Every spy a traitor, p.1
Every Spy a Traitor, page 1
Every Spy a Traitor
Cover
Title Page
Main Characters
Intelligence Organisations
Prologue
Chapter 1
Part 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Part 2
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Part 3
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Author’s Note
About the Author
Also by Alex Gerlis
Copyright
Title Page
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Main Characters
BRITISH
Charles Cooper also known as: Christopher Shaw; Frank Reynolds; George William Hobson
codename: Bertie
Marjorie Cooper mother of Charles Cooper
Sydney Carter solicitor in Birmingham
Archie codename of British traitor
Francis Randall publisher
Pamela Clarke Annexe officer
Percy Burton Head of The Annexe
The Hon. Milo Smart British diplomat, Moscow
George Banks MI6 officer, Moscow
Austin Branstone Cambridge academic
Dr Paxton Cambridge academic and MI6 agent
Phillips MI6
Simpkin MI5
Murray assassin
Ronnie locksmith
Douglas Marsh also known as: Harry Moore
British Communist Party and Soviet agent
Cliff Milne British Communist Party and Soviet agent
Sidney Dunn assistant to Cliff Milne
Wright Communist Party organiser
Maggie British woman in Paris
RUSSIAN
Nikolai Vasilyevich Zaslavsky OMS officer, Moscow
Emil OMS agent
Osip OMS rezident London
Misha publisher at Goslitizdat Moscow
Ernst and Ida Maurer OMS agents Berlin
Eduard Vladimirovich OMS Berlin and Moscow
Ivan Alexandrovich Morozov NKVD rezident London
Andriy Oleksandrvych Kovalenko Soviet diplomat, Vienna and The Hague
Sergei Grigoryevich Volkov Comintern official, Moscow
Nadezhda Nikolaeva Kuznetsova Comintern official, Moscow
Yegorov NKVD rezident Vienna and The Hague
Tarasov NKVD at Ministry of Foreign Affairs
Belov relative of Kovalenko
Lysenko Soviet diplomat
Ivan GRU officer Barcelona
OTHERS
Manfred passenger on Hamburg train
Rita Marks American communist in Moscow
Grace woman in Interlaken
Amadeo Moretti Italian communist, Moscow
Intelligence Organisations
Soviet Intelligence organisations
OMS: the International Liaison Department of the Comintern, the Communist International. As such, the OMS was the most secret department of the Comintern and heavily involved in illegal and clandestine matters abroad. Formed in 1921, dissolved in 1939.
NKVD: the People’s Commissariat for Internal Affairs. Originally established in 1917, the NKVD was the main secret police body within the Soviet Union, but also had intelligence and counter-intelligence functions, both within the Soviet Union and abroad. Predecessor to the KGB.
GRU: the Main Intelligence Directorate of the General Staff of the Red Army.
British Intelligence organisations
MI6: the Secret Intelligence Service, also referred to as ‘the Service’ or ‘Head Office’. Formed 1909. The main British espionage organisation. Operates primarily overseas.
MI5: the Security Service, formed 1909. Responsible for counter-espionage within the UK.
Special Branch: intelligence branch of the police service.
The Annexe: fictional organisation (as far as one knows…). Formed in 1931 to liaise between the above three organisations and to carry out clandestine and non-attributable activities on behalf of the British state. Dissolved 1939.
Prologue
Moscow
September 1937
He was aware of her stirring next to him and then cursing in her harsh New York accent as she knocked something over on the bedside table. When he asked what time it was, she said it was ten to three, what time did he think it was, and then it was his turn to swear – but in his softer, middle-class English accent – as she pulled the covers back and the cold hit him hard.
She stood up, her naked body silhouetted by the dim light in the room, lit a cigarette and put on her dressing gown before walking over to the window and peeking out of the curtains, carefully looking up and down Vorovsky Street five floors below, holding the cigarette behind her just in case anyone spotted its tiny red glow.
‘All quiet?’
She didn’t reply, moving round to draw on her cigarette before turning back to the parted curtain.
‘Come back to bed, Rita; there are four million people in Moscow and a dedicated communist like you is one of the least likely they’ll arrest. And—’
‘It’s because I’m a dedicated communist, Cooper. How many times do I need to tell you that, for Christ’s sake? I sometimes think you’re putting on this naïve act.’
There was a noise from outside, and he asked her what it was.
‘City police. It’s a raid. Christ.’
‘There are hundreds of apartments on Vorovsky, I really wouldn’t worry, I—’
She pulled the curtain tight and stood with her back to it and when he turned on the lamp she looked like a ghost.
‘What is it?’
‘They’re coming into this building. Get dressed, Cooper. You know what to do.’
