Kit heard noises out to sea – and they didn’t sound very far away. They were the noises of ships’ engines. He scanned the sea again. There weren’t any lights, but there was a silhouette of a large vessel that was completely blacked out. She couldn’t have been more than half a mile away – maybe closer. Suddenly her engine died and there was the rattle of an anchor chain paying out. Kit studied her shape as she swung to the tide – which had turned and was running south. Lying at anchor, the ship was only a couple of hundred yards from Kit’s hiding place. She was a medium-sized cargo ship with her bridge and superstructure towards the stern. She belonged to the class of vessel used for transporting bulk goods: grain, iron ore, timber. Kit could see that the blackout wasn’t perfect. There were a number of crew moving around the deck carrying hand torches. The ship was so close that Kit could hear voices – Russian voices.
The ship was fully laden and rode low in the water. There were two large cranes in the bows and a number of derricks further astern. Three crew, carrying tools, were walking forward towards the large crane. Two other men were walking behind them and talking – in English. One man spoke with a heavy Russian accent; the other man was obviously English. Kit recognised the voice – it was Brian’s. The words travelled clearly across the night sea: ‘Are you sure, Viktor, that the detonator has been made safe?’
‘I’m pretty sure, but we need to remove it to make for certain. We’ve got the tools – we can do it now if you want.’
‘No, I don’t want to touch it until we get the bomb ashore and into one of those bunkers.’
Viktor turned and pointed towards the land. ‘Your containment bunkers are different from the ones we have at Arzamas. Yours look like Buddhist pagodas – a good design for containing blast, but maybe not so good for stopping radiation. You should have asked for help.’
‘The pagodas are fine, Viktor, they’ll do the job.’
There was the noise of an engine starting in the bow of the ship and the silhouette of a crane began to move against the night sky. Brian’s voice sounded worried. ‘I only hope your crane will do the job – I’m not sure your detonator is stable enough to withstand being dropped from a height.’
‘Not to worry. It’s good crane. I check cable with my own hands.’ Viktor shouted something in Russian and the crew on the crane laughed. Meanwhile, there was the slow thump of a ship’s engine approaching from up the coast.
Kit scanned the sea horizon with his binoculars until he found a black lump coming in close to shore. The approaching ship flashed a brief signal and then her engines slowed. She was now so close that Kit no longer needed the binoculars to make out her shape and type. She was a large landing vessel: the type that the British had used to land tanks on the Normandy beaches. Kit watched as she manoeuvred astern of the Russian ship, slowed now to less than walking pace. The landing ship then spun around with a groaning of engines so that she lay abeam of the cargo vessel. Then there was a dull thud of steel on steel as the new arrival moored alongside.
The rest happened so quickly that it seemed practised and carefully choreographed. The crane motor whirred to a high pitch and the bomb rose out of the hold like an evil genie. It was lashed to a long pallet and was the size of a hearse. Kit felt his skin tingle. Mass death hung in solemn silhouette against the northern sky. Was this why we rose from the primal slime? Kit lay his face on his arm; he didn’t want to see any more. He listened to the sounds as the landing ship headed into the beach and crunched on to the shingle. He heard the rattle of chains as the landing ramp thumped on to the stones. Then the sound of a tracked vehicle leaving the ship and climbing the steep bank of shingle. Britain now had its own hydrogen bomb. Kit lay still for five more minutes tasting the salt of his tears. He wanted out; he didn’t care how. He just wanted out.
Kit crawled back the way he had come. When he was out of sight of the watchtowers, he got up and ran in short bursts crouching low. He was much more careful now than he had been coming. After each sprint he lay flat and listened to the night. He didn’t want to get caught. Not now, now that he had something to live for. He had uncovered a conspiracy and he would soon have the names to go with it. Kit didn’t care who used his secret once he had sold it. The secret was precious currency: the only currency powerful enough to buy him a life with Jennifer. Nothing else mattered.
