And Is There Honey Still For Tea? (7 page)

‘In other words, we have to prove that the allegations made in Francis's article are true,' Julia said.

‘Wholly or substantially true. We gave some thought to a defence of fair comment on a matter of public interest, but there is no real sense in which this article is comment. It is putting forward new facts rather than commenting on existing facts.'

‘You must understand, Professor Hollander,' Overton resumed, ‘that once you set out to justify what you have written, you are in effect repeating the libel in court and attacking Digby's reputation for a second time. That will increase the level of damages if you lose. There is a potential for enormous damages if you fail to substantiate your claims against Digby. Once they serve their Statement of Claim, we will have fourteen days to file our Defence, so we must decide what we are going to do. If you would like me to approach Bernard Wesley and try to find a solution to this case, this would be the time to do so. If we delay, it will probably be too late.'

‘We will justify the claims,' Hollander said.

‘I cannot advise that without some evidence,' Overton insisted. ‘James Digby is not Oscar Wilde. If we are going to justify, we need some evidence.'

‘The evidence will be there,' Hollander replied.

9

Saturday, 13
March

Baxter would have preferred to meet Julia Cathermole somewhere less conspicuous than St Ermin's Hotel. For one thing, the choice of venue there was limited. The Caxton Bar, with its dark interior and low ceilings was claustrophobic, and there was nowhere you could sit that afforded a view of all the tables. Besides, Baxter had a personal distaste for the metal-topped bar. The alternative was the lobby balcony, the hotel's trademark meeting place, accessed from the entrance hall by means of steep, narrow stairs which give a shockingly sudden sense of height, of climbing so far over such a short distance; and which can induce vertigo when you turn around at their summit and find yourself confronted with what appears to be a precipice, an abrupt drop back down to the entrance hall. Once you get over the vertigo, the lobby balcony, presided over by a central, faintly ridiculous pulpit-like edifice, is open and airy, defined only by its sinuous balustrades curving seductively back on themselves around its perimeter, the low ornate ceiling providing the only sense of intimacy. It offers complete visibility, but is correspondingly more public. Julia had specified the lobby, the corner to the left of the main entrance. At least her choice of table was sound. Well, with her background, Baxter thought, she ought to have some sense of how things should be done, some knowledge of basic tradecraft.

Baxter's other objection to the hotel was that it was too obvious in itself, almost a cliché, really. The Special Intelligence Service's association with St Ermin's was one of the worst-kept secrets in London. The Service had taken over a floor of the hotel during the War. Churchill had used it for the meeting which created the Special Operations Executive, the special section of the Service designed to play havoc with the enemy in Europe. But C had told him that Julia had a sentimental attachment to St Ermin's because it had been a favourite haunt of her father's, and at present Baxter needed Julia's full and willing cooperation. He consoled himself with the thought that if anyone was watching, they could probably have followed him wherever he went, and they could certainly follow Julia. It had become too easy to be inconspicuous in London – unless, of course, you were an MI6 watcher wearing the regulation raincoat and trilby.

They shook hands. She already had a coffee in front of her. He sat, and ordered one for himself as soon as the waiter approached.

‘Thank you for giving Professor Hollander a lift from the airport,' she began.

‘My pleasure,' Baxter replied. ‘I hope he is comfortable at the Reform.'

‘He seems to be,' she said. ‘I know you must be busy, Mr Baxter, as am I, so may I come straight to the point?'

‘Please do.'

‘I would like to confirm, if I can, the details of the conversation you had with Professor Hollander during the drive. First of all, I understand that you told him that the Service has an interest in the outcome of the action which Sir James Digby is about to bring against him. Is that correct?'

‘It is.'

‘The Service is prepared to take sides against an Establishment figure, a baronet and leading Queen's Counsel, on behalf of an unknown American academic apparently bent on stirring things up?'

‘I would prefer to say that the Service is interested in discovering the truth, regardless of who may be implicated. We are very interested in whatever information Professor Hollander may have to give us, and we may have something of value to offer him in return. Professor Hollander is not the first person to delve into Sir James Digby's history. We would like to know what he has.'

‘And if Sir James is implicated …?'

‘We will deal with that if and when it happens. Look, Miss Cathermole, the Service has come in for a lot of criticism over the last few years, most of it fully justified. We have been betrayed by men we trusted, men who were our colleagues, men who were our friends. We have been made to look stupid and, worse than stupid, negligent in looking after the security of our country. C is determined that this chapter in our history has to be brought to an end. It is now my job, and that of every officer of the Service, to make sure that this happens. If that involves challenging a few Establishment figures – believe me, whatever may have happened in the past, I fully intend to do it.'

