Every Spy a Traitor, page 29
* * *
‘You’re making up for lost time, Bertie!’
They were meeting in an OMS safe house, a two-room apartment above a newsagent in The Broadway, a short walk from Hendon station. It had its own entrance down a dark alley and Osip clearly liked the place because their weekly meetings had been held there for three weeks in a row. Osip swore in Russian as he put money in the meter and after closing the curtains turned on the gas fire and a lamp.
Cooper took what the Russian had said as a compliment and nodded appreciatively.
‘For almost eighteen months you do – nothing! Then less than two months ago I find you and since then – excellent!’ Osip was tapping the report Cooper had given him the previous week. ‘The information from inside the Party headquarters in Covent Garden is first-rate. It’s almost as if you’ve been in there yourself.’
Osip laughed noisily and Cooper gratefully joined in.
‘This Barbara Hardie—’
‘It could be Harvey.’
‘She seems very… very busy and well-connected. How often does she go into King Street and what does she do there?’
‘I don’t know exactly because I don’t want her to become suspicious, but I believe she visits at least once a week. I get the impression that she may go there to collect money, which she then distributes to various Communist Party branches across London. I also get the impression that when she’s there she spends some time in the building: she seems to know a lot of people.’
Osip was tapping the report once again. ‘And the man you call Clifford Mills in the report: tell me more about him, tell me what he looks like.’
Cooper said he only knew what Barbara Hardie or Harvey had told him but he got the impression that he was very important indeed, but liked to keep a low profile, but – and this had only happened two days ago – he’d been with Rajesh, the Indian medical student, at a meeting in Camden and there was a man who came in on his own and stood at the back for a short while and then left and Rajesh said he believed his name was Cliff and he was something very important at King Street.
Cooper then described Cliff Milne and Osip looked pleased and said OMS in Moscow would be very pleased indeed when he told them.
‘From the description and everything you tell me about this man, I believe his name is actually Cliff Milne, not Mills. I’m very pleased you mentioned him because the OMS believe he is NKVD. Does the name Molotov mean anything to you?’
Cooper shook his head.
‘In terms of the hierarchy of the Soviet Union, Vyacheslav Mikhailovich Molotov is probably second only to Comrade Stalin. He’s been out of favour recently but now he’s back in Moscow again and there are all kinds of rumours as to what he’s up to, including talk of him advocating stronger relations between the Soviet Union and Germany, would you believe?’
Cooper was doing his best to memorise what Osip was telling him.
‘Cliff Milne was in Moscow around 1932 or 1933, and he became close to Molotov, who at that time was prime minister. We believe he has maintained that relationship with Molotov, which would explain his connection with the NKVD. This is very important information you’ve given us. But we require even more: we want to know everything you can find out about Milne. There was a reference in another report to a young man called Frank who may work for Milne? See what you can find out about him, too.’
* * *
Percy Burton was as delighted as Osip and he too wanted to know more about Milne.
The evening after his meeting with Osip, Cooper had written a new report for Burton, this one based substantially on what Osip had told him. He’d glimpsed a folder on Milne’s desk, he wrote, which contained a typed letter in English, apparently from Moscow and the name under the signature was V M Molotov and he recalled two sentences:
…may our personal friendship and comradeship continue to flourish and be productive… I am firm in my belief that a strategy of co-operation with Germany – as difficult as that is – will reduce the significant threat to the security of the Soviet Union and thereby…
Cooper had apologised if these two sentences meant nothing, but that was all he had time to see. He hoped it was nonetheless useful.
‘And elsewhere in your report you say: “I’m increasingly of the belief that CM may have active links with the NKVD”. What do you base this on?’
Cooper had anticipated this question as he’d failed to provide any evidence and he didn’t think he’d get away with saying it was based on a gut feeling.
Or that Osip had told him.
‘He’s spoken approvingly of them recently – in terms of how they’re the true guarantors of the Russian revolution. Maybe the language I used was possibly a bit speculative.’
‘You mustn’t worry, Cooper, the intelligence here is of the very highest standard – and I have to tell you that the information regarding Milne corroborates what we’ve understood about him from other sources, though not in such clear terms. I think now is the time to try Milne’s safe.’
* * *
As February slipped into March, Cooper waited for a chance to try the safe. Cliff Milne was meticulous about keeping the second key on the chain round his neck. Not once did he see it anywhere else.
Percy Burton assured him he understood and said the fact that Milne was so careful pointed to the contents of the safe being important. He was to be patient. And in the meantime, he’d had a thought.
On the Thursday morning of the first week in March, Cooper was walking along the corridor of the second floor of King Street when a man emerged from an office. The corridor was lit only by a single light bulb so they only properly spotted each other when they were close and Cooper recognised the man immediately and going by his reaction, he did too.
The man was gaunt, with a heavy moustache and ears which stuck out and the last time Cooper had seen him was in the slide show at The Annexe when Burton had been showing him people to look out for. He’d seemed familiar then – though he was now tanned – and he seemed familiar now, but Cooper couldn’t place him.