Kit was less than two hundred yards from the point on the riverbank where Driscoll was supposed to pick him up. He halted and froze as soon as he heard the voices. One sounded London English, the other white South African – or maybe Rhodesian. The colonial voice spoke loudest. ‘You’re not fucking alone so don’t tell me that. You’re just a fucking colobus monkey. Where’s your bwana and who is he?’
The next thing Kit heard wasn’t Driscoll’s voice, but Driscoll’s scream. ‘Not there, don’t cut me there.’ The scream was really bloodcurdling this time. ‘Don’t cut me any more, not there. Please, please, I’ll talk.’
It was the London voice now. ‘You’d better talk and you’d better not lie.’ The two guards were now laughing. ‘We’ll know if you’re lying, mate. And if you are, Johnnie’s going to finish cutting your cock off and use it for fish bait – just like he used to do with those Mau Mau bastards in Kenya.’
Driscoll spoke next. Kit couldn’t hear all the words, but he heard enough to know that Driscoll was spilling all the beans he had. And who, thought Kit, could blame him? That stuff about captured agents not talking was patriotic bullshit.
It was only afterwards that Kit thought that he should have tried to rescue Driscoll. He did have a gun and might have surprised them, but at the time he only wanted to save himself. While Driscoll was talking, Kit low-crawled to the river and slid down the bank and into the water as quietly as a snake. The tide was now flooding hard back to Orford. Kit kicked off his boots and let his bag sink to the bottom of the river. The incoming tide was so strong that Kit hardly needed to swim. As he drifted past the place where the guards were holding Driscoll, Kit couldn’t see a thing, but he did hear them cutting off his head and Driscoll trying to scream through his gagged mouth. The decapitation wasn’t a sawing sound, it was a hacking sound. They must have been using some sort of machete, thought Kit. He could hear the blade crunching through the cartilage and bone and then cracking on to the shingle below the severed neck. Kit bore the guards no malice. They were just players – as he had once been – and these were the rules of the game. It reminded him of a Stanley Spencer painting of Jesus being nailed to the cross. The village carpenter with a mouthful of nails and a hammer in his hand is just a tradesman doing his job. Crucifixions, kitchen shelves – all the same.
The Director of the CIA, Allen Dulles, had flown to London for the first stop of his world tour. He had taken over an Air Force DC-6 and turned it into a flying penthouse complete with a personal physician to look after his gout. The world tour was supposed to be secret, but Dulles expected welcoming parties to greet him on the airport tarmac. He was behaving more like a head of state than the head of a clandestine security service.
Dark clouds from the south-west scudded across the Heathrow sky as Dulles bounded down the boarding ladder – the gout seemed in remission. The first to greet the Director was Ambassador Aldrich who got a big bear hug. Kit was fourth in the protocol pecking order and had to be content with a wink rather than a hug. Allen Dulles still used his trademark wink as a seduction tool with devastating effect. The wink said, ‘Those hugs and hearty laughs I give the bigwigs are just for show, the real business is between you and me.’ Kit was ashamed that he still fell for it, for he had long known that ‘wink’ to be a whore. Nonetheless, Kit knew that a private meeting between himself and Director Dulles was one of the principal reasons for the London visit – and Kit had prepared his lies with care. And when that meeting finally took place, two days later, Kit had even more lies to tell.
When Kit got back to his flat that evening, he picked up his post from the couple downstairs. There was a quarterly account stateme
nt from Medler and Gower about the family trust fund. It was more than he expected. Once again, Kit felt a wave of guilt and self-loathing. His wealth came from ancestors who had stolen land from one people and then enriched it by the slave labour of another. The money was cursed. Once again, Kit vowed that he would give it away. There was a letter from his sister, Caddie, with a New York postmark – and one from his mother postmarked from France. There were two postcards. One was from diplomatic friends on a mountain climbing holiday in Austria. They had addressed the card, presumably as a joke, to ‘His Excellency Kitson Fournier, Envoy Plenipotentiary’. The other postcard was from Jennifer. It was a sepia view of Orford Castle. The message was deceptively bland: Brian and I hope to see you before the end of the month – as you promised! Louise sends her love and is looking forward to seeing you again. All our love too. Jennifer and Brian, xxx. Kit felt his heart begin to pound and his skin tingle. It was going to be a long night.
