by Tony Walker
"It's Monday. I can't deal with hangovers midweek. Anyway I have my lovely wife and babies to look after."
Rob said, "It wouldn't kill you to come with the lads. I'm sure they can cope with you having fun once in a while."
"I do have fun. I'm very domesticated. That to me is pleasure"
"Well it's your loss. Probably going to hit the Royal Bengal afterwards too."
"Sounds delightful. Curry and lager on a Monday night. Here we are anyway - Pimlico."
They got up and waited for the doors to open then made their way to street level. It was cold in Pimlico and John buttoned his suit jacket and tucked his tie in as if that would conserve heat.
Neither of them had been to the safe house before. It was in a non-descript Regency terrace. There were three stone steps up to a royal blue painted door with a brass letterbox, all of which could have done with a scrub down. There were curtains at the window so you couldn't see in and a brass bell, which Rob rang.
After a while a man in a suit opened the door. Rob and John showed him their identity cards and he smiled and let them in. He made sure he closed the door before saying. "MAGNIFICAT's in the living room at the back. I'll sit with you if you don't mind. Probably won't say anything though."
Rob offered his hand, "We haven't met. Rob Parry."
The SIS officer shook it and said, "Andrew Morton."
They all knew that wasn't his real name. They shook hands.
"Come through," he said.
MAGNIFICANT sat on a reproduction Regency chair at a reproduction table of some indeterminate style in a room which was clean and tidy and where no one lived. The decor looked picked from a Civil Service catalogue. MAGNIFICAT was around 50, jowly with grey skin and sad brown eyes. His hair was also grey as was his suit. He smiled a genuine smile of welcome as Rob and John entered. All of the men sat at the table.
MAGNIFICAT, who all present knew was really called Ivan Adamovich Gorsky, born 1935 in Stalingrad, now Volgagrad, said, "I am very pleased to be of use to you."
John said, "if no one minds, I'd like to ask you a few questions about some behaviour we observed by the new Scientific Attaché, Vladimir Vinogradov?"
Gorsky said, "Of course. I would be delighted."
John outlined the surveillance report in great detail. Throughout, Gorsky was smiling and nodding and saying "yes, of course." Halfway through the narrative Gorsky said, "I need hear no more. He is KGB. Not GRU, this is KGB tradecraft."
Rob, merely curious, said, "How do you know the difference?"
Gorsky turned to him affronted. "I know. I have thirty years experience as a Soviet Intelligence Officer. I know. You come to ask my opinion. You have it."
Rob mumbled an apology. John said, "But there's more I want you to help me with."
Gorsky's eyes lit up. "Tell me."
He told him of how Vinogradov had met the man in the Dicken's Inn. Gorsky shrugged, "It could have been anyone. Who is this man?"
"Well we've identified him as Donald Casey. He lives in East London and he works for Harrison & Roper Ltd who are a company which manufactures small arms parts for the British Army. They are a List X company - that is they have been identified as a company which has classified contracts."
Gorsky was nodding vigorously. "This is a very good agent for KGB Line X. Very good. You say this Vinogradov is new? It is likely that he is picking up this agent from a previous handler. But this is a very poor meet."
The SIS officer Morton was nodding. "It does seem very sloppy in terms of tradecraft. If this man is a valuable source for the KGB, it wasn't done very carefully."
Gorsky said, "Is this contact Casey known to your Service?"
John only hesitated for a second. Gorsky sat back in his seat with pursed lips. He looked sad and angry.
Morton turned to him, being conciliatory, "You know we can't give you more details than is absolutely necessary."
John nodded in polite agreement.
Gorsky sighed heavily. "You know that if I return to Russia I will be shot? I am under sentence of death for helping British Intelligence, but still you do not trust me."
"No, no, no," said Morton. "It isn't that. We value you immensely. The help you have given us over the years is beyond price."
"And I did not do it for price," said Gorsky. "You give me a small pension. That is all. But that is enough. I did it because I hate to see my country shackled by Communist despots and tyrants. These are the same words in Russian - Деспот и тиран "
"You are valued. Very highly," insisted Morton. He put his hand on Gorsky's arm. Intelligence officers are always actors and often liars, but sometimes they tell the truth. Gorsky calmed down.
"Indeed, I have a letter of thanks from your Prime Minister and one from the President of the USA." He was an intelligence officer as well - ironic or genuine it was hard to tell.
Rob sat forward. "I wonder if I could ask you about some Russian students whom I suspect are under Intelligence control?"
John sat back and watched while Gorsky listened intently to Rob, their previous fall out apparently forgotten. Gorsky smiled and nodded ever more enthusiastically before pronouncing his opinion that they were not professional intelligence officers but were tasked with talent spotting any of their fellow students for future KGB development.
When they were finished and they had got what they needed from him, Gorsky looked wistful. Morton began to shuffle and make moves preparatory to ushering them out. Then Gorsky suddenly said, "It is a lonely life as a defector. I have my small house and my garden. I am learning to be an Englishman and tend my garden. I can never mix with Russians because one of them might have the job of killing me." He smiled thinly. "I can never satisfactorily mix with ordinary British citizens either. I do of course, in the post office and in the supermarket, but we are worlds apart. I like that idiom. We are on different planets. I do not even speak my mother tongue any more. I read it of course, but never speak it apart from to some kind colleagues in SIS who indulge me occasionally. I am losing my fluency - I forget some words and the English words come first. Of course I do not speak English perfectly either."
