by Nick Elliott
***
A bright, breezy February morning in the second week of the Byblos safe house sessions. A routine had been established: they would meet for breakfast at eight, prepared by either Hardy or Anderson himself. Anderson had toyed with the idea of employing the elderly couple who owned the villa to perform domestic chores but in the end decided against it. They’d been vetted by the Beirut station but on discussing it with Hardy they’d both decided not to risk having anyone else in the house, vetted or not. By nine-thirty they’d be seated at the dining room table and the questioning would begin. They hadn’t mentioned the recording devices hidden around the house which had been installed before their arrival, and Valdis Ozols hadn’t asked whether he was being monitored.
Anderson looked across the table at the Latvian. He was, he thought, physically at least, not unlike himself: not as tall, but dark-haired, skinny, with a pallid complexion and a high forehead – even the same round-framed glasses. At first he’d been jumpy and wary. But now he’d had time to get used to what was happening to him, he was relaxed and a quiet air of confidence had replaced the edginess.
Much of what Valdis divulged was already known to them, but not all. Anderson had made the initial overtures to the KGB Beirut station chief, proposing that it would be better for all concerned, including Philby himself, if he were settled in some obscure Moscow suburb rather than incarcerated in London’s Wormwood Scrubs prison where the British media could keep the spotlight on him with speculation as to every detail of his life inside. Better to hide him away somewhere far from England. And after consultation with Moscow, this was what had been agreed. What Anderson hadn’t known and Valdis now revealed, was that Philby’s KGB masters had made it clear to him that if he refused the move to Moscow, he might well face a sticky end there in Beirut courtesy of a KGB hit squad. The last thing the Soviets wanted was Philby revealing everything he knew of KGB methods and operations to British Intelligence beyond that which he might already have told Anderson. Should that happen, or even look as if it might, then he would need to be silenced for good. All this Valdis had learned in the senior officers’ mess on board the Dolmatova: loose talk in the days and nights while the ship had been working cargo in Beirut’s port and awaiting their British passenger.
These revelations had astounded Anderson. Learning that Valdis had had the ear of senior intelligence officers on board the Dolmatova presented the opportunity of questioning the young Latvian further as to the reality of life on a Soviet merchant vessel engaged in covert intelligence operations: a spy ship. And Valdis had been only too happy to tell of his own role as a political officer on the ships of Morflot, the overarching, state-controlled fleet management entity which, besides controlling well over half of the country’s imports and exports, played a vital support role to Soviet naval operations. This was a subject of particular interest to Anderson. There were over a thousand vessels under the Soviet flag including those of satellite states such as Latvia. The ships’ political officers were not directly employed by either the GRU – the Soviet military intelligence organisation – or by the KGB. They were employees of Morflot. But it was generally accepted by Britain’s own Naval Intelligence and by the Americans too, that the GRU had access to Morflot’s reports and enjoyed considerable influence over its activities. Not only this, but it also gave clues as to the working relationship between the KGB and the GRU, often judged to be a hostile one.
Ostensibly the political officer’s role was to stimulate and maintain party morale and discipline on board, and to detect and report any signs of dissent. In such matters their authority exceeded that of the ship’s captain. The crews were normally granted shore leave, even in such centres of capitalist decadence as Hong Kong, Hamburg or New York, hence the need for some faithful party comrade to keep an eye on their activities. Furthermore, the political officers were expected to serve as the GRU’s eyes and ears in the ports where the ships called. How many more of Valdis Ozols’ persuasion were there? Disillusioned young men sailing the high seas and under orders to nose around the world’s commercial ports on behalf of their masters back in Moscow? Imagine, mused Anderson, if we could identify and recruit such officers. It would be a long-term project of course, but one worth pursuing, not only in terms of the intelligence harvest it would reap, but for the effect it would have of undermining the state’s authority. When he’d put it to Valdis he’d been highly receptive to the idea too; anything to destabilise the apparatus of the Soviet state towards which he harboured such contempt.
