The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  ‘Shall I cable the locations to London?’

  ‘I wouldn’t, but it’s your decision. I’m not your boss.’

  ‘But I value your advice. Why shouldn’t I send them?’

  ‘Because some dolt might pass them on to the Americans.’

  ‘Why’s that a bad thing?’

  ‘Are you playing devil’s advocate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because this situation is going to turn into a crisis that could spin out of control – and full intelligence always makes crisis resolution more difficult. Governments are more likely to go for peace when confronted with uncertainty.’

  ‘I’m impressed, William. Do you like playing God?’

  Catesby smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I see your point about keeping mum.’ Neville slid the reports into a folder. ‘I won’t send these on. But the Americans would have to be pretty stupid not to notice something strange is going on.’

  ‘What assets have they still got in Cuba?’

  ‘First of all, a large number of anti-Castro Cubans with radio transmitters who are strung out through the countryside. The problem, of course, is that a lot of them have been doubled by el Dirección and are sending false information. CIA can’t be sure which is which. But Washington’s other source is quite an anomaly. Totally against the normal run of play.’ Neville smiled like a card shark about to trump.

  ‘Go on, surprise me.’

  ‘The French. At first, I thought they were doing it just to show us up – and maybe annoy us too. But then I remembered their man in Washington – he simply adores the USA. It seems that he’s running two of his own agents out of the French Embassy here. The lad, and the girl especially, are very active.’

  Memories began to jostle for space in Catesby’s brain. The first was the refined French voice that had answered the phone number secreted to him by the US Ambassador – and then threatened him with castration and death. There was also the young French couple in Otis’s Washington jazz club. And finally, Lionel’s reference to ‘Sophie’.

  ‘It seems,’ said Neville, ‘that our French colleagues enjoy the dubious glory of being heavily infiltrated by both Moscow and Washington. I think it’s a rather splendid achievement.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if their Sov doubles swap stuff with their Yank doubles.’

  ‘Of course they do.’

  ‘At some point,’ said Catesby, ‘it becomes an art.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Our game. It’s like a complex musical composition full of tonal tricks and unexpected dissonance.’

  ‘I think you need a drink, William.’

  ‘French brandy?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Cheers.’ Catesby raised his glass, but decided not to tell Neville about the R-14s due to arrive at the end of the month. Those missiles had a range of 2,800 miles and were capable of hitting the rest of the continental United States.

  ‘Would you mind wearing these blindfolds?’ Che’s voice was almost apologetic, but his face wore an impish smile. Catesby was sitting in the back of Alekseev’s GAZ M21 Volga – and Alekseev was driving. He had, thought Catesby, returned from Moscow unscathed and still in post. The other passengers were a woman from the French Embassy who called herself Sophie and an Italian journalist. ‘I don’t need a blindfold,’ said the Italian, ‘I only have eyes for lovely Sophie.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Catesby as he tried to piece together the intentions behind Lionel’s lies.

  Sophie, wedged in the middle of the back seat between Catesby and the Italian, stirred nervously. Che threw up his arms in despair and looked at Alekseev.

  ‘Okay,’ said Catesby, ‘we’ll wear the blindfolds.’ He put his on and the others followed. They were going to be given a tour of the SAM sites. The Russians and Cubans didn’t mind showing off the new anti-aircraft missiles, but quite reasonably didn’t want to reveal their exact locations.

  ‘Haven’t we met before?’ said Catesby leaning towards the woman next to him.

  ‘I can’t remember. I don’t think so.’

  ‘But you look so familiar.’

  ‘Have you taken your blindfold off?’ The remark wasn’t playful. The Frenchwoman’s voice was stern and flat.

  ‘No, of course not.’ Catesby was sure that she had seen him at the jazz club in DC where Otis played, but she wanted to hide the fact. He wondered if her name was really Sophie. In any case, she looked older and more attractive than she had in the jazz club. She spoke French with an accent that was so suave and refined that it was almost irritating. The French Connection were thugs in silk underwear.

