The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  Catesby took Clarissa’s proffered hand. It was like meeting the Queen of the Nile. She was one of those women who could have been any age between thirty-five and fifty-five. She was effortlessly beautiful and her dignity filled the space around her like a magic spell.

  ‘What brings you to Washington?’ said Otis.

  ‘The new Ambassador wants me to vacuum the staircase and change the oil in his Rolls.’

  ‘Is that how you hurt your hand?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hmm,’ Otis lowered his voice. ‘You look kinda tired. What have you been up to really? But maybe you can’t tell me.’

  Catesby smiled wanly and put a hand on Otis’s forearm. ‘My masters in London would like to know what’s going on in Jack Kennedy’s brain.’

  ‘That’s easy: “Where, how, when and with whom am I going to get laid next?” Can’t you guys think up any difficult questions?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘How much are the Kennedys in hock to the Mafia?’

  It had already occurred to Catesby that the gunman in the hotel had been a mob hit man. Security services don’t like to leave fingerprints, so they subcontract the dirty jobs to the underworld.

  ‘What,’ said Otis, ‘did you guys think of the election?’

  ‘It was close.’

  ‘Of course it was close. Joe Kennedy is one stingy son-of-a-bitch. There was no way he was going to buy his son a landslide.’ Otis paused. ‘I can tell from your gently mocking smile that you think I’m bullshitting you.’

  ‘It seems astonishing.’

  ‘Okay, here are the facts. Let’s say the Catholic Church in Boston collects a million bucks in the collection baskets on a particular Sunday. Joe Kennedy then goes to the Cardinal and says, “I need some spare rhino, Your Eminence, how about I write you a cheque for one million and fifty thousand bucks.” No way is the Cardinal going to do his diocese out of an extra fifty thou, so he takes the cheque. And Joe, of course, isn’t going to be out of pocket either because he claims the money as a charitable donation and gets tax relief. It’s called la lavenderia Vaticana, the Vatican laundry. In any case, Joe now has lots of untraceable mazuma to splash around for his son’s campaign. That’s how they squared West Virginia in the primaries.’

  ‘What about the national election?’

  ‘Kennedy needed the area around Chicago, my hometown, or he was dead meat.’ Otis smiled. ‘But I don’t want to say too much. My best-paid gigs are in Chicago, at the Villa Venice – it’s owned by Momo.’

  ‘Who’s Momo?’

  ‘Christ, Catesby, don’t you know anything? Momo Giancana. He’s the Chicago outfit boss.’ Otis lowered his voice. ‘Momo sewed up Cook County for Kennedy in the election. Some ballot boxes were stuffed, others were emptied. I think Giancana overdid it. Kennedy won by 300,000 votes. It was a goddamn ridiculous majority.’

  ‘Are you a friend of Giancana?’

  ‘Everybody’s a friend of Momo – and now Jack Kennedy has to be a friend of Momo too. Listen, the big question of Kennedy’s presidency is whether or not he’s going to renege on Giancana’s favour. And, at the moment, Momo has done all the giving – for chrissake, Kennedy’s even sharing two of Giancana’s girlfriends.’ Otis started laughing. ‘Hey, listen.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Last time I was at Villa Venice, I overheard one of the girls talking about Kennedy. Priceless.’

  ‘What’d she say?’

  ‘She said it was the best thirty seconds of her life.’ Otis turned to his girlfriend. ‘Sorry, Clarissa, you must find all this boys’ talk tedious.’

  ‘I wasn’t even listening.’ Clarissa had put on a pair of glasses and was reading a novel in the dull light.

  ‘I still can’t understand what a beautiful intelligent woman like you is doing with me.’

  Clarissa looked down at Catesby over her glasses and said. ‘Otis is needlessly self-deprecating.’ Then went back to her novel.

  Catesby caught a glimpse of the title. It was Mill on the Floss. He looked back at Otis. ‘Your life has changed.’

  ‘Yeah, Gladys divorced me after I got the sack. She liked having a diplomat for a husband, even one that found playing the sax more interesting than promoting the abomination known as US foreign policy. She liked the social life and wanted to take up golf.’

