The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘The PM is a pragmatist – or likes to think he is.’

  Catesby studied the dregs in his teacup – of finest china. He looked at his bowler hat, lightly blotched by raindrops. What had he become? Once again, he counted off the ideals he had grown up with: trade unionism, the solidarity of the working class, socialism – and the abolition of war. He remembered the 1930s when wages were cut and a baby next door died because the family didn’t have the 2/6d to call out the doctor. The doctor would have come anyway, but they had too much pride – misplaced pride. The same sort of useless pride that made governments keep Britain’s pointless nuclear bombs – and even invite the Yanks to bring theirs, like the Thors, on to British soil.

  ‘You’ve gone all thoughtful, William.’

  Catesby looked up. ‘I’m going to resign.’

  Bone slowly shook his head. ‘No, you’re not.’

  ‘You think you can stop me?’

  ‘Yes.’ Bone’s eyes glinted like a knife blade behind his glasses.

  Catesby smiled bleakly and quoted what had become their shared mantra:

  ‘Under the spreading chestnut tree,

  I sold you and you sold me.’

  ‘That’s right, William, and nothing has changed. If you ever try to leave the service you will be stitched like no one has ever been stitched before – but, of course, as you descend that dark hole into chokey you can drag me after you. Would you like another cup of tea?’

  Catesby’s return to Berlin was marked by tedious and bad-tempered interviews at BfV HQ concerning the Jutta incident. The BfV, which was supposed to be West Germany’s principal Security Service, had a terrible record of infiltration from the East. In 1954, the very Head – Präsident – of the BfV had fled to the DDR in the wake of a spy scandal that implicated fifty-four serving officers. Things didn’t seem to have got much better. Catesby spent a lot of time talking in private to the new Präsident, Hubert Schrübbers, who was certainly not a DDR agent, but suspected everyone else in his agency. ‘I have two officers,’ said Schrübbers, ‘who are blaming each other for assigning that woman to you. There are no incriminating documents, so I am going to have to suspend both.’

  A day later Catesby received a cable from Bone summoning him back to London. But before he could leave, Catesby had to attend a BfV interrogation that turned into a screaming match as one of the officers under suspicion accused Catesby of being implicated. The summons back to London could not have come at a worse time; Catesby knew it would make the BfV think his own bosses had doubts about him. Before storming out, Catesby pointed his finger at his accuser and called him a piece of Scheisse. ‘The only reason I’m going to London,’ lied Catesby, ‘is to get enough information to nail you to the shithouse wall.’

  The real reason for his urgent recall to London turned out to be, in Catesby’s eyes, utterly banal. It was a ‘social’ event – exactly the sort of thing he loathed. The US Ambassador, John Hay ‘Jock’ Whitney, had invited a load of Brits from FCO and SIS to spend election night at the embassy to listen to the voting results as they came in – a ‘historic’ event. Bone and Catesby were on the list of invitees and there was no way either could refuse to go. Since the US versus UK punch-up over Suez, the mood music in London was transatlantic reconciliation and friendship. Catesby hated it – especially the 1958 Mutual Defence Agreement. It meant that Britain had just pipped Alaska to become the forty-ninth state.

  It was the first time Catesby had been to the new US Embassy. The Americans had moved to the opposite end of Grosvenor Square from the eighteenth-century townhouse they had passed on to the Canadians. The new embassy was brashly modern. A huge gilded bald eagle, the size of a bus, appeared to be swooping down from the roof with wings outspread. The eagle didn’t fit in with the clean lines of the building: it was too ornate. The power symbol was more important than aesthetics.

  As Catesby showed his invitation to a marine guard, he reminded himself of the rules: don’t get drunk; don’t insult anyone; don’t get into a fight. It was nearly midnight, but the election results from the earliest states still hadn’t come in.

