Dirty Tricks, page 7
‘But will that be enough?’ Falconer persisted. ‘It might be days before the PM has reason to make contact with his KGB connection.’
‘No, John. It will not be enough,’ Quinn replied.
‘Then what else do you propose? A disinformation gambit?’
‘Of course. What else? I’ll feed the PM some false Intelligence that sounds really hot. If he is as active as you say he’ll be driven to pass it straight to his contact, and it should be in the Kremlin in hours. Our contact will then inform me.’
‘ “Uncle Vanya”?’ Taylor asked, receiving a slight frown from Falconer for interrupting.
‘Yes, “Uncle Vanya”. He is superb. He makes Kim Philby look like a village sneak. He’s also got a sense of humour, which is rare enough for a Russian. As evidence of the authenticity of his messages he always adds the latest anti-Kremlin joke.’
Quinn took a piece of paper from a small strong-box, which was usually locked in the office safe, and read: ‘Question. What is fifty metres long and eats cabbage? Answer. A queue outside a Russian butcher’s shop. If dear old “Uncle Vanya” plays back the false information to me we need no further proof.’
Falconer seemed encouraged. ‘Any idea what you will use – as disinformation, I mean?’
‘None whatever at the moment, but ideas grow out of facts and you’ve given me a most interesting fact. I shall have to make use of the think-tank,’ Quinn added, rather mysteriously.
‘The think-tank!’ Falconer said with some alarm. ‘Surely you’re not going to bring anybody else into this?’
‘Of course not. And nothing whatever is going down on any report. Nothing that anybody can ever demand to see under this blasted Freedom of Information Act, or that some Prime Minister might find it expedient to blow, as Mrs Thatcher did with the Blunt case.’
Falconer was relieved to hear it. Under the American Freedom of Information Act, members of the public, which usually meant prying journalists and politicians, could demand to see departmental documents. This meant that informants and spies could never be certain, as they had been in the past, that their identities would remain secret. So many who could have volunteered help or been recruited for money had shied away, leaving the CIA officers themselves, including Falconer, to perform such clandestine tasks as they could.
‘But what about this think-tank?’ he asked with continuing concern.
‘That couldn’t be more secure or more private,’ Quinn replied. ‘Almost as private as the grave! My think-tank, John, is my bath. I get my best ideas, especially for disinformation exercises, lying quietly in a hot bath. I never take a bath without having my portable tape-recorder handy. I would no more move without it than without a toothbrush. So, with any luck, I’ll have something in the pipeline before the evening’s out. And if I know “Uncle Vanya” we’ll have a feedback by tomorrow. That is if the PM’s guilty.’
‘He’s guilty, all right,’ Falconer insisted, standing up to depart. ‘Right, Mark. The ball’s with you. Let us know soonest when you get a result. I daren’t hold our information back from the President much longer. You can get me through Ed, or ring me direct at the Grosvenor House Hotel. I’m booked in there under the name John Middleton.’
They said their farewells to Angela and left the office while Quinn returned to his ‘web’.
‘That’s all we needed, Angela,’ he said wearily. ‘As though I haven’t got enough on my plate. And to be told about the Prime Minister by the CIA, though we’ve had our suspicions as you know.’
‘What will you do if they prove to be true?’
Quinn stroked his chin. ‘I may have to confront him. I have a constitutional right to see him privately. But I don’t relish the prospect. If he’s as close to the KGB as Falconer says they will have gone into this contingency with him – what he should do if he’s caught. They must know that we can’t arrest him, that there couldn’t be a public trial. By comparison, Watergate would look like the triviality I always thought it was.’
To Angela the idea that any traitor should be pardoned and escape public censure because of his position in society seemed preposterous, and she said so.
‘Look Angela,’ Quinn said patiently, avoiding any endearments as was their mutual custom in the office, ‘when you’ve been in the Intelligence game as long as I have you’ll realize that it’s not about catching spies but preventing the other side from doing you damage. Which would cause more damage – letting Henderson go or taking all the backwash of an international scandal?’
