This seemed to Jacot an awful lot of personal information from an intelligence professional. Sure, Dixwell’s apple pie family was helpful in creating the right impression in London but this was a layer of detail too much. The art of human intelligence is to get others to give information away. Sometimes it’s the intelligence information an agent has been specifically tasked to collect – where the chemical weapons are hidden for instance – or if there are any chemical weapons at all. Sometimes, an agent is on a general trawl for personal information that can then be exploited to turn the target into a source. Very often the opening into exploiting a target can be very simple – some aspiration that can be fulfilled – a child that could do with some help to get into a good American university and a visa. Or a career disappointment that can be put right by a strong American endorsement in the right ears. Or a personal vulnerability like debt, or gambling or girls or boys. Very often it was just plain vanity that gave the intelligence people the opening. As always when dealing with professional spies, even our own professional spies, Jacot felt he was being manipulated in some subtle way. If the manipulation involved so much personal information about Dixwell himself was he trying to hide something behind that? If he was prepared to admit to a foreigner the importance, personal importance, of his relationship with such a senior CIA figure there must be a reason.
‘And Mr. Downes came straight back to London that night by car?’
‘Yes. It’s an easy ride late at night. Johnny would have been back in the Connaught by one thirty or two.’
‘The Connaught Hotel?’
‘Yes. That’s where our really senior guys like to hang out. Good bar too. It was Nixon’s favourite hotel if I remember accurately. Incidentally Jacot, never spill the beans in the bar of the Connaught Hotel, the CIA could just be listening.’
Jacot was finding Dixwell less convincing by the minute. ‘And you went with him?’
‘Yes, absolutely. We went straight from the Fellows’ Combination Room, wow what a name, to the Great Gate where our limo awaited. We were let out by the head porter. We did have a couple of night caps on the way down the motorway.’ Dixwell smiled again.
‘Did you say good night to Verney?’
‘Yes, in the Combination Room in the usual way. I know him reasonably well. Johnny Downes went big on the Combination Room. For him candlelight meant a power cut when dad couldn’t pay the utility bill. That someone would still want to light an entire room that way wowed him out.’
‘I am sure it will be good for your career. But back to Verney. Was he friendly?’
‘Yes.’ All of a sudden Dixwell’s long answers were monosyllabic.
‘If I wanted to ask Mr. Downes to confirm this story – he would?’
‘Or you could ask the embassy chauffeur who drove us back.’
‘Did you notice anything else about the dinner that was odd?’
Dixwell paused. ‘There was a bit of what you Brits call an “atmosphere”. Most of your top people were there and I know there have been tensions.’
‘What sort of tensions?’
‘Well, over Afghanistan and other stuff. You know the score Daniel. We don’t actually need you militarily as the good Donald Rumsfeld once put it. We can go it alone. But you give very good cover. If the Brits pulled out early then it would make it even more difficult for us.’
Jacot said, ‘Hang on. Our top general, who’s in and out of Downing Street every day, has a map of Afghanistan above his desk in the ministry. And I understand his apartment in Kensington Palace is a kind of shrine to the country. He’s a what we used to call in the days of Empire a Sepoy general through and through. We are unlikely to leave before the agreed time. And Verney, for all his faults, has always been a strong supporter of our intervention in Afghanistan. Maybe he had been getting cold feet recently but he’s not in a position to call the whole thing off.’
Dixwell looked out of the window again. ‘Yeah, you are probably right. But our people in Washington worry. And guess what Daniel? I believe in a higher power that controls our lives. It’s not called God but Washington. Anyway, who is going to step into Verney’s shoes?’
Jacot knew perfectly well but wasn’t going to say. ‘I am sure it will be announced in due course and that it will be someone sympathetic, as ever, to American concerns. Listen, it has been very good of you to see me. Don’t worry, I will find my way to the lobby.’
‘No way, Daniel. A Marine has to take you down. This may be London but this is the US Embassy.’
Jacot nodded and within seconds a smart young US Marine corporal entered the room and saluted. They strode down the corridor together like extras in West Wing.
As he walked down the steps at the front of the embassy and past the statue of Eisenhower he looked back at the great gold American eagle that hovered over the embassy façade. It looked magnificent in the soft evening sunshine. Jacot walked to the other side of the square to the memorial to the victims of the terrorist atrocities of 911 to pay his quiet respects. The entire Western World still lived in the baleful shadow of that day. He remembered his small part in it. The Cabinet Office had been due to have a tele-conference with colleagues at Langley. He couldn’t even remember what it had meant to be about. They had settled into their seats in COBRA and waited for the satellite connection. But no one from Langley had appeared on the screens – just buzzing and a blank green screen. And then Jacot remembered the sound of running. Something he had never heard before in Downing Street. “Never run it panics the men”, he had been told on joining his regiment. He knew immediately that there must be something terribly wrong. As the tragic drama of the day unfolded he worried about American colleagues in Washington and New York who may or may not have survived the day. The public only discovered later but the intelligence world knew all along that the CIA’s huge New York office was in the World Trade Centre.
