The money runs out before she can reply.
My wife. What am I doing? I slide my feet from the table and rise. I have to take better care of her. Will she be home? For form’s sake, I lock the safe – it isn’t secure – then slide my jacket off the back of the chair. A posse of junior desk officers and secretaries is waiting for the lift to rattle down from the fifth floor. They fall silent when they see me: I’m one of the witchfinders. We’re all relieved when the lift arrives. I pull back the gate for the ladies and reveal a nasty little surprise inside. Clive is smirking at me. Clive: the old soldier who enjoys pulling the wings off butterflies and who lost his virginity at fourteen. Clive, who beat the crap out of me.
‘Hello, Harry,’ the cheeky bastard says.
‘Mr Vaughan to you, Clive. And you are working for whom?’
‘A Branch,’ he says. ‘Mr Wright sorted things for me.’
The lift is calling, the girls behind me impatient, and I stand aside to let them enter. We squeeze in like sardines, Clive in the corner opposite. He tries to catch my eye. He has something he wants to say, perhaps ‘No hard feelings.’ Well, sod that, Clive. You’re a thug and always will be – it is your nature. When the lift lands, I keep walking.
A few seconds later he passes me on Curzon Street. ‘Be seeing you, Harry,’ he says, and he means it.
46
14 March 1966
‘HARRY? IT’S MAURICE. I want you to come to C’s flat – at once.’
The office door’s open, I’m still in my coat, and I’ve sent a secretary to fetch me a cup of coffee. I haven’t seen Dick White for weeks and only fleetingly then. An instruction to call on him at home is not what I expect this wet March Monday. ‘Is this about me, Maurice?’
‘Not everything we do concerns you, Harry,’ he says. ‘Jim Angleton has turned up unannounced. For some reason he doesn’t want his people at the embassy to know he’s here.’
‘Is it the Third World War?’
‘You know his mysterious ways: plants his footsteps in the sea, /And rides upon the storm, Don’t be late, Harry – and don’t tell anyone.’
C is still at the house in Queen Anne’s Gate. A flat at the top of our new concrete sweatbox south of the river would be beneath his dignity, and if he sold the old place the ghosts of chiefs past would haunt him for ever. A few lucky juniors still work in the basement and the housekeeper still polishes the brass door fittings until they gleam like a mirror. I make a point of adjusting my tie in the letterbox because I did something of the sort when I visited him to hear what lay in store for me three years ago. Impossible to imagine then I would still be on this merry-go-round.
Oldfield is doorman today because Sir Dick is upstairs with his guests.
‘Guests?’
Maurice ignores me. ‘Here’s FJ.’
The director general of the Security Service has stepped out of a cab at the bottom of the street, and a few seconds later, Wright’s bald head appears at its door.
‘Why am I here?’ I whisper to Maurice.
‘An ally,’ he replies.
FJ is surprised to see me. ‘What’s this about, Maurice?’ he says. ‘I had to put off the home secretary.’
‘Jim Angleton rang me this morning and asked for an urgent meeting of both our services to discuss Soviet disinformation and penetration.’
‘Yes, of course he did. That’s all we ever talk about these days!’
Wright’s lips are twitching, as if he’s suppressing a smile.
We are meeting in Dick’s dining room at the back of the house. FJ is first through the door, and as we shuffle in behind him I hear Angleton’s prep school voice, with just the hint of hometown Idaho, as he rises to greet us. I don’t know if he’s surprised to see me because he’s a gentleman and when he’s stone-cold sober his face gives nothing away. He offers me his hand and I feel the same strange sensation of clutching a bagful of bones that I remember from when we first met. I swear he’s even more gaunt. ‘Bin gar keine Russin,’ he says, which means in German, ‘I am not Russian at all.’ A nice piece of irony.
My answer is a line from the same poem: ‘I will show you fear in a handful of dust.’
‘Ha!’ he says. ‘I believe you’re the only intelligence officer of my acquaintance who cares for Eliot’s poetry. How are you, Harry?’
‘Fine, Jim, fine.’
