by John Gardner
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
He returned to the two diaries and the notes, reading on, against time now, for he would have to catch a train at ten o’clock if he was to get to the pretty, and paradoxically awesome, little Rathausplatz, in Thun, by midday.
A girl came in with the breakfast he had ordered, her large blue eyes opening in amazement at the unruffled bed, and the mad Englishman sitting with his pile of papers, eyes ringed through lack of sleep. He smiled at her and made a joke in German. She nodded politely and scurried out, as though afraid this tall man would rape her.
Naldo drank the strong coffee, as his eyes hurtled down the pages, and then stopped, suddenly, like a car braking hard to avoid a head-on collision. There, in black and white on the now dry, yellow-edged paper was the identity of Croesus and the whole reason why Caspar’s long, hard, fruitful years in the wilderness, posing as an agent for the Soviets, had borne no fruit within the SIS. Croesus, for whom Caspar had himself provided the crypto, or code name, had deliberately blocked the lengthy true diary, and the very full pile of notes. It was obviously clear to Caspar when he wrote the words which sprang from the page now. Once he had trusted Croesus with his life. Now, Caspar had been forced to set a trap for him, and a trap that, even with all this evidence, Croesus would fail to understand, for the devious way Caspar had set the spring would make even Croesus feel safe. But it was certainly all too obvious to Naldo. So obvious and horrible that he retched. The person named Croesus, trusted by Caspar Railton, confidant and loyal to the service, was a true double. This person had not played the traitor, as Caspar had. Croesus was the traitor, and Naldo felt dizzy with sorrow, for he knew that Croesus could still be active. If he was not, it was quite possible that the role of Croesus could be passed down, like some title, within close family. So, only one of three people, all of them interconnected within his family, could be the Croesus of today.
Naldo just made it to the bathroom. The new knowledge made him physically ill and he vomited for twenty minutes. He wondered if Caspar had been so sickened by the knowledge that he had not possessed the strength to point the finger, preferring to leave this trap? Naldo retched again.
When he came back into the room, his mind was made up. There was no time for hesitation now. He must go to Thun and, if necessary, do what Caspar had done. How else could he clear his uncle’s name, and bring the flawed and contagious Croesus to book?
TWELVE
1
While Naldo Railton was in the Grand Hotel Victoria-Jungfrau, Interlaken, waiting for the news that his wife and children had been moved safely out of London, other men were gathering for a meeting three thousand miles away, at the CIA headquarters, Langley, Virginia.
It was evening, and they met in the French room, the DCI’s conference office. Nobody could remember why it was called the French room.
Essentially these officers were there in order to set up a damage control committee. They would assess what needed doing, which agents and case officers required warning, what operations should be closed down, following what they believed to be the full-scale defection of Arnold St John Farthing.
Among those present were the Head of the Soviet Desk and his staff; the Controller Counter-espionage, with his entourage; Controller Security; three senior men from Covert Operations; the British liaison officer from the Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, who was there under protest; and four members of Counter-intelligence together with their chief, James Jesus Angleton.
The DCI looked grim. He had spent a very unpleasant hour at the White House explaining the situation, as best he could, to the President. The President had, among other things, called the DCI an ‘amateur with a paper badge that read the word “secret” clear for all to see.’
‘I’ve invited MI6 Liaison into this meeting,’ the DCI began. ‘I understand he has something to tell us.’
In a pained and shaken tone, the British officer went over recent events. How the late Sir Caspar Railton had become suspect; how other members of his family were under suspicion, and how, at last, one of them had, in his words, ‘been flushed and had run for cover’.
‘By which, I presume, you mean he’s disappeared with some icing off your own secret cake,’ one of the Covert Operations officers said.
‘In a word, yes.’ The British officer nodded sadly, adding that Naldo Railton had been a particular friend of Arnold St John Farthing. In turn they all knew both men had close links with the now departed Caspar Railton.
