The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘What about the letter?’

  ‘My bosses want me to match up the handwriting to make sure it really is from Dr Tarasov.’

  ‘That’s fair enough, but I’ve already checked the handwriting against other documents – and it is his.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Catesby, ‘the Sovs forced Tarasov to write a letter about an incident that never happened.’ He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that his doubts about authenticity were fake ones. Catesby didn’t want to arouse Galen’s suspicions. Nonetheless, he knew he had to ask all the sceptical questions that a fellow professional like Galen would expect.

  ‘In any case, why would the Russians want to exaggerate their weakness and vulnerability by forging such a letter?’

  Catesby shrugged. ‘How much do you want?’

  ‘Two hundred thousand US dollars.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘But that includes the photos and documents identifying Arlekin.’

  ‘Arlekin?’

  ‘I should have told you. That’s what the Russians and East Germans call your man who did the secret deal. It’s Russian for Harlequin.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I forget, William, that you are a talented linguist.’

  ‘How about dona nobis pacem?’

  ‘Freedom is more important than peace, William. I’m sure you agree with that too.’

  It’s funny, thought Catesby, the people who spout that stuff about freedom usually haven’t been in a war – especially if they’re Americans.

  ‘When you consider the issues involved,’ said Galen, ‘it’s not really a lot of money. You’re going to get rid of a traitor in your ranks – and you’re going to make sure neither Washington nor anyone else ever gets to see Dr Tarasov’s letter.’

  Catesby knew that the last was an unenforceable promise. Galen had surely copied the letter and would be using the threat of passing on copies of the letter to ensure future payments. But it wasn’t going to matter. Catesby looked at Galen out of the corner of his eye. He must have been bullied unmercifully at school. He would have disliked Galen a lot more if he wasn’t going to have to kill him. Having to do that always made you feel sorry for them. It always made them human and vulnerable and even likeable in a way they wouldn’t have been otherwise. At least that’s what it was like for Catesby – except for once.

  ‘And what,’ said Galen, ‘about the young lady?’

  ‘She’ll be there.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘The place we’re going to meet to do the deal – she’ll arrive afterwards. But,’ said Catesby smiling, ‘it’s just a grotty safe house so you might want to take her to a swish hotel. And, to be frank, you can’t trust those colleagues of mine. I think they’ve put cameras in the bedroom ceiling.’

  ‘Would you give me a copy of the film?’ Galen suddenly blushed. ‘That was a joke, William, just a joke.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Catesby wrote something on a piece of paper. ‘It’s on Gladstone Street, near the Albert Arms. It’s South London, not far from where Charlie Chaplin was born.’

  ‘Chaplin’s a communist, you know.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he took the piss out of Hitler,’ said Catesby aware that Galen wouldn’t pick up the irony.

  ‘That’s the problem with people like Chaplin,’ said Galen. ‘They use being anti-Nazi or anti-fascist as cover for being pro-communist.’

  Maybe, thought Catesby, killing Galen wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

  The advantage of the Gladstone Street house was that it had vehicle access to the rear. The back of the house overlooked a marshalling yard for British Rail freight. It was dark and bleak in the night drizzle. Catesby kept watch from the upstairs back bedroom with the light off. He was anxiously waiting for Bone who was supposed to nick Galen’s Ford.

  The bloody car was a pain. It was the one thing most likely to make the whole plan go tits up. Galen had an embassy pool car, but only used it for trips outside London. He kept the big Ford in a lockup garage near his rather grand house in Hampstead. It was going to be Bone’s job to pick the lock on the garage, which should be pretty easy – and then, one hoped, start the car with a set of skeleton keys. If that didn’t work, Bone would have to hotwire the car: battery, coil, starter solenoid. He had spent an hour practising at the motor pool in Vauxhall that SIS shared with Five.