‘Fair enough,' she replied.

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

‘Our distinct preference,' he continued, ‘would be to see Professor Hollander defend himself successfully in the action.'

‘That might solve a number of problems for you,' she replied. ‘I see that.'

‘Look, let me ask you bluntly. Does Hollander have any evidence against Digby?'

She thought for some time.

‘He has information,' Julia replied. ‘Whether he has evidence is another matter.'

‘Explain, please.'

‘He has information which seems to me to be reliable, on the face of it,' Julia explained. ‘But legally, it is hearsay, and I cannot see any judge allowing it to be admitted in court. So it is of limited, if any value, to Professor Hollander in defending the action.' She paused. ‘On the other hand, it may well be of considerable value to the Service. You don't have to concern yourselves with the Rule against Hearsay.'

‘Quite true,' Baxter smiled. ‘In fact, we thrive on hearsay. In some ways, it is our stock in trade.'

‘Then I think you will find his information interesting.' She paused again. ‘Now I want to ask you something.'

‘Please.'

‘You must understand that I am reading between the lines here. If I am barking up the wrong tree, I want you to let me know. Hollander is quite convinced that the Service already had its own suspicions about Digby before he published his article. That may just be the conclusion he draws from the information he has. I am not asking you to confirm or deny it in so many words. Even if you do have something, I assume it doesn't go beyond suspicion, given that no action has been taken against him.'

Baxter was showing no sign of responding.

‘All right. What I want to ask is: whether you have anything you might be prepared to put on the table in exchange for the information he has to offer you? Something we might actually be able to use in court, even if it is not conclusive in itself? If so, it might make a real difference to Hollander's prospects of success.'

‘Possibly,' Baxter replied. ‘We might have something of that kind to offer.'

Julia felt her heart start to beat a little more quickly. She made a conscious effort not to betray any excitement in her voice or her body language.

‘I am not asking for details, but would this material be information only, or potential evidence?'

‘It would be potential evidence,' Baxter replied at once. ‘But I must be clear about one or two things.'

‘Very well.'

‘You must understand that the material in question is of the highest sensitivity.'

‘I assumed as much,' Julia said.

‘Yes, but you may not understand exactly what that means in this context. My superiors would prefer not to release it if Professor Hollander can win his case without it. At this stage, we have no way of knowing exactly what evidence he has. If the action can be won on the basis of evidence already available to him, we would prefer that you take that course. On the other hand if, as we suspect, Professor Hollander has insufficient evidence, we would prefer to release the material than to see him lose his case. I will have to ask you to speak with my superiors before a final decision is made.'

‘That's not a problem,' Julia replied, ‘as long as it does not involve any delay. If Hollander can produce no evidence, it won't be long before Digby's lawyers are applying to strike out Hollander's Defence, and once that happens, it's all over.'

Baxter nodded.

‘Understood. I will leave it to you to contact us when you are ready. The second thing is that we will need you to persuade the judge that the proceedings must be held
in camera
and without a jury. And anyone to whom the materials are disclosed will have to sign an Official Secrets Act form.'

Julia stared at Baxter for some time.

‘When I said the materials were sensitive, Miss Cathermole,' he continued, ‘what I meant was, that any disclosure could be dangerous to national security, and could put lives at risk. We cannot take the chance of a leak.'

‘I will have to consult with counsel about those conditions,' she replied, after some time. ‘Do you have any objection to my telling him in confidence what is going on?'

‘No objection,' Baxter replied. ‘He will need to know in order to make the application. But I'm afraid these conditions are non-negotiable.'

‘I'm not sure a judge will be very happy about them,' she said.

‘As I said, they are non-negotiable.'

She nodded.

‘Very well. Lastly …'

Baxter smiled.

‘Professor Hollander's legal costs. I was wondering when you would get around to that. I can confirm that the Service is prepared to meet them. We will reimburse Hollander covertly. I will make sure that the necessary paperwork is sent to your office.'

She returned the smile.

‘Look, I have to ask. Have you considered…?'

‘The potential cost? Yes. We have counsel to advise us. We are aware of what we may be letting ourselves in for. But, to look at it another way, it gives us an even greater incentive to make sure Professor Hollander comes out on top.'

Julia sat up in her chair.

‘There is just one other thing. I am Professor Hollander's solicitor. The fact that the Service is paying my firm's fees does not mean that I act for the Service. I act for Francis Hollander, and my sole duty is to uphold his interests. If his interests should lie in reaching a settlement, or taking some other necessary action, I will take that action, and I will not consult with the Service about it first. I have to know that you understand that.'