There were questions about Railton’s immediate family. Missing. Counter-questions about Farthing’s immediate family. Missing, but for the two boys who were safe with an aunt. They asked the MI6 man what his service was doing about minimizing damage, should it be proved that Naldo Railton had, in fact, ‘gone over’, as they said. ‘Gone over’ had a slightly less harsh ring to it than ‘defected’, just as ‘passed over’ is nicer than plain ‘dead’.
The Briton said he suspected the family was tainted. As far as he knew, all members of the Railton family who had contacts with the SIS were to be interrogated.
‘Then I guess we should do the same,’ Controller Security said sharply. ‘I’ve dug out the files. We have one of Arnie’s relatives here, inside Langley, Clifton Farthing on the Soviet and Eastern European desk. And there’s a worrying situation with another couple who have links with both the Railtons and Farthings.’ He was speaking about Hester Railton, Caspar’s daughter who was, to use the current American slang, shacking up with Luke Marlowe, a direct Farthing descendent.
‘They’re just about into everything, those two,’ Security said. ‘Activists if ever I saw one. The bureau’s got a file a mile high on them: black rights; human rights; nuclear disarmament; peace protests; marches and demonstrations all the time. Twice they’ve been picked up on suspicion of carrying drugs. Cleared on both occasions. I guess the bureau should pull them and make them sing all over the backyard down on 10th Street. What about this Clifton Farthing?’ He looked towards the Head of the Soviet Desk.
‘We’ve no complaints. He’s almost too good to be true. My country, right or wrong. Superb material.’
‘Sounds like we should shake his tree then,’ from Security.
There was a silence, as though the angel of death had passed through the room. It was broken by a cough as Angleton lit another cigarette. They all looked towards him.
‘Well, Jim, you’re the expert. What measures should we take?’ the DCI asked.
Angleton smiled. ‘With all the respect in the world,’ he said, ‘I feel we’ve wasted enough of our friend’s time.’ He nodded towards the SIS liaison officer who, taking the broad hint, looked at his watch and withdrew.
‘Well, Jim, what should we do?’ the DCI asked again.
James Angleton inhaled smoke, then blew it out in a long thin stream. ‘We should,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘do nothing.’
The silence that followed was charged with several million volts of static.
Someone tried to speak, the voice beginning angrily, but Angleton’s quiet, measured tones cut through, knocking any possible barrage of verbal artillery to one side until he had the floor again. ‘We should do nothing at all. Gentlemen, I have certain indisputable facts to place before you. You will undoubtedly ask why you were not apprised of these facts sooner, and my response is, because in the work of counter-intelligence the stronger your cards, the more essential it is to keep away from looking-glasses. For some years now we’ve been running a little scam.’
The DCI looked up, sharply and angrily. Angleton returned the look with a pleasant smile. ‘We do have Special Group’s approval, sir. A little before your time. I’ve never bothered you with the details.’ All covert operations with a budget of more than $25,000 had to be approved by Special Group. Angleton, in an almost off-hand manner, said the operation had already co
st them over two million dollars. ‘Incidentally,’ he continued, ‘Clifton Farthing is not here at headquarters at the moment. I have him out doing a small chore for me. Now …’ He began to tell a long and complex tale. Some of those present could hardly believe their ears, but, by the time James Jesus Angleton had completed his story, every man in the room looked dazed and bewildered. If the Head of Counter-intelligence was telling them the truth, there was nothing for them to do. Except, perhaps, wait.
2
Just before dawn, Gloria Farthing, Arnold’s wife, left the suite which she was supposed to be sharing with Naldo, under the names M. & Mme Provin, in the Hôtel Splendide Royale, Lugano. It was not yet light and she made her way carefully down the service stairs used by the maids. In a cupboard she found a coat and headscarf belonging to some young woman who had probably just come on duty. She did not particularly like the coat, which was green and of some thin synthetic material. The headscarf did not go with her shoulderbag, but she had no choice. The bag contained almost everything she needed in order to survive — her own passport, a second American passport in the name of Mrs Margaret Teasdale, credit cards, currency and travellers’ cheques.