But while all this was useful, Anderson had to proceed with caution. British Naval Intelligence had tipped off their counterparts in MI6 that the young political officer of the Dolmatova had form, and this was well worth exploring further. The previous year, the Dolmatova had been one of a fleet of ships engaged in Operation Anadyr and, as Peter Hardy brought in a fresh jug of coffee, it was this part of the story that Anderson now wanted to broach.
Chapter 3
Byblos, Lebanon
February 1963
Operation Anadyr: what didn’t they know, these British? Their sources must be good, very good, Valdis told himself. It had all happened just the previous year. And he remembered every detail as if it were yesterday.
The Dolmatova, his ship then, as it had been up until a fortnight ago, had laid alongside in the Latvian port of Liepaya for several weeks preparing for the voyage. Neither her crew nor the troops, who were embarking by the dozen, had had any clear idea what their destination was, never mind the real purpose of the voyage. The whole port was locked down from the outside world with guards posted at all gates to prevent unauthorised personnel leaving or entering. ‘A strategic exercise in the far north of the USSR’ was all they were told. Rumours were they’d be heading for the island of Novaya Zemlya. Among the equipment being loaded were skis, boots and fleece-lined parkas. And then there were the SS-4 missiles and their launchers stowed in the holds with tractors, harvesters and other agricultural equipment lashed down on the deck above for reasons which could only be guessed at. Combine harvesters to the Arctic? Eventually they’d sailed from the Baltic and out into the North Sea. From there they headed around the north coast of Scotland and into the Atlantic, which was when Valdis was called up to the captain’s cabin where, along with other senior officers, he was told a little of what was going on.
‘We are on course for the Caribbean,’ announced the skipper. ‘Cuba to deliver the troops and the missiles too. Do not ask questions. I will either not know or not be permitted to give you the answers.’ And that had been that.
Officially, interaction between the ship’s crew and the troops was not allowed, but conditions where the troops were housed became almost unbearable as they approached the tropics and the temperature below decks approached 50 degrees centigrade during the day. So the crew would do what they could to alleviate the soldiers’ torment by hosing them down from above and permitting them out on deck for short periods outside the approved times. But as they grew closer to their destination, these concessions were terminated to hide them from the prying eyes of the US Air Force flying overhead. Eventually, after eighteen days at sea, they’d reached the port of Mariel, thirty miles west of Havana. And it was here that Valdis had run into trouble.
How, Valdis asked himself now, could the British have learned what had happened? They must have good agents in Cuba. Or was it the Americans? Or most likely, dissident Cuban groups? Whoever it was, the story had got back to Anderson and here he was in Lebanon being interrogated about it.
As with most cases of seafarers getting into trouble in port, it was a combination of alcohol and sex. Normally it was Valdis who would be responsible for sorting out such matters, but this time he himself had become the problem. A quiet bar away from the port, one too many Saoco cocktails and the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. It was love, or infatuation, or both, inducing a kind of madness that took hold at first sight, and for the first time in his life. They’d spent the nig
ht together in a little room which faced onto a dirt track beyond which was the ocean. As he recounted it to the two British agents, every detail came flooding back to him – vividly, painfully. Delfina had not been a bar girl, she was a student. She’d been in the bar with friends. They’d got talking and one thing had led to another. She had told him of her family. Her father was a lawyer and her mother a teacher. Before the revolution they had been members of the prosperous middle classes, but that had all changed after 1959 and her parents deeply resented how their livelihoods had been affected by the Communist regime. Delfina though had been more accepting of the situation and had decided to follow her mother’s profession. She was studying to be a teacher.
‘Valdis! You alright old chap?’ It was Anderson, interrupting his thoughts.
‘Yes, I am alright,’ he replied irritably. ‘What is it you want to know? How many times we made love?’
