by Nick Spill
Catelin raised his eyebrows as he inspected his pipe. “He’s just going through the motions?”
“Never underestimate a Russian trying to screw things up for everyone else. It’s what they do. What Marxism ends up doing.”
“You have read Das Kapital?” Catelin kept a straight face. “But it’s really Lenin, isn’t it? Anything is acceptable if it advances Communism and is moral by definition. Even murder and sabotage.”
Alexander couldn’t tell if Catelin was mocking him or making a joke. There was more to Catelin than just an older man behind a huge desk in the upper reaches of government, with a rack full of pipes.
“I think the Russian is playing a game, a complex one, keeping Moscow happy with his contact reports, taunting our security services, implicating a respectable member of our establishment, creating havoc here, and of course as a bonus, upsetting the Americans.” Alexander paused to gauge his words. “It’s all part of their plan to undermine us, sow confusion and conflict. It’s what the Soviets have always done. And isn’t he succeeding? Look at the trial. What happened there? Acting as a spy is safe here in little New Zealand. He gets to file reports to Moscow while our government, present company excluded of course, hasn’t the balls to deport the spy.”
Catelin held his pipe in the air and looked at his young protégé. “You got all this from Natasha seducing you?”
“Well, for a start she didn’t succeed. Thank god! But she taught me a valuable lesson.”
Catelin scowled and sucked on his pipe before letting out a cloud of smoke. “You’re probably aware that we have finally reestablished diplomatic relations with the Soviets. There is a new ambassador in Moscow we do not want to jeopardize. And there are other matters involved here, including trade, so don’t go jumping to conclusions that may sound good but are false. Do you understand?”
Alexander nodded.
“I’ve been meaning to show you something.” Catelin walked over to his desk and picked up a book with a bright red cover. He handed it to Alexander who read the cover: KGB: The Secret Work of Soviet Agents. “Never underestimate your enemy. Predators go after the weakest. The Soviets think our little country is the weakest. They’ve stolen codes from us we use with our allies, they’ve procured passports from willing accomplices in other consulates, and they’ve built alliances with fellow travelers, those sympathetic to their agenda, so they have done a lot of damage you would never hear about. And we know Nikolai Nikolaevich Raganovich is the Soviet resident. It’s why we treated Dr. Winter’s case so seriously. And he’s still here. The other two who were involved fled the country as soon as Winter was detained, but Raganovich remains for some reason.” Catelin frowned. “They are dangerous, so don’t underestimate them. Here, read the book. And let me know what you think.”
Alexander did not want to admit to the Under-Secretary that he had read John Barron’s exposé of the Soviet Union’s secret security service. He had a collection of non-fiction spy books. He was fascinated by the Tsar’s Okhrana, the Soviet Union’s Cheka, NKVD and all their variants, right up to the KGB. And he knew what a resident or rezidentura meant. Alexander Arkadyevich Newton, New Zealand’s latest KGB spy hunter, appreciated being told what he presumed was the real government position on Raganovich. He was about to stand, but Catelin reached for another pipe from the rack on his desk, and motioned for Alexander to stay. Catelin started to fill his pipe from his leather pouch as if it was the most important task in the world. “You mentioned another project?” he asked.
“Oh. Yes.” Alexander placed the book on the table and put his hands on his knees. “It involves your boss’s counterpart in the other party. The shadow minister.” He told Catelin the details of his conversations with Kathy and how she would see the older political boyfriend after their sauna on Sundays.
“How do you know she meets him?” Catelin asked.
“She told me.”
Catelin placed his pipe on the table, and he went to his desk to select another from his rack. He picked up one, inspected it, then took another pipe which he started to clean with his small pocket knife. Alexander kept his eyes on the ritual, intrigued by the movements. He thought Catelin was stalling for time, to think what to do next.
“Can you use the camera again?” Catelin finally offered. “We need something where there is no doubt. Say, by next week?” He stood.
Alexander leapt to his feet and said “Yes.” Holding the red book, he strode out of the office, on top of the world.
