“I’m on my way.” You didn’t say no to McFarlane.
Dan Kelly showered quickly and, as the Government House mess was fairly formal, dressed in a white tuxedo. He picked up his keys and strode out of the mess to his battered, second hand Lanchester 10.
The journey to Central Nassau was slow but uneventful. He found space to park opposite the mess and walked towards the main entrance. McFarlane was at the door, also wearing a tuxedo. Kelly mentally congratulated himself on making the right choice.
“Hello Dan,” said McFarlane, gently shaking Kelly’s hand. “Good to see you again. Come in and we’ll find somewhere quiet and talk over a drink.”
The two men sat in the corner of the members’ lounge, away from the two or three other members enjoying a quiet pre-dinner cocktail, and exchanged pleasantries and small talk for a while. McFarlane was a big man in every sense of the word, physically big with a personality to match. A Scotsman with a thick accent and a ready smile, he was famous for his answer to a question on his personnel file. The question asked, ‘do you speak any foreign languages?’ McFarlane had written, Turkish, Russian, Arabic and English, as he considered his native tongue to be Scots Gaelic.
But there was another side to McFarlane; just under the surface of the affable Scot was a very capable Brigadier who had seen active service throughout the war. When McFarlane said jump, the only question allowed was ‘how high?’ Kelly respected McFarlane and they seemed to gel well together, their common interest in languages being the initial catalyst. McFarlane had quipped once, “Between us we speak half the languages in Europe and Asia, so where do they post us both? The Bahamas! MI5 moves in mysterious ways.”
“You are aware of the staffing levels here in The Bahamas, Dan?” The question was rhetorical; Kelly knew that McFarlane was well aware that he knew all of the operatives well.
“Three G2 and three G3,” Kelly answered, wondering where this was leading.
“Six out of seven isn’t bad,” said McFarlane. “We also have one from department CS as well.” Kelly was genuinely surprised; he had no idea there was an agent from CS operating on the Island.
Department CS was responsible for dealing with Soviet issues and employed a number of undercover agents around the world. In retrospect Kelly realised that he perhaps shouldn’t have been surprised, it was hardly something that would be broadcast widely.
“That is to say, we did have seven,” continued McFarlane. “Watkins has now been repatriated. We still haven’t had his replacement and now Bill Thompson has sprained his ankle badly while water skiing and will be laid up for a month or more.”
“Damned inconsiderate!” said Kelly, half smiling.
“Too right! And that leaves only me on the G3 side.”
“Plus of course your ‘CS’ man,” said Kelly.
“Ah! You see, that’s the point, Dan. She’s gone missing.”
Kelly stared incredulously at McFarlane for a moment before speaking. “Your ‘CS’ man is a woman?”
“Yes, why not?” asked McFarlane. “You worked with women in your time attached to SOE during the war, why not a woman?”
He’s pulled my file, thought Kelly. Outwardly he shrugged his shoulders. “Absolutely no reason,” he said, regaining his composure. “It just took me by surprise.” He paused for a moment to sip his vodka. “And you say you’ve lost her?”
“No,” said McFarlane gravely, “I said she’s gone missing.”
“Robert,” said Kelly, with just a hint of apprehension, “where do I fit into this?”
“I want you to find her.” McFarlane spoke nonchalantly, paused then added, “More to the point, CS1, the Head of CS, wants you to find her.”
“Bob, don’t misunderstand me—the answer is definitely yes, this sounds like the most interesting thing I’ve been tasked with since I joined the service—but I’m just a tad confused.” Kelly enumerated his questions on his fingers as he spoke, “Why me? Why not a G3 agent? It’s their territory. Why has CS1 nominated me? Who am I looking for? And how can anyone get lost on The Bahamas?”
McFarlane chuckled quietly. “Fair comment. Let me attempt to answer your questions, though not necessarily in the order you asked.” He sipped his drink before continuing, “You’re right of course. This is a G3 job, but as we discussed earlier, I am the only G3 person left standing on The Bahamas and our Boss won’t countenance me leaving the island with no cover.”
