The Midnight Swimmer (19 page)

‘Only if it is in the British national interest.
We’re not the poodles that Washington would like us to be.’

Che sat back down in his chair, which like the desk, was a dark colonial heirloom with elaborately carved ornamentation.
Catesby
felt that he was negotiating with a pirate who had been plundering the Spanish Main.
‘I have,’ said Che, ‘a message for you to pass on to Washington.
But if you don’t want to carry it, perhaps your
Canadian
friend will.’

‘I am sure we can do it.’

‘First of all, I want to convey my thanks to President Kennedy for the Bay of Pigs.
Before the invasion, the revolution was shaky.
Now it is stronger than ever.’
Che laughed.
‘Kennedy chose to back the most incompetent band of criminals imaginable.
Their defeat was the first great victory of the people of Latin America over US
imperialism
.
Are you writing this down?’

‘If you like.’
Catesby took a pad out of his folder.

‘The Bay of Pigs fiasco has allowed us to consolidate our power.
Before the invasion, there was a small chance of reconciliation with Washington.
Now there is none.
The Kennedy administration has transformed our little aggrieved country to an equal with the USA.
Likewise, the invasion has shown there is no alternative to following a communist agenda.’

Catesby sensed a pause.
‘Is that all?’

‘No.’
Che pointed to the notepad.
‘And I don’t want you to write down what I’m going to say next.
I want your mind – and the minds of those you share it with – to see not only the words, but the images too.’

Catesby put his pen down and looked at Che.
At first there had been something pleasantly boyish about him, but now a cloud seemed to darken his face.

‘We are now going to build stronger ties with the Soviet Union.’
Che lowered his voice and spoke slowly.
The words were calm, but deliberate.
Che continued to speak for fifteen minutes as he carefully outlined every stage of what was going to happen.
His voice never ceased to be calm and reasonable despite the enormity of the
consequences
.
Catesby wasn’t surprised.
It all had a certain inevitability.
But actually hearing the words had a finality that made him shiver.

‘Is there no other way?’
said Catesby.

Che slowly shook his head.
‘Since imperialists blackmail
humanity
by threatening it with war, the wise reaction is not to fear war.’
He looked at Catesby.
‘What do you think?’

Catesby smiled.
‘I’m more easily blackmailed than you.’

‘Fear is a cultural trait.
It is taught to us.
You can unlearn it.’
Che
began to cough.
He covered his mouth with a handkerchief and mumbled, ‘Sorry.’

‘Are you all right?’

Che was wheezing and seemed to be struggling for breath.
He closed his eyes and took short shallow even breaths.

‘Can I get you some water?’

Che put his hand up and continued taking short breaths.
He opened his eyes, ‘I’ll be okay.
Just give me a few seconds.’

‘Let me know if I can help.’

Che nodded thanks as he struggled to breathe.

Catesby had read about Che’s asthma attacks in various reports.
He knew that he would now have to update the reports by confirming that he had personally witnessed one – and also describe the symptoms.
It’s what spies are supposed to do.
But Catesby didn’t want to do it.
The man in front of him, with all his faun-like beauty, was also a vulnerable human being.
He reminded Catesby of the girl in
The Rite of Spring
who is danced to death to appease the gods.

Che began to breathe more deeply.
‘I’m better now.’

‘Good.’

‘But before you go, I have a present that I want you to give to President Kennedy.’
Che got up and went to an untidy bookshelf where he found a box.
‘I understand that Kennedy likes cigars.
These are special hand-rolled ones.
Perhaps you can send them to Washington in a diplomatic bag – I believe some far inferior cigars have already gone that way.
There’s a note from me too.
Can you check the English?’

Catesby looked at a white card headed
Gobierno de la República de Cuba
with the national flag.
Che had written underneath:
Dear President Kennedy, The Revolution is inevitable and unstoppable, but while you are waiting I hope you enjoy these cigars.
Che
.

‘The English is fine.
Would you like to add anything?’

‘What would you suggest?’

Catesby scribbled a few words on a notepad.
‘Try that.’

Che read the note and smiled.
He then copied Catesby’s message to the card:
PS I bet you can’t get Marilyn Monroe to sing at your birthday party
.

Catesby had never seen her before, but he knew it was her.
Her hair
was indeed deepest black, but that was no rare thing at the Brazilian Embassy in Havana.
She wasn’t alone.
But there was something about her that was perfectly self-contained, as if she were enclosed by an invisible bell jar.
Katya was wearing a simple white dress and holding between her hands a
caipirinha
, the Brazilian national
cocktail
, as if it were a bouquet rather than something to drink.
The lime and ice in the
caipirinha
complemented her dress.

