Every Spy a Traitor, page 22
Chapter 19
The Hague, Holland
November 1938
As soon as Andriy Oleksandrvych Kovalenko heard he was to be posted to The Hague he did his best to find out what he could about the place that would be his home for the next three years.
There were plenty of foreign ministry briefings to read prior to his posting: lengthy papers which no one had bothered to edit about Dutch politics and foreign affairs and the state of the Dutch economy, along with interminable screeds about the Dutch Communist Party and the prospects for proletariat revolution in Holland and the continuing and regrettable presence of Trotskyites and Social Democrats.
He found a guidebook in the library at work and The Hague sounded a pleasant enough if rather small place. It was on the North Sea coast, with little industry but plenty of artists and craftsmen, lots of woods and pleasant squares and was a controversial seat of government given that the place was known as ‘the largest village in Europe’. It had originally been, he read, a hunting resort for Dutch nobility.
He hoped its hunting days were over.
The subject of hunting was a sensitive one for Andriy Oleksandrvych Kovalenko. He’d been sent back to Moscow in February 1937, under something of a cloud. Until then he’d been a third secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Vienna and was on track for promotion to second secretary and there’d even been talk of a posting to Paris, which made sense as he spoke good French.
Being a third secretary meant his wife, Tatyana, wasn’t permitted to join him, so she remained in Moscow with their children, Maksym and Larysa. His life in Vienna was a lonely one. The restrictions imposed on a Soviet diplomat in a city like Vienna and his paltry salary and allowances meant there was precious little to do outside work.
He hoped that if he became a second secretary it might be possible for Tatyana to join him and this was a cause of some optimism.
His career was going well. Everything was fine.
Until one night in Vienna when he went out for dinner.
* * *
It had seemed innocent enough at first: an elderly Austrian couple – the Doblers – lived on the floor below and he was on friendly terms with them; he would hold the door open for them and nod and smile and wish them a good morning or similar.
However, one day he caught the woman struggling up the stairs with her shopping and insisted on carrying it to her apartment and when they reached the entrance was shocked to hear the woman address him in broken Ukrainian.
Her mother, God rest her soul, had grown up in Lvov and Andriy told her that his own mother was also born and raised in Lvov, and who would believe it!
‘And where are you from?’
He was already saying far more than he ought to because diplomats weren’t supposed to share personal information, but he didn’t see what harm a little old lady could do so he told her he was born and raised in Kharkiv.
A week later he was invited to the Doblers’ for tea on a Sunday afternoon. Naturally, Andriy Oleksandrvych reported this contact to Yegorov, the NKVD rezident at the embassy. Yegorov was of course a complete bastard, but that was understood: he would not have reached his position in the NKVD without being a complete bastard. But as complete bastards and NKVD rezidents went, Yegorov wasn’t too bad. He’d even been known to smile on occasion and when Kovalenko went in to see him to get clearance for tea at the Doblers he seemed relaxed enough, so much so that he told Kovalenko that there were circumstances when even a third secretary could use his judgement and this would be one of them and he really didn’t need clearance every time he took a shit.
They’d had a good laugh about that and then Kovalenko realised he’d omitted mentioning that Frau Dobler spoke some Ukrainian because Yegorov would certainly have wanted to know about that, but by then he was halfway out of the office and he took the view that it was probably best not to mention it now.
The tea had been pleasant enough: very formal in the Austrian way of things and their apartment was far too warm and he spoke a little with Frau Dobler in Ukrainian and he and Herr Dobler made polite conversation in German about nothing in particular.
Two weeks later the Doblers invited him for dinner and he wasn’t sure whether to report it to Yegorov but decided this was one of those cases where he could use his judgement and, after all, what harm could there be in having dinner with elderly neighbours?
Quite a lot, as it happened.
When he entered the Doblers’ apartment, Andriy Oleksandrvych noticed that the dining table was set for four and at that moment a tall man in a well-cut brown suit appeared and introduced himself in rather poor German as ‘Michael’ and Michael said little during the meal and it was never explained who he was or why he was there and Andriy Oleksandrvych spent most of the evening unsettled because really he ought to report this to Yegorov, but then he’d have to explain why he’d not told him about the dinner in the first place and it would all feel rather awkward.
But by the end of the evening, no harm appeared to have been done. Michael came across as being disinterested in him, he was more interested in Frau Dobler’s food.
Two days later Andriy Oleksandrvych was walking through the Naschmarkt after work to buy vegetables when he found himself walking alongside Michael, the man who’d been at the Doblers’ but now instead of speaking in poor German he spoke good Russian, though with a foreign accent.
‘It was a pleasure to meet you at our friends’.’ He walked with Andriy Oleksandrvych as he headed towards a stall which heavily discounted some produce at the end of the day and waited patiently as the Russian diplomat made his purchases and then continued alongside him.
