Every Spy a Traitor, page 23
Kovalenko shook his head. Belov was speaking loudly and a few others had joined them.
‘He said, “God does not exist!” And do you know what the manager said?’
No one was looking directly at Belov.
‘He replied, “I know – and neither do the turnips!”’
There was a marked silence before Belov laughed uproariously at his own joke and pushed Kovalenko’s shoulder and told him to laugh too.
* * *
On his first day back at work he asked to see Tarasov and repeated what Belov had told him, adding in some extra material to show just how disloyal and indeed dangerous this man was.
‘Can you imagine, Comrade Tarasov, being driven around and sowing who knows what kind of dissatisfaction?’
Tarasov nodded in an appreciative manner, busily writing down everything he’d been told.
‘And you say he criticised Comrade Stalin?’
‘Indeed, comrade, in quite despicable terms.’
Tarasov thanked him and said he had done well to demonstrate his loyalty. It would not go unnoticed.
Later that week Tatyana waited until they were in bed before she whispered what her mother had told her: Belov had been arrested the previous day and no one knew where he was. His wife had been arrested that evening and no one had any idea what had happened to their daughters.
Kovalenko had every reason to believe his informing on Belov put him in line for promotion. When a fellow Ukrainian called Lysenko was appointed head of the Consular Desk looking after Belgium and Holland, he soon became his right-hand man. Lysenko trusted him and valued his work and at his suggestion Andriy Oleksandrvych began to study Dutch.
In October 1938 Lysenko called him into his office and told him how impressed he was with his work and how much he’d come to rely upon him. He’d been appointed to the embassy in The Hague, he said. And he’d like Kovalenko to come with him.
‘You’d still only be a third secretary, but I would hope you’d take the view that after your difficulties in Vienna… it would be an opportunity to rehabilitate yourself.’
* * *
Andriy Oleksandrvych Kovalenko arrived in The Hague in early November and soon appreciated he’d struck lucky with his new posting. Despite the near-constant presence of a North Sea squall he found the Dutch capital a relaxed and charming place, nothing like the intrigue and formality which so characterised Vienna.
The work at the embassy was straightforward and Lysenko was clearly delighted to have him there. The only worry, if that was the right word, was that the NKVD rezident was none other than Yegorov, his nemesis from Vienna.
But even that didn’t appear to be a problem. Yegorov told him that he’d personally vetted him when his name came up for the posting and he was prepared to put his error in Vienna in the past. He was especially pleased with what Comrade Tarasov had described as his co-operation.
‘I’d like to think that you’d continue this co-operation here in The Hague. Should you come across anyone at the embassy whose loyalty you have cause to doubt, be sure to let me know.’
‘Of course, comrade!’
‘And, likewise, should anyone approach you… this time, don’t leave it until the next day, eh?’
He shared a house with other junior diplomats on Nassau Plein, close to Alexanders Veld, and assumed he was being closely monitored and occasionally followed, but he didn’t regard this as a problem.
On his third Sunday in The Hague, he’d been the early duty officer in the embassy, meaning a six o’clock start and a mid-afternoon finish and rather than return to Nassau Plein he decided to head to the centre and get to know the city and find somewhere cheap to have a drink.
He took a tram to the station and from there headed west, across the canal and through Nieuwe Markt and he’d just entered Turfmarkt when he became aware of someone behind him, which he assumed was one of Yegorov’s men and he was calm about that because he was doing nothing wrong. He made sure he walked at the same pace, but was surprised as the footsteps closed in on him.
‘Fancy meeting you here! Who’d have thought it?’
The man to whom the voice belonged moved alongside him and, being taller, lowered his head and briefly raised his hat so that he’d recognise him but Andriy Oleksandrvych had already realised it was Michael, the man from Vienna, the man who’d suggested they could be of mutual assistance to each other and the man who promised him a considerable amount of money.
The man who’d very nearly cost him his life.
They were alongside a set of narrow steps leading down to a bar and Michael guided him by the elbow down the steps. Although Andriy Oleksandrvych did wonder about leaving there and then, he’d been caught by surprise and before he knew it, he was in the bar and allowing Michael to lead him to a room at the rear, which he then locked.
‘Before you say anything, you’re not to worry. This place is perfectly safe and I can assure you that you were not being followed – I wouldn’t have come within a mile of you if you had been. Not like in Vienna, eh?’
Kovalenko was too shocked to reply. The man removed his hat and coat and his jacket too and loosened his tie and told him to make himself at home because they had plenty to chat about and would he like something to drink, or to eat, perhaps?
Kovalenko said he was fine, thank you, which could not have been further from the truth.
‘I am sorry we didn’t get to meet as arranged in Vienna, but I’m quite aware of what happened. It was very clever of you to spot you were being followed and to get away with it: if I’m honest with you, I feared the worst. When we heard you’d been sent back to Moscow, well… with all that’s going on there… and yet, here you are, what a marvellous turn up for the books. I could hardly believe it when I was told you’d arrived in The Hague! We can now resume our relationship!’