  An hour later they were allowed to take their blindfolds off. The car, after a long bumpy ride on a rough track, was parked in a grove of palm trees. They were greeted by a group of Cubans in green battledress who looked more like professors than soldiers. There were also a handful of Russians lurking in the background, but not in uniform. All the Russians were serving military, however, disguised as civilians with open-necked shirts and badly fitting jeans. They could have passed for farmers from the American Midwest. The Sov soldiers were still operating under the threadbare cover of agricultural and irrigation advisers. Catesby began to notice a pattern of hierarchy. The soldiers wore checked shirts, the officers white shirts.

  The six S-75 Dvina missiles were beautiful in their sleekness. It was difficult to believe they had anything to do with the frumpy Russian hayseeds in checked shirts. The missiles were thirty-five feet long, but as slender as a young girl’s waist. Unlike the stumpy fins of the R-12s, the Dvina’s fins were wide and graceful – almost like a ballet dancer’s tutu. Were they beautiful, thought Catesby, because they were defensive weapons? As the visitors were shown around, their Cuban and Russian hosts kept repeating the word ‘defensive’ like a mantra. Catesby knew perfectly well that the visit was a whitewash exercise. The aim was to showcase the peaceful intentions of the Cuban government and their Soviet backers. Catesby could see that both Che and Alekseev were bored with having to go through the ritual. Everyone knew that something more sinister was lurking under the palm trees, but it wasn’t yet the time to admit it.

  Catesby walked around the missile battery shoulder to shoulder with Alekseev. He wondered if the Russian knew that he was his wife’s lover.

  Alekseev stopped to stroke one of the missiles. He ran his hand down its slender body. It was impossible for Catesby not to imagine him touching Katya with the same tender concern. Oddly, he felt a pang of jealousy.

  ‘You know,’ said Alekseev his hand still on the Dvina, ‘that it was one of these that brought down the American U2 that was spying over Sverdlovsk.’

  Catesby nodded. The 1960 incident had resulted in the capture of CIA pilot Gary Powers and soured improving relations between the two superpowers. Catesby wondered if intelligence agencies caused such incidents on purpose because a world in conflict meant better job prospects. Or maybe they just liked conflict because it was more exciting. His trade had more than its fair share of deviants and psychos.

  ‘These missiles,’ continued Alekseev, ‘can strike higher than any aircraft can fly. I fear I am boring you.’ Alekseev smiled. ‘Because I am boring myself. Let’s talk about something more interesting. Who is your favourite poet?’

  Catesby looked at Alekseev and understood why Katya loved him. ‘I like lots of poets, but you might know this one:

  Let us drink, dearest friend

  To my poor wasted youth.

  Let us drink from grief – Where’s the glass?

  Our hearts at least will be lightened.’

  ‘Do you really like Pushkin?’ said Alekseev. ‘Or is this an indirect way of saying you want a drink?’

  ‘Both,’ said Catesby.

  ‘Follow me.’

  There were trestle tables set up under canvas awnings strung between the roofs of the radar vans. The food and drink were as Russian as the missiles. There were trays of blini with caviar, pickled herring, beetroot, assorted gh
erkins and chilled vodka. The radar vans, which needed refrigeration to keep their electronics healthy, had probably helped keep the food fresh too.

  Alekseev filled Catesby’s glass. ‘Do you think,’ said the Russian nodding towards Sophie, ‘that the Frenchwoman is pretty?’

  It is an awkward question when asked by the husband of a woman with whom you are intimate. Especially if the husband knows about it. A ‘yes’ answer devalues the wife in comparison and makes the adultery more sordid. A ‘no’ confirms an intensity of commitment, for the lover has eyes for no other. Catesby looked closely at Sophie and decided to give an honest answer. ‘She knows she’s pretty and wants men to acknowledge it. I prefer women who are unselfconscious about their beauty and just accept it as natural to them.’ Catesby paused. He realised that he had just described Katya. ‘And besides, Sophie has a hardness about her mouth that will turn spiteful when she ages.’ Catesby looked at the Russian. ‘Do you find her pretty?’

  ‘Yes. I think she’s very vulnerable – and that makes me want to protect her. Do you find it odd that I associate vulnerability with beauty?’