A thickset man of about forty with a certain Slavic look about the eyes is watching us closely. Can it be? Es muss sein. This is Angleton’s pet defector, the prime minister’s accuser, and Hollis’s and Mitchell’s and dozens more besides: Anatoli Golitsyn. For five years he’s drip-fed information for money and he still has a place at the top table. Oldfield says defectors are like grapes: the first pressings are the best. Golitsyn keeps giving. Either he’s rationed his information very carefully or he’s making it up. To my mind, it turned to vinegar a long time ago, but I don’t believe Jim Angleton cares one way or the other, as long as Golitsyn’s stories suit his purpose.
Sir Dick White nods curtly to me as he takes his place at the top of the table, Angleton on his right, FJ on his left; I’m below the salt with Wright. Our meeting begins with an apology from Jim for summoning us on the wind at short notice. He says he’s come with the full authority of the director of the CIA to discuss the threat to the integrity of our secret services, to the West, to our values. For years we’ve taken it for granted that there’s a split in the Communist world: the Soviet Union and China are enemies. ‘Well,’ he says, ‘it’s a fraud, a charade, a fiction to fool us all, and the red menace is as united as it has ever been in its pursuit of world domination.’
He pauses to weigh the impact of his words on us. Dick White is frowning, and FJ is chewing the end of his pipe, and I know they’re thinking, Utter bollocks, but because Jim’s CIA they’re too polite to say so.
Golitsyn is sitting on one of the room’s fine marquetry chairs, a roll of hairy stomach peeping through his shirt. His eyes are small, furtive and bloodshot. I guess strong drink has been taken on this secret mission to save the West.
‘This is the reality we must face, gentlemen,’ says Angleton. ‘Moscow is engaged in a campaign of disinformation and penetration on a global scale. Look at what Peter is uncovering here. While our leaders talk of peace and disarmament, Communism is spreading through the world like a plague. We need to put the Russians straight, step up the housekeeping, share more information, be more critical of our sources. We’ve been sweating a fake defector for a while – a KGB plant sent to mutilate the intelligence we have from Anatoli and discredit me.’
Oldfield lifts his hand like a reticent schoolboy. ‘This false defector, can you tell us his name, Jim?’
‘Yuri Nosenko, Maurice. He claims he was KGB, Second Chief Directorate. Anatoli saw he was a fake straight away.’
‘Nosenko? Really?’
‘Really, Maurice, yes.’
‘With your permission, Jim … because not everyone will be familiar with his history. Perhaps you remember,’ he says, addressing both intelligence chiefs, ‘Nosenko came over in January ’sixty-four with grade-one intelligence on KGB agents in Europe and America. You told me yourself, Jim. The bugging operation at your embassy in Moscow, he gave you the precise location of fifty—’
‘Fifty-two.’
‘Fifty-two microphones hidden in the walls of the embassy. What’s changed, Jim?’
‘Anatoli predicted Moscow would try to undermine us, and that’s precisely what Nosenko is attempting to do.’
Golitsyn blurts, ‘KGB fuckers!’ He was picking his teeth with a finger but now he wags it at Maurice. ‘You not know KGB like Anatoli. KGB will do anything to destroy me. It sent Nosenko to say no moles in British intelligence, no ELLI. Bullshiiit.’
‘Anatoli takes it very personally.’ Jim pats his arm. ‘He’s right to, of course. They would love to rub him out.’
Dick White shakes his head. ‘We all appreciate Anatoli’s courage but, Jim, how can you be sure Nosenk
o isn’t telling the truth?’
‘You know how it is – the more solid the information from a defector, the more you should distrust him. We’re working Nosenko. I promise you, we’ll get a confession. Yes, he gave us the names of some KGB agents, but they were only throwaways. Moscow decided to burn some of its people to promote Nosenko as a fake source of intelligence. It’s a clever way to protect important agents, like the mole ELLI at the top of your Security Service.’
Dick White looks down and shuffles his papers; Furnival Jones is fiddling with his pipe. Beneath the table Maurice pushes his foot against mine. Easy, he’s trying to say, easy. Come on, Maurice! Angleton is trying to rewrite the rules. A defector – a first-rate source – has challenged his mad vision of Western governments and their intelligence services controlled by the KGB, and what does he do? He condemns the source as fake.
‘Can I come back to the Chinese, Jim?’ I say. ‘Why do you think the split with Moscow is a charade? We’ve heard nothing from our agents or yours.’
‘It goes back to ’fifty-eight, Harry,’ he says, squeezing the butt of his cigarette in an ashtray. ‘The KGB held a conference to decide how to win the war with the West.’
