My Silent War: The Autobiography of a Spy (20 page)

I had originally hoped that I could so manoeuvre the discussion with the Chief that he himself would suggest my flying to Istanbul. But the Roberts interlude spurred me to direct action. So I said that, in view of the Brigadier’s defection, I could only suggest that I should go out in his place. It would not take me long to brief my deputy on any outstanding business. I could leave as soon as all the necessary clearances had been obtained. With obvious relief, the Chief agreed. Together we went to the Foreign Office, where I was given a letter to present to Knox Helm, asking him to give me all reasonable facilities for the fulfilment of my mission. My only other call was on General Hill, the head of our Coding Section. He supplied me with my own personal one-time cypher pads, and lent me one of his girls to refresh me in their use. This caused a little extra delay—not altogether unwelcome, since it gave me more time to adjust my thoughts to action in Istanbul. Three full days elapsed between the arrival of the Istanbul papers in Broadway and the take-off of my aeroplane bound for Cairo en route for Istanbul.

My neighbour on the aeroplane was taciturn. Few aircraft companions bother me long, however talkative they may be by nature. For me, flying is conducive to reflection, and I had plenty to
occupy my mind. For some time, I tossed around in my mind a problem which baffled me then and baffles me to this day: namely, the oddness of the reaction, shared by the Embassy in Turkey, the Foreign Office, the Chief and Sir David Petrie, to Volkov’s terror of communication by telegraph. The oddness of their reaction consisted in the fact that they eschewed telegrams mentioning Volkov, and
only
telegrams mentioning Volkov. Telegraphic correspondence on every other subject under the sun, including many that must have been Top Secret, went on gaily as before. If we believed Volkov’s warning, we should have concluded that all telegraphy was dangerous. If we disbelieved it, we should have instructed our station in Istanbul to take the necessary action without delay. As it was, the only result of Volkov’s tip was to delay, by two or three weeks, action on his own behalf. The answer obviously lay deep in the psychology of wishful thinking. Not being an expert on codes and cyphers, I concluded that it was no business of mine to draw attention to the gross inconsistency of our conduct. Anyway, there were more immediate problems to be considered.

It had been agreed at the Foreign Office that I should use Page for the purpose of re-establishing contact with Volkov and arranging a rendezvous. To the latter, I would be accompanied by John Reed, a First Secretary of the Embassy, who had earlier served in Moscow and passed one of the Foreign Office exams in Russian. These arrangements were made subject to the approval of the Ambassador, Sir Maurice Peterson, whom I knew from Spanish days; but the Foreign Office warned me in pressing terms to approach Helm, the Minister, first. Helm, it appeared, had begun life in the Consular Service, and was still touchy about matters of status and protocol. I did not anticipate much difficulty from Helm, in which I was not altogether right. The crux of my problem, it seemed to me, was the interview between Volkov and myself, with Reed in attendance. If it ever took place, Reed would get the shock of his life if Volkov started reeling off
names of Soviet agents in British Government service. It would be charitable, I thought, to spare him such surprises. How to make sure?

There was obviously no means of making sure. But I thought that I had a slender chance if I played it right. I decided that my first objective was to get hold of Reed and convince him that my mission was of a severely restricted scope. I was not authorized to discuss with Volkov the details of his information. It would be positively dangerous if he made disclosures prematurely, that is, before he was safe on British soil. My instructions were to prevent at all costs any deviation of the interview into such channels. I was in Istanbul solely to get Volkov away to safety, where he could be interrogated by those qualified for the job. I thought that I could string Reed along further by hinting that we were by no means satisfied that Volkov was not a provocateur. It would be most unfortunate, therefore, if his information was given currency before we could assess its authenticity. I felt that I could do no better. An expert, of course, could have driven a coach-and-four through my fabrications. But Reed was not an expert, and he might prove pliable. Towards evening, my rising spirits were given another boost. The pilot announced on the intercom, that, owing to electrical storms over Malta, we were being diverted to Tunis. Subject to improved weather conditions, we would fly on to Cairo via Malta next day. Another twenty-four hours! My luck was holding.

