The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  The crew made fast and the man who had fetched him nimbly mounted a rickety wooden ladder. Arlekin followed. The air was quiet, less cold than before and smelt of farm manure. They were now alone again; the crew had remained behind in the boat. Arlekin’s companion walked off the end of the jetty and up on to a turf dyke that protected the farmland from flooding. He stopped and turned at the top of the dyke. The boat crew had revved up the engines and were casting off. The tall man, his face still hidden, gave them a large wave of thanks and they were gone. Arlekin turned around to look for the person who had guided them in with the light, but saw he had set off in the boat with the others. Arlekin suddenly realised that the two of them were alone in a sleepy rural landscape that looked like a Dutch painting. His doubt and anxiety disappeared: he felt in safe hands. As Arlekin climbed the dyke wall, the other man unwound the scarf from his face and spoke to him for the first time. ‘Welcome to the German Democratic Republic. My name is Markus Wolf, but everyone calls me Mischa.’

  Arlekin looked closely at Wolf. He was as others described him. There were no photos, so Arlekin tried to take a mental one. Wolf was angular, languid, patrician. He had the bearing of a lean, tough, intelligent aristocrat: the sort of noble Roman who served the state as well as he used it.

  ‘There were,’ said Arlekin, ‘several last-minute changes of plan that I found worrying.’

  ‘I never take unnecessary risks,’ said Wolf in a tone that was firm and polite. ‘I use all the same precautions when I visit the West. Last-minute changes often decrease rather than increase risk of exposure.’

  There was a logic to altering plans, but Arlekin still felt uneasy. ‘How many people know that the plans were changed?’

  ‘Fewer than knew about the original. We put out a secret notice to say that the visit was cancelled. And no one knows your identity other than myself and, of course, the most important person, the reason for your visit. Three of his deputies will meet you tomorrow, but for them it will be a surprise.’

  ‘Who were the men in the speedboat?’

  ‘They’re not even in the Ministry. They’re Grenzpolizei See, Maritime Border Police. They think it was just another interception and boarding exercise – we’ve put them through several.’

  ‘And what about the Poles on the ship? One of them was awfully nosey.’

  ‘Don’t worry about them. It was still much safer than a train or coming by air.’

  The use of the word ‘still’ seemed a caveat, but Arlekin was finished quibbling. It had, however, been necessary. He could see that Mischa was also a man used to getting his own way and not being queried.

  ‘Did they give you something to eat?’ said Mischa.

  ‘Only breakfast.’

  ‘Then you must be hungry – we should get going.’

  They walked along a track to where a black Wartburg 311 was hidden in a barn. ‘We’ve got a long drive,’ said Wolf as he slid behind the wheel.

  ‘Is the conference still planned for Kartzitz?’ Arlekin was referring to an isolated manor house on the remote Isle of Rügen.

  ‘Don’t worry. Security there is absolute. That’s why we use it.’ Wolf started the engine. ‘The car is safe too. It’s only got seven moving parts.’

  ‘All of the others are going to be Russians?’

  ‘Yes – except maybe for one more.’

  ‘Can they be trusted?’

  ‘Absolutely. There are no people more secretive than Russians – it’s not a question of character, it’s a question of history.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You sound doubtful.’

  Arlekin frowned.

  Mischa looked at him hard. ‘You don’t know Russia. But I do.’

  ‘Of course I don’t. You grew up there.’

  ‘What you must understand is that Russia has tragedies with seasonal regularity,’ Mischa paused, ‘and sometimes their attempt to deal with a tragedy leads them to precipitate an even greater tragedy.’

  ‘Other people do it too.’

  ‘But this time what began as a Russian tragedy could destroy us all. What happened last year at Baikonur Cosmodrome has set off a chain reaction that has shaken the Kremlin more than any event since the war.’ Mischa paused. ‘There has been a fundamental change in policy.’

  ‘Is he really going to do it?’

  ‘Ask him tomorrow.’

