by Tom Bower
On New Year's Day 1968, five typists at a heating factory in Surbiton, Surrey pledged themselves to work an extra half-hour every day for no pay as a real contribution to rectifying the country's perilous economy. On 3 January, The Times carried a full-page advertisement from an advertising agency thanking the girls for the idea of an 'I'm Backing Britain' campaign. For a nation shivering in anticipation of economic decline, the typists' gesture was seized upon by the newspapers as a 'sunrise' issue for their readers. Editors and journalists were delighted to have a new and positive story in contrast to the daily diet of economic gloom. But eight days after the campaign had started, Maxwell decided that it was in danger of faltering because there was nothing new to report and because its new government-appointed sponsors, the Industrial Society, had adopted a moderate and unflamboyant style. Maxwell stepped in with a competing campaign and later told the Society's director, 'The trouble with you is you're all trying to be virgins - whiter than white. I've succeeded in raping you all along.' He would also tell the journalist Nicholas Tomalin that he had thought of the idea at the same time as the Surbiton girls: 'That's the thing about me. I'm quick off the mark.'
In the House of Commons, Maxwell launched the 'Think British - Buy British' campaign. The launch guaranteed him appearances on that night's television and brought an invitation to meet David Frost, who was then basking in glory as the nation's pre-eminent satirist. Accompanied by a few trade unionists and employers, Maxwell breakfasted two days later with Frost and was invited with his supporters to present their views to the nation that weekend. Over the next few days the publicity was terrific and the names he collected seemed to covet public association with the campaign. Among them were the businessmen Joe Hyman, Sir Max Aitken, Sir Billy Butlin, Bernard Delfont, Lord Thomson and Arnold Weinstock, and the trade unionist Frank Cousins, an admirer of Maxwell's, who withstood the complaints of others in the Labour movement that it was a 'pure gimmick'. That Saturday night, Maxwell earnestly explained to the nation that everyone should 'think before buying. Buy the home product or service first whenever you can even if it means buying less for a time.' Minutes after he finished, his associate Joe Hyman, the chairman of the textile manufacturer Viyella, exploded that he could not approve of anything 'so stupid which would provoke a trade war'. Maxwell was undaunted by the evident split. 'I move fast,' he told Tomalin. 'It is both efficient and politic. When there's an object in my way I smash it down, or race around it. And I move so fast that when people put bombs on my road I'm a hundred yards before they explode [sic].’
Maxwell now wanted to amalgamate with the Industrial Society, but the latter refused since he seemed to want to entrust them with the work while he took the credit. So Maxwell, with the help of an advertising agency, launched his own campaign with a poster headed 'Sell British - Help Britain - Help Yourself. Using the names of his famous supporters, the newspaper advertisements listed '100 uncranky ways you can help Britain'. It included the suggestion that children should not drink their free school milk. When it appeared on 7 February, the campaign fell apart. None of the famous had been consulted by Maxwell and they had not given their approval. Weinstock called the advertisement 'incredibly silly' and Delfont said, 'I'm amazed. It shows what happens when you let people run amok.' Delfont wanted his name taken off: 'It's a pity such a good idea has started off so badly.' Overnight, Maxwell became a target for ridicule, especially when he justified printing Pergamon's books and journals in eastern Europe because 'it's cheaper'. He did not understand his inconsistency but blamed 'Britain's "professional knockers" who just turned their attention from Britain and directed it against me'. When he wrapped up the campaign in March he sat alone, but he claimed nonetheless that the response had been 'phenomenal'. The campaign had amounted to a recorded telephone message urging support for Britain; the collection of signatures for a petition; the establishment of community baby-sitting groups; and the creation of a 'clearing house' for complaints about shoddy British products and services. 'Much has been achieved,' said Maxwell. 'It needed just one more heave' - but unfortunately he would not be able to take the campaign through to its completion because of pressure of other work.
The campaign's only discernible achievement was to turn Maxwell, courtesy of television, into a nationally recognised personality. Since there is little Fleet Street enjoys more than a Labour politician who can be lampooned, a bevy of defamatory tales began circulating. His stock fell. When a newspaper reported that amid the strikes and chaos the socialist supporter of the 'I'm Backing Britain' campaign had, despite all the government's currency controls, spent a holiday on the luxury yacht Shemara, owned by Sir Bernard Docker, his stock sank still further: one week's charter cost more than the average Briton's annual wage. So, by the time Maxwell returned from his luxury cruise, his political career had passed its peak.
The sapping of his political life in Britain had not been noticed in Moscow. On the contrary, having awarded Maxwell such privileged status in Russia, the communists ignored any suggestion that their trading partner's importance could diminish.
Maxwell was always ebullient on his journeys to the Soviet Union. He felt important in a country which he liked. As he set off on yet another business trip to Russia during the last week of May 1968, there was every reason for him to believe that it would follow the normal course. But on that occasion, his visa application in London had been specially noted by the KGB, triggering a succession of consultations and conspiracies. What follows is an account given by Soviet intelligence officers.
In retrospect, it is obvious that planning the operation must have started months before but the first indication beyond the KGB's headquarters in the Lubyanka occurred on 15 May 1968.
