The Secret Families Page 3

  ‘Or to cripple,’ said one of the others, his voice jaded.

  ‘Sir Anthony Blunt. He sang, it appears, and there’s some interesting product — so far, that is. They only began to work his jaw in the spring, but they feel there’s urgency. They’ve brought an interim report. As I say, interesting.’

  ‘Interesting or disinteresting?’ Arnie asked.

  ‘Now, there you have it. Even the Director hasn’t been put into the picture yet. A little bit of both, I suspect. Most of them have turned out to be hollow men, stuffed men, when taken apart.’ He lit another cigarette and inhaled. ‘Right, gentlemen. The Director and I are talking with our Brit cousins tonight. We all meet here at ten in the morning. Room 56, nice and sterile.’

  They muttered their OKs and thanks, then, just as they were about to leave, Angleton spoke again — ‘Oh, I’d appreciate it if you weren’t seen together in town while you’re here. In fact, we’d all appreciate it if none of you went out much. Don’t want to draw attention to this little convention of spooks.’

  They smiled, nodded or looked disappointed, depending on well-laid plans. Arnie asked when the Brits had taken this Sir Anthony Blunt apart, and Jim Angleton said, ‘April 23rd. That’s when they nabbed him anyway. He’s given them a lot of old stuff, but a few new leads. You must admit to the elegance of the Brits. April 23rd — St George’s Day, and William Shakespeare’s birthday.’

  Arnold Farthing went back to Georgetown, had a light meal, showered again, set his alarm and dropped into a sound sleep. The telephone rang at 4.30 in the morning. To begin with he thought he was back in Berlin, but, as he groped for the bedside lamp, Arnie immediately knew where he was. By the time he answered with a quiet, ‘Yes?’ he was wide awake.

  The caller identified himself — all sensitive personnel were equipped with both cryptonyms and street-names. The caller used James Jesus Angleton’s street-name and asked for Arnie by his crypto.

  ‘I know it’s early,’ Angleton said very quietly, ‘but I wonder if you could possibly come over to the office. It’s rather urgent, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Of course.’ Arnie already had his feet on the floor.

  ‘Just come straight up. I’ll be alone and waiting.’ He closed the line.

  3

  Angleton looked tired, and even more haggard than usual. ‘Arnold, I’m sorry,’ he said as a salutation, and for a moment Arnie thought it was some dreadful news — perhaps Gloria or one of the kids.

  ‘This is difficult, and very embarrassing, considering our particular common interest,’ Jim Angleton began. He lit another cigarette from the one he had just finished smoking, then coughed. ‘Personally, I’m furious, but what can I do?’ His body sagged, and, for a brief second, Arnold was reminded of the old photographs of revolutionary soldiers in the Spanish Civil War dancing with the disinterred corpses of nuns. Some had waltzed with ragged-robed skeletons.

  Arnold now knew it was indeed dreadful news, though not to do with his family. Angleton’s discomfort made it very personal. The gaunt man gestured towards a chair, the movement economical, like his spare frame.

  ‘The Blunt debriefing, Arnie,’ he began, then took another long inhalation on his cigarette. ‘I’m sorry, but the director’s cut you out.’

  ‘Why?’ This news was disturbing rather than downright bad. Steel seemed to line Arnold’s voice and manner.

  ‘Because the Brits have asked that you be removed. They don’t want you privy to it. I fought for an hour or so, but they’re adamant.’

  ‘Why?’ Arnie repeated, pushing the word at Angleton like a battering ram.

  ‘They claim it’s because you’re too close to an old British family which they have come to mistrust.’

  Arnold was quite still, not even blinking. ‘Railtons,’ he said, looking hard at Angleton who made no response. ‘Jim, who are these idiots?’

  ‘Two from MI5 and three from the SIS. Five got Blunt and did the debrief, but the product has gone to the SIS.’ He mentioned five names. Arnold recognized four of them. The fifth was vaguely familiar, but Arnold only associated him with electronics. A man with wire coming out of his pockets.