In the days that followed, Jacot and his British colleagues did what they could to show solidarity with the members of Grosvenor. Jacot took his opposite number to watch the Changing of the Guard the next day when the bands, on the direct orders of the Queen, had played the American national anthem. It was a moving moment for both of them. They had stood side by side and worked hard in what had seemed the common cause of humanity and freedom. They had drunk a lot together in various spots around London.
When the Americans had a crackdown on expenses the Brits picked up the bill. And when the Cabinet Office was having one of its periodic fits of austerity there was always the prospect of the CIA’s monthly lunches at Rules in Maiden Lane off Covent Garden to sustain morale. The CIA were a broad minded bunch with huge experience but most of them could never quite get over the idea of silver tankards filled with Black Velvet. Mixing golden bubbly champagne with black stout to the American mind seemed outrageous. But they drank it well and good times were had. There seemed to be a trust between the two countries. The Brits went the extra mile to help the Americans. The CIA reciprocated, releasing information and judgments to their allies that would get them into trouble with Washington. And yet. And yet. As Jacot stood in front of the memorial deep in meditation he knew that in the matter of the death of general Sir Christopher Verney, Chief of the UK’s Defence Intelligence, the head of Grosvenor, the CIA’s London Station, was not giving him the whole picture. What was it he was concealing behind those intimate details of the White House, lovingly retold, but designed to dazzle and distract?
XII
Headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service,
85 Vauxhall Cross, London SE1
Jacot walked from the Cabinet office to the headquarters of the Secret Intelligence Service at Vauxhall Cross on the south bank of the Thames. It was an unattractive building originally built to house commercial offices but bought by the government to house its foreign secret intelligence service. It was a funny decision – better to have left them in anonymous offices dotted over London than house them all in one very obvious building. But maybe that was Jacot
’s military sensibility intervening – soldiers liked to keep things split up and hidden until the critical moment. It was really none of his business but none of his colleagues who worked there thought the building suitable. They had a variety of uncomplimentary nicknames for the place. Legoland was the most used, but Babylon-on-Thames was the most accurate in Jacot’s view. With its ziggurat like shape and weird architectural detailing it could easily have been designed by one of Saddam Hussein’s kitschier in-house architects.
Jacot had been invited a few years previously to a preview of the latest James Bond film held for the staff of SIS at an anonymous cinema in north London. It was a formal and elegant occasion with drinks and small eats available. Just before the lights went down “C”, the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, and the six directors of the principal departments took their seats in the front row, accompanied by some senior movie executives and actors from the film. Everyone craned their necks to see if Dame Judy Dench, “M” in the latest films, was going to be sitting next to her real life counterpart “C”. SIS were very proud of their good taste and good manners. It was a gala occasion. Jacot had been hugely flattered to be invited. One of the pleasures of working in the intelligence world was that you were in-the-know even if you could not tell anyone. It was a huge treat to see the latest Bond film weeks before anyone else and in the company of Bond’s present-day successors. The atmosphere had been slightly spoiled at the start of the film when as the SIS building was blown sky high on screen a huge cheer went up from the cheap seats. “C” himself failed to see the joke and left at the end with a face like thunder, his aides trailing nervously behind.
It was “C”, Sir Valentine Walton, Jacot had come to speak to. As it was a formal visit Jacot was in uniform. Khaki service dress, highly polished Sam Browne belt and the dark blue ‘forage cap’ of his regiment, the Celtic Guards, with its cap badge of a gold embroidered Celtic cross. In his gloved hands Jacot also carried a thin highly-polished leather cane.
He passed swiftly through security and was ushered into “C’s” private lift which ascended with slightly uncomfortable speed to the fifth floor. He expected to wait a few minutes in the small anteroom dominated by a good copy of Annigoni’s portrait of the Queen and a rather obsequious and over-tailored male private secretary. But the door opened within seconds and the impressive figure of Sir Valentine Walton KCMG, OBE, Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, came out of it. Jacot only got halfway through a smart and guardsman-like salute before being grabbed by the arm and guided towards a chair by the side of a large and highly polished partner’s desk on which there appeared to be a large decanter of sherry.
‘Well, Colonel let’s get down to business’, said Valentine taking a large glug of sherry. ‘General Verney. Can’t say he was quite my cup of tea. Very sorry he has come to a sudden end and all that.’
The mis en scene was impressive. It was a glorious office with a great view of the Thames. The glass in the windows allowed you to appreciate the view, but as a result of the compounds in it that deflected both light and radio waves it had a metallic hue that reinforced the aura of secrecy and security. It was as if the whole building was wearing rather cheap dark glasses. Walton was at the same time paying coded homage to his boss Lady Nevinson – you are her emissary and I will treat you well – and trying subtly to overawe Jacot with his own status as head of SIS. Fair enough, thought Jacot. Whatever the realities of the UK’s faded position in the world SIS, as a result of the connection with Bond, remained one of the world’s premier and most powerful brands.