Katya’s husband, KGB Lieutenant General Yevgeny Ivanovich
Alekseev
, was standing behind her talking to Che Guevara.
Che was eating an impossibly large cream cake.
He looked ravenous.
There were only puddings and sweets to eat.
It was a rather late reception, as many were in Havana, and too late for savouries.
But it was still a big event.
The reception was celebrating the visit of Brazil’s newly elected president, Jânio da Silva Quadros, to Havana.
Jânio was talking to Fidel and the British Ambassador was talking to the Brazilian Ambassador, but no one was talking to Catesby.
He always felt awkward at these things.
He wondered if he should find another spy for a chat.
Just then he caught Katya looking at him.
It was a very odd look.
Catesby nodded back.
She seemed to frown; then turned her eyes away.

‘I say, William, it’s a jolly good job we didn’t wear evening dress with sashes and medals.’
It was Mickey Blakeney, Head of Chancery.

‘We would have looked complete tits,’ said Catesby.
There had been a brief debate at the embassy on dress code – and lounge suits won.
The top Cubans, as usual, were wearing green battledress.
And Che, in fact, looked even more scruffy than usual.

‘The new Brazilian guy,’ said Mickey, ‘is a bit of a lefty which is why he’s decided to get closer to Fidel and Moscow.
Washington must be having a fit.’

‘They think Cuba is turning contagious and only they can stop it.’

‘That appears to be the mood music.
Let’s hope it doesn’t turn into the last act of
Die Götterdämmerung
.’
Mickey smiled.
‘Have you noticed, by the way, the uncanny resemblance between Richard Wagner and John Wayne?
They could be twins.
Must circulate, see you later.’

Catesby looked at his watch.
It was nearly midnight.
Havana was like that.
No one ever seemed to sleep.
He sensed someone at his elbow.
Then there was a voice speaking German.

‘Good evening, Herr Catesby, would you like a little kiss?’
The German was a dapper young man in a light grey suit.

‘Have you brushed your teeth?’

‘I don’t mean that sort of kiss.
I mean one of these.’
The man held out a serving plate with what looked like tiny cupcakes.
‘They’re called
beijinho
– which I believe translates as
kleine Küsse
.’

‘Thank you.’
Catesby took one of the cakes and ate it.
‘Lots of coconut.
I’m not fond of coconut.’

‘Neither am I.
Have you tried mother-in-law’s eye,
olho de sogra
?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a sweet wrapped in dried plum.
I prefer them.’

‘Do you speak Portuguese?’
said Catesby.

‘A little.’

‘But I bet your Portuguese isn’t as good as your Russian?’

The German smiled blandly without answering.

Germans were a problem in Cuba.
They could be either brand.
The West Germans were fully represented with an embassy.
But the East Germans, formerly completely unrepresented, had signed a trade deal with the revolutionary government and now had a ‘
commercial
mission’ in Havana.
It seemed likely that the East German presence was going to grow and the ‘Wessies’ might clear off entirely.

‘That’s a nice suit,’ said Catesby, ‘did you get it from the HO?’
The HO,
Handelsorganisation
, provided East Germany’s official state shops.
A lot of people found HO clothes frumpy, but Catesby rather liked them – and the suit did look very HO.
Perhaps they were
dressing
down to fit in with the Cubans.

‘You are obviously teasing me because you want to know if I
represent
the BRD or the DDR.’

‘It could make a difference.’
Catesby nodded towards Katya.
‘Do you owe her an apology?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
The German studied Catesby with hooded eyes.
‘Maybe you owe her an apology.’

Catesby noticed that General Alekseev was staring in their
direction
.
Things were getting complicated.
Catesby nodded a greeting at Alekseev.
The Russian raised his glass.
Even more complicated.
Catesby turned to the German, ‘Do you know the general and his wife?’

‘Manchester United,’ said the German, ‘aren’t doing very well this season.’

‘No, they look headed for a middle-table finish.’

‘I suppose Busby’s trying to rebuild with younger players.’

Catesby smiled.
‘Would you like us to get you some tickets for Old Trafford?’

The German suddenly switched to English and put on a pastiche posh accent.
‘That would be jolly spiffing good, old sport.’

Catesby laughed.
‘We’d better not get you those Man U tickets after all.’

‘Isn’t my English good enough?’
They were both speaking German again.

‘It’s not, how should I say, nuanced enough.’

The German looked deflated, but it wasn’t because he couldn’t speak Mancunian English.
‘It’s a pity we can’t spend the rest of the evening talking about football.
I never know when I’m getting things right.’

Catesby looked at his fellow spy.
He probably wasn’t much over thirty, if that.
He could tell from the accent that he was a Berliner.
He’d probably been fourteen or fifteen at the end.
Catesby wondered if he had been one of those boy soldiers in uniforms three sizes too big lugging anti-tank grenades through the ruins and crying for their mothers.
War is shit – especially if you have to fight for the wrong side.

‘You want to tell me something,’ whispered Catesby.

The German gave the instructions clearly and concisely.
It was also important that Catesby went there alone.