Wilson was a big fish in the House Armed Services and Intelligence Committee and he pushed a lot of money the way of the mujahaddin.’
Ben was beginning to glaze over with facts. He felt suddenly cold from the open pub door and put on his coat.
‘Alas, Wilson and others in Congress backed the wrong horse, and America has been paying for it ever since. Bone, as a CIA man, has a vested interest in playing down those failings at the expense of my own — and your father’s — organization. Allow me, for example, to illustrate the mess that many of us are still to this day cleaning up. Bill Casey, the head of the CIA whom Bone refers to in his letter, took a liking to an individual by the name of Gulbaddin Hekmatyar, who was the leader of the most fanatical group of mujahaddin, Hezb-i-Islami. By fanatical, I mean pan-Islam, that is to say an organization virulently opposed to all things Western, from Dallas to Warren Buffett. This was an irony apparently lost on the Pentagon, who clearly thought he was Mahatma Gandhi. Both the Pakistani government and its intelligence service — without either of whom the Cousins simply couldn’t operate — were also card-carrying members of the Hekmatyar fan club, which rather explains the relationship. No matter that he’d organized the killing of other mujahaddin leaders in order to cement his power base, and had never been directly involved in any confrontation with the Soviet invasionary forces. That didn’t seem to bother the Yanks. Perhaps eventually they wanted a fundamentalist regime in Kabul to destabilize the communists in the north. Who knows? Always playing God, the Americans, never keep things simple. And, of course, these US-backed fundamentalists have had a field day ever since, knocking off Sad at in ’81, blowing up US Marines in Lebanon. When it came to the Gulf War, in fact, Hekmatyar was one of the first public figures to denounce American involvement in Kuwait. Lovely way of repaying the favour, don’t you think?’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ben said, licking peanut salt off his fingers. ‘What does any of this have to do with Kostov?’
‘I’m coming to that, old boy.’ McCreery reacted as if Ben were being impatient. ‘I’m trying to paint a picture of blatant American incompetence which feeds into the Mischa situation.’
‘So Mischa did exist?’
‘Oh, absolutely. He must have existed. Yes.’ McCreery scratched the back of his neck. ‘Now at one stage your father helped to set up an organization called Afghan Aid, which nominally worked on medical and agricultural projects for refugees. However, it also provided support for Ahmed Shah Masood, a far more sensible and moderate muj leader who was later to command the Northern Alliance. You may recall that he was assassinated immediately prior to September eleventh.’
‘Yeah, I remember reading about that.’
‘Well, he was another favourite of Thatcher’s.’
‘I see.’
But then silence. Ben had been expecting McCreery to elaborate further, to steer his little history lesson towards Mischa, but the monologue appeared to have ended. Perhaps the guarded spook who had spoken with so little candour at his father’s funeral was simply pre-programmed never to divulge useful information.
‘Is that it?’
‘Is what it?’
‘Well, what about Mischa? Did my father recruit him or not?’
McCreery actually laughed at this to the point where Ben might have lost his temper.
‘What’s funny, Jock?’ he said. The use of his first name felt oddly impertinent, regardless of the fact that they had spent most of the afternoon together.
‘Well, I’m simply not in a position to talk about that in much detail. It’s very much still under wraps. You can understand — ’
‘No, I don’t really understand. Forgive me for saying so, but this is exactly what happened at the crematorium. A few carrots dangled in front of the congregation, and then you withdraw. MI6 have access to a well of memories that for some reason must remain secret, because that is what the State has decreed. Now I respect that, Jock, I really do, but I need to know about Kostov. I need to know whether Bone is telling the truth. So far all you’ve given me is a potted history of Mrs Thatcher’s affection for a couple of guys whose names I can’t pronounce.’
McCreery gave an affectionate shrug that appeared to suggest compliance.
‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘You’re absolutely right. Old habits die hard. And if I appeared evasive at the funeral service, it was only because I was in the presence of one or two people who would not have taken kindly to Spycatcher from the pulpit.’ McCreery laughed at his own joke. ‘If you want to know about Mischa and Dimitri Kostov, I can tell you, but only with the cast-iron guarantee that any information divulged will go no further than this table.’
‘Of course, Jock…’
‘That means even Mark.’ McCreery looked very insistent about this. ‘And Alice, of course. Particularly Alice, as a matter of fact, in view of her chosen profession.’
‘I can guarantee that.’
McCreery looked around, as if to be sure that any further conversation would be muffled by the swirl of noise in the pub.
‘Are we OK to talk about this here?’ Ben asked.
‘I think so.’ He leaned forward. ‘Mischa Kostov was a source for the Americans. An agent of the CIA.’ McCreery’s voice was a ham actor’s whisper. ‘The story Robert Bone relates is accurate in as much as it refers to an actual relationship between a Western intelligence service and a member of the Soviet armed forces. But I would recommend that for every mention of your father’s name you substitute that of a Cousin whose identity I am afraid I am not at liberty to divulge. Suffice to say that he was a close friend of Mr Bone. His mentor, in a manner of speaking.’
McCreery shuffled forward and frowned. He seemed troubled by his leg.
‘Mischa’s father, Dimitri, was indeed a KGB agent whose aliases included Vladimir Kalugin and — I think I’m right about this — Leonid Sudoplatov. He was not, however, a member of Department V, and certainly never carried out Kremlin-sponsored executive actions. That’s absolute nonsense. The other rather important thing to bear in mind about Dimitri Kostov is that he died in 1997.’
Ben was halfway through what must have been his fifteenth cigarette of the afternoon when the lower part of his mouth just seemed to fall away, issuing a broad cloud of uninhaled smoke out in front of his face.
‘Kostov is dead?’
‘Yes. As is Mischa, though in rather more violent circumstances. Exactly as Bone attests, he was shot in Samark and by order of court martial sometime in the late 1980s.’
‘So my father never had anything to do with him?’
‘Nothing at all. The Yanks lost him. He was their joe.’ McCreery picked the letter up from the table. ‘Which makes Bone’s suggestion that Mischa was like a son to Christopher particularly unpleasant in the circumstances.’
‘Yeah, I could have done without that,’ Ben admitted, eating a crisp.
‘I’m sure you could.’
‘So who did kill my father?’
It was the only question left to ask.
McCreery paused. ‘Between you and me — and again I would ask that this is something we keep strictly entre nous — the Office has been working very closely alongside Scotland Yard to unravel that very question. Right now, we’re looking at one or two irregularities with regard to your father’s relationship with a Swiss bank.’
Ben shook his head. ‘What does that mean?’
McCreery shuffled forward and seemed troubled by his leg.
‘Shortly before he died, Christopher was doing some work for Divisar on behalf of a private bank in Lausanne. There may be a connection there. We’re also looking into a series of telephone calls that he made to a Timothy Lander in the Cayman Islands.’
‘That’s not a name I’ve heard before. How come the police haven’t told us about it?’
‘As I was saying, that part of the investigation is still very much under wraps.’
‘So you’re claiming that almost everything in Bone’s letter is faked-up to deflect attention away from the fact the CIA lost an agent in Afghanistan nearly twenty years ago?’
McCreery wiped away an imaginary speck of dust from the surface of the table and said, ‘To all intents and
