The Envoy (3 page)

They followed the
route départmentale
for the rest of the journey. The road twisted and turned as it followed the sinuosity of the Seine valley. The sun was straight before them, blinding and
leading
. It made Kit think about power: Rubirosa’s power, Kennedy’s power. Theirs were obvious forms of power. But, thought Kit, what kind of power can I have, can I wield? He was about to cross a great ocean to find out.

Lord Cherwell knew what sort of language appealed to the Old Man. And the importance of keeping it all on a single page,
otherwise
things didn’t always get read. As soon as the Prime Minister picked up the memo his eye was drawn to the key paragraph:

The Prime Minister adjusted his reading glasses and went back to the top of the page:

Churchill then picked up a pen and drew a question mark next to the offending passage. ‘Surely,’ he said, ‘by “foreigners”, they do not mean us. What about our wartime agreements?’

‘They have been superseded. We should gain nothing, Prime Minister, by referring to them now.’

‘Are you really saying,’ Churchill’s voice was ringing with indignant irritation, ‘that the Americans would refuse to give us any information about bomb design, still less an allocation of bombs?’

‘Whether we like it or not,’ Cherwell spoke softly but firmly, ‘this seems to be the present position.’

The Prime Minister frowned and regarded the memo’s final point. The words seemed to taunt him like a cold-eyed gambler offering another card.

Operation Ivy; device codename Mike, M for megaton. At a
half-second
before seven-fifteen a.m., Mike, the world’s first hydrogen bomb, was detonated. The explosion yielded 10.4 megatons, a force 693 times more powerful than the atom bomb that had devastated Hiroshima. The fireball was three and a half miles in diameter; the mushroom cloud rose to a height of twenty-five miles and spread to a width of a hundred miles – one hundred million tons of radioactive material was blasted into the
atmosphere
. The ground zero islands disappeared completely and were replaced by a crater large enough to contain fourteen Pentagons.

Leighton Fournier, Kit’s father, witnessed the explosion from the deck of the
USS Estes
. He had used his position as a member of the ABCC, Atomic Bomb Casualty Commission, to wrangle an invitation to the test. His obsession with the new bombs was one of the reasons why his colleagues whispered that he ‘had gone funny’.

Leighton folded the letter and put it in his bag. He knew that it would be weeks before he could post it. All communication and news from the test site was embargoed for the next sixteen days. It was feared that the news might affect the US presidential
election
that was only a week away. Two days after the explosion Leighton took part in a flight over the test area for the purpose of taking air samples and monitoring radiation levels. The plane never returned.

The American proposal to drop atomic bombs on North Korea if the truce broke down shocked the British delegation. Churchill regarded the bomb as something new and apocalyptic; but for President Eisenhower nuclear weapons were nothing more than the latest ‘improvements’ in military weapons. The President was polite and friendly, but never smiled or laughed. Churchill was gloomy and full of pent-up anger and resented the way that John Foster Dulles, the US Secretary of State, behaved as if he was
running
the show. Every time that Churchill broached the idea of a summit with the Soviet Union to try to reduce the danger of nuclear war, Dulles put on a stern preacher face as if the Prime Minister was suggesting a deal with Satan.

There was, of course, something that everyone thought about, but no one dared say. At least not in public, for it would be a
tactless
breach of diplomacy. What would happen, say, if a hawkish Washington decided to end the Soviet problem with a
pre-emptive
nuclear strike? And it was a tempting option, for the US
military
planners knew that the Russians still lacked the capability to retaliate across the Atlantic.
But
… they could reach Britain – and that’s where the revenging Soviet bombs would fall. The British people would bear the brunt of American rashness – and most of them would die.

The Defence Policy Committee authorises a British H-bomb programme.

London, 1956. Mice, thought Kit. Not tiny rodents, but MICE: money, ideology, coercion, excitement. Basic training for case officers: the four means that you use to recruit an agent or
persuade
someone to betray their country. MICE, he thought, how apt an acronym. It wasn’t always that simple. The ‘E’ could stand for ego as well as excitement, but ego could cause problems – like bragging. Of the four, most station chiefs preferred ‘money’. When you get someone to take a bribe you have a paper trail for blackmail, then you get ‘coercion’ as a bonus – and that’s even better than greed.

