by Graham Ison
*
The watchers did not have long to wait. There were no telephone calls arranging a meeting, but that was no surprise. However, Eva van Heem received a catalogue for a washing-machine through the post. The Security Service was as sure as possible that she had not requested a catalogue for a washing-machine, and in any event the envelope had been handwritten and posted in central London — nowhere near the offices or the factory of the manufacturers, who were based in the north.
Toogood, familiar with the ways of espionage, and conversant with many case histories, knew the signs, and put the watchers on extra alert. He was sure that there was going to be a meet — but he didn’t know where.
Three surveillance teams were mobilised. One in the vicinity of Eva van Heem’s home in Hendon, another at Chalfont St Giles and, for good measure, a third in the vicinity of the pub at Mornington Crescent. Each team consisted of Security Service and Special Branch officers.
Miss van Heem emerged from the South African Embassy at exactly half-past twelve and made her way directly to the Underground station at Embankment. The watchers swore; personal radios do not work effectively on the Underground.
Robert Mallory emerged from the Foreign Office, also at half-past twelve, and ambled along King Charles Street. Down the Clive Steps he went, across Horse Guards Approach Road and into the park. The team watching him were certain that a devious plan was about to unfold.
*
Eva van Heem waited while a Richmond train came in and left. Then a Wimbledon train arrived which she boarded at the last moment just before the doors closed. Clear evidence, three of the watchers thought, of some training in counter-surveillance techniques. That view was confirmed when she alighted at Earls Court, a station at which the previous train had also stopped. The watchers made every effort to inform their control, but transmission was impossible until one of their number ascended to street level and told the team watching Mallory what was going on. He was interested to learn that so far Mallory hadn’t made a move — was still watching the birds in St James’s Park. By the time that that watcher got back to the platform his colleagues and Miss van Heem had disappeared. Again he tried to transmit — again without success.
The watchers who had stayed with Eva van Heem were now trapped. She had shot on to a Piccadilly Line train, again waiting until the last moment, and they too had had no option but to follow. But they couldn’t tell anyone.
The team at Mornington Crescent were beginning to feel left out. They had heard the transmissions of the Mallory team when they had announced that they were taking him to the park — as usual, one watcher laconically announced. And then they had heard the hurried report of Eva’s arrival at Earls Court — and then nothing.
‘I don’t know what the hell’s happening,’ said Toogood. He was sitting in the control room at the Security Service headquarters, Gaffney alongside him. Each had his own concern about the operation. Toogood to monitor the movements of the prime suspects; only too well aware that one of them was a diplomat. Gaffney, anxious that when the time came to make an arrest, his men should be in the right place and, more important, that there should be sufficient evidence to justify the arrest that they were to make, particularly as someone with diplomatic immunity was involved. In his mind, Gaffney ran over the points that would have to be covered in the report for the Home Secretary, points that would give the Foreign Secretary adequate grounds for declaring Eva van Heem persona non grata — with all the questions that would follow in the House. It was an anxiety shared by Toogood, who knew only too well that criticism would inevitably be made of his service. It was one of the great injustices; the Security Service would be praised for discovering a spy and at once pilloried for failing to have done so much sooner. He could see already the judge at the Old Bailey condemning in censorious terms ‘the grave damage’ that had been done to the nation — and so on, and so on.
One of the controllers turned to face Toogood, his earphones still in position lest he should miss something vital. ‘She’s alighted at Heathrow Airport, sir.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Toogood. ‘Don’t tell me she’s going home.’
The controller swung around again. ‘She’s walking through Terminal Two, sir.’
‘What’s she doing? Does it look as though she’s going somewhere?’
The controller laughed. ‘She’s just gone into the loo.’
Toogood pouted. ‘I hope to God they’ve got a woman on the team.’
‘They have,’ said Gaffney. ‘One of ours.’
