A Very British Ending (Catesby Series)

by Edward Wilson

  ‘That won’t be necessary – I might just lie here, in front of your glorious fire.’ Frances stretched out on the sofa. Catesby sat on a cushion on the floor.

  ‘When are you due back in London?’

  ‘On Thursday, but it doesn’t look like I’m going to make it. Do you know the sea is frozen off Kent?’

  ‘Is that another gem from an A4 Watcher?’

  ‘No, it’s from The Times. What have you got to tell me?’

  ‘I hear that Nick Elliot’s off to Beirut to have a chat with Kim.’ As soon as he said it, Catesby wished that he hadn’t. The brandy must have loosened his tongue. On the other hand, it was important to swap intelligence with Frances. Her keeping him up-to-date with what was going on in MI5 was invaluable in the struggle between the two services. If her bosses knew, she would lose her job. Passing on information to SIS was worse than passing it on to the KGB – or, in the view of the cynics at Five, pretty much the same thing.

  ‘Everyone likes Nick,’ said Frances, ‘and I find him very kind.’

  ‘I don’t like him – and he’s also a complete idiot.’

  In Catesby’s view, Nick was responsible for the debacle that cost Lionel Crabb his life in Portsmouth Harbour – and also for bugging Khrushchev’s suite at Claridge’s during the Soviet leader’s 1956 visit. Both ops had been expressly forbidden in writing by the Prime Minister – and both had failed miserably. The worst fallout was the resulting breakdown in Anglo-Soviet relations, which destroyed the possibility of détente between the two countries. But maybe, thought Catesby, that was why his SIS colleagues had disobeyed the Prime Minister’s instructions. And were the Americans involved?

  ‘Why is Nick off to meet Philby?’ said Frances.

  ‘I honestly don’t know,’ lied Catesby with a smile. ‘What have you got to tell me?’ He wanted to keep the conversation focused on their jobs. It was less dangerous than the personal. But there were places where the two overlapped.

  ‘I recently met someone who knows you,’ said Frances.

  ‘That sounds ominous. Who is he?’

  ‘It’s a she.’

  ‘That sounds even more ominous.’

  ‘I met her through Susan.’

  ‘Who’s Susan?’

  ‘Susan the journalist-author.’

  Catesby smiled. They were playing a parlour game called ‘Whitehall Insiders’ Bluff’. The object was to trump the other person with superior insiders’ knowledge.

  ‘Point to you,’ said Catesby. ‘I still don’t know who you’re talking about.’

  ‘And you call yourself an intelligence officer? Tsk, tsk. Susan is Tony’s wife.’

  ‘I’m getting warmer.’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Susan is the wife of Tony Crosland,’ said Catesby, ‘a Labour Member of Parliament. Tony, by the way, had an affair with Roy when they were at Oxford.’

  ‘You are clever. I didn’t know about the Roy business.’

  ‘It’s pronounced “Woy”.’

  ‘You mean Roy Jenkins,’ said Frances triumphantly. ‘But can you guess then, the name of the woman who knows you?’

  ‘Ann Fleming. She’s Hugh Gaitskell’s mistress.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Frances. ‘But how did you work it out?’

  ‘Her and Gaiters,’ said Catesby, ‘meet at Tony’s place to have sex.’

  ‘How do you know? Have you got the house under surveillance?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Catesby smiled. ‘As you know, we’re not allowed to do surveillance in the UK. No, she told me.’

  ‘Did you have an affair with her?’

  ‘No. I would describe it as a cross between a dalliance and a fact-finding mission.’

  ‘What facts did you find?’

  ‘That her husband, the one who writes the books, is a sadist – and she, although not completely masochist, liked the spanking a lot. But they no longer have sex – haven’t for years.’

  ‘What does she see in Gaitskell?’

  ‘Power, but she likes his brains too. She also wants to wield political influence behind the scenes. She thinks she has weaned Gaitskell from what she calls his “pathetic belief in equality” – not that he required much weaning.’ Catesby smiled. ‘She also fancies Tony, who she regards as “sleek and debonair”. In fact, she fantasises about Tony when she’s having sex with Gaiters.’

  Frances had gone steely-eyed. ‘Who does she fantasise about when she’s in bed with you?’

  ‘Who do you fantasise about when you’re in bed with Kit Fournier?’

