The Midnight Swimmer (18 page)

Catesby looked north beyond the roofs and neat grids of
tree-lined
streets to the sea which was a gleaming line of silver.
The embassy quarter, because of its sea front, was called Miramar Playa.
And, like the embassy quarters of other cities, Miramar was where the rich lived too – or had lived until the revolution.
The
millionaires
may have gone, but their mansions and walled gardens were still there.
Many of the grand houses were not only vulgar, but
spectacularly
so.
These were not the mansions of Florentine dukes, but of gangsters and casino owners.
Mercifully, thought Catesby, the onset of dilapidation gave the houses a shabby dignity they had lacked in their prime.
Aren’t I, thought Catesby, turning into a snob?

The British Embassy itself wasn’t too bad.
It was a white villa with red roof tiles built in the Spanish colonial style.
Its baroque
ornamentation
, as if anticipating a British tenancy, had kept itself
understated
.
There was a lodge by the gate where Francisco, an ancient Afro-Cuban, greeted visitors and played the guitar.
He also looked after a great-grandson who, as Catesby arrived, was polishing the plaque on the entrance gate:
Embajada de Inglaterra.
The plaque worried Catesby.
He wondered who was representing
Esocia, Gales
and
Irlanda
del Norte.

‘Good morning, Señor William.’

‘Good morning,
compay
.’
Catesby was never sure that he was saying the right thing.
He noticed that most Cubans called each other
compay
.
It was Cuban for
compañero
, comrade, but without political connotations.
The problem with revolutions was knowing what to call people.

‘You’re late this morning,’ said Francisco.

‘I was out late last night.’

‘And too many
mojitos
and too many
mamitas
.’

‘Just the
mojitos
.’

Francisco smiled and waved Catesby away.

Catesby’s desk was in a corner of Bob Neville’s office.
It wasn’t an ideal situation, but they didn’t seem to have any secrets that the other wasn’t supposed to know.
Cuba was the only country in the world where the briefs of the two spies overlapped.
Neville was a Western Hemisphere man and Catesby was Europe East.
The area of overlap was Cuba’s relationship with the Soviet Union and other East bloc countries.

‘How did you get back?’
said Bob.

‘Mustapha Kunt gave me a lift.’

‘Useful contact.
He’s a Russian specialist, you know.
Was stationed in Moscow all through the war.
Meet anyone else interesting?’

‘No.
Where’s the best place to meet Russians?’

‘Embassy parties.
They don’t go to bars much.’

‘You know, by the way, that Alekseev is now officially the
rezident
?’

‘On the diplomatic list?’

Neville nodded.
The Soviets openly listed their head spy as the
rezident
, the diplomat in charge of intelligence gathering.
The Brits and other countries used cover aliases.

‘Did his wife come with him?’

‘Yes.
Her name, I believe, is Katya – a very enigmatic woman.’

‘Why do you say she’s enigmatic?’

‘I saw her at a party at the Venezuelan Embassy.
She just clung to her husband as if she were a little girl.’

‘What colour’s her hair?’

‘Deepest black.’
Neville smiled, ‘I am sure, William, that you have more to tell me about Katya.’

‘In time.’

The door opened a crack and someone whispered, ‘Can I come in?’

‘Is it Katya?’
said Neville.

‘No, it’s me.’

‘Come in, Debra.’

Debra was a petite woman in her late thirties who ran the Trade Section.

‘Where,’ said Neville, ‘did you go last night?’
Debra had been part of the British group at Castro’s speech to the prisoners.

‘I got chatted up – and I thought I’d better tell you about it?’

‘I’m not surprised, you’re gorgeous.
Who’s your latest admirer?’

‘The Minister of Industries.’

Neville was suddenly attentive.
‘Are you serious?
What did he say?’

‘He said he wanted to talk to me about buses.’

‘That’s a very odd chat-up line.’

‘He loves our buses and is considering buying them.
He’s
particularly
fond of the Routemaster.’
Debra was referring to the iconic red double-decker buses of London.

‘Is that all he wanted?’

‘No, he asked me to listen to him recite some poetry in English.
He wanted to know if his accent was all right.’

‘Love poetry, I bet.’

‘No,’ said Debra, ‘it was Kipling’s
If
.’

Neville started laughing and turned to Catesby.
‘Well, if we ever want to learn anything about the art of seduction I suppose we’d better take lessons from Che Guevara.’

‘Actually,’ said Debra, ‘he was utterly charming.
He has a beautiful smile and I was rather taken with him.’

Neville looked at Catesby.
‘
If
isn’t such a bad poem, William, especially for blokes in our trade:
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you / But make allowance for their doubting too
.’

Catesby opened a file on his desk – it was an SIS ‘biographical and personality report’ on Guevara – and made a few notes.
Neville looked back at Debra.
‘Have you got another date?’

‘Yes, he wants me to come to his office.’

‘Buses?’

‘Of course.’

‘I think, Debra, you’d better take William as chaperone.’

