The Swiss Spy

by Alex Gerlis

  Henry nodded.

  ‘So dealing with them is a priority for our service.’

  Henry nodded again: of course.

  A long silence followed, during which Viktor removed his jacket, loosened his tie and looked at Henry in a quizzical manner, as if expecting him to say something. Henry shifted in his chair, unsure of how to react.

  ‘This is where you are going to perform a vital role for the Service, synok.’

  ***

  Henry Hunter spent the first two weeks of July 1931 in a large house on the outskirts of Neuchâtel, overlooking the lake. He had been told to expect to be away from Geneva for at least a month, possibly a good deal longer. As far as his mother and step-father were concerned, the travel agency he’d been working for had acquired a new branch in St Gallen and, as Henry spoke good Swiss-German, he was being sent there for a while.

  Viktor accompanied Henry to the house and remained there for the first two days. Peter, the German who had taken him to Hamburg for his training the previous year was also present. For two weeks, Peter helped Henry assume a new identity. Just before the end of the fortnight in Neuchâtel, Viktor returned and after a couple more days, he finally satisfied himself Henry had now become William Jarvis.

  According to his much-used British passport, William Jarvis had been born in Norwich and was, at 26, a few years older than Henry. After graduating from Cambridge, Jarvis had become a teacher and had moved to Switzerland for a year thanks to a legacy from a recently deceased and much-loved uncle. His aim was to travel and do some occasional teaching, should the opportunity arise.

  That opportunity happily arose in Interlaken.

  ‘They’ve been advertising for an English tutor on and off for weeks: they’ll be delighted a proper Englishman who also happens to be a teacher applies,’ Viktor had told him.

  ‘But I’m not a teacher!’

  ‘You don’t need to be. They want someone to improve their children’s conversational English, that’s all.’

  The night before Henry travelled to Interlaken, Viktor had given him his final briefing.

  ‘Anatoly Mikhailovich Yevtushenko.’ The three of them were sat around a finely polished table in the dining room near Neuchâtel and Viktor had almost ceremonially placed a photograph of a distinguished looking man in front of Henry. ‘Anatoly Mikhailovich Yevtushenko, born Kazan in 1884: bourgeois family, but became active in socialist politics when he was at university in Moscow. He became a lawyer and was one of the very early members of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party, which you may or may not know was the forerunner of the Communist Party. He was active in the October Revolution and began to rise through the ranks of the Party. However, in around 1923 or 1924, he became a confidant of Trotsky and since then the two have become close. In 1924 Yevtushenko took up a position in the finance department of the Party. In early 1928, not long after Trotsky was sent on internal exile, Yevtushenko and his family disappeared while on holiday in Crimea. We lost track of them, but a few months ago we discovered that they were living in Interlaken.’

  Viktor nodded at Peter, who opened a folder and produced a series of photographs that he laid out in front of Henry as if dealing from a deck of cards.

  ‘This is Yevtushenko’s wife, Tatyana Dmitriyevna,’ said Peter. ‘We understand she suffers from a debilitating lung condition, which may well be the reason why they are living in Interlaken. This is Rozalia Anatolyevna, she is 17. Nadezhda Anatolyevna is 14 and this is the son, Nikolai Anatolyevich. He is 11.’

  ‘And that’s their house?’

  ‘Indeed. A very fine house as you can see, but also a very secure one. This wall runs all around it and is 12 feet high. It is not altogether unusual for houses to have such security in Switzerland: people like their privacy and Interlaken is a wealthy town.’

  Viktor moved the photographs away from Henry. He wanted him to concentrate on what he was about to say. ‘We have been watching Yevtushenko very closely. We have come to the conclusion he is an important source of finance for Trotsky and his movement, something the Service has long suspected. We know now that in the few months before he escaped from the Soviet Union, Yevtushenko channelled large sums of money from Moscow into Swiss bank accounts. Only he has access to them. We don’t know exactly how much money is in these accounts, but we believe it could well be in the region of eight hundred million Swiss Francs. As well as the family, these three men live in the house – Peter…’

  The German produced a series of photos, blurred shots of three different men. ‘They are guards, all Russians. They stay in the house and vet whoever comes in or even approaches it. A local woman and her daughter act as housekeepers: they arrive early in the morning and do the cleaning, cooking and shopping. They leave in the middle of the afternoon. The family very rarely leave the house and, when they do, they are always accompanied by a guard.’

  Viktor took over speaking now. ‘Approximately once a fortnight, Yevtushenko leaves the house and travels first to Bern and then to Zürich. He always leaves early in the morning and arrives back late in the evening. And he’s always accompanied on these trips by two of the guards. We know that in Bern he visits the Swiss Volksbank and in Zürich he goes to the Union Bank then to the Eidgenössische Bank. Our assumption is that, once there, he’s able to transfer money from the accounts he controls to those of Trotsky’s supporters around Europe or even to Trotsky himself. Our aim is very simple: that money was stolen from the Party and we want it back. In the process, we can starve Trotsky of the funds that are keeping his miserable movement going.’

  ‘And my role is…?’ Henry sounded confused.

