The Whitehall Mandarin Read online

  ‘I wish that I could pass on your condolences.’

  ‘Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, Catesby. It’s your most unattractive trait.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, Jeffers, there isn’t enough evidence to convict you of Knowles’s murder.’

  Cauldwell was stony-faced. He wasn’t playing.

  ‘We think,’ Catesby continued, ‘that Knowles got mixed up with Brian and Jennifer Handley – and that he got to know too much. How did he meet them?’

  Cauldwell opened his eyes and sighed. ‘The only reason I’m talking to you is because I’m fucking bored.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘It was the Aldeburgh Festival. Jennifer knew everyone from Ben and Peter to Shostakovich. I encouraged Knowles to circulate and accept her invitations.’ Cauldwell stopped. ‘I don’t know what happened afterwards. I didn’t own him.’

  Catesby was watching Cauldwell closely without seeming to do so. For the first time, he seemed shifty and uncertain. ‘Did Knowles ever have sexual relationships with women?’

  ‘Yes, but only in certain circumstances.’

  ‘In what circumstances?’

  ‘When they offered something different or something more.’

  ‘Let’s start with “something more”. In what way?’

  ‘If the women were important in themselves or offered access to power. Knowles wanted to be Prime Minister – and that’s not a secret. It’s why he decided to give up his concert career.’

  ‘Can you give me a list of those women?’

  Cauldwell smiled and named the most famous. It was a bombshell.

  ‘I’m not surprised.’ Catesby lied. He was surprised, but suspected that Cauldwell was making it up to create mischief in high places.

  ‘Should we erase that?’ said Hank.

  Catesby nodded agreement and waited until the tape was recording again. ‘What about the other category of women who succeeded in tempting Henry Knowles?’

  ‘What other category?’ said Cauldwell.

  ‘The ones who you said “offered something different”. What do you mean by “different”?’

  ‘Usually group sex with another man or men – especially if the men were heterosexual.’

  ‘And that’s what Jennifer Handley arranged?’

  ‘Yes, but there was a lot more. Jennifer was a very cunning minx with her own skills. She was gamine, androgynous and liked to play interesting games with blindfolds and bondage gear.’

  ‘So she was all things to all men.’

  ‘And women.’

  ‘What did you think of her, personally?’

  ‘I never met her.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’ Catesby opened his briefcase and took out the torn photograph that had arrived in the post.

  Cauldwell looked at it, smiled and then laid the photo face down on the table.

  ‘So maybe,’ said Catesby, ‘you’ve just got a poor memory.’

  Cauldwell leaned forward. ‘Or maybe I just didn’t know who she was. There was a lot of drink and a lot of drugs at that party.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  Cauldwell smiled. ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘Or don’t want to remember; I know the feeling. In any case, when we were in Germany I remember that you were valued as an expert on the visual arts. Part of your job was cataloguing German art treasures so they didn’t get looted – or sold by Nazi owners to finance a forged passport and a ticket to Paraguay. Does your mission to Friedrichshof ring a bell?’

  ‘Yes, but frankly, Catesby, I can’t see what Friedrichshof has to do with Jennifer Handley or me allegedly being a Soviet spy.’

  Catesby smiled and looked briefly at the photo before turning it over again. ‘What do you know about Poussin?’

  ‘A seventeenth-century French painter who worked in the classical style.’

  ‘What did the professor tell you about Poussin?’

  ‘You’re crazy, Catesby. What fucking professor? You’re talking nonsense.’

  ‘Professor Blunt. You were on his team at Friedrichshof. Or I should say, Sir Anthony Blunt, as he was recently knighted. In any case, Blunt is the world’s greatest authority on Nicolas Poussin.’

  Cauldwell yawned. ‘Anthony frequently talked about Poussin, but not obsessively. We were too busy preventing my American colleagues from looting the Hesse family vault.’

  ‘Were you and Blunt good friends?’

  ‘We got along fine. Why don’t you ask Anthony?’

  Catesby looked closely at Cauldwell. ‘I already have.’

  ‘And what,’ said Cauldwell, ‘did Anthony have to say?’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten, Jeffers, that I’m interrogating you. In any case, it was a private conversation. Just the two of us and a tape recorder.’