He said something about not being silly and there were dozens of apartments in this building, but she was ignoring him as they hurriedly dressed and now he heard people inside, slamming doors and shouting, footsteps heading up the stairs.
The accepted wisdom in Moscow was that the best thing to do when they came for you was to be as warmly dressed as possible because they took you away as you were. You wouldn’t want to be transported to a camp in your pyjamas. Or die in them.
He tidied the bed, hoping no one would notice two people had been in it, and when he turned round, she’d opened the hiding place and told him to get in and when he said she should get in too she snapped and said he knew there was only room for one of them and she was the one they’d come for.
* * *
Whenever the time changed, word spread through Moscow faster than rumours of the arrival of chickens for sale at the market.
Somehow, people knew at what unearthly hour of the night the secret police would knock on the doors of those whose turn it was to be arrested. Hardly anyone openly discussed such matters, even with those they trusted most, though very few people in Moscow in 1937 trusted anyone else, even those close to them. In fact, especially those close to them.
Towards the end of 1936 the raids had been at around five o’clock in the morning, the end of the previous year more like midnight.
But once the secret police had chosen a new time to start their raids they tended to stick to that time for a few weeks – something to do with their shifts, apparently. The squads worked nine-hour shifts, arriving at the Lubyanka for their briefing before setting out, three hours allotted for the raids, and then taking the prisoners to Butyrskaya on Novoslobodskaya, an hour to book the prisoners in and take a meal break in the surprisingly pleasant staff canteen, followed by another two hours for the paperwork and possibly sitting in on the initial interrogation.
And then home.
And knowing the time mattered. It was vital information to have. If someone feared they were going to be arrested – and few people in Moscow were confident enough to feel that they were under no risk – then at least they wanted to be ready. The chances of escape were slim, but if you were awake and dressed and listening out then at least you had a chance. That rarely worked, of course, but occasionally someone may have a good escape route to evade the city police, whose job was to surround the building, and NKVD officers occasionally believed a woman who told them she’d not seen her husband for days.
In March 1937 they’d taken to coming at three in the morning and even a foreigner like Charles Cooper was aware of the time.
* * *
In the end she had to push him into the tiny hiding place and just before she closed it, she thrust a thick envelope into his hands.
‘My American passport’s in there: it expired a year ago, but I guess I’m still a US citizen. Go to the embassy on Mokhovaya Street and tell them I’ve been arrested. I doubt it will help, especially if they look at my file, but you never know. And then get the envelope to my folks in New York City, though they probably won t want to know about me either. And I—’
There was shouting now outside the apartment and banging on the door. She paused for a split second, during which he noticed her eyes fill with tears, and then she closed the panel to his hiding place and pushed the chest of drawers across it.
He squatted down, his forehead pressed against his knees, clutching his raincoat tight against his face in case they heard his panicked breathing or he sneezed or coughed and all the time he felt his body shake. The sounds from the apartment were muffled, but he could hear Rita speaking, at first in her broken Russian and then someone spoke to her in English and she replied, saying something about not knowing what this was all about and, if it helped, she’d be prepared to leave the Soviet Union immediately because as a loyal communist she didn’t want to cause any trouble and—
Someone must have hit her or grabbed her because she cried out and then told them, ‘There’s no need for that,’ and that was the last he heard from her.
For a moment there was no sound, but then he heard what sounded like two people moving around, opening drawers, and he tensed his body, expecting them to move the chest of drawers any moment and thought this was a crazy hiding place, it was never going to fool the NKVD and as they pulled open the drawers inches from him, he felt the unit knock against his hiding place and then he heard one of them say nee kherà tut nyet which he knew meant ‘there’s fuck all here’ and the other one grunted in agreement. Ladno, poshlee!
‘Let’s go!’
Chapter 1
France
September 1931
It had been a pleasant encounter in Paris and a happy coincidence in Lyon but here in Cannes it was, in fact, downright sinister.
The meeting would change the course of his life and in the long years that followed he occasionally allowed himself the indulgence of wondering what might have happened had he simply told the man to get lost, there and then. Perhaps not in those terms, something more polite, as would be expected of a young English gentleman. He could have said he was terribly sorry but he had no idea what he was talking about and there’d clearly been a misunderstanding and he really had to leave now. He’d have thanked him graciously for the drink and hurried off.
He’d have disappeared. And probably left Cannes that night.
But, of course, he didn’t.
He’d spent enough time in the countryside to know a trapped animal only makes its predicament worse with futile attempts to extricate itself. He knew he’d little choice but to stay.
And in those brief few moments when his instincts told him it would be foolish to leave it was as if he somehow came to terms with the situation he found himself in.
