The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘Or it could have been the Mafia acting on its own.’

  ‘That’s the problem. Where is the borderline between the Mafia and CIA? In any case, I can’t see how I can do my job in Berlin constantly waiting for a knife in the back, a bullet in the head or a poisoned bratwurst. And how can I function with zero trust from my Yank counterparts?’

  ‘You’re not going to be in Berlin much longer.’

  ‘Is that definite?’

  Bone nodded. ‘How are your Spanish lessons going?’

  ‘Fine, it’s a lovely language – and Pablo Neruda’s poems are full of chat-up lines.’

  ‘I’m sure you won’t need them.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘But I’m sure you’ll like Cuba.’ Bone paused and took off his reading glasses. ‘Now, William, concerning the conditions you set out: I’m willing to go as far as briefing C, but I don’t want JIC informed.’

  ‘I still want to get Angleton off my back.’

  ‘That would be a mistake. He’s so paranoid he’d think that we were protecting you to hide the truth.’ Bone looked closely at Catesby. ‘Besides it would be a wasted opportunity.’

  Catesby closed his eyes. Bone’s voice was like a pick hammer chipping away at his brain.

  ‘There are two factors. One is that there’s someone in the FBI passing on stuff to Moscow. Hoover huffily denies it, Angleton says it’s true. But the more Angleton rants, the more he undermines his case. Hoover claims the double agent is one of Angleton’s boys – and bins all the security violation reports that come across his desk concerning his own agent.’ Bone paused and smiled.

  ‘What do you think, Henry?’

  ‘Both of them are right. And since much of the information the two double agents are passing on to Moscow is identical, each of their bosses can blame the other agency for the security breach. And, of course, if one of them finally gets nailed, the other guilty one will be exonerated and continue to operate.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘We get the stuff from HERO, but Angleton thinks that HERO is a fake double trying to discredit his own man. HERO, by the way, also has some interesting theories about Cuba. Once again, Angle-ton regards it as a disinformation ploy.’ HERO was the codename for a KGB colonel who was passing on intelligence to London. There was a heated debate about whether HERO was a genuine double or a plant.

  Catesby stared at the wall. Was it really a wall? And who was Henry Bone?

  ‘Are you still there?’ said Bone.

  ‘Barely. How do I fit in?’

  ‘It would be very interesting if the FBI mole passes on the details of … What was her pseudonym?’

  ‘Norma.’

  ‘… of Norma’s interrogation to Moscow Central. If Shelepin sees your name as one of Mischa’s agents, he’s not going to be pleased to learn that Mischa isn’t sharing stuff with Moscow. It’s happened before and caused bad blood. Maybe it will be real blood this time.’

  Catesby suddenly felt very tired. ‘Sure, Henry, sure.’ One of SIS’s aims was to spread suspicion and distrust between East bloc intelligence agencies. Mischa Wolf, as Head of East German Foreign Intelligence, was the East bloc’s most successful spy chief. Getting Wolf discredited in Moscow would be a great coup for the West.

  ‘The ideal situation, William, would be for you to get approached by the Russians to find out what you were doing for Mischa.’

  ‘That’s why you sent me to pick up those photos from Norma?’

  Bone smiled wanly.

  ‘You want to use me as a dangled double?’ It was an espionage ploy whereby a loyal agent pretends to be willing to work for the other side. It was a means of passing on disinformation – as some suspected HERO was doing.

  ‘You’ve always been the ideal candidate.’

  ‘We tried it before, Henry, and someone was killed – someone I cared a great deal about.’ Catesby looked away and realised that he could no longer say her name.

  ‘That was sad, but you’re still under a cloud of suspicion – at least as far as the Americans are concerned. Which is perfect cover. You’re our best ploy since Philby.’

  Catesby was on his feet. ‘Don’t compare me to Kim Philby. I’m not a traitor.’

  ‘And neither is Kim.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. You know he is.’

  Catesby sat back down, still fuming. The Philby issue was a festering sore. They had argued about it before. The suspicion of treachery in the ranks did as much damage to an intelligence service as the treachery itself. It was poison.

  ‘Have you calmed down, William?’

  ‘Just explain what you want me to do.’

