The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘Why don’t you just admit it, Henry, you’re Arlekin?’ As Catesby spoke, his eyes settled on a young woman in jeans and a thick turtleneck sitting cross-legged on the grass. She had a raincoat tucked beneath her and was sketching the trees. Bursting life drawing bursting life. ‘And the real reason we killed Galen was to save you.’

  ‘If it pleases you, Catesby, I’ll confess all. I am Arlekin. It was I who travelled to the DDR to meet with the Soviet leadership. And I also admit that killing Galen was useful to my career.’ Bone laughed bleakly. ‘It might have been useful to everyone.’

  ‘Don’t be facetious.’

  ‘Let’s put it this way, William. If I’m not Arlekin, I am quite willing to take the rap for the person who is.’

  ‘Now you’re talking riddles.’ Catesby laughed. ‘But maybe you honestly don’t know who you are or where you’ve been. Maybe you’re totally mad.’

  ‘It is an occupational illness. But an illness that I’ve escaped,’ Bone paused, ‘so far.’

  There was a point for many, Catesby well knew, when the layers and layers of deception became too much. When every doubled agent was doubled back again; when every defector was a fake; when every coveted piece of intelligence was a crafted lie; when truth itself was so dressed in falsehood that you longed again for lies.

  ‘I suppose,’ said Catesby, ‘that I ought to apologise to you.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For accusing you of having Galen killed to save your own skin?’

  Bone looked at Catesby. ‘My own skin is a very minor part of it. Don’t you understand what’s happened?’

  Catesby shook his head.

  ‘You were the one who predicted it. All those months ago on Dunwich Beach – and I laughed at you.’

  ‘And that’s what the meeting in the DDR was about?’

  ‘Yes, in a nutshell.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘We were informed …’

  ‘Who do you mean by “we”?’

  ‘“We” doesn’t imply “I”. And I’m not going to give you a guest list either. But let’s put it this way. There was more than one, how shall I say it?’ Bone looked closely at Catesby. ‘More than one ally present.’

  Catesby knew there was a reason why Bone was giving him a clue. And a reason why he wasn’t saying more. Catesby’s eyes returned to the young woman bent over her sketch pad drawing trees. She caught a strand of hair with her index finger and tucked it behind her ear. Catesby’s heart was bursting – not with love or desire – but simply the overwhelming urge to protect.

  ‘We were informed,’ said Bone, ‘that a decision had been made – and that there was nothing we could do to change that decision.’ Bone looked straight ahead and explained what the decision entailed. His voice was a monotone like a tired barrister summing up. Each apocalyptic detail made Catesby’s blood run colder. And yet he wasn’t surprised. Death was always more predictable than life. When Bone had finished he looked at Catesby. His voice had turned almost cheery. They had passed from horror into the humour of the gallows. ‘So what do you think of that?’

  ‘I think the Americans ought to get used to it – just like we have.’

  ‘But that’s not going to happen. They think they’re special – “one nation under God”. The rest of the world can go hang.’ Bone paused. His eyes fixed on an elderly couple walking arm in arm. Behind them the faded decorum of a Regency townhouse. ‘Now you know why we had to kill Galen. If the American generals find out about the Russian rocket disaster at Baikonur, they’ll know that the Soviet Union hasn’t a single missile that can reach the USA. They’ll want a pre-emptive strike to take out Moscow and the Soviet military.’

  Catesby stared bleakly into nothingness until he saw an image of his own self as a ragged urchin running down to Lowestoft harbour to beg a few herring from a docking steam drifter. The fishermen always obliged because they were kind and knew what it was like to be poor.

  ‘Of course,’ continued Bone, ‘a prudent president usually has the power to stop the generals. But not,’ Bone shook his head with grim finality, ‘but not when confronted with this new situation.’ Bone waved his umbrella at the London cityscape. ‘Look around, William, the new Hiroshima. The revenging bombs won’t fall on Washington, they’ll fall here.’

  ‘But there’s another option.’ Catesby said what it was.