  It was late morning when the quiet stillness of Kartzitz was broken by the sound of a helicopter. Arlekin had changed into a lounge suit and was alone in the kitchen drinking coffee at a large table. The files he had brought with him in the duffel bag were open next to him. It was all part of the deal, all part of the peace process. Arlekin had now removed his fake goatee, contact lenses and washed the black dye out of his hair.

  The door opened and Mischa came in. ‘Our guests haven’t arrived yet. The helicopter that just landed is bringing the security fellows from the Ninth Directorate. They’re going to sweep the conference room for listening devices and cameras – and also deal with some personal protection issues. I hope you haven’t got a gun.’

  Arlekin shook his head.

  ‘Good. I’ll tell them I’ve frisked you myself so none of the Ninth Directorate goons have to see you.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Arlekin wanted to stay as invisible as possible and the thought of being searched by a Ninth Directorate attack dog wasn’t a good idea. The fact that the Ninth was on hand proved that the visitors from the Kremlin were by no means small fry. In time of war, it was the job of the Ninth Directorate to shoot deserters – and to sacrifice their own lives too. In time of peace, they were the Kremlin’s Praetorian Guard. They provided personal security for the Communist Party leadership, as well as for Soviet nuclear weapons and the Kremlin’s secret communication systems and archives. The Ninth were the guardians of ‘the supreme power of the State’. No Soviet leader could survive without them.

  ‘By the way,’ said Mischa, ‘I must apologise.’

  Arlekin instinctively tensed. ‘For what?’

  ‘One more person is going to join us. He arrived late last night.’

  Arlekin remembered that Mischa had mentioned the previous night that an additional person might be attending. He wished that he had queried it then. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Then maybe we should cancel the meeting.’

  ‘There’s too much at stake.’

  Arlekin’s eyes flashed. ‘Don’t push me too far.’

  ‘If you like, I can inform our guest that he is not welcome. But I can assure you that having him here is in your own interest.’

  Arlekin stared hard at Mischa. ‘Let him stay. But no more surprises.’

  After Mischa left the room, Arlekin heard the noises of heavy boots as the security men turned over various parts of the house. At one point he heard them at the door, as if they were about to come in. But Mischa’s voice intervened in fluent Russian and convinced them it was unnecessary.

  Fifteen minutes later there was the sound of another helicopter. It sounded much noisier than the one that had brought the security men. Then a third helicopter joined the racket. The windows and crockery rattled as if a poltergeist had been let loose. There was then a silent interval, which was soon broken by the scream of a pair of MiG fighters passing low overhead. As their noise subsided, the staccato beat of a final helicopter began to reverberate. It was the boss.

  The escort fighters reminded Arlekin that the Kremlin was a dangerous place. Soviet politics was a blood sport. The players were brave men who knew there was no safety net beneath the high wire they danced on.

  When Wolf returned a half an hour later he was wearing a well-cut lounge suit. Mischa looked more like the chairman of a merchant bank than a communist spy chief. Arlekin followed him into a room with a long table of polished dark wood. The size of the table left little room for more furniture. The curtains were drawn and the lights in the crystal chandelier were turned on. ‘This,’ said Mischa, ‘used to b
e the dining room – not large enough for a banquet. Come sit by me. And remember,’ he whispered, ‘that we are all taking risks – I’m not sure that any of us is going to die in bed.’

  Arlekin could only think of one word, but he dared not say it. It was the most precious thing in the world. It was a word more precious even than love or liberty, for without it, neither could survive. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Russian voices on the other side of the door.

  The first to enter was a man with very black hair and a pitted complexion. Mischa embraced him and addressed him by his diminutive ‘Andriushka’. The Russian looked at Arlekin with disdain and shook hands with cold formality before launching into a rant. Andriushka spoke English well because he had once been Ambassador in Washington.

  ‘The Soviet Union is surrounded by a deadly Western nuclear arsenal. There are American missiles on her very borders in Turkey. And yet, the Western press and politicians keep pumping lies about the Soviet threat so their capitalist friends in the arms industry can make even more money.’ Andriushka looked closely at Arlekin. ‘But you, in your position, know the truth – you are privileged to peep behind the curtain of lies.’

