The Whitehall Mandarin

by Edward Wilson

  Bone put on his impassive face. They both knew that kinky toffs had always been security risks. Both of them also realised that, in an ideal world, what a person did in the bedroom had nothing to do with that person’s political ideology or loyalty to the state. But they didn’t live in that ideal world. Blackmail and honey traps were still the best tricks in an intelligence officer’s bag.

  Catesby paused and looked at the snapshot. ‘I wonder who he is.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The handsome young man bearing a basket of grapes. I bet he’s a pleb, probably a guardsman. I believe the best tarts come from the Household Cavalry.’ Catesby gave Bone a knowing wink. ‘But don’t think for a moment that I’m being judgemental.’

  ‘May I suggest, William, that there is an element of class jealousy in your makeup?’

  ‘Absolutely none at all. I could fake my way into that world if I wanted to.’

  ‘Why don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I will.’ Catesby stared thoughtfully at Henry’s curtains. ‘Basically, what we want to find out is how far Cauldwell and his gang have infiltrated the gang that run this country.’

  ‘That would be useful.’

  ‘I’m glad you agree. But we will probably find a load of completely unrelated skeletons – that’s why they sent Sir Anthony to Germany at the end of the war.’

  Bone smiled. ‘That’s pure speculation, Catesby.’

  ‘I’m tired. Don’t you ever get tired, Henry? In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in daylight.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m off.’

  »»»»

  When in London Catesby shared a flat in Pimlico with his sister and her boyfriend, but they were seldom there. The sister spent the week in Cheltenham, where she was a translator at GCHQ. Her boyfriend, Tomasz, worked on the BBC Polish Service and often did nightshifts at Bush House – or was out gallivanting. The flat was in the basement of a Georgian house that belonged to the family of Catesby’s estranged wife. One of the great ironies about Catesby was that he married into the upper classes he affected to despise.

  Catesby’s wife, Frances, managed to get pregnant at the end of the war when she was seventeen. The Canadian pilot who took her virginity left twin boys in exchange, then fucked off back to Saskatchewan where he had a wife and family. Catesby met her at a Labour Party meeting. He didn’t like it when people called Frances and her family ‘champagne socialists’. They only drank champagne at weddings and anniversaries. But they could have drunk a lot more champagne if they hadn’t given away most of their money to anarchists, suffragettes and other social reformers early in the twentieth century. Catesby loyally defended his in-laws to his lefty friends. What the hell should they do? Hang themselves from lampposts?

  Why didn’t the marriage work? Catesby didn’t know. It annoyed him when people said it was because Frances had married ‘below herself’. The reasons were otherwise. Maybe a difference in temperaments and expectations. Catesby knew, in retrospect, that he had come back from France pretty fucked up and needed her. And she had needed him too. The separation was, however, amicable – and sometimes they talked of reconciliation. In any case, Catesby got along well with his wife’s family – and hence the cheap rent for the flat. It made him feel guilty but they refused to accept more.

  ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Except for this sin there is no ego te absolvo.’ Catesby lay awake and murmuring in the Pimlico flat. He was an atheist, but an atheist who had been brought up as a Catholic. Catesby never got over guilt and the scab-picking habit of examining his conscience. He loathed himself for enjoying the company of refined and educated people. Cambridge had opened a new world for him and he tried to fit in. On occasion, Catesby played the dour working-class card, but he enjoyed the wit and conversation of the glittering world around him. Secretly, and what a dark ugly secret, Catesby wanted to embrace that world and become part of it. At first, he hated himself for that. Then the day came when Catesby realised that, although he wasn’t one of them, he was part of their world. That cured him. He no longer desired to be accepted by ‘them’. He had seen the machinery behind the stage and realised that the glittering superstructure presented to the audience was controlled by hidden pulleys and wires. But Catesby knew that he couldn’t go back to his roots either. On his visits home, he never felt comfortable in the pub and his Suffolk accent was a joke. His deracination was complete. Catesby no longer belonged anywhere. It may have been a lonely fate, but it made him the perfect spy.