‘Are you sure,’ said Catesby, ‘it wouldn’t be a better idea to have Mickey go instead?
After the invasion shambles, Che might want to send a political message for us to pass on to Washington – and Mickey has the status to receive it.’

‘That’s the problem.
As Head of Chancery he’s got too much status.
Che has to be careful not to go over Fidel’s head by making foreign policy statements to senior diplomats.’
Neville paused.
‘You forget, William, that our role as spies is changing.
We’re not just spooks, we’re back-channel diplomats, the ideal conduits for passing on info that can be denied later.’

There was something in Neville’s words that Catesby found
troubling
.
The echo of Bone was too exact to be coincidence.
Once again, Catesby felt he was being manipulated by forces unknown.

La Cabaña
is an extremely impressive and, despite its being a
fortification
, beautiful piece of architecture.
The smooth stone of the walls is beige-pink and reflects sensually in the sunlight.
O’Reilly, thought Catesby, really knew how to build forts.
He and Debra were escorted to Che’s office along a parapet lined with a battery of huge eighteenth-century canon that pointed across the harbour entrance.

‘It’s a bit,’ said Debra, ‘like being in a film.
I wouldn’t be surprised if Errol Flynn swashbuckled up the wall with a dagger between his teeth.’

‘I would.
He died two years ago.’

‘You’re such a ray of sunshine, Catesby.’

The revolutionary militiaman, who had met them at the entrance gate, led them down a stone staircase to a massive oak door.
He
hammered
the door with a massive iron knocker until someone shouted, ‘
¡pase pase por favor!
’

Che’s office was sombre and austere like a cell in a monastery.
The walls were panelled with dark wood, the floor was black and white marble tiles set out in a chessboard pattern.
There were
bookshelves
piled with document files as well as novels and volumes of poetry.
The only incongruity was a golf putter and a rolled-up carpet leaning against a wall.

Debra introduced Catesby as ‘an official from the Department of Trade who was on secondment to the Foreign Office’.
Che listened to Catesby’s cover story with impish bemusement.
He didn’t believe a word and couldn’t be bothered to pretend otherwise.
Guevara was, however, genuinely interested in the Routemaster buses.
They spent a half an hour discussing possible trade deals.
Then, as she and Catesby had agreed beforehand, Debra looked at her watch and gasped.

‘I am terribly sorry, Commandante Guevara, but I’ve got to go now.
But William can stay.
Thank you for seeing us.
Please don’t think I’m rude.’

Catesby watched in admiration as Debra turned on the departure charm giving Che a hug and
besos gordos
on both cheeks.
He, in turn, was radiant.

As soon as Debra was gone, Che said, ‘She misses her boys awfully.’

Catesby knew that Debra had two sons at a boarding school for military and Foreign Office dependants.
He thought they were in the sixth form.
Debra often talked about them, but Catesby didn’t seem to pick up all her worries.
Yet Che, after less than an hour with Debra, knew every detail: names, birthdays, ailments, the sports her sons played and the subjects they found easy or difficult.
Catesby understood the secret of Che’s charisma.
People loved him, because he loved them.

‘How are your daughters?’
said Catesby trying to copy Che’s interest in others.

Che smiled.
‘Aleida took her very first steps yesterday.
The elder, Hildita, spends most of her time with her mother, but now that
they’re both in Havana, at least I can see more of her.’
Che folded his arms and looked reflective.
‘Not long after Hildita was born I took her in my arms and said, “My dear daughter, my little Mao, you don’t know what a difficult world you’re going to have to live in.
When you grow up, this whole continent, and maybe the whole world, will be fighting against the great enemy, Yankee imperialism.
You too will have to fight.”’

‘How old is she now?’

‘Five.’

‘Now that she can understand your words, why don’t you tell her the same thing?’

‘No.’
Che smiled.
‘I don’t want to upset her, to spoil her innocent childhood.’
He paused.
‘Maybe that is a weakness.
Or maybe when I said those words I was talking to myself – or trying to impress my wife.’

Catesby was disarmed by the honesty and the self-criticism.

Che got up and went over to the window where he looked out over the harbour.
‘It was stupid for the Americans to break off
diplomatic
relations.
It means they have to ask other countries to use their embassies to do their spying for them.’

‘They haven’t,’ said Catesby, ‘asked us.
Maybe you ought to check with the Canadians.’

‘That was a very unfriendly remark to make about a close ally.’

‘You’ve spoken freely to me, so I’m speaking freely to you.’

‘Maybe,’ said Che with his impish smile, ‘the Canadians have been saying the same about you.’

The wonderful thing about espionage and foreign affairs, thought Catesby, wasn’t what enemies do to each other, but the way allies stab each other in the back.
‘Put a tail on this guy.’
Catesby gave the name of a junior Canadian diplomat.
‘And ask to see his
sketchbook
.’
It was, he knew, a malicious thing to do.
But Catesby’s job was gaining the confidence of Che Guevara, not improving ties between Ottawa and London.

Che looked closely at Catesby.
‘But you pass things on to
Washington
too.’