There were polite mutterings of disagreement from the three British officers.
"No, it is true. I struggle and stumble. I dream in a mix of English and Russian, and grasp neither of them fully. I am lost in between what was and what is. And I wonder what will be."
Rob said, "My father is a keen gardener up in Suffolk."
Gorsky smiled. "I am a beginner. I do spend time making model aeroplanes also."
John said, "I made model aeroplanes as a boy. I always used to get Airfix kits for my birthday and at Christmas. The biggest model I made was an Avro Lancaster when I was about 13."
Gorsky looked over at John. "I have made British planes, and American but mainly I make German and Russian. I am making a Yakovlev 1 at present. You know that plane?"
John said, "I've heard of it."
Gorsky said, "My father flew them. He was in the 286 Fighter Aviation Regiment. He flew above Stalingrad, my home city. He was a comrade of Lydia Vladimirovna Litvjak, a woman pilot. You have heard of her - the White Rose of Stalingrad?"
They all shook their heads. "My father survived the war. But the siege of Stalingrad was something so terrible that still I remember it even though I was taken with my mother and brothers and sisters over the Volga before the worst of the fighting. I still remember hearing the German bombing and how I curled up in fear. And then how ashamed I was of my fear because my father had none. He was out fighting while I cowered."
He continued, his eyes fixed in the middle distance as if seeing the scenes of memory again. "You know, after Stalingrad the German Army was broken? Don't think that because I sit here with you in London and I cannot return home that I am not proud to be Russian. Let me tell you, when a tyrant arises in Europe, it is Russia that brings him down. Whether it is Napoleon or Hitler or Genghis Khan, Russian blood is how Europe pays for their defeat. And E
urope is happy to do so, no?" He smiled.
Later as they were going out and had said goodbye to Andrew Morton at the door, Rob said, "Christ, he almost had me in tears."
"It's a sad life he leads," said John.
"Note to self," said Rob. "Don't defect."
As they entered the Long Room, Sue was sitting there. She looked up with disapproval. John sat down at his desk. "We've been to see MAGNIFICAT," he said.
"Yes," she said. "You got your way."
"Yeah, he thinks Vinogradov is definitely KGB. And furthermore he thinks the contact is probably a Line X agent."
"Which contact?"
"You know, the one I saw with A4 at the Dicken's Inn. The one who works for the List X company that makes guns for the Army."
She shook her head. "I don't want any more resources spent on that."
John felt a rush of anger. "Sorry? I've just identified a Line X agent and you are going to let it lie?"
"No, John. You have not identified a Line X agent. You just believe you have. There is a lot more to identifying agents than one A4 contact."
"Of course. And that's why I should follow it up."
She said coldly. "I've told you my decision. You will not spend any more time on this."
John stood up. "And what's this about? You're prepared to leave a KGB agent in place because it's more important to you that you make me follow your orders?"
"Oh do sit down John. You're making an exhibition of yourself."
"I want to take this further. Your attitude is stupid and counter to what we're supposed to be doing."
"I think you'll find Stephen is of the same mind as me. You behave as if you are in a bad spy movie. The basis of this work is the dull grind of routine. I sometimes wonder if you're in the right job."
"If this is the attitude of the management of this Service that the bureaucratic process is more important than producing results, then I wonder too."
She sniffed. "When are you due for a posting John?"
"I've just arrived. I'm not going anywhere."
"Thankfully that's not your decision. I think perhaps the move should be sooner rather than later."
1968, The George Heriot School, Edinburgh: When George Heriot made his bequest to set up his school in the 17th Century it is hard to know how much social engineering was on his mind. He was a very wealthy man - a goldsmith - from a family of wealthy men. By the 20th Century George Heriot's School was, by its own account, "distinguished". It educated the wealthy and privileged but there were also boys there enabled by the Foundation. Though attention was not drawn to them, all the boys knew who was who. John felt the difference from the start right through to the end. The glittering ones lived in different places, called their parents and even meals by different terms, played tennis, and went skiing to Austria and Switzerland in the Winter holidays. John learned to blend in - to de-emphasise the differences - to speak two languages - standard English at school - Embra Scots outside with his primary school friends. His social confidence developed as the years went by but he never forgot what he was. He mixed with other Foundation boys as the differences were less and they did not expect him to be able to go places and be things he could not, as the richer boys did, though thoughtlessly and without intended cruelty.
John excelled at languages. His favourite teacher was Leonard Cole who taught German and Geography. Cole was the son of a Liberal Politician from the south of England who had gone to the liberal Bedales School in Hampshire. The boys at George Heriot's called him a "lefty".
In one German lesson when he was 16, the subject of health had come up and Cole ventured to suggest patriotically that the German system was not as good as the British National Health System, set up by the socialist government after the Second World War.