  ‘How did you get sacked? Is it true that you pissed in the punch bowl at the Ambassador’s garden party?’

  ‘Nah, that never happened. No, I got demoted after London and sent to Paris where I was a cookie pusher in the office of the labor attaché.’ Cookie pusher was US diplomat slang for junior officers who carried around trays of snacks at parties. ‘But I still had the big mouth of a senior grade – and that was my downfall.’

  ‘And you always wanted a Paris posting.’

  ‘True. But I was only in Paris a little while before they sent me to Marseille. I like the city – they call it France’s Chicago – but I didn’t like my job. I need another drink. You too?’

  Catesby nodded. A bottle of bourbon mysteriously appeared and a waiter recharged their glasses.

  ‘When I got to Marseille I found out that I was no longer working for the labor attaché, but for the CIA Head of Station. At the time there was a big dispute over who controlled the dock workers unions. As you know, the Marseille unions used to be communist. The only rivals to communist control of the port were the Corsican Mafia. You can see where this is going?’

  Catesby nodded.

  ‘Basically, my job was paying mobsters to intimidate trade unions – which turned my stomach. Meanwhile, my CIA boss was providing the gangsters with weapons – which I thought was pretty damned stupid. And I said so: verbally and in writing. I pointed out that the CIA dimwit didn’t realise he was financing and setting up an international heroin network as the price for getting rid of a communist union leader or two. But I was wrong – he and his bosses were completely aware of it. At least, that’s what I was told when they dragged me back to Washington for a disciplinary hearing.’

  ‘Just for that?’

  ‘Oh no, there was more to it. I was accused of having leaked confidential information about the Marseille operation to a journalist. It wasn’t true, I was stitched. It’s a standard way of getting rid of troublemakers. The CIA has cages full of stool pigeons – especially journalist stoolies. Not enough evidence to send you to jail, but enough to get you sacked.’

  Catesby wondered how long before the practice arrived in Britain.

  ‘Well, Catesby, since they can’t sack me again, I’m going to tell you a few secrets.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve got my reasons. Have you heard of the French Connection?’

  Catesby shook his head.

  ‘It used to work like this: Saigon, Marseille, Havana, Miami. But now that Castro has broken the link, the Mafia and Corsicans are baying for his blood. They want Cuba back and they want it now. I don’t think you Brits realise how important Cuba was to the mob – it was their crown jewel. It had it all: casinos, cocaine, heroin, gambling, sex. And no cops or FBI to ruin the party.’ Otis smiled. ‘Do you understand now?’

  Catesby nodded.

  ‘That’s why Momo Giancana helped put Jack Kennedy in the White House and lets him bed his best girls.’

  ‘When’s payback begin?’

  ‘This coming April in a place called Bahia de Cochinos.’

  ‘Why are you telling me this?’

  ‘Because, Catesby, you’ve got a little bit of influence and the more people in the loop who know the truth the better. I don’t want this thing to work for two reasons. One is personal. The bastard who got me sacked is one of the honchos running the operation. The other is idealistic. I don’t want US foreign policy to be determined by a bunch of gangsters. It’s bad enough already.’

  ‘I’m worried about you, Otis.’

  ‘Yeah, I ought to be worried about me too. At least they do it quick. One slug in the back of the head, then six more
in a circle around the mouth. It means you talked too much.’

  ‘Well maybe you’d better stop talking now.’

  ‘No, Catesby, there’s one more thing you ought to know. The French Connection isn’t just a smuggling route. It’s a person too. Some people call him le vrai Monsieur, but his real name is Amleto Battisti y Lora. He’s Coriscan, but was born in Uruguay. He doesn’t look like a gangster: no tie pin and a ring on only one finger, and not his pinkie. You could take him anywhere. Very smooth, very dangerous – and he lost a lot of dough in Havana. He owned a luxury hotel, a casino – and even his own bank. If you meet Amleto someday, give him my regards.’

  ‘I think I’ve already met him.’

  Otis lowered his voice. ‘I’ve heard he’s in town.’

  Something else began to nag at the back of Catesby’s mind. ‘There’s a French couple over there by the door. Are they from the embassy?’

