The Midnight Swimmer (30 page)

E
veryone calls it Brompton Oratory, but they shouldn’t.
Its proper name is the London Oratory Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary.
Which is quite a mouthful.
And would only confuse a taxi driver.
Which is why Catesby simply told Galen to meet him at Brompton Oratory.

Catesby was kneeling in the pew nearest the Lady Chapel.
He had considered bringing a rosary so he could count off the beads as he pretended to mumble Hail Marys, but thought that would be laying it on too thick.
So instead he just clasped his hands, bowed his head and recited the names of Ipswich Town football players: ‘Blessed art thou Roy Bailey in goal and hallowed be thy name Ray Crawford …’ Catesby paused.
He heard a door open, then footsteps squeaking up the nave on the parquet floor.
Catesby closed his eyes and mumbled the names of more conventional, though less useful, saints.
The steps came closer and paused next to the pew.

The new visitor coughed softly.
Catesby continued to pretend to be lost in prayer.
The visitor clumsily slipped into the pew.
Catesby opened his eyes and looked at Galen.
‘Sorry, I was far away.’

‘I understand,’ said the American.

‘It’s peaceful here, isn’t it?’
As Catesby spoke the organ started to boom Couperin’s
Sanctus
.
‘Except when Father Emile gets going.’

‘Is this your parish church?’

‘Yes.
It’s rather magnificent, don’t you think?’
Catesby tried to drain his voice of irony.
In actual fact, he found the flamboyant baroque of the Oratory unspeakably vulgar and overcooked.

Galen looked in awe at the altar and crossed himself.
‘It is so beautiful.’

‘You ought to come here to Mass.’

‘I’d very much like that,’ said Galen, ‘we could take communion together.’

Catesby tried to hide his revulsion.
The ‘friendship’ with Galen was the most nauseating duty he had ever undertaken –
especially
the feigned mutual interest in religion.
The organist was now playing the toccata from Widor’s
Wedding March
.
Catesby wished
that Henry Bone hadn’t found his way into the organ loft.
He feared Bone’s sense of humour was going to give the game away.

‘Have you,’ said Galen, ‘considered my offer to introduce you to Opus Dei?
You would start as a supernumerary member.’

‘I am not sure that I am worthy.’

‘You are, my friend, you are.’

Catesby didn’t know how much longer he could bear such oily sincerity.
Fortunately, the friendship with Galen was turning more and more to espionage matters.
The use of shared religious
conviction
, however, had been an excellent ploy.
There was something about religion that created unquestioning trust and allegiance.
School ties and being members of the same golf club created rivalry rather than loyalty.
In Galen’s mind, Catesby was a fellow Roman Catholic soldier.
Other differences were irrelevant.

‘Last time,’ said Galen, ‘you told me you wanted more
verification
about how I identified your English colleague.
Don’t think for a second that I doubted your trust in me.
I know that you have to have proof to provide to other people.
I’ve brought some things with me.’
Galen slid an envelope across the pew.

‘From the Swedish end?’

‘That’s right, a very reliable agent.’

Catesby slid the document and photos out of the envelope.
He recognised the handwriting and the stilted English.
Galen was using the same Säpo intelligence officer that Catesby used – another ‘double dipper’.

‘The first set of photos,’ said Galen, ‘were taken on the
Sassnitz-Trelleborg
ferry.
The Swedish intelligence service always have an agent on the boat.’
The ferry, as Catesby well knew, was part of a boat-train that ran from Berlin to Trelleborg on the southern tip of Sweden via the Isle of Rügen port of Sassnitz.
It was a convenient way of getting agents into and out of the East bloc.
Consequently, it was under heavy
surveillance
.
The train toilets were notorious as dead letter boxes.

‘What do you think?’
said Galen.

‘The photos from the ferry are not high quality, but the person does bear a resemblance.
But, I agree, it certainly is the Sassnitz boat-train.’
It was one of the few boat-trains where the train actually goes on the boat.
Catesby looked at the other photos.
‘But this one is definitely him.
Where were they taken?’

‘In front of a hotel in Trelleborg.’

Catesby looked closely at the photos.
There were only two of them.
One of them was taken from behind the man.
The Hotel Horizont and a Volvo taxi with Swedish number plates are clearly visible.
Both photos were taken at night.
The photo showing the man’s face is set against a background of car and streetlight glare.
He put the photos and covering letter in the envelope and handed them back to Galen.

‘You’ve certainly nailed him,’ said Catesby.

‘Don’t you want to keep them?’

Catesby smiled.
‘I would love to, but I don’t want to take them back to the office with that chap prowling around.
And besides, I haven’t got the money.’

‘What about the letter?’

‘My bosses want me to match up the handwriting to make sure it really is from Dr Tarasov.’

‘That’s fair enough, but I’ve already checked the handwriting against other documents – and it is his.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Catesby, ‘the Sovs forced Tarasov to write a letter about an incident that never happened.’
He hoped it wasn’t too obvious that his doubts about authenticity were fake ones.
Catesby didn’t want to arouse Galen’s suspicions.
Nonetheless, he knew he had to ask all the sceptical questions that a fellow professional like Galen would expect.