Kit turned up his collar and thrust his hands deep in his overcoat pockets. He felt a used Underground ticket, a mint, loose change – he liked English money, big and solid compared to greasy American nickels and dimes – and deeper down, the heavy lump of a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .32. The London evening that swirled around him was dense fog and shadow. It was the worst smog of the winter and smelled of sulphur. A bus, led in front by a conductor waving a torch, rose out of the gloom. He remembered the gas-lit streets of his Baltimore childhood: Victorian gothic with negroes and armed cops. But this was another country and the past was dead – or almost dead. When Kit turned left off Oxford Street into Poland Street, it was like descending into a mine shaft.

He walked blindly into utter blackness, led only by the sound of laughter and shouting from the pub. A door opened and a powdered woman tumbled out framed by a ring of rancid
yellow
light. The scene reminded Kit of an Eliot poem. He ignored the pasty woman who asked for a light, and entered the warm fug. The pub had high ornate ceilings with Edwardian mouldings. The plaster was stained yellow by decades of tobacco smoke. It was easy to spot Driscoll. He stood out like an Olympic
weightlifter
in a consumption clinic. The unnecessary ID prop, a copy of
Merchant Shipping
News
, was curled up in Driscoll’s massive fist. Driscoll looked tense and uncomfortable. A half-finished pint of beer rested by his elbow. Kit made his way through the pub crowd, smugly aware of how well he blended in, until he was next to Driscoll. He pointed to the pint: ‘Can I get you another one?’

‘No, thanks.’

Kit was surprised at the way Driscoll seemed to shrink within himself. Then Kit caught the eye of an artistic looking
middle-aged
man standing two paces behind Driscoll. The man –
wearing
a tweed jacket and black polo neck – smiled and gave Kit a conspiratorial wink that seemed to welcome him into Soho’s world of furtive pleasure.

Kit winked back. The man mouthed, ‘Good luck.’ Kit had learned a few Gaelic phrases. He leaned close to Driscoll’s ear and whispered the Republican motto, ‘
Tiocfaidh ár lá
.’ It meant ‘Our day will come’.

A cloud seemed to pass over Driscoll’s face and he clenched his fist. ‘You think it’s funny?’

‘No, I hope your day will come – and sooner than you expect.’

Driscoll unclenched his fist, but still looked suspicious. ‘What’s your name?’

Kit gave his alias without blinking. ‘Shaw. What are you drinking?’

‘Not this piss.’

‘Guinness?’

‘Their Guinness is crap too. I wouldn’t mind a Jameson.’

Kit ordered two doubles and studied Driscoll out of the corner of his eye. He was good at watching people without appearing to look. Driscoll had the body of a superb athlete on the way down; one that had just started to turn blowsy and a bit paunchy. On the other hand, Driscoll’s file was textbook perfect. Born in County Kerry, he came from a family with a strong Sinn Féin history. In 1950 Driscoll immigrated to the United States where he joined the US Navy and trained as a frogman. He won a medal in Korea. Afterwards, Driscoll left the navy convinced that he could make a fortune as a property developer in California. A business partner swindled Driscoll out of his life’s savings and ran off with his wife. Driscoll then descended into alcoholism, petty crime – and not so petty crime too – and suicidal desperation. Finally, he came back home and joined the IRA – and that turned sour too. It was, thought Kit, almost a film script. An alarm bell faintly sounded. This guy’s profile is just
too
perfect – he must be a plant. But who planted him? He could be from MI5, SIS, Scotland Yard Special Branch or even MoD police. It was all a big game. Allies spied on allies and agencies spied on agencies. You scored a goal when you caught someone with cum stains on their cassock.

