‘Really.’ Kit tried to look surprised. ‘Who told you?’
‘The DCM called me into his office. It was kind of weird – he wanted to know if I knew and if you had said anything.’
‘Then what?’
‘He told me to keep my mouth shut.’
‘And you’ve just told me.’
‘But you’re my boss.’
‘Thank you, Tim.’
As soon as Perry closed the door, the demons of paranoia and suspicion began to dance and leap around the office. Kit could almost feel their hot pointy fingers and hear their shrill laughter.
An hour later Kit was summoned to the DCM’s office. Despite the summer heat, Birch was wearing his jacket – like a shield of office. He invited Kit to take a seat, but offered neither coffee nor water. There were newly hung photos on the wall behind the DCM. One photograph showed his sons paddling a canoe near their summerhouse in Maine, another was of Birch flanked by President Eisenhower and Secretary of State Dulles. All three men are laughing at a joke that would remain forever private. Pictures like that aren’t just photos. They’re power currency to let your visitors know who they’re talking to. Kit had a few snaps like that himself, but he kept them filed away. It was one of the many games he wouldn’t play.
‘You did a fine job, Kit.’ The DCM’s face was impassive and impossible to read. ‘Maybe too fine.’ Birch slid the 8x10 glossies out of a buff envelope and put on his half-moon reading glasses to look at them. ‘They certainly don’t leave much to the imagination.’
‘I wanted photo evidence that would stand up to any accusation of being doctored. A pair of naked men lying next to each other is fairly easy to fake – the KGB do it all the time. Sexually explicit ones, on the other hand, are impossible to counterfeit.’
Birch put the photos aside and steepled his fingers. ‘In any case, we may no longer need them. Cauldwell and Knowles have disappeared.’
Kit looked at the DCM without blinking. ‘That’s always a danger with an operation like this. The targets’ fear of exposure is so great they run away – it’s a panic reaction. Quite often, they commit suicide.’ Kit was surprised how calm and clinical his voice sounded.
‘Do you think Cauldwell’s a suicidal type?’
‘No, I’m also surprised he did a runner. Jeffers is the type of guy who brazens things out. He’s tough.’
Birch made a note on a pad, then said, ‘When Cauldwell didn’t turn up for work, I went around to his apartment with Hauser, the new FBI guy. No one answered the door, so Hauser picked the lock. I was primarily concerned that there might be classified documents lying around. So we had a really good search. Nothing. In fact, nothing at all – not even a birthday card or a scribbled phone number on the back of an envelope. Someone had scrubbed the place clean and done a very professional job: upholstery, floorboards, everything. On the other hand, they left his toothbrush and suitcase behind.’
‘Have you informed the police?’
‘No, I got the Ambassador to have a word with the British Foreign Secretary. We’re claiming extra-territorial jurisdiction over Cauldwell’s apartment and his disappearance. The Brits aren’t too happy about it, but it is part of the international diplomatic protocol.’
‘How do you know that Knowles is missing too?’
‘It’s in the press.’
‘Could be messy if they link him to Jeffers.’
‘Very, but I’m more worried about other things – like who turned over the apartment.’
‘What about Cauldwell and Knowles?’
‘Cauldwell is irrelevant, just an arts world gadfly. You’re something of an arts man yourself, aren’t you?’ It sounded like an accusation.
‘I like books and paintings – it gives you a perspective.’
‘I don’t know how you find the time. In any case, of the two, Knowles is the one who concerns me. Can you find out all you can about him?’
‘Yes.’ Kit stood up to leave. He wasn’t sure that he should be taking orders from Birch. The DCM outranked him in the diplomatic hierarchy, but not – as far as Kit knew – on the intelligence side. ‘Can I ask you something, sir?’
‘Shoot.’
‘Am I still Chief of Station?’
Birch smiled. ‘You’re still on the same pay grade.’
