The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby pretended to be reading, but shifted his eyes towards the woman. She was wearing a purple cloche hat and a purple Mac, but it all looked fine. She oozed the confidence of those who believed they were born to rule. That confidence, and it should be called a ‘confidence trick’, fascinated Catesby as much as it annoyed him. It was a bubble that needed pricking. But you needed to know where to prick.

  The woman passed close on her way to the non-fiction aisle. She had a large art book under her arm: The Nude: A Study in Ideal Form. In other circumstances, the book would have provided openings for some cheeky chat-up lines. But, Catesby thought, not now. He put the Nabokov back on the shelf and studied the woman in profile. Maybe he was wrong, but he trusted his gut instincts. The art book tied in with a taste for frolics. He now recalled the meeting where he had seen her. It was JIC, Joint Intelligence Committee, and she was deputising for her boss who was ill.

  She wasn’t long in the non-fiction section. She soon steamed out as if she had just realised that it was near the end of her lunch break. This was a woman with a job, an important job. Catesby tried not to stare as she passed close by, but caught sight of another book: The Outsider, by Colin Wilson. She carried a definite whiff of upper-class Bohemia and weekends at Dartington Hall discussing the works of Rabindranath Tagore.

  She was now at the till with the manager. Catesby averted his eyes, but strained his ears. She spoke first, ‘Have those books I ordered arrived?’

  ‘Yes … they came yesterday.’

  Catesby noted the brief pause after ‘yes’. He understood the manager’s dilemma. Do you say ‘m’lady’ or address her by her forename? It was a difficult question that Catesby never got right.

  ‘Thank you ever so much – and I’ll have these too. Could you please get Colin to sign this one for me? But I’ll pay for it now.’

  As the woman was writing a cheque, Catesby walked up behind her with his own purchases. She smelled exotic: clove, orange and sandalwood. And a note of something strange: a certain pungent scent of incense.

  When she had left, Catesby winked at the manager. ‘I know that woman, but I can’t remember her name. I know that she’s Lady Something.’

  The manager smiled and toted up the purchases. He seldom broke his duty of confidentiality to his customers, not unless said customers were Soviet spies. Meanwhile, Catesby furtively glanced at the order form next to the till. The title of the book was in Chinese with an English transliteration in brackets. The names of the two authors were also in English lettering: Hao Ran and Chen Duxiu. But there was no name of the purchaser.

  ‘The problem is,’ Catesby lowered his voice to whisper the lie, ‘I’m going to see her at a liaison meeting with the Asian section tomorrow morning. And I just can’t remember her name.’

  The manager replied in a low voice without looking up. ‘Lady Penelope Somers.’

  ‘Of course, it was just on the tip of my tongue.’

  ‘You should be so lucky.’

  Back on Piccadilly, Catesby glanced right and left searching for the purple cloche hat. He quickly spotted it, like a marker buoy riding the tide above the crowds. She was tall. Catesby began to follow her as she turned towards Green Park and had to hurry to catch up. He wanted to introduce himself on the pretext of being a JIC colleague and have a chat but he almost had to run to keep up because she had such long athletic legs. Lady Somers was walking quickly as if late for an appointment. Or did she know she was being followed? The hat changed course in the colonnade in front of the Ritz. She had entered the hotel.

  Catesby had been to the Ritz once before, but had been too drunk to take much of it in. The cry at the time had been ‘Forget the blitz, let’s go to the Ritz.’ And that’s just what they did. Catesby had just passed out of Infantry OCTU, the Officer Cadet Training Unit, when he’d been led to the hotel by a subaltern he had met during training. His fellow officer had been to Westminster School and Oxford and knew everyone – even the bartender who, it turned out, was a grandson of Sigmund Freud. Catesby remembered a puce-faced colonel snapping his fingers to be served and young Freud saying, ‘Have you lost your dog?’ But as soon as he entered the Ritz for the second time, Catesby knew it wasn’t going to be as much fun. For a start, Lady Somers had completely disappeared.

