Spycatcher (55 page)

"I always thought you saw reds under the beds," said John Day after I had read the report, "but I wanted to tell you that I think you were right all along."

This time there was no escape - not for myself, for F.J., or for the man in the black suit playing golf in quiet retirement in the Somerset village of Calcott.

- 22 -

It would have been nice to have crowned my career with a triumph. It would have been nice to have solved the riddle. Better he was innocent than the continuing uncertainty. But the secret world is not so simple, and at the end the shadows remained, as dense as before, shrouding the truth.

One morning in 1969 I made my way up to a small operations room in what had once been the D3 offices. The desk earphones whispered gently as A2 technicians checked the microphones in our safe house in South Audley Street. For them it was another day, another interrogation, but for me it was the final act in a ten-year drama. The brief lay on the table, as big as a thick telephone directory. On the inside front cover was the curious single word "Drat," Hollis' code name. It was issued to me years before, when I was doing my D3 private inquiries, by the small office in B Branch which allocated cover names. I laughed at the time. "Drat" seemed so absurd. I never realized what pain would be associated with it.

Anne Orr-Ewing was an extremely thorough officer who had risen from the Transcription Department to D3 as a research officer before joining K7. The K7 case was substantially the same as my own freelance inquiries of 1965 and 1966. It was more detailed, of course. They had access to Hollis' Record of Service, and had traced and interviewed his contemporaries at Oxford, searched the Shanghai Special Branch records, but no crucial proof had been found. In the end, as always, it came down to a matter of belief.

A small white envelope inviting Hollis back up to the office was sent a few days before the interrogation. The final plans were laid. There was a row, too, of course. We assumed that Hollis would be placed under continuous surveillance during the period of the interrogation, in case, like Blake, he panicked and made a move to contact his Russian controllers, if he had any. But F.J. would have none of it. He gave no reasons, but we could tell by his face that he was immovable. Even Hanley protested about this, pointing out to F.J. that he had not been spared the full works. But F.J. felt he had been backed into a corner in sanctioning the interrogation, and this was a final indignity he was not prepared to impose on his predecessor.

John Day was told to conduct the interview. Anne Orr-Ewing and I were to listen in to provide analysis as the interrogation proceeded. F.J. knew he was too committed on the subject to be a fair choice, and he realized that, after so many years' delay, he had to be seen to be allowing the troops their chance.

A door opened in South Audley Street. Hollis was shown in.

"Where do you want me?" he asked, his familiar voice still strong after all the years.

John Day began to explain the procedure of the interview.

"Yes, I'm familiar with the procedure... but I need pencil and paper, if you please."

I tried to imagine the scene in the room in South Audley Street. I could see Hollis in there, sitting upright. I rather thought he would miss his desk. Of course the pencils would be essential. And he would be wearing his Cheshire cat smile. Would he feel humiliated? I wondered. Or frightened? I somehow doubted it. Emotion was never something I associated with him. I remembered something he always used to say to me.

"Peter, you're too emotional on the subject." I was doing my best to control my excitement.

John Day began by going through routine details of Hollis' career and early life. Hollis knew the procedure, and began running ahead of the brief.

"We'll take it a little slower, if you don't mind," said John Day. Hollis showed faint irritation.

"This is a little laborious, if you don't mind me saying so. You must have this information on my R/S."

But John Day was not to be intimidated.

"I think we had best follow procedure in this instance, if you don't mind."

Hollis told a simple story. He said he left home because he realized he was not religious. But Oxford, he claimed, was no escape. It, too, reminded him of his religious upbringing.

"I wanted to get away, do something with my life in the outside world. The only ambition I had was to play golf, and I realized early on at Oxford that I could never make a career out of it. So I decided to travel."

The Far East had always attracted him. Originally he thought he might travel with some friends - Maurice Richardson was one. But the plan fell through. In retrospect, said Hollis, he was glad. They had far too little in common to make good traveling companions.