  Angleton lowered his voice. ‘My personal view on that is clear. I have to go along with them, but I’m doing the one possible thing which might put the business in perspective. They’re not going to like it, but, then, I’m not going to tell them. They can be highly embarrassed — but so can we.’ He motioned towards a door which, Arnold knew, led to a small private office — sterile and sanitized — which Angleton kept for highly sensitive matters. ‘I’ve pulled two files from the archives. Signed for them myself.’ He did not look Arnie in the face, and his voice dropped almost to a whisper. ‘When you read them you’ll know how I feel. They’re Eyes Only for the director and two other men — one is myself. I shall deny ever showing them to you. You’ve got a couple of hours. You’re a quick study, as they say in the theatre, and it would be a good thing if you read, brain-marked, looked and learned from the files. After that, you must do as you think fit with the information.’ It was a quarter to six in the morning. ‘Two hours,’ Angleton repeated.

  Arnold gave a wry smile and quoted from Robert Frost — ‘But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep.’

  Angleton gave him a bland look, and repeated the last line, just as Frost had repeated it — ‘And miles to go before I sleep.’ Both men knew that ‘Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening’ had been one of the Kennedy brothers’ favourite poems.

  Later, Arnie was to know that this was an extraordinary expression of trust on Angleton’s part. One he would live to appreciate.

  The two thick folders were flagged Cosmic, and had linking cryptonyms — Elephant: Recent and Elephant: Six. He opened the second one first and saw that, inside, under the crypto, were the words Analysis of Last Iron Bark Material. He began to read. Five pages in, Arnold Farthing sat up as though stung. Spread over four pages the name Caspar Railton appeared no less than twenty-five times. He spent an hour running through the whole document, then returned to the four pages which seemed to be central to his being cut out of the Blunt product. He memorized the pages, then turned to Elephant: Recent. This time he did not even sit up, for a genuine gasp of surprise escaped from his lips. He was looking at transcripts and photographs, recently taken, of a man he had thought was dead.

  So it was, at that moment, Arnold realized the purpose of the complicated dangerous dance Jim Angleton had led him through during the past ten years or so.

  TWO

  1

  There had been some light snow around Berlin at the end of November that year, but now the streets were clear and the days bright and crisp, with the kind of cold that bit into your lungs. As ever, the Kurfürstendamm was bustling in the pre-holiday rush. People were wearing a lot of fur, and the stores bulged with Christmas goodies. Everywhere there was opulence in the shop windows.

  Naldo waited at a crossing, glancing to his right, hardly noticing the dark ruins of the Kaiser-Wilhelm Gedächtniskirche, its scarred and lopped-off stump of a spire a permanent reminder of the Second World War’s devastation. Somewhere to the right, a huge metal circle, surrounding an inverted Y, rotated slowly, advertising Mercedes-Benz from the top of one of the relatively new tall buildings. Together with the obscene dividing Wall, these were images of Berlin already known all over the Western world. They were familiar from television news broadcasts, and the spy films which were such a booming offshoot of the Cold War.

  To Naldo, the views were not even part of the scenery any more. He watched other things — parked cars, and number-plates, hands, faces, shoes, shopping bags, and the way people walked. Naldo abroad seldom travelled in a straight line, for being tall and distinctive he was an easy target for surveillance teams. He was also very good at avoiding them.

  He had spent so much time here in Berlin since 1945, that there were moments when he almost forced himself to remember the city as it had been — broken, shattered, ruined, but w
ith a sense of spirit and determination deep within the collective roots of its people. Compared with ’45 it was now unrecognisable, and, in a way, even more distasteful, for the authorities were hell bent on holding up West Berlin as a gleaming, glittering Christmas tree carrot, tempting those locked behind the Wall in the East.

  He crossed the broad street, almost marching with the regimented civilians, then began to walk west towards the Bristol-Kempinski Hotel. From behind the windows of a respectable-looking cafe he heard the thump of The Beatles singing ‘It’s Been a Hard Day’s Night.’ He paused to read the menu in the window, though he could not have told you what they served inside. Four Liverpool lads seemed to have taken over the world. He wondered if you could hear them singing ‘Hey! Hey! Wait a minute Mr Postman!’ in the eastern zone.

