by Larry Loftis
That body, appropriately named the Twenty Committee for its XX (Double-Cross) abbreviation, held its first meeting on January 2, 1941. The committee was comprised of representatives of MI6 (Menzies), MI5 (J. C. Masterman, Tar Robertson, and John Marriott, Robertson’s deputy), Naval Intelligence (Godfrey and Commander Ewen Montagu), the War Office, the Air Ministry, the Home Forces, and the Home Defense Executive. The Double-Cross Committee would be chaired by the tactful and even-tempered J. C. Masterman, a history scholar and Oxford don at Christ Church College.* Masterman, like his military counterparts, saw the unique potential of Popov. “We had in him a new agent of high quality who could plausibly meet persons in any social stratum,” he wrote after the war, “who was well established with the Germans . . . and who had an excellent business cover.” But in December 1940, Dusko’s potential and plausibility were yet to be determined.
Over the next several days, Masterman, Robertson, Marriott, and Montagu interviewed and vetted Popov. He passed with flying colors and was invited to a New Year’s Eve party at a Georgian mansion in Surrey. There, Dusko wrote, an austere gentleman with piercing blue eyes introduced himself and ushered Popov to a private study. The man was Major General Stewart Menzies—“C” as he was known in intelligence circles—head of MI6.
Dusko’s English alien registration card.
The National Archives of the UK
The ideogram had been inherited from the first director, Sir Mansfield Cumming, who had signed all documents with his last initial. Cummings’s successor, Admiral Hugh Sinclair, continued the tradition, and Menzies followed suit. The moniker was almost universally known; Malcolm Muggeridge, who worked for MI6 during the war, noted that the agency’s internal phone directory listed the SIS director with just the initial. The sobriquet was so well established that Menzies reputedly could draw checks on the Royal Bank of Scotland with it as his signature. The office and appellation even traveled in international intelligence circles; none other than Reinhard Heydrich, chief of the SD, began to use “C” in envious imitation, stamp and all.
That Menzies was one of the most powerful men in all of Britain was evident during the war, and after. He reported directly to, and only to, Winston Churchill. During the 2,064 days of World War II, Menzies met with Churchill no less than fifteen hundred times, often while the prime minister was in his bed or bath. “C” was perhaps the only person who, at any hour of the day, had access to the king, the prime minister, and the foreign secretary. Indeed, many foreign powers believed that “C” was the power behind the throne. Over time, “C” took on legendary status; years after the war Menzies would tell his biographer that Ian Fleming told him that he, Menzies, was James Bond’s “M.”
Stewart Graham Menzies’s background was quite similar to Dusko’s. Both men had come from wealthy families and their grandfathers had built vast estates, Graham Menzies as the owner of the second largest distillery in Europe, Omer Popov as the owner of a bank and various businesses. The fathers of Stewart and Dusko were also similar, neither working much and both squandering vast sums of money. Like Dusko, Stewart received a first-class education, graduating in 1909 from Eton, a fifteenth-century college founded by Henry VI. The school’s curriculum included Greek, Latin, Plato, Thucydides, Lysias, poetry, music, and history, particularly military history. Menzies’s housemaster, Edward Impey, also insisted that his boys master the Gospels, contending that only in them could a young man acquire courage, truth, honor, courtesy, chivalry, and manliness. Eton groomed young men to lead, after all, and Menzies would demonstrate leadership in every circle. He won the Consort’s Prize in French and German, was captain of his house, master of the Eton Beagles, and president of the “Pop,” the prestigious Eton College Society whose members were selected for their beauty, elegance, charm, and “power to amuse and dazzle.” He also excelled in athletics, captaining the Eton cricket team and winning the Eton Steeplechase.
Upon graduation, instead of taking the typical route to Oxford or Cambridge, Menzies enlisted in the Brigadier Guards. Shortly thereafter he transferred to the exclusive Life Guards, the gentlemen soldiers charged with protecting the king. Two years into his service, Stewart’s regiment was sent into one of the bloodiest campaigns of World War I, the First Battle of Ypres. Of 12,000 soldiers and 400 officers sent to the conflict, only 2,336 men and 44 officers survived. Menzies distinguished himself in battle and was later presented a Distinguished Service Order by the king, having shown “the greatest coolness” during the German attack. The following summer, in May 1915, at the Second Battle of Ypres, Menzies again distinguished himself in combat, this time receiving a Military Cross, Britain’s decoration for acts of exemplary gallantry.
