by Ted Allbeury
When the sentence of forty-two years was passed Blake showed no sign of emotion in court but when taken to the cells he collapsed from shock and was taken to the prison hospital at Wormwood Scrubs. An appeal was lodged but, despite all submissions from the defence, was dismissed by the Court of Criminal Appeal. Their dismissal was on the grounds that Blake was not being convicted for his ideological convictions but for using his position to betray his country’s secrets. Blake himself was too ill to be present at the appeal.
There was a strange twist of fate in Blake being incarcerated in Wormwood Scrubs, for the prison itself had been cleared of prisoners early in the war to become the temporary headquarters of MI5. And it was near where he himself had been interrogated when he first landed in England after escaping from Holland.
There is a special smell about long-term, high-security prisons that is almost impossible to describe. It isn’t the stench of sweat or urine, more the smell of some unfamiliar incense. Acrid, warm, rotting, like the odour from the old lion-house at the zoo. Visitors try hard to hold their breath but eventually inhale, and the smell becomes sickly sweet. Romantics would describe it as the smell of fear. The more practical would ascribe it to bad drains or bad ventilation. Neither would be right. It is just the stench of an ancient prison, and its load of sick humanity.
Blake was put in ‘D’ block with a cell to himself and prisoners in D’ block were under constant surveillance. All their clothes had to be left outside the cell at night, and their cell lights were on continuously with frequent random inspections. They were allowed no association with other prisoners apart from those in D’ block itself.
There were at least three alleged plots to free Blake which were investigated thoroughly by the security services. They were taken seriously but never found to have more than a vague justification for suspicion. He was a model prisoner, popular with other D ’ block prisoners, spending his time in the prison book-binding shop and eventually continuing his Arabic studies with a correspondence school. Another prisoner in ‘D’ block was Gordon Lonsdale, who was in reality Colonel Konon Molody of the KGB, and he was traded back by the Russians in exchange for the alleged British spy Greville Wynne.
On Friday, 21 October 1966, a mountain of wet coal-dust slid down and over the small Welsh village of Aberfan. By the following day the whole country mourned the deaths of 166 children, and tried hard not to imagine too vividly the last minutes of the infants’ lives as they suffocated in their village school under the relentless, moving mass that careless officialdom had neglected to make safe. South Wales was inured to the sadness of miners dying below the ground, but there was a special kind of sickness to the thought that their children had been killed by the detritus of the coal their fathers mined at such risk to their own lives. It was almost too horrible to bear thinking about, so perhaps people far away from South Wales can be forgiven for pressing on with their lives that ghastly Saturday.
By 5 p.m. the football matches were over, girls sat looking in mirrors to prepare for their evening dates, and forwardthinking young men polished the back seats of their cars.
In ‘D’ block at Wormwood Scrubs, 5 p.m. saw the start of the ‘free association period. Prisoners could leave their cells, stroll through the corridors, and join others in the ground-floor recreation rooms. They could play table-tennis, chess, or even musical instruments. Like a good many others George Blake sat watching TV. It was Associated Television s usual Saturday offering of all-in wrestling, and the prisoners’ amiable but scathing shouts reflected their views on the contrived gymnastics that purported to be wrestling. Blake watched for some time and then stood up, strolling to the door where the two prison officers who were in charge of over two hundred prisoners in the block stood casually watching the men. He chatted to them for a couple of minutes about the wrestling and said he was going up to his cell to read. It was just 5.30p.m.
He walked slowly up the iron stairs to the second landing, and along to the big window above the entrance to the hall. It was protected by a series of vertical iron bars. At the second bar Blake stopped and pulled off the strip of adhesive tape that had been blackened with shoe polish. The bar itself had been loosened from its concrete seating a week before, and came away easily. Blake stood it carefully and quietly against the wall. He looked around cautiously but the landing was still empty, and the noise from below was deafening. He turned and put his foot against the glass. For a moment it bowed under the pressure and then it collapsed and shattered, to fall in the yard below.
Slipping on black leather gloves he slid through the window and hung for a second before dropping to the roof of the covered walk-way that joined D’ block to the next building. The second drop was to the top of a wooden bin, and finally a few feet to the ground. Thirty seconds later he was running in the shadow of the covered way. The slight drizzle had become a heavy downpour. He could barely see the high prison wall but when he heard the car engine race he ran towards the darkness of the wall and the sound. The nylon ladder came over as he reached the wall, and his foot in its heavy prison boot found purchase on the bottom rung. The rungs were only nylon thread reinforced with steel knitting needles, and the ladder s lightness made it difficult to control. It took longer than they had allowed for before he was at the top of the wall, but the car was there, its engine running. He swung his body over the blanket on top of the wall and the waiting man guided his feet to the roof of the car. Five minutes later they were passing the BBC TV Centre as they headed for Shepherd’s Bush.