  ‘Did he tell you about Michael?’

  Catesby pretended not to be interested, but made a deep mental note. He knew that Cauldwell was referring to Michael Straight, an extremely rich and well-connected American who had become a Communist while a student at Cambridge in the 1930s. Why was Cauldwell trying to drop other people – and possibly other Soviet spies – in the shit? It didn’t make sense.

  ‘Once again, Jeffers, you’re getting our roles confused. Let’s get back on course. Have you seen Sir Anthony since Germany?’

  ‘Why should I answer questions when you already know the answers?’

  ‘Because that’s the way we play the game.’ Catesby sat back and began to fiddle with the photograph. ‘Okay, Jeffers, I’m going to tell you some things that I shouldn’t tell you.’

  Cauldwell smiled. ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘Thanks. But I want to because I need your help.’ Catesby was copying the interrogation method that Skardon from Five had used so successfully with Klaus Fuchs. You pretend you’re a pal on their side and you want their help.

  ‘Cut out the shit, Catesby. That “I’m your friend” crap only works with cretins and emotional weaklings.’

  ‘You’re right, Jeffers, it was pretty stupid trying that.’ Catesby leaned forward and jammed a finger into Cauldwell’s chest. ‘But you’re going to fucking hear what I’ve got to say even if you don’t want to fucking hear it.’

  ‘Calm down.’ Cauldwell seemed to be enjoying himself.

  ‘Thanks, Jeffers.’ Catesby picked up the photo. ‘This was sent to me anonymously in the post. Now if you were our prisoner, I’d offer a few trades. Maybe three or four months off your sentence for each person in this photo that you can identify – especially the piece that’s been torn off.’ Catesby glanced at Hank. ‘But I don’t think your fellow Americans are as corruptible as us perfidious Brits.’

  Hank shook his head.

  ‘Let’s,’ Catesby said, ‘just list the characters in the photo that we do know. It must have been a warm day because none of you look particularly cold considering your states of undress. This handsome hunk must be you.’

  Cauldwell’s face remained blank.

  ‘I’m quite envious, Jeffers. I’m British born and bred and never get invited to these parties, but you, a mere American, appear to have leapt into the country-house orgy circuit in one bound.’ Catesby stared a few seconds at the countryside behind the revellers. ‘Where was it: Cliveden, Petworth, Waddesdon? I don’t often go to those places.’

  ‘I can’t remember.’ Cauldwell put on a fake English accent. ‘One goes to so many of these things they all get mixed up.’

  ‘Jennifer certainly has nice legs, at least the one you can see.’ The leg in question exposed to just beyond the stocking tops was draped over a billy goat. The rest of her was held up by Knowles, who was surprisingly well muscled. Jennifer was in a swoon and gazing at Knowles with undisguised lust. ‘I bet she converted him.’

  Still no reaction from Cauldwell.

  ‘Knowles is obviously Priapus and you seem to be in charge of catering. That’s you kneeling on the ground at Jennifer’s side with a tray of canapés on your garlanded head. You s
ly dog. Your left hand is inside Jennifer’s skirt.’

  ‘I’m holding her up.’

  ‘Or warming her up for Knowles.’ For the first time Catesby noticed a reaction from Cauldwell. It was a slight wince, barely detectable. Jealousy?

  ‘But where is Sir Anthony?’

  Cauldwell went stony-faced again.

  ‘I bet he’s the one taking the photo. Expensive wide-angle lens too. And, of course, Blunt choreographed it and provided the props. But maybe the pan pipes and that Greek amphora were just lying around the house.’ Catesby pointed to the photo. ‘I’m sure the one with his back to the camera, helping up the drunk, is Jennifer’s husband. He looks like a rugby player going to seed.’

  Cauldwell glanced briefly at the picture.

  ‘Thanks. I’ll take that for a yes. But frankly, I’m more interested in the identities of those in the missing part of the photo.’ Catesby took a book out of his briefcase, French Artists by Collins and Liddiment. ‘We’ve got a good library in Lowestoft and I know the guys who wrote this. I bet you didn’t know I was a sensitive arty type?’

  Cauldwell smiled and nodded.

