The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  In fact, Catesby hated violence. It was odd that both his adult jobs – soldier and spy – relied on violence. He justified his actions by rationalising that they prevented greater acts of violence. And now the greatest violence of all was hanging like an angry cloud over Britain and Europe – nuclear obliteration. Catesby didn’t want his side to ‘win’: he wanted both sides to survive. And that was his biggest secret. A secret that some called treason.

  ‘Let’s take a walk,’ said Catesby, ‘I don’t want anyone to see us standing here.’ He touched the German’s elbow. ‘Come on, I’m not going to hurt you.’

  They pushed their way through low-hanging pine branches. The ground sloped gently down towards the Müggelsee. The stillness was again shattered as a pair of jays swooped through the trees. Their warning cries were even more strident than before. It reminded Catesby how Suffolk gamekeepers can tell that poachers are about by watching for unexplained flights of woodpigeon or by listening for the bark of a cock pheasant.

  Catesby suddenly stopped, took off his rucksack and removed a thermos flask. ‘Would you like some coffee laced with Weinbrand?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  While Andreas sipped the drink, Catesby unfastened the base of the flask by releasing a hidden latch and removed the rolls of bank notes that were hidden in the false bottom.

  ‘Have you got the stuff?’

  Catesby watched Andreas use a house key to unstitch the lining of his coat pocket. It was a feeble precaution, but better than nothing. Andreas reached deep into his coat. He finally fished out a film cartridge and handed it over.

  ‘How do I know this is it?’ Catesby hadn’t expected to be given a film.

  Andreas shrugged. ‘If you don’t think it’s what I say it is, don’t pay me.’

  ‘Who has the original letter?’

  ‘I didn’t take it – I just photographed it.’ Andreas smiled. ‘I’m not brave enough to steal a letter like that. If Katya’s husband had found out, he would have had me killed.’

  Catesby turned over the film in his hand. Something else didn’t add up. ‘You just said you passed this stuff on to the DDR Security Service. How could you? It hasn’t been developed and copied.’

  Andreas smiled again. ‘I photographed their copy on a separate roll of film.’

  ‘Bad luck for you if they ask you to account for all the film they gave you.’

  ‘I’ll say I accidentally broke the cartridges while practising with the camera.’

  He seemed to have all the answers, but Catesby didn’t want to make an issue of it. Instead he pressed a wodge of banknotes into Andreas’s hands. ‘We’ll pay you the rest after we’ve had a look at the film.’

  Andreas quickly stuffed them into his coat lining.

  ‘Aren’t you going to count them?’

  ‘If you trust me about the film, I’ll trust you about the money.’

  ‘Exactly. And if your snaps of the letter are everything you claim, we’ll give you a bonus.’

  ‘Do you want me to break off with the Ministry for State Security?’

  ‘No, they mustn’t be suspicious. Keep on good terms – and keep passing them information. They’ll know if you’re holding back. But don’t, my friend, tell them about this.’ Catesby paused and smiled at Andreas. ‘We’ll know too.’

  Andreas nodded. He didn’t seem as frightened as he had before.

  ‘Tell me more about Katya,’ said Catesby.

  ‘She’s a very intelligent and a very wise woman.’

  ‘Well educated?’

  ‘She trained as a chemist, but prefers literature and languages. She’s given me the complete works of Pushkin in Russian and tests me on them.’

  ‘How good’s her German?’

  ‘Much better than my Russian.’ Andreas smiled. ‘And now she’s learning Spanish.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Maybe she thinks Spaniards are better lovers.’

  Catesby was surprised to see Andreas blush. He wondered if it was jealousy. He turned the screw. ‘Has Katya any other lovers?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Andreas paused. The question seemed to have touched a sore point. ‘I’m sure she hasn’t.’

  ‘If she’s unfaithful to her husband what makes you think she’s going to be faithful to you?’

  ‘Are you speaking from experience?’

  Catesby smiled and looked coolly at Andreas. ‘I’m not sure.’

