The Envoy Page 3

  Kit paused and listened. There were footsteps approaching and someone talking. A man wearing a flat cap and a filthy mackintosh weaved into the lamplight. ‘Fuckin’ bastards,’ he said, ‘fuckin’ bastards, bastards.’ The man was bent over double, but was walking with a purpose. He nearly collided with Driscoll, but then continued on his way. Kit watched the drunk disappear into the shadows and then turned to Driscoll. ‘I don’t want to waste your time – or my time – do you want a job?’

  ‘Is your name really Shaw?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘I want to know who I’ll be working for.’

  ‘You’ll be working for me.’

  Driscoll turned away. They walked in silence until they reached Regent’s Park. They crossed the road and followed a path into the greensward. The damp night air carried the roars of caged nocturnal predators from the zoo on the opposite side of the greensward.

  Driscoll finally spoke. ‘And who do you work for?’

  Kit knew it was pointless to dissemble. The nature of the operation would only point in one direction. ‘I work for the US government.’

  ‘You’re talking shit.’

  Kit was taken aback. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Tell your bosses to fuck off.’

  ‘Fine.’ Kit reached deep in his pocket and felt the Smith & Wesson. He had shown his face – and Driscoll’s life wasn’t worth having his cover blown. He was going to take Driscoll down to the weeping willows by the boating lake. There wouldn’t be any lovers or watchmen; the night was now a pelting shower of sleet. The police would write it off as an internal IRA feud – like the last time he had to terminate an agent’s contract.

  Suddenly there was nothing but flashing white pain. Kit was lying on his back, struggling for breath. The blow to the solar plexus had come totally without warning. He hadn’t seen Driscoll move at all. Kit couldn’t have reached for the gun even if the Irishman’s foot wasn’t pinning his hand. Driscoll meanwhile removed the Smith & Wesson from Kit’s coat pocket. ‘Very thorough,’ he said, ‘you’ve even got an American gun.’ Driscoll pointed the pistol in Kit’s face, ‘But your fake American accent wouldn’t fool anyone.’

  Driscoll moved his foot and Kit struggled to his feet. His voice was little more than a breathless squeak. ‘You’re crazy. Who the fuck do you think I am?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter: MI5, RUC Special Branch. You want to turn me into a tout, an informer.’

  Kit tried to smile: he should have seen what was coming. He had forgotten to remind himself that the world of espionage is a sick place: a wilderness of mirrors inhabited by haunted minds that see only mirages and lies. The more plausible a truth, the more cunning the deception. Kit spread his arms in a gesture of surrender and nodded to his breast pocket. He had to prove himself, otherwise it looked like Driscoll was going to kill him. ‘Check my ID.’

  ‘Hand it me.’

  Kit slowly removed the slim leather case and flicked it open to show his photo, security clearance and job title. Driscoll took the ID with his left hand and studied it in the dim light. He then thumbed open the lock on the Smith & Wesson, flicked out the chamber block and emptied the bullets on to the ground. Driscoll stared for a second; then handed the unloaded gun back to Kit – followed by the ID. ‘This seems genuine, but I still don’t like your fucking attitude. Turn around.’

  Kit turned. He waited to be coshed, but instead he felt Driscoll brushing the damp leaves off the back of his coat. ‘Tell me more about this job.’

  ‘We want you to do some diving, some snooping – and maybe even a hit or two.’

  ‘What’s in it for me?’

  ‘Well for starters, you can stay on in the flat.’ Kit knew that Driscoll had been homeless. ‘Is it OK?’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I know it’s pretty basic, but we don’t like our safe houses to be too fancy. We don’t want the neighbours to gossip.’

  ‘Didn’t you hear me? I said the flat was fine. You should try sharing a shit hole in Armagh with a sheep for six months.’

  ‘We’ve heard that things haven’t been going too well.’

  ‘We’ve made mistakes.’

  ‘From what I’ve heard,’ probed Kit, ‘it all sounds pretty awful.’

  ‘But it’s worth it. Don’t think I’ll ever betray the cause. The auxiliaries beat to death two of my uncles in Dublin Castle.’

