Notice: If any reader posts a comment, and does not see it after a couple of
days, please will he or she contact me directly. In recent weeks, the number of
spam comments posted to the site increased to over a thousand a day, all of
which I had to investigate, and then approve or reject, which was a highly
time-consuming process. I have now installed some spam-prevention software, but
it is possible, I suppose, that the software will trap some genuine comments.
A few weeks ago, at the bridge table at St. James, I was chatting between rounds, and my opponent happened to say, in response to some light-heated comment I made: ‘Touché!’ Now that immediately made me think of the famous James Thurber cartoon from the New Yorker, and I was surprised to learn that my friend (who has now become my bridge partner at a game elsewhere) was not familiar with this iconic drawing. And then, a few days ago, while at the chiropractor’s premises, I happened to mention to one of the assistants that one of the leg-stretching pieces of equipment looked like something by Rube Goldberg. (For British readers, Goldberg is the American equivalent of W. Heath Robinson.) The assistant looked at me blankly: she had never heard of Goldberg.
recalled being introduced to Goldberg soon after I arrived in this country. But
‘Touché’ took me back much further. It set me thinking: how had I been
introduced to this classic example of American culture? Thurber was overall a
really poor draughtsman, but this particular creation, published in the New
Yorker in 1932, is cleanly made, and its impossibly unrealistic cruelty did
not shock the youngster who must have first encountered it in the late 1950s. A
magazine would probably not get away with publishing it these days: it would be
deprecated (perhaps like Harry Graham’s Ruthless Rhymes for Heartless Homes)
as a depiction of gratuitous violence, likely to cause offence to persons of a
sensitive disposition, and also surely deemed to be ‘an insult to the entire worldwide
Was it my father who showed it to me? Freddie Percy was one of the most serious of persons, but he did have a partiality for subversive wit and humour, especially when it entered the realm of nonsense, so long as it did not involve long hair, illicit substances, or sexual innuendo. I recall he was fan of the Marx Brothers, and the songs of Tom Lehrer, though how I knew this is not certain, as we had no television in those days, and he never took us to see a Marx Brothers movie. Had he perhaps heard Tom Lehrer on the radio? He also enjoyed the antics of Victor Borge (rather hammy slapstick, as far as I can remember) as well as those of Jacques Tati, and our parents took my brother, sister and me to see the films of Danny Kaye (The Secret Life of Walter Mitty – from a Thurber story – and Hans Christian Andersen), both of which, I must confess, failed to bowl me over.
was it with these Jewish performers? The Marx Brothers, Lehrer, Borge (né
Rosenbaum) and Kaye (né Kaminsky)? Was the shtick my father told us about
the Dukes of Northumberland all a fraud, and was his father (who in the 1920s worked
in the clothes trade, selling school uniforms that he commissioned from East
London Jewish tailors) perhaps an émigré from Minsk whose original name was
Persky? And what happened to my grandfather’s Freemason paraphernalia, which my
father kept in a trunk in the attic for so long after his death? It is too late
to ask him about any of this, sadly. These questions do not come up at the
may have learned about Thurber from my brother. He was a fan of Thurber’s
books, also – volumes that I never explored deeply, for some reason. Yet the
reminiscence set me thinking about the American cultural influences at play in
Britain in the 1950s and 1960s, and how they corresponded to local traditions.
and television did not play a large part in my childhood: we did not have television
installed until about 1965, so my teenage watching was limited to occasional
visits to friends, where I might be exposed to Bonanza or Wagon Train,
or even to the enigmatic Sergeant Bilko. I felt culturally and
socially deprived, as my schoolmates would gleefully discuss Hancock’s Half
Hour, or Peter Cook and Dudley Moore, and I had no idea what they were talking
about. (It has taken a lifetime for me to recover from this feeling of cultural
inferiority.) I did not attend cinemas very often during the 1950s, although I
do recall the Norman Wisdom escapades, and the Doctor in the House
series featuring Dirk Bogarde (the dislike of whom my father would not shrink
from expressing) and James Robertson Justice. Apart from those mentioned above,
I do not recall many American films, although later The Searchers made a
big impression, anything with Audrey Hepburn in it was magical, and I rather
unpredictably enjoyed the musicals from that era, such as Seven Brides for
Seven Brothers, Oklahoma!, Carousel, and The King and I.
was perhaps fortunate that I did not at that stage inform my father that I had
suddenly discovered my calling in the roar of the greasepaint and the smell of
the crowd, as the old meshugennah might have thrown me out of Haling
Park Cottage on my ear before you could say ‘Jack Rubenstein’. In fact, the
theatre had no durable hold on me, although the escapist musical attraction did
lead me into an absorption with American popular music, which I always thought
more polished and more stimulating than most of the British pap that was produced.
(I exclude the Zombies, Lesley Duncan, Sandy Denny, and a few others from my
wholesale dismissal.) Perhaps seeing Sonny and Cher perform I Got You Babe,
or the Ronettes imploring me to Be My Baby, on Top of the Pops, led
me to believe that there was a more exciting life beyond my dreary damp
November suburban existence in Croydon, Surrey: California Dreaming
reflected that thwarted ambition.
left the UK in 1980, and, despite my frequent returns while I was working, and
during my retirement, primarily for research purposes, my picture of Britain is
frozen in a time warp of that period. Derek Underwood is wheeling away from the
Pavilion End, a round of beers can be bought for a pound, the Two Ronnies
are on TV, the Rolling Stones are just about to start a world tour, and George
Formby is performing down the road at the Brixton Essoldo. [Is this correct?
Ed.] I try to stay current with what is going on in the UK through my
subscriptions to Punch (though, as I think about it, I haven’t received
an issue for quite a while), Private Eye (continuous since 1965), the Spectator
(since 1982), and Prospect (a few years old), but, as each year goes by,
a little more is lost on me.
are just about to enter our fortieth year living in the USA. As I wrote, we
‘uprooted’ in 1980, although at the time we considered that the relocation
would be for just a few years, to gain some work experience, and see the
country, before we returned to the UK. My wife, Sylvia, and I now joke that,
once we have settled in, we shall explore the country properly. We retired to
Southport, North Carolina, in 2001, and have thus lived here longer than in any
other residence. Yet we have not even visited famous Charleston, a few hours
down the road in South Carolina, let alone the Tennessee border, which is about
seven hours’ drive away. (The area of North Carolina is just a tad smaller than
that of England.) We (and our daughter) are not fond of long journeys in the
car, which seems to us a colossal waste of time overall, and I have to admit
there is a sameness about many American destinations. And this part of the
world is very flat – like Norfolk without the windmills. You do not drive for
I belong here? Many years ago we took up US citizenship. (I thus have two
passports, retaining my UK affiliation, but had to declare primary loyalty to
the USA.) My accent is a giveaway. Whereas my friends, when I return to the UK,
ask me why I have acquired that mid-Atlantic twang, nearly everyone I meet over
here comments that ‘they like my accent’ – even though some have been known to ask
whether it is Australian or South African. (Hallo! Do I sound like Crocodile
Dundee?) Sometimes their curiosity is phrased in the quintessential American
phrase: ‘Where are you from?’, which most Americans can quickly respond to with
the name of the city where they grew up. They may have moved around the country
– or even worked abroad – but their family hometown is where they are ‘from’.
So what do I answer? ‘The UK’ simplifies things, but is a bit dull. To jolly up the proceedings, I sometimes say: ‘Well, we are all out of Africa, aren’t we?’, but that may unfortunately not go down well with everyone, especially in this neck of the woods. Facetiousness mixed with literal truth may be a bit heady for some people. So I may get a bit of a laugh if I respond ‘Brooklyn’, or even ‘Connecticut’, which is the state we moved to in 1980, and the state we retired from in 2001 (and whither we have not been back since.)
they really want to know is where my roots lie. Now, I believe that if one is
going to acknowledge ‘roots’, they had better be a bit romantic. My old
schoolfriend Nigel Platts is wont to declare that he has his roots in Cumbria
(wild borderlands, like the tribal lands of Pakistan, Lakeland poets: A-),
while another old friend, Chris Jenkins, claims his are in Devon (seafarers,
pirates, boggy moors: B+). My wife can outdo them both, since she was born in
St. Vincent (tropical island, volcano, banana plantations: A+). But what do I
say? I grew up in Purley, Coulsdon, and South Croydon, in Surrey: (C-). No
one has roots in Purley, except for the wife of the Terry Jones character in
the famous Monty Python ‘Nudge Nudge’ sketch. So I normally leave it as ‘Surrey’,
as if I had grown up in the remote and largely unexplored Chipstead Valley, or
in the shadow of Box Hill, stalking the Surrey Puma, which sounds a bit more
exotic than spending my teenage years watching, from a house opposite the AGIP
service station, the buses stream along the Brighton Road in South Croydon.
I carry British (or English) culture with me? I am a bit skeptical about these
notions of ‘national culture’. One might summarise English culture by such a
catalogue as the Lord’s test-match, sheepdog trials, pantomime, fish and chips,
The Last Night of the Proms, the National Trust, etc. etc., but then one ends
up either with some devilish discriminations between ‘high’ and ‘low’ culture
or with a list of everything that goes on in the country, which makes the whole
exercise pointless. And what about ‘European’ culture? Is there such a thing,
apart from the obvious shared heritage and cross-influences of music, art and
literature? Bullfights as well as foxhunting? Bierfests alongside pub quizzes? The
Eurovision Song Contest? Moreover, all too often, national ‘culture’ ends up as
quaint customs and costumes put on for the benefit of the tourists.
one could try to describe American culture: the Superbowl, revivalist rallies,
Fourth of July parades, rodeos, NASCAR, Thanksgiving turkey. But where does the
NRA, or the Mormon Church (sorry, newly branded as the Church of Jesus Christ
of Latter-Day Saints), fit in? Perhaps the USA is too large, and too new, to
have a ‘national culture’. Some historians have claimed that the USA is
actually made up of several ‘nations’. Colin Woodard subtitled his book American
Nations ‘A History of the Eleven Rival Regional Cultures of North America’,
and drew on their colonial heritages to explain some mostly political
inclinations. Somewhat of an oversimplification, of course, as immigration and
relocation have blurred the lines and identities, but still a useful pointer to
the cultural shock that can occur when an employee is transplanted from one locality
to another, say from Boston to Dallas. Here, in south-eastern North Carolina,
retirees from Yankeedom frequently write letters to the newspaper expressing
their bewilderment and frustration that local drivers never seem to use their
indicators before turning, and habitually drive below maximum speed in the fast
lane of the highway. The locals respond, saying: “If you don’t like how we do
things down here, go back to where you came from!”.
then is the apparent obsession in some places about ‘identity’ and ‘ethnicity’.
The New York Times, leading the ‘progressive’ (dread word!) media, is notorious
on this matter, lavishly publishing streams of Op-Ed articles and editorial
columns about ‘racial’ identities and ‘ethnic’ exploitation. Some of this
originates from the absurdities of the U.S. Census Bureau, with its desperate
attempts to categorise everybody in some racial pigeonhole. What they might do
with such information, I have no idea. Shortly after I came to this country, I
was sent on a management training course, where I was solemnly informed that I
was not allowed to ask any prospective job candidate what his or her ‘race’
was. Ten minutes later, I was told that Human Resource departments had to track
every employee’s race so that they could meet Equal Employment Opportunity
Commission guidelines. So it all depended on how a new employee decided to
identify him- or her-self, and the bureaucrats got to work. I might have picked
‘Pacific Islander’, and no-one could have questioned it. (Sorry! I meant
‘Atlantic Islander’ . . .) Crazy stuff.
few weeks ago, I had to fill out one of those interminable forms that accompany
the delivery of healthcare in the USA. It was a requirement of the March 2010
Affordable Care Act, and I had to answer three questions. “The Government does not
allow for unanswered questions. If you choose not to disclose the requested
information, you must answer REFUSED to ensure compliance with the law”, the
form sternly informed me. (I did not bother to inquire what would happen to me
if I left the questions unanswered.) The first two questions ran as follows:
Circle the one that best describes your RACE:
Indian or Alaska native
Hawaiian or other Pacific Islander
or African American
Circle the one that best describes your ETHNICITY:
a. Hispanic or Latin
b. Non-Hispanic or Non-Latin
fresh nonsense is this? To think that a panel of experts actually sat down
around a table for several meetings and came up with this tomfoolery is almost
beyond belief. (You will notice that the forms did not ask me whether the
patient was an illegal immigrant.) But this must be one of the reasons why so
many are desperate to enter the country – to have the opportunity to respond to
those wonderful life-enhancing questionnaires created by our government.
sociological aberration leaks into ‘identity’, the great hoax of the 21st
century. A few weeks ago, the New York Times published an editorial in
which it, without a trace of irony, announced that some political candidate in
New York had recently identified herself as ‘queer Latina’, as if that settled
the suitability of her election. The newspaper’s letter pages are sprinkled
with earnest and vapid statements from subscribers who start off their
communications on the following lines: “As a bald progressive Polish-American
dentist, I believe that . . . .”, as if
somehow their views were not free, and arrived at after careful reflection, but
conditioned by their genetic material, their parents, their chosen career, and their
ideological group membership, and that their status somehow gave them a
superior entitlement to voice their opinions on the subject of their choice. (I believe the name for this is
‘essentialism’.) But all that is irrelevant to the fact of whether they have
anything of value to say.
trouble is that, if we read about the views of one bald progressive
Polish-American dentist, the next time we meet one of his or her kind, we shall
say: “Ah! You’re one of them!”, and assume that that person holds the same
opinions as the previously encountered self-appointed representative of the bald
progressive Polish-American dentist community. And we end up with clumsy
stereotypes, which of course are a Bad Thing.
should be about uniqueness, not groupthink or unscientific notions of ethnicity,
and cannot be defined by a series of labels. No habits or practices are
inherited: they are all acquired culturally. That doesn’t mean they are
necessarily bad for that reason, but people need to recognize that they were
not born on predestinate grooves to become Baptists or Muslims, to worship
cows, to practice female circumcision, or to engage in strange activities such as
shooting small birds in great numbers, or watching motor vehicles circle an
oval track at dangerous speeds for hours on end, in the hope that they will at
some time collide, or descending, and occasionally falling down on, snowy
mountainsides with their feet buckled to wooden planks, while doing their best
to avoid trees and boulders. It is not ‘in their blood’, or ‘in their DNA’.
workers are encouraged (and sometimes required) to seek foster-parents for
adoption cases that match the subject’s ‘ethnicity’, so as to provide an
appropriate cultural background for them, such as a ‘native American’ way of
life. Wistful and new-agey adults, perhaps suffering from some disappointment
in career or life, sometimes seek out the birthplace of a grandparent, in the
belief that the exposure may reveal some vital part of their ‘identity’. All
absolute nonsense, of course.
instance, I might claim that cricket is ‘in my DNA’, but I would not be able to
tell you in what epoch that genetic mutation occurred, or why the gene has
atrophied in our rascally son, James, who was brought to these shores as a ten
month-old, and has since refused to show any interest whatsoever in the great
game. On the other hand, did the young Andrew Strauss dream, on the banks of
the blue Danube, of opening the batting for England? Did Michael Kasprowicz
learn to bowl outswingers in the shadow of the Tatra Mountains?
this practice of pigeon-holing and stereotyping leads to deeper problems. We now
have to deal with the newly discovered injustice of ‘cultural appropriation’. I
read the other day that student union officials at the University of East
Anglia had banned the distribution of sombreros to students, as stallholders
were forbidden from handing out ‘discriminatory or stereotypical imagery’.
Well, I can understand why Ku Klux Klan hoods, and Nazi regalia, would
necessarily be regarded as offensive, but sunhats? Were sombreros
introduced by the Spanish on reluctant Aztecan populations, and are they thus a
symbol of Spanish imperialism? Who is actually at risk here? What about solar
topis? Would they be banned, too?
mustn’t stop there, of course. Is the fact that Chicken Tikka Masala is now
viewed by some as a national British dish an insult to the subcontinent of
India, or a marvellous statement of homage to its wonderful cuisine? Should
South Koreans be playing golf, which, as we know, is an ethnic pastime of the
Scots? Should non-Maori members of the New Zealand rugby team be dancing the
haka? English bands playing rhythm ‘n’ blues? Should Irving Berlin have written
blight has even started to affect the world of imaginative fiction. I recently read,
in the Times Literary Supplement, in an article on John Updike, the
following: “Is self-absorbed
fiction always narcissistic, or only if it’s written by a straight white male?
What if it’s autofiction, does that make it ok? What are the alternatives? If a
writer ventures outside their own socio-cultural sphere, is that praiseworthy
empathy or problematic cultural appropriation? Is Karl Ove Knausgaard more
self-absorbed than Rachel Cusk? Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
(‘Autofiction’ was a new one on me, but it apparently means that you can invent
things while pretending to write a memoir, and get away with it. Since most autobiographies
I have read are a pack of lies planned to glorify the accomplishments of the
writer, and paper over all those embarrassing unpleasantnesses, I doubt whether
we need a new term here. Reminiscences handed down in old age should more
accurately be called ‘oublioirs’.)
writer, Claire Lowdon, almost nails it, but falls into a pit of her own making.
‘Socio-cultural sphere’? What is that supposed to mean? Is that a category anointed
by some policepersons from a Literary Council, like the Soviet Glavlit, or
is it a classification, like ‘Pacific Islander’, that the author can provide
him- or her-self, as with ‘gay Latina’? Should Tolstoy’s maleness, and his
‘socio-cultural sphere’, have prevented him from imagining the torments of Anna
Karenina, or portraying the peasant Karatayev as a source of wisdom? The
defenders of culture against ‘misappropriation’ are hoist with the petard of
their own stereotypes. (And please don’t ask me who Karl Ove Knausgaard and
Rachel Cusk are. Just because I know who John Updike, James Thurber and Rube
Goldberg are, but fall short with these two, does not automatically make me nekulturny,
and totally un-cool.)
whole point of this piece is to emphasise the strengths and importance of
pluralism, and diminish the notion of multiculturalism. As I so urbanely wrote
in Chapter 10 of Misdefending the Realm: “In a pluralist society,
opinion is fragmented – for example, in the media, in political parties, in
churches (or temples or mosques), and between the legislative and the executive
arms of government. The individual rights of citizens and their consciences are
considered paramount, and all citizens are considered equal under the law. The
ethnic, cultural, religious or philosophical allegiances that they may hold are
considered private affairs – unless they are deployed to subvert the freedoms
that a liberal society offers them. A pluralist democracy values very highly
the rights of the individual (rather than of a sociologically-defined group),
and preserves a clear line between the private life and the public sphere.”
while tracing some allegiance to the cultures of both the UK and the USA, I do
not have to admit to interest in any of their characteristic practices (opera,
horse-racing, NASCAR, American football, Game of Thrones, etc. etc.) but
can just quietly go about my business following my legal pursuits, and rejoice
in the variety and richness of it all.
was thus refreshing, however, to find elsewhere, in the same issue of the TLS,
the following statement – about cricket. An Indian politician, Shashi
Tharoor, wrote: “And yet, this
match revealed once again that cricket can serve as a reminder of all that
Indians and Pakistanis have in common – language, cuisine, music, clothes,
tastes in entertainment, and most markets of culture, including sporting
passions. Cricket underscores the common cultural mosaic that brings us
together – one that transcends geopolitical differences. This cultural
foundation both predates and precedes our political antipathy. It is what
connects our diasporas and why they find each other’s company comforting in
strange lands when they first emigrate – visibly so in the UK. Cricket confirms
that there is more that unites us than divides us.”
Well, up to a point, Lord Ram. That claim might be a slight exaggeration and simplification, avoiding those tetchy issues about Hindu-based nationalism, but no matter. Cricket is a sport that was enthusiastically picked up – not appropriated – in places all around the world. I cannot be the only fan who was delighted with Afghanistan’s appearance in the recent World Cup, and so desperately wanted the team to win at least one game. I have so many good memories of playing cricket against teams from all backgrounds (the Free Foresters, the Brixton West Indians, even the Old Alleynians), never questioning which ‘socio-cultural sphere’ they came from (okay, occasionally, as those readers familiar with my Richie Benaud experience will attest), but simply sharing in the lore and traditions of cricket with those who love the game, the game in which, as A. G. McDonnell reminded us in England Their England, the squire and the blacksmith contested without class warfare getting in the way. Lenin was said to have despaired when he read that policemen and striking miners in Scotland took time off from their feuding to play soccer. He then remarked that revolution would never happen in the UK.
For a while, I considered myself part of that very wholesome tradition. I was looking forward, perhaps, to explaining one day to my grandchildren that I had watched Cowdrey and May at the Oval (‘Oh my Hornby and my Barlow long ago . . .’), and that I could clearly recall an evening in late July 1956 where I overheard a friend of my father’s asking him whether he had heard that ‘Laker took all ten’. But Ashley, and the twins Alexis and Alyssa (one of their maternal great-grandfathers looked just like Ho Chi Minh, but was a very gentle man with no discernible cricket gene in his make-up) would surely give me a quizzical look, as if it were all very boring, and ask me instead to tell them again the story of how I single-handedly tracked down the Surrey Puma . . .
Uprooted and rootless I thus remain. My cosmopolitan days are largely over, too. Even though I have never set my eyes on Greenland’s icy mountains or India’s coral strand (or Minsk), I was fortunate enough to visit all five continents on my business travels. I may still make the occasional return to the United Kingdom: otherwise my voyages to major metropolitan centres are restricted to visits to Wilmington for appointments with the chiropractor, and cross-country journeys to Los Altos, California to see James and his family.
where does that leave me, and the ‘common cultural mosaic that binds us
together’? A civilized culture should acknowledge some common heritage and
shared customs, while allowing for a large amount of differences. Individuals
may have an adversarial relationship in such an environment, but it should be
based on roles that are temporary, not essentials. Shared custom should
prevent the differences becoming destructive. Yet putting too many new stresses
on the social fabric too quickly will cause it to fray. For example, returning
to the UK has often been a strange experience, revealing gradual changes in common
civilities. I recall, a few years ago, walking into the branch of my bank in
South Croydon, where I have held an account since 1965. (The bank manager
famously gave me what I interpreted as a masonic handshake in 1971, when I was
seeking a loan to ease my entry into the ‘property-owning classes’.) The first thing I saw was a sign on the wall
that warned customers something along these lines: “Abuse of the service staff
in this bank will not be tolerated! Offenders will be strictly prosecuted.”
oh my, I thought – does this bank have a problem! What a dreadful first
impression! Did they really resent their customers so much that they had to welcome
them with such a hostile message? Was the emotional well-being of their service
staff that fragile? Did the bank’s executives not realise that customer service
requires a thick skin? And perhaps behind all that lay a deeper problem – that
their customer service, and attentiveness to customers’ needs, were so bad that
customers too often were provoked into ire? Why would they otherwise advertise
that fact to everyone who walked in?
can’t see that happening in a bank in the United States, where I am more likely
to receive the well-intentioned but cringe-making farewell of ‘Have a blessed
day!’ when I have completed my transaction. That must be the American
equivalent of the masonic handshake. (No, I don’t do all my bank business via
my cell-phone.) Some edginess and lack of trust appear to have crept in to the
domain of suburban Surrey – and maybe beyond. Brexit must have intensified
example: In North Carolina, when walking along the street, we residents are in
the habit of engaging with strangers as we pass them, with a smile, and a ‘Good
Day!’, or ’How are you doin’?’, just as a measure of reinforcing our common
civility and good humour. When I last tried that, walking around in South
Croydon, where my roots are supposed to be, it did not work out well. I got a
scared look from an astonished local, as if to say: ‘Who’s that weird geezer!
He clearly doesn’t belong here’. And he would be right.
In conclusion: a list. As a retired Anglo-American slightly Aspergerish atheist ex-database administrator, I love lists, as all persons with the above description predictably do. My choice below catalogues fifty cultural figures (including one pair) who have influenced me, or for whom I hold some enthusiasm, a relationship occasionally enhanced by a personal encounter that contained something special. (I should point out, however, that I was brought up in a milieu that stressed the avoidance of showing excessive enthusiasm: ‘Surtout, pas trop de zèle!’. Somehow I survived American business without being ‘passionate’ about anything.) That does not mean that these persons are idols, heroes, icons, or role-models – they simply reflect my enthusiasms and tastes. But they give an idea of how scattered and chaotic any one person’s cultural interests can be in a pluralist society. Think of them as my cosmopolitan roots. Rachel Cusk did not make the list, but she would probably have beaten out J. R. R. Tolkien and Eric Hobsbawm.
Regular readers will know that Isaiah Berlin has featured prominently in my research. His planned trip to Russia with Guy Burgess in 1940 was what triggered the course of study leading to my doctoral thesis; my article in History Today, ‘The Undercover Egghead’, analysed his role in intelligence; his study of Marx and Marxism plays a pivotal role in Misdefending the Realm, where I also record his wartime activities, including his somewhat shady dealings with the Soviet agent Gorsky; I have written about his private life in ‘Isaiah in Love’, and in ‘Some Diplomatic Incidents’, both posted on this website.
Throughout this time Henry Hardy, Berlin’s chief editor,
and the man largely responsible for bringing Berlin’s writings to orderly
publication, and a broader audience, has been very helpful to me, providing me
with unpublished source material, and answering my questions. He attended the
seminar on Berlin that I held at the University of Buckingham, and I had the
pleasure of travelling to the Wirral to visit him a few years ago. Yet Henry
has, quite naturally, been a little suspicious of my motives, thinking that I
was perhaps a ‘conspiracy theorist’ (true, in a way), and he has probably not
agreed with all my conclusions about the qualities of Berlin’s thought, or the
judiciousness of some of his actions. I believe I can confidently state,
however, that he respects the seriousness of my methods, and my commitment to
Last year, Henry published a book titled In Search of Isaiah Berlin, in which he
describes his decades-long relationship with Berlin, and his struggles (as they
must surely be called) to bring Berlin’s papers to a state ready for
publication and see them into print. (He had already kindly sent me some of
these works that I had not already acquired.) A philosopher himself, Henry also
records the exchanges he had with Berlin in trying to understand exactly what
lay behind the ideas his mentor espoused, attempting to resolve what appeared
to him to be contradictions.
The book recently became available in the USA, and I
have now read it. While enjoying the saga of Henry’s activities as an editor, I
must confess to being somewhat disappointed by the essence and outcome of the
philosophical debate. (I am probably a little jealous, too, that Henry’s book
has received far more attention in the press than has Misdefending the Realm, but that must be due both to Henry’s
energies and the fact that Berlin is still regarded as a national treasure.)
Henry’s reflections concern some of Berlin’s more controversial assertions, especially those about the universality of human nature, and the nature of pluralism. At the risk of oversimplifying what is a deep discussion in the second part of Henry’s book, the paradoxes arising from Berlin’s writings that particularly interested me could be stated as follows:
Are human values in some
way universal, and thus shared? If so, whence do they derive? And should we
treat behavior that appears essentially as ’evil’ as still ‘human’?
How does a pluralist
outlook relate to the national culture to which it belongs, and how should it
treat dogmas that ruthlessly reject such a compromising worldview?
Can pluralism function
as a remedy against relativism, namely the view that values have no standing
outside the society or person who espouses them?
Berlin appeared to cherish some thoughts about the
objectivity of such a common core of values across humanity, but provided
little evidence, and Henry’s earnest and well-framed questions frequently drew
no convincing response from Berlin. I was somewhat alarmed at the fuzziness of
all of this, and accordingly organised some thoughts to send to Henry, to which
he generously replied. That exchange comprises this Special Bulletin. Henry’s
comments appear in bold in the passage below.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
on the publication of In Search of Isaiah Berlin. I enjoyed the
story of your quest. I wonder: will we soon read a parody by David Taylor
in Private Eye? Hope springs eternal …
was prompted by the intensity of your debate, and my own exposure to IB’s
writings, to record a few reactions, not exactly random, but not comprehensive
or fully-formed, either. (I have not studied what sociologists have no doubt
written about these issues.)
dominant thought that occupied me was that, if the great thinker’s ideas needed
to be explained by his amanuensis, and yet that interpreter could not find any
consistency or coherence in them That’s an
exaggeration: my difficulties are local, and I believe resolvable, though not,
it seems, by IB at that stage of his life, when his mind had begun to rigidify, then perhaps the ideas
were not that outstanding in the first place. Some critics have called out IB
for humbuggery, but, now having read your book, I am more convinced that IB
accepted that he was not a great or original thinker, and was indeed surprised
by the attention, acclaim, and awards that he received. Yes, I think he meant it, though he was not too keen
when one agreed too readily.
What also struck me was a disappointing vagueness in the terminology used in the discourse. That point is well taken, and indeed I make it myself in the book (e.g. p. 207). But to some extent vagueness goes with the territory: ‘Out of the vague timber of humanity no precise thing was ever made’, one might say. This point was made by Aristotle: ‘It is the mark of an educated man to look for precision in each class of things just so far as the nature of the subject admits; it is evidently equally foolish to accept probable reasoning from a mathematician and to demand from a rhetorician scientific proofs.’ Nicomachean Ethics, Book I, 1094b.24. IB himself is aware of this point: I could look for the references if you wanted them. But the main message is that human affairs do not lend themselves to the same precision as the sciences. You may recall that, in Misdefending the Realm, I wrote of IB’s book on Marx: “In his method and style, Berlin echoes much of Marx’s verbosity, and displays an unexpected lack of precision in his references to such concepts as ‘civilisation’, ‘class’, ‘nation’, ‘race’, ‘community’, ‘people’, ‘group’, ‘culture’, ‘age’, ‘epoch’, ‘milieu’, ‘country’, ‘generation’, ‘ideology’, ‘social order’, and ‘outlook’, which terms all run off the page without being clearly defined or differentiated.” I am not sure that watertight definitions of these terms are possible; but of course one should use them with all due care. (I also asserted that the book was ‘erudite, but not really scholarly’ – an opinion with which Professor Clarke of All Souls and the University of Buckingham agreed. I agree too. Did you really find it ‘brilliant’ (p 61)? Yes, in the sense that he gets inside Marx’s skin and understands what makes him tick: far more important, in my opinion, than getting the references right. Sadly, I saw this pattern repeated in many of the exchanges you had with IB. What does it mean, for example, to wish that humanity could have ‘moral or metaphysical unity’ My phrase not IB’s: I meant living in a shared moral and conceptual world (p 251)? Who are ‘normal human beings’ (p 177)? That is the $64,000 question, to which chunks of this book, and all of the next one, are/will be devoted. It was also one of IB’s recurring themes, of course, but it is not an easy one: he appeals to ‘A general sense of what human beings are like – which may well not merely have gaps but be seriously mistaken in places – but that cannot be helped: all vast generalisations of this kind are neither avoidable nor demonstrable’ (p. 189).
I also found the debate all very
abstract. That may be a valid criticism. My
own default methodological rule is to give at least one concrete example of
every abstract point, but I expect I fail to do this reliably in the book.
However, part of the problem is that IB and I have a more philosophical
temperament than you do, as a historian. That’s why I invited unphilosophical
readers to skip chapters 9–11. Do you not agree that it could have benefitted from
more real-world examples? Probably (see above). Perhaps some references
to research being performed in more scientific disciplines than philosophy,
such as anthropology, psychology, evolutionary biology, or even history, and
the dreaded sociology? Perhaps, but a leading
burden of IB’s song is that human studies are generically different from
scientific ones, and this means that there is a limit to how far the latter can
throw light on the former. Some disciplines are partly hybrids between the two,
including those IB mentions on p. 189; and he always insisted that science
should be used to the maximum extent possible. I, however, am too ignorant to
summarise the current state of science. (IB tends to support this point of
exposure on p 189.) As I write, I have in front of me the March 1 issue of the Times
Literary Supplement. In one review, the anthropologist Richard Wrangham is
quoted as identifying ‘coalitionary proactive aggression’ as a drive that
launched human ancestors toward full humanity. I read
that review too, and found it enormously suggestive. A few pages later, Michael
Stanislawski draws our attention to Omer Bartov’s Anatomy of a
Genocide (which I have read, and have referred to on my website),
which describes how members of a friendly community suddenly turned mercilessly
on each other under the experience of both Nazi and Soviet occupation. What do
such pieces tell us about any consistent ‘human nature’, and how could other
such experts contribute to the debate? Good
questions, which again I am not competent to answer. But there are connections
between them and my suggestion that IB underrates evil.
I believe that one
of the problems is that, if we talk about ‘human nature’ in a vacuum, we enter
the world of mysticism, akin to that of religion. Ignorance rather than mysticism, in my case: I am dead against
mysticism. Where does human nature reside? In human biology, history and society. How is it passed on genetically by DNA,
or modified by culture and education? IB (p 184) indicates that he thinks that
religion is ‘hard-wired’ into human nature: if this were true, how and when did
this occur? Who knows? We can only examine ourselves
as we are now, and such records of the past as we have, and speculate. And when did the wiring fail I don’t regard its absence as any kind of failure, but as a (sometimes
hard-won) strength for
those of us who do not require that facet in our lives? And how do such
religious instincts get wired into those who would practice, say, honour
killings, under the guise of religion by culture,
again, which can be a malign force? Does human nature thus not end up being simply those
traits that we enlightened beings consider desirable? We must avoid that risk: it should be those traits that are actually
beneficial, which is a different matter. Or is human nature just another name for
something that is mere tradition, and thus differs in separate countries and
times, like the practice of suttee or female circumcision? No: that’s exactly what the term is not supposed to refer
their adherents say it was ’tradition’ it’s mistaken
tradition, in my opinion or
‘human nature’?) And what do we do with a monster like Eric Hobsbawm, who was
feted for his historical accomplishments, but to his dying day refused to deny
that the murder of millions on behalf of the Communist cause had been a
mistake? Was he human? Or was he simply ‘malign’, a ‘pinpusher’, as IB might
describe those who fall outside the morally acceptable? Was he ‘evil, without
qualification’ (p 194)? Not quite, perhaps; but he was what IB
describes as ‘wickedly wrong’ (p. 261).
P.S. I noticed that, in the
next issue of the TLS, dated March 8,
David Kynaston offers a review of Richard J. Evans’s biography of Hobsbawm,
subtitled ‘a national treasure whose politics provoked endless bitterness’.
What can one say about a ‘culture’ that promotes a worm like Hobsbawm to such
status? It is all here, including the notorious ‘Desert Islands Discs’
programme where Hobsbawm openly approved the slaughter of millions in the
communist cause. As John Gross is recorded here as saying, such apologists
would have been the first to be lined up against the wall to be shot.
religion, I was surprised by your rather weak defence of atheism, as if we
needed a new term to define somebody who simply ‘doesn’t understand’. I think we do, for the reasons given; but this doesn’t
make one a weak(er) opponent of religion, as my book surely shows. If I am faced with
all the verbal paraphernalia of, say, Christianity, with the ideas of God, angels, saints, sin, salvation,
heaven, hell, Holy Spirit, saviour, resurrection, eternal life, soul,
immaculate conception, transubstantiation, prayer, etc. etc., it is quite easy
to take the line that this is all mumbo-jumbo, and no more worthy of discussion
than the existence of the Tooth Fairy. It would be easier for me to have
conversation about beginnings and ends with an atheist from Turkmenistan than
with my fundamentalist Baptist neighbour, who is presumably of the same
‘culture’ or ‘society’ that I find myself in. I share
your alienation from that terminology, but to call it mere mumbo-jumbo
underestimates its allegorical/metaphorical significance for many believers, something
IB accepts (up to a point).
is no doubt fashionable to talk about ‘cultures’, and the pluralist bogeyman of
‘multiculturalism’, but I believe the concept is much more fluid (and evasive)
than your debate suggests. I would maintain that we have to inspect ‘culture’
in at least three dimensions – temporal, geographical, and social, and
determine how it relates to the concept of a nation (is there a national
‘culture’ yes, to a greater or lesser
extent is specific cases; how does it relate to that country’s rule of
law closely?). For example, British
(or English!) culture has changed over the centuries: we no longer accept
bear-baiting, hanging, slavery, child labour, or duelling, but are currently
torn over fox-hunting, and largely indulgent of fishing for sport. Our mores
over divorce and homosexuality have gradually evolved in recent decades. We
extend the geography to talk about ‘European’ culture, which in its most lofty
forms presumably means such features as a free press, scientific inquiry,
French cuisine, the Prado, and the Eurovision Song Contest, but have to make
exceptions for such localised cultural activities as eating horseflesh,
bull-fighting, euthanasia, and lax regulations concerning gun-ownership.
(European culture also produced the horrors of Nazism and Communism.) Within a
certain country, there may be differences between (and I hesitate to use the
terms) ‘high’ culture, such as opera, fox-hunting and polo, and ‘low’ culture,
such as fishing, greyhound racing, grunge rock, or trainspotting (p 223)! I
might consider myself a ‘cultured’ person without indulging in any of those
activities. Thus I find it very difficult to identify something that is a clear
and constant ‘culture’ among all these behaviours. Fair enough. One can certainly try to be more careful
in one’s use of terms such as ‘culture’. But everyone knows what one means by
something being characteristically British, German, Japanese etc.
So what is the pluralist culture
that IB defends? He says (p 194) that he is ‘wedded to his own culture’ – but
what is that? Englishness, mainly. He writes about a
‘dominant culture’ in every society, and asserts that the ‘society’ has a right
to protect itself against ‘religious or ethnic persuasions which are not
compatible with it’ (p 199). But what standing does this have in law? Culture doesn’t operate only by legal means; but law
can help support the dominant culture. Enlightened people should stand up
against ‘grooming’ and bigamy, presumably of
but who decides what is compatible and what is incompatible outside the
processes of legislation? Everyone, by consensus. What allowances are made
for religious observance? I wish it were none,
but can’t persuade myself to defend such an extreme position. Should parents be
allowed to indoctrinate their own children in some faiths, but not
others? Not in any faith, say I: all
children should be educated in the plurality of faiths, in the hope (for me)
that this will help inoculate them against faith as such. Are they allowed
to reject certain socially beneficial practices, such as vaccination? I say no. Don’t tell the Jehovah’s Witnesses! What would IB have said
about wearing the niqab in public places? He was
probably in favour of allowing it: some Jews, after all, wear skullcaps in
public; some Christians crosses. It makes my own flesh creep, but I can’t agree
that it should be totally banned. The best test of one’s tolerance is when it
is most severely tried.
I was groping with the elusiveness of what ‘a culture’ means, I read further in
the March TLS. It was fascinating. I read pieces about Jews in
Belarus, and Circassians in Palestine, and reflected how sad it was that
individuals should try to solve their problems of ‘identity’ by searching for
the odd habits and practices of one of their grandfathers. Quite so. (I would not expect my grandchildren to do this, since
they have a mixture of Vietnamese, West Indian and typically complex British
grandparents: is that because we are privileged, or merely sensible?) And then
I encountered a marvellous essay by Hanif Kureishi, ‘Touching the Untouchable’,
where he looks back at the Satanic Verses scandal. He quotes
(disapprovingly) some remarkably silly statements by John le Carré and Roald
Dahl, which run as follows:
position was that there is no law in life or nature that says great religions
may be insulted with impunity” (le Carré), and
civilized world we all have a moral obligation to apply a modicum of censorship
to our own work why? in
order to reinforce this principle of free speech” (Dahl), and then goes on to
message of the Enlightenment is that we have some choice over who we want to
be, making our own destiny as individuals, without submitting to gods,
revelation or ancestors. The basis of this is a liberal education and a
democracy of ideas. These are not British values – over which Europeans have no
monopoly – but universal ones.”, and closes with:
of criticism, free-ranging thought, and questioning are universal values which
benefit the relatively powerless in particular. If we gave way on any of these,
even for a moment, we’d leave ourselves without a culture, and with no hope.”
I think making that equivalence of ‘a culture’ with
‘pluralism’ is spot on bravo,
although I think Kureishi is being too optimistic yes: what he should have said is that
they should be universal values when
claiming these are ‘universal values’, as apparently even members of the
intellectual elite do not share them with him, let alone Islamicists = Islamists/Moslems?. And of course,
Britain is still part of Europe, with or without Brexit, so the distinction
between ‘British’ values and ‘European’ values is somewhat specious, but also
In summary, I find all the talk
about a ‘common core’ of human values, an inherent ‘human nature’, and a
definable ‘culture’ all very unconvincing. ‘The crooked timber of humanity’ is indeed
that: human beings are very unpredictable, and display very different traits
over time and space. Human culture, including religious belief, is not
genetically wired in any way, but passed on through the agencies of family,
school, friends, church, etc. (For example, I hear so many Americans say that
‘hunting is in everybody’s blood, because once “we” were hunters’: but I have
never had any desire to hunt, although if I were starving, I might rediscover
the skill. cf. my remarks in the book about
militarism, e.g. p. 333) There is no biological basis for ethnicity I think this an exaggeration, given the generalisations
of physical anthropology, or the notion of practices inherited through it.
Geneticists still do not understand exactly how evolutionary adaptation works.
Morality is the sphere of the personal: expansive social actions claiming
broader virtue frequently fall foul of the Law of Unexpected Consequences a point IB regularly makes. What governs cultural activity
is partly the rule of law,
which operates at the level of the nation-state, whose actions themselves
should be controlled through democratic processes. The preferred ‘culture’
should simply be pluralism. There is also room for
culturally specific ingredients like the Japanese tea ceremony, which are
neither required nor prohibited by law, but maintained by tradition for as long
as they last. (And,
in my implementation, Hobsbawm would not be persecuted, but he would not be
invited to appear on Desert Island Discs.)
the Realm I attempted to draw my own picture of how this dynamic
operates in a liberal, pluralist society. ‘Forgive me’ (as you are wont to say
to your mentor) for including a paragraph here: “In a pluralist society,
opinion is fragmented – for example, in the media, in political parties, in
churches (or temples or mosques), and between the legislative and the executive
arms of government. The individual rights of citizens and their consciences are
considered paramount, and all citizens are considered equal under the law. The
ethnic, cultural, religious or philosophical allegiances that they may hold are
considered private affairs – unless they are deployed to subvert the freedoms
that a liberal society offers them. A pluralist democracy values very highly
the rights of the individual (rather than of a sociologically-defined group),
and preserves a clear line between the private life and the public sphere. So
long as the laws are equally applied to all citizens, individuals can adopt
multiple roles. The historian of ideas Sir Isaiah Berlin, who has featured so
largely in this book, was a major contributor to this notion of the
‘incommensurability of values’, although he did not confidently project it into
political discourse why do you say this? I
don’t say it in the cited article?.[i] Moreover,
a highly important distinction needs to be made: pluralism is very distinct
from ‘multiculturalism’, which attempts to reduce the notion of individual
identity by grouping citizens into ‘communities’, giving them stereotyped
attributes, and having their (assumed) interests represented collectively outside the normal political
structure and processes.”
* * * * * * * * * * *
Henry and I could probably debate further, but I think we are of a very similar mind, and the differences are minor. I did add to him that I thought that philosophers (and others) have to be very careful when they use analogies from the sciences in describing human behaviour (e.g. ‘hard-wired’, ‘in our DNA’), because the usage is dangerous as a metaphor, and inaccurate if meant literally. I also don’t deny the succour that religion has brought to many people (the Paul Johnson theory that because it is beautiful and beneficial, it must be true), but it doesn’t alter my belief that it should be called out for what is, and mumbo-jumbo conveys exactly the right spirit for me. I hope this exchange encourages readers to seek out Henry’s book – and, of course, Misdefending the Realm, for those who have still resisted my entreaties. I look forward to the next publication he promises us.
I use this bulletin to update my story of two Cambridge Spies – Donald Maclean, one of the notorious set of 1930s communists, and Willem ter Braak, a member of the Abwehr’s LENA group who underwent a mysterious death in Cambridge in April, 1941. Because of its size, and the distinct subject areas it addresses, I have decided to split this report into two sections, even though there are areas of overlap. Part 2 can be seen here.
First, a recap. In ‘Donald Maclean’s Handiwork’ (coldspur, December 2018), I analysed the peculiar and provocative indications that Andrew Boyle and Goronwy Rees had left behind concerning the possible stronger clues that MI5 may have received to the identity of the Foreign Office employee identified (but not named) by Walter Krivitsky as a Soviet spy. Krivitsky had named (John) King as a spy in the Foreign Office, but only hinted at the person who was the ‘Imperial Council’ spy. Two strong hints appeared: the first was Rees’s belated identification of a photographer called ‘Barbara’, who had testified to Maclean’s abilities with a camera, and Rees’s suggestion that Krivitsky had recognized Maclean’s handiwork when he (the GRU officer) had last been in Moscow in 1937. The second was an enigmatic reference to a diplomat called ‘de Gallienne’ in a note in Boyle’s ‘Climate of Treason’, which attributed to him an early reference to Krivitsky and the latter’s description of the persona of Maclean.
At the time, I
questioned the reliability of Rees’s deathbed testimony. Rees had historically
been a highly dubious witness, and the posthumous account of the conversation
he had had with Boyle, which appeared in the ‘Observer’, was a typical mixture
of half-truth, downright lies, and questionable accusations. It sounded as if
‘Barbara’ was an inspired invention. As for ‘de Gallienne’, the name was
probably wrong. I had discovered a diplomat called ‘Gallienne’, who was chargé d’affaires, and then Consul, in
Tallinn in Estonia at the time, but it seemed a stretch to connect this
official with Krivitsky and the information that the defector provided to the
FBI or to his interrogators from MI5 and SIS in London.
And then – a possible breakthrough.
I thus pick up the story and analyse the following aspects of ‘Donald Maclean’s
The identity of ‘Barbara’, and her relationship with Maclean;
The investigations by MI5 and MI6 into Henri Pieck’s exact
involvement in handling Foreign Office spies;
The missing file in King’s folder, and how it relates to anomalies
in the story;
The Foreign Office’s obstinacy in the face of Krivitsky’s
The possible contribution of Wilfred Gallienne, diplomat, to the
Boyle’s apparent reliance on Edward Cookridge and Guy Liddell for
As I recorded soon after I posted the December story, the author of the recent biography of Donald Maclean, Roland Philipps, suggested that ‘Barbara’ could well be Barbara Key-Seymer, a well-known society photographer of the 1930s. Astonishingly, I had read of this woman only a week beforehand, in Hilary Spurling’s biography of Anthony Powell, Dancing to the Music of Time, where, on page 108, she describes Powell’s friend in the following terms: “As observant as he was himself, she was well on the way to becoming one of London’s most up-to-date photographers . . .”. Yet the Barbara-photographer connection with the Rees testimony had eluded me. A quick search on ‘Key-Seymer & Donald Maclean’, however, had led me to a portfolio of her photographs at the Tate. The gallery contains an impressive set of artistic names from the 1930s, and on the album page 12 at https://www.tate.org.uk/art/archive/items/tga-974-5-5/ker-seymer-photograph-album/14, alongside Cyril Connolly, can be seen a photograph of Donald Maclean, in Toulon, probably in the summer of 1936. Yet in the annotations provided by the Tate, a question mark appears next to Maclean’s name.
Other communists appear
in the album. On page 19, Goronwy Rees can be seen at the 1937 May Day march,
and on page 25 two photographs of ‘Derek Blakie’ appear. The editor has not
seen fit to correct the script here, but the person is certainly Derek Blaikie, who accompanied Guy Burgess to
Moscow in 1934. Blaikie had been born Kahn, attended Balliol College, Oxford,
and become a friend of Isaiah Berlin, who suggested in a letter to Stephen
Spender that he was a rather dangerous Marxist. Kahn changed his surname to
Blaikie in 1933. According to Stewart Purvis & Jeff Hulbert in The Spy Who Knew Everyone, Blaikie’s primary
claim to fame was to write a letter to the Daily
Worker, just before Burgess’s introductory talk on the BBC in December
1935, in which he explained that Burgess was ‘a renegade from the C.P. of which
he was a member while at Cambridge’. This letter, suggesting that Burgess’s
conversion to the far right was a ruse, was intercepted by MI5, and entered in
Blaikie’s file, but then apparently forgotten. Significantly, Helenus
(‘Buster’) Milmo, the QC who interrogated Philby in December 1951, had access
to this letter. In his following report Milmo quoted another passage, which ran
as follows: “In “going over to the enemy” Burgess followed the example of his
closest friend among the Party students at Cambridge who abandoned Communism in
order successfully to enter the Diplomatic Service.” A massive tip was not
I asked Mr Philipps about the collection. I was amazed to learn that he was not aware of its existence and availability. Furthermore, when I followed up about a week later, he told me that he had not yet inspected the display, even though, for reasons he would prefer I not disclose, the albums contained several photographs that would have been of intense interest to him. I was a bit puzzled by the fact that the author of A Spy Named Orphan, which is promoted as ‘the first full biography of one of the twentieth century’s most notorious spies, drawing on a wealth of previously classified files and unseen family papers’ would show such a lack of curiosity in his subject. He then added: “ . . . I also don’t think that the man in that one is DM. He doesn’t seem tall enough or have quite the face and hair. Also, I didn’t find him mixing in that society much – he didn’t care for Burgess and I don’t know of any records of his connections with Rees and his rather more social circle.”
Is that not remarkable? That a biographer, without inspecting the
photograph personally, instead relying on the on-line image, would distrust the
evidence that the photographer herself had recorded? How the figure’s height
can be determined when he is squatting, or how his hair could confidently be
judged as unrecognizable some eighty years on, strikes me as inexplicable. The
evidence for Philipps’s conclusion about Maclean’s social activity is sparse:
if we consult his biography, we can find only a few examples of the spy’s life
in this period. We learn that ‘wearing the regulation white tie and tails, with
his silk-lined opera cloak draped around his tall figure, he escorted Asquith’s
granddaughters Laura and Cressida to dances . . .’, and that he was Tony
Rumbold’s best man in 1937. Yet Maclean also mixed in bohemian circles – especially after he moved to Paris in 1938. E. H. Cookridge
wrote, in The Third Man, that Maclean
‘became a regular visitor to Chester Street’ (Guy Burgess’s residence), and
that it was at such parties that he became a habitual drinker. (Cookridge’s
anecdotes are, however, unsourced. For some reason he did not consider that
Maclean was a Comintern agent at this time.) Nevertheless, no matter how well (or
poorly) Maclean and Burgess got on, it would have been considered poor spycraft
for them to have gathered together too frequently. As Philipps himself writes: “Acting on
Deutsch’s instructions, Maclean never mentioned Burgess or Philby or spoke to
them on the rare occasions when their paths crossed at parties.” Moreover,
Maclean became a close friend of the louche Philip Toynbee. Thus I find Philipps’s
instant dismissal of Key-Seymer’s evidence, and lack of interest in pursuing the
lead, astonishing – mysterious even.
As for Rees, his (and Blaikie’s) presence in the album only reinforces
the fact that the Ker-Seymer circle included leftist enthusiasts. Philipps has told me that Ker-Seymer ‘adored
Rees, but was wary of him’, while a letter to the Independent in 1993, after an obituary of Ker-Seymer was published,
recalled Barbara with her ‘old friend Goronwy Rees sitting on a banquette
during World War II’. Yet the connection sadly does not advance the
investigation very far. The inveterate liar Rees may have bequeathed us all a
truth when he declared that he and Maclean did indeed have a mutual friend
Barbara, who was a photographer, but his testimony does not show that her
studio was used by her, or by Maclean, as a location to take photographs of
purloined Foreign Office documents. And her studio was not in Pimlico. So why
would he bring the subject up? The quest continues.
The career of Henri Christian Pieck, the Dutchman who recruited
John King, and then handled him until his operation was suspected by British
Intelligence, merits closer analysis. Ever since MI5 and SIS learned from
Krivitsky that there was a second spy in the Foreign Office (the ‘Imperial
Council’ source), they speculated whether Henri Pieck may himself have run both
agents. This investigation picked up after Krivitsky was murdered in Washington
in February 1941, especially since Pieck had made a bizarre attempt to leave
Holland and work as a cartoonist for the Daily
Herald in early 1940. Nothing came out of this venture, but, after the war,
when MI5 betook itself to reinspect the vexing case of the Imperial Council
spy, with new minds on the case, the evidence was re-examined for the purpose
of verifying whether there were physical and logical links between Pieck and
the unidentified traitor.
One might ask why Krivitsky, if he was so unwilling (or unable) to offer his interrogators the identity of the Imperial Council spy, but had readily provided them with the name of John King (a mercenary), was so forthcoming about Pieck (a dedicated communist, who had worked for Krivitsky in the Hague). The most probable explanation is that Krivitsky believed that Pieck was no longer working for the Soviets. Pieck had had to withdraw from handling King in early 1936, and to retire to Holland, although he did make one or two discreet visits back to the UK in 1937. Yet Krivitsky did suggest that, if Maly were still alive (of course, he was not), because of the good relationship that existed between Maly and Pieck, there was a possibility that Pieck could be resuscitated at some stage. Telling the British authorities about his role would surely have scotched that: it was not as if Pieck were a shadowy character without a public presence.
A certain amount of animosity existed between the two, however, which might explain Krivitsky’s diminished loyalty. Krivitsky considered Pieck’s expense account for the entertainment and bribing of his agents and friends in the cipher department of the Foreign Office, and others, lavish. When Krivitsky had gained an ideologically committed spy in the Foreign Office (Maclean), he told Pieck, who had had to leave London soon after Maclean was recruited because his ‘safe’ house was no longer secure, that he now had a much cheaper and more effective source. Pieck’s replacement as King’s handler, Maly, then recruited a further Foreign Office source, John Cairncross, before he was recalled to Moscow in the summer of 1937. King’s role thus became markedly redundant, and he was abandoned. Krivitsky may have taken pleasure in that. He was also critical of Pieck’s ingenuousness about the approach in Holland by the ex-SIS operative Hooper (who had ostensibly been fired), saying that it might well be a plan to infiltrate the GRU. He considered Pieck ostentatious and indiscreet: his spycraft was poor.
From his side, Pieck much later told MI5 that Krivitsky’s account
of the attempt to acquire arms for the Spanish Republicans in the autumn of
1936 was false, even though Krivitsky’s presentation probably shows Pieck’s
performance in better light than what in fact occurred. Krivitsky had described
Pieck’s role to his interrogators without naming him, and had not specifically identified
the ‘Eastern European capital’ in which the transaction was attempted as
Athens. Perhaps trying to boost his own track-record, Krivitsky did not explain
that the attempt made – when Pieck was
accompanied by the Englishman William Fitzgerald – was a total failure. (The
exchange was also reported back to Menzies, the head of SIS, by the local
ambassador.) Yet one can also not trust
Pieck’s account of his dealings with Krivitsky. He claimed that Krivitsky
ordered him to kill Reiss: that is unlikely. Like Philby with Franco, he would
not have made a reliable hitman, as the NKVD files attest on both of them. Finally,
Pieck told his interrogators that he disliked Krivitsky and his wife, so there
was clearly no love lost between them. Thus it seems safe to conclude that Krivitsky
felt free in giving to MI5 and SIS a name to whom he owed no particular
loyalty, and whom he felt they could pursue without any further exposure.
It did not seem to occur to MI5 that, if Pieck had indeed handled
both spies, it would have been unlikely that Krivitsky would have talked so
freely about him, as Pieck might have been able to reveal information which
Krivitsky was clearly reluctant to share. But MI5 and SIS (the latter becoming
involved because the breach occurred in the Foreign Office, and was being controlled
from overseas), showed a track-record of sluggishness in following up the
leads. They were constantly one step behind, and never resolute about what to
do next. For example, the SIS renegade Jack Hooper knew, by January 1936,
through Pieck’s business associate Conrad Parlanti, of the meeting-place in
Buckingham Gate, and even told Pieck, at a house-warming party held by the
latter in the Hague later that month, that MI5 knew he was a Communist and that
he had been under surveillance in Britain. MI5 and Special Branch had
supposedly been trailing Pieck all year. By then, of course, Maly had already
replaced Pieck as King’s handler/courier, as Pieck no longer had legitimate
reasons for staying in London, and it was taking too long for material to get
to Moscow when Pieck had to take it with him to the Hague each time. Just as
with Maly shortly afterwards, MI5 and Special Branch would let Pieck slip
through their fingers.
