The Midnight Swimmer (38 page)

All the arrows eventually pointed back to the CIA, but it wasn’t anything official or even intended.
It was just the way they did things – especially since they had got involved in dirty tricks against Cuba.
The CIA had got in bed with gangsters to keep their own hands clean.
And once they made that compromise they lost control of what
happened
at the pointy end.
Once you give a nod or wink to those guys you can’t cancel.
And more and more the CIA were finding they couldn’t get their new partner out of their shared bed where he was farting and dropping cigarette ash all over the silk sheets.

The Butley phone box was the only light in the Suffolk night.
The pub, run by two elderly spinster sisters, was dark and locked.
The Oyster never had after-hours drinking sessions.
The tractor drivers and the few remaining horsemen who ploughed with Suffolk Punches were well tucked up.
Catesby leaned his forehead against the glass of the phone box and listened to the screech of hunting owls.
He loved the place, but he wasn’t sure the place cared.

The first number he dialled was the Night Duty Officer at Broadway Buildings.
There was no need to speak in code.
He couldn’t imagine that a foreign power had tapped the Butley Oyster phone box.
And so what if they had?
Catesby explained all the necessary details to the NDO.
The NDO would then alert MI5 and Special Branch.
CIPS, the Classified Incident Planning Section, would go into action with clockwork precision.
The bodies would be tidied up and the Suffolk Constabulary informed that the whole thing was a heavily D-noticed matter of national security.
The Suffolk police
had been involved in such matters before.
They loved the hushhush drama and the rare feeling that their provincial force was at the centre of things.
In fact, a Suffolk police inspector would soon arrive to give him a lift to London.

When everything was arranged, Catesby hung up the phone.
He was beginning to feel relieved and depressed at the same time.
It was the psychological after-effect of the adrenalin rush of ‘action’.
Gradually the relief would turn into nervousness and the depression would grow deeper.
Catesby remembered something.
He reached into his jacket pocket for the card he had taken off Joey.
He looked at it under the phone kiosk light:
Gold Coast Restaurant and Lounge, Biscayne Boulevard, Miami, Fla
.
Catesby turned the card over.
There was a phone number written in pencil: a number that was etched into his memory by bitter acid.

Catesby picked up the phone again and put a tuppence in the slot.
He asked for the international operator, gave her the number and said he wanted to reverse the charges.

‘Whom shall I say is calling, sir?’

Catesby remembered the codeword that Ambassador Whitney had given him two years ago, and that the only time he had dialled the number he had been threatened in elegant French.
He prepared himself for a repeat conversation, but this time Catesby would be the one taunting.
‘Say,’ said Catesby changing the codeword into a name, ‘it’s Mr Amlash.’

Catesby listened as the operator handed over to an American counterpart.
She called it a ‘collect call’, American for reversed charges.
He listened to the long softer dial tones of the USA.
The phone was finally answered.
The operator spoke first, ‘Would you accept a collect call from Mr Amlash dialling from Great Britain?’

The person answered ‘yes’ in a voice that was very American.

‘You are now connected to your caller.’

‘Hello,’ said Catesby.

‘Who is this?’
The voice was not only American, but one of the most recognisable voices in the USA.
Catesby didn’t need to know more.
He didn’t need to crow his revenge.
He simply returned the phone to its cradle without saying another word.
The biggest missing piece from the jigsaw had just slotted into place.

Catesby’s return to Cuba was delayed by an MI5 debrief about the
events in the country lane.
Sadly, you don’t leave the Security Service with bodies to clear up and local constables to hush up without having to answer a few questions.
But it went smoothly enough – and as soon as that was done and dusted he was summoned to 10 Downing Street.