  The first two hours were dull, but not unpleasant. Catesby milled around through various function rooms, drinking non-alcoholic cocktails and nibbling proffered canapés. The grub was impressive. Catesby made a point of talking to Americans instead of Brits and of being polite – and didn’t have his first alcoholic drink until it had gone two a.m. As he loosened up, he had a long chat with a history professor from Princeton who had been seconded to the State Department as an advisor. The professor was obviously cultured, but self-effacing. ‘I really haven’t travelled much beyond the library, so you could say I’m a bit of a provincial booby.’ Catesby heard the echoes of ancient Rome. He realised that behind the veil of modesty and subtle charm was a confident and cosmopolitan scholar close to the Emperor’s ear.

  The election results were now streaming in. There were radios relaying the news located throughout the reception rooms where knots of people gathered. Kennedy was, as expected, sweeping most of the East Coast states. It was now after three o’clock and Catesby had found a comfortable armchair in a reading room full of print media. There were newspapers and magazines galore – including several in foreign languages. Catesby eschewed Le Monde for a copy of the Los Angeles Times printed on extra-thin paper for air transport. The front page reported that Clark Gable was recovering from a heart attack. He had just finished filming The Misfits with Marilyn Monroe. But it was an item on an inside page that caught Catesby’s attention:

  Atomic War Civil Defense Exercise

  An experimental radiological shelter at Camp Parks, California, was occupied for a period of 48 hours by 99 men, women, and children. Ages of the participants ranged from about 3 months to 68 years. Family size ranged from single persons to a family of seven. Children of all ages appeared to adapt well to shelter conditions, but the importance of careful preparation, organization, and control of activities was demonstrated.

  He remembered the ominous warning that he had heard from Bone years before: ‘It is not enough for the Americans to survive the Cold War; they want to win it.’

  Catesby folded the paper on his knees and closed his eyes. He soon drifted into a brief interlude of peaceful sleep – followed by the usual nightmare. The voices that swirled around him were Spanish, French and Dutch and full of urgency. The dream always ended the same way. The bolted oak door splintering, the clang of swords … and finally Catesby pathetically pleading, desperate to save his life, that he was a spy working for the Queen. They never believed him.

  ‘Mr Catesby.’ The voice was gentle American, almost a whisper. Catesby opened his eyes. The young man in front of him was handsome in a front office sort of way. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but the Ambassador has invited you to his residence.’

  ‘How nice of him.’ Catesby immediately wondered if he should have said ‘His Excellency’. He never got protocol right.

  ‘Would you like to come with me? There’s a car waiting.’

  There were several cars waiting – all black Cadillacs flying the Ambassador’s flag. A chauffeur in livery held open a rear door. There were already three on the back seat. The very pretty wife of one of Macmillan’s most promising ministers slid onto her husband’s lap and patted the seat beside her. Catesby slid on to the seat and felt the wife’s shins tightly nestle against his thighs. ‘Hello,’ she said offering a gloved hand, ‘I’m Valerie.’

  ‘I’m William,’ said Catesby.

  ‘D’you know Jack?’ she said leaning on her husband.

  ‘Of course, how are you doing, Jack?’

  ‘Nice to see you again, William,’ said the minister, also lying.

  ‘Any idea what this is all about?’ said Catesby.

  ‘I believe,’ said the minister, ‘that Jock is going to give us a champagne breakfast.’

  London was pre-dawn damp and empty as the cavalcade of limousines left Grosvenor Square and turned up Baker Street. T
he Ambassador’s residence was at Winfield House, a neo-Georgian mansion set in twelve manicured acres of Regent’s Park.

  ‘Any idea who won the election?’ said Catesby.

  ‘Driver,’ said the minister.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Could you turn on the radio and try to get a news station?’

  As soon as the driver turned the knob, Catesby realised it was already tuned to the UK station of American Forces Network. The presenter’s voice was clear and strong:

  Senator Kennedy, aged 43, is a Harvard graduate and war hero. He will be the youngest elected president in US history and the first Roman Catholic. We are now going direct to Hyannis Port, Massachusetts, where President-elect Kennedy is giving his victory speech.

  There was a brief pause and some static. The transatlantic connection made Kennedy’s voice fluttery and unearthly as if he were a creature from outer space.

  I can assure you that every degree of mind and spirit that I possess will be devoted to the long-range interests of the United States and to the cause of freedom around the world.

  As the car purred through the gates of Winfield House, Kennedy was still talking. They would now prepare for a ‘new administration and a new baby.’