China fascinated him. Of course, he met the odd left-wing person out there, but then that was normal. Everyone knew Agnes Smedley was left-wing. It was the same at Oxford. He had been friendly with Maurice Richardson and Claud Cockburn, both of whom were best described as pink.

He said his health was a constant problem. TB afflicted him throughout this period, and in the end it forced his return to Europe. He traveled back via Moscow.

"I wanted to see what it was like. Awful place. Dirty, depressing. Nobody smiled. Intellectuals were making a tremendous fuss about the place. But I hated it."

"Did you meet anybody there?" asked John Day.

"On buses and trains. That sort of thing. But otherwise no. You don't meet Russians like you do people in other countries, like China, for instance."

At lunch, Anne Orr-Ewing, John Day, F.J., and I met back at Leconfield House. Hollis' performance had been calm and flawless.

"He'll clear himself, if he goes on like this," said Anne Orr-Ewing.

After lunch we went on to his return to Britain. Suddenly the crisp focus disintegrated. The delivery was still resolute, but all the detail disappeared. He could not remember where he had lived, whom he had met, what plans he had, and yet we had all the answers in the brief. We knew what he had been doing. For instance, he had lived virtually next door to an old MI6 officer named Archie Lyall, who had been a close friend of Guy Burgess. But although they must have seen each other numerous times, Hollis had no recollection of him at all. For an hour or more Hollis stumbled, until he reached the point in his career where he joined MI5 before the war. Suddenly, and as abruptly as it had disappeared, precision returned.

That night the interrogating team met again at the Oxford and Cambridge Club to debate the day's session.

"What about this blank year?" I asked.

F.J. placed his pipe on the table wearily. "You've got that all wrong," he said.

He told us that Hollis was in a mess when he came back from China - his health was shot, he had no career, no prospects. It did not seem to occur to him that this would have made Hollis much more vulnerable to recruitment. He was drifting, and it was a period in his life he had long wanted to forget. Little wonder, said F.J., that he can't remember where he lived.

"Well, it's a pretty odd state of mind to start applying for a job in MI5 or MI6 for that matter," I remarked. I meant it seriously, but it sounded sarcastic. F.J. bridled.

"For God's sake Peter!" Then he cut himself short. There was still another session to go.

The following day Hollis sat down again.

"Are we ready?" Hollis asked patronizingly. John Day waited in silence. It was a nice touch, and reminded Hollis that, for once, he was not in charge.

Day began on a different tack.

"I want to ask you again about Claud Cockburn's file..."

This had come up the previous morning. Hollis volunteered his friendship with Cockburn at Oxford, and was asked why he had never declared the fact on Cockburn's file, as any MI5 officer was supposed to do if he handled the file of an acquaintance. Hollis brushed the question aside. He said there was no general requirement at that time to record personal friendships on files.

It was a lie, only a small one, true, but a lie nonetheless. The brief contained a full annex proving that it was indeed current practice in MI5 prewar to record friendships, and that Hollis would have known of the regulation.

Day began to challenge Hollis on his answer the previous day. Why had he lied? Hollis was never a stammerer, or a flusterer. There was a slight pause, and then he acknowledged his mistake. Yes, he admitted, there was another reason. He knew that Cockburn was of interest to the Service as a prominent left-winger and Comintern agent, and since he was a recent arrival, and wanted very much to pursue a career inside MI5, he chose to ignore the regulation in case his friendship with Cockburn were seen as a black mark against him.

"I am sure I wasn't the first or the last officer to break that particular rule."

"What about other friends," pressed Day. "What about Philby? Were you friendly with him?"

"Not really. He was too much of a drinker. We had good professional relations, but nothing more."

"And Blunt?"

"More so, particularly during the war. I thought he was very gifted. But I saw him less after he left the Service. Now and again we would meet at the Travelers. Small talk - that sort of thing. He loved to gossip."

Gouzenko, Volkov, and Skripkin he dispatched swiftly. Gouzenko was unreliable. He still doubted that Elli really existed. As for his trip to Canada, there was nothing sinister in Philby's sending the file on to him.