‘If ever we can be of mutual assistance to each other then I’m sure we could have a very’ – he’d hesitated, searching for the right words – ‘Positive relationship.’ Andriy Oleksandrvych was in no doubt this was a clandestine approach of some kind or the other so he said he had no idea what he was talking about and that he could conceive of no circumstances in which he could be of assistance, or vice versa.
The man nodded and said of course but perhaps he’d want to think about it and if he was interested in having a further chat – with no commitment, of course, just a chat – then all he needed to do was leave this postcard – he handed him one with a view of the Danube on the front – in the Doblers’ letterbox and then meet him at eight o’clock the following morning in the Schwarzenberg Park in the 4th district.
And just as Andriy Oleksandrvych was about to tell Michael to get lost, the man grasped his forearm and leant close to him.
‘If we agree to work together, we will open an account in a Swiss bank for you with a considerable amount of money in it. We’d just want some information, that’s all.’
Andriy Oleksandrvych pushed the man’s arm away and hurried off, but not before the man called after him.
‘We do hope Tatyana, Maksym and Larysa are safe: Moscow is such a dangerous place these days!’
* * *
There was no question whatsoever that Andriy Oleksandrvych ought to have reported the encounter to Yegorov immediately, preferably that evening. But he needed to get his story straight; he needed a good explanation for why he’d not reported meeting the man called Michael at the dinner.
But as he walked back slowly to the apartment just off Kärntner Ring he started to think. The situation in Moscow was dreadful these days: so many people – including friends and colleagues – were being arrested and then disappearing and it was clear that no one was safe. Being a loyal Party member was no guarantee of anything, in fact, it could count against you.
And the man had mentioned a considerable amount of money and at the very least he could find out what the man wanted, so when he entered the apartment block, he slipped the postcard with the Danube on the front into the Doblers’ letterbox.
By the time he entered the tiny apartment he regretted what he’d done. What on earth had got into his mind – was he completely mad? During the course of a sleepless night, he resolved to go to the Schwarzenberg Park where he’d tell the man he wasn’t interested, that there’d been a misunderstanding and he was never to contact him again.
He left the apartment just after half past seven and took a circuitous route to the Schwarzenberg Park. He was less than five minutes from it and waiting to cross Favoriten Strasse when a lorry paused in front of him, with large panels of glass strapped to the side.
The lorry stopped long enough for him to see himself reflected very clearly in the glass. And not just himself: behind him he spotted two of Yegorov’s NKVD officers.
They’d been following him.
He must assume he had been spotted with the man the previous evening at the Naschmarkt.
He had seconds to compose himself and decide what to do. The lorry pulled away and he crossed the road, turning left towards a kiosk selling newspapers and cigarettes, where he bought a packet and then headed towards the embassy, not once turning round.
As soon as he entered the embassy, he headed straight for Yegorov’s office. He was still wearing his coat and holding his hat as he breathlessly explained what happened. When he finished, still breathing hard, Yegorov indicated he should sit down.
‘If I understand you correctly, Comrade Kovalenko, you met a foreigner at dinner in your neighbours’ apartment, which you failed to report to us, and then last night this man approached you in the Naschmarkt and asked if you were interested in talking further and you told him to get lost. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, comrade. You’ll recall I’d already cleared with you visiting my neighbours’ apartment. When I was invited for dinner, I had no idea this man or indeed anyone else would be there, but his presence seemed to be inconsequential. I realise now I ought to have reported it. I was shocked when he approached me in the Naschmarkt last night. I decided to report it to you, hence my presence in your office now.’
‘Tell me the route you took to the embassy this morning?’
Andriy Oleksandrvych was certain that Yegorov didn’t know that he knew he was being followed, so he described the route in detail.
‘I realise that may seem a somewhat roundabout route to the embassy, but I sometimes like to leave early and have a good walk. I often visit the kiosk on Favoriten Strasse to buy cigarettes.’
Yegorov said nothing as he watched him very carefully, his eyes narrowing as if he was concentrating.
‘Let’s go through once more what happened at the Naschmarkt.’
A series of questions followed, many of which were repetitive but phrased slightly differently, a standard NKVD tactic to catch someone out.
What exactly did he say to you?
How was he dressed?
What language did he speak?
Did he offer you money?
Did he threaten you?
And Andriy Oleksandrvych stuck to a simple and only partially true account. He assumed he’d been followed to the Naschmarkt so he kept that in mind. He said the man spoke in German and asked him – repeatedly – whether he was interested in talking further and he’d made it very clear to him that he wasn’t.
‘And did he give you anything, Comrade Kovalenko?’
‘No, comrade.’
‘You’re sure? You hesitated then.’
‘I’m sure.’
Appear confident. Stick to your story.
This went on for another two hours and he got the impression that Yegorov wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not. He told him to wait in his outer office. He needed to speak with the ambassador.
* * *
Which was how Andriy Oleksandrvych Kovalenko ended up back at the Foreign Ministry in February 1937.
It had been made very clear he’d shown a serious lack of judgement, but to his immense relief that was as far as they went. He attributed this to the fact they had no real evidence against him, just a rather weak set of circumstances in which he’d failed to report a dinner invitation and had encountered a foreigner in the market. Against that – and very much in his favour – was the fact that he had reported the initial invitation from the Doblers and had gone straight to Yegorov when he realised he was being followed.
