The Midnight Swimmer (24 page)

The door opened and Mischa came in.
‘Our guests haven’t arrived yet.
The helicopter that just landed is bringing the security fellows from the Ninth Directorate.
They’re going to sweep the conference room for listening devices and cameras – and also deal with some personal protection issues.
I hope you haven’t got a gun.’

Arlekin shook his head.

‘Good.
I’ll tell them I’ve frisked you myself so none of the Ninth Directorate goons have to see you.’

‘Thanks.’
Arlekin wanted to stay as invisible as possible and the thought of being searched by a Ninth Directorate attack dog wasn’t a good idea.
The fact that the Ninth was on hand proved that the
visitors
from the Kremlin were by no means small fry.
In time of war, it was the job of the Ninth Directorate to shoot deserters – and to
sacrifice
their own lives too.
In time of peace, they were the Kremlin’s Praetorian Guard.
They provided personal security for the
Communist
Party leadership, as well as for Soviet nuclear weapons and the Kremlin’s secret communication systems and archives.
The Ninth were the guardians of ‘the supreme power of the State’.
No Soviet leader could survive without them.

‘By the way,’ said Mischa, ‘I must apologise.’

Arlekin instinctively tensed.
‘For what?’

‘One more person is going to join us.
He arrived late last night.’

Arlekin remembered that Mischa had mentioned the previous night that an additional person might be attending.
He wished that he had queried it then.
‘Who is he?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Then maybe we should cancel the meeting.’

‘There’s too much at stake.’

Arlekin’s eyes flashed.
‘Don’t push me too far.’

‘If you like, I can inform our guest that he is not welcome.
But I can assure you that having him here is in your own interest.’

Arlekin stared hard at Mischa.
‘Let him stay.
But no more surprises.’

After Mischa left the room, Arlekin heard the noises of heavy boots as the security men turned over various parts of the house.
At one point he heard them at the door, as if they were about to come in.
But Mischa’s voice intervened in fluent Russian and convinced them it was unnecessary.

Fifteen minutes later there was the sound of another helicopter.
It sounded much noisier than the one that had brought the security men.
Then a third helicopter joined the racket.
The windows and crockery rattled as if a poltergeist had been let loose.
There was then a silent interval, which was soon broken by the scream of a pair of MiG fighters passing low overhead.
As their noise subsided, the staccato beat of a final helicopter began to reverberate.
It was the boss.

The escort fighters reminded Arlekin that the Kremlin was a dangerous place.
Soviet politics was a blood sport.
The players were brave men who knew there was no safety net beneath the high wire they danced on.

When Wolf returned a half an hour later he was wearing a well-cut lounge suit.
Mischa looked more like the chairman of a merchant bank than a communist spy chief.
Arlekin followed him into a room with a long table of polished dark wood.
The size of the table left little room for more furniture.
The curtains were drawn and the lights in the crystal chandelier were turned on.
‘This,’ said Mischa, ‘used to be the dining room – not large enough for a banquet.
Come sit by me.
And remember,’ he whispered, ‘that we are all taking risks – I’m not sure that any of us is going to die in bed.’

Arlekin could only think of one word, but he dared not say it.
It was the most precious thing in the world.
It was a word more
precious
even than love or liberty, for without it, neither could survive.
He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of Russian voices on the other side of the door.

The first to enter was a man with very black hair and a pitted
complexion.
Mischa embraced him and addressed him by his diminutive ‘Andriushka’.
The Russian looked at Arlekin with disdain and shook hands with cold formality before launching into a rant.
Andriushka spoke English well because he had once been
Ambassador
in Washington.

‘The Soviet Union is surrounded by a deadly Western nuclear arsenal.
There are American missiles on her very borders in Turkey.
And yet, the Western press and politicians keep pumping lies about the Soviet threat so their capitalist friends in the arms industry can make even more money.’
Andriushka looked closely at Arlekin.
‘But you, in your position, know the truth – you are privileged to peep behind the curtain of lies.’