  Although Winfield House, built in 1936, was fake Georgian, the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper was genuine eighteenth-century. It seemed to Catesby that Ambassador Whitney had gone to a lot of expense to create an ambience that was elegant without being vulgar. The breakfast itself was, however, a little over the top: poached eggs with Hollandaise, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, eggs Benedict, Virginia ham, wafer-thin pancetta bacon, sausages various, hash browns, kippers, smoked haddock, bowls and bowls of fresh fruit, freshly squeezed orange juice clunking with ice cubes, American pancakes and waffles, every pastry imaginable including croissants and pain au chocolat that must have been flown over from Paris. The idea was that you served your first helping from a buffet. After that, champagne, coffee, tea and additional helpings were brought to you by servers – most seemed to be Filipino.

  Catesby found himself at a table with three other Brits. The only one he recognised was Charles Hill, who enjoyed the splendidly ludicrous title of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster – a sort of minister-without-portfolio job. Hill was, however, more famous as the 1940s ‘radio doctor’ who wrote the Ministry of Information recipe book, Wise Eating in War Time. As Hill tucked into a second serving of hash browns and bacon, he caught Catesby smiling at him and smiled back, ‘Yes,’ said Hill, ‘it is a bit ironic – but you have my permission to tuck in.’ With his black round spectacles, twinkling eyes and slight pudginess Hill looked exactly like the avuncular GP he was. Catesby strained to hear the conversation Hill was having with the other two. They seemed to be gossiping about a woman.

  ‘Very pretty, very feminine,’ said Hill, ‘splendid ankles. And her main charm is that she does not look a career woman, but speaks with the clarity of a barrister. The best of the ’57 intake.’

  ‘Well she certainly seems to have enchanted you.’

  The oldest of the three looked up from his eggs Benedict. ‘What’s her name, Charles?’

  ‘Margaret Thatcher.’

  A waiter came around and recharged their glasses with champagne. The most tipsy of Hill’s companions proposed a toast, but Catesby was distracted by an American voice speaking softly at his side. ‘Excuse me, Mr Catesby.’

  ‘Yes.’ Catesby detected something in the American’s manner that explained the real reason he had been invited. It wasn’t for reasons of protocol.

  ‘Ambassador Whitney would be very pleased if you would have a word with him.’

  Catesby nodded an apology at his table companions and followed a slim young American who exuded the relaxed assurance of his country’s elite. It was an assurance that both charmed and annoyed – and Catesby knew he was going to experience it in bucketfuls when he met the Ambassador. Jock Whitney was a champion polo player, horse breeder, movie producer and war hero. He had so charmed the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh that they addressed each other by first names – an unprecedented relaxation of protocol.

  The Ambassador’s private study was more modest than the rest of Winfield House. It was comfortable and functional rather than grand and elegant. The furnishings were antiques, but not priceless ones. There were oil paintings of horses and photographs of Whitney’s stepdaughters – and his polo team. As soon as Catesby was shown in, Whitney got up and warmly shook hands. ‘Thank you for coming to see me.’

  ‘Thank you for inviting me, Ambassador.’

  ‘Please drop that nonsense, just call me Jock.’

  The name triggered a memory in Catesby’s mind – Jock for jockey. ‘You nearly won the Grand National.’

  Whitney gave a theatrical sigh. ‘That was heartbreaking. Easter Hero twisted a plate and we were beaten by a nose. Are you fond of steeplechase?’

  ‘Not particularly, I prefer football.’

  ‘Soccer?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘I’ve always been passionate about sport – but I’m only good at the ones us spoiled rich things can afford to play.’

  Catesby was surprised by the frankness.

  ‘May I offer you something to drink – brandy, coffee, tea, more champagne?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘I must confess …’ Whitney sounded genuinely embarrassed, ‘that I have an ulterior motive for asking to see you.’

  Catesby shrugged and put on a blank look.

  ‘Betsey, my wife, is Kit Fournier’s aunt. Kit was her favourite nephew. I only met him once. He seemed a very complex young man – and extremely witty and utterly likeable. I believe you knew him?’