  Kit remembered hearing some of his British counterparts refer to the Irish as ‘Bog Wogs’. The engrained mutual bitterness surprised him – and he was ashamed of exploiting it. Once again, Kit thought of MICE. For Driscoll, it wasn’t just money: he was a man with a grudge, another word for ‘ideology’. ‘I don’t suppose,’ said Kit, ‘you’ve got any diving gear?’

  Driscoll shook his head.

  ‘You’ll need some.’ Kit slipped a roll of banknotes into Driscoll’s coat pocket. ‘That’s five hundred pounds – as much as an English labourer makes in a year. You’ll also need some of that money for buying a van and paying for hotels.’

  ‘I still haven’t said I’m going to do the job. And you haven’t told me what it is?’

  ‘We want you to help us drop the Brits in the shit – as deeply as possible.’

  ‘In Ireland?’

  ‘No, in England, in Portsmouth Harbour. And since you haven’t asked, any work you do for us has to be completely sterile – no fingerprints leading back to Washington.’ There were other rules too: the ones called ‘sanctions’ that formed the unspoken bond between handler and spy. Driscoll knew that if he blabbed or displeased, it wouldn’t be MI5 or Special Branch who left their calling cards, but Protestant gunmen. Sanctions aren’t betrayals, they’re rules.

  Driscoll blew on his hands and rubbed them together. ‘So what’s the deal?’

  ‘Have you heard of Commander Lionel Crabb?’

  ‘Of course, everyone knows Crabby. He’s a real character and a damned good diver too – the best the Brits have got.’ Driscoll paused. ‘You want me to hurt him?’

  ‘Only if he gets in the way.’

  Driscoll stopped and peered into the darkness.

  ‘Something wrong?’ said Kit.

  ‘I don’t like killing other divers – even if they are Brits.’

  ‘Like I said – only if he gets in the way. The job isn’t about killing Crabb, it’s about fucking up Britain’s foreign policy.’

  ‘I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to do.’

  ‘In the middle of April,’ said Kit, ‘a Russian cruiser called the Ordzhonikidze and two destroyers are going to dock in Portsmouth harbour. The Ordzhonikidze is carrying First Secretary Nikita Khrushchev and Soviet Premier Nikolai Bulganin on a goodwill visit to Britain. The people I work for want to destroy that goodwill.’

  ‘How does Crabb fit into this?’

  ‘A British intelligence organisation intends to send Crabb on a spying mission to see what the Ordzhonikidze has under her hull. The dive is a serious breach of diplomatic protocol. If the Russians find out, it could cause an embarrassing international incident.’ Kit paused and waited.

  ‘There’s more to it than this,’ said Driscoll. ‘Otherwise, you wouldn’t need me. You would just tell the Russians directly.’

  Yeah, there’s a lot more to it.’

  ‘What is it you want me to do?’

  Kit looked directly at Driscoll. The Irishman’s eyes were hidden in the gloom, his damp pale face shone like a skull in the weak light. ‘I want you to put limpet mines on the bottom of that cruiser – and I want Crabb and the British government to get blamed for it.’

  Chapter Two

  She was looking out to sea. Kit knew it was her, even from a distance. She seemed a head taller than the fishermen’s wives who milled about between the sheds on Aldeburgh beach. Simple, understated, elegant. She was wearing a headscarf, a white turtleneck sweater and dark glasses: American incognito via the Latin Quarter. She reminded Kit of Jack Kennedy’s wife. The Kennedy marriage was one of
those mistakes that you can’t do anything about, like when Jack got starboard and port confused and steered his PT boat across the bows of a Jap destroyer. Never mind.

  Kit didn’t speak until he was almost behind her; near enough to smell her perfume: jasmine, citrus and sandalwood. He imagined her, still half-dressed, touching the fragrance to her wrists, her neck, the backs of her knees. When he finally spoke, her name nearly stuck in his throat. ‘Jennifer.’

  ‘Kit.’ And then the perfect teeth smile and Left Bank bisou-bisou kisses. It wasn’t pretentious or affected; it was just the way she was. The fishermen’s wives continued gutting the morning catch – not staring, but watching all the same.

  ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘Not at all, you’re five minutes early. Shall we go for a walk? It’s supposed to rain later.’