‘No, no, no, of course not. Just relax. Let’s take a break shall we?’
‘What? To go out do you mean? Is that safe?’
‘Don’t worry. We have our own people watching. We are alerted to anything suspicious.’
Valdis didn’t seem reassured. Anderson’s almost casual attitude was beginning to make him nervous. He had yet to learn that it was a carefully cultivated and typically British veneer. But the excursion had an ulterior motive. Both MI6 men would be keeping their eyes skinned for any sign they were being followed. They left the safe house and walked through winding streets lined with restaurants and bars just beginning to open for the lunchtime trade. Their destination was the Citadel, a twelfth-century Crusader castle still largely intact and the source of many historical facts and legends set in what was claimed to be the world’s oldest city. Here Hardy was in his element, acting as tour guide as they climbed amid the ruins and ramparts. They used the area not just to watch for followers, their own people as well as KGB, but to give Valdis a sense for what was to come. They moved on into the Temple of Baalat Gebal, and to a row of royal tombs cut in vertical shafts deep into the rock, dating back to the second millennium BC and including that of King Ahiram which bore the sinister inscription: ‘Warning here. Thy death is below.’ Ominous, thought Anderson and they returned to the house. Hardy had spotted one of his colleagues from the Beirut office but there had been no sign of the KGB – not that they’d detected.
Hardy began preparing lunch. The old couple who owned the place, Bachir and Elissa, were Maronite Christians. Hardy knew them well and had used their home as a safe house on previous occasions. Now they called to deliver groceries and wine, greeting him sociably and asking if all was well. They chatted and Hardy placed an order for a few items he needed. Hardy liked to cook. It left Anderson and Valdis to talk outside in the garden together. Such a device could break down defences put up by the presence of two interrogators questioning one subject. But since working and cohabiting with Anderson he’d had another reason to want to cook: Anderson was no good at it. In fact, he was barely a cook at all, claiming his signature dish as poached eggs and beans on toast, and even this would often result in burnt toast and the eggs set solid. When Hardy’s chicken fatteh was ready, he called them in. Anderson poured wine and they ate.
But Valdis remained withdrawn. They’d intruded into an intimate corner of his heart, of his secret memories, and he resented it. The truth was he still desperately missed his Cuban girl. What he didn’t tell them was not only did he still love Delfina, but that she had been his first lover. The consequences of their illicit night together had almost been disastrous. He’d returned to the ship the following afternoon. His position was such that the captain could not challenge him directly about his absence and Valdis had cooked up a story about shadowing a group of young crewmembers who he’d seen talking to local men in the bar, before leaving with them. He’d thought the encounter was suspicious so had kept a watch on them all night. They’d been playing poker and drinking heavily. In the end they’d gone off with a group of girls the local men had found for them. Valdis had decided it was his duty to protect them should they fall into harm’s way. But political officers were often the least popular sailors on the ship and his story was not corroborated by the sailors themselves. It was his word against theirs, but the captain didn’t believe Valdis’s story either and reported him to the Morflot officer already stationed in Mariel. On his return to Latvia he’d been signed off the ship and was promptly ordered to report to Morflot’s head office in Moscow, where a team of GRU officers subjected him to a three-day grilling. Valdis had broken on the second day and told them what had really happened. They’d tried to establish the identity of the girl but Valdis had kept that to himself. In the end he’d got away with a severe reprimand and a month’s pay docked. If it had happened anywhere else the matter might have been dealt with more leniently, but this wasn’t anywhere else. It was Cuba.
Valdis worried now that distrust might have formed in the minds of his British interrogators. So he pulled out a dog-eared black and white photograph from his wallet and passed it across the table. Anderson looked at it, then at Valdis. ‘She’s beautiful,’ Anderson muttered quietly. ‘I do apologise if you thought we were doubting you.’
Valdis barely heard him. His mind had drifted back to Cuba: the warmth and sunshine, the luxuriant tropical greenery, the light-hearted, fun-loving people, and that night with Delfina. One day, he thought.