What is remarkable about this period, and highlights how
unprepared MI5 and SIS were when they were faced with the evidence of an
‘Imperial Council’ spy, is the mess that Valentine Vivian (of SIS) and Jane
Sissmore (of MI5, who became Jane Archer when she later married, on the day before
war was declared) made of the Pieck investigation when they picked it up again
Sissmore Move In
Two years after Pieck supposedly had left the country for good,
Vivian was exchanging memoranda with Sissmore about Pieck’s role in Soviet
espionage. It appears that Sissmore was taking stock of the situation after the
successful, but highly time-consuming, prosecution of Percy Glading, who had
been passing on secrets from Woolwich Arsenal to his Soviet contacts. She had played
a key role in preparing the case, and Glading was sentenced on March 14, 1938.
Glading’s diary had triggered some valuable leads, including one that led MI5
to Edith Tudor-Hart. Pieck was another piece in the puzzle, but his exact role
was still a mystery. We should remain aware that, through the agency of Hooper
in early 1936, the Intelligence Services had learned of Pieck’s Buckingham Gate
location, and what it had been used for, and the fact that Foreign Office
documents had been ‘borrowed’ for photographing. The process was a mirror of
the Glading exercise. Moreover, MI5 and SIS knew that Pieck had met Foreign
Office clerks in Geneva in the early 1930s, and it could trace who those
Given the later painstaking process that the CIA and MI5
undertook, in late 1949 and early 1950, to try to discover who in the
Washington Embassy had access to the report that finally gave Maclean away, it
is surprising that a similar procedure was not initiated on the important
report that the ‘Imperial Conference’ spy had passed on. In fact, as her
conversations with Krivitsky in early 1940 show, Jane Archer identified it as a
secret SIS report, which had been distributed to several Foreign Office contacts
by MI5. The exchange is vivid, as her report to Vivian in early February 1940 informs
accordance with your instructions I took Thomas [Krivitsky] yesterday the photographed copy of the cover of the
C.I.D. Imperial Conference document No 98., the last page and the portion
dealing with the U.S.S.R. As soon as I
showed it to him Thomas said ‘Yes, I have seen this cover several times in
Moscow, in white on black form, in the office of the man who receives the
material.’ Yet when Krivitsky read the text about the Soviet Union, it was
unfamiliar to him.
Archer then tried something else. “I then showed him part of the very secret S.I.S. document of 25.2.37, particularly the paragraph on Page 2 marked (1). He read the first few lines and then said ‘this is the document’.” Archer did not provide a precise pointer to the document in question, but we can learn more about it from elsewhere in the Krivitsky file, at KV 2/405-1, a passage that is worth quoting in full. We find that, much later, on May 1, 1951, A. S. Martin, B2B, wrote: “Xxxxxxx xx [redacted] S.I.S showed me on 28.4.51 extracts from a file held by Colonel Vivian from which it was clear that in 1940 SIS had identified document which K had seen in Moscow. Its title was ‘Soviet Foreign Policy During 1936’; its reference was Mo.8 dated 25.2.37. It had been circulated by S.I.S to FO Northern Department, FO Mr. Leigh, War Office (M.I.2.b, M.I.3.a, M.I.3.b, M.I.5 and the Admiralty. Xxxxxxx told me that he had been unable to trace the document in the S.I.S. registry and he presumed that it had been destroyed. Xxxxxxx had passed the description of this document to Mr. Carey Foster of the Foreign Office. I subsequently found that the M.I.5 copy of this document was filed at 1a on SF. 420/Gen/1.’ (from). A handwritten note indicates that the document was in ‘K Volume 1’. If K means ‘King’, that was a file that was destroyed (by fire? – see below). Thus the investigation fizzled, and, as each year passed, the trail became colder.
In any case, Vivian’s insights on Pieck were seriously wrong, out
of inattention or laziness. In his letter to Sissmore of March 25, 1938, he
has filled much the same position in this country as the ‘PETERS’ (Maly) and
‘STEVENS’ of the recent GLADING case. . . . If his statements are to be
believed, he had established himself with certain Foreign Office contacts by
the end of 1935 or beginning of 1936, and was able to get the regular loan of
documents, which were photographed with a Leica camera and apparatus at an
office, which he had taken in, or in the vicinity of, Buckingham Gate.” The
‘has filled’ is deplorably vague, suggesting that Pieck has recently played a
role similar to that of Maly and was probably still active, and one of Britain’s
most senior counter-intelligence officers appears to think that the purloining
of state secrets is an act akin to the borrowing of library books. Should
Vivian, moreover, have perhaps developed a mechanism by which he would first
distrust the declarations of Soviet agents? Why would they tell the truth? He
then shows his disconnectedness by representing the time when Pieck was withdrawn as the time that he started his conspiratorial work with the
Foreign Office clerks.
What is even more surprising, given Sissmore’s sharpness and Vivian’s relative dullness, is her not correcting Vivian. MI5 had apparently done nothing in the interim: it must surely have informed Alexander Cadogan, the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, some time back, because he refers to the leakages in his diary. Yet no suspects had been interviewed, security procedures had not been tightened, and, for all that MI5 knew, the extractions of secret documents could still have been going on. Just because Pieck had also told Hooper that he was out of the espionage game, why should MI5 believe him, as SIS apparently did? Should they not have attempted to verify? Had they been tracking his movements? After all, they had also learned that Pieck had made his unsuccessful bid to acquire arms for the Republicans in Spain when he and Fitzgerald approached the Greek government in the summer of 1936, as the British Embassy in Athens had reported the encounter to SIS. Pieck was thus still clearly active in the Soviet Union’s cause.
Archer wanted to bring Pieck over from Holland to talk, so she and
Vivian must have regarded his commitment to Communism as weakening, and considered
that he might now be willing to help his erstwhile target. This thought was balanced by a strange request
from the Dutch Government. Vivian
told Sissmore that his agent in Holland had learned from the Dutch police that
Pieck ‘travelled frequently between Holland and England in 1937 and is believed
by them to have had the confidence of a high official of Scotland Yard’. Yet
his permission had now been withdrawn: they wanted to know why. Vivian could
not add much, explaining that they had not been in touch with Hooper since 1935,
but did not appear nonplussed by the Scotland Yard linkage. Did he perhaps
think that was normal practice for Soviet agents? Moreover, he made an obvious error,
as Hooper had had the significant meeting at Pieck’s apartment in January 1936.
Was Pieck also stringing the Dutch police along?
if that assertion about Pieck’s travel habits was true, how on earth had he
managed to fly or steam in to England under the noses of MI5 without being
detected? Why did Vivian not express surprise at this revelation? After all,
this was a man whom Special Branch had been watching assiduously in 1935,
although they never spotted anything untoward. Sissmore had written to Vivian
in April 1935 that they could not detect anything suspicious about his visits,
but had noted that Pieck should be watched ‘if he ever came over again’. One
might expect at least that all ports of entry were being watched. Sissmore next
made an inquiry to Inspector Canning of Special Branch on September 2, 1938, and
her words are worth quoting verbatim: “It is reported that Pieck is an
espionage agent working on behalf of the Soviet Union, and is believed to have
at one time filled the place of Paul Hardt (Maly) in the Glading espionage
group in this country. He has paid frequent visits to England in the past, but
is at present in Holland.”
This is an extraordinarily tentative and detached statement by Sissmore, in its vagueness about dates and use of the passive voice: one explanation might be that she had been unduly influenced by Vivian. Yet her letters to him do not indicate that she was in awe of him: she treats him very much as an equal, and he responds likewise. After all, who was authorized to perform the reporting, and articulating beliefs, if not Sissmore herself? And how could she get the timetable of events so direly wrong, indicating that Pieck had replaced Hardt (Maly), when she knew that Maly, who in fact had replaced Pieck, had left the United Kingdom for good in June 1937, barely escaping capture by Special Branch, and that Pieck’s most frequent visits to Britain had occurred in 1935? (She also unaccountably records this year incorrectly in her report on Krivitsky.) Did she really believe that Pieck had started up his subversive activities again in 1937, simply because of what the Dutch authorities said? And should she not have been a bit more careful in approaching the Metropolitan Police, if Pieck was claiming he had some kind of protection on high at Scotland Yard? Was she simply all at sea? It is an untypically undisciplined performance by MI5’s star counter-espionage officer. One could perhaps surmise that she was being directed to hold back. It is almost as if she were sending a coded message in her reports: ‘This is not my true voice’.
Canning was then able to inform Sissmore that Pieck had made two visits to
England, via Harwich and Folkestone, towards the end of 1937, but these
passages had gone completely unnoticed by MI5. What is more, their log showed
that Pieck made fifteen visits to the UK in 1935, making his final departure
for a while on February 14, 1936, not returning until October 14, 1937. The
last trip was a lightning event, since he arrived on February 13 at Dover, and
left from Harwich the following day, probably hoping that the change of ports
would avoid immediate suspicions. So what did Vivian mean when he said that
Pieck established contact at the end of 1935, or early in 1936, if the suspect
then disappeared for twenty months? It appears that no detailed chronology – a sine qua non of successful detective
work – had been created. The archival record is disappointingly blank after
this – until the stories start to appear from Krivitsky and Levine a year
later. Perhaps Sissmore and Vivian realized they had severely mishandled the
For those who relish
intrigue and conspiracy theory, they might find an explanation for Vivian’s
enigmatic behavior elsewhere. A Dutchman, F. A. C. Kluiters, has written an
article that suggests that Jack Hooper was a double-agent for the Abwehr and the NKVD, and was probably being
used by Claude Dansey to pass on disinformation to the Germans. The article can
be seen at:
https://www.nisa-intelligence.nl/PDF-bestanden/Kluiters_Hooper2XV_voorwebsite.pdf I do not recommend it lightly, as it is so
convoluted that it makes a typical chapter of Sonia’s Radio seem like Noddy
Goes to School. One day I may attempt to analyze this particular tale, but
all I say now is that, if this scheme actually had any substance, and was
indeed the creation of Claude Dansey, his arch-rival Valentine Vivian would
have been the last person in British Intelligence to know what was going on. Vivian
and Dansey were at daggers drawn on many issues, not least of which was the
treachery of Jack Hooper, and his subsequent re-engagement after being fired.
Vivian may well have been set up to perform a mea culpa over Hooper’s betraying to the Abwehr a spy named Dr.
Krueger, who had been providing the British with details of German naval
construction for some years.
Yet such theories of double-dealing should not
be abandoned as irrelevant to this quest. In the authorised history of MI5,
Christopher Andrew (who mentions Pieck on a couple of pages, but does not grace
him with an Index entry) states that SIS was dangerously misled by Hooper, who,
‘it was later discovered, was in reality the only MI5 employee who had
previously worked for both Soviet and German intelligence (as well as SIS)’.
Sadly, and conventionally, Andrew does not provide detailed references for his
sources from the Security Service archive, ascribing proof of King’s guilt to
interrogations of German prisoners after the war, but he indicates that SIS
made a poor decision in re-hiring Hooper in October 1939, after he had worked
with the Abwehr in 1938-39. What is remarkable is that Keith Jeffery, in the
authorized history of SIS, has only one line about Hooper, stressing instead
the treachery of a Dutchman recruited by the SIS office in the Hague, Fokkert
de Koutrik. I suspect Hooper’s role in the King/Pieck story has not been fully
told. It is not often one comes across an agent with such multiple allegiances
– especially one who survived. (Another is the mysterious Vera Eriksen, who
landed alongside Druecke and Walti in Scotland on September 30, 1940, but
escaped the death penalty. A book on her
is about to be published.) This one will clearly run and run. Is anyone out
there, apart from Mr. Kluiters, researching his story? (I notice that four
files on Hooper were released by the National Archives in November 2017: they
must form a valuable trove, and I look forward to inspecting them some time.)
A Fresh Look
The story moves forward to 1940, to the
Krivitsky interrogations, and beyond. As readers of Misdefending the Realm will recall, Jane Archer was already being
eased out of her job as MI5’s leading officer in communist counter-intelligence
when she compiled her report on Krivitsky in March of 1940, and she was
replaced by her subordinate, the unremarkable Roger Hollis. 1940 was a
difficult year for MI5: the transition from Chamberlain’s administration to
Churchill’s, the sacking of its Director-General, Vernon Kell, the imposition
of the Security Executive layer of management, the insertion of unqualified
supervisors, and the fear of invasion accompanied by the ‘Fifth Column’ panic,
with the stresses of making thousands of internment decisions. Little attention
was paid to concealed communists, with Hollis’s activities directed more at the
possible unreliability of communists in the factories, and Guy Burgess doing a
skillful job of directing energies away from his conspirators in government. During
1940, there were occasional communications about Krivitsky between Vivian and
Cowgill of SIS, Harker, White, Liddell and Archer of MI5, and even the occasional
guest appearance from the sacked supremo Kell. Krivitsky was in Canada for most
of the year, and attempts were even made to contact him directly. Yet no
apparent effort was made to pick up the unresolved matter of the ‘Imperial
cannot read any reaction within MI5 to the announcement of Krivitsky’s death.
Even Guy Liddell could not stretch to recognizing the event in his diaries:
true, an item in his February 11, 1941 page has been redacted, but there is no
corresponding entry for ‘Krivitsky’ in his Index. A half-hearted attempt was
made, however, to investigate the Pieck case in the light of the disturbing
murder set up to look like a suicide. In the same month, Pilkington in B4C
tried to track down Pieck’s architect friend, Stuart Cameron Kirby, who had
accompanied Parlanti in 1934 to see Pieck in Paris. In April, Pilkington
eventually interviewed Kirby in Cambridge, where he had secured an
impressive-sounding sinecure as ‘Home Office Assistant Regional Technical
Advisor’, but nothing came of it. Two years later, Shillito of F2B (i.e. in
Hollis’s new Division, split off from Liddell’s B) was requested to confirm
that Pieck was still on the ‘Black List’ of dangerous communists. All thoughts
of identifying the ‘Imperial Council’ spy appear to have been dispelled,
however. The Soviet Union had become an ally, and all energies were directed
towards the Nazis.
After the War
By the end of the war, however, the Soviet Union was accepted as the dominant threat to the nation’s security. But perhaps not by Alexander Cadogan, still Permanent Under-Secretary in the Foreign Office. Cadogan, who had been so distressed about the spies in his domain in 1939, had apparently forgotten about their existence by the autumn of 1945. Konstantin Volkov, the Soviet Vice-Consul to Turkey, approached the British Embassy in Istanbul in August of that year, offering to name nine agents who were ‘employees of the British intelligence organs and Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Great Britain’, as well as one who currently ‘fulfils the duties of the chief of a department of the English counter-intelligence Directorate in London’. As Nigel West reminds us in his new book Cold War Spymaster, Volkov’s follow-up letter was translated and sent to Cadogan himself. Rather than sounding alarm-bells in the Permanent Under-Secretary’s mind, the arrival of the message prompted an instruction simply to pass the document on to the Chief of SIS, Stewart Menzies. Likewise unable to fathom that perhaps a degree of caution was required in the circumstances, Menzies delegated the task to the head of Section IX, the group responsible for Soviet affairs, Kim Philby. Volkov was soon afterwards spirited back to Moscow and executed, and Maclean and Philby survived another shock.
A few months afterwards,
in apparent ignorance of the Volkov affair (although Guy Liddell was very
familiar with the incident), the possibility of a Pieck/Imperial Council spy
connection was resuscitated. By then, stories had arrived about Pieck’s
survival from Buchenwald. On September 13, 1946, Michael Serpell (F2C) issued a
long report titled ‘The Possibility that Pieck was in Touch with the Source of
the “Imperial Council” Leakage’. Serpell had quickly immersed himself in
investigating Soviet espionage, and would soon become a notable player in the
studies of Soviet spies. He was one of the officers who analysed the papers of Henri
Robinson, the ‘Red Orchestra’ agent, that had been captured from the Gestapo in
Paris after the war, and he would soon gain himself a reputation for dogged
criticism of the handling of the Fuchs and Sonia cases. He was the officer who
accompanied Jim Skardon to interview Sonia in Oxford in September 1947. He also
interrogated Alexander Foote, recommending that he not be prosecuted for
desertion, and then wrote the report on him that was distributed to such
agencies as the CIA. His status was such that he was selected as the officer
who accompanied the director-general of MI5, Percy Sillitoe, to Canada in March
In the case of the
Imperial Council source Serpell’s instincts and objectives were correct, but
his analysis wrong. He suggested that Pieck may have recruited an agent ‘at a
much higher level than King’ when in Geneva, and that his large budget would
have allowed for such a recruitment. Yet he slipped up badly on chronology,
noting that the Imperial Council source (according to Krivitsky) had begun to
become active in 1936. He assumed that the same camera at Buckingham Gate was
probably used by this agent, but failed to note that Pieck had fled the country
by then. He could hardly have ‘run’ the spy from Holland. In mid-stream, Serpell
catches the contradiction, backtracking to claim that Pieck could have handled
early examples of the photographic material. He admits that the main plank
against his theory is that King described how he was abandoned after Maly’s
departure in summer 1937, although he has been made aware of Pieck’s brief
return to the UK in November 1937.
Serpell’s report rambles
somewhat, and it is probably not worth any further inspection. Furthermore,
what inevitably tainted his investigation was the fact that he and Roger Hollis
had to communicate with SIS to gain information about what was going on in
Holland. The officer they had to deal with was Kim Philby, who, while
pretending to offer substantive support for Serpell’s inquiries, would surely
have encouraged Serpell in his mistaken pursuit of Pieck as the handler of
Maclean. To begin with, John Marriott of B2c was energised by Serpell’s
research, especially since he provocatively admitted, in a letter to Commander
Burt of Special Branch on December 12, 1946, that the
idea that Pieck might have recruited other agents ‘is lent some support by our
knowledge from more than one source that Government information has been
communicated to the Russians since King’s retirement.’ After a meeting between
the three of them, however, Marriott disagreed with Serpell. As the dispute carried on into
1947, Serpell’s arguments looked increasingly weaker: one might wonder whether
he, as a tenderfoot, had been put on a false trail to give the impression of
earnest endeavour. Marriott recommended dropping the investigation even though
Serpell (now moved from F Division closer to Marriott as B1C) continued to disagree.
Meanwhile, the prospect arose of MI5 actually
being able to interview Pieck himself.
Dick White, now director
of B Division, is the officer whose name appears as heading plans to bring
Pieck to Britain, in the early months of 1950. After Pieck had been released
from Buchenwald, the British had apparently been in touch with the Dutch
authorities, and reminded them that Pieck had been a Soviet spy. It seems that
a private security organisation had got in touch with Pieck, who declared that
he was surprised by the Krivitsky revelations. But he also said that he was
very short of money, and might be prepared to talk. After some local
negotiation, however, he agreed to MI5’s terms for the interrogation, which
involved no payments, but some protection from prosecution, and some conditions
concerning confidentiality, and arrived in London on April 12. What is
extraordinary is that, in November 1949, Pieck had made a visit to London, in a
search for help with his embryonic exposition business, without MI5’s knowing
Pieck and Vansittart
Another mysterious dimension to Pieck’s relationships with British officials needs to be explained, however. Before the war, Pieck had made puzzling references to his association with Sir Robert Vansittart, a very prominent figure in the Foreign Office. Vansittart had been the Permanent Under-Secretary until 1938, when his continued vigorous opposition to Germany’s aggressions resulted in his being ‘kicked upstairs’ to the purely symbolic post of Chief Diplomatic Advisor. At the time, British intelligence officers had interpreted Pieck’s references to Vansittart as a code for his acquaintance with John King, attributing the deception as a clumsy method of confusing them. Yet, after the war, Pieck indicated that he looked forward to meeting Vansittart again, and it transpired that in May 1940, with the Germans about to invade Holland, Pieck had expressed an urgent desire to flee to England, where he expected his friends in high places to welcome him. This was bizarre – or very brazen – behavior from a Soviet spy who knew that the British authorities had rumbled him.
Yet when it came to bringing
Pieck over, and interrogating him, the MI5 officers, led by Dick White, made no
attempt to question him about the Vansittart connection – or, if they did, the
redacted record conceals the fact. Certainly, the consequent report does not
mention him. The oversight might seem simply careless, or an admission that the
reference was jocular, and thus not worth pursuing. Other evidence, however,
points to more complicated entanglements. In a Diary entry for January 5, 1945,
Guy Liddell had written: “Kim [Philby] came to see me about xxxxxxx,
who had been taken on in his section. Jane [Archer]
when introduced to him recollected that he was one of the people who might
possibly have been identical with the individual described by KREVITSKY [sic] as acting as a Soviet agent before
the war, and as being employed in an important government office. [sentences redacted] Kim was very anxious to get at the old
records of the KING case in order to satisfy himself that he was on sound
ground. I have put him in touch with Roger.”
As can be seen, the identity of this possible recruit has been redacted. Yet, when publishing his selections from the Diaries in 2005, Nigel West very blandly, and without comment, inserted the name of ‘Colville Barclay’ in the place of the redacted name. In his 2014 biography of ‘Klop’ Ustinov (the father of Peter), Klop, Peter Day went further. He claimed that Barclay had come under suspicion by Jane Archer and Guy Liddell when they interrogated Krivitsky, as Barclay fitted the profile of the ‘Imperial Council’ spy as described by the defector – aristocratic, artistic, Scottish, and educated at Eton and Oxford. Unfortunately, Day does not provide a precise reference for this claim. In the published version of the MI5 Debriefing (edited by the scrupulous Gary Kern), which faithfully reproduces the text from the archival Krivitsky file, no mention of Barclay can be found. But we should be able to rely on Liddell’s gratuitous recalling of what Jane Archer told him about Barclay’s coming under suspicion.
So what has this to do with Vansittart? In
1931, Vansittart married Sarita, Barclay’s mother, who had recently been
widowed. Thus Colville Barclay became Sir Robert’s stepson. Moreover, in
another memorandum that did not make the final Krivitsky report, Jane Archer
did allude to Sir Robert. As the interrogations progressed, Archer would send a
daily summary to Vivian in SIS, and this correspondence can be seen at the
National Archives in KV 2/804. In the item dated February 5, 1940, Archer
C.I.D. case was the first discussed with Mr. Thomas [Krivitsky]. He said that the Soviet authorities had a great regard
for Sir Robert Vansittart and followed his activities with great interest. None
of the information regarding Sir Robert, however came through the source which
furnished them with the C.I.D. documents. In further attempts to identify the
person who procured the C. I. D. information Mr. Thomas was asked whether any
mention had been made of this man being the stepson of some highly paced
official. The word ‘step-son’ certainly aroused some memories in Mr. Thomas’s
This is all I have
found. It does not offer anything conclusive about Barclay or Vansittart, but
begs for some kind of follow-up. Why did the Soviets track Vansittart’s
activities with such interest? If not the ‘Imperial Council’ spy, who was it
who provided them with information? John Cairncross? Why was the stepson’
reference not pursued? (Was Krivitsky being devious again, confusing the issue
of orphans, sons and stepsons?) Peter Day reports that Barclay did not know
that he had become a suspect: he told Day in 2003 that he had never been questioned.
One might have expected some reflection of this conversation to have appeared
in Archer’s final report, but, either she felt that it was not so important, or
her superiors instructed her to omit any such potentially embarrassing details.
Any closer inspection of
this web of intrigue will of necessity require a plunge into the murky waters
described by Kluiters above, and I am not yet ready to do this. It would not be
surprising, however, to see a relationship between Pieck and Vansittart confirmed.
Vansittart came from an originally Dutch family; he was a fierce anti-fascist
(and might have mistaken the objectives of Pieck: Vansittart was equally
opposed to communism); he maintained a private intelligence group, and he
apparently received information from both Putlitz in the German Embassy (according
to Norman Rose), as well as from Soviet agents (according to Charles Higham).
Thus we should not discount the fact that Pieck may have played a very cagey
game, and skillfully exploited Vansittart.
Be that as it may, if Pieck’s interrogators expected to hear more about the Imperial Council source when Pieck arrived for questioning, they were disappointed. Pieck confirmed that he had started to photograph documents at the Grosvenor Hotel in 1935, but then switched to use his apparatus at Buckingham Gate. He stated, however, that he had never controlled a second source at the Foreign Office, although he had heard of one from Krivitsky. “Krivitsky told him they could get the same material from another man at a tenth of the price”, the report ran, and went on: “Pieck was unable to throw any light on the other facts about a Foreign Office source which do not fit into the King case: – a burglary from the Foreign Office, the disused ‘kitchen’ in the Foreign Office alleged to have been used by an agent for photographing documents, and the renting of a special house. Pieck did not train King in photography, nor did he give him a Leica.” MI5 reluctantly concluded Pieck was telling the truth, but admitted they could not be sure until the Imperial Source were identified.
the sleuths were getting closer. The VENONA transcripts had helped identify
Klaus Fuchs, who was sentenced on March 1 to fourteen years’ imprisonment.
Sonia had escaped to East Germany two days before. Since 1949, MI5 and the FBI
had been whittling down the names of possibilities for the agent with the
cryptonym HOMER, as revealed by VENONA, and in April 1951 they were able to
point quite confidently to Donald Maclean, because of the visits he made from
Washington to New York to visit his wife. The defection of Burgess and Maclean
in May 1951 would give MI5 the name of the ‘Imperial Council’ source they had not
very vigorously been pursuing since 1939.
A Missing File, and other
of the last enigmas of the case is the destruction of the first volume of the
John King archive. In this, one might have expected to find such items as the complete
correspondence between Washington (Mallet) and the Foreign Office (Jebb)
concerning the information that Levine was passing on. If you look up the files
on John Herbert King at the National Archives (e.g. http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11050136
), you will find under both KV 2/815 & KV 2/816 a note that says ‘Vol 1
destroyed’. You will have to delve elsewhere to learn more. For example, in the
Pieck files (KV 2/809-814), you can find at least three references to the
destruction, which say, variously that the file was ‘destroyed’, ‘destroyed by
fire’ and ‘destroyed by enemy action.’
all three statements could be interpreted as communicating the same truth, this
strikes me as more than a little suspicious. It seems to this particular
observer that an enemy attack would have to be particularly selective to
destroy completely just one of the King files, but leave the others completely
unscathed. We do know that MI5’s offices at Wormwood Scrubs were bombed in
September 1940, and several records burned, but the histories tell us that they
had all been photographed beforehand, and that nothing was lost. Is it possible
that this event could have been used as a convenient alibi for the removal of
material that was potentially embarrassing?
process of copying individual records into files to which they were related
means that some of the items have been preserved, and one can tell from their
Serial numbers that their source was the missing file. For instance, the
interrogation of Oake, a colleague of King’s, that took place on September 26,
1939, receives the following handwritten comment: ‘(Original in PF 48713 KING,
50A Volume 1 destroyed in fire)’. Yet all such comments are made in the
1946-1947 time-frame: the Pieck records from 1941 never refer to the
destruction of any files, by fire or any other agency. Unfortunately, the
salvaged records that I have managed to identify and inspect do not offer anything
spectacular: maybe another sleuth can come up with more dramatic examples.
awkward fact that Jebb and the Foreign Office may have wanted suppressed was
King’s connection with Mallet himself. Michael Serpell believed that some of
the missing records could have referred to Special Branch’s search of King’s
property. In a summary of the tripartite meeting with Inspector Rogers, John
Marriott and him that took place on January 6, 1947 can be found the following
astonishing statement: “Rogers handled King, and elicited his confession. He
does not believe King told the whole truth and suggests King may have been
shielding friends such as Quarry, Oake and Harvey. King claimed he left his
wife because she became mistress of Victor Mallet who was until recently the
British Ambassador to Spain (or maybe Mallet’s brother.)”
Mallet was indeed the chargé d’affaires
in Washington who had been dealing directly with Krivitsky’s agent, Isaac Don
Levine, and communicating with Jebb, in September 1939. It is not clear where
Serpell derived this fact of King’s wife’s affair, or when King actually admitted
it, unless Rogers himself had just divulged it: it was not until March 7, 1947
that Serpell recorded an interview with the ailing King, who had just been
released from prison. (During this interview, it was revealed that King’s son
lodged in Pimlico, and that King himself had lived there during 1935-36!
Pimlico – the district that Goronwy Rees mentioned!) Yet this disclosure, if it
were in fact true, must have been highly embarrassing. Mallet would surely have
had to own up to Jebb about the connection, as the truth would surely come out
in any investigation, and it would presumably have damaged his career. (If he
had a brother, he appears to have sunk without trace.) From Washington, however, Victor moved to
Sweden as Envoy during the war, and was appointed Ambassador to Spain in 1946.
He did not suffer.
one can only speculate what else might have been lost in the destroyed file –
including the source SIS report which Krivitsky saw, as detailed above.
Certainly we are missing the full set of exchanges between Washington and
London. It is thus impossible to build a reliable chronology of exactly who
informed whom. One of the earliest accounts is actually Valentine Vivian
himself, who wrote a report titled ‘Leakage from the Communications Department,
Foreign Office’, dated October 30, 1939, which appears in full as the second
King file, KV 2/816. Vivian is very open about the failure of SIS to take
seriously the evidence of ‘Agent X’ (Hooper), who was treated ‘with coldness,
even derision’ when he tried to pass on what Pieck had told him two years earlier,
and had ‘remained forgotten, and in abeyance’ until Conrad Parlanti came
forward on September 15, 1939. Vivian then reflects the current Foreign Office
thinking (see below) when he dismisses Krivitsky – testimony that he would
presumably have preferred buried when the defector came over a few months
later. “We had, therefore, the bare word of KRIVITSKI – at the best a person of
very doubtful genuineness and one, moreover, whose ability to speak on such a
matter with authority was even more doubtful – to incriminate Captain J. H.
King of the Communications Department, whose record appeared on the surface to
be quite impeccable.” Peter Cook would have been quite proud of that
a strange anomaly appears. In his report, Vivian says that, after the
identification of King was received on September 4, he was instructed to go on
leave until September 25, but was to be kept under surveillance. Oake was
interrogated on the 25th, and King the following day, after which King
tripped up by visiting his mistress Helen Wilkie, and was thus charged the same
day. But Alexander Cadogan, Permanent Under-Secretary in the Foreign Office,
wrote – in an unpublished part of his diary dated September 15 – that King was currently being interrogated. Is it
possible that, because of the Mallet connection, the Foreign Office decided to
undertake its own investigation without informing MI5 or SIS? Or, perhaps
Vivian did know about it, but was
encouraged to portray another series of events, and to record it in some haste?
Is the fact that Cadogan’s estate prohibited Professor Dilks from including
this item in the published Diaries an
indication of this subterfuge? (I have contacted Professor Dilks, but he can
shed no light in the matter, as the sources I refer to were not available when
he edited the Cadogan Diaries fifty
indication that the Foreign Office was unduly embarrassed by the King affair
was its determination to keep the conviction secret. Nothing appeared in the
press, and Levine even stated, in November 1948, that the disgraced cypher
clerk had been executed. (He had in fact been released by then.) It was not
until 1956 that the British Government was forced to admit the whole account,
after Levine offered the same testimony to a Senate investigation committee. The
Foreign Office initially denied that there had even been a spy named King, but,
when faced with the prospect of awkward questions in the House of Commons, then
had to reveal that King had been tried under the Emergency Powers Regulations,
and sentenced on October 18, 1939. One might understand the coyness as war
approached, but the desire to cover up when the convict had already been
released seems simply obtuse.
Lastly, how did the
Foreign Office regard the evidence of Krivitsky? It was exposed to the first of
the Saturday Evening Post articles in
May 1939, and was immediately dismissive. Such comments as ‘mostly twaddle’,
‘Don’t want the rest’, ‘a few grains of sense in this rigmarole’, ‘General’s
“revelations” not worth taking seriously”, are scattered among the hand-written
annotations of the file as it gets passed around, including from the pen of the
head of the Northern Department, Laurence Collier. The degree to which this
official was clued into current events – and the responsibilities of his own
section – is shown by a plaintive note he sent to
Gladwyn Jebb on May 24: “Do we know anything about Genl. Krivitski?”. At the
end of May, Collier rather reluctantly sent the cutting, with a letter, to the
Embassy in Moscow, writing: “On the whole we do not consider that
these would-be hair-raising revelations of Stalin’s alleged desire for a
rapprochement with Germany etc. are worth taking seriously . . .”. Collier must have been a bit
chastened to hear back from his colleagues in Moscow a few weeks later that the
articles ‘have excited considerable interest’, and that ‘the consensus of
opinion is that they may well be genuine’. He still opined that Krivitsky was
‘talking nonsense’ but agreed that Washington should be asked for the complete
series, which arrived at the end of July. (He did not know that Jane Sissmore
had had copies of the articles in her possession since they came out.)
What is extraordinary about this exchange is the apparent awareness in Moscow of German-Soviet negotiations, while London was still vaguely planning for a British agreement with the Soviets. The mission to forge such a compact, led by the improbably named Admiralthe Hon. Sir Reginald Aylmer Ranfurly Plunkett-Ernle-Erle-Drax, left from Tilbury on August 15, and was thus doomed from the start, whether Chamberlain was in earnest or not. (Marshal Voroshilov is said to have inquired of our gallant emissary: “You are not one of the Somerset Ernle-Erle-Draxes, by any chance?”) Collier and his minions continued to pooh-pooh the contributions of the Soviet defector, but then the record goes eerily silent. The next item recorded is not until November, two months after Ribbentrop and Molotov had signed the Nazi-Soviet Pact. On December 27, an official notes that ‘Stalin is expert at reconciling the apparently irreconcilable, as recent events have shown’, to which Collier adds that ‘he will find this particular reconciliation harder than most’. Collier would also survive to see the ‘Imperial Source’ unmasked, but I have not discovered any record of what his reaction was.
The Elusive Gallienne
what of ‘Wilfrid de Gallienne’, the diplomat whom Andrew Boyle credited with
the information about Krivitsky? The British consul in Tallinn, Estonia, during
1939 was indeed Wilfrid Gallienne (sic), and he was deeply involved in
discussions about the protection of the borders of the Baltic States, including
Estonia of course, in any future negotiations between the Soviet Union and
Great Britain. His main claim to fame, however, appears to be the disagreement
he had with a British lecturer in the Estonian capital, Ronald Seth, who was
providing information to the Foreign Office while bypassing the local resident
diplomat. In his reports to his superiors in London, Gallienne justifiably
complained about this irregular back-channel, and admitted that he had had to
rebuke the nosy academic. (For readers who want to learn more about the
extraordinary adventures of Seth, who was later parachuted into Estonia as an
ill-equipped SOE agent, but survived, I recommend Operation Blunderhead, a 2105 account by David Gordon Kirby.)
Yet, despite the
imaginative endeavours of my researcher in London, I have not yet been able to
find any minute or memorandum from Gallienne that touches on Krivitsky. My next
step is to explore the Andrew Boyle archive, and, as I write this in
mid-February, I am waiting to hear from the Cambridge University Library
whether it can send me photographs of the relevant papers. Rather than starting
with what are presumably voluminous documents that concern the creation of A Climate of Treason, I have made a more
modest request to inspect Boyle’s correspondence with E. H. Cookridge, Malcolm
Muggeridge and Isaiah Berlin, as I suspect these smaller packets may provide me
with a glimpse of the way that Boyle nurtured his sources.
Cookridge is a
fascinating case. He was born Edward Spiro, in Vienna in 1908, and knew Kim
Philby well from the spy’s subversive work with communists there in 1934. His Third Man (1968) is thus a most useful
guide to Philby’s early days. While claiming in his Preface to that book that
he had access to secret sources (“Through my work in the Lobby of the House of
Commons I had access to sources of information not available to the public”),
it is clear that he was used by the government as a method of public relations
as far back as 1947. He published in that year a book titled Secrets of the British Secret Service,
in which he openly acknowledged the help that he had received from the War
Office and the Foreign Office. One must therefore remain wary that, while being
given access to certain documents, Cookridge would have been shown what the
authorities wanted him to see.
His relevance lies in
the attributions that Boyle grants him in his Notes to A Climate of Treason. Much of Boyle’s information comes from named
sources, and most of them are actually identified, rather than being cloaked in
the annoying garment of ‘confidentiality’. While I have not performed a
cross-reference, I would hazard that most of the correspondence with these
persons is to be found in the Boyle Archive, where individual letter-writers
are clearly identified. Of this period, Boyle writes, for example (p 455, Note
15): “Confidential information to the author as attested in E. H. Cookridge’s
notes from Guy Liddell of MI5.” One might react: What on earth was Liddell
doing speaking to Cookridge? Did Cookridge (who died on January 1, 1979) ever
publish an account of these confidences? Did Boyle consider, now that Liddell
and Cookridge were both dead, that he could safely write about these secrets,
or did he still fear the Wrath of White? I hope that a study of the
correspondence with Cookridge will clear some of this up. If anyone reading
this lives in the Cambridge area, and is interested in inspecting the Boyle
papers in a more leisurely, more efficient and less expensive manner, I should
be very grateful if he or she could get in touch with me. Similarly, I should
love to hear from anyone who can shed light on the Gallienne puzzle.
Unfortunately, all this
evidence does not bring us much closer to determining how and when MI5 and SIS
might have learned more about the identity of the Imperial Council spy, and
thus have been able to apprehend Maclean before he did any more damage. Yet the
fruits of the research do show that Andrew Boyle’s claims may have some truth
behind them, and that the assertions of the rascal Goronwy Rees may indeed have
some substance. Moreover, the multiple anomalies in the archival record suggest
that some persons had a vested interest in muddying the waters, and even using
the written documents to start a bewildering paper-chase that might distract analysts
from the real quarry. If one considers such events as the following:
The reluctance of Krivitsky’s interrogators to apply pressure on him;
Pieck’s enigmatic claim to have protectors at the Special Branch;
Pieck’s professed desire to escape to England as the Nazis
approached in May 1940;
Pieck’s carelessness in confessing to Hooper his illicit
activities in London;
The reluctance of SIS to listen to anything that Hooper told them
for two years;
Vivian’s obvious discomfort and confusion about the facts of the King
The contradictions in the chronology shown up by Vivian and
King’s alarming claim about Mallet’s affair with his wife;
The coyness of the British Government in admitting the facts about
the King trial and sentencing;
The barely credible account of a single King file being destroyed
by enemy action;
The apparent destruction of the copy of the SIS report that
Krivitsky recognized during his interrogation by Jane Archer;
Jane Archer’s uncharacteristically unprofessional and detached
approach to the investigation;
Pieck’s ability to re-enter Britain unnoticed after a watch had
been put on him;
The official historian’s laconic but undeveloped comment about
Jack Hooper’s having worked for MI5, SIS, the Abwehr and the NKVD;
The enigma of Pieck’s exact relationship with Sir Robert Vansittart;
The failure to follow up on the clue of the stepson, Colville
The dogged efforts to try to put together a case that Pieck
controlled the Imperial Council spy as well; and, overall,
The remarkably unenergetic efforts, over a period of twelve years,
of MI5, SIS and the Foreign Office to try to unveil an important spy in the
corridors of power;
one does not have to be a rabid conspiracy theorist to conclude that there was another narrative being stifled that would tell a completely different story. If I were forced, before this programme of research were over, to identify one theory that might explain the anomalies in the story of Sonia, the Undetected Radios, and the Imperial Council spy, I would doubtless point to the delusional belief of Claude Dansey that his wiles, accompanied by the fearsome reputation of British Intelligence, could somehow control all the agents of hostile espionage organisations on this planet, and probably some on galaxies as yet undiscovered.
Thus we have a double Dutch Connection to be pursued: Jack Hooper, the half-Dutch disgraced SIS officer, who apparently worked for both the Abwehr and the NKVD, and is a pivotal figure in the Krivitsky-King-Maclean case; and Willem ter Braak, who has been claimed to be both a Nazi fanatic in the Abwehr, and a well-disguised NKVD spy. Could Claude Dansey possibly have been behind all this, pulling the strings? I shall have to put my best men and women on the job.
This month’s new Commonplace entire can be seen here.
For those of you who were intrigued by the career of Lt.-Col. Adrian Simpson a few months back, a research colleague, Dr. Giselle Jakobs, has performed some spectacular sleuthing, and uncovered a host of new facts about his life. Please see http://www.josefjakobs.info/ for her blog of December 3.
It may interest others that the yearly rainfall for the area where I live (near Wilmington, North Carolina) reached almost 102 inches on December 30. The previous record was 83.65 inches, in 1877. Our average annual rainfall is 57.61 inches. (Final year’s total came out at 102.40 inches.)
I was intending to pick up the
story of ‘The Mystery of the Undetected Radios’ this month, and had written
much of the piece by the end of November, when a startling discovery made me
decide to change my plans. An overseas contact casually referred me to a
document in the CIA archives that turned out to be the first of two articles
from the British Sunday newspaper, the Observer,
from early 1980. One sentence in this piece made me gasp with amazement, and I
immediately convinced myself that I should investigate the story, and report on
it as soon as possible. (My contact has since provided me with one or two
important documents, including a copy of the New Statesman from February 1980 that he tracked down in his local
library, and he has also offered me many encouraging words. Yet he prefers to
The sentence ran simply, as
follows: “Krivitsky, the first major Soviet defector, saw specimens of
Maclean’s handiwork in Moscow”, and it was reported by Andrew Boyle that
Goronwy Rees had said it. That was it.
Now, a casual reaction today might run as follows: “Goronwy Rees? Wasn’t he
mixed up with Guy Burgess somehow? Well, of course Rees would have been aware
that Maclean had spied for Russia. And it is common knowledge that Maclean
absconded to Moscow with Burgess, but that was all a long time ago, in 1951.
Was Maclean still alive in 1980? Oh, yes, so he was. Died in 1983. And Boyle?
Didn’t he write the book that led to the outing of Blunt? Yes, The Climate of Treason. So Boyle must
have known what was going on. As for Krivitsky, what were his dates? Okay, he
died in suspicious circumstances in 1941. But you can’t always trust what these
defectors say. So Krivitsky knew about the spies. What’s the big deal?”
Yet the potential dynamite
behind this statement could have been enough to destroy the good name of a
senior retired intelligence officer, and to drag the reputation of MI5 into the
mire. The constant challenge over Maclean (and Philby) issued to the British
intelligence services by historians has been: “Did you not receive enough hints
from Krivitsky in 1940 to identify them and haul them in?”. These two articles
offered some enticing suggestions that some information was still being withheld.
The first article appeared on
January 13, 1980, exactly forty years on from the time when Walter Krivitsky
was on his way across the Atlantic to be interrogated by officers from MI5 and
SIS. But Goronwy Rees was dead: he had died from cancer at Charing Cross
Hospital in London on December 12, 1979. Andrew Boyle had published his exposé The Climate of Treason in November 1979,
making a veiled reference, after the flight of Burgess and Maclean in 1951, and
then Philby in 1963, to the Fourth and Fifth Men in the scandal as ‘Maurice’
and ‘Basil’ respectively. Shortly after his book was published, the periodical Private Eye had revealed that Maurice
was in fact Anthony Blunt, and Margaret Thatcher had, in two separate sessions
in the House of Commons, on November 15 and 21, admitted that Blunt had been
granted a pardon sixteen years earlier in exchange for giving his interrogators
a full confession. (The authorities had no way of gauging how comprehensive the
information was that Blunt gave them: not surprisingly, he held back.) The
responses to the outing of Blunt, both from those who hounded him and those who
defended him, are not the concern of this report. Nor is the overall
embarrassment of the Security Service at the fact that the closely-guarded
secret of Blunt’s confession and pardon had been revealed. The focus is on the
secret source that Boyle dared not describe openly.
Goronwy Rees’s Quandary
Why did Rees grant Boyle such an extensive interview at this particular time – on his deathbed, when the revelations had already been published? Rees had had a chequered career, and a very troubling relationship with Guy Burgess. Burgess had recruited him as an informer in late 1937 or early 1938, when Rees was a Fellow of All Souls’ College at Oxford University, and had passed on to Burgess high-table titbits in which Burgess’s masters in Moscow were interested. Burgess had told Rees that he was working for the Comintern: we know this as Rees shared that fact with his lover, Rosamond Lehmann, and Lehmann later confirmed the story. (In an interview with John Costello, Lehmann provocatively dated the disclosure to ‘late 1936’, and declared that Rees threatened to strangle her if she mentioned it to anybody.) Burgess also confided to him at that time the name of Anthony Blunt as a fellow-conspirator: Rees described the incident in his 1972 memoir A Chapter of Accidents, but did not name the individual. (“I don’t suppose he could have named a person who could have carried more weight with me.”) When Burgess and Rees both learned, in late August 1939, of the Nazi-Soviet pact (which dashed any pretensions Communism had for being an antifascist force), however, Burgess had to claim that he had given up work for the Communists, since Rees defiantly declared he wanted nothing more to do with them. A few years later, in July 1943, Burgess was so afraid that Rees might betray him (and also Blunt, now with a critical post within MI5) that he even told his controllers he was willing to murder Rees, a suggestion that Moscow rejected as too melodramatic and dangerous.
I stay here with Rees’s
account of the saga in his memoir. Some time after the war, in July 1950, when
Burgess had been sent to Washington, Rees encountered Donald Maclean, whom he
had not seen for fifteen years. Maclean got drunk at the Gargoyle Club, and
made the famous observation to Rees: “I know all about you. You used to be one
of us, but you ratted”. Rees immediately realised that a) Maclean was surely
another spy in the Foreign Office, and b) Burgess had at some stage told
Maclean of Rees’s pivotal ‘betrayal’ of the movement in 1939. Several months
later, in May 1951, when Burgess had returned from Washington, Rees, now
Estates Bursar of All Souls, met him for a drink. He decided, however, not to mention
to Burgess the challenge he had received from Maclean. A few days later, on
Friday May 25, not many hours before the defectors took flight, Burgess called
Rees’s wife, Margie, on the telephone, and carried on a long incomprehensible
monologue with her. When Rees returned home on Sunday evening, he interpreted what
Burgess had said as some kind of warning and farewell message.
Rees’s first reaction was
dramatic. He claimed he told his wife: “He’s gone to Moscow” – perhaps not a
surprising conclusion. But he then took it upon himself to sound the alarm. He called
an unnamed ‘friend’ in SIS (MI6), saying that he thought MI5 should be told
that he had a hunch that Burgess had defected to Moscow. Was such an action
really justified? The only cause for concern was that ‘Jimmy’, Guy’s live-in
boyfriend (actually Jackie Hewitt), had also called Rees’s wife in a great
state of agitation, since Guy had not returned home on the Friday night,
something that, according to ‘Jimmy’, he had never done before. Margie Rees,
however, remarked to her husband that staying overnight with them without
telling anyone was something that Burgess had done ‘often enough’. Another
twist to the story, as told later by Miranda Carter in Anthony Blunt: His Lives (2001), is that Hewitt called Blunt first
to report Burgess’s disappearance, and then – against Blunt’s advice – called
For Rees to insert himself so
speedily in the hunt for a missing person – if indeed Guy would truly have been
considered ‘missing’ so soon – seems on reflection to have been either reckless
or the work of a busybody. Whatever Rees’s precise intentions, his contact in
SIS arranged for a meeting to be set up between Rees and MI5. That same evening,
however, according to A Chapter of
Accidents, Rees called another unnamed friend of Burgess’s, ‘who had served
in MI5 during the war’ to tell him of what he had done. This ex-officer was apparently
so troubled that he visited Rees on the Monday, trying to convince Rees that it
would be rash to disclose what he knew about Burgess, as it might all rebound
unpleasantly on him. Rees rejected his friend’s advice, and went ahead with his
meeting, convinced that now was the time to open up. He writes in his book that
appointment with MI5 occurred the next day. He then told his contact in MI5 that
he thought Burgess had gone to Moscow, and was then informed by the officer
(whom he also knew from his wartime days: one might ask why he did not contact
this officer directly in that case, rather than going through an intermediary)
that Burgess and Maclean, about to be dubbed ‘the missing diplomats’, had
absconded together. In his memoir, he claims he then experienced ‘a terrible
sinking of the heart’, and that ‘matters were even worse than I thought’.
That was in fact not how
matters evolved. What Rees did not say in his memoir was that when he had his
first meeting with the (unnamed) Guy Liddell, which was set up after a
provocative delay (i.e. not the very
next day), the latter was improbably accompanied by Anthony Blunt – the
‘ex-officer’ from the preceding paragraph. (I shall examine the whole timetable
in more detail later.) This was a somewhat inhibiting experience, since, in
Blunt’s presence, Liddell tried to ward Rees off making extravagant claims
about Guy Burgess. When this casual meeting was followed by a more formal
appointment with Liddell, Liddell was accompanied by Dick White, who was
heading the investigation into the disappearance of the Cambridge duo. Upset at
the way he was being treated by the two counter-intelligence officers, Rees
identified Blunt as a further conspirator, but Liddell and White responded
stonily, making Rees feel that he was the transgressor. They gave signs of knowing
then of Blunt’s past treachery (the evidence for which I have shown in Misdefending the Realm, but which is not
a fact that has been recognised in print elsewhere, I believe: see below). At
this stage Blunt showed all the calmness of one who knew that the authorities
were on his side.
It was not the way for Rees to
win friends and influence people. After an embarrassing flurry of media
attention in the following months of summer 1951, when he even chose to deny,
in the Daily Mail, Burgess’s possible
malfeasance, or even that his friend had been a Communist, Rees bit his tongue
for a few years. He was appointed Principal of the University College of Wales
in Aberystwyth, and then ruined his career in March 1956 by some ill-conceived
articles, published anonymously, but soon undeniably attributable to him, in The People. Spurred, and annoyed, by a
press conference given by Burgess and Maclean in Moscow, Rees had described the
treacherous behaviour of the pair, and warned of other traitors who needed to
be rooted out. The reaction was almost uniform: Rees was accused of being
disloyal to his friends, and was largely ostracised by former acquaintances. (I
have written about the bizarre exchange between him and Isaiah Berlin over the
incident in Misdefending the Realm.)
He was fired from the Principality, and surely did not lunch in Aberystwyth
again. At his death the University even refused to lower the flag to half-mast.
He struggled out of the limelight, issuing his rather sad but not completely
honest apologia in 1972, until Andrew
Boyle sought him out (according to Jenny Rees) in October 1978.
What emerges from all this is
that Rees was a psychological wreck. Having refrained from informing MI5 about
the treachery of Burgess (and Blunt) back in the thirties, partly because he
was to some extent guilty himself, but also because he did not want to snitch
on friends, it became more and more stressful to bottle things up. If he did
finally break his silence, he also feared that his interviewers might ask him:
‘Why did you not do this before?’ And if he said nothing, and the authorities
discovered from another source of his complicity in the subversion, it would be
too late to declare his knowledge of what was happening, and he would be as
guilty as his friends. This crisis contributed to his telling some untruths,
and making some rash statements that found favour with nobody. But how did he
know of Krivitsky in Moscow, and why would he make extravagant claims about
Andrew Boyle’s Quest
Andrew Boyle was best-known as
the editor of the BBC Radio 4 programme The
World at One, and had written some well-received biographies. Having
witnessed the fugitive Kim Philby follow his conspirators to Moscow in 1963, Boyle
set about discovering who the ‘Fourth and Fifth Men’ in the group were. He
stated in his Prologue to The Climate of
Treason (published in the USA as The
Fourth Man) that he had gained much of his information from CIA and FBI files
in Washington. That may have been partly
true, but it was also a feint to protect a number of retired and serving intelligence
officers in Britain who knew they were breaking the Official Secrets Act when
they divulged inside information to him. One major figure who spoke to him was
Dick White who, having headed both MI5 and SIS, and served as an intelligence
advisor to the Cabinet, had by then retired to Sussex. While Boyle minimised
the importance of the direct conversations he had had with White, he was
fascinated enough by them, after the publication of his book on the Cambridge
Five, to start to gather research for a biography of White. The project was eventually
abandoned, ostensibly because of Boyle’s illness and untimely death. Instead, the
journalist Tom Bower was given access to Boyle’s files, which resulted in his
profile of White, The Perfect English Spy,
which was published in 1995.
Boyle also understated the
contributions to his research provided by Goronwy Rees. In The Perfect English Spy, a rather undisciplined, and certainly
mistitled, compilation, Bower states that Boyle met Rees as early as May 1977,
where the academic, now a journalist, soon disclosed to him that Blunt was the
Fourth Man, a fact that Boyle managed to have confirmed by speaking to other
intelligence officers. He thus arranged a series of interviews with White, who
was writing a history of MI5 that was planned to be part of the series of
British Intelligence under the overall editorship of Professor Harry Hinsley.
In the wake of the attempts to identify Communist moles within the intelligence
services, White was trying to rebuild the reputation of MI5 and SIS by
describing its successes, primarily the wartime Double Cross Operation. After
long discussions, Boyle let drop his suspicions about Blunt, and was testily
warned by White to stay off ‘that difficult and embarrassing ground’. White
added, rather paradoxically, that he ‘knew nothing about that subject,
whatsoever’. After a few months, however, White had to change his tune, as
general media coverage, and what Boyle had uncovered, suggested to him that
journalists were better at uncovering skulduggery than were his own officers.
He decided to face the inevitable while trying to protect MI5’s reputation in
the whole sordid affair. He effectively confirmed Blunt’s treachery, and made
only trivial comments when he reviewed Boyle’s manuscript in April 1979. (For
libel reasons, the text concealed the names of Blunt and the gentleman
considered at that time to be the Fifth Man, Wilfrid Mann.)
The account by Jenny Rees,
Goronwy’s daughter, in Looking for Mr.
Nobody (1994) differs, not only chronologically. She complemented the
evidence derived from her father, not always the most reliable of witnesses,
with information gained from later publications, but still stressed her
father’s role as a collaborator with Boyle, as ‘together, they were putting
together the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle’. But Boyle may not have told Rees immediately
about everything he had gathered, as Goronwy wrote a letter, a few months
before the book was published, to his friend Micky Burn (who had been a friend
of Burgess’s), saying: “He told me, among other things, that our friend AB [Blunt]
had actually confessed, but it would have caused too much of a scandal to do
anything about it. This was on the personal authority of Dick White, but please
don’t mention it . . .” Boyle may have kept that observation out of
the notes that eventually fell to Bower: it might also explain his reluctance
to conclude the biographical project, as it might have turned out to be
unfavourable. Rees was by then, however, a very sick man. He was admitted to
Charing Cross Hospital because of cancer at the beginning of November 1979, and
soon experienced an unpleasant jolt when, because of a missing line in a Daily Mail review of The Climate of Treason, the article
suggested that Rees himself had recruited Kim Philby.
After Private Eye made the identification clear, Blunt made a statement
blaming Rees for his unmasking, and then went into hiding. This is an important
fact, as the fatally ill Rees was to become a convenient dumping-ground for all
manner of accusations that must have been preying on Boyle’s mind. Prime
Minister Thatcher’s admission of Blunt’s guilt, and of his confession to the
authorities in 1964 (after a broad pointer from Michael Straight in the USA)
referred to Rees’s act of informing MI5 of Blunt’s treachery (without
identifying Rees by name), claiming that the accusation had been dismissed
because of lack of evidence. That was another lie prepared for the PM. I have
shown, in Misdefending the Realm, how
White and Liddell had assuredly had to face the truth of Blunt’s espionage when
they caught his accomplice Leo Long (arguably the Sixth Man) in the act of
purloining secrets from MI14 during the war. Moreover, Blunt’s communism had
already come under the very opaque MI5 microscope when he was recruited by
Military Intelligence in 1939, and then by MI5 in July 1940. Rees watched Mrs.
Thatcher’s announcement from his hospital bed, and derived much satisfaction from
the knowledge that the villain had been brought out into the open at last. In
the Observer the following Sunday,
Boyle acknowledged Rees’s contribution in nailing the art historian. That same
day, Rees went into a coma.
