The Whitehall Mandarin Page 3

  ‘I shouldn’t worry about that. The Special Protection Branch make a thorough search of this building whenever there’s an event of state. They check everyone and everything – and can be quite a nuisance. But they are necessary.’

  ‘Do you ever, Lady Somers, worry about a police force who are too powerful. Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’

  Lady Somers smiled. ‘You might even say, “Who guards the guards?”’

  ‘I am sorry if you find my use of Latin pretentious.’

  ‘Not at all, Euan. It was a gentle tease. I suppose the custodis you are referring to is Jim Skardon. He was just here.’

  ‘I saw him leave. He didn’t look happy. The situation is very worrying – and shocking.’

  ‘It has been resolved – and, to answer your Latin tag, we have overruled the guards. You look relieved, Euan?’

  ‘I don’t feel relieved. I feel very sad.’

  ‘About John?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think you should know everything.’ Lady Somers had two files on her desk. She opened one of them and drew out a pack of glossy photos. ‘Have a look. I hope you’re not easily shocked.’

  ‘I don’t need to look. We already knew, about his homosexuality in any case. It was just something that was assumed, but never mentioned.’

  ‘But did you know he was a spy?’

  ‘Not until I read this.’ Euan held up the file with two red stripes that he had carried in. ‘Of course I didn’t know he was a spy. If I had, I would have reported him at once. I thought it was utter nonsense when Five got into a stir about him. I put it down to intolerance and lack of sophistication on their part. Of course, sending John to Moscow was a big mistake. He was too young and too vulnerable.’ Euan finally looked at the photos on Lady Somers’ desk and winced. ‘What happens next?’

  ‘Nothing legal.’

  A dark frown came over Euan’s face. ‘Surely…’

  ‘I meant there will be no prosecution. That’s what I meant by overruling the guards.’

  ‘Excuse me, Penelope, but you’re talking riddles.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m very tired this morning.’

  Euan looked at his boss. She had deep dark lines under her eyes. Lady Somers was usually distant and enigmatic – and never admitted to being tired, annoyed or even pleased. Her eyes, such a dark brown that you could hardly tell the difference between pupil and iris, were blanks that never revealed anything.

  Euan decided to risk it. ‘How is Miranda?’

  ‘She’s fine.’ Lady Somers’ voice was icy.

  ‘I’m glad.’ Euan realised he had stepped over the line and retreated. The daughter discussion was obviously over. Miranda was Lady Somers’ only child and, apparently, there were issues.

  ‘To make the deception effective, we have to do more than merely keep Tyler in place.’ Lady Somers continued as if Euan’s clumsy question about her daughter had been unheard. ‘We promote Tyler so he can have a higher security clearance.’ She paused and smiled, suddenly looking less tired. ‘Now, Euan, you really do look shocked.’

  ‘This is a dangerous game.’

  ‘We’ve played it before – and it helped win the war.’ Somers was referring to ‘Double-Cross’, an operation in which German spies in Britain were captured and turned in order to send false information to their controllers in Berlin between 1940 and 1945. Among other successes, it had tricked German generals into believing the D-Day landings were going to be in the Pas-de-Calais.

  ‘So we’re going to tell Tyler that he’s been uncovered – and that he has to do our bidding or else?’

  ‘No, Euan, we’re not going to tell him. Tyler is going to be what the spy trade call an “unwitting agent”. He will be totally unaware of how he’s being used. You look surprised.’

  ‘I’m finding it difficult to take in. It sounds most extraordinary.’

  ‘It was not my decision, Euan. It was made at higher level.’

  Euan raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘At what level?’

  ‘At the highest level – and the procedure has been discussed with SIS.’ Lady Somers tried to hide her irritation at being questioned. ‘There are several reasons for using Tyler as an unwitting agent. He hasn’t been trained as a spy and would never be convincing as a turned double. I also doubt his emotional stability – he might panic and run. But most importantly, we will still have the option of prosecuting him for treason in the future.’ Lady Somers shrugged. ‘We have to stop doing deals that carry a promise of immunity. A lot of people in Five don’t like it and they can cause serious problems. I’ve just had an earful from one of them.’