  ‘You have no right to say that – you know nothing.’

  ‘You’re supposed to be his agent handler, not his agent fondler.’

  ‘You’ve been misinformed, William. I was supposed to be his new agent handler, but I’ve been transferred to D Branch.’ Frances frowned. ‘Someone’s been winding you up.’

  Catesby nodded. Spies are professional liars and they practice on their colleagues. ‘What actually happened?’

  ‘I wasn’t part of the honey-trap. I surveilled Fournier disguised as a French au pair – and we did have a cuddle on the train to Portsmouth. Susan Crosland, by the way, knew Fournier – they’re both old money from Baltimore.’

  ‘Not common Baltimore riff-raff like the Duchess of Windsor.’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  ‘Sadly, the Americans have infiltrated us at every level.’

  ‘We are allowed to marry them. In any case, we certainly nailed Fournier.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Brandy, absinthe, wine or beer.’

  ‘A small glass of red, please.’

  After Catesby poured the drinks, he raised his glass. ‘To the Fournier op – our finest moment.’

  ‘Cheers. But,’ added Frances, ‘it made the Americans distrust us even more.’

  ‘They haven’t a clue what happened.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure.’

  The Fournier op, masterminded by Henry Bone, had been brilliant. SIS had looked on as Kit Fournier, CIA’s London Head of Station, had become ensnared in a Soviet honey-trap centred on a spy ring stealing UK nuclear secrets. The two principals were shot on a remote Suffolk beach – and Kit Fournier was later kidnapped by SIS en route, or so he thought, to join his lover in Moscow. The op was clinical perfection – a totally hermetically sealed secret. Fournier was now completely broken and stashed away on a remote South Atlantic island. All the secrets that Washington had for years kept from London were spilling out of Kit Fournier.

  ‘And what, Frances, do you think is CIA’s most successful op in Britain?’

  ‘You’re about to go off on one, Catesby.’

  ‘It’s the creation of the bleeding right wing of the Labour Party. If you pull down Hugh Gaitskell’s trousers, you’ll find “Made in the USA” stamped on each buttock.’

  Frances laughed. ‘Did his mistress tell you that?’

  ‘She’s even photographed them for me.’

  ‘You’re making that up.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘Yes, I am.’

  Frances looked closely at Catesby. ‘Have you proof that Hugh Gaitskell is a CIA asset?’

  ‘No, I was hoping that you might.’

  Frances shrugged. ‘There is CIA money behind Encounter magazine, but you’ll never trace it to source.’

  ‘Try.’

  ‘The money is laundered through a philanthropist in Ohio who made a fortune selling gin. But, William, there’s a big gap between CIA funding an arts and politics magazine and Gaitskell being their stooge.’

  ‘It’s not explicit. The CIA has created a mood among the British intelligentsia, the smart set around Gaitskell, where American ideology and foreign policy are never criticised – and where Socialism and unilateral nuclear disarmament are rubbished.’ Catesby looked at his wife. ‘What’s wrong, you’re frowning disapproval?’

  ‘Sometimes, William, your anti-Americanism becomes obsessive. Why are
you laughing?’

  ‘Tell me more about your transfer to D Branch. I’m intrigued.’

  ‘I knew that you were waiting to pounce.’

  ‘D Branch is very secretive,’ said Catesby, ‘but last I heard D is now responsible for all of Five’s counter-espionage. You’re working under D1 – aren’t you?’

  Frances shifted uncomfortably.

  ‘One minute ago, you accused me of being “obsessive”. How ironic, that anyone from D1 – Five’s home for demented swivel-eyed paranoiacs – should call anyone else obsessive.’

  ‘You’ve had too much to drink, Catesby.’

  ‘I’m not drunk; I’m tired.’ Catesby closed his eyes. D1 was Five’s section responsible for Soviet counter-espionage. Catesby frequently clashed with a D1 officer who had wormed his way into the section from Scientific Intelligence. He called the officer Ferret because he resembled the animal in looks and behaviour.

  ‘I know what you mean, William. There are people in my section who give me cause for concern.’

  ‘They’re obsessed with Reds under the bed. They think every trade union official has pockets full of Moscow gold – as well as any Labour MP who doesn’t like Gaitskell.’ Catesby walked over to the mantelpiece and picked up the card from the Wilsons. ‘Look, I got a Christmas card from one of them.’