On the afternoon of the following day, we arrived at last in Cairo, too late to catch the onward plane for Istanbul. So it was not until the day after that, a Friday, that I reached my destination. I was met at the airport by Cyril Machray, the head of our Instanbul station, whom I had to brief on the nature of my mission. Such were the relations between the Foreign Service and SIS in those days that nobody in the Embassy or the Consulate-General had thought of consulting him about Volkov—and, of course, we had not dared to telegraph him from London. We called together that afternoon on Knox Helm, to whom I presented the letter from the
Foreign Office. But if I expected enthusiastic support for our plans, I was soon disabused. Some years later, after Helm had got his Embassy, in Budapest, a colleague told me that he was the most helpful and understanding of Ambassadors. But when I saw him, he was still only a Minister, and as prickly as a thorn-bush. He demurred stubbornly. Our suggestions might well cause embarrassment to the Embassy; he would surely have to consult the Ambassador before I went any further. He asked me to call on him next morning (another day wasted), then hospitably took me home for drinks. Also of the party was the Military Attaché, who suggested that I should dine with him at the Park Hotel; he also evidently had his troubles with Helm.

When I called on Helm next morning, he looked at me accusingly. “You never told me that you knew the Ambassador!” After that, our conversation scarcely got off the ground, but I gathered from Helm’s manner that there were also reservations in Peterson’s mind. Rather grudgingly, he told me that the Ambassador wanted me to spend the following day, Sunday, with him on the yacht
Makouk
. It would put off from the Kabatash landing-stage at 11
A.M.
Meanwhile, I was to do nothing. So the whole weekend was shot.

Most visitors to Istanbul know the
Makouk
, the Ambassadorial yacht, originally built for Abbas Hilmi of Egypt. It was a large, flat-bottomed vessel, well suited to the smooth waters of the Nile, but it rolled somewhat in the swell of Marmara. There were several other guests on board, and it was not until after lunch, when we were anchored off Trotsky’s Prinkipo, that I could talk to Peterson in conditions of reasonable privacy while the other guests gambolled with the porpoises. As he did not break the ice, I did so myself, remarking that I had heard that he had some objections to the plans I had brought with me from London. What plans? he asked—a question that gave me another sidelight on Helm. He listened attentively to my exposition, and then asked one question: had we consulted the Foreign Office? But yes, I answered. The Foreign
Office had approved everything, and I had brought Helm a letter asking him to offer all reasonable facilities. “Then there’s no more to be said,” he replied. “Go ahead.” The last excuse for the delay had gone.

That evening, Machray and I discussed the plan of campaign in detail. We exchanged several ideas for spiriting Volkov away, some involving Turkish co-operation, some not. It seemed clear that we could not decide definitely which was the best plan until we had spoken to Volkov himself. Much might depend on his own position and his particular circumstances—his hours of work, the degree of freedom of movement he enjoyed, etc. The first step was to establish contact with him, and clearly our best instrument was Page, of the Consulate-General, whom Volkov had approached in the first place. Next morning, accordingly, Machray invited Page to come over to his office, and I explained to him as much as he needed to know, namely, that I would like him to make an appointment for me to see Volkov some time that afternoon in conditions of greatest secrecy. (I did not want a morning appointment, because I needed time to brief John Reed on the lines already described.) We discussed several possible places for the meeting, but opted finally for the simplest. Page said that he frequently had routine consular business with Volkov. It would be perfectly normal practice for him to invite Volkov over to his office for a talk. At last, as Page reached for the receiver, zero hour had arrived.

Page got on to the Soviet Consulate-General, and asked for Volkov. A man’s voice came faintly on the line, but Page’s half of the conversation meant nothing to me. But Page’s face was a study in puzzlement, telling me that a hitch had developed. When he put the receiver down, he shook his head at me. “He can’t come?” I asked. “That’s funny.” “It’s a great deal funnier than you think,” Page answered. “I asked for Volkov and a man came on, saying he was Volkov. But it wasn’t Volkov. I know Volkov’s voice perfectly well, I’ve spoken to him dozens of times.” Page tried again, but this time got no farther than the telephone operator. “She said he was out,” said Page indignantly. “A minute ago, she put me on to him!”
We looked at each other, but none of us could find a constructive idea. I finally suggested that there might be some flap on at the Soviet Consulate-General, and that we had better try again the following day in hopes of better luck. I began to feel strongly that, somewhere along the line, something decisive had happened. I whiled away the afternoon by personally encyphering a brief report to the Chief.

