Category Archives: Warfare

Deception and Defection: Penicillin Wars

Porton Down

An Announcement: Before introducing this month’s report, I want to draw attention to an item that may have escaped the notice of some readers. In mid-February of this year I posted an analysis of the first of the Kim Philby files released by the National Archives (see https://coldspur.com/special-bulletin-not-the-kim-philby-personal-file/) . But I omitted to add an entry for it on the ‘About’ page of coldspur. Earlier this month, I posted a ‘Comment’ that explained this oversight, but that has long since disappeared from the visible ‘Recent Comments’ section. Now I do not know how most readers become informed of new coldspur postings. I suspect most just take a look at the beginning of each month, although I know the more advanced have special messages triggered when anything new appears. Many may miss the occasional mid-monthly Special Bulletin that I post. In any event, I wanted to ensure that those regular readers who may not have seen the item were aware of it, as it does contain some important information on Philby’s lies. Now, back to our normal programming  . . .

Contents:

Introduction

Part 1:

            The Rees File

            The Blunt File

            The Burgess File

            Further Liddell Revelations

            Intermediate Summary

            The Chronology

Part 2:

            Cold War Deception Planning

            ‘Double Agents’

            The JIC Chairmen

            Guy Liddell’s Accounts

            The Defection

            The Aftermath

Sources

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *         

Introduction

This bulletin (‘B’- class) is a follow up on my report on the Soviet biologist and defector Nikolai Borodin (see https://coldspur.com/biological-espionage-the-hidden-dimension/). It does not extend the period under review, but digs more deeply into the circumstances, and the activities and statements of the participants. I recommend a re-examination of that piece – especially the section dealing with Liddell’s observations in his diary – for deriving optimum value from this report. I mention here that this topic has been one of the most challenging that I have addressed, with a uniquely high percentage of archival documents that look as if they had been designed to deceive. Remember, this story has been almost completely suppressed. And there must be a reason for it.

‘One Man in his Time’

The story as previously outlined: In August 1948, the Soviet biologist Nikolai Borodin defected in the UK. At least, he appeared to. It may have been a stunt orchestrated by his bosses in Moscow, so that he might continue to feed back intelligence on Britain’s progress in producing penicillin, and its plans for bacteriological warfare. It could have been owing to an ill-advised move by the Foreign Office and MI5 to approach the scientist, in the belief that Borodin could be used for deception purposes. The incident was complicated by some disturbing events: for example, earlier in 1948 Goronwy Rees, the dubious colleague of the Soviet agents Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt, who was working part-time for MI6, was shown to be employed as a director of a firm called Pontifex, in the business of constructing brewing and distillation equipment useful for the creation of penicillin, and Borodin had been visiting that plant. That same spring Guy Liddell was discussing with Rees, as well as with Burgess and Blunt, the concern held by British Intelligence that the Soviets might be trying to acquire penicillin plant for the purposes of creating bacteriological warfare agents. A year later, in August 1949, Borodin turned up to give a lecture at an intelligence course in Oxford – hardly the behaviour of someone who had been in fear of his life – and he was heckled by Rees, Burgess and their ally in MI6, David Footman. Various government organizations were tripping over each other at this time, with the Joint Intelligence Committee searching for ways to increase its knowledge of Soviet strengths in atomic and bacteriological warfare, and other units trying to work out whether the Double-Cross successes of World War II (against the Germans) could be replicated in peace-time (against the Soviets) in order to mislead the perceived enemy about the UK’s intentions.

I pick up the threads of this extraordinary story with the following questions in mind:

  • What else can be determined about Liddell’s schemes in trying to use Blunt and Burgess?
  • Were such exploits approved by any higher intelligence or military authority?
  • What were the facts behind Borodin’s defection, and why was he invited to the Intelligence Conference in Oxford?
  • What was the current policy of the UK concerning deception, and the delivery of disinformation to the Soviet Union?
  • How do these events relate to published rumours about the deployment of ‘double agents’ in mimicry of WWII successes against the Germans?
  • Was Philby part of the team, and was Burgess’s visit to Philby in Turkey in August 1948 related to the project?

I set out to answer these questions first, in Part 1, by exploiting some fresh research material. The Personal Files of Goronwy Rees, Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt reveal some startling new facts. In Part 2, I report on my inspection of files concerning the revival of the wartime London Controlling Station (responsible for deception against the Germans), and its controlling body, the Hollis Committee (chaired by General Leslie Hollis, no relation to Roger). I have studied relevant Ministry of Defence, Cabinet, Joint Intelligence Committee, and Foreign Office archival material. I have read a few books relating to early Cold War strategy. I found two articles on deception operations during the late 1940s, by H. Dylan, of King’s College, London, useful, although they make no mention of Borodin, or of the Liddell exploits, and curiously elide some astonishing statements made by Stewart Menzies, the MI6 chief.

Part 1

I start by reviewing how the various material in the Personal Files relates to the schemes of MI5’s Guy Liddell, at the time Deputy Director General to Percy Sillitoe

The Rees File

In my earlier report, I had referred to the anecdote cited by Richard Davenport-Hines in his letter published in the Times Literary Supplement, which was unsourced, and appeared to go against the grain of what I had earlier discovered.  I have since found that it comes from one of the earliest items in Goronwy Rees’s Personal File, in 1949, which I had earlier overlooked [see below]. Yet I first jump forward to Rees’s recollection of the events many years later, since it is the sole account deriving from him, the central player in the drama, and contains some important but erratic flourishes. These later records also help to provide a framework for the ‘Davenport-Hines’ piece that was written by James Robertson in 1949.

In an interview by Peter Wright on March 19, 1965 (KV 2/4607), Rees admitted his role at Pontifex (the new owner of Bennett Sons & Shears), when he told the MI5 officer that he had worked in an engineering firm that had some contracts with the Russians, and ‘had a lot of Russians to see us’. One day, William Skardon of MI5 had waltzed in without authority. At that point, Rees complained to Anthony Blunt, who speedily got in touch with Guy Liddell. (Rees misdated the event as occurring ‘in about 1950’.) Rees stated that he ‘went and protested’ to Liddell, and that the speed with which Blunt got hold of Liddell convinced him of their close association. He volunteered nothing more about the meeting [but see under ‘Blunt’ below], and then described the Russian engineer who later defected, adding, rather oddly, that ‘Anthony talked to me about this and wanted me to know all about it’. Instead of pursuing that line, Wright verified from Rees that the defector was in fact Borodin, and asked Rees whether he had any role in the defection. Apart from stating that he told them ‘everything I knew about him’, Rees denied any involvement. A few portions of the conversation are ominously and provocatively redacted, and then Rees disclaimed any knowledge of the defection itself, although he asserted that Blunt was in the thick of it.

The records suggest that someone [name obliterated] came to consult Rees about Borodin at some length after the Skardon visit, and that Rees claimed that Blunt knew all about the Borodin case. Further redactions appear in this particular transcript, concerning events of 1951: some of them may be an attempt to disguise the fact that Rees was working part-time for MI6 during these years. Even allowing for his drink-sodden condition at this time, Rees recalled some incidents, but not the vital events concerning Borodin, and his own role in the affair. It is a shoddy attempt at a cover-up.

A few years later, on May 15, 1969, when Rees was under further investigation, an entry was made in Rees’s file that echoed what Liddell had written in his diary [Source: WALLFLOWER] on January 19, 1948 and March 11, 1948: a handwritten note confirms that the same material lies in Borodin’s file, here given as PF 73525, but remaining unreleased. Liddell’s diary entry concerning the first of these two incidents adds one or two enigmatic flourishes, however. The entry starts, shockingly, as follows: “Anthony Blunt came to see me about a story which had reached him from Garronway [sic] Rees, via Guy Burgess.” After describing how he followed up with Skardon to discover what he had been up to (namely searching for information on the activities of the Russians)

            Anthony asked me to meet Garronway Rees at his club that evening, which I did, and explained to him the circumstances. He said he thought the whole story had got considerably distorted, and that his fellow director had misunderstood our purpose. He told me there and then that the Russians were buying penicillin plant, and that his firm had received from Tito an order for a liquid oxygen plant. He thought, however, that it might be useful for us to be in touch with Neville, the Chairman – or Secretary – of the Chemical Plant Manufacturers Association. I told him that provided Neville had not already been approached by someone else, I should be quite interested to meet him. Rees promised to arrange this.

It is hard what to make of this. One might expect the immediacy of the report to reflect reality better than the garbled recollection by Rees seventeen years later (when he cannot even recall the year), but, of course, Liddell might have been dissembling. My inchoate thoughts run as follows:

  • Liddell’s introduction of Burgess into the narrative is clumsy, but telling. Neither Rees nor Blunt mentioned that Rees had contacted Blunt through Burgess, and Liddell’s gratuitous insertion should be interpreted as being reliable. Rees’s closeness to Burgess at this time is very incriminating.
  • It is hard to interpret Liddell’s involvement of Burgess and Blunt in the exercise as anything but foolhardy (Blunt had left MI5 in 1945), but Rees must surely have known that they were colluding in some way.
  • The dispatch of Skardon into the plant without the owners’ (or at least Rees’) being informed, and under such furtive cover (he had forgotten his ‘credentials’) was spectacularly clumsy, and inexplicable. MI5 could have gained the information it needed simply by calling in Rees (who was working part-time for MI6, of course).
  • Rees’s protestations were thus disingenuous, and easily appeased. His suggestion that the story had been distorted was evasive. It was not a question of his fellow-director’s misunderstanding MI5’s purpose: if the director had genuinely not been inducted into the scheme, he would have remonstrated at the uninvited entry itself, not its objectives.
  • Liddell’s suggestion that it was Rees who informed him for the first time of the Russians’ intentions is as naïve as Rees’s protest. He must have known of the affair, which involved a visit by the Soviet Trade Delegation into which Borodin may have inserted himself. That is why Skardon was sent in in the first place.
  • Rees’s fellow-director (certainly Henry York, aka Henry Green, the author) probably suggested that Rees go through the charade of protesting in order to preserve appearances, and protect his (York’s) reputation.
  • The business of Neville and the Chemical Plant Manufacturers Association seems to be an irrelevant piece of nonsense designed to make the whole charivari sound humdrum. Possibly Liddell was being encouraged by Rees to contact Neville to verify that the Soviet visit was pukka, but Liddell’s response does not make much sense.

(If anyone can correct or enhance this interpretation, please let me know.)

The important item which I had previously overlooked, the source of the Davenport-Hines anecdote, however, is J. C. Robertson’s report dated April 4, 1949, which appears as sn. 3F in KV 2/4603 of the Rees PF. It is worth paraphrasing the bulk of its text here.

Robertson is clearly following up on Skardon’s visit, although the delay of a year is highly problematic. It is also apparent that Robertson has met Borodin (or possibly has read a report of his), since he records that Rees’s work colleague, Mason, is ‘just as JULEP [Borodin’s cryptonym] described him’. (Mason must surely be an alias for York.) Yet Robertson goes on to describe Borodin’s defection in very odd terms: he expresses surprise that Rees and Mason knew nothing at all about ‘JULEP’s resignation’. He continues: “I admitted that their assumption that he had resigned and was available in this country was correct, but emphasized that this fact was known only to a very few people and that knowledge of it must continue to be carefully restricted, both in the national interest and in the interest of JULEP’s own safety”. The safety issue was paramount, of course, but Robertson’s observations were naïve in the extreme: no one was free to ‘resign’ from Stalin’s organs or institutions, especially if they were on business in the West, and Borodin’s fears for his security are made clear when Robertson reports that Borodin had stated that ‘this country is too small for him’. Robertson then declares that MI5 was indeed planning for a way for Borodin to start life in a new country – surely Canada, as an earlier minute by Robertson had suggested.