With the consideration that
the exact timing – or even genuineness – of all these events may be open to
some debate, the documentary evidence of what Boyle engineered in the winter of
1979-80 is incontrovertible. Rees came out of his coma after a week, but his
health steadily declined. Nevertheless, Boyle arranged to speak to him, and
encouraged him to contribute to a testimony that appeared as the two Observer articles. On the day he died,
December 12, Rees wrote to Jenny of the long pieces that Boyle had written
based on their recent conversations: “They will appear after Christmas, and
are, I think, very good.” It is clear that he approved of the texts, and
supported Boyle’s aims. Jenny Rees informs us, according to what her sister
Lucy told her (Jenny lived in Brittany at the time), that her father resisted
seeing Boyle at first, but Boyle was then a man on a mission, and must have
persuaded Rees to participate in creating the bizarre testimony that ended up
in the Observer.
The first of the articles,
published on January 13, can be seen at https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP90-00552R000100600022-2.pdf . Immediately, we can note a
discrepancy in the accounts: Boyle claims that, when he regained consciousness after
his coma, ‘the only visitor he asked to see was Andrew Boyle’. If Rees had
indeed had a preview of the articles, that would appear to contradict what his
daughters passed on to us. Perhaps Rees did not think that his coma was
‘consistent with his malignant condition’ (as one doctor had advised his
family) and may have been induced by a malevolent outside agent, and thus
wanted to impart extra information to Boyle in a hurry. As Boyle tells the
story, Rees was roused to anger by Blunt’s ‘disingenuous replies’ in an interview
broadcast on November 22. Yet, as Jenny rightly points out, the text that
follows does not sound like a natural conversation, especially from a dying
man. It is scripted, unnatural, with Rees melodramatically appealing to Boyle
as if in a poorly constructed novel: “You, Andrew, [who else, in a duologue?] were largely instrumental in exposing him
publicly as a Soviet spy.” What follows is a narrative about Rees’s life that
must have also been very familiar to Boyle, not meriting the dying man’s wasted
breaths. It was a show designed for the chattering classes.
And then we come to the critical
leading questions on Maclean: “Was that the only occasion on which Maclean came
into your life? Did anything occur at that time which might have alerted you to
the double life he was already leading as a Soviet agent?”, asks Boyle. Rees
has to think about this, as if it were all impromptu. He then comes up with new
details about ‘Barbara’, a mutual friend, a photographer with a studio in
Mayfair, who one day told Rees about Maclean’s skill with a camera. And
suddenly, after all those years when, in decent health, he might have
considered such details more constructively, he comes up with the linkage to
Krivitsky, and how the defector had seen, in Moscow, specimens of Maclean’s
handiwork (presumably photographs he took rather than documents with Maclean’s
signature on them, although how Krivitsky knew that Maclean had photocopied
them himself is not explained). Yet the
vital salient fact is that, according to the report on Krivitsky compiled by
Jane Archer in the spring of 1940, Krivitsky had never identified Maclean by
name, and thus had been unable to ascribe documents he had seen in Moscow to Maclean’s
doing. It was that failure by MI5 to follow up on clear hints to Maclean’s
identity that had brought a heap of justifiable criticism to the Security
Service, and especially to Guy Liddell and Dick White. To what source could
Rees (and Boyle, his stooge in this conversation) possibly have been referring?
Before I switch to exploring
Krivitsky’s role in this adventure, however, I must inspect two clearly stated
hints that appear in The Climate of
Treason, but seem to have been overlooked by everyone, including Dick White,
presumably, when he had a chance to vet the proofs. While the Archer report
(which was eventually released to the National Archives in KV2-805, and can be
read in Gary Kern’s 2004 package of documents on Soviet intelligence, Walter G. Krivitsky: MI5 Debriefing)
gives vague background hints to Maclean’s identity, Boyle went to two outside
sources for some of his information. In chapter 6 of his book, he records the verifiable
evidence that Krivitsky asserted that the second spy in the Foreign Office ‘was
a Scotsman of good family, educated at Eton and at Oxford, and an idealist who
worked for the Russians without payment’. Krivitsky was wrong about the
candidate’s precise educational background, but was giving reasonably warm
tips. Then without defining the exact source, Boyle goes on to say that the spy
‘occasionally wore a cape and dabbled in artistic circles’, as if Krivitsky had
also provided this information.
This line has been quoted also
by Robert Cecil (in his 1988 biography of Maclean, A Divided Life), merely giving a reference for it of ‘FBI’, and by Roland
Philipps (in his 2018 A Spy Named Orphan),
with Phillips giving a precise reference (WFO 65-5648 from the ‘FBI Vaults
online’), while suggesting also that Victor Mallet, the chargé d’affaires in Washington, heard of the statement. The phrase
was reputedly included in the report that Mallet, on behalf of Lord Lothian,
sent to MI5, and which prompted London to invite Krivitsky there for
discussions. The archives at Kew inform us that, after Levine’s visit on
September 3, Mallet immediately communicated with Alexander Cadogan, the
Permanent Under-Secretary in the Foreign Office, who then delegated action to
Gladwyn Jebb, the Foreign Office liaison to the intelligence services. Levine,
on the other hand, in his Plain Talk
article written in 1948, asserted that he dealt solely with Lothian until the
latter received confirmation from London a couple of weeks later that King had
been identified as a spy, and that it was only then that Lothian introduced
Mallet to him. The cables indicate otherwise. We must therefore bear in mind
that Levine’s accounts may not be completely reliable, and that he could have
been trying to elevate the role he played.
What Mallet wrote, thereafter,
in the only extant memorandum to Jebb, was a profile that indicates that lines had
been crossed somewhere: ‘a Scotsman of very good family, a well-known
painter, and perhaps also a sculptor’, in connection with someone who had
abetted in providing arms to Spain. (Despite Mallet’s belief to the contrary,
Krivitsky did know the name of his
agent who bought ‘arms for Spain’: it was Henri Pieck. And Pieck was, indeed, a painter and graphic
artist. Typical of the confusion sown was a message from Washington where a
character named ‘K’ was being interpreted as meaning ‘King’, when it in fact
meant ‘Krivitsky’.) Yet, even
though the ‘cape’ delineation is the closest indication we have of a
description from someone who actually met Maclean, it never appears in the
Archer report. There is, furthermore, no record of it in the Krivitsky files at
Kew, where the single confidential memorandum above is presented, but not the
full correspondence between Mallet and Jebb. Krivitsky presumably did not
repeat the phrase in London, or, if he did, for some reason the team overlooked
The intricacies of the
supposed statements by Krivitsky – or, more accurately, by his guide,
ghost-writer and translator Isaac Don Levine, who told officials of the British
Embassy in Washington facts without letting Krivitsky know what he was doing – and
where they were recorded, and how they have been distorted, are such that they
merit a complete blog to themselves, and I shall thus defer a full analysis for
another time. Suffice it now to clarify
five important points:
The extended communication chain of Krivitsky-Levine-Lothian-Mallet-Cadogan-Jebb-Liddell was bound to introduce some misunderstandings at some stage.
It is probable that Mallet and Jebb concealed from MI5 and SIS exactly what Mallet exchanged with Jebb in their ‘most secret’ communications;
We must remember that, when Krivitsky faced his interrogators in London, he did not know that Levine had told them anything about Soviet spies in the UK government (or, at least, that is what we have been led to believe);
Krivitsky himself behaved very deviously with his interrogators: if he had really wanted to help identify the anonymous spy in the Foreign Office, he would have provided them with clearer clues rather than the deliberately vague and misleading hints that Jane Archer extracted from him.
If Archer and her colleagues had really studied all Krivitsky’s pronouncements from articles published in the USA more thoroughly, they would have been able to apply far more pressure on him.
I thus return to the statement about the cape – the visual clue which is the closest we get to a suggestion that one of Krivitsky’s informers had actually encountered Maclean. Where did it originate? A startling item of data appears on page 460, as Note 24 to the ‘cape’ sentence (only) in Chapter 6 of A Climate of Treason. Boyle writes of the source: “FBI/CIA files, incorporating testimony of Isaac Don Levine and Walter Krivitsky. Apart from the Lothian report to the Foreign Office [sic, not to MI5], earlier evidence had been submitted on Krivitsky’s behalf by Wilfrid le Gallienne, a British diplomat *. In this evidence the unnamed ‘idealist of a good family’ had already proved his value by providing photocopies of proceedings of the Committee of Imperial Defence, seen by Krivitsky on his final visit to Moscow before defecting to the West. The photocopying was done in a Pimlico flat ” (my italics). Yet no explanatory information for this cryptic reference is provided. The apparently French connection is intriguing, since Krivitsky had, according to Kern and others, left massive amounts of testimony about his European spy network with the Sûreté in Paris before he left for the Americas in 1938. These volumes mysteriously disappeared at some stage, but is it possible that a British diplomat in the French capital had glimpsed what Krivitsky revealed of the UK group? Lastly, I remind readers that Krivitsky’s ‘final visit to Moscow’ concluded on May 22, 1937.
[* Probably Wilfred Gallienne,
1897-1956. Gallienne was born in Guernsey. Having been chargé d’affaires and consul for four years in Tallinn, Estonia, he
was appointed Ambassador on April 26, 1940. How Gallienne might have been
encountered Krivitsky is not easily explained: Kern does not mention him. After
the Soviet invasion of Estonia, Gallienne undertook a train journey from Moscow
to Tokyo in August 1940: the timing is inappropriate, the connection to
Krivitsky obscure. Gallienne was intriguingly appointed British consul in New
York in January 1941, a couple of weeks before Krivitsky’s death, but Boyle
writes of ‘earlier evidence’ suggesting, at the latest, summer 1939. Alternatively,
but less probably, Boyle could have meant Richard de Gallienne, 1866-1947,
poet, essayist and critic, who wrote from Paris to H. Montgomery Hyde in 1938,
and could have thus run across Krivitsky there. The Hyde lead is intriguing,
since he joined SIS in 1940, and then worked for British Security Coordination
in New York. He later wrote several books on intelligence. A promising letter
from Gallienne’s step-daughter, Gwen, to Montgomery Hyde, however, turns out to
be concerned with Hyde’s enthusiasm for homosexual law reform, not espionage.
(My thanks to the Record Office at Liverpool Libraries for providing a
photocopy of the letter.) A longshot could be that Boyle misinterpreted his
source, and was referring to GALLENI, the alias of the illegal Dmitri
Bystrolyotov, who almost became Maclean’s (or King’s) handler in 1936, and also
managed Henri Pieck for a while. Yet supplying motivation and opportunity for
Bystrolyotov to speak up for Krivitsky is a struggle. Whichever source is correct,
it is astonishing to me that the ‘de Gallienne’ lead was not substantiated,
verified, or followed up by anyone. A research task for another day. Lastly, I should declare an interest: I am a
descendant of the Galliennes of the Channel Islands through my maternal grandmother.
The first part of Boyle’s
explanation does not make sense. To begin with, the CIA was not created until
after the war, and it is highly unlikely that original statements made by
Krivitsky about a spy in the British Foreign Office would appear only in an FBI
file. Philipps’ citation of a detailed reference appears to be false: I have
asked the author about it, and he states that he was relying on Cecil, and
inserted it as a kind of guess by default. (Research at the National Archives
and Records Administration indicates that the record cited concerns a possible
Soviet double-agent, Nosenko.) One can find another statement about the hints
to Maclean in an article, Who Killed
Krivitsky?, by the American journalist Flora Lewis published in the Washington Post of February 13, 1966, to
commemorate the twenty-fifth anniversary of Krivitsky’s death. (It appears as
an Appendix to Krivitsky’s In Stalin’s
Secret Service). A clipping of the article appears in the Krivitsky file at
the FBI Vault, which might explain later references. This text reads as follows:
“Krivitsky described another agent in the British Foreign Office, a dashing
Scotsman given to smoking a pipe and sometimes wearing a cape.” But no mention
of ‘dabbling in artistic circles’. (And smoking a pipe was hardly a
characteristic likely to distinguish a British civil servant from the herd in
the 1930s.) Astonishingly, Lewis provides no source for her citation, and she
includes multiple egregious errors in her account of the Krivitsky/Levine
approach to the British. (One of the few weaknesses of Kern’s book is that he
pays close attention to what she writes about Krivitsky’s death while ignoring
her very palpable errors concerning transatlantic matters.) But was there a
missing Krivitsky document to which she referred, perhaps?
This whole farrago is muddied even further by John Costello, who wrote his in-depth analysis of the whole business, The Mask of Treachery, in 1988. Costello did not help his cause by writing imprecisely about who was saying what. “He also referred to another traitor in the Foreign Office ‘whose name was Scottish and whose habits were Bohemian’”, he wrote, on page 345, as if Krivitsky had said this before the initial message arrived on Alexander Cadogan’s desk, when we know that it was Levine who provided the information. Furthermore, Costello attributed this statement in his Notes to one of the Saturday Evening Post articles from April 1939, as well as to Levine’s Stalin’s Great Secret (p 140). Yet neither source shows evidence of any such description: Jane Archer of MI5 had read the Saturday Evening Post articles that summer, and would surely have noticed such a statement, anyway. Levine’s book did not come out until 1956: it contains only 126 pages, with no mention of Krivitsky. (In Plain Talk, in November 1948, Levine did write, however, that he “learned that the second agent was of Scottish origin, with an artistic background”.) Costello then shed doubt on the case for Maclean, agreeing with the author Richard Deacon, and pointed his suspicion towards Lord Inverchapel (then Archibald Clark Kerr), who would in 1942 replace Stafford Cripps as His Majesty’s Ambassador in Moscow. Yet Kerr was posted to Iraq between 1935 and 1938.
Even if Krivitsky did not know
the name of his agent, Lewis’s phrase would suggest that he knew what the spy
looked like. And in his 1973 memoir, Eyewitness
to History, Isaac Don Levine reinforced that notion, on p 191, with the
following startling revelation: “Krivitsky could describe his appearance, he
knew something of his background, he did not know his name.” (In his 1956
evidence to Congress, Levine merely paraphrased what Krivitsky told him as
member of a Scottish family and a young intellectual communist with artistic
interests’, echoing his Plain Talk
be able to describe someone’s appearance strongly suggests that one is not
relying on second-hand impressions. Unfortunately, Levine shed no new light on
capes, pipes, artistic circles, bohemian habits, or even hints of Caledonian élan, but it is worth mentioning that,
in making the arrangements for Krivitsky’s passage to England at the end of
1939, Levine said that Krivitsky was nervous because he had travelled to the UK
once before, probably undetected, but no doubt on a false passport, and thus
might have feared being arrested. And, as I indicated above, Krivitsky told
Levine his knowledge about the spies in the Foreign Office in confidence, and
did not know that Levine had passed on the hints to the British Embassy in
Washington. One of the benefits to the British was that they were able to
impress Krivitsky with the fact that King was already behind bars when he
arrived in January 1940, and thus give the defector the impression that British
Intelligence was much smarter than he thought it was. Yet Krivitsky never told
his interrogators that he could ‘describe the spy’s appearance.’
Given this muddle, and the
absence of evidence elsewhere, the second part of Boyle’s Note has therefore to
be taken more seriously. But what was the purpose of presenting, in 1979, this
gratuitous factoid, and why could Boyle not be more explicit about the ‘de Gallienne’
informant? If the source of the original documents was not identifiable, why
was the location of their copying, but not the camera-operator, worth
mentioning? Why would Boyle refer to Pimlico as the location, but encourage
Rees to cite a studio in Mayfair? Yet the Note does suggest that someone not
only knew that Maclean had provided photocopies, but could also locate the studio
where he had performed the job. Was that a hint that the purloiner had been the
copier? If that was known, why could it not be declared openly? I shall return
to this point later.
An accurate recording of Krivitsky’s
chronology is essential for setting Boyle’s claims in a proper context. (I
shall not provide here a full summary of his life: readers can go for that to Misdefending the Realm, or, better
still, to Gary Kern’s superlative biography, A Death in Washington.) All that is necessary to know here is that
Walter Krivitsky had been head of Soviet Military Intelligence (the GRU) in
western Europe, had defected in 1937 after seeing his colleague Ignace Reiss
killed by Stalin’s assassins, survived two assassination attempts in France, and
had made his way to the USA. There he struggled with residency permits,
suspiciousness on the part of the FBI because he was defector, attacks from the
right because he was a communist, and from the left because he was anti-Stalin,
and disdain from the White House because he was rocking the boat against the
USA’s future ally, for whom Roosevelt harboured some ideological sympathy. After
his intermediary Isaac Don Levine revealed to Lord Lothian, the British
ambassador in Washington, the existence of a Soviet spy named King in the
Foreign Office, and hints of a second agent there, Krivitsky was brought over
in January 1940 to London, under conditions of extreme secrecy, to be
interrogated by officers of MI5 and SIS about possible other infiltrators in
Britain’s political hallways. It was then that he gave broad tips to the
identities of Kim Philby and Donald Maclean that were not followed up.
Krivitsky died in a Washington hotel, in January 1941, almost certainly shot by
Stalin’s hitmen, in circumstances that were made to look like a suicide.
What is critical to this story is the fact that Krivitsky’s last visit to Moscow took place in May 1937: he left there for the Hague on May 22. Thus any evidence of espionage records that he described to his British interrogators must refer to a period before then. This fact is important, as Maclean’s chief courier (and soon lover) was one Kitty Harris, a Moscow agent who had travelled widely, and had even engaged in a probably bigamous marriage with the founder of the Communist Party of the USA, Earl Browder. The leading biographers of Maclean, Roland Philipps (A Spy Named Orphan, 2018) and Michael Holzman (Idealism and Espionage, 2014) both suggest that Harris and Maclean met for the first time some months after Kitty returned from Moscow after intensive training (in wireless and photography) in May 1937. Philipps sets the date as late as April 1938, indicating that Harris had spent some time in the USA: Holzman merely states ‘early 1938’. Both appear to derive their information from Igor Damaskin’s The Spy With Seventeen Names (2000), a work that the author claimed was based on reliable Soviet archives, but which, he has since admitted, contains some romantic flourishes and innovations. What neither author points out, however, is that Damaskin relates how Harris was working as a courier between London and Paris as early as 1936, before being summoned to Moscow in January 1937 for training. Thus she might well have been used as an intermediary for Maclean in this period, and the dramatic first encounter (using coded phrases) that Damaskin describes could have been an invention. Overall, Kitty Harris’s movements in the late thirties are more easily verifiable than her exploits in China the previous decade.
What Damaskin does not report,
however, is that, while in Moscow, Harris, who was an NKVD operative *, had a
meeting with Krivitsky, as they were both staying at the Savoy Hotel. In his
memoir, In Stalin’s Secret Service,
based on his 1939 Saturday Evening Post
articles, Krivitsky explained that he was looking for a woman agent for
Switzerland, and Harris was sent to him to be interviewed, as if he did not
know who she was. (“She had been described to me as the former wife of Earl
Browder . . .”) It is a rather disingenuous statement by Krivitsky, as he later
admitted, to Ruth Shipley of the State Department, that Earl Browder’s sister,
Marguerite, going under the name of Jane Montgomery, had been an agent working
for him in Berlin, while in his book he declares only that Marguerite ‘was then
in our service in Central Europe’, and that Kitty ‘spoke well’ of her. It was
this encounter that enabled him later to recognise Kitty in a photograph, but
he seemed to want to distance himself from both agents in any written account.
[ * The state intelligence
service, the future KGB, previously the OGPU, was titled the NKVD between 1934
Nevertheless, Krivitsky claimed
that he approved Kitty’s assignment to a foreign post without resolving for us
the issues of how NKVD and GRU responsibilities and agents were shared or
allocated, or why she was not suitable for Switzerland, or how the coincidence
of her ending up as the handler for Maclean occurred. The details he provided,
however, constitute reasonably solid evidence that the encounter did in fact
happen. And one can understand, perhaps, why the Moscow organs did not want to
have Krivitsky’s name soiling the heroic biography that Damaskin was
concocting. It is another reason why Damaskin’s accounts have to be taken with
some scepticism, and his assertions verified from another source, if possible.
Yet we have to remind ourselves that Krivitsky was devious too, as the ‘kriv’
origin (= ‘crooked’) of his assumed name tells us.
When Kitty Harris landed in
London in April 1938, Maclean advised her to rent an apartment where she could
perform photography, and she took up a flat in Bayswater, where, so Maclean
said, he went from his own place in Oakley Street, in Chelsea, twice a week
with papers ‘borrowed’ from the Foreign Office, to have them photocopied. Other
accounts suggest that Kitty came to his flat, and copied them there: that is
unlikely. We must draw two conclusions from this timeline: even if the district
of Pimlico, indicated by Boyle, might have been a mistake, Kitty Harris was
certainly not the agent responsible for getting documents to Moscow that
Krivitsky would have been able to see, but it is quite possible that Kitty
could have been the source of Krivitsky’s impressions of the character and
employment of Maclean if she did indeed act solely as a courier in 1936.
Maclean Delivers the Goods
1936 was a very productive
year for Maclean, although the evidence is a little contradictory. John Costello
and Oleg Tsarev, in Deadly Illusions
(1993), claim that he was ordered by his ‘illegal’ * NKVD handler Alexander Orlov
not to supply any documents in the first few months of the year, but instead
focus on finding his way properly around the Foreign Office. Orlov, when he had
to make a speedy exit from London in October 1935, had taken with him a copy of
a letter from Lord Simon congratulating Maclean on his acceptance into the
Foreign Office, something that was ‘read with glee in the Lubyanka’, according
to Costello and Tsarev. Orlov thus had to leave another renowned illegal, Arnold
Deutsch, in charge. A few months later, Orlov wrote, in a memorandum to
Slutsky, the head of the Foreign Department of the NKVD, that Maclean was ready
for ‘full activation’ on March 26. Yet the same authors report that Maclean had
already provided Deutsch with his first batch of documents in January. Maclean and
Deutsch must have ignored Orlov’s instructions.
[* ‘illegal’: an agent operating without protection of Soviet diplomatic cover, probably in the country on a false passport]
In April 1936, the Politburo decided that Orlov should be sent to Spain, and Theodore Mally, another Great Illegal, who had originally been sent to the UK, in January 1936, to handle the other spy in the Foreign Office, was appointed the chief illegal rezident in England. Deutsch thus started working for Mally. This was also the time when Kitty Harris was assigned to Mally, and started acting as a courier. Moreover, Deutsch was to meet Krivitsky for the first time, in Paris, in June 1936, so that encounter could have provided another opportunity for the achievements of their young star to be communicated and lauded. Nigel West and Tsarev, in The Crown Jewels (1998), assert that Deutsch started working for himself again at the end of August, only to be re-assigned to Mally in January 1937. It might have all been rather confusing for Maclean, and the NKVD infrastructure was not very stable, but the documents got through.
Krivitsky referred to some
important documents that he had seen on three occasions, in 1936 and 1937, in
Moscow. On the last, he had called on Slutsky (see above), who was a friend.
Slutsky, clearly well-briefed by Orlov, handed him the latest book of extracts of
information from the ‘Imperial Council’ source, which were treated with special
respect, as they dealt with vital information concerning the political
situation in Berlin. They were in fact minutes of the Committee of Imperial
Defence, and we can rely on the inspection of the same by Tsarev to understand
that Maclean had been the source of the originals that had been photocopied in
London. Security in the western department, where Maclean worked, was
notoriously lax, and Maclean was able to help himself to any number of
telegrams, reports from SIS, and transcriptions from deciphered foreign reports,
as well as to re-assure his controllers that Britain was not making
breakthroughs in cryptology against Soviet ciphers. The trove from the latter
part of 1936 was especially valuable, culminating in the delivery of the
complete minutes of the meeting of the Imperial Defence Committee of December
20, at which Prime Minister Stanley Baldwin was not the only prominent
How were these documents photographed? Costello and Tsarev tell the story as follows: When Maclean handed over bundles of documents “ . . . they were then photographed in the apartment of HERTA, another codename used by the female courier PFEIL. They were returned to Maclean the next day, so he could take them back the following day. For the most secret ‘blue jackets’ containing signals intelligence which Maclean could only obtain access to during office hours, he had been given a roll-flex camera so that he could photograph them himself in situ.” Michael Holzman, using information from the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service in Moscow (‘Sketches of History’), says that the documents ‘were photographed on a “flat carrier” at the NKVD residency and given back to him so that the next day he could return them to their proper places in the Foreign Office files.’ Holzman echoes the claim that Mally gave Donald a miniature camera. Thus Maclean may have been an occasional photographer, but there was no indication that he maintained his own studio.
PFEIL (German) or STRELA (Russian), in English ARROW, was the cryptonym initially given jointly to Alexander Tudor-Hart and his wife, Edith (née Suschitsky). Edith had been born in Vienna, and was a close friend of Philby’s first wife, Litzi Friedmann. She was a renowned photographer, and, according to West and Tsarev, maintained a studio in Brixton, which was not really convenient for quick turn-rounds from Chelsea, but could have served as an overnight operation. Ironically, MI5 kept a constant watch on Tudor-Hart: she was implicated in the Percy Glading spy affair, since a Leica camera belonging to her had been found on Glading’s premises. MI5 interviewed her in March 1938, but again failed to join up the dots: Tudor-Hart simply denied knowing how Glading could have acquired the camera, and MI5 dropped the investigation. She was later divorced from her husband, in 1940: he had gone to Spain with the Republicans Medical Aid Committee. Tudor-Hart has obtained a somewhat mythic status among the friends of Stalin, a reputation that is probably overstated.
Philipps claims that Deutsch ‘would meet Maclean on his way home to Chelsea, take the files to his photographer and then meet Maclean again in Chelsea late in the evening so that he could give the documents back for their return to the office.’ That sounds like a dangerous routine that should have been avoided, as it was too predictable and regular, and presumably also made Maclean’s social life rather dreary. A visit to Brixton and back, including a session in the dark room, would have been well nigh impossible. The source, however, was Kim Philby in a STASI training-video, so we should not rely on that too heavily. Other accounts suggest that Maclean was encouraged to pass on documents on Fridays, so that the photographer would have more time to work on them before the next business day. Tudor-Hart was also reported to have acted as courier, taking photographs clandestinely to Copenhagen, which would indicate that dealing with the Soviet Embassy was considered too risky. Yet it would have taken Tudor-Hart out of action for long stretches, provoked suspicion as she returned through customs each time, and extended the delay after which Moscow could view the secrets. Deutsch wrote for her file that she was ‘modest, diligent, and brave’, but also rather careless, though he might have been covering up his own clumsiness in that memorandum. And, since Tudor-Hart was also a well-known photographer for children, she attracted more attention than was appropriate. (But not the scrupulous attention from MI5 that she merited.)
A study of Tudor-Hart’s files at the National Archives suggests a more complicated story, however. The address at Brixton was probably that of her husband, with whom she was not living permanently. Surveillance reports indicate that she was living alone at Haverstock Hill, in Belsize Park, NW3 (very close to the celebrated Lawn Road flats, where communists and illegals resided). There she maintained her studio, from April 1935 until at least February 1936, and probably until late 1937. For a while, in the summer of 1937, she was reported as staying with her husband in Acre Lane, Brixton – somewhat astonishingly in the company of Margaret Moxon, described as the wife of Arthur Wynn, who would later be unveiled as the leader of the ‘Oxford Ring’ of Soviet spies – and departed thence to collect her mother from Vienna. On August 27, 1937, landing from Ostend, she gave the authorities an address of 132C, Sutherland Avenue, Maida Vale, and by the following January, she was reported living at that address, with her studio moved to Duke Street, off Oxford Street. To muddy the waters even further, when a suspected communist Siegfried Baruch was interrogated on arrival in February 1938, he communicated with Tudor-Hart at an address in Halsey Street, Knightsbridge. The conclusion concerning Maclean would appear to be that the peripatetic Tudor-Hart, if she did carry out the photographing of documents during 1936, would have performed the procedure from her studio in Belsize Park, and it is highly unlikely that she moved her operation from one side of London to unfashionable Brixton. (By 1939, she had moved to 128 Alexander Road, Hampstead.)
There was, however, another
photographer working for Mally at that time, someone called Wolf Levit, and his
story really belongs to that of another spy.
The Demise of Captain King
Much has been made of the
rivalry between the Soviet GRU (Military Intelligence) and OGPU or NKVD (State
Intelligence), but Krivitsky’s close involvement in NKVD espionage operations
in Britain in the mid-1930s shows that a more cooperative atmosphere was evolving.
The frequent exchanges that he, as a GRU officer, had with NKVD agents and
illegals is explained by the MI5 report, which informs us that, under the
commission granted to him in 1935, Krivitsky was entitled to look into Mally’s
organisation. Krivitsky was based in the Hague in the Netherlands, and was also
allowed to use NKVD agents for his own operations if it was convenient. He
himself indicated that the NKVD had begun to take over the functions and
personnel of the GRU in 1935-36, and in May 1937 the Fourth Department of the
Red Army General Staff (which was the official name of the Foreign Branch of
military intelligence) was transferred to the Commissariat of Internal Affairs,
under Nikolai Yezhov. This background manoeuvring helps explain why Krivitsky
became so involved with the decisions concerning NKVD agents.
This was true in the case of John King, a clerk in the cipher department of the Foreign Office. King, who had money troubles, was recruited by the NKVD in March 1935, and quickly provided a steady stream of notes, and summaries of cables – but not yet photocopies. Moscow wanted originals, however. The NKVD infrastructure was stretched: King was handled by a Dutchman called Henri Pieck, but Pieck was under surveillance, and had to restrict his visits to the United Kingdom. In May 1935, Mally came back to London to review the situation, and recommended that King be handled by Orlov. This suggestion was rejected by Moscow Centre, as Orlov (and Deutsch) were too occupied with handling Percy Glading and the burgeoning Cambridge spies. In June, Moscow then made the superficially astonishing decision that Krivitsky should handle King, perhaps because Krivitsky actually controlled the NKVD agent Pieck, and was geographically close to him. While this was being considered, Mally returned to London to set up an apartment in Buckingham Gate, ostensibly for Pieck’s business, and rented by Pieck’s partner, Conrad Parlianti, which King then visited practically every day, taking documents for a quick turn-round of photocopying.
Mally was clearly concerned about King’s status. Because of morale problems, he could not be left unsupervised for long, and Mally doubted that Krivitsky (who at that time did not speak English, and would have had visa problems getting into the UK) would be able to take over such an important responsibility. Hence Mally went to the Hague to speak to Krivitsky in December 1935, and apparently convinced Krivitsky that he should abandon the idea of taking on the supervision of King: he, Pieck and Mally decided that this valuable spy needed to be controlled by Mally himself. Mally thus returned to London, and had his first meeting with King at the 34 Buckingham Gate apartment on January 6, 1936. What is truly significant about this episode is that Krivitsky was fully briefed on John King, his motivations, his employment, his access, and the existence of the convenient address at Buckingham Gate (which is actually in Westminster, close to the Foreign Office, on the border with Pimlico).
Yet complications ensued. MI5
learned that the Buckingham Gate address was registered in the name of Pieck’s
company. The British commercial attaché in the Hague, John Hooper, who might
have been trying to recruit Pieck to SIS, attended a house-warming party at Pieck’s
new apartment in the Hague, and revealed to Pieck that British intelligence
knew about his past. Pieck immediately let Krivitsky know of the peril they
were now in, and informed Mally that no more rendezvous could be held there. The
fact was that Pieck’s business partner Parlianti, with whom Pieck’s wife was in
love, was an informer for MI5, and Parlianti discovered the camera studio at
Buckingham Gate. As West and Tsarev relate it: “A replacement was rented and
the meetings were resumed with the previous frequency.” They do not tell us where the replacement
address was located.
Buckingham Gate may have been used as a drop-off point for some while after that, as Krivitsky told his MI5 interrogators that a young Englishman, Brian Goold-Verschoyle (who met a grisly end in the Soviet Union in 1942, murdered by the NKVD as a ‘Trotskyist’) was used to fetch packages from that location and deliver them to Mally. “If the material contained matter of urgent importance HARDT [Mally] telegraphed its contents to Moscow through the Soviet Embassy. If not, he sent it by Brian Goold-Verschoyle, or by another courier to Wolf Levit to be photographed”, ran Jane Archer’s account. Levit was apparently a GRU man, and Krivitsky had the authority to move him from Paris to London specifically to address the need for photographing King’s documents. William E. Duff, in his account of the Great Illegals, A Time For Spies (1999), locates Levit’s studio off Belsize Park in London NW3, much further away from the centre of London than Brixton, and in the opposite direction, (and, of course, close to Tudor-Hart’s studio). Duff states that Levit also acted as a courier for the photographs he took. It was not an efficient way of doing things.
The time of these Great
Illegals was winding down. Mally was appointed chief illegal resident in April
1936. He and his wife had arrived as ‘Hardts’ on their passport: MI5 noticed
their arrival with suspicion, but did nothing. Mally quickly concluded that the
volume of material coming from Maclean was so great and so important that he
needed a dedicated handler. Mally could not give him enough attention, since he
was occupied with all his other recruitment and management duties. According to
Costello and Tsarev, Moscow Centre responded promptly, saying that another famous
illegal, Dmitry Bystrolyotov, would be coming over to handle Maclean.
Bystrolyotov’s biographer, Emil Draitser, claims that the agent was sent over
to handle King, perhaps to free up Mally. Irrespective of the exact mission, however, Bystrolyotov
fell into disfavour, and was prohibited from travelling. (He later endured a
long period of torture and incarceration, but escaped a bullet in the back of
the neck.) Mally thus had to continue to handle Maclean himself. Early in 1937 the
rezident also realised that there was
a lot of overlap in the documents coming from King and Maclean, which
diminished King’s importance somewhat. Furthermore, by April 1937 Mally had
also recruited John Cairncross, so he had yet another source in the Foreign
Office. Mally was also involved in trying to set up another photography studio
in May 1937, after the credentials of the MI5 agent Olga Gray had been accepted
by the CPG, which was looking for a valuable assistant. She was encouraged to
take up an apartment in Holland Street, Kensington, and receive training in
photography from a Mr. and Mrs. Stevens – in fact the agents Willy and Mary
Brandes. Mally liked to keep his photocopying crews separated. This successful
penetration by Gray – when MI5 came very close to capturing Mally red-handed –
led to the successful arrest of Glading by MI5 and Special Branch.
Stalin’s purges were now in
full swing. In June, Mally was ordered to go to Paris to help organise the
killing of Krivitsky’s colleague and friend, Ignace Reiss, something that he
rejected, thus signing his own death-warrant. Mally was then summoned to Moscow
in July, and shot soon after. Reiss was killed, anyway. King faded from view at
this time, as he now had no contacts on whom to pass information. Left without a
Soviet handler, Guy Burgess set about recruiting further enthusiasts for the
cause, and it was soon after this, probably at the beginning of 1938, that he
encouraged Goronwy Rees to provide him with information from the All Souls High
Table, ready for the time when a new contact, Anatoly Gorsky, was sent out in
December 1938 to take over the ‘legal’ NKVD rezidentura.
Moscow Centre was convinced enough of Rees’s seriousness to grant him the
cryptonyms GROSS and FLEET, and examples of the fairly trivial information he
provided can be found in the Mitrokhin archive.
Krivitsky ignored the recall to Moscow in early October 1937, and made his escape via France, avoiding an attempt on his own life a couple of weeks later. His friend Slutsky was not so lucky, killed by cyanide poisoning in February 1938. And Krivitsky’s survival would mean that King would eventually be ‘betrayed’ by Krivitsky. When Krivitsky eventually reached the USA, and told his ghost-writer and adviser, Philip Don Levine, about the spy in the Foreign Office, Levine decide to inform Lord Lothian in the Washington Embassy, with the result that King (alongside a number of other traitors) was detained and interrogated. The incriminating evidence of payments made to him from the Narodny Bank was discovered: he initially denied that any secret documents had been photographed, but eventually confessed, and was sentenced and in jail by the time Krivitsky arrived in January 1940. Krivitsky did not mind sacrificing a mercenary: though not a Stalinist, the defector was still a communist, and did not want to make it easy for the imperialist enemy to start mopping up the networks in which so much investment had been made.
A. Kitty Harris’s studio E. Wolf Levit’s studio
B. Olga Gray’s apartment F. Tudor-Hart’s home & studio
C. Edith Tudor-Hart’s home – 1937 G. ‘Barbara’s’ studio
D. Victor Rothschild’s house H. Tudor-Hart’s studio – 1937
The Foreign Office M. Henry Pieck’s office
J. Guy Burgess’s apartment N. John King’s lodgings
K. Donald Maclean’s apartment O. Tudor-Hart’s 2nd home
L. The mysterious studio in Pimlico P. A. Tudor-Hart’s home
The Pimlico Gambit
What the events of these years tell us is that a) Donald Maclean never developed the skills to operate his own photographic studio, b) while the NKVD may have operated such studios in Brixton, Maida Vale, Mayfair, Kensington, Westminster, Bayswater and Belsize Park (and maybe elsewhere), there is no evidence that it used premises in Pimlico, and c) Maclean’s ‘handiwork’ was never manufactured in the Buckingham Gate office that was closest to the district of Pimlico. Thus we have to conjecture what Andrew Boyle had in mind when he very provocatively claimed that Maclean’s photocopying was performed ‘in a Pimlico flat’. (I note that the real Fifth Man, John Cairncross, lived in Pimlico at the time, but Maclean and Cairncross were unaware of each other’s recruitment by the Soviets.)
It seems probable that Boyle
knew far more than he was able to let on. By the time he submitted the copy for
The Climate of Treason, he must have
received some insider knowledge that Maclean’s espionage activities had been
known a long time back. Of course, it should not be discounted completely that
he was simply making an intelligent assumption about the fact that the copies
that Krivitsky saw in Moscow must have been photographed somewhere close to the
Foreign Office and Maclean’s apartment. Yet it was a worthless and
unsubstantiated squib to throw out in a well-concealed Note. If he had
something important to say, he would have brought it out in the main text. As a
footnote, however, it is highly puzzling. Were readers supposed to track down
who of the spies were known at that time, identify who lived in Pimlico, and
therefore work out for themselves who the responsible party was?
We have to accept, of course, that
the provocation must have failed, as nobody appears to have noticed it. If
Boyle had been challenged on this fact – say by White, who must have failed to
spot the reference when he reviewed the text – he might have been able to
ascribe it to vagueness, or muddled notes, as it was not specific enough to
incriminate a source for the geography. For Boyle had to be very careful: if an
ex-intelligence officer had given him information that breached the OSA, he
would have been very careful not to have endangered that person’s reputation
(and pension) by revealing any undisclosed information that could point
unfailingly to a particular source. Moreover, Boyle was surely scared. White
had given him warnings not to delve too deeply into the matter of Blunt, even.
Yet Boyle was anxious to see the story developed further, as he sensed a
And then the Blunt story
broke, thanks to Private Eye, on
November 9. That was one hurdle crossed. Margaret Thatcher made her
announcement on November 15. In the Observer
of November 18, Boyle revealed how Goronwy Rees had confirmed Blunt’s treachery
to him a couple of years earlier, and he also made the claim that ‘two dozen
and more accomplices and accessories whom MI5 claims to have neutralised’ still
remained at large, and had been responsible for protecting Burgess and Maclean.
Matters then must have moved quickly. Blunt came out of hiding on November 20,
and made a statement. Maybe another intelligence officer contacted Boyle after
the story broke, to encourage him or even give him new facts. At some stage
Boyle must have decided that he could use Rees to deflect attention away from
himself in his campaign to name the guilty persons. As indicated above, Jenny
Rees claimed (based on what her sister told her) that her father did not want
to see Boyle at first, ‘though he finally [sic]
agreed to do so’. Boyle and Rees did not have much time to share their
Maybe Rees was provoked into
helping Boyle by a strange incident. As I reported above, the day that Margaret
Thatcher made her announcement, Rees fell into a coma. Jenny’s brother Daniel
telephoned her to say that a doctor at the hospital believed he could have been
injected with insulin, and accounts of unidentified Russians loitering near the
wards of the hospital were repeated. Another doctor said that his coma could
have been ascribed to his cancer. In any case, Rees took a week to recover,
which would take the chronology up to November 22. (In November, I tried to
contact Jenny Rees, who has been very helpful to me in the past, to ask whether
her father had retained any memory of being injected by non-professional staff,
but she has not responded to my email.)
I do not believe this incident
has gained any other attention: it sounds a bit desperate for either the KGB or
MI5 to want to kill a dying man who had probably already communicated all he
knew about the case. As Rees’s other daughter, Lucy, said: “Boyle wanted to
talk to him to see what more he could find out, but Rees said he did not know
any more and there was nothing he could add.” That was probably true. Yet Boyle
must have succeeded in completing some lengthy conversations with Rees, written
them up, and given them to the dying man to approve. And that approval was
probably sought by David Astor, the editor of the Observer. Ironically, two days before Rees died on December 12,
Isaiah Berlin wrote to Margaret Thatcher to decline her offer of a life
peerage. Perhaps he recognised that it would have been unseemly for him, as one
of the closest conspirators with Burgess, to have accepted such an honour just
after Blunt had been deprived of his knighthood.
Yet, if Boyle hoped that there
would be a counter-reaction to Rees’s spurious claims about Mayfair and the
probably fictitious ‘Barbara’, with a revitalised interest in real photographic
studios, he must have been disappointed. How would the Pimlico Gambit play out?
Controversy in the ‘Observer’
I now return to the two
instalments that were published in the Observer,
on January 13 and 20, 1980, and analyse their arguments and structure in more
detail. The first article starts off by trying to change the perception that
Rees was a villain to making the case that he was a victim: “But Rees himself,
although close to Burgess, was never a spy, or a homosexual, or even a member
of the Communist Party”. This statement was certainly true about Rees’s sexual
preferences, but mendacious or irrelevant otherwise. Rees had indeed acted as a
spy, and avoiding the Communist Party was a key behaviour of the most dangerous
of Stalin’s Men and Women. Boyle then brings up the troubling matter of Rees’s
coma, even citing the ‘bizarre murder of Georgi Markov’, perhaps to suggest
that the KGB had been responsible. He specifically indicates that Rees was in
peril from ‘more dangerous intruders’ than ‘over-zealous journalists’.
Boyle then makes the point that the meeting with him was undertaken on Rees’s initiative. It may have been – or Boyle might have convinced him that this was the better way of representing for posterity what happened next. Then follows a long, and largely redundant, account of Rees’s encounters with Guy Burgess. It is stagey, artificial, and includes information which Boyle certainly knew already, or with which readers of A Chapter of Accidents would have been familiar. It has clearly been set up for the benefit of the uninformed Observer readership: Rees would not have wasted his dying breaths on such material otherwise, and would not have requested a meeting with Boyle to tell him what the author already knew.
Some of Rees’s testimony is
deceitful. He makes the ridiculous claim that ‘Burgess ‘had inexplicably turned
a political somersault, declared himself a Fascist and gone down from
Cambridge’, adding that he didn’t hear Burgess’s explanation until 1935-1936,
when he and Burgess became neighbours in London. Yet Burgess had taken his aegrotat degree at Cambridge in the
summer of 1933, and even replaced Rees on a visit to Moscow in 1934, showing
openly communist sympathies. Burgess was probably recruited officially by the
NKVD early in 1935, and took up his right-wing cover only at the end of that
year, when he started working for the Conservative MP John Macnamara, and
joined the Anglo-German Fellowship. Burgess told Rees that he was working for
the Comintern, and tried to recruit him, probably in late November 1937. Thus
Rees’s reputation as someone unreliable with the truth can be seen to be
deserved, even on his deathbed. He then makes a disparaging (for 1979) remark
about Kim Philby being another of Burgess’s sexual conquests, an assertion that
is highly unlikely. He also makes a mention of Burgess’s Chester Square flat –
in Belgravia, so not strictly Pimlico, but right next-door, in case that was
seen as a marker.
Now comes the critical, but
almost parenthetical, section. Rees happens to mention his first encounter with
Donald Maclean: ‘his air of empty superiority affronted me’. Here Boyle comes
up with the question that must have been on his mind ever since the ‘Pimlico’
reference: “Did anything occur at that time which might have alerted you to the
double life he was already leading as a Soviet agent?” After a significant
pause, Rees does not respond with any insights on Maclean’s political
affiliations or sympathies, his activities at Cambridge, his friendship with
Burgess, but a wholly irrelevant and assuredly imagined story of his and
Maclean’s ‘mutual friend’, Barbara, who was a professional photographer in
Mayfair. I repeat the section, for emphasis: “She told me one day how skilful
Donald was with a camera – so skilful that she’d no hesitation in letting him
use the studio for his own work.” (We should also recall that Rees earlier
stated that he had not seen Maclean between 1935 and 1950, so the reality of
this liaison, since Maclean did not start handing over documents until early
1936, must be highly questionable.) Rees
then makes the extraordinary conceptual leap that, because documents probably
stolen or borrowed by Maclean had found their way on to Krivitsky’s desk,
Maclean himself must have photographed them, and used the highly insecure
vehicle of a female friend’s studio to do so.
No other source indicates that
Maclean had any disposition to photography as a hobby, that he was
outstandingly skilful at it, or had his artwork displayed anywhere. As we have
seen, no evidence has yet appeared elsewhere to suggest that Maclean
photocopied any documents himself apart from the use of the miniature camera at
the Foreign Office. Since the Special Branch had not seen fit to detain Edith
Tudor-Hart when she was caught practically red-handed, it was not going to
detain Donald Maclean on the grounds that he was in unauthorised possession of
photographic paraphernalia. Moreover, why would Rees recall this incident only
now, a recollection which would undercut the claim he made that he did not
conclude that Maclean was a spy until the unpleasant encounter in 1950? And he significantly
does not mention Pimlico.
Yet a more important question
must be asked: how did Rees know that Krivitsky had seen specimens of Maclean’s
handiwork in Moscow? The information in Jane Archer’s report was tightly held
by MI5, and was not declassified until 2002. Moreover, it does not specifically
identify Maclean – the whole catastrophe of MI5’s indolence lies around the
fact that the Security Service did not follow up the obvious hints. As I have
explained in Misdefending the Realm,
Jane Archer’s report passed over the desk of Jenifer Williams (soon to be Hart)
at the Home Office in March 1940, and was certainly seen by Guy Burgess after
that, but the last thing that Burgess, who in 1943 recommended that Rees should
be killed as he was a possible threat to his safety, would have wanted to do at
that time would be to share the contents of the MI5 report with Rees.
Boyle must have known,
however. A possible circumstance – unless excavating the de Gallienne
Connection shows some fresh intelligence from Europe – was that a prominent
intelligence officer had either described or shown to him the Krivitsky report.
Yet more than that: that person might have indicated to Boyle that Krivitsky
had told one (or some) of the officers who interrogated him more than appeared
in the eventual report, presumably enough to identify surely Maclean as the
informer. Having access to the report itself was not enough. Yet an analysis of
Krivitsky’s evidence (see below) suggests that off-the-record hints were
unlikely. A more probable scenario is that Levine could have told Mallet (and
Jebb, vicariously) of some obvious pointers that were concealed from the interrogators,
but divulged elsewhere. For example, Boyle claims that Mallet (in the latter’s
own words) ‘sent to London a very detailed and secret dossier’. That dossier
has, however, not come to light. Thus, whether Krivitsky or Levine actually
provided the address of a studio in Pimlico will probably never be
ascertainable. (Liddell’s final conversation with Krivitsky before his departure
has been redacted from his Diaries.) Boyle could not divulge that person, or
the relevant nugget of information, but he presumably believed that, after the
vague hint in the book, and the much bolder statement made posthumously by his
proxy, Rees, he would be able to bring the controversy into the open.
If Krivitsky did provide the
information, who could his informer have been? Of the officers and civil
servants who interviewed Krivitsky (Vivian, Harker, Archer, Liddell, White, and
Jebb), Jebb, White and Archer were still alive in 1979. Gladwyn Jebb is an
unlikely source: he was a shifty character who displayed sympathies for Soviet
Russia, and tried to conceal his close association with Burgess in his memoirs.
I even classify him as an ‘Agent of Influence’ in Misdefending the Realm. White is, of course, even more unlikely,
since he was the person who was going to come under fire from any media
onslaught if the news got out. Jane Archer is a possible candidate. She had
singularly developed a very strong rapport with Krivitsky. Having been ousted
by Liddell from the very expert job she was doing in communist
counter-espionage, she was put on the sidelines, and eventually ended up
working for Kim Philby in SIS, before returning to MI5. Her moral code would
have prevented her from too casually breaking the OSA, but she may have been so
disgusted at the deal done with Blunt, and the cover-up after it, that she felt
obliged, after almost forty years of silence, to speak to the author when
Boyle’s book came out. That argument, however, does not explain where she
gained the information, unless Krivitsky gave it to her confidentially, or she
perhaps saw a highly secret part of the Mallet-Jebb correspondence. And there
was another example of justified righteous feminine indignation. Soon after
that, Joan Miller was so disgusted at the treatment of Blunt (she had witnessed
Blunt’s and Leo Long’s espionage at MI14 during the war) that in 1986 she
published One Girl’s War in Ireland,
a book that MI5 tried to ban.
The transcripts of interviews
that Jane Archer had with Krivitsky that appear in the Kew archive, but which
did not become part of the final report, show that Archer valiantly tried to
extract further details about the ‘Imperial Defence’ spy from Krivitsky, but he
would not budge, despite giving the appearance of struggling hard. It was
probably an act. One very significant item of evidence is the fact that, in an
interrogation of January 30, Krivitsky suggested that the ‘Imperial Council
source’ was a young man. Furthermore, “the boy obtained the
papers from his father who may probably have taken them home.” Krivitsky encouraged Jane Archer to pursue
this paternal aspect: not even Gary Kern has noticed that this was a mean
trick. For a spy whose cryptonym was in
Russian SIROTA (or, in German, WAISE), namely ORPHAN, it was a rich and
sardonic piece of irony to emphasise his active relationship with his father, a
ruse undetected by the stumbling British. (Donald’s father had died in 1932:
hence the unimaginative choice.)
and her colleagues should have been familiar with cryptonyms: the Double Cross
agents were all given them, and Archer even refers, in a memorandum of May 1939
to GROEHL (or GROLL), which was in fact the code name for Krivitsky himself. In
the interrogations, Krivitsky went so far as to provide some cryptonyms (or
‘service names’, as Archer called them), such as FRIEND for Goold-Verschoyle,
and HARDT for Maly. It seems now to be an obvious question not asked of what
label had been assigned to Maclean, given that there seems to have been an
unavoidable tendency on both sides to bestow cryptonyms that had some relevance
to the agent (e.g. TATE, because Wulf Schmidt looked like Harry Tate, TONY for
Blunt, GIRL for Burgess, and SONNY for Philby). Another later note by Archer claims that Krivitsky was
‘passionate’ to stay in touch with her, should further thoughts come to his
mind. The defector and the inquisitor may have built some rapport, but the
evidence seems to be that Krivitsky did not want to betray a dedicated
ideological spy not motivated by monetary needs, and was having some sport at
the expense of his interrogators.
Boyle then changes gears in
the first Observer article. The main
thrust now is a pointed criticism of the groups that used to gather during the
war at Victor Rothschild’s residence, at 5 Bentinck Street (in Marylebone, some
distance from Pimlico). “Among the most frequent of the casual visitors I
noticed in 1943-44 were J. D. Bernal, the scientist, John Strachey, the
politician, and Guy Liddell, a long-serving officer of MI5 whose marriage had
recently broken up and who was a colleague of Blunt’s. He was also on close
terms with Burgess.” Then Boyle makes
the highly controversial claim that this faction at Bentinck Street was
abetting Stain’s objectives in Eastern Europe: “Although many voices were
raised at that time in the clamour for a ‘Second Front Now’, Goronwy Rees
believed that the Soviet sympathisers of Bentinck Street helped to orchestrate
the discord.” He then quotes Rees’s lamenting how Blunt had betrayed the lives
of Poles, Finns and Ukrainians.
The chronology is again dubious. By 1943-44, the plans for the invasion of Normandy were well advanced. The dangers of a Soviet propaganda campaign pressing for a premature Second Front had been real back in late 1941 and 1942: it was then one of Stalin’s most urgent appeals, and was not resisted properly, but by this time it was not an issue of debate. And by incriminating such luminaries as Liddell and Rothschild in this cabal, Boyle was treading on very dangerous ground. It was one thing to accuse Liddell of having been negligent or incompetent, but quite another to suggest he had been helping the cause of a foreign power.
Yet Boyle made more focussed accusations in the second article, published on January 20, where he reproduced Rees’s further indictments of Liddell, showing how Liddell had behaved evasively when Rees informed him of the Blunt connection in 1951, and intensifying his criticisms. The sub-heading ran “How Burgess and Blunt entangled top MI5 man Guy Liddell in their treachery.” (The full article appears below.) The most damning testimony would appear to be the claim that Liddell had invited Blunt to the meeting with Rees, and essentially ganged up with the Fourth Man against the plaintiff. It should have been a decisive lead to be followed up, but it apparently was lost in the controversy over Rees’s more speculative claims.
What also hurts Rees’s
argument is that his story here changes from that in A Chapter of Accidents. Rees feels free now to name David Footman
as the SIS officer (echoed by Jenny Rees in Looking
for Mr. Nobody), someone who later also came under suspicion because of his
communist sympathies. The ex-officer from MI5 was, of course, none other than
Blunt himself, as Rees likewise revealed in the Observer: Boyle identifies him, and records that conversation. Yet
Rees’s story in 1979 changes: he oddly dates the call with Footman as happening
on the Saturday evening, and also
states that he called Blunt that same evening, and that Blunt came down to his
house, at Rees’s request, on the
Sunday, not the Monday. John Costello, somewhat improbably, has Rees, on the Sunday
afternoon telephoning Blunt to ask for his advice, since he (Rees) had still [sic] not heard from Liddell. Given what
he knew about Blunt, going to the art historian as a mentor in this situation
would appear to be downright lunacy. Blunt apparently ‘read the signs of incipient
panic’ in Rees’s voice, rushed to his house, and tried to convince him that it would
be best for the authorities to find out the truth about the absconding
In any case, we are thus left with the question as to why Rees contacted Blunt, urging a person-to-person discussion, if his intention was to denounce him to the authorities? Had he at this stage been considering solely describing the fact that Burgess had admitted his Comintern allegiance in 1937? If so, why not simply go to MI5, and leave Blunt out of it? The only possible outcomes from discussing the problem with Blunt could be either that Blunt would talk him out of saying anything about Burgess (and himself!), or that Rees would end up scaring Blunt witless, but allow him to develop a plan to protect himself. Burgess had surely told Blunt of his critical conversation with Rees, as he had indeed told Maclean. Blunt knew what Rees knew: Rosamond Lehman even thought that Blunt knew that Rees had told her everything. The fact that Blunt did not panic suggests very strongly that he knew that, despite his past transgressions, he enjoyed the patronage of the high-ups in MI5. And Rees in fact gave him a very clear warning.
Then there is the conflicting
information about the meeting with Liddell and Blunt. In his memoir, Rees said
he went up to London, ‘alarmed and despondent’, for his meeting with MI5 the following day. Yet his Observer statement runs as follows:
“What I have been wracking my brains over was the extraordinary slowness on the
part of Liddell. He let nearly ten days pass before doing anything positive. .
. . Not until the end of the following week was a move initiated.” He might
have left that detail out of his memoir because he was scared, but if he wanted
MI5 to be investigated in 1978 by reporters other than himself, he could have
left much broader hints without pointing directly at Blunt’s guilt, and
Liddell’s compliance. As it turned out, Blunt and Liddell must have strategized,
and concluded that putting on a united front was the best way to silence Rees.
Yet it was an extraordinarily stupid move by Liddell, a clear breach of
protocol, as Blunt had left MI5 in 1945. What is more extraordinary is that
none of the commentariat picked up this anomaly: Rees’s obvious inability to
tell a plain truth did not help his, or Boyle’s cause. But Boyle should have
been more careful, too.
Jenny Rees adds further
complications to the story. She advises us of a further conversation that Rees
had on the subject – in between the recognised disappearance by MI5 of the
‘diplomats’ on May 28 and his meeting with Liddell on June 7, which Rees does
not mention in his memoir or in the Observer
articles. At a party that week, he encountered an old friend, the prominent
academic and intelligence officer, Stuart Hampshire, and explained the dilemma
he had established for himself. Hampshire
admitted that he had advised Rees not to stir the pot – advice he said he
regretted much later. (Implicitly, it would appear that Hampshire knew what was
going on, even though he was also no longer employed by MI5, and was then one
of the select many who knew the secret of Blunt.) As we see, Rees rejected
Hampshire’s counsel, but assuredly went too far, as, in one further interview
with MI5, apparently implicated not only Burgess and Blunt, but also Hampshire,
the former SIS officer Professor Robin Zaehner, and even Guy Liddell himself.
