The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘I suppose,’ said Fournier, ‘a psychiatrist could work it all out. Maybe Jennings felt he had to compensate for the recently acquired pleasures of the marriage bed – but I think there was more to it.’

  ‘You’re talking about flagellation?’

  ‘It became one of his obsessions.’

  ‘How,’ said Catesby, ‘do you know all this?’

  ‘When Jennings arrived in Germany he made me his confidante. It was partly because we had been on the induction course together, but more so because he knew that I was a “fallen away Catholic” and wanted to bring me back to the Church.’

  ‘So you could whip him?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Jennings whipped himself and also got his wife to do it. But her heart wasn’t in it and she never hit him hard enough to give satisfaction. And, of course, he whipped her too – I suppose he saw her as some sort of Whore of Babylon who needed to be punished for loving him.’

  ‘It’s difficult to see where religion ends and the other stuff begins.’

  ‘I agree absolutely, but I never told him that. Maybe Jennings already knew. In any case, the poor wife wasn’t living up to his expectations – especially with her whip hand – and Jennings became a frequent user of prostitutes, even addicted to them you might say.’

  ‘And he told you all this too?’

  Fournier gave a wry smile. ‘Well, some of it, but most of it I found out myself.’

  ‘How and why?’

  ‘I was asked to investigate Jennings by our Chief of Station. It wasn’t a question of moral prudery – we’re a lot more open-minded in those areas than you think. It was a question of where the hell was Jennings getting the money to pay for all those Fräuleins.’

  ‘Why are you smiling?’

  ‘Because, William, the answer is so wonderful. Absolutely priceless. Jennings spent most of his time in our Munich office – practically ran it in fact. Does the name Eugenio Pacelli ring a bell?’

  ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Pacelli became better known as Pope Pius XII. His first big job was Apostolic Nuncio to Germany from 1920 to 1929. Pacelli was later notorious for his role in negotiating the Reichskonkordat between the Vatican and Nazi Germany. In any case, from 1920 to 1925 the future pope was based in Munich.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘And Jennings ended up in Munich – I see where this is heading.’

  ‘Clever boy. Jennings took advantage of his Munich posting – together with the open-sesames of his Opus Dei membership – to do a job of dirt-digging that was close to genius.’

  ‘Sex, money, war crimes?’

  ‘Definitely the first two – and complicity in the last. I wish that I could tell you more, but I never actually got a chance to see all the files because Jennings had already sold them.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘To the Vatican, of course. Apparently, they have to shell out for this sort of stuff all the time.’

  ‘Did you confront Jennings Galen about your findings?’

  ‘Of course not, it wasn’t my job. I packed up the stuff and sent it off to DC “eyes only” to Angleton. He had just been appointed Head of Counterintelligence.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. The situation benefited everyone concerned. Jennings is no fool. He had already sent a copy of the incriminating Pacelli file to Angleton. And Angleton, of course, was delighted. The file meant that the CIA had loads of dirt to blackmail the Vatican into supplying false passports and other services. The Church is a much more important international player than people realise.’

  ‘Did Jennings confess to Angleton about blackmailing the Vatican?’

  ‘I don’t think so. At least not at first, but when he did own up Angleton would have been even more pleased. Angleton knows that he has acquired one extremely loyal and devoted servant in the person of Jennings Galen. If Jennings ever fails to do his master’s bidding, he’ll end up in a federal penitentiary.’

  ‘And how does the Vatican gain?’

  ‘They can be damned sure that the incriminating horrors in the Pacelli file are well and truly buried. The CIA may have dirt on the Vatican, but the Church has its own cartload full of shit to throw at the CIA. At the moment they want to hush the Montini rumours – assuming the CIA can still squash a newspaper or two.’

  ‘Who’s Montini?’

  ‘You mean you’ve never heard of Cardinal Montini?

  ‘No.’