He discovered the man was called Douglas Marsh and he was talked of in reverential tones around King Street because, apparently, he’d been in Barcelona when the city fell to the fascists and he’d been a hero in the Civil War.
It would be a while before Cooper recalled where he’d last seen the man, and by then it was too late.
* * *
The night after he first saw Douglas Marsh in King Street, he met with Osip.
But this was no cosy meeting above a newsagent in Hendon. This time, Cooper travelled to Old Oak Lane station and headed towards Wormwood Scrubs and just as the prison came into view, he spotted Osip on the path in front of him clutching a bunch of flowers in his left hand, which was the signal that the meeting was on.
They joined a stream of people heading towards the Hammersmith Hospital – Osip had chosen a time to coincide with the hospital’s visiting hours. He followed the Russian into the shadows of the land behind the hospital and prison.
‘You have another report?’
Cooper handed over an envelope and apologised this one was rather short, but…
Osip didn’t so much as glance at the envelope as he put it straight into his pocket and threw the bunch of flowers into the bramble.
‘Are you all right?’
Osip didn’t reply for a while and when he turned to face Cooper it seemed everything was apparently not all right. His face looked strained and even in the poor light. Cooper could see his eyes were bloodshot.
‘Things are… difficult: it may be a while before we can meet.’
He was about to say something else but stopped himself and instead grabbed Cooper’s hand and with his other hand clasped his forearm and looked him in the eye, uttering just one word before hurrying off into the night.
‘Tovarishch.’
Chapter 27
Moscow
March 1939
Nikolai Vasilyevich Zaslavsky never failed to be shocked at the dramatically contrasting speeds with which events occurred in Moscow. Usually, change happened at a glacial pace: a decision which should have taken a matter of weeks at the most could take years, literally, as it worked its way through various committees at a speed a snail would consider slow. Some of the Five Year Plans took longer than five years to devise.
But at other times change occurred at a remarkable speed, as if in the middle of a bitter Russian winter’s day warm sunshine suddenly bathed the city.
Nikolai Vasilyevich was particularly mindful of what had happened to Isidor Yevstigneyevich Lyubimov. Lyubimov lived in the same apartment block as him, close to the Kirov metro station, though the Lyubimov family were a few floors up and in a far superior apartment, as befitted his status as People’s Commissar for Light Industry. Nikolai Vasilyevich was in awe of Isidor Yevstigneyevich. He was someone with impeccable credentials: a Bolshevik since the turn of the century, active in the revolution, a member of the Central Committee and the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet, recipient of the Order of Lenin.
Whenever he bumped into Isidor Yevstigneyevich and they exchanged polite if brief greetings he felt almost as if Comrade Stalin himself had spoken to him.
That was, until the end of September 1937, when Lyubimov was suddenly removed from his post and arrested, apparently for consorting with ‘enemies of the people’.
Isidor Yevstigneyevich Lyubimov disappeared from the apartment block, though his family remained there awkwardly for a few more weeks, moving like ghosts on the rare occasions they were seen around the building. Two months later Lyubimov was dead: found guilty of being an enemy of the people and executed on the same day.
Nikolai Vasilyevich was shocked that a person could go from such a powerful position to being shot in a basement so quickly. If it happened to Isidor Yevstigneyevich Lyubimov, he thought, it could happen to anyone.
And now it appeared to be happening to him.
* * *
It was strange because at the beginning of March everything seemed fine at the OMS – the International Liaison Department of the Comintern. And then over a period of little more than twenty-four hours, it all changed.
Nikolai Vasilyevich turned up at work on a Monday morning – it was 6 March – and along with everyone else was diverted to a nearby hall because apparently the offices of the OMS had been flooded over the weekend. They remained in the hall during the day. Very early on it became apparent that something was not quite right. They were unable to leave without permission and if someone wanted to go to the toilet they would be escorted. During the day various people were called to another room and didn’t return.
In the middle of the afternoon those remaining in the hall were called out one by one. A man with a Georgian accent who Nikolai Vasilyevich had never seen before checked his home address and said he was to go straight home and remain there until the following morning, when he was to report to the OMS office at ten thirty.
‘The flood has been sorted, then?’
The man looked annoyed by what he saw as impudence. ‘Don’t be early. Or late.’
So, this is how it happens, thought Nikolai Vasilyevich. He’d often wondered about the people who’d been arrested and disappeared over the past few years and was confused why they didn’t escape when they must have had an inkling of their impending fate. What was it about a man which made him such a compliant and accommodating prey? Now he himself appeared to be in such a position and could appreciate why they didn’t leave. There was nowhere to go, and there was also a slim chance that there could be some misunderstanding and he’d have to settle for losing his job and maybe working in a factory or a state farm and he thought that on balance he’d prefer the latter.