The evidence from Jenny Rees is confusing: it is unlikely that Rees would have
accused Liddell in an interview where the latter was present. But it was still
an extraordinarily undisciplined and disloyal performance by Rees, seeking
advice from his old friend Hampshire and then immediately denouncing him to the
authorities. It is another example of how Rees’s erratic behaviour undermined
any serious intentions he could have had.
By the Law of Unexpected
Consequences, instead of Boyle’s receiving encouragement for his pains, and
attempt at full disclosure, he bore the brunt of a fierce backlash. He made (at
least) five major mistakes:
He loaded up the charges against Liddell with so much irrelevant and erroneous information that the strong but smaller points were overlooked. If he had concentrated on i) the Gallienne/Pimlico disclosure, and ii) Liddell’s unprofessional behaviour in drawing Blunt into his meeting with Rees, he might have achieved his goals of more serious attention to the obvious secrecy and conspiracy that cloaked the Blunt case.
While claiming that Rees should not be condemned by virtue of mere association with Burgess, he implied that Liddell was guilty for exactly the same reason – he had consorted with Burgess and company at Bentinck Street during the war. Since this was the only evidence of pro-Soviet conspiracy (as opposed to incompetence), it was very a flimsy argument.
He forgot that Rees had a reputation for being an unreliable witness. Since (for example) his facts about the chronology of his association with Burgess in the 1930s were wrong, it could have led knowledgeable readers of the account to doubt Rees’s other assertions. Readers who bothered to read A Chapter of Accidents would have found further disturbing anomalies. Rees (they would claim) was saying whatever it took to save his own reputation before he died.
Boyle underestimated the wrath of Dick White. Even though he did not mention White in the Bentinck Street Brotherhood, White had been just as frequent a visitor to Rothschild’s premises as Liddell. Thus White would have concluded that he was tarred with the same brush, and he was implicitly under attack.
He overestimated the tenacity of the British press. He left enough leads and inconsistencies in his story to provoke a dedicated sleuth, but even the ‘quality’ newspapers seemed to be more interested in dramatic headlines and hints of sleaze than following-up with simple but arduous digging-around at the coal-face.
Tom Bower wrote that White was
infuriated by the articles. Not only was his own reputation vicariously under
assault, all his efforts to try and redeem the status of the intelligence
services he had led were being quashed. While there had been an initial outrage
at the covert deal agreed with Blunt, Boyle’s attack on Liddell provoked a
recoil the other way. In the Sunday Times
of January 20, in an article by Barrie Penrose, David Leitch and Phillip
Knightley headlined ‘“A grotesque smear” say top spymasters’, Dick White was
quoted as saying, somewhat bizarrely, that ‘accusing him [Liddell] may have
possibly have been a way of deflecting accusations against others.’ Why Rees
would want to conceal the names of others on his deathbed was not explained. Then
the minor character William Skardon, who had an overrated reputation as an
interrogator, was wheeled out to give his testimony in favour of Liddell. No
notice was taken of Gallienne, or Maclean’s photography, or the Pimlico-Mayfair
discrepancy. This was not a very enterprising piece of investigative reporting
by the famed Insight team at the Sunday
Times, but it surely distracted attention away from the oversubtle
allusions made by Boyle.
A minor skirmish followed in
the pages of the New Statesman. In
the issue of February 1, one Richard Winkler rather laboriously pointed out
that much of what Rees was quoted as saying was almost an exact echo of what
had appeared in A Chapter of Accidents.
The fact that that was no doubt Boyle’s aim eluded him, and, by concentrating
on what was re-hashed, Winkler overlooked the really dramatic new material. He
did then isolate the major discrepancy in Rees’s story, that concerning the
timing of Rees’s meeting with MI5, but interpreted it as a plot by Rees and
Boyle to doctor the story to show how ‘sinister’ Liddell’s behaviour was. It
was a very obtuse performance by Winkler, who sounded as if he had a grudge
Boyle responded in a letter
published on February 15. He essentially confirmed that the statements came,
with Rees’s approval, from Rees’s memoir, but that Rees had refreshed them with
some new recollections. He then, rather clumsily, attempted to turn the tables
on Winkler by saying that it was Blunt who first pointed out the timing
discrepancy, and that the meeting could not have occurred as soon as Rees first
said it did, because of the contemporaneity of the announcement of the ‘missing
diplomats’, as if that absolved Rees of his initial carelessness. It was all
rather an inelegant and pointless spat, and added nothing to the resolution of
the mysterious references.
The hunt for Boyle’s traitors
was apparently on. The Sunday Times
did extract a confession from John Cairncross, the ‘Fifth Man’, at the end of
1979. Margaret Thatcher, however, pressed by intelligence chiefs upset about
the Blunt admission, was energised enough to cancel publication of Dick White’s
pet project, Volume 4 of the series British
Intelligence in the Second World War, which would have cast glamour on the
successes of the Double-Cross system in an official light. White, who was ‘furious’,
according to Boyle’s notes, immediately went underground, and broke all his OSA
vows by encouraging Rupert Allason (Nigel West) to use White’s knowledge, and
access to the MI5 officers involved, to write an unofficial history of MI5.
Then the investigation into Roger Hollis started, and the controlled leaks via
Victor Rothschild to Chapman Pincher about Hollis, followed by Pincher’s series
of books, and Peter Wright and Spycatcher.
Jane Archer died in 1982, a year before Donald Maclean. Volumes 4 and 5 of British Intelligence came out in 1990.
Dick White died in 1993. The journalist John Costello continued to pursue the
Liddell trail, and included a scathing indictment, in his Mask of Treachery (1988), of Liddell as the likeliest candidate for
the mysterious GRU spy within MI5, ELLI, who had been identified (but not
named) by Gouzenko in 1945. Costello succumbed to an odd and unexplained, but
fatal, bout of shellfish poisoning in 1995, at the young age of fifty-two. But
all of this is probably for another story.
It took exactly thirty-nine years from Krivitsky’s death before Rees’s hints to awareness of Maclean’s fabled career in photography were published – and then forgotten. Almost precisely thirty-nine years later, this blog resurrects the strange story of the Pimlico Gambit. Perhaps the puzzle will be resolved in the winter of 2057. The project starts now, with an investigation into (de) Gallienne and Montgomery Hyde, the constitution of the British Embassy in Paris in 1938, and a deeper analysis of the statements left behind by Krivitsky and Levine. The game’s afoot! As always, I encourage insights and leads from my readers.
and for Further Reading:
The Climate of Treason
by Andrew Boyle
A Spy Named Orphan
by Roland Phillips
Donald and Melinda
Maclean by Michael Holzman
by Boris Volodarsky
The Crown Jewels
by Nigel West and Oleg Tsarev
by John Costello and Oleg Tsarev
Defence of the Realm
by Christopher Andrew
A Chapter of Accidents
by Goronwy Rees
Searching for Mr. Nobody
by Jenny Rees
by Gary Kern
A Time for Spies
by William E. Duff
The Spy With Seventeen
Names by Igor Damaskin
In Stalin’s Secret
Service by Walter Krivitsky
A Death in Washington
by Gary Kern
The Perfect English Spy
by Tom Bower
The Sword and the Shield
by Christopher Andrew and Vasili Mitrokhin
by Andrew Lownie
Mask of Treachery
by John Costello
Anthony Blunt: His Lives
by Miranda Carter
A Divided Life
by Robert Cecil
The Cambridge Spies
by Verne Newton
On Her Majesty’s Secret
Service by Christopher Andrew
Eyewitness to History
by Isaac Don Levine
Treason in the Blood
by Anthony Cave-Brown
by Emil Draitser
Misdefending the Realm
by Antony Percy
Archival Material from Kew (TNA), the FBI and the CIA
(Final set of the year’s Commonplace entries can be seen here.)
Seasonal greetings to all my readers – especially those who joined the group this year! Among new contacts is one former officer of an intelligence service, who very kindly wrote, about ‘Sonia’s Radio’: “It’s the most impressive counter intelligence research/historiography I’ve read – the web of known and suspected affiliations is masterly.”
And now you can help spread the word! In a survey of a thousand households of recent retirees across the European Union, commissioned by the Coldspur Appreciation Society, residents were asked to list the Top Ten Items on their Bucket List. Here are the consolidated results (after some flattening of rankings according to the Ogden-Zeiss method of Flawed Preference Detection): ‘Reading “Sonia’s Radio”’ was pipped out of first place by ‘Visiting Machu Picchu’, but pushed ‘Snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef’ into third position. A great outcome!
Machu Picchu (First Place)
‘Sonia’s Radio’ (Second Place)
Snorkelling on the Great Barrier Reef (Third Place)
So all you have to do, laid out in five easy steps:
And you will immediately have made another close friend or relative very happy!
And now to those books . . .
The Spy and the Traitor by Ben Macintyre (Crown New York, 2018)
Traitor Lodger German Spy by Tony Rowland (APS Publications, 2018)
Transcription by Kate Atkinson (Little Brown & Co., 2018)
The Secret World by Christopher Andrew (Yale University Press, 2018)
The Spy and the Traitor
How well do you know your Communist defectors? For instance, can you clearly distinguish and differentiate Igor Gouzenko, Anatoly Golitsyn, Michael Goleniewski and Oleg Gordievsky? (In the spirit of 1066 and All That, the use of protractors is encouraged.) No? Well, here’s a thumbnail sketch to help you prepare for that pub quiz. Gouzenko was the cipher clerk who worked for the GRU in Ottawa, and whose revelations in 1945 led to the unmasking of the atom spies. Golitsyn defected in 1961, and provided information that led to the confirmation of Kim Philby’s treachery. Goleniewski was a Pole, reputedly a triple agent, who helped identify George Blake as a spy within SIS. And Gordievsky was the KGB officer who turned against his employers after the invasion of Czechoslovakia, and in 1985 was spirited out of the Soviet Union in a daring escape organised by SIS.
The highly successful journalist Ben Macintyre, author of five gripping books about espionage and sabotage, has now turned his hand to the story of Gordievsky. The tale is not new: Gordievsky wrote a memoir titled Next Stop Execution, which gives almost as much detail about his career with the KGB, as well as the climax of the book, the enterprising escape plan, and how it was executed. (In recommending The Spy and the Traitor as one of his Books of the Year, Peter Frankopan wrote recently in the Spectator: “As with his other books, Macintyre seems not only able to find amazing new material, but to write perfectly paced prose that reads like a thriller.” I agree with the second part of the statement, but not the first.)
Shortly after being posted to London in early 1985, Gordievsky, who had made his desires and loyalties clear when an officer in Copenhagen, and had later provided much valuable information to help Margaret Thatcher negotiate with Gorbachev, was recalled to Moscow, ostensibly for some kind of confirmation process for his recent promotion to rezident. Instead he was immediately interrogated and put under surveillance on suspicion of being a spy. Fortunately for him, Soviet Intelligence was at that time taking a more formal approach to the determination of guilt. Taking advantage of a scheme devised by SIS long before, Gordievsky was able to signal to British Embassy officials that he was in danger, and made his plans for escape. He took a train to Leningrad, and hitched a ride to a place near the Finnish border, where he was picked up and hidden in the boot (trunk) of a car being driven by members of the embassy. He was then smuggled into Finland – an adventure which must surely lead to a movie before long. Macintyre has complemented that account by virtue of his being able to discuss the case freely with Gordievsky’s handlers in SIS (MI6) – a disturbing venture in its own right, given the implications of the Official Secrets Act, and one that raises some troubling questions about the reliability of Macintyre’s judgments.
First of all – that title. The Spy. And the Traitor. Is Gordievsky supposed to be both? Probably not. The traitor is probably meant to indicate Aldrich Ames, the CIA agent who was, somewhat remarkably, given his personality and drinking habits, the Soviet and East European Division’s chief of counter-intelligence, which allowed him to realise that an anonymous high-grade informer was being handled by the British. In order to deliver his high-expense wife the luxuries she demanded, Ames offered his services to the KGB, and was able to provide enough hints to Gordievsky’s background and movements that the Soviets concluded that the pattern of activity and geography cast a strong suspicion that Gordievsky might be the source of the leaks. Yet we should not forget that both men were traitors. I would probably be the last man to propose ‘moral equivalence’ in the actions and motivations of the two (see Misdefending the Realm, p 280, for example), but it is a matter of fact that both men were traitors to the nation they served. This is a vital point, because Gordievsky is still under a death sentence: Putin is reported to be livid with his former colleague’s treachery. An attempt has been made on Gordievsky’s life already, and he has to live in seclusion in darkest Surrey somewhere. (I know Surrey is still ‘leafy’. But do ‘dark’ portions of that county still exist?
What Macintyre does well, he does very well. He has a journalist’s eye for the telling detail, weaves the relevant background material into his ripping yarn very smoothly, and keeps the suspense up extremely capably. Yet his judgment is fallible: he gets a little too close to his subject and the SIS officers who guide him through the story, and lacks the temperament and resolve to stand back coolly from the whole operation. Gordievsky has collaborated with Christopher Andrew on a couple of books since his defection, and, as I noted in last month’s blog, these were not received with the critical acclaim that the author appears to assume. I repeat Macintyre’s assertion: “He gave lectures, listened to music, and wrote books with the historian Christopher Andrew, works of detailed scholarship [sic] that still stand as the most comprehensive accounts of Soviet intelligence to date.” Macintyre echoes Gordievsky’s claim that the spy ELLI was Leo Long, Gordievsky having claimed to have found that detail in the KGB archives. Remarkably, Christopher Andrew used Gordievsky’s statement to voice the same opinion in his authorised history of MI5, The Defence of the Realm, as well as in other books he has written about the KGB, a mistake that has been criticised by historians ever since. (Andrew has declined to appear in forums to discuss this very controversial judgment, but Macintyre should have known about the problem.) It has been rumoured in some quarters that Gordievsky was encouraged by SIS to make the equivalence of ELLI and Long to distract attention from molehunts after more likely candidates . . . Again, Macintyre, in his enthusiasm, is reluctant to consider such matters worthy of discussion.
Then there is the case of Michael Foot. Macintyre repeats Gordievsky’s claim that the leader of the Labour Party had been a paid Soviet agent with the cryptonym BOOT (again showing the Soviet bureaucrats’ highly subtle choice of monikers to conceal the identity of their contacts). Macintyre accepts unquestioningly everything that Gordievsky says about Foot, how he was served with raw Soviet propaganda, and how he provided valuable information about Western political strategies from the Korean War onward. In recent weeks, the fortnightly magazine Private Eye has taken the cudgels up against Macintyre, coming to Foot’s defence, showing how his Tribune articles constantly criticised the Soviet Union, and thus showed that he was no friend of the Soviets. I think Private Eye may be jumping too quickly into the fray, too (Michael’s nephew, the late diehard Socialist Paul Foot, is still a much-revered figure at Gnome House). It is possible that Michael Foot conveyed an anti-Soviet stance in Tribune to cover his activities as an agent of influence, but the magazine has showed that Macintyre has tied himself in knots over the chronology of Gordievsky’s awareness of Foot’s activities. However, both Macintyre and Private Eye fail to use the diaries of Anatoly Chernyaev, the Kremlin’s liaison with the Labour Party, which have been translated and are available at the National Security Archive (see https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu/NSAEBB/NSAEBB192/index.htm ), and would appear to confirm Foot’s foolishness, if not malfeasance. ‘This one will run and run’, in the words of one of Private Eye’s favourite slogans.
And was Macintyre being used by his SIS friends? He carefully explains (in his Acknowledgments) that his work is not an authorised biography, and takes pains to explain that he has had ‘no access to the files of the intelligence service, which remain classified’. Yet he is naïve enough to state that the book was not aided by SIS, having shortly before expressed his huge gratitude to ‘every MI6 officer involved in the case’. If that is not ‘aid’, what is? On page 79, he writes that ‘the correspondence between SUNBEAM and C remains in the MI6 archives, proof of the personal touch on which successful spying depends.” If that is some ‘proof’ to which Macintyre can attest, has he actually inspected it? Even to know that the correspondence exists seems to me an outrageous liberty granted by SIS to the journalist. I do not understand how, given the constraints of the Official Secrets Act, SIS officers were allowed selectively to pass on confidential material to a chosen writer, and get away with it.
But perhaps I do. Macintyre is careful to conceal his contacts under aliases. Gordievsky’s main handler in London is identified as ‘James Spooner’, but Christopher Andrew, in The Secret World (see below) has identified ‘Spooner’ as John Scarlett, who later became chief of SIS. So we must interpret this joint venture between SIS and Macintyre as another in a line of valiant PR exercises by the intelligence services, which started with Alan Moorhead’s The Traitors in 1952. So long as there is a positive story to tell, which shows up the imagination and dedication of the Secret Intelligence Service in a good light, SIS will arrange for a reliable journalist/historian to tell the tale, and break its own rules in so doing. The Spy and the Traitor will be immensely successful, and like other popular retreads of Macintyre’s, will no doubt be enjoyed by millions, but his books should not be regarded as serious history, as they constitute a potpourri of fascinating facts and unreliable information. Moreover, if there is a serious reappraisal of Anglo-Soviet relations to be undertaken, it should not be at the whim of John Scarlett, allowing selective disclosure by the triumvirate of Andrew, Gordievsky and Macintyre. The material on which their statements are based should be made generally available to historians at large.
Traitor Lodger German Spy
Tony Rowland (a nom de plume, as the author wishes to stay anonymous) has chosen, for his crafting of a novel about the mysterious German agent, broadly the same archival documents on ter Braak that I used in my September analysis (see TheMysteryoftheUndetectedRadiosPart3). ‘Based on a true story’, the back cover boasts, but, as readers who have studied my explanation would probably agree, exactly what the true story was is open to a large amount of controversy. Mr. Rowland has overall ingeniously translated the fragments available at the National Archives on Engelbertus Fukken (ter Braak’s real name) into a gripping tale of treachery and murder, but, since the bare threads of the Abwehr agent’s life evading capture have been embellished by the insertion of a completely artificial and unconvincing personage of a Cambridge Professor who is (as far as I can judge) nowhere to be found in the archival records, the story unnecessarily loses its grip with reality.
That is not to say that the fiction is unenjoyable. Rowland has done his homework: he portrays Cambridge in 1940 in very convincing fashion, he is good with dialogue, he represents police procedures with authority, he understands well the political issues at home as well as the sensitive dynamics of the Abwehr, and the subversive mentality of its leaders. He presents the complex issues of wireless telegraphy soundly, and realistically brings in both Bletchley Park and the Cavendish Laboratory as possible targets of ter Braak’s mission. He very sensibly questions the denials by Abwehr officers that they could identify ter Braak, as well as the repeated claims that the arrival of the parachutist Josef Jakobs had nothing to do with ter Braak’s plight. He has done an excellent job of bringing life into the two-dimensional characters who largely people the documents released by MI5. It may be that the person-in-the-street, unfamiliar with what appears in the archives, will find Traitor Lodger German Spy an engrossing spy story and not be concerned about where the author’s imagination has run away with him.
The primary problem, as I see it, is that Rowland presents MI5 as ‘moving heaven and earth’ to find ter Braak, when it is clear from the archives, and from the way Rowland faithfully reflects that part of the story, that the Security Service attempted no such thing. Thus his fiction fails to take on with any resolve the paradox central to ter Braak’s status as a fugitive. How could an escaped German parachutist, at a time when a small densely populated country was on alert for any alien presence, and when enemy agents had been swiftly captured elsewhere, survive for so long, living among apparently unsuspicious civilians and officials? And why would he dabble with the Cambridge netherworld so dangerously, and thus draw attention to himself? Moreover, the background, personality, activities and discoveries of the person that really drives the plot, the Professor (about whom I shall write no more detail, as it would spoil the reader’s enjoyment), were to me so unconvincing as to pull the story out of its realistic framework.
Perhaps my experience in trying to analyse what the ‘true story’ about ter Braak was make me an unsuitable critic of Mr. Rowland’s experiment. To me, the questions naturally surrounding what went on in those hectic months of the winter of 1940-41 are fascinating enough without bringing in in any deus ex machina. In an email exchange, Mr. Rowland told me that he had ‘made no attempt to stick with the recorded facts, or indeed cold logic, where they don’t fit with the plot.’ That struck me as an odd argument to make: if the plot drove everything, why attempt to promote the book as being based on a true story, while emphasizing the process of researching the story in ‘the files of the National Archives at Kew, the Cambridge Archives . . .’? (Rowland appears to have overlooked the very considerable facts about ter Braak uncovered in the articles in After the Battle magazine.) He does credit, however, two writers with a significant interest in the story, a Dutch writer Jan-Willem van den Braak, and Giselle Jakobs, the granddaughter of Josef Jakobs (who was executed later in 1941) with assisting him with the results of his research. I have not read the contributions of either (apart from blogs posted on the latter’s website), but why would the author go out of his way to incorporate information from them, only to dismiss certain facts as inconvenient for his plot?
In an imagined world of fiction, the plot should derive from the convincing but probably flawed characteristics of the participants, and not be a mechanism of its own that relies on artificiality and unexplainable events. Rowland has the skills to have made this a more convincing tale. I am very supportive of efforts to bring the strange history of ter Braak into the public eye, but the bare facts as revealed by the archives provide enough opportunity for weaving an engrossing story about a brave but misguided man during a fascinating winter in history, without the introduction of unconvincing melodrama.
I do not read much fiction these days, but this title caught my eye. Kate Atkinson was not a name I knew, but her latest work was suddenly being reviewed everywhere, she was being interviewed by the New York Times, and Transcription quickly made its way into the NYT best-seller list. More relevantly, it was a novel about a period that I know fairly well – the spring and summer of 1940 when Britain came under a ‘Fifth Column’ scare. So I thought I should acquire the book, and see what was going on.
The story concerns a young lady, an orphan, who is recruited by MI5 to assist in a surveillance operation against Fascist sympathisers. After working as a transcriber of the recorded conversations that the potential traitors engage in, innocently believing they are having an exchange with a Gestapo officer under cover in Dolphin Square, Juliet Armstrong is asked to take part in a more aggressive project to entrap one of the ladies who is facilitating the illicit passing of information from the American Embassy. This leads to further complications, both romantic and political – including a murder carried out and concealed by MI5 – and an estrangement from the MI5 agent who was responsible for carrying out the deception. After the war, she is called on again to provide a safe house for a fleeing scientist from behind the Iron Curtain, and things go wrong, which lead to her being persecuted. The narrative starts with her death when hit by a car in London in 1981, and flashes back to 1940 and 1950, when she was working for the BBC.
My first, highly distracting, impression was that Ms. Atkinson overloaded her reach for historical authenticity by including too many reasonably well-known historical figures masquerading under invented names. Thus Peregrine Gibbons, the handler of agents who works from his residence in Dolphin Square, is incontrovertibly the nature-lover of ambiguous sexuality, Maxwell Knight, who, like Juliet, moves over to the BBC to work after the war. Godfrey Toby, who mysteriously ‘cuts’ Juliet after the war, is Eric Roberts, working for Knight, who pretended to be a representative of the Gestapo in encouraging the Fascist ladies. Oliver Alleyne, who is Gibbons’ boss, and who also recruits Juliet for special tasks, is presumably Guy Liddell: the name Alleyne is perhaps a deliberate echo of John Le Carré’s Percy Alleline. Miles Merton, ‘the intellectual communist’, must be based on Anthony Blunt. I glimpsed Olga Gray, and saw traces of Joan Miller (author of One Girl’s War) in Juliet. The American spy Chester Vanderkamp is indubitably the author’s name for Tyler Kent, and his partner in crime Mrs. Scaife is Anna Wolkoff of the Russian Tea Room. The introduction of a dog named Cyril who is withheld from his owner, a double-agent, clearly comes from the case-history of Anna Sergueiew. Etc. etc.
But why all the distortions? The author gets dates wrong, for instance, misrepresenting Knight’s career. She greatly overstates the function of the perceived Nazi sympathisers, a set of chattering ladies, as a ‘Fifth Column’, when it bore none of the characteristics of a force ready to take up arms in the event of an invasion. Even though Maxwell Knight’s official report on the operation (written much later) called it that, the Fifth Column menace did not rear its head until the Low Countries and France succumbed to Nazi invasion, and then blew over in a couple of months. Victor Rothschild and Anthony Blunt did not join MI5 until May of 1940. Roger Hollis was not yet a prominent officer of MI5. Ms. Atkinson anticipates the execution of German spies by about a year. The Sergueiew incident did not occur until 1943. Some of this may be deliberate – an attempt to show that the experts in counter-espionage were as deceived as anybody as to what was going on. As another MI5 officer (Hartley, who also wants to use Juliet as ‘his girl’ on a project) says: “Storm in a teacup, all that stuff about the fifth column. Bunch of frustrated housewifes, most of them. Gibbons was obsessed with them. Anyway, you were looking at the wrong people – you should have been looking at the communists, they were always the real threat.”
So what we find here is more playing fast-and-loose with historical figures. And then I found that the author is quite candid about such games. In her ‘Author’s Note’, she admits that she ‘got a lot of it wrong, on purpose’, and ‘invented what she felt like’. Her sources show all the familiar titles (although she appears not to have used Henry Hemming’s recent biography of Maxwell Knight), and she has plucked from these the anecdotes and characters that suited her. But why? What she ends up with is neither authentic documentary nor imaginative fiction. She describes the process as ‘a wrenching apart of history followed by an imaginative reconstruction.’ No, madam: this is no Wolf Hall. And the plot is no stellar composition to compensate: the character of Juliet (who is mildly interesting to begin with, although this reviewer, appropriately sensitised by the #MeToo movement, found her urgent desires to be seduced by one or more of her mentors a trifle unsavoury) dissolves into a blur. Her involvement in a murder, and MI5’s disposal of the body, is simply melodramatic. Juliet never shows the aptitude or inclination to be a spy, and simply becomes a creature of apparently unexplained events. If there were subtle hints of her eventual political convictions to be found in earlier scenes, they certainly escaped me. I had lost interest in her before the twist in her career became clear.
Is there a deeper message here? Does ‘Transcription’ have something to do with ‘Deception’ or ‘Distortion’? Are the struggles and delusions of the Security Service an allegory of some post-imperial hangover? Does the ‘transcription’ carry a genetic metaphor, reflecting some process of DNA copying? “Search me, guv!”, as Harold Pinter responded when an enthusiastic devotee asked him for confirmation as to what one of his plays meant. One critic of this ‘superb story of wartime espionage’ (Gerry Kimber, in the Times Literary Supplement) declared that ‘readers will eventually learn that nothing they encounter here can be taken at face value: in this novel the dividing line between truth and lies is only smoke and mirrors.’ But thriving on smoke and mirrors can lead to intellectual sloppiness, and allow the writer to get away with all manner of carelessness. This novel has many moments of humour, and insights into the world of 1940 Britain and 1950 BBC that I found convincing and familiar, even, but Juliet’s arch asides became tiresome after a while, and I was not convinced by the actions and motivations of anybody.
As readers of my critiques will now have concluded, I am not a fan of ‘novels’ which attempt to compensate for their lack of creativity in credible plot and characterisation by drawing on historical sources in a highly selective manner. And I do not think I am alone, as the recent controversy over the distortion of facts by Heather Morris in her best-selling The Tattooist of Auschwitz shows. The author’s editor at Harper Collins was quoted as saying: “It’s a novel so it didn’t need to be fact-checked, though a novel needs to have verisimilitude.” But then it should not emphasise the ‘true story’ aspect if it plays around with the facts, as the alert reader will question everything else. I happened to turn next for my bedtime reading to an often neglected book by John le Carré that truly covers the ‘smoke and mirrors’ theme: The Looking-Glass War (1964). In his Foreword, le Carré writes: “None of the characters, clubs, institutions nor intelligence organisations I have described here or elsewhere exists, or has existed to my knowledge in real life.” That’s more like it, guv! (Though he had to say that, as they obviously did. But that’s a story for another day.)
The Secret World
For any collector of books on intelligence, Christopher Andrew’s latest work must be a necessary addition, probably to join other serious companions on the shelf of authorised histories. Yet, if such bibliophiles are like me, there will no spare space on any of their shelves, and it will have to take its place on one of the piles on the bridge-table, or heaped on the grand piano, unless I consider reclaiming shelf-space from some valuable but less solemn volumes that will be relegated to the annex. On reflection, I do not think the last option is likely. For all its 760 pages of Text, 58 pages of Sources, and 55 pages of Notes, I doubt whether I shall be referring to The Secret World often. Weighing in at three-and-a-half-pounds, however, it will undoubtedly bust many blocks. (And maybe block a few busts on top of the piano.)
So what is it about? Its subtitle runs ‘A History of Intelligence’, but the flyleaf claims that it is ‘the first global history of espionage ever written’, which is not the same thing at all. Espionage, counter-espionage, information-gathering, propaganda, deception: all those I might include under ‘Intelligence’, but I would certainly not consider state-arranged murder of its own citizens, or covert assassinations of foreign politicians, as part of that domain. Yet, in his Introduction, Andrew provocatively claims that they are. Thus, while it may be illuminating to make comparisons between the Spanish Inquisition and Stalin’s Great Terror of 1938, I question whether the classification of mass murder of innocent persons as a matter of ‘intelligence’ reflects a solid humanitarian judgment. Simply because the institution that carried out the executions was also responsible for spying on the populace, that fact does not contribute valuably to the study of the suitable deployment of ‘intelligence’ in domestic or foreign affairs. Andrew reinforces this unhappy theme by relating, in the concluding chapter, the worldwide assassination exploits of the Israeli intelligence organisation, Mossad, and controversially appears to approve such aggression as a winning strategy of ‘the most recent of the world’s most successful intelligence agencies’ in protecting the country. While ‘intelligence’ must be largely secret, however, not all that is secret counts as intelligence. These are shifting and controversial territories to be working in, and some moral compass is required.
Andrew’s dominant message is that a professional unawareness of how intelligence has been successfully (and unsuccessfully) deployed leads to repeated mistakes. Yet, as he explains in his Introduction, the excessive secrecy that attends to its role leads to delayed recognition of such awareness and to an uninformed populace. Records are not released, and histories are written with incomplete information or concealed knowledge (e.g. by such leading lights as A. J. P. Taylor and Winston Churchill respectively), with the result that whole generations are brought up on inadequate or distorted accounts of what primarily influenced outcomes. As he says, the public was protected from knowing about Ultra and the Double-Cross system decades after the events. But he does not analyse (as an outsider) or explain (as an insider) why secrets are maintained for so long. The Double-Cross system was never going to be exploited successfully against the Soviet adversary, no matter that some had delusions that it could be. Germany was never going to gain a revanchist advantage from learning how its Enigma messages had been decrypted, and the science of cryptology moved on. The VENONA secret was maintained for fifty years, but the Soviets knew about it from their spies anyway, and had fixed any procedural problems that the project would have revealed. (Moscow frequently knew much more than Britain’s Joint Intelligence Committee about what was really going on in the UK’s Secret World, a point that Andrew does not explore in depth.)
At the end of the book, Andrew returns to this important question of secrecy, dedicating a few pages to Wikileaks, making the claim that not much damage was in fact performed through this breach, and that government secrets have been betrayed for centuries. But, in that case, why has the US Government granted the highest-level security clearance to one-and-a-half million employees and consultants? How could it possibly monitor and maintain a system that pretended that it could vet and trust so many persons, and that the exposure of the secrets that had been entrusted to them would cause ‘exceptionally grave damage’? And why do MI5 and SIS display such a possessive and secret attitude to files that can have no possible bearing on today’s security challenges, and refuse to release folders that have by far outlived their shelf-life? This is the obverse of Andrew’s assertion, which he does not inspect at all. (Yet it was one that came through very clearly in his 1984 collaborative work with David Dilks, The Missing Dimension.)
Sir Christopher Andrew
The bulk of the book consists of a walk through intelligence history over the millennia, but it lacks much of a roadmap. One looks, therefore, to the final chapter for perhaps a thematic summing-up. This chapter is not titled ‘Conclusions’, however, but ‘Conclusion: Twenty-First Century Intelligence in Long-Term Perspective’. Rather than neatly integrating the lessons from the past, the section disappointingly rambles all over the place, introduces much new material, and ends with the rather plodding assertion: “The more that is discovered about the long-term history of intelligence, the more difficult it will be for both policymakers and practitioners to ignore past experiences”, as if the publication of this book will suddenly make ministers, intelligence chiefs, and watchdogs around the world all suddenly perk up when Andrew had presumably not been able to convince them beforehand of the errors of their ways. Well, maybe. Old habits die hard. And if the ‘Yoda’ (see FourBooksonEspionage) of intelligence studies cannot improve matters, who will be able to? But that is what you are paying for.
To reach that conclusion, the reader will have waded through a rich cavalcade of histories of espionage and deceit through the ages. The early parts had a little too much religion and mythology for my liking, much of the story having an anecdotal and unreliable aspect that may not bear much rigorous examination. (His narrative also served to remind me how the interminable feuds between Catholics and Protestants disproportionately influenced state policies, and how calamitous such futile religious commitments were for the peace of Europe.) Thereafter, the reader can pick up some of the lessons that recur over the centuries: the analogies between Ivan the Terrible and Stalin, for instance; the fact that despots want to be told what they have already preconceived (the difficulty of telling ‘Truth-to-Power’), disdaining intermediary intelligence-analysing bodies; and the requirement for governments to avoid proving an allegation against a foreign power by disclosing the clandestine channel through which they acquired it. (Though the existence of those hidden cameras in the Saudi Arabian embassy in Ankara had to be revealed for the greater good.)
But it would have been useful for Andrew to have identified up-front some themes that were important to the use of intelligence in strategy, and relate them to the epochs he studies. For example, how relevant today are lessons from the Second Punic War as opposed to those from WWII? What technological developments in the past fifty years have caused strategic assessment to change? In the final chapter he tries to recapitulate, by making some highly important points about the necessity for imagination when assessing the motivations and practices of the foe: these indeed point to some enduring patterns. Thus he shows how important open-ended questions for agents assessing German weapons programmes in WWII were, a lesson forgotten by the CIA sixty years later when it sought intelligence on Iraq. And he reminds us that both Stalin’s and Hitler’s obsessions, at different times of the war (Stalin’s determination to assassinate Trotsky, Hitler’s pursuit of the Final Solution) were completely misread by intelligence analysts in the West. Yet only in the last sentence of the penultimate chapter does he introduce his theory of Historical Attention-Span Deficit Disorder (HASDD), which he had briefly introduced in his Introduction. Why so late? Moreover, this is a global study: is misuse of intelligence cancelled out if it is perpetrated by adversaries, such as the West on the one side and Russia or China on the other? It is as if he (rightly) feels uncomfortable about giving advice to regimes for whose goals he does not bear any sympathy, but this matter is never explored.
By dint of this rather strange structure, Andrew does not really perform justice to the richness of lessons to be learned. Would it not have been educational, for instance, to make some comparisons between surveillance and containment activities undertaken by totalitarian regimes to further their control over perceived enemies, and those pursued in constitutional democracies? How should policies differ in peace and war, and how should they change in that time when the former drifts into the latter? What lessons should we take from the successes of state-sponsored assassination – that it works for some democracies, but not others, and is not justifiable when committed by more authoritarian states (Israel, yes, but not Russia or North Korea, perhaps)? It would have been enlightening if he had offered an analysis of how many of Israel’s 2700 targeted killings were a) strategically beneficial, and b) justifiable. Such passages really shocked this reader, who looked for more context and analysis.
It would also have been useful for him to have explored the question of political organisation of intelligence. For example, should leaders’ recognition of the strategic value of intelligence be translated into close contact with intelligence heads, or should it concentrate instead on the building of the appropriate processes and structures, and the recruitment of the right people (not potential traitors!), including enough individuals with appropriate language skills, and giving them training and a proper budget? (The former could indicate the latter has been ignored, of course. Executive politicians come and go: institutions endure.) He could have inspected successful patterns for developing mechanisms for sharing intelligence across different groups of the armed forces, and encouraging objective assessment. He could have explored cases where intelligence personnel showed imagination in not assuming that the enemy worked and thought as themselves. Britain, in the Chamberlain era, ignored nearly all these rules, and it took Churchill to make amends, such as giving the Joint Intelligence Centre some real teeth and focus, but policy towards the Soviet Union in World War II was marred by the Foreign Office’s belief that, if handled nicely, Stalin would behave like a typical English gentleman, rather than the Georgian gangster he always was. Readers will learn much more about such matters from, say, Ralph Bennett’s Behind the Battle (a work not appearing in Andrew’s Bibliography, but one which he could profitably have read) than they will from The Secret World.
Andrew’s judgments are largely unsurprising and sometimes questionable, I think, and he steps back from exploring really important topical matters, such as the use of modern technology (e.g. encryption, social media) in both subversion and counter-subversion. Neither Apple nor Facebook appears in the Index. He offers a few pages on Islamic fundamentalism, but does not discuss the critical subject of taqiyya, Islamic propaganda with a devious religious spin, or recommend how it should be countered. He represents 9/11 as a failure to combine the preparation for a threat originating on foreign soil with delivery inside the nation’s boundaries, when the plotters were in fact able to pass undetected because of woeful lack of communication and collaboration by the country’s intelligence agencies. He comes up with a knee-jerk assessment of McCarthyism that contains all the fashionably correct codewords: “The outrageous exaggerations and inventions of Senator Joseph McCarthy’s self-serving anti-Communist witch-hunt in the early 1950s made liberal opinion skeptical for the remainder of the Cold War of the reality of the Soviet intelligence offensive”, as if McCarthy had been responsible for the concealment of communists undertaken by such as the State Department. If there was a ‘reality of the Soviet intelligence offensive’, how should it have been revealed when it had already succeeded in its infiltration? Why was ‘liberal opinion’ so appeasingly indulged? How would experience have helped? Andrew ventures no opinion. He spends an enormous amount of print on Pearl Harbor, but barely scrapes the surface of the Soviet Union’s Red Orchestra and spy network in World War II, and how it affected critical negotiations between the Big Three towards the end of the conflict.
What it boils down to is that repeated patterns of activity are not really that interesting, while integrating growing knowledge of intelligence into historiography is endlessly so. That is why rewriting WWII history in the light of revealed secrets about Ultra, for example, is an ongoing task: even histories written in the 1990s were not able to take advantage of the raw decrypts that have now been released to the National Archives. He mentions this in his Introduction, but does not follow through. Instead, in order to provide some linkage with the present, Andrew has chosen to develop some leitmotifs that are entertaining, though not always revelatory. It is worth quoting a few:
“Scot was the first, and so far the only, British intelligence chief executed for treason.” (p 231)
“Before he [James II] could escape, however, he was caught by fishermen looking for fleeing Catholic priests, and suffered the humiliation of becoming the only British monarch ever to be strip-searched.” (P 250)
“Wallis was the first, and so far the only, British codebreaker to receive an award from a foreign ruler.” (P 253)
“Among the most reluctant witnesses to give evidence in the Lords against Atterbury was Edward Willes, the only codebreaker ever to appear before Parliament.” (p 274)
“His [Swift’s] Gulliver’s Travels contains the first (and so far the only) satire of codebreaking by a major British writer.” (p 275)
“So far as is known, following the failure of the Cadoudal conspiracy , no British government or government agency approved another plot to assassinate a foreign leader until the Second World War.” (P 338)
“The identity of ‘Michel’ was discovered from the handwriting and he became probably the only Russian spy ever to be sent to the guillotine.” (P 355)
“After the Bolshevik Revolution, Stalin placed all the volumes in his personal archive and brooded over them for many years, making extensive annotations and occasional doodles. So far as is known, no other world leader has ever spent so much time brooding over the intelligence record of his past life.” (P 441)
“Apis and three fellow officers were shot by firing squad. He thus became the first intelligence chief [of Serbia] of the twentieth century to be executed.” (P 448)
“Thanks to the failure of the Cheka to provide security, Lenin became the first, and so far the only, head of government to be the victim of a carjack.” (P 574)
“He [Kalugin] became the first (and possibly the last) KGB officer to serve on the Columbia University Student Council.” (P 685)
Does this pattern represent a nervous tic, or does it show innovative scholarship? I leave the reader to decide. But it must be passages like this that prompted Ben Macintyre to assert, in an interview in the New York Times Book Review, that The Secret World is ‘easy to dip into’ and ‘surprisingly funny’. I did not laugh much – but then I was not dipping.
While this critic was sometimes overwhelmed by the panorama of historical figures, many of whom I had not encountered before, I must credit the tremendous scholarship that has gone into this publication. Did Andrew really compose it all himself? Can any single scholar have read all those works listed? He thanks dozens of academics in his Acknowledgements, many of whom ‘notably extended my grasp of intelligence by allowing me to supervise their PhD theses’. Yet those theses are not listed separately, and only four such writers (Gioe, Gustafson, Larsen and Lokhova, whose contribution is actually an MPhil dissertation) have their theses listed in the Bibliography. On the other hand I did notice references to Cambridge University theses by authors whose names do not appear in the Acknowledgments. Were projects delegated to different scholars? I ask simply because I do not know how the process worked, although I have read that Andrew, who said that his writing of Defend the Realm was for him a part-time occupation, did on that project have junior academics performing primary research for him in the MI5 archives.
Irrespective of how the project functioned, or whether everyone has received the credit due to them, any seams are overall well concealed, and Andrew’s copy-editor has performed a solid job in providing stylistic consistency. Some deep textual analysis might show multiple authors at work: I spotted ‘different to’ on page 346, and ‘different from’ on page 490, which would be an unusual syntactic habit by an established academic with a competency for polished prose. Occasionally, errors occur: repeated textual descriptions and references (even in the same chapter) come up quite regularly, suggesting a text that has undergone homogenization without complete cross-checking. An individual map appears twice. ‘Bagration’ (from the Index) appears as ‘Bagratian’ (in the text). Rear-Admiral Macintire appears as ‘Macintyre’ in the same line (p 633). Colonel House appears sometimes as ‘Colonel’ House, as if it were a nickname. (The author invites readers to contact him with notices of errors, but does not indicate how.)
As for sources, Andrew quotes his own works a little too much for my liking, and I found it bizarre that he, as the authorised historian of MI5, would cite Ben Macintyre’s Double Cross as a source. He stresses the importance of the American journalists Woodward and Bernstein, but fails to mention anything that Chapman Pincher wrote, or the contribution that Pincher made to drawing attention to murky secrets. On the other hand, Andrew is a bit too eager to mention his acolyte Svetlana Lokhova (see FourBooksonEspionage), who even gains credit for her entrepreneurship: “The investigation of the Kremlin plot, whose voluminous files have recently been discovered by Svetlana Lokhova, revealed a security shambles on an even larger scale.” It was not as if Ms. Lokhova had been tramping intrepidly through the Amazon jungle in search of a lost tribe: she would not have been able to ‘discover’ those voluminous files without some high-up permission and guidance. Yet Andrew has no room for Lokhova’s profile of Shumovsky, The Spy Who Changed History, which essentially glorified the Soviet Union’s purloining of American scientific secrets. Is Andrew suggesting that the lessons of HASDD be applied consistently by potential global adversaries? It is all rather uneven, and reflects very indeterminate principles.
In conclusion, I should have liked Andrew to explore this notion of HASDD in more detail, and how it relates to the defence of the constitutional democracies. After all, we should assume that his lessons are for the ‘good guys’ (the liberal democracies) rather than for the ‘bad guys’ (authoritarian or totalitarian states, or transnational terrorist organisations). Andrew does not make this explicit: he describes China’s efforts to erase any memories of Tiananmen Square, but does not offer us an opinion of whether this initiative to improve state security is commendable, or to be deplored. (Is a stable but authoritarian and expansive China better for the West than a China that starts to fragment or crumble?) Nor does he encompass the possibility, as we are frequently told these days, that the democracies may well be at risk more from the imitation of illiberal democracies, or from the sway of undemocratic superstates, than they are from ideological would-be territorial invaders, such as the Nazis and the Communists. That former warning is, presumably, the moral message he is leaving with us, rather than a sermon on how an inattention to historical precedent sometimes inhibits China’s new imperialism, or Iran’s regional ambitions.
Does this HASDD syndrome reflect a problem of structure, personnel, process, or skills? Is it the fault of the intelligence services, the politicians, (in Britain) the Joint Intelligence Committee, or some other agency? Is this a uniquely British/American condition? And, if he considers that the lore of successful spycraft is not properly understood and applied, why is he surprised, given that the security services (in the UK) were not admitted to exist until the 1990s, that the authorised history of SIS stops in 1949, that both MI5 and SIS have engaged in cover-ups to conceal their mistakes, and that they have selectively broken the Official Secrets Act by allowing journalists access to secret files in order to write publications that would act as public relations exercises? After all, the authorised histories avoid the really contentious issues that might provide learning examples for HASDD. It is no wonder that there exists a substantial amount of suspicion about the effectiveness of both institutions.
Coming closer to home (well, my spiritual home, I suppose, but I suspect I have more readers in the UK than in the USA), what needs to be done to improve British intelligence? In response to Andrew’s examples from more recent times, were the close links between Sir Richard Dearlove (head of SIS) and Anthony Blair that the author highlighted a sign of greater ministerial awareness, or of dangerous cronyism? Clement Attlee, as he points out, had frequent meetings with Percy Sillitoe, the head of MI5, but what Andrew does not say is that it did not help Attlee, since Sillitoe lied to his PM over the Fuchs case, in order to save the Service. How actively should the parliamentary Intelligence and Security Committee monitor MI5? Shouldn’t there be a vigorous filter between intelligence collection and executive action – the JIC? Andrew supports the establishment of centres for study into intelligence and security matters, but are those who teach there going to be unrestrained by pledges of secrecy? Would research carried on under their auspices address the HASDD problem? And does each faculty then become part of that inescapable irritatingly-named entity ‘the intelligence community’? Is it good or bad that members of this group might have different views on intelligence matters? If it is indeed a ‘community’, should MI5 and SIS be combined, since the Empire no longer exists, and many threats to security do not recognize national boundaries? Do retired heads of MI5 and SIS, voicing their opinions on national security on public platforms, help or hinder the task of guiding policy? These are some of the questions that it would have been useful for Andrew to address.
And, as a final thought – perhaps intelligence is sometimes overrated. In life we learn that the predatory behavior of a bully is best resisted as early as possible, as the malefactor will otherwise assume that his aggression works for him, and will repeat it. At the time of Hitler’s militarization of the Rhineland in 1936, and Stalin’s claims for possession of the Baltic States in 1941, both bullies were relatively weak, and yet they were not challenged. Is it the same with President Xi, and his demands on Taiwan, and the construction of artificial islands in the China Sea? No furtive gathering of information was necessary to divine what was happening in either of the two historical instances, yet the fear of ‘provocation’ overrode the political conviction that what deters bullies best is a quick biff on the nose – or, at least, its diplomatic equivalent. And autocrats are more transparent in that they don’t have to avoid decisions that might lose them the next election (unlike Stanley Baldwin). We can perhaps get too caught up in the fog of intelligence, and forget some simple psychological lessons.
I suppose part of the problem in taking on a task of this magnitude is the truth that Andrew has become part of the official intelligence apparatus. That leads to a paradox – a Morton’s Fork. If Andrew is indeed that firmly embedded, it must be impossible for him to analyse objectively the infrastructure to which he belongs. Yet, if he were an outsider, he would not be privy to much of the knowledge of how the apparatus works, because it is so secret, although sometimes unnecessarily so. An insider knows too much, an outsider too little. Moreover, it is difficult to write a volume that serves as both objective history as well as a tutorial on intelligence and spycraft. The Secret World is thus a compromise: a monumental and educational undertaking of great academic quality, testimony to some impressive research, but lacking a clear charter, and failing to explore ruthlessly enough the patterns of failure and success in governments’ deployment of intelligence. There is a book to be written about that latter topic, but Andrew’s is not it.
(This month’s new Commonplace entries can be found here.)
Some Famous Conspiracy Theorists (Nos 17-20 in a series of 50)
A Lesson from Salisbury
As most readers familiar with the Skryalin affair will know, recently two GRU officers masquerading as tourists with an enthusiasm for Early English architecture were shown, through the means of a surveillance camera, sauntering through Salisbury. Soon after those pictures were published, I was interested to read the following statement in the New York Times: “Matthew Dean, the head of Salisbury’s City Council and owner of a local pub, the Duke of York, said he hoped it would put to rest conspiracy theories circulating about the crime.” The implied hope behind Mr. Dean’s statement was that a more convincing theory, one backed up by more solid evidence, would oust alternative explanations that lacked any real factual basis, and that tended to exploit hidden fears and motivations.
I do not know to which other theories Mr. Dean was referring (poison planted by British intelligence? release of a germ from Porton Down by a disgruntled employee?), but the obvious implication was that all ‘conspiracy theories’ are inherently false and deceptive. ‘Conspiracy theory’ is a pejorative term. Yet MI5, in trying to work out what had happened, and conjecturing that the attack was probably engineered by some part of Russian ‘intelligence’, would have had to create some kind of theory about how Novichok found its way to the back-streets of Salisbury. Whether the action of a single deranged agent (which in truth by definition could not be a conspiracy), or a deed plotted deeply in the conference-rooms of the Lubianka, any hypothesis would presumably come under the category of ‘conspiracy theory’. Yet the strong evidence that the perpetrators had been identified would in fact make this particular ‘conspiracy theory’ a winner over inferior versions. With the GRU now nailed, the conspiracy is almost certainly proven: the ‘theoretical’ aspect of it is retired. What happened next, however, was that the established facts became a conspiracy theory of their own: Marcello Foa, the new chairman of Italy’s state broadcaster RAI, was reported in the New York Times on September 28 as saying that he doubted the evidence that Moscow’s operatives poisoned Skryalin, as it was ‘too obvious’.
You can read an informative article about conspiracy theories at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Conspiracy_theory. Such theories not based on any tangible evidence are mostly the dreamchildren of the ambitious but frustrated, the third-rate who cannot gain the influence or power they think they deserve, and thus have to attribute their failure to some malign cabal. In authoritarian regimes many despots, who are classical conspiracy theorists, are paranoiac about challenges to their power, as they realise their grip on it is artificial and resented. In liberal democracies, a mistrust of the ‘authorities’ – often governmental institutions who have forgotten their sense of accountability to the public – and their apparent determination to protect institutions or persons, frequently leads to scepticism about the official line, and gullible members of the citizenry may become susceptible to dubious theories enthusiastically promoted. Fantasy drives facts, and an emotional appeal is made to baser instincts than reason. The Internet has reinforced the presence of such theories, as it is neutral, undiluted and universal.
Conspiracy and the Historians
This is especially true in the domain of intelligence and counter-intelligence, since the appeal to ‘national security’ may be overused in the process of concealing the facts. The curious public might justifiably wonder why certain information is withheld. Yet, if there is an obvious mismatch between the evidence and the outcome, the discretion will provide a void that activists will cheerfully fill. This was the point I made in my August blog, where I thought it naive of Christopher-Davenport Hines to attack the media for investigating obvious loopholes in the official stories of dubious goings-on when the intelligence services had shown such an obvious disdain for coming clean and admitting their mistakes in their accounts to the public. Thus the conspiracies entered by officers in government services, whereby they agree to keep uncomfortable facts hidden from the public, in fact exert an influence of provoking further conspiracy theories.
This dynamic can lead to tensions between the authorities and those serious analysts who, while not wanting to put the nation’s security at risk, believe a more open approach to disclosure of information is desirable. In his Introduction to Seven Spies who Changed the World (1991), Nigel West wrote: “Whilst there are plenty of conspiracy theorists perhaps a little too willing to advocate global schemes of labyrinthine complexity, often constructed on foundations of dubious evidence, there is plenty of room in our culture for due recognition to be given to what might be termed ‘the secret world’.” (That, incidentally, is the title of Sir Christopher Andrew’s recent history of intelligence.) West’s not very precisely articulated point (who was supposed to be granting the ‘due recognition’ that was not happening?) was presumably that while the public should make allowances that some degree of secrecy is needed to protect policies, practices and personnel from public scrutiny, the curious media should be encouraged to speculate. He preceded the above remarks by pointing out a quantum of double standards in the approach to historiography, some sentences that I believe are worth quoting in full.
“Security considerations are entirely valid as motives for omitting certain aspects of history from publication, but the historians who have either submitted to censorship or imposed it upon themselves can hardly blame the public for seeking to learn more about episodes and incidents that have previously been consigned, for the sake of discretion, to locked vaults. However, for them to deride those historiographers who overcome the obstacles and gain access to an ‘airport-bookstall school of history’ betrays an intellectual arrogance of breathtaking proportions.” (This is akin to the Davenport-Hines defence of ‘experts’, I believe.) He clearly moves part of the blame to those historians who have performed some sort of compromise with ‘the secret world’. But to whom could West have been referring?
He wrote this in 1991, and somewhat bizarrely, given the timing, also observed that Professors Hinsley and Howard ‘have been commissioned by the government to write official accounts of the parts played by British intelligence services during World War II’. (The first volume had appeared in 1979, and the last in 1990.) Perhaps West had not yet studied them: his criticisms seem to have been directed elsewhere. As the author of a history of MI5 (1981) that presumably fell into that ‘airport-bookstall’ school, a serious, very useful, but inevitably flawed book, West was of course not aware that Professor Andrew’s authorised history of MI5 would be appearing at the end of the following decade. Yet he still had a barb for Andrew, who may have fallen into that set ‘who have either submitted to censorship or imposed it upon themselves’. In a Note on this section of his Introduction he singles out Professors Cameron Watt and Andrew as the culprits who have unjustly scorned the popular historiographers, and gets his own back by panning Andrew’s recent Inside the KGB (1990): “The latter [Andrew] himself fell foul of his academic colleagues when he published Inside the KGB with Oleg Gordievsky without supporting documentation. It was noted that the book contained virtually no new research and depended heavily on either secondary sources or a single source without verification.” Touché! I am sure West was referring to the review by Tennant Bagley, former Deputy Chief of the CIA’s Soviet Division, who wrote in the Wall Street Journal that Andrew had ‘taken shortcuts in the historian’s disciplines that diminish the book’s authority’. Further: “He often leans on a single source, while overlooking more reliable ones, and by trusting earlier writers who got their information second-hand, so he has perpetuated mistakes that any knowledgeable reader will spot.” ‘Officially Unreliable’, in other words.
Sir Christopher Andrew
But this feud between the confidants on the inside and the sceptics on the outside continues. Gordievsky is very much in the news again now, because of Ben Macintyre’s controversial new biography of the KGB defector, The Spy and the Traitor, to which I shall return in a future blog. On page 319 of this work Macintyre writes, seemingly oblivious to the criticisms addressed to Andrew and Gordievsky: “He [Gordievsky] gave lectures, listened to music, and wrote books with the historian Christopher Andrew, works of detailed scholarship [sic] that still stand as the most comprehensive accounts of Soviet intelligence to date.” Macintyre appears a little too trusting of what Gordievsky and the SIS insiders who minded him chose to tell the author. Is this simply a Mutual Admiration Society, the gathering around the ‘Yoda’ of intelligence history (see my August blog), in other words a relatively benign form of conspiracy, or is it something more dangerous? The point is that the balance of secrecy has been weighted too far on the side of government bodies, and certain historians, by colluding with them, exacerbate the problem.
I believe that what West hints at concerning self-censorship is a very serious matter. For example, if a historian signs the Official Secrets Act, in my opinion he or she is compromised as a serious analyst. If an authority essentially imposes silence on certain topics as the cost of gaining secret insider information, that academic is in practice prohibited from writing or teaching authoritatively about any subject, as he or she may have to ignore evidence that could be critical to the study of that topic. (I suspect that such a person is also barred from admitting that he or she has even signed the Act.) I do not understand why any academic would consent to such a restriction, except out of gratitude that one is considered important enough to be confided in secrets that the broader world does not know about, or as a necessary preliminary in a consulting assignment. The result of such flattery is that the academic can presumably be trusted by the government authority to put a vague positive spin on the activities of the contracting department, but the inevitable outcome is that he or she becomes part of a ‘conspiracy of silence’.
