by Ted Allbeury
‘We’d been watching you for quite a time.’
‘That’s not an answer.’
Berger smiled. ‘You know as well as I do that it’s all the answer you’ll get, my friend.’
‘She was in it too.’
‘Who was?’
‘Brigitte. My wife.’
Oh. What did she do? You told me originally that she knew nothing about any of it.’
‘She was paid for looking after a Soviet agent who was to be planted on the British.’
‘We’ll talk about that another time.’
Otto Berger had dropped his bombshell on his opposite number at SIS at the Olympic Stadium. Although he obviously wasn’t believed he was taken straight away to tell his story to the local Director of SIS who listened impassively and without comment until he had finished.
‘Have you informed Bonn, Herr Berger?’
‘Yes, sir. They instructed me to see Mr Wainwright. ‘
‘Who else knows? Does Herr Toller know?’
‘The only people who know are Herr Mann in Bonn, Herr Toller and myself. ‘
‘What about secretaries? ‘
‘There were no secretaries involved. We have put nothing in writing as yet. ’
‘This is deeply disturbing, as you can well understand, and I should appreciate your organization maintaining the present control over security. In return we will see that you are kept well informed about our investigations. ’
‘Thankyou, sir. ’
‘I’ll telephone Herr Rudi Mann myself. ’
Wainwright accompanied Berger to the car park and as they stood by his car the Englishman said, 7 can V believe it, you know, Otto. Blake was a senior man. He’s got a fantastic track record. Not a blot on his copy-book. Didn’t drink, didn’t womanize, and worked all the hours God sends. It would be incredible if he turned out to be a twicer.’
‘It happens, Joe. Burgess and Maclean for instance.’
‘I know, but those bastards were drunks and queers. Blake wasn’t like them at all. He was a quiet nonentity.’
‘Let’s wait and see. Maybe our guy is still lying.’
‘My God, I hope so.’
But it wasn’t going to be SIS’s lucky week. An hour before Wainwright and Berger had stood talking in the car park, a BMW car with four passengers and a driver had been passed through the Soviet checkpoint at Brandenburger Tor. There had been no difficulty. The car carried the special diplomatic badge of the Polish embassy in East Berlin. When it was well into West Berlin a black Mercedes tagged in behind it and followed it down to Dahlem in the American zone. In a side-street off Podbielski Allee the two cars pulled up, and the passengers from the BMW got into the big Merc and a US marine sergeant took over the BMW.
The Mercedes drove on to a house standing in its own grounds just beyond the Dahlem cemetery. There were US marines guarding the massive iron gates, and more patrolling the grounds. Two Americans were waiting on the steps of the house.
There were lights on all over the house and the first tentative flakes of snow were beginning to cover the wide lawns and the gravelled drive.
The passengers in the Mercedes were a Pole and his family. A Pole named Michael Goleniewski. To be more precise, Lieutenant-Colonel Goleniewski who two hours earlier had still been the head of Poland’s secret service, Z-2, in East Berlin.
Seven months previously he had made his first contact with CIA agents in Berlin and asked for political asylum. Wary that it might be a plant, they asked him to supply various items of intelligence to prove his good faith. The intelligence had been duly provided and he was given the go-ahead to arrange for his family to join him in East Berlin from Warsaw with his birthday as the excuse.
The two Americans who welcomed him had flown over the previous day from Langley, Virginia, and despite their impatience to talk with the defector they had spent that evening going over the arrangements that had been made for the family ‘s future.
They tried to make it more like a conversation than an interrogation, but by midday they knew that they already had enough to justify the operation. They had the names of four Soviet agents working inside CIA units in Hanover, Hamburg and Frankfurt. All in key positions. But they had been shocked by the last item he gave them when they were about to go in to lunch.
‘I don’t know whether Scarbeck comes into your area or the FBI.’
‘Who’s Scarbeck?’
‘Irwin Chambers Scarbeck.’
‘You mean the US diplomat?’
‘Yes.’
‘You mean he’s involved with Moscow?’
‘I thought maybe you knew, or that he was a plant.’
‘Why did you think he might be a plant?’
We all did. We had meeting after meeting and we never were sure.’
‘Tell me more. ‘
Goleniewski smiled. ‘You really don’t know about him?’
‘No. Not a thing. ’
‘He’s been passing information and documents for a long time. ‘
‘Why? How did they nobble him?’
‘The usual way. Girls. They’ve got pictures of him fornicating. Several different girls. They used the usual drill. Threatened copies to his family, the newspapers, Congressional committees, the Department of State.’ He shrugged, smiling. ‘The old, old story. But he was so stupid, so indiscreet that we thought it must be the CIA playing games. And when he was faced with the photographs he just caved in. No arguing. No bargaining. Just agreement. It was all too easy. That’s why we had doubts.’
‘Jesus. The bastard. What did he hand over?’
‘Anything they asked for.’
‘Did they pay him?’
‘A little. Just enough for him to be committed that way too.’
