The Midnight Swimmer (31 page)

Catesby sat in the front room and waited.
This time with the lights on.
It was still cold so he struck a match to ignite a gas fire that was set into a black cast-iron Victorian fire surround.
Safe houses were always grim soulless places for grim soulless people.
The sitting room with its grey linoleum floor, tatty scatter rugs, peeling
wallpaper
and brown three-piece suite was as gruesome and desolate as the job Catesby was going to have to do.
Could, he thought, anyone actually live in such a place?
Of course not.
To live wasn’t the point.
Not if he did his job.
There were two glasses and a bottle of whisky on the Formica coffee table in front of the sofa.
Catesby opened the bottle and poured himself a drink.

It was just gone eleven when Catesby heard the taxi pull up.
It was drinking-up time at the Albert Arms and the landlord was
bellowing,
‘Hurry up please, it’s time.’
Another thing that Eliot got right in the poem.
Ta ta.
Goonight.
Goonight
.

Catesby listened to Galen paying the taxi driver.
That was another problem.
If the thing ended up in the press would the driver see it and go to the cops?
No, he’d keep it from the police, but he would tell all his mates and passengers.
You know that Yank geezer that topped himself …

Catesby continued to listen.
Galen waited until the taxi was gone before he came to the door.
Good professionalism.
He could hear the American breathing and waiting at the door.
He finally knocked lightly and Catesby let him in.

‘How you doing?’
Galen pumped Catesby’s hand in his pink fist as if he were his best friend, only friend.

‘I’m fine.’

‘Now, William, I don’t want you to be offended.’
Galen took a
heavy-looking
bag off his shoulder and unzipped it.
‘I trust you completely, but I don’t know about the others.
I just want to do a little anti-bug sweep before we go any further.’
Galen put on a set of headphones and started waving what looked like a microphone around the room.
He was very thorough and covered every nook and crevice.
He finally
smiled and took off the headphones.
‘Clean as a whistle.’
He patted the anti-surveillance device.
‘Nothing gets past this baby.’

‘Good.
I’m actually very relieved that you did that.
Some of my colleagues spend more time spying on us than they do the enemy.’

‘But they have to.
It’s a pity they didn’t do more of it when Burgess and Maclean were around.’

‘We’ve learnt the lesson.’

‘But maybe you haven’t.’
Galen passed over the envelope with the Arlekin photos and details.
‘We had to find this fellow for you.
What do you expect will happen to Mr Bone?’

‘He’ll be arrested and severely interrogated.
We’ll want to find out who else was involved.
I agree it looks like he was acting on behalf of the Labour shadow minister you call WAXWING.
If there is a trial, I hope it isn’t in camera.
I think this thing needs a public airing and full press coverage.’

Galen smiled.
‘I totally agree – and so does Jim Angleton.
But you didn’t seem too happy about that prospect when we had that meeting in the Dorchester.’

‘I suppose you could say that my public face isn’t the same as my private one.
Sometimes you have to perform for certain audiences.’

‘Like Henry Bone.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Have you suspected Bone before?’

‘Constantly, ever since I first started working for him.
But he’s a very powerful cunning man.
You have to watch your step if you want to survive.’

‘I know what you mean.’

I bet you do, thought Catesby.

‘Have another look,’ said Galen nodding at the envelope, ‘at the case for the prosecution.’

There were a number of new documents.
Most relating to the Labour politician that Angleton wanted to nail.
There were also more affidavits claiming sightings of Bone in the Swedish port town.
The hatchet job was impressive, but not watertight.
Basically you can stitch anyone you want if you go to enough trouble.
Truth was an oft-violated maiden.
And the ones who violated her most were the rich and powerful.

‘But this,’ said Galen handing another envelope, ‘is the jewel in the crown.’

Catesby slipped out the letter and read the Cyrillic script yet again, but for the first time on the paper and ink original.

‘You realise, of course,’ said Galen, ‘why that letter is so important for Britain, for your country, William?’

Catesby nodded.

‘If the Pentagon knew about this, if they knew how weak our Soviet enemies are in reality …’ Galen’s eyes had grown intense and distorted behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
‘The Joint Chiefs of Staff, William, are good men.
They see it as their patriotic duty to eliminate the Russian threat before it grows into a monster that can strike the American homeland – even if it means disobeying orders from the White House.’
Galen shrugged.
‘Unfortunately, Britain would be destroyed by the Soviet Union’s intermediate-range
ballistic
missiles.
But our generals regard the sacrifice of our British ally as a price worth paying to eliminate communism once and for all.’

‘But surely, you agree with the generals?’

‘But I also need the money.’
Galen laughed.
‘In fact, this letter is so important to the United Kingdom that I ought to be asking a hell of a lot more for it.’

‘But we’re throwing in the girl for free.’

‘What time does she get here?’

‘Just after midnight.’

Catesby knew that the girl and the two hundred thousand were just the first tranches in Galen’s blackmail plan.
Galen wasn’t stupid.
He would later admit that he had kept copies of the letter – and that the UK treasury would have to keep coughing up to keep those copies safe.
And, maybe someday, Galen would have a fit of
patriotism
.
He would pass the letter on to the Pentagon and the bombs would rain down in any case.
That’s why they had to kill Galen now.