The discussion then turns even weirder. Mason reiterates (so Robertson asserts) what Rees had already proposed to Liddell, namely that Pontifex seeks JULEP’s advice on ‘the relative merits of present day processes for manufacturing penicillin’, and, if the short-term project is successful, they would seek his help if they were able to place contracts for the delivery of penicillin manufacturing equipment to various overseas countries. Robertson reported that Rees and Mason seemed to be in somewhat of a hurry, as they feared losing their markets, and they were also suspicious of what the renowned biologist Ernest Chain might be doing behind their backs. Robertson promised to consider the matter of a further meeting, but pointed out that the firm’s proposal might conflict with the plans for sending Borodin abroad. Two further notes (one heavily redacted), dated April 1, confirm Robertson’s making arrangements, under conditions of strict secrecy, to have consultations with Rees and York before bringing Borodin up from his lair in Gloucestershire.

As I pointed out earlier, this seems utterly nonsensical. Borodin had been learning manufacturing techniques from Chain himself, and was on a legitimate mission to try to purchase penicillin plant, no matter how high the price. Why would a British firm use a Soviet defector, who had illegally been stealing secrets from Chain, to help them protect their markets, with MI5’s assistance, when MI5 had already known about Chain’s relationship with the Soviet scientists, and had allowed him to depart for Italy unscathed? Why, if Borodin had needed to be removed to Canada for safety reasons in August, 1948, was he still in the country? It seems to me that the whole entry is a plant, a Soviet-style ‘spravka’ to distort the facts, and leave a false trail. Robertson’s contribution is another feeble attempt at a cover-up.

I shall later (under ‘Aftermath’) analyze another extraordinary piece of background information to this report, but first: What do other recently released files tell us about the events?

The Blunt File

A few months after the Rees interview, on July 12, 1965, Blunt was interrogated by Arthur Martin, now with MI6, and Peter Wright (see KV 2/4708). It was an important event, with an odd prologue. In a preliminary interrogation on June 26, Blunt himself had brought up the subject of Borodin. “What, you once said you wanted to ask me about a white – uhm – no someone called BORODIN whom I’d gone to see Goronwy about”, the art historian somewhat elliptically interjects. When Wright responds that he cannot remember the dates, Blunt volunteers that it must have been ‘about 1948’. Wright states that Borodin was a Russian defector ‘over here as a scientist, in some form of liaison with Goronwy’s firm’, an opinion with which Blunt agrees. But when Wright elaborates, as follows: “And he defected and you went to see Goronwy, whether what is not clear from the Office file, I shall have to look it up again now, is whether you went to see Goronwy, at Goronwy’s instigation, or somebody’s else’s instigation.”, Blunt immediately disclaims all knowledge of the affair: “I have absolutely no  . . . . He was a scientist?”.

Peter Wright

Wright’s performance is feeble. He has not prepared himself properly on the case, and Blunt, having introduced the name Borodin a few minutes ago, now gets away with giving the impression that he is unaware that he was a scientist, having forgotten he had concurred with Wright’s description of Borodin’s profession a few minutes beforehand. Wright’s suggestion that Borodin had already defected is in direct contradiction to what Rees had stated, namely that he defected after the Skardon visit. Had Rees been lying? Did Blunt indeed go back to see Rees later in 1948, after the defection? Did Wright actually know the truth? That latter postulation seems unlikely, as the evidence from Liddell’s Diaries indicates that the idea for defection was originated by Hayter in the Foreign Office in February 1948, that the Skardon incident occurred later that month, and that the actual plans were not set up until May. It is no wonder that, since Wright was so unprepared, he could not dismantle Blunt’s prevarications more effectively. Blunt continues to show amazement when he is told that he and Rees met, and that he had made a recording of Rees’s statement after that meeting. Wright then introduces his main thrust, namely that he wanted to ask Blunt whether he had told Burgess about the meeting, since he would have expected that Guy would tell the Russians. “Why did the defection happen?”, he asks, forgetting that he has recently stated that the defection occurred before these events.  Wright has to retreat in confusion, and vows to come back to the topic later: several last exchanges on it have been redacted from Blunt’s file.

Thus Wright returned to the topic on July 12. Well into the session, Wright, presumably better informed this time (he claims he has been doing some homework), suddenly changes the subject from other possible contacts of Blunt’s – to Borodin again. In responding to the questions from Wright and Martin, Blunt shows all his most infuriating traits: rambling and evasive responses, an inability to recall anything clearly (attributing that failing to an abnormal memory), and a frustrating way of hypothesizing how he would have behaved at the time had he known the facts that his inquisitors claim he must have been aware of. At the same time, he gently mocks Wright’s ignorance. Wright tells him that Rees called Blunt to get him to tell Liddell to ‘call his wolves off’, following which Blunt introduced [sic] Liddell to Rees at ‘the Club’. “Did Guy not know – er – Goronwy?”, he asks, receiving the answer “Apparently not.” Liddell had died in 1958, so he was no longer around to explain, but his diary entry for January 19, 1948, confirms that Blunt asked Liddell to ‘meet’ Rees that evening. Blunt’s query suggests that they were probably familiar to each other, as does Liddell’s first mentioning of him. (I can find no evidence of an actual encounter before then, but Rees’s career would suggest that Liddell must have known about him.)  Again, Wright had not done his homework. Liddell also recorded that Rees’s request came via both Burgess and Blunt: that fact had also escaped Wright’s preparation.

Wright rambles a lot as he tries to get to the point, mixing up dates. His claim was that Skardon started making his inquiries because, first, the JIC (Joint Intelligence Committee) was very interested in the Russians’ attempts to find out how penicillin was made. They were ‘trying to buy a plant illicitly’ – probably, more accurately, trying to acquire the specifications for constructing a plant. (There was nothing ‘illicit’ about their endeavours.) Second, ‘during the course of these inquiries we discovered that BORODIN wanted to defect’. Whether this desire was coincidental to the fact that Hayter of the FO wanted to lure Borodin into defecting is not stated by Wright. Now Wright reaches his climax again: “Well the relevance of all this is, basically can you remember anything about it and if you remember anything about it, did you tell Guy about it?”. Here Wright classically forgets that Liddell stated that the request from Rees had come through Burgess. Why Burgess had had to be inserted in that chain is also not clear, but even if it had been incidental, Burgess’s curiosity, and his known identity as a conspirator with Blunt, should have alerted Wright’s antennae.

One might hypothesize that, at this point, Blunt was so shocked at Wright’s inept display that he decided to play dumb himself. He professes ignorance as Wright goes over the events leading up to the defection on August 28 after Borodin had announced his intention, informally, on May 25, and formally, on August 20. Wright’s main interest is driven by the fact that Burgess went off to see Philby in Turkey at this time, and wonders why he went. (He does not give a date: Andrew Lownie writes that it was in early August.) Yet, instead of claiming ignorance, Blunt stumbles, saying that Burgess went ‘on business’, but had trouble explaining how he could finance the trip, adding that Burgess had some story that his mother had helped him. (It was probably not official UK Government business, although it might well have been part of a clandestine operation.) “So why did Burgess need to see Philby?”, ponders Wright, declaring that he could have informed his Russian masters in the UK of any vital, fresh intelligence. He is perplexed that Blunt has no recollection of the defection events at all, despite his familiarity with Burgess’s movements.

Blunt is then forced into his posture that what Rees said in the files doesn’t make sense, since he (Blunt) would have reported it to his controls, and the defection manœuvre would have been called off. He tries to sweep away the whole issue by stating that he might have introduced Rees to Liddell without knowing that a Russian was involved, clumsily contradicting what Liddell wrote in his diary. Wright reminds him that Rees claimed that he not only arranged for Blunt to introduce him to Liddell, but that he also told Blunt the whole story, since he himself had engineered the defection. The exchange then becomes farcical, and even more chaotic, with Blunt again blaming his faulty memory, and even attributing Rees’s vivid imagination to the fact that he was Welsh. Wright and Martin have to abandon their inquest, while Blunt promises to try to recall the details of Burgess’s visit to Philby in Turkey.

It seems obvious to me that Wright, conscious of the fact that the Borodin ‘defection’ went horribly wrong, is trying to determine whether the leakage extended to Philby, and whether Burgess had been the messenger. While this throws fascinating light on the possibility that Philby may have been part of some disinformation scheme (why else would Wright have brought up Philby’s name?), Wright ignores the obvious fact that Blunt, evidently much closer to the negotiations, could have – and would have –  passed on such information to his controller. Blunt even admits this, but then claims to have forgotten all the details, taking advantage of Wright’s undisciplined approach to the interrogation. Wright’s obsession with Burgess’s role, and his overlooking the key facts of the case, represent an abject performance. He is not well aided by Martin. Meanwhile, Blunt is allowed to get away with an excruciatingly embarrassing display.

A few months later, Blunt was able to explain a bit more about Burgess’s visit. On October 5 (see KV 2/4709, sn. 539b), Wright met Blunt at the latter’s flat, and opened the discussion by saying that he had come across a report by a colleague who had visited Philby in Istanbul at the same time as Burgess. The man had said that Philby had been very worried after Burgess arrived, but had mistakenly interpreted that agitation as being due to Philby’s fear that Burgess might do something disgraceful. That did not make sense to Wright, and he brought up the fact that Blunt had said that the Russian Intelligence Service (RIS) had paid for Burgess’s trip to Turkey. Blunt now remarked that they had authorized it because ‘Guy was losing his nerve’, but could offer no explanation, and inquired of Wright whether he had any insight. Wright had none. This whole rigmarole sounds equally ridiculous. Why the RIS would respond to such a concern by drawing attention to an encounter with another suspect (as Philby surely was by now), funding a flight that Burgess could not afford, defies reason. There must have been something more important at stake, and Burgess must have convinced his controllers that it was vitally important that he see Philby in person.

Anthony & Tim Milne

Mysteriously, the ‘colleague’ cited by Wright, who was certainly Tim Milne, gave a different account in his memoir Kim Phiby: A Story of Friendship and Betrayal. He implied that Philby had seen the visit as having been arranged by the Foreign Office, not the RIS. Milne interpreted Kim’s anxiety, however, as being over the possibility that Burgess, in some of his late-night escapades, might have been meeting the Russians. Even stranger, he reported that a telegram arrived from the Foreign Office informing Burgess that he was not needed back immediately and ‘could have another week in Istanbul if he wished’ – much to the chagrin of Kim and Aileen Philby. (‘The Man Who came to Stay for the Weekend’?!) One cannot trust Milne’s memoir: he was probably trying to help out his old friend. Again, too many deceptive stories are being told.