By eleven o’clock that morning the Polish ambassador had lodged an almost violent protest at the kidnapping of a Polish diplomat. And after he had been given a not too diplomatic brush-off the Soviet Commander had called for an immediate four-power meeting. There had been no grounds for refusal and four grim-faced men, all of General’s rank, had gathered at the Russian Kommandatura.
There was fist-pounding and threats from the Russian. Surprise and indifference from the Frenchman. Mild rebuffs from the Scot, and virtual silence from the American. The threats were reiterated and stepped up, and that confirmed the CIA opinion that they’d got themselves a bargain. It also made them decide that the Pole’s life was now in danger and that he should be flown immediately to Washington.
They were actually sitting around in Goleniewski’s bedroom, his light luggage already packed as they waited for the car to take them to Gatow, when the Pole dropped the second bomb. He had turned casually to Autenowski.
‘I suppose the British already know about Blake?’
‘You mean George Blake?’
‘Yes. Used to be in Berlin. Now back in London.’
‘Actually he’s in Beirut. What’s he been up to?’
‘He’d been a double-agent for the KGB for years,’ Goleniewski laughed. ‘Then they instructed him to double with the Russians and gave him the perfect cover.’
‘Maybe he really was putting one over on Moscow.’
‘No chance of that. He’s been with them since he was a kid. He was totally committed. No money. No booze. No girls. A twenty-four-carat Soviet.’
Joe Autenowski stood up. ‘Hang on, Michael. I’ll be back in a few minutes.’
In fact it was almost an hour before Autenowski came back. It had been decided to fly the Pole and his family to London instead of Washington. Autenowski and Wainwright would be going with them.
LONDON 1961
In an isolated cottage near the old-world village of Broadway in Worcestershire, Wainwright and a senior colleague had pieced together George Blake’s treachery, although the Pole could only give the details for 1957-9. He gave general details of Blake’s operation with Moscow for the other years, but only for those three years could he give evidence of direct first-hand knowledge of the kin
d that would be accepted by a court.
The head of SIS submitted a full report to the Foreign Secretary and finally the Prime Minister was consulted and he ordered that Blake should be brought back from Beirut for interrogation.
To arrest Blake in a foreign country could cause unnecessary diplomatic problems and it was decided merely to send him a telegram asking him to come straight back to London for important discussions. There were risks involved but it was decided that that was the best way.
The risks were greater than SIS had imagined. Within an hour of the telegram being sent, Moscow had received warnings from two sources that if Blake went back to London he would be arrested. Despite the fact that both warnings were from utterly reliable sources, Moscow, in its wisdom, decided that they were false alarms. In the case of Kim Philby, himself in Beirut, they considered that his nerve had now gone, and in the other case they accepted the advice as prudent but no more.
George Blake responded to the Foreign Office telegram immediately. He would return on Easter Monday, after he had made arrangements for the care of his wife who was expecting their third child in a few weeks’ time. They were getting hourly reports on Blake’s movements. On Easter Sunday the Blakes had a few friends from MECAS to the house for drinks, and their host had indicated that he would be back in Beirut the following weekend.
On Easter Monday, 3 April 1961, George Blake walked down the steps of the Comet flight from Beirut that had just landed at London Airport. He had been instructed to report at the Foreign Office the next day, and apologies had been offered that nobody would be available to meet him at the airport. It was, after all, a public holiday, and Blake knew well enough the British reluctance to work at weekends and holidays. The characteristic had been helpful to him on many occasions. In fact he had been under close surveillance at Shemlam, on the flight, and for the rest of the day.
On Tuesday morning George Blake arrived at the Foreign Office promptly. He was surprised that he was stopped at reception, and flattered when he was told the head of SIS would see him straight away.
Sir Dick White was standing by the tall Georgian windows when Blake was shown in, and there were two men whom Blake didn’t recognize standing by the large desk that dominated the room. The head of SIS turned to look at Blake as the heavy door closed softly behind him. For several minutes he looked at Blake without speaking. His voice was harsh when he finally spoke. His anger was barely hidden.
‘Mr Blake. We believe, and have evidence, that you have committed offences under the Official Secrets Act. You will be taken to a police station and charged.’ He nodded towards the two men. ‘These gentlemen are officers of Special Branch and you will go with them. ’
Blake looked back at his chief without any indication of fear or concern.
‘I should like to make a full report, sir, that will explain everything.’
Sir Dick White waved his hand dismissively and turned back towards the window to hide his disgust.
The older of the two Special Branch officers stepped forward.
‘Mr Blake, please don’t say anything right now. I am taking you to a police station where you will be cautioned and charged. If you wish you can then make a statement.’ The other Special Branch officer was the man who had watched him at South Bromley station.
Blake hesitated for a moment, turned and bowed briefly towards the figure at the window, and left with the two men. He was driven to Bow Street police station and formally charged.
Late that afternoon, and long after the courts usually sat, Blake was brought from the cells, and before the Chief Metropolitan Magistrate he was charged with offences under Section 1(c) of the Official Secrets Act of 1911. Only the magistrate, his clerk, Blake and the police officers were present. Neither the court reporters nor the public knew of the special sitting.
With a mixture of creativity and deviousness a brief note was issued to the press which said, ‘George Blake, 38, a government official, of no fixed address, has been sent for trial on charges under the Official Secrets Act.’