The basic facts about Henry Knowles were easy to find from press cuttings and documents in the public domain. He was born in Berkhamstead to an upper middle-class family. He could sight-read music by the age of five and was a prodigy on both strings and keyboard. When he was eleven, Henry won a violin and piano scholarship to Wells Cathedral School. He then went on to Balliol College, Oxford where he read PPE – Philosophy, Politics and Economics – and took a double first. Henry was offered jobs with the Treasury, several merchant banks, the Foreign Office (and presumably MI6), but turned them down to become a violinist with the BBC Symphony Orchestra. Meanwhile, he remained an active member of the Labour Party and had a seat on the National Executive. A true Renaissance man.
None of this struck Kit as terribly unusual. Jan Paderewski, the greatest piano virtuoso of his generation, became Prime Minister of Poland. But that was a passionate time in Polish history: it wasn’t what you expected in 1950s England. Had Henry Knowles dreamed of becoming Prime Minister of Britain? If so, thought Kit, his little picture-taking session would have made him – and his country – forever a hostage of whoever had the negatives.
Kit was surprised, but not disappointed that they had run away. Sexual blackmail was the sleaziest trick in the espionage textbook. Kit liked the idea of meeting them in twenty or thirty years time in a mellow village in the south of France or Italy – where the locals shared knowing winks about their relationship but liked them all the same. Or maybe the bodies just hadn’t turned up yet?
Kit needed to find out more than he could from press cuttings and concert programmes. He walked downstairs to the top secret archive vault. The stuff involved was too sensitive to keep in his own office safe – even though he had compiled much of it himself. It was a comprehensive list of the entire British Labour Party that rank-ordered its members from left-wingers like Aneurin Bevan, whom Allen Dulles described as ‘the most dangerous extremist in Britain’, to the anti-communist right of the party led by Hugh Gaitskell. The file contained a secret that no one must ever know: the extent to which the right wing of the Labour Party worked closely with MI5 and the CIA to undermine their own members on the left.
Kit sat at a bare desk and went through the file under the eyes of a marine guard. He was allowed to take notes, provided the notes remained in the vault. It was more practical to commit names and facts to memory. The stuff was dynamite. It contained the names of Labour politicians who received money from the CCF, the Congress for Cultural Freedom, a CIA front organisation aimed at spreading anti-communist propaganda. The demonising of communism was the Apostle’s Creed of US foreign policy. It wasn’t a free discussion of ideas. It was lavishly funded psychological warfare to achieve the military-diplomatic-financial goals of the United States. Kit tried not to laugh as he read through the CCF file. Once you knew who was pulling the strings, it was all so fucking obvious.
Kit skimmed the list of names to decide who was the best candidate to quiz about Henry Knowles. There was one name which stood out above the rest. It belonged to a backbench Labour MP who was even to the right of Gaitskell. The MP, owing to his love of fine wine and food, was codenamed Bacchus. Kit had met him a few times before at seminars and press conferences. In fact, Bacchus had entered politics from a background in newspapers – where, as a journalist, he had been notorious for accepting covert funding from the Congress for Cultural Freedom.
The restaurant was located a short walk from Lord’s Cricket Ground and Bacchus arrived wearing a white linen jacket, a bow tie and a panama hat. It was, after all, one of the hottest days of the summer. Kit had already ordered a bottle of Montrachet which was cooling in the ice bucket. Bacchus came over to the table and twisted
the bottle so he could read the label, ‘Your wine tastes are pretty classy for a Yank.’
‘I’m not a Yankee, I was born south of the Mason Dixon Line.’
Bacchus shook hands and sat down. ‘It’s still a very nice wine. Most people who want to show off order champagne and know fuck all about it.’
‘I’m not showing off, I’m trying to bribe you.’
‘That’s even better. But I’m not on the Privy Council yet, so I can’t tell the latest on HM’s Suez policy.’
‘I can. Eisenhower’s just sent a very stern note to Eden, and Eden is going to ignore the warnings – or maybe he just didn’t understand the President’s prose.’
‘Really.’ Bacchus looked slightly abashed at the offhand way Kit had passed on a piece of sensitive and classified information. The disclosure was, however, carefully calculated. It was in the US interest for the opposition to know what Eden was up to – and it was important for Kit to gain Bacchus’s confidence by tossing a gem in his direction. The quickest way to gain intelligence was just to swap nuggets. ‘So Washington thinks that Eden’s going to go in.’
‘Let’s put it this way, he hasn’t ruled it out – and he doesn’t seem in a mood to take friendly advice.’