The Burgess File

Lastly, in this set, come items in Guy Burgess’s PF, including Burgess’s own testimony about the conference at Oxford. The first relevant entry, however, relates to Burgess’s visit to Turkey in 1948, as described above. On November 28, 1951 (see KV 2/4107, sn. 335b), J. D. Robertson (B2), in the thick of the deep investigations into Philby before the latter’s interrogation by Milmo, passes to Arthur Martin (B2b) some photostats relating to Burgess’s visit to Istanbul. They appear to be telegrams (not provided) that show that Burgess approached Philby at the end of May, 1948, to suggest he visit him, and that Burgess was in some haste, since he wrote by telegram, not letter. Robertson had suggested to Martin that, because of the suddenness, and the expensive air travel, Burgess might have got wind of the approaching defection of [redacted – obviously Borodin]. Robertson further claimed that Burgess would have known nothing about the defector except that he was a senior Soviet official, and thus might have feared that he might be in possession of information about both his and Philby’s activities. The result would be that he might seek advice from Philby as to whether either of them should contact the Russians, to inform them, but also to inquire whether [Borodin] did indeed possess dangerous information. To support his theory, Robertson attached extracts from [Borodin’s] file, showing the telephone checks that confirmed the possibility of Borodin’s defection on May 27.  Robertson also described the role of Rees at Bennett Sons & Shears, and mentioned that the firm was in contact with C.P.R. (presumably the ‘Russian Communist Party’).

This seems to me like another bogus entry from Robertson. He knew that Burgess had been involved with the Borodin business, and Burgess thus would have known that Borodin was a ‘mere’ scientist, and not tightly engrained into the MGB’s espionage practices. If Burgess had deemed it appropriate to consult his local controller, he could have done that off his own bat, without lengthening the process by an ostentatious and expensive flight to Istanbul. (By all accounts, Philby was at this time feeding information to Burgess in private mail correspondence, which Burgess passed on to Yuri Modin, his controller.) Burgess did not leave until early August, by which time two valuable months had been lost, which does not suggest urgency over a possible exposure. And did those telegrams exist? Were Burgess’s communications being intercepted at this time? Other information suggests that Burgess arrived in Istanbul unannounced. I should say that Robertson was concealing the truth from Martin, and sending him on a wild goose-chase.

The next item – which would appear to undermine Robertson’s testimony – was submitted by MI6 to Ronnie Reed on December 14, 1955, in a long memorandum titled ‘GUY BURGESS and the Military International Affairs Study Group, Worcester College, Oxford, on 9th-12th September, 1949’. It starts off by stating that the Assistant Chief of MI6 was looking for subjects and outside lecturers, and wondered whether Goronwy Rees would be able to offer Borodin to talk on defection? David Footman had recommended Burgess and Blunt as speakers, and suggested that someone in MI5 be approached over Borodin, as Rees was away. There follow some fascinating details about other speakers, of marginal relevance to this story, and a notorious anecdote about Burgess’s borrowing from Carew-Hunt a handbook on Russian forged documents, and never returning it. (The list of attendees has been redacted: one of them had certainly advised Burgess of the existence of the handbook.)

Yet the most astonishing aspect of this saga is the invitation to Borodin. Robertson had the previous year stressed how exposed Borodin felt, and he added that the Russian was going to be whisked away to Canada after his defection, away from the claws of the MGB. Yet now he was going to be invited to a conference to speak about his experiences! It makes no obvious sense, from any angle. For some reason, his life is no longer in danger. Moreover, MI6 and MI5 conspire to bring him out into the open, where any loose lips might betray his presence to Soviet Intelligence. David Footman behaves recklessly, even traitoriously. If Borodin had any value as a defector (a questionable assumption, in the first place), he must by then have surely told the British authorities all he knew about Soviet capabilities for making penicillin, which were flimsy in the first place. Why would Borodin have been set up in this way, and why would he have agreed to it?

On April 11, 1956, Maxwell Knight sent to Reed a photostat of a recent letter from Burgess in Moscow to Tom Driberg (KV 2/4115, sn. 689a). It contains Burgess’s view of the conference, and the passage is worth quoting in full:

            Of course what you say about Petrov is true – he was a ‘paid nark’. As far as can make out, he gave his original information C.O.D. and subsequently added to it – in different and self-contradictory forms in England and America – on the hire purchase system. They always do – and the Foreign Office and the Intelligence services should know that perfectly well. I remember I once stayed for some days at a joint Secret Service-M.I.5 ‘house party’. One of the visiting lecturers was a Soviet defector, rather like Petrov, called ‘Borodin’. After he had given his talk containing sensational secret revelations about the USSR, he was whisked away. The audience, all of whom, except me, were members of either the Secret Service or M.I.5 and hence people of whatever experience the officers of those strange services do have – even they smelt obtrusive rats in the revelations we had heard. They attacked the organizer of this proto-Petrov. This was an officer of great experience. He sadly admitted that scarcely a word was to be believed, but that it was always the same. People had to invent to earn their keep. He quoted the cases of Krivitsky, Kravchenko and others as examples.

Who was that officer? In a note to file, Reed kindly offered an explanation the following day:      For the sake of the record it should be said that BORODIN was accompanied and introduced by U.35 [‘Klop’ Ustinov] who left with BORODIN immediately after the lecture. Those who were forefront in the attack upon BORODIN were BURGESS, REES and FOOTMAN. So far as I recall the ‘organiser’ who spoke of BORODIN was either Carew-Hunt or [redacted]. However, neither said that ‘scarcely a word was to be believed’. They said in fact that BORODIN did not know as much as he claimed to know, and that he was rather a stupid man who was intent on claiming more knowledge about Soviet policy and personalities than he did in fact possess.

Yet that statement raises even more questions. If he was considered ‘stupid’, why did they invite him to the conference? How could the trio of Rees, Footman and Burgess (an outsider from the Foreign Office) get away with such insulting and disreputable behaviour? Who was in charge here?

Further Liddell Revelations

Apart from an objection by MI5’s Legal Adviser that a passage on Borodin be deleted from Tom Driberg’s book on Burgess, that is almost the totality of the archival record on Borodin, so far as I can judge. (Of course, his PF has not been released.) Yet, since my initial report, I have unearthed some further passages from Liddell’s Diaries – describing possible defectors, presented anonymously – that I believe shed more light on the events leading to Borodin’s defection. A few months after the critical JIC meeting on February 4, 1948, at which its Chairman, William Hayter, had talked to Liddell about Borodin’s potential as a defector, Liddell starts referring to ‘the case’ in his diary. It is obvious that this terminology actually refers to two cases of defection – one for someone seeking asylum in the USA, which appeared not to be problematic, and the other undoubtedly describing Borodin (whose name has been rather unnecessarily redacted, given its high visibility in recent posts).

On June 24, the day after another JIC meeting, Liddell recorded Hayter’s current concerns with Case No. 2, as he explained them to his officers Moreton-Evans and Marriott:

            Hayter had grave doubts about our proceeding with xxxxxx and said that he would have to consult Orme Sargent [his boss] and possibly Bevin [Foreign Minister]. Before doing he would see Courtenay [not Courtenay Young, but one Commander Courtney]. This seems to raise quite serious issues. If it is desired to obtain defectors here the initial move must be made by someone in official circles who knows the defector fairly intimately and in whom the defector has confidence. This obviously involves certain risks and unless the authorities are prepared to be tough and to say that they know nothing about it they will have to make up their minds that any form of provocation on the matter of defection in this country is out of the question.

This is rather a belated warning by Liddell. If his advice makes sense (which it does), he should have presented it to Hayter back in February. One cannot help wondering whether it is a posting to cover himself and Hayter, with Moreton-Evans and Marriott brought in as stooges.

Joe Baker-Cresswell

On June 29, he made a similar showy declaration to one Baker-Cresswell (certainly Joe Baker-Cresswell, deputy-director of Naval Intelligence, who had, somewhat alarmingly, been educated at Gresham’s School, Holt, but had redeemed himself by being the naval office responsible for retrieving the submarine U-110’s Enigma machine and codes in May 1941). Baker-Cresswell was asking whether the xxxxxx case (the American one) was dead, and Liddell reported:

            I said that as far as I knew it was dead. The case did however raise certain definite issues which I thought should be thrashed out in the J.I.C. It was abundantly clear that if we were called upon to provoke defection two basic assumptions would have to be accepted in principal; (1) that the person promoting defection would have to be a Government official known as such to the defector; (2) that this Government official would have to be known and trusted to the defector. It would further be necessary that if things went wrong and questions were asked, the Government would have to make some sort of denial that any approach had been made. In this particular case they would have to say that xxxxxx’s wife had completely misunderstood Commander Courtney. The F.O. point is that even if such a denial were made the Foreign Secretary would not be prepared to face the issue in view of the recent trouble about TASSOEV.

Tassoev was a Soviet defector who had recently changed his mind, and the authorities were undecided as to what to do with him. In any event, the exchange shows how sensitive all defection cases were at the time, and Liddell is building his cover as a cautious policy-maker. Baker-Cresswell was apparently satisfied with the response he received.

Yet the following day Liddell and Hayter have changed their tune. After the June 30 JIC meeting, Liddell entered the following:

            I spoke to Hayter after the J.I.C. today about the case of xxxxx. I told him that xxxxx was ready to defect but wanted to disappear. He would like a boat half-full to be washed up on the Brighton beach and for a report to be put round that he had been seen going out in it. This meant that if any questions were asked or a demand was made for him by the Russians on the grounds that he had misappropriated funds, it would be necessary for the Government to say that they had no idea as to his whereabouts. Hayter seemed to doubt whether they would be prepared to give an answer of this kind.

So much for high-level approaches and approval. Hayter and Liddell are continuing their plotting outside the confines of the JIC meeting itself. And there is no doubt that this is case number two, as Liddell goes on immediately after to report on his discussions with White and Marriott on the American candidate. Borodin is under pressure: his local minders know something is afoot – but they have not secreted him or returned him to the Soviet Union, a lack of drama that is highly significant. These intermediate passages lead straight into the events of July 2, where Borodin turns up at Professor Florey’s at Oxford, as I reported in my previous bulletin. Was he being dangled by the Reds?

Intermediate Summary

I present an intermediate summing-up before proceeding to deliberations of the various government groups involved in deception planning. This was not a normal defection. Intelligence services welcome defectors because either a) they may constitute a propaganda coup; or b) they have valuable information to impart; or c) they may be precious assets that must not be allowed to fall into an adversary’s hands (as happened with many German officers and scientists at the end of WWII). If ongoing tapping of information is desired, agencies would prefer to maintain the asset as an ‘agent-in-place’, provided, of course, that there existed a mechanism for contacting the asset and extracting the information. Borodin did not fit into this scheme: he was actually pilfering secrets from the British. The plan did not make strategic sense from the side of the Foreign Office, nor did the operational aspects seem logical from the point of view of Borodin. In summary:

  • This was not a routine defection, but probably a disinformation exercise that went sadly awry.
  • William Hayter (in the Foreign Office) and Liddell probably cooked up a plan that lacked overt authorization.
  • Liddell tragically involved Burgess and Blunt in his preliminary research.
  • Goronwy Rees was at the centre of the action, but clumsily concealed his involvement.
  • The plot for defection had fallen apart by the time Borodin was paraded at Oxford.
  • Robertson and Milne tried to cover up the traces by planting misinformation.