He shrugged. “Secondly, I don’t know why CS1 has nominated you. When I spoke to him this morning about my inability to use a G3 agent, he immediately suggested I contact you and ask you to take on this task.”
Kelly raised his eyebrows.
“Thirdly, you will be looking for a CS agent, code name ‘Peregrine’, real name Jenny Drinkwater. She’s twenty-five years of age and has been with CS for about two years. Still something of a rooky but quite well regarded, still doing pretty low-level stuff at the moment, but she is undercover.”
Kelly nodded, listening carefully.
“Fourthly, there is an additional complication in that she was supposed to liaise with another agent known as ‘Skadi’, already undercover.” McFarlane paused and added as an aside, “Another woman by the way.” He glanced mischievously at Kelly and continued, “I understand, but have no way of confirming it, that contact has not been made.” He sipped at his drink. “Finally, don’t bother looking for her on The Bahamas. She is, or at least was, in Cuba!”
“Cuba?” exclaimed Kelly, barely able to keep his voice down. “You sent a rooky into Cuba? That place is a powder keg, ready to explode at any time.”
McFarlane held up his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Not my call Dan. I would have preferred to use Bill Thompson, but I was over-ruled on this one. Seems the Soviets may be getting themselves involved quite heavily in the region and CS1 understandably wanted one of his people to have a closer look. It is, after all, their territory.”
“What was she looking for? What was her mission?” asked Kelly.
“There is just a hint that President Socarras is becoming very chummy with the Soviets, even to the point of inviting Soviet ‘advisers’ to the Island. Clearly, this flies in the face of the general view that he is fiercely anti-communist, but he must be aware that the US are angling to return Batista to power as a puppet of the US. If Socarras can’t look to the US for support, where else can he look?”
McFarlane paused and dragged the remains out of his cigarette before disposing of it in a silver ashtray. “The Americans don’t want to send any of their agents, if it came to light that they were spying on Socarras, that really would be the final nail in the coffin of US-Cuban relations. Us, on the other hand ….” He left the sentence unfinished.
Kelly continued it for him. “So, CS became involved and decided ‘Peregrine’ was the bird for the job.” McFarlane nodded and sank the remains of his cocktail.
“There’s a table free in the corner of the dining room. Let’s continue this while we eat,” said McFarlane rising from his chair and moving towards the dining room. Kelly followed and they settled themselves at a table well apart from the other guests. Kelly noted the stares from some of the other diners. Most staff knew, or at least had a good idea, of McFarlane’s role, so no doubt there would be speculation about his dinner guest.
“Her mission,” continued McFarlane when they had ordered, “is to gain any intelligence in relation to visiting Soviets. Her cover is as a British Oil Company executive looking to gain a foothold in the infant Cuban oil industry with a view to gaining some distribution rights.”
“And Skadi?” asked Kelly.
“That’s the complication,” answered McFarlane. “I have no idea. She is working directly to CS1 in London. I don’t know her mission or her exact whereabouts and I can’t find out. She must be in very deep.”
“Any reports from Peregrine?” asked Kelly.
McFarlane chuckled, “Two reports so far. Not much success in terms of getting close to any Soviets at thi
s stage, but she has secured a contract for the distribution of 5000 barrels of oil per year.”
Kelly smiled. “It’s not much,” said Kelly, “but at least it’s a foothold for the company providing the cover. They must be grateful.”
“I’m sure they are, and at least her cover has been bought,” agreed McFarlane.
“Maybe,” said Kelly. “It could be a lure to drag her in further, or indeed to trigger the insertion of another agent?” McFarlane nodded glumly.
“Yes, that’s a distinct possibility,” he said. “Still want to go?”
“Hell yes!” responded Kelly positively. “What will my cover be?”
