The Midnight Swimmer (8 page)

C
atesby’s return to Berlin was marked by tedious and bad-tempered interviews at BfV HQ concerning the Jutta incident.
The BfV, which was supposed to be West Germany’s principal Security Service, had a terrible record of infiltration from the East.
In 1954, the very Head –
Präsident
– of the BfV had fled to the DDR in the wake of a spy scandal that implicated fifty-four serving officers.
Things didn’t seem to have got much better.
Catesby spent a lot of time talking in private to the new
Präsident
, Hubert Schrübbers, who was certainly not a DDR agent, but suspected everyone else in his agency.
‘I have two officers,’ said Schrübbers, ‘who are blaming each other for assigning that woman to you.
There are no incriminating documents, so I am going to have to suspend both.’

A day later Catesby received a cable from Bone summoning him back to London.
But before he could leave, Catesby had to attend a BfV interrogation that turned into a screaming match as one of the officers under suspicion accused Catesby of being implicated.
The summons back to London could not have come at a worse time; Catesby knew it would make the BfV think his own bosses had doubts about him.
Before storming out, Catesby pointed his finger at his accuser and called him a piece of
Scheisse
.
‘The only reason I’m going to London,’ lied Catesby, ‘is to get enough information to nail you to the shithouse wall.’

The real reason for his urgent recall to London turned out to be, in Catesby’s eyes, utterly banal.
It was a ‘social’ event – exactly the sort of thing he loathed.
The US Ambassador, John Hay ‘Jock’ Whitney, had invited a load of Brits from FCO and SIS to spend election night at the embassy to listen to the voting results as they came in – a ‘historic’ event.
Bone and Catesby were on the list of invitees and there was no way either could refuse to go.
Since the US versus UK punch-up over Suez, the mood music in London was transatlantic reconciliation and friendship.
Catesby hated it – especially the 1958 Mutual Defence Agreement.
It meant that Britain had just pipped Alaska to become the forty-ninth state.

It was the first time Catesby had been to the new US Embassy.
The Americans had moved to the opposite end of Grosvenor Square from the eighteenth-century townhouse they had passed on to the Canadians.
The new embassy was brashly modern.
A huge gilded bald eagle, the size of a bus, appeared to be swooping down from the roof with wings outspread.
The eagle didn’t fit in with the clean lines of the building: it was too ornate.
The power symbol was more important than aesthetics.

As Catesby showed his invitation to a marine guard, he reminded himself of the rules: don’t get drunk; don’t insult anyone; don’t get into a fight.
It was nearly midnight, but the election results from the earliest states still hadn’t come in.

The first two hours were dull, but not unpleasant.
Catesby milled around through various function rooms, drinking non-alcoholic cocktails and nibbling proffered canapés.
The grub was impressive.
Catesby made a point of talking to Americans instead of Brits and of being polite – and didn’t have his first alcoholic drink until it had gone two a.m.
As he loosened up, he had a long chat with a history professor from Princeton who had been seconded to the State Department as an advisor.
The professor was obviously cultured, but self-effacing.
‘I really haven’t travelled much beyond the library, so you could say I’m a bit of a provincial booby.’
Catesby heard the echoes of ancient Rome.
He realised that behind the veil of modesty and subtle charm was a confident and cosmopolitan scholar close to the Emperor’s ear.

The election results were now streaming in.
There were radios relaying the news located throughout the reception rooms where knots of people gathered.
Kennedy was, as expected, sweeping most of the East Coast states.
It was now after three o’clock and Catesby had found a comfortable armchair in a reading room full of print media.
There were newspapers and magazines galore – including several in foreign languages.
Catesby eschewed
Le Monde
for a copy of the
Los Angeles
Times
printed on extra-thin paper for air
transport
.
The front page reported that Clark Gable was recovering from a heart attack.
He had just finished filming
The Misfits
with Marilyn Monroe.
But it was an item on an inside page that caught Catesby’s attention:

He remembered the ominous warning that he had heard from Bone years before: ‘It is not enough for the Americans to survive the Cold War; they want to win it.’

Catesby folded the paper on his knees and closed his eyes.
He soon drifted into a brief interlude of peaceful sleep – followed by the usual nightmare.
The voices that swirled around him were Spanish, French and Dutch and full of urgency.
The dream always ended the same way.
The bolted oak door splintering, the clang of swords … and finally Catesby pathetically pleading, desperate to save his life, that he was a spy working for the Queen.
They never believed him.

‘Mr Catesby.’
The voice was gentle American, almost a whisper.
Catesby opened his eyes.
The young man in front of him was
handsome
in a front office sort of way.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but the Ambassador has invited you to his residence.’

