Every Spy a Traitor, page 30
‘I’d like a drink, Bertie.’
‘I can put the kettle on, Osip.’
‘Get me a whisky and something to eat.’
Cooper watched as Osip quickly finished his whisky – which had been a generous measure – and then gestured for him to pass the bottle before pouring himself an even larger measure. They were sitting opposite each other with Cooper perched on the edge of the sofa.
‘You have to help me, Bertie.’ Osip looked flushed and as he stuffed the remainder of a sandwich into his mouth and chewed it he poured himself another whisky. He leant towards Cooper and indicated he should come closer. Cooper noticed how bloodshot the man’s eyes were.
And there was something about his eyes, which Cooper had never seen before.
Fear.
‘Terrible things are happening in Moscow.’
He paused to sip more whisky and Cooper thought about asking Osip how come it had taken him so long to discover that, but he thought better of it. Osip always told him it didn’t pay to be too clever.
‘They’ve turned on us, the bastards. Since 1921 the International Liaison Department has been the most effective arm of Soviet Intelligence, we make the NKVD look like amateurs. But now Stalin has decided he no longer trusts the OMS and has begun to dismantle it. There’ve been rumours, but I dismissed them because I assumed the OMS was indispensable and, in any case, Morozov – the NKVD resident here in London – told me not to worry because he said whatever happened in Moscow I’d continue in my job; it would just mean a transfer to the NKVD.’
Osip shrugged. ‘And like a fool, I believed it until two weeks ago when I was at the embassy and Morozov called me into his office and said I was to return to Moscow, immediately. I’m no fool, I knew what that meant: the OMS is being purged and that includes me. I was trapped. I didn’t have an opportunity to go back to my apartment and grab the bag I keep packed just in case and then disappear. Morozov told me he’d made all the arrangements.
‘At that point, I knew the game was up. But a year ago I’d found a spare key for a fire escape at the rear of the embassy, so I told Morozov I understood, just needed to go to the toilet and he said to hurry up.
‘If I’d been him, I’d have thought it was odd I’d not asked how I was going to get back to Moscow or put up something of an argument, but then we both knew how resigned people can be to their fate in these situations.
‘I knew I had to move fast: I headed to the toilet but then ran up the stairs to the floor which I had the key for and straight down the fire escape and soon I was in the garden at the back. The guard on duty there was a comrade I knew well – he’s from Leningrad, too. I told him I was going for a walk to clear my head and we both laughed and minutes later I was in Vicarage Gate where I hailed a taxi and told it to take me to Kings Cross. I then travelled on the underground for a few hours, found a cheap hotel in east London, moved to a different hotel every couple of nights and here I am, at last.’
‘How did you find me?’
‘That doesn’t matter – what does matter is that I need your help now: don’t forget, I’m a Soviet spy and you work for me. What do you think would happen if the British found that out?’
Osip leant forward again and pointed his cigarette at Cooper, allowing a long stub of ash to fall on the rug between them.
‘But the NKVD in London – surely, they know about me?’
Osip shook his head. ‘They don’t know everything by any means; how to contact you, for instance. That’s why they want me back in Moscow, so they can get everything from me before they dispose of me. If it was just a matter of eliminating me, Morozov would have taken care of that in London: I wouldn’t be the first person he’s killed here.’
Cooper needed time to think. He told Osip he should have a bath and a change of clothing while he made him a hot meal and the Russian said that was a good idea and, in fact, he was thinking of staying the night.
And as he stood in the kitchen preparing a meal for which he had no appetite, Cooper gathered his thoughts. As a British spy who was also working for the Soviet Union, Cooper was trapped. But the only person in London who knew he was a Soviet spy was lounging in his bath and about to eat his food and most probably spend the night in his bed.
If Osip returned to Moscow, then half the NKVD would know all about him.
And if he remained in London, then he dreaded to think what could happen.
It was an impossible predicament.
An almost impossible one.
* * *
Cooper left Dorset Square early the following morning after a sleepless night.
Leaving Osip in the flat he walked down to Bayswater Road and once he was sure he wasn’t being followed took the number 12 bus to Acton. On the short walk towards Acton Central station, he checked he still wasn’t being followed, and in Churchfield Road found a letting agency. They had just what he was looking for: a bedsit on the same road, close to the railway line, with a secure door to the side of the house, shared with just one other bedsit and that was vacant, a view over the street, which Osip would want, and it was clean enough. They agreed he could take it immediately if he paid an extra week’s rent in advance and Cooper slipped the clerk an extra two pounds and thanked him for his trouble.
Osip travelled to the bedsit that afternoon by taxi. Cooper had packed a bag of food for him and promised to do what the Russian had instructed.
‘Repeat it, please, Bertie.’
‘I’m to go to Lloyds Bank in Baker Street and ask for the packet in the manager’s safe in the name of Mr Drake.’
‘Don’t forget the number: they’ll expect you to give it to them rather before they ask you for it.’
‘9-8-7-9-4-4-4-3-0-2.’
