The Midnight Swimmer

by Edward Wilson

  The Ambassador turned to Catesby with a world-weary smile. ‘I shan’t detain you longer. I am sure you have much to do.’ He handed over a slip of paper. ‘This cable arrived for you this morning from Downing Street. I deciphered it myself. Please don’t tell me what it concerns.’

  Catesby dialled the number from the embassy. The number he was ringing connected to one of the most secret and important phones in America. It was still the same number that Ambassador Winthrop had passed on two years before. Although the phone and its location changed, the number remained the same. Catesby later realised it was the Mongoose line, a telephone that connected low people to high places. He wondered if people washed their hands after touching it.

  The voice that answered was American, but one that Catesby hadn’t heard before. It was an educated voice that sounded stressed. As soon as Catesby said the codeword, AMLASH, the line went quiet as the person on the other end put a palm over the speaking end. A few seconds later, there was sound again and background voices – a familiar one saying, ‘This could be important.’ Then more distinctly into the phone, ‘What’s the latest?’

  ‘I’m in Washington.’

  ‘Who the fuck is this?’

  ‘I’m William Catesby ringing from the British Embassy. I’ve just come from Cuba and I have very important information for you alone.’

  There was a pause punctuated by the sound of breathing. It was as if the person on the other end was piecing together something important, but half-remembered. Then the voice came back sharp and direct, ‘Meet me at Hickory Hill in one hour.’

  The phone clicked dead before Catesby could reply.

  The house was huge, but not colossal. Maybe eight or ten bedrooms. It was set well back from the road in a rambling garden with large mature trees. The architecture was traditional East Coast American: wooden clapboard painted white. Catesby guessed it dated from the middle of the nineteenth century. It was grand without being pretentious. The house had the relaxed simplicity of the American Dream.

  A man in dark glasses carrying a clunky walkie-talkie showed Catesby where to park the embassy car. He then gestured for Catesby to follow and led him to a door at the back of the house. The man pushed the door open and said, ‘Go through the kitchen to the back stairs. The office is on the second floor. Or what you guys call the “first floor”.’

  ‘You’ve been to England?’

  ‘Yeah, during the war. Warm beer and easy lays.’

  Catesby smiled and said, ‘They must have been wearing utility knickers – one Yank and they’re off.’

  The American didn’t laugh, just turned and walked away.

  The kitchen was untidy with unwashed dishes. The house was completely silent. Eerily silent, for a family home lived in by seven children under the age of eleven. The door to the stairs was ajar. As Catesby mounted the steps the stairs creaked loudly under his feet in the empty house. He realised, with a chill, that wife and children had been evacuated to a safer place. But the spirits of the children were still there. The stairway walls were decorated with their paintings. There was a forest and hills landscape with birds, a flower-bedecked birthday cake homage ‘to Kathleen’, a bumblebee wearing a striped blue jumper.

  At the top of the stairs Catesby heard a voice shout ‘fuck’ and slam down a phone. The door to the study was open. The same voice shouted, ‘Come in.’

  The man was slightly younger than Catesby, but his eyes looked far older. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. His tie was undone and his feet were propped up on the desk as if wishing it were a bed. Catesby had personal issues with the man opposite. It seemed likely that this was the man who had ordered his own killing. And who was also indirectly responsible for the deaths of Catesby’s uncle and cousin. But these were issues that had to be put aside. Robert Kennedy in turn stared hard at Catesby and said, ‘Bill Harvey says you’re a deceitful son-of-a-bitch who sucks Russian ass.’

  ‘Harvey’s a bitter and twisted drunk.’

  The president’s brother gave Catesby a look that seemed to convey a certain amount of agreement. Bill Harvey, while CIA Station Chief in Berlin, had tried to scapegoat Catesby and the Brits for everything that went wrong.

  ‘What have you got to tell me?’ The younger Kennedy’s voice had a remarkably feminine quality which contradicted, and possibly explained, his tough-guy posturing.

  ‘There are a large number of tactical nuclear weapons in Cuba that are scattered and hidden throughout the countryside.’ Catesby handed Kennedy an envelope bulging with photos.