The Chronology

And, to enable later correlation with the decisions of the governing bodies, I provide a timetable of ‘events’ (some of which may not be real, of course):

1948

Jan 19  Rees, Burgess & Blunt report on Russians acquiring industrial secrets (L)

Jan       Soviets make overtures to Distillers & Glaxo over penicillin (CA)

Feb 4   JIC meets on Bacteriological Warfare. Borodin is buying up penicillin equipment (L)

            Hayter asks about possibility of Borodin becoming defector (L)

Feb 18 Liddell discusses Borodin with Strong & Lamb of JSTIC (L)

Feb 26 BW Committee: Fildes discusses use of penicillin plant to create BW agents (L)

USA has sold manufacturing rights, and may refuse plant & know-how (L)

Mar 5  Borodin may need to be exception to policies on Soviet citizens (L)

Mar 11 Liddell informs Rees & Blunt about risk of penicillin plant being used for BW (L)

May 19 Florey contradicts Fildes, saying no harm in allowing Russians to purchase plant (L)

May 25 Borodin announces his intention to defect (KBL)

Jun 24  Liddell warns of unauthorized defections (L)

Jun 29  Liddell fobs off request by Naval Intelligence on defections (L)

Jun 30  Liddell and Hayter discuss Borodin’s urgent predicament (L)

Jul 2    Borodin has turned up at Florey’s, asking for assistance (L)

            Marriott will go to Oxford to see Florey (L)

            Borodin thinks he will be liquidated if he returned: promises to help (L)

Jul 20  Borodin agrees with Chain for provision of penicillin equipment for SU (S)

Aug (beg.) Purge of All Union Academy of Agricultural Science takes place (B)

Aug     Burgess leaves for Ankara to stay three weeks with Philby (LO)

Aug 20 Borodin formally announces defection plan (KBL)

Aug 27 Borodin writes two letters of high treason (B)

Aug 28 Borodin defects (KBL)

Late summer  Chain provides 100-page report on manufacturing penicillin, for Russians (CA)

Sep 24-26 MI6-MI5 Conference is held at Worcester College, Oxford (MD)

Sep 30 Florey says Chain made improper contact with Soviets (L)

Chain has gone to Italy ‘for year’s holiday’ (L)

Oct 7   Ernst Chain marries Anne Beloff: Chains move to Italy (EC)

Oct 14 CIA writes report on Soviet penicillin capabilities (C)

Nov 23 Second CIA report on Soviet penicillin capabilities (C)

1949

Mar 7  Rees approaches Liddell about recruiting Borodin for Bennetts & Shears (KR)

B & S are negotiating with Chain for selling plant in India (KR)

            Plans are underway for relocating Borodin to Canada (KR)

Mar 14 Liddell seeks Footman’s guidance on Rees’s business interest (KR)

Apr 4   Robertson meets Rees & Mason of Bennetts & Shears (KR)

            Mason wants Borodin’s advice as he does not trust Chain, who is expensive (KR)

Jun 17 Footman recommends Burgess & Blunt for Oxford conference (KBU)

Jun 27  Mitchell invites Blunt to event in Oxford on September 11 (KBL)

            Robertson is to approach Borodin for same (KBL)

Jul 23  Mitchell confirms to White about Blunt & Borodin for September conference (KBL)

Aug 9  Borodin & Burgess speak at conference on Russian affairs at Oxford (L)

Borodin is introduced by Klop Ustinov: Rees, Burgess & Footman heckle him (KBU)

Sources:          B = Borodin

                        C = CIA

CA = Capocci (‘Cold Drugs’)

EC = Clark (‘The Life of Ernst Chain’)

KBL = Blunt PF

KBU = Burgess PF

KR = Rees PF

L = Guy Liddell Diaries

LO = Lownie (‘Stalin’s Englishman’)

MD = Muggeridge Diaries

                        S = Shertseva

Part 2

I now move on to inspect the various government units dealing with Cold War policy, concentrating on the opportunities for deception.               

Cold War Deception Planning

The Post-War Planning Staff (PWPS) was set up in 1944 by Churchill and his Chiefs of Staff to do precisely what its title expressed – to consider diplomatic and military plans for an uncertain peace. As the project was handed over to Prime Minister Attlee after the war, the committee (now dubbed PWHP, Post-War Hostilities Planning) soon found itself challenged by a series of problematic topics, namely:

  1. The fact that a recent ally in the war, the Soviet Union (all too frequently erroneously identified as ‘Russia’) was the dominant threat;
  2. A sensitivity for Labour Party and public opinion that refrained from identifying who that threat was, a reluctance reinforced by a desire not to ‘provoke’ Stalin (which had echoes of the appeasement of Hitler);
  3. Uncertainty about the nature of future warfare, especially in terms of atomic and biological weaponry, and the effect the latter would have on attack and defence;
  4. The new realities about a diminished Commonwealth, and what that meant for defence obligations and industrial supply-lines;
  5. Watchfulness on what the new United Nations organization would bring, and concerns that it might be another League of Nations;
  6. Mixed feelings about the role of the USA as a partner, and its relationship with Western Europe, what with its distance and its recent decisions to exclude Great Britain from atomic secrets;
  7. The stringencies of post-war austerity, when Attlee’s demands for reduced expenditure came into conflict with his Chiefs of Staff and the Foreign Ministry (under Bevin);
  8. A host of new organizations and units that had to be involved in strategic planning in a Cold War environment, when the illusions of ‘peace’ made for more bureaucratic decision-making than was allowed in war.

Whatever plans evolved, they were subject to some extraordinary decisions that introduced noted Communists to the administration. Professor Blackett (familiar in these pages because of my recent coverage of Peter Astbury) gave professional advice that recommended unilateral nuclear disarmament. (Many of his papers have been carefully ‘lost’.) Professor Bernal was an outright Stalinist who was brought in for advice on scientific matters. As Julian Lewis meiotically wrote, in Changing Direction (p 224): “The involvement of Bernal in the revision of the Tizard report, notwithstanding his co-authorship of the original version, would appear to have been an early instance of the implications of the change in potential enemies not being fully thought through in terms of governmental personnel recruited during the war.”

The London Controlling Station in WWII

The possibilities of misleading the enemy quickly became a key theme in hostilities planning. Tracking the decisions made by the deception groups after the war is, however, a complicated business. The core responsibility was maintained by the London Controlling Station (LCS), the unit that had been a spectacular success in WWII when it co-ordinated the activities of the TWIST Committee and the Double-Cross (XX) Committee in preparing and executing deception plans. It had been reduced to a rump of three members by 1946, including General Leslie Hollis, the Secretary to the Chiefs of Staff. The initial moves to resuscitate the deception staff are quite clear, but thereafter, one has to sift through the records of the Ministry of Defence (where the LCS reported), the Cabinet Office (which had a keen interest in the proceedings because of the Cabinet Defence Sub-Committee), and the Foreign Office (which regarded deception in peacetime as highly relevant to foreign policy, and whose officials, Harold Caccia and William Hayter, were the chairmen of the Joint Intelligence Committee in the relevant years). A small group called the ‘Hollis Committee’ was charged with supervising the LCS, taking over the responsibilities of the declining wartime ‘W’ Board – although the latter refused to die in the minds of some persons. One can find many common documents in all three sets of archives, but each retains its own idiosyncrasies and commentaries, and together they often express contradictory statements about events and decisions.

The Joint Intelligence Committee (as it was upgraded to in January 1948, having before that existed as the Joint Intelligence Sub-Committee – an important differentiation in protocol) was the kernel of the decision-making.  Its minutes are sometimes highly detailed, but not all of its deliberations were recorded (as Liddell’s diaries prove). Thus there could be three classes of decisions made, namely i) formal decisions appearing in the minutes; ii) decisions that were secret and confidential, and thus off the record, and iii) decisions and actions that were not authorized by the Committee, but may have been hatched from its discussions. We owe it to those diaries of Guy Liddell, who was a regular attendee at JIC meetings, normally substituting for Sillitoe, and was a confidant of both Harold Caccia and William Hayter, for a healthy sprinkling of commentary on what was said within and without the meetings, including the occasional summarization of items that were ‘off the record’. (I analyze that commentary below.) Liddell was also a regular member of the JISC Deputies Committee, which met less regularly, and thrashed out items to assist the full JISC or JIC meetings.

The early moves are straightforward to track. In June 1946, the Service Chiefs, conscious of the new Soviet threat, recommended setting up a Future Operational Planning Section. The following month the Joint Technical Warfare Committee concluded that atomic and biological weaponry would constitute a major change in how war was conducted. At that time, the Cabinet Defence Committee approved a report from the Tizard Committee that went into detail what the effects of atomic warfare would be. In September, the Committee of Imperial Defence was replaced by the Cabinet Defence Committee, and a new Ministry of Defence was set up in January 1947. In September, William Hayter (an important figure in this saga) was chosen to replace Harold Caccia as Chairman of the Joint Intelligence Committee. The Foreign Office then stepped in, advocating greater preparedness in the light of Soviet moves, and, on October 16, Foreign Minister Bevin convinced the Cabinet of the necessity of having a British atomic bomb. That same month, the Joint Intelligence Sub-Committee (under Hayter) was charged with assessing possible Soviet attacks.

Leslie Hollis

Back in September 1945, Leslie Hollis (whom I shall refer to as ‘Hollis’ hereafter, since the distinction between Roger and Leslie is now clear) had written a paper that emphasized how deception would be necessary in times of peace, as preparation for possible war. In May, 1946, Stewart Menzies, the MI6 chief, had recommended the revival of the LCS, arguing, rather provocatively, and very significantly, that Soviet spies (which he described as ‘pervasive intelligence gathering channels’) might be manipulated to ‘provide suitable channels for the transmission of deception material to the Russians at a later stage’.  After the inevitable conflict between communism and capitalism (an erroneous contrast, as I have written elsewhere) was clarified early in 1947, Prime Minister Attlee came around from his appeasement of Stalin to a more aggressive approach. Thereafter, in March the Cabinet agreed to an active and bolstered London Controlling Section, including that supervisory committee named after Hollis himself, and the LCS began to draw up new proposals for deception in peacetime, in the belief that misleading the Soviets about Britain’s capabilities in atomic and biological warfare might deter the foe from aggressive action. The Joint Intelligence Sub-Committee approved this set-up in July 1947 – rather belatedly, it would seem, and perhaps grudgingly, as its approval had not apparently been sought.

The LCS struggled to keep its discussions tight and secure. Deception in peacetime was an entirely different proposition from that in wartime, when strict information controls and a highly focused campaign against a known enemy abetted some daring plans. It began by thinking that it should exaggerate the country’s war potential in time of peace, but worried whether that might spur the enemy to greater vigour. That policy soon evolved into one of ‘deterring the Russians from armed aggression’ (July 29). It encountered obstacles. It started defining a deception policy for Atomic Research and Production, but then realized that it did not have enough scientific competence, and wanted to set up a scientific advisory committee. Tizard was not enough. With the recent experiences of Blackett and Bernal fresh in their minds, that was a cause for concern. In September, it broadened its scope to include Weapons of Mass Destruction generally, thus including biological warfare, but then realized how little it understood about Soviet competence in this field.

Further complications arose. In October 1947, the JIC’s Hayter urged for more deception to counter communist infiltration, which was evident from the multiple trade missions under way, where the Soviet Union hoped to acquire strategic technology (such as jet-engines). Menzies wanted more co-operation with SOE’s planning staff, in itself a bizarre observation, even while he carelessly forgot that SOE had actually been dissolved in 1945, with its rump incorporated into MI6. The LCS’s political stance was not helped that same month by the Foreign Office’s Christopher Mayhew stating that Britain should attack capitalism as well as communism, while Hankey openly deplored any appeasement of the Soviet Union. When Lord Portal, Controller of Production (Atomic Energy) at the Ministry of Supply, was approached in November concerning deception on atomic matters, he immediately insisted that the Americans be involved. (Two later visits to the USA, in 1948, by Hollis, and then Drew and Wild, turned out to be fruitless.) Portal’s sidekick, Perrin, judged that the Soviet Union was way behind the USA and the UK in atomic weaponry capabilities, an opinion that would reinforce the general conclusion that the Russians would not be ready for war until about 1956. MI5 and MI6 (whose leaders, Sillitoe and Menzies, attended meetings, but were not actually members of the LCS) were charged with plans for exaggerating the nation’s strengths.

