‘If he was genuine,’ said Fox, ‘he would be more cautious.’
‘You haven’t met him, Peter. You haven’t looked into those mad eyes.’ Catesby opened a folder. ‘Listen to this. It’s from his last interview: “You need to send me suitcase-size nuclear bombs. You can smuggle them to your Moscow embassy using diplomatic bags. I will then hide nuclear bombs in my dacha. When time is right, I bring bombs into Moscow to destroy Soviet military command in pre-emptive strike.”’ Catesby stopped and took a map out of the folder. ‘He even showed us – see the red Xs – where he’d put the bombs. He thinks hiding them in dustbins would be a good idea. He said one or two kiloton should be sufficient and they should be detonated at ten-thirty a.m. to cause maximum casualties. This is a man who has turned against his homeland and wants to kill and destroy everything in it.’
‘And I am sure,’ said Fox, ‘that you’re going to tell us why.’
Catesby flashed a flinty smile. ‘It is largely because he never knew his father, a White Russian who was killed fighting against the Bolsheviks in 1919 – a dangerous heritage that HERO managed to cover up. One could say that the Soviet State became his hated stepfather – and he managed to keep that hatred secret as he rose through the ranks.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Fox, ‘you should retrain as a psychiatrist.’
‘All of us who handle agents should be psychiatrists.’ Catesby noted a nod of approval from White and continued. ‘But HERO did not rise as high through the ranks as he thought he should. Like many double agents, he has a vastly inflated sense of self-importance. His career began to stall after he was promoted to colonel and never revived. As he became more and more bitter, he began to alienate his colleagues. That’s why he was shuffled off into his current job. It’s a high-ranking post, but a dead end.’
‘Can you remind us,’ asked White, ‘what that post is?’
‘He is head of intelligence for the State Scientific and Technical Commission. Essentially, HERO’s job is to obtain technical and scientific secrets from the West. It means he can travel a lot, operate under commercial cover and recruit agents. It also means that he is privy to secrets arriving in Moscow from all other Soviet and East Bloc intelligence sources and agencies. If we’ve lost it, HERO will find it. In short, this fellow is one extremely valuable agent.’
Dick White looked at his watch. ‘I think it’s time to end this part of the meeting.’
The Director’s words were a signal for MI5 officers and co-opted members of JIC to leave. When the last of the Chippendale chairs had been carefully slid back under the table, White got up to pour tea. Only two of his colleagues remained: Catesby and Bone. It was time to discuss sensitive operational matters concerned with running HERO.
Catesby returned White’s glance. ‘Thanks. One sugar, please. HERO is a gem. I hope we convinced the sceptics.’
‘But,’ said White, ‘he is a nutter.’
‘No coffee for me,’ said Bone, ‘it keeps me awake at night.’
‘A drink?’
‘No, I’m fine. The important thing is that we exploit HERO to the hilt before he self-destructs.’ Bone lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘As I am sure he will.’
‘HERO’s job,’ said Catesby, ‘gives him absolutely priceless cover. As an official with the State Scientific and Technical Commission, it means that he can rendezvous openly or clandestinely with our own agents posing as engineers or business people.’
‘Indeed, William,’ said Bone, ‘that is a great advantage.’
Catesby noticed that both Bone and White were giving him the Lord Kitchener ‘Your Country Needs You’ look. Catesby had seen that look before and knew it meant trouble. The look wasn’t a request. It meant: ‘This is what is expected of you so just get on with it.’ Catesby knew it was pointless to quibble. ‘If you want me to go to Moscow to pick up stuff from HERO, that’s fine. But I will need to go heavily disguised and with a good cover story.’
‘It might not come to that,’ said Bone, ‘but you would be the contact of last resort if things get desperate. At the moment, we are going to continue to use contacts who have diplomatic cover.’
Catesby knew that if he was sent to Moscow it would be as an ‘illegal’. When an SIS agent with diplomatic cover is caught spying, the agent is simply PNG’d – declared persona non-grata – and sent back to the UK. If an ‘illegal’ is caught spying they go to prison.
‘But,’ said White, ‘we don’t, at the moment, want to take unnecessary risks.’