  ‘If that happens, the result would be an even messier and prolonged world war with one stage of escalation inevitably leading to another.’

  ‘Why?’

  Bone gave him the facts in low measured words.

  Catesby stared bleakly across the park, no longer seeing the young woman bent over her sketch pad, but only fires of conflagration leaping from radiated sinking ships to apocalypse Berlin and the funeral pyres of Warsaw, Paris, Prague, Rome and London.

  ‘And that,’ said Bone, ‘is why you need to get back to Havana. We need the facts, the proof.’

  It was the first time that Catesby had been to a béisbol game and Fidel Castro was pitching. Fidel’s team were called los Barbudos, ‘the bearded ones’, and were playing an exhibition against los Tigres, one of Cuba’s best professional teams. The game, like much else in Cuban life, was taking place at night. The lights of Estadio Latinoamericano flickered and popped as if they were a giant firework – every few seconds a bulb disintegrated into a tiny shower of glowing tungsten.

  Catesby had been invited to the game by Lionel, the Canadian diplomat whom he had denounced to Che as an American spy. It was an awkward social situation. Catesby hardly knew the Canadian at all – and assumed the invite was because Lionel suspected him of being the grass. He half-expected that the Canadian was going to use the occasion to shout abuse at him and maybe even punch him in the nose. But, at least at first, Lionel seemed more interested in talking about baseball.

  ‘Fidel,’ said Lionel, ‘has a damned good fastball. He keeps it tight in to the batter’s wrists well away from the business end of the bat.’

  ‘Like an inswinging yorker.’

  ‘Exactly.’ The Canadian smiled. ‘I play cricket too, you know. But sadly it’s been overtaken by baseball. Canada, unfortunately, has fallen too much under the influence of our giant neighbour to the south. But at least we still have the Queen on our banknotes.’

  Catesby was taken aback. They weren’t the words he expected from a Canadian who was spying for Washington. Maybe he had grassed the wrong bloke – or maybe Lionel was boxing clever. Meanwhile, the batter seemed to be finding Fidel’s pitching difficult. He only managed to nick one of el Líder Máximo’s fastballs, which flew harmlessly into the stands as a ‘foul ball’. He missed the next one completely and was ‘out’.

  ‘Do you suppose,’ said Catesby, ‘that he missed it on purpose because he’s batting against the boss?’

  ‘Absolutely not. When he was a teenager Fidel was scouted by Major League teams. He could have been …’

  But before Lionel could complete the sentence, the next batter belted Castro’s first pitch into the far stands for a ‘home run’. It was obvious that los Tigres were not going to let themselves be rolled over in order to flatter their country’s leader. The stands were also standing and cheering. But what impressed Catesby most was the way Castro himself joined in by doffing his cap and applauding the batter. It was, Catesby realised, not only good sportsmanship but good politics too.

  ‘Well,’ said Lionel, ‘they are a top professional team.’

  ‘Thanks for inviting me.’ Catesby lowered his voice. ‘But I’m sure you don’t want to talk just about baseball.’

  The Canadian shifted uneasily. ‘No, I want to give you a warning.’

  ‘Am I in danger?’

  ‘I think so … at least of being PNG’d.’ It was diplo slang for being declared Persona Non-Grata and thrown out by the host country.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because I think it’s happened to me. I’ve been recalled to Ottawa.’

>   ‘Any idea why?’

  ‘The Cubans think I’ve been spying for the Americans.’

  ‘Why would they think that – assuming you haven’t been?’

  ‘Because the Americans would like us to – but Ottawa has resisted the pressure from Washington.’

  ‘Why have you chosen to tell me? I’m only here on temporary duty.’

  ‘Because someone in the British Embassy is spying for the Americans and I’m sure it’s not you.’

  Catesby tried not to smile. Lionel was playing a complex game. He was trying to get revenge by making Catesby paranoid and suspicious of his colleagues. Or was he playing a game? It was after all Neville who had told him that the Canadian was a surrogate spy for Washington. Was Neville trying to cover his own tracks? There was cheering from the crowd as los Tigres scored two more runs to take the lead.