‘I understand,' Baxter replied. ‘As I say, we have our own counsel.'

She stood.

‘Then, thank you,' she said. ‘I will be in touch very soon about arranging a further meeting.'

He stood and extended his hand.

‘Good,' he said. ‘It has been nice meeting you.'

She took his hand. ‘Again,' she said.

He looked at her in surprise.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Nice to meet you
again
. You came to our house to visit my father in Vienna in the summer of 1938. I was at home for the summer. You were a very young officer then, and you were using the name Moore.'

He stared for some time, and then laughed aloud.

‘I am impressed,' he said. ‘You have a remarkable memory, Miss Cathermole.'

‘Yes,' she replied. ‘I do.'

10

Baxter left St Ermin's Hotel a deliberate five minutes after his meeting with Julia ended. It was a fine, though chilly, Saturday morning, the air fresh and invigorating. He walked briskly, though without hurrying, the short distance from the hotel in Caxton Street to number 54 Broadway, which since 1924 had served as the headquarters of the Special Intelligence Service, MI6. Almost mechanically he performed his habitual piece of street-craft, walking past the entrance, crossing Broadway by St James's Park tube station, and walking along Tothill Street some distance towards Parliament Square, just to check, before doubling back along his route.

As he had anticipated, C was waiting for him. By tradition, the head of the Service was referred to simply by that letter of the alphabet. His identity was, in theory, a secret withheld from the public. But anyone with a serious interest in military or intelligence affairs knew, or could discover without undue difficulty, that the current C was Dick White, a former police officer who had previously served as chief of the domestic intelligence service MI5. Relations between the two services had come under considerable strain since the defections of Burgess and Maclean, largely because of MI5's perception that MI6 preferred to rely on breeding and pedigree, and the old boy network, than on objective personal assessments in recruiting its officers and deciding how far to trust them. White's appointment in 1956 had been designed partly to ensure that the two services could work efficiently together, and he had achieved some success. White was regarded by some of Baxter's colleagues as too much of a boy scout, insufficiently innovative and too risk-averse to be an effective leader of a traditionally swashbuckling service, which understood that it could not provide real intelligence without breaking a few rules. But his masters in Whitehall, who had by now become wary of breaking rules, saw him as a safe pair of hands and welcomed his caution. His predecessor, John Sinclair, had resigned over the officially unexplained death of the diver ‘Buster' Crabb, almost certainly during an operation to inspect the hull of a Soviet warship moored in Portsmouth harbour as the guest of the British Government, an operation which had been specifically forbidden by the relevant Minister. Whitehall looked to White to clamp down on that particular kind of swashbuckling in future.

White had come in on this Saturday morning especially to meet Baxter, even though Professor Francis R Hollander did not exactly constitute a national emergency. The defections of Burgess and Maclean and, more recently, Kim Philby, had left an indelible imprint on the psyche of the Service and, despite its recent successes in arresting and prosecuting spies and dismantling several Soviet networks, any hint of internal sabotage was taken very seriously. White knew things about the departed spies, and about others such as Anthony Blunt, which were not yet known even to his political masters, and which would turn their hair white if they were to be told. The case of James Digby had a similar potential, but it was at risk of being played out on a very public stage. White was determined to prevent that from happening. He needed to know exactly what was going on, and to take any steps necessary to prevent yet another blow to his Service.

Baxter declined coffee. He had already drunk enough for the day at St Ermin's. C had dressed down for the occasion in a dark brown sports jacket, grey slacks and a green and yellow tie over a darker green shirt. He was seated in the armchair behind his desk, a copy of the
Daily Telegraph
, carefully folded, on the desk in front of him. The building was deathly quiet. One or two officers, including the duty officer, one or two secretaries, and the duty librarian, were finding themselves something useful to do in various corners, but otherwise the place was deserted. Baxter hated it like this. It gave him the creeps. He thrived on the bustle and energy which permeated the building during the working week. At weekends it had an aura of decay about it.

‘Julia thinks Hollander has no evidence against Digby that would stand up in court,' Baxter began. ‘She didn't say it in quite so many words, but that was the effect of it.'

‘Really?' White asked. He turned his swivel chair halfway round towards his window, then back again. ‘Then he has behaved rather rashly, hasn't he?'

‘Yes. I am sure counsel will have left Hollander in no doubt that he is likely to go down in flames if it goes to court, and that if he tries to defend his article as being true, the only result will be that the damages will be even greater than they would be otherwise.'

‘What does Hollander think about that?'

‘He isn't interested in settling, apparently. His attitude seems to be: let Digby sue and be damned.'

White nodded and thought for a while.

