The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby reflected on his own country’s upper classes. They would never have made that mistake.

  ‘She became even more difficult as a teenager. Jennifer seemed to turn her anger against her own family.’ George looked at Catesby. ‘Some of our ancestors, I must confess, did own slaves. Personally, I am ashamed of the fact, but I pleaded to her that we were not responsible for their sins. But Jennifer thought we were responsible for those wrongs. She wanted us to sell the farm and give the money to the NAACP. Maybe she was right. Once she said to me that our family, our very country, was under a curse because we had stolen the land from one people and enriched it by the slave labour of another.’ George looked into the fire. ‘It’s difficult to deny those facts. And, somehow, Jennifer decided that becoming a Russian spy was the best way to put things right.’

  As the final pieces of the Jennifer mystery slotted into place, Catesby felt guilt as well as longing.

  Caddie had put her arm around her uncle, but was still looking at Catesby. ‘Can we,’ she said, ‘talk about my brother?’

  This, Catesby knew, was the beginning of the real bargaining. The confirmation and details of Jennifer’s death, in isolation, were dealing chips of little value. He decided to put his opening card on the table. ‘Your brother is still alive.’

  ‘And safe?’

  ‘Very safe.’ Catesby smiled. Fournier was a crown jewel. ‘Safer than any of us.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In a safe place.’

  ‘You’re starting to annoy me – intensely.’ Caddie’s eyes were smouldering.

  ‘Caddie,’ said George.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Catesby, ‘if I sounded flippant.’

  Caddie smiled for the first time. ‘We’re one sorry bunch too.’

  ‘In a way, we rescued your brother. The choices facing him were a life in Moscow or in one of your prisons.’

  ‘I assume,’ said George, ‘that you can’t tell us where he is?’

  ‘I can’t do that or I’ll end up in one of our prisons.’

  ‘I apologise,’ said George, ‘for haggling like a souk trader, but what’s on offer?’

  ‘I’ve already handed over quite a bit, more than authorised. I’m sure a letter to your congressman or a telephone call to a journalist could create a nasty diplomatic incident and get me sacked.’

  ‘Is that all that’s on offer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But,’ said George, ‘you want to know what I’m giving you in return.’

  ‘Crudely, yes.’

  ‘First of all, it will be nothing that would embarrass the United States government or compromise the activities – the legal and authorised activities – of our intelligence agencies.’

  Catesby thought that ‘legal and authorised’ was an interesting caveat, but wanted to remain unimpressed. ‘I’m not sure that’s enough to justify my agreeing to deal about Kit.’

  George looked at Catesby with hard gimlet eyes. He wasn’t as soft as his voice. ‘What I can give is – how should I say – a series of perspectives on various aspects of current military and intelligence thinking.’

  ‘Merely thoughts?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And documents?’ said Catesby

  George turned slightly pale. ‘And documents.’

  ‘And what do we get?’ said Caddie. ‘Do we get my brother back?’

  ‘No, but you get immediate access to him via letters – letters which, of course, will be censored.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Take it or leave it. There’s also the possibility of a future telephone link, once again supervised. And also, but not anytime soon, Kit’s eventual release.’

  George intervened. ‘Think how much this will mean to your mother.’

  ‘It’s not my decision, Uncle George, you’re the one who has to stick your neck out.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Caddie, I’m not going to end up in Leavenworth. In fact, they might give me a medal. I say we do it.’

  ‘Fine, let’s do it then.’ Caddie sounded less than enthusiastic. ‘I suppose I’d better go see how Aunt Janet is getting on. Would either of you like a drink?’

  George gave his niece a reproving look. As she left the room, he turned to Catesby. ‘She can be very acerbic, but there’s a loving side too.’

  ‘She’s a lot different from Kit.’

  ‘Caddie thinks she’s the strongest of the three – the other sibling is a playwright.’

  ‘Are you still in the intelligence loop?’ Catesby wanted to get back to business.

