The Midnight Swimmer (33 page)

‘I think, Bob, you know the answer.’

‘The Sovs are deploying intermediate-range R-12s.
You can’t disguise them as anything else.
You see those black beasts being paraded through Red Square every May Day.’

The R-12, Catesby well knew, was the first Soviet missile to be mass produced and deployed with thermonuclear warheads.
It had oddly tiny tailfins, like the deformed-looking arms of a
Tyrannosaurus
Rex.
But the R-12 was road transportable and propelled to its target by storable fuel.
This meant that you could launch them from almost anywhere.
It was the missile most likely to destroy London.

Neville pointed at the map.
‘The Sagua la Grande site is the nearest to the United States – and a perfect fit.
The maximum range of the R-12 is 1,292 miles.
The distance between the missile site and Manhattan is 1,290 miles.’

The overhead fluorescent light began to flicker making Neville look like a character at the end of a cinema film reel.
The light finally went out.
Catesby turned on a desk lamp.
They both looked more human in the softer light.

‘Well,’ said Neville, ‘it looks like the Sovs have wiped out their strategic disadvantage in one bold move.
It’s a dangerous gambit, but the logic is faultless.’
Neville stared at his colleague.
‘You already knew this.
Didn’t you, William?’

Catesby nodded.
‘But I didn’t know the location of the sites.’

‘Shall I cable the locations to London?’

‘I wouldn’t, but it’s your decision.
I’m not your boss.’

‘But I value your advice.
Why shouldn’t I send them?’

‘Because some dolt might pass them on to the Americans.’

‘Why’s that a bad thing?’

‘Are you playing devil’s advocate?’

‘Yes.’

‘Because this situation is going to turn into a crisis that could spin out of control – and full intelligence always makes crisis resolution more difficult.
Governments are more likely to go for peace when confronted with uncertainty.’

‘I’m impressed, William.
Do you like playing God?’

Catesby smiled.
‘Yes.’

‘I see your point about keeping mum.’
Neville slid the reports into a folder.
‘I won’t send these on.
But the Americans would have to be pretty stupid not to notice something strange is going on.’

‘What assets have they still got in Cuba?’

‘First of all, a large number of anti-Castro Cubans with radio
transmitters
who are strung out through the countryside.
The problem, of course, is that a lot of them have been doubled by
el Dirección
and are sending false information.
CIA can’t be sure which is which.
But Washington’s other source is quite an anomaly.
Totally against the normal run of play.’
Neville smiled like a card shark about to trump.

‘Go on, surprise me.’

‘The French.
At first, I thought they were doing it just to show us up – and maybe annoy us too.
But then I remembered their man in Washington – he simply adores the USA.
It seems that he’s running two of his own agents out of the French Embassy here.
The lad, and the girl especially, are very active.’

Memories began to jostle for space in Catesby’s brain.
The first was the refined French voice that had answered the phone number secreted to him by the US Ambassador – and then threatened him with castration and death.
There was also the young French couple in Otis’s Washington jazz club.
And finally, Lionel’s reference to ‘Sophie’.

‘It seems,’ said Neville, ‘that our French colleagues enjoy the dubious glory of being heavily infiltrated by
both
Moscow and Washington.
I think it’s a rather splendid achievement.’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised if their Sov doubles swap stuff with their Yank doubles.’

‘Of course they do.’

‘At some point,’ said Catesby, ‘it becomes an art.’

‘What?’

‘Our game.
It’s like a complex musical composition full of tonal tricks and unexpected dissonance.’

‘I think you need a drink, William.’

‘French brandy?’

‘Of course.’

‘Cheers.’
Catesby raised his glass, but decided not to tell Neville about the R-14s due to arrive at the end of the month.
Those missiles had a range of 2,800 miles and were capable of hitting the rest of the continental United States.

‘Would you mind wearing these blindfolds?’
Che’s voice was almost apologetic, but his face wore an impish smile.
Catesby was sitting in the back of Alekseev’s GAZ M21 Volga – and Alekseev was driving.
He had, thought Catesby, returned from Moscow unscathed and still in post.
The other passengers were a woman from the French Embassy who called herself Sophie and an Italian journalist.
‘I don’t need a blindfold,’ said the Italian, ‘I only have eyes for lovely Sophie.’

‘Me too,’ said Catesby as he tried to piece together the intentions behind Lionel’s lies.

Sophie, wedged in the middle of the back seat between Catesby and the Italian, stirred nervously.
Che threw up his arms in despair and looked at Alekseev.

‘Okay,’ said Catesby, ‘we’ll wear the blindfolds.’
He put his on and the others followed.
They were going to be given a tour of the SAM sites.
The Russians and Cubans didn’t mind showing off the new anti-aircraft missiles, but quite reasonably didn’t want to reveal their exact locations.

‘Haven’t we met before?’
said Catesby leaning towards the woman next to him.

‘I can’t remember.
I don’t think so.’

‘But you look so familiar.’

‘Have you taken your blindfold off?’
The remark wasn’t playful.
The Frenchwoman’s voice was stern and flat.

