The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘In your cable you suggested that the gunman …’

  ‘Gunwoman.’

  ‘… let you escape on purpose. That seems unlikely.’

  ‘You weren’t there, Henry. Her shots were meant as frighteners not killers.’

  ‘So Mischa wants us to know about the rocket disaster.’

  Catesby shrugged.

  ‘Of course he does, Mischa’s no fool.’ Bone almost whispered the words. ‘He had to kill your Romeo to make sure he kept his mouth shut.’

  ‘Could he be sending us a signal?’

  Bone stared down at the shingle beach as if looking for a lost coin. ‘I don’t know. It would be very dangerous for him if he did.’

  ‘So we ignore Mischa’s message?’

  ‘We don’t ignore it, but we don’t acknowledge it either.’

  ‘Has it occurred to you, Henry, that the letter might be a plant?’

  ‘No. It ties in with inconsistent reports of Nedelin’s death that were monitored by GCHQ. It took Moscow more than a day to decide on a final version of how he actually died. And why would they want to make us think they’re weaker than they are?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Bone frowned; then looked out across the sea as if training his eyes on distant Russia. ‘It’s difficult enough keeping our own secrets from the Americans. And now someone wants us to help the Russians keep their secrets from Washington too.’

  ‘What are you talking about, Henry?’

  ‘Sorry, I was thinking out loud.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. You were testing me.’

  ‘Perhaps, I was. But I’m looking for the answer too. It’s not in the DDR’s interest or in Russia’s interest to broadcast Soviet weakness. So why has Mischa let us bag this gem?’

  Catesby put his hands in his pockets and continued walking down the beach. The sifting sough of wave on shingle was like another voice. Some old dead Viking tongue you could almost make out, but too guttural for modern ears.

  ‘Maybe I’m wrong about Mischa.’

  ‘Or maybe,’ said Catesby, ‘he’s giving us advance warning of Moscow’s next move.’

  ‘Their only move is the massive cover-up that they’ve already begun. Otherwise,’ Bone paused and lowered his voice, ‘some gung-ho American general may persuade his new president it’s the last chance to thump the Sovs while they’re down and out. It’s very depressing.’

  ‘Or Moscow could compensate by moving their medium-range missiles further west.’

  ‘What?’ Bone laughed. ‘Sometimes, Catesby, I despair of your knowledge of weapons systems. Even if the Sovs moved their missiles up against the West German border, they wouldn’t make it a quarter of the way across the Atlantic. Why are you smiling?’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of East Germany – or anywhere in Europe.’

  ‘Where then do you think the Russians are going to put their missiles?’

  Catesby told him the name of the island.

  Bone laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. See me back in London, I really must be going.’

  Catesby watched Bone disappear into the gloom, then turned and walked along the beach alone and desolate. He had of late begun to envy Bone his social life. At first Catesby had imagined his boss as a miserable middle-aged bachelor who spent his weekends dusting his collection of eighteenth-century enamels and playing Tchaikovsky on the baby grand. But it wasn’t like that at all: the weekends were more likely to be spent shooting, sailing or rock climbing. Henry Bone had a glittering, but discreet social life and a circle of even more discreet friends. And since the Wolfenden Report the need to be ‘discreet’ was no longer so pressing. Catesby sometimes wondered if Henry had an active love life, but he was reluctant to ask directly. In any case, Bone was a quintessential product of his mandarin English upbringing and past. Henry had at least once in his life suffered great emotional hurt, but never showed it or discussed it. Catesby admired his dignity.

  Catesby continued crunching through the shingle as if summoned by Southwold Light. He wondered if he should carry on to Walberswick where the Blyth poured into the sea. There was a pub that would do simple suppers of fish and brown shrimp. Catesby knew the fishermen who propped up the bar, but the landlord was new. The fishermen always took the mickey out of his ‘success’; they thought he worked in the Foreign Office and always called him ‘Ambassador’.