‘Are you aware of any reason why Verney may have been disposed of – if I can put it like that?’ asked Jacot, taking a large sip of sherry – an impressively dry Fino.
‘That, I think, is one for the police. As you know we had a problem ourselves a couple of years back with an unexplained sudden death just across the river from here. Very Agatha Christie. The jury is still out on that one. The poor man was discovered zipped up in a hold-all if you remember. He had been working in an area of interest to the Russian Mafia. So there was reason to be in a frightful flap. Verney’s I understand was a sudden death behind a locked door but not otherwise suspicious in any way. The toxicology tests show nothing and his rooms were checked thoroughly for radiation.’
The interview lasted half an hour. Walton went into some detail about the projects Verney had been involved with that might have put him at more risk than usual. Jacot questioned him in some detail about Verney’s involvement in planning for any pre-emptive action in Iran should the country get even closer to manufacturing a nuclear weapon. Walton was most forthcoming. Verney had recently travelled to Cyprus to inspect the intelligence facilities on the island. The listening stations on the island would play a crucial part in building an intelligence picture of what the Iranians were up to. Jacot pressed the issue – no it didn’t seem that Verney had much confidence in a pre-emptive strike against Tehran. And yes relations with some of the allies had become a little strained. While Verney had been in Washington a few weeks before a senior US official had insisted on referring to The Falkland Islands as the Malvinas – repeatedly throughout the meeting. Verney, unusually for such a thick-skinned man with a great admiration for the US system, had taken grave offence.
There were a number of the details about allied plans for Iran that Jacot found astonishing. In the press and on television the Western allies were often portrayed as relying on the brute force of air power. In reality they were capable of great subtlety and guile. A number of famous spies had become novelists, but none as far as Jacot could remember had been members of the Magic Circle. Shame. Their tricks were impressive. Valentine was less forthcoming about Verney’s tensions with the Americans.
Jacot thanked Walton and left the office. Thankfully the lift descended at a more leisurely speed. As he walked along Albert Embankment he ran the conversation back through his mind. It was always difficult dealing with SIS personnel. Their principal training was not, as the James Bond films would have us believe, in pistol shooting, scuba diving or flying Q’s latest pocket-sized helicopters, but in psychological manipulation and concealment. They wanted information from other people and to protect what they gleaned from prying eyes. They were good at it too. The training started from day one with young recruits sent out into town centres across the country to collect personal details on casual acquaintances and passers by. Jacot was used to it and military intelligence also had the habit of extreme discretion. In areas Walton did not want Jacot or Lady Nevinson peering into had he had parried, evaded and avoided like the master he was. In other areas he had perhaps been too free with the information. He had no choice but to speak to Jacot – Lady Nevinson controlled his service’s budget.
Ultimately, Jacot had not been re-assured by his meeting with “C”. Walton had been most forthcoming about plans for Iran. In fact he had told Jacot too much. Perhaps he was meant to be impressed. But other than a throwaway remark about Verney’s annoyance at American rudeness while in Washington, Walton had given little else away.
XIII
Jacot’s Flat, Montagu Square,
Marylebone, London W1
Jacot stood by the tall windows of his first floor flat in Marylebone, looking out at the square in the twilight. The square gardens were ordered and attractive. The residents’ association who owned the square had insisted that it should look like what it was – an English Georgian square; one of those unspoilt and glorious remnants that lined the West End just north of Oxford Street. The English inhabitants were actually in a minority. There were American and European bankers, diplomats of various types and a number of young families from various parts of the Middle East – Jews, Muslims and Christians. The residents’ meetings could be disputatious and difficult but only in a gentle way. All were agreed on one thing: the square was a beautiful and private amenity and that it should remain true to its roots. Jacot still smiled at the thought of the very senior Australian television presenter who sugg
ested at a meeting that a dying oak tree should be replaced by a eucalyptus. The wife of an Arab ambassador went pink with horror under her headscarf.
‘In Sydney, yes. But not in London.’
The gardens looked more pleasing than ever. After six weeks of digging and construction the garden was enclosed for the first time since 1940 with a black painted wrought iron fence. It looked magnificent and well worth every penny the inhabitants had contributed or raised. Every resident of the square had done something and the nearby embassies had been generous, but nearly half the necessary money came as a personal contribution from a foreign banker who lived in one of the few remaining undivided houses. The original fence and gates had been removed just before the Battle of Britain as part of a national campaign to gather scrap metal for the war effort. “Weapons from scrap metal – all boys can help” ran a poster put up in schools. Aluminium pots and pans could be melted down to make urgently needed aircraft parts. But wrought iron had no modern military uses. Ironically it wasn’t just the Luftwaffe who wanted to destroy and despoil. The great national, even global, emergency of 1940 needed nerves and sacrifice by many people but somewhere in the government machinery there were officials who wanted to disfigure London’s beautiful squares, at a time when preservation should have been a priority. Who knows what the motivation was – probably the usual British vice, chippiness, but on this occasion dressed up in the more respectable clothes of patriotism.
The Falklands Intercept Page 11