It was nearly two hours later when it was discovered that Blake was missing, and one of the largest and costliest man-hunts for years was put into operation.
The first handicap for the police was the two-hour start. Blake could already be out of the country before the hunt began. It wasn’t likely but it was certainly possible. A small private plane from a farm airstrip and he could already be in Holland or France.
The second handicap was that the only photograph held by Scotland Yard was well out of date. It showed Blake on his return from Korea, bearded, smiling and thin-faced. He was clean-shaven now, and his face much fuller. A recent photograph taken in the prison was discovered, and the Criminal Records Office photographers worked all night to produce the hundreds of copies that were needed.
Already a general call with a full description had been sent to all police forces, Special Branch, ports, airports and flying clubs. All Warsaw Pact embassies and offices were put under immediate surveillance, and Communist countries’ vessels and aircraft were being checked and watched.
The editor of the News of the World stopped the presses to accommodate a photograph and description, and several other newspapers included a photograph in their last editions. Certain members of the Communist Party were put under surveillance, and at least one was questioned. There were three separate clues of a practical nature. At the foot of the wall under the ladder was a pot of pink chrysanthemums still wrapped in the florist’s paper. There were the knitting needles in the nylon ladder. But the florist s was a firm with a hundred shops, and several were within a mile or two of Wormwood Scrubs. And the pot of flowers left at the foot of the wall to mark the spot where the ladder should go over, and the car should be parked, indicated that the escape had been well planned. The firm who manufactured the knitting needles confirmed the suspicion that they were available in thousands of outlets. The third clue was to be more useful – a set of tyre tracks near the wall, and marks on the prison wall where the car had been backed up against the stone surface. It would take time before these clues were useful but they were photographed and filed for the record.
There were three men from Special Branch, an assistant commissioner, the governer of the prison and two prison officers. They sat around the table in the prison office canteen with files laid out down the centre, and a large-scale plan of the prison and the surrounding roads spread out at each end.
The assistant commissioner said, Go over the visitors again. Right from the first d
ay. ‘
The governor looked at the list. It was quite short.
‘Three visits from his solicitor. Four visits by his mother and twelve visits by his wife. That’s all.’
‘None of those would be involved. What about associates in “D” block?’
He was quite popular but he wasn’t the kind to have friends in a place like this.’
You’ve talked to the prisoners about his contacts?’
Yes. Every one of them.’
‘And no significant names come up?’
‘None at all, just casual, random contacts.’
‘What was the date of his divorce?’
‘Petition filed on June 18th. I gather the relationship had come to an end about April. He filed the petition, but I’d say it was for his family’s sake, not because he particularly wanted it.’
One of the prison officers put up his hand and the governor nodded to him.
‘What is it?’
‘What about New Horizon and the Daily Sketch?’
The governor turned to the assistant commissioner. ‘You remember that, I expect?’
‘Some article by Blake, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Remind me.’
The governor pointed to the prison officer. ‘Harvey is in charge of the magazine. Go over it, Harvey, but be brief.’ Harvey looked towards the AC. ‘We have an internal prison magazine produced by prisoners themselves. It’s called New Horizon. It’s not allowed to go outside the prison, and the governor examines it before it’s distributed. The articles are never attributed. Just pen names. In the June issue last year there was an article called “Knaves and Fools’’ that was put in under the by-line “By the Humanist Group’’. The magazine is just run off on a prison duplicator. A reporter on the Daily Sketch got hold of a copy somehow, and they published an article about the magazine and the “Knaves and Fools” article was attributed to George Blake. Their duplicated copy was checked by the Home Office and on that particular copy the article was actually attributed to Blake. But there was no other copy that was the same. The Mountbatten enquiry team had it analysed for codes and the rest of it but found nothing. I just thought it might be relevant.’
‘What was the article about?’
‘Routine stuff about most prisoners being stupid rather than criminal.’
‘Why did Blake write it? Was he asked to?’
He didn’t write it. The editor wrote it.’
‘Who’s the editor?’
‘He s been released since then. His name was Bourke. ‘
‘Sean Bourke?’ It was one of the Special Branch officers who asked the question.
‘Yes.’
‘Sean Adolphus Bourke?’
‘Yes, I believe that was his full name.’
The Special Branch man turned to the AC. ‘Sean Bourke is ex-IRA. The man who was arrested by Detective-Sergeant Sheldon. He was released from the Scrubs about July this year, and has been making threats by letter and telephone to Sheldon and his family, saying he’s going to “get” him or his wife and children. We’ve been looking for him. ’
‘Call a meeting at the Yard for six this evening. Get the files and anyone who’s been dealing with the Bourke case.’
‘Right, sir.’
At the meeting, two of the facts that came out were that Blake had been allowed to have a portable radio set in his cell, and that Sean Bourke was an expert radio technician. It was just possible that he could have had radio contact with people outside the prison.
Two senior Special Branch officers were sent to Ireland on the night flight.