  ‘How,’ said Catesby, ‘can you be so sure?’

  ‘I’ve been working closely with a woman out of the French Embassy named Sophie. She has the evidence. You will meet her.’

  Catesby decided to call Lionel’s bluff. ‘You’re a lying piece of shit.’

  The Canadian looked startled for a second or two. He could have recovered his balance and continued the game, but instead he leaned close to Catesby and said, ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘Likewise.’

  The Canadian made a fist and Catesby ducked. But when he looked up again, Lionel was gone.

  In the end, los Tigres prevailed with a 5–3 win. The game ended with both teams hugging like long-lost brothers.

  The baseball quickly turned into an impromptu concert as guitars, bongos, maracas and even double basses appeared out of nowhere. There were now as many women on the baseball diamond as men. A woman in a glittering sequin dress was standing on the pitcher’s mound and swaying between players from both teams as she sang into a microphone. When the woman reached the final verse, she passed the microphone to a los Tigres player who huskily declared as much as sang:

  Con los pobres de la tierra

  With the poor people of the earth

  I want to cast my lot …

  The stadium erupted with cheering and clapping. The woman then passed the microphone to another player who hugged her tight as he sang the final words:

  Guantanamera,

  guajira Guantanamera.

  Guantanamera,

  guajira Guantanamera.

  It was after midnight when Catesby got back to the embassy. There had been an architectural change since he was last there. The embassy now had its own ‘secure room’: a room without windows and a thick metal door. The room had its own power supply and had been built by vetted staff from the UK. Things were heating up and it was the one place where embassy staff could talk freely. The morning briefings were now held in the secure room instead of the Ambassador’s office. But this time Catesby and Neville were sitting alone under the fluorescent light.

  ‘Our man in Moscow,’ said Neville leaning back with his tie undone, ‘managed to copy a very interesting conversation from one of Khrushchev’s closest advisers.’

  Catesby raised his eyebrows. Moscow was a notoriously difficult environment for Western intelligence officers. ‘How did he manage that?’

  ‘He picked it up via the best listening device anyone in Moscow has ever used – vodka. Forget your cunning electronic devices – just hang around with those guys when they’re blotto. In this case, the advisor was trying to impress a pretty girl at a cocktail party in the Palace of Congresses while one of our girls was innocently lingering within earshot. Booze and young ladies, eh?’

  ‘And other variations.’

  ‘Quite. In any case,’ Neville picked up the transcript and read: ‘“Kennedy is too young and too intellectual, not prepared well for decision-making in crisis situations. He is too intelligent and too weak.”’ Neville looked over his reading glasses. ‘The Russians seem to agree with our notion of “too clever by half ”. The French, on the other hand, treat the phrase with contempt.’

  ‘The contempt it deserves.’

  ‘A debatable point.’ Neville went back to the transcript. ‘In any case, the adviser goes on to say: “Nikita Sergeyevich needs to take advantage of young Kennedy’s indecisiveness and do something bold. He needs to ignore the generals, they are always too cautious.”’ Neville put the paper down. ‘What do you think, William?’

  ‘I think it was the booze talking.’

  ‘You seem singularly unimpressed.’

  Catesby smiled. He wasn’t authorised to share the intelligence about the Russian missile deployment with Neville or anyone else. In one way, it was a good thing. It meant that Neville and others would continue to sniff around. If they came to the same conclusions separately, it would verify Bone’s story. Being a spy was a bit like being a research scientist. Your theories need to be tested by peer review. Meanwhile, armies are invading and bombs are dropping.

  Neville looked closely at Catesby. ‘You have a close working relationship with Henry Bone. I don’t have to tell you how dangerous that is. On the other hand, it gives you power and access that no other officer of our rank enjoys. Why do you do it, William? Is it because you like having instant access to C – and being only one ear away from the Prime Minister?’

  ‘Because I can be trusted to the end.’

  ‘Which end?’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘But why does Bone trust you – and not the rest of us?’