Not only was he reconciled to it, but he understood this was the hand he’d been dealt and it would be best all round if he accepted that, made the most of it and didn’t waste time thinking about what might have been.
However awful that may be.
* * *
When he’d left London on the first of September he couldn’t have been in a more optimistic mood. Ahead lay five weeks of holiday before he was to start his first job. And not just any job: this was a prestigious one, one he’d achieved after a gruelling series of interviews and examinations. Despite his family connections, he liked to think he’d got this job on merit. It was, as his father had solemnly pointed out when toasting him at dinner the previous evening, the start of his career – one which promised to be quite glorious.
He was twenty-two and he no longer needed to worry about studies or exams and it was a delightfully warm Tuesday morning and France was just hours away. His mother, of course, had worried about the journey – such a long way to drive – and what he’d get up to in France – so long abroad!
His ultimate destination was Cannes, where the family of a friend from university had a villa in the town’s reassuringly named English Quarter.
The MG Midget was his pride and joy, handsome in British Racing Green livery and he was confident it would make the long journey to the south of France a pleasure. It only had a couple of hundred miles on the clock and was a bargain at £145 and the mechanic who checked it out at his father’s garage said it was in excellent condition as long as he kept a good eye on the water and oil levels and didn’t drive it for too long at its top speed of sixty-five miles per hour.
He left his parents’ house in Chelsea shortly after six and was in Dover in good time for the ten-thirty crossing. It was early afternoon when they docked in Calais and he couldn’t decide whether to drive straight through to Paris, which he reckoned would be a good four hours, or to stop on the way, and then he realised he didn’t need to decide yet, he could see how he felt and he relished the sense of freedom this gave him. For the first time in his life, it was up to him to do what he wanted and when.
In the end he decided to stay overnight in Amiens, where he found a pleasant hotel close to the cathedral, overlooking Parc de l’Evêché.
He left Amiens early on the Wednesday morning after sending a high-spirited telegram to his parents assuring them their eldest son hadn’t drowned in the Channel or been abducted.
CROSSING FINE STOP EN ROUTE PARIS STOP
IF KIDNAPPED PAY RANSOM STOP
He spent the drive to Paris mildly regretting the telegram: his mother’s reaction would be that he should grow up, especially now he had a career.
He arrived in the French capital early in the afternoon. He was staying at an apartment in the 8th arrondissement belonging to a nephew of his godfather. The nephew worked at the Paris office of Barings bank and was back in London for the week, but had been happy to lend him the keys to his apartment, which was located on Rue Montalivet, just round the corner from the British Embassy in Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.
He wasn’t expected in Cannes before the weekend – he’d promised to be there for lunch on Sunday – and his plan was to stay two nights in Paris and then allow a further two days for the journey south.
He rested for a while and showered and at around five o’clock left the apartment, heading across the Place de la Concorde towards the Seine, and on the corner of Quai de la Conference and Avenue Dutuit found an empty table outside a cafe. It was a warm evening and the city was still quiet, as if those who’d taken part in the August exodus had yet to return.
The dappled sunlight filtered through the trees onto the neat red-and-white-chequered tablecloth and he shifted his chair so he was under the shade of the awning. He doubted he’d ever felt more relaxed and confident, so much so that he removed his jacket and loosened his tie, emboldened by the sight of a pair of distinguished-looking men on a nearby table, both of whom had open-necked shirts and no sign of a jacket, not even across the back of their chairs.
A pair of girls walked by, barely past their teens – certainly younger than his twenty-two years. They giggled and watched him as they walked and they were followed by an older woman walking her dog and although she was considerably older than him – quite possibly in her forties – she also looked at him, smiling and raising her eyebrows. He knew he was attractive to women – he’d been told that – but here in Paris that seemed so much more obvious. He’d been told he looked not unlike Edward, the Prince of Wales, who was some fifteen years older than him, but he shared the same aristocratic bearing and what he’d once been told was a touch of arrogance, but he’d taken that as a compliment.
He sat up, straightening his athletic figure, and the sun caught his fair hair while a tired-looking waiter hovered close to the table as he decided what to drink, and he asked him in what he hoped was good French if he minded giving him a few minutes and perhaps if he had a menu…
With some luck, a long night lay ahead and the thought of it filled him with both excitement and some trepidation. His very good friend Charlie from college said his older brother had told him about a nightclub close to the Gare Saint Lazare, which he simply had to visit. According to Charlie, the club was so discreet it had no name, and although it wasn’t a brothel as such, remember this is Paris, and there were lots of knowing looks and he wondered whether Charlie had actually visited the club, which he’d find in an alley close to the junction of Rue de Naples and Rue du General Foy.