‘In any case, why would the Russians want to exaggerate their weakness and vulnerability by forging such a letter?’

Catesby shrugged.
‘How much do you want?’

‘Two hundred thousand US dollars.’

‘Ouch.’

‘But that includes the photos and documents identifying Arlekin.’

‘Arlekin?’

‘I should have told you.
That’s what the Russians and East Germans call your man who did the secret deal.
It’s Russian for Harlequin.’

‘I know.’

‘I forget, William, that you are a talented linguist.’

‘How about
dona nobis pacem
?’

‘Freedom is more important than peace, William.
I’m sure you agree with that too.’

It’s funny, thought Catesby, the people who spout that stuff about freedom usually haven’t been in a war – especially if they’re Americans.

‘When you consider the issues involved,’ said Galen, ‘it’s not really a lot of money.
You’re going to get rid of a traitor in your ranks – and you’re going to make sure neither Washington nor anyone else ever gets to see Dr Tarasov’s letter.’

Catesby knew that the last was an unenforceable promise.
Galen had surely copied the letter and would be using the threat of passing on copies of the letter to ensure future payments.
But it wasn’t going to matter.
Catesby looked at Galen out of the corner of his eye.
He must have been bullied unmercifully at school.
He would have
disliked
Galen a lot more if he wasn’t going to have to kill him.
Having to do that always made you feel sorry for them.
It always made them human and vulnerable and even likeable in a way they wouldn’t have been otherwise.
At least that’s what it was like for Catesby – except for once.

‘And what,’ said Galen, ‘about the young lady?’

‘She’ll be there.’

‘Where?’

‘The place we’re going to meet to do the deal – she’ll arrive
afterwards
.
But,’ said Catesby smiling, ‘it’s just a grotty safe house so you might want to take her to a swish hotel.
And, to be frank, you can’t trust those colleagues of mine.
I think they’ve put cameras in the bedroom ceiling.’

‘Would you give me a copy of the film?’
Galen suddenly blushed.
‘That was a joke, William, just a joke.’

‘I’m sure it was.’
Catesby wrote something on a piece of paper.
‘It’s on Gladstone Street, near the Albert Arms.
It’s South London, not far from where Charlie Chaplin was born.’

‘Chaplin’s a communist, you know.’

‘Maybe that’s why he took the piss out of Hitler,’ said Catesby aware that Galen wouldn’t pick up the irony.

‘That’s the problem with people like Chaplin,’ said Galen.
‘They use being anti-Nazi or anti-fascist as cover for being pro-communist.’

Maybe, thought Catesby, killing Galen wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.

The advantage of the Gladstone Street house was that it had vehicle access to the rear.
The back of the house overlooked a
marshalling
yard for British Rail freight.
It was dark and bleak in the night drizzle.
Catesby kept watch from the upstairs back bedroom with
the light off.
He was anxiously waiting for Bone who was supposed to nick Galen’s Ford.

The bloody car was a pain.
It was the one thing most likely to make the whole plan go tits up.
Galen had an embassy pool car, but only used it for trips outside London.
He kept the big Ford in a lockup garage near his rather grand house in Hampstead.
It was going to be Bone’s job to pick the lock on the garage, which should be pretty easy – and then, one hoped, start the car with a set of
skeleton
keys.
If that didn’t work, Bone would have to hotwire the car: battery, coil, starter solenoid.
He had spent an hour practising at the motor pool in Vauxhall that SIS shared with Five.

And, even if all that went to plan, what about the car keys?
It wouldn’t be a problem if Galen had the keys with him.
But what if he hadn’t?
The cops investigating the ‘suicide’ would want to know what happened to the keys.
Why weren’t they in the car or on Galen’s person?
They would, of course, do a fingertip search of the area around the body and not find them.
Catesby and Bone had discussed the possibility of a ‘black bag job’, a break-in, on Galen’s house.
But it wasn’t worth the risk.
What if he kept the keys in a desk in his office?
Little details, like those bleeding car keys, were what gave spies sleepless nights.

Catesby knew it was an American car as soon as he saw the wide powerful sweep of headlights against the chain link fence of the railway yard.
The big Ford turned up the alleyway and stopped at the back gate where there was a coal bunker and an unused
outdoors
privy.
Catesby went downstairs to unlock the back door and signalled the coast was clear.

Bone came into the house via a dank damp scullery.
He was smiling and swinging something over his head.
‘The keys,’ said Bone, ‘they were in the ignition.
What luck.’

‘Thanks for doing this, Henry.
I know it’s beneath your pay grade.’

‘It was great fun.
Besides, you needed be here waiting for Galen.
No show yet?’

‘Not a dicky bird.’

‘Is the house wired up?’

‘Definitely not,’ said Catesby.
‘We can’t risk a breach of trust at this point.’

‘You haven’t lost the money, have you?’

‘Stop worrying.’
Losing one of SIS’s currency stashes was a
constant
nightmare.

‘I don’t think,’ said Bone, ‘I should be in the house.
I’ll wait in the car.’

‘Good idea.’