‘I am trying to explain that. It was possible just for us to rub along, the French included. Keep a gentle eye on what the Yanks were up to and make sure they didn’t get out of control. Always much easier in France even under Sarkozy. More difficult in the UK but until recently doable. But the whole Arab Spring has almost unhinged them. Black ops plans, for instance, to keep the Bahraini king in power. And of course plans for a strike on Iran – the timing to be decided by the American presidential electoral cycle. How crazy is that? Another driver for the tougher attitude was the whole Wikileaks affair. Why seek extradition when we could kidnap or kill seemed to be a strong view both at Langley and the State Department. These guys are on edge and it worries both the French and us. So now we need more people on side. In France as well as the UK. Who guards the guardians Jacot? Well, it’s us.’ She turned to Navarre, ‘Oh and Gilles, as I mentioned the good colonel has something for you.’
‘Yes, yes.’ Jacot got up opened his briefcase and took out the container of forensic samples from General Verney.
Navarre nodded, took it, and pressed the buzzer. One of his staff came in opened the container peered at the test tubes and swabs inside. ‘C’est suffit’, he said and then left.
Navarre turned to Jacot and Nevinson. ‘It’s enough for two tests. We will split the samples and re-ice them. One will leave with a courier from the Gare de L’Est in forty-five minutes. It will be at the Centre Antipoison in Strasbourg in a few hours. We have trusted people there who will let us know the results as soon as possible. It may take a little time though. I understand that we are checking for exotics, in particular marine toxins. These can be difficult and the expertise in Europe is good in theory but few scientists will have experience of these things. The other sample will leave tonight on the weekly military flight to Papeete. Our people in the Polynesie Francaise understand these poisons. But again it will take time as you might expect.
‘I understand you are not expecting anything to be found but that you are using our scientists as a kind of independent control. I commend you for your caution, Mon Colonel.’
They drank a little more. Jacot and Monica flirted. The UK’s National Security Adviser flirted outrageously with France’s top spy. Some young romances ended in marriage. Some brought heartache. Jacot had not seen it much but sometimes old flames remained the best of friends. Their time in Saigon had obviously been intense and dangerous.
It all seemed so natural. The surroundings and the food and wine softened if not smothered the implications. It was a shaming experience to be told by foreigners, however civilized and helpful, that you could no longer trust your own countrymen.
The Wikileaks affair and the US diplomatic cables that were made public as a result should have made it obvious to even those, in Lady Nevinson’s favourite phrase, with “a room temperature IQ” that the UK’s central government machinery was heavily penetrated by American intelligence. The leaks also showed the treachery of the United States in revealing to the Russians the details of the UK’s independent deterrent – an act worthy of Judas himself.
But if what Navarre had told them was true then the Americans had British allies on the inside. People whose patriotism and moral sense had been so dulled by years of subservience that they could no longer tell the difference between our own interests and those of the United States. Or worse, people who saw an advantage in allowing the US access to everything. In exchange for what – a place at the top table? That was it thought Jacot. That was the ultimate source of the difficulty – why some Englishmen were so prone to corruption by the Americans. It was all about status. Like the poor old Duke of Windsor endlessly fretting whether his friends and countrymen were going to curtsey to his duchess, a certain kind of politician and Mandarin endlessly fretted about our lost national status. The Americans could sense this, at all levels, and used it to their advantage. Whether it was a British prime minister happily carrying out chores for an American president or an ambitious army officer planning his next promotion, ultimately they were all piggy-backing on American power.
