Read Online The Midnight Swimmer by Edward Wilson - Free Book Online
Authors: Edward Wilson
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from an FO courier.’ Bone was referring to the high-security diplomatic pouch that was flown to London each morning.
‘I didn’t want to take any chances – so I brought the docs myself.’
Bone looked closely at Catesby. ‘Let’s go further down the beach.’
Bone turned up his collar and put his hands in his pockets. The sound of their feet on the shingle seemed to echo the gentle sough of wave on shingle. Southwold Light kept blinking at them as if sending a Morse message. ‘Have you heard anything from P3?’ asked Catesby. In normal circumstances P3, Controller Eastern Area, would have been Catesby’s line manager, but when Bone was swapped over to Director Europe/Sovbloc it was decided that Catesby (Head of E. Europe P) would report directly to Bone. It made sense because Catesby also ran Berlin Station – and when something happened in Berlin it needed to be treated urgently and go straight to director grade. But on this occasion, nothing had happened – in Berlin.
‘According to P3,’ said Bone, ‘the general in charge of the Soviet Artillery Corps was killed in a plane crash.’ Bone smiled. ‘P3’s encrypted Eyes Alpha cable arrived ten hours after I got the news from GCHQ – and one hour after I read General Nedelin’s obituary in The Times. I think P3’s retirement beckons.’
‘Nedelin wasn’t killed in a plane crash.’ Catesby reached in his pocket and handed the translated letter to his boss. He suddenly felt a great sense of relief. The knowledge, and the responsibility that went with it, no longer rested on his shoulders alone. Catesby watched Bone squint to read the letter in the failing light. By the time he got to the end, Bone’s face had drained of colour and his hands were shaking.
‘Thank you for this.’ Bone gripped the letter with both hands as if he were about to tear it to shreds.
Catesby looked on in silence.
‘I assume,’ said Bone, ‘this document was photographed?’
Catesby nodded.
‘Have you got the film negatives?’
Catesby handed him an envelope that contained the negatives and a print of the original Russian letter. It was a special ‘burn’ envelope that was permeated with a highly flammable substance. Bone folded the letter into the envelope and held it at arm’s length. Catesby took a lighter from his pocket and ignited it. At the last moment, Bone pulled the envelope away and put it in his pocket. ‘No, it’s best I keep it.’
Catesby looked away from Bone and stared out to sea. The North Sea also kept its bleak mysteries – his own mysteries. Catesby’s father was a dead Suffolk sailor; his mother, a Belgian. He knew his own identity was stranded halfway in that salty wilderness of quick fish and dead mariner. The sea was him: cold, grey and full of lost longing.
‘You’ve gone all enigmatic again, Catesby.’
‘Thanks for noticing.’
‘I’d better get back to my kind and hospitable friends.’ Bone tapped the pocket where he had put the letter and film. ‘By the way, I’m going to classify this as Guard.’
‘I always get told off when I try that one.’
Guard had been the highest security classification a British intelligence document could carry. It meant that the UK’s closest ally, the United States, was denied access. But the use of Guard had been banned by the 1958 Mutual Defence Agreement with the USA.
‘There’s one exception,’ said Bone. He looked directly at Catesby as if he were a prof prodding a dull student.
‘When a secret is essential to the UK’s national survival.’
Bone gave a bleak smile. It was his only smile. ‘Have you revealed the contents of the letter to anyone else?’
Catesby shook his head.
‘Was there a cut-out courier or dead drop?’
‘No, the Romeo was a walk-in joe who contacted one of my officers?’
‘What does your officer know?’
‘He knows that Andreas was shagging Alekseev’s missus. When I realised it might be something important I did the purchasing treff
‘I didn’t want to take any chances – so I brought the docs myself.’
Bone looked closely at Catesby. ‘Let’s go further down the beach.’
Bone turned up his collar and put his hands in his pockets. The sound of their feet on the shingle seemed to echo the gentle sough of wave on shingle. Southwold Light kept blinking at them as if sending a Morse message. ‘Have you heard anything from P3?’ asked Catesby. In normal circumstances P3, Controller Eastern Area, would have been Catesby’s line manager, but when Bone was swapped over to Director Europe/Sovbloc it was decided that Catesby (Head of E. Europe P) would report directly to Bone. It made sense because Catesby also ran Berlin Station – and when something happened in Berlin it needed to be treated urgently and go straight to director grade. But on this occasion, nothing had happened – in Berlin.
‘According to P3,’ said Bone, ‘the general in charge of the Soviet Artillery Corps was killed in a plane crash.’ Bone smiled. ‘P3’s encrypted Eyes Alpha cable arrived ten hours after I got the news from GCHQ – and one hour after I read General Nedelin’s obituary in The Times. I think P3’s retirement beckons.’
‘Nedelin wasn’t killed in a plane crash.’ Catesby reached in his pocket and handed the translated letter to his boss. He suddenly felt a great sense of relief. The knowledge, and the responsibility that went with it, no longer rested on his shoulders alone. Catesby watched Bone squint to read the letter in the failing light. By the time he got to the end, Bone’s face had drained of colour and his hands were shaking.
‘Thank you for this.’ Bone gripped the letter with both hands as if he were about to tear it to shreds.
Catesby looked on in silence.
‘I assume,’ said Bone, ‘this document was photographed?’
Catesby nodded.
‘Have you got the film negatives?’
Catesby handed him an envelope that contained the negatives and a print of the original Russian letter. It was a special ‘burn’ envelope that was permeated with a highly flammable substance. Bone folded the letter into the envelope and held it at arm’s length. Catesby took a lighter from his pocket and ignited it. At the last moment, Bone pulled the envelope away and put it in his pocket. ‘No, it’s best I keep it.’
Catesby looked away from Bone and stared out to sea. The North Sea also kept its bleak mysteries – his own mysteries. Catesby’s father was a dead Suffolk sailor; his mother, a Belgian. He knew his own identity was stranded halfway in that salty wilderness of quick fish and dead mariner. The sea was him: cold, grey and full of lost longing.
‘You’ve gone all enigmatic again, Catesby.’
‘Thanks for noticing.’
‘I’d better get back to my kind and hospitable friends.’ Bone tapped the pocket where he had put the letter and film. ‘By the way, I’m going to classify this as Guard.’
‘I always get told off when I try that one.’
Guard had been the highest security classification a British intelligence document could carry. It meant that the UK’s closest ally, the United States, was denied access. But the use of Guard had been banned by the 1958 Mutual Defence Agreement with the USA.
‘There’s one exception,’ said Bone. He looked directly at Catesby as if he were a prof prodding a dull student.
‘When a secret is essential to the UK’s national survival.’
Bone gave a bleak smile. It was his only smile. ‘Have you revealed the contents of the letter to anyone else?’
Catesby shook his head.
‘Was there a cut-out courier or dead drop?’
‘No, the Romeo was a walk-in joe who contacted one of my officers?’
‘What does your officer know?’
‘He knows that Andreas was shagging Alekseev’s missus. When I realised it might be something important I did the purchasing treff
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