  The German finished the brandied coffee and handed the cup back. ‘Don’t play me for a fool. Who are you? I’m sure I’ve seen you before.’

  ‘You’re confusing me with someone else.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because you take so many different forms.’

  ‘This is getting tedious.’

  Andreas laughed and pointed a finger at Catesby. ‘I know who you are. I remember.’

  For a second Catesby was concerned that his cover was blown. He stared back. ‘What’s my name?’

  ‘You’re Mephistopheles and you want to buy my soul.’

  ‘Wrong again. We don’t buy souls. They’re too expensive and they always turn rotten.’ Catesby screwed the cup back on the thermos. ‘But we might be able to give your mortal bits a new identity and resettle them in the West – if they proved valuable enough. Tell me more about Katya. We know she’s a lot older than you, she’s almost my age.’

  ‘Not that old.’

  ‘I look older because I’ve had a hard life, but I don’t want to talk about that. I want to talk about Katya. What does she like a lover to do?’

  ‘I think you should shut up.’

  Catesby stopped. He realised that he was sailing on a bad tack. But ideally, he wanted to compile a complete and intimate file on Ekaterina Mikhailovna Alekseeva. Catesby knew that she and her husband weren’t going to be stationed in Berlin forever. In fact, Lieutenant General Alekseev must be nearing the end of his tour. He realised that Andreas had just given an important clue. ‘You said that Katya was taking Spanish lessons.’

  Andreas nodded.

  ‘What sort of Spanish? Castilian or Latin American?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘See if you can find out.’

  Knowing Alekseev’s next assignment would be a little gem. Following the ebb and flow of key players was a vital part of the business. Where would the Russian turn up next? Buenos Aires, Madrid, Mexico City? It had to be somewhere important – not a backwater like Paramaribo or La Paz. And when the time came, Katya might want another lover. And how useful if that lover knew the ways to seduce her: where to touch and how to appeal. It was also important that the new lover learn how to blackmail her. It wasn’t only documents that needed photographing. The camera was an essential bedroom accessory. Blackmail, as Catesby had long discovered, wasn’t really such a cruel practice. It often gave the person blackmailed an excuse, even a moral justification, to do what they wanted to do anyway. Otherwise, it seldom worked.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying,’ said Catesby looking closely at Andreas, ‘you seem awfully touchy about Katya. Have you fallen in love with her?’

  ‘It began as a game – and then it became an obsession.’ Andreas shrugged as if he had missed a train connection and there was nothing he could do about it. He clearly regarded his own character as a predetermined fate from which there was no escape.

  ‘Don’t you find it odd,’ said Catesby, ‘that you spy on her for money?’

  Andreas blushed and shifted uncomfortably. ‘It seems,’ he said clearly groping for words, ‘to intensify it.’

  ‘You mean the sex – it makes it more exciting.’

  ‘Yes, damn you.’

  Catesby tried not to smile. He was amused by Andreas’s prudery. He had once been like that. It was a young man’s thing. ‘You must,’ said Catesby, ‘keep your emotions under control. It’s dangerous if you don’t. You and I are pawns in this game – just like Katya. Her husband, I suppose, is a bishop or a rook. But none of us can
move ourselves and we can never know when we’re going to disappear as part of a gambit or tactical sacrifice. Katya must know this too and she would respect you for …’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘Combining love and realism. Just because we love someone doesn’t mean that we don’t use them.’ Catesby paused. For a second he wondered if he was talking to himself or to Andreas. It didn’t matter. We all need self-justifications; otherwise, the mirror image is unbearable to contemplate.

  Andreas had his hands in his pockets and was looking at the ground. He seemed more relaxed, almost smiling. Catesby wanted to smile too. It was the warm glow of job satisfaction. It took years to become a good agent handler, a good interrogator. Threats, fear and torture only worked when you were looking for something simple, like the combination to a safe that could be verified immediately and on the spot. But such situations were very rare indeed. The best agent handlers became their agents’ best friends: the fond sibling or soulmate that they had never had, but always longed for. And to do that best, the handler had to like his agent too. Catesby had begun, a little, to regard Andreas as a reincarnation of a dead infant brother. One who needed help with girl problems.