• • •
If Alexander had been a real spy, he would have positioned himself by the Cenotaph at the corner of Bowen Street and Lambton Quay to watch Richard Catelin, bundled in his black double-breasted trench coat, cross the Quay and walk up Molesworth Street with his executive briefcase. He would then have observed Catelin march across the grounds into the neo-classical Edwardian Parliament building smiling broadly despite the typical bitter August wind blowing through the city, and rain falling horizontally. It was the same area where the Maori land march leaders had camped out to protest the year before. Next door, the Beehive was rising up to its full ten-story height, like a giant wedding cake rather than an actual beehive, but without a bride and groom stuck on the top layer.
Once inside, Catelin headed to his boss’s office. He breezed past the minister’s secretary and handed the minister a large brown envelope from his briefcase. The minister offered him a seat and Catelin sat in his wet coat which he had unbuttoned, eyes on the minister. The desk was not as big as Catelin’s; only a large leather-bound diary lay open on its shiny walnut surface. There was no ashtray. The minister had given up cigarettes, and hated pipe smoke.
“Well, how is our new man doing?” the minister asked.
Catelin unclenched his teeth. “See for yourself. He got them.”
“Our new man” was an interesting turn of phrase from the minister, Catelin thought. Was he presenting it to the Prime Minister as his own successful project? Catelin was a civil servant and a cog in the wheel. He kept his face neutral, as hard as it was without a pipe sticking out of his mouth.
The minister opened the envelope and looked at the photographs. “Better than what our boys did.”
Catelin nodded.
“And here? It’s a milk bottle?”
“Yes. He had rather a good vantage point for what was playing out, two mornings ago I think.”
“What is going on here?”
“Our man”—Catelin stressed the our—“thinks it’s a simple passing of a milk bottle. No message in the bottle, so to speak.”
“Does Winter get milk delivered?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, get him to find out and see if it happens again. It might be important, it might not, but I’m buggered if we’re going to leave any stone unturned. Not after we’ve been humiliated with the trial and the bloody jury. How soon can you get more photos and report on the doctor’s milk supply? And why don’t the others know?”
“I’ll check with them first, then send out our man.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“Yes. A couple of things. He thinks the Soviets are trying us on. Sort of giving us the run around and at the same time keeping close contact with the doctor. He also thinks they have history. The doctor has had previous contact with the diplomat. An old spy who is being kept warm.”
“Sounds like a Graham Greene novel. Our Man in Wellington.” The minister breathed out and changed his tone. “We’re still recovering from the damn trial. How could the jury find him not guilty? I don’t see how they could find him not guilty. It’s as if they didn’t believe us. We must be missing something. But we can still end the whole sordid affair.”
When the minister looked at him, Catelin gripped his thighs.
“What does he know that we don’t? Maybe Winter was a Soviet spy in the Fifties and Sixties and our predecessors missed it. I’ve said it before, but the damn SIS denies it, because they don’t know, never knew, and will never admit
they were wrong. Well, that, that is chilling.”
Catelin fidgeted but kept his hands on his knees. He was silent as the minister eyed him. The damp from his trench coat seeped through his suit.
“You said a couple of things?”
“Yes.” Catelin hesitated. “He has a source who reliably informed him your counterpart is having an affair with one of his daughters’ girlfriends. He can get you photos.”
The minister scratched his chin. “Hmmm. What does he want?”
“I’m not sure. He hasn’t asked for money, yet. He seems to get a thrill out of the operation.”
“And you encourage him, of course.”
“He does seem enthusiastic about the gallery. Lots of plans.”
“I heard he wants to organize a traveling Maori exhibition,” said the minister “Contemporary artists, carvings, sculptures, paintings. Sounds expensive.”
“The director isn’t exactly supportive,” said Catelin.
“He’s a product of the Courtauld. He can’t help himself, but times are changing. I’m having lunch with the chairman of the Arts Council tomorrow. We’ll talk. They could fund it and bring him on as the organizer. If we get those photos.”
