The Envoy

by Edward Wilson

  ‘Couldn’t that selfish bastard tell that she was in distress?’

  ‘We’ll never know. Brian hanged himself in one of the outbuildings. According to the pathologist, he must have done it within minutes of Jennifer dying.’

  ‘You’ve tied up all the loose ends, haven’t you? Open and shut case.’

  Blanco flicked open the attaché case that he had left on a chair. He took out a file of documents and handed them to Kit. ‘The post-mortem reports: you might find the photographs upsetting.’

  Kit sat down at the table and began turning the pages. The first photos were of Brian hanging from a rafter with a purple bloated face. There was something strange about the rope. Kit peered closely. It wasn’t a rope. Brian had hanged himself by knotting together Jennifer’s underclothing. What else? There was a dark stain around the flies on Brian’s moleskin trousers. Isn’t it true, thought Kit, that people become incontinent when they’re strangled? Had Brian wet himself? Or had he ejaculated a final gush of semen as he twisted in his death throes? Kit felt total exclusion: she had shared nothing with him. He was an outsider, never part of the secret; nothing more than a passing client. He looked at Brian again and felt his stomach churn with jealousy. Even death itself had been part of their marital love game.

  The photos of Jennifer were heartbreaking: each organ dissected, measured and weighed – even her brain. Then they put everything back and sewed her up again. The stitched incision from pubes to throat looked like a bad repair on a canvas sail. When Kit had finished, he neatly gathered the documents, handed them back to White and said, ‘There’s a poem that goes:

  Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,

  Say that health and wealth have miss’d me,

  Say I’m growing old, but add,

  Jennie kiss’d me.

  ‘Do you know it?’

  ‘It sounds familiar.’

  ‘How much did you pay her to kiss me?’

  ‘We didn’t need to pay her. She liked kissing you.’

  ‘How do you know? Was that in one of her agent reports?’

  Blanco sipped his whisky and looked directly at Kit, as if weighing up an angled shot at a driven pheasant. ‘She liked kissing.’

  Kit caught the nuance. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Jennifer had a lively appreciation of sexual pleasure in all its forms. She especially liked threesomes and dangerous sex. She liked feeling helpless and under restraint. She found struggling against her bonds intensified her orgasms. Maybe that’s why she died: poor Brian thought she was struggling for pleasure, not for life itself. Very tragic for both.’

  Kit got up and walked over to the window and leaned his forehead against the glass. Two long-liner fishing boats were leaving the river. The boats carried dan buoys that the fishermen used to mark where they laid their lines. The buoys were festooned with bright flags so they could be seen from afar. Those multi-coloured flags, fluttering and flapping in the sun, made the fishermen look like troops of knights riding off to battle. ‘What,’ said Kit, ‘did you mean when you said that Jennifer liked threesomes?’

  ‘She preferred the third person to be an extra man rather than another woman. She especially liked fellating one man while the other was inside her – fairly typical, I believe, for that sort of troilism.’

  ‘Were there many lovers?’

  ‘A few – one of the last was Henry Knowles. It started as a threesome, but then Jennifer started seeing him individually.’

  ‘Who killed Knowles?’

  ‘We honestly don’t know. We think it was the Russians. They might have used that cultural attaché of yours who tried to defect.’

  ‘Jeffers Cauldwell.’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘You said tried to defect.’

  ‘We’ve arrested him and handed him over to the Americans – he was under surveillance for some time.’

  ‘What’s happened to your legal system? It used to be much admired. Have you dispensed with habeas corpus? Didn’t Cauldwell have the right to an extradition hearing before a British judge?’

  ‘It happened very quickly. Cauldwell was picked up at four in the morning and bundled out of the country on a US military transport plane from Lakenheath before midday. Lawyers were not involved. Spies don’t have civil rights – that’s why you’re here.’

  ‘You’re sucking up to them, aren’t you?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Americans.’

  ‘At the moment, it’s not in our national interest to upset Washington.’

  ‘In that case, why haven’t you sent me to Lakenheath in a blacked-out van?’