The KGB's emissary was called Colonel Alexandre Yevgenovich Koinkov. His approach was to Zaloman Levitsky*, an officer
* Pseudonym, although real name is known to author.
of the GRU, the Soviet military intelligence service which is a parallel organisation of the KGB. The two agencies enjoyed an uneasy relationship and co-operation between them was unusual but as Koinkov explained, Levitsky possessed special qualities which the KGB had sought in vain among its own ranks. Firstly, Levitsky was Jewish and the KGB had purged its own ranks of all Jews other than in the research department; secondly, he spoke fluent English; and thirdly, Levitsky had operated undercover in the west and understood a capitalist's mentality.
When the two met, Koinkov extracted an oath of silence from Levitsky. The GRU officer was not to reveal to his own service that he had been in contact with the KGB. That formality completed, Koinkov explained that their target was a British businessman and politician. No name was mentioned. In Berlin after the war, Koinkov continued, the Briton had signed an undertaking to help the KGB if required and the agency now needed his services. 'We believe that he is planning to visit Russia,' Koinkov continued. 'We will contact you just before he arrives.' The second meeting occurred on 21 May. In a detailed conversation, Koinkov revealed that the target was Robert Maxwell who was expected to arrive later that week. He would be flying from Moscow to Minsk and Levitsky was to travel on the same aeroplane. 'In the plane, you are to attract his attention,' said Koinkov, 'but nothing more.'
On arrival, continued Koinkov, Maxwell would be met by a delegation who would take him to Minsk's Intourist hotel. Levitsky would be booked into the same hotel. The point of contact was to be the following morning. 'Maxwell eats breakfast in the dining room,' said Koinkov. 'You will come in after he has started eating. We will ensure that all the tables are full and only the one next to Maxwell is free. Since your face should be familiar, he is certain to ask you to sit with him.'
On 28 May, Levitsky was seated on Aeroflot flight number 607 which departed Moscow's Sheremetevo airport at 8 a.m. Two rows behind the intelligence officer sat Maxwell reading English newspapers. Twenty minutes after take-off, Levitsky got up and approached Maxwell, speaking fluent English with a
slight American accent: 'Could I
borrow one of your papers?' Maxwell: 'Are you English or American?' Levitsky: 'Neither.'
Maxwell: 'But you speak perfect English.' Levitsky: 'I teach English.'
Ten minutes before landing, Levitsky returned the newspapers to Maxwell. They smiled and parted. Levitsky, who lost sight of Maxwell inside the airport building, was met by three KGB officers from the Minsk headquarters who drove him to the hotel.
The following morning, Levitsky arrived in the dining room. As predicted, Maxwell was seated alone and seeing his travelling companion at the entrance waved. Feigning to ignore him, Levitsky began his forlorn search for a table. From the corner of his eye he could see Maxwell getting up and walking towards him. 'Good morning,' greeted Maxwell, 'what a surprise. Why don't you join me?' Levitsky played coy but agreed.
Their conversation ranged across a wide span of topics until Maxwell asked, 'Are you Jewish?' Their relationship warmed. Towards the end, Levitsky said: 'Look you've been very kind, can I invite you for dinner tonight?' They agreed to meet at 5 p.m.
They ate in a small annexe that night. It was just after they had toasted each other with the first vodka that Levitsky introduced himself: ‘I want you to know that I am a colonel of the KGB.' Maxwell, according to Levitsky, showed no visible reaction. 'You once agreed to help us and the moment has come where we would like your assistance.' According to Levitsky, Maxwell replied, 'With pleasure.' Levitsky continued, 'When you return to Moscow, you will receive a phone call. We would like you to meet chairman Andropov.'
Yuri Andropov, appointed chairman of the KGB the previous year, would lead the organisation until he became the country's leader in 1982. In the west he is regarded as probably the most intelligent and perceptive chairman in the KGB's history and was one who eventually understood the need for reform. Levitsky's statement provoked only a nod from Maxwell and the two continued their meal speaking about other topics. Levitsky flew back to Moscow the following day. Maxwell followed two days later.
The phone call was made by Koinkov on the morning of 3 June. Koinkov collected Maxwell and introduced the British businessman and politician to one of Andropov's aides. Maxwell was escorted to meet Andropov. The only other person present was a male interpreter.
After that meeting, Maxwell was driven to the Hotel Soviet-skaya, off Gorky street, where he ate lunch with Koinkov and Levitsky. The GRU officer recalls Koinkov saying, 'Don't worry, we won't ask you to do anything trivial. It will be important.' Maxwell seemed unruffled and subsequently returned to Britain.
The results of that approach are contained in Maxwell's KGB file to which only three officials have the automatic right of access: the Soviet president Mikhail Gorbachov; the KGB's chairman; and the head of the first directorate, the KGB's foreign intelligence section which is the equivalent of M.I.6 or the CIA.
Maxwell, it must be said, has never been accused or even suspected of any disloyalty to Britain. On the contrary, his passion for his adopted nation was occasionally embarrassing in its unequivocal intensity. There is no evidence that his expressions of patriotism were not genuine. But Maxwell was the archetypal opportunist and would have seen the advantages of performing a service which was not illegal. Nevertheless, at this stage, one can only speculate about the services which Andropov requested.