A mood of grim resignation settled over Nikolai Vasilyevich as he arrived home earlier than usual and told his wife about the flood and he did wonder whether to tell her she may never see him again, but he couldn’t bring himself to do that, and then thought about writing a letter, but he had no idea where to start and, in any case, if they raided the apartment in the early hours of the morning – which was quite probable – then the letter would be construed as incriminating evidence.
He hardly slept that night and got up at six to make himself a strong, black tea and sat in the tiny kitchen smoking, looking out of the grimy window at the traffic edging round the Boulevard Ring in the distance. When he finished his tea, he poured himself a vodka, which he never touched at this time of day, but he hoped it may settle his nerves. He then reached under the kitchen sink and opened his toolbox and removed the gold bracelet encrusted with diamonds, which had been hidden in a brown paper bag since he’d confiscated it during a raid eighteen months ago. He’d had it valued and it was worth at least half a year’s salary and he thought if anything ever happened to him his wife would need this. He put the bracelet in the tin with a crude picture of Lenin on the lid where his wife kept the shopping money, along with the Slava wristwatch his father had bought him when he joined the Comintern and what cash he had in his wallet.
And then he left, with no expectation he’d ever return. For a while he paused in the doorway of his daughters’ room and thought about kissing them, but he decided to leave them sleeping. Today would be a long one for them.
* * *
The man who met him on the landing outside his office was Emil, who’d worked for the NKVD in the past and the man who’d recruited the British agent, Archie.
‘Come with me, Nikolai Vasilyevich.’
That certainly didn’t sound nearly as ominous as it could have done and when they entered a side room one of the other people there wished him a ‘good morning’ and he was told to sit down and offered a cigarette.
‘As of yesterday, comrade, the International Liaison Department no longer exists.’
Emil was sitting opposite him, flanked by two other men.
‘From now on, the work of the OMS will be undertaken primarily by the NKVD. I will be heading the section responsible for this. The decision has been made that a small number of the most trusted OMS officers will be asked to transfer to the NKVD. A smaller number will join the GRU. The remainder are no longer required. Arrangements are being made for them.’
Nikolai Vasilyevich knew full well what ‘arrangements’ meant. He felt short of breath and was aware of gripping the chair.
‘I am pleased to tell you that you are one of those transferring to the NKVD, Nikolai Vasilyevich.’
He nodded his head and said thank you three times and it was all he could do not to weep out of sheer relief.
‘Eduard Vladimirovich in Berlin comes under you, does he not?’
He nodded. The man who’d recruited the Englishman Cooper: Bertie.
‘He is no longer required. Arrangements are being made. And, likewise, Osip in London.’
‘I would respectfully point out Osip controls two important English agents: Archie and Bertie.’
‘Do you know Ivan Alexandrovich Morozov, the NKVD station chief in London?’
‘I know of him.’
‘He will now run Archie.’
‘And Bertie?’
‘I understand he disappeared until very recently?’
‘We did lose contact, but he—’
‘He is clearly unreliable, but we are undecided. But in any case, it has been decided he will be handled by the GRU. They have a new agent in London, an Englishman who’s recently returned from Barcelona: he will deal with Bertie.’
Emil and the other two men stood up and Nikolai Vasilyevich did likewise and followed them into the corridor, walking as if in a daze. Along the corridor he heard shouting and from another floor, screams. Emil turned round to walk alongside him.
‘I’m sure you realise how fortunate you’ve been, comrade. From tomorrow you’ll be based in the Lubyanka. As for those for whom arrangements are being made, my advice is not to think about them. There’ll always be victims. Someone has to pay the price.’
And as if to emphasise that, from a few floors below, the sound of a single gunshot rang out, its echoes lasting a good few seconds.
Chapter 28
London
March 1939
‘Slow down, please!’
Cooper had just got off the number 74 bus and was crossing Gloucester Place and heading towards his flat in Dorset Square. He resisted the temptation to turn round, but slowed down once he was on the other side of the road to allow Osip to catch up with him.
‘Didn’t you hear me? I said slow down!’
It was the first time he’d seen Osip since their meeting on Wormwood Scrubs three weeks earlier when the Russian had seemed distracted and said things were difficult and it may be a while before they met. He was surprised because, as he understood it, the protocol was very strict: a controller wouldn’t go anywhere near where an agent lived.
Or worked.
Or accost him in the street like this.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Cooper was still walking and although they were now by the entrance to Dorset Square it occurred to him Osip may not know his actual address but had just followed him on the bus so he carried on walking, but Osip held him by the arm.
‘Are you not going to your apartment? Number 33 Dorset Square, apartment four on the second floor? I’d prefer if we went there.’
When they entered Cooper’s apartment Osip insisted he bolt the front door and then marched into the lounge, where he dropped into an armchair.
He looked dreadful: gaunt, pale-skinned and unshaven. His clothes were creased and when he removed his trilby – which Cooper always felt looked a bit too foreign, more like a fedora – his hair was greasy and unkempt.