  White turned away from Kit and stared out to sea. A Sea-link car ferry was steaming out of Harwich bound for Hoek Van Holland. ‘Do you care, Kit, do you actually care what happens to you?’

  ‘Not much, you’ve completely destroyed me – and you know it. That’s what you set out to do – and you did it with consummate skill.’

  ‘You loved her.’

  ‘You don’t know when to stop, do you?’ Kit paused. ‘Why do you keep twisting the knife? What’s your next trick – a 3D film of Jennifer’s blow-job technique?’

  ‘I haven’t one, but I’ve heard that it was excellent – especially well adapted for restarting a flaccid penis for more love. But I’m sure you know that already.’

  ‘Shut up.’ Kit began to move forward; he wanted to choke the life out of Blanco’s mocking face. But the Director stopped him with a single glance. The Englishman’s eyes were cold, grey and hypnotic.

  ‘If it hadn’t been for her, you would have been an excellent intelligence officer.’ Blanco’s eyes had turned soft and caressing.

  Kit looked away. ‘I hated my job and I hated myself for doing it.’

  ‘Pity.’

  ‘It’s not a pity.’

  ‘I didn’t mean for you, Kit, I meant a pity for me. I wanted you to work for us.’

  Kit laughed and poured himself another whisky. ‘You must be crazy if you think I would do that.’

  ‘May I have some whisky too?’

  Kit topped up White’s glass.

  ‘We’re certainly knocking this bottle back – and I didn’t have a glass of olive oil to coat my stomach. You fellows use that trick too, don’t you?’

  ‘You have to if you sup with the Sovs.’

  ‘Mice,’ said White, ‘what about mice? Does that ring a bell?’

  ‘Money, ideology, coercion and excitement or ego. They’re the hooks you use to recruit an agent.’

  ‘I know. You stole that from us. We used the MICE acronym to train SOE officers during the war.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘You shouldn’t be so dismissive, Kit, MICE always works.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  Blanco smiled. ‘Now, Kit, say I was trying to recruit you. I’m absolutely sure that the M, the I and the E’s would be non-starters . Right so far?’

  Kit slowly nodded.

  Suddenly, the Englishman was no longer smiling. There seemed no emotion at all. ‘So, Kit, let’s talk about the C word, coercion.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t seem to understand.’ Kit put on a twisted smile; the alcohol gave him a fake bravery. ‘I don’t care what you fucking do. Pack me off to Lakenheath like you did Cauldwell, fine. Or turn me over to the MoD goons so they can finish me off – that’s even better.’

  ‘No, Kit, we’re not going to turn you over to the Americans – or to the MoD police. Why should we?’ Blanco looked hard at Kit without blinking. ‘You forgot about the third alternative, the Suffolk police. We’re going to frame you, Kit, like no one’s ever been framed before. It’s going to be the perfect stitch-up, delivered from on high. You’re going to be charged with the murder and rape of Jennifer. And, don’t worry, that trial will go ahead, for the Ambassador will hold his nose and waive your diplomatic immunity. And Washington isn’t going to raise a peep of protest either. I
n fact, it will save them the embarrassment of admitting that one of their most trusted diplomats was a spy who turned traitor.’ The Director paused to tighten the screw. ‘I wonder if your mother and sisters and Jennifer’s father, your much loved Uncle George, will come to Ipswich to see you in the dock.’

  Kit closed his eyes and spoke in a whisper. ‘You win.’ He opened his eyes and looked at the Director. ‘You’re a real master of the trade, Blanco, I hope you don’t mind my calling you that. In fact, I was the one who coined your codename. Your full title was El Pene Blanco – the white prick. You’ve earned it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  Blanco looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got to head back to London. You’ll follow me in the morning. We’re going to put you in a safe house in Croydon – sorry, it’s a bit of a hole – for an initial debrief, but that will be only temporary. In the long term, it would be unwise to have you in the UK. But before you go, we’ll be picking your brains about how Washington is likely to react to the Suez business.’ A shadow came over Blanco’s face. ‘And the names of the people who have been leaking our plans.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  I think that I shall never see

  A poem lovely as a tree.