  Bobby Kennedy seemed unexpectedly calm as he looked at the photos. He held up a photo of the FKR cruise missiles, the ones that looked like toy jet planes. ‘What’s this?’

  Catesby explained.

  ‘Shit, we didn’t know they had those.’

  ‘Did you know about the Lunas?’ said Catesby.

  Kennedy didn’t answer the question, but looked closely at Catesby as if trying to peel off layers. ‘Maybe Harvey’s right. You’re a Russian spy that’s been blown and doubled back by London.’

  ‘That’s not true, but it wouldn’t make those nuclear weapons any less real if it were.’

  Kennedy nodded at the logic. ‘How then did you get this intelligence?’

  Catesby told him about Alekseev and added, ‘Trust my judgement as an intelligence officer. There is no way that your planes can destroy these weapons in a pre-emptive strike. At least ninety per cent of the Lunas and FKRs will survive intact. Not only will the vast majority of an American invading force be incinerated on the beach, but the US Navy ships in the offing will also be vaporised.’

  Bobby Kennedy stared thoughtfully at his desk. Catesby noticed a folder labelled TOP SECRET: OPERATION MONGOOSE.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’ Catesby spoke in a voice that was a hoarse whisper. He had never been so tired.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind about a lot of things in the past week. This isn’t a football game where scoring touchdowns means you win.’ Kennedy looked at the Mongoose folder. ‘I want to do something for your uncle’s family.’

  ‘Did you order them killed so that you could get me?’

  The president’s brother slowly shook his head. ‘No, but I ordered you killed. I have a liaison officer in the CIA who reports directly to me. Bill Harvey, for reasons you can well imagine, suggested to my liaison that we do a hit on you and make it look like it was the Cuban intelligence service. Two birds with one stone – we get rid of a pinko Brit and we sour relations between London and Havana. But the thugs we used for this didn’t appreciate the London-Havana nuance. They seem to have lost their Cuba connections, so they lured you to England instead. I was appalled when I found out the details. I am ashamed that I let things get so out of control – but know that you can never forgive me.’

  Catesby was surprised to hear one of the most powerful men in the world sound so contrite and self-critical. For the first time that week he felt that peace might have a chance.

  Aleksandr Semyonovich Feklisov, aka Fomin and KGB Head of Station, was waiting for Catesby in front of the Cathedral at Rouen. Not the real one, but Monet’s impressionist version in the National Gallery of Art on Constitution Avenue NW. Feklisov was wearing a black leather jacket and looked like an off-duty cop trying to soak up a bit of culture.

  Catesby’s shoes squeaked as he walked across the waxed parquet flooring. He recognised Feklisov, not only from the photo file, but also from embassy cocktail parties in early-fifties London. The Russian was dark, ironic and had a reputation as a survivor. He had spent the Great Patriotic War in New York where he worked out of the Soviet Consulate recruiting atomic and other spies with great success. Which probably explained, thought Catesby, why he was now operating under the Fomin alias.

  Feklisov shook hands and said, ‘This is where I recruited Jeffers Cauldwell, who in turn recruited Kitson Fournier.’

  Catesby wasn’t certain that was exactly how it happened, but didn’t want to have a
debate about spilt milk. Nor did he care for the inference. ‘But you’re wasting your time, Aleksandr Semyonovich, if you think you can recruit me.’

  ‘I did not mean to infer that. In any case, we are not meeting as spies but as back-channel intermediaries.’

  ‘It’s nearly closing time. Shall we go for a walk?’

  Feklisov nodded. ‘By the way, I got here early to have a look at the American collections. Many of them have been put in “temporary storage”. What a pity that Winslow Homer should be saved for survivor posterity,’ he gestured at the painting, ‘but the Monets left to burn?’

  The National Mall is lined by American elms and stretches for a mile. The massive ‘grand avenue’ of lawn and reflecting pools begins at the Capitol. Two-thirds the way along its length, the Washington Monument sticks up like a giant exclamation mark. The Mall finally terminates at another presidential memorial where 160 tons of marble Lincoln sits staring back at Congress.