  The foyer of the Kempinski was warm. Tropical fish swam in aquariums set into the walls. There was a feeling of almost intense orderliness. It was ever thus. Even in the dark, cold and cruel days immediately after the war, there had been a sense of order in the chaos of the sacked and ruined city. The old image haunted him — the black-clad women sifting through the rubble; human chains passing brick and stone among a cloud of dust.

  Arnie Farthing sat in a corner, stretching his long frame in an easy chair, coffee on a silver tray in front of him. He had chosen the one table from which every entrance and exit could be seen.

  Naldo put his right hand in his coat pocket — it was a very old signal they had once used to mean that everything was clear.

  Arnie rose, his battered pugilist’s face splitting into a smile, though his eyes, as usual, said nothing. Nobody could read Arnie through his eyes.

  Thrusting out his right arm, he took Naldo’s hand in his. They were both large men, big-boned and broad-shouldered. At last, Naldo sat next to Arnold, ordering more coffee from the waiter who appeared as though from the woodwork.

  ‘Great to see you, Arnie. How’s Gloria?’

  Arnie Farthing had met his bride while on the same operation during which Naldo had met Barbara. They — Arnold Farthing and Gloria Van Gent — had married a year later. Now there were two more fine Farthing sons whom, depending on his mood, Arnie referred to as Romulus and Remus, or Amos ’n’ Andy. Their real names were Michael and Paul.

  ‘You worry about the kids? Teenage adults now.’ The Englishman punched his friend lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Yea. Yea, I worry.’ The smile fell for a moment. ‘I see looks in their eyes. I don’t think they like the way I earn my daily bread.’

  Naldo nodded. ‘The times they are a changing — as the man sings. Recruit them, Arn. My family learned that trick a couple of hundred years ago.’

  There was a pause: around fifteen seconds. Then, ‘Sorry about Cas.’ Arnie looked at the floor.

  ‘Yep. Rotten, but he had a good innings. Thanks for the wreath.’

  Arnold had sent a wreath with a card that said. ‘The Symphony is ended. RIP A Minor’. Only a very few people would know the message came from Arnie. Only a minimal number had known about the operation called Symphony for it was run by the then chief of SIS, under the most covert circumstances, and connected with Caspar’s reputation and loyalty.

  ‘You okay? No lice?’ Arnold raised his eyebrows, his mood changing, with eyes flicking towards the street door. On the telephone he had made a cryptic remark which bade Naldo watch his own back when coming to this meeting.

  ‘I’ve been dry-cleaning for the last hour. If anyone’s on me it has to be the invisible man.’

  Arnie gave a wide smile. ‘There’ve been sightings of him in this city.’

  ‘I even stopped to buy a present for Gloria. Took me half an hour — just to show you I haven’t lost the touch.’ Naldo placed a beautifully wrapped package on the table. It contained a small golden bear — Berlin’s symbol. The wrapping showed it had been bought at Sedlatzek, distinctly upmarket. It was the kind of thing you put on an expensive charm bracelet.

  There was one primary rule, which rarely failed, when you were dry-cleaning, which in the real world means shaking or detecting surveillance. Go into a very expensive shop and stay there for a long time: anyone on your back could usually be flushed or spotted.

  Arnold tore at the paper and laughed when he saw the bear because it reminded them both of Eberhardt Lukas Kruger — Big Herbie, whom Arnold had passed on to Naldo in this very city some eighteen years ago.

  In the DP Camps, the young Kruger had ferreted for Arnie, rooting out Nazis. When Farthing was recalled to Washington he left the lad in Naldo’s care. ‘How is he?’ the American asked.

  ‘You know how he is, Arn. You paid him a visit.’

  Arnold grunted and the coffee arrived. ‘He’s done great things. Come a long way,’ he said when the waiter departed. ‘And you, cousin, what did you tell your office?’

  ‘That I had to see a source. I gave them a name, and I’ll have to meet him today. We’ve got an arrangement for this afternoon — fallbacks every two hours until midnight.’ In reality, the ‘him’ was a ‘her’.