‘Maybe his gall bladder – if he still has one – is playing up again. That’s good. His government will fall and we’ll end up in power.’
Kit smiled, but didn’t comment. The view from E Street was that the Labour Party wasn’t ‘yet ready for power’. Although they were busy cultivating right-wingers like Bacchus and Gaitskell, there were still far too many dangerous left-wingers, like Aneurin Bevan and Tony Benn, in positions of influence. Not to mention the growing CND faction. ‘Have some wine,’ said Kit.
Bacchus sipped the wine slowly and rolled it around in his mouth. ‘Lovely stuff.’ He looked at the menu. ‘I think I’ll have the Cromer Crab salad.’
‘Have the lobster. This meal’s on Uncle Sugar.’
‘Who?’ Bacchus seemed confused.
‘It’s what we call Uncle Sam when the US taxpayer is footing the bill.’
‘That’s good. I’ll remember that. What’s that expression you use when someone totally fucks something up? I heard your military attaché use it.’
‘“He stepped on his dick.”’
‘Like Eden will do over Suez.’
‘And wearing spiked track shoes.’
‘Ouch.’
The waiter came and they ordered lobster.
‘Pity about that young candidate of yours that’s gone missing.’
‘I feel sorry for the family.’ Bacchus emptied his glass and Kit topped it up. ‘But,’ said Bacchus, ‘he wouldn’t have been good for the party.’
‘Why’s that? He looked pretty bright.’
‘Young Knowles was very bright indeed – and that made him even more dangerous. He was a protégé of the neutralist wing – and a member of that new organisation called the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. They’re getting too big for their boots.’
The food arrived and Kit ordered another bottle of wine.
‘There was something else about Knowles that worried a lot of us.’
‘His personal life?’
‘Good lord, no. We’re too grown up for that sort of thing to matter.’
Once again, Kit was reminded of his country’s emotional and sexual immaturity. He felt ashamed that he had gone along with Birch’s puerile blackmail operation – another layer of guilt.
‘No,’ Bacchus paused in thought; then speared a piece of lobster that he dipped in the melted garlic butter. ‘I don’t,’ he said, ‘want to say too much.’
‘I notice,’ said Kit, ‘that you always refer to Henry Knowles in the past tense. Do you assume he’s dead?’
‘I think so.’
‘Why?’
Bacchus touched his moustache and lips with his napkin before drinking his wine. Good manners, thought Kit, he knows that you shouldn’t leave a greasy stain on the rim of your wineglass. He probably learned that in the officers’ mess during the war – for Bacchus was not well born. ‘You were a major, weren’t you?’
‘Intelligence Corps, SEAC.’
‘I was in SEAC too,’ Kit was trying the brothers-in-arms ploy,‘ended up under Gracey in Saigon.’
‘Holding the fort for the French?’
Kit nodded.
‘Must have been a messy business.’
‘Pretty messy.’
‘I was in India during the partition massacres. Whole trainloads full of corpses hacked to death. Sometimes giving up a colony makes things worse.’
Kit wasn’t going to stoop to getting involved in a ‘white man’s burden’ argument; he’d been there too many times before. He hated imperialism and all the patronising excuses of its apologists.
‘Are you all right?’ said Bacchus.
‘Sorry, I was … thinking about things.’
‘You asked me why I thought Henry Knowles was dead.’
‘Yes.’
Bacchus lowered his voice, the wine was working. ‘Young Knowles was playing some very dangerous games. As you know, he was a frequent traveller to the Soviet Union.’
‘Wasn’t it part of his job as a musician? Orchestra tours and master classes.’
‘But there were other trips not many people know about. A very senior and left-wing member of my party is a director of a company that imports timber from the Soviet Union.’
‘A closet capitalist?’
‘Probably not. His reasoning, or excuse, is that trade links with the Soviet Union are good for international friendship and peaceful coexistence. But I think there’s more to it than that.’
‘You think he’s a Soviet agent?’
‘Rumours, just rumours – probably false ones. In truth, I think it’s more complex.’
‘How does Knowles tie in with this?’