  Catesby stood in the middle of the foyer, took off his trilby and smoothed his hair. ‘Shit,’ he whispered, ‘where the fuck has she gone?’ The words were inaudible, but a liveried concierge at the reception desk was staring with disapproval. Maybe, thought Catesby, they were trained to lip read. The concierge lifted a telephone and Catesby hove out of sight towards the Palm Court. Maybe she was meeting someone for tea. Catesby entered an atrium that seemed to have more palm trees than a rainforest and more chandelier suns than a galaxy. Tea for two at the Ritz. A fantasy escape that cost you a week’s wages.

  They must have been lying in ambush behind one of the huge potted palms. His voice came first and it was a low bass growl: ‘Is that him?’

  Her voice trilled a satisfied ‘Yes.’

  Catesby felt an intense stab of pain. The ex-boxing champion, turned hotel detective, had jabbed a knuckle into the base of his spine. Catesby struggled to stay on his feet. His knees were jelly.

  Catesby regained his balance and turned around. Freddie, the ex-champ, was shorter than Lady Somers and looked like a pit bull that had been called to heel. She glared with eyes that were as polished and hard as ebony and snapped ‘Don’t fucking follow me again’ then turned on her heels and clicked towards the Palm Court tea room.

  Freddie clamped his huge paw firmly on Catesby’s elbow. ‘I think you’d better come with me.’

  ‘I saw you fight Harvey at White Hart Lane,’ said Catesby.

  Freddie smiled.

  ‘I’m glad you didn’t hit me as hard as you hit him.’

  As the boxer accompanied Catesby to the street he asked, ‘What’s your business?’

  ‘I’m an art historian at the Courtauld.’

  ‘No wonder you’re a perv.’

  Catesby limped slightly on the way to the Green Park underground, but otherwise felt good. The Courtauld fib was a lovely lie.

  »»»»

  The windows of Henry Bone’s office had curtains instead of blinds. They were thick damask curtains with a simple fleur-de-lis pattern that muffled the sound of the midnight rain. Bone hated the faceless sterility of Broadway Buildings and had imported many of his own possessions to the SIS HQ – including an early-nineteenth-century partners desk of carved oak. Catesby, on the other hand, felt perfectly at home amid Broadway Buildings’ dark warren of plywood partitions, frosted glass and gloomy rooms with cream painted walls and worn lino lit by bare lightbulbs. Only senior staff were permitted desk lamps.

  Bone looked up from the heirloom desk and stared over his half-moon spectacles. ‘Your best cover story is being a complete idiot. No one would ever believe that you’re one of us.’

  ‘What about Guy Burgess?’

  ‘Precisely. Guy was an idiot too and that’s why he got away with it for so long.’ Bone waved a document. ‘But this is fascinating.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘She is. Lady Somers is fascinating. But that doesn’t mean there’s any link between her and Cauldwell.’ Bone picked up The Triumph of Pan photo. ‘Even if the ankle does belong to her. And I am not, as you requested, going to have our photo-analysis boffins compare this with existing snaps of Lady Somers’ ankle.’

  There was something in Bone’s voice that made Catesby suspicious. It was as if he knew more about the photo and the people in it than he was letting on. ‘Why not? A photo-analysis could provide proof of identity.’

  ‘Because I don’t want it to get around that we’re snooping on her.’ Bone lifted the file on his desk. ‘In fact, I had to be extremely discreet about my own enquiries. I did most of the work in Registry myself and didn’t always initial the document chits. She’s also one of Downing Street’s top advisors on Malaya – their se
cret gem.’

  ‘Why do you have to be so careful?’

  ‘Because we’re Euro/Sov Bloc and the Far East P and T sections don’t like us.’ A recent reorganisation had created Ps, Production Sections, that collected intelligence and Ts, Target Sections, that decided what was needed. ‘They resent the fact that we get most of the money – and it’s quite right that we do. Who’s worried about Chinese tanks rolling into Western Europe? Far East also think they do a better job with far fewer resources – and that, to be fair, is probably true. Plus I don’t get on with Director Far East; he thinks I’m a scheming empire builder.’

  ‘How could anyone think that?’

  ‘Don’t be sarcastic, Catesby, it’s tedious. Try to learn light irony.’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why Lady Somers is so fascinating.’