Early in 1948, a new challenge appeared. The Cabinet decided to create an Information Resource Department in the Foreign Office, a secret unit dedicated to anti-Soviet propaganda. That raised issues of how propaganda related to the LCS’s mission of deception, and who was in charge. Further second thoughts followed. On February 3, Drew of the Cabinet Office questioned whether the Committee had a sound idea of whom in Moscow it was addressing with its deception plans. (It clearly had not considered that: some very arrogant and dismissive statements about the unsophistication of the Russians can be found in the published minutes of LCS meetings.) During 1948, fresh overseas issues raised their heads. A deception exercise in Belgium had prompted uncomfortable questions from Soviet contacts: how should they be handled? The operations in Palestine demanded real-time war deception strategies. In September, Ivone Kirkpatrick of the Foreign Office (an unlikely champion of SOE-type activities in Eastern Europe) asserted that his IRD was the only body charged with carrying out ‘cold war’, and he also emphasized the role of the FO’s Russia Committee as the primary planning staff. In November, the LCS had to issue a new paper on the ‘Western Union’ – the outcome of the Brussels Treaty of March 1948, with its separate charter of guarding against armed aggression in Europe. Attlee’s Cabinet was reluctant to have the Soviet Union identified as the potential enemy in any documentation. In the autumn of 1948, the Hollis Committee had to sort out the relationship of the LCS with a murky body called VISTRE – Visual Inter-Service Training and Research Establishment – which was also involved with deception. By the end of the year, the LCS was feeling besieged, and Hollis began to question whether deception had any viable role in peacetime.

Thus it appeared that, by the onset of 1949, no European deception activities (apart from in Belgium) had been carried out. Yet a very curious minute had appeared in June 1948, as shown by DEFE 28/118. In his progress report on the fourth of that month, Colonel Wild explained that the LCS no longer used the idea of ‘double agents’, drawing on the fact that ‘a very limited number of double agents have been started, but in each case they have terminated through one cause or another before any useful build up has been achieved.’ This is, to me, an astounding admission – which must have derived from Menzies. On which authority had these agents been activated? Who were they? How had they been chosen? Why could they have been trusted? Whom did they contact? What had caused them to be ‘terminated’? Had any damage been done because of the exercise? Maybe the remainder of the Committee were too overwhelmed by the complexity of the operation that they did not know what questions to ask. If they did discuss the problem, any record of their debate was suppressed.

Grigori Tokaev

The LCS had one important other occupation at this time. Grigori Tokaev had defected in October 1947, and his knowledge of the Politburo, and Soviet military plans of weaponry, had prompted the LCS to engage in deep consultations with him as to how they might rock the Soviet cradle. Much of this debate was focussed on the idea of ‘deception’, but the nature of such a project was more on how to mislead Stalin and his gang on potential dissensions within the Soviet Empire (particularly in the Caucasus, from where Tokaev came), and to provoke rivalries within the Kremlin, than it was to deceive the foe on Western atomic or bacteriological warfare capabilities. The planning went on for years, with Tokaev (like all defectors) probably using his imagination too wildly and being criticized for it. He thus influenced the atmosphere at the LCS and the Hollis Committee, but his very public story (now that the relevant DEFE archives have been released) was tangential to what happened to Borodin, whose tale has been permanently muffled.

‘Double Agents’

How would ‘double agents’ be used against the Soviets? It is timely to recall what was unique about the WWII Double-Cross operation, why it was successful, and why it almost failed spectacularly. As I have reported before, John Bevan, who led the LCS in wartime, disapproved of the term ‘double agents’, since it necessarily described persons who were by definition working for opposing forces, and whose true loyalties were thus unknown. He preferred ‘special agents’, or ‘controlled enemy agents’. In fact, his troupe of performers was a mixture of penetration agents (such as Garbo and Tricycle, whom the Abwehr trusted but whose loyalty to the Allies was firmly believed in by the XX Committee), spies parachuted in by the Abwehr (such as Tate, and Mutt and Jeff, who were either easily ‘turned’ ideologically, or kept under strict control to ensure they had no unauthorized communications with the Germans), and fake identities created under the illusion that they were sub-agents recruited by the spies. The deception exercise was successful because it was tightly focused on one objective – misleading the Germans about the location of the continental landings, and MI5 was able to monitor the effectiveness of its disinformation through ENIGMA intercepts. Yet it played only a supportive role in the creation and maintenance of a dummy army that was being prepared to land in the Pas de Calais. And it should certainly have been questioned by the enemy, because of such absurd practices as Garbo’s two-hour transmission at the eleventh hour, when the Reichsssicherheitshauptamt (which had absorbed the Abwehr by then) should have concluded that British detection and direction-finding of illicit wireless could not possibly be that feeble to have overlooked such broadcasts. (see https://coldspur.com/the-mystery-of-the-undetected-radios-part-8/ for a full analysis.)

So, given that, in peacetime, the communications of such agents could not be controlled, in what category were the ‘double agents’ to whom Wild referred? Were they agents who had penetrated the RIS (Russian Intelligence Services), and were now in contact somehow with their ideological controllers, presumably MI6? Were they contacts in place in the Soviet Embassy in London, to whom false information could reliably be fed because of legitimate diplomatic or business relationships, whether they were intended defectors or communist loyalists able to be manipulated? Or were they perhaps British intelligence officers and diplomats who pretended that they had a loyalty to the Soviet Union, and could therefore feed their Soviet contacts with false information as well as a careful selection of factual chickenfeed? The record does not say: only that they have been ‘terminated’, which probably does not mean that they have been murdered, but that they have simply been dropped as a possible channel.

That third scenario is very alarming. What if those intelligence officers had in fact made false claims about their loyalties, were in truth committed soldiers for Stalin, having declared to MI5 and MI6 that they had foresworn their temporary and misguided service to the NKVD in favour of a renewed dedication to the imperial cause? We know, for instance, that Anthony Blunt had been caught red-handed passing over secrets from MI14 to the Soviets in 1944, but was unpunished by the action. It was certainly part of the deal that, to conceal his assumed change of heart, he had to provide occasional secrets to the Soviet Embassy to protect himself. Thus my recently developed theory that Philby, Burgess and Blunt effectively turned themselves in after the Nazi-Soviet Pact of August 1939, and were then allowed to tunnel into MI6, the Foreign Office, and MI5, takes on extra life. Yet the dating of Wild’s observations in June 1948 seems rather premature for invoking the trio: after all, Philby was in Turkey at the time, Burgess’s visit to Istanbul came after Wild’s disclosure, and the antics between Liddell, Burgess and Blunt started only in the first half of 1948.

The first scenario is very unlikely, since penetration of Soviet intelligence services by persons with allegiance to a foreign power (as opposed to those who may have become jaundiced during service) has probably never happened. The second scenario, that they were probably Soviet spies, had however been endorsed by Menzies back in 1946, as my note above suggests. He had then indicated that MI6 knew about some prominent Soviet agents, and that they might be manipulated to pass on ‘intelligence’ which their bosses were looking for. His remarks were submitted by Leslie Hollis to the JISC in May 1946, and are worth presenting, since they show the MI6 chief at his most bureaucratic and opaque:

            In the course of the past eighteen months, various contacts have been established with Russians seeking intelligence about British activity, policy and strength. These contacts offer opportunities of increasing our knowledge of the Soviet intelligence services and the direction of their effort. If adequately developed, they may provide suitable channels for the transmission of deception material to the Russians at a later stage. Whatever may be the use to which these contacts are put, the first requirement (without which they will certainly wither away) is machinery designed to provide and approve information that can be passed to the Russians.

The machinery set up for similar purposes during the war worked well, and it is submitted that our peace time needs would best be served by similar machinery functioning on a smaller scale.

What was Menzies talking about? He seemed to be suggesting that contact with a whole cadre of probable Soviet spies (‘Russians seeking intelligence’) has been maintained since before the end of the war, and that the commitment of these characters to their cause was so flaky that they might instead be used to channel disinformation back to their masters. What ‘adequate development’ means is uncertain, but Menzies appears to be under the impression that MI6 alone could judge the true loyalties of these persons, and that none of these candidates would spot what is going on, or would tell Moscow about the game that is afoot. Did he really believe that a technique such as the XX Operation would lend itself to the conditions of the Cold War, or was he simply repeating what he had been told by one of his subordinates? And then that awful beloved word of the Whitehall elite – ‘machinery’, as if all this works like a well-oiled engine, when in truth anything that happens relies on a complex set of relationships, back-room deals, rivalries, buck-passing, and concealment.

What is also astonishing is that the cream of Britain’s intelligence staff did not appear to question what Menzies had introduced. ‘Who were these Soviet spies?’, they might have asked. Were they perhaps members of trade missions looking to purchase critical technology? As mentioned earlier, the probing by Soviet officials with authority to visit industrial premises was a recognized problem at this time. In a diary entry for November 3, 1947, Liddell refers to the penetration by Communists in scientific and research establishment, of which R.A.E. Farnborough and T.R.E. Malvern were the worst. It is possible, therefore, that one of these Russians had made an approach to someone they considered ‘friendly’, who in fact had reported their overtures to MI5. If one of such had been encouraged to offer information that had not been asked for, the Soviet official might well have become suspicious.  But Menzies was looking retrospectively over the past eighteen months: the phenomenon of potential spies in the factories was a recent one.

Another possible category allied to the ‘Soviet spies’ group could be Soviet citizens who had ‘defected’ in the British Zone of West Germany, or in Austria. In a very muddled note reporting on a JISC meeting on October 22, 1946, Liddell had referred to ‘renegades’ (presumably persons not important enough to be deemed ‘defectors’) who had turned up in Germany, and might be considered for espionage or counter-intelligence purposes. Someone on the committee had suggested bringing ‘a limited number’ (a weaselly phrase) to this country, on the basis that, if they were given ‘some inducement and a home here’, some information might be acquired. Liddell sensibly shot this down, as it would be a very two-edged weapon, and ‘invited the Russians to plant people on us’. The country had enough infiltration already, of course. Any suggestion for using such ‘renegades’ to pass deceptive information to the Soviets would also have been haphazard, and maybe disastrous, as Moscow would have wondered why such persons returned to their native land with unexpected intelligence. The channel had to be trustworthy.

In any event, one might gain the impression that, by June 1948, the notion of ‘double agents’ was well and truly dead. On the other hand, it could have been a feint. As I have suggested, many things that were discussed at the meetings of the LCS were not recorded, and it might have been with the goal of misleading posterity that some items were omitted. The notion of deception exercises using other means was still alive, however, and it seems that the JIC may have taken over the baton as the LCS started winding itself down. How would it accomplish its goals without using some sort of intermediary?

