Every spy a traitor, p.27
Every Spy a Traitor, page 27
He opened his briefcase and took out The Jewels of Europe by Christopher Shaw.
‘I’m Christopher Shaw, you see. And here – in this envelope – is my manuscript along with a synopsis of the novel and also a covering letter with all my details. I wasn’t sure whether to put them both in the same envelope but—’
‘That is fine like that, thank you,’ she said, reaching out for the envelope. ‘Mr Randall himself endeavours to read all submissions, therefore it will be a matter of months before you hear from us. By post.’
‘I understand and I—’
‘We do not appreciate enquiries before you hear back from us.’ She said this as she placed the envelope on a large pile to one side of the desk.
At that moment he heard footsteps behind him and turned round to see an older man watching him from a doorway: he was tall, with a full beard and wearing a tweed jacket and a bowtie and holding a pipe.
The woman thanked him and said ‘good afternoon’ in a manner which indicated it was time for him to go.
As he descended the stairs, he heard snatches of a conversation behind him. ‘…he brought this manuscript in Mr Randall, sir: name of… here we are, Shaw, Christopher Shaw.’
And as he crossed Store Street he turned round and looked up at the building he’d just left. The bearded man was now watching him from the window and as far as he could tell, continued to do so until he was out of sight.
Chapter 24
London
January 1939
When he finished speaking, it was a good minute before Percy Burton spoke, leaning back as he did so and looking in the direction of the ceiling, his head tilted back.
‘So, as I understand it, Cooper, you believe you’ve gained Cliff Milne’s trust and are proposing a scheme which would see you replacing this Sidney Dunn chap in Milne’s office.’
Cooper nodded.
‘By framing him.’
‘Yes, sir – I’m aware you may consider my plan too outrageous but I was thinking that—’
‘No, Cooper! Not at all – it’s a damned clever plan.’ Burton rocked forward now, a broad smile on his face and his arms resting on his thighs and looking directly at Cooper. ‘If I may say so, and if you’ll excuse me, Miss Clarke, it’s a bloody ingenious plan.’
‘I would like to hear it once more, sir.’ Pamela Clarke had been taking notes as Cooper had been talking.
‘My proposal is that we frame Sidney Dunn by planting incriminating evidence on him so that he’s dismissed by the Communist Party, thus causing a vacancy in Cliff Milne’s office. I believe that I could be in a position to fill that vacancy as during the time I worked there I built up some kind of a relationship with him and hopefully he trusts me.’
‘You were working there as a handyman, though.’
‘I do realise that, Pamela, but although he’s a very suspicious type, he didn’t give the impression of distrusting me.’
‘And let’s assume that we pull this off – that Sidney Dunn is framed and sacked and you replace him: what then?’ Pamela pointed at him with the pencil she’d been using to take notes.
‘Then I see what I can get my hands on in his office, don’t I?’
‘You mentioned his safe?’
‘Yes, he’s forever putting things in it and taking stuff out of it. I think that—’
‘Hang on, hang on…’ Percy Burton held up a hand. ‘First things first, eh? We’ll turn our attention to the safe once you’re working in his office. We need to deal with this Sidney Dunn first. What’s he like, Cooper?’
‘Quite likeable, somewhat pedestrian in his ways.’
‘Trusting?’
‘Yes, sir.’
They then went on to discuss the plan and at the end of the discussion Burton looked closely at Cooper.
‘You seem to rather like Sidney Dunn?’
‘Yes, sir, I suppose I do.’
‘You do realise that what we’re proposing will ruin him, don’t you?’
* * *
Charles Cooper was in the habit of stopping by his apartment in Dorset Square two or three afternoons a week on his way back from work, which he did the day after he’d met with Percy Burton and Pamela Clarke at The Annexe to plan Sidney Dunn’s fate. He was there to pick up any post and collect a clean shirt.
On the carpet in the hall was a telegram.
DELIGHTED WITH SUBMISSION STOP WISH TO DISCUSS OFFER SOONEST STOP PLEASE CALL TO ARRANGE MEETING AT STORE STREET URGENT STOP KIND REGARDS FRANCIS RANDALL
He was so overwhelmed and excited that he stood for a moment in the hall to re-read the telegram and then went into the lounge where he sat in his armchair and poured himself a whisky, clutching the telegram in his hand. There was no ambiguity in the message, little room for doubt.
He must have been sitting there for close to an hour because when he realised the time he hurried. He was already late for Willesden.
The following morning, he stopped at a telephone box on his way into King Street. The woman who answered seemed to be expecting his call. She said she’d hoped he would have been in touch sooner, but could he come in after work that evening, any time after six o’clock?
* * *
The door to the offices of Francis Randall Books was locked when he arrived just after six. He rang the bell and soon after heard footsteps and when the door opened it was the tall man with the full beard he’d seen the other day – the one who’d watched him from the window. He proffered his hand and said ‘Francis Randall’ and Cooper – who introduced himself as Christopher Shaw – did think he could have been a bit more effusive seeing as he’d been so enthusiastic about the book, but then that was probably how it was in the world of publishing: he imagined they made offers on books all the time and didn’t want authors to get above themselves.