  A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

  Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast …

  He used to think it was the sort of poem that gave poetry a bad name, but for months the words had been going round and round in Kit’s head. He longed for trees – willow, oak, chestnut, ash, even scrub pine. But there weren’t any trees, only rough tussac grass and clumps of small withered shrubs. The first impression was of an inhospitable island painted in shades of green, brown and grey – and that impression deepened every year. Kit sat down at an improvised desk in a wooden hut overlooking Queen Charlotte Bay and began to transcribe his rough shorthand notes. Pond just by main road just east of bridge: water, colour of weak Earl Grey tea; depth, 40 cm; caddis, cladocerans, beetle larvae and adults. Lake Sullivan North: two zebra trout beheaded, heads placed in alcohol for otolithes. Guts examined, not much in them. Neither fish had much gonad. Possibly post-spawning fish. He stopped writing to put on another jumper. It was the end of November and it had started off as a beautiful late spring day, but now turbulent squalls were sweeping in from the west and pelted the hut with sharp heavy hailstones. There was still a lot to write up – Mickey Doolan’s Ditch and Arroyo Malo – before he could get out his hip flask and crawl into his sleeping bag. In the morning, he’d get a lift in the Camp House Land Rover to Warrah for another week of fishery assessment.

  Kit pushed his notes aside and opened the poetry book. It was from the reading list that he had requested from his agent handler the last time they had met. It was certainly the only copy of Joyce Kilmer’s collected poems on West Falkland. In fact, thought Kit, it might be the only copy of Kilmer’s poems in the southern hemisphere. The light from the hurricane lamp flickered and hissed.

  A tree that looks at God all day,

  And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

  A tree that may in Summer wear

  A nest of robins in her hair;

  Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

  Who intimately lives with rain.

  The tree was a woman. How many years? Ten years. It had been ten years since Kit had seen a tree or embraced a woman.

  Kit had grown to like his cover as a naturalist. He could identify all sixty-four breeding species of birds. The Gentoo penguins and the flightless steam ducks were his favourites. The birds were trapped on the ground, like himself. The only native mammals were the elephant seals and the sea lions – he wasn’t sure about the fur seal. In any case, he’d never seen one. Nor was Kit certain that the sheep farmers were totally convinced by his cover story. The sideways looks they sometimes gave him suggested they found something fishy about this lonely man with a strange accent. They certainly didn’t find him friendly. Kit had been warned by each of his agent handlers not to say more to the islanders than was absolutely necessary. There were a hundred and fifty inhabitants on the island. And after ten years, Kit knew the names of only eight of them. He doubted that a transcript of his total conversation with his fellow islanders would fill four pages.

  During his first three years on the island, Kit had been visited by an agent handler every seven or eight weeks. They brought him bags and bags of documents and photos to peruse and evaluate. The handler visits sometimes lasted more than a week. But, as is the nature of any intelligence asset, he was eventually squeezed dry. There just wasn’t anything left to milk out of his brain and memory. Occasionally, there was a flurry of interest when one of Kit’s former colleagues arose to prominence as a presidential advisor, ambassador, or as a member of the cabinet or the National Security Council. On these occasions, Kit was expected to profile the rising star in terms of strengths, weaknesses, character traits, psychology, personality, experience, vulnerabilities – and, of course, any useful dirt. Kit always complied – and sometimes enjoyed it. He especially enjoyed doing a job on one particular ex-colleague, who had come to be regarded as a possible CIA director or even a presidential candidate. But, as time passed, the rising colleagues began to pass into obscurity too – and the agent handler visits dwindled to a token annual event.

  At the beginning of 1967, Kit was summoned to Port Stanley with the usual caveat that he wasn’t to speak to anyone on the MV Tamar which ferried him across Falklands Sound or in the long base Land Rover that served as bus between the camp and the capital. Kit avoided conversation and eye contact by emerging himself in a tattered copy of Darwin’s The Voyage of the Beagle. Nonetheless, a gregarious and unwashed sheep farmer tried to have a chat. ‘Interesting book, mate?’