  Catesby opened the book. ‘As you can see, there are thirteen humans in the original painting: nine males and four women – and a live goat. This photo shows two of the women and all of the men. The only people missing are these two women.’ One of the women wore nothing and the other was bare-breasted and beating a tambourine over her head.

  Hank looked at his watch. ‘Can we hurry up, Mr Catesby?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘What happened later? Who paired off with whom?’

  Cauldwell slowly shook his head.

  ‘You put your clothes back on and went to evensong?’ Catesby shut the book. ‘The problem with you, Jeffers, is that you don’t understand where your interest lies. A few minutes ago you were fine. By not cooperating now you’re going to make your life more miserable – and, as a result, it will be easier to break you. If you were clever, you would give us a few crumbs – like identifying your orgy pals – and then you would buy a few privileges, like some uninterrupted sleep. That would give you strength to keep the really important stuff secret.’ Cauldwell remained silent.

  Catesby turned to Hank and shook his head.

  ‘Listen,’ said Hank stopping the tape recorder, ‘we’re not getting anywhere and I’ve got to be somewhere else.’

  ‘Can I carry on by myself?’

  ‘You know that wasn’t part of the agreement.’

  ‘Who will know? And if they find out, I’ll take the blame.’

  Hank looked at his watch again. ‘I’m between a rock and a hard place. Okay, you carry on, Mr Catesby, and let me know what happens.’

  Catesby listened to Hank’s footsteps clanging and echoing on the metal stairs. He waited until the thick nuclear-bomb-proof door hissed shut and then turned the tape recorder back on. Catesby noticed that Cauldwell’s eyes were closed. He had dozed off. The sleep deprivation routine had already begun.

  ‘Wake up.’

  Cauldwell’s eyes jerked open. Catesby turned off the tape recorder and smiled. He scribbled a note and passed it to Cauldwell. Turning off the tape recorder is a CIA ploy to get people to talk more freely. They think they’re not being recorded, but the room itself is wired up with hidden microphones. I’m going to see if I can find them.

  Catesby got up and walked around the bunker. The walls were solid concrete, except for grates leading to ventilation shafts. He found what he was looking for and tried to unscrew the ventilation grate with a penknife, but only broke the blade. Catesby then went over to the fuse box. It was locked, but he unlocked it with his broken penknife blade, then reached in and pulled out the fuse. The bunker was plunged into near total darkness. The only light came from the battery-powered EXIT light over the staircase. There was enough light to find the EMERGENCY locker, which was unlocked. Catesby found a battery-powered flashlight.

  He shone the light in Cauldwell’s face. ‘No one can hear us down here. So don’t shout for help.’ He shone the light on the miked-up ventilation shaft. ‘And, since there’s no power supply, there’s going to be no recording of what happens next.’ He focused the light back on Cauldwell.

  The American squinted, but seemed otherwise unperturbed.

  ‘I admire your sangfroid, Jeffers. If you have the intelligence that often goes with it, you would realise that it’s in your interest to answer my questions.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  ‘That’s a good start. Being in England seems to have worn off some of your Southern gentleman civility. We have good manners too – and know how to behave at garden parties. Rule number one: don’t piss in the punchbowl. But our civility is only a thin veneer. Beneath it we are a hard and ruthless people. Ever seen a fight in a pub? Not something of which we should be proud. And frankly, I am ashamed when I see these traits in myself.’ Catesby rested the torch on the table and opened his briefcase. ‘They let me keep something of yours as a souvenir. Or maybe I just nicked it when no one was looking. It worked out perfectly. The Americans think we have it – and our chaps think the Yanks have it.’ Catesby took a Makarov 9mm pistol out of his briefcase. ‘And maybe they’ll think there was some colossal cock-up and you managed to keep it.’

  There was the sound of dripping water somewhere in the bunker. For a long time it was the only sound. Finally, Catesby pulled back the slide on the Makarov 9mm and chambered a round. ‘I know you’ve been running a network of agents.’ He pushed the barrel of the pistol against Cauldwell’s left eye. ‘You’re now going to tell me all their names. And you can start with the two women who are missing from Professor Blunt’s snapshot. And if you don’t, I’m going to pull the trigger and the bullet’s going to go straight through your eye socket and exit from the back of your head taking a large part of your medulla oblongata with it. After a split second of burning shock, you won’t feel a thing – which is a pity. I’d prefer to shoot you in the balls and leave you writhing in agony as you bleed to death. But that’s not going to look like a fucking suicide, is it?’