  Andreas finally looked up and gave a sly smile. ‘Katya isn’t,’ he said, ‘a real blond.’

  ‘And what else can you tell me about her?’

  Andreas told everything in a flowing monologue of fondly remembered passion that included even the most fleeting of intimate details. He was clearly a young man in love. Nothing seemed sordid or pornographic as he recounted the various ways they made love. It seemed to Catesby that Katya was the more imaginative and experienced of the two. He began to envy Andreas with a certain bitterness.

  ‘I have to go now,’ said Catesby. He realised the treff had taken far too long and that Jutta would be concerned. He was about to make arrangements for further contacts when he heard a noise in the wood behind Andreas. Then he saw movement and someone emerging from the undergrowth. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ he snapped. For a brief second, he regretted the anger in his voice. Perhaps Jutta had come back because she was worried about his safety. But then he saw the gun.

  The first two bullets hit Andreas in the face. His head jerked backwards and he crumpled. Andreas made no effort to move or to defend himself. Perhaps he recognised her – or perhaps he was paralysed with fear. Catesby saw the gun turn towards his own face. His only means of defence was the satchel with the thermos. He swung it at Jutta. She flinched and fired a shot wildly off target. Catesby then flung the satchel at her and started running between the closely planted conifers. He knew it wasn’t easy hitting a moving target with a handgun. She fired two more shots. Catesby heard her stumble and swear. He kept running in a weaving crouch trying to plunge deeper and deeper into the undergrowth. She was coming after him, but couldn’t aim and run at the same time. Each time she stopped to fire a shot, Catesby gained on her. Five minutes later he stopped and listened. The woods were now silent except for his own heavy breathing. He had flung himself into the thickest part of the wood, preferring cover as much as distance. His hands and face were heavily scratched by the thick weave of low branches that he had plunged through. There was no way that she could creep up on him without making a racket of snapping twigs.

  Catesby decided that his cover was so good that it was safest to wait. Maybe she was listening and waiting for him to move. He looked at his watch; it would soon be getting dark. If she was going to find him, she had to make a move fairly quickly. As the minutes ticked away Catesby began to feel safer and safer. He wondered if she had given up the chase.

  When he looked at his watch again half an hour had passed. Catesby decided to make a move. It was impossible to get out of the thicket without making noise, so he stopped every few yards and listened for answering sounds of stalking. There were none. After two more tentative moves, the grain of thought that had already been in Catesby’s mind began to grow. He threw caution to the wind and began to move out of his prickly cover as quickly as possible. He finally came to a path which led in the direction of the lake. Catesby crouched beside it looking and listening for movement. Even the jays were silent. He was certain that she had given up the chase, if she had been chasing at all. Catesby knew that she had not intended to kill him. She had killed Andreas with cold competent professionalism. It was simply not credible that she had not been able to kill him as well. Catesby knew he wasn’t part of the contract. She had been ordered to spare him. But why?

  When Catesby reached the beach the opaque November sun was setting over the Müggelsee. For a second he wondered if Jutta was lying in ambush. He skirted wide of the concrete pavilion that had been built in the 1930s as part of the Strength through Joy sports movement. The pavilion’s hygienic rows of showers, toilets and changing rooms, now clogged with layers of rotting leaves, were an ideal place to hide in waiting. Catesby sprinted past in a crouching run to the artificial white sand beach. An elderly man walking with two young children looked at him with curiosity. ‘Why’s he doing that, Grandpa?’

  Catesby smiled. ‘We’re playing cowboys and Indians. Have you seen my little boy?’

  ‘No,’ said the old man, ‘what’s he look like?’

  ‘He’s ten,’ Catesby made a hand gesture, ‘about so high.’

  ‘I hope you find him.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’

  Catesby turned away and walked up the beach towards the setting sun. His cheeks were wet with tears. If only the fictional child were a real one. And if only he hadn’t left a dead young man in the wood behind him. He hated violence and it always made him sick and depressed afterwards. He was in the wrong job. Catesby brushed away his tears and quickened his pace. He’d catch the S-Bahn train at Friedrichshagen and wanted to get there before dark.

