The Secret Families Page 19

  He gave her a short cuddle and whispered that they should give it time. ‘These first days are the most important,’ he told her.

  Lying in bed, Naldo brought out the pile of documents taken from Caspar’s box. The Hypermarket extracts had been carefully packed in two separate envelopes and put into the canvas bag, always ready in case they needed to get out fast. He had warned Gloria to be ready to leave at a few minutes’ notice.

  Caspar’s papers were neatly separated into three small folders, on top of which lay a dozen pieces of A4, clipped together. Begin at the beginning, he thought, going through the sheets on top of the folders. Among them was an envelope addressed to James Railton Esq. Private, Confidential & Most Secret. Naldo slit the envelope with the flick-knife he always kept nearby, together with the pistol and spare ammunition. Inside there were three pages of neatly folded paper. It was dated 5 January 1964, and carried the Eccleston Square address, below which Caspar had written the words ‘Destroy after reading’ in green ink. The remainder of the letter was neatly typed in single spacing.

  The salutation was typical of Caspar — ‘Dear old James’, it read, followed by ‘or Naldo, who’ll doubtless be reading this if his father’s not available.’

  Naldo read on, feeling his eyes widen as he scanned the lines:

  This is a brief résumé of the contents of my private box which, if you read this, you will have removed to a place of safety. Until now, I have shared with no person my true reason for leaving the service and going private from August 1935 to the September of 1938. I do so now.

  In the early summer of 1935 it became obvious to me that the resources of our service were being used in a disproportionate imbalance. Until that time our main target country had, since the early 1920s, been Russia under its new and struggling Bolshevik leadership. This leadership made it perfectly clear that their intention was a militant communisation of the world, and their political ideology seemed to be at direct odds with that of countries such as Great Britain and the United States of America.

  However, by 1935 we were being mesmerized by the new bogeyman of Europe, the far right-wing Nazi Party, with Adolph Hitler at its head, in Germany. Slowly our targeting priorities altered on a ratio of four to one in favour of Germany as the main bulls-eye.

  True, our brothers in Christ at MI5 were dividing their time on targets as diverse as the Communist Party of Great Britain, and known members of the Comintern, on one side of the spectrum; with the Right Party, the Link, and Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists on the other. We appeared to be sandwiched between two ideologies that were both repugnant to any country professing to be democratic, however fragile and flawed that democracy might be.

  It seemed to me that both the Communist Party and the Nazi Party were an equal danger, and, while the physical and geographic danger of an all-out war seemed to be weighted heavily in favour of being activated by Hitler and the Nazis, I felt the longterm disaster would come from Russia and the Bolsheviks. As we now all know, this feeling has proved to be correct. Somehow I knew (not by any superior intellect on my part) that it was totally wrong for the Secret Intelligence Service to put the bulk of its eggs in one basket: the Nazi basket.

  I left the service, then, with a prime object of conscience. To reinforce, with hard fact, my concerns about Russia’s long-term plans. In particular, Stalin’s blueprint for a world Communist Utopia.

  It is easy to say that I am being wise after the event. But we now know that I was right. The world events which took place between 1939 and 1945 played straight into Comrade Stalin’s hands.

  On my return to the service in 1938 I attempted to argue with the powers that be in a last-ditch stand. I failed to convince them that the Secret Intelligence Service should increase its vigilance against the Soviets, and, when Hitler turned on Russia in 1941, it was obvious that any mission I had undertaken was doomed, in spite of the intelligence brought to us by early Soviet defectors like Orlov and Krivitsky.

  Now we know that, as far back as the mid-1930s, Russia had effectively placed penetration agents into the very heart of the British and American establishments, and it should be clear to all that we still nurture agents, possibly second-generation penetrations, within the most sensitive areas of government, military and security/intelligence organizations.

  The clear indicators, and information I gathered between the summer of ’35 and the autumn of ’38 have to be put to some positive use. Therefore, I have planned a small snare in which we might well catch more active penetration agents who are still, to my knowledge, operating near the hearts of our two great countries.