‘Can you share your source for that?’
‘Well, Anatoli was there.’
‘I spoke to head of KGB,’ Golitsyn says, with obvious pride. ‘He says Soviet Union cannot win war with missiles, but we have many agents in high places in West. We use our spies. Deceive Americans. Deceive British.’
‘And the KGB created a new department for planning deception and disinformation,’ says Angleton. ‘It came up with the idea of a split in the Communist world to lull politicians in the West into a false sense of security and encourage talk of disarmament.’ He pulls his glasses down his nose and peers over the top of them at me. ‘I won’t bore you with the history, but it isn’t the first time the Communists have tried this sort of stunt.’
‘I see,’ is all I can think to say without offending him in front of the management. Once again, he’s asking us poor Limeys to put our faith in his Rasputin, and now I’ve met him I’m even less inclined to do so. I know Maurice feels the same.
‘Why didn’t you tell us about this before?’ he says, turning to address Golitsyn directly. ‘Why now, after four years? Why has it taken you so long, Anatoli?’
Golitsyn flushes and clutches the table as if to rise. ‘You think Anatoli lying?’
Angleton places a hand on his arm. ‘It’s a fair question. Anatoli said nothing because he thought people would laugh at him.’
FJ takes the pipe from his mouth and examines it carefully; Dick closes his eyes.
‘Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?’ I say. ‘With respect, Jim, you don’t think you’re putting too much faith in one source?’
Golitsyn leans forward and stares at me menacingly.
‘I don’t care how it sounds,’ says Angleton, addressing Dick and FJ at the top of the table. ‘I don’t have to remind anyone how much we owe Anatoli, I’m sure.’
Maurice’s foot finds mine again: Shut up, Harry.
‘Jim, I confess I’m not inclined to go all the way with you and Anatoli on this one,’ says FJ.
Dick nods, like a fairground duck, beside him. ‘We should agree to differ on the Sino-Soviet split. I’m sure we agree on everything else. Perhaps we should consider what we can do to counter the enemy’s fake intelligence. Jim, you might like to outline your proposal for a committee to investigate our sources.’
Angleton reaches for another cigarette. ‘Certainly.’
There’s something like a collective sigh round the table: the captain of our boat has taken us clear of the rocks. Let’s forget we’re dealing with a crisis that may only exist in the wild imaginings of a paranoiac and a self-seeking chancer. Jim talks about his committee and we listen in respectful silence. And when we break for coffee Dick asks me to go. ‘It would be best,’ he says coolly. ‘Your objections were noted.’
He’s right. They have been noted: before I’m able to leave, Golitsyn jogs my elbow. ‘You don’t believe me?’ He’s holding a delicate china cup in his fat fingers, and above his hairy wrist, double cuffs, diamond cufflinks, a blue made-to-measure suit. The money we’ve paid him over the years.
‘It’s not that I don’t believe you,’ I say diplomatically. ‘I don’t agree with your assessment.’
‘The KGB want to kill me,’ he replies. ‘I risk my life, and your Queen make me Commander of Order of British Empire.’
I offer him my congratulations and thanks. Perhaps he thinks me less than sincere because his eyes narrow and he takes a step closer. ‘You were in Vienna. I was in Vienna: Colony Department of KGB. I remember you, remember your wife. We catch fifty, a hundred British agents.’
‘Yes.’
‘KGB mole in MI6.’
‘That was never proved.’
‘I know.’
‘There was talk of Kim Philby.’
‘Not Philby,’ he barks at me. ‘KGB agent was in Vienna station.’
I hear the tinkle of a cup marrying a saucer and the shuffling of feet: there’s a hush in the room. Everyone is listening to Golitsyn, which is what he wanted to happen. I put my cup on the table then turn back to look him in the eye. ‘If you have reliable intelligence, Anatoli, I hope you will share it with us. I hope you shared it with us four years ago, or were you afraid someone would laugh at you?’
He stands and stares at me, his mouth open like a stage dummy at rest. Who am I to question? This time it’s Wright who comes to his rescue.
‘I b-b-believe it was something we m-may have missed at the time,’ he says. ‘Anatoli has done so much. He has given us a hundred and fifty-three serials to investigate.’