"I was the acknowledged Soviet expert at the time. It would be natural for Philby to refer it to me, particularly because it was a Commonwealth matter."

"And Volkov?"

"I see no reason to disbelieve Philby. He thought Volkov's spy was himself... Why should he go all that way to protect someone else?"

Only once did a trace of the old Director-General break through, when John Day began to ask him about events in the early 1960s. He was asked about the sacking of Arthur Martin. A harsh tone crept into his voice.

"He was being thoroughly undisciplined. I never knew what he was doing. Take Blunt. We agreed on a formal immunity offer relating to events before 1945. Martin goes in to see him, and offers him CARTE BLANCHE immunity. The Attorney-General was incensed, and so was I. There was no controlling him. He and Wright were busy setting up a privileged Gestapo, and something had to be done to break it up. I don't regret it for one moment. I think it was absolutely justified in the circumstances and, if anything, should have happened much earlier."

John Day asked him why he had not allowed Mitchell to be interrogated in 1963.

"It's in the files. The Prime Minister would not sanction it." "Did you actually ask him for permission?"

"Of course I did," replied Hollis testily.

"But he has no recollection of the meeting," countered Day.

"That's absurd! The situation was critical. The Profumo business was at its height. The whole question of the exchange with the Americans had to be considered. Another scandal would have brought the Government down. That's why consultation was vital."

It was all shadow-boxing. Day moved and jabbed, but he could never really land a blow. Somehow he never got close enough to street-fight, to grapple and gouge him, and make him confess. Time had slipped away. It was all old, too old, to ever find the truth.

By the end of the afternoon only the routine questions for the record were left.

"Have you at any stage communicated official information to any unauthorized person?"

"No," replied Hollis firmly.

"Have you ever been approached by anyone clandestinely to pass information?"

"Never."

The chairs scraped as Hollis got up. He said goodbye, and meant it. He traveled back to Somerset, back to his golf, and his cottage. He left the interrogation room as unknown as when he entered - an enigma, an apparently sober man, with a streak of filthy humor. The autocrat with crippling insecurity.

F.J. met us again at the Oxford and Cambridge Club that night. There was an air of resignation around the table. We knew that we had not brought the case home. But equally we felt adamant that there was enough doubt to keep the case alive. F.J. was silent. He felt the interrogation vindicated his faith in Hollis.

"I hope we can move on to other things," he said.

Once again the case was closed. But nothing, and certainly not Hollis' interrogation, could paper over the deep chasm which divided those who believed penetration had occurred, and those, like F.J., who had finally come to doubt it. I could not help remembering all the wasted years, the years when it could have been investigated, the years of neglect and drift, the years when files gathered dust, when reports went unanswered, the years when fear of the unknown prevented us from ever knowing the truth. Only a chance breakthrough, a defector or a cipher break, could help us solve the case now. A desperate sense of failure gripped me - failure and frustration and a desire to get away and forget. Looking back, my retirement began that night as I traveled home on the train to Essex. What came after was mostly going through the motions.

Hollis' interrogation signaled the end of one decade, and ushered in the new. The 1970s were to be the years of reckoning, when the secret armies of the West were finally and painfully exposed to the searing searchlight of publicity. For thirty years West and East had fought a nocturnal battle, hidden and protected by custom and necessity. But within four years the secrets would come pouring out.

Ironically, the 1970s opened well for MI5. We finally got a defector we believed in. His name was Oleg Lyalin. He was recruited by two of the best officers in MI5, a bluff Yorkshireman named Harry Wharton, and a former SIS undercover officer of conspicuous courage, Tony Brookes, who with his wife had operated in France AND survived The operation was managed by the head of KY, a calm, dependable officer by the name of Christopher Herbert. Lyalin was having an affair with a girl, and when Wharton and Brookes made contact with him he said he wanted to defect. They managed to persuade him to stay in place, and for six months he provided MI5 with a detailed run-down of the KGB order of battle in London. He was only a relatively low-level KGB officer connected to the Sabotage Department, but any breach in the KGB's armory is invaluable.