Little did Popov know, he was about to be dissected by a distinguished Etonian, war hero, spymaster, and the second most powerful man in Britain. Dusko recalled that “C” minced few words: “One man out of a thousand has the talent to play the fiddle,” Menzies began. “One out of a hundred thousand has the capacity to be a virtuoso, and one out of a million actually becomes one. My capacity is to assess values and measure them. If I do that properly, I have fulfilled half my duty.”
Menzies had led men in sports, society, hunting, and battle. He knew Popov was that one in a million virtuoso but, like the eccentric musician, Dusko carried considerable baggage.
“You are honest but without scruples,” the general went on. “Your instincts and intuition are stronger than your intelligence, which is far above average. Your conscience never bothers you and you are mentally short-sighted and long-sighted at the same time. You are ambitious and ruthless and you can be cruel. But when you are cruel, it is with an animal cruelty, not a sick cruelty. You like to hit back but you are not in a hurry to do so. When you are frightened, you don’t panic. Danger is a stimulant for you. You think more clearly and make better decisions when pushed by the instinct of self-preservation than by contemplation.”
Dusko sat in shocked silence at the insightful evaluation from a man he’d just met. “C” knew him better than he knew himself.
“You have too many devices on your banner,” Menzies concluded. “You have the makings of a very good spy, except that you don’t like to obey orders. You had better learn or you will be a very dead spy.”
Dusko did have many devices, but most of them required living. Boldly, almost prophetically, he would stretch his banner over the next four years to the limits of disobedience and death; yet, almost despite himself, his devil-may-care attitude would somehow protect him.
Devices notwithstanding.
7
PASSION AND ADDICTION
JANUARY 1, 1941
The blitz of September 1940 had brought a surprising windfall to MI5. When the headquarters at Wormwood Scrubs* was severely damaged, the agency relocated to Blenheim Palace, eight miles north of Oxford. A gift in 1704 from Queen Anne to John Churchill following his victory over the French, Blenheim was a fortress surrounded by two thousand acres, adorned with soaring gardens and water terraces. MI5 staffers were well aware of the significance of their new home—Winston Churchill had been born and raised at Blenheim, and had proposed to his wife Clementine at the estate’s arboretum.
Yet the noble refuge provided no sanctuary against the trials within. As Major Robertson sat in his office on New Year’s Day, he was faced with a problem not atypical for supervisors of double agents: Was one of his men a triple? While Dusko had sailed through vetting, three of Popov’s initial evaluators had significant reservations about agent SKOOT. Mr. How, whom Dusko had met at the British Embassy in Belgrade, distrusted Popov and later described him as “an absolute crook.”
Lieutenant-Commander Ewen Montagu of the Double-Cross Committee also had second thoughts. At their initial meeting in the Savoy, Ewen said, Dusko claimed to be an experienced yachtsman, yet seemed to know no technical terms of sailing. As a member of Dubrovnik’s Orsan Yacht Club, Montagu thought, Dusko’s ignoran
ce was inexplicable. Popov’s MI5 case officer, William Luke (whom Dusko knew as William Matthews), had even greater suspicions. In a report to the Double-Cross Committee, he wrote: “I cannot help regarding him with a good deal of suspicion. . . . I have just the general feeling that he may be a most accomplished liar.”
The information couldn’t be worse for Tar, but there was more. Popov had been expelled from a London prep school, had received a doctorate in Germany, and had been recruited into the Abwehr by his best friend. If Dusko was tripling, the damage he could do would be immense. Britain routinely executed spies and with Germany winning the war, killing a rogue double agent was not out of the question. Popov had star potential, the major knew, but MI5 could take no chances. He called Montagu and asked him to meet with Popov again, at six that evening at the Savoy. Ewen was to go up to Popov’s room, Tar said, visit for a while, and then take Dusko to the hotel bar, where Montagu’s brother would join them for drinks. Together they would try to get a feel for agent SKOOT and otherwise work out details for explaining to the Germans how they met.