  Arnold nodded, and Naldo stopped speaking, waiting to see why the American had asked for this deliberately clandestine meeting. At last Farthing said, ‘This is a family matter.’

  ‘Which family, Arn?’

  ‘Come on, we belong to the same family.’

  ‘By marriage, or trade?’ Naldo gave a little questioning smile, with the hint of a raised eyebrow.

  ‘There’s ceased to be any difference. I have something you should know. Something we should all know.’

  ‘For free, Arnie? You’re giving me something for free?’

  Arnold smiled, a pleasant and open look, and Naldo wondered if he was about to lie. With Arnie you just could not tell, but they all lied to each other. It was their common parlance.

  ‘Nothing’s completely for free. You know that.’

  ‘And what you’ve got is family business?’

  ‘Very much so. Warnings. The hoisting of distress signals. There are maroons being fired all over the place. We’re in trouble. Both families.’

  ‘And the price?’ Naldo sounded almost disinterested.

  ‘Possibly your covert assistance. Maybe I’ll ask you to lift the odd file, or something. Just remember it’s family. I think you’ll find plenty you want to give.’

  ‘I have very little to give.’ Naldo made a gesture, opening his arms like someone who had experience of haggling in bazaars, smiling as he did so to show he was joking. Then, as though suddenly thinking of another subject — ‘There is, however, a matter I’d like to resolve. There have been whispers. Rumours. Unconfirmed on the grapevine.’

  ‘Then ask away. If I know, I’ll tell you, simply to convince you of trust and faith on my side.’ Both voice and face changed, as if the world had tipped. In the few seconds that had passed, Arnold appeared to become a man who had just had some terrible blow: his wife dead, or his own health damaged beyond repair. ‘Ask. You’ll find we have to re-establish a lot of trust, because it’s going to be difficult for you to believe what I have to say.’

  Naldo thought for a moment. Then — ‘OK. Tell me about Dallas. A little over a year ago.’

  ‘Bad business.’ Arnie sounded like a poker player.

  ‘Yes, everyone in Britain was shocked.’ Naldo shook his head, a half-sad movement. ‘Though, if I hear it right, not all of your people were as heart-broken as the rest of the world.’

  ‘Could be. President Kennedy was out for blood. Wanted to scatter the agency to the four winds.’ Arnold Farthing the open and honest broker.

  ‘Because the agency made him look foolish over the Mongoose fiasco?’ Mongoose was the Bay of Pigs incident — a CIA — backed attempt to stir up revolt in Cuba and remove power from Fidel Castro. The agency had told Kennedy it could not fail. The military had told him it could not fail. Nobody told him of the reservations felt in certain quarters within the agency and the Pentagon.

  The President ordered Mongoose to go ahead, and the operatio
n was a disaster. Because of this, Kennedy was to suffer at the hands and tongue of the Russian leader, Nikita Khrushchev, who verbally beat him to a pulp at the Vienna summit some months later. ‘Castro wasn’t a Communist, but you’ve made him one,’ the Russian leader was reported to have said. Kennedy was furious with the agency, and initiated a purge.

  ‘So were your people involved?’ Naldo asked. ‘Are we seeing a whitewash?’

  Arnold sighed. ‘The answer’s no — and yes. No, our people weren’t involved. Yes, we’re seeing a whitewash. That should be obvious.’

  ‘Well then, did the butler do it?’ The line did not sound frivolous the way Naldo said it.

  ‘No.’ Arnie let his hands rise a couple of inches, then fall back onto the arms of the chair. With the gesture came a small sigh. ‘No, Oswald might, or might not, have pulled the trigger. Who knows? But he who aims the rifle can be a different person to the one who pulls the trigger. In this case, it was, I believe, a Vietnamese family who aimed the rifle.’ He sighed again. ‘Though the others don’t want to admit it, even to themselves.’

  ‘Go on.’ Naldo leaned forward.

  But Arnie shook his head. ‘No. No, you really don’t want to know the details of that one. I mean it, Nald. I have something far more serious for you.’

  ‘More serious than Kennedy’s murder?’

  ‘Much more serious for our respective families, yes.’