Kit arrived in Orford just after midnight and parked the car on a dark lane near the churchyard. He felt nervous: it was not an inconspicuous time to prowl among gravestones in a churchyard. He felt the shade of his ancestor, Tombstone Frank, sitting beside him with his grave-robbing spade. Kit had no idea what he would say if the vicar found him there. If anyone questioned him, he would hint at an adulterous rendezvous. In a way, it was true – and lies shaped from truth are always the best lies.
Kit sat in the car and watched moon shadows caress the ruins of the older larger church. It was often like that in Suffolk. When one church collapsed, they built a smaller church within the roofless remains of its predecessor. It was as if the churches were shrinking in response to ebbing faith. Soon, thought Kit, the church would be the size of a doll’s house with matchbox pews and thimbles for chalices. Kit rolled down a window and listened to the night. The wind was still blowing a force five; in the distance was the sound of a bell buoy. Kit wondered what it would be like to be out there – with ‘those in peril on the sea’. He remembered the day that Jennifer had taken him to Orford Church to hear the rehearsal of Noye’s Fludde.
Was that, he thought, the moment that he had fallen in love with this island – not its government and its policies – but its people and land? Kit left the car and walked to the churchyard gate past gardens heavy with runner beans and late summer roses. All around him were sleeping houses. ‘I must,’ he swore, ‘never do anything that might bring them harm.’
It was easy to find Louise’s grave. He flicked on his pocket torch and quickly played it over the grass. Jennifer had planted the dead drop spike at the foot of the grave as agreed. Kit quickly retrieved it and went back to the car. It was best not to hang around. He didn’t bother to check what she had secreted in the spike until he got back to London – but he already had a good idea of what Jennifer had done.
It was after three in the morning when Kit got back to his flat. The first thing he did was take a double dose of amphetamines. This wasn’t going to be a night for sleep. When he picked up the dead drop spike, his hand was shaking. Part of him hoped he wasn’t going to find anything significant. He didn’t want to be trapped in another dilemma – and he was afraid for Jennifer too. He took a breath, unscrewed the top of the spike and emptied the contents on to the kitchen table. There wasn’t just one, there were two rolls of undeveloped film. What, thought Kit, has she done?
When the films were developed and fixed, Kit took them out of the tank and hung them above his bathtub. While he was waiting for them to dry, he opened the letter from Caddie.
35B 12th Street
Greenwich Village
New York, New York
Dear Kit,
I feel like a real bitch. I’ve just heard that Jennifer lost her baby. I’m so sorry that I said those awful things about her. Jennie’s much better than any of us. She’s kind, loving, full of generosity of spirit. And she’s not stupid either. The trouble with our side of the family is that we always have to show off how clever and bright we are (and that applies to you too, big brother!). Maybe we’re insecure and she isn’t – because she knows who she is and what she’s worth. She’s also very beautiful – and some of us, who aren’t beauties, don’t always find it easy to admit that she has everything else going for her too. Except, of course, the thing she wants most: the ability to bear a live child.
I’ve written to her saying how sorry I am. When she’s had time to get over it, I’m going to suggest a consultation with a friend of mine at Johns Hopkins who specialises in pre-natal care.
I miss you, Kit, even if you are a smart ass.
Love,
Caddie
Kit folded the letter and put it back in its envelope. He loved Caddie – he loved them all. But he knew that it was unlikely that he would ever see his family again. He went back into the bathroom to check the films. They were still wet. He went back to the sitting room and opened the letter from his mother.
Château des Enfants
Antibes
Dear Kit,
George wrote to tell me the dreadful news about Jennifer. He said that you’re on the scene and being a great help. I want to do something too. I could come to England – or maybe it would be best if Jennifer came here for a break. There’s plenty of room and she would be most welcome. Please advise.