  It was a wet and cold Berlin night when Catesby got back to his office at Olympic Stadium. As always the adrenalin rush was being replaced by depression and tiredness. And the fact that there was so much still to do made him even more tired. He was tempted to have a beer and a bratwurst, but decided that strong black coffee and amphetamines were a better idea. He had started the pill popping – uppers and downers too – after Petra’s death. It was one way of coping.

  The first job was a cable to London. He went to the comm centre where he typed it directly on to the new DES encryption machine, a present from the Americans. He classified the cable UK Eyes Alpha and stated the barest facts.

  Catesby needed to contact the BfV to let them know that Jutta was working for the other side. This was a more delicate business. He suspected that the organisation was even more penetrated by East German agents than he had hitherto supposed. It was obvious that the BfV officer who had chosen Jutta for the op was also one of Mischa’s agents – and maybe the one above him too. Where did it stop?

  On the other hand, was Jutta one of Mischa’s gang after all? Berlin was a viper’s nest full of spies. In any case, he needed to tell the BfV what had happened. They could form their own conclusions. Catesby decided to use the KY-3. It was an STU, a Secure Telephone Unit – another present from the Americans – and it used voice-scrambling technology. Catesby typed in the ‘urgent priority’ code and was soon put through to the senior duty officer. The conversation was mostly ‘ja, ja, ja’ on the German side as if this sort of thing happened all the time. But despite the casual response, Catesby knew that a shit storm was going to erupt in the West German intelligence service.

  Catesby signed the log so that the comm security officer would let him out of the centre. The door was blast-proof steel with massive bolts like a bank vault’s. As the door wheezed open the security man said, ‘Are you finished for the night, sir?’

  ‘No, I’ve got to develop my holiday snaps.’

  The stadium’s lack of windows didn’t make SIS Berlin Station a cosy place, but it did make it easy to set up a darkroom. Normally, there was a trusted and vetted technical grade who did the film and prints. But not this time. The natu
re of the intelligence service meant that on many occasions even the highest director grade had to spend tedious hours decoding a message, threading a tape recorder or printing a microfilm. The need for secrecy was a great leveller and no one could ever forget the basic skills needed to process raw material.

  The most difficult bit is winding the tiny film strip onto the reel so that none of the surfaces touch – and doing it in utter darkness. Catesby enjoyed the delicacy of the task. It was like repairing something in a womb. The outside world no longer existed. Once the film was securely in the developing tank, Catesby turned on the light. This was the sorcerer’s apprentice stage – developer, stop-bath, fixer and rinse. Catesby checked and rechecked the charts to make sure the temperatures and timings were correct.

  The whole process took fifty minutes. When the timer pinged, Catesby poured the final rinse into the sink and unscrewed the lid of the processing tank. This was the moment of truth. Catesby carefully unwound the dripping film and held it up to the neon strip light. It had developed and the images were clearly documents, but were too small to read unless they were enlarged. He carried the film to the drying cabinet and hung it up, but hesitated before he turned on the heater. Ruining the film at this stage was the ultimate nightmare. Robert Capa’s darkroom technician had done just that and destroyed nearly all of Capa’s D-Day photos – after the photographer had nearly lost his life on Omaha Beach. No, thought Catesby, I’ll be patient and wait for them to dry naturally.

  As he waited Catesby began looking through the newspaper file. One of his staff prepared a daily news digest. It contained articles from public domain news sources in all the languages that Catesby could read. He regarded news reporting as a valuable intelligence source. Quite often the better sort of journalist uncovered something that the intelligence professionals had missed. But journalism, particularly from the big US syndicates and Pravda/Isvestia, was also valuable, perhaps more valuable, when the facts were wrong. Why were they wrong? Who was feeding the journalist disinformation? Who was pulling the ideological puppet strings? And who was going to benefit?