  ‘The Kremlin,’ said Feklisov admiring the view from a park bench, ‘is so much smaller than this, but so much older.’

  ‘And so is Trafalgar Square.’

  ‘Zhenka is a good man. Have you passed his message on to the Americans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank you for telling me. It makes me less worried, more hopeful.’ Feklisov lowered his voice. ‘There are other things going on, but I’m not sure it’s enough to avoid war. Thank you for meeting me.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said Catesby in a rough, tired voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  Catesby swallowed hard. He had never had to convey a message like this before. He wanted to get each word correct. ‘I have been authorised by the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom to give you the following message to pass on to First Secretary Khrushchev. If the Soviet Union removes all R-12 and R-14 nuclear missiles from Cuba, the United Kingdom will reciprocate by permanently removing all sixty Thor nuclear missiles now located on British soil.’

  ‘What’s the timescale?’

  ‘The first Thor will be removed next month. No Thor will remain on British soil beyond the end of August next year.’

  ‘You can’t give me any of this in writing?’

  ‘No,’ smiled Catesby, ‘we’re not real people. We’re back-channel shades gibbering and squeaking in the wind.’

  Feklisov took Catesby’s hand and squeezed it hard. ‘I think this offer might be enough to stop midnight coming. We’ll see.’

  ‘You know that Zhenka is dead.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Give my condolences to Katya,’ said Catesby.

  ‘I will, my friend.’

  They got up to go their separate ways like ships passing in a narrow dangerous channel.

  Lieutenant Commander Pavlov was not only in charge of the nuclear torpedo on the B-59, he slept beside the polished grey tube like a fond lover. When Captain Savitsky gave the order to prepare the torpedo for firing Pavlov felt two competing pangs of regret. One, he was going to be separated from a complex piece of machinery and advanced technology that he had looked after with obsessive care for many months. Two, he was almost certainly going to die and never see his homeland or his loved ones again. But Pavlov overcame those feelings and began the final preparation rituals. It was impossible not to think of the enormity of his actions and the lives that would be extinguished. Pavlov assumed that the world was already at war and that he had to carry out his duties as part of a greater scheme that he could not question. He unscrewed a cover to make a final check on the coils and electrical connections that connected detonator and warhead. When that was done, he completed the final task. Pavlov could not keep his hands from shaking as he removed the green ‘safety connector plug’ and replaced it with the red ‘arming plug’.

  The submarine’s second in command, Vasili Alexandrovich Arkhipov, came from a peasant family and had made his way up the ranks through technical expertise and calm judgement. The previous year he had helped save a nuclear submarine with a coolant leak that resulted in the deaths of eight sailors and threatened to blow up the reactor. Arkhipov received a heavy dose of radiation, but helped devise a jury-rigged coolant system that saved the submarine. Arkhipov was now trying to save the world.

  The authorisation of all three senior officers aboard was needed to launch the nuclear torpedo. The Political Officer, Ivan Semonovich Maslennikov, was in accord with Captain Savitsky that war had broken out. The submarine had been buffeted by four more explosions. Although the crew of the B-59 had no way of knowing, the explosions had been caused by hand grenades dropped by a destroyer that had joined the Beale. Both Savitsky and Maslennikov felt they were now bound by honour and duty to attack the US aircraft carrier leading the task group. ‘We have no choice,’ said Maslennikov, ‘we need to defend Soviet forces from further attacks. This is war.’

  ‘If,’ said Arkhipov, ‘the Americans were trying to sink us we would already be dead.’

  ‘They’re incompetent,’ said Savitsky, ‘and we’ve been taking evasive action.’

  ‘They may be incompetent, but they are not trying to sink us. They have not dropped fully-armed depth charges. If we are not certain that a state of war exists, we cannot take the risk of starting a war that will kill tens of millions of our citizens. I refuse,’ said Arkhipov, ‘to give my authorisation to use that torpedo. If you ignore my refusal, you are both disobeying standing orders. In any case, it will soon be night. I suggest we surface under cover of darkness and radio Moscow for further instructions.’