  Euan stared out the window across St James’s to Buckingham Palace. The definition of State was not carved in stone. He suddenly felt Lady Somers staring at him in an odd way. ‘There’s something else on your mind. What is it, Penelope?’

  ‘Was there anything between yourself and Tyler that you would like to tell me about?’

  ‘Absolutely no impropriety. Certainly nothing involving physical intimacy. John hero-worshipped me – look, there’s me already using the past tense.’

  ‘And you felt flattered by his admiration?’

  ‘Yes, in a way. And I didn’t want to disillusion him – so I may have embellished the grandeur of the Scottish estate and my war service. It’s not unpleasant to be worshipped.’

  ‘I notice that he copies the way you dress.’

  ‘That is embarrassing.’

  Lady Somers smiled. ‘It’s not easy to reprimand someone for that.’

  ‘Or even to mention it.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘John is basically a nice lad who is very eager to please.’ Euan flushed. ‘Sorry, Penelope, my phrasing was unfortunate. But he is very efficient around the office.’

  ‘I suppose he has to be to get all the documents that need photographing.’

  ‘I wish he had confided in me. I could have helped him deal with the blackmail.’

  ‘It’s not just the blackmail card. It’s money too. Have you heard of MICE?’

  ‘Only the obvious ones.’

  ‘MICE are the options for recruiting an agent: money, ideology, coercion and excitement. In Tyler’s case it was M and C. For our Cambridge friends it was all I and E. In my view, Tyler’s motives are far more squalid than theirs. But you call him a “nice lad”?’

  ‘John told me that he inherited the money from a distant relative in America.’

  ‘Did you actually believe that, Euan?’

  ‘A lot of us have inherited money – and, in some cases,’ Euan smiled, ‘that’s the main reason why we’re here.’ He suddenly realised his gaffe and blushed. ‘I was, of course, Lady Somers, referring to myself.’

  ‘I’m sure you were, but you have no reason to be self-deprecating.’

  ‘Thank you, Penelope. In any case, I didn’t think that a windfall inheritance was anything unusual, so I believed Tyler’s story.’

  ‘But MI5 didn’t believe it – and that’s what set them on his trail.’

  ‘John likes fine things.’

  ‘And that’s what gave him away. Five’s watchers logged him as having worn thirty-four different suits in one month.’

  ‘I suppose he is a bit of a fop.’

  ‘And you admit he copies the way you dress?’

  ‘Thank you, Penelope.’

  ‘I was teasing again.’

  Lady Somers went back to the MI5 file on Tyler and picked out a glossy photo. ‘And this one’s a smart dresser too.’

  Euan regarded the photo with a critical eye. ‘But personally, I think the trench coat is de trop.’

  ‘Do you recognise him?’

  Euan shifted nervously and stuttered. ‘He, he does look familiar…’

  ‘Where did you meet him?’

  ‘At a festival concert in Aldeburgh. He has a violinist friend who is part of the Britten–Pears crowd. I then met him again at the US ambassador’s 4th of July bash – which was even more de trop than his tren
ch coat.’

  ‘Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Jeffers Cauldwell. He’s the US Cultural Attaché. Quite a flamboyant figure. No one would ever imagine that Cauldwell is a Soviet spy.’

  ‘That’s the beauty of Cauldwell’s cover.’ Lady Somers leaned back and folded her hands in a way that made her look both regal and feminine. ‘In fact, SIS think that Cauldwell may be running a false flag operation.’

  Euan looked puzzled. ‘I’m sorry, Lady Somers, can you explain?’

  A false flag operation is when a spy pretends to be working for someone else.’

  ‘I know that; it’s a traditional naval ruse. But I don’t understand how it applies to Tyler.’

  ‘It is likely that Tyler thinks he’s stealing secrets for Cauldwell to pass on to Washington, certainly not to Moscow.’

  ‘Why would Tyler think that we have naval and military secrets that would be useful to the Americans?’