  ‘Very. Listen to this, “The most curious fact with respect to this animal, is the overpoweringly strong and offensive odour which proceeds from the buck. It is quite indescribable …”’

  The farmer turned away and left Kit in peace for the rest of the journey.

  The only person on the islands who knew anything about Kit’s past was the Governor. He didn’t know much, but what little he did know was heavily wrapped with security cautions. Whenever Kit’s agent handler arrived, the Governor provided accommodation for the handler at Government House and an abandoned sheep station ten miles outside of Stanley – far from prying eyes – for Kit’s accommodation and his actual meetings with his handler.

  Kit’s quarters at the sheep station were Spartan: bed, table, two chairs, bottled-gas cooker, outside loo. He always arrived the night before his handler, then waited the following morning for the sound of the approaching Land Rover. His last handler had been named Martin, a quiet man in his late twenties who didn’t seem to have a clue why he’d been sent eight thousand miles. It was obvious to Kit that his case officers were becoming younger and more junior. Last time, he and Martin had spent two days playing chess and birdwatching for sooty shearwaters and black-browed albatross.

  When Kit heard the gears grinding in the distance, he put the kettle on. Five minutes later there was a knock on the door. Kit was brewing the tea. ‘Come in, Martin.’ The door opened and Kit looked up, it wasn’t Martin.

  The agent handler was wearing a tweed skirt and a grey sweater. Kit was speechless. She was much more of a woman now. There were even the beginnings of lines around her mouth. ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Fournier. I believe we’ve met before.’

  Kit was speechless. He couldn’t believe it was her.

  The woman laughed, it was the sort of refined, self-assured laugh that Kit often heard on the BBC World Service. ‘Did you,’ she said, ‘did you really think that I was a French au pair? Can you remember what my name was, my cover name.’

  ‘Françoise.’

  ‘Excellent. I’m glad you haven’t forgotten. How do you do? My real name is nearly the same, Frances – Frances Davison.’

  They shook hands. Kit smiled and remembered how he had been duped by this same woman all thos
e years ago on the train to Portsmouth. ‘Your French accent was pretty convincing.’

  ‘Remember how we sang ‘La Mer’ together?’

  ‘I blush at the sentimentality.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful song. We must sing it again. In any case, we’d better get down to business. They want me to talk to you about Vietnam, you’re supposed to be an expert.’

  ‘May I ask who you were working for then, on the Portsmouth train?’

  ‘I was MI5 then. Dick White took me with him when he went to Six. If you must know, it was a terribly botched surveillance operation. We didn’t have enough operatives to cover all our targets. When I got to Portsmouth, I was supposed to hand you over to a second eyeball or a mobile backup, but none of them were there. But in any case, you were only second priority.’

  ‘Who was first?’

  ‘MI6, of course. Dick wanted to see how far they were going to drop themselves in the brown stuff. But come on, that’s all in the past, we’re supposed to be talking about Vietnam.’

  ‘Don’t go there. Let the Americans stew in their own juices.’

  ‘That is the perceived wisdom back in London, but Lyndon Johnson is putting Wilson under an awful lot of pressure to send a token force. It doesn’t even have to be a full battalion or company. Johnson told Harold he’d be happy with just a single Blackwatch piper – maybe he was joking.’

  ‘Johnson doesn’t want the firepower, he wants the symbol power – a Union Jack beside the Stars and Stripes over some bomb-blasted paddy field. They’d splash that image across every television screen and every front page. Don’t do it.’

  Frances spent the next three days interviewing Kit about Vietnam. She dragged hundred of names and memories out of his brain. She got him to evaluate and profile every official and officer that he knew, however remotely, who had anything to do with US policy in Southeast Asia. By the end of their time together, Frances had put together an impressive and factual briefing folder. ‘This,’ she said, ‘is just what Control needs to stiffen Wilson’s case. What’s wrong Kit? You suddenly seem very far away.’