  ‘Jennie, I live my life awaiting your commands.’ Kit offered his arm and they crunched off over the shingle to the sea. The firm pressure of her hand on his arm made his heart race and his head spin. His legs felt disconnected. It was hard work being happy – especially when you know it’s not going to last.

  ‘It’s always lovely to see you. I just hope the embassy is safe without you. I would hate to think that American national interests might be sacrificed because you’ve come to Suffolk to see me.’

  ‘I’m not that important.’

  ‘That’s not what my dad says.’

  ‘That’s because he’s been talking to my mom – she exaggerates.’

  ‘False modesty, Kit, does not suit you. Everyone knows you’re a rising star.’

  ‘Gosh, I didn’t know that. Can you give me a list of their names? And send a carbon to the Ambassador, please.’

  ‘My name would be at the top of the list.’ ‘Thank you, but praise from a host country national sometimes arouses suspicion.’

  ‘Oh, so you know about that.’

  ‘Know about what?’ said Kit.

  ‘That I’m a “host country national”, as you put it, that I’ve become a British citizen.’

  ‘You’re not citizens, you’re subjects.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. And don’t look at me like I’m a traitor. It’s because I’m married to Brian. And because of his position… well, you know how it is. By the way, you’ll find the walking on shingle easier if you dig your heel in first.’

  ‘Not a good surface for escaped prisoners – the bloodhounds and redcoats would have you in no time. I feel like Magwitch.’

  ‘By the way, you are going to stay for dinner? I’m sure we can find Magwitch a pie.’

  ‘Of course, I’m dying to meet Brian – the man who won la belle reine de pays Chesapeakais.’

  ‘I’m not belle, but Brian is very much looking forward to meeting you. I think you’ll get quite a grilling.’

  Kit flexed his arm to squeeze his cousin’s hand close to his side. ‘Is there anything you don’t want me to say?’

  ‘Of course not, talk all you want. I haven’t any secrets, I hate secrets – you know that. Why are you laughing?’

  ‘How did you survive in the cipher section?’

  ‘That was different,’ said Jennifer, ‘only a job. The secrets I hate are personal ones, like hiding things from someone you love.’

  ‘Like adultery.’

  Jennifer breathed in, as if Kit had uttered a swear word. ‘The worst thing about adultery is the secrecy. The lies are worse than the act. Unfaithfulness is worse than murder. Maybe those people who stone adulterers to death are right.’

  ‘You scare me, Jennifer.’

  ‘Why on earth?’

  ‘Why? You sound like you’ve converted to Islam.’

  Jennifer drew her scarf across her face, then laughed and let it down again. ‘But I can show my face to you. You’re close family – and immune to impure thoughts.’

  ‘Well thank goodness for that. I’m glad you don’t think I’m going to…’ Kit let the sentence hang in the air.

  Jennifer turned away. ‘I love the sound of sea on shingle. Just listen – it’s like dead sailors whispering, but their voices are so pebbly clear you lose the words. I can’t remember the Chesapeake Bay saying anything. The sand and marshes muffle the waves.’

  ‘What about the bell buoys – and the foghorn on Thomas Point light?’

  ‘Oh, I loved Thomas Point – that octagonal white clapboard house on stilts. I used to imagine living there. I must have been ten when I saw it for the first time. It was in June, just after school broke up. As a treat, Peter and Robert sailed me round it in Stormy Petrel. How they fussed over their little sister – and how I wanted to be fussed. The sky was perfect azure. I remember all those gulls nesting in the girders beneath the house and on the roof too. And my brothers were the most handsome beaux any girl of ten could imagine – brown, lean, golden gods. They even smelled good. Now, I’m babbling.’

  ‘Oddly enough, I remember Robert more than Peter. He once tried to teach me to box – it wasn’t a success. I don’t think he liked me much.’

  ‘Robert was an acquired taste. Of course, mother doted on Peter. Fortunately, Robert couldn’t care less – he positively enjoyed being the less favoured.’

  ‘You know, I spent an evening with your parents last time I was on leave.’

  ‘They mentioned it in their last letter. How was it – honestly?’

  ‘Pretty awful.’

  ‘I thought it might have been.’