Most galling of all the only way to fight back was through a different betrayal. Nevinson and he were no longer colleagues but conspirators. He felt sad and ashamed. Had it come to this? The only way to be a loyal Englishman was to conspire with the French. Navarre and Zaden were all very well – the very picture of modern Frenchmen. But what of the other side of France – the ugly side that you saw during Vichy. The vainglorious side that you saw during the French Indo-China war that persisted with the absurd cult of Napoleon, in many ways the author of their misfortunes. The brutal side of the Algerian war. He didn’t trust the French either. It was in Jacot’s view a proper country with a strong identity far removed from the drivel of political correctness. But that strong identity involved something elemental, true only unto itself. And much of that had evolved in opposition to the English. The entente cordiale had been such a big deal because it was so new. It was a turning against the past and an always incomplete one at that. There was another catch, another alarm going off in his mind – was the process he was going through mentally what happened to a previous generation as they were preparing to betray their country? Is this how Philby, and Burgess and Maclean justified it to themselves? Yes I may be doing a rubbish on my country but it’s all in a higher cause. And the Islamists?
Pretentious humbug thought Jacot – nearly a bottle of Chablis at lunch meant not befuddlement but clarity – four letter thinking. It was time for a choice. How had that overestimated and pretentious American poet put it – it’s a turn in the road. But for now the French would make better friends than anyone else Jacot could think of. And they were the only people available. Nelson and Wellington would be turning in their graves. But then again a previous generation of English generals and admirals had fought the Americans – Cornwallis who had found George Washington so boorish and provincial at Yorktown might smile indulgently. Perhaps we were about to return to an older world, a different order. Jacot wondered when the switch had come. Queen Victoria for instance had been very reluctant for the Prince of Wales to visit the young United States in 1860. He crossed the border from Canada having begun his visit with a re-union of Canadian veterans of the war of 1812. For the first time since 1776 prayers were said for the Royal Family in churches across the Union.
At the end of the day from Winston Churchill onwards the deal had always been that to be a loyal Englishman you had to be pro-American. Not any more. He looked at Lady Nevinson sitting opposite. She must have been very good looking in her day and energetic in a way that women coming into professional life in the 1970s and 80s had to be to get ahead. Anyway he trusted her and her judgment. They sat opposite each other in the Eurostar on the way back, drinking more wine. She made no reference to the events of the day but instead asked him about the events of thirty years before. Despite working for her for over two years she had never asked him about his experiences in the Falklands. She kept the conversation in the past, mostly, but it was clear on occasion that she was desperately worried about the security of the islands in the present day. Just before they got to London she came to the point: she wanted him to visit the islands on her behalf, just to re-assure her that everything that needed to be done was being done.
XI
Embassy of the United States of America,
Grosvenor Square, Mayfair, London W1
Jacot stepped forward to be searched by a US Marine. The American Embassy was getting more and more difficult to get into. After 911 and a series of attacks on American embassies across the world, it was hardly surprising. Security everywhere. Barriers everywhere. No wonder the local residents were up in arms. But it had certainly outgrown the Grosvenor Square site.
Apparently there was a plan to move the whole operation south of the River Thames to Nine Elms. He wondered whether the codename for the CIA station in London, “Grosvenor”, would change as well. The head of the station sat ex-officio on the British Joint Intelligence Committee behind a neatly typ
ed place card which said “Grosvenor”. “Nine Elms” did not have the same ring to it.
The Embassy itself was hideous and made no concessions to the surrounding area and architecture. Grosvenor Square had always struck Jacot as an odd place. It was essentially a piece of the United States of America in the middle of London. During the war General Eisenhower had established his headquarters in the square, promptly nicknamed “EisenhowerPlatz” by irreverent Londoners. The square was filled with reminders of American power and how it rose at our expense. The statue of General Eisenhower in the north-east corner certainly looked like the “Ike” of the newsreels, but which “Ike”? The one who led the allied forces at Normandy, or the “Ike” who became president and then pulled the rug from beneath us at Suez?
Jacot was escorted to the grand staircase through the grand entrance hallway. The walls were filled with paintings and various items of Americana. It was a curious experience walking through the hall – half reading a comic book and half walking down the nave and aisles of a medieval cathedral. There were simple messages embedded in the décor, statues and decoration. Like every other US Embassy in the world the room was dominated by a copy of the famous Lansdowne Portrait of Washington. It showed the first president renouncing the possibility of a third term in office. It was huge, eight feet by five feet and filled with symbolism. As with so many things American it was seventy percent magnificent, twenty per cent ridiculous and ten per cent total absolute lie. Washington was a great man no doubt about it. And like Cromwell before him in England he could have been a King if he had wanted. But just before the portrait was painted Washington had received a new set of false teeth. It made him look faintly ridiculous, like a child trying to pretend that it’s mouth isn’t full of sweets.