“After discussion with CS1 we have agreed to cut to the chase. You will go in as an educational supplies salesman. If that doesn’t get you close to the communist sympathisers in the universities then nothing will.” There was a pause as a waiter brought food, and then McFarlane continued, “You will have gathered that your mission will be in two parts. The first part is to take over Peregrine’s mission and gather intelligence on ‘visiting’ Soviets. The second part is to find Peregrine and get her out if she is in trouble.”
“Why do you think she is in trouble?” asked Kelly.
“She was under strict instructions to report at least once per week. We had two reports and now haven’t heard from her for nearly two weeks,” answered McFarlane.
“Briefing?” asked Kelly.
“Tomorrow,” responded McFarlane. “The real salesman, William Shepherd, arrives from Heathrow at 10.30 am. He will brief you on sales pitches, equipment details and general school and college etiquette. Once that is done, I will brief you on the details of the mission and the known intelligence to date.”
“Clearly Havana University will be your main site,” continued McFarlane, “but Santiago de Cuba has a small college site, and we are fairly sure that communists operating on the mountains in and around Santiago and Guantanamo have infiltrated the College. The leader is a lawyer called Castro. My guess is his days are numbered unless he has the support of the Soviets.”
Kelly nodded his understanding.
“I’ve prepared a pack for you with extracts from Peregrine’s personal file, including a number of recent photographs. Study them well, you need to be able to recognise her instantly if you get sight of her.”
“And I go in?” asked Kelly.
“Nine o’clock flight to Havana. The day after tomorrow.”
Havana
Kelly did the touristy things on his first morning in Havana, taking pictures and generally getting his bearings. He had visited the cathedral and was now walking around Cathedral Square. Finally, he crossed to the west side of the square and turned down Empedrado Street.
He strolled nonchalantly down the street looking about him as he did so until he reached a small bar ‘La Bodeguita del Medio’. Stepping into the bar he approached the counter where a barman in a white apron smiled his welcome.
The bar was compact and fairly busy with an entrance leading off to a dining room. The walls were adorned with posters and photographs, and graffiti covered some of the walls in the form of signatures of past clients. Four men were sitting on stools at the bar, barely leaving Kelly room to get in to place his order.
Kelly nodded and smiled at the various incumbents, making a point of saying his ‘hellos’ in English. Squeezing between two of the barflies he managed to reach the bar and greeted the barman.
“Vodka, on ice please,” he said.
“Si! Americano?” the barman enquired as he prepared the drink.
“No, I’m English,” said Kelly. Picking up his drink he walked over to one of the walls and inspected the signatures. There were a number he recognised, celebrities from all over the world, though many of the signatures meant nothing to him.
“You want to sign the wall, senor?” one of the barflies asked in a thick accent.
“No, thank you.”
“Is compulsory, senor,” responded the barfly with an inflection at the end of the sentence. Kelly looked over at him; the man was smiling broadly showing bad black teeth under a thick black moustache.
“Is good luck, everyone does it,” he persisted.
“Then I will sign the wall also,” Kelly smiled.
“On the yellow part, senor,” said the barman, pointing to the other end of the wall. Kelly moved to the place indicated and took out a pen from his jacket. The yellow paint on this part of the wall was still just tacky, clearly this was the area for non-entities to sign. He scribbled ‘William Shepherd’ finishing with a flourish, and then moved back towards the bar.
One of the customers had just departed, so Kelly perched himself next to the man who had been so insistent. Glancing over to his companion he asked, “Care for a drink?”
“Gracias senor. Mojito, por favor. You should try one also. Is good!”
“What’s in it?” asked Kelly.
“Just try it, signor. You’ll like it” interposed the barman. “Specialty of the house.”
“In which case, make that two mojitos, barman please!”
Kelly watched as the barman dissolved a teaspoon of sugar in a large tumbler with a measure of lime juice. Several sprigs of mint, ice cubes and a measure of Havana club light dry rum followed this. The cocktail was completed by filling the class with soda water.
It seemed to Kelly that every pair of eyes in the small bar were on him as he took his first sip. He was not disappointed.
“It’s good!” he said. Inwardly he felt it would have been enhanced by a little less mint, but he kept the thought to himself.
