For a second, Kit thought that Vasili might be playing a game. Then he looked at the Russian’s face. There was no artifice: only the world-weary sorrow of a man staring into the abyss.
‘Kit,’ the Russian’s voice seemed on the edge of tears, ‘something awful has happened.’
Chapter Nine
The following week there was a reception at Winfield House, the Ambassador’s new residence in Regent’s Park, to welcome the new DCM – Deputy Chief of Mission. Kit’s new boss was a ‘Yalie’ named Birch. Generally speaking, Kit didn’t get along with Yale graduates. He wasn’t a Protestant and his origins were too far south and too far removed from business. The American ruling class was a complex of rival tribes. Tribe membership was determined by family and region, but also by school and university. Princeton alumni – like F. Scott Fitzgerald and the Dulles brothers – were affable and dressed well, albeit in an old-fashioned way. Harvard men exuded well-bred intellectual aloofness, but weren’t afraid of unconventional and radical ideas. Harvardians were snobs who despised snobbery. The service academies – West Point and Annapolis – produced athletic war heroes and shrewd bureaucrats. Yale, however, was only about one thing: the power of money.
One out of every hundred Yale undergraduates is ‘tapped’ for the Order of Skull and Bones. This elite comprises the richest and most powerful students at the university. The initiation rituals of the society are supposed to be secret – and so are the names of its members, but everyone knows who they are. Total anonymity would be pointless and counterproductive. The essence of their power is that the members are known by rumour rather than by published list. The sham secrecy is intended to create an aura of mystery and awe. You might ‘know’ that someone is Skull and Bones, but you don’t know how lethal and far reaching is the hidden web of tentacles at their command. Kit was careful never to criticise Skull and Bones even in private conversation – lest his words be reported back to a member. He despised his own cowardice for he knew he had fallen into their trap. Skull and Bones don’t care if you like them – or even respect them. They want you to fear them. Kit was more afraid of Skull and Bones than he was of the KGB or the FBI. Birch, the new DCM, was Skull and Bones – and Kit knew that he would have to step carefully and to watch his back.
As soon as he was settled in, the new DCM invited Kit to his office for a ‘chat’. Birch was in shirtsleeves and leaning back in his chair. His desk and office walls were decorated with photos of his family, his naval flight squadron and the Yale varsity baseball team – nothing fancy or pretentious. Kit knew about the Birch family, but had never met them socially. They were Northerners who had become rich during the Civil War – and then stupendously rich in the 1920s and 30s. Birch’s father had been a notorious Wall Street rogue – and a friend and client of John Foster Dulles between the wars. Kit had also heard rumours that the DCM’s father had been one of the gang who had dug up and stolen the bones of Geronimo, the Apache chief. The grave robbery was a stunt carried out by a group of Yalies when they were young lieutenants stationed out West. It was rumoured that Geronimo’s remains were now part of the Skull and Bones initiation ritual. The reasons for the DCM’s rapid rise slid neatly into place. Maybe the State Department was frightened of Skull and Bones too.
Birch waved and said ‘Hi’ as Kit walked into the office, then got up and walked around the desk to shake hands. Birch put his arm around Kit’s shoulder as he pumped his hand and said, ‘How you doin’, nice to see you.’ While all this was going on, Kit noticed two personnel folders lying on the DCM’s desk: one was his own, the other was Cauldwell’s. Birch pulled up a chair for Kit then went back behind his desk and picked up a perforated teleprinter sheet. ‘Have you read the cable about Aswan?’
‘Yes I have. I was also briefed about the situation when I saw Foster in Washington last month.’
Birch seemed a little startled, as if he wasn’t sure that Kit should be referring to the US Secretary of State as ‘Foster’. Kit dropped the name intentionally in order to put his status cards on the table. ‘Well,’ said Birch, ‘now that the White House has formally endorsed the plan to withdraw funds from the Aswan project, we’ve got to see how Nasser reacts.’ The DCM looked closely at Kit. ‘We’ve now heard that it is certain that Nasser is going to nationalise the Suez Canal.’