Catesby nodded. The going tariff for Western spies was twelve years in a Sov prison. For Soviet citizens, it was a bullet in the back of the neck. They didn’t shoot Western spies because they were a valuable currency to swap for Sov spies imprisoned in the West. Catesby suspected that Konon Trofimovich Molody wouldn’t spend a lot of time in Wormwood Scrubs.
‘And,’ said Bone, ‘we’d need to train you up in Moscow Rules.’
Catesby had never been to Moscow, but knew that on their home turf the KGB had no shortage of men and women for surveillance. It wasn’t unusual for the KGB to assign as many as two hundred personnel to watch and tail a single target. You had to assume, quite rightly, that you were always being watched.
‘Fortunately,’ said White, ‘our man in Moscow has a wife with a young child. HERO has been briefed on how to pass information into the pram while admiring the baby.’ White smiled. ‘Don’t worry, William. The baby has diplomatic immunity too.’
‘The most important thing about HERO,’ said Bone, ‘is his access to intelligence secrets that undetected Soviet spies in Britain are passing on to Moscow.’
‘And detected spies as well,’ added White. ‘Now that Molody has been arrested, it will be interesting to see if the disinformation that we are feeding Tyler continues to arrive in Moscow.’
‘Is Tyler still unwitting?’ Catesby wanted to know if Tyler was unaware that he had been uncovered.
‘Yes – and we don’t keep him under close surveillance because we don’t want to frighten off his handler. So we can only assume it was Molody.’
Like his MI5 counterpart Skardon, Catesby didn’t like the Tyler arrangement.
‘I don’t suppose,’ said Bone looking at White, ‘that Five have had any success in their interrogation of Molody?’
‘Of course not. Molody is a complete and utter professional. He is only giving us names that he knows we already know about. And he’s spouting disinformation too – providing names, and some very high up names too, that we know are completely innocent.’
‘Or maybe,’ Catesby added, ‘it’s a double bluff. Molody knows that we know he’s lying so he knows that his accusations are giving a clean bill of health to those who are not so clean.’
‘And so on…’ yawned Bone. ‘You’re wandering, William, into the wilderness of mirrors.’
‘May we,’ said White with a tired smile, ‘get back into the reasonably unrefracted light of day. We are certain that a professional of Molody’s importance was running a far larger network of spies than the Portland ring. We assume that sometime in the near future these spies will be reactivated and provided with a new handler. HERO will not have access to the identities of those spies or their new handler, but he will see the intelligence they are providing – and, one hopes, pass it on to us.’
‘And then,’ Catesby said, ‘we can trace the intelligence back to its source and uncover the spies among us.’
‘Thank you, William,’ said Bone, ‘for so effortlessly jumping through the hoop of the obvious.’
‘You missed the irony, Henry. I don’t think it’s going to be easy. And I don’t think we’re going to be running HERO for very long. He is too reckless and unbalanced. I’d give him a year – so I’d better start learning the Moscow Rules.’
Cliveden and Chelsea: July, 1961
Lady Somers had met him through Stephen, her osteopath. His patients included everyone from Winston Churchill to Frank Sinatra. Lady Somers went to Stephen because of chronic lower
back pain. He was one of the few people who knew her medical history. He knew how to soothe her back through massage and manipulation – and also provided drugs, including cannabis, to lessen the pain. The problem with Stephen, as Lady Somers ought to have known, was that he had a big mouth.
Esteban was a guest at a little party that Stephen had hosted at his grace and favour cottage on the Cliveden estate. Lady Somers found both Esteban and the cottage a bit vulgar. Esteban wore too many rings and the cottage was the epitome of mock-Tudor kitsch. But its location and privacy, in woodland on a bend of the Thames, were superb. The two things that impressed Lady Somers about Stephen’s party were the social mix – black jazz musicians, an Eastern European property millionaire, a government minister, two hereditary barons and a member of the Royal Family – and, most impressive of all, the number of stunningly beautiful young women.
Esteban had swept-back black hair that gleamed like wet coal. He wore a pencil-thin moustache that made him look like a pimp from central casting. He spoke English with a slight American accent. There appeared to be a friendly rivalry between him and Stephen. The two spent a lot of time talking in hushed whispers.