With the headscarf tied tightly in place, and shoulders drooping in a slouchy walk, Gloria left by the rear staff entrance.
Time passed, and eventually the watchers of the surveillance team, who had waited through the night, decided it was time to collar Naldo and Gloria. There would be commendations in it for them, so, at about ten in the morning, they walked into the lavish foyer and asked for the Provins’ room number. One of the men went up while another called the suite from an in-house phone. There was no reply and, when they alerted the management, the passkey was used. The suite was empty. The cupboard bare. Reluctantly, the team leader used a telephone in the duty manager’s office. Mr and Mrs Provin’s account was settled by credit card. It was the least, and the most, they could have done.
By this time, Gloria was heading towards a crash rendezvous made after one short call from a public telephone on Lugano station.
3
Naldo Railton washed, shaved, dressed, and carefully packed his canvas bag, leaving all of his Uncle Caspar’s papers, neat in their folders, on top of the few clothes. He was experiencing a mixture of fatigue and despair, thinking of the great affection he bore for every member of his old family, and the past pride he had so often felt. To Naldo the great Railton clan was a microcosm of Britain itself. True, they had certain advantages and privileges, but these were gradually being eroded by the political temper of the times. Yet there was history within the family: history, service, loyalty, treachery, wilfulness, good deeds, work and a great sense of the things the late American President had summed up in his words, ‘Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.’ Those had been stirring words for the United States, and they had been words followed by many a Railton in Britain for centuries.
Naldo thought of the long-dead members of his family, his genuine love for those who lived on. For his father and mother, James and Margaret Mary; For Dick and the once untiring Sara at Redhill. For his cousins, his sister in her convent, and all his relatives everywhere.
At the writing table he searched through the leather stationery folder, and found a postcard with a drawing of the hotel on it. He addressed it to his father and mother, then wrote the greeting, knowing his parents’ love of music and how, over the years, they had communicated by it in a strange, almost psychic way.
Music can noble hints impart
Engender fury, kindle love;
With unsuspected eloquence can move,
And manage all the man with secret art.
The quote was from the eighteenth-century poet, Addison, and Naldo had known the words for most of his life. They would contain a hidden significance for James and Margaret Mary. He rummaged through the drawers in the writing desk, eventually finding two plain sheets of paper and one plain envelope which he addressed to Peter Ferguson Esq. care of Poste Restante at the Trafalgar Square Post Office in London. Working quickly, Naldo reached into his memory for a cipher that would work then wrote a coded message at speed, checking that it said all the right things, gave all the correct instructions. At the end he wrote one line en clair: ‘What is best in music is not to be found in the notes. N.’
Herbie would understand, for the quote was from Gustav Mahler, and they had both joked a lot about advice on interrogation given by Gus Keene at Warminster. One of Keene’s maxims was, ‘Don’t listen to the words, hear the music as a whole.’ Now Naldo had to pray that Herbie still cleared the Ferguson box regularly, for Herbie was the one person with whom he could arrange some kind of contact in the days he was pretty certain now lay ahead of them.
Naldo looked around the room. He thought briefly of how his father had been held captive in terrible conditions in the First World War, then, with great affection, how Caspar had gone, of his own volition, to do what he thought best for country and service. He was determined to avenge the slur being cast on his uncle, and cry havoc among his enemies.
Naldo went downstairs and paid his account with cash, for he had exchanged travellers’ cheques at the hotel in Locarno.
He went outside and walked in the general direction of the Interlaken West Bahnhof, stopping off at a stationer’s to buy a large padded envelope and parcel tape. At the post office, with its slung post-horn sign, he filled the new envelope with all Caspar’s documents and papers, carefully sealing it with parcel tape. He then addressed it to Bernard Carpenter, at a convenience address in Slough, registering the package and marking it to await collection, safe in the knowledge that, fire, flood, bomb or act of God apart, the envelope would still be there for him to collect in twenty years’ time if need be. He then put the matter out of his mind.