  ‘I want you to tidy up things in Berlin before you go to Cuba.’

  ‘That’s definite?’

  ‘Yes, but not a permanent posting.’ Bone polished his glasses and looked across his desk. ‘Don’t you see, William, how we’re trying to use you?’

  ‘Please explain.’

  ‘We need to portray you as someone who is loathed by the Americans, the quintessential duplicitous British lefty – which to a certain extent is what you are by nature.’

  ‘I’m not like you, Henry, I’m not duplicitous.’

  ‘I said to a certain extent. In any case, we want to present you as someone whom the Sovs think they can trust, who understands their situation.’

  ‘I am not going to be used as a dangled double and fake defector – we’ve already tried that.’

  ‘I never said we were. Try listening instead of jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘And, Henry, you can try to explain things more directly for a change.’

  ‘Fair point, I’ll try. We’re entering an incredibly dangerous international situation. Both sides now need back-channel diplomats just as much as they need spies. The problem is that such diplomats need to foster a close rapport with the opposition that some may regard as treasonous – that’s the risk you’ll be taking.’

  Catesby knew that at a certain level nothing was straightforward: everything became grey and ambiguous. If governments never compromised their loudly stated principles – often secretly – there would be few treaties and a lot of war. But when did compromise become betrayal?

  ‘And, by the way,’ said Bone, ‘our man in Havana has confirmed that Yevgeny Ivanovich Alekseev is now KGB rezident and that his wife is with him.’

  Catesby often wondered how Alekseev’s wife, Katya, had taken the death of her lover. Whether she had pined or simply found a new man.

  ‘You know,’ said Bone, ‘that there’s a very tragic story concerning Alekseev?’

  ‘I’m not sure that having an unfaithful wife qualifies as tragedy.’

  ‘She loves him, but that love can never be fulfilled.’

  Catesby was surprised. He had never heard Bone talk of ‘love’, except dismissively.

  ‘Alekseev was very badly wounded in the last days of the war.’

  ‘Katya doesn’t seem very lucky with her men.’

  ‘You’re becoming awfully hardboiled, Catesby.’

  ‘This isn’t a job for sentimentalists.’

  Bone shook his head and looked away. ‘Maybe it should be.’

  The visit to the US Officers Club at Harnack House was Gerald’s idea. He reckoned it was the classiest club the Americans had in Berlin. It was located in Dahlem, a leafy part of the city with lots of parks and tennis courts. Harnack House was a large white building with red roof tiles punctuated by dormer windows where you expected to see Hausfraus hanging Fetterbetts out to air. Before and during the war it had been used for high-level science conferences. Harnack House was where in 1942 the Reich’s top scientists decided against pursuing an A bomb programme.

  ‘You’ve got to meet these guys,’ said Gerald, ‘I think you’ll find them an education in transatlantic culture.’ He was referring to the US officers from the 7771st Document Center and the 7782nd Special Troops Battalion. They were Gerald’s colleagues in searching Soviet Army training areas for the
letters, supply chits and pages of field manuals. The ones that Soviet soldiers used as toilet paper.

  ‘You find them strange?’ said Catesby.

  ‘Completely barking.’

  At first Catesby thought the young lieutenants were drunk on alcohol, but then he realised they were drunk on being Americans in a foreign country. One of the most expansive was a tall lanky officer with parachutist wings and a ranger tab. His name was Redhorn and he spoke with an extreme Deep South accent of long diphthong vowels. The softness of his voice made it all the more sinister. ‘Eisenhower,’ said Redhorn, ‘was a pussy wimp. He gave up in Korea and then he let the communists take over in Laos. I know, I been there and seen it.’

  ‘And you think,’ said Catesby, ‘that Kennedy’s going to be different?’

  ‘Goddamn fucking A. And the first thing we’re going to do is burn off Castro’s beard and hang up the hijo de puta by his pelotas.’

  The other lieutenants began to call out Spanish phrases too: ‘Hey Fidel, tell your sister to chupa mi pila.’ ‘What does it taste like Che, la concha de tu madre?’

  Catesby suspected that the officers had been on a language training course – with an interesting line of vocabulary – and were showing off. He didn’t think it boded well for Cuba – or for the rest of Latin America. Meanwhile, Gerald handed him a beer. ‘It’s free,’ he said.

