A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) (28 page)

The captain sipped the Muckle Flugga whisky, which tasted faintly of roasted oak and barley. His next task, when he got back to England, was making a list of ‘acceptable’ trade union leaders. Was it, he thought, just as hopeless a task as making a list of fulmars that don’t eat fish? On the other hand, learning to be ‘acceptable’ might be preferable to spending a winter on Muckle Flugga.

Agency News:
28 October 1968

Explosion Damages JFK Memorial at Runnymede

Surrey police are investigating a bomb blast that seriously damaged the memorial to the American President John F. Kennedy. The seven-ton block of Portland stone was split down the middle by the explosion and may be beyond repair. A spokesman for the Surrey Constabulary has confirmed that the explosives used were ‘high quality plastic explosives which are only available to the military’. An inventory is now underway to ascertain if the explosives may have been stolen from a UK military base.

Police have not ruled out the possibility that the explosion may be linked to yesterday’s anti-Vietnam march in London at which demonstrators hurled staves, bottles and fireworks at police. The protest was not as violent as last May’s, but the presence of a hard core of extremists was evident. US and Australian flags were burnt. At the Whitehall Cenotaph, wreathes of poppies were trampled and a Union Jack was burnt.

Century House, Lambeth, London:
1 November 1968

No one, except the Russians and Catesby, was happy when SIS had to relocate their HQ from Broadway Buildings to the twenty-two-storey steel and glass tower block in Lambeth. Catesby was happy because it was such a short walk from his flat in Pimlico – and also because of the river views from his office. But, for the time being, Catesby wasn’t there to enjoy the views. He was on a mole chase in Southeast Asia. But the Russians were in Lambeth – and they were happy because security for SIS in their new glass home was absolutely shit. From rented rooms in the neighbouring streets, the Sovs could casually observe and photograph anyone entering or leaving Century House on foot. The rented rooms also gave the Sovs an excellent view of the entrance and exit of the underground car park. This gave them a collection of number plates – including those of cars that swapped number plates. The windows of Century House were also a security nightmare. You
could draw a blind to block people looking in, but the Russians were developing technologies that could pick up conversations from window vibration. Henry Bone, however, was always ahead of the game and had his office windows hung with special curtains that absorbed sound.

Bone wished that there was someone with whom he could share his latest bugged recording from the Mayfair gentlemen’s club. But Zadok was back with his owner and Catesby was abroad. Bone thought about inviting the new DG to listen in, but didn’t want to embarrass him. Bugging that club was, for SIS, strictly illegal. And what a pity. Otherwise, the recording would be evidence for a prosecution. But, thought Bone, that isn’t the way we do things. Criminal prosecutions are a public way of dealing with matters that are best dealt with covertly. That’s why Anthony Blunt had made a full confession in exchange for full immunity from prosecution. It would have been so embarrassing – and what had he done that was so wrong? These thoughts were something that Bone could never share with Catesby.

Bone made sure the curtains were fully drawn and turned to the tape recorder. His neighbour’s friend was still a steward at the club and had proved an invaluable asset. Bone switched on the recorder to listen once again to the juicy bit. The colonel’s voice came first.

…a pity there’s not more indignation from across the Atlantic. The Americans ought to be boiling with rage at this insult to their martyred President.

Perhaps, it was too close to the American election, which seems to be occupying the media.
Bone recognised the voice as the banker’s.

Or maybe…
This one was the peer.
…the King and Robert Kennedy assassinations have made the American public a lot more difficult to shock.

The next voice was immediately recognisable. JJ had been an SIS colleague for almost twenty years.
Our psychological operations need to be aimed at the British public. In any case, who cares – among the supporters we are targeting – about a monument to a left-wing American President being scratched.

Split in half.
It was the colonel again.
Credit where credit is due – and what a great lump of stone it was. Disappointing, however, that it wasn’t linked more closely to the anti-Vietnam protest. We must create public fear and loathing of left-wing extremism. Pity the memorial wasn’t in Ireland – I suspect Kennedy was a bit of a Sinn Féiner.