The JIC Chairmen

Harold Caccia

William Hayter was the second in a series of self-regarding but not very impressive Chairmen of the Joint Intelligence Committee after the war, succeeding Howard Caccia, who held the post from November 1945 to August 1946 (a very short time) and being followed by Patrick Reilly, who served (according to the official history) from November 1950 to April 1953. Yet even these dates are unreliable. In his Appendix 1 of his official history of the JIC (from which the above statements derive), Michael S. Goodman has Hayter in the post until November 1950 when it is clear from Hayter’s own memoir that he left in November 1949. (Wikipedia states that Hayter did not become Chairman until 1948: the facts are elusive.) Goodman is intuitively flattering about these appointees, asserting that Victor Cavendish-Bentinck was able to instill ‘in the FO a recognition that it should provide top class candidates for JIC Chairman’, adding that the careers of each benefitted from the role: ‘ . . . certainly a spell as the JIC Chairman was good for future progression’. Goodman fails to analyze how qualified Caccia and Hayter were for job he characterizes as something of a stepping-stone, although he inadvertently sheds some light on their relative inexperience by stating that ‘unlike his predecessors, Reilly had already had a varied and in-depth involvement with the intelligence world’.

Goodman’s study is of little use in the context of this analysis. His Index contains no mention of ‘The Hollis Committee’, ‘The London Controlling Station’, let alone ‘Borodin’, ‘defectors’ or even ‘double agents’. He lists an enormous range of sources, but has overlooked Guy Liddell’s diaries, which often breathe some life and gossip into the dry-as-dust formal archives, and even reveal JIC discussions that were ‘off the record’. Goodman describes Hayter as ‘another high flyer’, yet writes nothing about what his contribution to the JIC was, apart from the fact that each Chairman had other responsibilities, such as leading the Permanent Under-Secretary’s Department (PUSD), and thus liaising with MI6, GCHQ and MI5. In his 1974 memoir, A Double Life, Hayter never mentioned the JIC, but did refer obliquely to his role by describing it as head of the ‘Service Liaison Department’, the head of which ‘sat in with the Joint Planners under the Chiefs of Staff, and dealt with all Intelligence questions’. He declared that the appointment took place in August 1946.

Yet, in a revealing aside that shows Hayter’s inexperience, the Chiefs of Staff, with a familiar but deplorable obsession with rank, had complained that Hayter’s position as Counsellor was too junior to collaborate with them. He had already been moved sideways from the Washington Embassy to the less prestigious General Department in the Foreign Office in London, a transfer that Hayter was not happy about. After the Chiefs’ complaint, Hayter wrote that he was given ‘a totally unmerited promotion’, which apparently satisfied the top brass. Hayter also described his disappointing move, at the end of 1949, to become Minister at the Paris Embassy, a transfer he first learned about through ‘rumours’, suggesting that his period with the JIC had not been totally auspicious, and that he was perhaps not yet the lofty flier that Goodman described him as being. Appointing someone with such mediocre credentials to chair such an important body was indeed a strange decision.

William Hayter

Hayter quickly built up a strong relationship with Liddell, however, and he frequently consulted him on topics on which he felt exposed. An analysis of Liddell’s diaries shows some sub-currents not evident from the official records. I intersperse his accounts with excerpts from those JIC minutes and reports.

Guy Liddell’s Accounts

By May 1946, Guy Liddell had built up a strong relationship with Harold Caccia. They used the forum of the JISC to discuss topics of shared interest. On May 30, when they offered each other insights on the vexing matter of Cabinet secrets being leaked to the newspapers, Caccia encouraged Liddell to attend meetings more regularly. He wanted more open discussions, and probably felt a bit intimidated by the Services’ Intelligence Chiefs, who occasionally expressed their resentment that the Committee was being led by a young Foreign Office chap. It was Caccia who wanted a Security Section established in the Foreign Office, and who looked for officers from MI5 and MI6 to help staff it (with Carey-Foster becoming the eventual head). Yet Caccia’s controversial departure (or ouster) receives no mention in Liddell’s diaries, primarily because a large section dated August 2, 1946, significantly headed by ‘JIC today’, has been completely redacted. Liddell must surely have made some comments that were considered disrespectful or confidential by the weeders. The next entry on Caccia, dated October 2, reports solely that MI5’s Ede had been turned down for the FO security job.

Thus Liddell had to build up a new alliance with the incoming William Hayter. He and Sillitoe took Hayter to lunch on January 20, 1947, and it is clear that Liddell was more impressed by Hayter than he was (say) by General Hollis, who comes across as something of a buffoon. The new JISC chairman seems to be sympathetic to MI5’s needs: he is supportive of MI5 representation in SIME (Security Intelligence Middle East), and he is even tougher on the question of Professor Blackett’s reliability. In February 1948, he welcomes MI5’s comments on a JISC paper on Russians penetrating secret establishments. Thus the pair was developing a strong alliance of civilians among the military brass, who continued to show their confusion about some elementary matters.

Hollis’s influence nevertheless increased. During the summer, the replacement of the W Board by the Hollis Committee became official, although at the JIC on June 25 some peculiar views were aired, including this particular statement from the Director of Military Intelligence, who was clearly out of his depth. Liddell reported:

            The DMI raised the question of Russian defectors in the British zones of Germany and Austria. He said that he could get little help out of the Americans, who were passing all the bodies on to the British after a short interrogation. The numbers were increasing and he was anxious to find some way of disposing of the bodies. He could not send them back: firstly, because this would discourage other, and secondly, because after interrogation they would have valuable information to impart to the Russians. The Secretary then handed round a note on the Ministry of Labour scheme for bringing D.P.s into this country. It was suggested that possibly Russian defectors disguised as Czechs or Balts could be included.

Liddell probably attended more JISC meetings than did chairman Hayter, whose memoir shows that he engaged on some hectic overseas travel during his tenure (including a visit to the Macleans in Cairo). Moreover, Hayter’s position became under attack. He received a challenge in October 1947, when Sir Douglas Evill, who had been commissioned to create a report on British Intelligence organizations, tried to have the post of chairman, customarily from the FO, occupied permanently by a Services Director, in rotation. “Evill probably wants the job for himself”, observed Liddell. Hayter remained on the sidelines of the debate, but survived, and Liddell and Hayter continued to have their off-campus discussions about the threat from the Soviet Union, and other matters. Crucially, at this time, what with the disturbances in Palestine, the application of deception measures for circumstances of actual conflict, though not war, gained greater attention. Early in 1948, Hayter and Liddell had their way when Blackett was turned down for the post of head of the Atomic Research Committee, and Hayter must have felt confident enough of his stature to criticize openly Evill’s report as ‘cumbersome’.

It is now that the crucial Borodin business came to the fore. How much did Liddell know about Borodin before the distress call came from Rees on January 19, 1948? The impression he gives is that it was a surprise that Borodin was nosing around Bennett & Shears. Had MI5 not been tracking him since his recent arrival? (He had returned to Moscow from the USA only in December 1947, so he cannot have been in the country long.) Who would have introduced him to the firm? Moreover, Rees, working for MI6 part-time, must surely have informed his bosses of the presence of multiple Russians at the factory, and they must in turn have been keeping Liddell informed. (One of those Russians was surely an MGB man keeping a close eye on Borodin.) The elevated concerns about snooping Russians in sensitive locations had been a pressing issue for months. Why otherwise would Skardon have been sent in in such a fortuitously timely manner? Liddell must surely have known about the visit in advance. To pretend otherwise suggests that Liddell was not in control of his troops.

The matter of official tracking of visits by Russians to factories should have been a pressing one, yet the records are curiously vague. As far back as January 1947 the War Office had proposed to the JISC much tougher restraints on any visitors from ‘Russian [sic] or Russian satellite countries’. Brigadier Hirsch even made the shocking recommendation that ‘prospective visitors should, at the same time as applying for visas, declare the industrial concerns they wished to visit, and the visas should be endorsed with permission for them to do so.’ It would seem an eminently obvious policy to pursue, but, from the minutes, the committee ‘was unable to accept the War Office proposals, for the reasons as stated in the discussion’. Leading those reasons would appear to be the fact that some visitors were in the country already, on two-year missions, and while they could be stopped from seeing work on the ’Secret List’, it ‘would not be possible to prevent them from seeing factories’. This seems a pusillanimous decision, but it may not have been revisited for a long time. Pontifex must surely have been on that ‘Secret List’, however. What was the state of Borodin’s visa, and how had he managed to find his way there a few weeks after his arrival?

Liddell presents the event in terms that suggests that Skardon had arranged a legitimate meeting with ‘a director of the firm’, but had bungled his cover, giving contradictory statements about the identity of his employer. When Liddell investigated, Skardon told him that he had gone to ‘establish whether certain Russians had been to his [the director’s] firm’, which strongly suggests that he had a list of names. Yet Liddell shows no surprise or indignation at this shabby performance, while apparently washing his hands of the actions of what he named this ‘singularly inept’ officer. All the doubts that I articulated earlier re-appear. Did Liddell inquire who had authorized the visit without his approval? Apparently not. And what were those odd statements made by Rees, when he claimed that Blunt wanted to tell him everything about Borodin? Again, it all sounds like a put-up job, where Liddell could pretend that the case of Borodin had suddenly come to his attention by force of circumstance.

Whatever subterfuge may have been going on, Liddell took his opportunity to raise awareness. The JIC meeting on February 4 focused on bacteriological warfare, with much time spent reviewing a paper by the J.S.T.I.C. [Joint Scientific and Technical Intelligence Committee]. When the admission of the insuperable problems of getting information from Russia was noted, Liddell piped up, as his diary entry for the day records:

            I drew attention to the fact that in the paper there was no mention of exploiting sources in this country; for example, if we knew names of firms which supplied plant and materials for our own efforts in this direction, it would be possible to make contact with those firms and ask them to report on any foreign visitors or strange enquiries. Somebody could then ascertain exactly what had passed between the prospective purchase and the member of the firm by whom he was interviewed. By piecing all these together, we might get some good idea as to the scope of Russian activities. This had rather forcibly brought to my notice by the recent case of Borodin, who is ostensibly purchasing penicillin plant.

Kenneth Strong immediately pricked up his ears, as it is of course the kind of thing he ought to be doing. On the other hand, we have a very considerable interest in a man like Borodin. If Borodin is in fact purchasing chemical plant consciously for B.W. purposes, he may also be seeing information about our own efforts, and for all we know he may have got in touch indirectly with someone important. If we could satisfy ourselves about his intentions and knowledge, we might consider him as a potential defector and take steps accordingly. Quite apart from the espionage or defector aspects of the case, it seems to me that we are the only department which can exploit the whole field to the full extent. J.I.B. can talk to the firms, but it may be necessary for us to explore all our resources to discover where Borodin goes and whom he visits. Hayter asked about Borodin’s potentialities as a defector. I said that we were looking into his case, but we were far from being able to say that he was a likely bet. Apart from the many difficulties in making an approach in a case of this sort, it was first of all essential to know whether he had near relatives in Russia.

This is quite an extraordinary declaration. To me, it is again breathtaking that MI5 and its sister bodies maintained no register of firms producing strategic materials, or of those Soviet missions authorized to visit them. The lassitude shown in trying to ascertain what Borodin was up to, and whom he was seeing, is deplorable. It would seem that gathering intelligence from British scientists and businessmen hosting Soviet delegations should have been Job No. 1 from the get-go. Yet the testimony also shows that MI5 had already been investigating the possibility of enticing Borodin to defect (‘we were looking into his case’) – a very risky process. The logic, moreover, is dubious. “If we could satisfy ourselves about his intentions and knowledge, we might consider him as a potential defector and take steps accordingly.” This was a man who had been trawling around the UK and the USA for more than a year, seeking strategic information. What did Liddell think his objectives were?  Nevertheless, if his intentions were deadly serious, he would be a highly unlikely defector, and to approach him on that basis with some lure that might tempt him to change sides, had enormous drawbacks, not merely on the charge of enticement that the Soviets would challenge them with, but because Borodin would immediately inform his masters of such approaches. Indeed, if he hesitated to do so, he would be exposing himself unmercifully.

