The Envoy (22 page)

‘It’s an acquired taste, but I am acquiring it. Still, I would have preferred Paris or staying on in Bonn. My German was getting pretty good. Are you still stuck on E Street?’

‘I get abroad quite a lot because of the Radio Free Europe stuff, but I have to be based here for reasons of control.’

Kit knew that Cord was the CIA’s undercover press czar. He oversaw a vast global network that churned out pro-America propaganda. His operation was a work of near genius. Cord’s
philosophy
was to recruit progressive and left-of-centre journalists to take up the American cause. He also fed funds to anti-communist trade unions. Cord was incapable of hypocrisy; he sincerely believed in what he was doing. He was an anti-communist liberal who believed in world government and the United Nations. Cord had written an intensely moving account of his war
experiences
called
Waves of Darkness
that veered towards pacifism. Kit thought it was a fine book, but maybe too intense, too sincere. At times, Kit wanted to grab Cord and shake him. ‘Tell me a joke, say something ironic.’ But he knew that Cord wouldn’t have seen the irony.

‘By the way,’ said Cord, ‘did you know that Jack Kennedy lives just up the road?’

‘Oh, does he? I didn’t know that.’

‘Jacqueline and Mary have become good friends.’

‘That’s nice.’

Kit was woken in the middle of the night. Moonlight poured in through the open bedroom window. It must have been an owl: a screech owl that was hunting in the large Virginian gardens. He looked at the luminous dial of the bedside clock: quarter to three. He was thirsty: the whisky had dehydrated him and he had
forgotten
to fetch a glass of water for the night.

Kit got out of bed as quietly as possible and found his dressing gown without turning on a light. He didn’t want to disturb the sleeping house. He opened the bedroom door slowly, but it still sounded like a raised coffin lid in a horror film. Otherwise, Kit liked the Meyers’ house: it was large and gracious, full of wide corridors and landings with varnished oak floors. He liked the smooth cool feel of old oak planks under his bare feet. A large bow window flooded the landing with light from the full moon. The window looked out over the circular drive that came to the front of the house. There was a car parked on the gravel; it hadn’t been there before. Were there new visitors who had come late?

Kit leaned his forehead against the window and stared at the car. It was a dark blue Plymouth with Massachusetts licence plates and a US Senate parking permit stuck on the bumper. Kit noticed that the car’s right front fender was badly scratched and dented. Jack, he thought, isn’t any better at driving cars than PT boats.

After a minute or so a car door opened – gratingly loud in the still night air. Mary was wearing a paint-stained artist’s smock and white peddle pushers. She certainly hadn’t dressed for her date. The car engine started; she turned to wave, but didn’t watch the Plymouth disappear down the drive. She was looking straight at Kit. They remained staring at each other for nearly a minute: there was no anger or resentment in her look. It was infinitely sad – and just seemed to say, over and over again,
I don’t know why, I don’t know why
…

When Kit got back to England the weather was fresh and cool. It felt invigorating after the humid Washington swamp. He liked the way the strong cleansing winds blew torn clouds across London and began to hate the confines of the office. He needed a trip to Suffolk so he could get his boat in the water.

Kit’s job meant he could leave London whenever he wanted. Ambassador Aldrich was aware of the situation and didn’t object to Kit dumping his routine diplomatic duties on the Deputy POLCOUNS. The deputy was a shrewd Virginian named Perry. As Kit handed over another folder, Perry frowned. ‘You know something?’

‘What’s wrong?’ said Kit.

‘Can I be frank, sir?’

‘Of course.’

‘It seems that you offload all the boring shit on me.’

‘But now, Perry, I’m going to reward you.’ Kit smiled and took something out of his in-tray. ‘This is not just for your astute
analysis
of the situation, but also for the assertive way you have stood up to the person who is about to write your annual OER. Here.’ Kit handed his deputy a gilded invitation card.

Perry read aloud, ‘To celebrate the recent marriage of Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller.’

‘It’s going to be London’s biggest celebrity bash of the year – and now you’re going instead of me.’ Kit looked closely at his dour deputy. ‘This, Perry, could be the making of you. When Marilyn lays eyes on you, she’ll think, “I’ve had Joe DiMaggio’s brawn and Arthur Miller’s brain, now I want raunchy down and dirty sex.” Princess Margaret will be there too – and God knows what might happen if she feels the same dark desires. Hmm, but we don’t want an incident that might embarrass the Ambassador.’ Kit reached for the card. ‘So on second thought …’

Perry quickly put the invitation in his pocket. ‘I’ll manage.’

‘Good.’ Kit picked up three more files and handed them over. ‘Have a look at these and add your own conclusions – UK
dollar
reserves, UK oil imports and Anglo-Egyptian relations.
Two-hundred-word
summaries of each for the Seventh Floor with copies to me, the CM and DCM.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

Kit paused and waited to catch his deputy’s eye. ‘Actually, this is
very
important shit. It means I seriously trust you.’

‘I’ll do my best.’