  While he was growing up, having the name Catesby had never been a problem. Not many people in Lowestoft were aware that one Catesby had been the leader of the Gunpowder Plot. Or that another Catesby had been one of Shakespeare’s villains in Richard III – and had, in real life, fought beside the crookbacked king at Bosworth Field before being captured and beheaded. The teasing first began at Cambridge – and, later, the irony that an officer in HM’s Secret Intelligence Service should bear the name of Britain’s greatest traitor was never lost on his colleagues.

  Like many working-class folk, Catesby knew little about his family history. He didn’t know the full name of a single great grandparent. But he did know that Catesby was not a name typical of East Anglia. Names ending in ‘-by’ are usually from the East Midlands. Catesby later discovered that it was no longer a name in use anywhere. He once wasted most of a day scouring telephone directories as well as British and the voluminous Commonwealth War Records. He wanted to find other Catesbys apart from his local family, but there were none. It was as if the name had been purged from Britain forever. Ironically, there were loads of Fawkes – as if somehow they were less reprehensible. Or that being hanged, drawn and quartered while still alive had made amends. But the only Catesbys were the Suffolk ones perched on England’s easternmost extremity. Henry Bone used to tease Catesby with a theory that his ancestors fled to Suffolk to rendezvous with a ship from the Spanish Netherlands sent to rescue them. Night after night they waited in vain on a remote lonely beach, but the promised ship never appeared. When those who remained of the treacherous Catesbys realised that rescue was never going to come, they dropped their fine ways and disappeared into the local peasantry.

  Catesby was still alone in the Pimlico flat when he woke with a start at three o’clock in the morning. He was covered in cold sweat. There had been similar dreams before, but this was a new variation. And it had been so real. He actually felt the sand of Covehithe beach under his bare feet and the summer sea lapping around his ankles. Covehithe was unusual for Suffolk, one of the few places where the beach had more sand than shingle. It was Catesby’s favourite place. The woods came down to the sea’s very edge. At high tide, acorns and chestnuts dropped directly into the seawater from overhanging tree branches. It was a remote place for midnight bonfire parties where no one would bother you. Or a secret place for furtive couplings in the soft ferns while the gentle sough of the sea timed the pace of your lovemaking. In Catesby’s dream, he was inside the girl from the opposite terrace, delirious with longing as she stroked his back and whispered how she had wanted him for so long. And then she was gone – a pale nymph disappearing into the wood. Catesby knew it was time to go. He waded into the water and looked out to sea for the signal lights. He had so wanted her to come with him, but it wasn’t to be.

  When the searchlights came on, it was the reverse of what had happened to Cauldwell. Now, it was Catesby on the receiving end. The first to walk out of the shadows was Henry Bone. He was pointing a revolver, but his face was sad and full of regret. And soon there was a big crowd pointing. Some were wearing bowlers and city suits; others were Tudor gentlemen in ruffs, doublets and hose. Every intelligence officer Catesby had ever known stared at him with hatred and contempt. As always in those dreams, Catesby began to explain that there had been a mistake. He started shouting the names of those who were guilty – and had somehow escaped being uncovered. But he convinced no one and was grabbed by a pair of heav
ies. In most of these dreams, Catesby shouted aloud and woke up just as they were about to shoot him. But in this dream, they grabbed him and forced his head on to a tree stump. When Catesby looked up for the last time, Lady Somers was striding towards him. She was dressed for a funeral: black hat, black cloak, black stockings, black shoes. She had an axe in her hand. Catesby woke up just as the sharp steel touched the back of his neck.

  September, 1958: Aberdeen Proving Ground, Maryland

  ‘You’re the ideal guinea pig, Mr Cauldwell. You don’t exist. You’re already dead.’

  Cauldwell laughed. ‘But they haven’t found the body.’

  The testing suite at the Biomedical Laboratory looked almost like a hotel lounge. There weren’t, of course, any windows, but there was a two-way mirror that stretched along an entire wall. The suite was painted ‘grasshopper green’, which was thought to be the colour most calming to psychiatric patients. The walls were hung with watercolours depicting creeks and rivers of the nearby Chesapeake Bay. For a testing suite where experiments involving mental torture were carried out, it wasn’t that bad.