Kit watched Driscoll down the whisky in one gulp – almost like a Russian. Kit finished his own drink and ordered another round of doubles. He knew that he wouldn’t get drunk because he’d swallowed a wineglass full of olive oil before setting out. The oil coated the stomach lining and prevented the alcohol from being absorbed. It was essential ‘tradecraft’ for anyone, agent handler or diplomat, who had any dealings
at all
with Russians – so much good vodka wasted. Kit watched beads of sweat form on Driscoll’s brow as he drank. He almost felt sorry for him – Driscoll had a problem. ‘How do you like London?’ said Kit.

‘London is shite.’

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ said Kit.

The fog had lifted and the outside air had turned cold and clear. The pair headed north through a warren of side streets towards Regent’s Park. Kit sensed that Driscoll was more relaxed in the open. ‘I’ve read your citations from Korea, Mr Driscoll, you’re a very skilled professional.’

‘No big deal.’ If anything, Driscoll had enjoyed the Inchon operation. It was better than being cooped up on ship
smelling
farts and sweat. Driscoll’s underwater demolition team had cleared mines and laid beacons to guide the marines on to the sea wall. He won the Navy Cross for bravery, but after that
everything
turned to shit. Driscoll didn’t even know what he’d done with the medal.

Kit paused and listened. There were footsteps approaching and someone talking. A man wearing a flat cap and a filthy
mackintosh
weaved into the lamplight. ‘Fuckin’ bastards,’ he said, ‘fuckin’ bastards, bastards.’ The man was bent over double, but was walking with a purpose. He nearly collided with Driscoll, but then continued on his way. Kit watched the drunk disappear into the shadows and then turned to Driscoll. ‘I don’t want to waste your time – or my time – do you want a job?’

‘Is your name really Shaw?’

‘Of course not.’

‘I want to know who I’ll be working for.’

‘You’ll be working for me.’

Driscoll turned away. They walked in silence until they reached Regent’s Park. They crossed the road and followed a path into the greensward. The damp night air carried the roars of caged nocturnal predators from the zoo on the opposite side of the greensward.

Driscoll finally spoke. ‘And who do you work for?’

Kit knew it was pointless to dissemble. The nature of the operation would only point in one direction. ‘I work for the US government.’

‘You’re talking shit.’

Kit was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Tell your bosses to fuck off.’

‘Fine.’ Kit reached deep in his pocket and felt the Smith & Wesson. He had shown his face – and Driscoll’s life wasn’t worth having his cover blown. He was going to take Driscoll down to the weeping willows by the boating lake. There wouldn’t be any lovers or watchmen; the night was now a pelting shower of sleet. The police would write it off as an internal IRA feud – like the last time he had to terminate an agent’s contract.

Suddenly there was nothing but flashing white pain. Kit was lying on his back, struggling for breath. The blow to the solar plexus had come totally without warning. He hadn’t seen Driscoll move at all. Kit couldn’t have reached for the gun even if the Irishman’s foot wasn’t pinning his hand. Driscoll
meanwhile
removed the Smith & Wesson from Kit’s coat pocket. ‘Very thorough,’ he said, ‘you’ve even got an American gun.’ Driscoll pointed the pistol in Kit’s face, ‘But your fake American accent wouldn’t fool anyone.’

Driscoll moved his foot and Kit struggled to his feet. His voice was little more than a breathless squeak. ‘You’re crazy. Who the fuck do you think I am?’

‘It doesn’t matter: MI5, RUC Special Branch. You want to turn me into a tout, an informer.’

Kit tried to smile: he should have seen what was coming. He had forgotten to remind himself that the world of espionage is a sick place: a wilderness of mirrors inhabited by haunted minds that see only mirages and lies. The more plausible a truth, the more cunning the deception. Kit spread his arms in a gesture of surrender and nodded to his breast pocket. He had to prove  himself, otherwise it looked like Driscoll was going to kill him. ‘Check my ID.’

‘Hand it me.’

Kit slowly removed the slim leather case and flicked it open to show his photo, security clearance and job title. Driscoll took the ID with his left hand and studied it in the dim light. He then thumbed open the lock on the Smith & Wesson, flicked out the chamber block and emptied the bullets on to the ground. Driscoll stared for a second; then handed the unloaded gun back to Kit – followed by the ID. ‘This seems genuine, but I still don’t like your fucking attitude. Turn around.’