  ‘Who’s paying?’

  Gerald nodded towards Redhorn. ‘He says Limeys are too poor to pay their own way.’

  ‘Then why don’t the Americans write off the war loans?’ A constant moan of Catesby’s generation was that defeated Germany was rebuilt with the Marshall Plan while Britain’s economy was hobbled with the repayment of the US loans.

  Redhorn sat down next to Catesby and looked at him as if he were from a different planet. ‘Where you from?’

  ‘Lowestoft.’

  ‘What’s that? Never heard of it.’

  ‘It’s a town in the east of England.’

  ‘No,’ said Redhorn, ‘I meant what’s your job?’

  Catesby knew that in the context his threadbare diplomat cover was going to sound more ridiculous than usual. ‘I’m the Berlin rep of the Cultural Attaché.’

  ‘No, shit.’ Redhorn’s eyes sparkled. He turned to another American officer. ‘Hey Donnie, this dude’s a culture man.’ Then back to Catesby, ‘Come on, educate us, recite some Limey poetry.’

  ‘I don’t like being taunted.’ Catesby was tempted to take a swing at the American, but realised that Redhorn was wearing glasses. Without the voice and uniform Redhorn could have passed for an academic. It occurred to Catesby that a lot of the bravado was an act.

  Donnie suddenly joined in, ‘He’s telling you a load of bullshit, Red, he’s Gerald’s honcho.’

  ‘You’ve been telling fibs,’ said Redhorn.

  ‘You’re getting on my nerves,’ said Catesby. He wouldn’t have minded a fight. The banal mockery was grating. But before they could square up, someone else had joined the group. There was a sudden silence as if the headmaster had just entered an unruly classroom. The newcomer wore the two-star insignia of an American major general.

  ‘I want every American officer to stand to attention.’ The general had a full glass of beer in his hand. He looked at each of the lieutenants who had chins and tummies tucked in and shoulders thrust back in the rictus of parade ground correctness. Then he pointed at Catesby. ‘I assume that you are drinking with that man because you do not know who he is. He may not wear a hammer and sickle on his lapel, but he certainly wears those emblems of oppression on his heart. That man is an enemy of the United States of America and everything our beloved country under God stands for. Beware of enemies posing as allies.’

  The general than raised his glass of beer. For a second Catesby thought that, incongruously, he was about to be toasted. But instead, the general emptied his drink on the floor. The other officers followed his example. The general then turned smartly on his heel and marched out of the club with the others in step behind him.

  ‘Well,’ said Gerald, ‘I’ve never seen you empty a pub so quickly.’

  ‘But I’m still here.’ The voice sounded drunk and came from the shadows in a far corner. A chair scraped and a figure carrying a glass clinking with ice came towards them. ‘May I join you?’

  ‘There’s plenty of room,’ said Catesby, ‘please do.’

  ‘Hi, my name’s Paul.’

  ‘I’m the anti-Christ,’ said Catesby extending a hand, ‘careful you don’t burn yourself.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Anti, I’ve heard so much about you.’ Paul was wearing the gold oak leaves of a US army major on his shoulders and the twisted snakes caduceus of the medical corps on his lapels. His tie was loose. Otherwise, he sounded more crumpled than he looked.

  ‘I hope you don’t get in trouble for not following the others.’

  Paul raised his glass. ‘No way am I going to throw away good Scotch. In any case, that asshole won’t be here much longer.’

  ‘Who is he?’ said Gerald.

  ‘You mean you haven’t met him before?’

  Catesby had, but kept mum.

  ‘That was Edwin Walker. I don’t how he gets away with it. Walker’s been handing out right-wing pamphlets from the John Birch Society – and even tells his soldiers how to vote. There’s a rumour that Washington is going to transfer him to somewhere in the Pacific where he’ll be less of an embarrassment.’

  ‘He seems to have quite a following,’ said Catesby.

  Paul squinted and looked thoughtful. ‘That is worrying, very worrying. But Walker only survived because he had a protector in a very high place.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  Paul smiled and whispered, ‘Lyman Lemnitzer, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.’