‘Money. Knowles may be a Marxist, but he’s a very rich one – inherited family wealth. It was Knowles’s money that set up the timber import company and, in consequence, young Henry is also a director of the company.’
‘You’re using the present tense again.’
‘But that doesn’t mean I’ve resurrected him.’
‘How,’ said Kit, ‘does this company trade? Have they got their own ships?’
‘No, all the timber is imported on Soviet merchant navy ships. The Russians wouldn’t have it any other way – it gives them a chance to earn hard currency.’
‘What are the trade routes?’
‘The ships take on their cargo in Archangel in the far north of Russia and then sail to East Anglia. They disembark the timber in small ports – King’s Lynn, Norwich, Lowestoft, Ipswich – those sorts of places. You can always check with your commercial attaché. Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I’m fine.’ Kit smiled. He really was fine. His brain had pocketed all the reds and was now working on the coloured balls: Vasili’s apocalyptic message, Natalya’s riddles, Knowles refusing the film bribe, the U2 photos of Los Arzamas. All the balls were whirring across the green baize to thunk in their appointed pockets. Kit already knew the answer, but he still asked the question. ‘How then did Knowles’s timber import business lead to his death?’
‘Corruption.’
The next day, Kit attended a ‘Soviet Studies’ lecture at the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. Personnel from the US Embassy were invited to attend. The principal lecturer, an imposing woman with a severe haircut, was from the Department of Slavonic Studies at the London School of Economics. Part of the presentation was a slideshow of NKVD and KGB propaganda posters. It reminded Kit that the PSYOPS role of the KGB is much more overt than the CIA’s. Kit’s favourite poster was that of a broad-faced female factory worker. Her hair is tucked under a red scarf; she frowns severely at the onlooker with a finger over her lips. Beneath her is a message in Cyrillic script. A lean Englishman sitting next to Kit whispered, ‘I say, do you know what that means?’
‘I assume,’ said Kit glancing at the lecturer, ‘that it means keep your mouth shut.’
The Englishman sniggered. ‘Or you’ll end up like Trotsky.’
The lecturer shot a warning look in Kit’s direction before continuing. For a second, her resemblance to the woman on the poster was stunning. The next slide was that of the Lubyanka itself – the KGB’s Moscow headquarters. The speaker was now explaining how the KGB was a much more professional organisation than the NKVD it had replaced. Kit was bored. It was the same old stuff they’d learned as trainees. The lecturer then described how the modern KGB was divided into directorates. The First Directorate is responsible for foreign operations and intelligence-gathering; the Second, internal political control within the Soviet Union itself. The Third Directorate controls military counter-intelligence and the political surveillance of the Soviet Armed Forces … Kit tried not to nod off as the lecturer droned on. The Ninth Directorate is a forty thousand-man uniformed force providing bodyguard services to the principal CPSU leaders. The Ninth also guards major Soviet government facilities – including nuclear weapons stocks. Other responsibilities include …
Something made Kit sit up. He felt a live wire had come down on his head and a thousand volts were jolting through his brain. The Ninth! Why hadn’t he realised then? As Natalya swam away, she hadn’t been talking about Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. She had been tipping him off about the Ninth Directorate. Another billiard ball careened into a pocket. This ball had a name on it and wore little round glasses: Lavrenty Pavlovich Beria, former head of the secret police. Beria was dead, but his ghost was alive and wanting revenge.
Kit didn’t stay at the Foreign Office for drinks and nibbles, but went straight back to Grosvenor Square. As the taxi hurtled through Piccadilly Circus, Kit caught a glimpse of a face in the rear-view mirror. He was shocked when he realised that it was his own. He looked like a madman. Fear and paranoia seemed to be curling around his temples like wreaths of ectoplasm. He was carrying too much. And Kit knew that he had broken the rules: he had not reported things. He had told no one what Vasili had passed on – even though it was intelligence of vital importance to national security. Nor had he mentioned his meeting with Natalya. He knew that withholding information was an extremely serious offence. But, on the other hand, who could prove it? The Russians were hardly in a position to point the finger. Therefore, he was safe as long as he kept his mouth shut. Or was he? Had he been under surveillance when he met Vasili? Had someone observed Natalya swimming out to his boat?
The Envoy Page 22