We need…
It was JJ again.
…to concentrate on the Communist threat to Britain. We’ve still got a KGB agent in Downing Street and trade unions led by Communist subversives.

The colonel again.
I’ve still got some C4 plastic left. Let’s try a public utility next time.

London to East Anglia:
November, 1969

Catesby was still wearing his black tie when he got on the train at Liverpool Street, but took it off as soon as the train left London. He didn’t want to carry signs of mourning back to a weekend in Suffolk. On the other hand, he had been invited to a bonfire night party postponed from the fifth, which had been the previous Wednesday – so perhaps he should put the tie back on in respect to Guy Fawkes and his own alleged ancestor, Robert Catesby. Although Catesby was a staunch atheist, his Catholic upbringing always made him feel uncomfortable in a season where Roman Catholics were gaily burned in effigy. Nonetheless, he kept the tie rolled up in his overcoat pocket in case he needed it.

The funeral had been subdued and depressing. It was the second funeral of a suicide that Catesby had attended in the past two years. Positive vetting was dangerous to your health – and carried out in an ever more vicious fashion by Ferret and his fellow inquisitionists in the Security Service. The breaking point was usually a past friendship – often as a university undergraduate – with someone who turned out at some point to have done something unwise at the behest of a charming person who worked for Moscow. And Ferret and his gang always found out, because they had broken so many others. In the end, little or no damage had usually been done. But to Ferret’s way of thinking, Communism was a disease that, once contracted, was incurable. Even the slightest flirtation with the Party as a student meant you were tainted for life. The person under investigation was usually trapped by being presented with proof that they had failed to tell all – however fleeting or insignificant – at a previous vetting. And to pile on the pressure, the supposed security breach was often linked to something sexual. All this usually pertained to indiscretions that had occurred thirty or forty years before. And yet, it was enough to ruin the career of someone headed for a cabinet post or a senior position in the civil service. The person faced with ‘disgrace’ chose death instead.

Catesby needed a drink. He got up and made his way to the
buffet car, which was packed with the usual drunks on their way back to their weekend homes in East Anglia. Catesby tried not to be sniffy about them for, even though he was Suffolk born, he was doing the same thing. He felt a firm hand on his shoulder as he made his way to the bar.

‘Hello, William.’

It was a voice that Catesby knew well. It belonged to the government’s Chief Scientific Adviser.

‘Let me buy you a drink,’ said Catesby.

‘No, William, it’s my turn. What are you having?’

‘A double “ring-a-ding”.’

Sir Solly Zuckerman ordered the double Bell’s, then turned back to Catesby. ‘What do call you a Teacher’s?’

‘“A Sir with Love”. It’s a complicated family joke.’

‘Many family jokes are. How are Frances and the children?’

‘Fine – but we still live apart. How are Joan and your two?’

‘Great, they’ve gone up to Norfolk ahead of me.’

Catesby noticed that Solly had also taken off his black tie. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to talk afterwards.’

‘I had to rush off to a meeting. How did you find it?’

‘Bitter, depressing and short.’

‘And none of them were there.’

‘Their smiles of smug satisfaction would have been unbearable.’

‘I bet you would have punched one of them.’

‘That would have been playing into their hands.’ Catesby smiled. ‘But it would have been worth it.’

‘Shall we go for a walk?’

Catesby nodded. He could see that the scientific adviser wanted to have a private chat. They moved to the gap between the carriages – a cold, draughty no-man’s-land that swayed and clanked above the tracks.

Sir Solly stared out the door window into the dark. ‘The problem with this train is that you can’t see anything. I’m a South African-born Jew, but I love the English countryside – especially East Anglia. But you’re a real East Anglian.’

Catesby shrugged. ‘My background is complicated – but I can do the accent after a few pints.’

‘You are a superb linguist. Your rendering of Afrikaans was absolutely perfect.’