Catesby had never met the Prime Minister before, but knew that he was smoother and more modern than his Edwardian persona suggested.
Macmillan leaned across his desk to shake Catesby’s hand.
It was a limp handshake because the Prime Minister had
suffered
nerve damage as a result of a war wound.
Macmillan’s third and final wound was a bullet in the pelvis during the Battle of the Somme.
He had spent a day lying in a slit trench waiting for stretcher bearers.
Macmillan passed the time by reading Aeschylus in the original Greek.
Catesby only knew the playwright in
translation
:
There are times when fear is good.
It must keep its watchful place at the heart’s controls
.

‘You may never have to pass this message on,’ the Prime Minister handed Catesby a piece of paper, ‘but if you are authorised to do so, the offer will have the full backing of HM’s government.’

Catesby read the document.
The words were clear and
unambiguous
– and signalled what could be a stunning change in UK policy.
Britain still had cards to play.

‘Is there anything you don’t understand?’

‘No, Prime Minister.’

Macmillan reached across the desk with his damaged hand.
‘I can’t let you keep that.’

Catesby made the PM wait as he carefully re-read the
handwritten
words.
He finally looked up and handed the paper back.

‘Have you memorised it?’

Catesby repeated the message.

‘Good.’
The PM paused.
‘Needless to say you must never reveal this offer to anyone – regardless of rank – other than the person to whom you pass it on.’

‘Who is that person?’

‘I don’t know yet.
That’s for the other side to decide.
When – and if – the time comes, the identity of their secret envoy should be apparent.’

‘What if I get duped – and hand it to the wrong chap?’

Macmillan smiled.
‘I’m sure you won’t.’

Catesby stirred uneasily.

‘We have to use someone like you, Mr Catesby, because this offer, however sincere and binding, cannot go through official channels.
And remember, a man who trusts nobody is apt to be the kind of man nobody trusts.
Bon voyage, Mr Catesby, and I hope that all will go well.’

T
here had been rumours throughout the day.
In the evening all the embassy staff had been urgently summoned to the briefing room to listen to President Kennedy’s televised speech.
Catesby had known the facts beforehand, but the President’s words still chilled his blood.
Kennedy’s use of the word ‘imprisoned’ was particularly worrying.
Was it just rhetoric or a justification for an imminent invasion to ‘free’ Cuba?
It looked bad.

Kennedy then listed the sites containing
medium range
ballistic
missiles capable of carrying a nuclear warhead for a distance of more than 1,000 nautical miles.
And additional sites … designed for intermediate-range ballistic missiles – capable of travelling more than twice as far – and thus capable of striking most of the major cities in the Western Hemisphere.

Catesby looked around at the faces of his colleagues.
They were ashen.
The Ambassador and Neville, who were also privy to the top secret cables that had warned of the developments, were just as pale.
For the one thing that none of them knew was what Washington was going to do next.
Catesby and his security-cleared colleagues may have known about the missiles and the U-2 flights, but none of them knew what had been decided in Kennedy’s Oval Office.

The next part of the speech troubled Catesby.
Kennedy had begun to tell the American people that the missiles in Cuba were completely unnecessary.

The key phrase was
I quote their government
.
Kennedy’s tone of voice was full of mockery.
Catesby knew that Kennedy was
implying
that Moscow had lied about having those
so powerful rockets
.
Catesby felt his blood turn cold despite the tropical heat.
He suddenly realised that Kennedy and his generals knew that Soviet nuclear deterrence against the USA was a sham.
Washington had found out about the launch-pad disaster that had killed Marshall Nedelin and wiped out the Soviet Union’s rocket elite.

Kennedy’s next words were the chilliest of all:
In that sense,
missiles
in Cuba add to an already clear and present danger
.
The words were unambiguous.
Clear and present danger
was diplomatic speak meaning that war is imminent and justified.

The next part of the speech heightened the sense of crisis:
We will not prematurely or unnecessarily risk the costs of worldwide nuclear war … but neither will we shrink from that risk at any time it must be faced
.
The embassy staff listened in stony silence.
As trained
diplomats
, they understood every nuance.
They knew that Kennedy’s words carried dire implications.