Kit watched his deputy betray a slight flush of pride as he turned to leave. As Perry shut the door, Kit fished another
invitation
out of his in-tray. It was one that Cauldwell had managed to provide. It was a VIP invite to a concert at the Aldeburgh Musical Festival. The event featured Soviet artists and would give Kit an opportunity to meet Natalya Voronova – the cellist with the nuclear scientist husband.

Louise
, Kit’s Blackwater Sloop, was ready for launching the week before the Whitsun Bank Holiday. Kit went down to Slaughden Quay the evening before with blankets, tins of food and bottles of wine. The boat was suspended by strops in a launching trailer. In the morning they would attach a tractor to the trailer and push her down the ramp and into the River Alde. The boat swayed on her harness when Kit climbed aboard with the provisions. It was like being at sea already. Kit stowed the food he had bought in cabin lockers, then folded the bedding on a berth in the forepeak. The rough texture of the blanket reminded him of childhood camping trips. When he finished tidying things down below, Kit went topsides to check the rigging and anchor. Everything was perfect. Billy Whiting had done a fine job. Kit ran his hand over the fresh varnish of the mast and looked out to sea. It was
exciting
: not the sordid excitement of war and spying, but the fresh pure excitement of childhood.

Slaughden, a half-mile south of Aldeburgh, was on a
narrow
neck of shifting shingle, hardly more than a hundred yards wide, where the river almost touched the sea. The fragile isthmus was guarded by a nineteenth-century Martello tower mellowed by age and salt wind into a gentle ruin. Beyond the Martello lay ten miles of shingle spit and marsh – for all intents an island. Kit squinted and looked south. There was nothing but sky, banked shingle, wheeling gulls, grey sea and gleaming river. But hidden from view in the middle of that bleak wilderness, the Orford Ness Atomic Weapons Research Establishment squatted like a poisonous desert toad. It was an ugly blot, but ugly blots were the prices countries paid for not being mugged with a nuclear cosh – maybe. Who knows?

The following day Billy Whiting helped crew
Louise
down to her mooring at Orford. The day was bright, but fresh and cool. The clear weather brought a brisk breeze from the north-east. It was a fast passage even against the flooding tide. Kit made note of his new neighbours: gulls, terns, curlew, oyster-catchers, heron, swans, avocet. Billy pointed out a mud bank south of the Martello tower that was fast disappearing under the tide, then made his way to the foredeck where he sat enclosed in his own world. Kit felt the sun warm on his face and listened to the regular gurgle along the hull. The river was empty except for a broad beamed open boat trawling for shrimp – small brown ones with a nutty flavour. You ate them with brown bread, butter, lemon and a pint of bitter. Billy and the fishermen exchanged hardly perceptible nods for greeting. They were a reticent people.

An hour later, the low dull buildings and bunkers of the research establishment began to appear above the riverbank. Orford Ness lighthouse, painted in broad bands of red and white, seemed cheerfully out of place. The opposite bank was greener with sheep grazing in the salt marshes. Further inland the land rose in gentle wooded slopes. The weathered stone of Orford Castle and the square spire of the church reflected beige, pink and dove’s breast grey in the morning sun. It was, thought Kit, like sailing into a watercolour.

After picking up the mooring, Kit rowed Billy ashore. They met Jennifer on Orford town quay. She was wearing a floral dress and a broad brimmed hat with a blue ribbon. She looked so English. When Kit leaned to kiss her cheek he was wrapped in a scent of verbena. As he pulled away, he noticed the mark on her neck – ever so faint and grey. His heart pounded. He tried to imagine that the mark was a smear of makeup or ash. ‘We’re going to a chorus rehearsal. Would you like to come?’

Kit looked puzzled.

‘It’s a new Benjamin Britten opera, we’re just getting started. Billy’s been cast as Jaffet, Noah’s son, but I’m just a member of the congregation. It’s a lot of fun – all children and amateurs. Ben wants it that way – just like they did miracle plays in the Middle Ages. Please come.’

Kit now remembered. He turned to Billy who looked
embarrassed
and was shuffling his feet. ‘I don’t know,’ said Kit, ‘I’d feel like an intruder.’

Jennifer put an arm around Billy. ‘How can we teach Billy not to be ashamed of being good at things?’ Kit watched the boy turn red. It was obvious that Billy was in the throes of a schoolboy crush.

‘OK,’ said Kit, ‘but I’ll put my fingers in my ears when it’s Billy’s turn to sing.’

Billy flashed a sly smile. ‘Don’t you dare.’

Beneath the magnificent oak beams and window tracery, the interior of Orford Church was plain and austere. Like most Suffolk churches, it had been stripped and whitewashed by Cromwell’s puritans. The rehearsal was being conducted by Britten’s
companion
, the tenor Peter Pears. Kit had heard of Pears, but was surprised at his size and strength. He had hands the size of
dinner
plates. Pears explained to the chorus that they had to imagine they were the congregation of a twelfth-century Suffolk church. Pears said that he would pretend to be Noye and slowly walk through the church to the stage while they sang the first hymn. He then made a signal, the orchestra began and a moment later the voices rose. Kit felt the hairs on his spine raise. It was a simple hymn and there were no professional singers: just ordinary folk. Power was passing from the priests to the people.