And what would MI5 do with Borodin if he did agree to defect? How would MI5 determine what his ‘knowledge’ was before any defection? Pick his brains, and find out that, as was suspected, the Soviet Union was well behind western progress? They knew that already, because Borodin had been frustrated in America, and had just renewed his exploits in the UK attempting to acquire plant. Borodin would be useless in espionage, because the defection, even if revoked, as in the case of Tassoev, would make Borodin a worthless asset. There is no suggestion here of using Borodin, as a defector, to plant disinformation on the Soviets. Yet the JIC, Strong and Hayter especially, immediately become excited about his idea. There must have been more to this. Maybe Borodin had already made an approach – possibly as a dangle by the Soviet Embassy – but the value of Borodin as defector remained highly questionable. On March 5, Liddell made a significant entry in his diary: “Borodin may have to become an exception to policies on Soviet citizens”.

The project had impetus now. Two weeks later, on February 18, at another JIC meeting, Liddell took advantage of a lull, when the Service Directors of Intelligence were with the Chiefs of Staff, to engage with Strong, and Lamb of the J.S.T.I.C. From his diary again:

            I had a long talk with Strong and Lamb of the J.S.T.I.C. about the implications of the BORODIN case and the extent to which I thought we ought to be able to resist J.I.B. in the future. Kenneth Strong agreed with all my suggestions: he thought that overt intelligence and SIGINT could supply between 80 to 90% of what was required, and evidently felt that, except for a limited field, S.I.S. was waste of time and money.

It is not clear why information from a defector should be regarded as ‘overt intelligence’ (early OSINT?), or why the JIB would be wary about gaining intelligence from those in contact with visiting Soviet scientists, but the message is clear. A small cabal could work under the covers to resist [sic] the JIB, and in defiance of MI6, and get most of the job done. Liddell’s idea gained its own momentum and recognition. A JIC report of March 3 titled ‘Intelligence on Biological Warfare’ singled out the exclusive reliance on defectors to fill the information gap, concluding (in language that should have been returned to its writer for tightening up):

            There can be no reasonable expectation at present of obtaining high-grade or detailed intelligence about Russian B.W. development. Failing the good fortune of contacting a well-informed defector, such high-grade intelligence must depend on building up a sufficient background of general knowledge to permit a more effective attack to be made on Russian B. W. development in its various stages.

Defectors only? Why no mention of intelligence-gathering through UK contacts?

Paul Fildes

An important counter-current had meanwhile started. At a meeting of the B.W. Committee on February 26, Professor Fildes had stressed that, if the Russians tried to cultivate B.W. agents with a penicillin plant, they would probably not survive the exercise. He was challenged by Professor Wills, who stated that the current acquisition of know-how might give them clues as to how to circumvent the dangers. (On March 11, Liddell passed on this ambivalent conclusion to Rees and Blunt –  with Blunt’s presence on the scene a matter of continual alarm to this chronicler.) Despite Fildes’s insights – which might have prompted the planners to become relaxed about the Soviets’ gaining know-how – the JIC overall started tightening up. At its meeting on February 27, it noted several facts, including the following: i) negotiations between the Soviets and Glaxo were at an advanced state; ii) Borodin had not been successful in the USA (implying that his re-appearance in the UK should be regarded with caution); and iii) it was a fortuitous consultation between Borodin and the Ambassador that led to inquiries (a highly enigmatic observation that suggests that Borodin had been under close surveillance). Liddell pointed out that Borodin was not a member of a Trade Delegation, implying perhaps that he had wheedled his way into one under MGB auspices. Hayter reminded the group that much closer contact with native penicillin firms was needed. The upshot was that the JIC made the dramatic resolution to ask Glaxo to postpone its contract with the Soviets.

These demands intensified a couple of weeks later, at the March 5 meeting of the JIC. The historians had evidently been digging around. The minutes record that it was known that Borodin had been requesting information on penicillin in 1944, and had been refused. While UNNRA (the United Nations Relief and Rehabilitation Administration) had supplied deep culture plant to Poland, Czechoslovakia, the Ukraine and Italy in 1947, it must have been of lower quality, since that is exactly what the Soviets were now seeking in the UK, and were in contact with three firms, Distillers, Glaxo, and Bennett & Shears. Negotiations with Glaxo were far-advanced: Glaxo was demanding a very high price, but the Soviets had accepted it. In some alarm, the JIC expressed a strong desire that the Ministry of Supply and the Ministry of Health should suspend negotiations immediately. It also requested the Chiefs of Staff to ascertain whether the USA had already agreed to issue export licences, since, if it had, it would make any British moves seem mean-spirited and nugatory.

The Defection

Considering how urgently the JIC had deemed suspension of negotiations between Glaxo and the Soviet delegation, the hiatus in the spring of 1948 remains very puzzling. It was probably due mainly to the fact that the temperature of the Americans was sought on two important matters, the British not wanting to fall out of line. Both Menzies (on January 26) and Liddell (on February 3) had urged greater co-operation on deception issues, with Liddell especially reminding the JIC that the rules of the game were very different from those that pertained in World War II, and that the Americans needed to be tutored. And learning the status of the Americans’ position on export licenses for penicillin plant was equally important. Thus, early in April, General Hollis left for the USA with his accomplice Drew, in order to ascertain the preparedness of the Americans to join the British plans. While answers were awaited from the USA, the Ministry of Supply was not deterred. While it appeared that the JIC had by March 18 received confirmation of the suspension, the Committee reported on April 1 that the Ministry of Supply wanted to go ahead with the sale on commercial grounds.

Yet that might not have been enough. At the JISC Deputies’ meeting on April 1, the sale of penicillin plant had received detailed discussion. Reservations were expressed by several members that, even if it were a delayed fuse, potential know-how on the use gained from penicillin equipment to create bacteriological warfare agents should not be taken lightly. C. H. Johnstone of the Foreign Office (deputizing for Hayter) said that the Russians should not be given the benefit of the doubt. Yet the decision was at the mercy of what the Americans would do. Brigadier Allen (deputizing for Liddell) suggested that the Joint Services Mission in Washington should be contacted to determine whether any refusal that the Americans might give to the Russian request was based on security or commercial objections.

Liddell echoed this more cautious mood suggested. On April 9, 1948, he recorded in his diary:

            At the J.I.C. today we discussed L.C.S. deception proposals. There was one suggestion that we should intimate to the Russians that we intended to use the A.B. [Atom Bomb] at the outset of any conflict. I said that this seemed to be out of tune with other J.I.C. papers which made it clear that as a matter of policy no decision had been reached. If we intimated to the Russians that we were going to initiate the use of the A.B. we might be encouraging them to do the same, even though our bombs may be more numerous, better and bigger. I also said that the build up of an order of battle in the present circumstances was very different from building up an order of battle for the German during the last war when security was as tight as it could be made and this country was cleaned of enemy agents. This was far from the case now, since the whole of the Communist Party was working against us.

Meanwhile, the London Controlling Station had been reviewing its role, especially in the matter of creating ‘chicken food’, a vital component of any package of disinformation being passed to the enemy. On March 5, a long discussion took place, including another bureaucratic complication, the possible disbanding of the I.C.I.C., the Inter-Services Co-Ordinating Intelligence Committee, another shadow group that had apparently been responsible for chicken-food production up till then. This was the meeting where Hayter drew attention to possible overlap between the Special Operations Executive and the LCS, and Menzies notoriously reinforced Hayter’s misunderstanding. He specifically appealed for close co-operation between MI6 and MI5 with SOE, seemingly unaware that the latter unit had been disbanded two years earlier, and that its rump now resided in his own domain. The whole deception engine was drifting into peace-time turf battles, and the ‘resolutions’ recorded by the committee reflected that passivity.

By the time of the May 11 LCS meeting, Hollis had returned from the United States, reporting, with some dismay, that his visit had been largely a waste of time. The Americans were unprepared and disorganized, and, while they expressed interest in what the British were doing, and wanted to co-operate, no useful lines of communication were available. Yet the LCS judged that long-term deception planning had to be co-ordinated with the United States, as well as better integrated with other British propaganda units, thus prompting further delays. A fresh appraisal was offered in a May 18 document titled ‘Outline Deception Plan’, in which a new aim of deception was presented with loftier and more indeterminate goals than objectives surrounding biological warfare: “To deter the Russians from increasing the are under their domination by exaggerating our power to make war.” ‘Hindering Russian research and development of new weapons by misleading them technically’ was now only ‘under consideration’. Was the heat off the penicillin fervour? A new scientific committee was set up on June 18.

According to Anthony Blunt, Borodin had originally announced his intention to defect on May 21. It took him another three months (August 20) to describe his defection plan, and then execute it on August 28. That is an uncommonly long period to be in a state of suspension, and suggests that he had some business to organize before he took the plunge. And an ‘intention’? That sounds more like an agreement to accept an invitation, which would tend to reinforce the idea that Hayter and Liddell had made approaches to him before that time. For information during this period, we are largely reliant on Liddell. As the excerpt that I reproduced before, from June 30, shows, Borodin was apparently distraught by then. His bosses must have guessed something was up, and were applying pressure of some kind, even ready to inform the British that he had been misappropriating funds – a common gambit after a defector has made his move, in an attempt to have him returned. Yet they were allowing him to roam free. What kind of a game was that?

Howard Florey

On July 2 the incident with Florey at Oxford occurred. I reproduce the text from my first report:

            Dick tells me that xxxxxxx has turned up at Florey’s at Oxford and has asked him for his assistance. John Marriott is to go down to Oxford to see Florey.

Matters appeared calm, with no obvious distress on Borodin’s part. At the end of that day, Liddell updated his story as follows:

            John Marriott has arrived back from Oxford. Everything has gone extremely well. xxxxxx is not in the least apprehensive. He has thought out everything very carefully. He does not think that his return to Russia will [sic!] have any effect on the fate of his family either one way or the other, but is certain that he himself will be liquidated. He intends to remain in his department and clear up all his affairs so that there can be no accusation of misappropriation of funds. He says that nobody here can question his visits anywhere as he is master in his own house and would not brook interference from anyone except the Ambassador. He has a great deal to tell us and is willing to co-operate to the full.

This is a rapid turn-round in temperament. It sounds as if the Soviets were getting impatient about Borodin’s ability to deliver the goods, but that a visit to Florey may have allowed him to come out golden, and at least save his skin in the short term. In her monograph on Borodin, Shertseva states that, by July 20, Borodin had agreed with Chain for the provision of penicillin equipment to the Soviet Union. (Were Chain and Florey, joint Nobel-prize winners, in this together, and taking their cut?) Mauro Capucci wrote that Chain provided the Russians with a 100-page report on making penicillin in late summer of 1948. Borodin apparently faced the prospect of his return to Russia with equanimity: defection was no longer on his mind.