‘Well, I don't know what your reaction is, but it seems to me that Hollander has made some kind of calculation about this, and we don't know all the factors he has put into the equation.'

‘I agree, sir,' Baxter replied. ‘But apparently he has convinced himself that Digby is stuffed whatever he does. If he fails to sue, the press and public will draw their own conclusions. If he does sue, the truth about Digby will come out one way or the other.'

‘Which means one of two things,' White said. ‘Either Hollander believes that we will provide him with evidence of some kind, in which case he thinks he would win; or someone at the CIA has been talking out of school and promised to back him behind the scenes, presumably because they share Hollander's suspicions of Digby and think that this is a way of neutralising him, regardless of whether Hollander wins or loses in court.'

‘Or perhaps the CIA has its own evidence against Digby,' Baxter suggested. ‘It would hardly be surprising. The Americans would have agents watching the chess scene, just as we have.'

‘Yes,' White replied, ‘though if the CIA had its own evidence, one would have hoped that they would share it with us; but then again, perhaps not, given recent events.'

He was silent for some time.

‘You realise that we may have to do our best to help him?'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘We need to monitor this case very carefully. How are your arrangements going?'

‘They are going well, sir. Hollander was easy. We have a contact at the Reform Club where he is staying, so we already have a device in his room and we can gather the data on a daily basis. We did Digby's home during the week, while he and his wife were at work and the housekeeper had finished for the day. We are doing the chambers – Overton's, Wesley's and Digby's – this afternoon, while it's quieter in the Temple. We have the listening team for the chambers set up in a room in a residential chamber in Inner Temple. The usual occupant is a judge who did some work with us during the War while he was a barrister.'

‘What about Julia?'

‘My judgment is, it would be unnecessary and too much of a risk. Julia will keep us fully up to date.'

White nodded. ‘Good. Keep me informed, please.'

‘Of course, sir.'

* * *

Bernard Wesley's chambers occupied the second and third floors of number 2 Wessex Buildings, an ornate building which forms part of the magnificent arch at the bottom of Middle Temple Lane, where the lane leads out of the Temple on to the Embankment. Baxter knew that the outside door of the building would be open, and he had a key which would open the door to chambers. He had chosen a Saturday afternoon, rather than Sunday, because the Middle Temple would not be entirely deserted. A few barristers would be at their desks, labouring on urgent briefs. That, of course, involved the risk that there might be someone hard at work in Wesley's chambers who would not be expecting visitors. Baxter was ready for that. The forgers had provided him with a note on what appeared to be the letterhead of the Middle Temple Estate Office, introducing him and his companion as employees of the Inn of Court who had come to investigate a rodent infestation in the basement and check whether it had spread into chambers. His companion was called Whitehead. He wore a dark blue workman's uniform with the Middle Temple emblem, the
Agnus Dei
, emblazoned in bright red on the breast pocket. He carried a large tool box which contained nothing that would be of the slightest use for eradicating rodents. He also had a rather large folding ladder, again not obviously relevant to a search for rodent activity. It was out of place, but Baxter was not concerned about it. In Baxter's experience, people did not ask technical questions about equipment once you had established your credentials. In any case, the ceilings in the Temple were high, and the ladder was needed to reach the chandeliers.

Baxter opened the door of chambers quietly, and then shouted as loudly as he could.

‘Hello? Anyone in? I'm from the Middle Temple. I just have to make an inspection. Won't be very long.'

There was no reply. He nodded to Whitehead.

‘Wesley's room is the second on the left. Schroeder is across the corridor. I'll just go and see if there's anyone in there.'

‘Right you are,' Whitehead replied.

Just under twenty minutes later, the chandeliers in Wesley's room and Schroeder's, and both their telephones, had been fitted with listening devices. Baxter was not a technical man, but he believed Whitehead when he said that these devices were incredibly sensitive, beyond anything that even the spy fiction writers could imagine, and Whitehead read that kind of stuff for fun in his spare time, when he was not dealing with the real thing.

‘Got anything interesting planned for the weekend?' Baxter inquired, as they made their way downstairs, having carefully locked the door of chambers. Their nondescript van was parked nearby, in Temple Place, just outside the Inn, where it would attract no attention.

‘Not really,' Whitehead replied. ‘I'm taking the missus out for a bite to eat this evening. They've opened one of those new steak houses in the High Street. They say it's quite good. She's been on to me to try it for a while. How about you?'

‘Oh, just the usual,' Baxter said.

Whitehead had worked with Baxter on and off for a number of years as occasion required, and he had never discovered what ‘the usual' was. He had never asked, and he was not going to ask now.