He shuddered when he thought of the extraordinary stroke of luck that had enabled him to spot he’d been followed, but then there was a Ukrainian saying about a wise man being the creator of his luck. He’d not panicked when he spotted the NKVD men in the reflected glass. He was impressed with how calm he’d been.
That’s not to say all was well back in Moscow. The arrests he’d heard about now appeared to be on the increase. Hardly a day went by when one didn’t hear of someone – a neighbour, an acquaintance, a colleague or an acquaintance of a neighbour or a colleague – being arrested and after that one rarely heard anything about them, other than whispered gossip about their wife being arrested too or having to leave Moscow and even of children being sent to an orphanage and given new names.
So Andriy Oleksandrvych learnt to keep his head down. He learnt to be guarded in his conversations, even with Tatyana. The chaos and fear around him meant that he could afford to be philosophical about being effectively demoted: he was now based in the department that handled consular matters throughout Europe. For the first few months his work was little more than clerical, certainly not fitting for someone who’d already served as a diplomat, albeit a fairly junior one.
But suspicion was never far around the corner. In the August he’d been shocked when Makarov, who sat opposite him and with whom he got on well, disappeared. He was fine on the Wednesday as he talked about taking the family to his in-laws’ dacha for a few days. On the Thursday morning he wasn’t there. No one said a word about him. Later that morning two men from the security department came to clear out Makarov’s desk.
Makarov no longer existed.
The following week every member of his department was called in individually to see one of the security officers. The man who Andriy Oleksandrvych found himself facing in a stifling room was a short, red-faced man called Tarasov.
Through the fug of cigarette smoke, he glanced up, shaking his head.
‘I see you left Vienna in disgrace, Kovalenko.’
He didn’t reply at first because he took an exception at the man’s tone.
‘There was a misunderstanding over how soon I reported a foreign contact. There was never any question as to my loyalty and my—’
‘There is ALWAYS a question as to your loyalty, Kovalenko! There is always a question as to everyone’s loyalty these days! The achievements and policies of Comrade Stalin are constantly undermined by oppositional forces and disrupters, many of them at the heart of government.’
Andriy Oleksandrvych nodded and said ‘of course’.
‘One way in which comrades can assure us of their loyalty is to bring to our attention anyone they know of who acts against the interests of the Soviet Union.’
He stared at him through the smoke and raised his eyebrows to show that this was actually a question.
‘Fortunately, I have not come across such disgraceful actions, comrade.’
‘There is an expectation of someone in your position that encountering such treason is inevitable. A failure to inform us of this will inevitably bring into question your own loyalty. I hope you understand, Kovalenko.’
* * *
Andriy Oleksandrvych understood perfectly well. He was expected to inform on someone, to give the NKVD another victim. If he didn’t do that, he would be that victim. It was like a plot from one of the novels he used to read before reading novels became an act of suspicion.
The victim presented himself just a week later, when they were spending a weekend at Tatyana’s grandparents’ dacha. It was a large family gathering and included a number of her cousins, one of whom was married to a man called Belov, a disobliging drunk with a grossly inflated opinion of his importance. Belov worked as a manager for a group of state farms and as far as Andriy Oleksandrvych could gather, this involved being driven around the farms to check they were keeping up with their quotas.
On the second evening he found himself sitting outside with Belov and a couple of other family members and Belov was already drunk on homemade brandy that Andriy Oleksandrvych thought was strong enough to fuel a car.
‘I hear you were demoted, Andriy?’
One of Belov’s many dislikes were Ukrainians and so he made a point of exaggerating Ukrainian names, over-pronouncing them to emphasise their difference from Russian. Andriy was pronounced ‘Andree’, as opposed to the Russian version Andrei.
‘What makes you think that?’
The farm manager shrugged and said something about him being well informed and Kovalenko said not in this case and decided it was best to switch topics and asked Belov how his job was going.
‘I hear you have your own driver?’
A self-satisfied grin lit up Belov’s face. He drank another glass of fuel and said indeed.
‘You must be doing very well.’
Belov shifted his chair closer and slapped Kovalenko’s thigh and said he was and, in confidence, you understand, there’s talk of a further promotion.
He noticed that Belov was slurring his words now and his eyes were bloodshot and when he gazed into his empty glass Kovalenko reached over and filled it.
‘Some of the state farms fail to reach their quotas and it needs someone like me to sort them out!’
‘I thought all state farms were exceeding their targets?’
‘Ha! If only that were the case. The attitude of some of these fools…’ He waved his hand as a way of illustrating how poor their attitude was.
‘Let me tell you something, the People’s Commissar for Agriculture visited one of these farms and asked the manager how their turnip production was going and the man replied, “Commissar, we have produced so many turnips that if they were piled on top of each other, they’d reach all the way to God!” And do you know what the Commissar said?’