He waited for Cooper to go up the stairs first and Cooper heard the street door being locked behind him. Randall indicated they should go to the top floor, the one above reception, and when they got there, he closed the door to the stairs and although he couldn’t be certain, he thought he’d heard the lock click there.
He followed Francis Randall into a chaotic office, books piled high on every surface, the few areas of the wall not covered by a bookcase displaying framed covers of books. He sat down in the chair by the window and noticed that Francis Randall seemed nervous and wasn’t saying anything, so Cooper felt it was up to him to break the ice.
‘I must say I was thrilled to hear from you so soon: when I dropped the manuscript off last week, I was told it would be a good while before I was to expect to hear from you. I’m so pleased you’re delighted with the book!’
Francis Randall smiled weakly and nodded and then coughed and cleared his throat.
‘May I ask, Mr Shaw, is this your real name or is it perhaps a nom de plume?’
It was the ‘perhaps’ that Cooper didn’t like: a slight pause before it and a hint of menace in the delivery. He had a creeping sense of unease: he wasn’t too sure what he’d been expecting but it was certainly something a bit more positive than this.
‘No, that’s who I am – Christopher Shaw.’ And he chuckled hoping that Francis Randall may do likewise and they could get onto business but the publisher shifted uncomfortably and fidgeted with his bowtie. Randall looked flushed and wiped his brow and then Cooper heard footsteps in the corridor and the door swung open. A heavily built man entered, and Cooper wondered where he’d seen him before. As soon as the man came in, Francis Randall stood up and hurried out of the room. The man settled into his chair and removed his trilby and placed it on the desk. He looked even more familiar.
‘Mr Cooper, Mr Cooper…’ He shook his head like a school master disappointed in a pupil, his Russian accent was obvious and of course Cooper now knew where he’d seen him before and he felt tears well in his eyes because more than anything else he couldn’t believe he’d been so stupid and frankly naïve to imagine approaching Francis Randall Books was anything other than suicidal.
‘Mr Cooper, you returned to London fifteen months ago and then you disappeared. We were most disappointed, but I had a gut feeling you’d turn up and, of course, Mr Randall had been alerted to let us know if you approached him and we gave him a photograph of you and fortunately he recognised you when you came here last week and well… here I am! And as you say in English, better late than never!’
Cooper felt his body tense up, as if he was going to make a dash for the door or something like that, but he knew the doors were locked and the Russian was almost certainly armed.
He was trapped. In more ways than one.
He thought he was free of the Soviet Union’s embrace. Now, nothing could be further from the truth.
The Russian stood up and Cooper instinctively did the same and when the Russian held out his hand to shake Cooper’s, he did likewise.
‘I’m prepared to let what happened – the delay, if you like – be put down to nerves: a misunderstanding. From today, we can start afresh, do you not agree?’
Cooper said he supposed so.
‘I really ought to introduce myself properly. My name is Osip.’
* * *
Poor old Sidney Dunn never stood a chance.
Pamela Clarke had organised it all and Cooper had to say he was almost unnerved – if that was the right word – at how hard they went for him. Indeed, he had mentioned this to her at one stage and she told him there was only one way to go about something like this.
‘To go for the kill.’
It turned out Special Branch had been watching a reporter on the Daily Sketch called Marsden who they suspected was a closet communist with close links to the Party hierarchy. His beat was crime and one Thursday evening in late January he was taken out for a drink – quite a few of them actually – by a detective he knew well and they ended up in a pub behind Fleet Street where they were joined by another policeman and late in the evening Marsden found himself alone with this other policeman, who made a good show of being drunk to the point of indiscretion and confided that he was working on a big case, running an agent inside the Communist Party headquarters in King Street – had he heard of it?
‘The Communist Party?’
‘King Street – it’s where their headquarters are.’
Marsden said he had but managed to appear not too interested and the policeman said this agent was so important that if he pulled it off then he’d be in for promotion and Marsden said this sounded quite big and by now the policeman was slurring his words and had an arm round Marsden’s shoulder and his head close to his and he told him – in complete confidence mind you – that it was a chap called Sidney Dunn – D U N N – who worked on the fourth floor of the headquarters and had access to top-secret information, which he’d begun to pass on to Special Branch in return for money, and it just went to show that everyone had their price.
‘It’s very straightforward, actually: every Monday after work I meet him at the end of Carting Lane, just by Victoria Gardens, and he hands over some files and I give him an envelope with five one-pound notes in it. And from there it’s a short walk along Victoria Embankment to my office in Scotland Yard and the files go in my safe and we start work on them the next day!’
When Sidney Dunn left King Street on the following Monday evening, he was followed by two people from inside King Street as he took his normal route south, crossing The Strand, down Carting Lane and then along the Embankment to Temple station and home to Stepney.
He was also being followed by a team of highly experienced Annexe and Special Branch officers. Just before he crossed The Strand came the riskiest part of the operation: as he passed Maiden Lane, a woman called him over to a shop doorway.