  Savitsky looked hard at Arkhipov. He then angrily picked up the internal telephone connecting the control centre to the torpedo room.

  A hundred feet forward Pavlov lifted the clanging phone off its hook. He felt a shiver go down his spine as he heard the captain’s voice bark out the crisp order. Pavlov wasn’t sure that he had heard correctly, so he asked the captain to repeat the order for confirmation. Savitsky’s voice sounded even more irritated than it had the first time. Pavlov replied, ‘Order understood. I will carry out instruction immediately.’

  Pavlov put the phone down and returned to the torpedo. His hands were completely calm as he removed the arming plug and replaced it with the safety connector plug. Tears were flowing down his cheeks as he stroked the torpedo tube. ‘Not now my sweetest, maybe never.’

  In the end, the B-59 was not able to have a quiet chat with Moscow. She surfaced on to a night sea surrounded by American ships that were shining search lights at her conning tower. One of the destroyers had a jazz band on deck playing loud amplified music. The idea was to show the Soviet submarine officers that war had not broken out. As the B-59 broke the surface, the band shifted from ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’ to ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy’.

  When Captain Savitsky appeared from the hatch he was greeted with ‘When the Saints Go Marching In’. He ordered the sailors who followed him not to smile or make eye contact with the Americans. ‘Behave with dignity,’ he said, ‘they are trying to humiliate us.’

  A large group of American sailors were dancing on the jazz band ship’s deck in time to the music. Others were throwing packages of cigarettes and Coca-Cola at the Soviet submariners. Most of the offerings fell into the sea, but the ones that landed on the submarine were ignored and left to the washing waves.

  Captain Maultsby realised he was finally and definitely going in the right direction when he saw the faint red glow of nautical twilight on the eastern horizon. It was now some time since he had heard Russian folk music on his radio. There was just enough light to see the ground – and it was the snow-covered ground of Alaska and not Siberia. The MiGs had given up pursuit and the USAF F-102s sent to protect him were now guides showing him the way to a primitive airstrip just above the Arctic Circle. Ten minutes later Captain Maultsby had safely landed. He quickly climbed out of the U-2 cockpit, unzipped his flying suit and peed onto a bank of pure white snow.

  It was 5 p.m. in Moscow and 9 a.m. in Washington on Sunday, 29 October 1962. The R
ussian radio announcer introduced the news by saying that he was about to read a letter written by Nikita Sergeyevich Khrushchev to John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Without hesitation or further explanation he read the letter:

  In order to eliminate as rapidly as possible the conflict which endangers the cause of peace … the Soviet Government, in addition to earlier instructions on the discontinuation of further work on weapons construction sites, has given a new order to dismantle the weapons you described as offensive – and to crate and return them to the Soviet Union.

  On 29 November 1962, exactly one month after General Pliyev had begun dismantling the Soviet R-12 sites in Cuba, the commanding officer of RAF Breighton in the East Riding of Yorkshire was ordered to stand down his three Thor IRBMs. The nuclear missiles most difficult part of the immobilisation process is draining the fuel. Rockets are essentially fuel canisters. In its ready-to-launch state, a Thor weighed 110,000 pounds – of which 98,500 pounds was rocket fuel. An RAF Wing Commander and the RAF Regiment Squadron Leader in charge of security looked on from a distance as the white-suited technicians began to drain the highly volatile liquid oxygen from Beach Buggy into storage tanks.

  ‘I wonder what this nonsense is all about,’ said the squadron leader.

  The Wing Co shrugged. ‘I think they’re going to be redeployed somewhere else. Ours is not to question why.’

  ‘Can I give you some advice, William?’

  Catesby shrugged.

  ‘Never ever tell anyone about the Thor business. Not even a wink or a raised eyebrow. If a leak is traced back to you, you are going to be hung, drawn and quartered – or simply shot as was your Gunpowder Plot ancestor.’

  ‘Did ours make a difference? The rumour mill says that Khrushchev agreed to remove the missiles from Cuba in exchange for Kennedy taking his missiles out of Turkey and Italy.’