  ‘Because we actually have such secrets. Cauldwell knows this – and would surely have explained the situation to Tyler.’ Lady Somers lifted a file off her desk and handed it to Euan. ‘The Americans want to know how far we’ve got with our independent H-bomb. It could determine how they treat us an ally – and how much secret technology they share with us.’

  Euan gingerly took the file, which bore two red stripes and the UK EYES ALPHA label. He was almost afraid to touch it. ‘What do you want me to do with this?’

  ‘I want you to make sure that Tyler sees it – but we’ll have to promote him first.’

  Euan opened the file and flicked through its contents. He then looked up, his face pale and drained. ‘This is madness. We can’t let this stuff go to Moscow.’

  ‘It’s been doctored. We want the Russians to think we already have an H-bomb. We haven’t, but we’re getting close. Orange Herald is nothing more than a juiced-up A-bomb pretending to be an H-bomb. It’s a ruse. So far our real hydrogen devices have only gone fizz and pop instead of bang and wallop.’

  Euan smiled wanly. ‘And the thought of little Britain having a tinpot H-bomb is going to make Moscow tremble?’

  ‘Not much, but it makes their strategic planning more difficult.’

  Euan went back to the file. There were several pages of diagrams. ‘There’s something I don’t understand.’

  ‘What is it?’ Lady Somers’ voice had a sharp edge.

  ‘I am sorry if I appear a trifle dense.’

  ‘You’re not at all dense – but something seems to be bothering you.’

  ‘I don’t understand why we are sending all this technical information to Moscow in addition to the fake test results. Much of this isn’t doctored disinformation, but a virtual handbook on how to make a bomb.’

  ‘Letting Moscow get this information is like advising grandmother how to suck eggs. The Russians are so far ahead of us on bomb-making and design it won’t give them any advantage in the arms race at all.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘We need to pass on genuine intelligence – but intelligence that’s harmless, as I just explained – to convince Moscow that the disinformation is also real.’

  ‘Surely…’

  Lady Somers’ internal telephone rang and she picked it up. Her faced turned ashen. ‘Yes, send him up. I will see him immediately.’ She put the phone down and looked at Euan with irritation. ‘You’ll have to go now. Something urgent has come up. If you have any further questions, please come to see me.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Euan turned towards the door.

  ‘And Euan…’

  ‘Yes, your ladyship.’

  ‘Be discreet, but without seeming that you have anything to be discreet about.’

  »»»»

  Lady Somers’ visitor was a tall, slim figure in his fifties with a pale sepulchral face. He looked like a cross between an undertaker and a Whitehall mandarin. He was dressed in black and had the demeanour of a BBC presenter announcing a royal death. The visitor stood in the doorway with his hat in hand. He looked at Lady Somers, then out of the window over Horse Guards Parade from where the clip-clop of Household Cavalry hooves punctuated his words.

  ‘Everything has changed. Three of them are dead and one is on the run. We hadn’t a choice; we had to act quickly.’

  As soon as her visitor had left, Lady Somers opened a desk drawer to find the pills. They were in a jade box hidden in a box of tissues. She only took them when she desperately needed them, such as when the back pain she had endured since the operation became unbearable. But this time it was more than back pain. She swallowed the pills with a sip of water, closed her eyes and caressed the jade box as if that too was part of the cure. The hand-carved box had been a wedding present. It was a rare eighteenth-century piece decorated with a phoenix, a dragon and lotus scrollwork. It was priceless. In Chinese culture jade represented beauty, nobility and power. Which were also priceless.

  Lady Somers opened her eyes and looked at the wedding photo on her desk. She had been so different then.

  Batang Kali, Malaya: 1948

  The first rule was never to argue in front of a servant. Guy refreshed his gin and tonic as Penelope told the ayah that she was free to go. He listened in admiration as Penelope addressed the servant in fluent Hokkien, the dialect spoken by Malayan Chinese. Penelope could also speak Mandarin and enough Cantonese to make herself understood in Hong Kong. Guy admired his wife and envied everything about her. It was a longing beyond love.

  They both listened as the ayah’s footsteps padded across the terrace and faded into the night. Guy spoke first, ‘You haven’t changed your mind?’

  ‘I need a drink.’