  ‘It’s because she represents so much of our colonial past. Note, Catesby, that I did not say “the best of our colonial past”, for I know that would bring on one of your anti-imperialist leftist rants.’

  ‘Don’t, Henry, always assume you know what I think.’

  ‘Fair point. In any case, Lady Somers comes from a family of colonial administrators going back to the eighteenth century. Both her father and her grandfather served variously as governors of Penang, the Straits Settlements and Hong Kong. One of her great uncles was knighted for his role in putting down secret Chinese societies that were threatening British rule in the Straits Settlements. Coincidentally, Lady Somers seems to have played a similar role early on in the Malayan Emergency.’

  ‘Did her ladyship prowl the jungles with a Sten gun?’

  ‘I’m sure she did.’

  Catesby wasn’t surprised. His back still ached from her ambush at the Ritz.

  ‘But,’ continued Bone, referring to the file, ‘she also speaks fluent Hokkien, which is the main dialect spoken by the Malayan Chinese. Apparently, she was very successful in turning village elders against the Communists. What really happened is all hush-hush.’

  ‘But good news for her family’s rubber plantations.’

  ‘Don’t be so cynical, Catesby.’

  ‘I’m not the one being cynical. It was the rich rubber barons who insisted that the war be called an “emergency” so they could collect insurance on damaged property that was not covered by wartime activities.’

  Bone sighed wearily.

  ‘At least I say what I really think.’ Catesby gave Bone a half-smile.

  ‘I don’t like your “sly peasant” face. It won’t go far in the service. Learn to be inscrutable and hide your duplicities with impeccable manners.’

  ‘As you do?’

  ‘No, Catesby, you need to develop your own style. Your reputation as a lefty is a useful ruse, but please don’t practise your ideological rants on me.’

  ‘And what about your ideologies? What are your politics?’

  Bone stared into space for a few seconds as if he hadn’t heard the question. Then said in soft measured tones, ‘My job does not require an openly stated ideological position – and certainly doesn’t require sharing it with you.’

  ‘You’re the perfect Whitehall mandarin.’

  ‘I would like to think so.’ Bone adjusted his reading glasses. ‘But the Malayan business is interesting – especially to the Americans.’

  ‘They must be envious. We haven’t completely fucked up, like the French did in Indochina or the Yanks did in Korea.’

  ‘To be fair, Korea was a draw. But a Communist guerrilla army has, so far, never been defeated. There’s a line of thinking in Washington that it’s a mistake to challenge peasant armies led by the likes of Mao and Ho Chi Minh – a sure waste of lives and money. But our experience in Malaya shows it can be otherwise.

  Therefore…’

  ‘Therefore what?’

  ‘Over to you, Catesby.’

  ‘Henry, I’m not a thick undergrad who needs priming and you’re not my tutor. But since you want to play Trinity College capers, could you pass me a flagon of Founder’s Port?’

  ‘Would brandy do?’

  ‘It would.’

  Bone opened a desk drawer and took out a bottle and two snifters. ‘This is twenty-five-year-old VSOP, Catesby, so don’t gulp it.’ Bone carefully poured a measure and handed it over.

  ‘Thanks.’ Catesby warmed the glass with his hands and stared at the amber liquor. The odour was fine and rich, like the closed world inhabited by people like Henry Bone and Lady Somers.

  ‘You’ve gone quiet,’ said Bone. ‘I wanted your views on Malaya.’

  ‘I was thinking of something else. But I agree; it looks certain that the British are going to win.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say “British” rather than “we” when it’s about a policy you don’t like. It gives your game away.’

  ‘Fine. The problem with a British victory over the Communist insurgency in Malaya is that it will make the Americans think they can do the same thing in Vietnam – and it won’t work for two reasons. One, the Malayan insurgents have little support outside the Chinese minority community. Two, Malaya is geographically isolated from Communist allies who could give support.’ Catesby sipped the fine brandy. ‘Nonetheless, the hawks in Washington will start squawking “can do, can do”. It’s the new military mantra of the crew-cut cretins.’

  ‘They must love you.’