  Otis shook his head. ‘They’re friends of Amleto.’

  The next day Catesby made one phone call. He dialled the number from a booth at the airport while waiting for his flight back to England. It was the last of the three numbers that Ambassador Whitney had given him. He let it ring for a long time, then hung up and dialled again. This time someone picked up the phone, but didn’t say a word – just listened and waited. Catesby felt a chill run down his spine. He finally said the codeword, AMLASH.

  Whoever was on the other end decided to let Catesby wait. The words finally came two minutes later. The language was clear and ultra-refined French. For a second, Catesby wondered whether he had been connected to the French Ambassador’s private line. But the words were not diplomatic. ‘You are playing a very dangerous game, my friend. In North Africa, people like you are often left for the buzzards while still alive with their hands wired behind their backs. They look so droll as they lie choking on the hot sand with their severed penises and testicles shoved down their throats. It is extraordinary how many hours it takes for them to die.’

  ‘Is that all you have to say?’

  ‘No, you may have your uses, but you have no way of knowing in which way. Or of whom you may be serving.’

  The line went dead and Catesby hung up.

  The weather in London was unseasonably mild, but windy and wet. ‘The daffodils,’ said Henry, ‘were very early this year. Do you know there wasn’t a frost in all of February? Would you like another cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Catesby noticed that the chipped mugs had been replaced by a Burleigh Ware Willow Pattern tea service. He knew this because he had looked at the bottom of his saucer.

  ‘I saw you peeping,’ said Henry as he poured the Lapsang Souchong, another innovation. ‘Burleigh, I can assure you, is by no means my first choice. Originally, Central Stores tried to fob me off with some ghastly Spode.’

  ‘I’m surprised you didn’t resign.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Bone, ‘it wasn’t an intended slight.’

  Catesby, however, wasn’t so sure. He reckoned that you could chart Henry’s status in SIS by analysing his current and past tea services. It was a version of the way Kremlinologists charted the rises and falls of Soviet officials by noting the rearranging of chairs and positions on the reviewing stand for parades. Likewise, the Echinus Demotter tea service had been Henry’s high-water mark; the chipped mugs, the lowest of his spring tides.

  Bone lifted a folder on his desk. ‘I’ve read your report. It was informative – and might even have an impact on policy.’

  ‘What did you think of the photos?’

  ‘They didn’t make me squirm if that’s what you’re implying. The interesting thing wasn’t what the president was doing, but who he was doing it with – especially one of the ladies in particular.’

  ‘You mean the East German posing as a bargain basement Scar-lett O’Hara?’

  Bone gave an affirmative nod. ‘And how do you suppose Ambassador Whitney got to know about this young lady?’

  ‘Easily. The wealthy elite have their own intelligence networks, just like they do here. Whitney certainly would have known several members of the Quorum Club.’

  ‘What were Whitney’s motives for passing on her phone number?’

  ‘The old money guys don’t like Kennedy. In fact, they don’t like anyone outside their own circle who threatens their power base.’

  ‘Your analysis, Catesby, is flawless.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘But Whitney isn’t an important player. He may have passed on a few gems, but he doesn’t know why they’re valuable. It’s like the priceless paintings they have on their walls. They haven’t a clue.’

  Catesby smiled. Bone’s loathing of the American upper classes was an ingrained reflex.

  Bone, having dismissed Whitney and his ilk, continued in a different vein. ‘Have your lads in Berlin found anything linking her to Mischa?’

  ‘Not yet. Personally, I think she’s a freelance opportunist – not even an IM or one of his sleeper agents. Oddly, she seemed to think I was working for Mischa. I’m sure of it. Otherwise why she did come to the door speaking German?’

  ‘I’ve been puzzling over that myself.’ Henry poured himself another cup of tea and walked over to the rain-beaded window. He stared across the road at the dull grey of the London Underground office building. ‘They’re ashamed of us. That’s why they put us in this ugly hole. No view, never a ray of sunlight. By the way, I forgot to tell you something.’

  Catesby shifted uneasily. It was never a matter of forgetting: it was always a matter of withholding – often pointlessly. It was an annoying habit of Bone’s. He always had to think he was in control and the drip feed of information was one way of asserting his power. But this time Bone continued to stare out the window as if in a trance.