And mysteries persist. Thus, when the facts appear not to match the official story, or ‘insiders’ leak accounts that contradict it, the serious objective historian, without special access to official sources (whom one should not trust, anyway), and sharing the open archives with everyone else, has to develop his or her hypotheses in an attempt to explain why the authorities would not want the details of a particular event or exploit not to become public. And I believe a serious academic fist can be made of such research without the author’s becoming a member of the ‘airport-bookstall’ school. (Oh, if only Misdefending the Realm appeared alongside Ben Macintyre’s oeuvre on airport bookstalls!) It simply requires a solid methodology, hard work, and a strong regard for chronology – laced with a careful amount of imagination. Of necessity, the theories that emanate from such work will involve the actions of multiple persons – hence a ‘conspiracy’.
I have very direct experience of this process myself. When writing my thesis on communist subversion in WWII, one episode constantly niggled at me: Why would the Foreign Office have condoned a visit by Guy Burgess and Isaiah Berlin to Moscow at a time (July 1940) when the Soviet Union was helping Nazi Germany in the war effort? I developed a hypothesis that it must have been planned as some kind of back-channel from Churchill’s administration to Stalin, but could not pinpoint why. I even ran the idea up the tentative flagpole in my original History Today article on The Undercover Egghead (see https://www.historytoday.com/antony-percy/isaiah-berlin-undercover-egghead ), but gained no shred of feedback to either encourage or squelch the notion. Given the conspiracy of silence that obnubilated Burgess and all those who were hoodwinked by him, it was very difficult to find any documentary evidence to support my idea.
It turned out that the argument of my thesis rested very heavily on this event: it was the pivot. However, as I developed the case, from a very detailed study of the chronology, and of the actions of dozens of parties at the time, it seemed to me that Churchill, in June and July 1940, at a very critical time of the war, was taking on a very cagey tactic in trying to play Hitler off Stalin while not encouraging the two dictators to gang up on the British Empire. Britain was that summer still facing an imminent invasion – long before the USA entered the hostilities – and Churchill had to use every feint, including the pretence that a peace faction still held considerable sway, to discourage Hitler from making a naval assault when the country’s defences were still weak. Yet he had to deter Stalin from concluding that Britain was finished.
When I wrote this up, my supervisor, Professor Glees, was rightly very critical and interrogatory. I had no primary evidence that this is what was happening, and I suppose my thesis was at that juncture in jeopardy. And then, a sudden bulletin from a contact in the UK arrived: the National Archives had just released (October 2015) a new file on Burgess that confirmed that he had been sent to Moscow in July 1940 to convince the Comintern to abandon its pact with Nazi Germany and join the allies (p 81 of Misdefending the Realm). In other words, Churchill had indeed intended to remind Stalin of Britain’s resolve, and to convince him to ignore rumours of the burgeoning peace movement. In the light of Burgess’s treachery revealed later, politicians and civil servants who knew about his employment by the Foreign Office at that time had covered up the facts when reporting to a sceptical House of Commons on the flight of Burgess and Maclean to the Soviet Union – a conspiracy. When I showed this to Professor Glees, he was convinced, and I could move on.
One of the warnings that Professor Glees constantly gave me was not to ‘chase hares’. While I understand what he meant by this, I disagreed with the advice to the extent that a curious historian has to ‘chase hares’, else he or she will never catch anything of interest at all. Otherwise you end up with the kind of dry-as-dust history that A. J. P. Taylor characterised as ‘what one clerk said to another’, in a famous London Review of Books review in 1982 (see https://www.lrb.co.uk/v04/n03/ajp-taylor/what-one-clerk-said-to-another ). The key is not to get obsessed with any particular lagomorph, and to call off the hunt when the prey in question begins to look like a minor species of unicorn. Burgess in Moscow (which he never reached until he fled in 1951, by the way) was one thing. On the other hand, I remember trying to pin down whether Sedlacek and Roessler, the shadowy figures in the Swiss espionage ring in WWII, were actually one and the same person (for reasons that I shall explore another time), before concluding that the evidence was too flimsy, and that I had to move on. The point is that creating ‘conspiracy theories’ that either turn out to have substance, or have to be abandoned for lack of evidence, is the meat and potatoes of historical research.
One reason why I decided to write this piece is that, in the last few years, I have been privately called out by at least two very respectable academics as being a ‘conspiracy theorist’. This happened because, in the course of email exchanges about historical figures, I had suggested that perhaps things were not as they seemed, and started to explore possible alternative explanations. I believe both persons, whose judgments I overall respect very highly, were perhaps a little too attached to the institution or personage to which or to whom they had dedicated a significant part of their professional life, and became very defensive. And I politely told them so, and said that I thought they were overreacting to private, provocative questions from a curious mind, one trying to seek the truth (or at least, the facts). They were both very reliant on the ‘authorised histories’ for their information, and, when I pointed out that these were very unreliable sources of what actually happened, one of these academics very sensibly responded: ‘But that is all we have’.
And that is the nub of what I see as a major problem. Now that the official or authorised histories have been written about MI5, SIS (although only up to 1949), Intelligence in WWII, and the Joint Intelligence Committee (Volume 1, to 1956), with one on GCHQ scheduled for next year, it leaves many observers perhaps concluding that the deed is done, that there will shortly be no more to be said. But that would be a travesty. A large volume of files is continually being released at Kew that will cause a dramatic re-assessment of what actually occurred. The preamble to the Government Official History series boasts that the aim of the volumes is ‘to produce major histories in their own right, compiled by historians eminent in the field, who are afforded free access to all relevant material in the official archives’. One of the works listed is SOE in France, by M. R. D. Foot, which was written in 1966, when he assuredly did not enjoy ‘free access’ to all the archives. Yet the work had to be revised and updated in 2006, and Professor Foot was fortunately around to perform the job. * It covers only one country, however: the others remain without an official history. Why? Similar exercises will be needed with the other histories – especially that of MI5, with which I am most familiar.
M R D Foot
[* Attentive readers will recall that I read SOE in France during the passage of Hurricane Florence. I had borrowed this volume from the University Library in Wilmington, but afterwards thought that I should read the 2004 updated edition, which I had to buy via Abebooks. In an extended Preface, Foot admits the embargo put upon him four decades ago on even mentioning SIS, and informs us that “I have been able to be more straightforward about a service from part of which part of SOE derived.”. So are there important new revelations to be made here? There is no entry for SIS, or Gambier-Parry, or Menzies, or Section VIII in the Index, and I thus have to trawl through the text looking for fresh insights. The pages have been reset: the Notes are now at the back. What a drag.]
In Search of a Forum
Thus my objectives in writing about these issues are twofold: first, to gain greater scrutiny on the more dubious claims that have established themselves in the authorised histories, and second, to create a mechanism where they may be examined in detail, and perhaps overturned, or at least clarified. How can these goals be achieved? For some time I have been looking for a forum where reputable historians and experts could discuss and explore some of the remaining conundrums of British intelligence, espionage, and counter-espionage over the past eighty years or so. I do not believe the conventional media work. The specialty intelligence journals are too exclusive and expensive, and move too slowly. History Today is very cautious about stepping into recent history, with all its controversies of interpretation. There appears to be a lack of drive in the conference business. For example, a few years ago, I was privileged to be invited to a conference on Governments-in-Exile in World War II, hosted at Lancaster House by SIS under the guise of the Foreign Office. It was an excellent event built around a fascinating, underexposed subject, with many impressive speakers from a variety of European countries. The organisers promised that proceedings of the event would be published – but nothing happened.
The Internet should provide part of the answer, but it is too chaotic, too frenzied, and too undisciplined. There are many vitally useful sites for gaining information not available elsewhere (though they need to be processed carefully), but no place where issues can be moderated and discussed seriously without a free-for-all, and insults and . . . ahem . . . a surfeit of conspiracy theories. In the broader world, cliques and mutual admiration societies exist: cults of personality grow, such as the idolizing that surrounds Sir Christopher Andrew (as I pointed out in August.). The Official Secrets Act exerts its baleful influence. Moreover, it is not always certain that historians possess a sincere desire to discover the facts. I believe that too many experts maintain entrenched positions, sometime forgetting that, since they have been fed certain lines by insiders who may have had a message to get across, the experience may not count as reliable sourcing. Some academics do not like being challenged on any published position they have held, and thus do not encourage an open, egalitarian approach to the discipline, an example of which I offer in the following anecdote.
I occasionally try to contact authors of books on intelligence that I have read, especially when I want to follow up on a point of contention. It also now serves as a way of drawing attention to coldspur and Misdefending the Realm. Sometimes I have to track such persons down through their agents. I am always careful to be polite and deferential, saying how much I enjoyed the book (even if I didn’t), as I know how tough this business of writing is, and how easily mistakes slip in. When one academic published a book on Soviet spycraft a few years ago, I wrote to ask clarification over a matter of identity, as the writer seemed to have conflated the names of two ‘illegal’ Soviet agents into one – namely Ignaty Reif and Ignace Reiss. The response was sharp, patronising, and dismissive. I was instructed to read his text more carefully. I persevered. In the end, I had to resort to pointing out the photographs of the two characters in Deadly Illusions, the book about Alexander Orlov by John Costello and Oleg Tsarev, and to asking the historian whether he thought they were the same person. I could imagine the gulp at the other end of the line. The author rather grudgingly admitted that I was right, and said he would correct the error (which would not have been a simple task) in the second edition of his book. At least he responded. Not everyone does.
The perennial problem is that so many loose end and unresolved mysteries exist in the world of intelligence, and so many untruths are perpetuated by careless assimilation that a process for bringing some order to the chaos is highly desirable. Ever since I first published my blog on Officially Unreliable, I have imagined putting on a colloquium around that theme, where assembled experts would present papers that would then be discussed. These matters are complex. Competence in intelligence matters needs to be complemented by expertise in civil and constitutional law, in wireless telegraphy, and in political and military history – even in psychology. I understand that some academics would be hesitant to display their knowledge of a subject in the company of rivals, but I still thought such a forum would be of immense interest to many who study security and intelligence affairs. I thus suggested such an event to the faculty at the University of Buckingham, compiling a sample agenda with speakers, as I thought it would show thought-leadership, and add to the prestige of the department. Unfortunately, after some initial enthusiasm, the idea went nowhere, and likewise a plan for a conference in partnership with another entity also foundered.
Trouble in Aberystwyth
Gregynog Hall, Aberystwyth
With this background, in mid-August Professor Glees happened to wonder whether I would be interested in presenting at a conference on intelligence that the University of Aberystwyth is holding this November. I jumped at the opportunity: it would be a chance to get myself in front of an audience, and I could perhaps combine the trip to the UK with some opportunities with other institutions to talk about my book. I checked out the website, noticed that submissions for papers had to be in by August 25, and thus compiled a description based on some of my recent research into wireless transmission and interception that I thought would be of lively interest. (The Conference did not specify any real agenda at that time.) After a few days, I received a brief message acknowledging my submission, and requesting me to fill out a registration form (with payment).
Well, of course I was not going to register until I knew my submission had been accepted. I had explained in my covering letter the logistics problems: Aberystwyth knew where I lived, and what was involved. So I waited. And waited. About a month later, I checked the website again. The expiration date for submissions was now September 25, but there was still nothing published about conference tracks, themes, committed outside speakers, etc. I had notionally given up on the idea as a waste of time, when Professor Glees, in a solicitous email about Hurricane Florence, happened to ask me whether I would be attending the conference. I replied immediately, telling the Professor what had happened, and saying that I thought that the whole thing was a disaster.
Then a couple of days later, I received a very brief email from Aberystwyth from someone who just signed his name as ‘Gerry’, with no indication of his role at the university, saying merely: “Your paper has been accepted. Please proceed with your registration”, again providing a link to the sign-up url. My guess was that Professor Glees probably knew the people there, and had intervened on my behalf, and his contacting them had provoked this message. So I very warmly thanked ‘Gerry’, but explained again the logistics of the situation, and that I was not going to commit to attending the conference until I knew a lot more about its substance, the requirements for submitting papers, the main speakers, etc. etc. – quite natural requests by any active participant, I would have thought. I replied the same day (September 21), and immediately started contacting other institutions in the UK at which I thought I might also speak, admitting that it was very short notice, but explaining the dilemma I was in.
Two of these institutions responded immediately – enthusiastically but cautiously, given the lack of time to prepare. Six weeks later, I am still awaiting a proper response from Aberystwyth. (I received a brief acknowledgment from an administrator on October 5, who wrote that Gerry would get back to me ‘as soon as possible’. ‘You mean when he has recovered from the Eisteddfod?’ Have I walked into a David Lodge novel?) I have therefore told my other contacts that I shall not be going ahead with my visit. I know a fair amount about the conference business, having worked for Gartner Group for over twelve years, and I can confidently say that the University of Aberystwyth is the biggest shambles I have yet encountered. All they really wanted was my money – and they seem utterly unaware that I don’t even get out of bed for less than £10,000. It is all very unprofessional and discourteous, and I do not understand why anyone would attend one of its conferences unless he or she were ordered to.
Some of my friends were alarmed by my resolve. “Don’t you realise, Tony, that you’ll never eat lunch in Aberystwyth again!”, and “Won’t that scotch your chances of ever being invited to join Sir Christopher Andrew’s Cambridge Security Initiative?” And I shrugged my shoulders, saying: “If those are the sacrifices that have to be made when calling out rank incompetence, then so be it.” And I quoted to them what the great T. H. Huxley said: “Those who elect to be free in thought and deed must not hanker after the rewards, if they are to be so called, which the world offers to those who put up with its fetters.” (That would be a good watchword for historians with an eye on awards and gongs.) The conference for the Centre for Intelligence and International Security Studies (see https://www.aber.ac.uk/en/interpol/research/research-centres-and-institutes/ciiss/ciissconference2018/: still no agenda, as I write on October 31, for an event to be held in two weeks’ time) will have to go on without me. (Is there a conspiracy afoot?)
One last initiative I made to help publicise my cause was to write to the Press just before I published my recent piece on the faked suicide of ter Braak. I fondly imagined that, with the continued public interest in matters of espionage, occasionally highlighted by the release of new materials at the National Archives, my hitherto untold story of extrajudicial murder of an Abwehr agent engineered by MI5 during World War II might constitute a considerable scoop for one of the British dailies. I thus gave a glimpse of my findings, serially to the Times the Daily Telegraph, and the Daily Mail, alerting them to my imminent posting, and inviting them to put together a coincident story around my publication date at the end of the month. None of the newspapers even acknowledged my email, even though they had provided an address for the public to submit stories to them. I did the same with Private Eye (knowing that it had been largely responsible for unmasking Anthony Blunt: see http://www.private-eye.co.uk/covers/cover-468 ), accepting that the matter was probably not really current enough for its ambit. I did receive a courteous declinatory email from the Editor, Ian Hislop.
The Nub of the Matter
So what is the meat of all this? Are these just specialist issues of intelligence arcana? I think not. Intelligence history is of little value unless it is deeply integrated into political and military history. Stalin manipulated Churchill and Roosevelt at Yalta because his spies in the UK and the USA forewarned him of their negotiating tactics over Eastern Europe. He mistrusted the commitment of his Alliance counterparts because they fed to him only a small edited sub-section of the ULTRA decrypts that his agents were sending to him through the London Embassy. The invasion of Europe could have been fatally undermined because of the reckless way that the XX Committee and B.1a in MI5 orchestrated the wireless transmissions of their Abwehr double agents. These are the kinds of question that I have been pursuing in my research, trying to gain attention to my argument that the official and unofficial histories of WWII and the Cold War need always to be re-assessed in the light of fresh developments.
I have developed a classification for such issues into seven states. These are not necessarily stages through which issues pass, but it may be that an evolution from 1 to 7 does occur in some cases. State 1: No apparent public controversy exists. The official (or ‘authorised’) explanation is broadly accepted and echoed, but questions of evidence or logic gather on the truth of the claim, and are not easily dispelled. Examples of State 1 are Churchill’s reported edict on banning any decryption of Russian signals after the Soviet Union entered the war, and the still not satisfactorily explained death of Hugh Gaitskell.
State 2: No discernible ‘official’ position exists. A matter of intelligence is covered with contradictions and paradoxes, with no distinctive theory gaining strong support. The truth may be lost in ‘the wilderness of mirrors’. An example of State 2 is the allegiance and role of the scientist Wilfrid Mann when assigned to work in the USA.
State 3: A maverick theory carrying some definite sense is postulated, but its sources are undefined or dubious: the hypothesis may be diminished because of very constrained publicity and awareness. Examples of State 3 are the possible execution of Gösta Caroli, and the claim that Michael Foot was a KGB agent of influence.
State 4: A serious debate among historians takes place, reflecting multiple views. Some sources may be verifiable, but they are frequently secondary, and carelessly repeated: questions still remain unresolved because of the lack of primary sources. Examples of State 4 are Britain’s use of the Rote Drei in Switzerland to communicate ULTRA to Stalin, and the identification of the Soviet spy with the cryptonym ELLI.
State 5: Strong support for an alternative explanation is found, but it lacks conclusive evidence, and thus cannot be accepted in official forums. An example of State 5 is the assertion that Admiral Canaris was not simply a plotter against Hitler, but was actively assisting British intelligence.
State 6: A carefully argued new explanation, backed up by solid research, receives local or peer-group acceptance, but is not broadly or officially accepted, probably owing to lack of awareness and interest, and may have segments missing. Examples of State 6 are this author’s explanation that the political objective of Guy Burgess’s mission to Moscow was known and approved by leading civil servants, and my theory that Soviet agent SONIA’s arrival in the UK was orchestrated by SIS and MI5.
State 7: A simmering ‘conspiracy theory’ is resolved and accepted, becoming part of authorised history, or is at least recognized by leading established historians: sceptics, however, may turn against the establishment for making official what is still unpopular in some quarters. An example of State 7 is the confirmation through the VENONA transcripts that Alger Hiss was indeed a Soviet agent, which has provoked some leftist backlash to the effect that this is an establishment conspiracy theory, and that he was in fact innocent. An Alphabet-Sized List of Intelligence Mysteries from WWII & After
I conclude this piece by listing twenty-six conundrums that I have come across during my researches. For the sake of conciseness (at the risk of over-simplification) I restrict my description of each to 75 words. They appear in no particular order. (Readers who would like to inspect a deeper coverage of a subset of such topics might like to look at Nigel West’s Unreliable Witness: Espionage Myths of World War II, published in London in 1984. It appeared in the USA the following year with the title A Thread of Deceit – and the same sub-title.)
A. The cover-up over Guy Burgess: The House of Commons was misled over Guy Burgess’s career when the post-mortem into Burgess’s and Maclean’s escape occurred. Sir Patrick Reilly provided a parliamentary response which completely overlooked Burgess’s employment by the Foreign Office and D Section before and during the war, claiming that he had simply worked for the BBC. Who exactly knew about his mission to Moscow, and who ordered his activities to be hushed up? (State: 6)
B. Roessler & Sedlacek: Roessler was the shadowy figure identified as LUCY in the Swiss spy ring. But Alexander Foote wrote that LUCY was the Czech intelligence officer Sedlacek (aka Selzinger), who was issued with a British passport by SIS before he went to Switzerland. Were Roessler and Sedlacek one person? Is Roessler’s well-publicised bio, showing a life in Germany, fake? Or was Foote confused? Why was his error not corrected? Can anyone supply a photograph of Sedlacek? (State: 1)
C. ULTRA & Rote Drei: While the official line is that ULTRA was never distributed to Stalin through an Anglo-Soviet spy ring in Switzerland, too many prominent voices have claimed otherwise. It is a much more plausible explanation than that of LUCY receiving his information directly from inside German intelligence. If Foote was an agent of Dansey’s Z Organisation, the answer becomes even clearer. Why were claims from insiders so strenuously denied? (State: 4)
D. Foote & the Z Organisation: Much of the evidence points towards the fact that Alexander Foote, who had outwardly been recruited to Soviet espionage through the International Brigade in Spain, was in fact a member of Claude Dansey’s parallel intelligence structure to SIS, the Z organisation. Foote’s role as an apprentice to – and then replacement for – agent SONIA (Ursula Kuczynski) then makes much more sense, even though officers in Z denied it. Why wouldn’t they? (State: 3)
E. Double-Cross agents & the Radio Security Service: Many commentators have observed that the wireless transmission practices of several XX agents in WWII were highly reckless, and should have caused German intelligence to question the efficiency of Britain’s wireless detection mechanisms. Even if the Abwehr was tacitly sympathetic to anti-Hitler initiatives, why did the XX Committee and the London Controlling Station risk the whole plan of deceit by condoning such irresponsible behaviour? (State: 1)
F. Manipulation of agent SONIA: The ease with which agent SONIA was able to pass, in the winter of 1940-41, from Switzerland to the UK via Portugal has been overlooked. Yet a close study of the archives show that she was abetted by generous practices on behalf of SIS and MI5 (and by Foote’s perjury), which facilitated her being installed in Oxfordshire as a Soviet spy. Was this all in fact engineered by Claude Dansey of the Z Organisation? (State: 6)
G. The Identification of ELLI: ELLI was the cryptonym of a Soviet agent – probably in MI5 – disclosed by the defector Gouzenko in 1945. Various theories have been promoted as to who lay behind the name: Guy Liddell (John Costello); Roger Hollis (Chapman Pincher); and Leo Long (Christopher Andrew, the authorised historian, relying on Gordievsky). For various reasons, all are unlikely, and the answer may rely on the opening of Russian archives. When, President Putin? (State: 4)
H. Leo Long in MI14: When Joan Miller published ‘One Girl’s War’ in 1986, the British government tried to ban it. It contained an obvious pointer to the detection of Leo Long’s wartime espionage in MI14, working for Anthony Blunt. It seems obvious that MI5 tried to hush up the discovery up at that time, and Long was even recruited for intelligence work in Germany after the war. What was going on, and why has Miller’s work been overlooked? (State: 6)
I. Fuchs as British agent?: In his biography of Klaus Fuchs, ‘The Spy Who Changed the World’, Mike Rossiter tells of files he found at Kew that suggested that Fuchs was collaborating with the British government while at Los Alamos. These files were subsequently withdrawn, and other files have been withheld. Why the secrecy? It could be another reason for MI5’s considerable coyness over the Fuchs affair, but why would Fuchs have not brought it up at his trial? (State: 1)
J. Demise of Denniston: Alistair Denniston was a loyal and (mostly) effective leader of GC&CS from 1919 to 1942, yet he alone of all chiefs was not knighted, and his pension was reduced – a major humiliation. Was there a reason beyond his rather dilatory response to the organisational problems posed by the growth of the unit? The published records are contradictory: did Denniston simply rebel too outspokenly at the intrusion of military experts on his turf? (State: 1)
K. Churchill’s ban on Soviet traffic: Professor Hinsley reported on Churchill’s edict, when the Soviet Union became an ally in June 1941, that its diplomatic cable and wireless traffic should not be inspected. Uncharacteristically for Churchill, however, no minuted decision was made, and we know that work did continue, especially when Denniston’s project on ISCOT messages was set up in 1943. Was it a PR exercise by Churchill designed to gain Stalin’s attention and cooperation? (State: 1)
L. Colonel Simpson: One of the astutest contributions to Britain’s wireless interception capabilities was made by Lt.-Col. Simpson of MI5, in 1939 and 1940, when the RSS reported to Military Intelligence. Simpson wanted RSS to report to MI5, but it was wrested away from him, eventually landing with SIS, and he was quickly moved away. An internal history of MI5 says this led to a ‘Greek tragedy’. The authorised history of MI5 ignores Simpson. Why? (State: 1)
M. Wilfrid Mann: The atomic scientist Wilfrid Mann wrote a memoir titled ’Was there a Fifth Man?’, essentially denying it, and then on his deathbed admitted it was he, even as self-described ‘experts’ declared his innocence. Yet CIA agents claimed that Mann had been turned by them, after he had been assigned to work in the USA, to feed information to Donald Maclean. What is the real truth about his career and his loyalties? (State: 2)
N. Death of Gaitskell: When Labour leader Hugh Gaitskell’s sudden death in 1956 was diagnosed as lupus, some wondered whether he had been poisoned at the Soviet Embassy, perhaps to enable Moscow’s favoured Harold Wilson to replace him. When such a plot was debunked, however, the possible poisoning was forgotten. Could Gaitskell’s presence at Kim Philby’s 1934 marriage in Vienna had something to do with it? Was Gaitskell planning to unmask him? (State: 1)
O. Ter Braak’s ‘Suicide’: The circumstances of the claimed suicide of the Abwehr spy who parachuted into Britain in early November 1940 are extremely suspicious. The archival evidence points to the fact that MI5 engineered his death after trying to surveil his espionage activities and wireless traffic. MI5 probably concluded that matters had run irretrievably out of control when ter Braak ran out of money, and was abandoned by the Abwehr. Was he then eliminated in a faked suicide? (State: 6)
P. MI5’s passivity over Gouzenko: When the information about the Soviet defector in Canada, Igor Gouzenko, was passed on to London in September 1945, the cable was routed to Kim Philby of SIS, instead of MI5, who was responsible for espionage on Canadian territory. Guy Liddell thus learned about the defection from Philby, who took control of the response, arranging for Roger Hollis to be sent to Toronto to interview Gouzenko. Why was MI5 so passive? (State: 1)
Q. Execution of Gösta Caroli?: The Swedish Abwehr agent Gösta Caroli, who had been ‘turned’ by MI5, in January 1941 reneged on his agreement, tried to throttle his guard, and to escape across the North Sea. He was captured, and incarcerated, and reputedly returned to Sweden after the war. Leonard Mosley (and others) say he was hanged to protect the XX System. His files at Kew stop abruptly. What really happened? Was he ‘bumped off’, as Liddell’s Diary strongly suggests? (State: 3)
R. Dansey & SOE: Claude Dansey, assistant chief of SIS under Menzies, was reputed (according to the witness Sir Patrick Reilly) to have schemed to undermine the efforts of SOE, and was witnessed celebrating some of its failures. Apart from a disdain for noisy sabotage projects that interfered with gaining intelligence, and his contempt for university-trained men, what else lay behind this reputation? And, as a believer in ‘turning’ agents, was he SIS’s representative on the XX Committee? (State: 1)
S. Rothschild a Soviet agent of influence: Victor Rothschild made strenuous efforts to clear his name of the accusation that he had been a Soviet spy, yet his associations with such as Burgess and Philby, and his other actions furthering the communist cause, cause such as Christopher Andrew to suggest that he was an equally dangerous agent of influence. Were he and his wife the couple given the cryptonyms DAVID and ROSA? His name is carefully redacted from many files at Kew. (State: 5)
T. Isaiah Berlin in Lisbon: Isaiah Berlin, intriguing between SIS’s Section D and the Jewish Agency, happened to be in Lisbon in January 1941 when agent SONIA was granted her visa to travel to the UK. She also learned from somebody the address in Oxford where her father was staying. Was Berlin – who had recently accompanied Guy Burgess on their abandoned mission to Moscow, and just visited Oxford – her courier? What else was he up to in Lisbon? (State: 3)
U. The sacking of Jane Archer: The only source for the October 1940 sacking of Jane Archer, MI5’s shrewdest counter-subversion officer, is from her boss, Guy Liddell, who ascribes it to her continued mocking of the acting head of MI5, Jasper Harker. But did Liddell and Archer, who then headed the team of Regional Security Liaison Officers, have a serious fall-out over double-agent policy? Archival evidence points to a very pivotal meeting just before the event. (State: 1)
V. The disappearance of Major Frost & W Section: Malcolm Frost was recruited by Guy Liddell from the BBC in the summer of 1940 to fill the radio interception vacancy created by Lt.-Col. Simpson’s departure. Frost quickly gained enemies, but was a survivor, and did not leave MI5 until November 1942. So why does the authorised history completely overlook his contribution, and his group, W Section, especially since Frost was in charge of double-agents when the Abwehr LENA operation was executed? (State: 1)
W. Michael Foot as Soviet agent of influence: In his memoir, the Soviet defector Oleg Gordievsky claimed that the Labour leader Michael Foot had been a Soviet agent, BOOT, something that was enthusiastically picked up by Ben Macintyre in his volume ‘The Spy and the Traitor’. Private Eye has already come to Foot’s defence, pointing to his published criticism of the Soviet regime. Was Foot an ‘agent of influence’, and did he really accept money from Soviet contacts? How reliable is Gordievsky? (State: 3)
X. Cairncross’s Confession: The Fifth Man John Cairncross managed to hoodwink both his interrogators from MI5 as well as Nigel West, the writer who collaborated on his memoir ‘The Enigma Spy’. A careful study of the chronology shows he was active much longer than he claimed. Why were the obvious anomalies in his account of the chronology and his activities not pursued more aggressively? And why was he allowed to go into exile? (State: 2)
Y. SONIA and the Quebec Agreement: It has now entered popular historical lore that one of agent SONIA’s major coups was the revelation of the Quebec Agreement to her bosses in Moscow. Yet such claims rest on an impossible sequence of events in the autumn of 1941, and, despite authoritative-sounding assertions, no conclusive evidence has emerged from the Russian archives. If the secret was revealed to the Soviets (probably in the USA), who was responsible? (State: 3)
Z. Walter Gill: Walter Gill, the Oxford don recruited to RSS, who essentially defined Britain’s policy towards interception and detection of possible German spies at the end of 1940, was mysteriously and perfunctorily sacked from RSS a few months later. Yet the delayed timing of his report (December 1940) was very odd: he made a fatal but obvious flaw in his conclusions, but the report was endorsed. Was he set up? Why was he fired? (State: 1)
This list is not inclusive, nor its artificial length constrained: items may be retired, and new ones added. I welcome feedback. But why, I wonder, is there apparently not very much interest in these matters? Is it due simply to indolence, or is it a lack of curiosity? Extrajudicial executions, poisonings, faked suicides, moles, double agents, secret organisations, unexplained slights, hidden archives, political denials – is this not all as topical as ever? I cannot believe everyone is ganging up in a dark conspiracy to silence me. Or maybe everything is as it should be, and I am simply imagining things . . . In order that these conundrums not be forgotten, I thus lay them all out on coldspur for others to pick up, just in case my body is found one misty morning under a hedge in County Ceredigion.
An Update on ter Braak
I have a professional researcher and collaborator in London, Dr. Kevin Jones (whom I have not yet had the pleasure of meeting) who is an expert at navigating the indexes at Kew, and who on my behalf inspects undigitised files at the National Archives, namely those that I cannot acquire and download. He has recently been delving around some of the lesser known folders that have a bearing on the ter Braak case, and I wanted to bring some aspects of these to readers’ attention to provide an update to the analysis outlined in last month’s blog.
One of the challenging dimensions of ter Braak’s life as a fugitive is the level of political compliance in the plan to let him roam, and then to eliminate him. It is clear from Swinton’s endorsement of the initiative for a speedy inquest, and his approval of the decision not to engage in recriminations over the Cambridge Police Force, that he was either party to the original decision, or had been convinced of the need for extraordinary measures when matters started to run out of control. Given the speed with which actions progressed after ter Braak’s death, it is more probable that he had approved the whole operation in advance.
But how much did Churchill know? Swinton had been brought in by Churchill to oversee MI5, and parts of SIS, after Vernon Kell had been dismissed, since Churchill was not confident in MI5’s ability to defend the country against the ‘Fifth Column’ menace that he then believed had been a prime factor in the defeat of the France and the Low Countries. Swinton had not been a universally popular choice at the House of Commons, but, when the Fifth Column ‘menace’ was shown by August 1940 to have been illusory, Swinton’s supervision of MI5, and mission to help Jasper Harker, the acting Director-General, to rebuild the service, continued, and his focus on subversion shifted to the arrival of the Abwehr agents. The files PREM 3/418/1 and 2 show records pertaining to the establishment of Swinton’s Committee, the Home Defence (Security) Executive, and correspondence on enemy agents between Swinton and the Prime Minister.
On September 10, Churchill made a request at Cabinet for a report on information obtained from enemy agents in the UK. The records show that he was informed about the declared mission of the four agents who landed in Kent (three of whom were executed) and of Gösta Caroli (who was successfully ‘turned’ – for a while). Reports from the interrogations indicated that the spies believed they were the advance guard of an invasion that was to follow in a couple of weeks. When Swinton reported, on October 4, on the spies who landed by boat in Scotland, however, he showed that Churchill already knew about ‘Agent 5 and Agent 6 who are being used successfully in deception operations already’. The list provided to Churchill has yet been found, but is highly noteworthy that it cannot be the same list that MI5 used for RSLO training (KV 4/407), since ter Braak appeared there as Agent 5, but he had not yet arrived when this memorandum was written!
Thus we have proof that Churchill knew about the emerging Double-Cross operation as early as October 1940, if not sooner. This all goes against the grain of what the authorised historians tell us. In his recent book, The Secret World, Christopher Andrew suggests that the first report given by MI5 to Churchill on the actions of the XX Committee did not occur until March 26, 1943. “It was an instant success with the Prime Minister. Churchill wrote on it in red ink: ‘deeply interesting’”, writes Andrew. This is rather hard to believe: that Churchill, with his massive interest in intelligence matters, and having been made aware of Nazi agents being used for deception in the autumn of 1940, would let the matter drop for two-and-half years.
In addition, it would seem that Swinton was passing Churchill a longer list than was being maintained by MI5. Given what I have written about overlooked spies not appearing in the official records, it would be fascinating to learn what names had been given to the Prime Minister at this stage. The archive is confoundingly sparse at this point. On October 31, Swinton advised Churchill of the arrival of the spies Lund, Edvardsen and Joost, but the narrative stops on November 2, just after ter Braak has landed. Is that significant? The search for other revealing items that might fill out this story continues.
At this stage, one can only speculate what went on between Swinton and Churchill. Since ter Braak was not a captured spy, perhaps Swinton would have interpreted his guidance literally, and decided to conceal the project from his boss. What would Churchill have thought of an armed agent running loose in the Cambridge area? Might he have approved of the plan to monitor his activities in order to learn more? Knowing his expressed desire at this time to see more spies executed, however, it is more likely that he would have cancelled the project, and have ter Braak hauled in. I just hope that some other records are found that shed light on this intriguing dynamic.
I also made some changes to the September text in the light of a re-discovery of passages in Guy Liddell’s Diaries, to which Dr. Giselle Jakobs had pointed me. I had read these a long time ago when I was not focussed on the LENA agents. They show very clearly that, just after Caroli’s recapture, Liddell discussed very seriously with his superiors (and Valentine Vivian in SIS) the possibility of ‘elimination’ or ‘bumping off’ of recalcitrant German agents. This is not the language of judicial trial and possible execution. Yet Caroli’s possible career after incarceration is plagued with contradictions, a matter to which I shall eventually have to return. In the meantime, please see Dr. Jakobs’s website at http://www.josefjakobs.info/ for a recent posting on Caroli,
Lastly (for this month, anyway!), is the fate of Jasper Harker. In last month’s blog, I had begun to cast doubt on Guy Liddell’s declared rationale for Jane Archer’s dismissal, namely that she had ridiculed Harker one time too many. Liddell reports the sacking on November 18, 1940, and, two days later, suggests that she should speak to David Petrie. Clearly, by that time Petrie has already been invited to take over the direction of MI5, so Harker’s fate was effectively sealed at that time. Ironically, Swinton was one of the few (apart from the disgraced Vernon Kell) who had supported Harker, and saw it as part of his mission to help him with the reconstruction of MI5. What PREM 3/418/1 shows is that, as early as August 29, 1940, Desmond Morton (an ex-MI5 officer, and Churchill’s right-hand man on intelligence) was telling Churchill of the multiple criticisms of Harker from within MI5, and reported that he was ‘a weak man’. Given the military circumstances, and the pressures, it seems that Swinton (whose judgment of character was not good, as is shown by his endorsements of Joseph Ball and William Crocker) was slow in realising that Harker was not up to the job, while Jane Archer – alongside multiple other officers in MI5 – had come to the conclusion much earlier that he was dragging down morale. It casts even more doubt on the reason for Archer’s forced departure, and, if a meeting with Petrie could not salvage her employment in MI5, suggests that there were deeper reasons for the parting of the ways.
This month’s new Commonplace entries can be seen here.
A Very Principled Boy by Mark A. Bradley (Basic Books, 2014, pp 348)
The Spy Who Changed History by Svetlana Lokhova (William Collins, 2018, pp 476)
A Spy Named Orphan by Roland Philipps (Norton & Company [in USA], 2018, pp 440)
Enemies Within by Richard Davenport-Hines (William Collins, 2018, pp 642)
A Very Principled Boy
By now, many readers may have been sated by stories of the Cambridge Spies, but may not be aware that Oxford University was determined not be outdone in infamy. Despite the observations of Professor Trevor-Roper, who, with an air almost of regret, asserted that his university had not produced any Soviet agents of its own, Oxford certainly had solid claims to a comparable Comintern-spawned ring. When MI5 and SIS in the 1960s, after the confessions of Anthony Blunt, performed their internal investigation into further penetration of the services by Soviet spies, they discovered that Arthur Wynn was probably responsible for recruiting at Oxford a number of agents in the 1930s, including Christopher Hill and Jenifer Hart (née Fischer-Williams). After Bernard Floud and Phoebe Pool (independently) committed suicide, however, the mandarins decided that they should perhaps let any other sleeping dogs lie, lest any action provoke an epidemic of self-destruction that might have challenged even the considerable skills of Chief Inspector Morse.
Yet another furtive element had existed in the nest on the Isis – Rhodes Scholars. It surprises me that so many paragons of the USA educational system, chosen for their all-round excellence, whether they brought the virus of Communist idealism with them across the Atlantic, or became infected with it by their colleagues and acquaintances at places like the Oxford Labour Club and October Club, turned out to be such bad apples. The group included Daniel Boorstin, Peter Rhodes, Donald Wheeler, and the New Zealander Ian Milner. But the most renowned individual – and the one who did the most damage – was Duncan Lee, the subject of this book. Its title derives from an assessment of Lee by a Yale professor: ‘a thorough gentleman, earnest, high-minded, tactful, clean, and honorable, and a man of unusual intellectual power and promise’. Lee also happened to attend my alma mater, the college of Christ Church, and thus I have a particular interest in him.
The author of A Very Principled Boy, Mark A. Bradley, was a Rhodes scholar himself, and his conclusion is that Lee, whose family was related to the famous Confederate general, had leftist tendencies, but was converted to a commitment to the Communist cause by his wife, Isabelle Gibb (known as Ishbel), whom he met at a dance in Oxford in May 1936. Lee had a conventional upbringing to prepare him for committing to a Great Cause: he was born in China, of earnest Episcopalian missionaries, Edmund and Lucy, and he admired his parents’ dedicated but fruitless attempts at converting the natives to Christianity. The family moved back to the United States in 1927, where, after a stellar academic career at boarding-schools, Duncan was accepted by Yale in 1931. He read widely and had deep thoughts, but remained unpoliticized, concentrating more on awards and honours, with the result that he was selected for a Rhodes scholarship in January 1935.
At Oxford, he met the already radicalized Ishbel in May 1936: they were engaged by August, and shocked his parents by their obvious cohabitation when Lucy and Edmund visited that summer. The couple visited Germany that autumn, and made the pilgrimage to the Soviet Union the following year. By then Ishbel had converted Duncan to the communist cause, and they were able to close their eyes to Stalin’s Great Terror. When they returned to Oxford, Duncan shocked his parents by telling them that he and Isabel were planning to join the Communist Party. After their marriage in May 1938, the Lees moved to the United States, where their subversive activities were reported to the FBI, who did nothing. Duncan then took up an honest communist job working as a lawyer on Wall Street. One of the partners of the firm was William Donovan, who was in April 1942 invited by Roosevelt to set up the OSS, the equivalent of Britain’s SIS. Lee moved to the OSS as Donovan’s assistant, at about the same time he was recruited, via Joseph Golos and Mary Price, to become a spy for the Soviet Union.
What distinguished Lee’s espionage was that he never handed over any physical document. Everything he gave to Mary, and her successor, Elizabeth Bentley (after Price had a health breakdown) was passed over orally. So when Bentley, in her famous 1945 confession to the FBI, identified Lee as a prime informant, he buckled down and denied everything. And even when the VENONA project, the decryptions of which revealed secret cable communications between the Washington outstation and Moscow Centre, confirmed that Lee was a prominent Soviet agent, the FBI could not afford to unveil such a sensitive source. Lee brazened it out, but it cost him his marriage (the FBI made it difficult for him to rejoin his wife and family in Bermuda), and his clean conscience. Yet he had betrayed some of the most significant secrets of World War II, those that condemned eastern Europe to Soviet domination. Lee remarried, moved to Canada, and died in 1988 after leaving a testimony for his children that portrayed himself as a victim.
Hadley tells all this in a very cool and professional way. He has delved into all the appropriate sources and archives. His judgments are sound. His conclusion on Lee’s motivations and make-up could stand as a classic assessment of many others of his tribe: “Although there is no evidence that the CIA’s psychiatrists ever studied Lee’s background, his personality reflected several of the basic traits that they have seen in others who have stolen their country’s secrets. Most spies have the ability to exhibit a sham, superficial loyalty. As narcissists who believe themselves destined to play a special role in history, they have already led lives full of mini-defections before they finally cross into full-blown betrayal. Perhaps most importantly, they are capable of ignoring the devil in themselves while condemning it in others. This permits them to deflect guilt, blame, and responsibility.” And further: “Lee’s multiple sexual affairs, or ‘mini-defections’, his compartmented personality, his violation of his government’s and mentor’s trust, his prodigious ability to lie, his belief that his hour had come when Mary Price recruited him to spy for the Soviets, his wallowing in victimhood, and his cruel attacks on Bentley underscore how accurately the CIA’s profile fits. To unleash these traits and commit espionage, Lee needed only a great cause, access to classified information, and a permissive environment.”
And what happened to the redoubtable Ishbel, who put Duncan on his perfidious track? She returned to Oxford with their four children, and then moved to Edinburgh, where she married John Petrie (who, so far as I can tell, was not closely related to David Petrie, the wartime head of MI5). To her dying day, she refused to acknowledge that Duncan had been involved in espionage. A retired CIA officer interviewed her in 1989, but drew a complete blank. In 1997, she published a brief memoir titled Not a Bowl of Cherries, emblazoned with a drawing of Christ Church’s Tom Tower on its cover, and a blurb that merely states that she was divorced from her American lawyer husband. “Duncan felt the charges made by Elizabeth Bentley very keenly, and not only because he had to answer them before a Committee of Congress and two grand juries in 1947 and 1954,’, she writes, adding: “Needless to say the charges were never substantiated.” The VENONA transcripts had been published two years before, but that did not cause the lady to even flutter. “Mainly, though, the whole crazy scene was so unlike Duncan’s style and unlike anything he had ever experienced,” was her only comment. She died in 2005. The capacity of Lenin’s and Stalin’s useful idiots for selective self-delusion and mendacity is unlimited.
Ishbel Petrie’s ‘Not a Bowl of Cherries’
The Spy Who Changed History
Let me get the ridiculous title out of the way first. This book is clearly not to be confused with Mike Rossiter’s 2014 book about Klaus Fuchs, The Spy Who Changed the World, or with Nigel West’s 1991 compendium Seven Spies Who Changed the World, a select group that excludes all of the Cambridge Spies, no doubt to their evident chagrin had they all survived long enough to learn about it. * Now, a Great Spy might make History, but he or she cannot change History, because History is integral and unvariable, and any self-respecting spy who didn’t believe that he or she was in truth having an effect on the course of history was obviously in the wrong job, and should have been working for Facebook helping to spot harmful fake news posts. The other alarming item about the choice of titles is that this book is subtitled The Untold Story of How the Soviet Union Won the Race for America’s Top Secrets, which should set off warning signals among those of us who were not aware that the project to engage in massive plundering of industrial secrets in order to be prepared to destroy the owner of such technology was actually a race to be won. What other competitors were there in this race, one wonders, and why should such sordid endeavours be sanctified with such puffery?
(* I have since discovered that Anthony Blunt is one of the featured spies in West’s book. October 1, 2018)
Next, the author. Svetlana Lokhova is described as ‘a By-Fellow of Churchill College, Cambridge, and was ‘until recently a Fellow of the Cambridge Security Initiative jointly chaired by the former head of MI6, Sir Richard Dearlove, and Professor Christopher Andrew, former official historian of MI5’. So her association with those names should obviously add some gloss to that rather enigmatic introduction, right? Or was her fellowship rescinded? Her website biography claims as one of her accomplishments that she ‘identified the Sixth Man, Cedric Belfrage’, which is hardly a newsworthy achievement, and should pose questions about her credentials, and what the depth of her reading has been. Yet the unfortunate author has since had to deny suggestions that she was too closely involved with the disgraced Trump official General Michael Flynn (see https://www.bbc.com/news/magazine-39863781), in a tale that is echoed somewhat by the case of another young Russian academic, this time in the USA, Sara Butina. Apparently the author had to flee, with her baby, to a retreat 600 miles from London to escape all the adverse publicity. I would not bring this up unless her work had not irritated me as a piece of inappropriate Russian propaganda: I tried to contact Ms. Lokhova via her website, but she has not granted me the favour of a reply.
So who was this epoch-making spy? His name was Stanislav Shumovsky, and Lokhova has a very innovative tale to tell. She had been given exclusive access to NKVD files (an alarming signal, in fact, which historians should be wary of) and has thus been able to disclose information unavailable to western analysts. Shumovsky was a Pole, born in 1902, whose career in flying was cut short by a crash. He then developed such depth of expertise as an aeronautical technician that he was selected to be enrolled at Harvard in 1931, with the cryptonym BLERIOT, after his hero. This was before the USA had officially recognized the Soviet Union, so trade between the two countries was impossible. The Russians, however, had their eye more on stealing industrial secrets than on paying for them. At Harvard, Shumovsky was taught by the aviation expert Jerome Hunsaker, and set about recruiting agents to the cause. He exploited mainly Jews, the offspring of parents who had escaped from pre-revolutionary Russia, but an Englishman, Norman Leslie Haight, was also in his network. In the year 1933, when the much better-known Gaik Ovakimian came to the US to be Shumovsky’s boss, Roosevelt recognized the Soviet Union, which opened up dealings quite considerably, and made institutions and corporations more positive about the country. In 1939, 18,000 pages of technical documents, 487 sets of designs, and 54 samples of new technology were shipped back to Moscow, in areas such as wind-tunnel design, high-altitude flying, and bomb-loading. Shumovsky travelled thousands of miles inspecting manufacturing plants to learn from American techniques. He arranged for Semyonov and other scientists, who would later work on the ENORMOZ atomic-bomb project, to be enrolled at MIT, which was now considered a finishing-school for ‘legal’ Soviet spies, and returned to Moscow in 1939. The capstone of his efforts was probably the unveiling of the Soviet Union’s most advanced strategic bomber in 1947.
Not only did I find all this activity distasteful, I also thought Lokhova’s treatment of it betrayed too much of a celebratory attitude towards the achievements of Comrade Stalin. There was an obtuseness about Lenin and Stalin in failing to understand that the creativity of the American free-enterprise system was what allowed so many inventions to be pursued, and yet Lokhova echoes such hypocrisy in comments such as the following: “Despite being a lifelong and dedicated Communist, he [Shumovsky] had come to respect American scientists and entrepreneurs for their extraordinary achievements in his beloved field of aviation. He had worked in the heart of capitalism and seen the rewards on offer for a successful entrepreneur like Donald Douglas, but was never tempted to defect; he was too aware of the inequalities and injustices of capitalism. All the American technological treasures he acquired were the tools needed to defend his people from a merciless invader.” She goes on to praise Shumovsky’s ‘remarkable’ skills, as he was able to exploit the disenchanted, the greedy and the idealistic – all in a cause of ugly Stalin totalitarianism that she never actually admits, as she glorifies the Soviet Union’s ability to wage war – one that Stalin thought was inevitable, even if the Americans did not.
She is also rather scathing about Western histories of intelligence, suggesting that they are ‘biased’, since they rely primarily on open western sources, or accounts from journalists and defectors. According to the author, the accounts of such as Elizabeth Bentley and Harry Gold were ‘problematic’: the results of the VENONA project have long been ‘unreliable’. You mean that they have failed to exploit those famously open archives of the Kremlin, Ms. Lokhova, and that we should be looking to the official Russian state-sponsored publications for the unvarnished truth? Given that President Putin decided to close the KGB archives after an exciting decade when western historians were allowed to gain a glimpse of what the secret police had recorded, one must view Ms. Lokhova’s access with some suspicion. I have written elsewhere (see SoniaandtheQuebecAgreement) about the highly dubious way in which Russian archives have been selectively revealed to compliant historians.
As an example, the author reveals, on page 389, that the nuclear scientist Igor Kurchatov ‘responded enthusiastically’ when Stalin made the decision on 27 September, 1942 to restart research on the atomic bomb. Kurchatov was then put in charge of the project, and became an eager consumer of all the pillaged information that Ovakimian and his agents provided for him. He provided long lists of further secrets needed, as evidenced, apparently, from Kurchatov’s letters to Molotov. Lokhova informs us that Kurchatov’s note to Stalin on accepting the challenge ‘testified not only how deep was the penetration of British laboratories in Cambridge, Birmingham and Liverpool, as well as the Chicago Metals Lab . . .’. Such a revelation should cause some flutters in English academic coops, as Kurchatov was later received and remembered with much fondness by British scientists. As Dr. Brian Austin writes, in his biography of Basil Schonland: “ . . . it was actually this giant of a man’s [Kurchatov’s] wholeheartedness and bonhomie that had endeared him to so many at Harwell . . .” (see below).The role of Fuchs and Peierls at Birmingham has been well publicised, of course, but such statements about Kurchatov’s knowledge of deeper and broader espionage merit further evidence, which Lokhova does not provide. Her source (given only as ‘USSR’s Atomic Project Documents and Materials, Moscow Naeuka, 1998’) can therefore not implicitly be relied on. She reproduces a couple of pages of VENONA transcripts identifying Shumovsky (unreliable? – see above), but offers us no NKVD documents.
Dr. Schonland, assistant director of AERE, Harwell, and Professor Igor Kurchatov, before the latter’s lecture at Harwell on April 25, 1956. The congeniality of the occasion is perhaps surprising, given that the body of the SIS diver ‘Buster’ Crabb had been found six days earlier near the S.S. Ordzhonikidze, on which vessel Kurchatov had arrived with Bulganin and Khrushchev, and that Khrushchev was at the same time threatening to drop H-Bombs on West Germany. (photograph courtesy of Dr. Brian Austin)
In a somewhat fawning review of Sir Christopher Andrew’s The Secret World: A History of Intelligence in this month’s Literary Review, Professor Michael Goodman (who is on the Advisory Board of the Cambridge Security Initiative – not a connection he declares in his piece) refers to the historian as ‘the doyen of the academic study of intelligence on the UK . . . [who] has really made the field his own’, and ‘the great Yoda [who he? Ed.] of intelligence studies in the UK’. He added that ‘there are few academics working on intelligence in the UK who cannot trace the origins of their work back to him’. Well, I am not sure that that is a healthy state of affairs, and I don’t count myself in that number, but Ms. Lokhova surely does. In her Acknowledgements, Ms. Lokhova says that she owes ‘an enormous debt to Professor Sir Christopher Andrew for introducing me to the fascinating study of intelligence history . . . Over the many years it has taken me to complete this work, Chris [sic] has been unstinting in his support and praise for my work.” Now that the text has appeared, I am not sure that the high-sounding Cambridge Security Initiative would still want its name associated with this book. Maybe that is why Ms. Lokhova is no longer a Fellow of the Initiative. ‘Former people’ – ‘byvshie lyudi’: that is what they were called in Stalin’s Russia.
Sir Christopher Andrew
Thus, for all its breakthrough revelations, it is difficult to accept Lokhova’s work completely seriously. The Spy Who Changed History fits in well with President Putin’s desire to reinvigorate Mother Russia and to bring alive again the heroic nature of the communist era. We all know that he regarded the dismantling of the Soviet Union as one of the most tragic events of the century, and Ms. Lokhova’s work falls uneasily on the wrong side of the propaganda campaign to further that goal. Maybe the most important lesson we should take from her book is that today the Chinese may have similar designs on Western technology as the Soviets did in the 1930s and 1940s.
A Spy Named Orphan
Of the Cambridge Five (or was it Thirteen? One struggles to remember . . . ), Donald Maclean was perhaps the most enigmatic. Burgess was brazen and undisciplined; Cairncross cerebral and reclusive; Blunt artificial and aloof; Philby calculating and ruthless. But none of them was tortured so severely by his traitorous activity as was Maclean, given the cryptonym ‘SIROTA’, Orphan, because of his famous father, who died in 1932. He was, in Civil Service parlance, ‘very able’ – a high-flyer expected to go far. He was also, when he was not drinking, a hard and productive worker, but the fact that he was at the same time toiling so industriously for a foreign power anguished him. At one stage, he wanted to get out, but his handlers would not let him as he was too valuable – unlike Blunt, who was able to persuade the boys from Moscow that he would be of little use to them after the war. And then, when in 1951 Maclean escaped with Burgess (to be followed later by Philby), he alone adapted successfully to life under the Communist state. He became a well-respected analyst of international affairs, whose reports were regarded seriously in the West. A famous photograph shows him at Burgess’s funeral – austere, almost pious, as if he were an acolyte at some papal ceremony, which in one sense I suppose he was.
At Guy Burgess’s Funeral
Yet do we need another biography of him? What more is there to tell? Robert Cecil gave us his personal, sometimes fond, but not uncritical portrait of Maclean in 1988, in his A Divided Life. Michael Holzman, of a more leftist persuasion, offered a summary that exploited much new material in his 2014 work Donald and Melinda Maclean: Idealism and Espionage, including an analysis of his published work from the Soviet Union, but it was not generally available, being self-published. And there have been dozens of related works that have picked at Maclean’s boyhood, his indoctrination at Gresham’s School, Holt, and at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, and traced his turbulent career in the Foreign Office, and the highly dubious circumstances of his escape with Burgess in 1951. ‘The Enigma of Donald Maclean’ is how Roland Phipps subtitles his work, incidentally reinforcing the Maclean puzzling persona. So perhaps readers should look forward to an unravelling of the riddle, and an explanation of why such an otherwise sensible boy was taken in by all the nonsense of the Communist utopia?
Roland Philipps (whose first book this is) has solid qualifications. He claims two relevant grandfathers – Roger Makins, the last Foreign Office man to see Maclean in 1951, and the unreconstructed Communist Wogan Philipps. He is a publisher with the right contacts: his ‘matchless friend and brilliant author’ Ben Macintyre encouraged him to write the book. (How come Benny Boy never urged me on? Do not write in. I think I know the answer . . .) Philipps has enjoyed access to the full Philip Toynbee and Alan Maclean papers, and help from all manner of archival resources in the UK, as well as an impressive list of experts in the field. Thus we learn details about Maclean’s life and career that have not been revealed elsewhere. I should add, however, that the author had not then had the benefit of reading Misdefending the Realm: else his Chapter 5, ‘Homer’, that covers Maclean’s relationship with Isaiah Berlin in Washington would have been a tad sharper and more insightful. (I have brought this point to Mr. Philipps’ attention, and he graciously acknowledged my message.)
I noticed a few false notes and errors. When Philipps writes on page 133: “Yet none of the Five was passing on information that would harm British interests, which therefore meant they could not be real traitors to their country . . .”, it is not clear whether he is representing Moscow’s opinion, or his own. His reference to ‘the rabid witch-hunts of the McCarthy era’, on page 284, has too much of the unthinking leftist sloganeering about it. He misrepresents some details in the Krivitsky affair. Yet it his conclusion that is the most disappointing. It runs: “Donald Maclean’s conscience was inspired by his Victorian, church-going parents, and then was forged in the godless atmosphere of the General Strike, the Depression and the rise of fascism. He was dedicated to the pursuit of peace and justice for the largest number, the humanism referred to by Izvestia. His conscience and the fulfilment of the secret life enabled him to maintain his core beliefs through the purges and the Nazi-Soviet Pact, and when many others fell away he continued to work for what he still believed in resistance to the capitalist hegemony and atomic might of his wife’s country. There is purity about this consistency that makes his collapse into alcoholism in Cairo and afterwards all the more painful.”