Arlekin smiled bleakly and nodded for the former Ambassador to go on – which he did.

‘The Soviet Union has been forced into a corner by aggressive Western actions.
And if you corner an animal and keep taunting it, there comes a point when it will show its claws and attack.
As long as the West, or I should say America, has the power to destroy the Soviet Union with one blow, the situation will remain critically dangerous.
There is a line of thought among my colleagues that says: “They are poised to kill us; our only hope of survival is to strike first.
What can, after all, be worse than what we have already suffered?”
You can’t fault their logic.
You must see that the only way to a secure peace is for both sides to have some form of parity.
The Soviet Union must be able to defend itself against the threat of attack.’

Andriushka finished just as the door opened and the other two Russians entered.
At first, they looked like a comedy double act: one tall and lean, the other short and thickset.
Vladimir
Yefimovich
Semichastny, the new Head of KGB, was the tall one and had an uncanny resemblance to Graham Greene.
The resemblance was ironic for Semichastny made life very difficult for novelists in the Soviet Union.
Despite his appearance, he was a crude man.
Semichastny
greeted Mischa with neither hug nor handshake, but a formal polite nod – like a prize fighter or chess master sizing up an opponent.
Surprisingly, he showed no interest at all in Arlekin.

The short Russian wasn’t as dumpy as the newsreel clips
suggested
.
His real-life version was much more graceful and firmly toned.
He glowed with the ruddy health of a self-assured peasant.
He gave a bear hug to Mischa as he entered the room, the top of his
head only coming up to Wolf’s shoulder.
He then shook hands with Arlekin, but used his free hand to playfully slap Arlekin’s cheek.
The Russian was laughing and had small uneven teeth.
His hands were hard workers’ hands and the slaps hurt.

As Wolf poured black tea and handed around a tray of hazelnut biscuits, the small but solid Soviet leader stared hard at Arlekin with playful eyes that gleamed like damp pebbles and said something in Russian.
Andriushka translated the words, ‘If you live among wolves, you have to act like a wolf.’

Arlekin then asked the question, the most important question in the world.

The Russian’s eyes continued to sparkle, but his face was no longer laughing.
He began to vigorously nod affirmation even before Andriushka had finished translating.
Then he said the word with unambiguous finality, ‘
Da
.’

It was then that Arlekin noticed that there was a sixth man in the room.
He hadn’t heard or seen him enter.
The sixth man was an almost ghostly presence.
It was as if he had been there all the time. 

‘I
f he had stayed in Cuba and become part of the revolution, he would never have committed suicide.’
Che was talking about Ernest Hemingway who had killed himself the previous summer.

‘We’ll never know,’ said Catesby.
He had mixed feelings about
Hemingway’s
writing – and mixed feelings about Finca Vigia, the writer’s former home on the outskirts of Havana.
The Finca had recently been bequeathed to the Cuban government by Hemingway’s widow.
The Ministry of Culture had invited the usual load of diplos and hacks to a reception to honour the dead author as ‘a friend of Cuba’.

‘What do you think of the house?’
said Che.

‘It’s airy and light, but rather a lot of dead animal heads hanging around – and I don’t know about the tombstones for dogs.’

‘To be honest,’ whispered Che, ‘I prefer Faulkner.’

‘Another drunk.’

‘Ah,’ said Che, ‘it’s that …’

‘I know what you’re going to say.’

‘What?’

‘Writers in capitalist societies are driven to alcohol, drugs and suicide because they can’t resolve their internal conflicts.’

Che nodded and smiled.
‘William, you will tell me if I’m ever being a bore?’

‘Oddly enough, you never are.’
It was true.
Che was always aware of the people he was speaking to.
He was never lost in an oblivious cocoon of self.
And the self-deprecating joke was always close to his lips.

Neville was hovering nearby.
He clinked the ice in his daiquiri to signal his presence.
They were drinking daiquiris in honour of Papa Hemingway who had virtually invented the Cuban version of the cocktail.
Presumably, thought Catesby, to resolve his internal conflicts.