‘How nice of him.’
Catesby immediately wondered if he should have said ‘His Excellency’.
He never got protocol right.

‘Would you like to come with me?
There’s a car waiting.’

There were several cars waiting – all black Cadillacs flying the Ambassador’s flag.
A chauffeur in livery held open a rear door.
There were already three on the back seat.
The very pretty wife of one of Macmillan’s most promising ministers slid onto her husband’s lap and patted the seat beside her.
Catesby slid on to the seat and felt the wife’s shins tightly nestle against his thighs.
‘Hello,’ she said offering a gloved hand, ‘I’m Valerie.’

‘I’m William,’ said Catesby.

‘D’you know Jack?’
she said leaning on her husband.

‘Of course, how are you doing, Jack?’

‘Nice to see you again, William,’ said the minister, also lying.

‘Any idea what this is all about?’
said Catesby.

‘I believe,’ said the minister, ‘that Jock is going to give us a
champagne
breakfast.’

London was pre-dawn damp and empty as the cavalcade of
limousines
left Grosvenor Square and turned up Baker Street.
The Ambassador’s residence was at Winfield House, a neo-Georgian mansion set in twelve manicured acres of Regent’s Park.

‘Any idea who won the election?’
said Catesby.

‘Driver,’ said the minister.

‘Sir?’

‘Could you turn on the radio and try to get a news station?’

As soon as the driver turned the knob, Catesby realised it was already tuned to the UK station of American Forces Network.
The presenter’s voice was clear and strong:

There was a brief pause and some static.
The transatlantic
connection
made Kennedy’s voice fluttery and unearthly as if he were a creature from outer space.

As the car purred through the gates of Winfield House, Kennedy was still talking.
They would now prepare for a ‘
new administration and a new baby
.’

Although Winfield House, built in 1936, was fake Georgian, the hand-painted Chinese wallpaper was genuine eighteenth-century.
It seemed to Catesby that Ambassador Whitney had gone to a lot of expense to create an ambience that was elegant without being vulgar.
The breakfast itself was, however, a little over the top: poached eggs with Hollandaise, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, eggs
Benedict
, Virginia ham, wafer-thin pancetta bacon, sausages various,
hash browns, kippers, smoked haddock, bowls and bowls of fresh fruit, freshly squeezed orange juice clunking with ice cubes,
American
pancakes and waffles, every pastry imaginable including
croissants
and
pain au chocolat
that must have been flown over from Paris.
The idea was that you served your first helping from a buffet.
After that, champagne, coffee, tea and additional helpings were brought to you by servers – most seemed to be Filipino.

Catesby found himself at a table with three other Brits.
The only one he recognised was Charles Hill, who enjoyed the splendidly ludicrous title of Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster – a sort of minister-without-portfolio job.
Hill was, however, more famous as the 1940s ‘radio doctor’ who wrote the Ministry of Information recipe book,
Wise Eating in War Time
.
As Hill tucked into a second serving of hash browns and bacon, he caught Catesby smiling at him and smiled back, ‘Yes,’ said Hill, ‘it is a bit ironic – but you have my permission to tuck in.’
With his black round spectacles, twinkling eyes and slight pudginess Hill looked exactly like the avuncular GP he was.
Catesby strained to hear the conversation Hill was having with the other two.
They seemed to be gossiping about a woman.

‘Very pretty, very feminine,’ said Hill, ‘splendid ankles.
And her main charm is that she does not look a career woman, but speaks with the clarity of a barrister.
The best of the ’57 intake.’

‘Well she certainly seems to have enchanted you.’

The oldest of the three looked up from his eggs Benedict.
‘What’s her name, Charles?’

‘Margaret Thatcher.’

A waiter came around and recharged their glasses with
champagne
.
The most tipsy of Hill’s companions proposed a toast, but Catesby was distracted by an American voice speaking softly at his side.
‘Excuse me, Mr Catesby.’

‘Yes.’
Catesby detected something in the American’s manner that explained the real reason he had been invited.
It wasn’t for reasons of protocol.

‘Ambassador Whitney would be very pleased if you would have a word with him.’

Catesby nodded an apology at his table companions and followed a slim young American who exuded the relaxed assurance of his country’s elite.
It was an assurance that both charmed and annoyed – and Catesby knew he was going to experience it in bucketfuls when
he met the Ambassador.
Jock Whitney was a champion polo player, horse breeder, movie producer and war hero.
He had so charmed the Queen and Duke of Edinburgh that they addressed each other by first names – an unprecedented relaxation of protocol.