  ‘Montini is pencilled in to be next pope after John XXIII. But, I suppose, by Vatican standards it’s not much of a scandal. Montini used to have an actor boyfriend who dyed his hair red. Pacelli, to be fair, wasn’t so much concerned about one of his cardinals having a boyfriend, it was the hair dye and the theatre connections. Standards, you know. Pacelli wasn’t just a pope, he was also the snootiest of aristocrats.

  Once again, Catesby realised that Fournier was a gossip columnist manqué, but one who needed steering back to the main business. ‘Did Jennings remain in Opus Dei?’

  ‘Very much so. From an outsider’s point of view blackmailing the Church doesn’t seem the sort of thing loyal Catholics do. But Opus Dei likes to keep the Vatican off balance.’

  ‘And did his love life change?’

  ‘It got even more sordid. I don’t know whether or not Jennings knew that I had been investigating him, but he even got more pally with me. He started showing me pictures of his wife in various states of undress and positions. He had taken to giving her knock-out drugs. I think he preferred doing things to her when she was unconscious. He wanted me to join in.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘Of course not, what do you think I am?’

  Catesby bit his tongue.

  ‘No way was I going down that route. Instead, I reported it all to the Chief of Station, copied to Washington, but nothing ever came of it as far as I know.’ Fournier paused. ‘Oh, and one other thing, Jennings organised the ratline that Klaus Barbie used to get to Bolivia.’

  Barbie, also known as the Butcher of Lyon, was a Gestapo officer that the CIA had helped escape in a programme know as PAPERCLIP. The rationale was that Barbie was too valuable as an intelligence asset to send to Nuremberg.

  ‘You hated us for that. Didn’t you, William?’

  Catesby nodded.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you something. I hated us for doing that too.’ Fournier drained his wine glass. ‘It was when I first began to turn.’ Fournier laughed and refilled his glass. ‘And probably the first step on the journey that brought me to this cold damp treeless island.’

  ‘You have to look on the bright side, Kit.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘When’s there’s a nuclear war this will the safest place in the world.’ Catesby smiled and helped himself to more wine. ‘You are, Kit, our most valuable asset. We sent you here to protect you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And, Kit, one more thing about Galen. You said he drinks a lot?’

  ‘Not as much as Angleton, but a lot.’

  ‘What does he drink?’

  ‘Scotch.’

  ‘On the rocks?’

  ‘Always on the rocks. He’s an American for chrissake – we even drink tea on the rocks.’

  Henry Bone kept nodding approval as he read Catesby’s report on the Fournier debriefing. He looked up at Catesby over the top of his reading glasses. ‘This is great stuff, William. You always do an excellent job of establishing rapport with prisoners.’

  ‘In this case it was genuine friendship.’

  Bone nodded. ‘That’s what we have to keep teaching our younger officers. They have to convince every agent they’re running that they are their best and only friend.’

  The problem, Catesby realised, was that the people you had to deal with were often vile, gross, filthy and prone to repulsive habits they wanted to share with you personally. If you don’t like the world’s most depraved, then spying isn’t the job for you. And yet, those who deserved friendship least were often the ones wh
o needed it most. Catesby reckoned that Jennings Galen fell into that category – and Galen’s neediness would be the path to his undoing.

  ‘The information you brought back,’ continued Bone, ‘ties in neatly with what our new man in Washington has sent. Liaison, by the way, with our American counterparts is much improved. The Bay of Pigs has created such an atmosphere of blame in DC that senior CIA officers are queuing up to rubbish their colleagues to anyone – even us. Meanwhile, the FBI have got their knives out for all of the CIA. Which is probably how our man got this stuff on Galen.’ Bone pushed a single page report across his desk. ‘Have a look.’

  Catesby glanced at the report and summarised: ‘Marriage has split up, financial difficulties, heavy drinking, suspected suicide attempt, taking anti-depressants as well as amphetamines – I suppose he needs the uppers for the day job.’ Catesby passed the page back. ‘It sounds like Jennings Galen isn’t the happiest rabbit in the warren.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.’