It could be construed as anything from high treason to a refuse collector who slept rough who had discovered some unimportant official document in a dustbin.
In Beirut the British ambassador sent a message to Gillian Blake that her husband had been delayed in London.
The following Saturday was his sons birthday, and the small party for his children was overshadowed by the fact that it took place without their father. There had been nothing from London. No telephone call, no message, not even a birthday card or a greetings telegram.
Two days later a woman official from the Foreign Office called at the house and broke the news as gently as she could that George Blake had been arrested on serious charges. A flight had been booked for all the family for the next day. Gillian Blake was expecting her third child in six weeks’ time. On the advice of the Foreign Office, to avoid the press, Mrs Blake and her children went to stay with friends in Sussex, and the nightmare began.
At the Foreign Office they were sweating over the exact wording of the D-notices to the media that would stop them from printing any details of the arrest and background, without giving them any faint hint of how serious the matter really was. But an establishment that could describe a long-serving senior intelligence officer as ‘a government official of no fixed address’ didn’t have too much difficulty in concocting the words. The problem was how to make them utterly boring without actually lying.
22
Barlow sat on the edge of the bath looking at his notebook as Lawler washed and shaved.
‘She goes to the studios most days except Wednesdays and weekends. Usually leaving the house about noon. The man leaves at eight-thirty every day. Sometimes works on Saturdays until about three in the afternoon.’
‘Anything about their relationship?’
‘Seems OK from what I can gather, but he’s definitely a boy for the girls. Mainly young kids hoping to make it in films. He dresses stylishly but informally. Safari jacket and jeans sort of stuff. Made to measure. According to the books he’s about fifty. Good-looking in a bored sort of way, grey hair, crew-cut and a deep tan which I suspect comes from a lamp.’
‘Do they go out much?’
‘The usual studio-type entertaining.’
‘How do they behave to one another in public?’
‘Friendly, kidding, not over-possessive on either side.’
‘How does she dress?’
‘Very chic. Very French. If you didn’t know you’d assume she was a Parisienne.’
‘Close friends?’
‘Not on his side. She has a woman friend, another Pole. About the same age. A translator, German-Polish, They sometimes shop together and have coffee at each other’s houses.’
‘What do you think?’
‘About what?’
‘Her reaction to my news.’
‘I don’t fancy your chances.’
‘Why not?’
‘The guy’s doing well. They’re living high on what goes for the hog’s back in East Germany. They’ve lived together for several years and it looks a stable enough relationship. Why should she trade that for your guy?’
‘He was her husband, and he wants to marry her again, not just live with her.’
‘Oh, come off it, Jimmy. Husbands are ten a penny these days. Especially second-hand ones.’
‘Does she know about the young girls?’
Barlow laughed. ‘You’ve got a nasty mind, pal. But I doubt if she does. I’d say he’s discreet, and reckons that what she doesn’t actually know she ain’t gonna grieve over. But I’d guess she doesn’t know any details. Probably doesn’t ask, so never gets the brush off. They’re both in films. She knows what goes on on casting couches.’
‘Can you get me details and photographs of a couple of the young girls?’
‘I should think so. We may have some on file, but if we haven’t it’ll take a couple of days at least.’
‘Thanks.’
He presented his US passport, paid for the East German visa, and exchanged dollars for East German marks at Checkpoint Charlie. He took a taxi from the stand by the church in Krausen Strasse and asked for the Griechische Park in Kopenick. The driver warned him that it was a long way, and he gave him a five dollar note to encourage him.
From time to time his hand went inside his jacket to touch Petrov’s letter and the photographs. There was a lot hanging on that letter. They had gone over it again and again, until it was a mixture of pleading and persuasion, bribery and love. But he knew that the letter alone would never be enough. He had to find words that would at least make her listen.
He looked out of the cab window. The driver had taken him the direct way, straight down the main road, and they were crossing the river at the Karlshorst Bridge. Five minutes later the driver pulled up near St Anton’s church. He paid the fare plus two dollars, and the man looked pleased, wished him a good day and turned the cab back towards the bridge.
Lawler looked at his watch. It was barely nine o’clock, and he walked slowly towards the house in Parseval Strasse. The beautiful old houses in Kopenick had, by some miracle, escaped all the ravages of war. They had never been bombed or shelled, and the whole area was like Germany a hundred years earlier. Kopenick had been a town long before the Brandenburgs had made Berlin. Even the Red Army had left it outwardly untouched. Rumour said that it was because even before they took Berlin they had marked down nearby Karlshorst for their headquarters.
Number 25 was a narrow house set between two double-fronted houses that could have just as fittingly been alongside an Amsterdam canal. It was of old-fashioned purplish brown brick with stone facings to the windows and round the brightly painted blue door. It looked as if it had once been the home of a prosperous merchant, and even now it looked like the house of the well-to-do. There were net curtains at the beautifully proportioned windows, and geraniums and lobelia in the white window boxes. He walked slowly round the block and the sun was already hot on his back. As he turned once again into the cobbled street his hand went inside his jacket to check that the letter was still there.