Kit turned. He waited to be coshed, but instead he felt Driscoll brushing the damp leaves off the back of his coat. ‘Tell me more about this job.’

‘We want you to do some diving, some snooping – and maybe even a hit or two.’

‘What’s in it for me?’

‘Well for starters, you can stay on in the flat.’ Kit knew that Driscoll had been homeless. ‘Is it OK?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I know it’s pretty basic, but we don’t like our safe houses to be too fancy. We don’t want the neighbours to gossip.’

‘Didn’t you hear me? I said the flat was fine. You should try sharing a shit hole in Armagh with a sheep for six months.’

‘We’ve heard that things haven’t been going too well.’

‘We’ve made mistakes.’

‘From what I’ve heard,’ probed Kit, ‘it all sounds pretty awful.’

‘But it’s worth it. Don’t think I’ll ever betray the cause. The auxiliaries beat to death two of my uncles in Dublin Castle.’

Kit remembered hearing some of his British counterparts refer to the Irish as ‘Bog Wogs’. The engrained mutual bitterness
surprised
him – and he was ashamed of exploiting it. Once again, Kit thought of MICE. For Driscoll, it wasn’t just money: he was a man with a grudge, another word for ‘ideology’. ‘I don’t suppose,’ said Kit, ‘you’ve got any diving gear?’

Driscoll shook his head.

‘You’ll need some.’ Kit slipped a roll of banknotes into Driscoll’s coat pocket. ‘That’s five hundred pounds – as much as an English labourer makes in a year. You’ll also need some of that money for buying a van and paying for hotels.’

‘I still haven’t said I’m going to do the job. And you haven’t told me what it is?’

‘We want you to help us drop the Brits in the shit – as deeply as possible.’

‘In Ireland?’

‘No, in England, in Portsmouth Harbour. And since you haven’t asked, any work you do for us has to be completely sterile – no fingerprints leading back to Washington.’ There were other rules too: the ones called ‘sanctions’ that formed the unspoken bond between handler and spy. Driscoll knew that if he blabbed or displeased, it wouldn’t be MI5 or Special Branch who left their calling cards, but Protestant gunmen. Sanctions aren’t betrayals, they’re rules.

Driscoll blew on his hands and rubbed them together. ‘So what’s the deal?’

‘Have you heard of Commander Lionel Crabb?’

‘Of course, everyone knows Crabby. He’s a real character and a damned good diver too – the best the Brits have got.’ Driscoll paused. ‘You want me to hurt him?’

‘Only if he gets in the way.’

Driscoll stopped and peered into the darkness.

‘Something wrong?’ said Kit.

‘I don’t like killing other divers – even if they are Brits.’

‘Like I said – only if he gets in the way. The job isn’t about
killing
Crabb, it’s about fucking up Britain’s foreign policy.’

‘I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.’

‘In the middle of April,’ said Kit, ‘a Russian cruiser called the
Ordzhonikidze
and two destroyers are going to dock in Portsmouth harbour. The
Ordzhonikidze
is carrying First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev and Soviet Premier Nikolai Bulganin on a
goodwill
visit to Britain. The people I work for want to destroy that goodwill.’

‘How does Crabb fit into this?’

‘A British intelligence organisation intends to send Crabb on a spying mission to see what the
Ordzhonikidze
has under her hull. The dive is a serious breach of diplomatic protocol. If the Russians find out, it could cause an embarrassing international incident.’ Kit paused and waited.

‘There’s more to it than this,’ said Driscoll. ‘Otherwise, you wouldn’t need me. You would just tell the Russians directly.’

Yeah, there’s a lot more to it.’

‘What is it you want me to do?’

Kit looked directly at Driscoll. The Irishman’s eyes were
hidden
in the gloom, his damp pale face shone like a skull in the weak light. ‘I want you to put limpet mines on the bottom of that cruiser – and I want Crabb and the British government to get blamed for it.’