Kit nodded. The news wasn’t unexpected, but he felt uneasy about the way Birch had said it. It was obvious that the DCM had access to top secret cables that weren’t passed on to him. It was, Kit realised, the first time he had been left off a top secret circulation list.
‘For the next few weeks,’ continued Birch, ‘we have to keep a close watch on British reactions and keep Washington informed.’
‘I think Washington has to realise that the reactions of the British people and the reactions of the British government are not necessarily going to be the same.’
‘I suppose,’ said Birch, ‘you are something of an authority on British popular opinion.’
Kit thought there was a note of sarcasm in the DCM’s voice.‘What makes you think that?’
‘Well, living as you do in a working-class area of London’s East End, you must have your ear close to the ground.’
Kit felt his blood turn cold, but tried to hide his shock. It had, of course, been inevitable that his safe house address would eventually be blown. It happened to all safe houses, that’s why you needed to keep changing them. The shocking thing was that Birch, so newly arrived, had so quickly set up a net to spy on his own subordinates. Kit recovered his composure and gave Birch an easy smile. ‘I did the same when I was in Bonn. I think it’s the duty of an envoy to understand the host country. You can’t do this from a diplomatic ghetto of dinner parties and privilege.’
Birch looked closely at Kit, as if he were an outsider who had infiltrated an elite club. ‘What you say is true, but a lot of people in our business find such ideas …’ the DCM paused, searching for a word, ‘uncomfortable.’
‘Some people call it “going native”. But if you don’t “go native”, you’ll never find out what the natives think and what they’re up to.’
‘You’re ex-OSS, South East Asian Command, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, but I was barely out of my teens.’
Birch looked at his squadron photograph. ‘I was still in my teens when I was shot down. My crew didn’t bail out in time.’
Kit knew about the incident – and he also knew that there were a lot of unanswered questions. But to be fair, only those who have been in those dark places really know the truth. And it’s not always a truth that you want to wave around.
‘But,’ said Birch, ‘how can you go native in England? Our language is their language – our films are their films – Churchill is half-American. We’re practically the same people. Look at their music – big band, Sinatra and jazz.’
Kit remembered the rehearsal of Britten’s Noye’s Fludde at Orford Church and decided that it was pointless to answer. He suddenly felt very depressed. In the end, Chesterfields, chewing-gum and Hollywood were going to win.
The DCM saw that he had made his point and picked up a file. ‘How well do you know Jeffers Cauldwell?’
‘Fairly well. We were on the same FSO entry course – and later we served together at the embassy in Bonn.’
‘Do you see him socially?’
‘I often see him at official functions and in the staff canteen.’
‘That’s not what I meant by social. I mean outside work.’
‘On a few occasions, four I think, we’ve had a drink together in a pub. Usually to kill time when we’re early for a reception or a conference.’
‘What do you know of his personal life?’
Kit could see where the questions were leading and was determined not to help. ‘Very little. When we were on the FSO course, Jeffers used to spend a lot of time in the gym. He’s a pretty good boxer.’
‘Have you boxed with him?’
‘No, I don’t box.’
; ‘Well,’ said Birch, ‘I’ve heard that Cauldwell is quite a gadfly on the arts scene too – and has an especially keen interest in modern theatre.’
‘I don’t consider that part of his personal life – he is, after all, cultural attaché.’
‘Isn’t Cauldwell a friend of Tennessee Williams?’
‘I believe that Williams is an acquaintance, but not a close friend.’
‘Did you know that Tennessee Williams is a homosexual?’
‘Of course, it’s common knowledge in the arts world – and beyond.’
‘Does Jeffers Cauldwell associate with any other homosexuals?’
‘I’m sure he does. In fact, we all do. The diplomatic world, and the arts world too, are very cosmopolitan.’ Kit paused. ‘And, of course, part of my job is keeping files on the sexual preferences of diplomats, civil servants and politicians.’