  And, even if all that went to plan, what about the car keys? It wouldn’t be a problem if Galen had the keys with him. But what if he hadn’t? The cops investigating the ‘suicide’ would want to know what happened to the keys. Why weren’t they in the car or on Galen’s person? They would, of course, do a fingertip search of the area around the body and not find them. Catesby and Bone had discussed the possibility of a ‘black bag job’, a break-in, on Galen’s house. But it wasn’t worth the risk. What if he kept the keys in a desk in his office? Little details, like those bleeding car keys, were what gave spies sleepless nights.

  Catesby knew it was an American car as soon as he saw the wide powerful sweep of headlights against the chain link fence of the railway yard. The big Ford turned up the alleyway and stopped at the back gate where there was a coal bunker and an unused outdoors privy. Catesby went downstairs to unlock the back door and signalled the coast was clear.

  Bone came into the house via a dank damp scullery. He was smiling and swinging something over his head. ‘The keys,’ said Bone, ‘they were in the ignition. What luck.’

  ‘Thanks for doing this, Henry. I know it’s beneath your pay grade.’

  ‘It was great fun. Besides, you needed be here waiting for Galen. No show yet?’

  ‘Not a dicky bird.’

  ‘Is the house wired up?’

  ‘Definitely not,’ said Catesby. ‘We can’t risk a breach of trust at this point.’

  ‘You haven’t lost the money, have you?’

  ‘Stop worrying.’ Losing one of SIS’s currency stashes was a constant nightmare.

  ‘I don’t think,’ said Bone, ‘I should be in the house. I’ll wait in the car.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  Catesby sat in the front room and waited. This time with the lights on. It was still cold so he struck a match to ignite a gas fire that was set into a black cast-iron Victorian fire surround. Safe houses were always grim soulless places for grim soulless people. The sitting room with its grey linoleum floor, tatty scatter rugs, peeling wallpaper and brown three-piece suite was as gruesome and desolate as the job Catesby was going to have to do. Could, he thought, anyone actually live in such a place? Of course not. To live wasn’t the point. Not if he did his job. There were two glasses and a bottle of whisky on the Formica coffee table in front of the sofa. Catesby opened the bottle and poured himself a drink.

  It was just gone eleven when Catesby heard the taxi pull up. It was drinking-up time at the Albert Arms and the landlord was bellowing, ‘Hurry up please, it’s time.’ Another thing that Eliot got right in the poem. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.

  Catesby listened to Galen paying the taxi driver. That was another problem. If the thing ended up in the press would the driver see it and go to the cops? No, he’d keep it from the police, but he would tell all his mates and passengers. You know that Yank geezer that topped himself …

  Catesby continued to listen. Galen waited until the taxi was gone before he came to the door. Good professionalism. He could hear the American breathing and waiting at the door. He finally knocked lightly and Catesby let him in.

  ‘How you doing?’ Galen pumped Catesby’s hand in his pink fist as if he were his best friend, only friend.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘Now, William, I don’t want you to be offended.’ Galen took a heavy-looking bag off his shoulder and unzipped it. ‘I trust you completely, but I don’t know about the others. I just want to do a little anti-bug sweep before we go any further.’ Galen put on a set of headphones and started waving what looked like a microphone around the room. He was very thorough and covered every nook and c
revice. He finally smiled and took off the headphones. ‘Clean as a whistle.’ He patted the anti-surveillance device. ‘Nothing gets past this baby.’

  ‘Good. I’m actually very relieved that you did that. Some of my colleagues spend more time spying on us than they do the enemy.’

  ‘But they have to. It’s a pity they didn’t do more of it when Burgess and Maclean were around.’

  ‘We’ve learnt the lesson.’

  ‘But maybe you haven’t.’ Galen passed over the envelope with the Arlekin photos and details. ‘We had to find this fellow for you. What do you expect will happen to Mr Bone?’

  ‘He’ll be arrested and severely interrogated. We’ll want to find out who else was involved. I agree it looks like he was acting on behalf of the Labour shadow minister you call WAXWING. If there is a trial, I hope it isn’t in camera. I think this thing needs a public airing and full press coverage.’

  Galen smiled. ‘I totally agree – and so does Jim Angleton. But you didn’t seem too happy about that prospect when we had that meeting in the Dorchester.’

