The Envoy (18 page)

Sending Driscoll in on a fast flowing tide was a calculated risk. Kit also assumed that the Sovs had Crabb under surveillance and wouldn’t send down their own divers until they had been warned that he was going in. On the other hand, Kit was perfectly aware that he himself might be under surveillance – and that in a very few minutes Driscoll might find his head being cut off by a Ukrainian Olympic weightlifter.

Kit picked up the tabloid that Driscoll had been reading. Grace Kelly had just married Prince Rainier III. They had to get married twice because Monaco, like France, required a civil ceremony before a religious one. The Chancellor, Harold Macmillan, had just come up with ‘something completely new for the savers of Great Britain’. It was called ‘a premium bond’, not ‘a pool or lottery’. You got your money back – without interest. Like the bedroom in a bored marriage. Kit tossed the paper into the back of the van and gazed out into the harbour.

Kit fought off a wave of self-doubt and fear; his hands were clammy and sweaty. He was only doing his job, carrying out US foreign policy. Washington disapproved of the Soviet goodwill visit. In fact, ‘the Seventh Floor’ – diplomat slang for the Secretary of State – was appalled that the British government was moving towards a policy of unilateral détente with the Soviet Union. Kit’s job was to destroy the Khrushchev-Bulganin goodwill visit and to poison Anglo-Russian relations. The West must speak with one voice and strike with one fist – and both had to be American. Kit fought off another wave of self-loathing. He wondered if Caesar’s envoys had ever felt the same – and yet the Gauls and the Celts had never built a single aqueduct bubbling with clean water or laid a single straight road of good stone.

Kit knew, or at least prayed, that the limpet mines would never go off. His note to Vasili had suggested that MI6 were using Crabb to plant mines. Crabb was, after all, a renowned limpet mine expert and had won the George Cross for de-mining British ships during the war. Kit felt sorry for Crabb. He knew that the Russian divers were just as likely to kill him as capture him. But the important thing was that the Russians search the hull of the ship to see if Crabb had left anything behind. The Sov divers would have to be totally incompetent if they didn’t find the
limpets
. Kit fervently hoped that Vasili had taken his warning about the mines seriously – and that the information had been passed on to the captain of the
Ordzhonikidze
.

But what if they didn’t find the mines? Kit had already made up his mind that he would own up to the Russians and send Driscoll back to show them where he had placed the mines. Kit’s own life and career were far less important than the risk of starting a nuclear war. He’d lied to Driscoll. The consequences of sinking a Soviet ship and drowning their leaders would be far more than the diplomatic isolation of Britain. And what would happen to him then? Prison in the USA or USSR – or a bullet in the head. Kit put his hand deep in his overcoat pocket and felt the pill bottle – or cyanide? It’s a rough trade. Especially for Catholics who believe that suicide is a mortal sin. Worse than murder, Kit. Taking a life that God gave someone else is bad enough, but destroying the precious gift He gave to you alone is spitting in Creation’s face. But anyone with half a brain knows all that stuff is a load of shit. Double-think, Kit, keep practising – you’re getting good at it.

But, fingers crossed, the Russian divers would find the mines – and there would be one hell of a diplomatic incident. It would be bad for Britain, but not as bad as Kit had told Driscoll – the idea of the incident helping bring about a united Ireland was an exaggeration and a lie. And the mines themselves would never be mentioned in the press – all that would be too sensitive and not in the national interest of either country. The Russians would
probably
accept Eden’s explanation that MI6 had been acting totally without authorisation – which was true. But what assurance was there that it would never happen again? Was the elected British government capable of controlling its Secret Intelligence Service? And that, thought Kit,
is
a damned good question. In any case, relations between Britain and the Soviet Union would be
poisoned
for decades to come – and that would suit Washington fine. Kit was doing his job.

Kit checked his watch. Driscoll had been gone for nearly an hour and a half. Twenty minutes later than the worst case ETA. Maybe he’d been spotted and had escaped by swimming up river with the tide behind him. Maybe, thought Kit, he ought to drive around to the ex-filtration point he had marked on the chart. It was near a posh yacht club. Kit could imagine the scene: ‘I say, d’you mind if I borrow your man? I want him to look at the rudder pinions on my yawl.’ Kit shielded his eyes against the late afternoon sun. The water had gone a glittery silver gold. He strained to see that black seal’s head – but nothing. I’ll give him, thought Kit, another fifteen minutes and then drive to the yacht club.

