The Midnight Swimmer (9 page)

The Ambassador’s private study was more modest than the rest of Winfield House.
It was comfortable and functional rather than grand and elegant.
The furnishings were antiques, but not priceless ones.
There were oil paintings of horses and photographs of
Whitney’s
stepdaughters – and his polo team.
As soon as Catesby was shown in, Whitney got up and warmly shook hands.
‘Thank you for coming to see me.’

‘Thank you for inviting me, Ambassador.’

‘Please drop that nonsense, just call me Jock.’

The name triggered a memory in Catesby’s mind – Jock for jockey.
‘You nearly won the Grand National.’

Whitney gave a theatrical sigh.
‘That was heartbreaking.
Easter Hero twisted a plate and we were beaten by a nose.
Are you fond of steeplechase?’

‘Not particularly, I prefer football.’

‘Soccer?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘I’ve always been passionate about sport – but I’m only good at the ones us spoiled rich things can afford to play.’

Catesby was surprised by the frankness.

‘May I offer you something to drink – brandy, coffee, tea, more champagne?’

‘No, thanks.’

‘I must confess …’ Whitney sounded genuinely embarrassed, ‘that I have an ulterior motive for asking to see you.’

Catesby shrugged and put on a blank look.

‘Betsey, my wife, is Kit Fournier’s aunt.
Kit was her favourite nephew.
I only met him once.
He seemed a very complex young man – and extremely witty and utterly likeable.
I believe you knew him?’

The name Kit Fournier hit Catesby’s ear like a pistol shot from close range.
It was as if a complete stranger had casually said, ‘You caught your wife flagrante and you buried her and the lover under the patio’ – and it was all true.
Catesby struggled to keep a straight face, for the Fournier file was one of London’s most closely kept secrets.

‘Yes, I knew Kit.
We were both stationed in Bonn in the early fifties.’

‘Were you doing similar jobs?’

Catesby looked directly at Whitney without blinking.
‘I was in the consular section at the British Embassy.’

‘I see.’

Catesby wondered how much further Whitney was going to push.

‘Well, I’m having coffee,’ said Whitney pushing a button on his desk intercom, ‘I hope you will have some too.’

‘Yes, please.’

Whitney placed the order.
His voice, as ever, polite and
nonmagisterial
.
Catesby meanwhile began to put pieces together.
The American elite were just as incestuous as the British – the same few families.
He remembered that Betsey, Whitney’s second wife, had been married to James Roosevelt, the president’s son.
The divorces and the revolving marriage beds didn’t matter.
They were still the same gang – and Kit was part of it too.
If, thought Catesby, the Americans had got to Fournier first, there would have been a
cover-up
instead of a trial.
The Brits did the gang a favour.
A smiling
Filipino
entered with the coffee tray and shuffled out again wreathed in Whitney’s warm thanks.

‘Did you meet Kit when he was stationed in London?’
Whitney was pouring the coffee.

‘No, unfortunately.’
Catesby knew that Whitney knew that he was lying again, but he had to go through the ritual.

‘And they still haven’t found a body?’

‘No.’
Truth was easy.

‘Is there anything I can pass on to Betsey?’
There was a note of faint pleading in Whitney’s voice – oddly vulnerable in a man so rich.

‘We can’t assume that Kit is dead.’

‘Thank you.’

Catesby immediately wondered if he had given too much away.
But something in Whitney’s manner suggested that he had an inkling of the truth.
A word, perhaps, from a polo-playing
Argentine
who had contacts on offshore islands.

‘What,’ said Whitney changing the subject, ‘do you think of
Kennedy’s
election?’

Catesby shrugged.

‘Of course, you can’t say.
You’re supposed to be a diplomat.’
Whitney paused.
‘I hope you don’t think my office is bugged.’

‘I don’t think it is.
I’m sure you wouldn’t tolerate it.’

‘Not if I knew about it.
In any case, William, since you are in no position to express an indiscreet opinion, allow me.
I didn’t want Nixon or Kennedy to win – and I’m sure that Eisenhower felt the same way.
I love my country and I don’t like the way it’s going.’
Whitney paused and stared hard at Catesby.
‘But you don’t like my country at all – or Americans.’

‘I don’t think that’s a fair comment.’

‘And it’s unfair of me to task you with such a comment.
And, of course, you can’t be sure that this office isn’t bugged.’

‘It doesn’t matter.
I would say the same things regardless.’

‘Well I’m going to continue with my indiscretions because there are messages I want to pass on before I leave this job.’

‘But …’

‘Please, William, the humble diplomat story is getting threadbare.’

Catesby sipped his coffee.

‘I’ve chosen you,’ continued Whitney, ‘because in an odd sort of way our views coincide.
I believe that my country has become increasingly enthralled to a group that could destroy us all.’
Whitney paused.
‘And it’s not just my own family who are at risk.
Nonetheless, my view is more commonly held by people of my … how can I say it?’

‘Filthy-rich old money.’

‘Thank you for being so succinct.
In fact, we’ve got so much filthy lucre the stuff is an embarrassment.
Our working weeks are spent giving away millions rather than accumulating them.
I assure you that philanthropy is harder work than greed – the decisions are more complex.’

‘Do you feel superior to the new rich?’

‘Good heavens, no.
The new rich aren’t any different from our ancestors – completely amoral.
But whereas our ancestors built railways, drilled oil wells, manufactured motor cars, exploited mines; the new rich have discovered something even more profitable – weapons.
Not just old-fashioned guns and canon, but aircraft
carriers
, hydrogen bombs, ballistic missiles, submarines.
They’re not just greedy and amoral – they’re dangerous and out of control.’
Whitney looked closely at Catesby.
‘Do you find my views eccentric?’