‘Do you like doing that?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘I suppose,’ said Birch, ‘it is a bit tacky. But I’m a man of the world too – and I know these things happen.’
Kit wondered if the remark was a veiled reference to the Skull and Bones initiation. At one point, the initiate has to give a speech revealing in detail his complete sexual history. Sexual secrets are blank cheques – and each member of Skull and Bones carries a blank cheque with the signature of every other member. A secret cult based on blackmail bonding.
The DCM continued. ‘I don’t want to sound like a prude. My own views on private sexual behaviour are liberal, but the world around us is different. And, perhaps, not as cosmopolitan and permissive as you believe it to be. I don’t want any of my senior staff to be vulnerable to blackmail.’
Kit was getting fed up with the endless circling around the question. ‘Are you suggesting, sir, that Jeffers Cauldwell is homosexual?’
Birch folded his hands on his desk blotter and looked at Kit. The DCM’s face had the ironic half-smile of a schoolmaster who had just trapped someone doing something wrong in the toilets. ‘What do you think?’
‘It’s not part of my job to investigate embassy personnel, who are not in my department, as potential security risks.’
‘Well, let’s talk about someone in your department.’
‘Who?’
‘You.’
Kit was taken aback. ‘What about me?’
‘Why do people talk behind your back? Why do they think you’re an odd fish?’
‘You’ll have to ask them.’
‘I have and now I’m asking you.’
The aggressive questioning annoyed Kit, but he was used to it. It was part of US government culture. The military, the Agency and the State Department were not polite places. Being sworn at and getting ‘bawled out’ were a way of life for senior officers. Sometimes it was personal; sometimes it was just a character test. But Kit suspected that Birch’s attack was personal. ‘I’m not surprised that people talk behind my back. A lot of it is professional jealousy: a grade three who resents my promotion, a rival who wants to drop me in the shit because I did it to him. And the fact that I don’t socialise and spend all my time working.’
‘What do you do for sex?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Masturbation, prostitutes?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t do either.’ Kit wondered if Birch was trying to edge him towards a Skull and Bones type sexual autobiography. ‘I suppose I come from a culture where periods of celibacy – even life-long celibacy – are regarded as an ideal rather than a reason for suspicion.’
‘You see yourself as un moine soldat?’
Kit smiled. ‘Yes, a monk soldier.’ He found it a useful persona to hide behind: a modern Knight Templar, a sole combatant recruited from the noblesse. An image as romantic as it was false.
‘Is Jeffers Cauldwell a monk soldier too?’
‘No.’ Kit looked out of the window across Grosvenor Square. The terrace of shabby genteel Georgian houses on the western side was scheduled for demolition to make way for the new US Embassy.
‘Is it true that Cauldwell’s boyfriend has moved in?’
Kit completed the betrayal without even blinking. ‘Yes.’
‘What do you know about the boyfriend?’
‘Not much. He’s a concert violinist, highly respected. His name’s Henry something.’
The DCM paused like a lawyer preparing to sum up. ‘There are two issues here. The first is security. Cauldwell has access to classified information, including a list of Soviet artists whom we’re grooming as defectors. We can’t have someone in his position vulnerable to blackmail. Also, you must realise that male homosexuality is a criminal offence under British law – and, in a worst-case scenario, I’m not going to use diplomatic immunity to get Cauldwell out of jail for sodomy.’
‘Cauldwell is very discreet – and he isn’t vulnerable to blackmail. He’s not ashamed of his sexuality – he’s almost open about it. In fact, he’s one of the soundest and sanest FSOs in the service.’
‘You feel guilty, don’t you? That’s why you’re sticking up for him.’
Kit looked at the floor and nodded. He was tired of people reading his mind.
‘Well, Kit, you’re going to feel even more guilty when you find out what I want you to do?’
‘Thanks.’