  Guy listened to the clink of ice and splash of gin. She wanted to calm her nerves for the confrontation. She sipped her drink and then looked directly at Guy without blinking. ‘No, I haven’t changed my mind. I don’t know why you’ve even asked.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Guy. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. You’ve been so good, so understanding. A lot of men would have used emotional blackmail – for the good of the child and all that.’

  Guy smiled. ‘Speaking of which, is Miranda asleep?’

  ‘Out like a light.’

  ‘She is the important thing.’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘I’m not going to argue where that point is. You’ve already decided that.’

  Penelope came close to her husband and put her hand on his. ‘Guy, your life has been a lie. We both know that. Now is your chance to change things.’

  ‘I think, Penelope, you might be right.’

  ‘Good, I’m going to bed.’

  As his wife turned towards the door, Guy slid open a drawer under the drinks table and took out a Webley revolver.

  The shirt-maker’s shop was just off Bond Street. With its secret cellar and discreet owner, it was a perfect place for clandestine meetings – and for hiding a spy on the run. But if you weren’t a spy on the run, it was a good place to order quality bespoke shirts made from the finest Egyptian cotton. In fact, Vasili used Youseff’s shop for buying his shirts as well as for secret rendezvous. The Russian’s sartorial tastes provided cover for his visits as well as his back.

  The situation was deadly serious, but Vasili always found the funny side.

  ‘Did you,’ asked the Russian, ‘really tell him that your name was Nick Seyton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Tyler didn’t get the joke?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah.’ Vasili was bravely trying to grasp colloquial English. ‘But maybe it’s because the English call him “Old Nick”?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t fucking care.’

  ‘You’re not happy, Jeffers.’ The Russian lowered his voice to almost a whisper, ‘And you’re going to be even less happy when I tell you what you must do now.’

  Jeffers Cauldwell stared into the black shadows of the cellar and sipped his coffee. They were seated at a bare table beneath a bare light bulb with b
lackness all around them. It had all gone, what the British call ‘tits up’. Another colloquialism for Vasili. But the coffee was good. Although Youseff was Syrian, he made his coffee in the Turkish manner. He prepared it in a small pot called an ibrik and added sugar as the coffee brewed. The result was black and rich and served in demitasse cups.

  There was the distant rumble of an underground train, which shook the pot on the table and made the light sway above them.

  Cauldwell lifted the pot. ‘Should we ask Youseff to make some more coffee?’

  ‘Not yet. They say that you can tell your fortune by reading the pattern of grinds left in your cup. What do you see in yours, Jeffers?’

  ‘I don’t believe in that nonsense.’

  ‘Can I read them for you?’ The Russian held Cauldwell’s cup in his long fine fingers and stared into it. ‘You’re going to meet a tall, dark stranger…’

  ‘Very funny.’

  ‘I thought it was. And so, I think, would most British. We Russians have a similar sense of humour to theirs. Perhaps it’s the long dark winter nights.’

  ‘Tell me a joke.’

  ‘I’m not going to. Americans never laugh at them.’

  ‘Why are you criticising me for being an American? I’ve betrayed my country for the Soviet cause. What more do you want?’

  ‘I want to know why you became a Communist.’

  ‘It’s in my KGB memoir.’

  Vasili suppressed a smile. There were lots of things he wanted to know about Cauldwell’s politics. ‘Maybe your memoir needs updating. In any case, you’ll now have plenty of time to do that.’

  Vasili was not just Cauldwell’s agent handler; he was also head of the rezidentura, the KGB station at the Soviet Embassy. He had the advantage of being a ‘legal’, someone on the diplomatic list, which meant he had legal immunity. The British couldn’t arrest Vasili; they could only send him back to Russia. Cauldwell, as US Cultural Attaché, was a diplomat too. The British couldn’t arrest him either, but they certainly could detain him and hand him over to the Americans.

  ‘I want to stay active,’ said Cauldwell. ‘I’ll operate in disguise and under new cover. You don’t even need to find a safe house. I’ll find my own. I want to continue to run my agent network. I know how to handle them: what buttons to push, what screws to turn.’