  ‘To become the family’s English tutor, synok, and become trusted by them. That may take weeks. Once that happens, we’ll be able to move to our next stage.’

  ‘And what does that involve?’

  ‘You’ll find out then synok’ said Viktor.

  Never question; never discuss; never hesitate.

  ***

  It had all gone according to plan, as things tended to do in Switzerland, especially when they were organised by Viktor. William Jarvis had taken the trouble to write from England to reserve a room at an inn in the centre of Interlaken. He was on the top floor with a small balcony, from which he could see Lake Thun to the west, Lake Brienz to the east, the mountains of the Jungfrau and the Grindelwald to the south, with the Harder Kulm and Emmental beyond it to the north. Henry, who now had to think of himself as William, had decided this could turn out to be a pleasant enough task.

  He waited until his second day in Interlaken before enquiring in the bookshop about the discreet sign in their window seeking an English tutor and that afternoon he telephoned the number the bookshop owner passed on to him. Two days later he walked through the town and crossed the River Aare, and there on the north bank found the house on the very edge of the rising forest. It was a perfect position, separated from neighbouring houses by trees and surrounded by a high wall, with the front gate set into it. Next to the gate was a small window. Two large men searched him after he rang the bell and he was then led through to a library

  Both Anatoly Yevtushenko and his wife Tatyana were in the room, but the interview was conducted by the husband in passable German. His wife, he explained, did not speak the language. Tatyana Yevtushenko was a thin woman, with skin so pale it was the colour of chalk and, even on a warm July day, she was dressed for winter. Anatoly Yevtushenko told William Jarvis the family had moved around Europe but had settled here in Switzerland. ‘Because of my business,’ he said, in a tone that made it clear he did not need to elaborate. For the most part, they educated the children themselves, he explained, but they did require the assistance of tutors from time to time.

  Please tell me about yourself, Mr Jarvis.

  William Jarvis remembered what Viktor had told him: tell him just enough, not too much… he will be clever, he will spot any mistakes… concentrate on how much you would enjoy tutoring his children rather than talking about yours
elf. Avoid sounding too fluent: be slightly hesitant with dates.

  Anatoly Yevtushenko spoke to his wife every so often in Russian, evidently giving her the gist of what he’d been told.

  ‘Are you interested in politics, Mr Jarvis?’

  ‘I’m afraid not sir. I do hope that isn’t a problem?’

  ‘No, not at all. And what about foreign affairs, do you follow those?’

  ‘Only what one reads in The Times sir, but I have to tell you my main interest is literature. I would rather read a good book than a newspaper!’

  And so it went on. After a brief conversation with his wife, Anatoly Yevtushenko offered William Jarvis the position of English tutor to his children. They agreed the fee and that he would come for two hours every morning. They would review his position after two weeks.

  At the end of the first week William Jarvis was summoned into Anatoly Yevtushenko’s study.

  ‘How long do you plan to stay in Interlaken for, Mr Jarvis?’

  ‘A few months, possibly. I hope to learn to ski, so I suppose I’m in the right place. It depends on whether I can find work to help pay for my stay.’

  ‘Well that’s why I’ve asked to see you. The children adore you: they absolutely insist we keep you for as long as possible. For reasons that are too complicated to explain, our life is an isolated one and my wife and I worry about the effect of that on the children. Already we can see how you’ve been able to help brighten their lives. From now on, we’d like you to spend an hour every day with each child and to stay for lunch, which will be a further opportunity for you to converse with them in English.’

  This was the routine for the next month. William Jarvis would arrive at the house at 11 o’clock every morning apart from Sunday and ring the bell on the wall. The heavy metal gates would eventually open and one of the guards would search him before another would lead him through to the library. He would spend the first hour with Nadezhda, who was by far the brightest of the three children. Nikolai would have the second hour, which was hard work as the boy completely lacked discipline, but seemed pleased to have William read simple stories to him in English. Then he and the three children would eat lunch together, speaking only English during the meal.

  After lunch, he would teach Rozalia for the final hour. Very quickly, he came to appreciate this was the part of the day he most looked forward to. At first he had seen Rozalia as little more than a child but, on her own, away from her parents and her sister and brother, she was more of a young woman. Her thick, long brown hair fell well below her shoulders and she was constantly sweeping it away from her face. Her skin wasn’t as pale as her mother’s, but she’d certainly inherited her complexion from her rather than her father. What she had got from him, though, were dark brown eyes, with an almost unblinking gaze.

  They would spend much of the time in the garden, wandering around, talking in English but more often than not slipping into German. Her German was not too bad and she did her best to ignore his attempts to speak in English. She was, Henry realised, desperately lonely. She had fled her home country and was now trapped in a house surrounded by high walls. So she confided in Mr Jarvis, as she called him. He found it hard to do other than lend a sympathetic ear and assure her if she was patient her life would change for the better. He told her about life in England and what he had seen of Europe on his travels.

  Call me Roza.

  Very well – and do call me William.

  What is a short form of William?

  Bill, I suppose – or Billy.