  ‘Unofficially. I was on Ike’s staff during the war. He used to call me in from time to time for a chat. But I doubt if Kennedy will do the same – new generation, clean broom sweep.’

  ‘Who do you know who’s still in power?’

  ‘The Joint Chiefs of Staff – all of them. I know Allen Dulles, but don’t get on with him – and quite a few other CIA types including Angleton, Bissell and a somewhat loony one called E. Howard Hunt. But most importantly, I have a network of covert contacts. I can’t give you their names, but they pass things on to me because they know I’ll protect their identity.’

  Catesby nodded. George was the sort of informal and trusted channel that kept governments from going off the rails.

  ‘In the past, I sometimes passed on news of covert operations to Eisenhower. More often than not, Ike was surprised to find that they even existed and angry that he was kept in the dark. But for the last year or so I’ve been frozen out.’ George looked closely at Catesby. ‘I consider myself a sort of watchdog, but I feel I’ve lost my bark as well as my bite.’

  ‘What’s the most important thing that you’ve got to tell me?’

  ‘That the ruling classes in this country are at war with themselves.’

  ‘That’s not an unusual state of affairs.’

  ‘I agree, but what’s happening in Washington has never been more dangerous for the rest of the world.’ George stopped and smiled at Catesby. ‘Don’t I sound like a portentous ass? You must find us Americans awfully self-dramatising.’

  ‘Only when you don’t admit it.’

  ‘Touché. I have, by the way, done a bit of acting. So I will continue.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘At bottom, Eisenhower is a civilised man, but he lost control. Maybe it would have been better if he had died after his heart attack in ’55 – or not run the next year.’ George got up and gestured to a watercolour over the fireplace. ‘That’s a skipjack dredging oysters. For conservation reasons they’re only allowed to dredge under sail.’ George lifted the painting from its hook and handed it to Catesby. He then worked the combination of the wall safe. The thick steel door squeaked open and George reached inside to remove a paper bundle bound by black ribbon, then looked at Catesby. ‘You wanted documents?’

  Catesby nodded.

  George closed the safe and re-hung the picture. They sat together on the sofa. ‘The first thing we should look at is the latest SIOP.’ George undid the ribbon and rolled out the first document. It was headed TOP SECRET SPECIAL HANDLING NOFORN. The acronym meant ‘no foreign nationals’ were allowed to see it. ‘I’m not, by the way, just trying to buy access to my nephew. This is information that our British allies should know about. I’m not being a traitor.’

  Catesby felt sorry for George. The American needed to reassure himself that he wasn’t betraying his country. Catesby knew the feeling well.

  ‘Are you familiar with SIOP?’ said George.

  Catesby nodded. It meant Single Integrated Operational Plan. It was the combined nuclear war plan for the US Air Force and Navy. It comprised a list of targets and the weapons to be used to eliminate them. There was nothing more secret.

  ‘As you can see,’ said George pointing to the document, ‘these are the minutes of a recent Joint Chiefs of Staff meeting. It’s pretty easy to see which individuals are the patients and which ones are the mental health professionals.’

/>   Catesby’s eye fell on an exchange between Albert Wohlstetter, a RAND strategist, and General Powers, Commanding Officer of the Strategic Air Command.

  WOHLSTETTER: The counterforce strategy requires SAC to restrain itself from hitting Russian cities at the beginning of hostilities.

  POWER: Restraint? Why are you so concerned with saving their lives? The whole idea is to kill the bastards. At the end of the war if there are two Americans and one Russian left alive, we win!

  Catesby looked up. ‘Surely, Power was being ironic?’

  George shook his head. ‘Our four star generals are never ironic. Politicians need to accept their words at face value.’

  Catesby recollected a drunken conversation he had once had with a US military attaché. ‘Someone once told me that LeMay, even LeMay, thinks that Power is mentally unstable and sadistic.’

  ‘That’s correct – and could be the very reason LeMay appointed Power to command SAC. If the person commanding those bombers isn’t crazy, who’s going to believe we would ever use them? Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please.’