  ‘What’s wrong, Henry?’

  ‘I’m afraid things are getting out of control.’

  ‘And you don’t like that.’

  ‘You sound angry, William.’

  ‘I am. What was this gem you were going to tell me?’

  ‘The woman who passed you the Kennedy photos has been arrested and deported.’

  For the first few seconds Catesby wasn’t alarmed by the news, but then the implications began to gallop into his brain like riderless horses after a cavalry charge. Catesby knew that US intelligence services had been out to get him for years. The people interrogating ‘Norma’ would certainly have shown her his photograph – and she would have said, ‘That’s him.’

  ‘It’s obvious,’ said Bone, ‘why there wasn’t a criminal trial.’

  ‘Don’t try to skirt around the subject, Henry. What about me? Someone’s dropped me in the shit.’ Catesby looked closely at Bone. ‘And you might even know who it is.’

  ‘Don’t make accusations, Catesby.’

  ‘I’m not going to hang for you, Henry. I know a set-up when I see one. Someone told the girl that I had been sent by East German intelligence to pick up the snaps. So she talks to me – and the bloody dog – in her native lingo. And then hands over the photos at cheapo East bloc rates.’ Catesby looked at Bone and shook his head. ‘Oh my God. You did this to save money, didn’t you?’

  Bone shrugged, then said, ‘There have been budget problems.’

  ‘What an incredibly stupid thing to do.’

  Bone laughed. ‘I was teasing. I’d never do something like that. You are gullible.’

  ‘Right,’ said Catesby, still furious. He wanted to grab Bone by his silk tie and smack him in the gob, but decided words were better. ‘You’re a duplicitous bastard.’

  ‘I’m not a bastard – and I deplore name-calling. It shows a lack of grace and self-control.’

  ‘Back to the case, who grassed up the German girl?’

  ‘She wasn’t grassed. Hoover had her under investigation for some time. His survival strategy as FBI director is to have so much dirt on every president and top politician that no one would dare sack him. But this particular scandal sheet was sweetened by the woman’s East
German connections. That’s why Bobby Kennedy got her out of the country as quickly as possible. And most likely with a regular payoff to keep her mouth shut.’

  What a wheeze, thought Catesby, you appoint your kid brother Attorney General, your country’s top lawman, so he can cover up the excesses of your sex life.

  ‘You’re looking thoughtful, William. Something wrong?’

  ‘Yes, and you know what’s wrong. That woman was interrogated by Hoover’s gang and also by Bobby Kennedy – probably in person – before she got booted out. She’s now fingered me, and probably poor Neville too, as an East German agent. And when that stuff comes flying back across the Atlantic I’m going to find myself in the centre of a shit storm.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘No, Henry, I haven’t finished talking. Why have you done this?’

  ‘There is a reason, if you would give me a chance to explain …’

  ‘You always have a reason – oiled by layers of self-justification. But here are my terms. First, I want a minuted meeting with C and the Chairman of JIC in which all this is disclosed and the minutes become part of the JIC archive. Secondly, I want Angleton to know the facts as well.’

  ‘Not a good idea, Catesby. Angleton is going more and more bonkers – he still thinks Kim Philby is a Soviet agent.’

  James Jesus Angleton was CIA Chief of Counterintelligence. He had started alarm bells ringing on Philby in 1951. Under pressure from the Americans, Philby was removed from his job as liaison between SIS and CIA and expelled from the USA. The fact that Philby had never been prosecuted was a running sore between the two intelligence services.

  ‘There are two problems, Henry. One is that I don’t want to go to prison because of pressure from Washington.’

  ‘That isn’t going to happen. You’ve got the support of C – and others in high places.’

  Catesby nodded. It was Bone’s way of saying that he could bring down others with him. It wasn’t a sentimental trade.

  ‘The other problem,’ said Catesby, ‘is that I don’t want to die. My life may be miserable and lonely, but every time I get shot at I realise how much I want to stay alive. I’m not sure it was the cousins who tried to get me hit in Washington, but they seem the prime candidates.’