A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (40 page)

‘You realise that I am in a very difficult position in terms of diplomatic protocol.’ The newcomer spoke with an American
accent. ‘May I remind you that you have never seen me and don’t know who I am?’

The others nodded.

‘You could say,’ said the American, ‘that I’m the man who never was – but don’t dump me in the sea.’

There was an awkward silence.

‘The key source of our information on Stonehouse,’ continued the American, ‘is the Czech intelligence service defector code-named RADKO. We have sent a transcript of the sections of his debriefings pertaining to Stonehouse to your Security Service.’

‘Why hasn’t our own Security Service debriefed him?’ said the colonel.

‘I believe they have,’ said the American, ‘but you may find our debriefings more … more detailed and convincing. RADKO’s memory seems to be improving. And you could also say that we are a neutral third party without any domestic axes to grind.’

JJ nodded. Getting intelligence from other agencies or sources that confirmed and supported your own conclusions was always a good idea when presenting the information to politicians or journalists.

‘And by the way,’ said the American, ‘I am leaving you a copy of the RADKO-Stonehouse transcript. The only things deleted are those which could link the document back to us.’

‘Can we pass it around?’ said the banker.

‘With a little bit of care,’ said the American. ‘But choose your journalists carefully.’

‘“Communist Cell in Downing Street” is a great headline,’ said the peer.

‘The trick,’ said JJ, ‘of successful psy-op is not overegging, but giving a steady drip-feed.’

‘And timing,’ said the colonel. ‘We want the balloon to go up next November in the week after Remembrance Sunday.’

‘The public,’ said the general, ‘are always well disposed to the military at that time of year.’

Century House, Lambeth, London:
2 December 1974

…are always well disposed to the military at that time of year.

Bone turned off the tape recorder and looked at Catesby, ‘We’ve got to do something.’

‘We could leak these tapes to the press or go to the police.’

‘That would be the kamikaze option. It would destroy me, which is fine, but it could also destroy SIS. A revelation that we bugged UK citizens within the UK would be the most serious violation of our legal remit ever made public. There would be a public outcry – and prosecutions. In fact, it might even backfire in favour of the coup plotters. But having said that, we might have to go public – when the time is right.’

‘Or,’ said Catesby, ‘we can take covert action.’

Bone stared hard at Catesby. ‘What do you mean by covert action?’

‘Removing them as a problem – and making it look as if someone else did it.’

‘How ruthless are you, William?’

‘Not as ruthless as I should be.’

‘It was so long ago,’ said Bone, ‘I bet you don’t even remember.’

‘How long ago?’

‘The mid-fifties. In fact, it was 1956 – a year we all remember well.’

Catesby smiled. ‘What a year indeed. Kit Fournier got appointed CIA Head of London Station, Buster Crabb disappeared, probably with Fournier’s help – and Eden made a complete mess of Suez.’

‘Actually, I was thinking of something more low-key, but perhaps not less important.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘You and Frances went to a party at the Gaitskell’s house in Frognal Gardens to check out the US labour attaché who was hobnobbing with the Gaitskell crowd.’ Bone lifted a file on his desk. ‘And you wrote a report on the evening for me – for which I am very grateful.’

‘I’m starting to remember. Please go on.’

‘You met a man who spoke French with, as you so astutely
noted with your excellent ear for nuances of language, “an Eastern European accent”.’

Catesby nodded. ‘And he looked a very tough customer – not someone you would want to meet in a dark alleyway.’

‘But what disturbed you at the time, William, was that the man knew about the Nazi that you had killed in Bremen.’

‘And he thanked me for it.’

‘And said that he would help if you ever wanted to take part in other retribution killings.’

‘I don’t think,’ said Catesby, ‘it takes much imagination to work out who he represents.’

‘And we don’t want to know who he represents.’

‘Absolutely.’

Bone looked at Catesby’s yellowing notes from so long ago. ‘I hope they haven’t forgotten you.’

‘They never forget.’

‘In any case,’ continued Bone, ‘I was impressed by the dramatic flair of the contact details you so accurately reported:
Go to the grave of Charles Baudelaire in the Montparnasse Cemetery. You will see a likeness of the poet recumbent on his grave. Put a tiny chalk mark on his left big toe – then return to the cemetery at noon on the first Friday of the month. Someone will be there to meet you and will say, “Venge-moi”.’ You will identify yourself by replying, “Demain, aprés-demain et toujours!” Then tell them what you want.