‘And they’ll ask for an address.’
Cooper paused, trying to remember the name of the street. ‘17 Barber Street, Southampton. You’re sure they won’t want to see anything else?’
‘My instructions to the bank were that the package should be released to anyone giving the correct code and address. As soon as you get the package, bring it to me here.’
‘I don’t understand why you haven’t gone yourself?’
‘It’s too risky. I went to the bank two weeks ago to check on the papers and money in the envelope. Looking back on it, they were probably following me then. If that’s the case, they’ll be watching the bank now.’
Back in Dorset Square it took Cooper a while before he’d produced a letter he was satisfied with.
Dear Comrade Ivan Morozov
This is a letter from a fellow comrade to inform you that the traitor Osip from the OMS is hiding in a first-floor bedsit at 2D Churchfield Road just by Acton Central station. Please be aware he has a gun. He is expecting a visit on Friday night.
Cooper wasn’t sure how seriously Morozov would take it. But then he’d have been mortified at Osip escaping the previous week: he’d clutch at any straw to catch him.
There was one flaw, of course: what if they tried to take Osip back to Moscow and torture him there – or even attempt to do it here? If that happened Osip would almost certainly divulge Cooper’s name, the man he would know betrayed him.
But Cooper decided this was a risk worth taking.
One risk not worth taking was to try and retrieve the package from the bank. There was no need.
He waited until the Friday lunchtime. Outside Notting Hill Gate station, he found a boy of around fifteen who looked at him incredulously when he offered him five shillings to run a simple errand. He followed the boy as he walked to the Soviet Embassy and watched as he handed the envelope to the guard at the gate before hurrying off – as Cooper had instructed him – in the direction of Kensington Palace.
* * *
Ivan Alexandrovich Morozov clutched the letter in disbelief. He’d been blamed for allowing Osip to escape the previous week and had been told unless he could find him quickly then he’d be the one returning to Moscow.
You can use the same ticket, they told him.
He needed to be sure this was genuine though. He travelled on his own to Acton, taking an embassy car into Oxford Street, spending an hour in Selfridges to lose his tail and after that a series of buses to Acton. He found 2D Churchfield Road easily enough. It was well chosen: its own side entrance and a good view of both the street and the entrance. He found a cafe diagonally opposite with a decent sight of the bedsit and gloomy enough for him not to be spotted.
Twice over the next hour a man appeared at the window, standing just far enough back for his face to be hard to make out, but glancing up and down the street in a professional manner and, as far as he was concerned, it certainly could be that bastard from the OMS and, if not, there was no harm in trying.
He returned that night with five of his men, all of them making their own way to a van parked behind Latimer Road station and it was nine o’clock when it arrived in Churchfield Road and parked well away from number 2D. The Georgian called Nikoloz had the entrance door opened in a matter of seconds and then remained on lookout, along with two of the others. Another two accompanied Morozov upstairs to the first floor. Morozov had decided he’d leave nothing to chance: he could have someone knock on the door and use an English accent, but he doubted Osip would fall for that. The other Georgian threw himself against the door, Morozov following in with his revolver drawn.
Osip was sitting on the bed, startled and reaching under the pillow. Morozov and the Georgian threw themselves at him, pinning him under them. The NKVD man’s instruction had been clear: no guns unless absolutely necessary.
We don’t want any embarrassment.
Osip was no match for the big Georgian. He struggled but Morozov slipped his long-blade knife into Osip’s side, just under the rib cage as he’d been taught, and then twisted it around and moved it up and down.
* * *
Cooper read about the murder of the unidentified man in Acton in the following day’s Evening News. There was a description of what he took to be him – as the man who’d rented the room – but it was suitably vague and described him as being in his forties and with a ‘foreign accent’, which was all very reassuring even though he had no idea where the rental clerk got that accent from.
Cooper’s overwhelming reaction was a sense of relief. He was no longer committing treason by working for the Soviets: his connection with them had been severed.
Life ought to be a lot easier now.
Chapter 29
Paris
April 1939
Archie had never liked Osip.
In truth – he realised that this was somewhat awkward given his relationship with them – he didn’t like many Russians. He quite liked Emil, the man who’d recruited him in France nearly eight years before, and Nikolai in Moscow was decent enough, but they were more sophisticated and companionable sorts. As for the rest, they were either ideologues, peasants or Jews, none of whom he could abide.
Osip was a case in point: he reminded him of one of the gardeners at his parents’ place in the country; large and malodorous, always giving the impression of being put upon and forever bending his father’s ear about some problem or the other and he never understood why his father gave the man the time of day – or a job, for that matter.
Whenever they met, Osip was always complaining about this or moaning about that. He’d last met him in early March and this time the Russian said very little, other than that times were not good, and when he asked what he meant by that he’d shrugged and said it didn’t matter, even though it quite evidently did. He told Archie it may be a few weeks before he saw him again, and when he asked if this was connected with things not being good, he’d shrugged again.