  Catesby stopped and listened to the night sounds. The North Sea sucking at the shingle; the communal piping of the oystercatchers from Dingle Marsh; his own breath. He wouldn’t go on to Walberswick. He wasn’t in the mood for jolly banter – and he could feel the tears coming. He counted the months. Twenty-three of them had now passed. Maybe there would have been a baby by now – and maybe another one on the way. The tears were really coming now. He looked out across the North Sea and tried to send his heart across the water and on to the cold Baltic to where he had last held her in his arms. He began to shout her name like a madman over and over again. Then he stopped and waited. But there was no reply. He turned to go back to where he had left the car. He needed to go back to London where he’d whisky himself to sleep and then spend a lonely Sunday in a nearly deserted Broadway Buildings reading cables and writing reports.

  Catesby stopped and looked once more across the sea. The tears welled again like drops of molten iron. ‘My job killed you,’ he whispered, ‘my job killed the only, the only …’

  He wiped his eyes and continued walking, then stopped and reached for the gun in his pocket. But instead his fingers touched a folded piece of paper. Catesby remembered that he had saved a copy of the letter for himself. It was deceitful, he should have handed it over to Bone. Catesby took it out of his pocket and squinted at the words in the dying light.

  … Those nearest the launch pad – including Marshall of Artillery Mitrofan Nedelin himself – were incinerated instantly.

  I am more atheist than ever, but I will leave Babushka to believe in her old lies. There is no heaven or hell except what man creates. I don’t know whether man can create heaven, but I know that he can create a hell beyond the imagination of any painter of medieval icons.

  The fires continued to burn for more than two hours until well after dark. There was a full moon and the night was very cold. I was surprised at the way some of the bodies, naked and hairless, seemed to glow like phosphoresce in the moonlight. We had to scoop them up on long sheets of metal, otherwise they disintegrated like a fragile lace of ashen paper. There is nothing left of those nearest the rocket. Someone said the only remains of Marshall Nedelin are two molten keys. There are more than a hundred dead, perhaps 200, but most of the bodies will never be identified because there are no bodies to identify. I am sorry to have to tell you that Vasya, the young chemistry genius with the shy smile who turned beetroot red whenever a woman spoke to him, is among the missing. I know that you had a soft spot for Vasya – we all loved him. The fire at the centre was 3000 degrees.

  This is a serious and tragic time for our Motherland. Most of our best scientists and rocket engineers are now dead. Mitrofasha ignored the safety rules because of haste. Nikita Sergeyevich had wanted the new rocket on display for the October Revolution parade. If the truth were known our country would spend 7 November in mourning instead of celebration.

  I am sure that Zhenka already knows about this. It certainly would have been his job to brief the Ambassador. But perhaps he hasn’t told you. When it comes to state security there are certain secrets a husband must keep from his wife – and, likewise, my sending this letter to you is one secret you must keep from Zhenka. And when you have read this letter you must destroy it. We have all been sworn to secrecy. Marshall Nedelin and all the others are going to be reported as having been killed in plane crashes. The truth must never be known.

  Your devoted brother,

  Arkasha

  Catesby’s eyes were now clear and dry again. He was back at work. He realised that he had been wrong to keep a copy of the letter. He tore it into tiny fragments
and tossed them into the night wind which carried the particles into the North Sea. They dissolved like snowflakes as they touched the water.

  It was quarter past seven and a very wet morning. Catesby had walked from his flat in Pimlico to Broadway Buildings in St James’s. It was so early that the NDO, the Night Duty Officer, was still at his desk in the foyer. As Catesby put his dripping brolly in a rack with a dozen other brollies that were expertly rolled and dry – the taxi and car brigade – the NDO looked up. ‘Mr Catesby.’

  ‘Good morning, Captain Nowell.’

  ‘Director Bone would like to see you.’

  ‘Tell him I’d like a cup of tea.’

  The NDO smiled at the impertinence and picked up an internal telephone.