As soon as Kennedy said
further action is required,
Catesby braced himself to hear the President declare that hostilities were about to commence.
He expected to hear the bombs dropping any moment.
But instead of bombs, he heard Kennedy say there would be
a strict quarantine on all offensive military equipment under
shipment
to Cuba … All ships of any kind bound for Cuba from whatever nation or port will, if found to contain cargoes of offensive weapons, be turned back
.

It didn’t mean peace, far from it.
Catesby looked at the military attaché who nodded.
The quarantine option had been used before as a ploy to buy time before launching hostilities.
What Kennedy really meant by ‘quarantine’ was that the US military needed a day or two to assemble forces for an attack.

The rest of Kennedy’s speech seemed to confirm Catesby’s worst fears.
The President warned of …
a full retaliatory response upon the Soviet Union
.
He went on to say that he had …
reinforced our base at Guantánamo, evacuated today the dependents of our personnel there, and ordered additional military units to be on a standby alert basis
.
Catesby looked at Debra.
Her eyes were wide open and
unblinking
like someone staring into an abyss.
He began to hate Kennedy for doing that to her, to all of them.
Catesby then looked at Mickey
Blakeney who had calmly written a note when Kennedy mentioned the Guantánamo ‘dependents’.

Kennedy ended his speech with an attack on the Cuban leadership calling them
puppets and agents of an international conspiracy
.
It was clear that Kennedy wasn’t going to be happy until
the Cuban people have risen to throw out tyrants who destroyed their liberty
.
Catesby smiled when he heard Kennedy refer to the time when the Cubans
will be truly free
.
Free, in other words, for the Mafia and the casino owners to come back.
Catesby remembered Otis’s words about Cuba being the Mafia’s crown jewel and how the mob would stop at nothing to get it back.
At the time, Catesby had thought that Otis saying that the Mafia had got Kennedy elected so he could hand them back Cuba was far-fetched.
Now he wasn’t so sure.

As Kennedy wound up his speech …
Thank you and good night
, the Ambassador reached up to turn off the television.
‘I think,’ he said, ‘we’ve all had enough of that.’

Mickey Blakeney, referring to the notes on his pad, immediately spoke up.
‘Considering the seriousness of the situation,
Ambassador
, should we not consider repatriating family members and
nonessential
staff to the UK?’

The Ambassador slowly shook his head and answered with a bleak smile that was full of weariness.
‘What’s the point, Mickey, we’re safer in Havana than we would be in London.
The Russian bombs on England will be more vicious than the American ones on Cuba – the Yanks don’t want too much radioactive fallout blowing back over Florida.’

At that moment Debra broke down in tears as if a dam had just broken.
Her weeping wasn’t loud, but shook her whole body in deep convulsions.
She had two boys home in London for half-term and her husband too – who had wrangled a last-minute leave from Malaya.
Of course, the boys wouldn’t have been any safer at Royal Hospital School.
The East Anglian school, which took in boarders from military and diplomatic families, was located in a ‘target rich’ environment.

The region was also Catesby’s own home and had always been
Britain’s
most dangerous border, but never more so than now.
East Anglia provided most of the bases for sixty US Thor nuclear missiles aimed at the Soviet Union.
It didn’t matter that the missiles were under the joint control of UK as well as US officers, they would still be prime
targets in any confrontation between Washington and Moscow.
In fact, there was a strong logic for the Soviet military to launch a
preemptive
strike against East Anglia if hostilities seemed imminent.

Catesby felt a lump in his throat.
He had a vision of firestorms sweeping inland through the river valleys and incinerating each town in their wake: Lowestoft, Beccles, Bungay; Southwold,
Blythburgh
, Halesworth; Orford, Aldeburgh, Leiston; Felixstowe, Woodbridge, Ipswich.
And all the sleepy villages and cornfields in between.
Catesby wanted to gather them all up and hold them close to his chest.
There was no mystery about why people died to protect their homes.

Catesby looked at the Ambassador.
The poor man was absolutely mortified.
Sir Herbert knew that he had said the wrong thing.
He realised how tactless he had been and went over to put his arm around Debra.