  While George went to fetch the whisky, Catesby leafed through the document. It was clear that SIOP called for a massive global attack deploying the entire US nuclear arsenal of 3,200 warheads. He was bleakly pleased that UK intelligence had accurately estimated the size of the US arsenal. But what UK intelligence hadn’t apprised was the inflexibility of the US nuclear war plan.

  George came back with a half-empty bottle of bourbon and two tumblers.

  ‘Your SIOP is all or nothing,’ whispered Catesby.

  George nodded as he poured the drinks. ‘The worst thing is that countries that are not even involved in the coming war are going to get hit. Look at the target list. Every single East European bloc country is there. It doesn’t matter how much their people may object to Soviet rule: the brave Hungarians, the Poles and even the poor Latvians. They all get incinerated. And non-European countries too: China, North Korea, North Vietnam – and now,’ George lowered his voice, ‘Cuba.’

  Catesby held up the document and smiled bleakly. ‘This reminds me of what we used to say in the war.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘When the Germans open fire, the British duck. When the British open fire, the Germans duck. But …’

  ‘But when the Americans open fire, everyone ducks. I’ve heard that one before.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You don’t,’ said George, ‘hold our military in high esteem.’

  ‘I shouldn’t judge.’

  ‘We’re not all bad – some of us are even on the side of the good angels. Do you know David Shoup?’

  Catesby shook his head

  ‘David is the Marine Corps Commandant. He’s the only one of the Joint Chiefs who’s stood up to General Power. May I?’ George took the JCS minutes. ‘Listen to what David had to say, he was very angry: “Any plan, General Power, any plan that kills millions of innocent Chinese, when their country isn’t even in the war, is not a good plan. It’s not the American way.”’

  Catesby noted how Shoup used ‘American’ as a synonym for ‘moral’. That, in a way, was scary too.

  George was smiling. ‘I must say, Power’s reply was a real gem.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘“We can’t leave out the Chinese targets, General Shoup, that would really screw up the plan.”’

  ‘The plan, of course,’ said Catesby, ‘is not just a military one. The intention is to completely exterminate communism as if it were an infectious disease. It doesn’t matter how many civilians die in the process.’

  ‘There is an evangelical side to many Americans. It is worrying.’

  ‘Do you think this situation will continue under Kennedy?’

  ‘I hope not, but it could get worse.’

  ‘There’s going to be a battle for Kennedy’s ear.’

  ‘Or another part of his anatomy – to put them in a vise. I am not sure that our new president realises how ruthless and devious his senior generals can be. These are men with enormous egos who think they are gods. And Kennedy certainly has his own weaknesses. He might want to prove he’s just as tough as them.’

  Catesby remembered how valuable the bits of gossip that Fournier enjoyed relating had turned out to be. It was clear that SIS needed more gossip and seedy secrets to build up a profile on the new president.

  George looked closely at Catesby. ‘The first crisis is already brewing and about to boil over. Kennedy wants to knock off Castro and invade Cuba.’

  ‘He hasn’t been in the White House five minutes.’

  ‘New presidents tend to hit the ground running. Two days after the inauguration Lemnitzer turned up in the Oval Office with this.’ George passed over another document. Beneath the security classification was the title OPERATION ZAPATA. ‘By the way, do you know Lyman Lemnitzer?’

  ‘I met him in Germany just after the war. I didn’t like him. Whenever we tried to send a load of Nazi war criminals to Nuremberg, Lemnitzer’s gang sent them to South America.’

  George smiled wanly. ‘Lyman Lemnitzer is now Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.’ He sipped his bourbon. ‘The most powerful military man in the United States.’

  ‘Do you like him?’

  ‘I hate him, strong words I know. But I didn’t hate Lyman to begin with, I thought he was charming and intelligent – he was always smooth and smartly turned out. He looked the part. We were both on Eisenhower’s staff. I outranked Lemnitzer, but he outmanoeuvred me – and then outranked me too. He’s a dangerous man because he doesn’t look like the monster he is. He’s long been an advocate of a surprise nuclear attack on the Soviet Union.’ George finished his bourbon. ‘But now that the Russians have their own intercontinental ballistic missiles to hit back, no US president would ever sanction it.’