‘Who are you?’
‘Do you mean in the way that those psychiatrists in Vienna ask the question?’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘I work for British Intelligence. We had our eyes on you in Vienna and believed we could form a relationship, hence my approach to you there. The offer I made then still stands: the equivalent of one thousand pounds in whichever currency you wish in a Swiss bank. We would require you to provide us with top-quality intelligence for at least two years, after which we’d undertake to provide you with a new identity and a home in England. And—’
Kovalenko shook his head.
‘… and we also undertake to bring Tatyana, Maksym and Larysa out to join you.’
‘You’re assuming I’m interested.’
‘I know you’re interested because you put that postcard through the Doblers’ letterbox. Interested is possibly overstating it, but curious at the very least and that’s enough of a basis for us to commence a relationship. And remember, Kovalenko, this will be of at least as much benefit to you as it is to us.’
‘You’re asking me to be a traitor.’
‘I’m asking you to help us and in return we’ll help you.’
‘Thank you very much, but I can assure you I don’t need any help.’
‘Do you know how many people we estimate have disappeared and then been executed in the Soviet Union over the past two years?’
Kovalenko shrugged and said he wasn’t sure what he was talking about.
‘Half a million – and that’s a conservative estimate. Our American colleagues are convinced the number is higher. I find it impossible to believe you’re unaware of the scale of what’s going on, Mr Kovalenko. A professional diplomat like you – a decent, intelligent man, a family man – surely you must be worried about what fate awaits you. And what will happen then to your wife and your children? We hear the most dreadful things.’
The silence that followed was longer than Kovalenko would have liked, but he was using the time to concoct a plan. Although there was a degree of truth in what the Englishman said, he was certain that the risks involved were too great. And, in any case, he had no desire to be a traitor. The tensions in Moscow would soon pass. This time he’d more cunning. Not only would he avoid walking into any trap himself, he set one up for the Englishman.
He’d hand him on a plate for Yegorov and, as with Belov, it would count in his favour.
‘I need to think about it.’
The man called Michael smiled. ‘When is your next day off?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘Go to the art gallery in Mauritahuis by the Plein between ten thirty and eleven that morning. On the first floor – in room 8 – is a marvellous painting by Rembrandt called the “School of Anatomy”. I’ll be waiting in that room. Will you remember all that?’
Kovalenko said of course and he’d see him on Wednesday, and he hoped matters would work out, though when he said that he wasn’t sure it sounded right: too ambiguous, maybe.
* * *
‘Yes, it’s definitely him – no question about it. Look, here – compare the two photographs.’ Yegorov placed them alongside each other and angled a lamp over them.
‘This one taken of the Englishman in Vienna last February and the one taken today on Turfmarkt. And this is a better one, taken as he leaves the bar.’
‘With Kovalenko following him!’
The four NKVD officers laughed and one of them commented that it was such a basic mistake – the two men leaving together. The Englishman looked like an amateur.
‘And Kovalenko too.’
‘Kovalenko’s a traitor.’
‘Of course, comrade, I wasn’t suggesting that…’
They were in a NKVD safe house on Prinse Straat, close to the Fish Market because what they were discussing was far too serious and sensitive to risk meeting at the embassy. The other three men were Yegorov’s trusted NKVD officers and they had been following Kovalenko since he’d left the embassy that afternoon.
‘What do we do, sir, bring him here and then get him to Moscow?’
Yegorov leant back in his chair and studied the unlit cigarette he’d been holding for a while.
‘That’s too risky… there’s a Swedish Airlines flight from Amsterdam, but it has too many stops before Moscow. The train journey is too long, and crosses too many borders. The safest way would be to get him out by sea through Rotterdam but you say none of our ships are sailing from there for a few days?’
‘Correct, sir: there’s a sailing to Leningrad on Thursday.’
‘We can’t wait that long. We’ll deal with Kovalenko here.’
Another long silence and the other three men nodded. They appreciated that Yegorov was always clear in his instructions.
‘And do we interrogate him, sir, or just… deal with him?’
‘Just deal with Kovalenko, I’ve had enough of the bastard!
* * *
They found Andriy Oleksandrvych Kovalenko’s naked body floating in the Hofvijver – the large lake in the centre of The Hague – soon after first light on an unseasonably calm and bright Monday morning, the weak sun picking out the blotchy, pink body bobbing in the choppy grey water.
The police surgeon who examined the body estimated it had been in the water for between eight and sixteen hours and apologised for not being more precise. But he was able to be precise about the cause of death, but then even the young police officer who’d pulled the body out of the water could tell that: the man’s head was only just attached to the rest of the body.
‘And there is no other way of identifying the body, doctor?’ The surgeon shook his head and the police officer did likewise. He could do without this and would probably write it off as a drunk who fell into the Hofvijver, though why he’d be wearing no clothes in November was beyond him.
