The Midnight Swimmer (44 page)

Something went click in Catesby’s mind.
It was a mystery that had never been resolved – a German mystery.

‘I once made a secret visit that only Jack knew about.
It was the result of a back-channel negotiation with a Russian called Georgi Bolshakov.
Cloak and dagger stuff.
I travelled to the North German port of Bremen in disguise – fake beard and brown contact lenses.
In order to leave a false trail, a rumour was started that I was an Englishman.
Galling, of course, for an Irish Catholic.
I was secreted
aboard a Polish freighter that took me to East Germany.
You must have heard rumours about the trip?’

Catesby was genuinely surprised.
‘Yes, but I didn’t know it was you.
I had a list of suspects, but you weren’t on it.’

‘We did a good job then.
Our biggest fear was that the CIA would find out about the meeting – and then use it against us by leaks to their right-wing friends.
So we exploited the rumour that a
high-level
Englishman was playing perfidious Albion and dealing with the Soviets behind our backs.’

More pieces slotted in.
Catesby now understood Angleton’s vicious personal attack on himself.
Kennedy had fooled the CIA too.

‘I suppose you could say,’ said Kennedy, ‘that it was an unofficial summit.
But I didn’t handle it particularly well – and neither did Khrushchev.
Jack wanted me to make a pitch for a nuclear test ban treaty, but Khrushchev mocked the proposal.
Later on, I must have come across as too aggressive.
Khrushchev got fed up and emotional and said he was prepared to put nuclear missiles in Cuba to counter ours in Turkey.’
Kennedy laughed.
‘I thought he was joking – and I must have shown my contempt and disbelief.
Maybe I provoked him into it.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘But there is something else that has always troubled me.’
Kennedy paused.
‘I was assured that only five of us would be present at the meeting, but there was a sixth man sitting in the shadows.
It was one of the things that annoyed me.
And I’m sure the guy wasn’t a Russian or a German – it was his clothes and manner, cool and supercilious.’

‘What did he look like?’

Kennedy gave a detailed description of the man.
It was a perfect portrait of Henry Bone.

Catesby now understood why Bone had been so willing to take the rap.
It was a double bluff.
Catesby wondered if he would ever know all the details and conditions of Bone’s invitation to East Germany.

‘I’m getting cold,’ said Kennedy, ‘I don’t want to die of pneumonia.
Shall we swim back?’

‘Yes, but why have you told me all this?’

‘Because I want you to trust me – and consider yourself a confidant.
It’s my roundabout way of saying I want you to work for me as a foreign policy advisor – if I make it to the White House.’

Catesby laughed.
‘I’m sorry, Senator Kennedy, but I’m not going to turn traitor by working for a foreign power.’

‘What if London agreed?’

‘We’ll see.’
In his heart Catesby knew that he could never live in America, but hoped with all his heart that Robert Kennedy would change it to a more gentle and thoughtful place.

As they swam to the shore Catesby saw the dark slim figure of a woman walking along the beach.
She had a graceful elegance that was unmistakable, despite the calf-length Capri pants.
When they came closer he saw the woman was carrying big fluffy towels.

Kennedy towelled himself warm and dry with the help of the woman.
It was obvious that they were in love.
And later, it was she who would tell the doctors to turn off the respirator and she who would thumb shut his eyes forever.
Catesby began to walk away.
He didn’t want to intrude on their privacy.
But before he left, Kennedy called out, ‘Join us tomorrow night.
After the vote count, I’m going to give a little talk at the Ambassador Hotel – and then some of us are going out for a bite to eat.
Look forward to seeing you.’

Catesby was too far away to help, but near enough to see and hear what happened.
Bobby had stopped to shake hands with a young Hispanic kitchen worker in a white smock.
Catesby couldn’t see more because a large man in a dark suit lurched up behind Kennedy and blocked his view.
The shots were so close together that they sounded merged.
It was a noise like two or three people beating simultaneously on metal panels with hammers.

There were now a lot of people shouting, ‘No, no, no, no …’ – and a chaos of flying bodies.
Catesby was nearly bowled over by a big dark man crashing past.
He caught a glimpse of a face that chilled him.
He recognised it by the eyes: they were dead and cold.
Catesby had seen their frozen lustre once before in the stairwell of a
Washington
hotel.
The face around them was now puffed and pitted with disease and decay, but the eyes still belonged to Amleto.
Meanwhile, people were swearing and someone was shouting, ‘Close the doors, close the doors …’

A heaving rush of people, including a scrum of photographers, were surging into the kitchen and causing a crush that carried Catesby forward.
Two huge black athletes, who were Kennedy’s volunteer bodyguards, had pinned down a small wiry young man
with frizzy hair.
At first, Catesby didn’t understand why they were thumping the thin young man.
Then he saw the pistol.
Catesby shouted, ‘Get the other one too.’
But his voice was drowned out in the loud confusion.