  Frances smiled. ‘I’ll have to report that to D1.’

  Catesby thought it best not to mention Bone’s card from Philby.

  ‘Peter,’ said Frances using Ferret’s real name, ‘is particularly insidious when he brings back dangerous paranoia from Washington.’

  Catesby shrugged. ‘Maybe we’re all mad.’

  ‘The intelligence services are not, William, a healthy world. Do you still think of leaving?’

  ‘I don’t want a job teaching modern languages to rightfully bored school kids.’

  ‘What about politics – your first love?’

  ‘It isn’t my first love, you are.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  ‘Why should you? Spies are professional liars.’ Catesby paused and stared at his wife.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘I was hoping you would look hurt.’

  ‘Back to politics. You would be a fantastic Member of Parliament.’

  ‘There’s no place for me in Gaitskell’s Labour Party. Did you hear about that outrageous speech he gave at Stalybridge?’

  Frances shook her head.

  ‘Gaitskell actually said that Communists had infiltrated the Labour Party – smears and lies about his own party. No wonder Washington loves him.’

  Frances yawned. ‘Sorry, I’m sleepy. Maybe Gaitskell will fall under a bus.’

  ‘I wish someone would push him under a bus.’

  It was a tired late-night conversation. But it wasn’t long before Catesby deeply wished he had never said those words.

  Broadway Buildings, London: 18 January 1963

  Catesby first heard the news from Henry Bone, but had been told to keep quiet about it until it was officially announced. The second time he heard the news was during a meeting about NATO in the DG’s office.

  Catesby was exhausted. He had finally managed to train down to London a week after the worst blizzard since British weather records were begun – and then was sent to Moscow via Heathrow to meet a double agent who didn’t turn up. When he got back to London the snow was still lying in heaps on the frozen ground. The weather was playing havoc with the football season. There were dozens of cancelled fixtures and it didn’t look like the FA Cup final was going to be played until June.

  But the NATO situation was even more alarming than the weather or the botched Moscow trip. The thing that concerned Catesby most was the way Canada was being bullied by the USA. The NATO commander was an American general named Lauris Norstad. Norstad, despite having a name that sounded like a character from a science fiction film, had Hollywood good looks and a smooth manner. The general was awfully good at press conferences. In a recent interview with a Canadian newspaper, Norstad had bluntly stated that Canada’s refusal to accept nuclear weapons meant that ‘she is not actually fulfilling her NATO commitments’. The general’s statement had set off a chain of events that was threatening to bring down the government of Canadian Prime Minister John Diefenbaker. Kennedy clearly wanted to get rid of Diefenbaker too. He ridiculed the Prime Minister by intentionally mispronouncing his name at public events – and by referring to the Canadian PM as ‘a boring son of a bitch’ in a ‘non-attributable’ chat with a coterie of journalists.

  The meeting at Broadway Buildings had also been attended by representatives from the Foreign Office. The aim was to make sure that every spy as well as every diplomat had a clear and unambiguous understanding of Britain’s NATO commitments. It also stressed that senior Americans be handled with kid gloves. In the aftermath of the Cuban Missile Crisis back-down and a series of bloody noses in Vietnam, the mood music from Washington was to get tough again. An FO mandarin, who had been silent and droll for most of the meeting, finally drawled, ‘And never, ever, be boring.’

  The meeting was a late-night one and it was well after 10 p.m. when there was a loud knock on the DG’s door.

  ‘Ah, that must be the drinks trolley,’ said another voice from the FO.

  The DG said, ‘Come in.’

  It was the NDO, the Night Duty Officer. He nodded at Catesby, who he regarded as an old pal, and handed a note to the DG. The DG raised his eyebrows as he read the note, but didn’t look overly surprised or shocked.

  ‘Anything else, sir?’ said the NDO.

  ‘No,’ said the DG.

  The NDO turned and left.

  The DG looked first at his own staff and then at the visitors from the FO. The DG’s bearing was calm, but solemn. There was a hushed silence.

  He finally spoke. ‘Hugh Gaitskell has just died. Many of us knew that he was ill, but this comes as a complete shock.’

  ‘I thought it was just a bad case of winter flu,’ said one of the FO people.

  Catesby kept a straight face. He knew there was trouble on the horizon.