But the seeds of something else had been sown in Cuba; something which for Anderson was far more interesting than a fling with a pretty local girl. As he had watched the crated missiles being unloaded and trucked away from the port for further assembly, for the first time Valdis had begun to think of the consequences of what he was a part of. Now, at this dining-room table many months later, he spoke, his voice harsh with the strength of his feelings.
‘That night, after we had made love, I told Delfina of my fears. Of missiles we had brought to her country. I had seen the cargo we were carrying and I knew what it could do to her and her family, and to humanity. We had no right to be doing this. I was angry and I told her then what I had to do with my life. And that is why I knew that sooner or later I would need to be talking to someone like you, having these conversations.’
All this was a huge relief to Anderson. The report he’d received from London was quite different from the account Valdis was now giving. According to the report, his absence from the ship in Cuba had never been explained and it was thought he might have been engaged in some covert operation that would need to be clarified. Instead, it seemed, it had been a tryst between two lovers that had led the young seafarer to make a decision that would alter the course of his life. It was a credible explanation that added to the picture he was building up of the man. Anderson had spent half his life trying to make sense of people’s actions and motivations, and build judgements based on that. He was as certain as he could be now that Valdis was telling the truth about the lost night in Cuba. And he was equally convinced of the man’s determination to betray the system that he so detested.
The debriefing was completed late the following day. Now Anderson would turn to what was just as important, if not more so: the briefing and the construction of a plausible legend placing Valdis in a position whereby he could safely gather and convey useful intelligence back to London, while avoiding the suspicions of his masters. The operation would start with delivering Valdis into the arms of the GRU. There was no sense in pretending that he had simply missed the ship’s sailing from Beirut and gone AWOL in Lebanon for two weeks. Neither the KGB nor the GRU would swallow that. If the deception were to work, there had to be at least some truth to it. Yes, he’d been abducted, but no, he had not been turned.
The answer was not long in presenting itself: a spy swap. There was never a shortage of candidates for this kind of trade, but London had already been working on a particular exchange that would see the British Council teacher, Karl Thompson, returned safely to his home in England. Thompson had been arrested in Warsaw two years previous
ly and convicted on various espionage charges, including inciting his Polish students to foment unrest among the population. He’d been tried in Moscow, sentenced to twelve years and incarcerated first in Lubyanka before being transferred to a lunatic asylum somewhere east of the Urals where he had reportedly suffered beatings and other forms of mistreatment. His health had deteriorated to the point that the British government was under rising pressure from his family, and from Amnesty International and other human rights organisations, to secure his release.
Now in return, the Soviets would get Valdis Ozols back. Anderson liked the idea, not least because it would tighten Valdis’s legend of the unwilling victim of a kidnapping by MI6. It was just a matter of arranging the exchange, a sensitive task at any time. But what worried him more was the treatment Valdis would have to suffer once in the pitiless hands of the GRU, who lacked the subtlety and finesse of their more sophisticated cousins in the KGB and who would want to test his cover to breaking point. The GRU being a part of the Soviet military apparatus had bred this culture, Anderson knew, and now, in addition, he began to worry that the GRU’s reputation for clumsiness would increase the risk of the exchange going awry.
‘No, don’t worry,’ Valdis had assured him. ‘I know the GRU. I know how they think. Better them than those clever KGB bastards.’
The stratagem was simple. The Soviets had to retrieve Valdis and believe without doubt that he had not been turned; that he had remained loyal to the Soviet state throughout his incarceration and had resisted all the Brits’ efforts to seduce him into a life of treachery. They both knew that however convincingly he proclaimed this falsehood, he would still have to endure days, if not weeks, of penetrating interrogation. He would have to rely on the trail of deception laid down by Anderson and his people, and on his own dogged resolve to deny all the accusations that might be levelled against him.