*
There were in fact eleven women on the team — eleven out of a total of thirty watchers. The Security Service always had adequate reserves for a big operation, working on the theory that if there wasn’t a crowd, make your own. It seemed crazy to the uninitiated, but bitter experience had taught them that it was a sure way of alleviating suspicion. Not that they had to worry at Heathrow where there were crowds enough — always.
One of the women watchers glanced in the mirror over the washhand basin as Eva van Heem emerged from one of the cubicles. Quickly she switched on the electric hand-dryer to drown her transmission and spoke a single word into the microphone in her cuff, ‘Moving.’
The constant traffic of aircraft, and the continuous exchange of chatter between pilots and control tower made transmissions difficult enough between even the watchers in close proximity to one another at the airport. To talk to those following Mallory was impossible.
‘It’s the usual bloody cock-up,’ said one of the watchers bitterly.
Suddenly it happened. Eva van Heem walked towards the tall good-looking man near the bookstall. They brushed past each other, almost casually, and any but the dedicated onlooker would have missed the magazine that passed between them.
‘Right — move in — take them both.’ Detective Chief Inspector Terry Dobbs spoke quietly into the handset attached to his wrist. The MI5 watchers stayed back as the Special Branch officers closed in; four went for the girl — three of them women; and another four, all men, surrounded the man who had handed her the periodical.
‘What is this? What’s happening? Help me — I’m being robbed.’ There was no mistaking the Afrikaans accent.
‘We’re police officers,’ said Detective Sergeant Claire Wentworth as her colleagues sought to restrain the struggling diplomat.
‘Get your hands off me — I’m a diplomat. I have diplomatic status,’ said the South African.
‘They all say that,’ said Claire Wentworth.
By contrast, the man held by police some ten yards distant put up no opposition, but stood docile and resigned as Detective Chief Inspector Dobbs cautioned him.
One of the watchers telephoned Toogood in control. ‘We’ve got them both, sir,’ he said.
‘Both?’
‘Yes — van Heem and Mallory.’
‘You haven’t, you know. Mallory returned to his office ten minutes ago.’
Chapter Sixteen
Attractive woman though she was, there was no doubt that Eva van Heem was a hard-bitten professional. Once it was made clear to her that she had been detained by real police officers and wasn’t the victim of an attack, she had remained absolutely silent, for most of the time a cynical smile on her face.
She and her male contact were conveyed separately to Heathrow Airport Police Station and there detained in separate interview rooms.
One of the levelling aspects of British police practice is that no matter how serious the crime alleged against a prisoner, it is a sergeant who deals with him or her when first they arrive at a police station. The sergeant — called a custody officer — who was on duty at the time the two alleged spies were brought in, was a man of fifty-one years of age. He had a house in Pinner, a wife, two daughters and a dog, all of whom — at least the humans — accused him of devoting more time to his garden than to them.
‘Now then,’ he said, settling himself at his desk. ‘Just give me your full name, address and date of birth — that’l
l do for a start.’
‘I am Eva van Heem, a second secretary at the South African Embassy. I am entitled to diplomatic privilege. I refuse to answer any questions, and I demand that I be released immediately.’
‘Well now,’ said the Sergeant with a smile. ‘We’ll have to see. You appreciate, of course, that anyone can say that, so I’ll have to do some checking.’
‘Be quick about it, man, or your superiors will hear about the delay.’ She was starting to show signs of anger.
The Sergeant smiled as he lumbered to his feet. ‘I’ve no doubt they’ll be hearing about it anyway, miss.’
They already knew of course. The Security Service knew. The Special Branch knew, and in the time it had taken Eva van Heem to reach Heathrow Airport Police Station, the Foreign Secretary, the Home Secretary and the Commissioner of Police had been informed. And they all knew what would happen next.