  ‘No, I suppose it’s bred into us. It’s what makes us treasure babies and children and want to look after them. But that’s not, Yevgeny Ivanovich, what makes me love a woman.’ Catesby liked the Russian custom of addressing someone who is not family or close friend by full first name and patronymic. But he wondered if his statement about love had been too personal for formal small talk.

  ‘Our paths, Mr Catesby, have crossed in so many places. In Berlin we were, how should I say? Counterparts?’

  ‘You flatter me. I assure you, Yevgeny Ivanovich, that your rank far exceeded mine – and still does.’

  ‘That’s only because we are a larger organisation. We have to be. Do you like your job?’

  ‘It’s not a matter of liking it. It’s a matter of having to do it.’

  ‘I hope,’ said Alekseev with a sparkle in his eye, ‘that you enjoyed your leave.’

  ‘Oh, I wasn’t on leave. I was called back to London for consultations.’ Honesty was just as much a tactic as lying. ‘And I believe that you were in Moscow at the same time.’

  The Russian smiled and raised his glass.

  ‘Shall we drink a toast?’ said Catesby.

  ‘Of course.’

  Catesby speared a piece of pickled herring and raised it high. ‘You must understand, Yevgeny Ivanovich, that I’m from a fishing port called Lowestoft. To the herring!’

  The drinking and toasting continued for the next two hours. The Italian journalist was lying on his back with his panama hat over his face. The Russian and Cuban soldiers were singing each other’s songs after having finished off the food. And Sophie was sitting in a canvas chair next to Che and looking cross. Catesby could see it was time to go.

  ‘The Frenchwoman doesn’t look very happy,’ said Alekseev.

  ‘That’s because …’ Catesby was aware that his voice was slurred, so he began again. ‘That’s because you haven’t shown her your R-12 nuclear missiles.’ Catesby meant it as a joke, but as soon as he saw Alekseev’s face he realised he had made a mistake.

  ‘She thinks we have brought nuclear weapons to Cuba.’ Alekseev sounded completely sober. ‘Did she tell you that?’

  ‘No, it was just a joke.’

  ‘What sort of joke.’

  ‘You realise,’ Catesby was surprised by how sober his own voice now sounded, ‘that the R-12 story is a rumour that the Americans are passing around. I meant it as a joke.’

  The Russian looked at Catesby with eyes that were more sad than surprised or angry. ‘She shouldn’t say things like that.’

  ‘I told you, she didn’t say it. I made the story up.’ Catesby realised that, no matter how much he tried, he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle.

  Everyone was quiet and subdued during the drive back to Havana. The Italian was dropped off first at his hotel in Miramar Playa. ‘I am sure,’ whispered Catesby now alone in the back with Sophie, ‘that I saw you in Washington.’

  ‘You might have.’ She spoke with the icy politeness of a tired official. ‘I was stationed there for a time.’

  ‘Did you ever go to a jazz club called the Blue Door on U Street?’

  The lines around her mouth, the ones Catesby didn’t like, tightened like steel hawsers. She didn’t like being caught out in a lie. She finally answered in a voice full of affected boredom. ‘Yes, I might have been there once or twice.’

  ‘Your boss in Washington gets on much better with the Americans than our guy.’

  ‘Our Ambassador there is a very charming man.’

  ‘I didn’t mean the Ambassador.’ Catesby looked at the back of Alekseev’s head. He wondered if the Russian understood French and if he was eavesdropping. Che did understand French and spoke it very well, but he seemed to have fallen asleep. Not surprising since he often worked thirty-six hours or more without a break.

  They were now near the British Embassy. The day had turned into a balmy humid evening. The rich scent of jasmine, the Cuban national flower, drifted in through the open car windows. The Cubans called it la mariposa blanca, the white butterfly. During the guerrilla war the flower became a secret code that symbolised a pure but rebellious nature that longed for independence. Catesby looked at Sophie and realised that she was not wild jasmine, but a cultivated and stylised lily. She belonged to the enigmatic eighteenth-century corridors and formal gardens of Robbe-Grillet’s L’année dernière à Marienbad. And like the woman at Château Marienbad, she insists that they have never met.