  Bone’s office windows faced across to the headquarters of the London Underground. It was, playing on the double meaning, a somewhat apt view for a spy chief. It was also, considering Bone’s dislike of modernist art and sculpture, a cruel irony to impose such a view on him. The Underground building was a feast of modernity. There were sculptures by Gill, Moore and Epstein. The sculpture that glared most directly at Bone’s office was Epstein’s Morning which featured a naked man, presumably the father, holding a child with an abnormally long penis.

  Bone was standing behind his desk with his reading glasses sliding down his nose. He looked animated and was waving a piece of paper at Catesby. ‘Have a look at this.’

  Catesby took the document.

  JOINT INTELLIGENCE COMMITTEE ASSESSMENT OF CURRENT SOVIET BALLISTIC MISSILE PROGRAMME

  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 NOVEMBER 1960

  FROM: HENRY BONE, CBE; DIRECTOR FOR WEST EUROPE AND SOVIET BLOC, SECRET INTELLIGENCE SERVICE

  There has been much speculation surrounding the recent death of Marshall Mitrofan Ivanovich Nedelin in an air crash. Marshall Nedelin was commander of the Strategic Rocket Forces development programme. Although Marshall Nedelin had neither a scientific nor an engineering background, his role was not merely symbolic. His primary function was to motivate and coordinate design teams. Nedelin’s attempts, however, to pressure scientists into working in rigid military-style frameworks were often counterproductive. His methods inhibited ingenuity and creativity. Therefore, it would be wrong to regard Nedelin’s death as a setback to the development of the R-16 and future Soviet ICBMs.

  Our latest estimates suggest that the R-16 has a maximum range of 13,000 kilometres carrying a ‘light’ warhead of 3 megatons and a max range of 11,000 kilometres carrying a ‘heavy’ warhead of 6 megatons. We cannot definitively state whether or not the R-16 ICBM is currently operational. It would, however, be reckless to assume that it is not. The Western intelligence services have a poor record in predicting a timetable for Soviet military development. The successful test of a Soviet Atomic bomb in 1949 took place three years sooner than our most dire intelligence estimates.

  THIS PAPER WAS DISCUSSED BY JIC AND APPROVED ON DATE.

  As soon as Catesby finished reading, he stared past Henry Bone at the new paintings hanging behind his desk. There were three watercolours of what seemed to be exotic wildflowers. The execution was precise and detailed.

  ‘What happened to the Poussin?’

  ‘It was only on loan.’

  ‘You’re distancing yourself, aren’t you?’ Catesby knew perfectly well that the loan of the Poussin had been obtained through the good offices of an eminent art historian, who had once been an SIS agent. The ex-agent’s name was no longer mentioned, even whispered, in Broadway Buildings.

  ‘I suppose I am. One would be a fool not to. Would you like a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Catesby watched Bone go to a Regency sideboard to pour the Earl Grey from an Echinus Demotter tea service. The cups and saucers were delicate creatures with gold rims and spider’s web patterns. Catesby was always terrified of chipping the china.

  ‘When,’ said Bone, handing Catesby his tea, ‘you first had Earl Grey I had to stop you from putting milk in it. Please sit down.’

  Catesby sank into an armchair and juggled the tea and his bowler hat on his knees. He had come such a long way, from the poverty of the backstreets of Lowestoft, and Bone always liked to remind him of it. The jibes were never malicious; they were more the praise of a schoolmaster reminding a favourite pupil of how well he was progressing. Catesby smiled at Bone, ‘Where’s my slice of lemon?’

  ‘I haven’t got any – very forgetful. What do you think?’

  Catesby looked at the JIC paper.

  ‘No, of the watercolours.’

  ‘The craftsmanship is superb, but I’m not sure there is anything else. In other words, refreshingly unpretentious.’

  ‘Well done. They’re by Vishnu Prasad. He painted them for British naturalists in the nineteenth century who were recording the flora and fauna of India.’