  Arlekin smiled bleakly and nodded for the former Ambassador to go on – which he did.

  ‘The Soviet Union has been forced into a corner by aggressive Western actions. And if you corner an animal and keep taunting it, there comes a point when it will show its claws and attack. As long as the West, or I should say America, has the power to destroy the Soviet Union with one blow, the situation will remain critically dangerous. There is a line of thought among my colleagues that says: “They are poised to kill us; our only hope of survival is to strike first. What can, after all, be worse than what we have already suffered?” You can’t fault their logic. You must see that the only way to a secure peace is for both sides to have some form of parity. The Soviet Union must be able to defend itself against the threat of attack.’

  Andriushka finished just as the door opened and the other two Russians entered. At first, they looked like a comedy double act: one tall and lean, the other short and thickset. Vladimir Yefimovich Semichastny, the new Head of KGB, was the tall one and had an uncanny resemblance to Graham Greene. The resemblance was ironic for Semichastny made life very difficult for novelists in the Soviet Union. Despite his appearance, he was a crude man. Semichastny greeted Mischa with neither hug nor handshake, but a formal polite nod – like a prize fighter or chess master sizing up an opponent. Surprisingly, he showed no interest at all in Arlekin.

  The short Russian wasn’t as dumpy as the newsreel clips suggested. His real-life version was much more graceful and firmly toned. He glowed with the ruddy health of a self-assured peasant. He gave a bear hug to Mischa as he entered the room, the top of his head only coming up to Wolf’s shoulder. He then shook hands with Arlekin, but used his free hand to playfully slap Arlekin’s cheek. The Russian was laughing and had small uneven teeth. His hands were hard workers’ hands and the slaps hurt.

  As Wolf poured black tea and handed around a tray of hazelnut biscuits, the small but solid Soviet leader stared hard at Arlekin with playful eyes that gleamed like damp pebbles and said something in Russian. Andriushka translated the words, ‘If you live among wolves, you have to act like a wolf.’

  Arlekin then asked the question, the most important question in the world.

  The Russian’s eyes continued to sparkle, but his face was no longer laughing. He began to vigorously nod affirmation even before Andriushka had finished translating. Then he said the word with unambiguous finality, ‘Da.’

  It was then that Arlekin noticed that there was a sixth man in the room. He hadn’t heard or seen him enter. The sixth man was an almost ghostly presence. It was as if he had been there all the time.

  ‘If he had stayed in Cuba and become part of the revolution, he would never have committed suicide.’ Che was talking about Ernest Hemingway who had killed himself the previous summer.

  ‘We’ll never know,’ said Catesby. He had mixed feelings about Hemingway’s writing – and mixed feelings about Finca Vigia, the writer’s former home on the outskirts of Havana. The Finca had recently been bequeathed to the Cuban government by Hemingway’s widow. The Ministry of Culture had invited the usual load of diplos and hacks to a reception to honour the dead author as ‘a friend of Cuba’.

  ‘What do you think of the house?’ said Che.

  ‘It’s airy and light, but rather a lot of dead animal heads hanging around – and I don’t know about the tombstones for dogs.’

  ‘To be honest,’ whispered Che, ‘I prefer Faulkner.’

  ‘Another drunk.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Che, ‘it’s that …’

  ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Writers in capitalist societies are driven to alcohol, drugs and suicide because they can’t resolve their internal conflicts.’

  Che nodded and smiled. ‘William, you will tell me if I’m ever being a bore?’

  ‘Oddly enough, you never are.’ It was true. Che was always aware of the people he was speaking to. He was never lost in an oblivious cocoon of self. And the self-deprecating joke was always close to his lips.

  Neville was hovering nearby. He clinked the ice in his daiquiri to signal his presence. They were drinking daiquiris in honour of Papa Hemingway who had virtually invented the Cuban version of the cocktail. Presumably, thought Catesby, to resolve his internal conflicts.