  ‘Because he knows that I haven’t anything left to lose.’ Catesby smiled. ‘And don’t take that as self-pity. It’s very exhilarating. It makes me free. That’s why I loved jumping out of aeroplanes at night.’

  ‘Have you ever told anyone this before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’ Neville picked up a sheaf of papers and walked over to a wall map of Cuba. ‘While you were gone I managed to set up a little agent network in the countryside. By the way, I won’t use anyone that’s motivated by ideology – and never have. They shape their reports to suit their political agendas. I only use greedy peasants. But if they get rumbled by Dirección de Inteligencia, it’s a no-return ticket to La Cabaña where your friend Dr Guevara will cure their greed with a bullet in the back of the head.’

  Catesby shrugged. ‘It’s part of the game, but I always feel sorry for the families.’

  ‘Then why do you do it, William?’

  ‘Because it’s part of my job.’

  Neville was standing with his back to the map and staring at Catesby. ‘The awful thing, William, is that I might be risking lives to find out things that you already know.’

  ‘Then it might be an idea to tell those agents to stop reporting and destroy any evidence connecting them to you.’

  ‘You don’t have to shout.’

  Catesby smiled. ‘I thought these walls were soundproof. Sorry, Bob, just tell me what you’ve found out.’

  Neville turned to the map and pointed to the west end of the island. ‘There’s a lot of heavy construction work going on here, at San Cristóbal and a lesser amount here, at Guanajay. The countryside around both places is a fertile region for sugar cane and tobacco. Which would explain,’ Neville smiled wanly, ‘the large influx of Soviet agriculture advisers and irrigation specialists into the area.’ Neville pointed to an area east of Havana. ‘There are three more places – Sagua la Grande, Remedios and Santa Clara – that are also attracting a lot of heavy traffic. There’s a similar pattern concerning all the sites. At first there was an endless flow of lorries carrying cement, diggers, bulldozers and all manner of heavy construction plant. But more recently longer, even heavier loads, covered in tarpaulins. Well, I’m no fool – and neither are the local peasants. At first, I thought I had it sussed. Now what do you think?’

  ‘Anti-aircraft defences. Surface-to-air missile sites, probably for S-75 Dvinas.’

  ‘And the size of some of the lorry loads matched the dimensions of the S-75 exactly. But then I started getting reports of
other loads that didn’t fit in with the Dvina theory. All the movements took place at night – and the locals were not encouraged to look closely. But my chaps did. The low-loader lorries were carrying very long canvas-covered cylindrical objects. So long in fact, that it was impossible to manoeuvre the loads through the villages without backing up several times to try again. A number of walls and gable ends perished in the process. They didn’t have that problem with the S-75 SAMs. These big ones aren’t defensive missiles – and they must be single-stage monsters. Otherwise, they could have been disassembled in sections for easier transport. Do you agree?’

  ‘I think, Bob, you know the answer.’

  ‘The Sovs are deploying intermediate-range R-12s. You can’t disguise them as anything else. You see those black beasts being paraded through Red Square every May Day.’

  The R-12, Catesby well knew, was the first Soviet missile to be mass produced and deployed with thermonuclear warheads. It had oddly tiny tailfins, like the deformed-looking arms of a Tyrannosaurus Rex. But the R-12 was road transportable and propelled to its target by storable fuel. This meant that you could launch them from almost anywhere. It was the missile most likely to destroy London.

  Neville pointed at the map. ‘The Sagua la Grande site is the nearest to the United States – and a perfect fit. The maximum range of the R-12 is 1,292 miles. The distance between the missile site and Manhattan is 1,290 miles.’

  The overhead fluorescent light began to flicker making Neville look like a character at the end of a cinema film reel. The light finally went out. Catesby turned on a desk lamp. They both looked more human in the softer light.

  ‘Well,’ said Neville, ‘it looks like the Sovs have wiped out their strategic disadvantage in one bold move. It’s a dangerous gambit, but the logic is faultless.’ Neville stared at his colleague. ‘You already knew this. Didn’t you, William?’

  Catesby nodded. ‘But I didn’t know the location of the sites.’