  ‘Government Art Collection?’

  Bone nodded.

  ‘Do you suppose,’ said Catesby, ‘that they will let you take them with you when you go to Wormwood Scrubs? Look awfully nice on your cell wall.’

  ‘No, William, I’m not going to be arrested.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can’t imagine anything more serious than intentionally deceiving – lying actually – to JIC.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be the first.’

  ‘But has anyone ever done it so bluntly?’

  Bone paused as if lost in thought, ‘Probably not – but the seriousness of the situation justifies the deceit.’

  ‘Who else knows?’

  Bone handed over a second document. ‘I don’t want you to think that I’m completely mad and reckless.’

  Private and Confidential

  TO BE OPENED AND READ ONLY BY THE ADDRESSEE

  From: Office of the Director for West Europe and

  Soviet Bloc

  Broadway Buildings

  London

  2 November 1960

  To: The Rt. Hon. Harold Macmillan MP

  10 Downing Street

  London

  Dear Prime Minister,

  I am sure you read my JIC assessment with a large pinch of salt. You understand the UK’s current predicament more than anyone. I discussed similar contingencies with you when you were Foreign Secretary in 1955. The current situation is even more dangerous. It would not be melodramatic to say that the existence of the United Kingdom is more at risk than ever before.

  Much depends on the outcome of the American election. Neither result augurs well for our country, but I feel that a Kennedy presidency would be more dangerous. Much of Kennedy’s election rhetoric has focused on the mythical ‘missile gap’. Such irresponsible scaremongering could lead to unpredictable and disastrous outcomes. As you know, contrary to Kennedy’s false claims, the United States has a strategic nuclear advantage over the Soviet Union of at least twenty to one. The Russians have no missiles that can reach the US mainland. As long as this American invulnerability exists, the position of the United Kingdom remains precarious because we, unlike our American allies, are not invulnerable to Soviet retaliatory or pre-emptive strikes. We are on the wrong end of ‘the vulnerability gap’.

  The worst contingency would be that the US military will persuade the incoming president to launch a ‘preventative’ attack against the Soviet Union. The awful reality is that such an attack would be perfectly logical in terms of narrow US national self-interest. The attack would eliminate once and for all a future Soviet threat and the United States itself would remain untouched. Unfortunately, our own country would be destroyed. The Soviet armoury of medium-range nuclear missiles is more capable than ever of the complete devastation of Britain and Western Europe even as a second strike. In the eyes of our main NATO partner, we would be a sacrificial pawn. There is, sadly for
us, no faulting the cold logic of such a plan.

  Our best assessments suggest that the ‘vulnerability gap’ will close within the next three to four years. By the mid-sixties, the Soviet Union will have achieved ‘mutually assured destruction’ parity with its American opponent. Until that happens, the survival of our island will be in the balance. Meanwhile, vis-à-vis the Americans, it is in our own national interest to exaggerate Soviet nuclear capability and to play down Soviet weakness.

  I hope that you will have the time to meet me privately to discuss the situation in more depth.

  Yours sincerely,

  Henry Bone

  Catesby handed the letter back to Bone. ‘Has the PM agreed to meet you?’

  ‘We already have. We had whiskies at Downing Street yesterday evening.’

  ‘Was he angry at what you had done?’

  ‘Not particularly, he was in a melancholy mood and quoted Homer at me.’

  ‘In the original?’

  ‘Of course – you didn’t do Greek?’

  Catesby shook his head. ‘You’ll have to translate.’

  ‘I remember rendering the line in my own schooldays: Men grow tired of sleep, love, singing and dancing sooner than war.’

  ‘Was he talking about himself?’

  ‘Maybe a little. The PM is not a pacifist.’

  ‘That’s why he accepted the Thor missiles.’

  ‘You hated that, didn’t you, William?’

  ‘Macmillan’s worse than Eden and Churchill – at least they weren’t American poodles.’