Free A Very British Ending (Catesby Series) by Edward Wilson Page A

Holy Roman Catholic Empire. Had they succeeded, England and Spain together would have conquered the new worlds for monarchy and not profit.’
    Catesby wished there were something stronger than fermented mare’s milk. His host’s interpretation of history wasn’t easy to take in with a clear head. But he didn’t want to express scepticism and lose him.
    His host smiled. ‘A lot of your fellow Englishmen, Protestant shopkeepers too busy counting every last penny in their tills, would not understand what I’m talking about, but you do.’
    Catesby smiled back. ‘Have you any brandy?’
    ‘I believe I have a Frapin Grand Cru cognac. Please wait a moment while I fetch it.’
    Catesby didn’t like being left alone in the room with von Ungern-Sternberg. There was something hypnotic as well as demented about his eyes. Catesby knew he would never fall under the spell of such monsters, but he understood why many did. It flattered the ego to be part of an elite secret order. Indeed, it was even part of the allure that attracted many to the Secret Intelligence Service. Catesby’s own boss in SIS, Henry Bone, had once given him a priceless piece of advice: ‘You must never forget, William, that most of our colleagues are mad.’
    His host came back clanking two enormous tulip-shaped glasses and a dusty bottle. As he poured, the night was shattered by the steam-horn of a Rhine barge. Catesby refrained from quoting Heine. The poet’s humane liberal politics would have been out of place.
    ‘There are a few things,’ said his host in a tone that was low and conspiratorial, ‘that I must tell you.’
    Catesby waited and watched as his host sipped his brandy. His eyes remained alert, fixed and unblinking above the huge glass.
    ‘Your country is heavily infiltrated by Soviet agents at the very highest level.’ The piercing whistle of a train both mocked and underlined his words.
    ‘I have,’ said Catesby offering encouragement, ‘always suspected that.’
    ‘Would you like to copy their names down?’
    Catesby shook his head. ‘I’ve got a good memory.’
    The host started with a list of Labour politicians, the usual suspects routinely bandied about by right-wing disinfo, but he also added a Conservative and a Liberal. The host then spat out the name of a novelist, whom he described as ‘a Communist pretending to be a Catholic.’ He then launched into an attack on a Scottish poet who had indeed been a member of the Communist Party – but then was thrown out of the Communist Party for being a Scottish nationalist and thrown out of the Scottish Nationalist Party for being a Communist. If anyone, thought Catesby, wouldfight tooth and nail against a Soviet takeover of Britain, it would be that awkward squad poet, Hugh MacDiarmid. Every significant trade union leader was, of course, name-checked. The most disturbing list contained Catesby’s own SIS colleagues – one of which he also suspected. Catesby was especially concerned that his host knew the names of some very secret people. The fires of paranoia were easy to light. The list of Communist subversives ended with a Church of England bishop.
    ‘How,’ said Catesby, ‘did you find out this information?’
    ‘As I said before, the Soviet hierarchy is corrupt even unto itself. The Soviet Union is a rotten tree ready to be pushed over. The Caucasus, the Ukraine, the Baltic and the Islamic south are ready to revolt and the Red Army will not be able to stop them.’
    ‘But an autocratic Tsar would?’
    ‘Of course – and, by the way, Stalin will be dead in less than eighteen months.’
    Catesby took the last bit with a great pinch of salt. He was ready to leave and stood up. For the first time he addressed his host in English, ‘Thank you for a most enjoyable and informative evening.’
    ‘And thank you for coming.’
    Catesby continued the formalities and small talk in English. His host was far from fluent, but Catesby detected what he was looking for – a slight