  ‘Your dad was all right – but he always is. By the time dinner was finished, I was, of course, too drunk to drive back to our place so they put me up for the night – in Robert’s room. Out like a light, until I was woken about three in the morning by the sound of breaking glass. I got up to see what was wrong. Your mom, of course, was drunk and had knocked over a table.’

  ‘Normal.’

  ‘I didn’t go downstairs, but waited in the shadows of the landing in case she needed help. But she was OK – I heard her open another bottle. And then it got weird; she was talking to someone. I knew it wasn’t your dad because I could hear him snoring. It was Peter.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She was complaining about your living in England – and having married an impoverished scientist.’

  ‘She exaggerates. Brian, by British standards, is very well paid.’

  ‘That’s what she meant. In any case, your mom wanted Peter to come over and sort you out.’

  ‘Totally predictable. She’s a broken record on that one.’

  ‘Oddly enough, Peter didn’t say a thing.’

  ‘That’s not funny, Kit.’

  ‘Sorry… maybe, I wasn’t listening hard enough.’

  ‘Stop it.’

  Kit took her by the shoulders. ‘Let me see your face, Jennie. Yes, you can’t hide it – the faintest crack of a smile.’

  ‘OK, I’m not immune to your black humour. But you shouldn’t make fun of other people’s grief.’

  ‘I stand corrected. Let’s get on to safer ground. Tell me about your husband.’

  ‘Brian is absolutely lovely.’

  ‘I thought he was a scientist.’

  ‘Kit, you’re starting to be a bit tedious.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Brian, as you probably know, works in the Atomic Weapons Research Establishment on Orford Ness. That’s why we moved to Suffolk from Aldermaston.’

  ‘I bet he’s something really important.’

  ‘Well, I suppose he is; he’s head of project. Brian is an excellent scientist and is admired by everyone who works for him.’

  Kit lowered his voice and pressed his cousin’s hand. ‘What do you think of his work?’

  ‘I don’t like it – and Brian doesn’t like it either. It must be awful for him. He’s a very gentle man and part of him loathes working on the thing.’

  ‘Does he tell you that?’

  Jennifer paused. ‘Not in so many words.’

  ‘Do you argue much about it?’

  ‘Stop being percep
tive.’ Jennifer picked up a flat stone and skimmed it across a pair of waves. For a second the North Sea had turned into the Aegean. Jennifer’s body scored the grey sky with the clean lines and Attic grace of a perfect Artemis. Kit felt hopeless desire bore into his brain like a hot drill.

  ‘You …’ Kit looked away from his cousin. He couldn’t find words to complete the sentence.

  Then Jennifer was talking. ‘Well, if you really want to know, I think the whole thing is a silly waste of money. You can’t imagine the cost.’

  Kit’s mind was still elsewhere: in a faraway land of cypresses, cicadas and hills scented with wild thyme. He wanted to say, ‘Artemis, leave it all and come with me.’ Instead he simply said, ‘I don’t know the details, but I’m sure the bomb programme is costing a lot.’

  But Kit did know the details, for one of his operatives had done a FININT ‘black bag job’ – Financial Intelligence burglary – at the Ministry of Supply and photographed the budget figures with a Minox spy camera. Kit was surprised at the amounts involved. The cost was staggering: the British government really wanted an H-bomb. The operative, posing as an electrical installation inspector, had done a marvellous job and copied over a hundred pages of expenditure estimates. Kit not only knew Brian’s salary, but also his travel and subsistence expenses. But there was one figure that left Kit totally confused. It came under a subheading titled Red Snow: the estimate was fifty-four million pounds. There were no explanatory details.

  ‘In any case,’ said Jennifer, ‘British tax money needs to be spent on schools and hospitals – and indoor toilets too. What do you think, really think? Does Britain need a bomb?’

  ‘You’ve already got one, fifty actually. It’s called Blue Danube – and it’s been in service for three years.’

  ‘You know what I mean, Kit, the fusion weapon – the H-bomb, the one that Brian’s working on. Do we need it?’

  Kit was surprised by her admission. He wondered if his cousin was a security risk. ‘I don’t know. The problem is that Whitehall doesn’t trust Washington. The British government knows there are a lot of American generals, and politicians too, who wouldn’t mind fighting a nuclear war in Europe to get rid of the Soviets – and the sooner the better.’