One boy, Gideon Graves, said, "My father says the NHS is grossly inefficient and a waste of time. He says it's ideological tinkering with the natural order of things." Graves said it with a cross between a sneer and a smile on his face. Riling Cole was the point of the exercise. Cole, who was a very intelligent man and who, John thought, should have realised what was going on was instead propelled by his passion into a debate.
"So your father would abolish the NHS?" he said.
"Of course," said Graves, "it would save the country a fortune and taxes could be then lowered allowing people to keep what they earn and encouraging hard work rather than idleness."
Cole was boiling up a bright pink. "And what would the poor do then when they became ill?"
"They'd do what they used to do," said Graves.
"Which was go without health care."
Graves shrugged. He was enjoying himself.
"You don't know Graves, and neither do you care. You think that what the poor do is none of your concern."
Graves shrugged again and looked around to the other boys - some egging him on with big grins on their faces, others less certain, not wanting to be on the wrong side of their German teacher.
Suddenly, John spoke up. "My mother told me that when she was wee, her brother tipped scalding water on her arm from a pan by mistake. They couldn't afford a doctor so they had to wrap it in brown paper. She still has scars."
Graves laughed out loud, looking incredulously at his supporters. John had made his point deliberately. He knew they would mock him. He had tolerated the arrogance and superiority of Graves and his friends for years. Now he'd made a public statement of his origins and he sat there defiantly.
"Exactly," said Cole. "Now lets get back to "denken, denke, dachte, gedacht."
At the end of the lesson Cole asked John to stay back. John stood there nervously while his friend Fraser went to the door and indicated by gesture that he would wait outside for him. Cole nodded for him to sit down. "I won't be long. There are just a couple of things I wanted to speak to you about."
John waited.
"The first is that, much as it pains me to say it, and much as I realise I rose to the bait to give Graves and his friends something to laugh about, there are established powers and vested interests in this world. You may choose to speak out of principle and from your heart, but if that goes against these interests they will cast you out. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Maybe, sir."
"You are at George Heriot's School. I presume that is because your parents..." He blushed. "Forgive me, your mother. Well, she must have made efforts to place you here so that you could enter into this privileged world. To have an easier life than she had. What I want to say is that if you defy Graves and his type, they will block you - and your mother's efforts will have been in vain."
"I see." He hesitated, appreciating Cole's concern. " I realised this of course. But you have to say and do what's right."
Cole put his hand on his shoulder. "I agree. And I did want to say that I respect anyone who does things that are not merely expedient. If you follow your heart, you will be the enemy of the boys who sit here with you. But you will have a clear conscience."
"In my paupery."
"Indeed." Cole laughed, "I do tend to go on, don't I?"
"Never sir. Everything you say is interesting."
Cole smiled again. "Now I am unsure whether your flattery is sincere or you are pulling my leg. Irony was never my strong suite."
"Is that all sir? I have games next."
"Ah, no. I wanted to ask you whether you would like to take Russian. I studied Russian and German at Durham you know and the Headmaster was asking whether I would teach Russian to a select group of the linguistically gifted."
"And that includes me?" said John incredulously.
"Ah you feign modesty. You must be aware of your talent?"
"Well, I knew I was all right. I'm not sure if I'm especially gifted."
"I would like you to accept my word for it Gilroy. So, Russian?"
"I'm flattered. If you have faith in me, I'll give it a go."
"Good. Bear in mind what I said about crossing swords with Graves and his ilk. Hurry now, rugby awa
its."
After rugby it was the end of the day and John and his friend Fraser were making their way from school. They had turned the corner into Heriot Place as they planned to go into town before going home. Heriot Place was narrow with houses to the west and the high stone wall that surrounded George Heriot's School to the east. Standing there waiting for them was Gideon Graves and his band of fop haired friends. Graves moved into the middle of the narrow road to block their path.
"Hello again, Gilroy. Sucking up to sir, were we? Listening to him droning on and pretending to be interested?"
John stood his ground. "If you say so. "
"We don't like suck-ups at this school. Particularly chippy little oiks who live in dirty little houses trying to get one up on their betters."
John felt cold run through him. He said, "Go on Graves, tell me more about my betters."
"George Heriot's School gives you people a chance to do something with your lives but instead you sit round with Cole sharing his Communist fantasies." Graves' face twisted with contempt.
John shrugged. "I don't think Cole's a Communist. Maybe a member of the Liberal Party."
"You're nothing. You come from nothing and you will amount to nothing."
"Like I said, if you say so."
Graves was carried away by his own rhetoric. "For God's sake, your being here at all is a lie. Your whole life is based on a lie."
"I beg your pardon?"
"My grandfather was Procurator Fiscal. I know about your father."
"What about my father?"
Graves laughed. "You don't know about your father? Your real father?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"He was that Fenian Commie dog who went into the docks at Leith on his motorbike." He turned to his friends. "At least he did the decent thing and topped himself: one less Mick, one less Red."
Some of the boys behind Graves sniggered. John felt a strange feeling begin in his heart; a pride in his unknown father, the Fenian Commie dog, and an iceberg grief, deep and unsuspected. He hated these people who called judgement on the dead man. His dad. He tilted his chin up, daring Graves to go on.