When Montagu met Popov in his room, Dusko immediately calmed the suspicions. “I found him a most charming person,” Ewen wrote in his report, “and I should be most surprised if he is not playing straight with us.” They spoke again of their mutual interest in sailing, and decided that they’d tell the Germans they met through a mutual friend in the Royal Ocean Racing Club. Montagu also gave him a name to satisfy the Germans’ request for someone close to Admiral Tovey. Foster Brown, Ewen said, had been a fleet signal officer in Nelson and was now liaising at the Admiralty for Tovey. As for naval information to take to Lisbon, Dusko was to tell the Germans that Ewen had, in a moment of indiscretion, mentioned that almost every Atlantic convoy was having an escort of one or more submarines. In addition, the larger ships would be fit with aircraft which might carry torpedoes.
Business covered, Dusko told Ewen that he had a college friend who owned some ships in the Norddeutche Lloyd fleet, which were in neutral ports, and which Popov had been asked to sell. Dusko explained the neutral flag hurdle and how they would need an intermediary. Montagu had another idea. Just tell us when and from where they are sailing, he said, and the Royal Navy would intercept and “capture” them.
Later that night Popov met with Robertson and Marriott for final instructions. The MI5 officers went through the questionnaire and told him to tell the Germans that he couldn’t get all of the answers due to his friend’s work responsibilities at the legation. He was to add that his friend was a bit nervous with the work and suggested that Dusko return, establish his own contacts, and collect the information himself. In the meantime, they gave him information for a few of the questions, and Dusko had the Admiralty names of Ewen Montagu and Foster Brown, together with Montagu’s indiscretions about convoys. Tar also mentioned that Dusko could offer three lords who sought peace with Germany: Brocket, Lymington, and Londonderry.
What Robertson recorded the next day had to come as a mild surprise: “Over the question of money, SKOOT is absolutely insistant that he should receive nothing from us.”
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Dusko returned to Lisbon on January 3. Per instructions, he recalled in his memoirs, he rang von Karsthoff and told the woman answering, presumably Elisabeth, that he was “a friend of the major’s cousin from Italy.” Moments later von Karsthoff came on and provided the second part of the code: “A friend of my Italian cousin? You must come to visit. You’ll bring some laughter to my house.” Dusko continued: “It’s rather urgent. Can we make it for Wednesday?”
Dusko’s reference to Wednesday was a diversion; “urgent” meant a meeting that same day. The time of appointment was determined by the day of the week mentioned. All meetings would be in the evening, and pickups would be at ten after the hour. If Dusko mentioned Monday, the first possible hour, this meant he wanted to be picked up at 6:10 p.m. Tuesday meant 7:10 p.m., Wednesday, 8:10 p.m., and on through the days until the last schedule slot, Sunday, 12:10 a.m. If Dusko said that he would “come by train,” this meant that he wanted to be picked up at a prearranged spot on the Avenida da Liberdade, in downtown Lisbon. If he said he was taking a taxi, it meant that he wanted to be picked up on the main road one mile east of Estoril. If von Karsthoff called Popov at the hotel and instructed Dusko to come “to the legation,” it meant the major’s villa.
Ludovico acknowledged the request and Dusko ended with “I shall come by train.” At ten after eight an Abwehr sedan picked him up on the Avenida da Liberdade and chauffeured him to von Karsthoff’s villa. After dinner and drinks, von Karsthoff asked him to spend the following day with him and Elisabeth at the major’s country house in Cascais.
It was no picnic, Dusko remembered; Ludovico grilled him for hours on end, inquiring about every detail, time of activity, circumstance, and person involved. Like a seasoned barrister, he cross-examined every story, attacking from different angles and seeking additional facts. Dusko supplied the Double-Cross chicken feed, as false or harmless information was called, but von Karsthoff consistently probed further, requiring Dusko to improvise.
The following day the major left for Paris, and on January 7 Popov transferred to the Palácio. As Dusko had noticed with the Aviz, hotel registration was cumbersome. For the duration of the war, Portuguese lodging facilities were required to document on a special form every foreign guest, and to give these registrations to the PVDE. When the clerk asked Popov his occupation, Dusko gave one of his many identities—lawyer.