‘But what about justice?’
‘To hell with justice!’ Quinn barked. ‘The trouble with justice in this country is that it has to be seen to be done and that demonstration could do so much harm. That’s why my predecessors never wanted Philby in the dock. There’s no point in making the whole country suffer just to send one man to prison.’
Quinn regarded his power to ignore laws, or at least bend them, as his last remaining privilege.
Reluctantly Angela accepted his argument. ‘What about informing the Queen and … ’
‘No. No. One can’t bring the Monarchy into a filthy mess like this. Not after the Blunt disaster. The Queen didn’t mind being used but Parliament was furious. The way I see it at the moment, the best we can hope for is to neutralize the bastard and leave it at that. Of course, we are assuming that Falconer is right.’
‘He seemed totally convinced.’
‘A little too convinced for my liking,’ Quinn said rather sourly. ‘He could be plain wrong. The CIA has a record of tripping over its cloak and falling on its dagger. As we all have,’ he added grudgingly, remembering how his own career could so easily have been curtailed if Ian Smith, then Prime Minister of Rhodesia, had insisted on ‘going public’ when he discovered, through an appalling gaffe, that a British Government official in Salisbury was really a full-blown MI6 spy, instead of reluctantly agreeing to the man’s removal on the fictitious grounds that his father was dangerously ill back in Britain.
‘There may be a lot more to it than we know, Angela. I haven’t really fathomed why Falconer came all this way to tell me about Henderson when Ed Taylor could have done it.’
‘Protocol, surely,’ said Angela, being knowledgeable in that field through her experience as an ambassador’s daughter. ‘The information was too important to be handled except by a senior man.’
Quinn grunted his doubt. ‘John Falconer cares as much about protocol as I do. No, there’s more to it. I’m not entirely convinced about the bona fides of that defector, Kovalsky. He’s a high-level chap and he’d be expended only for a really big cause, though you never know with the KGB. Did I ever tell you how the KGB once connived at the sinking of a boat in the Black Sea, drowning 1500 Russian soldiers, just to establish the credibility of one agent they wanted to plant as a double?’
‘Good God! Do they really go that far?’
‘They do. And with that sort of licence you can go places. With our politicians you don’t begin. When you think of the way they threw out my machine-gun idea!’
Quinn was referring to a project he had put forward for dealing with caches of IRA machine-guns found from time to time in Northern Ireland. The Army simply removed them which to Quinn was a crazy waste of opportunity. He wanted to replace the ammunition with specially faked rounds which would blow the guns up in the faces of the IRA men as they fired them. The politicians, though, wouldn’t countenance it. What if some innocent person happened to find one of the doctored guns and fired it? Quinn had been unable to repress his contempt for such a flabby response. ‘Dear God! What game are we supposed to be playing with these murderous little bastards? Pat ball?’
Being so keen to hide his Irish origin – Angela could guarantee to annoy him by referring to him as ‘himself’ – he was more English than the English in detesting the IRA. But the only ‘dirty tricks’ he could begin to consider in any part of the world were those he could conduct himself without political backing. And that, sadly, was also Falconer’s position.
‘He’s a devious sod, John Falconer,’ Quinn remarked, rubbing his chin. ‘Machiavelli with a touch of Torquemada. Do you know why?’
‘Tell me.’
‘It’s a sad story, really. He was an only child and he lost both his parents when he was a boy. His father was killed in an accident and his mother was so devastated that she committed suicide. So, after being spoiled rotten, poor little John was suddenly left in the care of his grandfather who was an eccentric who only cared about horses. This meant that John grew up on his own, apart from an odd negro pal on his grandfather’s estate, and he seems to have spent the rest of his life alone conspiring with himself.’
‘It is a sad story, but all the more reason why I wouldn’t trust him an inch. He’s a weirdy,’ Angela said with a disapproving twitch of her straight little nose.
‘What about Ed Taylor?’ Quinn asked mischievously, ever mindful that it was Taylor’s predecessor who had enticed away his former assistant.