  Despite the news, the meeting continued for another half an hour. The death of a leader of the opposition and a future prime minister was not enough to halt the business of the Secret Intelligence Service and the Foreign Office.

  Catesby picked up a late-edition newspaper on his way back to the flat, but didn’t read it until he was comfortably ensconced in an armchair in front of a spitting gas fire with a glass of brandy close at hand.

  Labour Leader Hugh Gaitskell Is Dead

  Hugh Gaitskell died today after a sudden deterioration in his heart condition. Mr Gaitskell, who was 56, had been in hospital since the fourth of January suffering from a virus infection.

  A statement issued by Middlesex Hospital in Marylebone said: ‘Mr Gaitskell’s heart condition deteriorated suddenly and he died peacefully’.

  Mr Gaitskell had suffered a bout of flu in mid-December, but appeared well over Christmas. A medical check-up declared him fit to travel to Moscow on the first of January for talks with the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev. The trip was, however, postponed when Mr Gaitskell became ill with another virus infection and was admitted to hospital.

  Two days ago Mr Gaitskell’s condition began to deteriorate rapidly. It became clear his kidneys had been affected. A team of nine doctors and 30 medical staff succeeded in linking Mr Gaitskell to a kidney dialysis machine. The strain on his heart, however, proved too severe and he was taken off the machine.

  Hugh Gaitskell had led the Labour Party for seven years. During that time he initiated reforms aimed at making the party ‘relevant’ to modern Britain. He died at a time when Labour seemed poised for victory at the next election.

  Catesby put the newspaper down and stared into the gas fire. He could hear alarm bells ringing. Too many things were happening at the same time. A scandal involving Jack Profumo, the Secretary of State for War, was about to break. Profumo had been having an affai
r with a young woman who aspired to be a model. In normal circumstances, such an affair would be brushed under the carpet. But these weren’t normal circumstances. The young woman was also rumoured to be having an affair with Yevgeny Ivanov, the Soviet naval attaché – thereby posing the question of a security risk. Espionage sprinkled with sex was a sure-fire way to sell newspapers – and so was murder and conspiracy. Catesby looked again at the Gaitskell article. The key words were ‘sudden’, ‘died’ and ‘trip to Moscow’. Catesby knew that Gaitskell’s death was not murder. He couldn’t think of any poison that would have caused the symptoms described – and still gone undetected. Although Gaitskell was only fifty-six, he hadn’t been that healthy. Catesby often got detailed reports from his mistress. Gaitskell was prone to colds and flu and was often overworked and tired. She also suspected that he suffered from high blood pressure – and sometimes during their love-making, his face got so red that she feared he would burst a blood vessel.

  But who, thought Catesby, would have benefited from Gaitskell’s death? At first glance, it would be the left wing of the Labour Party. But now that Gaitskell was gone, his most likely successor would be George Brown, who was in some ways even more right-wing than Gaitskell. Brown, of course, had a drink problem and was prone to gaffes. The Tories would probably find him easier to defeat than a smoothie like Gaiters. On the other hand, thought Catesby, if Harold Wilson defied the odds and became the next Labour leader, the rumour mills would churn.

  What next, thought Catesby? The worst thing, the straw that might break the British unicorn’s back, would be the uncovering of The Third Man.

  Washington DC: 20 January 1963

  James Jesus Angleton hated his middle name. Pronounced in the Hispanic way, beginning with a ‘y’ sound and ending with a silent ‘s’, the Jesus betrayed the Mexican origins of his mother. In many ways, Angleton preferred the code name, FURIOSO, that British secret intelligence had given him. In fact, he sometimes called himself FURIOSO. It wasn’t very good as a code name, for code names are supposed to contain no clue as to whom they identify. FURIOSO was, in fact, the name of the literary magazine that Angleton had edited while an undergraduate at Yale. The magazine’s name derived from the eponymous hero of Ludovico Ariosto’s epic poem, Orlando Furioso. Furioso is a Christian knight fighting in the war between Charlemagne’s Christian Europe and the Saracen hordes. The war against the Saracens takes Furioso to the four corners of the world – and even includes a trip to the moon where Furioso finds his lost marbles and recovers his sanity. Angleton took it as a compliment that the British referred to him as FURIOSO. Little did he know that Henry Bone was thinking more of Angleton’s lost marbles than his chivalry when he chose the code name.