On the Wednesday following Moreton’s telephone call, four CIA agents of supervisor rank flew from their separate postings into Victoria on the main Seychellois island of Mahe, and on each of the aircraft that carried them there were shadowing Russians.
Englehart had chosen the Mahe Beach Hotel, on the far side of the island from the main township, correctly guessing it would be quieter there and better suited to his purpose.
Freed from the need to maintain the false identities under which they had been acting in Africa, details of which the Russians already had, the Americans registered under their correct names and nationalities. It took two Russians to occupy the desk clerk’s attention and another to feign difficulty reloading a complicated camera, for the fourth to get photographs of the registration particulars including the passport number of each man.
The Americans were photographed in groups on the open-sided terrace, and separately around the cliff-side pool overlooking L’Islette. It was on L’Islette that Englehart had gathered his people for the conference because it was a miniscule island where security could best be maintained. He decided to brief them one night when his group were the only people eating in the sole restaurant on the island; the other couple, who had come across in the following boat, seemed content to remain in the thatched bar, far enough away from the eating area not to overhear any of the conversation. Even so, Englehart kept his voice low as he disclosed Moreton’s instructions and how he intended to oppose them.
‘Another attack wouldn’t work,’ insisted Hank Barrett, who controlled the group in Mozambique. ‘Four of the mines are without refrigeration anyway, so we couldn’t use the devices we employed last time.’
‘You’d still be taking a hell of a chance,’ warned Walter Blake, who had come from Angola. ‘Moreton carries a lot of weight.’
‘That’s why I called you here,’ said Englehart. ‘I want your support for the objection I’m going to make.’
Around the table there were varying shifts of unease from men who had reached a certain echelon in the agency, knew the politics of Washington and realised the danger to further promotion of bucking a system so openly.
‘I’m not asking for a positive endorsement,’ said Englehart, sensing the reluctance. ‘I want to say in my objection that none of you consider the operation feasible and would confirm that if Langley required you to do so.’
‘I’d do that,’ said Nelson Siebert, who was based in Salisbury.
‘You’re wrongly placed to make the proper sort of argument,’ warned the fourth man, Peter Grant. ‘Langley are bound to check with Moreton, knowing the power he has with the President. And Moreton will screw you for going behind his back. And you’re thousands of miles away, not able to fight back.’
‘Maybe so,’ agreed Englehart objectively. ‘But the protest will be registered. It’ll give us some protection if we’re ordered to go ahead and the whole thing fouls up.’
There was fresh movement around the table as the assembled men belatedly recognised the advantages as well as the disadvantages of supporting Englehart.
‘It’s a bastard,’ said Barrett. ‘Whatever happens, we’re caught in the middle.’
‘Why’s Moreton in a position to do this anyway?’ demanded Siebert. ‘What’s he trying to achieve?’
Another standard instruction, thought Englehart; the need to know factor. It was an extension of the cell protection idea, not allowing people – even senior operatives – to know more than they need, for fear of future embarrassment. If he were seeking their help, Englehart supposed he should tell them. But enough rules had already been broken.
‘Classified, above your ratings,’ he said.
They all knew the regulations as well as he did. There were nods of acceptance from the men around the table at his refusal to tell them.
‘But we need insurance,’ stressed Englehart, assessing the shift in his favour.
‘If you like,’ said Siebert extravagantly, ‘You can name me in the first objection.’
It acted as a challenge to the other three supervisors. For several moments none of them appeared to want to meet the eyes of the others. ‘It’ll go wrong, a second time,’ said Barrett, as if he were arguing with himself. ‘So we’ll need protection.’
Englehart remained silent, knowing there was no further pressure he could impose. It was a relief to deal again with sane men.
‘Include me in,’ blurted Barrett. ‘The way I see it, we’re fucked either way.’
‘We’ll seem divided, if all the names aren’t included,’ said Grant.
‘And we’re not,’ came in Blake.
‘Name me,’ said Grant.
‘And me,’ said Blake.
Englehart looked around to each of the men before speaking. Then he said quietly, ‘Thank you. Thank you very much.’
‘I’d like to think this would have some effect,’ said Siebert. ‘Like getting it aborted.’
‘It’s amazing how often it happens, some guy going maverick and people at the top not being able to see it,’ said Barrett.
‘They’re going to see it soon,’ said Englehart. ‘I’m going to make them!’
‘We hope so,’ said Grant.
Only yards from the restaurant the sea lapped into a tiny bay and they carried their brandy there, staring out over the darkened water. ‘This would be a great place for a vacation,’ said Siebert.
‘After this, we’re all going to need vacations,’ said Englehart.
Until his arrival in the Seychelles, Englehart had been the only American agent unidentified. On the aircraft carrying him back to South Africa there were three Russians, maintaining the surveillance which had now been established. All the photographic evidence went immediately back to Moscow.