Angela knew how to deal with that bait, which had been dangled at her so often before. ‘He’s much more trustworthy, I’d say. But then he has the advantage of being happily married, with the gentling influence of a good woman.’
Quinn did not reply, although the narrowing of his rather penetrating, sky-blue eyes and the set of his mouth suggested that in his view few people, if any, were entirely to be trusted.
‘Angela, I’d like you to transcribe the tape-recording of the conversation with Falconer. One top copy only for me. Nothing for any files.’
Quinn was punctilious about studying the written record of a conversation as well as listening to the play-back. Sometimes a phrase or even just an exclamation suddenly assumed special significance, and he particularly wished to check the intonation of Falconer’s insistence on immediate action over Henderson.
As Angela went to her ante-room, where she did her typing, her telephone rang and she returned to report, ‘Your Washington Special Intelligence, which came in with the last Concorde flight, has now been processed. Do you want it right away?’
‘Yes indeed. There might be something from “D.J.” on this business about the Prime Minister.’
‘D.J.’ were the initials of ‘Diamond Jim’, Quinn’s codename for a prime source in Washington who, for the past few weeks, had been supplying ultra-secret information about the deliberations of the US National Security Council. This was extremely valuable because, while the Anglo-American Intelligence links were close, there were areas where each side kept its secrets though pretending to each other that this was not the case. Ed Taylor had recently been highly amused while ascending in one of the Century House lifts to see a messenger clutching a pile of files boldly marked ‘Not for Apostle’, ‘Apostle’ being the current MI6 code-word for the United States.
Quinn did not know the identity of ‘Diamond Jim’ who had suddenly begun to volunteer the information out of the blue. He had been highly suspicious of the material at first but, as detail after detail proved to be true, he gratefully accepted the offerings which had to be from someone operating at the highest level of confidence in the White House, State Department or elsewhere in the Washington machine.
While no reason for this splendid service was offered by ‘D.J.’ it had become apparent that he was motivated by the way the Council’s policy seemed to be moving towards leaving Europe to its fate in the event of a determined Soviet assault. He was clearly opposed to any appeasement of the Russians, and was warning Quinn of the appalling danger which Britain and the other NATO allies faced.
It was not uncommon for secret Intelligence to be offered in this way, the classic example being the wartime ‘Oslo Report’, a document dropped anonymously through the letter-box of the British Naval attaché in Oslo and containing details of German secret weapons then under development. For far too long the ‘Oslo Report’, which had emanated from a disenchanted German, had been regarded as a hoax and Quinn had been determined not to repeat that error.
He and Angela had pondered over ‘D.J.’s’ identity not only in the office but in bed, ticking off all the possibilities without reaching any conclusion beyond the obvious fact that whoever he was he certainly had courage. Inquiries in Washington were out of the question as being far too dangerous to the source.
Angela had queried the ethical niceties of encouraging ‘D.J.’ to betray the country that was Britain’s staunchest friend, but Quinn had airily dismissed any censure on the grounds that the information was being passed to an ally which could never become an enemy. That, he believed, disposed of Angela’s comparison of ‘D.J.’ with Klaus Fuchs, who had been jailed for fourteen years for passing atomic secrets to the Soviet Union, even though it had been a wartime ally when he had begun his traitorous service.
The Special Intelligence from Washington always arrived in a small locked leather case sent over inside the diplomatic bag, and Angela presented it to him as though it were some precious casket. ‘I hope “Diamond Jim” lives up to his name again,’ she said.
He picked up a long-bladed commando dagger which, to Angela’s disgust, he used as a paper-knife because he knew it had been used to kill ‘at least three of Britain’s enemies’, and slit open a white envelope sealed with wax.
‘ “D.J.” confirms yesterday’s meeting of the National Security Council,’ he said, reading from a single foolscap sheet. ‘What else has he got?’
There was a silence punctuated only by the bubbling of the coffee machine, which Angela turned down, and exclamations of ‘Jesus Christ!’ and ‘God Almighty!’