  Catesby smiled bleakly. Another ball cannoned across the green baize of his mind and clicked neatly into its pocket. Bone was never wrong. Catesby had all the right enemies in all the right places – and Moscow would know it too. He was the perfect dangled double.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Paul downing the rest of his drink, ‘I’d better get some shut-eye, I’ve got a VD clinic in the morning.’

  Gerald watched him leave and said, ‘There are good Americans.’

  ‘Just like there used to be good Germans in the thirties – and look what happened to them.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, you can be a little ray of sunshine.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Catesby.-

  ‘Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, Cuba sí, Yanquis no, Cuba sí, Yanquis no.’ The chanting of the Pioneers flowed through the open windows of the British Embassy as they marched down Avenida Séptimo. The Pioneers were boys and girls of twelve or thirteen. They wore red berets, red neckerchiefs and white shirts.

  The military attaché was standing in front of a map of Cuba with a pointer in his hand aimed at the airfield nearest the embassy. ‘The nearest bombs will, I expect, fall here at St. Tony’s.’ He indicated a Havana suburb called San Antonio de los Baños which was about eight miles south of the embassy. ‘Yes, Ambassador?’

  ‘Don’t you suppose, Tommie, there’s a chance that they may have a pop at some of the ministries in Havana in the chance of bagging Fidel or Raúl or Che?’

  ‘Their chances of getting a senior member of the government with an air strike are next to zero. In any case, the Brigade have at most only sixteen operational B-26s. They need to concentrate everything on neutralising Castro’s air force. Otherwise, the invasion will be a certain failure.’

  ‘Uno, dos, tres, cuatro, Cuba sí, Yanquis no, Cuba sí, Yanquis no.’ The Pioneers were now marching up Calle 34. ‘Fidel, seguro, a los Yanquis dale duro.’ Fidel, unyielding, hit those Yankees hard.

  The Head of Trade looked up from her notepad. ‘Do you think all that chanting and marching by is on purpose, because we’re British?’

  The Head of Chancery smiled benignly. ‘They’re doing it to all the embassies.’

  The
Ambassador looked at Neville, the new SIS Station Head. ‘Anything to add, Bob? Are we still expecting D-Day on the 17th?’

  ‘Yes, Ambassador, their security is truly appalling. It’s certain that the Cuban exile brigade has been heavily infiltrated by DGI.’ Neville was referring to Dirección General de Inteligencia, Castro’s spies.

  Catesby looked around the table at his colleagues. It was the first time he had been assigned to an embassy where he liked everyone. The Ambassador, Herbert Marchant, was rock solid and had a sense of humour. Neville was an old SIS chum. Mickey Blakeney, Head of Chancery, was one of the warmest and most civilised diplomats the FO had ever produced. He had an endearing obsession with water towers and sketched and photographed them wherever he went. There wasn’t a backstabber in sight. At least, thought Catesby, if the worst case did come true – as seemed increasingly likely – he would be vaporised among friends.

  Catesby loved the lizards. He liked lying in bed and watching them race across the ceiling. They were light green, three to four inches long and had a top speed of about 400 miles per hour. The Cubans called them chipojos.

  It had just gone six in the morning. It was already light and Catesby was lying on his back in bed staring at a chipojo poised for a sprint. He suspected that the lizard was going to launch himself at a mosquito that was straddling a crack in the ceiling plaster. But the chipojo was one very badly informed lizard. He didn’t know what was going to happen and waited too long. The mosquito disappeared in a cloud of plaster dust as the ceiling crack suddenly yawned into an inch-wide gap. The first bombs had begun to fall. The ceiling shook. The lizard’s head twitched as if he were confused. He finally did a pirouette and disappeared down the nearest wall.

  Catesby decided it was time to get up. The bomb explosions were now joined by the clatter of heavy-calibre anti-aircraft guns. He put on his dressing gown and opened the shutters of the French windows that led on to the balcony. It was a beautiful clear morning. The sun was just rising over the Castillo de los Tres Reyes Magos del Morro, a magnificent sixteenth-century fortress at the entrance to Havana Bay built to ward off pirates. Catesby felt a wan sense of irony as he looked at the fortress. The British had finally taken it during a war with Spain in the eighteenth century and then lost half their garrison to yellow fever.