‘I must apologise for your having been detained, madam,’ said Detective Chief Superintendent John Gaffney who had arrived seconds earlier from Security Service headquarters, the keening siren of his police car carving a priority passage for him through the early afternoon M4 traffic. ‘You will, of course, be released straight away. I have arranged for a car to take you to the embassy. Incidentally, I have taken the liberty of informing your ambassador.’ Gaffney smiled a wintry smile. ‘He may have been worried about you.’
Eva van Heem scowled. ‘You realise, I hope, that there will be an official note of protest about this — at the highest level.’
‘I have no doubt, madam,’ murmured Gaffney.
And so Eva van Heem left the airport to return to her embassy. Within twenty-four hours she was back again, to board a flight bound for Johannesburg, before Her Majesty’s Government had even declared her persona non grata. There was no protest. Not even a formal one.
*
In the other interview room at Heathrow Airport Police Station, John Wallace sat disconsolately, head bowed, hands between his knees. John Gaffney sat down opposite him.
Toogood sat in a corner, trying to pretend that he was invisible.
‘You’re not obliged to say anything unless you wish to do so,’ said Gaffney, ‘but anything you do say will be taken down in writing and may be given in evidence.’
‘They told me that already,’ said Wallace miserably.
‘I know,’ said Gaffney. ‘I just want to make sure that you’re under no illusions as to your position.’
‘Aren’t you supposed to ask me if I want a solicitor?’
‘No,’ said Gaffney, ‘but you can ask me for one. I shouldn’t bother though. If I decide that it is likely to interfere with my enquiries into an Official Secrets Act case, the answer will be no — is in fact no.’
He opened a file and withdrew a piece of paper enclosed now in a plastic sleeve. He laid it on the desk, turning it so that Wallace could see it. ‘This is the report which was secreted in the magazine that you passed to Miss van Heem. It is an official government report and it is classified Confidential.’ Wallace nodded. ‘Where did you get it from?’
‘It was sent to me.’
‘How?’
‘Through IDS — the internal despatch service.’
‘Who sent it?’
‘Mr Mallory at the Foreign Office.’
‘Why should he do a thing like that?’
‘He often sends me things like that. We tend to overlap in our jobs. He has something to do with economic affairs at the FCO, and I deal with them from a Department of Trade angle.’
‘Did he know that you were going to pass it to a second secretary at the South African Embassy?’
A fleeting, weary smile crossed Wallace’s face. ‘Christ no!’ At that moment one of the detectives from Gaffney’s team came into the room and laid a thick file of papers on the desk. Gaffney looked up, a frown on his face. He disliked being interrupted in the middle of an interrogation — it often broke the spell. ‘What’s that?’ he asked crossly.
‘They’ve just been brought down from the office, sir. Mr Dobbs said you’d probably need to have them by you.’
Gaffney glanced at the cover. It was the docket on the enquiries into the death of Penelope Lambert. ‘Ah, yes, indeed,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ And turning his attention once more to Wallace, ‘Why were you passing information of this sort to Eva van Heem?’
Wallace hesitated. He knew he was in deep trouble. ‘I’ve got nothing to say.’
Gaffney took out a packet of cigarettes. ‘D’you smoke?’ He extended the packet towards the prisoner.
‘Thank you.’ Wallace took one hungrily, waiting for Gaffney to produce his lighter.
‘Good-looking woman — Miss van Heem, isn’t she?’
Wallace blew smoke into the air and nodded. ‘Yes.’
The atmosphere in the tiny room was starting to get oppressive. The only windows were narrow, with wired, frosted glass, and were near to the ceiling. Both were open to their limit — only a few inches. It suited Gaffney; he was accustomed to such working conditions — Wallace was not.
‘If you are trying to defend Eva out of some misplaced sense of chivalry, Mr Wallace, I shouldn’t bother. She has certainly not done so for you.’