From King’s Stairs it was only possible to see the stern of the outermost Soviet destroyer. Kit took out his binoculars. There was a boat alongside the destroyer with a big blond sailor
curling
a rope. No frogmen or nervous officers looking over the side. Then it came, borne on the wind, a sharp popping sound – like a rifle shot. It could have been anything. Like what? Kit looked at his watch again; the fifteen minutes of grace had gone. He thought about the second room at the Sally Port Hotel: ‘I’m ever so sorry, but my colleague from the shipping agency has been delayed by some urgent business in London.’ ‘Yes, he’s Canadian too.’ Kit opened the van door and looked out towards the end of the jetty. It wasn’t a seal, it was Driscoll. He was struggling: the tide was dragging him sideways towards the jagged underwater pier pilings, but he kept fighting against it and coming closer to the stairs. After one more struggle, Driscoll finally found a firm footing and pushed the mask off his face. He was breathing hard.

Kit walked to the concrete steps on the side of the jetty. The tide was now two feet higher covering all but the top step. He gave a hand to Driscoll and helped him stagger ashore. ‘That fucking tide, you can’t imagine that fucking tide.’

‘We’ll talk later, get in the back of the van.’

Kit started the engine and spun the van around. Just as they got to the harbour gate, a large saloon car turned in off Queen Street. Kit recognised Crabb’s handler in the driving seat. He was an MI6 operative who went by the stupidly obvious alias of Smith. Kit saw ‘Smith’ give him a surprised glance and then turn around to say something to Crabb who was already in his diving suit.

‘What took you so long?’ said Kit.

‘They knew I was there. After I finished the job, I saw a diver above me in the gap between the nearest destroyer and the cruiser. There were probably others. I don’t think anyone saw me so I went deep and swam under the keels of both destroyers and out into the middle of the harbour – that’s when the tide caught me. I came to the surface once and someone took a pot shot.’

Kit stopped as soon as he saw a public phone. He dialled a number to a phone that was almost certainly tapped – but things had gone too far for that to make any difference. As soon as Vasili answered, he said the agreed word in Russian, then in English, ‘Cook
ee
s.’ The phone clicked as Vasili hung up. Kit leaned his head against the glass of the phone kiosk; he felt nauseous. ‘Poor Crabb,’ he said, ‘poor Crabb – whoever you are, give him peace.’

When they got to the Sally Port Hotel, Driscoll was dry and combed. He looked like an almost respectable businessman from a rough background – which fitted in perfectly with the hotel’s ambience. There was no one at reception, so Kit leafed through the hotel register to check out the other guests. ‘Shit,’ he said.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Don’t ask. We’re not staying here.’

When they got back to the van, Kit paid off Driscoll – and gave him ten pounds extra. ‘Forget about checking out the sonar. There’s definitely not going to be another dive tomorrow – or the next day. Ditch the van as soon as you can and take a train back to London. Your Kilburn digs are still fine – stay there until you hear otherwise.’

‘What if I want out – after this shit?’

‘It might be safer to stay in.’

‘Is that a threat?’

Kit closed his eyes and breathed deeply. ‘Why the fuck, why the fuck can’t you take friendly advice?’ He looked at Driscoll.‘Do you think I like doing this shit?’

‘Then why do you do it?’

‘Maybe I’ve got six kids and a big mortgage? Maybe I need the money so I can go to college and become a lawyer?’ Kit took a notebook and
pencil
out of this pocket. ‘Or maybe I can’t get out either. Here, I want you to draw me a sketch of exactly where you placed those mines.’

‘What difference does it make?’

‘Just draw.’

Driscoll drew the underside of the
Ordzhonikidze
with fast sure strokes and put circles with x’s inside them to show the mines. ‘They’re both here – under the port quarter. It’s best to hole the hull in the same area – it sinks them quicker.’ He moved the
pencil
towards the bows. ‘By the way, there is a pair of large
underwater
doors here – big enough for laying large mines or putting out divers.’

Or, thought Kit, for saying hello to uninvited guests.

Kit got Driscoll to drop him off in a run-down area near the main station. There were numerous bombsites: cleared, but still not rebuilt. The British hadn’t been whacked as badly as the Russians or Germans, but the Americans hadn’t been whacked at all. A lot of his colleagues kept forgetting that.

It was a lousy hotel, but it was too late to be choosy. The desk clerk was smoking and dropped fag ash over the register as Kit signed it in the name of William Stewart. The room was
loathsome
. The sheets hadn’t been changed and – an especially nice touch – there was a pubic hair on the pillowcase.

Kit hadn’t bothered to check the names of the other guests. It wasn’t likely that Crabb and MI6 would lower themselves to such a dump. Besides they were all staying at the Sally Port. The thing that alarmed Kit most of all was that there were five of them. Crabb had signed in his own name, his handler had used his usual alias – and then added names for three more rooms in his own handwriting. Who were the other three? That’s why Kit had cleared off: he wasn’t going to stay in a hotel packed with SIS.