It was a very warm evening and after a while the party spilled out from the garden into the Thames itself. A few of the younger women had stripped off completely and were swimming, their naked bodies glowing like phosphorous in the dark river. Lady Somers had been strolling along the river frontage with a glass of wine when she heard the splashing and shouting. She was trying to avoid the attentions of a stout baron, who was too tactile. But now she had to turn away from the river. She didn’t want to appear to be a voyeur watching the beautiful nude swimmers. As she turned back to the house she sensed someone at her elbow. The distinctive clovey-spicey carnation scent of Malmaison perfumed the air. She knew the cologne well for Euan, her deputy at MoD, doused himself in it. For a second, Lady Somers was annoyed. He was the last person she wanted to meet at the party. She peered into the shadows expecting Euan to bound up like an effete jolly Labrador. But it wasn’t him. It was Esteban.
‘Were you thinking of going for a swim?’ Esteban was wearing a white linen suit and too many rings.
‘I haven’t brought my swimsuit.’
‘Neither have they,’ laughed Esteban.
‘I don’t think my figure would compare favourably with theirs.’
‘I am sure you are being too modest. You look like someone who enjoys sport.’
Lady Somers smiled. She would never tolerate such innuendo from an Englishman. ‘I play tennis – and I ride occasionally.’
‘To the hounds?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘And you dress up in those red jackets?’
Lady Somers smiled. ‘Some people call them “pinks”, after Thomas Pink the tailor, but they are wrong and you are right. They should be called red jackets or coats. But I’m a woman so I don’t wear red when I’m hunting. I wear a black coat, usually with a flamboyant collar.’
‘And shiny black boots?’
‘Of course.’
‘I bet you look good.’
‘I hope so.’
»»»»
Esteban’s visit to Lady Somers’ Georgian house in Chelsea was inevitable, perhaps even preordained. She wanted to see what it was like. It had been such a long time since it happened. She wanted to see if she could. It was raining when she let him in. Esteban shook the raindrops from his trilby. She took the hat, brushed it with feminine care and hung it on the hat-rack. She felt his eyes staring at her haunches as he followed her upstairs. She knew that she had good legs.
Lady Somers hadn’t expected her daughter, Miranda, to come home that night. They argued on a daily basis and Miranda was out of control. Lady Somers hoped it was a temporary teenage thing, but suspected that it was more serious.
Miranda never came into the house quietly, but at least on this occasion she seemed to be alone and without her druggy friends. Lady Somers turned to Esteban with a finger on her lips as she listened to the footsteps on the stairs. Then the sound of the bathroom door banging open – and Miranda being sick in the toilet. Then the toilet flushing, the shower running and Miranda gargling mouthwash. Lady Somers hoped her daughter was finished and would go to bed. She lay back tense and waiting. Her feelings were ambiguous. Sometimes, on nights like these, Miranda came home full of warmth and needing her. They would sit up and talk for hours like a couple of girls. Lady Somers didn’t want that now, even if she longed for it. She waited to hear Miranda’s footsteps padding away to her own room. They did for a few seconds, but then they turned back. Lady Somers watched the handle of her bedroom door turn. She flicked on the bedside lamp.
Miranda was wearing a T-shirt that didn’t quite cover her pubis. Her eyes were dilated from whatever drugs she had been taking and widened even more when she saw Esteban. Her first reaction was an impish smile. Then she said, ‘Oops,’ and pulled her T-shirt down in a gesture of mock modesty.
‘Good evening, Miranda,’ said Lady Somers. ‘As you can see, I’ve got a visitor. I’d like you to meet Esteban.’
Miranda sat down on the side of the bed and extended her hand, ‘Enchantée. Or should I say, encantada? Are you a dago or a frog?’
‘Encantado de conocerte.’ Esteban smiled and took her hand. ‘I’m a dago.’
‘By the way,’ said Miranda nodding towards Lady Somers, ‘Penelope – that’s her name if you don’t know – Penelope usually doesn’t do this sort of thing. I’ve never caught her with another man before. She isn’t a tart.’ Miranda gave a flirty smile. ‘I’m the only tart in the family.’