  The name Kit Fournier hit Catesby’s ear like a pistol shot from close range. It was as if a complete stranger had casually said, ‘You caught your wife flagrante and you buried her and the lover under the patio’ – and it was all true. Catesby struggled to keep a straight face, for the Fournier file was one of London’s most closely kept secrets.

  ‘Yes, I knew Kit. We were both stationed in Bonn in the early fifties.’

  ‘Were you doing similar jobs?’

  Catesby looked directly at Whitney without blinking. ‘I was in the consular section at the British Embassy.’

  ‘I see.’

  Catesby wondered how much further Whitney was going to push.

  ‘Well, I’m having coffee,’ said Whitney pushing a button on his desk intercom, ‘I hope you will have some too.’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  Whitney placed the order. His voice, as ever, polite and nonmagisterial. Catesby meanwhile began to put pieces together. The American elite were just as incestuous as the British – the same few families. He remembered that Betsey, Whitney’s second wife, had been married to James Roosevelt, the president’s son. The divorces and the revolving marriage beds didn’t matter. They were still the same gang – and Kit was part of it too. If, thought Catesby, the Americans had got to Fournier first, there would have been a cover-up instead of a trial. The Brits did the gang a favour. A smiling Filipino entered with the coffee tray and shuffled out again wreathed in Whitney’s warm thanks.

  ‘Did you meet Kit when he was stationed in London?’ Whitney was pouring the coffee.

  ‘No, unfortunately.’ Catesby knew that Whitney knew that he was lying again, but he had to go through the ritual.

  ‘And they still haven’t found a body?’

  ‘No.’ Truth was easy.

  ‘Is there anything I can pass on to Betsey?’ There was a note of faint pleading in Whitney’s voice – oddly vulnerable in a man so rich.

  ‘We can’t assume that Kit is dead.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Catesby immediately wondered if he had given too much away. But something in Whitney’s manner suggested that he had an inkling of the truth. A word, perhaps, from a polo-playing Argentine who had contacts on offshore islands.

  ‘What,’ said Whitney changing the su
bject, ‘do you think of Kennedy’s election?’

  Catesby shrugged.

  ‘Of course, you can’t say. You’re supposed to be a diplomat.’ Whitney paused. ‘I hope you don’t think my office is bugged.’

  ‘I don’t think it is. I’m sure you wouldn’t tolerate it.’

  ‘Not if I knew about it. In any case, William, since you are in no position to express an indiscreet opinion, allow me. I didn’t want Nixon or Kennedy to win – and I’m sure that Eisenhower felt the same way. I love my country and I don’t like the way it’s going.’ Whitney paused and stared hard at Catesby. ‘But you don’t like my country at all – or Americans.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a fair comment.’

  ‘And it’s unfair of me to task you with such a comment. And, of course, you can’t be sure that this office isn’t bugged.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I would say the same things regardless.’

  ‘Well I’m going to continue with my indiscretions because there are messages I want to pass on before I leave this job.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Please, William, the humble diplomat story is getting threadbare.’

  Catesby sipped his coffee.

  ‘I’ve chosen you,’ continued Whitney, ‘because in an odd sort of way our views coincide. I believe that my country has become increasingly enthralled to a group that could destroy us all.’ Whitney paused. ‘And it’s not just my own family who are at risk. Nonetheless, my view is more commonly held by people of my … how can I say it?’

  ‘Filthy-rich old money.’

  ‘Thank you for being so succinct. In fact, we’ve got so much filthy lucre the stuff is an embarrassment. Our working weeks are spent giving away millions rather than accumulating them. I assure you that philanthropy is harder work than greed – the decisions are more complex.’

  ‘Do you feel superior to the new rich?’

  ‘Good heavens, no. The new rich aren’t any different from our ancestors – completely amoral. But whereas our ancestors built railways, drilled oil wells, manufactured motor cars, exploited mines; the new rich have discovered something even more profitable – weapons. Not just old-fashioned guns and canon, but aircraft carriers, hydrogen bombs, ballistic missiles, submarines. They’re not just greedy and amoral – they’re dangerous and out of control.’ Whitney looked closely at Catesby. ‘Do you find my views eccentric?’