‘You’re welcome. Cauldwell’s lover is not just a violinist. His full name is Henry Westleton Knowles. His family are upper-class socialists. You know the sort – blue bloods with red hearts. And young Knowles is more than a talented musician – he studied economics at Oxford. What you might call a Renaissance man. In any case, Knowles seems to want a life outside music. He’s just been selected for a safe Labour seat for the next election.’ Birch paused; he was waiting for Kit to respond.
‘You don’t want to get Cauldwell – you just want to scare him. The real target is Knowles.’
Birch smiled as if he had just discovered penicillin. ‘Compromising the Englishman is not just the icing, it’s the cake itself. Knowles is an extremely able and ambitious young man. He’s tipped to rise quickly in the Labour Party – and, heaven forefend, might one day be a minister in a socialist government. Meanwhile, we’ll have the dirt ready for throwing or coercing.’
It was obvious that Birch took his intelligence brief much more seriously than had his predecessor as DCM. Kit realised that he was going to be losing a lot of his independence as Chief of Station. Or more? Had he been replaced?
‘So,’ said Kit, ‘what do you want me to do next?’
‘Provide verification and corroboration.’
‘Fine.’
How ironic, thought Kit. He tried not to smile as he walked back to his office. It was a private joke and he didn’t like to show his emotions. How ironic that Birch wanted to blackmail others for ‘sexual deviation’? As part of his Skull and Bones initiation, Birch had not only publicly masturbated, but had also submitted to anal rape with Geronimo’s thigh bone. How wonderfully apt. The revenge of the Native American warrior from beyond the grave.
Later that afternoon, Kit’s secretary passed him a sealed envelope marked ‘personal and confidential’. He opened it: there wasn’t the usual tag indicating source or circulation list – and it wasn’t a document normally considered ‘confidential’. It was simply a transcript of a speech from the US House of Representatives.
Homosexuals in Government
Congressional Record
volume 96
Mr MILLER of Nebraska.
Recently Mr Peurifoy, of the State Department, said he had allowed ninety-one individuals in the State Department to resign because they were homosexuals. Now they are like birds of a feather, they flock together. Where did they go?
In the Eightieth Congress I was the author of the sex pervert bill …
Kit scanned the rest of the document. It was the sort of right-wing bigot rant that embarrassed US diplomats who had to deal with sophisticated Europeans. At first, he thought it was from Birch. But something told him it wa
sn’t. Perhaps it was someone’s idea of a joke. But there was only one other person in the embassy who had that sort of sense of humour. Kit crumpled the paper up and threw it in the burn bag.
Chapter Ten
Kit decided to do the job himself: Judas didn’t delegate either. Jeffers Cauldwell had a flat in Pimlico in a Georgian terrace near the Thames. Kit remembered Jeffers saying how nice it was to stroll over to the Tate on a Sunday afternoon and look at the Impressionists. He remembered a lunchtime visit with Jeffers to the National Gallery of Art in Washington. It was when they were students on the FSO course. The lectures on consular duties had left them badly in need of mental stimulation so Cauldwell suggested they pop over to the gallery. They were looking at Monet’s Cathedral at Rouen when Cauldwell said, ‘It’s unfinished.’
‘Why,’ said Kit, ‘didn’t he finish it?’
‘Because that would have ruined it. The whole point is to capture a moment, an impression. Look at the brushstrokes, see the way they whisk up from the canvas and break off. It’s like the paint is still alive.’
As the taxi made its way along the Embankment, Kit stared out the window and covertly ran his hand through his holdall to make sure he had everything: skeleton keys, picks, tiny files made from mild steel, pocket torch, compact camera, flash, brass knuckleduster and his Smith & Wesson .32. Kit didn’t like the way the driver kept studying him through the rear-view mirror. He waited until the driver’s eyes were firmly back on the road, then slipped the Smith & Wesson from the holdall to his coat pocket. In the States the gun was known as ‘The Saturday Night Special’. With its short blunt barrel, it was easy to conceal and quickly whip out to solve an argument or end a game of craps. It had probably killed more Americans than all foreign armies put together.
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