Lady Somers felt no jealousy. She had already proved what she wanted to prove. But she guessed instantly that there was a bond between Esteban and her daughter – and that it wasn’t a good thing and there was nothing she could do about it.
Henry Bone paid close attention to the cables from Washington and Havana. A pattern was emerging of Kennedy’s presidency – a pattern of ineptness and incompetence. But how much of it was young Kennedy’s fault? Bone poured himself another brandy. It was midnight at Broadway Buildings: a good time for quiet reflection. Bone looked again at the decrypted cable from his man in Havana:
The events of the previous April have proved a complete and unmitigated disaster for US policy. There was no popular uprising to greet the invaders – and more than 1,400 of the 1,500 paramilitaries who landed on the island had been killed or captured within 48 hours. The Bay of Pigs invasion quickly turned from tragedy to farce – and has actually strengthened Castro’s rule in Cuba.
Bone smiled. In a way it was good news, very good news. Henry Bone despised Allen Dulles, the US Director of Central Intelligence. He despised him even more than his brother, John Foster Dulles, who had been Secretary of State until a month before his death in 1959. Foster Dulles was not only a sanctimonious shit who had humiliated Churchill and undermined British foreign policy, but also had the rottennest breath of anyone he had ever met. It was as if he feasted on putrefying corpses. In any case, Foster was gone and Allen Dulles would soon follow. Bone knew that it would be impossible for Dulles to remain in post as DCI after the Bay of Pigs humiliation.
The White House: August, 1961
Despite the early reversals in his presidency, Jack was in a buoyant mood. The latest drugs were alleviating his chronic back pain and allowing him to get more exercise. The President’s hair was still wet from his morning swim and he had had sex with both the secretaries who had joined him in the basement pool.
DCI Dulles looked at the President and found his face less puffy and ‘moony’ than usual. He suspected that the doctors were swapping steroids for methamphetamines and increased doses of testosterone. The use of meths was worrying. Perhaps the rumours of Kennedy running naked down the corridors of a New York hotel were true.
The President gave the DCI a boyish smile. ‘How are you, Allen?’
‘I am fine, Mr President, and thank you for seeing me.’
‘Fi
rst of all, I want to thank you. You have been a remarkable Director of Central Intelligence. You are the founding father of the CIA – and I want you to remain in post until the opening ceremony at Langley in November.’
‘But I believe my successor will be taking over from next month.’
‘Let’s just call it a period of transition.’
The DCI took an envelope from his jacket pocket and handed it to Kennedy. ‘In any case, Mr President, I have written my letter of resignation.’
‘Thank you, Allen. I accept it with reluctance.’
‘There is, however, another reason that I wanted to see you – a very important reason, a matter of the utmost state security.’
The President tilted his head and gave the DCI a cautious look. He suddenly felt an urge to get back in the swimming pool. ‘What is it?’
‘I don’t want the Bay of Pigs to be my final legacy.’
Kennedy frowned. It was the DCI’s final legacy, the ultimate intelligence fuck-up.
‘There was, Mr President, something in your inauguration address which I will never forget. Your words were: “Let us never negotiate out of fear. But let us never fear to negotiate.” Did you mean those words?’
Kennedy nodded.
‘I would like to present you with an opportunity to put those words into practice. Even as we speak, the Soviet Union is becoming more and more powerful. Within five years their nuclear arsenal will be more powerful than ours. We both know that there are hawks in the Pentagon who would like us to launch a pre-emptive strike before this becomes reality. But, even if we succeeded, it would mean the destruction of Europe.’
Kennedy folded his hands and looked at the DCI with warmth. He might be a vain bumbling old fool, but at least he wasn’t one of them. ‘It is, Allen, my worst nightmare.’
‘There is, Mr President, a way of confronting and weakening the Soviet Union that does not involve NATO tanks and bombers, but does involve top-secret diplomacy. The plan is so secret and sensitive that I have forbidden anyone to write down a single word. Ergo, I can only give you an oral summary. May I tell you?’
The Whitehall Mandarin Page 18