Love,
Mother
Kit put the letter down and stared blankly into nothingness. Nothing any longer connected with anything. His deracination was as total as a summer rose hurled into the vacuum of outer space. Kit went back into the bathroom. The negatives were dry. He then took them into the kitchen where he laid them across a white lit base normally used for making contact prints, and studied them with a high-resolution magnifying class. At first, he was amazed that Brian had left so much sensitive stuff in his briefcase, but then he realised that it was probably more secure to keep such documents close at hand rather then to leave them on Orford Ness.
The first roll of film had been used to copy technical and engineering reports. There were numerous sketches labelled with both English and Cyrillic script. The second roll of film contained densely copied tables, formulae and statistics – but also, and more importantly, names. Much of the information copied was in Russian. This, Kit knew instinctively, was a Holy Grail moment: the type of intelligence scoop that spies would, literally, die for. The film almost certainly contained the identities of the entire network of spies, agents, double agents and scientists that had conspired to steal and sell a hydrogen bomb to the British intelligence services – and Kit fervently wished that he didn’t have it. Kit closed his eyes and prayed that he wouldn’t have to use it. Jennifer had, with each click of the spy camera’s shutter, lined up more than a hundred death sentences. The most important thing now was to arrange a rendezvous with Vasili – and let the bluffing and horse-trading commence. But time was running out – and, once he had had his meeting with Allen Dulles, Kit knew that the few hours remaining were going to be sprinting for the finish line.
‘Have a look at this, Kit. These are the plans for our new headquarters in Langley.’ Allen Dulles had spread out architects’ drawings on the oak table in the Ambassador’s committee room. It was the same table, a priceless antique from Jefferson’s Monticello, that Allen and his brother Foster had sat around the last time they had briefed Kit. But this time Kit and Allen were alone. ‘Have you been to Langley?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It’s a beautiful sylvan place, low-wooded gently-rolling hills just south of the Potomac. Look at that.’ Dulles pointed to a place on the drawing where there was a broadleaf copse next to a building. ‘Clover is nagging the architects to keep as many trees as possible. It’s going to be a veritable Arcadia, a university campus for intelligence studies and espionage. You know, Kit, I hate the image of spycraft as something dirty and sordid. I don’t want my spies to be seedy perverts, I want them to be clean-limbed young men and women – looking forward with the open clear-eyed faces of freedom.’
Kit s
miled wanly; he was lost for words. He was tempted to say something about nymphs and shepherds – or to suggest maypole dancing and campfire singing as training requisites. But he kept his mouth shut.
‘What do you think?’
‘It looks a lot nicer than E Street and should improve security too.’
‘And the idea of a university campus?’
‘Absolutely, sir, the intelligence trade is about acquiring knowledge – it’s a higher form of learning.’
‘Good, I’m glad you like it.’ Dulles rolled up the drawings, then tapped them with a forefinger. ‘If nothing else, Langley will be my legacy.’
There was a childlike innocence to Allen Dulles that made him difficult to dislike – but also made him dangerous. The world of espionage was just a ‘game’ to him. Allen knew, of course, that there was real blood and real suffering, but he never let himself get close enough to hear the screams and smell the bodily fluids. Kit felt sorry for Dulles, but he felt more sorry for the lives he ruined.
‘Now, Kit, tell us about the Brits and their hydrogen bomb.’
‘They haven’t got one.’
Dulles made a steeple of his fingers and looked closely over them at Kit, as if sighting a rifle. ‘There’s something I don’t understand, Kit.’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you think what it is?’
Kit had already calculated how much Dulles knew about his activities. He knew that if the Director had knowledge of his unauthorised and unreported meetings with Vasili, a confession wouldn’t make any difference. In that case, Kit would be arrested that very afternoon and repatriated on a military flight in handcuffs. ‘I think you can’t understand why I’ve wasted so much time barking up the wrong tree.’
‘Explicate.’
‘I requested highly top secret U2 photographs of the secret Soviet nuclear installation known as Arzamas-16.’
The Envoy Page 27