Jacot admired George Washington hugely. Unlike, say, Napoleon or even Wellington, the more anyone read about Washington the more impressive he became. This came across in most of the official representations of his image which did homage to his strength of will and essential nobility. The face, whether in portraits or statues, radiated his patriotism. This seemed to Jacot his most powerful legacy to the American people and spirit. They, like their first president, were never afraid to display their patriotism. It sometimes took some distasteful forms but love of country was never sneered at on the other side of the Atlantic.
The Lansdowne Portrait still loomed large as Jacot climbed the stairs. It was this portrait that was supposed to have been rescued by the fourth First Lady, Dolley Madison, as the British closed in on the White House just before the end of the War of 1812. And that was where the lie came in, a characteristic lie for the Americans. The portrait had indeed been rescued from the advancing British who attempted to burn the White House down. But it wasn’t the First Lady who did the deed. The rescue was in reality organized a by one of the Madison’s slaves, a certain Paul Jennings, who was lucky enough many years later to be able to buy his freedom for the then colossal sum of $120. Presumably he made a lot from tips mused Jacot, as he was ushered into the office of the head of the CIA Station on the second floor.
Jacot shook hands with John Dixwell, the third or perhaps it was the fourth – Jacot could never remember. Dixwell was tall and rangey. Dressed in a dark grey Brooks Brothers suit with a button down shirt and horizontal striped tie, he was the epitome of the successful preppy American. Anglophile, fond of opera and with an encyclopedic knowledge of the James Bond books and films, he was precisely the sort of man to be in charge of the CIA’s large and formidable London Station. The UK intelligence establishment loved him. He had a pretty wife and twin, very handsome, teenage sons who spent their vacations from Duke in London charming all the English girls. He and Jacot got on well enough but Jacot never forgot for a moment that Dixwell was an accomplished intelligence operative for a foreign power. And for all the charm, genuine charm in a way, there was something about the man’s eyes that made Jacot uneasy. Dixwell knew that Jacot was a man on whom his blandishments and old-fashioned Southern manners cut little ice, but he kept trying anyway.
He asked Jacot to sit, filled two shot glasses, embossed with the CIA’s ubiquitous logo of an eagle atop a compass rose, with a fiery bourbon and pushed one over. They downed them in a single gulp and Jacot pushed his glass for a refill. The etiquette of bourbon drinking was as subtle as the Japanese tea ceremony. Jacot enjoyed it. For all the hatchet faced women in the boardroom and in senior positions in the government, under the surface American society retained a kind of frontier masculinity. Jacot even enjoyed watching American Football occasionally. Dixwell’s team loyalty was on display in his office – the light blue colours of the North Carolina Tar Heels were omnipresent.
Dixwell cottoned on. He grinned. ‘Yep, I played college football. I was a quarterback. Actually it was my footballing prowess that got me a college education in the first place. But I wasn’t good enough to turn professional. I was disappointed at the time but there you go. Nevertheless, I follow The Tar Heels still. One of the great, perhaps the great effect of the internet revolution for me is that I can watch them live every week in season – wherever I am.’
‘Why Tar Heels?’ asked Jacot. He could turn on the charm as well, when it suited him.
Dixwell warmed to the theme. He wasn’t a fan of Jacot’s but the question had carried with it a genuine inquisitiveness. ‘Something to do with tar from the pine forests of North Carolina which was the state’s main export for many years. It’s a nickname for all North Carolinans. To begin with it may have been semi-insulting but it was adopted enthusiastically after Robert E Lee put a glorious gloss on it. Dixwell pulled a small card from somewhere on his desk and read aloud:
‘“During the late unhappy war between the States it was sometimes called the “Tar-heel State”, because tar was made in the State, and because in battle the soldiers of North Carolina stuck to their bloody work as if they had tar on their heels, and when General Lee said, “God bless the Tar-heel boys”, they took the name.”’