  Roza preferred Billy, and so she and Billy became friends. When they did read from books she would sit so close to him that their bodies touched. Roza had a habit, a mannerism even, of touching his arm and allowing her fingers to briefly hold him by the wrist. He’d noticed her doing this to the others too, so he did not imagine she meant any special affection for him, but once or twice he tried to return the gesture – placing his hand on top of hers. She would smile and wait until she had once more swept the hair from her face before gently removing her hand. He knew what Roza wanted more than anything else was companionship. William’s story was that his mother had died when he was young and his father had remarried. This struck some kind of chord with Roza, whose eyes would fill with tears when he told her about being sent to boarding school at the age of six and how his step-mother did not like him. Henry worried he may be getting too close to Roza, but then Viktor had told him to make sure that he became trusted.

  He knew that he was developing feelings for Roza, but he also knew he wasn’t in a position to do anything about them. She would never be allowed to leave the house without a guard and, at home, there were always others around. One morning, after he had been there for a month or so, the downstairs toilet was being repaired and he was told to use the bathroom upstairs, which he would normally never do. When he opened the bathroom door, he was met by the sight of Roza, who had just stepped out of the bath. Despite the steam and the fact that she was mostly covered by a towel he caught a glimpse of her breasts, smaller than he had imagined them but perfectly shaped, with locks of her dark, wet hair hanging between them. There was a brief moment when neither of them said anything or moved, then he said ‘sorry’ and swiftly shut the door before hurrying downstairs. Neither of them ever said a word about it, but that afternoon she was even friendlier towards him.

  On Sundays – the only day on which he did not go to the house – Henry would take the bus from Interlaken to Thun, where he would meet Peter in a park. They would walk while Henry would recount what had happened during the week and Peter would ask a series of questions, occasionally pausing to write something in his notebook. Once he took Henry to a small apartment above a shop in the centre of the town, where Henry was told to draw detailed plans of the house.

  In the middle of August, he arrived in Thun on a Sunday to be taken straight to the apartment by Peter. When they arrived, Viktor was waiting with three Frenchmen, who were introduced as Lucien, Claude and Jean-Marie: the conversation that followed – which lasted well into the evening – was conducted in French.

  ‘Synok: Peter tells me that sometimes you and Roza are allowed to leave the house?’ Viktor was sitting directly across a narrow table from Henry, watching him carefully. Despite the stifling August heat the Russian was wearing a heavy jacket. The three Frenchmen were lounging back in their chairs and one of them had a revolver in a shoulder holster.

  ‘Well, yes and no. Roza has a lot of spirit, she feels like a caged animal in that house, but her parents won’t allow her to go into the town, certainly not without a guard. However, behind the house is a small, private wood, just for the residents of the nearby houses. It has a fence around it.’

  Peter handed a map to Viktor, pointing to a circled area.

  ‘Here?’

  Henry picked up the map and studied it. ‘Yes, here. You can get into it from a door set in the garden wall. Her father agreed we can go for a walk in there, so long as it’s just for a few minutes and we promise not to leave the wood. The guards have the key: At first they’d come along to let us out and then in again, but now they don’t bother. I have to collect it from them and return it afterwards. I am trusted.’

  ‘And tell me synok: when do the housekeepers leave – is it still in the afternoon?’

  ‘Yes. They make the lunch then prepare the evening meal. They’re usually gone by three o’clock.’

  The Frenchmen and Peter all asked questions and Henry must have described the layout of the house a dozen times. Viktor then outlined his plan. It was clever and audacious and by the time he had finished, Henry felt quite sick.

  ***

  Two more weeks. Viktor had decided that another two weeks would help ensure William Jarvis was even more trusted by the Yevtushenkos and this was important, because if they didn’t trust him then the plan wouldn’t work. The two weeks was also important because Anatoly Yevtushenko’s last trip to Bern and Zürich had been just a few days previously. The timing had to be ri
ght.

  The agreed date was the 1st September, a Tuesday. On the Thursday before that Peter had arrived in Interlaken and rented an apartment on the east side of the town, close to Lake Brienz. Henry checked out of the inn and moved in with Peter.

  William Jarvis arrived at the house just before 11 o’clock on the Tuesday morning. By now the guards were more relaxed with him, even quite friendly. He went through to the library and had his lessons with Nadezhda and Nikolai. By the time they went into the dining room for lunch he was feeling sick with nerves and anticipation. He hardly ate anything, but no-one seemed to notice. He managed to keep the children distracted by playing ‘I spy’. After lunch he went to the guard’s room at the front of the house to collect the key. The guard who spoke the best German handed it to him, with a warning to make sure he locked it properly.

  He and Roza wandered into the garden, with Roza struggling to count to 100 in English. That was the way it worked: complete a task such as counting or naming the days of the week or months of the year and they could go into the woods as a reward. Roza became marooned in the seventies, but Henry announced that was good enough. He unlocked the garden door and they spent the rest of the hour walking. Henry kept glancing around, expecting to see people hidden amongst the trees or beyond the fence, but it was as deserted and silent as always, apart from the sound of water rushing on the Aare below them.

  ‘Are you alright Billy?’

  ‘Yes thank you Roza, why do you ask?’

  ‘You’re very quiet.’ She had switched to German now. ‘You keep looking around and you didn’t eat any lunch.’