‘A little unexpected perhaps.’

Whitney picked up a piece of paper from his desk.
‘I’m going to read you a quote.
See if you can guess the author.
“Every gun that is made, every warship launched, every rocket fired, signifies in the final sense a theft from those who hunger and are not fed, those who are cold and are not clothed.”’

Catesby shrugged.
‘I don’t know – sounds like someone on the very liberal left?’

The Ambassador smiled.
‘President Dwight D.
Eisenhower.
It’s going to be part of his speech when he leaves the White House.
And Ike will conclude with,’ Whitney read again: ‘“We must guard against the acquisition of unwarranted influence, whether sought or unsought, by the military-industrial complex.”’

Catesby frowned.
‘It’s a pity he didn’t follow that advice when he became president.’

‘At least he’s giving it now.’
Whitney paused.
‘You’re a hard nut to crack.
I’m trying to recruit you as an ally to a cause that you already believe in.’

‘You don’t know what I believe.’

‘If that is so, then I’ve been misinformed.’

‘Who informed you?’

‘People who are … how should I say … your enemies.’

Catesby knew there was a long list, especially in the CIA.
Two years previously, one had threatened his life and had to be physically restrained from throwing him back into the freezing Baltic.
‘I’m giving you a list of contacts that someday you might find useful.’
Whitney picked up a piece of notepaper from his desk and handed it over.

Catesby saw that it was typed for the sake of anonymity.
There were three US telephone numbers with codenames.

‘Don’t mention my name if you ring them,’ said Whitney, ‘they will immediately hang up, for they know that real names are never used.
But whatever happens, you must never forget that I am a deeply loyal American – and defender of our Constitution.’

Catesby stared at Whitney.
The man was more old-school American than George Washington and Thomas Jefferson.
He wondered what game he was playing at.

‘I’m going to let you go now,’ said Whitney, ‘but I want to say one more thing, just one word.’

Catesby sensed the most important message of all was coming.

The Ambassador smiled bleakly and whispered, ‘Cuba.’

C
uba.
The word echoed ominously in the office before the machine clicked.

Bone then rewound the tape back to the beginning.
They had already heard it twice.
‘What in heaven’s name, Catesby, possessed you to go to that party wired up?’

‘Nothing much.
The new gear seems light and easy to use.
I wanted to give it a test run.
I also thought I might catch a drunken American off guard.’

‘But not the Ambassador?’

‘He was cold sober.’

Bone looked at the tape recorder.
‘There’s almost enough there to blackmail him for a surreptitious contact with an intelligence officer from a foreign state, but I can’t see what we would gain by it.’

‘Maybe a hot tip for the Kentucky Derby?’

Bone frowned.
‘Or maybe the contact was authorised by the
outgoing
administration?’

‘Could be.
A case of being demob happy and reckless.’

‘It is worrying, however, that Whitney seems to have some info on Fournier.
Maybe Fournier should have been killed instead of stashed.’

Catesby bit his lip to keep it shut.
There was a ruthless side to Bone that troubled him more and more.
There were times when Henry Bone behaved like a fugitive on the run who needed to eliminate anyone on his tail.

‘I need a cup of tea,’ said Bone, ‘what about you?’

‘I’d love one.’
Catesby noticed that the Echinus Demotter china had been replaced by two chipped mugs.
He watched Bone boil an electric kettle and wondered if his boss’s stock had fallen in Central Stores.

‘Milk and sugar?’
said Bone.
‘It’s ordinary navvy’s tea.’

‘Milk.’

Bone handed Catesby a mug and opened an office drawer.
‘Spot of brandy?’

‘That’d be lovely.’
Catesby sensed that Bone was going through
a scruffy period.
They usually occurred at times of change and uncertainty.

‘I think,’ said Bone, ‘that you were right.’

‘About what?’

‘About Cuba.
Things have started to slot into place.’

‘But, Henry, it’s not your area of responsibility.’

‘Nonsense, I’m Euro/Sovbloc – and Cuba is now Sovbloc.’

Catesby sensed a wonderful demarcation punch-up in the offing.
‘How’s DP3 going to feel about you poaching on his patch?’

‘It’s already resolved and approved by C.
I don’t want the bother of running a big op.
I’ve asked for only one officer in Havana, who will be directly responsible to me.
DP3 was pleased as Punch that I didn’t push to control the whole shebang.’

‘Another bloodless Henry Bone coup.’

‘How’s your Spanish?’

‘I can manage a menu.’

‘Don’t worry, Catesby, you’re a good linguist and you’ve got a few months to learn.
Meanwhile, I want you to tidy up in Berlin.’

‘The BfV business has gone septic.
The guilty bastard is trying to frame me.’

‘That could be useful.’

Once again Catesby felt he was being dangled over a precipice.
He looked blankly into space.

‘It won’t be like last time,’ said Bone.

Catesby turned and stared at his boss without blinking.
He
wondered
if Bone had any awareness of human pain – or was simply good at hiding it.
‘I’m sure, Henry, it won’t be.’

‘But first, I want you to go to America to follow up one of
Whitney’s
leads.
And there’s a perfect pretext for your visit.’

‘I bet you want me to go under cover as a vacuum cleaner
salesman
– so I can clean up a reputation or two?’

‘No, something much more credible – and necessary.
I’ve managed to trace one of the phone numbers that Ambassador Whitney so indiscreetly provided.
I was pleasantly surprised.
It could be a way of making amends.’