Englehart timed his return so that the plane would arrive early in the day, not wanting to waste any time in attempting to block Moreton. Until now he had worked independently of the embassy, obeying the standing instruction that covert operations should be kept separate from any diplomatic mission, because of the risk of embarrassment. Breaking cover and identifying himself to the CIA Resident in the Pretorius Street consulate was therefore in direct contravention of normal behaviour, as well as being the first provable open challenge to the Treasury Secretary. The second came very quickly. From the secure communications room, Englehart opened up a telex link with Langley, attaching a priority coding to his message and setting out in complete detail the instructions he had been given by Moreton. Against them he listed his objections and added the named support to those objections of the four field supervisors. It took him an hour and when he sat back he was drenched in sweat, despite the air-conditioning. He’d risked it all, thought Englehart. The pension. And the cottage, with the sea fishing available just across the boardwalk. Everything. It seemed difficult to remember that only a few weeks before everything had seemed so assured.
The embassy-attached CIA man offered Englehart lunch but he refused, pleading the after-effect of airline meals, although knowing it wasn’t anything he’d eaten which was causing the sick feeling. Twice he started forward when the machine twitched into operation, but on both occasions it was just normal State Department traffic. When the reply did come it was brief and, although he had anticipated it, there was still a sweep of nausea, far worse than anything he had experienced up until now. He was to proceed with the instructions that he had been given. And upon his return to Washington present himself for a directorate enquiry into his conduct. Englehart swallowed against the sickness and the defeat, thanked the embassy staff for their assistance, and emerged blinking into the sudden brightness of the mid-afternoon sun.
The photographs of Englehart entering and leaving the embassy completed the file and provided the most damning evidence. Until then, the pictures had been of American nationals. With the American consulate in Thibault House clearly defined on at least six prints, there was now a provable link with the government of the United States.
It was nearly midnig
ht in Moscow when the final photographs arrived there. Krotkov was still in his office, though. And so was Leonov.
‘It’s been a very complete operation,’ praised Leonov.
‘So now what do we do with it?’ asked Krotkov.
‘What do you mean?’
‘The woman is too exposed. And Collington has got too much control.’
‘If he’d wanted to cause a problem, he could have done it just by disclosing her to the South African authorities. Why have us do all this?’
‘I don’t know why. Which creates an uncertainty. And I don’t like uncertainties,’ said Krotkov.
‘We’ve got to meet his demands,’ said Leonov, answering the original question.
Krotkov nodded, accepting the inevitability. ‘But I think I’ll keep the men who followed Englehart back to Pretoria in South Africa, to back her if she needs any help.’
‘What are you going to do about the American groups?’
‘Arrange their arrest,’ said Krotkov. ‘We’re well placed in every country.’
‘What about Collington?’ pressed Leonov.
‘Go along with what he asks,’ said Krotkov. ‘What else can I do?’
One thing, he remembered from Brigitte re Jong’s initial message, was to provide a satisfactory explanation of the way in which such material could come into the industrialist’s possession. The aircraft upon which it would have been carried, had it been in the diplomatic bag, arrived at Cairo at 6 am. By seven, the Soviet authorities had lodged a protest with the Egyptians, alleging that articles under consular privilege had been tampered with. Krotkov was unaware that the close proximity to Israel would help Collington even more.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Collington sat forcing the composure into himself, knowing that he was within fingertip reach of achieving at least partially what he wanted, but knowing equally well that if Knoetze reacted wrongly, it could all be snatched away from him. He was curious at the feeling of hollowness in his stomach: he had never known that degree of uncertainty – not even sitting at a prohibited crossroads in Berlin in a darkened lorry, waiting for a torch to flash and knowing that a misinterpreted signal would mean the blare of klaxons and a cross-fire of section guards. Perhaps he had never taken this degree of risk before.
It hadn’t seemed a risk, three hours earlier, when Brigitte re Jong had walked into his office with a file that confirmed more than he had ever hoped, let him read the accounts and look at the photographs and then demanded that he keep his side of the bargain they had reached. But now it did. Collington realised he would have to be careful of every word and every nuance of every word.
‘Am I to assume this comes from the same source as your original information about the Soviet gold difficulty?’ demanded the South African security chief.
There was no flickering smile and Collington realised the mannerism had always been an act, an attempt to lull whoever he was confronting into the belief of some superiority. ‘Yes,’ he said.
Knoetze looked pointedly at his watch. ‘The Soviet protest about diplomatic interference at Cairo was made less than twenty-four hours ago,’ he said. ‘Your influence astonishes me, Mr Collington.’
‘To learn what I did about the gold shipment, I had to let the Israeli authorities understand I was acting in a semi-official capacity,’ said Collington. ‘They regard me as a conduit.’
‘To me?’
‘To someone with influence within the government.’
‘What do they want?’
‘Information in return.’
‘About what?’
‘The next gold release.’
‘Why?’ Knoetze was snapping the questions out, trying to force the pace of the conversation.
‘To emigrate from the Soviet Union to Israel, Jews have to purchase exit visas. Money, for that purpose, is supplied through the Dutch embassy in Moscow.’
‘I am aware of the procedure,’ said Knoetze.
Collington hadn’t been, until Brigitte re Jong had told him when they had rehearsed the story earlier that morning; then it had seemed more acceptable than it did now.