I don’t think this is good enough. (And it sounds rather like an obituary in Pravda.) The same could be said of Duncan Lee and his ‘Victorian, church-going parents’, but what about all those other young men growing up in the 1930s who had moralising parents or difficult fathers but who were not attracted to the plodding deceits of communism, and instead saw through Stalin and his communist edifice as a destroyer of millions rather than as a ‘pursuer of peace and justice for the largest number’? A ‘purity about his consistency’? To praise a stubborn commitment to evil in the face of overwhelming evidence that it is in fact loathsome and soul-destroying and averse to those principles one claimed to cherish is simply perverse. Moreover, Philipps quotes without comment Maclean’s best man, Mark Culme-Seymour, who had felt ‘betrayed by a man he had loved and trusted’, and had the effrontery to write to Alan Maclean, Donald’s brother, that Maclean ‘was a victim of our times and I will cling on to the idea that he was a noble victim, no matter how profoundly misguided’. Victimisation – the scourge of 21st century denial of responsibility (and remember Duncan Lee above). For Philipps to record this observation without comment shows simply bad taste. And his epitaph, on depicting Donald and his father lying side-by-side in graves in Penn, Buckinghamshire, is the equivocal and rather distressing statement: “. . . the remains of two men with the same name, both men of their times, of high ideals, optimism and strong consciences. Men with similar but differing beliefs and truths to which they remained firm, perhaps too doggedly firm.” The old thread of moral equivalence.
Thus A Spy Named Orphan is an intriguing and comprehensive – almost ‘definitive’ – account of a spy who, even he did not make Nigel West’s Top Seven, was one of the most significant betrayers of Western security. Yet we are no nearer to knowing exactly why he chose that path. Maybe it was something in the water at Gresham’s School, Holt, but more likely it was due to a mentor who encouraged what Robert Cecil called ‘Gresham’s radical heritage’ under its headmaster J. R. Eccles. Certainly that tradition allowed not only Maclean, but also such (temporary or permanent) subversives as James Klugmann, Bernard Floud, Roger and Brian Simon, Cedric Belfrage, Stephen Spender, Christopher Strachey and W. H. Auden to flourish and reinforce each other, with Tom Wintringham leading the way a decade before. One master whom the author identifies as wielding such an influence was Frank McEachran, who (as Philipps tells us) has also been claimed as a model for Hector in Alan Bennett’s History Boys. McEachran gains a short vignette in A Spy Named Orphan as ‘the Svengali-like teacher’, who, though ‘not a Marxist himself’, urged Maclean and Klugmann ‘to read Marx, and imbibe the core ideas on the state, class struggle and historical materialism’. Ah yes. I recognize those ‘academic Marxists’ (or non-Marxists), who are supposed to be quite harmless, but encourage their pupils to swallow at the pump of Marx’s banalities. That’s what the War Office and MI5 concluded about Anthony Blunt when they allowed him back into intelligence – not practical or dangerous at all. So another armchair revolutionary, McEachran, caught his ‘victims’ [!] at a most impressionable age, and they were hooked.
Frank McEachran and his ‘Cauldron of Spells’
Richard Davenport-Hines may have wondered why the Times Literary Supplement review of Enemies Within had to be shared with some upstart he had never heard of. Ben Macintyre perhaps, but Antony Percy? After all, R D-H has written one-hundred-and-sixty entries for The Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, while I have written only one. And he is a Major League historian, and biographer of such subjects as W. H. Auden, Maynard Keynes and Harold MacMillan, while I am a latecomer who have never even been put on a shortlist for a possible interview by Melvyn Bragg. On the other hand, I was greatly honoured to have Misdefending the Realm appear alongside Enemies Within in Mark Seaman’s review of May 27. And I have coldspur, while Mr. Davenport-Hines does not.
So why has Mr. Davenport-Hines turned his attention to the world of espionage? As an expert analyst on social trends (look to his book on the Profumo era, for example), he brings a depth of knowledge of social climes, and a capability for narrative strength, to this intriguing topic. The flyer is promising: “With its vast scope, ambition and scholarship, Enemies Within charts how the undermining of authority, the rejection of expertise and the suspicion of educational advantages began, and how these have transformed the social and political agenda of modern Britain.” It sets out to challenge ‘entrenched assumptions about abused trust, corruption and Establishment coverups’. If indeed Davenport-Hines can explain why the Cambridge Five betrayed their country (a task that has apparently fallen beyond the capabilities of other biographers), and how it was that they managed to provoke such a passive response from the authorities, his massive work would indeed have to be compulsory reading.
But it is a heady programme. First of all, while he brings several new facts to the table, it is not clear who his audience is. While his research into some new areas (such as the Rhodes scholars) make this an indispensable book for the dedicated student of espionage history, the latter will be very familiar with most of the accounts of the nefariousness of the 1950s and 1960s. On the other hand, such masses of detail may overwhelm the more casual reader, who will no doubt be familiar with much of the story, but become confused by the mass of names and events. A long preliminary discussion over Soviet history really does not belong here, and adds little. If his case for a fresh analysis of political dynamics in Britain is to hold water, it is critical that any major new lessons that Davenport-Hines derives from his material can clearly be ascribed to a pattern of particular incidents. Yet, as he declared in his Introduction, the author does not really believe in the truth that the wills and actions of individuals can exert a powerful effect on history.
Davenport-Hines lays out some early guidelines that point to the nature of his argument: “Historians fumble their catches when they study individuals’ motives and individuals’ ideas rather than the institutions in which people work, respond, find motivation and develop their ideas.” “One aim of this book is to rebut the Titus Oates commentators who have commandeered the history of communist espionage in twentieth-century Britain.” “The key to understanding the successes of Moscow’s penetration agents in government ministries, the failures to detect them swiftly and the counter-espionage mistakes in handling them lies in sex discrimination rather than class discrimination.” Are these a priori impulses, or a posteriori conclusions? One’s immediate reaction might be to challenge all of these assertions: that individuals can exercise no individual choice but are driven by workplace factors, that a free market in espionage history has somehow been made an oligopoly (pace Sir Christopher Andrew’s dominance), and that the fashionable theme of sex discrimination has suddenly become a retrospective critical factor for assessing British political structures and why cover-ups were engaged in. So how does Davenport-Hines go about it?
The author develops his theme by covering a vast and rich array of incidents, but it is not clear which episodes support which aspect of his argument. As he tells it, overall, MI5 performed an honourable and professional job in countering the Communist subversion. The criticism that the intelligence services were guilty of aristocratic in-breeding, or homosexual camaraderie, is quite misplaced: the symptoms of failure were more male chauvinism, since female expertise was discarded or overlooked. The blame for misrepresenting what happened lies with the gutter press, with irresponsible journalist and writers, and an ill-educated Labour Party. The Cambridge spies did far more harm in eroding trust between civil servants than they did in betraying secrets. Yet even worse were the journalists. “The mole-hunters of the 1980s were foul-minded, mercenary and pernicious. Their besmirching of individuals and institutions changed the political culture and electoral moods of Britain far beyond any achievement of Moscow agents or agencies,” he writes, as if the Press had invented the whole story. The spies, he claims, could not be prosecuted because conviction would have been difficult without a confession, the evidence against them (such as in VENONA transcriptions) being too sensitive to be used in court. (But he also admits that a prosecution of Burgess would have released too many embarrassing secrets about his past career in diplomacy.) Finally, the recent loss of trust in ‘experts’ has opened the debate to untutored discussion.
This seems to me a strange line to take, and it is not helped by Davenport-Hines’s approach. The problem is that he really shows no methodology in his use of sources, making no distinction as to why some are reliable and some not, with the result that (for instance) he is taken in by a letter to one of the authorized historians of intelligence, Sir Michael Howard, who wrote an absurd letter to the Times after the Blunt fiasco claiming that inactivity was justified as Blunt had been useful as an asset in MI5’s hands. Davenport-Hines largely accepts the official histories on trust, when they need to be treated with a high degree of scepticism: he refers to Sir Christopher Andrew ‘whose painstaking research and careful conclusions belied the conspiracy theorists’. Yet, for all the diligence of the undertaking, the authorised history of MI5 is inadequate: a selective, censored and far from definitive work, and its sources cannot be verified. Davenport-Hines tends to accept unquestioningly the pronouncements of the Great and the Good (such as Gladwyn Jebb on Laurence Grand), is too quick to come to the defence of officers like the hapless Dick White against his justified critics, or the ‘luckless’ (rather than incompetent) Robert Armstrong, and is too hasty in backing the opinions of his fellow-academic Hugh Trevor-Roper. His opinion on the amount of harm perpetrated by the spies would appear to run counter to that of another well-respected ‘expert’, Nigel West, who wrote, in The Crown Jewels: “Undoubtedly, the damage inflicted by Philby, Burgess, and Blunt can only be described as colossal, and on a much greater scale than has ever been officially admitted.”
In addition, I noticed multiple minor but important errors (for example, over Fitzroy Maclean, Kitty Harris’s birthplace, the identification of ELLI, Liddell’s handling of Burgess, Petrie’s accession as head of MI5, the identities of Joe and Jane Archer, and the ‘turning’ of Wilfrid Mann). He denies the existence of an Oxford ring of spies, and judges the confessed traitor Jenifer Hart to be innocent. He is very contradictory about the role of religion in the 1930s. He makes the extraordinary claim (p 442) that the spies were relics of the 1941-45 period, when the Soviet Union was an ally, although they had been infiltrated long before. And the case for anti-feminism is weakly made, coming in almost as an afterthought. “My belief is that the dynamics of departments in government ministries and agency were gender-bound more than class-bound”, he writes, but that is rather like criticising Trollope for not writing about the ‘LBGQT community’. If there were a case to be made there, it would be over the sidelining of MI5’s sharpest counter-espionage officer, Jane Archer. Davenport-Hines picks up the fact that she was not forced to retire when she married (at the outbreak of war), but he does not develop the theme to support his argument. And how would ‘feminine’ influence have changed things? Would it have made vetting more rigorous, a pattern he would appear to disdain? Which characteristics of the ’gentler sex’ would he have preferred to have seen holding sway in the Civil Service? Those of Jenifer Hart or Ellen Wilkinson? Or those of Margaret Thatcher – or even Rosa Klebb? He does not tell us.
Yet my main cavil with the book is the fact that the author turns the undermining of civil institutions, which was undeniably effected by the actions of the Cambridge spies, into a free pass for the intelligence services and the politicians themselves, as if they were merely victims, and responded only as they could, given the constraints. On page 368, he writes that trust is one of the elements that distinguished liberal democracies from despotisms. But if a certain trust has been shown to be broken, it should be reviewed. Since the objective of the spies was to erode the whole blooming edifice of a liberal democracy, the fact that the civilities of political trust were fractured first should hardly have come as a surprise. That was why we had a Security Service in the first place. The fact was, however, that MI5 received solid leads about the deep insertion of Soviet spies from Krivitsky, but lacked the guts and insight to pursue them single-mindedly. As an institution, it never planned what it would do if it found such traitors in its midst, so it was in ‘react mode’ every time another ghastly truth came out. Davenport-Hines says that he prefers the level of trust that existed before positive vetting arrived in 1951 to ‘Gestapo methods, Stalinist purges, American loyalty tests or HUAC scapegoating’, as if there were no less draconian alternatives. But the careless way that the threat was managed could have paved the way for such totalitarian horrors.
MI5 (and SIS) should not have trusted anyone for sensitive work in intelligence simply because that person came with a good reputation. In a pluralist democracy, trust has to be earned and protected: reputation is everything. As a result, rather than facing the facts, the two intelligence services indulged in an operation of continuous cover-up, over Fuchs (when the survival of MI5 was at stake), over Burgess’s and Maclean’s career, over Blunt, over Cairncross, and even over Philby, for whom SIS had no realistic strategy. They did encourage the prosecution of outsiders (like Fuchs, and Nunn May, and Blake), but not those native Englishmen whom they had recruited themselves. Their selectivity therefore looked hypocritical. Out of this desire to protect the institution there came a great betrayal of trust to the British public, whom the authorities thought inferior and not deserving of openness. The result was that a natural void occurred for the inquiring newshounds and journalists, who smelled that the facts were not being told. The indomitable Chapman Pincher, for one, was fed both truths and lies by his informers, and it often suited the authorities to have the waters permanently muddied. The official histories came too late, and tried to finesse the problems.
I believe it is also very dangerous to draw simple sociological conclusions over such a large sweep of history. When, for my doctoral thesis, I was studying MI5 over a period of just two years (1939-41), I was exposed to multiple dynamics in organizational frameworks, managerial conflicts, personal relationships and affiliations, and individual ambitions, betrayals and mis-steps, all in an environment of rapidly shifting political fortunes and alliances. In that context I felt comfortable making judgments about the wisdom or foolishness of decisions taken or not taken. To analyse a period of sixty years, and replace one grand theme of misplaced Establishment loyalty with one that identifies failures ascribed to gender-bound, as opposed to class-bound, weaknesses, does not move the debate forward constructively. The psychology of each mole gets smothered in the sociological generalisations, and the personal contributions of different political and intelligence leaders become homogenized. “Institutional life, not parental influence, made Blunt, Burgess, Maclean and Philby what they were. They disliked the bullying, discomfort, injustice and surveillance of their schooling,” Davenport-Hines writes with apparent authority, ignoring the fact that a far greater majority of young adults were subjected to the same disciplines, but did not become traitors. Kim Philby himself warned of the danger of ‘long-range psychology’.
I suppose it all comes down to this matter of trust. Davenport-Hines wants the judgments of the experts (like him) to be trusted. He is a believer in epistocracy – government by the knowledgeable. But this is the world of espionage and intelligence. You cannot trust the memoirs of those who took part, whether spies or intelligence officers. You cannot trust the experts, especially not the authorised historians. You cannot trust the politicians. You cannot trust the scoop-seeking journalists. You cannot even trust the original documents – the archives – as they have been doctored and weeded, and maybe even deliberately planted with disinformation. Davenport-Hines does not explain why he trusts some sources, but not others, and also appears to be of the opinion that the Great British Public should not be trusted with the facts about the security services which should be accountable to it. Thus he has compiled a fascinatingly rich and enjoyable romp through a century of subversion and counter-intelligence, but, since the reader cannot rely on the sources of his judgments, he or she has to parse very carefully any claim he makes. Enemies Within is a very impressive achievement, but it is very difficult to interpret with confidence a canvas this large because of the multiple distortions of reality that are woven into the fabric in every sector. The problem is that the experts very quickly come to resemble the Establishment, and, as another famous political critic wrote of related goings-on: “ . . . already it was impossible to say which was which”.
When I set about my research into the puzzle of the apparent failure of the British Radio-Direction Finding mechanisms to detect the German agents incorporated in the Double-Cross System, I thought it would turn out to be a relatively straightforward case of guile – foolish, perhaps, and lucky – but still a feint. Yet my readings led me to conclude that here was a multi-dimensional enigma, involving the following conundrums: the bizarre and humbling treatment of Gill, after he made a breakthrough analysis; Gill’s mistake over the assumption that Hitler’s agents all had receivers as well as transmitters; the mystery of Lt.-Col. Simpson, who made a significant impact, but was almost completely removed from the records; the deceptions of Dick White about the timetable of the Double Cross System; the misrepresentations of Guy Liddell about his organisation; the official exaggeration of the Abwehr strategy, and finessing of some technical aspects of their agents’ method of operating; the contradictory representations, by various ‘experts’, of the state-of-the-art of wireless direction-finding; and the scanty coverage of the topic by the authorised historians.
Yet perhaps the most extraordinary finding was the almost apocalyptic observation that appeared in John Curry’s confidential history of MI5 compiled at the end of the war, asserting that the decisions made about the responsibility for the Radio Security Service (RSS) had caused a tragedy of Greek proportions to take place. This judgment was made when the war had recently been won, and the activities of the Double Cross Committee, in exploiting the agents under its control to promote the message that a dummy army (FUSAG) was assembled to invade the Pas de Calais, had been a primary contributor to the success. Was Curry hinting at the Cold War, and the betrayal of Eastern Europe by the Allies? Was he suggesting that British Intelligence had abdicated its responsibility for monitoring illicit Soviet transmissions? Did a careless decision not to deploy the RSS with the correct discipline allow the Soviets to transmit undetected, or did a careful decision to soft-pedal RSS in order to allow the spies to be surveilled open up a different exposure? Or was he simply lamenting the handing-over of control of RSS to SIS, with the struggle over the release of ISOS (Intelligence Service Oliver Strachey) material implying a colossal failure in joint intelligence? Given the political climate at the time, it is difficult to posit any other scenario beyond these. And, in fact, archival documents that have recently come to my attention firmly suggest that it was complacency about German agents that led to carelessness over other threats.
In my May blog, I had referred, in passing, to three documents written by the enigmatic Lt.-Col. Simpson that I believed were no longer extant. In June, through the agency of Dr. Brian Austin, I managed to contact a wartime RSS operator, one Bob King (who can be found in Pidgeon: see below) now in his nineties, who passed on to me a few files. One, though undated and unauthored, was surely an early draft of a contribution by John Curry of MI5 to his 1946 history of the institution (as the style was unmistakeable), but included comments that did not find their way into the eventual published version. The second was the 1938 report by Simpson on the threats constituted by the use of low-powered and miniaturized wireless transmitters in time of war, and what infrastructure, technology and organisation would be required to take on and eliminate such a menace. The discovery of this document is as if one of the lost plays of Aristophanes had suddenly been found. Likewise, I had not been able to locate this report from the Index of the National Archives at Kew, but, if any of Simpson’s contributions have been made publicly available, it astounds me that no historian appears to have grasped the significance of both these pieces. Another absorbing item is a report by an engineer who worked on a secret wireless interception project under the Metropolitan Police. I have no doubts whatever as to the authenticity of these documents, and shall use them (and others) to update the story in this entry. Moreover, in an email communication, Bob King assured me that Sonia’s illicit messages were picked up by the RSS, but the unit was told to ignore them. This nugget of information has enormous significance, and I shall address it in a future episode.
I had originally intended that this chapter would move the whole story – including progress in wireless transmission and detection techniques made by British, Soviet and German espionage and counter-espionage agencies – up to June 1942. The discovery of these new sources, however, means that this piece is dedicated to a deeper analysis of the evolution of RSS leading up to its transfer to SIS in the spring of 1941, and the immediate decisions made in the months afterwards. I shall return to a full discussion of Phase 2 (January 1941 to June 1942) in a couple of months’ time.
RSS finds its Home
For my research on the RSS as displayed in ‘Sonia’s Radio’, I had relied primarily on the Introduction to Hugh Trevor-Roper’s The Secret World, subtitled Behind the Curtain of British Intelligence in World War II and the Cold War, written by its Editor, Edward Harrison, for much of my information on the evolution of the Radio Security Service in the first two years of the war. That was complemented by a revealing chapter in Nigel West’s GCHQ, although West probably ascribes too much importance to the role of Lord Sandhurst, since West enjoyed exclusive access to the Sandhurst papers, and relied on them for much of his narrative. I found valuable, but mainly anecdotal, evidence in Geoffrey Pidgeon’s The Secret Wireless War, some rather fragmented accounts in Frank Birch’s often inscrutable Official History of British Sigint (which frequently reads as if it had been poorly translated from a foreign language, probably German), and some revealing but often imprecise material in Professor Hinsley’s official history of British Intelligence in the Second World War. Philip Davies’s MI6 and the Machinery of Spying is overall very thorough and contains good corrective analysis. But Keith Jeffery’s Secret History of MI6 is very disappointing in its coverage, considering that it is the authorised history, and that RSS was an integral part of SIS after the spring of 1941. I had inspected some of the source material at the National Archives on a visit in 2017, but, since little of it has been digitised, I have not been able to analyse any other since, apart from a few pieces shared by other researchers.
I recently discovered (thanks to Stan Ames, an RSS enthusiast) a longer paper published by Harrison, which appeared in the English Historical Review Vol. CXXIV, no. 506, dated January 13, 2009. It is titled ‘British Radio Security and Intelligence, 1939-1943’, and provides a very comprehensive account of this critical era in wireless and intelligence. Harrison, who suggests that his contribution ‘fills the gap’ in offering an academic article ‘dedicated to the organisation’ of RSS, generally provides an insightful guide to the literature, and skilfully exploits a broad number of sources. He crisply explains the evolution of RSS, taking the line that MI8 tried to find it a home in MI5; that MI5 resisted, because of issues of overstretch and competence; how Walter Gill, introduced to the unit late in 1939, brought to it new skills in discrimination (isolating and organising signals of relevance from among a vast noise in the ether); how Gill’s findings shifted efforts towards Abwehr signals abroad rather than illicit transmissions from the UK; and how, because of this geographical re-focusing, with the approval of the imminently-to-be-appointed chief of MI5, David Petrie, RSS was handed over to SIS early in 1941, with official approval occurring in May. He then relates the continuing battles between MI5 and SIS – primarily through the personalities of Guy Liddell, Hugh Trevor-Roper and Maurice Cowgill – over the availability of ISOS decrypts that MI5 thought were critical for the smooth running of the Double-Cross system. It is a masterful and highly valuable contribution to the history.
Yet Harrison’s story does, I believe, not perform full justice to RSS, or describe accurately the manoeuvrings that went on behind the scenes to determine the control of RSS. It is a more a study of the relationships and tensions between MI5 and SIS than of the machinery and contributions of RSS itself, and Harrison is perhaps a touch too respectful of Trevor-Roper’s role, describing him as ‘the intellectual inspiration of RSS’. Moreover, Harrison largely ignores some of the figures who participated. He says nothing about Lord Sandhurst, who was appointed to RSS, and played some role in recruiting or training the Volunteer Interceptor force in the first months of the war. (As indicated above, this may have been a sagacious choice, as Sandhurst’s involvement remains somewhat controversial.) Harrison does not mention, however, the greater contribution of Lt.-Colonel Adrian Simpson, who wrote the seminal paper that defined the structures, technology and organisation that he felt were vital for protecting the nation’s defences. Harrison seems to be unaware of SIS’s own clandestine interception capabilities constructed in cooperation with the Metropolitan Police, documented by Kenworthy, and chronicled in the National Archives, which throw a bizarre light on the whole issue of MI5/SIS territorial control. He rather bizarrely devotes a section to Malcom Frost’s late efforts to increase the efficiency of the mobile detection units without offering an explanation of what illicit operators they were supposed to be pursuing. He mentions Richard Gambier-Parry, who headed SIS’s Section VIII, under which RSS resided, only in passing. He offers a restrained analysis of John Curry’s highly provocative assessment of the ‘Greek tragedy’ that resulted from SIS’s takeover of RSS, an opinion that Curry himself appeared to abjure elsewhere.
Moreover, Harrison brings to the surface a number of anomalies and paradoxes that are not satisfactorily addressed in his paper, and I have to backtrack a little to the topics I introduced in the first chapter of this saga to refresh the story. I should point out that I am not attempting to offer a comprehensive account of RSS’s history, but to focus on the questions highly relevant to radio interception and direction-finding policies in WWII. Who drove the takeover of RSS by SIS? Why were domestic interception and detection so casually executed? Why were Sonia’s radio transmissions overlooked? Why did British intelligence believe it could convince the Abwehr that the Double Cross agents had not been detectable?
The Strange Decline of Lt.-Col. Simpson
Simpson’s Report: First Page
Now that one of Simpson’s papers has come to light, one can understand his considerable strengths, as well as what probably caused him to fall into disfavour. (If not familiar with him, readers should inspect Chapter 1 of this saga first.) His October 1938 report to the Director of Security Service at the War Office, titled ‘Illicit W/T Communication’, is a masterful explanation of the way developments in wireless technology could allow a nest of foreign spies to remain undetected in Britain. He pointed out that low-power transmitters would be able to broadcast to receiving stations overseas (in Germany) while remaining difficult to detect locally via normal ground waves. He recommended the establishment of three fixed Direction-Finding (DF) stations, each complemented by a pair of portable (i.e. mobile) stations, that in turn would be supported by a set of hand apparatuses that could be used for house-to-house search. Landlines to connect the DF stations would be essential, and a line would also link the main DF station with the fixed Interception station. The project was to be enabled by the recruitment of ‘some 50 or 60 picked amateurs out of the 4,000 now existing in this country’; Simpson did add, however, that he believed that the creation of such an organisation was already under way.
Lt.-Colonel Simpson’s Plan for Interception, 1938
Simpson expressed concern about the suitability of the G.P.O., the institution currently chartered with executing MI5’s requirements in this area, since it had a more regulatory and bureaucratic approach to the issue of frequency usage. ‘Our objective’ (which should probably not be interpreted as ‘MI5’s objective’, but as a national interest), he said, is to prevent any unauthorised transmissions, not just investigate them after they had happened. That is why he focused on developing a more elite, professional staff from among all the amateurs who held experimental licenses. He did add, however, the intriguing comment that one of the objectives would be to ‘locate the source of transmission with the least possible delay, but not necessarily stop it’, hinting at the notion of possible control of alien broadcasts, but in fact suggesting a desire to distort the suspected propaganda signals to make them unintelligible. His final appeal was for centralised control over the whole process of interception, direction-finding, and message gathering, and that, when the collection ‘of a certain class of highly confidential intelligence’ had been made, it would be conveyed to the appropriate department ‘to take the necessary executive action’. Lastly, he nominated three very distinguished names to serve on a Technical Advisory Committee, Dr. James Robinson, Director of Wireless Research at the Air Ministry, Captain Round, an expert in DF and interception work, and Mr. K. Tremellen, ‘the greatest practical authority alive on the subject of short-wave communication’. Strangely, none of these names appears in the authorised histories.
Some of Simpson’s ideas would be echoed later (e.g. the need for unification of resources, the professionalisation of voluntary interceptors), but his recommendations were perhaps influenced by two notions that were gradually becoming obsolete: i) a too technical approach that emphasised that the problem was one simply of interception and location, not foreshadowing the technique of traffic analysis, and the way in which that process, alongside (even partial) decryption, fed back into the act of discrimination, and ii) the belief, perhaps encouraged by WWI memories of German spy threats, that the country was riddled with German agents, equipped with wireless, who were ready to spring into action. What is also significant that he articulated the mission as ‘closing . . . all illicit channels of communication with the enemy in time of war, and of locating sources of political propaganda in time of peace’. What he did not include was the need to protect the realm from hostile (not necessarily declared enemy) communications designed to help subvert the country – i.e. transmissions by Communist spies, whether in time of peace or war. This must have been a failure of knowledge or imagination, and it is astonishing that, since he was offering his report on behalf of MI5, he was allowed to make his submission to the Director of Security Service at the War Office without this oversight being pointed out.
John Bryden, in Fighting to Lose, suggests that MI5 rejected his ideas there and then, ‘being firmly of the view that German agents would only be using the mails or couriers to send in their reports’, and that the matter was turned back to the War Office. But that does not make sense. The source that Bryden provides for this explanation (Curry) does not give that as the reason: Curry blamed it on the administrative burden and financial commitments required. Moreover, despite the fact that the War Office approved Simpson’s recommendation that the RSS unit be set up, it did not endorse his ideas of ‘unified control’, and when MI5 declined to become involved, Simpson stayed on as the Security Service’s expert. He was surely happy to see his recommendations accepted, no matter where the unit reported. (His perspective on MI5 ownership is a little ambiguous: at one stage in his report he refers to ‘our’ DF or interception stations, but then goes on to write that they would be used ‘in conjunction with M.I.5.’ It appears he had an open mind on the command structure.) Bryden and Curry do agree, however, that the founding of MI1(g) was attributable to MI5’s lack of eagerness to take charge. Accordingly, RSS started collaborating with the Post Office in March 1939, with MI5 demoted to the sidelines, waiting for results.
Simpson may have been somewhat deflated, but thus hung around in MI5 (though without warm recognition from Liddell, his boss in MI5’s Counter-Espionage B Division). The fragment from Curry indicates that he was vigorously promoting his original vision of unified control, and stressing the importance of the Post Office in harnessing the appropriate resources to tackle the threat of illicit transmissions by supplying suitable personnel, and moving to build the new facilities required. Indeed, Curry reports that Simpson was the main muscle behind the establishment of the Voluntary Interceptor system: a recognition that other commentators have overlooked. As B3b, he was actively supplying the liaison between MI5 that was later mirrored in SIS’s Section V. As MI5’s representative on the Technical Committee on Leakage of Information (TCLI) that the War Office set up in October, 1939, he was quick (in February 1940) to try to persuade the Ministry of Home Security to bring pressure on to the GPO. He attended the critical meeting on March 20 at Bletchley Park after which GC&CS agreed to set up the ISOS decryption unit. Yet his stubbornness in believing that a domestic German menace was being overlooked (when none existed) must have clashed with the messages coming from RSS. His emphasis on the need for widely dispersed Voluntary Interceptors to pick up illicit ground signals turned out to be something of a luxury, although the wide dissemination of interceptors greatly aided the ability of the unit to avoid omissions provoked by the whimsicality of ‘skip zones’ and the presence of thunderstorms. His expressed frustrations with the GPO’s lack of urgency in constructing new DF and Interception stations was probably on target, but his insistence that the detection of illicit wireless was ‘extremely unsatisfactory’ was not.
Maybe the SNOW affair changed Liddell’s mind somewhat. Simpson’s ideas must have had a slight resurgence with the ‘Fifth Column’ scare in the summer of 1940, but Liddell’s entering discussions with ‘the BBC man’ Malcolm Frost in May 1940 suggests that Simpson was no longer around. (Frost had been the BBC representative on the TCLI, and thus presumably had caught Liddell’s eye as a possible replacement for Simpson.) Indeed, the system of Regional Security Liaison Officers that MI5 set up by Guy Liddell in June 1940, specifically to address the threat of illicit wireless (and which was headed by Jane Archer, mysteriously sidelined from her expert role in tracking Communist subversion) mapped very closely to Simpson’s areas of demarcation. But when that was shown to be a false alarm, his whole infrastructure was seen to be somewhat redundant, especially in the light of the lessons being learned by Gill and Trevor-Roper in the RSS organisation. Interceptors were needed in large numbers, but did not have to be located so evenly around the country in order to pick up ground waves. Simpson’s attendance at the meeting at Bletchley Park where the revelations about the discovery of Abwehr traffic were made is the last reference that Liddell makes to him in his Diaries.
Still, Simpson’s omission from the record books (outside Curry) is extremely puzzling, and some of his contribution remains uncredited. For example, his report clearly refers to the 4,000 amateurs known to the Post Office who had the potential of providing the elite force that Simpson needed. Yet most histories and memoirs attribute the imaginative idea to Lord Sandhurst, who was reportedly recruited by RSS at the outbreak of war to develop a professional force of interceptors to replace the largely part-time group assembled by Colonel Worlledge. Sandhurst, who had also been instructed to liaise with R. L. Hughes of MI5 (who, Curry informs us was B3b, responsible for liaison with the RSS and the BBC, and thus working directly for Simpson at that time), soon approached Arthur Watts, the President of the Radio Society of Great Britain. Watts had ‘several thousand’ members who were radio hams, so Sandhurst then began to select the most suitable for training. Thus Simpson’s contribution is overlooked: Davies, like Harrison, remarkably makes no mention of wireless expertise in MI5 before Frost. Simpson will turn up again in this account, when I write about the negotiations to find RSS a suitable home, but the verdict on his contribution must be that he was technically correct, but strategically wrong. He brilliantly assessed the state of the art of short-wave wireless telegraphy, and its potential subversive use, but he was caught up in the tide of searching for a phantom menace – the German W/T agents installed in the English countryside – and failed to gain the confidence of his colleagues in MI5. The irony was that the flock of interceptors he identified to protect the nation did not need to be precisely dispersed to detect ground waves, as there were no illicit operators at large at that time, but the volume and placement of such individuals did turn out to be essential to pick up the mass of signals originating from overseas.
The Rise and Fall of Walter Gill
Walter Gill, on the other hand, was (in a specialised sense) technically wrong, but strategically correct. It still comes as a surprise to some observers that nearly all the Abwehr agents infiltrated by air or sea in 1940 were equipped only with a transmitter, and not with a combined transmitter-receiver, or with a separate receiver. Operating ‘blind’, without any confirmation that one’s message was being received at all, or perhaps not clearly enough (and thus needed to be re-sent) would appear to reflect a less than serious objective by the perpetrators of the scheme. And that is one interpretation that can be cast on the German planning, as I have suggested. (Preparations for sending agents into Britain did not begin until July 1940.) Yet that phenomenon is confirmed by the archival reports, as well as by the memoirs of some of the members of RSS. While Gill showed great insight over the question of the source of beams guiding German aircraft, his thesis, that if the supposed German agents could hear their controllers’ signals, then so should the operators in RSS have been able to, and that there were therefore none operating, was based on a false assumption. The focus on enemy signals originating abroad, and the eventual deciphering of many of them (ULTRA), was, however, a major contributor to the success of the war.
Gill’s policy must come under continual scrutiny, however. I have recently read accounts of two Abwehr agents who parachuted on to English soil before the main wave (Operation LENA) that arrived in early September 1940. Each of this pair was reported to have brought a working transmitter/receiver unit and successfully exchanged messages with his controller. Such transmissions were presumably not detected by RSS, since Gill claimed the unit had not identified any unexplained outgoing Abwehr signals. Such agents might therefore have been able to transmit undetected for some time, contrary to the accounts that the authorised and semi-official historians would have us believe. I shall investigate such adventures in my next chapter, to judge whether this was all an elaborate hoax. It should perhaps also be noted that Gill came to his breakthrough conclusion about the absence of German agents in Britain in December 1939, when SNOW was, almost certainly, the only wireless operator recruited by the Abwehr. His report, however, was not written until November, 1940, when the experience of Operation LENA, under which a dozen or more spies landed on British soil, would have sharpened sensitivities in MI5. Indeed, as early as July 13, 1940, Liddell felt compelled to record in his diary the following: “While I feel it is likely that there are a few German agents here, possibly transmitting by wireless, I do not envisage anything in the nature of large bodies of individuals going out to stab us in the back as soon as the Germans invade this country.” That observation indicates that the Gill doctrine had not been accepted wholesale at that time, and Liddell did not have complete trust in the energies of RSS.
I have little here to add to my account of Gill’s demise that I described two months ago, but the account that Hugh Trevor-Roper gave of Gill’s departure is somewhat paradoxical. Trevor-Roper was known for his caustic dismissals of many of those he encountered in wartime, especially the blimpish characters he considered to be his intellectual inferiors, but he clearly had some admiration and affection for Gill. Gill had been a lecturer on electricity at Oxford University, and a successful Bursar at Merton College, although Trevor-Roper had diminished his overall academic qualifications by writing that he ‘could only by a charitable laxity of definition be included among the educated’, a harsh and inaccurate judgment (as revealed in Dr. Austin’s detailed profile of him), which sheds more light on Trevor-Roper’s arrogance than on Gill’s cultural accomplishments. Yet they worked well together as a team. Trevor-Roper, however, when commenting on Gill’s clumsy and harsh dismissal and demotion, could only comment (in Sideways into SIS) as follows: “The real genius of the affair, Major Gill, was also deliberately overlooked. Left to find other employment, he became a radar officer and an expert on captured German equipment. Under the new regime, his name was never mentioned.”
Was there a reason for Trevor-Roper’s coyness over Gill’s treatment, which he also characterised simply as ‘rather shabby’? After all, Gill had been fired without even a formal notification, and then demoted from Major to Captain. Major Cowgill, the offended SIS officer (who had joined SIS only in March 1939, so did not enjoy a reputation of any sort), had repeatedly called for Trevor-Roper, who had been just as complicit in the affair as Gill, to be court-martialled. Yet Trevor-Roper escaped unscathed, even though the head of RSS, Colonel Worlledge, lost his job as well. It is surprising that Trevor-Roper did not provide a more comprehensive coverage of the whole business. In fact he concluded that Cowgill in fact ‘had every right to explode’, as Worlledge had revealed secrets concerning intelligence and security ‘not only to his official contacts in the Armed Services intelligence departments . . . but also (horror of horrors!) to the civilians of the Post Office.’ Perhaps Gill and Worlledge were punished because, as military veterans from WWI, they should have known better. In fact, as will be shown, it was a bit more complicated than that.
One last mysterious incident concerns Gill’s reappearance in April 1942. Despite what Trevor-Roper wrote over fifty years later, Gill’s name was apparently mentioned again, because (as Harrison reports) Trevor-Roper was in contact by letter with F. E. Lindemann (later Lord Cherwell), who was Churchill’s scientific adviser, at a time when Trevor-Roper, disenchanted again with his work in SIS, was looking for other opportunities. As Adam’s Sisman’s biography of Trevor-Roper makes clear, he was highly frustrated over the failure of RSS management (Maltby and Gambier-Parry) to keep technical policy aligned with intelligence aims. He had earlier rather indiscreetly criticised the leaders of RSS, specifically Gambier-Parry, and now told Lindemann that Menzies (chief of SIS) had called him in, and then accused him (Trevor-Roper) ‘of having supplied facts to Gill which he had supplied to you and you to Swinton’. Is that ‘he’ Menzies or Gill? Unlikely the former, as Trevor-Roper would presumably not have been party to information passed by Menzies to Lindemann: Menzies would in that case have been concerned about a breach of security elsewhere.
So if it was Gill supplying facts to Lindemann that got back to Menzies via Swinton of the Security Executive, what could those facts have been about, and on what basis were Gill and Trevor-Roper still in communication over important matters if Gill was by then working in a completely unrelated sphere of the war effort? And why would Gill want to leak secrets to Lindemann? It may be relevant that, at exactly this time, as Dr. Austin informs us, Gill joined the Army Operational Research Group, where he was responsible for investigating advanced aspects of Army field communications, but no details of the exchange have come to light. It sounds very much as if Gill and Trevor-Roper had stayed in touch, as ex-colleagues who had collaborated very productively on the matter of intelligent signals analysis, and that Gill was a man whose reputation had been restored, and had connections with influential persons. Another interesting twist to the story (as related by Sisman) is that when Trevor-Roper made a trip to Ireland in early 1942, i.e. just before the contact with Gill, Colonel Worlledge invited him to his home, Glenwilliam Castle, where ‘over a convivial dinner each outlined to the other what he knew of the takeover of RSS by SIS’. The existence of this conversation hints at untold scheming and plotting. Vivian of SIS was later to use this incident to make the astonishing claim that Trevor-Roper had gone to Dublin to betray the Ultra secret to the Germans, and that he had been ‘motivated by resentment against SIS for its treatment of Worlledge, and of Gill in particular.’ (Vivian was by now unstable: Liddell reports that he suffered a nervous breakdown in June 1942.) Trevor-Roper’s published account of Gill’s dismissal was clearly much more muted than this: he was surely concealing something of substance, but it may have no important connection with the fate and mission of RSS.
Gill’s major contribution to the debate about RSS’s future was his November 19, 1940, paper on the Organisation of RSS. Curry represented the arguments therein (the whole Theseus episode, after which focus was shifted to interception of overseas transmissions) as a clinching argument for RSS’s ‘vitality and value’, and for moving it into MI5, but that judgment appears weak and woolly. The timing of this report suggests it was produced under some pressure, but Gill’s account expresses no concern about the current organisation, or the allocation of work between RSS & GC&CS, and it concludes simply with a modest request for more resources. Yet the report includes a very telling statement concerning Direction Finding: “Any of the residue [i.e. the messages remaining after known ones had been identified] found by D.F. to be outside the country could for the above purpose have been neglected [but were not].” RSS was successful in tracking those same messages, but, by implication, some unknown messages did originate inside the country. Gill gave, however, no indication of how these were investigated, a statement that should have alarmed MI5’s officers. If anything, the case as he made it was an argument against moving the unit to MI5, contrary to what Curry claimed. As we shall see, the question of territory and ownership would play a strong role in the decision, and MI5, even if the service had an outspoken champion, was on its weakest footing at this stage. The transfer to MI5 of course did not happen, but it did provoke a major debate about where RSS should report. Had Gill performed his job, and was thus no longer needed? Or was his demise just an accident of politics? That question may be unanswerable.
Kenworthy and the Secret Interception Unit
SIS was a notoriously secret organisation, but even it had clandestine corners that were not apparently known to all its officers, or even its authorised historian. In Keith Jeffery’s Secret History of MI6 the author informed us that the strategic split between the responsibilities of MI5 and MI6 (SIS) was made on October 1, 1931, when the semi-autonomous unit of the Special Branch, SS1, which consisted of the familiar Guy Liddell and his colleague Hugh Miller, experts in counter-subversion, was peeled off from the Metropolitan Police and handed over to MI5. SIS was also stripped of its domestic intelligence network, the ‘Casuals’, which was causing an embarrassment. This decision apparently simplified and clarified the missions for MI5 and SIS to handle subversion in the Empire and in foreign countries, respectively. “Thus . . . the Secret Intelligence Service and the Security Service took on their modern form and distinct spheres of responsibility which were to survive for at least the next eight years”, Jeffery wrote, with a high degree of authority (p 236).
Yet it was not quite like that. The reader will learn, from Nigel West’s 1986 book, GCHQ, that in 1930, a Commander Kenworthy reported ‘an illicit Comintern circuit operating between a site just outside Moscow and a terraced house in a suburb of London’. (The Moscow location was verified by direction-finders located in Palestine’s Sarafand, in India, and in London, thereby showing that widely dispersed location-finders working in harness could place remote transmitters with an accuracy that could not always be exercised in more confined areas. Such phenomena perplexed security officers like Liddell.) West added that Kenworthy was ‘the controller of the Home Office intercept station at Grove Park, Camberwell’. It might surprise some that the Home Office was involved with interception. Indeed, in West’s later book (2005) on this Comintern project, MASK, the author informs us that ‘GC&CS’s [sic] monitoring station at Grove Park, Camberwell, headed by Commander Kenworthy, first began intercepting Wheeton’s signals in February 1934 . . .’. Aided by the revelation by an MI5 mole of the cipher used, the codebreakers Leslie Lambert and John Tiltman were able to read the traffic until January 1937. By employing the full force of the direction-finding equipment of the Army (Fort Bridgewoods), Navy (Flowerdown) and Air Force (Waddington), the team of technicians were able to locate the members of a worldwide Comintern ring.
The intercept station, however, was not run consciously by the Home Office or by GC&CS. It was run clandestinely by the Metropolitan Police. We owe it to a memorandum by Kenworthy himself, available at HW 3/81 at the National Archives, for a richer account of how Special Branch, assisted by both SIS and MI5, kept a watch on traffic that the armed forces declined to surveille. Supported by secret funds, an interception unit was encouraged by its experience in the General Strike (1926) to seek support from SIS in trying to detect foreign diplomatic stations which did not have ‘Berne List’ status (the latter presumably representing official frequencies allocated by international agreement). Kenworthy made it clear that Admiral Sinclair, the chief of SIS, was intimately familiar with what was going on. Remarkably, Kenworthy indicated that the expertise in interception gained by his unit entitled him to attend Y [= Signals Interception] Committee meetings, where the Services ‘looked to him for guidance’. He described his success in locating the illicit Comintern operator in Wimbledon, also showing that he and his colleague Lambert developed a portable direction-finding piece of apparatus that was critical for their mission.
What is intriguing is that The Metropolitan Police was the institution responsible for tracking the increasing volume of diplomatic traffic that appeared in the 1930s. “The Services were however disinclined to intercept Diplomatic (Commercial) Wireless to any extent as it would lead to a curtailment of the examination of their particular Service channels of Foreign Countries, as it became more and more important that encouragement should be given to Police by S.I.S”, Kenworthy wrote. Soon SIS was funding the exercise, as it was difficult to account for the expenses internally, and not long thereafter the new Receiving Station at Denmark Hill was constructed. Some official funding was approved, and made public, in 1938, but SIS maintained a controlling interest in the project. (At the base of one of his many organisational charts, Birch lists the Police Y Station at Denmark Hill as being controlled by the Foreign Office, i.e. SIS’s sponsor!) Now the interest of GC&CS (which reported to Admiral Sinclair, SIS’s chief) was piqued. In 1939 it decided that Commercial traffic should be intercepted as well, requiring a workload that Denmark Hill could not handle. “G.C. & C.S. realised that more facilities were required but unfortunately they had to cloak their activities and could not openly control wireless stations.” Everything that was going on was contrary to the rules of the protocol-oriented GPO. The outcome was that a new interception station was set up at Sandridge, near St. Albans, ‘specially for G.C. & C. S.’. Finally, to tidy up the picture, GC&CS took over the complete Police signals intelligence capability between November 1939 and January 1940, as the summary of the relevant files at the National Archives website informs us. (Regrettably, I have not yet been able to inspect the complete file.)
This whole chapter in British signals intelligence contains some remarkable ironies. The first is that the task of intercepting commercial and diplomatic traffic had devolved to a clandestine unit of Scotland Yard, a fact that appears to have been overlooked by all historians except Frank Birch. (HW 3/81 was not declassified until 2004: Andrew and Jeffery would have had access to it anyway, but chose not to use it.) The second is that SIS was involved in intercepting traffic occurring within the territorial boundaries of the UK, which flagrantly broke the rules that had been set up in 1931 guiding the missions of the two intelligence services. Since one of the main planks of the argument for placing, in early 1941, RSS under SIS’s aegis was the fact that RSS, after the beginning of the war, changed its focus from domestic to international interception, the episode sheds fresh light on the sincerity and professionalism of Sinclair and Menzies. The third irony is that MI5 knew all about this incursion on its turf, but apparently did not raise any protest: Curry mentions, without judgment, that ‘a certain amount of interception work was being done by M.I.6’, referring to the illicit set operated by the Russians. (One of Kenworthy’s paragraphs reads: “A conference took place with S.I.S. and M.I.5. The latter pointed out that strictly speaking the G.P.O. as the Communication Authority were the Department who should tackle these sorts of jobs but for reasons best known to S.I.S. and M.I.5. G.P.O. were not considered a very secure body.”) In early 1941, the Security Service, already weak in its drive and leadership, would have been on insecure footing had it tried to play the territorial card.
The fourth irony is that GC&CS was allowed to enter the interception game at the beginning of the war (the transfer presumably muscled through quickly by Menzies) at a time when Commander Denniston was making vigorous representations about interceptors invading his own domain of cryptography, an action that led to Worlledge and Gill losing their jobs. Denniston was extremely possessive about GC&CS’s ownership of cryptanalysis, even though he and others (according to Birch) accepted that ‘Y generally involved interception, traffic analysis and ‘low-level cryptanalysis’. But Hinsley also records that, in the summer of 1940, Denniston opposed the demand from MI8 (RSS) that its Traffic Analysis staff of 70 officers be transferred to GC&CS (on the basis that Traffic Analysis and cryptanalysis should be done in the same place), on the grounds that ‘his establishment should continue to be a cryptanalytical centre’ (only).
Kenworthy thus moved to GC&CS, worked there during the war, when it became GCHQ, and retired in 1957. Though working for Bletchley Park, he was stationed at Knockholt, where he led the project to intercept German Teleprinter Communications. This was the very important ‘Fish’ set of non-Morse messages, and Kenworthy wrote a report on that activity in 1946. But of enduring interest to this area of research is his achievement in developing, so early, effective handheld location-finding equipment. I have not yet been able to trace the extent to which his inventions passed on to the GPO in wartime, apart from a brief mention by Curry, who stated that Kenworthy’s portable D-F set was tested by MI5, and that ‘some interesting Mobile Unit operations were carried out on connection with this case [the detection of the Comintern transmissions]’. I thus have not been able to determine whether the apparent dilatoriness of the GPO – so frequently demeaned by intelligence officers – was caused by inadequate technology or by official edict.
The Transfer to SIS
So was the transfer of RSS to SIS a smooth operation, or was it bedevilled with conflict and controversy? One can learn little from the authorised histories. The History of British Intelligence in the Second World War contains some errors, as well as some very puzzling observations that do not always make sense. Christopher Andrew does not mention the episode at all, or even the mission that MI5 shared with MI8/RSS. You will not find Lt.-Colonel Simpson, Malcolm Frost, the RSS, or even Section B3, in his Index. Keith Jeffery devotes just two sentences of his equally massive book to the adoption by Section VIII of RSS, indicating simply that it occurred ‘on Petrie’s recommendation’. He has nothing to say about Trevor-Roper, and Cowgill receives just a cursory mention. Geoffrey Pidgeon records the event as follows: “In January 1941, Swinton recommended that RSS be handed over to SIS, but this met with fierce opposition throughout the upper echelons of MI5, resulting in a battle that reached the highest levels”. However, since Pidgeon (like many commentators) appeared to be under the impression that RSS had been run hitherto by MI5, his account may have been coloured. Nigel West, in his 1985 history, MI5, represents the struggle as one more between Menzies, the SIS chief, and Worlledge of RSS than a conflict between SIS and MI5, although West’s somewhat haphazard chronology of events means it is difficult to follow his narrative. He does, however, make the provocative claim that the change-over ‘was, in effect, “C”s (i.e. Menzies’s) final consolidation of his grasp on signals interception, and was only achieved after a closely-fought struggle with MI5’s ‘old guard’, but this interesting thread is not picked up or developed in his history, MI6, which came out two years later. Since Menzies did not assume his leadership of SIS until November 1939, and did not enjoy a reputation as a deep thinker or strategist, West’s opinion comes over as rather startling. I shall return to it later.
So what does the evidence indicate? Birch suggests that several agencies had had their eyes on the prize of domestic interception, namely MI1b, MI5, SIS, the armed services, the police and the Post Office, before the 1938 decision that the War Office should be in charge, and the establishment of RSS. MI5 had a natural interest, because of the mission it shared with the unit, but, as has been explained, was reluctant to plunge in. Lt.-Col. Simpson must have grown frustrated, because he expressed his dissatisfaction with the state of affairs on September 15, 1939, and, according to Curry ‘suggested that the assistance of Colonel xxxxxxxx [name redacted] (an M.I.6. officer) should be sought’. Now, there were not many established Colonels in SIS at that time. Sinclair, mortally ill, was an Admiral, and Colonel Dansey was absent in Switzerland between September and November 1939. Unless Simpson intended to invoke Dansey, not knowing he was abroad, that left Colonel Menzies, head of Section II (military) and Sinclair’s deputy, Colonel Vivian, head of Section V (counter-espionage). Another officer, however, had been promoted to Colonel earlier that year – Richard Gambier-Parry, head of the Communications unit, Section VIII. There is no doubt, given the length of the name redacted, that it is he whom Simpson approached, and the significance of this connection will be explored later. It is not clear why Simpson decided to voice his frustrations at this time, apart from the fact that war had recently been declared. Was he annoyed at the pace of RSS hiring? Or at the shift to tracking overseas transmissions? Or at MI5’s continued reticence to grab the bull by the horns? The fragment from Curry’s report indicates that his ideas had moved on to consider broader issues of signals security, but his plans at that time encompassed a leading role for MI5 as the hub of a wireless intelligence organisation that it must have been reluctant to assume. Perhaps Gambier-Parry was an old ally, and this was a move to invite SIS to step in. But Simpson might have upset his bosses in MI5 during the process.
RSS was in fact moving along reasonably well: the GPO must have been propelled into action, though perhaps reluctantly. It did not think its mission was to build interception stations that would be focusing on detecting traffic originating from overseas. Three new Direction-Finding stations had been set up, and arrangements had been made in August for linking them with telephone lines. Lord Sandhurst was turning the corps of radio amateurs into a more professional body, though perhaps not as quickly as Simpson would have liked. As Nigel West writes: “The operators had to be skilled, discreet and dedicated, so the recruitment process was necessarily slow. By Christmas 1939, the Home South Region boasted only seven VIs (Voluntary Interceptors) on its roll.” Within three months, RSS had recruited fifty VIs, who were tracking 600 sources – all on the other side of the Channel. West reports that the Home South section had produced 1,932 logs by the end of the year, a figure that grew to 3,052 by March 1940. And, by that time, Gill and Trevor-Roper had cracked the Abwehr hand-cipher, and Bletchley Park had agreed to set up a special-purpose cryptographic unit to handle the traffic. RSS’s reputation was on the rise, but its role probably not broadly understood.
At the same time, fierce arguments over policy and organisation were being discussed by members of the Y Committee, which broadly was responsible for interception, traffic analysis, and low-grade cryptography. There were disagreements about the degree to which the needs of the three Services should be shared, or kept separate, but there was also questioning as to why SIS (whose head, Menzies, chaired the meetings) should control proceedings. It took an appeal to Lord Hankey, the ultimate committee man, for a solution, which involved a stronger Y Committee with a full-time chairman, and supporting clerical staff. Frank Birch suggests some of the confusion when he indicates that the news about the interception and decryption of Abwehr traffic in Europe, and the establishment of GC&CS’s ISOS group appeared to come as some surprise to the committee. ‘Officially, all this was no one’s concern’, he wrote, but in May 1940 the Committee gave formal recognition to the extension of RSS’s responsibility to provide preliminary investigation of these groups of signals. Seven months into the war, the Committee was still in reactive mode, instead of setting policy. The full Committee met for the first time not until January 1, 1941.
In the summer of 1940, after Simpson’s departure, Liddell also found a new candidate to lead B3b (Simpson’s unit), one Maurice Frost of the BBC, whom Swinton encouraged Liddell to hire. After initial good impressions, Frost was signed up, and in June 1940, Liddell reported plans for Frost to set up a new branch (the W Branch), instead of reporting to Liddell in B. The decision was made in July, and ‘Tar’ Robertson (who was handling SNOW) was deputed to work for him. But Liddell had to backtrack, and in August the W unit was folded back into B Branch, much to Frost’s annoyance. (Curry’s report states that Frost was Director of the W Division at this time ‘which comprised B.3’. It is probable that Liddell’s journal is more accurate than Curry’s memory on this matter. MI5 was also notoriously inconsistent in its naming conventions for Branches and Divisions.) Yet Frost was beginning to get under everybody’s skin by this time. Robertson declared he could not work under him, and even Lord Swinton, who had supported Frost’s recruitment, said in late November 1940 that Frost could not stay in MI5. His ambition and untrustworthiness had become intolerable: moreover, he probably did not possess the appropriate skills for such a job. His interest was more in establishing a service to monitor foreign broadcasts.
Matters appeared to come to a disruptive head in September. According to Hinsley, the War Office concluded that its own interception capabilities (of German Air Force Enigma traffic) were not keeping up with GC&CS’s capacity to absorb it. Thus, on Winston’s Churchill’s bidding, Hankey ordered a transfer of an unspecified number of ‘operators’ from RSS to the Services, ‘overruling RSS’s protests’. This was probably a gross misjudgement: the failure to detect the enemy’s movements in the Nazis’ overrun of Europe in the summer of 1940 was due more to an incapacity to analyse and integrate intelligence properly than a paucity of intercepts. That was the insight that Gill and Trevor-Roper had arrived at. Moreover, the War Office was responsible for MI8, which was where the unit reported. RSS received intercepts from its team of VIs, the permanent stations managed by the Post Office, as well the Armed Forces, the BBC and the cable companies, so simply shifting operators around was not likely to fix the poorly identified problem. Somehow the discoveries that Gill and Trevor-Roper had made about Abwehr communications with agents as the German war machine moved across Europe in the summer of 1940 should have made it to the General Staff, but there was no mechanism for that to happen.
By now, however, MI8 was feeling the pressure. On October 9 it pushed MI5 to take over the RSS unit en bloc, as it needed to concentrate on military matters, clearly not understanding that the work that RSS was doing was much more closely related to the theatre of war than the stated mission of detecting illicit domestic transmissions. But, of course, MI5 did know. Moreover, Brigadier Allen (MI5’s assistant director) went on record as saying that the service was being asked to take over an organisation that was breaking down. MI5 thus still demurred, because of cost and complexity, and because it understood that the current concentration on Abwehr traffic in Europe (and beyond) made the procedural case for the responsibility’s belonging to the Security Service completely tenuous. MI8 and MI5 were at cross-purposes. No doubt the secret but successful execution of an unchartered mission had to be revealed. The publication of Gill’s report in November 1940 thus brought the achievements of RSS into the open, perhaps preventing any further poaching by the Military, but inevitably driving the unit further away from MI5.