The small house in Highlever Road was in North Kensington, which sounds rather more exclusive than it really is. Highlever Road itself is only a few minutes’ walk from Wormwood Scrubs prison. The owner, a respectable sixty-year-old lady of German extraction, was highly satisfied with the new tenant of her two-roomed flatlet. He paid monthly in advance and was no trouble at all. No noise, apart from his typewriter, and no girls. He was a tall, well-built, good-looking man in his early thirties with a fine dark beard and a moustache. Even when he was away the rent would come through the post, paid by postal orders, and always on the correct day. Mr Sigworth was an ideal tenant.
He had taken the flat in October, and she had been surprised when she saw him a week later clean-shaven. He had smiled at her comment and said that his mother didn’t like the beard or the moustache. He looked younger cleanshaven, she thought, but not so masculine, not so striking.
George Blake grinned at the Irishman as he slid into the back seat of the car and lay down as it sped away. By the time they were at Chelsea Bridge he had struggled out of his prison clothes into a tweed jacket and a pair of cavalry drill trousers with well-polished brown brogues and a check Viyella shirt.
The driver stopped the car for Blake to join him in the front at Lavender Hill. They talked very little until they were well clear of London and its sprawling suburbs. In East Croydon they stopped to buy a couple of beef sandwiches, and ate them as they travelled towards Sanderstead and the Downs. It was an easy run through Limpsfield and Edenbridge to where the signpost pointed right. It was a quiet country lane, and the signpost said ‘Cowden ½m.’
The house lay back from the road, up a tarmacadamed drive that ended at a double garage. There were lights on in the house, and a man stood smiling, just inside the open door.
Once inside Blake was grinning, and the two men hugged each other, overcome with emotion. It was Blake who broke away first, standing back to look at the other man’s face.
‘It was fantastic, Tolya. It went like clockwork.’
‘Are you OK? You look fatter, my friend.’
‘Lack of exercise and fresh air.’ Blake laughed. ‘Take me outside for God’s sake. Let me walk around.’
‘There’s been nothing on the radio or TV as yet.’
Give them a chance. They probably didn’t discover I’d flown until 7.30 or so. I want to breathe some real air.’ Petrov smiled and took his arm. ‘OK. It’s got a hectare of garden, and big paddocks, and a small wood.’
‘Show me.’
There was a fallen oak almost at the edge of the wood and Petrov and Blake sat on it in the warm, autumn sunshine.
‘How far back did you go for them?’
‘Back to Seoul and Pyongyang.’
‘Nothing before that?’
‘No. I told them that that was where I changed sides. ‘
‘Did they believe you?’
‘Oh yes.’
How much about Berlin?’
Blake sighed. ‘Most of it. There was no point in keeping it back. They would have ground it out of me anyway.’
‘Names?’
‘Yes.’
‘And procedures?’
‘Yes.’ Blake looked at Petrov. ‘Were Moscow angry about it?’
Petrov shrugged, looking at his shoes. ‘Worried of course. We lost a lot of people. Hard to start all over again.’
‘Why didn’t they try to trade me? They traded Lonsdale, and he only had a few years’ sentence.’
He was a Soviet citizen, Georgi. It s not policy to trade non-Soviets.’
‘Not even after nearly thirty-five years’ service?’
Petrov pursed his lips. ‘They’re bureaucrats. You know what they’re like. Always the same. The rules are the rules.’
‘I’ll make up for it when I’m in Moscow. I can train people and evaluate the stuff you get. ‘
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘How long before I go?’
‘They want you to lie low until it all dies down. They’re going to put out a few stories to confuse the issue so that they’ll believe you’re already in Moscow or East Berlin.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘Isn’t that dangerous? They’ll still go on checking everything here no matter what stories are planted by Moscow.’
Petrov smiled. ‘We shall know well in
advance if there’s any danger.’
‘How?’
‘Friends in the right places.’
Blake looked surprised. ‘You mean inside the security services?’
‘Of course.’
‘Who?’
‘You know I cant tell you that, Georgi. Just rest assured we know what we re doing. ‘
‘Can you get me some newspapers and books?’
‘Anything you want. Just make out a list. ‘
In Tunbridge Wells Petrov phoned a London number from a public call-box and when he heard the voice at the other end say, “Primrose,” he said, ‘The day after tomorrow, ’ and hung up.
Blake stood watching the two ponies and the donkey in the field, the donkey cropping the grass, oblivious to the pounding hooves of the two young animals cavorting around it. He looked up at the blue sky to where a skylark still sang, rising and falling on a fountain of sweet sound. He wondered for a moment if there were skylarks in Moscow. It was roughly the same latitude as Glasgow and they surely had skylarks in the fields around Glasgow.
It was then he heard voices and he turned. Petrov and another man, a taller man, were walking towards him. The man waved to him, smiling, and he couldn’t believe it.