‘You look terribly kind and obliging,’ Pamela Clarke told him. ‘You’re not going anywhere near Carting Lane, are you, by any chance?’
‘Well, as it happens, yes, I am!’
‘You’re so kind!’ Her hand was on his arm and he couldn’t help but smell the expensive perfume and notice the quality of her clothes and her smile.
‘I was on my way to meet my solicitor at the end of Carting Lane to hand over some important papers, but I’ve just telephoned my sister and apparently my mother’s been taken terribly ill and I really must go to her. Would you mind handing this envelope to him? His name is Desmond, Desmond Stuart. That would be so kind!’
Sidney Dunn said not at all and if he thought it an odd request, he didn’t say anything, and he wished her mother well and she said once again how kind he was and then hurried off.
The two people from inside King Street spotted him again as he crossed The Strand and did wonder how they’d lost him, but no harm done and they followed him as he entered Carting Lane, down the side of The Savoy, would you believe, and sure enough at the end of the street he was approached by a man who exactly matched the description they’d been given of the policeman and they watched as he handed over a bulky envelope and the policeman handed him a smaller envelope in return and they shook hands and went their separate ways: Dunn towards Temple station and the policeman towards Scotland Yard.
* * *
The following morning was brutal. Sidney Dunn was grabbed as soon as he entered King Street and marched down to the basement where he was very roughly pushed into a chair and told the game was up and did he care to confess?
Dunn said he didn’t have the faintest idea what they were talking about and a man with a Scottish accent whose name he didn’t know but who he’d seen around the building said in that case he’d spell it out.
‘We know that you’re an informer for Special Branch. We know that you’re stealing documents from this building and handing them over to your contact in return for money. We know you meet him every Monday evening in Carting Lane to give him the documents, as you did last night when we watched you hand over an envelope and take money in return. We actually followed the policeman and watched him enter Scotland Yard. He was saluted as he went in!’
Sidney Dunn was so shocked he was unable to reply for quite a while, but the others in the basement room – there must have been half a dozen in there – were patient because they were anxious to hear his confession.
But when he pulled himself together, he said nothing could be further from the truth because a lady had asked him if he could pass on an envelope to her solicitor because she had to visit her sick mother and the solicitor had been so grateful, he’d insisted on giving him something for his troubles.
They all laughed, and he was asked if that was really the best he could do and Sidney Dunn found himself weeping and insisting he wasn’t an informer, there wasn’t a more loyal Party member than him, and Comrade Milne will attest to that and then someone said Comrade Milne was disgusted with him and wanted nothing more to do with him.
‘We know full well the British state is spying on us. It’s no surprise there’s a traitor in our midst. I suspect you’re not the last one.’
And then they spelt out Sidney Dunn’s punishment: he was never to enter King Street or any other Communist Party premises again; he was expelled from the Communist Party and was banned from attending any meetings; his local branch would be informed accordingly.
As he was taken out through the rear entrance the man with the Scottish accent leant close to him. ‘You’re lucky you’re not in the Soviet Union, Dunn: they know how to do things properly there. You wouldn’t have left the basement, not alive, at any rate.’
Charles Cooper made sure he was around Cliff Milne’s office that Tuesday afternoon and again on the Wednesday. Milne was clearly distracted and when Cooper asked if there was anything he could do to help he explained that Dunn had left suddenly and he was left high and dry and didn’t know which way to turn and Cooper said he’d be more than happy to help and he’d be honoured to apply for the job if there was a vacancy.
‘There’s no need for that kind of nonsense, comrade: what I say goes. You’ll start tomorrow morning.’
* * *
Charles Cooper – Frank Reynolds to the comrades – wasn’t rushing into anything. Percy Burton had been quite clear about that.
‘Give yourself a few weeks before you so much as glance at a document!’
Around noon on the following Tuesday Milne was called to an urgent meeting and when he returned, he looked grey and asked Cooper to come through to his office and said perhaps he’d better sit down and his voice was uneven as he explained that they’d been told that Sidney Dunn had killed himself the previous evening.
‘Hung himself: a neighbour found him. He’d lived on his own since his wife died. He had no one else: the Party was his life…’
And his death, thought Cooper.
‘Out of all the people here, Sidney was the last person I’d have thought would betray us.’
Cooper nodded and said it was sad and then added that betrayal of the Party was unforgiveable and Milne nodded.
‘Another victim of the class war.’
Chapter 25
Barcelona
January 1939
‘You need to leave the city now.’
It was the middle of the afternoon on Monday, 23 January and Douglas Marsh was in the gloomy basement of a barber’s shop on Avenida de la República Argentina just behind Plaça de Lesseps and the man who’d just given him this order was sitting directly in front of him in a broken barber’s chair, so close that their knees were touching. Marsh only knew him as Comrade Ivan, a senior officer in the GRU, the military intelligence arm of the Soviet Red Army.
That morning he’d been at a hardware store called Rafols on Ronda de Sant Pere. The basement was a secret Republican headquarters and there he’d bumped into another Russian he vaguely remembered had spotted him and ordered him to come here.