There were chuckles and calls of “Si!” from various customers. Kelly settled down with his drink and engineered a conversation with his neighbour. They talked about the sights of Cuba in general and Havana in particular. This was not the information Kelly wanted, but he was at pains not to be seen to be leading the conversation.
Finally, after a second mojito the question was asked that Kelly had been waiting for. “What do you do, senor?” Kelly seized the opportunity and launched into his prepared ‘off the cuff’ response.
“I sell educational equipment to colleges and schools,” he explained and outlined some of the equipment. “It’s hard work,” he said frowning, “too much competition these days from abroad. Everyone wants to sell school equipment. Do you see many foreign salesmen in Cuba?” he asked naively.
“Americanos!” said his new friend. “They are like flies on horse shit.” A murmur went round the bar, some chuckled but others murmured in agreement. Kelly inwardly noted the response.
“What about Europeans?” asked Kelly. “That’s where my main competition seems to come from. Germans, Italians, French, Russian?”
“No Germans or Italians. Still too soon,” referring, Kelly assumed, to the war. “But we do get French salesmen and occasionally people from Russia.”
“What are the Russians selling?” asked Kelly. “School equipment?” he added to maintain his cover.
“I dunno, senor, we don’t see many Russians. Who knows?” said his friend.
“I know what they sell!” It was an old man in the corner of the bar, sat alone at a small table. “They sell ideas, senor, ideas that perhaps we should listen to!” There were ‘shushes’ from one or two in the bar, while others remained silent.
Kelly felt he had pushed the conversation as far as he dared and changed the subject. Twenty minutes later, after buying his new friend another drink he took his leave, smiling and waving as he left. He had a strong feeling that if the last hour was anything to judge by, the people of Cuba were unhappy and ready for change.
Kelly shook hands for the umpteenth time that lunchtime. The morning had been disappointing. He had briefly met one of the pro vice chancellors of the University who had welcomed him to the university and then handed him over to one of the lesser resource managers, responsible, Kelly assumed, for procurement.
After an hour of discussions and explanations he had secured an order for twelve
overhead projectors, an epidiascope and two Gestetner stencil makers and copiers. It was as well this wasn’t his real job. His next task had been to visit the student common rooms with catalogues of books and study aids; he was able to dispense free pens and pencils to students who stopped to browse.
Kelly had tried to engage them in conversation but, in the main, the students had been unforthcoming.
Kelly was now ready to call it a day. He was disappointed that he had failed to gain any meaningful information, but it was difficult to see how he could gain more without being too obvious. He was packing away his sundry items and had one eye on a young student who had been circling the group for some time, a tall athletic looking young man with mousy hair, possibly Argentinean in extraction.
He had made several forays to the table to look at catalogues, but it was clear he was not really paying attention to the documentation. At last, he approached the table.
“You are a socialist, yes?” Kelly was immediately alert; he decided to take a chance.
“Yes, how did you know?” he asked.
“In England, all students and lecturers are socialists,” the boy replied. Not entirely true, thought Kelly, but there was something in that logic.
“Also, I heard you asking about the Russians.” Damn! thought Kelly, was I that obvious?
Outwardly he said, “I’m just interested in the opposition. I think they may have equipment salesmen on the Island.”
“Of course.” The young man didn’t sound entirely unconvinced. “If you want to meet with the comrades you will need to go south, to the college at Santiago.” With that he picked up a free pen and walked slowly away.
Kelly picked up his key from the reception desk at the Hotel Sevilla Biltmore on the Paseo del Prado and walked up one flight of stairs to his room on the first floor. After taking a shower he slipped on a light towelling dressing gown and moved out onto the balcony with a small Cuban white rum.
The last encounter had removed any remaining doubt from his mind. The action, if there was any, was in the south; he needed to get to Santiago de Cuba. He was due in any case to travel there three days hence after visiting a number of schools in Havana, but the latter activity seemed pointless and time wasting. He would travel to Santiago first thing in the morning.
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