  The man dealing with Cauldwell was known as Doctor Dirty Trickster. He wasn’t a medical doctor, but had a PhD in chemistry.

  The Trickster looked closely at Cauldwell. ‘I bet you’re glad you volunteered.’

  ‘I didn’t volunteer.’

  ‘Oh yes, you did – and don’t say that isn’t your signature on the authorisation form.’

  ‘It’s not my signature; you forged it.’

  ‘Unh, uh. That’s not the way to be.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll try again. I did sign the form. But I did so because I am a loyal and patriotic US citizen who is wrongly suspected of being a Soviet spy.’ Cauldwell purred the words in his most honeyed Southern drawl.

  The Trickster laughed and slapped his thigh. ‘Wonderful. You’ve already begun to hallucinate and you haven’t even taken the drug.’

  It was known as Project 112 and Cauldwell was lucky to be there. A previous handler had told Cauldwell, after a particularly uncooperative session, that he was going to be sent to Honduras for the sort of drug experiments that were too radical for the CIA to carry out, no matter how secretly, in the USA. The Honduran Army outfit was called Batallón de Inteligencia 3–16. The Batallón was a way for the CIA to wash its hands of involvement in extreme experimentation on humans – but still benefit from the research. A number of the 3–16 staff were German scientists who escaped trial for war crimes when the CIA smuggled them out of Germany with false passports. The war criminal rat run was called Project Paperclip. There were Paperclip fugitives working at Edgewood too. But, smiled Cauldwell to himself, it was a simple paperclip that was going to free him. He’d found it on the seat of the car that had taken him to the testing lab. It was the sort of simple carelessness that so often compromises security. Some previous passenger in the car must have been reading a document in the backseat and hadn’t noticed – or bothered to look for – the paperclip that had fallen off.

  The Trickster opened a folder and sifted through a few documents. ‘You were interrogated for 549 consecutive days?’

  ‘I don’t know. I was submitted to sensory deprivation: no natural light, clocks or calendars.’

  ‘And, as you might not know, your treatment has begun to cause a shit storm on E Street.’ Trickster was referring to the CIA headquarters in downtown Washington.

  Cauldwell laughed and raised his handcuffed wrists. ‘Don’t tell me someone thinks your methods are inhumane.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’ In Trickster’s accent, absurd rhymed with avoid and Lloyd. ‘No, the boss doesn’t understand why our methods aren’t working. He wants results. So now we’re going to try something different.’ Trickster picked up a tab impregnated with a pinkish substance. ‘You’re going to lick this.’

  ‘Maybe I’m not.’

  ‘Don’t be so negative – you might even enjoy the experience.’

  Cauldwell considered his options – and their options too. The Dirty Trickster might call in the guard and they would try to force him to lick the tab, or Trickster would give up on him and recommend he be dispatched to 3–16 in Honduras. In a way, the Honduran option appealed to Cauldwell. The gang down there might kill him, but the chances for escape in Honduras might be greater. Or would they? Cauldwell often thought about escaping, but the physical security of his safe house was impenetrable. No windows, concrete floors and no sharp objects to dig or gouge a tunnel. On the other hand, there were few guards. Cauldwell suspected that his detention was a very sensitive secret and there weren’t many goons who had the necessary security clearances to look after him.

  Cauldwell sighed and looked at the tab. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Lick it and see.’

  ‘Is that what you tell your girlfriends?’

  ‘I usually don’t have to tell them.’

  Cauldwell looked at Trickster and laughed. The chemist was exactly the sort of creepy white male that American girls laughed at. Trickster was a stereotype square who wore white polyester shirts with a breast pocket full of leaking ballpoint pens. He fitted the image so perfectly that Cauldwell wondered if he was putting it on. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Whose names?’

  ‘The girls.’

  Trickster smiled. ‘I’m not telling. A true gentleman never tells. I thought you knew that, Mr Cauldwell.’

  ‘I do. That’s why I’ve never talked.’

  ‘Touché.’ The Trickster winked. ‘So your silence involves the reputation of a lady.’

  ‘Lots of ladies.’

  ‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Maybe you’ve been misinformed.’

  ‘We have psychological tests for that too. Maybe I should recommend you for some.’

  ‘Lick it and see.’

  The Trickster frowned, but didn’t say anything.

  ‘Have I touched a raw nerve?’

  ‘No, I’m not like you. But I’m not one to cast stones – I don’t judge others.’ The Trickster paused. ‘Maybe if you cooperated, we could arrange some fun. You must be very lonely.’

  Cauldwell smiled. ‘Arrange the fun first.’

  The Trickster lifted the tabs. ‘This will be fun. Try one.’

  Cauldwell looked at the pink impregnated tabs. There were a dozen of them. ‘You only want me to take one?’

  ‘That should be enough.’

  Cauldwell glanced at the two-way mirror that ran along the wall nearest them. He wondered how many pairs of eyes were watching. He realised that the observers were not just looking at him, but evaluating Trickster’s performance too. Cauldwell also noticed that Trickster had a red panic button to summon the guard. He usually kept the button in his hand – as if, despite their almost polite banter, he expected Cauldwell to go berserk at any moment. Cauldwell wondered if the observers behind the mirror had panic buttons too. Were psychologists such fragile creatures that they couldn’t pile in to deal with someone going berserk? But why, then, would Trickster need one too?

  ‘All right,’ said Cauldwell, ‘I will try one of those tabs. In return, is there any chance you can undo my handcuffs? I’ve got a pain in my shoulder and my back itches.’

  ‘No, Mr Cauldwell. You’re a dangerous man.’

  Trickster put the panic button down to pass the drug tray. Cauldwell was ready to pounce. His question had been a ruse. He had managed to pick the lock on his handcuffs with the paperclip he had found on the car seat. The cuffs were off and less than a second later Trickster was lying on his back with Cauldwell’s arm pressed hard into his windpipe.

  ‘I know you can’t talk, but you can answer my questions by tapping with your hand. One tap means no; two taps means yes. If you answer any of my questions incorrectly I’m going to kill you. Let’s start. Is there anyone watching behind the mirror?’

  Trickster tapped once.

  ‘Good. Is there only one guard?’

  He tapped twice.

  ‘Is that drug
an hallucinogenic?’

  There were two taps.

  ‘Wonderful – the American Dream at last. Do you know how many doses would prove fatal?’

  He tapped once.

  ‘Okay, make an educated guess. How many do you think would prove fatal – or permanently reduce someone to a starry-eyed imbecile?’

  ‘Trickster tapped five times.’

  ‘Good. We might put your theory to the test.’ Cauldwell felt Trickster squirm in fear. ‘But it might be quicker to joke you, I mean choke you, to death. It looks like the drug’s affected me already. But, on the other hand, I might let you live if you help me. Will you help me?’

  He tapped twice.

  ‘I think you’re lying.’ Cauldwell tightened his grip and Trickster’s eyes began to bulge and his face to turn purple. ‘Can I really trust you to help me?’

  The Trickster gave two desperate taps.

  ‘I’m still not completely convinced. I think your consciousness needs to be altered before I can begin to trust you. You are a member of the US military industrial complex – and the life-denying mentality that goes with your job needs changing.’ Cauldwell reached for the pink tabs. ‘I’m not sure what these are. But I once heard a drunken military attaché talking about the battlefield of the future. He said the atom bomb would soon be obsolete. That one day we would simply spray the battlefield with pink clouds of gentle gas. The gas wouldn’t burn the lungs or harm the bodies of our enemies, but would turn their minds from war to universal love. They would throw down their arms and embrace us with bouquets of flowers. And they would still be shouting, “Peace brothers. We love you America!” as we scythed them down with machine-gun and artillery fire.’ Cauldwell laughed. ‘You ought to get them to dig their graves first. But I was wondering,’ he waved the pink tabs, ‘if these have anything to do with that peace gas.’ Cauldwell peeled one off as he squeezed Trickster’s neck tighter. ‘Open your mouth and stick your tongue out; we’ll soon find out.’

  Trickster did as he was told. His tongue looked almost as purple as his face.