At first it suited Archie fine because frankly he needed a break from the subterfuge and constant strain of spying for the Soviets and forever having to lay his hands on new intelligence while at the same time avoiding coming under suspicion.
The good news was that, as far as he could tell, Phillips’ hunt for him seemed to have run into a brick wall. The last he’d heard Phillips was suffering from what was euphemistically referred to as exhaustion but the rumours said he’d had a nervous breakdown. Apparently, he was in a clinic in Hampshire, not too far from where Archie had been at prep school, as it happened. Both dreadful places to be incarcerated.
On occasional moments of reflection – usually in the country at the weekend, late at night when everyone else was asleep and between his first and second Cognac – he’d acknowledge to himself that his feelings about people, which some could describe as prejudices – were possibly incompatible with his being a Soviet agent. But he never allowed these thoughts to develop into doubts or even preoccupations. As far as he was concerned, spying for the Soviet Union was a matter of having chosen which side to be on. Events in Europe showed the Continent was facing a stark choice between fascism and socialism, between war and peace, and there was no middle ground. He was more convinced than ever that he made the right choice, but that didn’t mean he had to like the people whose side he’d chosen to be on.
And he was doing well at MI6. In December he’d been promoted, not quite to a senior officer but it was now only a matter of time before a promotion to that grade came through. He now had what the chief described as a problem-solver role, reporting to him, and that meant trips around Europe.
Which was what brought him to Paris, where the local MI6 station had got itself into a flap over all the intelligence it was receiving from different sources at the Quai d’Orsay.
This was all to do with a proposal from the Soviet foreign minister, or People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, to give him his proper title, Maxim Litvinov. Litvinov was proposing a pact between the USSR, France and the United Kingdom in the face of the threat from Nazi Germany. For the time being, Litvinov had Stalin’s ear, but there were those in Moscow who disliked Litvinov and disliked his plan even more. And the British weren’t keen on the plan either because they didn’t trust the Soviets but there was more support for it in the Quai d’Orsay – the French Foreign Ministry – and this was the reason for the flap at Paris Station.
It seemed that they didn’t know what to make of all the intelligence they were getting – the Quai d’Orsay was notorious for leaking like a sieve – and much of it was conflicting and there was a source in the private office of Bonnet, the French foreign minister, which said he was well disposed towards the proposed pact, but another source said he was minded to take the lead of the British and…
It took him a few days to make heads or tails of what was going on but finally he was making some progress, certainly enough to please the chief, and now it was a pleasant Wednesday afternoon and he’d just left the embassy on rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré and was reflecting that there really was nowhere nicer to be than Paris in the spring when he became aware a man had fallen in step with him.
‘Archie?’
Emil looked every inch the Parisian gentleman as he gently guided him across the road towards Avenue de Messine and into a small bistro, where the maître d’ pointed to the stairs and followed them up to unlock a door into what appeared to be his office. He noticed that Emil was wearing what looked like the same cream suit with a blue-and-white-striped shirt and dark tie he’d worn when he’d first met him in Paris, nearly eight years before.
‘I need to debrief you: I want to know everything you’ve been dealing with here in Paris. I presume it’s to do with Litvinov’s plan?’
‘It is.’
‘But first, I have a question. When did you last see Osip?’
‘Five… six weeks ago?’
‘Does it strike you that was an unusually long gap?’
‘He said it might be a few weeks before we met again. I wondered if he’d gone back to Moscow, possibly.’
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘That things were not good.’
‘Did he elaborate?’
‘No, but then Osip never was one for elaboration.’
‘The OMS no longer exists. You are now an agent for the NKVD, in which I am a senior officer. Comrade Nikolai Vasilyevich who you met in Moscow is now also with the NKVD. As far as you’re concerned, you are to carry on as before. The view in Moscow is that your intelligence has been very good, but I think you will find that the NKVD is a more demanding master; it has higher expectations. Your controller in London will be our head of station there, Ivan Alexandrovich Morozov. I presume you’ve heard of him?’
‘Of course. But what about Osip?’
Emil raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips. ‘Osip is no longer with us.’
There was a long pause. Archie knew better than to ask Emil what that meant because he had a perfectly good idea. It was something of a relief, if he was honest.
‘And these changes in Moscow, Emil, do I need to know what—’
‘You don’t need to know anything, Archie, but let me say this: for societies to function effectively, without descending into anarchy and chaos, they need to have people in power to control them. And every so often, there needs to be a change of power. The marginal difference between your society and mine is that in the West you have the charade of elections to effect a change in power. In the Soviet Union, we also experience periodic changes of power, but with us it is a matter of some organisations falling out of favour and individuals being no longer regarded as useful. It is a more efficient way of bringing about a change in power. These changes are still taking place, Archie; indeed, it is in connection with them that I need to know more about what the British and French views are on Litvinov’s proposal. So, if you can—’
‘Can I just ask one more question? There was another agent Osip was looking after. Osip said more than once that he wished me to get involved with him, whatever that meant.’
‘As far as you’re concerned, Archie, that agent is also no longer with us.’