‘This really is something, Angela,’ he said finally. ‘How the hell am I going to play it? Just listen to this: “The Council decided 1) That it would not be possible to reinforce the American troops in Europe without giving the Soviets the excuse, for which they are undoubtedly seeking, to attack the NATO forces on the Central Front. Yet without very substantial reinforcement from the United States NATO would be unable to hold up the advance of the Warsaw Pact Forces for more than a few days. Resort to the standard battlefield nuclear weapons in the NATO stockpiles would be impracticable because by that time the fighting would be in and around cities like Bremen, Kassel and Munich, and the damage to West German property and the civilian casualties would be insupportable.” ’
‘There doesn’t seem to be much new in that,’ Angela said.
‘No, but here’s the hot part; “2) There are 270,000 American troops and airmen in Europe. They cannot be withdrawn and they just cannot be left to be killed or captured.” Especially in a Presidential election year,’ Quinn muttered under his breath.
‘What on earth has election year got to do with it?’ Angela asked.
‘It shouldn’t have anything to do with it, but with hard-nosed politicians it does. Listen – “It was therefore decided that the moment a Russian attack is confirmed NATO forces will strike at the oncoming tanks and troops with precision-guided munitions fitted with enhanced radiation warheads – in other words neutron bombs. These will have the capability to strike at Soviet forces as far back as the Third Echelon – well inside Russian territory, where supplies and the later waves of tanks will be collecting. The neutron warheads will not only be far more effective against the tanks but will do relatively little collateral damage to buildings.” ’
‘I don’t understand,’ Angela said. ‘You always told me that Carter was bamboozled by the Russians into undertaking not to produce neutron bombs and that this President followed suit.’
‘That’s what we all thought but “D.J.” goes on – “3) This can be achieved because the neutron weapons have been in production secretly for many months. They are already in NATO stockpiles in the guise of conventional warheads for the missiles and other precision-guided weapons already in the hands of NATO forces.” ’
‘Good Lord, that certainly is hot,’ Angela exclaimed.
‘Yes, and there’s more. “4) No NATO allies are to be informed of this decision until the actual moment when neutron warheads are issued to them.” ’
‘A surprise secret weapon,’ Angela commented.
‘That seems to be the idea.’
‘But what can you do with the information? Why is “D.J.” telling you all this?’
‘At last he explains all,’ Quinn said, turning his eyes to the final paragraph of the typewritten, unsigned message. ‘ “I have been aware of this possible development since I first contacted you, when I needed to establish my good faith in case it eventuated. Now that it has there is the gravest danger that, if neutron bombs are used, the Russians may be driven to retaliate with intercontinental missile strikes against the American homeland – and against Britain too.
‘ “Since the whole purpose of nuclear weapons is to prevent war, surely the only sensible way of capitalizing on this neutron-bomb decision is to allow it to exert its maximum deterrent effect by letting the Russians know the dreadful carnage they face if they press ahead with their adventure. There is no safe way I can do this and, in any case, I would be unlikely to be believed. So I and millions like me are relying on you to warn the Soviet leadership at the highest level. Please act without delay. There is so little time.
‘ “I beg you not to make any inquiries about my identity as I have already placed myself in the danger of being branded a traitor – though not, I sincerely believe, to either the American or British people.” ’
‘What do you make of it?’ Quinn asked.
‘He sounds sincere enough but, then, so many traitors do when they try to justify their treachery. I’m sure that Falconer would rate him a traitor if he could see the contents of this message.’
‘No doubt he would,’ Quinn conceded.
‘Then you don’t think you should denounce him?’
‘Certainly not! Obviously he’s dangerous to the United States, but being kept in the dark about American nuclear weapons policy is far more dangerous to us. Traitors to other causes are our life-blood, Angela, and we can’t afford to discourage one of them.’
‘But couldn’t “D.J.” be really a Russian sympathizer who is trying to use you to get his information into the Kremlin?’