  The daffodils in St James’s Park were in full bloom. Catesby and Bone followed the footpath that connected Birdcage Walk to the Mall via Blue Bridge which spanned the lake. The two men, with their suits, bowler hats and rolled umbrellas, looked like stereotypical Whitehall civil servants. The look didn’t come natural to Catesby. He had to be poured and moulded into the image. It had taken a few years, but now the point of his brolly tapped the footpath in the proper cadence – and his Oxford shoes shone impeccably whatever the weather and his regimental tie was knotted into a perfect four-in-hand.

  They stopped briefly, as always, to admire the view of Horse Guards and Whitehall from the bridge. Then they continued on. It was a balmy spring day and the tulips and hyacinths were out early.

  ‘“April,”’ quoted Bone, ‘“is the cruellest month.” At least Eliot got that bit right.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like Eliot.’

  ‘I don’t. He tries too hard to be British and ends up looking like a cartoon parody. But April certainly is the cruellest month. There are statistics to prove it.’

  ‘What are you on about, Henry?’

  ‘More people commit suicide in April than any other month. It must be the utter contrast between the life and beauty bursting around them and their own miserable inner feelings.’

  ‘Don’t do it, Henry. We’ll all miss you.’ Catesby laughed. ‘You’ve got so much to live for.’

  ‘Once again, William, your attempt to be droll and ironic has fallen flat. And, actually, I do have a lot to live for. And, in any case, I wasn’t reflecting on my own self-destruction.’ Bone stopped and stared into the distance. ‘But someone else’s. And when you do these things you’ve got to get it right.’

  ‘Sometimes it’s easier just to kill the person and get rid of the body.’

  ‘But not as complete – and it doesn’t send a precise signal of doubt.’

  ‘How can doubt be precise?’

  ‘It is precise when the target you are aiming at is uncertainty itself. Sometimes confusion is better than disinformation. People don’t act when they’re confused.’

  They left St James’s and crossed the Mall to continue their stroll in Green Park. Catesby preferred the trees and shadows of Green Park to the almost tropical lushness of St James’s. It was a calmer, a quieter place to talk of killing. You couldn’t of course call it murder. As Max Weber pointed out, the one monopoly that the state keeps for itself is violence. The state alone can kill legally. Ultimately, it’s what those uniforms and flags are all about.

  ‘You’ve obviously decided,’ said Catesby, ‘that we need to get rid of Jennings Galen.’

  ‘I can’t see that there’s an alternative. But we need to squeeze him first to see what else he knows.’

  ‘If we squeeze him too hard it’s not going to look like suicide.’

  ‘We’re not going to torture him, Catesby. In any case, the experts say it doesn’t work, but what do they know? No, William, you’re going to be his friend – a friend with very deep pockets.’

  ‘Henry, you’ve left something out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You still haven’t told me why we have to kill Galen.’

  Bone smiled bleakly. ‘What makes you think it’s any of your business?’

  ‘Fine, but let me have a guess. Galen really does know the identity of the bloke who stitched up some sort of deal with the Kremlin geezers – and you and your pals are running scared?’

  ‘Your supposition is eloquently put, but not necessarily a correct one.’

  ‘But Henry, supposing it is correct? Surely, Galen has already passed on the information to his boss in DC – so there’s no point in killing him as a hush job.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ smiled Bone, ‘Galen is a greedy bitch.’

  Everyone calls it Brompton Oratory, but they shouldn’t. Its proper name is the London Oratory Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Which is quite a mouthful. And would only confuse a taxi driver. Which is why Catesby simply told Galen to meet him at Brompton Oratory.

  Catesby was kneeling in the pew nearest the Lady Chapel. He had considered bringing a rosary so he could count off the beads as he pretended to mumble Hail Marys, but thought that would be laying it on too thick. So instead he just clasped his hands, bowed his head and recited the names of Ipswich Town football players: ‘Blessed art thou Roy Bailey in goal and hallowed be thy name Ray Crawford …’ Catesby paused. He heard a door open, then footsteps squeaking up the nave on the parquet floor. Catesby closed his eyes and mumbled the names of more conventional, though less useful, saints. The steps came closer and paused next to the pew.