Another British Intelligence officer would soon check into the Palácio with less discretion.
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On January 14 von Karsthoff returned from Paris. IVAN’s information was considered too general, Ludovico’s superiors felt, and Dusko would need to return to England for additional details. In addition, the major said, they wanted him to travel to America and then to Egypt for further assignments. Von Karsthoff showed him a questionnaire—some fifty questions over nine pages—which Popov was to memorize.
Ludovico then dropped another code: If Dusko received a call at his hotel from a girl saying, “I’m sorry I behaved so stupidly the other night,” the major was calling a meeting. The girl would suggest that Dusko meet her at a nightclub later that evening; instead, he was to go to the casino. Elisabeth would show up at the roulette table and play three times. The numbers she picked would indicate the date, hour, and minute of the rendezvous, consecutively. She would then play zero or 36, the former indicating a Lisbon pickup, the latter Estoril.
The intrigue wasn’t limited to Portugal, however.
Dusko returned to London on February 4 and stayed where the Germans had asked him, the Commodore Hotel. He assumed the reason was the same as for the Aviz—so that they could watch him. Four days later, Robertson and Masterman met with a Major Lennox and Sergeant Lewis for the same purpose—keeping tabs on Popov. Could the military provide a savvy and attractive female, Tar asked, who could “entertain SKOOT and keep him out of mischief,” while at the same time keeping MI5 apprised of the “curious associations which he is making in this country?” Lennox and Lewis agreed to work on it.
On February 10, while lunching with Robertson and Luke, Popov mentioned that he was possibly being watched by the Germans. On the other hand, he told them, it was also possible that the shadows were MI5 agents. Tar and Bill gave no reply. Unruffled, Dusko said that the more British Intelligence tested his bona fides, the more pleased he would be.
As Tar schemed on how to keep tabs on agent SKOOT, Dusko was putting much of British Intelligence to work. He requested navicerts*—which MI5 would have to acquire from the Royal Navy—for sending two thousand tons of cotton from Portugal to Yugoslavia. The Double-Cross Committee, in the meantime, had to work on Popov’s questionnaire, a copy of which Dusko had taken from von Karsthoff.
Most of the requests were to be expected: Where are planes of the Botha type stationed? Has the RAF in the Eastern Mediter
ranean been strengthened in recent months? How many fighter squadrons are equipped with Spitfires and Hurricanes? When will the five battleships of the King George V class be ready? Other instructions, even for a seasoned, full-time spy, were beyond the scope of what Popov could reasonably accomplish: sketches of military factories at Weybridge, Crayford, and Datford; detailed methods of fire direction for London anti-aircraft guns; position of division staffs with sketches; and a copy of the Circular of the British Ministry of Supply showing military depots.
Dusko and the Double-Cross gang would have to focus on those questions most suitable for misinformation, and Major Robertson saw one item with a double benefit: coastal defenses. The Germans wanted overall data, including details of naval bases in Scotland. Dusko would make the trip with Bill Luke tagging along; while the men toured Scottish towns, ports, and pubs, Tar planned, Luke would probe Popov’s loyalties.
During this time, Commander Montagu concocted more chicken feed. During Germany’s Operation Sea Lion, Ewen knew, channels of attack would be critical. Assuming that Popov could sell the information as legitimate, Montagu planned to waylay German warships. The Royal Navy had set up minefields along Britain’s east coast, he knew, but a number of large gaps existed due to limited resources. Ewen’s idea, dubbed Plan Machiavelli, was to pass to the Abwehr charts of minefields marked in “slightly wrong positions”; mines would be in place where gaps were shown, and vice versa. Dusko would claim that he had obtained the charts from a Jewish barrister who had joined the navy but feared a German victory. Thinking he could buy insurance against a concentration camp, the man was to have given Dusko the charts to trade for the Jew’s protection once England succumbed.
Remembering Munzinger’s and von Karsthoff’s penchant for sources, Popov pointed out to Montagu that he’d need an identity of the traitor—a real name. “I thought you had realized,” Ewen said, “Lieutenant Commander Montagu. They can look me up in the Law List and any of the Jewish Year Books.”