‘In the past weeks, Israel has used the Russian gold shortage They’ve paid for visas in gold, using the Soviet desperation to force up the numbers being allowed to leave.’
Knoetze nodded, but it was impossible to gauge from the gesture whether or not he was accepting the explanation. ‘And they want to know how much longer they can exert the pressure?’
‘That’s the inference,’ said Collington. It was difficult, while he stood confronting this suspicious man, to imagine he had thought of the previous seven days as inactive. Even compared to his normal activities, they had been hectic. He had toured the mines twice. And held on-the-spot meetings with the respective engineers. He had chaired two board meetings at which they had considered the continued steadiness of the shares and tentatively agreed an agenda for the annual meeting, now little more than a fortnight away. And he had provided personal guarantored assurance to brokers in London and New York that he was in a position to complete in fourteen days the purchase of £103,000,000 worth of shares, which he wasn’t.
‘There seems to be the need for a lot of inference,’ said Knoetze heavily. ‘And unquestioned acceptance.’
‘It was obviously my duty to pass the information on,’ said Collington, indicating the file now neatly reassembled in front of Knoetze.
‘Obviously,’ agreed Knoetze. He looked down at the folder, without reading it. He sat like that for several moments. At last he came back to Collington.
‘You have provided me with invaluable information,’ he said simply. ‘Information for which I am grateful and for which others in the government will be grateful ….’ He paused, opening a drawer and taking out a letter. He held it in both hands, not offering it to Collington. ‘This is the government’s response to your offer to supply oil. It’s an acceptance. And an agreement, too, to release sufficient gold for you to conclude the commission agreement with Prince Hassan.’
Knoetze shifted his grasp so that he was holding the letter even tighter. ‘Your help over recent weeks to my government has been quite remarkable,’ he said. ‘If the oil negotiations are successfully concluded, then it will continue to be so ….’ He stopped again, looking down at the file once more.
‘You’re a man with a reputation, Mr Collington,’ he resumed, without looking up. ‘A reputation for the unorthodox ….’ He indicated the letter in his hand. ‘Which would seem to be justified from this.’
He looked up suddenly, abruptly coming to the point. ‘I would not like that unorthodoxy to become an embarrassment. To the government. To myself. Or to you.’
Collington’s instinctive reaction was to confront the innuendo, but he controlled it. In every business negotiation there was the time for argument and the. time for compromise. Just six feet away, being kept firmly from him, was the document with which he could defeat Metzinger’s move. It was the time for compromise.
‘I’ve always been particularly careful to avoid any sort of embarrassment,’ he said.
‘I hope it continues that way.’
‘I intend it to.’
Knoetze lifted the letter in front of him, as if still debating what to do with it, and then slid it across the desk towards Collington. As Collington reached out for it, Knoetze said, ‘Gold sales are going to be resumed in three weeks. There is to be a formal announcement in a week.’
Collington pocketed the letter securely, then offered his hand across the desk. Knoetze rose to take it. ‘Thank you, Mr Collington.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Collington. It had been close, he decided. But he had got away with it. There was still a long way to go for complete victory, but the feeling of hollowness wasn’t with him any more. But there wasn’t a sensation of success, either.
Although they had discussed it generally during the meeting in the Seychelles, it wasn’t until the positive directive came back from Langley that Englehart fully consider
ed the practical difficulty of staging another attack against the SAGOMI mines, because until that moment he had hoped the instructions would be countermanded. And by then it was too late, because his judgment was impaired by the threat of the directorate enquiry. The almost inevitable outcome would be his dismissal from the service and his only consideration was to get back to Washington as soon as possible, to mount a defence to prevent that happening. Everything in his training dictated that he should have employed a different method of sabotage from that used on the first occasion. But he had wasted a week in fruitless objection, and it would have taken at least another week to move different material in from America.
The African National Congress had the greatest concentration in Mozambique and so it was to Hank Barrett in Maputo that the instruction went. Barrett, who was more rational than Englehart and who had been the one to warn against using the heat-activated devices again, wanted to dispute the order. But Englehart had stipulated a time limit, because he was sending messages to the other groups, pulling them out, and Barrett knew there was insufficient time to argue, since they were still using couriers and that meant a minimum delay of three days.
The ANC controllers in Mozambique still believed that Barrett’s infiltrators were passing on instructions from Moscow and they responded immediately. The unquestioned order passed southwards through their command structure to the undetected guerrillas they still had working at Witwatersrand Four. There were three.
Here the mistakes which had begun with Englehart’s misjudgment were compounded by further but more understandable human error. Two of the terrorists wrapped their explosives in bread carried in their meal tins, naïvely believing that the dough would be a sufficient barrier against the metal detection devices. The third attempted to smuggle it into the mine concealed internally. It was this man who was chosen by the medical staff for an anal examination in a spot check. When they saw him being led away, after he had passed safely through the detector, the following two panicked and tried to flee the check line. When the security men started to chase them, one actually threw his meal tin away in an effort to get rid of the evidence. It burst open and the bread split revealing the dynamite.
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