Catesby smiled. The language he had inherited from his mother was
West-Vlaams Nederlands
. His Flemish-accented
Nederlands
was close enough to Afrikaans that, with some coaching, Catesby could pass as a native Afrikaans speaker. At one point, Catesby and Zuckerman were part of an SIS operation aimed at uncovering South Africa’s role in breaking the oil embargo against the illegal regime in Rhodesia. But the op was cancelled because Catesby’s cover was blown. He suspected that it was the work of JJ conspiring with dissident elements in the Security Service who were sympathetic to white rule in Rhodesia. Finding a way to act against Rhodesia had proved one of Harold Wilson’s most intractable problems. And Catesby was certain that there would be more trouble from southern Africa in years to come.

Sir Solly looked at Catesby. ‘They’re now out to get me too.’

Catesby wasn’t surprised. He knew all about the scientific adviser’s role in thwarting the May 1968 coup. In fact, Catesby was the first person he had told about it. In the end, the plot had backfired and the press baron had lost his job – but conspiracy failures usually breed new conspiracies.

‘How do you know they’re after you?’ said Catesby.

‘An anonymous letter full of anti-Semitism, personal insults and threats.’

‘What did you do with the letter?’

‘I burned it. I wasn’t going to dignify them by going to the police. You should treat these people with contempt.’

‘You could have taken it to the Security Service.’ Catesby smiled bleakly.

Sir Solly returned a smile that was equally bleak.

Catesby always got a lift to his house from a cowman who worked on a neighbouring farm. The cowman timed finishing his pint at The Angel with the arrival of Catesby’s train. The cowman drove an ancient Commer van that needed a good bit of welding. There was, however, a loose metal plate in the foot-well that the passenger could keep in place by pressing down with both feet. The
plate stopped some of the cold and some of the surface water from coming in – but it didn’t work with deep puddles.

When they got to the house, Catesby, as was the custom, gave the cowman a couple of bob – hardly enough to buy a pint – but the farm worker wouldn’t accept more.

The shadow of the house loomed above him as he opened the front door. It still was cold and dark – no wife or family to greet him – but it was home in a way that London or nowhere else could ever be. Catesby had been born twenty miles away and had never wanted to live anywhere else. Suffolk wasn’t the only place where they said: ‘The apple don’t fall far from the tree.’ It wasn’t meant as a compliment; it meant you didn’t have any ambition to get up and go. But Catesby didn’t mind being that apple – he loved it.

The only post was a single letter. It wasn’t unusual, probably an invitation to something local, but most of Catesby’s mail was sent to his flat in London. Catesby put the letter aside. His first task was lighting the Rayburn – and getting it warm enough for cooking. Food was no more of a problem than a lift from the cowman. If you had Suffolk connections, you found things in your larder. The next task, after the Rayburn was thumping out glorious heat, was getting the inglenook roaring. Then back to the Rayburn to pop in ‘le prick au plonk’ – another family joke that probably wasn’t that funny. While the chicken was cooking, Catesby luxuriated in front of the inglenook fire with a glass of wine. ‘Ah, the letter,’ he said aloud. He picked up the envelope and held it in front of the light from the fire. The address was printed by hand in block capitals. Catesby sniffed the envelope – no perfume. But that, he thought full of hope, doesn’t mean it isn’t a love letter. He lay back and fantasised about who it could be from. He wished above all that it was from Frances. But the printing wasn’t her hand. Then, for the first time, he noticed the postmark. It was from Belfast. A chill ran down his spine.

It was, Catesby had to admit, a very well-executed line drawing. He wondered if the person who had done it had been to art school. The face of the sniper was obscured by a balaclava, but his body and hands were perfectly rendered. The posture and attitude of the shooter were also technically perfect for someone sighting in and
about to pull the trigger. The rifle, Catesby noted, was an American M-14. The bottom half of the drawing was a very attractive study of the east-facing side of Catesby’s house including trees and shrubbery. Each window, however, was superimposed with a bull’s eye.

Catesby picked up the envelope and stared at the postmark. He wondered if it was a red herring to make Catesby wonder if he had enemies in Northern Ireland. Things were certainly hotting up there and SIS were not without enemies in the province – including members of the Security Service. On the other hand, creating suspicions and false locations of agents by deceptive postmarks, although a somewhat stale trick, was one that SIS still used.