Oddly, all senior Americans, whether in government service or the private sector tried to reproduce elements of the presidential Oval Office in their own offices. The shape was difficult to replicate but the fittings could be imitated easily enough by all budgets. Dixwell’s office was no different. The reproduction Federal furniture with its striped upholstery was straight out of an episode of West Wing, another cultural reference point that seemed universal in American government circles. And like the characters in that series many US officials seemed to hold most of their conversations while on the move. They didn’t walk down corridors, they strode. Always in a hurry. Always making decisions. Jacot usually found it a little exhausting. He wondered how anyone could watch West Wing. Even the poor old president of the United States seemed always to be on the move. Dixwell had the habit when he visited the Cabinet Office but Jacot was relieved that this meeting at least would be held sitting down and in an office.
‘Hell, I am sorry to hear about General Verney. It’s a bad business and anything we can do to help of course we will. I gather the Feds are having a look at some stuff. Since the Russians started killing people we have had to be extra careful. I understand the British police have run a Geiger counter over the room and so nothing radioactive is suspected. But there are other things the Russians may have been up to we need to check out. And of course there are the Islamists. Any senior British official is at risk from some of those guys. I don’t want to be unkind to you Brits but your borders are a joke. You just don’t know who you have got here.’
Jacot agreed wholeheartedly with this sentiment but it was not why he was there. ‘There are always the Islamists. But to be frank I can’t see someone going for Verney at Cambridge. He’s been a much easier target on his travels around the world and numerous visits to Afghanistan.’
‘Maybe you are right’, said Dixwell. ‘The bad guys on the ground in Helmand soon got wind of the new prime minister’s first visit didn’t they? Jeez, I know the Secret Service are constantly havi
ng kittens anytime POTUS visits the troops. Another thing, I know your universities appear to be hotbeds of Islamist radicalism but mainly the third grade ones, not Cambridge, surely. Those colleges are closed societies. It would be difficult to get someone on the inside. Anyway I hear it’s natural causes. Sad, but it does happen to men in their late fifties, particularly on the squash court.’
Jacot took all this in and knocked his Bourbon back. Was Dixwell saying a little too much? ‘You could be right’, said Jacot. ‘Verney died in bed though, not the squash court. The police and military police are covering most of the angles and as you say the money’s on natural causes. Nevertheless, I am the guy who has to look at the areas that are too sensitive for the police. One of those areas is you and your colleagues. I am interested in who exactly was there that night from Langley?’
Dixwell looked out of the window. ‘Me, obviously, and Johnny Downes, the Deputy Director of the Agency. He was going to be in town. Comes from a dirt poor midwestern background and I thought he might like to taste the glories of Cambridge.’ He added, conspiratorially, ‘To be honest Jacot we are from different backgrounds entirely but we have always got on. America is more class-ridden than you think or we like to pretend. There is a place for everybody. Ivy League is Ivy League. The Midwesterners tend to stick together. We Southern gentlemen get on well as long as we don’t fly the Confederate Flag at home or whistle Dixie too much or too loud at the office. The cowboys do their own thing. But it’s still difficult if you’re from a really poor background. And when they do make it they tend to have a kind of difficult brashness. Even if their success means that they can handle the Yalies their wives can be tricky – first wives that is.’ Dixwell grinned. ‘But Downes and his good lady fit the scene like a glove. He has done me a lot of favours. We get on. Hey, he loved Cambridge. And you know what Jacot, Downes is very welcome at the White House. The CIA gets to see a lot of the president but there aren’t many of us who get invited to the presidential weekly cocktail parties in the family quarters. Downes and his wife do. Yeah, the Martinis are fabulous and the finger food out of this world. Sometimes there’s a little US Marine string quartet.’ Dixwell looked wistful. ‘Johnny could easily be the next director. And if that happens I am going up with him.’
The Falklands Intercept Page 10