  The snare will become obvious once it is set in motion, though its aims and ingenuity might not be seen with clarity at the outset. What you must do is sit back and watch when the trap is sprung. With all this in mind I enclose three sets of documents. The first two are diaries covering the events of my life between 1935 and 1938. The third are further notes, which will provide a clearer picture of how the trap should work.

  I shall be brief in explanation. Diary One is fiction. I have concocted it so that it tallies genuinely with my movements and contacts during those two and a half years. My aims, thoughts, intentions and beliefs portrayed in Diary One are the reverse of truth. What you have is a typewritten copy, en clair of Diary One — the fiction. Apart from this there are three other copies, written in a very simple cipher. Diary One, in its hand-written cipher form, takes up two and a half bound notebooks, which I purchased last year from Harrods. I have seeded the three copies so that someone will most certainly find them, be intrigued, and begin to make enquiries which, I trust, will lead to the snare and uncovering of several penetration agents. Diary One has been left (a) in the Eccleston Square house, hiding in plain view; (b) in my bank, together with some innocuous papers; (c) among a pile of other books and curiosities left, last week, to the Library of the British Museum. I shall die with the certainty that this work of fiction will come to the attention of some gullible members of the service.

  Diary Two is fact. It is also the only copy available so guard it well. Make certain, once you have read it against Diary One, that it can be brought out, together with the notes contained in the folder marked Bogeyman, at the appropriate moment. What more can I say? You will know the right time to confront whoever is to be confronted with Diary Two and Bogeyman. Diary Two, as you will see, has a legal document appended. Sworn by me and witnessed by Mr Leo Morris, a legal giant and beyond suspicion.

  Use these papers with care and common sense. You will snare at least one big fat rodent.

  ‘And in such indexes, although small pricks

  To their subsequent volumes, there is seen

  The baby figure of the giant mass

  Of things to come at large.’

  Caspar.

  Naldo smiled. His uncle Caspar could not resist a final Shakespearean quote, and the labyrinthine ingenuity of such a long-reaching trap appealed to Naldo. He read it again, quickly taking in certain facts. The reference to Krivitsky was interesting. Krivitsky, one-time head of Russian Military Intelligence, Europe, had fingered a cipher clerk in the Foreign Office, and, for those who had eyes and ears, he had also given excellent descriptions which just might have been of the traitors Maclean and Philby as early as 1939. In spite of Krivitsky’s accuracy concerning the cipher clerk, nobody had bothered to follow up his more important descriptions.

  Still smiling, Naldo turned to the fake diary: Diary One, as Caspar called it. He saw the date at the top of the page, Monday 5 August 1935, and was about to start reading when the alert light began to flash on the bedside table, emitting a tiny bleating noise, like a lamb heard far away. Someone had broached the cordon of electronic eyes around the villa.

  Naldo reached for the pistol, then his slacks which he pulled on, using one hand as he silently moved, barefoot, towards the door.

  On the landing he stood for a moment, his eyes gradually clearing to night vision so that he could make out dark grey o
bjects against the background of blackness. Slowly, he made his way along the landing, his gun hand barely touching the railing that finally became the banisters.

  He had done this before, with the other three who kept the secret of the Villa Carlo. They had gone through standard routine exercises; movement at night around the interior of the house; seeking each other out; they had also done the same kind of thing you practised on the Warminster courses: sitting in one of the rooms and trying to locate a series of sounds: a door opening, an automatic pistol being cocked on the landing outside; a cough; words spoken in different languages, whispered close to the door. Now it was real.

  Every two stairs down, he stopped, listening and hearing nothing unusual. He paused again by the foot of the stairs, then moved left, his back against the wall, watching the small windows flanking the door for any shadow or sign.

  The winking light in the understairs cupboard showed that the beam had been broken at the front, through the main iron gate, and, as he stood there, Naldo saw it increase its rapid blinking, indicating that it had been breached a second time. Then it went out. A person, or persons, had moved through the gate and then gone out again.