Catesby frowned. ‘And now you want me to go to Paris and take up their offer?’

‘No, I don’t.’

‘Then why have you brought this up?’

‘I’ve always been fond of Baudelaire,’ said Bone smiling. ‘I’ve booked a brief leave in March when I will be visiting his grave in Paris.’

‘Don’t forget the chalk.’

‘I won’t,’ said Bone. ‘Meanwhile we must compile a present for them – a present so useful to their cause that they will do us a big favour in return.’

‘What sort of present?’

‘A package of files on ODESSA and their networks – and as many details and addresses of PAPERCLIP émigrés as we can find.’

Suffolk:
Christmas, 1974

Catesby was cooking a goose for Frances, his stepchildren, his sister and his eighty-seven-year-old mother.
Moeder
was in a grump and refusing to speak English or French. It meant that the only people she could communicate with were Catesby and his sister, no one else being fluent in
West-Vlaams Nederlands.

Catesby had tried to humour his mother by taking her to Midnight Mass in Southwold. She brightened up when she noticed that the Italian priest was another foreigner. She whispered to Catesby that the priest looked ‘very aristocratic’ and the ‘very image’ of the late Pope Pius XII. Catesby said, ‘Shh, he’s his son.’ Either his mother didn’t get the joke or really did believe that the priest was the Pope’s son. Catesby had slowly come to realise that his mother was more sophisticated about what Popes and other people got up to than she let on.

Even though he had taken her to Mass,
Moeder
knew that Catesby and his sister were non-believers. One of the things Catesby most admired about his mother was the way she gave up on lost causes. When they were children, she had tried to bring them up as good Roman Catholics. But as puberty beckoned, she realised that neither her son nor her daughter had any interest whatsoever in religion and stopped trying. Or maybe, thought Catesby, she herself had just got bored of catechism and rosary reciting. In any case, what fascinated Catesby was the languages his mother used when discussing religion. When she talked about God – all Three of Them – she spoke
Nederlands
. When she talked about the Blessed Virgin, she shifted into French. But when she talked about Satan, she always spoke English.

Sometimes, thought Catesby, dealing with his mother was like dealing with a foreign agent. And Catesby never forgot her Jesuit friend from Ireland who, after a few sherries one Christmas, had
pronounced Protestantism as ‘the religion of the cash register’. The remark reminded Catesby of other issues too. No Roman Catholic could ever be King or Queen – and merely marrying a Catholic disqualified a person from succeeding to the Crown. Would, Catesby thought, British Catholics ever be completely trusted? It was a more subtle issue than the hysteria about undercover Communists. But maybe, in a historical context, not completely unrelated.

The Queen’s Christmas broadcast broke the ice – and Catesby’s mother deigned to speak English again. She admired the Queen – and was proud that they were both the same diminutive height. She had briefly met the Queen when Catesby got his OBE.

It hadn’t been a bad Christmas in many ways. The goose in Catesby’s oven wasn’t the only one cooked. The mad and paranoid FURIOSO had finally been forced to resign and John Stonehouse had been arrested in Melbourne. But in neither case was the news completely good. No longer distracted by FURIOSO’s mad mole-hunts, the CIA could now be more aggressive abroad. And Stonehouse turning up alive in Australia would add fuel to the rumours of Communists in Downing Street.

Agency News:
11 February 1975

Margaret Thatcher is New Tory Leader

Margaret Thatcher’s sudden rise to become leader of the Conservative Party has sent shock waves across the political landscape. When Ted Heath called a leadership election just one week ago, many expected the contest to be a walkover. There appeared to be no alternative to Heath from the right of the party. The standard-bearer of the Tory right, Keith Joseph, had effectively ruled himself out after his controversial comments calling on poor people to have fewer children.

In a surprise move, however, Margaret Thatcher opted to stand and rallied the right-wing behind her with. At first, Thatcher’s support seemed minimal with the Conservative daily newspapers backing Heath. As the election ground on, however, it became clear that the race was going to be much closer as Thatcher gained the support of discontented backbenchers. Thatcher forced Heath to resign when she trounced him in the first round of the leadership race with 130 votes to his 119.