1968 was a year of extreme turbulence. The aftermath of the Six Day war in the Middle East, the war in Vietnam and the open struggle between the two ideologies in Africa generated waves of uncertainty and conspiracy theories in both Moscow and Washington. No group was more influenced by that turbulence than the postwar generation of students whose demonstrations and advocacy of revolution were unsettling and even threatening to all governments. The constant fear of a super power confrontation which might escalate to nuclear war was only contained by an understanding called detente - an agreement between Washington and Moscow that the Yalta agreement which had firmly established the demarcation line of influence and control by the two powers in Europe in 1945 should not be challenged.
It was in the midst of that extraordinary year, that some members of the Czech communist party, supported by anti-communist nationalists, began successfully to liberalise the Stalinist legacy which had been imposed upon their country. In Moscow, the 'Prague Spring' aroused fears that Soviet control might be effectively undermined. An article in Pravda in July blamed the CIA for inspiring the 'ideological sabotage' of Czechoslovakia.
By then, Leonid Brezhnev had already decided to intervene but properly anticipated the consequences upon the Soviet Union's relations with western countries. The danger was that the west might not remain a passive spectator as occurred when the Soviets crushed the Hungarian revolt in 1956. Russia needed friends in the west who would advocate the need to preserve peace despite the aggression.
On the night of 20-21 August, the Warsaw Pact armies invaded Czechoslovakia. The outcry in the west was vociferous and the clamour for a military response to save the Czechs was deafening. In Britain, Harold Wilson, the prime minister, bowed to demands that Parliament should be recalled from the summer break for a special debate.
On 26 August, MPs returned from all over the world to discuss the 'rape of Czechoslovakia', one of those benchmark events by which history is recounted. Maxwell flew back from his luxury cruise in the Mediterranean to speak in that debate. His political career, as previously noted, was by then uncertain. Yet his contribution to that debate was noteworthy. It was the single moment when he finally held the attention of all politicians in the Commons chamber.
Over the previous four years, the sight of Maxwell rising to speak in the intimate atmosphere had increasingly provoked sniggers and sighs, but on this day everyone was quiet. 'As is well known,' he began, ‘I was born in Czechoslovakia. ... I remember well the betrayal that I, though very young, and the whole nation of Czechoslovakia felt at being let down by
Great Britain and France at Munich. . . .' To rapt attention, he outlined his escape and his decision to come to Britain, because 'when the chips were down, Britain was willing to stand against Hitler alone'. His advice was measured and moderate, and surprised the Tories. The government should take no reprisals which would disturb detente but should leave it to individuals to cancel their contacts with the Soviets to show their disapproval. It was a speech which moved the House. Advocating detente, despite the shocking events, seemed at the time a mature and reasoned argument. The question is what motivated him to propose a policy which accorded with Moscow's?
By 1968, Maxwell had certainly made an indelible mark in the Commons, but not in quite the way he had intended. His weaknesses and strengths were tellingly revealed in a sympathetic profile written by David Wood, the respected political editor of The Times, which perfectly encompassed the vices and virtues of the man. Wood had been invited to meet Maxwell and his family at the mansion in Oxford and was impressed by the strong bonds which united the large clan. Surrounded by affection and respect, Wood had difficulty in equating the brave refugee with the much maligned public persona.
During the course of their interview, Wood asked Maxwell about his early years and faithfully reported the anomalous answer: 'His own account of his christening as Ian Robert Maxwell is typical of the man. At the end of the war the army wanted to send him to Berlin on a mission and the officer who briefed him said that he had better find a respectable name to go with. Maxwell had no suggestions to offer. "Then you'll be a Scotsman with my family name," said the officer.' This was an example of Maxwell's romanticising which Wood recorded faithfully. Maxwell's secondment to the Control Commission was not 'a mission' but a regular transfer; in any case, when he received his MC in January 1944 he was already called Maxwell. Exaggeration is one of Maxwell's vices and Wood identified the others which had by then sabotaged his political ambitions.
Robert Maxwell swept into the House . . . and gave every impression to the old hands that he was mounting a takeover bid for the place, lock, stock and barrel. He was loud and thrusting and probably no M.P. came new to Westmin
ster was so little overawed by the surroundings. So far as there was a takeover bid intended Mr Maxwell has failed. In the House he is still regarded as a maverick, a millionaire of unusual antecedents who obviously knows how to be a business tycoon but who will never understand the art of winning men.
Probably Maxwell did not, even in private, acknowledge the accuracy of Wood's summary, but in the midst of his next commercial sortie he effectively admitted its implications. While his bid for power in Parliament was failing, he was simultaneously undertaking a substantial expansion of his business empire. In October 1968, he thought that he had finally secured a power-base in Fleet Street. He announced a bid for the News of the World and told inquirers that, if he was successful, he would resign his parliamentary seat. 'The first we knew about that', said Frank After, the party official in Buckinghamshire, 'was when we read it in the papers.' Maxwell the aspiring tycoon, rather than Maxwell the politician, dominates the remainder of this story.