  He stood, ears straining, for another few minutes, then moved into the hall, going towards the front door, intending to open it with caution and challenge anyone nearby. Almost at the door his bare foot touched something that cracked slightly and slid over the polished wooden parquet. He could see it now, an oblong of grey against the lighter colour of the neatly laid wooden blocks. An envelope.

  Naldo picked it up, then did a quiet round of the ground floor, checking windows, peering out into the darkness. Nothing. Relaxing, he made his way back up the stairs. The alarm by the bed had stopped bleating and winking. Closing the door behind him, he looked at the envelope in his hand. It was addressed to Donald Railton Esq, Villa Carlo, Ascona, in a neat copperplate hand: the type of penmanship you saw only from professional designers and sign-painters these days. He picked up his knife, realizing the envelope had a hard cardboard back. It was the kind of thing in which you sent photographs. Indeed, there was a photograph inside. A ten by eight glossy which made his heart leap. Staring at the camera, laughing, almost as though she was posing for the picture, was his wife, Barbara. He did not recognize the slightly out of focus background, but he knew the set of skimpy underclothes, which was all she wore. They were silk and very expensive, by some Italian designer; she had bought three sets and Barbara would always wear them when trying to be provocative. Wearing the garments was a kind of tradecraft signal that she wanted sex.

  Naldo frowned, shaking his head in disbelief. Then he turned the photograph over and saw there was the same copperplate hand on the back. It read, ‘I suggest you go to the Rathausplatz in Thun at eight minutes past noon, the day after tomorrow. The photograph should tell you why, just as it tells you who is in danger’. In different writing, which Naldo had known over the years, was scrawled, ‘Has to be done this way. Arnold.’

  Still frowning, his heart thumping, Naldo turned the photograph over again and tried to study the background. As he did so the telephone started to ring.

  He had half expected to hear the two rings and silence which Arnie had given as a contact code to Gloria. Instead the bell went on and on. Slowly, Naldo picked up the instrument and held it to his ear.

  The four men who knew of this place had made a rule about telephone contact. The distant caller would speak first. The person, or persons, in the villa would just hold the telephone and listen.

  He recognized Herbie’s gruff voice immediately.

  ‘Nald.’ Kruger sounded distraught. ‘Is OK, Nald. This is secure line. Nald, I’m sorry. I’m very sorry. Had to tell them about the villa. Had no option. They got terrible stuff on Cas. They also got the guy who took you France. No option but to tell them. Get out. Out quick, Nald. If you’re there, they’ll come for you. One hour. Two maybe at most. Go now, OK?’

  ‘OK, Herb,’ Naldo Railton answered, his voice trembling, then, very fast — ‘Herb, give me a safe number.’

  Kruger rattled off a string of digits. ‘Got it, Naldo?’

  ‘Got it.’ He reached for a pen.

  TEN

  1

  While Naldo Railton was making his way across France and Switzerland, there were a number of dramatic developments taking place in London. First, Maitland-Wood had received a call in the early hours of the morning at the shop, where he was sleeping until further notice. The police officers who monitored Interpol reports had received word that a man fitting Naldo Railton’s description had spent the previous night at the Hôtel Palma au Lac in Locarno. The name Michel Provin, trawled from the car-hire company, had hit the jackpot. The passport was French. The description fitted, that was all. The police knew nothing more and asked what action they should take.

  ‘Well, the name fits, but if it’s friend Railton, who’s already been sighted elsewhere, why would he be in the Locarno area?’ Maitland-Wood mused. ‘Where is Locarno anyway? Lake Como?’

  ‘Maggiore. Near the Swiss—Italian frontier,’ Tubby supplied.

  A thought suddenly struck BMW. He had been through the late Caspar Railton’s dossier in detail. Now he recalled something about that area, or at least a connection with it. ‘Get Kruger over here fast,’ he ordered Tubby. ‘None of his dumb ox stuff, or I’ll have his arse. I don’t care what he’s on. I want him here! Now!’

  To give Herbie his due, he was not expecting the questions; also he had drunk almost a whole bottle of cognac that night while listening to a recording of Mahler’s Symphony of a Thousand. Twice. He was in bed, spark out and stupified, when they came to pick him up. Also there was a great deal on Herbie’s mind, and BMW played a very close game.