“Should keep him happy.” Catelin wanted to rub his hands together but thought better of it.
“Let me know as soon as you get anything.” The minister rose to shake Catelin’s hand. No small talk. No invitations. And no notes of their unscheduled meeting.
As he trotted out of the building in his wet coat Catelin understood why the minister was handling this case rather than the Prime Minister, who was in charge of the security services. Catelin was the cut out, just as he was using other personnel for his operation.
Chapter Eleven
The FBI legal attaché special agent who was known as the Legat, from the US Embassy in Wellington, asked Henry Lotus for the third time what happened to him in the hotel room in Manhattan. They faced each other across a metal table in a room high up in the Auckland Central police station on Vincent Street. To one side was a policeman Henry never wanted to see again. He was unnerved by the close-set eyes that bored into him. But Henry did not want to show any weakness. Inspector Bernie Grimble, wearing a dark checkered sports jacket and Mount Albert Grammar School tie, kept his customary deadpan expression. Mr. FBI appeared spectral in his plain black suit and thin black knitted tie with a gold tie-pin set against his bright white shirt.
Henry, a good ten years younger than his interrogators, was dressed in a white T-shirt, navy blazer and blue jeans. His straight black hair was almost to his shoulders and he had the habit of running his right hand through his hair when he was nervous. He was taller than either policeman and kept his back ramrod straight, despite his obvious impatience. “You must have the NYPD reports.”
Mr. FBI, who without his jacket would have no shoulders, looked over at Grimble then asked Henry, “What did you do with the notebooks?” He sounded patient but wary.
“I burnt them. After what I went through I decided it was too dangerous to keep them. Anyway, I’ve changed my line of inquiry. I don’t want to put myself in harm’s way again. Would you?” Henry ran his hand though his hair.
“Can you wait? Can I get you a soda?” Mr. FBI rose from his chair and stretched his arms that seemed to reach the ceiling.
Henry shook his head. The two policemen left the room. Mr. FBI looked drained.
“Are we being played?” Mr. FBI asked Grimble after they entered the adjoining room and looked at the tall scientist who sat motionless in his chair, his eyes searching for them through the mirror.
“I think so, but it’s not like he’s a criminal mastermind.” Grimble squinted at Henry Lotus who ran his right hand through his hair again. “He’s mirroring me, though. That’s what’s disturbing.”
“What do you mean?” Mr. FBI asked.
“He mimics my body language. Whatever I do, he does as well. I think its deliberate.”
“You think he has the notebooks?”
Grimble nodded. “He’s got them. He’s lying.”
Mr. FBI looked at Henry again. “Could be, but he’s supposed to be a brilliant physicist. I’ve been told to go easy on him, but something’s bugging me about him. He told the same story, only the last time it was more elaborate.”
“Well, ask him again in a few weeks. He’s not going anywhere. And see if he really did destroy the notebooks. You’ve been instructed to retrieve them, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what’s in them?”
Mr. FBI shrugged.
“The Soviets want them, don’t they?”
Mr. FBI did not shrug again, just sighed.
“And you want them too,” Grimble stated. “What happens if you don’t get them?”
“To me? My next stop is Africa.”
“I know how that works.”
Chapter Twelve
“You think the threat is real?” Richard Catelin relit his pipe as he sat in his leather seat in his office. An office he knew to be at least twice as large as the commissioner’s. He was a lifetime civil servant. The commissioner was appointed for only two years.
“Oh yes.” Commissioner Thompson crossed his legs and looked at the whisky he held in his left hand. His white hair was under control with a tight combover and he wore a white shirt, and a dark green tweed suit with a matching tie. He looked more like a retired farmer than the top policeman. He twisted his feet and looked at his shiny brown brogues.
“How did you find out?” Catelin kept his pipe poised in mid-air, anxious for a real answer, not one of the commissioner’s tedious lectures.