  The new visitor coughed softly. Catesby continued to pretend to be lost in prayer. The visitor clumsily slipped into the pew. Catesby opened his eyes and looked at Galen. ‘Sorry, I was far away.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the American.

  ‘It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?’ As Catesby spoke the organ started to boom Couperin’s Sanctus. ‘Except when Father Emile gets going.’

  ‘Is this your parish church?’

  ‘Yes. It’s rather magnificent, don’t you think?’ Catesby tried to drain his voice of irony. In actual fact, he found the flamboyant baroque of the Oratory unspeakably vulgar and overcooked.

  Galen looked in awe at the altar and crossed himself. ‘It is so beautiful.’

  ‘You ought to come here to Mass.’

  ‘I’d very much like that,’ said Galen, ‘we could take communion together.’

  Catesby tried to hide his revulsion. The ‘friendship’ with Galen was the most nauseating duty he had ever undertaken – especially the feigned mutual interest in religion. The organist was now playing the toccata from Widor’s Wedding March. Catesby wished that Henry Bone hadn’t found his way into the organ loft. He feared Bone’s sense of humour was going to give the game away.

  ‘Have you,’ said Galen, ‘considered my offer to introduce you to Opus Dei? You would start as a supernumerary member.’

  ‘I am not sure that I am worthy.’

  ‘You are, my friend, you are.’

  Catesby didn’t know how much longer he could bear such oily sincerity. Fortunately, the friendship with Galen was turning more and more to espionage matters. The use of shared religious conviction, however, had been an excellent ploy. There was something about religion that created unquestioning trust and allegiance. School ties and being members of the same golf club created rivalry rather than loyalty. In Galen’s mind, Catesby was a fellow Roman Catholic soldier. Other differences were irrelevant.

  ‘Last time,’ said Galen, ‘you told me you wanted more verification about how I identified your English colleague. Don’t think for a second that I doubted your trust in me. I know that you have to have proof to provide to other people. I’ve brought some things with me.’ Galen slid an envelope across the pew.

  ‘From the Swedish end?’

  ‘That’s right, a very reliable agent.’

  Catesby
slid the document and photos out of the envelope. He recognised the handwriting and the stilted English. Galen was using the same Säpo intelligence officer that Catesby used – another ‘double dipper’.

  ‘The first set of photos,’ said Galen, ‘were taken on the Sassnitz-Trelleborg ferry. The Swedish intelligence service always have an agent on the boat.’ The ferry, as Catesby well knew, was part of a boat-train that ran from Berlin to Trelleborg on the southern tip of Sweden via the Isle of Rügen port of Sassnitz. It was a convenient way of getting agents into and out of the East bloc. Consequently, it was under heavy surveillance. The train toilets were notorious as dead letter boxes.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Galen.

  ‘The photos from the ferry are not high quality, but the person does bear a resemblance. But, I agree, it certainly is the Sassnitz boat-train.’ It was one of the few boat-trains where the train actually goes on the boat. Catesby looked at the other photos. ‘But this one is definitely him. Where were they taken?’

  ‘In front of a hotel in Trelleborg.’

  Catesby looked closely at the photos. There were only two of them. One of them was taken from behind the man. The Hotel Horizont and a Volvo taxi with Swedish number plates are clearly visible. Both photos were taken at night. The photo showing the man’s face is set against a background of car and streetlight glare. He put the photos and covering letter in the envelope and handed them back to Galen.

  ‘You’ve certainly nailed him,’ said Catesby.

  ‘Don’t you want to keep them?’

  Catesby smiled. ‘I would love to, but I don’t want to take them back to the office with that chap prowling around. And besides, I haven’t got the money.’