‘I say,’ said Neville to Guevara, ‘is it true that Ava Gardner used to swim naked in this pool?’

‘I don’t know.’
Che looked at the thick layer of green slime and
leaves in the bottom of the empty pool.
‘I would rather swim in the sea – even when we have hurricanes.’

Catesby remembered his first Cuban hurricane and his first
experience
of car surfing.
He was walking hunched against the wind and driving rain towards the sea for no other reason than he wanted to see the fury of the waves.
As a boy in Lowestoft he had often done the same.
It was late afternoon and the streets were deserted.
Sensible
Cubans were battened up in their houses.
Suddenly and from nowhere a blue and white Chevrolet Belair pulled up alongside him.
The windows were so dripping he couldn’t see who was inside until the driver wound down his window a fraction.
It was Che.
‘Get in William, you’ll love this.’

Someone pushed open the back door and Catesby tumbled into a warm fug of perfume and cigar smoke.
He found himself sitting next to Katya who was wearing a black skirt and a beige blouse.
Her husband was in the front passenger seat holding a camera.
Spies with cameras always made Catesby anxious, but he quickly realised that General Alekseev was only interested in snapping the hurricane.

Catesby leaned forward to Che.
‘Where are we going?’

‘Car surfing.’

It was impossible to actually see where they were going.
The wipers were powerless against deluge rain whipped by hundred miles per hour winds.
It seemed, however, that they were heading towards the harbour entrance.
Che kerbed the car several times as he swerved to avoid fallen trees.
The conditions were awful, but it was also apparent that Che was a terrible driver – and the
Chevrolet
seemed a very flimsy and tinny car to be facing such a tempest.
Catesby leaned forward and tapped Alekseev’s shoulder.
‘I wish we were in one of your sturdy Volgas.’

Alekseev smiled and winked.
‘No, no, we must be in this car.
It’s a
Che
Vrolet.’

Katya groaned.
‘Oh, Zhenka, you’ve made that joke several times already.’

‘But,’ said Catesby, ‘I’ve never heard it before and I think it’s very witty.’

Alekseev smiled gratitude.

Catesby kept looking through the awash windscreen to get his bearings.
He could just about make out the grey turrets of San
Salvador de la Punta, the sixteenth-century fortress that guarded the western approaches to Havana Harbour.

What happened next was one of the most extraordinary
experiences
of Catesby’s life.
Directly in front of the car was a seawall and accompanying roadway called the Malecón.
It stretched along the Gulf of Mexico for five miles until it reached the Rio Almendares which separated Vedado and its derelict casinos from Miramar.
In clement weather, the Malecón was where Havana’s young gathered to talk and sing and flirt.
There were always drums, guitars and rumba dancing.
But now the Malecón was a white hell of boiling surf and crashing waves.
Catesby watched not just spray but thick dark curtains of water rise forty feet after impacting the seawall – and then collapse on the road like the brick wall of a bombed
building.
Meanwhile, Che was gunning the car engine.

Catesby leaned forward.
‘You’re not going to do it, are you?’

Che raised his fist in salute and shouted, ‘
Hasta la victoria siempre
!’

As the car hit the first crashing wave Catesby felt it lurch violently to one side.
The wheels on the seaward side were lifted clear of the road surface and it seemed certain that they were going to flip over.
Catesby felt Katya pluck at his sleeve with her left hand.
The wave retreated and the car landed back on all fours with a thump.
The roof of the Chevrolet flexed inwards as tons of water thundered down on it, but then popped back again as Che pressed the accelerator to the floor to power through the next breaking wave.

There were times when the car really did
surf
, floating free of the road for two, three or four seconds, before the wheels found the concrete again like the paws of a leaping cat.
But the most abiding impression was of white pulsating walls of foam and spray that covered the car in rough caresses.
Catesby felt Katya thrown against him as the Chevrolet was broadsided by a bull-headed wave.
Her hand was on his thigh.
Meanwhile Alekseev was snapping photos of giant claw-like waves that reminded him of Hokusai’s print.