  ‘I say,’ said Neville to Guevara, ‘is it true that Ava Gardner used to swim naked in this pool?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Che looked at the thick layer of green slime and leaves in the bottom of the empty pool. ‘I would rather swim in the sea – even when we have hurricanes.’

  Catesby remembered his first Cuban hurricane and his first experience of car surfing. He was walking hunched against the wind and driving rain towards the sea for no other reason than he wanted to see the fury of the waves. As a boy in Lowestoft he had often done the same. It was late afternoon and the streets were deserted. Sensible Cubans were battened up in their houses. Suddenly and from nowhere a blue and white Chevrolet Belair pulled up alongside him. The windows were so dripping he couldn’t see who was inside until the driver wound down his window a fraction. It was Che. ‘Get in William, you’ll love this.’

  Someone pushed open the back door and Catesby tumbled into a warm fug of perfume and cigar smoke. He found himself sitting next to Katya who was wearing a black skirt and a beige blouse. Her husband was in the front passenger seat holding a camera. Spies with cameras always made Catesby anxious, but he quickly realised that General Alekseev was only interested in snapping the hurricane.

  Catesby leaned forward to Che. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Car surfing.’

  It was impossible to actually see where they were going. The wipers were powerless against deluge rain whipped by hundred miles per hour winds. It seemed, however, that they were heading towards the harbour entrance. Che kerbed the car several times as he swerved to avoid fallen trees. The conditions were awful, but it was also apparent that Che was a terrible driver – and the Chevrolet seemed a very flimsy and tinny car to be facing such a tempest. Catesby leaned forward and tapped Alekseev’s shoulder. ‘I wish we were in one of your sturdy Volgas.’

  Alekseev smiled and winked. ‘No, no, we must be in this car. It’s a Che Vrolet.’

  Katya groaned. ‘Oh, Zhenka, you’ve made that joke several times already.’

  ‘But,’ said Catesby, ‘I’ve never heard it before and I think it’s very witty.’

  Alekseev smiled gratitude.

  Catesby kept looking through the awash windscreen to get his bearings. He could just about make out the grey turrets of San Salvador de la Punta, the sixteenth-century fortress that guarded the western approaches to Havana Harbour.

  What happened next was one of the most extraordinary experiences of Catesby’s life. Directly in front of t
he car was a seawall and accompanying roadway called the Malecón. It stretched along the Gulf of Mexico for five miles until it reached the Rio Almendares which separated Vedado and its derelict casinos from Miramar. In clement weather, the Malecón was where Havana’s young gathered to talk and sing and flirt. There were always drums, guitars and rumba dancing. But now the Malecón was a white hell of boiling surf and crashing waves. Catesby watched not just spray but thick dark curtains of water rise forty feet after impacting the seawall – and then collapse on the road like the brick wall of a bombed building. Meanwhile, Che was gunning the car engine.

  Catesby leaned forward. ‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’

  Che raised his fist in salute and shouted, ‘Hasta la victoria siempre!’

  As the car hit the first crashing wave Catesby felt it lurch violently to one side. The wheels on the seaward side were lifted clear of the road surface and it seemed certain that they were going to flip over. Catesby felt Katya pluck at his sleeve with her left hand. The wave retreated and the car landed back on all fours with a thump. The roof of the Chevrolet flexed inwards as tons of water thundered down on it, but then popped back again as Che pressed the accelerator to the floor to power through the next breaking wave.

  There were times when the car really did surf, floating free of the road for two, three or four seconds, before the wheels found the concrete again like the paws of a leaping cat. But the most abiding impression was of white pulsating walls of foam and spray that covered the car in rough caresses. Catesby felt Katya thrown against him as the Chevrolet was broadsided by a bull-headed wave. Her hand was on his thigh. Meanwhile Alekseev was snapping photos of giant claw-like waves that reminded him of Hokusai’s print.