  Catesby shone the torch on Cauldwell’s chest. The American’s face looked grey, but impassive, in the semi-shadow.

  ‘I’m not bluffing. No one will believe it was suicide wherever I shoot you, but I don’t want to make the cover-up even more incredible than it has to be. British cover-ups are not meant to be convincing; they’re meant to be impudent.’ Catesby paused. ‘On the other hand, I don’t have to shoot you. Just give me names.’

  ‘T.S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, Emily Dickinson, Walt Whitman…’

  ‘Well done, Jeffers, you’re a fine example of “grace under pressure”. Hemingway would be proud of you.’ Catesby gave a faint smile, ‘But maybe not in every way. In fact, I’m sure Papa Hemingway is hiding something too.’ Catesby removed the gun from Cauldwell’s left eye. There was a faint red circle on the eyelid from where the barrel had been pressing. Cauldwell opened the eye. It looked weary, despite its reprieve. Suddenly, Catesby grabbed Cauldwell by his shirt collar and jammed the gun hard into his temple. ‘Start giving me the fucking names or you’re fucking dead.’

  The water continued its slow drip from its secret place deep in the duct system.

  ‘It’s condensation,’ said Cauldwell.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you shorted the electrics, you turned off the air filtration system and now the air vapour is condensing into water and dripping. I’m surprised you didn’t know that. Why don’t you just pull the trigger?’

  Catesby thumbed the safety of the Makarov down into the firing position and began to pull the trigger. He continued to squeeze the trigger until a loud click echoed off the bunker’s walls. ‘Don’t worry, it is loaded. The Makarov is a very safe heater. It goes to double action for the first shot after you release the safety. That click, as you know, Jeffers, was the hammer cocking. Nice smooth trigger action for a Russian pistol. I’m now going to kill you.’

  The water continue
d dripping. Catesby began to sweat and felt his hand shaking. His mouth and throat were dry. He had failed. He put his left hand on top of the Makarov and pulled back the slide. A cartridge ejected from the breech and landed on the floor with a dull clunk. He continued working the slide until seven more cartridges had flown out. The gun was now empty. Catesby sat down again. It was as if Cauldwell no longer existed. There was no sound of breathing. For a second, he wondered if Cauldwell had died of fright. He picked up the torch and shone it on the American’s face. His eyes were open and staring. Catesby still wasn’t sure that he was alive. Finally, there was a slight twitch in the corner of the left eye.

  Catesby shone the torch on the concrete floor and began to pick up the ejected cartridges. When he had gathered all eight and put them in his pocket, he sat down again. He removed the magazine from the Makarov and clicked all the cartridges back in. He wasn’t finished playing mind games. ‘I’ve changed my mind again. I’m going to shoot you after all. But I need a drink first.’

  ‘Stop fucking around and just shoot me.’

  ‘Wait a sec.’ Catesby put the gun back in his briefcase and took out a silver hip flask. He took a long swig and kept staring at Cauldwell. The American’s face was ghostly grey in the shadow. ‘It looks like you need a drink too.’ He passed the flask over.

  The handcuffs meant Cauldwell had to grasp it in both hands. As he lifted the flask to his lips he looked like a priest raising a chalice. He drank deeply and remarked, ‘It’s Jim Beam.’

  ‘I thought you might prefer bourbon to whisky.’

  ‘Actually, I prefer vodka.’

  ‘Silly me. That’s why you were waiting on the beach.’

  Cauldwell handed the flask back.

  ‘Did you think I was bluffing? Is that why you wouldn’t spill any beans?’

  Cauldwell shook his head. ‘Facing death is just another existential exercise.’

  ‘I don’t believe that. You knew I was bluffing. It doesn’t matter. The Americans will break you.’ Catesby paused and stared at Cauldwell. ‘Why did you become a Communist? It’s an innocent question; you’re not going to betray anyone.’

  ‘It’s not an innocent question. It’s called psychological profiling.’