  Catesby felt a chill run down his spine. The truth was otherwise. The words he had memorised from the letter danced before his eyes like the flames on the Baikonur launch pad: This is a serious and tragic time for our Motherland. Most of our best scientists and rocket engineers are now dead. The importance of that secret made him nauseous. Catesby needed to change the subject. ‘Tell me more,’ he said, ‘about Cuba.’

  ‘It’s a tempting operation for the new president. It would prove that his tough words on communism are not just rhetoric. The plan is for an invasion by anti-Castro exiles which will spark off a popular uprising. But it won’t work. I spent a lot of my career in Latin America. Gringo is not a compliment. Most of the people don’t like us. Why? In my lifetime we have overthrown or undermined forty Latin American governments.’

  ‘Then why can’t you get rid of Castro?’

  ‘I meant we can’t get rid of him by a popular uprising. That’s poppycock dreamed up by idiots in the CIA who believe their own propaganda. The only way we can get rid of Castro is by invading Cuba with a hundred thousand American soldiers. It would be a bloody mess even if it did work. It would spark off riots in Latin America and give Khrushchev an excuse to take Berlin. If Kennedy has a brain, he’ll keep the military out of this stupid invasion thing.’

  Catesby started leafing through the ZAPATA document. The plans looked vainglorious and doomed.

  ‘And when it fails,’ said George, ‘things are going to turn nasty. Look at the AMLASH section – those are proposed plans to assassinate Castro …’

  The word AMLASH made Catesby sit up. It was also the codename of one of the telephone contacts that Jock Whitney had passed on. Catesby turned his attention back to George.

  ‘… and I’ve heard that Lemnitzer is cooking up an agent provocateur scheme called NORTHWOODS. Stupid man.’

  ‘You mean false flag ops?’

  ‘That’s right. Lemnitzer has this theory that we can stage a series of terrorist attacks on US soil and blame them on Castro. The idea is that the American people will be so angry it will be politically impossible not to invade Cuba. That’s what happened when the Maine blew up in Havana
harbour in 1898.’

  ‘You sank her on purpose?’

  George shrugged his shoulders. ‘Who knows? But it gave us an excuse to invade Cuba – and grab the Philippines from Spain at the same time.’

  ‘What,’ said Catesby, ‘would you do if you were Head of British Intelligence?’

  George’s watery blue eyes looked unbearably sad as well as frank. ‘I’d dig a very deep bomb shelter – or emigrate with all my loved ones to Australia. I don’t think that you fellows have a chance. Your island is in the wrong place at the wrong time.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Catesby smiled. ‘I’ll tell him that.’

  ‘I’m going to bed. I’m a silly old man who talks too much.’

  Catesby sat alone for a while in the sitting room watching the fire turn into ash and embers – and tried not to think of London doing the same. There were sounds of cutlery coming from the kitchen. He turned out the light and went to help.

  Caddie was standing over the kitchen sink with her back towards Catesby. There was a radio tuned to a classical music station playing Copland’s ‘Appalachian Spring.’

  ‘Shall I do the drying up?’ said Catesby.

  ‘No, I’ll do it. I know where things go, to put them away. You can finish the washing.’

  Catesby slipped on the washing-up gloves that Caddie had just slipped off. He was oddly content. There was something calming about shared domestic chores.

  ‘I’m not sorry,’ said Caddie, ‘that I called you a fucking bastard. But I am sorry I made Uncle George feel uncomfortable by yelling at you.’

  Catesby began to scour a saucepan with a Brillo pad. He felt Caddie’s eyes studying him in profile.

  ‘You’re a bit common, aren’t you?’ she said.

  Catesby laughed. ‘Well spotted. I’m glad I don’t come across all lah-di-dah.’