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Authors: Edward Wilson
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myself.’
Bone looked hard at Catesby. ‘Had your Romeo been double dipping with the cousins?’
‘Not yet, but he started out as an IM for Mischa’s gang.’
‘So the East Germans knew about the explosion all along – and they killed the Romeo for passing it on.’
Catesby frowned and looked out to sea. ‘I know that our man passed on the stuff to the East Germans because he admitted it. They might have found out that he was double dipping with us. But I’m sure that’s not why they killed him. Or if it was them.’
‘In your cable you suggested that the gunman …’
‘Gunwoman.’
‘… let you escape on purpose. That seems unlikely.’
‘You weren’t there, Henry. Her shots were meant as frighteners not killers.’
‘So Mischa wants us to know about the rocket disaster.’
Catesby shrugged.
‘Of course he does, Mischa’s no fool.’ Bone almost whispered the words. ‘He had to kill your Romeo to make sure he kept his mouth shut.’
‘Could he be sending us a signal?’
Bone stared down at the shingle beach as if looking for a lost coin. ‘I don’t know. It would be very dangerous for him if he did.’
‘So we ignore Mischa’s message?’
‘We don’t ignore it, but we don’t acknowledge it either.’
‘Has it occurred to you, Henry, that the letter might be a plant?’
‘No. It ties in with inconsistent reports of Nedelin’s death that were monitored by GCHQ. It took Moscow more than a day to decide on a final version of how he actually died. And why would they want to make us think they’re weaker than they are?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bone frowned; then looked out across the sea as if training his eyes on distant Russia. ‘It’s difficult enough keeping our own secrets from the Americans. And now someone wants us to help the Russians keep their secrets from Washington too.’
‘What are you talking about, Henry?’
‘Sorry, I was thinking out loud.’
‘No, you weren’t. You were testing me.’
‘Perhaps, I was. But I’m looking for the answer too. It’s not in the DDR’s interest or in Russia’s interest to broadcast Soviet weakness. So why has Mischa let us bag this gem?’
Catesby put his hands in his pockets and continued walking down the beach. The sifting sough of wave on shingle was like another voice. Some old dead Viking tongue you could almost make out, but too guttural for modern ears.
‘Maybe I’m wrong about Mischa.’
‘Or maybe,’ said Catesby, ‘he’s giving us advance warning of Moscow’s next move.’
‘Their only move is the massive cover-up that they’ve already begun. Otherwise,’ Bone paused and lowered his voice, ‘some gung-ho American general may persuade his new president it’s the last chance to thump the Sovs while they’re down and out. It’s very depressing.’
‘Or Moscow could compensate by moving their medium-range missiles further west.’
‘What?’ Bone laughed. ‘Sometimes, Catesby, I despair of your knowledge of weapons systems. Even if the Sovs moved their missiles up against the West German border, they wouldn’t make it a quarter of the way across the Atlantic. Why are you smiling?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of East Germany – or anywhere in Europe.’
‘Where then do you think the Russians are going to put their missiles?’
Catesby told him the name of the island.
Bone laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. See me back in London, I really must be going.’
Catesby watched Bone disappear into the gloom, then turned and walked along the beach alone and desolate. He had of late begun to envy Bone his social life. At first Catesby had imagined his boss as a miserable middle-aged bachelor who spent his weekends dusting his collection of eighteenth-century enamels and playing Tchaikovsky on the baby grand. But it wasn’t like that at all: the weekends were more likely to be spent shooting, sailing or rock climbing. Henry Bone had a glittering, but discreet social life and a circle of even more
Bone looked hard at Catesby. ‘Had your Romeo been double dipping with the cousins?’
‘Not yet, but he started out as an IM for Mischa’s gang.’
‘So the East Germans knew about the explosion all along – and they killed the Romeo for passing it on.’
Catesby frowned and looked out to sea. ‘I know that our man passed on the stuff to the East Germans because he admitted it. They might have found out that he was double dipping with us. But I’m sure that’s not why they killed him. Or if it was them.’
‘In your cable you suggested that the gunman …’
‘Gunwoman.’
‘… let you escape on purpose. That seems unlikely.’
‘You weren’t there, Henry. Her shots were meant as frighteners not killers.’
‘So Mischa wants us to know about the rocket disaster.’
Catesby shrugged.
‘Of course he does, Mischa’s no fool.’ Bone almost whispered the words. ‘He had to kill your Romeo to make sure he kept his mouth shut.’
‘Could he be sending us a signal?’
Bone stared down at the shingle beach as if looking for a lost coin. ‘I don’t know. It would be very dangerous for him if he did.’
‘So we ignore Mischa’s message?’
‘We don’t ignore it, but we don’t acknowledge it either.’
‘Has it occurred to you, Henry, that the letter might be a plant?’
‘No. It ties in with inconsistent reports of Nedelin’s death that were monitored by GCHQ. It took Moscow more than a day to decide on a final version of how he actually died. And why would they want to make us think they’re weaker than they are?’
‘I don’t know.’
Bone frowned; then looked out across the sea as if training his eyes on distant Russia. ‘It’s difficult enough keeping our own secrets from the Americans. And now someone wants us to help the Russians keep their secrets from Washington too.’
‘What are you talking about, Henry?’
‘Sorry, I was thinking out loud.’
‘No, you weren’t. You were testing me.’
‘Perhaps, I was. But I’m looking for the answer too. It’s not in the DDR’s interest or in Russia’s interest to broadcast Soviet weakness. So why has Mischa let us bag this gem?’
Catesby put his hands in his pockets and continued walking down the beach. The sifting sough of wave on shingle was like another voice. Some old dead Viking tongue you could almost make out, but too guttural for modern ears.
‘Maybe I’m wrong about Mischa.’
‘Or maybe,’ said Catesby, ‘he’s giving us advance warning of Moscow’s next move.’
‘Their only move is the massive cover-up that they’ve already begun. Otherwise,’ Bone paused and lowered his voice, ‘some gung-ho American general may persuade his new president it’s the last chance to thump the Sovs while they’re down and out. It’s very depressing.’
‘Or Moscow could compensate by moving their medium-range missiles further west.’
‘What?’ Bone laughed. ‘Sometimes, Catesby, I despair of your knowledge of weapons systems. Even if the Sovs moved their missiles up against the West German border, they wouldn’t make it a quarter of the way across the Atlantic. Why are you smiling?’
‘I wasn’t thinking of East Germany – or anywhere in Europe.’
‘Where then do you think the Russians are going to put their missiles?’
Catesby told him the name of the island.
Bone laughed. ‘Don’t be silly. See me back in London, I really must be going.’
Catesby watched Bone disappear into the gloom, then turned and walked along the beach alone and desolate. He had of late begun to envy Bone his social life. At first Catesby had imagined his boss as a miserable middle-aged bachelor who spent his weekends dusting his collection of eighteenth-century enamels and playing Tchaikovsky on the baby grand. But it wasn’t like that at all: the weekends were more likely to be spent shooting, sailing or rock climbing. Henry Bone had a glittering, but discreet social life and a circle of even more
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