‘If London is going to be a funeral pyre,’ she said, ‘I want to be on it with Nick and the boys.’

‘I’m sorry, Debra.
It was thoughtless of me.
If you want to go home, you can leave as soon as possible.’

She nodded and dabbed at her eyes.
Then she got up and left the room.
Catesby stared at Debra’s empty chair.
He felt almost ground into and through the floor by the weight of responsibility.
He wished there was someone else he could shift it to.

The meeting was now over.
The embassy staff filed out of the room in silence as if leaving a funeral service.
The only two left behind were Catesby and the military attaché.
The attaché was an RAF Wing Commander approaching retirement.
Wing Co, as everyone called him, was a keen fisherman who spent endless hours at his fly tying vice weaving damsel nymphs, hoppers, brown zonkers, coachmen and dog nobblers.
Fly fishing was just as much about deception as espionage.

‘You look,’ said Wing Co, ‘as if you need an anti-malarial?’

Catesby nodded.

Wing Co opened his brown leather briefcase and fished out a
hipflask
.
‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘I’ve only packed the snakebite medicine, I hope you don’t mind.
It’s a single malt from Islay – a gillie friend gave it to me.’

Catesby smiled at the coincidence.
It was the same whisky that he had fed Galen.
‘It’s lovely stuff.
I’ve drunk it before.’

‘Well have some more.’

Catesby accepted the flask and sipped.
The Wing Co’s whisky tasted even more mellow and rich.
He swirled it around in his mouth as if it were a precious nectar and handed back the flask.

Wing Co then took a drink and closed his eyes to complete the act of comradely communion.
They were brother officers on a
darkling
plain.

‘Now if I were young Fidel,’ said Wing Co, ‘I would petition the Russkies to lend me a dozen or so Luna 2K6s.
You’ve heard of them?’

‘No,’ Catesby lied.
‘What are they?’

Wing Co raised an eyebrow.
‘I’m surprised you don’t know.
Surprised indeed.’

‘Are they some sort of missile?’

‘Quite.
The Luna 2K6 is a very handy bit of kit.’

‘Does it make a big boom?’
said Catesby.

‘Rather – about two kilotons worth.
Of course, that’s less than a tenth of the bomb the Americans popped over Hiroshima, but all the more useful for battlefield use.
In fact, if Rommel had had a half-dozen Lunas available to him at Normandy he would have obliterated the D-Day beachheads.
A single Luna will immediately kill any soldier within a thousand yards of the blast – and destroy any tank within 500 yards.
Any survivors would die of radiation in less than a fortnight.
As I said, handy bit of kit.’

‘So it wouldn’t take many Lunas to defeat a US invasion of Cuba?’

‘They wouldn’t just defeat the Yanks, they would incinerate them on the beaches …’ – Wing Co buttoned up his briefcase – ‘… and their radiated ashes would blow away on the wind.
We live, as our Chinese friends say, in interesting times.
But I’m going to have a quiet evening listening to Elgar and attempting to tie Marabous and Greenwell’s Glories – a deuced difficult fly to get right.
Sleep well, Mr Catesby.’

Catesby listened to Wing Co’s footsteps.
He walked with a slight shuffle because of a bad crash-landing when his Hurricane was shot to pieces.
Catesby liked Wing Co.
Behind the old buffer façade was a kind man who hated war.
He also suspected that Wing Co, who was no fool, knew more about the Luna 2K6s than he was letting on.

The midnight rendezvous was as inevitable as the conclusion of a Greek tragedy.
Character and historical forces create unavoidable reckonings.
Catesby somehow knew that the car would come up
behind him on Avenida Séptima.
He knew that it would slow to a walking pace beside him, with the Volga’s big engine throaty on low revs and growling at him like a predatory cat.
The rear door would open in silent welcome.
Catesby would recognise the face in the shadows of the rear seat.
The face would look older and sadder than ever before.