‘What’s the matter, William, you look very strange and far away?’

‘I was just thinking about Andreas.’

‘You mean Mrs Alekseeva’s lover?’

‘That’s the one.
Did you have Andreas killed?’
Catesby meant it as a genuine question.
It was a mystery that still hadn’t been resolved.

Galen laughed.
‘No, but we would have if someone else hadn’t killed him first.
We were afraid that he was going to give a copy of the letter to you guys.
I’m sure he photographed it.’

Catesby was certain that Galen was telling the truth.
There was no logical reason for him not to.
‘Who do you think killed Andreas?’

‘I think the East Germans did it because they found out Andreas was selling stuff to us.
Or maybe you did it?’

‘No,’ Catesby smiled bleakly and lifted the letter, ‘we would have wanted this first – and then we would have killed him.
In any case,’ Catesby opened the suitcase on the sofa next to him, ‘would you like to count the money?’

‘But I trust you, William.’

‘Would you like a drink?’
Catesby lifted the whisky bottle.
‘To seal the deal so to speak?’

Galen gave a very nervous smile.

‘Ahh, I thought you trusted me.’
Catesby drained his glass, refilled it direct from the bottle and drank that too.
‘No ill effects, at least not yet.’

‘I would like a drink, thank you.’

Catesby poured the whisky into Galen’s glass and watched the American sip it.

‘This is very good Scotch.’
Galen smiled.
‘I can’t taste the poison at all.’

‘Good.
It’s a single malt from Islay.
They say it has a smoky flavour because of the peat, but I’m no expert.’

The American swirled the whisky around and sniffed the rich aroma.
‘I like it.’

Catesby smiled wanly as Galen finished his glass.
Come on you little bastard, don’t you want it on the rocks?

‘I think I’ll have another.’
Galen helped himself to the whisky.
‘You know Jim is completely right.
The UK government is in mortal danger of being infiltrated by sleeper agents controlled by Moscow.
You’ve got to get rid of them – especially WAXWING.’

‘Who are the others?’

Galen recited a list of names that included the most humane and progressive voices in British politics.
Basically, anyone who wasn’t a dupe of Washington and big business was a traitor.
It was the same
picture the Vichy collaborators tried to paint in occupied France.
The troublemakers were the Resistance.
The patriots were the
collabos
.

Catesby watched the level of whisky in the bottle diminish.
He didn’t want to suggest ‘rocks’ for that might give the game away.
Perhaps, thought Catesby, he could put ice in his own whisky and Galen would follow suit.
One side of the ice tray had been filled with uncontaminated cubes just for such a ruse.
It was on the left when you opened the freezer compartment.

Galen looked up as if he had read Catesby’s mind.
‘Would it,’ he said, ‘be sacrilege to put ice in this very excellent whisky?’

‘Not at all.
In fact, the people of Islay always drink their whisky with ice – when they have it.
But I’m not sure we have any ice.
I’ll check in the fridge.’

A moment later Catesby came back bearing the aluminium
ice-cube
tray.
‘We’re in luck,’ he said lifting it.
It was just then that he slid on a scatter rug.
The rugs moved like sleds on the smooth lino.
He didn’t fall down, but the ice tray did a few somersaults in midair before Catesby caught it.

‘I didn’t know you were a ballet dancer,’ said Galen clapping.

But it wasn’t funny.
Catesby now couldn’t tell which side of the tray was poisoned.

‘Help yourself first,’ said Galen.

Catesby popped a cube out of the tray and put it in his own whisky.
He then popped two cubes from the opposite side and plopped them in Galen’s glass.

‘Cheers,’ said Catesby raising the glass to his lips.
He quickly sipped the whisky before the ice had a chance to melt and he tried not to grimace when the cube touched his upper lip.
No more, he thought.
If I got it wrong, I’ll just strangle him.
It’s not worth it.

Galen continued to drink steadily.
He began to seem a little drunk.
The American eventually looked closely at Catesby.
‘You don’t seem to be drinking much, my friend.’

‘I’m not really a whisky drinker.’

‘But this is lovely stuff.’
There was a note of suspicion in Galen’s voice.

Catesby looked at his glass.
The ice cube had nearly melted.
He raised the glass and said, ‘Cheers.’
He then knocked it back in one.

‘What’s the matter?’
said Galen a little slurred.
‘You don’t look very well.’

Catesby was holding his stomach.
‘I think I’m going to be sick.’
He took off running to the kitchen and put his head in the sink.
The problem was that he wasn’t being sick.
Catesby thrust two fingers deep down his throat.
He was desperate to vomit up the whisky, but nothing would come.
He felt beads of sweat bursting on his brow.
He tried again.
Still no vomit.
He looked around the kitchen for something to stick down his throat – or some chemical to make him vomit.
It was then that he heard a muffled thump from the sitting room.
Catesby’s stomach suddenly settled.
He had chosen a
poison-free
cube after all.