‘No, of course not.’
Catesby was sure that she had seen him at the jazz club in DC where Otis played, but she wanted to hide the fact.
He wondered if her name was really Sophie.
In any case, she
looked older and more attractive than she had in the jazz club.
She spoke French with an accent that was so suave and refined that it was almost irritating.
The French Connection were thugs in silk underwear.

An hour later they were allowed to take their blindfolds off.
The car, after a long bumpy ride on a rough track, was parked in a grove of palm trees.
They were greeted by a group of Cubans in green
battledress
who looked more like professors than soldiers.
There were also a handful of Russians lurking in the background, but not in uniform.
All the Russians were serving military, however, disguised as civilians with open-necked shirts and badly fitting jeans.
They could have passed for farmers from the American Midwest.
The Sov soldiers were still operating under the threadbare cover of
agricultural
and irrigation advisers.
Catesby began to notice a pattern of hierarchy.
The soldiers wore checked shirts, the officers white shirts.

The six S-75 Dvina missiles were beautiful in their sleekness.
It was difficult to believe they had anything to do with the frumpy Russian hayseeds in checked shirts.
The missiles were thirty-five feet long, but as slender as a young girl’s waist.
Unlike the stumpy fins of the R-12s, the Dvina’s fins were wide and graceful – almost like a ballet dancer’s tutu.
Were they beautiful, thought Catesby, because they were defensive weapons?
As the visitors were shown around, their Cuban and Russian hosts kept repeating the word ‘defensive’ like a mantra.
Catesby knew perfectly well that the visit was a
whitewash
exercise.
The aim was to showcase the peaceful intentions of the Cuban government and their Soviet backers.
Catesby could see that both Che and Alekseev were bored with having to go through the ritual.
Everyone knew that something more sinister was lurking under the palm trees, but it wasn’t yet the time to admit it.

Catesby walked around the missile battery shoulder to shoulder with Alekseev.
He wondered if the Russian knew that he was his wife’s lover.

Alekseev stopped to stroke one of the missiles.
He ran his hand down its slender body.
It was impossible for Catesby not to imagine him touching Katya with the same tender concern.
Oddly, he felt a pang of jealousy.

‘You know,’ said Alekseev his hand still on the Dvina, ‘that it was one of these that brought down the American U2 that was spying over Sverdlovsk.’

Catesby nodded.
The 1960 incident had resulted in the capture of CIA pilot Gary Powers and soured improving relations between the two superpowers.
Catesby wondered if intelligence agencies caused such incidents on purpose because a world in conflict meant better job prospects.
Or maybe they just liked conflict because it was more exciting.
His trade had more than its fair share of deviants and psychos.

‘These missiles,’ continued Alekseev, ‘can strike higher than any aircraft can fly.
I fear I am boring you.’
Alekseev smiled.
‘Because I am boring myself.
Let’s talk about something more interesting.
Who is your favourite poet?’

Catesby looked at Alekseev and understood why Katya loved him.
‘I like lots of poets, but you might know this one:

‘Do you really like Pushkin?’
said Alekseev.
‘Or is this an indirect way of saying you want a drink?’

‘Both,’ said Catesby.

‘Follow me.’

There were trestle tables set up under canvas awnings strung between the roofs of the radar vans.
The food and drink were as Russian as the missiles.
There were trays of blini with caviar, pickled herring, beetroot, assorted gherkins and chilled vodka.
The radar vans, which needed refrigeration to keep their electronics healthy, had probably helped keep the food fresh too.

Alekseev filled Catesby’s glass.
‘Do you think,’ said the Russian nodding towards Sophie, ‘that the Frenchwoman is pretty?’

It is an awkward question when asked by the husband of a woman with whom you are intimate.
Especially if the husband knows about it.
A ‘yes’ answer devalues the wife in comparison and makes the adultery more sordid.
A ‘no’ confirms an intensity of commitment, for the lover has eyes for no other.
Catesby looked closely at Sophie and decided to give an honest answer.
‘She knows she’s pretty and wants men to acknowledge it.
I prefer women who are
unselfconscious
about their beauty and just accept it as natural to them.’
Catesby paused.
He realised that he had just described Katya.
‘And besides, Sophie has a hardness about her mouth that will turn
spiteful
when she ages.’
Catesby looked at the Russian.
‘Do you find her pretty?’

‘Yes.
I think she’s very vulnerable – and that makes me want to protect her.
Do you find it odd that I associate vulnerability with beauty?’

‘No, I suppose it’s bred into us.
It’s what makes us treasure babies and children and want to look after them.
But that’s not, Yevgeny Ivanovich, what makes me love a woman.’
Catesby liked the Russian custom of addressing someone who is not family or close friend by full first name and patronymic.
But he wondered if his statement about love had been too personal for formal small talk.

‘Our paths, Mr Catesby, have crossed in so many places.
In Berlin we were, how should I say?
Counterparts?’

‘You flatter me.
I assure you, Yevgeny Ivanovich, that your rank far exceeded mine – and still does.’

‘That’s only because we are a larger organisation.
We have to be.
Do you like your job?’