MI5 was also experiencing considerable turmoil at the time: even as Vivian of SIS was reminding MI5 officers (via Jasper Harker) of the correct procedures for communicating with SIS, Liddell was lobbying for Vivian to head MI5, so confusing was the current leadership. Lord Swinton, who headed the Security Executive set up by Churchill, had made life difficult for acting Director-General Jasper Harker, and had inserted William Crocker as an awkward co-head of B Division with Liddell. On December 3, 1940, Churchill’s security adviser, Desmond Morton, had told the Premier that MI5 was ‘close to collapse’, but the previous month the Lord President of the Council, John Anderson, had already brought in David Petrie to review its operation. Petrie had in fact been offered the job of Director-General, but declined to accept until he had performed a proper survey of the operation. He did not complete his report until February 13, 1941, but by January 30 he had already recommended to Swinton that SIS take over RSS. Where is the evidence of the struggle of ‘MI5’s old guard’, identified by West? It seems they put up no fight at all.
Yet the same day that Petrie arrived in MI5 to perform his investigation (January 1), Swinton approached the Director of Military Intelligence, Major-General F. H. N. Davidson to discuss the future of RSS. In an exchange that underlined what critical observers might say about the oxymoron of ‘military intelligence’, Davidson was reported to respond that he found RSS and related matters ‘very interesting, very complicated, and a strain on one’s brain’. Maybe this ‘very model of a modern major-general’ was simply overwhelmed, since he had assumed his new post only the previous month. Harrison, having inspected the Davidson papers, observes that Davidson noted in his diary that Swinton was ‘not satisfied that it [RSS] was doing its stuff’. Whether Swinton understood what RSS’s ‘stuff’ was, or consulted Lt.-Colonel Simpson, as a possibly sharper analyst of RSS’s failings, is not recorded. Davidson’s overall contribution is ambiguous: Cavendish-Bentinck, a normally good judge of character, who was the highly successful Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) for most of the war, recorded that Davidson was ‘a very mediocre officer, with a permanent desire to make our reports fit in with the views of the CIGS [Chiefs of the Imperial General Staff].’ On the other hand, the official history of the JIC makes it clear that Davidson sensibly pressed, in January 1941, for a more integrated view of intelligence to assist the war effort – although he did not include MI5 or SIS in his choice of contributors to the process.
When Worlledge opposed the transfer on February 14 (’vigorously’, as Davies informs us), he also cast aspersions on SIS’s administrative skills, as well as making tactless criticisms of Gambier-Parry’s technical abilities, a mis-step that would later cost him his job. Why Worlledge was so set against SIS’s taking over RSS is puzzling, since it should have been clear to him that MI5 was even less endowed with managerial and technical talent than SIS. Hinsley writes that ‘the MI8 Colonel in any case fervently believed that the Services should control Sigint in time of war’. Was Worlledge perhaps aware of the Metropolitan Police unit, and its mobile detection exercises over the Comintern spies, and harboured some doubts about SIS’s interception policy and strategy?
Maybe Davidson was a fast learner, and had quickly unravelled the complications of RSS. The next day, he questioned Petrie’s decision, pointing out that ‘MI6 is concerned with the transmitting of signals and not their interception or location’, a claim that, as has been shown above, merely indicated that the Director of Military Intelligence did not know the full story of what was going on in the world of interception. Yet Davidson’s preference appeared to be to keep RSS under MI8 control rather than pass it to MI5, echoing his clearly diminished regard for the civilian services. Swinton coolly demolished Davidson’s objections, drawing on his position as supremo of both Intelligence Services to ensure that matters would work out fine, that the necessary committees would be in place to handle overlaps and conflicts, and that more professional training of RSS personnel would address his colleague’s concerns. Davidson was subdued, but not eliminated as a threat. Nigel West informs us that Davidson would later cross swords with Menzies, as he was not happy about the civilian nature of GC&CS, and wanted to wrest control back to the War Office. He believed the Office had not gained the results from interception which it merited for the investment it had made.
Yet another extraordinary step occurred before the eventual decision was made. According to Curry: “Early in 1941 it was suggested that an independent adviser, Mr. Kirke of the B.B.C., should carry out an investigation into R.S.S. organisation from the technical point of view and make recommendations for its future running by M.I.5.” The passive voice disguises an unlikely initiative: that the opinion of a BBC manager, supposedly independent of Frost and his objectives, might have been considered a fair judge of the best home for RSS, with the outcome of the investigation apparently pre-determined, and when in the past year the unit had moved well away from its mission of tracking voice broadcasting, and Frost himself had fallen out of favour, is simply shocking. Unsurprisingly, ‘this proposal aroused considerable opposition’. Curry nevertheless noted that ‘although it was partially carried out’, it resulted in meetings between the Director-General of the Security Service and representatives of SIS. Unsurprisingly, Petrie’s recommendation held. Liddell reported in his diary entry for March 6 that Gambier-Parry of SIS was taking over RSS, and the formal transfer occurred the next day.
The Aftermath: RSS under Gambier-Parry
RSS was indeed transferred to the control of Colonel Gambier-Parry in Section VIII of SIS. Gambier-Parry was a larger-than-life character who had been recruited by Sinclair in 1938 to fix the ailing communications systems of SIS and its satellites overseas. Gambier-Parry was an expert on radio: he had worked for the BBC, and for Philco, an American radio company. He had a reputation for being able to get things done, while showing a disdain for any bureaucrats who placed constraints on his will. From most accounts of those who worked for him, he was a popular figure who brought much energy and understanding to the complex challenges facing SIS. He thus embarked on a crash programme of building transmitter-receivers for the locations on the Continent, establishing broadcasting stations in safe places on the UK mainland, and devising the protocols to allow them to communicate securely.
Section VIII was certainly not in the business of interception – overtly, at least. Yet an enigmatic comment by Keith Jeffery in his history of SIS hints at a perhaps clandestine programme that has otherwise escaped the analysts. When Maurice Hankey performed his investigation into SIS at the beginning of 1940, one of the officers he interviewed was Rear-Admiral Godfrey, the Director of Naval Intelligence, seeking his views on the effectiveness of the Secret Intelligence Service. Godfrey was less than enthusiastic about GC&CS, though Jeffery then wrote: “But for Godfrey ‘the one really bright spot’ was the ‘” Y’ side”, in particular the intercepted signals and call signs, which the Admiralty found of the greatest possible use. All praise for this state of affairs’, he added, ‘was due to Colonel Gambier-Parry’. Now Admiral Godfrey was no slouch: he was a well-respected intelligence officer (celebrated for being Ian Fleming’s boss and mentor), and had even been a candidate to replace Admiral Sinclair as head of SIS. It is thus highly unlikely that he would have misunderstood someone else’s contribution as that of Gambier-Parry. This insight therefore does appear to confirm what Nigel West alluded to, namely SIS’s deeper involvement with interception than the authorised histories are prepared to admit.
Guy Liddell knew in March that Gambier-Parry would be taking over RSS, and he was initially optimistic about the changeover, although he recorded in his diary his concern that RSS might now concentrate on ISOS messages solely, to the detriment of MI5’s total interests. Swinton informed the Permanent Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office Alexander Cadogan on March 10, and on March 16 a meeting was held between representatives of MI5, RSS and SIS to discuss responsibilities. Liddell’s diary entry shows that Gambier-Parry was already putting his stamp on the organisation: “It was agreed that G.P. should set up two Y. masts and retain a limited number of skilled V.I.s. At present there were some 450, many of whom were useless and could be returned to store. He would have expert personnel with his Y. masts who would know the ether and be in a position to eliminate anything but the suspicious traffic. Any communication thought to be peculiar would be sent to the W. Analysis Committee and would be co-related and distributed by Cowgill’s organisation. G.P.s organisation would only be responsible for sifting in the first instance genuine traffic from the suspicious.” It seems clear that Gambier-Parry believed the interceptors themselves were capable of deciding what should be investigated, and would be authorized to do so.
In a significant move, Felix Cowgill had replaced Valentine Vivian as head of Section V in January. It was Cowgill who had objected so strongly to Worlledge’s initiative over the Morocco revelation, and for some reason he was given the task of developing a charter for the new RSS. Liddell again wrote an ominous comment on the proposal in his entry for April 10: “It seems to lay far too much emphasis on the interception of the Group traffic and to neglect the possibility of illicit transmissions in this country. We are replying in this sense.” Was someone guiding the novice Cowgill on this issue? Liddell reinforced his concerns in a conversation with Gambier-Parry on May 1, when he urged that he did not want transmissions from the UK ignored. Gambier-Parry gave a very revealing response, echoing the Gill doctrine that traffic had to be two-way, and arguing that ‘thus we have good chance of picking up traffic from abroad’. Gambier-Parry thus appeared to be set out in an unnecessarily dogmatic vein, parroting a policy that he had not crafted himself. Why would he not show greater sensitivity to his customer’s needs? Since the source of previously unidentified short-wave signals could not easily be located, why would Gambier-Parry promote a policy of diminishing efforts at direction-finding on the mainland? It was another indication that, despite the experience from the MASK exercise, non-Abwehr traffic was not going to be considered seriously. Meanwhile, the highly security-conscious Cowgill was already tightening up on the distribution of ISOS material.
The official handover occurred in early May. Gambier-Parry moved swiftly, installing a long-time friend, Major E. H. Maltby, as Controller of RSS. Liddell reported that Army Signals was taking over the responsibilities of the sniffer vans. A new interception station was set up at Hanslope Park, and some select VIs were recruited to become part of a more professional Royal Signals cadre there. Gambier-Parry dismissed Gill in an unprofessional manner, but Worlledge, contrary to some reports, was not fired immediately. He was instead effectively demoted, to work under Cowgill of Section V. Worlledge did not last long there: Dick White reported later that he resigned that summer on a matter of policy. He might have found working for Cowgill intolerable, but it is also quite possible, given his outspoken comments the previous December, that he did maintain grave concerns about the way interception policy was being diverted away from the mission that he had been attempting to execute. As for Trevor-Roper, he escaped dismissal – no doubt because he and Gambier-Parry had enjoyed hunting together with the Whaddon hounds before the war. “In the world of neurotic policemen and timid placemen who rule the secret service, he moves like Falstaff, or some figure from Balzac, if not Rabelais”, wrote the Oxford don of his comic-opera friend. Adam Sisman goes on to record that, after his appointment as head of Section VIII, “Gambier-Parry had seized an opportunity to establish his headquarters at Whaddon Hall, which was not far from Bletchley. There he lived like a colonial governor, with a fleet of camouflaged Packards at his disposal.”
Whaddon Hall in wartime
On May 20, Liddell chaired the first meeting of the Joint Wireless Committee, attended also by Malty, White, Cowgill and Frost. This was a series of fortnightly gatherings that would eventually create deep rifts between the two security services. The first resolution at this meeting ran as follows: “It was agreed that it was the function of the committee to coordinate the mutual interests of S.I.S. and the Security Service in the Radio Security Section [sic: according to Trevor-Roper, ‘Section’ was a temporary name soon abandoned]. It should lay down general directions for the operation of R.S.S. and decide priorities of service to be supplied by R.S.S. to S.I.S. and the Security Services.” It was also resolved to invite Mr. Strachey from GC&CS to become a member, and Captain Trevor-Roper was appointed Secretary. On the provocative and controversial matter of detecting domestic illicit transmissions, the minute for Item 4 read as follows: “It was agreed to proceed with a limited policy of ‘snifting’ in cases where intelligence information gave rise to a reasonable belief that an illicit transmitter existed at any known location in the British Isles. All Sections of the Security Service should be informed of the facilities available but demands should be strictly allotted to those important cases where the position of a wireless set by any individual was considered a genuine possibility. Major Frost would consult with Mr Dick White on the importance of the cases submitted, and the priority to be given to them.” The bland implication here is that some examples of illicit transmissions would be ‘unimportant’. But who would be the judge of that unless the incident were properly investigated?
That same week, at the end of May 1941, agent Sonia of Soviet Military Intelligence sent, from her lodgings in Oxfordshire, her first wireless message from British territory to her masters in Moscow.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
So what evidence is there for Nigel West’s claim about SIS’s long-term ambitions to gain control over interception, and that Gambier-Parry’s Communications Section may have been assisting in its objectives? We have the clandestine operation that uncovered the Comintern spies, sponsored by SIS. Lt.-Colonel Simpson may inadvertently have helped the SIS’s cause when he brought Gambier-Parry into the picture in September 1939. That may have provoked SIS into moving on the Denmark Hill operation: the unit was transferred to GC&CS as the disputes over RSS’s future heated up in the winter of 1939-1940. We have the evidence of Admiral Godfrey, who appreciated Gambier-Parry’s valuable contribution to interception and traffic analysis in early 1940. Worlledge is outspoken on his concerns over Gambier-Parry’s and SIS’s suitability for tackling the interception problem thoroughly, and resigns on a point of policy. And SIS’s charter for RSS is oddly delegated to Major Cowgill, who is a relative newcomer to the business, has had no involvement in telecommunications, and does not work for Gambier-Parry. Moreover, Cowgill has recently taken over from Colonel Vivian, who was always bitter enemies with a man who is now his rival as second-in-command at SIS, Colonel Dansey. Dansey will be familiar to readers of Sonia’s Radio, and the most perspicacious of you will recall, from Part 9, that I pointed out an exchange of opinions between Dansey and Gambier-Parry in 1943, which showed conclusively that Dansey maintained a very active interest in clandestine wireless communications. As the saga enters the phase where SIS is in control of RSS, Liddell is soon seen to harbour grave concerns about the purity of SIS’s intentions, and Gambier-Parry gives the impression of voicing a dangerous policy crafted by someone else. But why would SIS set out so obstructively, not accepting MI5’s requirements, or attending to their legitimate concerns?
An observer might ask at this stage: why did the JIC not take a firmer interest in all these negotiations? The committee was in fact still finding its feet after a revitalisation arising from Churchill’s accession to the premiership. MI5 and SIS were not even admitted to the committee until mid-1940, and were normally represented by Brigadiers Allen and Menzies, respectively, who might not have known exactly what was going on, or may not have been certain how much they should disclose. After all, Cavendish-Bentinck, even as Chairman of the JIC, did not know about ULTRA at this time. Yet Hinsley records that the first attempt during the war to involve the JIC in the discussion of Sigint policy and organisation foundered on Menzies’s opposition. This is an extraordinary assertion, given that Menzies, as a newcomer, presumably could not have had much clout, and he would not have been able to display his ULTRA card. As I have shown, the Y Committee, which determined interception priorities, was likewise undergoing a high degree of turmoil at the time. The whole dispersal of policy and practice for interception and intelligence gathering seems a glorious muddle, and then one remembers that glorious muddling-through is the modus operandi of liberal democracies, and the reason they thrive. Halfway through this chapter of RSS’s wartime translocation, the Conservative administration of Chamberlain had been replaced by Churchill’s coalition, with new ministers, new ideas, new appointments. There was in fact a great deal of trust and creative, open discussion between the departments, unlike the fiercely competitive agencies in Hitler’s Germany, or those cowed into indecision under Stalin, with both intelligence groups mainly telling their respective dictators what they wanted to hear.
And, finally, what about the ‘Greek tragedy’ alluded to by John Curry? We recall that this judgment appeared in the official internal history completed by Curry in 1946. Yet in his draft chapter on Illicit Interception dated October 22, 1945, Curry (who was a rather cautious and neurotic individual, as Liddell’s Diaries inform us) came to a very different conclusion. “It is nevertheless true to say that the benefits derived as a result of R.S.S. being under the control, first of the War Office, and secondly of M.I.6. were considerable and the results achieved and the benefits to intelligence work were immense. However, one is left with the feeling that had M.I.5 accepted responsibility for the organisation in 1938 a great deal of the trouble which ultimately arose between R.S.S. and M.I.5. and the ultimate change of command in 1941, would never have arisen and indeed the organisation detecting illicit wireless transmissions would have been just as good, if not better, than the one that ultimately emerged.”
That is a weak and fudgy statement that sounds as if Curry was trying to please too many audiences. Why those multiple ‘ultimates’? Is Curry referring to friction between RSS and MI5 before the ‘ultimate change of command’, or that which occurred afterwards? Was his subjective and unanalytical ‘feeling’ shared by other officers? Why did Curry alone believe that MI5 would have found the right talent and skills to sort out RSS’s house, when its own organisation was in such a mess, and short of managerial talent, and Simpson had resigned? If the SIS control turned out to be a disaster, why did he not say so?
I suspect that the ‘Greek tragedy’ conclusion may have been inserted by Petrie himself. Harrison implies (tacitly) that it might have been the Director-General who doctored Curry’s official history, since he disagreed with Curry’s conclusions, and wanted a firmer statement made on Cowgill’s obstinacies. Harrison, by the way, clearly identifies the ‘Greek tragedy’ as the withholding of ISOS material in April 1942 by Cowgill. Yet that was an Act III episode that was overcome before the finale. I have pointed out before how the circumstances of Petrie’s retirement are finessed by Andrew: I suspect Petrie had discovered some of the nasty smells that derived from a flawed interception policy when he retired in 1946. It is possible that he then realised that a deal between SIS and MI5 had already been in the works when his opinion was sought, one that effectively hamstrung him in his effort to protect the nation from the malign efforts of Soviet spies. Ensuring that his opinion of the whole affair was recorded for posterity was his swan-song.
(I am very grateful to Dr. Brian Austin, for his very helpful comments during the evolution of this article, and to Stan Ames and Bob King for their research contributions and insights. The conclusions made in it, and any errors therein, are mine alone.)
A few months ago, I noticed an advertisement that Aeroflot, the Russian carrier, had placed in the New York Times. The appearance reminded me of an approach I had made to the airline over forty-five years ago, in England, when, obviously with not enough serious things to do at the time, and maybe overtaken by some temporary lovelorn Weltschmerz, I had written a letter to its Publicity Manager, suggesting a slogan that it might profitably use to help promote its brand.
Miraculously, this letter recently came to light as I was sorting out some old files. I keep telling my wife, Sylvia, that she need not worry about the clutter that I have accumulated and taken with me over the years – from England to Connecticut, to New Jersey and to Pennsylvania, and then back to Connecticut before our retirement transplantation to North Carolina in 2001. The University of Eastern Montana has generously committed to purchasing the whole Percy archive, so that it will eventually be boxed up and sent to the Ethel Hays Memorial Library in Billings for careful and patient inspection by students of mid-twentieth century social life in suburban Surrey, England.
I reproduce the letter here:
Letter to Aeroflot, March 1972
I notice that you have started advertising on London buses. I have for some time thought that a good slogan for Aeroflot would be: ‘Happiness is just an Ilyushin’, which is a pretty awful pun, but a fairly Russian sentiment. E.G.
. . .В себя ли заглянешь, там прошлого нет и следа;
И радость, и муки, и всё там ничтожно . . . (Lermontov)
Yours faithfully, R. A. Percy”
[Dimitri Obolensky, in the Penguin Book of Russian Verse, translates this fragment of an untitled poem as follows: “If you look within yourself, there is not a trace of the past there; the joys and the torments – everything there is worthless . . .”]
I am not sure why Aeroflot was advertising on London Transport vehicles at the time, since the Man on the Clapham Omnibus was probably not considering then a holiday in Sochi or Stalingrad, and anyone who did not have to use the airline would surely choose the western equivalent. Nevertheless, I thought my sally quite witty at the time, though I did not receive the favour of a reply. Did homo sovieticus, with his known frail sense of humour, not deem my proposal worthy of merit? After all, humour was a dangerous commodity in Soviet times: repeating a joke about Stalin might get you denounced by a work colleague or neighbour and sent to the Gulag, while Stalin himself derived his variety of laughs from ordering Khrushchev to dance the gopak late at night, and forcing his drinking-pals on the Politburo to watch him.
I think it unlikely that the state-controlled entity would have hired a Briton as its publicity manager, but of course it may not have had a publicity manager at all. Maybe my letter did not reach the right person, or maybe it did, but he or she could not be bothered to reply to some eccentric Briton. Or maybe the letter was taken seriously, but then the manager thought about Jimmy Ruffin’s massive 1966 hit What Becomes of the Broken-Hearted? (see https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cQywZYoGB1g) , and considered that its vibrant phrase ‘Happiness is just an illusion/filled with darkness and confusion’ might not communicate the appropriate atmosphere as Aeroflot’s passengers prepared to board the 11:40 flight from Heathrow to Minsk. We shall never know.
The Stalin-Class S. S. Baltika
My first real encounter with homo sovieticus had occurred when I was a member of a school party to the Soviet Union in the summer of 1965. As we went through customs after disembarking from the good ship Baltika, I recall the officer asking me, in all seriousness, whether I was bringing in ‘veppons’ with me. After verifying what he had asked, I was able to deny such an attempt at contrabandage. I had conceived of no plans to abet an armed uprising in the Land of the Proletariat, as I thought it might deleteriously affect my prospects of taking up the place offered me at Christ Church, Oxford, the following October. Moreover, it seemed a rather pointless question to pose, as I am sure the commissars would have inspected all baggage anyway, but perhaps they would have doubled my sentence if they had caught me lying to them, as well as smuggling in arms. Yet it showed the absurd protocol-oriented thinking of the security organs: ‘Be sure to ask members of English school groups whether they are smuggling in weapons to assist a Troyskyist insurrection against the glorious motherland’.
At least it was not as naïve as the question that the US customs officer asked me, when I visited that country for the first time about eleven years later: ‘Do you have any intentions to overthrow the government of the United States?’. Did he really expect a straight answer? When H. G. Wells asked his mistress, Moura Budberg, whether she was a spy, she told him very precisely that, whether she was a spy or not, the answer would have to be ‘No’. That’s what spies do: lies and subterfuge. If I really did have plans for subversion in the United States, the first thing I would have done when I eventually immigrated here would be to plant a large Stars and Stripes on my front lawn, and wear one of those little pins that US politicians choose to place in their lapels, in the manner that Guy Burgess always sported his Old Etonian tie, to prove their patriotism. So the answer in Washington, as in Leningrad, was ‘No’. That was, incidentally, what Isaiah Berlin meant when he wrote to his parents in July 1940 that Americans were ‘open, vigorous, 2 x 2 = 4 sort of people, who want yes or no for an answer. No nuances’. These same people who nailed Al Capone for tax evasion, and Alger Hiss for perjury, would have to work to convict Tony Percy for the lesser charge of deceiving a customs official.
H.G. Wells, Maxim Gorky & Moura Budberg
I did not manage to speak to many homines sovietici during my time in the Soviet Union, but I did have one or two furtive meetings with a young man who was obviously dead scared of the KGB, but even keener to acquire nylon shirts and ballpoint pens from me, which I handed over at a night-time assignation in some park in Leningrad. That was clearly very foolish on my part, but it gave me an early indication that, despite the several decades of Leninist, Stalinist, Khruschevian and Brezhnevian indoctrination and oppression, the Communist Experiment had not succeeded in eliminating the free human spirit completely. Moreover, despite the ‘command economy’, the Soviets could not provide its citizens with even basic goods. When the Soviet troops invaded eastern Europe in 1944, among other violations, they cleared the shelves, grabbed watches, and marvelled at flush toilets that worked. As Clive James wrote in his essay on Coco Chanel: “It was the most sordid trick that communism played. Killing people by the millions at least had the merit of a tragic dimension. But making the common people queue endlessly for goods barely worth having was a bad joke.”
Piata-Victoriei Square, Bucharest
My only other direct experience with life behind the Iron Curtain was in Bucharest, in 1980. In an assignment on which I now look back on with some shame, I was chartered with flying to Romania to install a software package that turned out to be for the benefit of the Ministry of Home Affairs, probably for the Securitate. I changed planes in Zürich, and took a TAROM flight (not in an Ilyushin, I think, but in a BAC-111) to reach Ceausescu’s version of a workers’ paradise. The flight crew was surly, for they had surely glimpsed the delights of Zürich once more, but knew that they were trapped in Romania, and had probably been spied upon as they walked round one of the most glittering of the foreign cities. And yet: I had been briefed beforehand to bring in some good whisky and a stack of ‘male magazines’ to please my contacts among the party loyalists. This time, I was able to bypass customs as a VIP: my host escorted me past the lines directly to the car waiting for us, where I was driven to my hotel, and handed over my copies of The Cricketer and Church Times for the enjoyment of the Romanian nomenklatura. I spent the Sunday walking around the city. The population was mostly cowed and nervous: there was a crude attempt to entrap me in the main square. During my project, I was able to watch at close hand the dynamics of the work environment in the Ministry, where the leader (obviously a carefully selected Party apparatchik) was quick to quash any independence of thought, or attempts at humour, in the cadre that he managed. A true homo sovieticus daciensis.
The fantasy that occupied Lenin’s mind was that a new breed of mankind could be created, based on solid proletariat lineage, and communist instruction. The New Man would be obedient, loyal, malleable, unimaginative, unselfish, unthinking. Universal literacy meant universal indoctrination. The assumption was accompanied by the belief that, while such characteristics could be inculcated in captive youth, inherited traits of the ‘bourgeoisie’ would have to be eradicated. The easiest way of achieving that was to kill them off, if they did not escape first. There were almost as many executions in the Red Terror of 1918 as there had been death sentences in Russian courts between 1815 and 1917, as Stephen Kotkin reminds us in Volume 1 of his epic new biography of Joseph Stalin. Kotkin also recounts the following: “Still, Lenin personally also forced through the deportation in fall 1922 of theologians, linguists, historians, mathematicians, and other intellectuals on two chartered German ships, dubbed the Philosophers’ Steamers. GPU notes on them recorded ‘knows a foreign language,’ ‘uses irony’.” Irony was not an attribute that homo sovieticus could easily deploy. What was going on had nevertheless been clear to some right from the start. In its issue of June 2, 2018, the Spectator magazine reprinted an item from ‘News of the Week’ a century ago, where Lenin and Trotsky were called out as charlatans and despots, and the revolution a cruel sham.
The trouble was that, once all the persons with education or talent had been eliminated or exiled, there were left only hooligans, psychopaths, or clodpolls to run the country. Kotkin again: “A regime created by confiscation had begun to confiscate itself, and never stopped. The authors of Red Moscow, an urban handbook published at the conclusion of the civil war, observed that ‘each revolution has its one unsightly, although transient, trait: the appearance on the stage of all kinds of rogues, deceivers, adventurists, and simple criminals, attaching themselves to power with one kind of criminal goal or another. Their danger to the revolution is colossal.’” This hatred of any intellectual pretensions – and thus presumptions about independent thinking – would lead straight to Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge, with their execution of persons wearing eyeglasses, as they latter could obviously read, and thus might harbour ideas subversive to agrarian levelling.
Oleg Gordievsky, the KGB officer who defected to Britain in 1985, crystallized the issue in his memoir Next Stop Execution. “Until the early 1970s I clung to the hope that the Soviet Union might still reject the Communist yoke and progress to freedom and democracy. Until then I had continued to meet people who had grown up before the revolution or during the 1920s, when the Soviet system was still not omnipotent. They were nice, normal Russians – like some distant relatives of my father who were engineers: not intellectuals or ideologues, but practical, decent people, embodying many of the old Russian engineer characteristics so well described by Solzhenitsyn. But then the last of these types died out, and the nation that emerged was composed purely of Homo sovieticuses: a new type had been created, of inadequate people, lacking initiative or the will to work, formed by Soviet society.” [The author acknowledged the ungrammatical plural form he used.] Thus Gordievsky classified both the common citizenry intimidated into submission and the apparatchiks themselves as homines sovietici. He also pointed out that what he found refreshing in English people generally was their capability for spontaneity, their discretion, their politeness, all qualities that had been practically eliminated in Russia under Communism. He may have been moving in sequestered circles, but the message is clear.
I sometimes reflect on what the life of a Soviet citizen, living perhaps from around 1922 to 1985, must have been like, if he or she survived that long. Growing up among famine and terror, informing against family members, with relatives perhaps disappearing into the Gulag because of the whisperings of a jealous neighbor, or the repeating of a dubious joke against Stalin, witnessing the show-trials and their ghastly verdicts, surviving the Nazi invasion and the horrors of serving in the Soviet armed forces, and then dealing with the long post-war deprivation and propaganda, dying before the curtain was pulled back, and the whole horrible mess was shown to be rotten. Yet some citizens had been taken in: they believed that all the suffering was worthwhile in the cause of Communism. In Secondhand Time, the nobelist Svetlana Alexievich offers searing portraits of such persons, as well as of those few who kept their independence of thought alive. Some beaten down by the oppression, some claiming that those who challenged Stalin were guilty, some merely accepting that it was a society based upon murder, some who willingly made all the sacrifices called for. Perhaps it was a close-run thing: the Communist Experiment, which cast its shadow over all of Eastern Europe after the battle against Fascism was won, almost succeeded in snuffing out the light.
(Incidentally, in connection with this, I recommend Omer Bartov’s searing Anatomy of a Genocide: The Life and Death of a Town Called Buczacz, published this year. Its title is unfortunate, as it is not about genocide. It tells of the citizens of a town in Galicia in the twentieth century, eventually caught between the monsters of Nazism and Communism. It shows how individuals of any background, whether they were Poles, Ruthenians, Ukrainians, or Jews, when provoked by pernicious demagogues or poisonous dogmas, could all behave cruelly to betray or murder people – neighbours – who had formerly been harmless to them. All it took was being taken in by the rants of perceived victimhood and revenge, or believing that they might thus be able to save their own skins for a little longer by denouncing or eliminating someone else.)
I was prompted to write this piece, and dredge out some old memories, by my reading of Odd Arne Westad’s The Cold War a few months ago. In many ways, this is an extraordinary book, broad in its compass, and reflecting some deep and insightful research. But I think it is also a very immoral work. It starts off by suggesting, in hoary Leninist terminology, that the battle was between ‘communism’ and ‘capitalism’ – a false contrast, as it was essentially between totalitarianism and liberal, pluralist democracy. (For a fuller discussion of this issue, please read Chapter 10 of Misdefending the Realm.) Westad goes on to suggest that the Cold War’s intensity could have been averted if the West had cooperated with the Soviet Union more – a position that ranks of sheer appeasement, and neglects the lessons of ‘cooperation’ that dramatically failed in World War II. (see http://www.coldspur.com/krivitsky-churchill-and-the-cold-war/) But what really inflamed me was the following sentence: “There were of course dissidents to this ameliorated view of the Cold War. In the Soviet Union and eastern Europe some people opposed the authoritarian rule of Communist bosses.” On reading that, I felt like hurling the volume from a high window upon the place beneath, being stopped solely by the fact that it was a library book, and that it might also have fallen on one of the peasants tending to the estate, or even damaged the azaleas.
‘Some people opposed the . . . rule’? Is that what the Gulag and the Great Terror and the Ukrainian Famine were about, and the samizdat literature of the refuseniks, and the memoirs of Nadezhda Mandelstam and Yevgenia Ginzburg, and the novels of Alexander Solzhenitsyn, and many many more? Did these people protest noisily in the streets, and then go home to their private dwellings, resume their work, perhaps writing letters to the editors of progressive magazines about the ‘wicked Tories’ (sorry, I mean ‘Communists’)? How on earth could a respectable academic be so tone-deaf to the sufferings and struggles of the twentieth century? Only if he himself had been indoctrinated and propagandized by the left-wing cant that declares that Stalin was misunderstood, that he had to eliminate real enemies of his revolution, that the problem with Communism was not its goals but its execution, that capitalism is essentially bad, and must be dismantled in the name of Equality, and all that has been gradually built with liberal democracy should be abandoned. Roland Philipps, who recently published a biography of Donald Maclean (‘A Spy Named Orphan’), and who boasts both the diplomat Roger Makins (the last mandarin to see Maclean before he absconded to Moscow) and Wogan (‘Rockfist’) Phillips (who served as an ambulance-driver with the Republicans in Spain) as his grandfathers, asked Wogan, shortly before he died in 1993, where he stood on the durability of Communism. “He said that Stalin had been a disaster for the cause but that the system was still inherently right, would come round again, and next time be successful.” Ah, me. Wogan Phillips, like Donald Maclean, was a classic homo sovieticus to the end.
Wogan (‘Rockfist’) Phillips
As we consider the popularity of such as Jeremy Corbyn and Bernie Sanders, it is as if all the horrors of socialism have been forgotten. A few months ago, the New York Times ran a full-page report on the disaster of Venezuela without mentioning the word ‘socialism’ once: it was apparently Chávez’s and Maduro’s ‘populism’ that put them in power. A generation is growing up in China that will not remember Tiananmen Square, and the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution will not be found in the history books. Maybe there is an analogy to the fashion that, as a schoolboy, I was given a rosy view of the British Empire, and was not told of the 1943 famine in India, or the post-war atrocities in Kenya. But I soon concluded that imperialism was an expensive, immoral and pointless anachronism, and had no interlocking relationship with liberal democracy, or even capitalism, despite what the Marxists said. This endemic blindness to history is ten times worse.
So why did my generation of teachers not point out the horrors of communism? Was it because they had participated in WWII, and still saw the Soviet Union as a gallant ally against Hitler? Were they really taken in by the marxisant nonsense that emerged from the Left Bank and the London School of Economics? Or were they simply trying to ratchet down the hostility of the Cold War, out of sympathy for the long-suffering Soviet citizenry? I cannot recall a single mentor of mine who called out the giant prison-camp for what it really was. Not the historians, not the Russian teachers. The latter may have been a bit too enamoured with the culture to make the necessary distinction. Even Ronald Hingley, one of my dons at Oxford, who was banned from ever revisiting the Soviet Union after his criticisms of it, did not encourage debate. I had to sort it out myself, and from reading works like Robert Conquest’s The Great Terror, Koestler’s Darkness at Noon, Marchenko’s My Testimony, Mandelstam’s Hope Against Hope and Hope Abandoned, and Ginzburg’s Into the Whirlwind. On the other hand, under the snooker-table in my library rests a complete set of the Purnell History of the Twentieth Century, issued in 96 weekly parts in the 1960s. (Yes, you Billings librarians: soon they too shall be yours.) In part 37, that glittering historian, TV showman, hypocrite and Soviet stooge A. J. P. Taylor wrote: “Lenin was a very great man and even, despite his faults, a very good man.” For a whole generation, perhaps, the rot started here. That’s what we mostly heard in the 1960s. But Lenin was vicious, and terror was his avowed method of domination.
President Putin is now trying to restore Stalin’s reputation, as a generation that witnessed the horrors of his dictatorship is now disappearing. So is Putin then a homo sovieticus? Well, I’d say ‘No’. Maybe he was once, but he is more a secret policeman who enjoys power. The appellation should be used more to describe those cowed and indoctrinated by the regime rather than those who command it. Putin’s restoration of Stalin is more a call to national pride than a desire to re-implement the totalitarian state. Communism is over in Russia: mostly they accept that the Great Experiment failed, and they don’t want to try it again. More like state capitalism on Chinese lines, with similar tight media and information control, but with less entrepreneurialism. As several observers have noted, Putin is more of a fascist now than a communist, and fascism is not an international movement. Maybe there was a chance for the West to reach out (‘cooperate’!) after the fall of communism, but the extension of NATO to the Baltic States was what probably pushed Putin over the edge. The Crimea and Ukraine have different histories from those in Latvia, Lithuania and Estonia, and I would doubt whether Putin has designs on re-invading what Kotkin calls Russia’s ‘limitrophe’ again. He is happier selectively cosying up to individual nations of Europe, especially to those countries (e.g. Poland, Hungary, and now maybe Italy and Austria, and even Turkey) whose current leaders express sympathy for his type of nationalism, while trying to undermine the structure of the European Union itself, and the NATO alliance.
So whom to fear now – outside Islamoterrorism? Maybe homo europaensis? I suspect that the affection that many Remainers have for the European Union is the fact that it is a softer version of the Socialist State, taking care of us all, trying to achieve ‘stability’ by paying lip-service to global capitalism while trying to rein it in at the same time, and handing out other people’s money to good causes. And it is that same unresponsive and self-regarding bureaucracy that antagonizes the Brexiteers, infuriated at losing democratic control to a body that really does not allow any contrariness in its hallways. (Where is the Opposition Party in Brussels?) I did not vote in the Referendum, but, if I had known then of all the legal complexities, I might have voted ‘Remain’, and fought for reform from inside. But my instincts were for ‘Leave’. If the European Project means tighter integration, political and economic, then the UK would do best to get out as soon as possible, a conclusion other countries may come to. The more oppressive and inflexible the European Union’s demands are (to discourage any other defectors), the more vigorously should the UK push against its increasing stranglehold. That does not mean goodbye to Goethe and Verdi, or those comforting ’cultural exchanges’, but it does require a bold stance on trade agreements, and limitations on migration of labour. We should beware of all high-faluting political projects that are experimental, and which remove the responsibility of politicians to their local constituents, as real human beings will be used (and maybe destroyed) in the process. A journalist in the New York Times wrote a few weeks ago that he was ‘passionate’ about the European Union. That is a dangerous sign: never become passionate over mega-political institutions. No Communist Experiment. No New Deal. No Great Society. No European Project. (And, of course, no Third Reich or Cultural Revolution.) Better simply to embrace the glorious muddle that is liberal democracy, and continue to try to make it work. Clive James again: “It is now part of the definition of a modern liberal democracy that it is under constant satirical attack from within. Unless this fact is seen as a virtue, however, liberal democracy is bound to be left looking weak vis-à-vis any totalitarian impulse.” (I wish I had been aware of that quotation earlier: I would have used it as one of the headliners to Chapter 10 of Misdefending the Realm.)
I close with a riposte to A. J. P. Taylor, extracted from one of the great books of the twentieth century, The Stretchford Chronicles, a selection of the best pieces from Michael Wharton’s Peter Simple columns in the Daily Telegraph, from 1955 to 1980. These pieces are magnificent, daft, absurd, hilarious, and even prescient, where Life can be seen to imitate Art, as Wharton dismantles all the clichéd cant of the times, and anticipates many of the self-appointed spokespersons of loony causes and champions of exaggerated entitlement and victimisation who followed in the decades to come. Occasionally he is simply serious, in an old-fashioned way, as (for example) where he takes down the unflinching leftist Professor G. D. H. Cole, who in 1956 was trying to rally the comrades by reminding them that ‘while much has been done badly in the Soviet Union, the Soviet worker enjoys in most matters an immensely enlarged freedom’, adding that ‘to throw away Socialism because it can be “perverted” to serve totalitarian ends is to throw out the baby with the dirty bath-water’. Writes Wharton:
“This is familiar and most manifest nonsense. What has gone ‘amiss’ in Socialist countries is no mere chance disfigurement, like a false moustache scrawled by a madman on a masterpiece. It is Socialism itself, taken to its logical conclusion.
The death of freedom, the enslavement of the masses, the withering of art and culture, the restless, ruthless hunt for scapegoats, the aggressive folie de grandeur of Socialist dictators – these are no mere ‘perversions’ of Socialism. They are Socialism unperverted, an integral and predictable part of any truly Socialist system.
We are not faced here with so much dirty bath-water surrounding a perfectly healthy, wholesome Socialist baby. The dirty bathwater is Socialism, and the baby was drowned in it at birth.”
(Since I shall be on holiday/vacation in California and Maui for the remainder of December, I am posting this month’s blog early, as a special gift to all my readers – and especially to the members of the Murmansk Chapter of the Coldspur Appreciation Society – and presenting a piece that I wrote five years ago. When I started my research for what was then going to be a master’s degree, the focus was very much on Isaiah Berlin, and I decided then to write up some initial findings on various episodes in his life that Michael Ignatieff’s biography bypassed. I have used parts of this essay in a previous post (‘Some Diplomatic Incidents‘), and have explored in depth some aspects concerning Berlin’s role in intelligence in my book Misdefending the Realm. I have also described the strange coincidence that found Berlin in Estoril at exactly the time (early January 1941) when Soviet agent Sonia received her permission to travel to the UK (see ‘Sonia’s Radio: Part VIII)’. The essay could also be updated in the light of more recent findings. For instance, I have now discovered that Berlin’s claims to have stayed at the Palacio Hotel in Estoril, Portugal, in that January, appear to have been completely fabricated, which must cast some doubt on the accuracy of other details he provided on his journey from the UK to the USA. Exploring those murky events warrants a dedicated blog later in 2018. I thus present ‘Isaiah in Love’ unchanged. I shall update the Commonplace files on my return. A happy seasonal festival to all my readers! December 12, 2017. P.S. Please note that I now list, for ease of access, all previous monthly blog entries on the ‘About’ page.)
December Commonplace entries duly posted here. (December 31)
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
One of the more bizarre episodes in the life of the great intellectual historian Sir Isaiah Berlin occurred when Guy Burgess invited him to join him on a trip to the Soviet Union in the summer of 1940. Burgess, probably anxious to make contact with his spymasters after the purging of the London station, had persuaded his mentor Harold Nicolson that Berlin, a native Russian speaker, should be appointed as press officer at the embassy in Moscow. Was Berlin merely a cover? Did Burgess have other motives for enticing Berlin to Russia? Maybe – but Berlin was in any case eager to fulfill a long-time desire to visit the Soviet Union. The necessary paperwork was arranged, and Berlin and Burgess left Liverpool for Moscow, via Montreal, the US, and Vladivostock. They never completed the journey. In New York, Burgess received the news that he was to be recalled to London. Unlike ‘recalls’ to Moscow, where agents would probably be sent to the Lubianka, for no other reason than that they had been exposed to Western influences, Burgess was simply fired by MI6 on his return. There, in the treatment of agents under a cloud, lay a key difference between the West and Soviet Russia: in Moscow, a bullet in the back of the head; in London, a transfer to the BBC. Yet, despite Berlin’s ease in gaining a visa from the Soviet Embassy in Washington, the Foreign Office quickly scotched his hopes of taking up his post in Moscow, and he was left twiddling his thumbs. Adapting to circumstances, he quickly earned a reputation for his deft analysis of the American scene, and through the British Embassy was offered a semi-permanent job with the British Press Service. While successful in this role, Berlin wanted to return to the United Kingdom first, one strong reason he gave his biographer being that he was did not want to be thought cowardly in avoiding the Blitz back in England. Was this desire not to end up as a character in an Evelyn Waugh novel, like the elopers Auden and Isherwood, whom Waugh so sharply lampooned as Parsnip and Pimpernel, some neat retrospective insight? Put Out More Flags did not appear until 1942. The timing is unclear: Michael Ignatieff’s biography of Berlin states that Burgess came to Berlin’s rooms with his plan ‘in mid-June’, while Henry Hardy notes in Volume 1 of Berlin’s Letters that it was ‘in late June’. On June 23, Berlin wrote to Marion Frankfurter, wife of Felix, the associate justice on the Supreme Court, joining in the condemnation of Auden, Isherwood and Macneice, and added: ‘ – if I could induce some institution in the U.S.A. to invite me, I would. But cold-blooded flight is monstrous.’.
Ignatieff’s biography covers this period, but depicts the philosopher’s return to the United Kingdom, in the winter of 1940-41, as an insignificant interlude. In doing so, Ignatieff was largely reliant on Berlin’s account of that journey. After describing how Berlin returned on a sea-plane with Lord Lothian, the British Ambassador, as far as Lisbon (whence Lothian moved on alone, leaving Berlin to await a regular flight), he devotes a paragraph to Berlin’s time in Oxford and London, mentioning along the way a lunch with Guy Burgess and Harold Nicolson at the Ministry of Information. He then writes: ‘A month into term, a letter arrived from the Ministry of Information ordering Berlin to return immediately to New York. Having reassured his parents, arranged his leave from New College, and having proved that he wasn’t running away from the Blitz, Isaiah now returned to New York with a clear conscience.’
But did Berlin really have a clear conscience? While he evidently did not want to be seen as an escapist, it is unlikely that anyone would have thought that of him, since his journey to Washington had been on government business. Nevertheless, all the evidence suggests he had a hidden agenda that he was never comfortable making public, and points towards his motivation for returning to Europe being a desire to meet with his current hero, Chaim Weizmann, at an important rendezvous in Lisbon to discuss Zionist matters. Why, as his life was fading to a close, would he wish to conceal such activities from his biographer? Both his Zionist enthusiasm and scepticism were well-known; after the creation of the Israeli state, he had had misgivings over the way it had developed, as well as over the pusillanimity of the British government towards it. He had had to be careful about promoting ideas too energetically while being employed by that same government. So why would he try to prevent his attendance at a meeting in Lisbon becoming part of the record?
That he intended to meet Weizmann in Lisbon seems clear from a reading of the biography and his Letters 1928-1946. The following conclusions are derivable:
1) Berlin contrived a convoluted story about the renewal of his post in Washington. The first impression he leaves is that he was offered a permanent job with the British Press Service there in 1940, but negotiated that he had to return to the UK first. A letter to his parents, dated October 5, from New York, states that his job is ‘practically fixed’. But in his Introduction to Washington Dispatches (1980), he muddies the waters by indicating that he returned home without an understanding that he had an offer to continue the job in Washington. When in the UK, he reports that he received a sharp letter from the Ministry of Information asking him to explain why he hadn’t reported for duty, at which he claims that he had never been told about the appointment, an observation which the Ministry admitted was true. (Henry Hardy, the editor of the Letters, points out this contradiction in a note.) On the other hand, he writes to a friend, Marie Gaster (January 3, 1941) and gives a very different account, claiming he was not offered anything attractive in Washington, and wanted to return to the UK to look for something more appropriate. He further suggests that, much against his will, he was then encouraged to take up the job with the British Press Service, and ‘return to America at once’. (Hardy suggests that this account ‘offers a possible explanation of what really happened’, but it gives the appearance of yet another smokescreen.)
2) Berlin indicates that his return to the UK should have been considered as a personal trip, because he takes pains, in a letter to his parents (October 5, 1940), to make arrangements for the cost of the four links in the journey (New York-Lisbon-UK-Lisbon-New York) to be paid partly by them. If he was in any way on government business, because an appointment had come to a close, or he needed to be interviewed for another position, he would surely have had his expenses paid for him by the UK Government. In fact, in another letter to his parents (January 10, 1941), when stuck in Estoril, he writes that, ‘unlike the private passengers, I can claim a Govt. priority from the Air Attaché.’ And, indeed, the manifest for his voyage from Lisbon to New York, on the SS Excambion, does indicate that his fare was paid for by the British Government.
3) Berlin always intended to see Chaim Weizmann during his visit, probably to explore a position with the Jewish Agency. Ignatieff reports on that preference in the biography. In another letter to his parents (September 3, 1940), he writes: ‘I should like to hop back [sic] to England, see some people, Lord Lloyd [Secretary of State for the Colonies], Weizmann, etc., arrange with Oxford, & skip back [sic] again, preferably by Clipper.’ ‘Hopping and skipping’ was not the normal mode of travel across the Atlantic during the early years of WWII, but it helps suggest to posterity that Berlin was in a hurry to get back, implying again that he had a permanent position waiting for him in the USA that he was eager to assume. He also made a reference to possible ‘ice on the Clipper’s wings’ in January, which might necessitate a slower return by boat. The Weizmann papers in fact show that Weizmann did enjoy a thorough de-briefing from Berlin soon after his arrival in the UK. Berlin was asked to describe the disruptive effect a visit from a Foreign Office functionary, a Mr Voss, had had on Jews in the US. Weizmann expressed his desire that Berlin could delay his trip back to the States so that they could journey together. Communications must have broken down, because, shortly before his departure, writing from Oxford, Berlin tries to contact Weizmann, after abortive phone-calls, with a note of urgency detectable in the message, at the Dorchester Hotel in London in December 1940, saying that he would ‘make a gigantic effort to see you before I go’, and asking Weizmann to ‘write or wire me in Oxford where & when you are to be expected in Lisbon and whom I could ask, while there, about your probable whereabouts?’ Berlin was due to leave on January 3, from Bournemouth airport. Lastly, he writes to his old friend Maire Gaster (wife of the Communist activist, Jack Gaster) again, just before his flight to Lisbon, informing her that he is very miserable at the prospect of leaving the UK for New York, but that ‘there is no doubt that there is a job to perform & my new God Dr Weizmann is wooing me ardently into doing it.’ For some reason, communications broke down, or Weizmann lost his enthusiasm for having Berlin work for the Jewish Agency. Berlin was deceptive when explaining this offer to his biographer: he told Ignatieff that Weizmann had urgently pressed him to accept a position with the organization when in New York, but that he had ‘diplomatically declined the Chief’s embrace’. On the other hand, he was perhaps playing for time.
4) Berlin had been impressed with Weizmann when he met him early in 1939. At the time, Weizmann was heavily involved, as head of the Jewish Agency and the World Zionist Organization, in negotiating with the British Government the form of the Jewish homeland in Palestine, as well as the shape of a Jewish Fighting Force to be established in Palestine as part of the British Army. But talks had stalled. Lord Lloyd, the Colonial Secretary, was fatally ill, and would die on February 2, 1941. Anthony Eden, representing the Arabist Foreign office, was executing delaying tactics; Weizmann decided to extend his stay in London until he could witness the proclamation of the communiqué announcing the Jewish Unit. Of all this, Berlin seemed to be unaware. He wrote to his parents (January 10, 1941), in the Excambion, on Hotel Estoril Palacio notepaper – about to leave, but still moored – that he intended to buy dried fruit for the journey later in the day. The timing means, that, despite his – and his employers’ – desire for him to report quickly to the States, he would have been able to have a few days with Weizmann, and almost a week in Lisbon for any meetings before embarking on his voyage. Mysteriously he told his parents that ‘Chaim said he was going – the 15th’, which suggests that he was very much out of date. Weizmann did not leave England for the United States until March 10. Finally, Berlin bizarrely informs his parents, in a letter from New York (January 28, 1941), that he spent ‘two agreeable days in Portugal about which I wrote to you from Lisbon’ – a gross understatement of the time he spent there. As for Weizmann, he completely ignores this interval, his autobiography Trial and Error skipping directly from meetings with Churchill in September 1940 to the bland statement: ‘In the spring of 1941 I broke off my work in London for a three month trip to America.’
Was there a secret Zionist meeting in Lisbon, at which Berlin and Weizmann had hoped to meet? As the Nazi net closed around the capitals of Europe, the Portuguese capital had become a popular city for assignations of every kind. For example, an important Jewish charitable organization, the Jewish Joint Distribution Committee, was compelled to close its offices in Paris as the Germans approached in 1940, and relocate to Lisbon. With official German authorization, Dr. Josef Löwenherz, described as ‘the leader of Jews in Vienna’ visited Lisbon in neutral Portugal (apparently in 1940 or 1941) to meet with representatives of the World Jewish Congress, including Dr. Parlas, described as ‘secretary to Chaim Weizmann’ (but who does not appear in the Index to Weizmann’s memoirs), and with WJC financial affairs director Tropper. Löwenherz wanted to negotiate an agreement for the mass emigration of Jews from German-controlled Europe. But if Berlin attended such meetings, he says nothing about them. And, as a government employee, he had to be very careful about adopting Zionist causes too vigorously.
Berlin’s enthusiasm for Zionism was typical of the contradictions that appeared to grip him at times, and cause perennial self-doubt. While he believed fervently that a home in Palestine was essential to protect the beleaguered and oppressed Jews of Eastern Europe, in the United Kingdom (as well as the United States) Berlin would often encounter Jews who had gradually been assimilated and who were taken aback by the whole idea of Zionism. Some found the notion that the world could be divided into Jews and Gentiles to be as bizarre – and even as offensive – as the notion that it could be divided into Aryans and non-Aryans. And Berlin was not consistent himself. In his government role, he was often asked to calm the more urgent Zionists, and he often called upon the secular Jew Victor Rothschild to help him in his mission. Such gestures, of embracing a vague ‘Jewish’ but unreligious culture but resisting the more extreme aspects of Zionism, sometimes got him into trouble. Ignatieff represents Berlin’s views on cultural identity in the following way: ‘individuals must have secure cultural belonging if they are to be free’. While that sounds more like T. S. Eliot than Isaiah Berlin, Berlin appeared never to come to terms with the paradox that assimilated Jews whom he encountered could be happy with their situation, having cast off so many cultural remnants, whereas he always had feelings of being an outsider. Right up to the time of his death he expressed feelings of alienation, of not being accepted in English society, unaware, perhaps, that an insistence on tribal separateness constituted the real irritant to a pluralist culture. But many Jews established in Britain were not interested in aspirations for a homeland for Jews. As Kenneth Rose writes of (some of) the Rothschilds: ‘By a century and a half of assiduous assimilation they had emerged from the ghetto of Frankfurt to the broad, sunlit uplands of Buckinghamshire; they were not prepared to see their security eroded by a sentimental attachment to Zionism.’ Later on in life, Berlin saw Zionism in action – the terrorism, the jingoism – and began to realize that it was becoming just another of those Grand Solutions of which he was instinctively suspicious. His enthusiasm for it nevertheless sometimes blinded his judgment, and caused him some missteps. Ignatieff recounts the way that Berlin, stung by a critical review by the Stalinist Isaac Deutscher, was antagonized by ‘Deutscher’s political dogmatism and his hostility to Zionism’, and decided to destroy the historian’s chances for being appointed to a professorship at Sussex University, saying that Deutscher was ‘the only man whose presence in the same academic community as myself I should find morally intolerable.’ But anti-Zionism is not the same thing as anti-Semitism: in an exchange with the critic Christopher Hitchens, Berlin tried to wriggle out of the charge of trying to scotch Deutscher’s ambitions, and thus suppressing free speech.
In any case, a momentous encounter causes the plot to take a sudden switch, as in a Hitchcock film. In his letter to his parents dated January 28, 1941, after he arrived in New York, Berlin gave a thumb-nail sketch of the voyage across the Atlantic. ‘A mixed, very mixed company, a Duchess, a lot of rich expatriated Americans, the Times correspondent from Lisbon, a plump Jewess from Geneva called Frieda Vogel who insisted, to the general amusement that she was a Turk, a member of an old Turkish family, etc.’ Indeed, some breathtakingly clear camera footage of the arrival in New York of the Excambion appears to confirm some of this picture. These are not images of starving refugees delirious at their first sight of the Manhattan skyline, but of comfortable-looking citizens in furs and plush coats, chewing gum and smoking cigars, looking happily at familiar landmarks. They receive perfunctory inspections of their landing passes, and make landfall without stress. On the other hand, it must have been a much more arduous inspection for escapees from Nazi Europe; US immigration officials were urged to be very careful in discriminating between US citizens and aliens. And from a study of the ship’s manifest, one can fill in a few details in Berlin’s account. The Times journalist was Walter Edward Lucas, returning with his American wife, Lenore (née Sandberg). The duchess was 27-year-old Solange de Vivonne, described as widowed; Frieda Vogel, single, aged 39, and travelling with her mother, had indeed been born in Istanbul. Yet Berlin fails to identify someone who must have been the most famous passenger on board at that time, someone very close to the Roosevelts in the White House – Eve Curie, who had in 1937 published an extremely successful biography of her mother, Marie Curie, the Nobelist scientist, and was travelling from the UK on a lecture tour. When interviewed in one of the lounges on the Excambion, as it moved from Quarantine to Pier F, in Jersey City, Madame Curie gave a promotional speech for Great Britain, and pleaded for more tangible aid to the war effort there. Berlin, himself a government propagandist, surprisingly makes no mention of her or her role. Maybe his attentions were drawn elsewhere during the ten-day voyage. For, as he decades later told his biographer, it was on that ship that he first saw a striking lady. ‘He had noticed the tall, elegant, shy woman, and wondered who she was.’