Chapter 20
London
November 1938
There were far more people present than was normally the case for meetings at 54 Broadway. The way business was conducted at MI6 tended to be very much in keeping with the nature of the organisation: highly secretive – even clandestine – and with a presumption of mistrust. Meetings were held with the minimum number of people necessary and behind closed doors with the blinds drawn. Whispered conversations in corridors would pause suddenly when anyone else approached, the participants and the passers-by doing their best to avoid eye contact.
Occasionally Sir Hugh Sinclair as chief of MI6 would call a meeting of all officers based in London, but these were very rare occasions and tended to be social rather than a place where anything secret was discussed.
So, the presence of more than two dozen officers in the large room on the third floor was most unusual, so much so that many of those present were suspicious and awkward as they waited for it to begin. More than one person muttered to the person next to them that maybe the rumours about the organisation being disbanded were true.
And then the door swung open and Phillips – the man with two ‘l’s – entered, followed by the chief who told everyone not to get up and he wanted to let everyone present know that what Phillips was about to tell them was most important and had his full backing and then Phillips said something about the entire ship’s crew being assembled and suggested they pay attention because what he had to say was, as Sir Hugh had indicated, really most important.
‘Indeed, I’d go as far as to say that it is the most serious challenge facing the Service.’
He paused, gathering his thoughts. Following the meeting in August at the War Office with representatives of The Annexe, MI5 and Special Branch Phillips had hoped it would be a matter of weeks before he managed to discover the identity of the traitor. But by late September he realised he was no closer.
He had to admit defeat and realised he’d been foolish expecting to discover the identity of the traitor quite so easily so he went to see Sir Hugh who was most decent in the circumstances and said of course he was aware of this traitor and absolutely it should be a priority for the Service and really Phillips should feel no shame whatsoever in asking for help and, after all, when they were at sea and there was a storm, it needed the whole crew to get through it, did it not?
So now Phillips looked at the officers gathered around the table. They were from the parts of the Service looking after Europe, divided between a dozen senior officers who looked after specific country desks and some fifteen or so younger officers, some with only a couple of years’ service but who’d already been marked out for preferment.
They were what the chief liked to call his high flyers and Phillips was not alone among the senior officers in sometimes feeling intimidated by their relative youth and their blatant ambition, all so bright and sharp and terribly confident, with enormous energy and drive. They made him feel terribly old.
He was quite nervous as he began, concentrating on his notes as he told the meeting how Moscow Station had been informed in June by a local contact that a ‘highly placed’ Englishman – codename Archie, apparently – had been recruited as a Soviet spy and was providing what was described as ‘excellent intelligence’ and had met a Comintern contact in Paris in May. He paused and carefully turned the page of his notebook before continuing: in return for certain assurances this contact would endeavour to pass on the name of this person when they met the following week but he failed to make that meeting and Moscow station had good reason to believe he may have been caught.
‘If I may interrupt. Phillips?’
‘I had hoped to—’
‘Who was handling this for Moscow Station?’
‘George Banks.’
The man who’d asked the question was called Williamson, who’d been Banks’s predecessor. ‘Naturally, one trusts George’s judgement, but what makes him believe this contact has been caught?’
‘He managed to identify him and discovered he had vanished from where he lived.’
‘Or he could have been stringing us along, of course.’ It was Coombe who looked after the Balkans.
‘He could, but Moscow believed he was credible. I need to continue: last year a Cambridge academic was invited to Moscow to study icons in the Kremlin and it was made clear to him that there was an expectation he was to co-operate with us.’
And Phillips proceeded to tell the story at some length about Branstone, who he only referred to as ‘the academic’, and how they’d had very limited expectations of him but that in May – this was last year, 1937, he reminded them – this chap was in the Kremlin when he spotted a man leaving the Council of Ministers who he says was dressed like an Englishman. Furthermore, he thought he recognised him, so he followed him and caught up with him in one of the Kremlin’s towers, where they had a brief conversation in English, after which he was more convinced than ever that he’d encountered him before.
‘And do we have a name, or at least a description, perhaps?’
Phillips wasn’t sure who’d asked the question and nor was he sure how far he was to go in answering it. He said there was no name and admitted the description was so bland as to be useless, but the academic did recall he’d met the man and it was at a chess match at Oxford most probably in 1930 but despite that they’d drawn a blank in identifying the man.
Phillips paused and looked up and around the table, where the faces peering at him were mostly indifferent. A friend of his from school had gone on the stage and told him an actor’s enduring fear was of losing one’s audience. As Phillips looked around, it seemed he was losing his audience.
But one of those round the table was listening with rapt attention. He was one of the high flyers, one of the fifteen or so bright and ambitious young officers, destined for an assured career in the Service and he was making a supreme effort to retain his composure and show no reaction. But he’d become accustomed to thinking quickly and controlling his emotions, so he did his best to look slightly bored while at the same time every one of his senses was heightened: it felt as if the room had become unaccountably loud and Phillips was speaking at the top of his voice.
