State Department had also much improved since Angleton’s dismissal. The appointment of Marshall Green as US Ambassador to Australia had been carried out in consultation with the CIA – and proved a marvellous move.

  The fact that America’s two most important English-speaking allies – Great Britain and Australia – both had governments and prime ministers who were hostile to the United States was an intolerable situation. One prime minister had refused point-blank to send troops to Vietnam and the other had not only pulled out troops sent by previous Australian administrations, but had insulted America by condemning the US bombing of Vietnam as ‘corrupt and barbaric’ – a step further than Wilson went. The British PM, of course, lived in constant fear of the US Treasury pulling the plug on the pound.

  The DCI picked up the cable from Canberra. It was going to be sweet reading.

  TOP SECRET/DO NOT FILE/DESTROY AFTER READING

  DISSEMINATION CONTROL:

  NOFORN

  NOCON

  ORCON

  PROPIN

  DISTRIBUTION LIST:

  EYES ONLY

  POTUS

  DCI

  NSA

  SECSTATE

  FROM: OSO CANBERRA

  DATE: 11 NOVEMBER 1975

  REPORT ON THE DISMISSAL OF PRIME