Key to Thatcher’s victory was the support of the influential right-wing 1922 Backbench Committee whose 276 members have become important power brokers. Edward du Cann, Chairman of the 1922 Committee, described Margaret Thatcher as ‘a new and rather exciting leader’ who will ‘make the Tory Party distinctive’.

Mrs Thatcher, who served as Edward Heath’s Secretary of State for Science and Education, exclaimed, ‘It’s like a dream.’

But the new leader rejected suggestions of a victory celebration: ‘Good heavens, no. There’s far too much work to be done.’

Courtauld Institute, London:
13 February 1975

There were several reasons why Henry Bone had visited the famous art historian. One of the reasons being that Anthony Blunt was in a terrible gloom and needed cheering up – not that
there was much cheer that Bone could convey. At one time, the two had been close friends – and Bone still felt a brotherly compassion for him. They began by talking about the MI5 officer that Catesby called Ferret.

‘I know that Catesby despises Peter, but after half a bottle of gin, he becomes almost bearable. He begins to show his insecurities and vulnerabilities.

Very touching in some ways. Little outward hostility, we even exchange Christmas cards.’

‘How often,’ said Henry Bone, ‘do you have these interviews?’

‘At present, hardly at all. Almost a mere formality – perhaps twice a year, just to keep in touch. But after my so-called confession in 1964, he would interview me every month – often until the early hours of the morning.’

Henry Bone found Blunt’s private rooms at the Courtauld extremely austere. The floors were covered in curling grey linoleum with a few worn rugs, but on the walls above the lino were a Rubens nude and a Picasso Blue Period etching. The Picasso was of a lean couple in threadbare clothing sitting at a table with empty bowls and an empty wine bottle. The man is wearing a homburg hat. The only clue that the woman is female is her meagre hanging breasts. Blunt noticed Bone staring at the etching.

‘That one’s called
A Frugal Meal.
I’ve hung it here,’ said Blunt with a bleak smile, ‘because it suits the room – a counterpoint to the lush Rubens.’

‘The couple in the Picasso remind me of Beckett’s characters.’

‘One of my lovers,’ said Blunt, ‘thought the man, with his gaunt drawn look, resembled me. Too true. I’ve been very tired and my eyes are going – I find it difficult to read. I rely on others and I’m starting to crave company.’

‘Would you like another series of interrogations?’

‘In some ways I miss them. There is a symbiotic relationship between the interrogator and his victim. We often ended up talking about love, friendship and betrayal rather than espionage and spies.’ Blunt looked at Bone. ‘I assume, by the way, they have passed on copies of my interrogation transcripts to SIS?’

‘They have.’

‘Is there any chance that I could see them? I can’t remember much of what I said. I’m always afraid they will try to catch me contradicting something I’d forgotten I said.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘I’m also very depressed and worried about Thatcher becoming Tory leader. Have they lost their senses? Would you like more whisky?’

Bone nodded and Blunt topped up their glasses – literally, to the top.’

‘I rather liked Heath,’ said Blunt. ‘He may have had very little personal charm, but he had an appreciation of the arts – and was a very fine amateur musician.’

‘And a superb yachtsman.’

‘And so, Henry, were you.’

Bone had represented Britain as a yachtsman at the 1936 Olympics. It was part of his complex and mysterious hinterland – as was his decades long friendship with the art historian.

‘I’m afraid, Henry, I’m afraid.’

‘Of what?’

‘If she ever becomes prime minister, she won’t respect the immunity agreement and she won’t keep my confession an official secret – which was also agreed. Until now, the confession hasn’t affected my life.’

Bone nodded and took a pad and pencil out of his pocket. He began to scribble quickly, but then remembered that the art historian had difficult seeing. He wrote in large block capitals: THIS ROOM IS BUGGED. LET’S GO FOR A WALK.

Anthony Blunt nodded. ‘I need some fresh air. Fancy a stroll to the off-licence?’

It was a mild evening for February with only a hint of dampness. Bone and the art historian walked up Baker Street – to where there really was an off-license that was still open.