  ‘I suppose you could say that my public face isn’t the same as my private one. Sometimes you have to perform for certain audiences.’

  ‘Like Henry Bone.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Have you suspected Bone before?’

  ‘Constantly, ever since I first started working for him. But he’s a very powerful cunning man. You have to watch your step if you want to survive.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  I bet you do, thought Catesby.

  ‘Have another look,’ said Galen nodding at the envelope, ‘at the case for the prosecution.’

  There were a number of new documents. Most relating to the Labour politician that Angleton wanted to nail. There were also more affidavits claiming sightings of Bone in the Swedish port town. The hatchet job was impressive, but not watertight. Basically you can stitch anyone you want if you go to enough trouble. Truth was an oft-violated maiden. And the ones who violated her most were the rich and powerful.

  ‘But this,’ said Galen handing another envelope, ‘is the jewel in the crown.’

  Catesby slipped out the letter and read the Cyrillic script yet again, but for the first time on the paper and ink original.

  My darling sweetest Katyusha … The fires continued to burn for more than two hours until well after dark … The fire at the centre was 3000 degrees … This is a serious and tragic time for our Motherland. Most of our best scientists and rocket engineers are now dead …

  ‘You realise, of course,’ said Galen, ‘why that letter is so important for Britain, for your country, William?’

  Catesby nodded.

  ‘If the Pentagon knew about this, if they knew how weak our Soviet enemies are in reality …’ Galen’s eyes had grown intense and distorted behind the thick lenses of his glasses. ‘The Joint Chiefs of Staff, William, are good men. They see it as their patriotic duty to eliminate the Russian threat before it grows into a monster that can strike the American homeland – even if it means disobeying orders from the White House.’ Galen shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, Britain would be destroyed by the Soviet Union’s intermediate-range ballistic missiles. But our generals regard the sacrifice of our British ally as a price worth paying to eliminate communism once and for all.’

  ‘But surely, you agree with the generals?’

  ‘But I also need the money.’ Galen laughed. ‘In fact, this letter is so important to the United Kingdom that I ought to be asking a hell of a lot more for it.’

  ‘But we’re throwing in the girl for free.’

  ‘What time does she get here?’

  ‘Just after midnight.’

  Catesby knew that the girl and the two hundred thousand were just the first tranches in Galen’s blackmail plan. Galen wasn’t stupid. He would later admit that he had kept copies of the letter – and that the UK treasury would have to keep coughing up to keep those copies safe. And, maybe someday, Galen would have a fit of patriotism. He would pass the letter on to the Pentagon and the bombs would rain down in any case. That’s why they had to kill Galen now.

  ‘What’s the matter, William, you look very strange and far away?’

  ‘I was just thinking about Andreas.’

  ‘You mean Mrs Alekseeva’s lover?’

  ‘That’s the one. Did you have Andreas killed?’ Catesby meant it as a genuine question. It was a mystery that still hadn’t been resolved.

  Galen laughed. ‘No, but we would have if someone else hadn’t killed him first. We were afraid that he was going to give a copy of the letter to you guys. I’m sure he photographed it.’

  Catesby was certain that Galen was telling the truth. There was no logical reason for him not to. ‘Who do you think killed Andreas?’

  ‘I think the East Germans did it because they found out Andreas was selling stuff to us. Or maybe you did it?’

  ‘No,’ Catesby smiled bleakly and lifted the letter, ‘we would have wanted this first – and then we would have killed him. In any case,’ Catesby opened the suitcase on the sofa next to him, ‘would you like to count the money?’

  ‘But I trust you, William.’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ Catesby lifted the whisky bottle. ‘To seal the deal so to speak?’

  Galen gave a very nervous smile.

  ‘Ahh, I thought you trusted me.’ Catesby drained his glass, refilled it direct from the bottle and drank that too. ‘No ill effects, at least not yet.’

  ‘I would like a drink, thank you.’

  Catesby poured the whisky into Galen’s glass and watched the American sip it.

  ‘This is very good Scotch.’ Galen smiled. ‘I can’t taste the poison at all.’