  ‘Just want to verify some facts, young Kruger,’ BMW started in.

  ‘Facts shouldn’t need verification.’ Herbie was a little surprised that he had got the word right.

  ‘Be that as it may, Kruger. You worked with Sir Caspar, and Naldo just after the war —’

  ‘All on record.’ Herbie smiled his daft smile, while desperately trying to get his mind together. Listening to the Mahler and drinking had been an attempt to drug himself into a condition which would eventually bring answers to some serious problems his agents faced in East Germany.

  Maitland-Wood then used guile. ‘It’s on record that you’ve made several trips with the late Caspar Railton and his nephew Naldo. You went to Lake Maggiore in Switzerland, and these visits began in the late 1940s.’ He pretended to examine the file on his desk. ‘Locarno, to be exact. Why?’

  ‘You tell me. You got it there, in front of you.’

  ‘I want to hear it from you. There was a fellow called Tiraque. Lived nearby, didn’t he?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘You must have it there.’

  ‘I have, Herbie. But I want to hear it from you. If you went down to that part of Europe, let’s say tomorrow, where would you go? And I want a good honest answer that says exactly what I’ve got written in front of me.’

  ‘Thought it was private.’ Herbie was hoodwinked, caught with his mind in the till. He looked back at Maitland-Wood and knew he had no option. ‘Villa Carlo, Ascona,’ he said, and saw the stars light up in Maitland-Wood’s eyes.

  The following day, the Credit committee waited for news of the reappearance of either Naldo Railton or Barzillai Beckeleg, suspected of ferrying him to France. Maitland-Wood had sent people scurrying across Europe at the crack of dawn, and was saying nothing about a rumour that Naldo was in Switzerland. So they all got on with reading a typescript of the diary taken from the late Sir Caspar Railton’s house in Eccleston Square.

  The cipher in which the two and a half books of the diary had been written was a very insecure version of the old Vigenère tableau, and Beryl Williamson, the pretty Scottish wrangler, had the first words in place within thirty-five minutes. After that it was handed over to a team who had the whole thing done, and t
ranscribed, in a twenty-four hour shift. The team who did this called it a bucket job. They had a joke about round-the-clock work. To them it meant that you got food brought to you in buckets.

  After reading the first three pages, Maitland-Wood declared the product to be irrefutable proof of Caspar’s treachery, and sat his committee down in different rooms across London so they could digest the entire thing before the next meeting.

  ‘Who’d have thought it?’ Fincher muttered, enraged by the contents. ‘Who’d have thought Caspar would have made such a fool of himself?’

  ‘We’ll grill every member of that bloody family!’ Maitland-Wood strode across his office slapping his thigh with an imaginary riding crop. ‘They’ve had just one too many rotten apples in that barrel. Grill ’em on a slow spit. Roast the buggers. Squeeze ’em until the juice runs out of every orifice in their bodies.’

  Tubby Fincher did not share in the elation, but C had told BMW to take the matter very seriously. ‘Get Paul Schillig over,’ C ordered Maitland-Wood. ‘This is not coincidence. Young Arnold Farthing’s supposed to have leaped over the curtain, now Naldo’s missing and we have this dreadful written proof.’ He pushed the typescript back to BMW, using his fingertips, as though the pages carried a plague.

  ‘I want Gus Keene briefed regarding who he’s to put on the rack,’ Maitland-Wood almost shouted. ‘That young pair he’s brought with him should take a long hard look at this,’ waving the thick wedge of paper. ‘We must all be clear about which members of that accursed family still have direct access to sensitive material.’

  Fincher scribbled on a note pad as he spoke. ‘Old Richard sees other members of the family, and I should imagine they all talk about current matters,’ he muttered. ‘And that means James is implicated. Alexander’s in a very sensitive position at Cheltenham, and Andrew’s still on the P4 list.’ The P4 list contains names of lawyers, doctors and other professional people on call for use by the intelligence and security services. ‘The Railtons presumably all talk to one another,’ Fincher added.