He also posted the card to his parents, and the letter to Mr Ferguson before heading for the station again. At two minutes past ten o’clock, Naldo boarded the Berne train which would, less than an hour later, deposit him in Thun.
4
As Naldo’s train was sliding out of Interlaken station, so the Credit committee met on the fifth floor of the SIS headquarters. In waiting, sitting around the ante-room reading old copies of the National Geographic, were Gus Keene and his two juniors. In a corner, young Curry Shepherd, his blazer looking slightly the worse for wear, sat meditating on the relative merits of death by garrotting or a slow boiling in oil, both of which he contemplated with BMW in mind, the DCSS having called him from a warm bed, next to a warm and loving woman at the dawn’s early light.
Willis Maitland-Wood was in a foul temper. For one thing he had just learned that, having tracked Naldo across Europe, his own searchers had been misled and lost their quarry in Lugano. He was also tired, for he had spent three hours uselessly with the old sailor Barzillai Beckeleg.
At six in the morning, Willis went home, called Curry out of bed to await instructions at the shop, and dozed fitfully, waking eventually in deep depression and feeling as though he had drunk himself stupid.
‘Well!’ As chairman, BMW addressed the committee. ‘I presume you’ve all had time enough to read and digest the late Caspar Railton’s decrypted diaries.’
There were nods, and murmurs of affirmation along the table. ‘There are facts,’ BMW continued, ‘of which you should all be apprised before I ask what conclusion you came to after reading this extraordinary document of duplicity.’ His eyes roamed over their faces: Desmond Elms, small and wiry with sharp features and glittering eyes that made you think of The Wind in the Willows; the impeccably dressed David Barnard, from Covert Ops, not a hair out of place, and the face and eyes placid; Indigo Belper, in a pink waistcoat which did not go with the striped suit, a watch-chain, out of place, hanging from buttonhole to breast pocket. Belper fiddled with his copy of Caspar Railton’s diary and looked ready to quote case law; the petite and pretty Beryl Williamson, looking very solemn, as though someone had just asked her a question which had to
be answered slowly and with great care; Arden Elder, from Warminster, who gazed at his copy of the diary, then flicked his eyes towards Maitland-Wood as though the chairman was going to add some necessary and missing fragment to the work. Lastly, the wraith-like Tubby Fincher averted his eyes, almost wilfully refusing to meet those of Maitland-Wood.
‘Donald Railton,’ the chairman continued, ‘has gone missing.’
‘Who?’ from Arden Elder, who then gathered himself together. ‘Oh, yes. You mean Naldo.’
‘Has gone missing,’ Maitland-Wood repeated, ‘and I don’t mean by accident. Yesterday, after we knew for sure where he had gone, a surveillance team followed him. He was in the company of Arnold Farthing’s wife, Gloria. As you know, confidentially, Farthing is also missing and there have been traces. Traces which point to him having crossed into the Soviet Union.
‘Donald, Naldo if you must, has neatly given the surveillance team the slip. Because he was accompanied by Gloria we can presume, though not assume, that they are about to join Arnold Farthing. Naldo’s wife, Barbara, was assisting us, under interrogation by Gus Keene. She also disappeared, with their two children, last night.’
‘In other words,’ Barnard had a half-smile on his face, ‘the dirigible has ascended and our lords and masters are in the profound ordure.’
‘You might say that,’ BMW all but barked at him.
‘We’re all in trouble, that is what you want to say, yes?’ Desmond Elms, who spent so much of his life reading from Russian transcripts, had a tendency to speak English with certain inflexions of Russian syntax.
‘We are on the brink of a major scandal, yes,’ Maitland-Wood snapped. ‘We cannot disguise the fact, any more than we can disguise the truly terrible contents of these diaries.’ He touched his own typewritten pages. ‘There has been a very minor leakage. One newspaper has got on to the American side of the matter. We have D-Noticed it for the time being, but unless we come up with quick answers questions will be asked in the House and we shall find the wrong people going public on this. I have certain ideas, which I will put to you in due course. Gus Keene and his people await our instructions. C has ordered us to take whatever steps require taking —’