‘I’m sure we’re all grateful, Peter,’ I say to be polite, even though I’m bloody furious. Golitsyn is the excuse for everything Angleton has done and hopes to do, and now he’s threatening my wife and threatening me, and he can because he’s untouchable. ‘The serials – a hundred and fifty-three, you say – how many have amounted to anything at all?’
Dick answers: ‘What the hell are you talking about, Harry? What’s the matter with you? Apologise to Anatoli.’
‘It’s a simple question,’ I say. ‘Isn’t anyone able to answer it?’
Wright is ready to try, but Dick doesn’t give him a chance. ‘I think we should continue with our meeting,’ he says icily, ‘and we can say goodbye to Harry.’
47
‘GOODBYE’ MEANS STOP rocking the boat with the Americans and one American in particular. Angleton is more to us than the President of the United States. What does the president know that the CIA doesn’t tell him? Jim is intelligence and resources; Jim makes us feel we matter, that we enjoy a special relationship. We must humour Jim, make excuses for Jim, even take his part against our elected representatives. These thoughts I carry around the corner to the Old Star and, in quick order, down a Scotch, then another, and after a damp sandwich and two cigarettes, I’m calm enough to hail a cab outside our old office in Broadway and return to the fray.
The first thing I do is telephone Mrs Gill-Thompson at her desk in the Secretariat. ‘Sorry, Linda,’ I say, ‘emergency meeting. I can’t make it tonight, what about Tuesday?’
‘That will be fine,’ she says, in the business voice she has for the office eavesdroppers.
‘Seven thirty?’
The line crackles as if she’s switching the receiver to her other ear. ‘Come to mine,’ she whispers, and it isn’t a question, it’s a command, and I hear myself say, ‘Yes, I would love to.’
A few seconds after she’s hung up, and before I have time to feel a proper heel, Maurice telephones, and he’s furious in his quiet way. ‘Yes, Jim is a little mad,’ he says, ‘so we handle him carefully. Intelligence is knowing people, and not just the other side, our people, too.’ Bloody fool Harry forgot there was a job to do: bloody fool Harry has another chance. Dinner tonight with Jim and Anatoli, and the menu
choice for me must be humble pie. I protest I’m the last person they want to get drunk with, but Maurice says I’m wrong and, by the way, it’s an order!
At five o’clock I ring Elsa to tell her I have a working dinner, and that I will be out tomorrow, too. ‘All right,’ she says, as if it’s a matter of no importance.
‘We keep missing each other. Ships in the night. What about the weekend?’
‘Perhaps,’ she says flatly. ‘Look, I’m going into a meeting, let’s talk about it later.’
‘Why can’t we decide now?’
‘Well, you’re the one who’s going out tonight,’ she snaps, and the next thing I hear is the drone of the empty line.
Dinner is around the corner at Maurice’s in Marsham Street. Five of us at a coffin-shaped table. ‘Better here,’ our host explains, as he pours the wine, ‘because we can talk freely.’ Caterers who can be trusted not to bug the room serve us steak with a béarnaise sauce. On my right Golitsyn is broad shoulders and elbows, and I struggle for space to use my knife, while opposite me Angleton picks at his food and Wright beams with sly pleasure. To clear the air, I offer an apology for my tone at our Queen Anne’s Gate conference, and because they’re still sober they accept it graciously – or they pretend to. Jim and Maurice ensure the conversation is convivial until we shut the front door on the caterers. Then we shuffle through to our host’s study-drawing room for brandy and the business of the night.
‘It was the timing, Moulders,’ says Angleton, turning to fake defectors at once. ‘Nosenko just plopped into our laps a few months after the assassination of President Kennedy. His mission was to sow confusion, deny KGB involvement in Kennedy’s murder, undermine our work. Anatoli realised he was a fake straight away.’
Golitsyn’s gaze settles on me, perhaps to gauge the sincerity of my repentance. He can rest easy. Angleton has brought an excellent brandy and I am going to give it my undivided attention. The room’s hot and smoky and Angleton is the only one in a jacket, his tie as tight as a hangman’s noose, long legs crossed, like a calendar girl’s. He must have ice in his veins. Maurice is quite the opposite. They sit side by side on a battered leather couch, the rest of us on hard chairs facing them, and dominating the room between us, a coffee-table covered with glasses and bottles and ashtrays.
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