The woman was named Aline Strauss, and would fifteen years later become his wife. Aline was travelling with her son, Michel, aged four. She was a widow, and had fled south from Paris as the Germans approached, staying in Biarritz, then Nice, and running to Portugal after the Vichy regime published its anti-Jewish edicts. (Ignatieff reports all this.) But it could have not been easy exiting France and crossing Spain to get to Lisbon, especially with her parents in tow. Susan Zuccotti, in her book The Holocaust, the French, and the Jews writes: ‘Hoping to leave legally, Aline Strauss wrestled with government bureaucracies for weeks. Her top priority was to obtain entry visas to the United States for herself and her family – a supremely difficult challenge, for few such visas were being issued at the time. She also needed to secure French passports for herself and her family, transit visas through Spain and Portugal, French exit visas, and proof of ship passage. The entire process was complicated by endless bureaucratic obstruction and by the intricate time frame involved. Visas were often valid for only a limited period, and by the time they were all in place, a ship might have sailed. Miraculously enough, Aline Strauss finally succeeded. She left France with her son in January 1941; her parents, to avoid giving the impression of a family exodus, followed three months later.’ Apart from the ‘With one bound Jack was free’ nature of this adventure, one wonders whether concerns about ‘a family exodus’ would really have been that intense under the circumstances, and how Aline’s parents managed to organize their departure with similar dexterity in Aline’s absence. For a historian such as Zuccotti to go all the way to Headington House in Oxford to interview Aline Berlin, and take back no explanation of the ‘miracle’, is disappointing.
Did Aline get help? Did she have connections? Probably. As Chaim Weizmann once said to Berlin: ‘Miracles do happen. But one has to work very hard for them.’ And the account of the trek offered by her son, Michel, in his 2011 publication Pictures, Passion, and Eye is far more revealing, showing the tenacity and resolve she had to adopt. What Michel adds is that Aline had to make repeated visits to the US Embassy in Nice to get her exit visa, not being allowed to see the consul or vice-consul, since the necessary affidavits had not arrived from the US. After receiving assistance from the American Embassy in Vichy, she did manage to gain access to the vice-consul in Nice, and acquired the necessary visas. But then she was unable to acquire the necessary exit visa from the Vichy government, and had to start the whole process again, having to invent a justification for her journey by claiming that she was getting married in America. The Vichy government even demanded that the banns for such a marriage be read, until the Consulate lawyer issued a paper stating that in America, banns did not have to be read. Finally, she had the exit visas; the miracle had occurred, and she and her son made their way by train, from Barcelona to Madrid, and on to Lisbon – not without further scares – until they were able to rest at a small hotel in Estoril, in all probability not the Palacio, where Berlin was staying, to wait for the departure of SS Excambion. One surprising datum from the ship’s manifest, however, is the description of Aline Strauss’s marital status as ‘married’ not ‘widowed’ – a simple mistake, perhaps, or possibly a reflection of her desire to be taken as attached, and thus unavailable, by possible suitors on board. But she was on the less prestigious list of ‘Aliens’, for whom immigration officers performed additional checks. Was it not dangerous to represent herself this way, especially as the method by which she had gained an exit visa was a laborious and stressful process in which she claimed that she was to be married in the USA?
Who was Aline Strauss? She had been born Aline de Gunzbourg – in England, in 1915, away from the war zone – and had been brought up in an apartment block in the Avenue d’Iéna in Paris, enjoying contacts with some of the most celebrated names of French society, such as the Rothschilds. She was a close friend of Liliane Fould-Springer (a great-aunt of the actress Helena Bonham-Carter), who lived in another apartment in the block, and who was later to marry Elie de Rothschild, her childhood sweetheart. As Ignatieff reports: ‘Aline’s father was Baron Pierre de Gunzbourg, an illustrious banker and philanthropist of pre-revolutionary St Petersburg. Her father had settled in Paris and had married the daughter of a Jewish family from Alsace, who had made their fortune in heating oil.’ In fact, there was another Rothschild link here, because her grandfather had set up a company to sell American oil in other European countries with the Rothschilds. (There was also intermarriage between Rothschild and de Gunzbourg: for example Marguerite de Gramont (1920–1998), daughter of the Count de Gramont, Officier of Légion d’Honneur and Croix de Guerre, was later to become Baroness de Gunzbourg, and Aline’s cousin, Bertrand Goldschmidt – of whom more later – married Naomi de Rothschild, who was the daughter of Victor Rothschild’s cousin Lionel, in 1947.) Aline spent considerable time in the United Kingdom. She would pass several summers in a rented house in North Berwick with relatives, and regularly played golf in England with some of the world’s best-known players: she can be seen in photographs on the course at Stoke Poges, for instance, in the early 1930s. Indeed, she was a golfer of renown. After winning the National Ladies’ Championship of France in April 1934, she represented her country in the tied match against England, and, in July of that year, lost in the semi-final of the country’s International Championship to the eventual winner, Pam Barton. But Aline also had her share of tragedy. Her husband, Jules Strauss, a well-known art-collector, died young of cancer in 1939. She had also lost a brother (while he was a conscript in the army in 1933) and a sister (who fell to her death from a horse in an accident in Windsor Great Park in 1925).
The story now resembles a world conceived by Alan Furst, but with the clumsy plotting of Raymond Chandler. Aline Strauss had a few other encounters with Berlin in the US before their love affair blossomed, several years later, in England. The first few appear at first glance to be chance meetings at which the two really did not connect. From an inspection of Ignatieff’s biography, and Berlin’s Letters, they run as follows:
i) Berlin spots the elegant shy woman on the Excambion. (January 1941)
ii) They meet at the Rothschilds on Long Island, where Aline is playing golf with Cécile Rothschild. Isaiah is impressed; Aline less so. (undated)
iii) Aline visits Victor Rothschild’s apartment at the Hotel Pierre in New York, to find Isaiah there. She ignores him, since she is pre-occupied with gaining news from Rothschild about her brother Philippe, then working for the Resistance in France. (November 1942)
iv) Aline and Isaiah meet at a tea arranged by Victor Rothschild in New York. Berlin reports that ‘marriage has crushed her, she is meek and unhappy’, although Aline of course does not talk about any problems. (Spring 1946)
What has been going on here? Berlin was known for his perceptiveness about other people’s state of mind, but how has the callow Isaiah suddenly become an expert on woman’s psychology? And why the emphasis on the failure of these two engaging personalities to connect? The studied reinforcement of the distance between the two is overdone, and thus generates a degree of scepticism.
Many aspects of this account do not ring true. Aline Strauss was certainly ‘tall and elegant’, but hardly shy – although those who know her say that she is diffident in front of high-powered intellectuals. She was travelling with her son; she had moved in dazzling social circles, had been in the limelight in the world of golf, and had shown great enterprise and fortitude in escaping to Portugal while dealing with obstructive officials in Southern France. She was acquainted with several other passengers on the Excambion, and, upon her arrival in New York, left her son in the care of nannies in order to take up a hectic social life. There may have been more alluring companions on the ship than Isaiah Berlin, but it was unlikely that she shrank back to her quarters, or avoided company out of shyness. Even more telling, on the occasion of his marriage to Aline on February 8, 1956, Berlin informed a reporter from the Hampstead and Highgate Express that their first ‘meeting’ had been ‘in the middle of the Atlantic in 1941’. A ‘meeting’ suggests an introduction, and exchange of names, at least. So why did he tell his biographer that he wondered who she was?
The next two encounters also stretch the bounds of credulity. Here was a refined Jewish woman, attracted to intelligent men, being introduced to another Jew with roots in St Petersburg, while both of them had strong connections with the Rothschilds. Moreover, this was no ordinary Jew. Berlin was the first Jew to be elected to a fellowship at All Souls, and had been described as the best conversationalist in Britain (in truth, more of a monologuist), noted for charming both the men and the ladies with his quick-wittedness and intellect. His gift of good companionship, and his ability to lift people’s spirits, have been well-recorded. Yet Aline Strauss ignores him. And then, a few years later, Berlin meets her again, at a tea-party on Long Island, evidently not surprised to find her married (he makes no comment). Despite his lack of close acquaintance with the lady, he is immediately able to detect signs of stress, although Aline has been married for only a little over two years and is pregnant with her first son by Hans Halban, to be born on June 1, 1946. What is more, the archives indicate that her husband, who had also recently returned from a visit to the UK, was present at the meeting. It had apparently been set up by Victor Rothschild to facilitate the move by the Halbans to Oxford, where Hans was taking up a job at the Clarendon Laboratory, so that they would have ready friends there. How did this sophisticated lady, on such a happy occasion, with a birth imminent, at a positive meeting set up by their mutual friend, soon to welcome the arrival of her Resistance hero brother and his family in New York, and the prospect of an exciting new life in Oxford ahead, give such signals of attrition and stress to a man she had hardly noticed on previous encounters?
Were there problems with her marriage already? Certainly Hans Halban had had his difficulties. Halban was a nuclear scientist who was working on the Manhattan Project in Montreal. Ignatieff, again, does not quite get the story right. He reports that, in 1943, ‘Aline met Halban, a physicist of Austrian extraction who had worked on the French nuclear programme and had escaped to America in 1940, carrying with him important information about the production of heavy water, a component in the manufacture of atomic weapons.’ According to Ignatieff, they married and went to Montreal. But Halban’s journey had in fact been more circuitous, and tinged with controversy. Halban was indeed an Austrian, of half-Jewish descent, who had been educated at Leipzig, and worked with Irene Joliot-Curie, and with Niels Bohr in Copenhagen before being invited to Paris to collaborate with Frederic Joliot-Curie at the Collège de France, where he was granted French citizenship. As the Nazis approached, he had escaped with his colleague Lew Kowarksi to the UK with a valuable canister of heavy water (stored temporarily at Wormwood Scrubs, where MI5 was also located for a while, and then at Windsor Castle). Winston Churchill invited him to work at the Cavendish Laboratory in Cambridge; he was greatly aided by John Cockcroft and Frederick Lindemann (later Lord Cherwell), both of whom became lifelong allies. Halban was eventually appointed to the technical committee of the Tube Alloys Project, the codename for research into atomic power and weaponry. His team was later reconstituted in Canada, in order to be close to the US atomic research efforts, and where resources for their experiments would be more available. Halban moved to Montreal in 1942.
But Halban had the knack of acquiring some highly dubious characters to work for him. The connections and conspiracies that evolved among his team constitute some of the most significant espionage activities of the century, and are worth listing. In Cambridge, he employed one Engelbert (Bertl) Broda, who was in fact a Communist agent (code-named ‘Eric’). Broda had come to the UK in 1938, found his way to Cambridge University, and was by 1942 assisting Halban in his work on atomic reactors and controlled chain reactions. In that seedbed of communist subversion, Vienna in the early 1930s, Broda had probably been the lover of another Soviet agent, Edith Tudor-Hart. Tudor-Hart was acquainted with the master-spy Kim Philby via the latter’s first wife Litzi Friedman, whom he married in Vienna in 1933, and may have been responsible for recruiting him to spy for the Soviet Union. Broda was eventually to return to Austria in 1947, having been a steady provider of atomic secrets to the Soviets in the intervening years. MI5 also suspected Broda of being responsible for the recruitment of the spy Alan Nunn May, who also worked for Halban – and followed him to Montreal in 1943. Nunn May was closely connected to the notorious group of Soviet agents known as ‘the Cambridge 5’. He was a friend of Donald Maclean at Trinity Hall, Cambridge, was tutored by the Communist sympathiser Patrick Blackett, and had joined the Communist Party on the early 1930s. He was able, however, able to get past security checks, as he was a ‘secret’ member of the Communist Party of Great Britain, and had been recommended by the prominent scientist James Chadwick to join the Cavendish team. He was recruited by the GRU (the Army side of Soviet intelligence) while on the Tube Alloys Project, and it was only through the testimony of the Soviet cipher-clerk Igor Gouzenko, who identified him after defecting in Toronto, that Nunn May was arrested, and subsequently confessed to his espionage activities. He was jailed in 1946, and when released a few years later, went to work in Ghana, having married Bertl Broda’s former wife, Hildegarde.
But there were other snakes in the grass who worked closely with Halban. Bruno Pontecorvo, the spy who suddenly defected to the East in 1950, had worked with him in Paris, and escaped to the US as the Nazis approached. He then not only gained employment in Canada under Halban, but also rejoined him at Harwell in 1948 under John Cockcroft’s leadership. Working there, too, was yet another notorious spy, Klaus Fuchs, maybe the most brilliant of them all. Having recruited Nunn May, Broda had been responsible for the KGB’s recruitment of Fuchs, who continued his spying activities after the war. In 1946, Fuchs was hired at Harwell as Head of the Theoretical Physics Division, and gave the Soviets some of the most critical and useful information about the USA’s nuclear achievements and potential, which directly affected Stalin’s military decisions, such as initiating the Korean War. When Soviet wartime radio traffic was decrypted in the Venona project, evidence pointed to a spy at Harwell, and Fuchs’s background made him an obvious suspect. He was arrested in January 1950, confessed under interrogation, and was sentenced to fifteen years’ imprisonment, though released after nine. He then left for the German Democratic Republic (DDR), (leaving London on a plane with a ticket in the name of Strauss!), and in September 1959 married a Central Committee employee, Margarete Keilson (a widow, six years older), whom he had met as a fellow Communist in Paris in the 1930s. He later indicated to Markus Wolf, the head of the DDR’s foreign intelligence division, that he had expected the death penalty. While Halban’s role was reduced in the post-war organization at Harwell, it was perhaps a signal of recognition for his skills and knowledge that so many spies gathered around him during his career.
While he tried to re-build, in Canada, the team that had worked for him in Paris (to the consternation of the Americans, who did not trust the French implicitly), Halban’s managerial skills were tested. His colleague Kowarski declined to accompany him to Montreal, frustrated by the politicization of dealings with patents, and Halban’s treatment of him. Later, another physicist on the team, Bertrand Goldschmidt, reported how the team was frustrated by lack of access to raw materials, and that ‘their demoralization was to be further increased by the difficult character, the authoritarian manners and the poor managerial abilities of Halban, their leader’. (Goldschmidt was in fact a cousin of Aline Strauss, and was the person responsible for introducing her to Halban in Canada when they were on a ski-ing trip early in 1943.) Despite his reputation for acting alone, and not being the best communicator, Halban had nevertheless managed to bring other members of his Parisian team to Montreal. One was Georg Plazcek (who married Halban’s first wife, Els Andriesse, after Els followed Halban to Montreal, but then left him); another was the afore-mentioned Communist agent, Bruno Pontecorvo. Pontecorvo had failed security checks for joining the Manhattan project in the USA, but had been able to get hired in Canada.
The Americans were very suspicious of Halban. Their misgivings increased when he visited France after the liberation of Paris in 1944, with the purpose of discussing the issue of patents with Joliot-Curie. They wondered whether he was planning to pass atomic secrets to the French. Knowing the situation was tense, Halban had travelled to England, but waited there for approval for his visit to Paris. On gaining it from Sir John Anderson, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, he left on November 24, and was given hospitality by the UK’s Ambassador to France, Duff Cooper, who was staying at Victor Rothschild’s elegant house in the Avenue Marigny. Halban had been caught in a complex conflict of loyalties. He had taken patents created in Paris with him to the UK in 1940, and given them to the UK government. And as the Americans started to wonder about why so many French scientists were working on the project in Montreal, they tried to apply stricter controls on participants without firm allegiances to the USA or the UK. This process resulted in the passing of the McMahon Act of 1946, which restricted access to nuclear secrets even to accredited citizens of countries who were US allies (like Great Britain and Canada), and thus solidified the preliminaries to the Cold War. Halban denied giving secrets to Joliot-Curie, but the Americans were annoyed, knowing that Joliot-Curie was a member of the Communist Party who had made threatening noises about contacting the Soviet Union if he were not treated respectfully. They thus applied pressure on the British to replace him – which they did, demoting Halban to head of the physics committee, and bringing in John Cockcroft as leader in Montreal. Nevertheless, Halban was soon put under detention in the US for a year, and not allowed to work. Ironically, the man who replaced him in Montreal was the spy Alan Nunn May. Any secrets that Halban might have confided to Joliot-Curie were dwarfed by the revelations of Nunn May, Fuchs, Pontecorvo and Broda, as well as those made by Guy Burgess’s fellow absconder, Donald Maclean, working in Washington.
The week of the meeting between Berlin and the Halbans that was set up by Victor Rothschild can be pinpointed, as Berlin completed his assignment in Washington on March 31, and left for the UK on the Queen Mary on April 7. Clearly, Halban had been under stress, which might have affected his marriage. Here was a man, born von Halban in Austria, of half-Jewish background, who was sometimes taken for a German, but who then adopted French citizenship (and dropped the ‘von’ from his name on that occasion) when he worked in Paris. After his escape to France, he was employed by the British government, and owed it his allegiance, signing the Official Secrets Act, before leaving to work in Canada in co-operation with the United States government. He was intensely concerned about the patents he had brought with him from France, and his loyalties were thus pulled in multiple directions. His health was not good: he had a weak heart, which had necessitated his travelling by cruiser rather than aircraft during the war, and Bertrand Goldschmidt attributes his dictatorial and impatient manner partly to that affliction. He was harsh with his stepson, Michel, who explained his own asthma attacks as being caused by Halban’s treatment of him: this must have distressed his mother. But in the spring of 1946, Halban was coming to the end of a frustrating nine months’ period of cooling his heels in New York, eagerly waiting for June to come round, a date on which he would be free to return to Europe. One might have imagined a positive outlook from both Halban and his wife.
Isaiah Berlin, on the other hand, had just returned from experiencing one of the most significant adventures of his life – his encounter with the famous Russian poet, Anna Akhmatova, in Leningrad. Berlin had been able to fulfill his longtime desire to visit the Soviet Union after the British ambassador in Moscow from 1942 to 1946, Archibald Clark Kerr, had suggested to him that he survey the scene, and write a report on relations between the Soviet Union and the West. Having carefully gained approval from the Foreign Office, Berlin was initially subject to obstructive tactics by the Soviet Foreign Ministry. Molotov eventually granted him official accreditation as a member of the British Embassy, and Berlin was given a visa in September 1945. It is ironic that Berlin breezed through his visa application with the Soviet authorities in Washington in 1940, before that particular journey was cancelled. Clark Kerr, made Baron Inverchapel in 1946, had shown a remarkable talent for engaging Stalin’s confidence, and no doubt influenced the approval process. The historian John Costello has written of Clark Kerr’s enthusiasm for communism. He had consorted with Stig Wennestrom, a Soviet spy from Sweden, in the 1930s, and in his role as ambassador to China in the late 1930s, had also been a keen admirer of Mao Tse-Tung. He then developed a special relationship with Stalin himself, going to so far as being a supporter of Stalin’s demands for the repatriation of Russians as the war came to a close. As Costello writes (in Mask of Treachery) ‘The ambassador was so cozy with the Soviet dictator that he secured the release from prison of a Red Army deserter whose sister was on the British embassy staff. Instead of facing a firing-squad, Yevgeny Yost found himself presented – like some medieval serf – as a valet to Inverchapel when he left Moscow and returned to London at the end of the war.’ Clark Kerr had also been a close friend of Guy Burgess, and, on visits back to London in the 1940s, held parties which communist sympathizers and Soviet diplomats attended: his suggestion that Berlin travel to Moscow was thus an eerie echo of the abortive exploit of 1940.
Ignatieff covers the journey in depth, so only the key aspects of his encounter with Akhmatova, whose first husband, Gumilev, had been executed in 1921, and whose son had suffered in the Gulag, need be retold here. On a visit to Leningrad, Berlin had casually asked about her in a bookstore, and had been led to her apartment. He ended up talking to her all night about Russian friends, about art and literature. She told him her bitter life-story, her love affairs, her exile, and encouraged him to speak of his own personal life. He admitted to her that he was in love with one Patricia de Bendern (née Douglas), whom he was to visit in Paris on his way back. (Extraordinarily, the previous August, Patricia, despondent after the collapse of her marriage, had proposed to Berlin, a suggestion which he assessed as unlikely to have a happy outcome, and thus declined.) What Akhmatova made of all this is unknown, but Berlin’s account of their meeting suggests it was erotically charged. At eleven the next morning, when he returned to the Astoria Hotel, he exclaimed to Brenda Tripp, his companion from the British Council: ‘I am in love, I am in love.’
Akhmatova went on to write a cycle of elegiac poems about Berlin and his visit, titled Cinque. But the encounter caused her problems, too. The fact that Berlin had eluded Stalin’s secret police in managing to meet Akhmatova infuriated the dictator, who had essentially been blackmailing her, forcing her silence in public by holding a sword over the head of her son. When Zhdanov, Chairman of the Supreme Soviet, sent him a report on the encounter, Stalin was reported to have said: ‘So our nun has been seeing British spies’, accompanying his reaction with a vulgar epithet. The matter was complicated by the fact that Randolph Churchill, the son of Stalin’s old rival Winston Churchill – sometime ally, sometime adversary – had also been present, according to Berlin’s account, outside Akhmatova’s residence. Seeking Berlin out, he had reputedly called boorishly to him, although he had not been able to gain entry. Akhmatova thought enough of her own importance, and the way Stalin behaved afterwards, to state to Berlin, years later, when she visited Oxford, that she thought their encounter provoked the Cold War – a probable overstatement, though an accurate insight, no doubt, into the fact that Stalin did not like to be thwarted or challenged. Akhmatova’s biographer Roberta Reeder makes the point that Stalin used her as a victim to teach a lesson to the Soviet people, and the writer Konstantin Simonov represented Stalin’s attack on her as a general one on the intelligentsia, cosmopolitanism, and even the independent westernized spirit of Leningrad itself. Stalin had delivered a speech in February 1946 that reaffirmed the superiority of communism, which in turn prompted Churchill’s ‘Iron Curtain’ speech in March, so the fresh challenge from his former ally was on his mind when he heard that Randolph was meddling.
Most commentators have pointed out that Stalin was exaggerating in describing Berlin and Churchill as ‘spies’, since Berlin’s mission to prepare a dispatch about American-Soviet-British relations had been approved by the Soviet Foreign Office. Eluding one’s minder was not evidence of espionage, but the Soviet authorities were obviously suspicious of any covert activity, or attempts to contact Soviet citizens without supervision. Berlin took pains to declare his lack of involvement with any intelligence activities at any point in his life. ‘I had nothing to do with intelligence in any country, at any time, and took no interest in what he [Alexander Halpern] did,’ he wrote in his profile of the Halperns, maybe a little disingenuously. (It should be pointed out that he informed his parents – in a letter of June 2, 1944, from Washington – that Halpern ‘works for us here’, suggesting a close familiarity with Halpern’s activities.) There is a difference between ‘having something to do with intelligence’ and ‘formally working for the Intelligence Service’, the latter being what Berlin appears to want to disassociate himself from. While nominally working for the British Embassy in New York and Washington, Berlin had actually been seconded to the assuredly covert British Security Co-ordination, an organization dedicated to propaganda and intelligence-gathering. And another little-known relationship that Berlin had in the world of intelligence was with Efraim Halevy, who was head of Mossad (Israel’s Intelligence Organization) from 1998 to 2002. A casual search of the Internet will give a careless browser the news that Halevy was Berlin’s nephew: he was in fact a nephew of Berlin’s aunt. Their relationship was close: Halevy was born in London in 1934, and his parents were friends of the Berlin family in Hampstead. Isaiah, along with his parents, attended Halevy’s bar mitzvah. But you will not find an entry for him in Ignatieff’s biography of Berlin. That is doubly remarkable, as the Letters, Volume 2, reports that Halevy accompanied Berlin on the 1956 trip to the Soviet Union. As the editors report: ‘As Secretary-General of the National Union of Israeli Students, he was in Moscow ostensibly to assist in planning for an international youth festival to be held in Moscow the following year, but his main intention was to make contact (normally impossible) with young Russian Jews.’ They go on to say that Berlin and Halevy did succeed in the early hours of one morning in getting away to meet Berlin’s aunt Zelma Zhmudsky, although Halevy was later reprimanded and delayed at the border for the ‘crime’ of escaping surveillance. More significant is the fact that Halevy delivered the seventh annual Isaiah Berlin lecture in Hampstead, London, on November 8, 2009, choosing the title: ‘Diplomacy and Intelligence in the Middle East: How and why are the two inexorably intertwined?’ After lauding Berlin’s contribution to the Jewish people, the Israeli nation, and the Rothschild Foundation, he went on to say: ‘Shaya, as we all called him, was not a neutral bystander as history unfolded before our eyes. He was often a player, at times a clandestine one, as when he met me in the nineties to hear reports of my many meetings with the late King Hussein of Jordan and his brother Crown Prince Hassan, who had been his pupil at Oxford. In retrospect, I regret not taking with me one of my secret recording machines to allow for these titillating exchanges to become part of recorded history. Alas, one more Israeli intelligence failure.’ That is hardly the evidence for someone who was never involved with intelligence, and to commemorate Berlin via a lecture on the subject suggests a pride in his achievements in that sphere. But this aspect of Berlin’s life is smoothly finessed, as is information about the Rothschild Foundation. Kenneth Rose’s biography of Victor Rothschild practically ignores that whole segment of Rothschild’s life. It appears that many people would prefer it to remain a mystery.
Berlin returned to the USA to tidy up his commitments in Washington, and to have the equally fateful meeting with the Halbans. But questions have arisen about his version of what happened in Leningrad. When György Dalos was researching his account of the event for his book The Guest From The Future, and interviewed Berlin in 1995, Berlin significantly downplayed the romantic aspect of his feelings. ‘No’, he said, ‘there was no Utopia for me’, and his feelings towards Akhmatova were expressed in terms of fascination, respect, admiration and sympathy – not love. Perhaps he said so to protect the feelings of his wife, Aline, whom he had taken to the Soviet Union in 1956, and whom Akhmatova, possibly with a sense of jealousy, but also because she was fearful that the thaw in the oppression of writers such as her might only be temporary, declined to see. Berlin always stated that his meeting with Akhmatova was the most important event of his life, but he felt guilty for the mayhem that occurred afterwards – including the growing anti-semitism in the Soviet Union that was fostered by Stalin. (Akhmatova was not Jewish, but Berlin had relatives who suffered under Stalin’s persecution.) The focus of that new purge, the uncovering of a so-called ‘Doctors’ Plot’, was derailed only by the dictator’s death in 1953, a couple of days before those indicted were to go on trial. By the time Berlin returned to the Soviet Union in 1956, matters had improved considerably. Khrushchev’s celebrated speech debunking Stalin (February 1956) had resulted in a release of political prisoners, including Akhmatova’s son, Lev, who was freed on May 14 and officially exonerated by the Supreme Soviet on June 2, shortly before the Berlins arrived. Akhmatova had not been re-admitted to the Writers’ Union, and still felt threatened, but there is no doubt that she felt peeved at the realisation that her ‘Guest From the Future’ had turned out to be just like other men, and had transferred his affections to someone else. Berlin himself reported the long silence on the telephone after he spoke to Akhmatova about his marriage, a pause followed by: ‘I am sorry you cannot see me, Pasternak says your wife is charming’, after which came another long silence. Roberta Reeder, in Anna Akhmatova: Poet and Prophet, writes: ‘Her grief and disappointment, as in the past, were transformed into poetry, into a cycle entitled Sweetbriar in Blossom’, in which Akhmatova compares herself to Dido abandoned by Aeneas.
Later commentary, namely Josephine von Zitzewitz’s article in the Times Literary Supplement of September 9, 2011,‘That’s How It Was’ (effectively a review of a book published with that title, ‘I eto bylo tak’, in St Petersburg in 2009) represented further research into records from contemporaries at the scene, as well as study of archives in Britain. This analysis suggests that Berlin must have known that Akhmatova was still alive beforehand, that the original encounter may not have been as spontaneous as suggested, that there may have been further encounters between Akhmatova and Berlin (namely five, to match the number in Cinque), that details of those present are incorrect, that the incident with Randolph Churchill was invented, and that the meetings may have been more intimate that Berlin admitted. One key plank concerning the first part of this claim, not explained in the piece, is Berlin’s friendship with Alexander and Salomea Halpern (née Andronikova). Berlin had been introduced to this couple by a friend in New York, found them appealing (especially Salomea), and they became close friends. Salomea had been a noted beauty, and a very close friend of Akhmatova’s in pre-war St. Petersburg, sharing a circle including the poets Tsvetaeva, Mandelstam, and Akhmatova’s husband, Gumilev. Indeed, Mandelstam had fallen deeply in love with her. It seems inconceivable that Salomea Halpern would not have besought Berlin to try and visit Akhmatova while he was in Leningrad, yet Berlin later claimed to have asked naively inside an antiquarian bookseller’s whether she was still alive. (In a letter to Maurice Bowra, dated June 7, 1945, he refers to Akhmatova’s forced seclusion at that time in Leningrad, thus showing knowledge of her status.) This association has further wrinkles: Alexander Halpern, like Berlin, worked for the British Security Coordination in the US, helping to set up propaganda on a dummy radio station in Boston, and his role as head of Special Operations Executive’s (SOE’s) Political and Minorities section included responsibilities for the sensitive category of Ukrainians. Moreover he had been an official in Kerensky’s Provisional Government in 1917, as well as being an advisor to the British Embassy in St. Petersburg. If Stalin’s intelligence network had been doing its job, such a relationship would surely have come to his attention. Salomea herself was an enigma: by the 1950s she had become a rabid Stalinist herself, and when she moved to London after the war (so Berlin himself informs us), Russian writers were encouraged by the Soviet authorities to visit her primitive salon in Chelsea. ‘Salomea’s opinions were evidently noted favourably in Moscow’, notes Berlin.
The conclusions of Zitzewitz’s article are enigmatic: Berlin may have wanted to protect Akhmatova, but it does not explain why, since Akhmatova died in 1966, he would have needed to continue to shield her from the facts concerning his visit when he recalled the encounter, both in his 1980 essay Meetings With Russian Writers in 1945 and 1946, and in his conversations with Ignatieff shortly before he died. Moreover, a faulty memory cannot really explain all the distortions of the truth. As in other aspects of his life, Berlin frequently presented facts in a disturbingly deceptive manner. Akhmatova challenged Berlin on his sense of reality: after she received an honorary degree at Oxford in June 1965, she visited the Berlins at their opulent Headington House, and declared: ‘So the bird is now in its golden cage.’ (She then went on to have a long-awaited reunion with her close friend, but now a political adversary, Salomea Halpern, in London.) Ignatieff notes that, after Akhmatova’s death, Berlin wrote to a friend, Jean Floud, that he would always think of her as an “uncontaminated”, “unbroken” and “morally impeccable” reproach to all the Marxist fellow-travellers who believed that individuals could never stand up to the march of history. This avowal was doubly ironic: Jean Floud was the sister-in-law of another Soviet agent, Bernard Floud, and she misguidedly came to his defence in a letter to the Times. And Berlin would later undermine his heartfelt comment about fellow-travellers in his praise of another woman.
In April 1946 Berlin returned to England, and Oxford. The Halbans sailed back on July 1; Peter had been born on June 1, and their two children followed them on the Queen Mary in September. Berlin resumed teaching at New College, now a celebrity with a reputation gained from his Washington dispatches. Hans Halban was pleased to assume a post as Professor of Physics at the Clarendon Laboratory, after an offer from his old friend Lord Cherwell. By all accounts, he had eight successful and productive years working there. At first, the Halbans lived in a rented mock-Tudor house outside Headington; a year later, the family moved into Hilltop House ‘a finely proportioned Georgian House with a large garden at the top of Headington Hill’, as Michel Strauss reported. In 1953, Aline and Hans found a larger Georgian house on six acres of land in Old Headington, Headington House, which was to become the Berlins’ domicile after Hans and Aline divorced, and Hans moved back to France, in 1955. As Victor Rothschild had hoped, Isaiah became good friends with the Halbans during the next few years. Ignatieff relates: ‘Isaiah became part of their life, taking Aline to concerts, dining at their house and gradually becoming a family friend. She felt at ease with him; he made her laugh and provided her with a safe and blameless escape from a marriage that was becoming more difficult by the year.’
An example of this new intimacy was apparent in 1949. The way Ignatieff reports it, it was an accident: ‘when he went to Harvard, she was on the same boat heading to visit her mother in New York, and they spent ten happy days together on a crossing which included Marietta and Ronald Tree and other friends.’ The least ingenious of sleuths might conclude that there had been some planning to this highly enjoyable voyage, perhaps a subtle twist to Graham Greene’s May We Borrow Your Husband? Berlin’s diligent amanuensis, Henry Hardy, and his co-editor, Jennifer Holmes, inform us that Berlin had indeed suggested that Aline join him and his friends on the voyage, and she travelled from Paris to pick up the Queen Mary when it docked at Cherbourg. As luck would have it, the ship, driven by a gale, ran aground there, and had to limp back to Southampton for repairs. Isaiah and Aline took the opportunity to leave the rest of the party marooned in a dock on the Solent, and to return to Oxford until the ship was ready to sail again. Earlier, as he waited off the Isle of Wight on January 2, while the ship was being inspected by divers, Berlin wrote to his parents: ‘Life is terribly gay & agreeable: breakfast in bed with every kind of delicious juices & eggs: then promenades with Mrs Halban, the Trees, Miss Montague, Alain de Rothschild’. Ignatieff (provided with this insight by Isaiah and Aline in the 1990s) states that it was on board ship that they became inseparable friends, but the evidence suggests that they had already formed a strong bond. And at some stage they started an affair. Michel Strauss confides that his mother used to have trysts with Isaiah, before their liaison became official, in a flat in Cricklewood (a touch that would have delighted Alan Coren). Michel also informs us that Hans Halban had been seeing Francine Clore (née Halphern), a cousin of his mother’s, in the 1950s, ‘at the same time my mother was seeing Isaiah Berlin’. The gradual dissolution of the marriage, and the new re-groupings, were becoming obvious to their friends.
Halban’s social stature had improved in his time at Oxford. A significant feather in his cap was being elected to one of the initial fellowships at St Antony’s College. The College (for graduates only) had been founded in 1950 by a bequest from a successful French businessman with merchant interests in the Middle East, Antonin Besse. After some preliminary stumbles in negotiation between Besse and the University, Bill Deakin had taken over the Wardenship of the College, impressing Besse with his common sense and vision. Deakin (who had worked with Isaiah Berlin in Washington during the war) was a historian who had seen fierce action with SOE among the guerrillas in Yugoslavia, and had acted as literary assistant to Winston Churchill in the latter’s historical writing. While Deakin had been a fellow at Wadham College, many of the initial staff members were from New College, and Isaiah Berlin had been very active in advising the Warden on appointments and administration. Halban was offered a Fellowship; when interviewed in 1994 by Christine Nicholls, the historian of the college, Berlin said that it was because Lord Cherwell had thought it a good idea that a scientist be represented – a somewhat surprising explanation, given that the mission of St Antony’s was to improve international understanding, and diplomacy had not been the strongest arrow in Halban’s sleeve. Maybe the fact that the elegant Mrs Halban would be able to join in social events was an extra incentive. Indeed, Headington House had its uses. As Nicholls’s History of St Antony’s College reports: ‘The grandest social event of all was the ox-roasting. In 1953, at the time of the Queen’s coronation, an Anglo-Danish committee, on which Deakin sat with a Danish chairman, wanted to do something to thank Britain for its help in wartime. The chairman asked Deakin whether his college would like to roast a Danish ox ….. Hans Halban and his wife Aline, who had a large house with land on Headington Hill, agreed to the roasting taking place there.’
The choice of Fellows was a little eccentric. A certain David Footman was elected at the same time as Halban. His expertise lay in the Balkans and the Soviet Union, but he had been dismissed from the Secret Service because of his support for Guy Burgess. Intriguingly, Deakin, who enjoyed fraternizing with Secret Service personnel, had said he wanted a Soviet expert who was free of any commitment to Marxism, and therefore welcomed Footman to the college. But there were questions about Footman’s loyalty: the Foreign Office did not give him a clean bill of health, and Sir Dick White (who headed both MI5 and MI6 in his career) admitted he should have been more skeptical about his trustworthiness. Footman had had contacts with the Soviet spy-handler Maly, and, when Guy Burgess defected, Footman was the first to be notified of the event by that dubious character Goronwy Rees, close confidant of Burgess; Footman in turn informed Guy Liddell – Victor Rothschild’s boss in MI5. Thus the first appointments at St Antony’s were very much made by an old-boy network, about which Berlin must have eventually had misgivings. As early as 1953, he was to write to David Cecil, when looking for advice on career moves: ‘In a way I should prefer Nuffield because St Antony’s seems to me (for God’s sake don’t tell anyone that) something like a club of dear friends, and I should be terribly afraid that the thing was becoming too cosy and too bogus.’ His words got back to the sub-warden at St Antony’s, James Joll, who had also lectured at New College and had been a pupil of Deakin, and Berlin was duly chastised. (James Joll was later to receive a certain amount of notoriety by virtue of his harbouring Anthony Blunt when the latter was being hounded by the Press after his public unmasking.) In any case, the chroniclers at the college did not seem surprised when the Halban marriage fell apart. The History laconically reports: ‘Halban remained at St Antony’s until he resigned on October 1, 1955, upon taking a chair at the Sorbonne. When Halban resigned his fellowship and left for Paris, he asked his wife to choose between Paris and Berlin. She determined on the latter and became Isaiah Berlin’s wife.’ The source was James Joll. After returning to France as a professor at the Sorbonne, Halban was invited to direct the construction of a nuclear research facility (a large particle accelerator) at the Orsay facility in Saclay, outside Paris, for the French Energy Commission. When the divorce between Mr and Mrs Halban was finalised, Isaiah and Aline were married at Hampstead Synagogue on February 7, 1956, with Victor Rothschild as Aline’s witness. For over forty years, they enjoyed a stable, loving, and rewarding marriage. Practically the last thing he said to his biographer was how much he loved Aline, and how much she had been the centre of his life – no doubt a sincere claim, but one made with the intent of comforting Aline and stilling any doubts she may have had about competition from other relationships.
There was, however, at least one more twist to the story before Isaiah and Aline were able to be together. Berlin had seemed to be destined for the life of a bachelor: his correspondence shows that he was able to keep up a lively and affectionate dialogue with attractive young females, but they did not appear to view him as romantic material. (One exception was a pupil, Rachel Walker, of Somerville College, who fell in love with him, but whose attentions he found discomforting.) In the early 1950s he still professed to be in love with Patricia de Bendern, even as she misused him, continually playing with his affections. Moreover, Berlin had been telling friends he wanted to get married. Then, out of the blue, in the summer of 1950, Berlin started an affair with the wife of an Oxford don. When Ignatieff wrote his biography, the woman’s identity was thinly veiled, but the story came out when Nicola Lacey published, in 2004, her biography of the woman’s husband, H. L. A. (Herbert) Hart. Hart was a prominent professor, one of the great legal philosophers of the twentieth century. Berlin had known Jenifer and Herbert for a long time; indeed, Henry Hardy describes Jenifer as ‘a close and lifelong friend of IB’. Herbert was a don at New College, and Jenifer had been an admirer of Berlin’s intellectual talents ever since she first met him. Unlike Aline Berlin, who claimed to struggle to understand what he was saying at their first encounter, Jenifer Hart recorded in her own memoirs, Ask Me No More, her first impression of Berlin, in 1934: ‘It was here [New College] that I first met the philosopher Isaiah Berlin, whose conversation I found so dazzling that, already in an excited state, I was almost reduced to hysterics.’ Ignatieff describes the historic seduction as one initiated by Berlin when he was sick, and Jenifer came to visit him: Hardy and Holmes note that, much later, both Isaiah and Jenifer would claim that the other initiated the affair. Berlin’s state of mind was probably at a low point; on May 11, 1950, Aline Halban gave birth to her third son, Philippe, her second with Hans. For what Berlin had gauged as a rocky marriage several years ago was perhaps re-energizing itself, and his opportunity was fading. Isaiah was anguished over his affair with Jenifer, believing that he had to explain himself to the husband, also a close friend; Herbert Hart (who had homosexual tendencies, and once declared to his children that the problem with their parents’ marriage was that ‘one of the partners didn’t like sex, and the other didn’t like food’) refused to accept the reality of the situation. The Nobelist Mario Vargas Llosa has written about Berlin’s ‘adulterous affairs with the wives of university colleagues’, which makes Berlin sound like a satyr of Ayeresque proportions. It is possible that Llosa has inside information that would expand the list of Berlin’s amours: no other lady, apart from Mrs Hart and Mrs Halban, has been identified, but of course it is as difficult to prove that somebody definitely did not have another lover as it is to prove that any senior British Intelligence officer was for certain not an agent of the Soviets. (Though the sexual mores of the intelligentsia of that time seem bizarre even in this enlightened age: Isaiah Berlin was in love with Patricia de Bendern, who was sleeping with A. J. Ayer, who was two-timing her with Penelope Felkin, who was married to Elliott Felkin, who had been the first lover of Jenifer Hart, who initiated Berlin into sex: a veritable La Ronde on the Isis.)
And here the timing looks a little awry. It is impossible to plot the exact trajectory of the affair of Isaiah and Aline, since the prime source of facts about it is Berlin himself, and he has proved to be an unreliable witness, events blurring from a faulty memory forty years later, and maybe a desire to believe that the course of true love had been more honourable than it really was. Ignatieff writes that ‘the affair continued for several years, but Berlin’s affections slowly began to transfer towards another woman, also married to an Oxford colleague’. Berlin’s affections for Aline had of course been harboured for many years already: in a letter to Alice James (August 12, 1955), he writes about his impending marriage: ‘I have loved her long and very silently for fear of upsetting what seemed to me a household.’ And then, after claiming his innocence, and rather ingenuously stating that ‘No “deeds” occurred’, he writes further: ‘I am naturally in a state of enormous bliss; & think myself fantastically lucky & cannot conceive how such happiness can have come my way after eating my heart out for years (I first saw her in 1941) nor does Dr Halban seem to mind much now’. It seems very incongruous for a man who had loved in vain for all those years to have set upon a sudden affair with another woman only five years previously, and indicate to his biographer that his affections slowly began to transfer to another woman. In any case, the usual accompaniments to such affairs took place: secret assignations, surreptitious telephone calls overheard, private detectives tracking movements, confrontations, temporary separations and tearful reunions. Berlin tried the same tactic of confronting Halban, pointing out to him the philosophical challenge of trying to keep caged someone yearning to be free (neatly paraphrasing a saying of Herzen about the impossibility of providing a house for free people within the walls of a former prison), and how such behavior would be counterproductive. At the end of 1954, another deus ex machina saved the situation. Halban was offered the position in Paris, and gave Aline the famous ultimatum. She decided to stay: Halban somehow must have been persuaded to give up Headington House, no doubt with some monetary payment to assist the process, and after waiting for the divorce to come through, Isaiah and Aline became engaged. Jenifer Hart happened to hear the news at an All Souls lunch, and was notably shocked and upset. According to Ignatieff, she came to Isaiah’s rooms and he could only comfort her as best he could: ‘Cry, child, cry’ (since emended by Henry Hardy, after inspection of the tapes, to ‘Weep, my child, weep’). Marx and Belinsky meet Mills & Boon.
Yet Jenifer Hart’s world contained another momentous secret: she had been a member of the Communist Party, and a Soviet agent, suspected by MI5 of passing on secrets from the Home Office to her Communist handlers. In her autobiography, Hart makes no secret of her Communist affiliation, but claims that she abandoned her allegiance at the time of the Nazi-Soviet pact in 1939. (Protestations made by former Soviet agents under gentle Security Service interrogation are notoriously untrustworthy, as the experience with Anthony Blunt showed. Unfortunately, statements made by their more innocent friends, such as Rothschild and Berlin, likewise have to be treated with circumspection.) She was one of the group that regularly mingled at the apartment in Bentinck Street that Victor Rothschild rented to Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt. Others are not so sure that she abandoned her role in espionage that soon. The historian Professor Anthony Glees even lists her, in his Secrets of the Service, in a rogues’ gallery of Soviet spies, in the same class as Blunt, Philby, Maclean, Burgess, Long and Fuchs; other analysts, such as the veteran tracker of communist subversion, Chapman Pincher, consider her as relatively small fry. But there seems no doubt she was a traitor. She concealed her membership of the Communist party, being told by her masters to go underground. She gained employment at the Home Office, where she had access to information on telephone taps, without declaring her affiliation, and signed the Official Secrets Act. She married Herbert Hart, and recommended him for work at Bletchley Park, where he worked on decrypts of Nazi radio traffic. Glees believes that she would have had to pass on secrets to prove her commitment to the cause: that was the pattern that the Stasi followed in East Germany, and what the KGB demanded of its agents in the UK and the USA. Her role was revealed by Anthony Blunt and his associate Phoebe Pool, who was incidentally a very close friend of Jenifer Hart’s. Pool stated that Hart had been recruited by Bernard Floud – another agent in the Oxford Ring that mirrored the Cambridge Five – who committed suicide shortly after being interrogated by MI5. Arthur Wynn, another recently uncovered agent, was her handler. She might have escaped more public attention, but she made some unguarded comments to a journalist in 1983, expressing overtly unpatriotic opinions, which provoked interest in her all over again, actions which caused her to threaten Professor Glees. She blustered, but eventually backed down from the threat of a libel action, as her previous disloyalty was undeniable. As Markus Wolf, the Chief of Foreign Intelligence for the German Democratic Republic, wrote in his memoirs, Man Without A Face: ‘No co-operation with an intelligence service will ever leave you. It will be unearthed and used against you until your dying day.’ Moreover, Hart’s life was one of hypocrisy: she claimed to be a socialist, but clearly believed that socialism was not for her, as she took advantage of all the benefits of a liberal education, watched her investments (like that other armchair socialist A. J. P. Taylor), sent her children to public schools, jointly inherited a large house in Cornwall, and travelled around the world with her husband on the proceeds of a trust established by an American entrepreneur. And as the cycle of Berlin’s life came to a close, she revealed in the book a last ironic twist: Aline de Gunzbourg had been a schoolmate of hers in Paris, and she included in the memoir a photograph of her class at the Cours Fénelon, which clearly identifies herself and Aline.
All this might not affect Isaiah Berlin’s legacy, except for the fact that he wrote a very flattering foreword to Hart’s memoirs just before he died. (The volume was published only after his death in 1998.) In some matters, he was blunt. He spoke of Hart’s betrayal of her husband. He named Michael Oakeshott, the conservative philosopher, as an early amour, and added: ‘Nor was he her only lover’, but did not divulge that he himself was one on that list. And he showed some awareness of her shady past. He recognized her communist commitment, but was indulgent with her failing. ‘At any rate, Jenifer was much taken in by what I have described, and that is what made her drift towards the Communist Party; a great many friends had done the same, and in peaceful, civilized England communism must have seemed mainly a strong remedy against illiteracy and injustice, an illusion which persisted in the West for a very long time.’ He even recognized her role as a Soviet agent while working at the Home Office, but was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘The Party was probably pleased to have an agent in so sensitive a place, but in fact Jenifer never did anything for the benefit of the Party – gave no secret information – this has never been refuted in all the examinations of Soviet penetration that took place in later years.’ How did Berlin know that for sure? Did he really believe it? (The only sure fact about the whole affair appears to be that there is no record of Clement Attlee’s receiving a report from MI5, and then commenting: ‘So our monk has been seeing Soviet spies.’) But what reflected really poor judgment was his going overboard in his testimony to Hart’s character: ‘Before her unyielding integrity, her acute moral sense, even the cynical or complacent or indolent or wheeler-dealers, were bound to quail, or at least feel uncomfortable.’ There is a world of difference between having vague sympathies for Communism (such as Berlin himself might have harboured had he not been inoculated in his youth by the barbarity of the Revolution), and breaking an oath of loyalty to one’s government to betray secrets to a foreign power. So is this the implacable foe of Soviet totalitarianism, disgusted by the violence he saw as a boy in Petrograd, and by the cruelty of Stalin’s institutionalized terror that he witnessed in the 1950s, speaking? Is this the man who would not stay in a room with Christopher Hill because of his ideology, and who prevented Isaac Deutscher from getting a chair at Sussex University because of his totalitarian sympathies? Berlin liked to see the positive aspects of people he knew (witness his Personal Impressions), but he could have performed a favour for an old friend and lover without putting her on a false pedestal.
Having one’s judgment about treachery affected by one’s friendship and liking for someone is a familiar symptom: Graham Greene notoriously offered an apology for Kim Philby’s sincerity of beliefs when he wrote his introduction to Philby’s My Silent War – ‘who among us has not committed treason to something or someone more important than a country?’ Such a plea clearly echoes the famous statement by E. M. Forster that he hoped he would have the guts to betray his country rather than a friend, a view that calmly glides over the fact that friendships of the kind Forster enjoyed (as well as a climate that tolerated eccentricity and openly unpatriotic opinions) were one of the benefits of living in a liberal democracy. The patrician Lord Annan, provost of King’s College, Cambridge, said of another traitorous rascal, Leo Long, in his memoir Changing Enemies: The Defeat and Regeneration of Germany: ‘Whether he was still passing information to the Russians I do not know, but my activities in Berlin against the KPD, of which he can hardly have approved, did not affect our relations.’ But, as Jacques Duclos, general secretary of the French Communist Party, said in 1949 at meeting in honour of the twenty-fifth anniversary of Lenin’s death: ‘Any man of progress had two homelands, his own and the Soviet Union.’ The bargain that British traitors made was to replace their own patriotism with that of another country. The brave Soviet defectors thought poorly of such cowardice. Ismail Akhmedov, who saw at first hand the horrors of Stalin’s police state, said of Philby in In And Out Of Stalin’s GRU: ‘This traitor was never a fighter for the cause. He was, and still is, a sick alcoholic weakling’, and Akhmedov contrasted the relatively comfortable choices the Cambridge Five made with the perils the Old Bolsheviks suffered – ‘the true champions’. ‘To completely close the circle he will pass into oblivion, into an empty abyss during one of his drunken hours, as did Burgess, and join the company of butchers, henchmen, headhunters – call them what you will – the despised enemies of the unfortunate Soviet people still yearning for their freedom.’ This is what Berlin had spoken up for all his life – the right of the pluralist and independent citizen to be protected from the horrors of ideological dictatorship. And yet his final literary act was to praise one of Stalin’s agents, one of the fellow-travellers he had so sharply scorned after Akhmatova’s death, and thus did he betray Akhmatova and all she stood for. Pluralism does not extend its arms to embrace a creed which irrepressibly denies the essence of pluralism itself. And as an echo to his tribute, the first in the series of his Letters – loyally and indefatigably edited by Henry Hardy – is dedicated to that same woman, Jenifer Hart (although one cannot determine Hart’s treachery from the biographical glossary at the back of the book.) According to Hardy, Hart gave ‘heroic assistance’ in the editing of the Letters, and it was Aline’s suggestion that the first volume be dedicated to her. It seems also to have been a gesture from Berlin’s widow to the woman who introduced her third husband to carnal delights, maybe overlooking her guilty past. Berlin’s love for his wife meant that he diminished ‘the most important event in his life’, and betrayed Akhmatova’s memory. In the long run, Stalin’s long arm stretched out and plucked his revenge.
Roger Hausheer, in his introduction to Berlin’s Against The Current, wrote: ‘Berlin’s works may seem to many to offer a vision of life shot through with pessimism, and indeed, it cannot be denied that in this conception of man and the ends of life there is a powerful element of tragedy: avenues to human realisation may intersect and block one another; things of inestimable intrinsic value and beauty around which an individual or a civilisation may seek to build an entire way of life can come into mortal conflict: and the outcome is eradication of one of the protagonists and an absolute unredeemable loss.’ Thus the messiness of an individual life echoes the messiness of history, and so it was with Berlin, saved from irredeemable loss by Aline’s slowly emerging love for him. He was reputed not to have cared about posterity’s verdict. He was very willing for his letters to be published – and for all those nasty little secrets, those jealous quips and barbs, the attempts to cover up for an indiscreet remark or move, those internecine aspects of college politics, those actions and favours initiated for not perfectly honourable motives, to come out in the wash. And what they show, for all the great sweep and humanity of his ideas, is that Berlin was simply human, like everyone else. He was essentially unsure of himself and his identity, maybe feeling his fame was undeserved, anxious to be loved and liked, wanting to please, jealous of competitors, and he struggled to balance the private persona with the public image. He did not want to upset anybody, and thus reinvented his life-story again and again. The unpredictability of life, and the inability of big ideas to result in satisfactory conclusions in which no one was hurt, were central to his thinking, and his own life resembled his view of history. In ‘The Song Before It is Sung’, his highly fictionalized version of the relationship between Berlin and the conspirator against Hitler, Adam von Trott, the novelist Justin Cartwright provides a fitting epitaph on Berlin’s distortions. ‘After years of reflection, old people reorder their lives. We all do it our way. We construct our self-image as if we are hoping for some retrospective distinction, a vision of the person we believe we are supposed to be; without being able to see a template, we carry on relentlessly, like bees obeying an order they don’t understand, until death makes it all irrelevant. Why is it important to practice willful amnesia and invent myths?’
And in his desire to define his legacy in his own terms, controlling the narrative for the biography that Ignatieff wrote, Berlin echoed the opinions of one of his favourite historians, Giambattista Vico. In his essay, One Of The Boldest Innovators in the History of Human Thought, he describes how Vico developed an almost mystical notion of how history can be understood, contrasting it with the analytical methods of science. Berlin paraphrases the obscure Vico to demonstrate the inevitable biases of the historian too close to his subject: ‘All history in the end relies on eye-witness testimony. If the historian was himself engaged in the affairs of he was describing, he was inevitably partisan; if not, he would probably not have direct access to that vital information which only participants possessed and were hardly likely to divulge. So the historian must either be involved in the areas he describes, and therefore partisan, or uninvolved and liable to be misled by those who had an interest in bending the truth in their own favour; or, alternatively, remained too far from the true sources of information to know enough.’ As the influential historian of his own life, Berlin demonstrated that partisanship. He died on November 5, 1997; Ignatieff’s biography came out in 1998, and clearly could have benefitted from some tighter editing and fact-checking. With Volumes 3 and 4 of his Letters still to be published, and a more objective and thoroughly researched biography still to be written, Berlin has successfully simplified and sanitised a life that was far more complicated and paradoxical than the record currently shows.
Lastly, one must consider the role of Lord Rothschild, omnipresent and influential, either an aristocratic Zelig, a fixer par excellence, or the deus ex machina himself. The Rothschild family welcomes Berlin after his appointment at All Souls, and it is Victor who provides Berlin with a taxi home from Cambridge to Oxford by aeroplane. It is Rothschild who cancels Burgess’s visit to Moscow, and he who is the facilitator of Isaiah’s and Aline’s encounters in New York, and their eventual friendship in Oxford. Rothschild entertains Herbert and Jenifer Hart at Tring, and it is Rothschild’s flat in Bentinck Street that Guy Burgess shares with Anthony Blunt, and where Burgess’s cronies, including Jenifer Hart, meet. Rothschild, Fellow of the Royal Society, heads counter-sabotage operations in MI5 during the Second World War. As the war winds down, Rothschild makes his house in Paris available to the newly installed Ambassador, Duff Cooper, who takes care of Hans Halban during his brief mission to see Joliot-Curie. His kinship relationship with Aline is strengthened when Aline’s cousin marries his cousin’s daughter. When Isaiah and Aline get married, the bride’s witness is Victor Rothschild. It is Rothschild who assists Weizmann in enabling Israel’s nuclear research programme, using his contacts in British intelligence, making frequent visits to Israel, and encouraging the French to assist in the project. On one of these missions he encounters Flora Solomon at the Weizmann Institute, who recalls to him that Kim Philby once tried to recruit her, thus leading to Philby’s unmasking. Berlin works on unspecified business for the Rothschild Foundation. Rothschild hobnobs with President Roosevelt and Edgar Hoover, and ensures that Churchill’s gifts of cigars are free from sabotage. He chairs the high-level think tank under Prime Ministers Heath and Wilson, and advises the Shah or Persia in his role as head of research for Shell Oil. It would not be surprising if the archives some time showed that, late in 1954, Rothschild made a discreet call to Mendès-France, the Prime Minister of France, to suggest quietly that it would help a few matters greatly if the eminent scientist and expert on nuclear power, Hans Halban, could quickly be offered a prominent post in the French administration.