Next morning, we met again, Machray, Page and myself, and Page telephoned the Soviet Consulate-General. I heard the faint echo of a woman’s voice, then a sharp click. Page looked foolishly at the silent receiver in his hand. “What do you make of that? I asked for Volkov, and the girl said ‘Volkov’s in Moscow.’ Then there was a sort of scuffle and slam, the line went dead.” On hearing this, I was pretty certain that I knew what had happened. The case was dead. But I was anxious to clinch the matter, even if only to make my report to the Chief look better. I therefore asked Page to make one final, desperate effort. Would he mind calling at the Consulate-General and asking for Volkov in person? Page by now was determined to get to the bottom of the matter, and readily agreed to call on the Russians. Within an hour, he was back, still puzzled and angry. “It’s no bloody good,” he reported. “I can’t get any sense out of that madhouse. Nobody’s ever heard of Volkov!” We broke up, and I sat down to encypher another telegram for the Chief. After confessing defeat, I asked his permission to wind up the case and return to London.

During the homeward journey, I roughed out a report which I would present to the Chief, describing in detail the failure of my mission. Necessarily, it contained my theory of Volkov’s disappearance. The essence of the theory was that Volkov’s own insistence on bag communications had brought about his downfall. Nearly three weeks had elapsed between his first approach to Page and our first attempt to contact him. During that time, the Russians had ample chances of getting on to him. Doubtless both his office and his living quarters were bugged. Both he and his wife were reported to be nervous. Perhaps his manner had given him away; perhaps he had
got drunk and talked too much; perhaps, even, he had changed his mind and confessed to his colleagues. Of course, I admitted, this was all speculation; the truth might never be known. Another theory—that the Russians had been tipped off about Volkov’s approach to the British—had no solid evidence to support it. It was not worth including in my report.

IX. T
HE
T
ERRIBLE
T
URK

My strategic position at the head of R5 could not last for ever. In making its recommendations on future staff policy, the Committee on SIS Reorganization had decided in favour of versatility rather than specialization. It laid down that, so far as possible, all officers should feel equally at home in offensive and defensive work, both at headquarters and in the field. Such a system might result in some loss of expertise as officers were periodically switched from pillar to post. But that loss, it was thought, would be outweighed by the greater flexibility offered by a staff made up of all-rounders. It is perhaps needless to remark that, when this staff policy was adopted, the three senior officers of the service, the Chief, Vice-Chief and Assistant-Chief, had no experience of counter-espionage and no practical knowledge of work in the field. But I was not senior enough to benefit from any such dispensation. As all my work for SIS had been concerned with counter-espionage at headquarters, I was obviously due for an early change of scene.

It was therefore no surprise when General Sinclair summoned me towards the end of 1946, and told me that my turn had come for a tour of duty overseas. I had already decided that I could not
reasonably resist a foreign posting without serious loss of standing in the service, and such loss of standing might well have prejudiced my access in the long run to the sort of intelligence I needed. When I heard from Sinclair that I had been chosen to take charge of the SIS station in Turkey, with headquarters in Istanbul, I felt that things might have been very much worse. Istanbul was then the main southern base for intelligence work directed against the Soviet Union and the Socialist countries of the Balkans and Central Europe. Although I would no longer be right in the middle of my main field of interest, I would not be so far off-centre.

Sinclair told me that my successor at R5 would be the same Brigadier Roberts who had crossed my path briefly during the Volkov affair. He had relinquished his post as head of Security Intelligence Middle East (SIME), and was available for service at home. He took over from me in leisurely fashion, and questioned me more closely on the clubs of London than on the work of the section. His firmest claim to fame, as head of R5, was his success in persuading Maurice Oldfield,
^*
an officer of high quality from SIME, also to join SIS. Within a few weeks of his installation as Roberts’s deputy, Oldfield had earned the nickname “Brig’s Brains.”