Catesby was now standing above Kennedy.
The Hispanic kitchen worker was cradling Bobby in his arms.
The bluish neon lights made the blood look like dark chocolate.
For a second, Catesby hoped that a pot of chocolate had overturned in the chaos and that Kennedy was just winded.

Robert Kennedy looked up at the kitchen worker and whispered, ‘Is everybody safe, okay?’

The worker replied in the soft rising and falling tones of Hispanic English, ‘Yes, yes, everything is going to be okay.’

Flashbulbs were popping like mad.
The young Hispanic took a rosary from around his neck and wove the beads through Bobby’s fingers.
More flashbulbs popped.
Catesby now saw that the blood was real and forming a widening pool beneath Kennedy’s head.

T
he brush pass had been carried out with cool and practiced
professionalism
.
The touch was light, sure and almost unnoticed.
And the conditions were perfect: an Oxford Street crowded with Christmas shoppers.
At first, Catesby thought he must have imagined it.
He vainly tried to spot a courier slipping away in the crowd as he shifted his shopping bag to his left hand.
No one looked at all suspicious.
But as Catesby reached deep into his overcoat pocket he touched the firm edges of an envelope that had not been there before.

Catesby smiled to himself and continued shopping.
He would leave the letter until later.
He had spent the day lecturing a new intake of field officers on ‘tradecraft’, especially covert exchanges such as dead letter drops.
Catesby assumed that one of the recruits had played a prank.
It had happened before.

The first thing that Catesby did when he got back to the flat in Pimlico was to light the gas fire and make a cup of tea.
He was now in his late forties and life as a permanent bachelor seemed the most likely outcome.
He limited himself to a single Huntley & Palmers digestive biscuit with his cup of tea.
He liked being fit and had taken up long distance running again – and didn’t want to carry an excess ounce on his long runs through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.
To keep himself company on his runs he recited poetry – an
eccentricity
that got him noticed by passers-by.
But he was reaching an age where it had begun not to matter.
Catesby had lately become fond of Charles Sorley, a soldier poet who was killed in 1915 serving with the Suffolk regiment.
He recited the verses again as
compensation
for not having a second digestive biscuit:

‘I suppose,’ said Catesby.
He looked hard at someone who wasn’t there.
The imaginary conversations had become a customary feature of his lonely evenings.
‘I suppose, Henry, that you find this poem a load of sentimental tosh.
But I like it, so up yours.’

Catesby tidied away the tea things and got out the Christmas wrapping paper.
The most important present were the records for his sister.
He knew that she liked Erik Satie and Maurice Ravel.
He also knew they were the sort of composers that Henry Bone called ‘
purveyors
of maudlin slush’.
Catesby imagined Bone’s thin lips curled in disdain and spoke aloud again, ‘That’s your opinion – and it’s tedious.’

As Catesby began to unroll the wrapping paper, he noticed that he hadn’t hung up his overcoat.
When he picked up the coat, he remembered the letter.
He found the envelope and removed it from the right pocket.
Nothing was written on it, but he could see that it wasn’t standard British stationery.
He opened it.
As soon as he saw the Cyrillic letters his heart skipped a beat.
There was a photo too.
It slipped out of the letter and fell face up on the carpet.
Catesby’s hands shook as he bent down to recover the photo.
He knew who it was.
His own eyes stared back at him.
The eyes also belonged to a gawky girl of eleven who was trying hard not to smile.
He held the photo as if it were the most precious thing in the world and began to read the letter.

T
he first person I want to thank is Julia for her support, patience and understanding.
Her son, Edward Manton, should be
acknowledged
for unwittingly contributing a visual image, which adds to the novel’s appearance.
I am also grateful to Frank Wilson.
My big brother, who saw active service as both sailor and naval officer during every decade of the Cold War, supplied me with details and
recollections
that I am sure contribute to this book’s historical authenticity.

Once again, I must give high praise to Angeline Rothermundt for her excellence as an editor.
I also feel fortunate and grateful to have the support of Gary Pulsifer, Daniela de Groote and Andrew Hayward at Arcadia Books.
All of you have made me feel valued as an author.
Thank you.

Finally, I want to acknowledge the following books and sources.
I would, however, like to single out the George Washington
University
National Security Archive as being especially helpful.