  ‘Good. It’s a single malt from Islay. They say it has a smoky flavour because of the peat, but I’m no expert.’

  The American swirled the whisky around and sniffed the rich aroma. ‘I like it.’

  Catesby smiled wanly as Galen finished his glass. Come on you little bastard, don’t you want it on the rocks?

  ‘I think I’ll have another.’ Galen helped himself to the whisky. ‘You know Jim is completely right. The UK government is in mortal danger of being infiltrated by sleeper agents controlled by Moscow. You’ve got to get rid of them – especially WAXWING.’

  ‘Who are the others?’

  Galen recited a list of names that included the most humane and progressive voices in British politics. Basically, anyone who wasn’t a dupe of Washington and big business was a traitor. It was the same picture the Vichy collaborators tried to paint in occupied France. The troublemakers were the Resistance. The patriots were the collabos.

  Catesby watched the level of whisky in the bottle diminish. He didn’t want to suggest ‘rocks’ for that might give the game away. Perhaps, thought Catesby, he could put ice in his own whisky and Galen would follow suit. One side of the ice tray had been filled with uncontaminated cubes just for such a ruse. It was on the left when you opened the freezer compartment.

  Galen looked up as if he had read Catesby’s mind. ‘Would it,’ he said, ‘be sacrilege to put ice in this very excellent whisky?’

  ‘Not at all. In fact, the people of Islay always drink their whisky with ice – when they have it. But I’m not sure we have any ice. I’ll check in the fridge.’

  A moment later Catesby came back bearing the aluminium ice-cube tray. ‘We’re in luck,’ he said lifting it. It was just then that he slid on a scatter rug. The rugs moved like sleds on the smooth lino. He didn’t fall down, but the ice tray did a few somersaults in midair before Catesby caught it.

  ‘I didn’t know you were a ballet dancer,’ said Galen clapping.

  But it wasn’t funny. Catesby now couldn’t tell which side of the tray was poisoned.

  ‘Help yourself first,’ said Galen.

  Catesby popped a cube out of the tray and put it in his own whisky. He then popped two cubes from the opposite side and plopped them in Galen’s glass.

/>   ‘Cheers,’ said Catesby raising the glass to his lips. He quickly sipped the whisky before the ice had a chance to melt and he tried not to grimace when the cube touched his upper lip. No more, he thought. If I got it wrong, I’ll just strangle him. It’s not worth it.

  Galen continued to drink steadily. He began to seem a little drunk. The American eventually looked closely at Catesby. ‘You don’t seem to be drinking much, my friend.’

  ‘I’m not really a whisky drinker.’

  ‘But this is lovely stuff.’ There was a note of suspicion in Galen’s voice.

  Catesby looked at his glass. The ice cube had nearly melted. He raised the glass and said, ‘Cheers.’ He then knocked it back in one.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ said Galen a little slurred. ‘You don’t look very well.’

  Catesby was holding his stomach. ‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ He took off running to the kitchen and put his head in the sink. The problem was that he wasn’t being sick. Catesby thrust two fingers deep down his throat. He was desperate to vomit up the whisky, but nothing would come. He felt beads of sweat bursting on his brow. He tried again. Still no vomit. He looked around the kitchen for something to stick down his throat – or some chemical to make him vomit. It was then that he heard a muffled thump from the sitting room. Catesby’s stomach suddenly settled. He had chosen a poison-free cube after all.

  When Catesby got back to the room. Galen was sitting upright on the floor with his legs flayed out in front of him. His glasses had fallen off. Without the glasses his eyes looked soft and human. Galen had a Smith & Wesson .32 in his hand, but seemed too weary to point it. The American stared for a second into inner space then fell over flat. Catesby pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. The rule was no fingerprints. For a second he thought about checking for a pulse. But what was the point?

  The London plane trees in Green Park still hadn’t come into leaf, but seemed on the verge of unfolding. It was one of those spring days when wearing an overcoat makes you sweat, but taking it off makes you shiver. Catesby and Bone were sitting on opposite ends of the park bench as if they were strangers or a couple who had quarrelled.