The car continued to power through seemingly impossible walls of green water only to emerge in boiling white foam on the other side.
Che continued to floor the accelerator and to shout
Hasta la victoria siempre
.
Alekseev continued to aim his camera at a chaos of warm sea so unlike the waters of his native land.
Katya moved her hand from Catesby’s thigh and put it between his legs where he was already throbbing with longing.
It was the beginning.

Havana was Catesby’s happiest assignment.
The embassy was a cheerful relaxed place where everyone had started calling the Ambassador by his first name because he asked them to.
The
informality
wouldn’t have been appropriate in Paris or Tokyo.
‘But,’ said Herbert, ‘this is Havana.’

Catesby and Neville had also gone native to the extent of growing beards and not always wearing ties.
Herbert didn’t seem to mind, but hoped they might shave them off if someone, like the PUS for example, popped over from London.
But there would be plenty of warning.
The US embargo meant that Cuba was no longer easy to get to from the UK.

It was odd that everything was so relaxed, for everyone knew that a crisis was looming.
No one yet knew what form the crisis would take, but it was definitely going to happen.
Catesby was certain that it would come from America.
He couldn’t imagine that Kennedy would ever accept the humiliation of the Bay of the Pigs – or that his generals would allow him to accept it.
Every morning, after saying
buenos días
to the ceiling lizard, Catesby drew his window curtains expecting to see the US fleet looming in the offing.
He knew, from the intelligence he had been cabling back to London, that there was no way the Cuban militias, no matter how brave, could defeat a full-scale US invasion.
Unless?
There was another option – and he didn’t know whether the Cubans should fear it or welcome it.

But in a way, Catesby didn’t care as much as he should.
Because, in a way, he was happy.
The affair wasn’t everything he wanted it to be because she only wanted to satisfy him – and did so.
Which is fine, he supposed, for a lot of men, but Catesby found pleasure in giving pleasure – especially when he was so fond of the other person.
Maybe, he hoped, Katya would change and stop pushing him away when he tried to satisfy her.
He knew the psychology of it.
That part of her only belonged to her husband.
It was her way of remaining faithful.
He had to find a way to stop loving her.
There were, after all, a lot of men on the island who envied his luck.

But despite his lack of complete happiness with the affair, Catesby was still deeply disheartened when he decoded Henry Bone’s latest cable.
The fact that the message was so urgent it had to be cabled rather then sent by the air bag was a bad sign.

The latest addition to the embassy car pool was a powder-blue Ford Fairlane that Neville had found in a backstreet garage.
He paid twice what it was worth to one of the few Cubans who thought the revolution was
mierda
and Castro a
culo grande
.
The suspension on the car was shot and the bottom scraped every time you drove over a pothole.
The Ford, in fact, resembled the corrupt Batista government the garage owner preferred.
But at least the Ford had the advantage of Cuban number plates rather than the
conspicuous
corps diplomatique
CD.
It meant that Neville and Catesby could move about with some degree of anonymity.
It helped for meeting Katya too.

The Soviet Embassy was in the leafiest and most exclusive quarter of Vedado.
The Russians had taken over the neo-colonial mansion of a rum and sugar magnate whose family had lived there for two hundred years.
The old-money rum tycoon preferred Fidel, whom he considered a man of some learning and cultivation, to the casino crooks and pimps who had ruled Vedado since the thirties.
But he didn’t much like the disruption of the revolution and was content enough to relocate to Uruguay – where he could plot in splendid isolation.

The Russians had done little to disturb the old-world ambience of the mansion, except to build bomb shelters.
The high black iron railings that surrounded the compound were still covered in golden chalice vines with their goblet-sized yellow flowers.
The porticos and balconies were heavy with wisteria and morning glory.
The gardens were a barely contained tropical forest of palm and almond trees.
Above the lush riot of vegetation Catesby could see Katya’s bedroom balcony.
It was maddening in the night.
The flower
perfumes
of evening confused the senses and each shadow suggested a place to embrace.