“Every empire has its intelligence networks. Ears and eyes. Sources and methods. It’s how we gather information. Might sound a little clichéd, but it’s the truth.” The commissioner adjusted himself on the leather sofa and surveyed the office. “An odd comment here, snatch of a conversation there, someone seeing someone at an odd time or place. We weave it together. It’s never as complete as we like. Lot of guesswork involved, call it intuition if you like. But we put together a case, for what it’s worth. And the so-called experts are wrong most of the time. But life isn’t always clear-cut, is it?”
“You bugged a few phones and heard about the Cook painting?” Catelin asked from a cloud of pipe smoke.
“It’s part of the puzzle. We have our suspicions about radical elements in the so-called Maori land movement. And there are links.”
“Who knows?”
“We’ve kept it very close, considering how we got the information.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I hear you have a new man working for you. Maybe you can get him to keep watch over the painting. You’re going to get a memo soon.” The commissioner eased himself out of his seat. “Didn’t know you had such good scotch. I would have come here sooner.”
Chapter Thirteen
Dr. Mel Johnson and Henry Lotus were at the tiny shopping center in the small town of Rawene on Monday morning. A line of cars and trucks were lined up to wait for the ferry. Mel peeked through the shop window at Wiremu Wilson as he sat at a desk. Henry rang the doorbell. Wiremu unlocked the door and looked his guests up and down. He wore a red plaid shirt, green army pants and spit-shined black boots. He had kept his hair short, but his eyes did not reflect light—you could not look at them for long.
Henry and Mel wore matching white shirts and blue jeans. Mel was almost as tall as Henry, but her shoulders looked wider. They looked like a couple and their rosy checks and big smiles showed their relaxed adventure up north was going well.
“Good to see you.” Wiremu hugged Henry and held him close. “It’s been a while. How are you both?” Henry, never one to hug back, did his best to reciprocate but looked awkward. He tried to smile but could not match Wiremu’s wide grin or tight grip on his arms.
Wiremu turned his attention to Mel and, rather than hug her, shook hands then made a joke about her strong grip by holding his hand a
s if it had been crushed. Wiremu and Henry laughed. Wiremu acting the clown, rather than a drug dealer.
“What brings you here? Are you moving? Finally?” He faced Mel and expected a retort from her. She did not smile, too tired to take the bait.
“Remember your letter?” She looked around his narrow office.
“Oh yes. Here, let me make you tea. We have very nice government-issue Lipton’s.”
Wiremu charmed his visitors with how he helped young Maori and provided them guidance and connected them with jobs in the community, if not college or other schools further south, in Whangarei or even Auckland.
“Look how tiny this is. I have no budget. They barely pay me, but it’s what I can do for the kids is important.” Wiremu smiled. “And my brother and cousin are here, so I have family.”
“Brother?” Henry asked.
“Yeah, Rawiri. He is a little older, and wiser than me.”
“And cousin?”
“Moana. She was in Auckland. She returned to look after the family home. Bright girl, though she goes to the city at times.” Wiremu smiled.
“You kept your short hair,” Henry said. “No more afro?”
“Yeah. Being respectable. I must invite you out tonight, after work. Cook up a feast and have a few beers.”
“Or a lot.”
Wiremu beamed. “Hey! My Henry!”
• • •
They parked in a field next to an old wooden house not unlike Mel’s in Mount Eden. Mel carried fresh bread and a box of local pastries. Henry had a couple of bottles of Cold Duck in a bag. Mel took Henry’s hand as they crossed the metal road and walked through a paddock to a small beach on the estuary. The temperature had dropped, and Mel wore her old red-and-navy checkered Swanndri wool shirt she had had since her Otago Medical School days, Henry his blue checkered bushman’s jacket. They saw the outlines of two large Maori men standing near the water wearing army boots, green trousers and black pullovers. The sun had set and the thin lines of clouds over the mouth of the harbor were streaks of purple and blood-red. The green hills were painted with thick black outlines. All they could hear was the crackling of a fire and the sounds of cicadas.