  ‘Not greatly.’ Strained relations with his US counterparts had been a trademark of Catesby’s career. But it was also a cunning ploy. It enabled him to gain the confidence of anti-American Germans and had helped him infiltrate the East Bloc Security Services. Catesby stared into the shadows examining his conscience.

  ‘You’ve gone all enigmatic, Catesby. What are you thinking?’

  ‘I was thinking that Lady Somers sounds like the bitch from hell.’

  ‘Her life hasn’t been all roses. She was nearly captured at the fall of Singapore and her husband died in mysterious circumstances.’

  ‘What were the circumstances?’

  ‘Lady Somers and the family don’t talk about it – and because of their influence in Malaya, it’s impossible to get a copy of the coroner’s report.’

  ‘Sounds like a suicide – or a heart attack in an opium den or a brothel.’

  ‘I do not think, Catesby, that you should even speculate.’

  ‘Does she have any children – or has that been hushed up too?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Bone picked up the file and flicked through the pages. ‘Yes, there’s a daughter.’

  Catesby wondered if Bone really needed to look at the file. Or was his paranoia about Bone becoming clinical?

  ‘You think I’m hiding things from you,’ said Bone.

  ‘Don’t read my thoughts.’

  ‘Your face gives them away.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be in this business.’

  ‘We need you.’

  ‘Like a knight needs a sacrificial pawn.’

  ‘You’re a far more valuable piece.’

  ‘But still a sacrifice.’

  ‘Of course, but only if it’s necessary.’

  ‘And what about you, Henry?’

  ‘If I go down, you come with me. And that’s never going to change.’

  At first, the threat had been light banter. But now it was a deadly truth. They had used each other to protect loved ones and personal secrets. And now they could destroy each other. The only way for both of them to survive, as Catesby well knew, was to blackmail the other not to grass.

  Catesby pointed to the Triumph of Pan photo on Bone’s desk. ‘Who sent that to me?’

  ‘I honestly don’t know, but your arched eyebrow suggests you think it was me.’

  ‘I think that it’s in your interest that I find out more about these people – and do them. But you can’t do it yourself because it would risk blowing your cover.’

  ‘What an interesting theory – even if it is a ludicrous one based on paranoia. Sometimes, Catesby, I think that you need a rest. That long walking tour you
’ve always wanted in the South of France beckons.’

  ‘But not yet.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Okay, Henry, I’ll tell you my theory – even though I know you’re not going to give anything away with a nod or a wink. I think a lot of toffs in this country have turned rotten. Nothing new there, as Queen Elizabeth I was well aware.’

  ‘And your famous ancestor was one of them.’

  Catesby didn’t rise to the bait. His name subjected him to a lot of teasing in the service. He frowned and picked up the photo. ‘Being in this snapshot doesn’t mean you’re a Soviet agent. It’s merely the upper classes at play. As long as you’re part of that crowd, it doesn’t matter whether you’re a Communist or a Fascist – and it doesn’t matter what you do in bed either. This is just a garden party with champagne and Pimms that turned a bit raunchy.’

  ‘And you, Catesby,’ said Bone fondling his brandy, ‘think that Lady Somers takes part in these, uh, revelries.’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Don’t answer; I’m not finished. You are completely wrong about Lady Somers. You obviously fancy her and your pride was hurt, as well as your kidney, when she sent in the Ritz hotel detective to teach you manners.’

  ‘You’re wrong about me – and I think you’re wrong about her too. You know what I think, Henry?’

  ‘I usually do.’

  ‘I think Lady Hard Face Somers is a dominatrix from the pointy ears of her cat suit to the soles of her leather boots. And no, I don’t fancy that sort of thing, but a lot of toffs do.’ Catesby pointed at the photo. ‘And fancy dress, or undress, parties like this give her a chance to unwind. And, as for her background in Malaya, she’s just another high and dry Tory clinging to what’s left of the Empire. They’re a club within the club. You know the type. They like to wear native dress, know all the customs and are fluent in the local lingo so they can tell the coolies what’s expected of them. Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Because your characterisation of Lady Somers is so utterly ridiculous and completely false. You don’t know the woman.’

  ‘And you do?’