  As Alekseev turned the GAZ 21 into Calle 34, Catesby reached into his pocket for a card with his contact details and scribbled a note on it. He tried to press the card into Sophie’s hands, but she pushed him away as if repelling an unwanted advance. Catesby then dropped the card on to her lap. She looked at it as if it were a scorpion that had fallen from the roof. Catesby whispered the words he had written on the card since she seemed in no mood to read them: ‘Get in contact with me as soon as possible. It’s professional, not personal – and absolutely vital.’

  The car had now pulled up outside the British Embassy gates. Catesby got out on the driver’s side. He closed the door and stepped back into the centre of the empty road. He looked at the dark silhouette of Alekseev behind the wheel – at least this coach driver wasn’t a headless one. He then looked at Sophie alone in the back – and for the first time longed for her. He understood what Alekseev had meant by vulnerable.

  The script unrolled with the inevitability of a Greek tragedy – except some of the characters had swapped parts. Neville’s man at José Marti Airport had reported that Alekseev had left the country again. Presumably for emergency consultations in the Kremlin. Catesby welcomed the news for completely selfish reasons. Alekseev’s absence would make it easier for him to see Katya. And the more he saw her, the more he wanted to see her. Catesby knew it was a weakness, perhaps even a pathetic weakness. He had always had contempt for intelligence officers who were compromised by honey trap entanglements. Of course Katya wasn’t a honey trap. If anything he was using her more than she was using him. The thought cheered Catesby up – a bit. Spying was a lonely profession even when you were surrounded by other people. The loneliness was from having continually to wear a false face. Katya was an escape not just into passion, but into true emotions.

  Catesby’s flat was on the top floor of a neo-colonial house called La Mansión Blanca. The rest of the house was occupied by other embassy staff, including the military attaché and his family. Even though the place was crumbling and breeding lizards, it was the most opulent accommodation Catesby had ever enjoyed on a foreign posting. There was a balcony and a large garden with palm trees – and the susurrus of the sea in the near distance. There was no security other than a locked door on the ground floor entrance.

  Catesby woke up when he realised that someone was trying to contact him with an ST One. It was the first and most reliable means of covert communic
ation that Catesby had learned in SIS basic training. The ST One never let you down. The first stone rattled the wooden shutter of Catesby’s bedroom window. The second pinged against the iron railing of the balcony. Catesby turned on the bedside light to let the person in the garden know that he was awake. He then turned off the light so that he wouldn’t be silhouetted. Catesby put on his dressing gown and grabbed a gun from his bedside table. He opened the shutter and peered into the night without exposing himself. He flicked open the chamber of the revolver to make sure it was loaded. It was. He waited in the shadows listening to the sonar shrieks of diving bats. He could wait all night.

  Finally, there was a voice. It was Katya speaking Russian. ‘William, is that you?’

  Catesby walked on to the balcony with the revolver in his hand. He didn’t put it in his pocket because he didn’t want to stain the dressing gown with gun oil. It was a silk gown that his sailor father had brought back from China in 1910. His only heirloom.

  ‘I need to see you.’ But Catesby couldn’t see her. Katya was speaking from somewhere in the dark under the palm trees.

  ‘I’ll come down to let you in.’

  Catesby went back into the house, the gun still heavy in his hand. He was about to put it back in its drawer. But he decided to take it with him in case Katya had been forced into luring him into a trap. The Havana air had been buzzing with intrigue for weeks.

  He went down the stairs without turning on a light and opened the heavy oak door. Katya was standing there alone, her face hidden behind a black mantilla as if she had just come from a funeral. Catesby quickly let her in and closed the door behind them. When Katya reached out to embrace him, she found the barrel of the gun protruding into the palm of her left hand.

  ‘Is this for me?’ she said. Her hand groped along the barrel as if she wanted to take the pistol.

  ‘Be careful.’ Catesby pulled the gun out of her reach.

  ‘How did you know I needed a gun? Who told you?’