In fact, Eva van Heem hadn’t done anything; had said nothing that would either implicate or excuse what Wallace was accused of, but it was essential that Gaffney drove a divide between the two conspirators if he was to get the answers to all the Security Service’s questions. The trial and conviction of Wallace was now of little importance, superseded by the need to estimate what damage had been done. Fortunately it did not appear too serious, at least not so far. The question of trade economics, important though it was, did not feature too highly in the general scheme of things. The worrying doubt that the Security Service, and, in turn, the government now had was that of military deployment. How far had the cancer spread? If full-scale revolution were to break out in South Africa, certain contingency plans had been made, to deal with it, certain secret treaties entered into, all of which could be highly damaging if released prematurely.
‘What will happen to Eva?’ asked Wallace.
‘Absolutely nothing,’ said Gaffney. ‘The worst will be that the British government declares her persona non grata and she’ll be sent back to South Africa, no doubt to a heroine’s welcome, before being sent off somewhere else to dupe some other poor fool into parting with his country’s secrets.’ He leaned back, allowing time for that significant statement to sink in.
Wallace sat silent, refusing to meet the policeman’s gaze. Eventually he looked up. ‘She’s screwed me, hasn’t she?’
Gaffney refrained from making the obvious retort; this was not an occasion for clever remarks. ‘It looks very much like it.’ He waited — waited for Wallace to adjust himself to the concept that he was about to make a full confession. ‘How about beginning at the beginning?’
Wallace plunged straight in. ‘I got this telephone call one day — at the office. I don’t know how she found my number, but she did. She’s got a very husky voice — sexy really — I don’t know if you noticed.’ Gaffney said nothing; but he had noticed. ‘I almost laughed because it sounded just like something off the television: “You don’t know me, but I know you”, is what she said.’ He shook his head, briefly, as though wondering now how he had been taken in. ‘She suggested that we met somewhere. She had something that was of vital importance to me, is how she put it, and she warned me not to tell a soul, particularly anyone in the department — at least not until after we’d met; then I could make up my own mind, she said.’
‘Did she identify herself? Tell you who she was?’
‘No — not really. She told me her name was Eva, that was all. We had this silly conversation about how I would know her. I suggested the way they do it in spy novels, you know; holding a copy of Time Out with a red rose between my teeth under the clock at Waterloo Station.’ He paused reflectively, and pointed at Gaffney’s packet of cigarettes. The detective nodde
d, not wishing to interrupt the flow.
For some time Wallace sat in silence, enjoying the cigarette, detached — his mind elsewhere, as though realising the importance of getting his story absolutely right.
‘She said it was serious — not funny at all. To be frank, up until then I’d thought it was someone in the office, having a joke.’
‘Go on.’
‘She said she would know me, and that I was to go to a pub in Mornington Crescent, get a drink and sit down at a table and wait.’
‘And is that what you did?’
‘Yes. I went up there after work — straight after work. I was there by about twenty-to-six. She said she’d meet me at six. I told Linda — that’s my wife — that I was having to work late at the office —’
‘Doesn’t she work at the Department of Trade as well?’
‘Yes, but in a different section — a different building, in fact. We don’t often travel home together anyway, and she’s quite used to me having to work late sometimes.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’d been there about ten minutes when she arrived. She was early too. I still thought it was a joke. I was waiting for half the office to turn up, with a stripagram girl, or something of that sort.’
‘Why? Was there any reason? I mean, was it your birthday or anything like that?’
‘No, nothing like that. As a matter of fact, I did wonder if Penny might be at the back of it — she’s got a weird sense of fun.’
‘Penny?’
‘Penny Lambert — but you know about that, I suppose?’
‘Yes, I do. We’ll come back to that later.’
‘Well this girl came in. Good figure and quite tall — well, tall for a girl. She was dressed in white jeans, very tight — and a blue sweater. Raised a few eyebrows in that pub, I can tell you. And very confident. Walked up to the bar and got herself a drink. Then she looked round, casually, and came straight over to my table. Believe me, I thought my luck was in — it wasn’t though, was it?’
Gaffney declined to commit himself. ‘Go on,’ he said.