Was it all pointless? On August 6, the Director of Military Intelligence reported to the JIC that the Ministry of Supply had issued to Glaxo a license to sell penicillin plant to the Soviet Union. That decision was probably prompted by a resolution across the Atlantic. The JIC was surely not happy to learn that Washington had lifted its embargo on the export of penicillin plant, and made a strong formal protest via its local representative on August 19.When he was informed about this decision is not clear, but the Soviet Ambassador (who makes cameo appearances in this saga) cannot have been happy when he had to explain to his bosses that they had just paid a large sum privately to acquire this technology, and were now going to have to address an issue they had been pursuing for months with the British government without losing face or provoking suspicion. Had Hayter and Liddell been playing them along? In any event, Borodin probably came under fire again (he may well have taken his payment on the side), and renewed his defection efforts, with the event taking place on August 28, the day after he claimed he wrote those self-incriminating letters to the Embassy.

There are no entries in Liddell’s diary between July 30 and September 23 – an unaccountable gap. Controversy must have been so intense that the weeders decided to redact the whole section. Yet a record of the defection does exist. The minutes of the JIC meeting on September 3 report that Dick White (deputizing for Percy Sillitoe) ‘informed the Committee of the details regarding a foreign national who had recently defected’. The consequent action was that ‘the Committee nominated the Joint Scientific and Joint Technical Intelligence Committees as the Department most concerned and invited the Joint Intelligence Bureau to be closely concerned with them in any interrogations from the outset’. What can we tell from this? It is an unusual appearance by White at this forum, but it would appear to show that he was completely indoctrinated in the events, and that he was regarded by Sillitoe and Liddell as a safe pair of hands to carry the message. But what was the message? Did he couch the details of the ‘defection’ in more subtle terms? Was he even sent on purpose to give a sanitized account of the event? It sounds as if the JIC took his evidence at its face value, and immediately initiated the appropriate steps to extract knowledge from Borodin. The problem is that we can never be sure whether the minutes reflected reality, or were recorded as a way of deflecting attention.

The Aftermath

What I have outlined above is a speculative stab that attempts to explain much of the mystery. Many aspects remain problematical. It is difficult to understand why Hayter and Liddell would have been so intent on encouraging Borodin to defect, a move that made no sense from a deception standpoint, and was a very clumsy way of verifying the poverty of the Soviets’ progress in bacteriological warfare. Liddell’s involvement of Blunt – and, vicariously, Burgess – defies belief, since they could have contributed nothing to the exercise, but it may have encouraged by Rees’s association with Burgess. Both Blunt and Burgess would have informed their local controllers of the Liddell scheme. The Soviets’ continued puppetry with Borodin suggests that they still pinned their hopes of acquiring penicillin plant on him and his contacts. The final days before the defection remain murky.

Why Burgess went to visit Philby in Turkey just before the defection is also puzzling. Burgess could not easily afford the expense. Blunt claimed that the Soviets were behind it; Milne asserted that he went on regular Foreign Office business. Neither account makes much sense. The MGB’s drawing of obvious attention to a possible relationship between two agents at such a sensitive time would have been reckless – and unnecessary. If a message needed to be relayed to Phiby, Burgess could have passed it via his controller. Likewise, the chance that any formal Foreign Office business needed to be conducted between Burgess and Philby is slight. Purvis and Hulbert suggest that Burgess may have been sent abroad to help promote the cause of Christopher Mayhew’s Information Resource Department (where Burgess was probably employed at the time), but that scarcely justified a month’s stay in Ankara of all places, where Philby was working. If Liddell considered Blunt and Burgess as loyal allies at the time, perhaps he also wanted to engage Philby? Another explanation might be that it was connected in some way with Tokaev.

Borodin’s re-appearance in Oxford in August 1949 is also very enigmatic. Yet a very strange incident had occurred in March of that year, as Rees’s PF shows (KV 2/4603, sn. 3b, March 7, 1949). It would appear to confirm part of Robertson’s story, but also to offer a contradiction to it. Rees had asked Liddell to meet him at his club, and told him then that Bennett & Shears were negotiating with Asprey, chemical engineers, as well as with Dr. Chain, in an operation to sell penicillin plant to India. They were keen to gain the services of JULEP (i.e. Borodin) as a technical adviser, obliquely suggesting that they did not trust Chain (who was demanding huge sums), and the fact that Borodin might be residing in the USA or Canada did not concern them. The comes a shocking, unannotated statement:

            BENNETT and SHEARS have had no contact with JULEP since his defection. He telephoned them the night before to say that he was going back to Russia. If the approach is to be made, therefore, some explanation will have to be given.

Liddell then lays out a cooked-up scheme that would involve Borodin’s looking for work before he could be relocated to Canada, and suggests that they pretend that the Board of Trade had been consulted, and had thereupon recommended that Borodin be interviewed by Bennett and Shears. Yet Liddell remains passionless over the whole defection story, and unimpressed and unconcerned about Borodin’s planned return to Russia! But to whom would an ‘explanation’ be necessary? Would the engagement with the firm have required Borodin’s return to be cancelled? Why would Bennett & Shears suddenly (coincidentally the day after Borodin called them out of the blue) decide that they wanted to engage him if he were about to leave the country for good? Did a recall by the Embassy prompt Borodin’s contact with the firm? Was he under threat? How, if Borodin had truly defected, and been under interrogation by government units, would the Soviet Trade delegation have tolerated his absence for so long? It is almost as if MI5 and the MGB were in collusion over the defector’s status. And again, since Borodin had learned all his skills in the UK, was there really no one else (besides Chain) who had developed the know-how about constructing penicillin plant?

Liddell’s officer John Marriott (B2a) did not think much of this idea: it sounded like ‘something for nothing’, and he was not keen on JULEP’s new identity being blown before he had even assumed it. (This is nine months after the ‘defection’, remember.) A week later, Liddell offers the consoling news. He has spoken to David Footman, who agrees with the scheme – and incidentally points out that Rees is being paid by MI6 for his part-time employment alongside Henry York (aka Green). Liddell then makes the astonishing admission:

            He [Footman] says that it would be in YORK’s interest to treat the whole matter with the utmost discretion since if it became known that he was employing JULEP, the Trade Delegation would decline to do any further business with him.

There it stands. But is ‘him’ Borodin or York? And how does Footman know what the thoughts of the Trade Delegation are? And the Soviet Trade Delegation knows about Borodin, but would withdraw from the urgent need to acquire plant if its familiarity with him were exposed? It would indeed appear that there had been some sort of deal between the Delegation and MI6. And MI5 appears to know all about it.

I do not know what to make of this. My attempt at a logical explanation runs as follows:

  1. Borodin must have been productively employed somewhere between August 1948 and March 1949, even though he was reported to be secreted at Barrow Elm, near Cirencester.
  2. The Soviet Embassy would not have condoned Borodin’s continued presence in the UK unless he had been providing it with useful information.
  3. Borodin must have been in touch with the Trade Delegation in Highgate, in order to keep it informed, and to receive the news about his planned recall. (And, no, their intermediary could not have been Roger Hollis, as he was in Australia for most of the first half of 1948.)
  4. Borodin’s call to Bennett & Shears should be interpreted as a call for help, which must raise questions about Liddell’s intentions for his ward. Borodin was afraid that if he told Liddell about the Embassy’s plans for him, the secret would not stay with him.
  5. The Embassy could not admit to knowledge of a defection, and then not protest about it, without drawing attention to its exceptionally indulgent behaviour.
  6. Borodin may have made a statement of new allegiance to MI5 in August 1948, but had not formally defected at that time.
  7. MI5 and the Foreign Office were using Borodin as a source of disinformation (or dangerous information) as part of their deception scheme on bacteriological warfare.
  8. That project had come to the end of its useful life, and the Soviets thus resolved to recall Borodin.
  9. If the defection did occur, it happened in March 1949, not August 1948. White’s testimony to the JIC in September 1948 was distorted in the minutes.

But what I do not understand is why the British authorities did not simply initiate the original part of the plan, as described by Footman, namely give Borodin his formal new identity and relocate him to the USA or Canada before the Soviet Embassy got wise to what was happening. Even if Rees and York reacted positively to Borodin’s circumstantially timely approach, why did Liddell encourage it, knowing the complications?

In any event, Borodin was not transported overseas or placed into permanent hibernation, but was still around several months later. What was the objective in putting him on show in Oxford – to prove the success of a defection ploy? Obviously, the initial plan for whisking him out of the country to Canada had been cancelled, and the Foreign Office and MI5 thought it safe to wheel him out. And why the barracking he received from Rees, Burgess and Footman? It would have been highly inflammatory for the trio to attack him on the grounds that he had been a traitor: perhaps they were scorning him for lining his own pockets when pretending to serve a more noble cause. In any event, if the Soviets were still looking for their man with a vengeance, he was handed to them on a plate. (A paper published by Kevin Riehle in December 2024 suggests that in the 1970s, when Borodin was reputedly still alive, the Soviet authorities eventually tired of trying to track him down, as they had more important prey to pursue.) Maybe only the release of the Borodin PF will address this mystery. It is hard to understand what security exposures there might be in declassifying the files on a Soviet defector seventy-six years after the last time he was recorded as having been seen on this earth.

After August, deception efforts regarding bacteriological warfare went off the boil. On July 28, the JISC Deputies’ meeting suggested that the Russian might have offensive intentions using biological and chemical weapons against satellite countries – quite an alarming switch in intelligence. Another meeting, on August 19 (at which Allen again deputized for the absent Liddell), recorded that that an export license for the sale of penicillin plant was not required, as that type of plant was not included in the Export of Goods (Control) Order. Yet an unnamed ‘British firm in London’, which had received an order from the Russians for penicillin extractor plant had to acquire that equipment from the USA. All a bureaucratic muddle, it seems: had York and Rees been deceptive in their representations to the Soviets? In any event, Major-General Packard, the DMI, objected to the sudden change of policy.

The Berlin blockade (which had started in June) switched attention to more conventional shows of strength. Hayter had paused to reflect on what Soviet capabilities in deception might be. That reaction may have been in response to press reports of their detonation of an atomic bomb – actually a year before the real event happened. In a very casual aside, which should perhaps have been taken more seriously, he noted that ‘the Russians may learn, through their informants in contact with defence circles in Western Union countries, that we do not expect Russia to be ready for a planned war before the middle of 1950s  . . .’. The Ministry of Defence produced a paper showing how Britain had shared deception secrets with the Soviets during the war. The emphasis shifted to the atomic bomb, and the recognition that any efforts had to be tightly integrated with American work. Colonel Wild and J. A. Drew returned from the USA in early August, however, dismayed at the state of deception planning and discouraged by the obduracy of the CIA’s Hillenkoetter.

The last piece of the puzzle is Kim Philby. It is beyond the scope of this report to re-examine the case made by S. J. Hamrick, in Deceiving the Deceivers, that Philby was used as a disinformation agent in 1949 in an attempt to deceive the Soviets about the weaponry of the United States. I wrote about Hamrick’s theories in June 2019, at https://coldspur.com/dick-whites-devilish-plot/, and have no solid reason for changing my opinion on what he wrote, still regarding it primarily as fantasy. Yet my recent exposure to Liddell’s shenanigans with Blunt, Burgess and Rees suggests that I should perhaps go back to what Hamrick laid out, and try to pick apart what his slender sources were.

I know that my conclusions are tentative, and unsatisfactory, but I hope my laying all this out will help to unearth obscure records or memoirs that will shed further light on this mystery. After all, there must be a plotline that at the time made sense to Borodin, to MI5, to the JIC, to the MGB and the Trade Delegation, and to Bennett & Shears!

Sources (additive to those given in https://coldspur.com/biological-espionage-the-hidden-dimension/):

The Official History of the Joint Intelligence Committee: Volume 1, by Michael S. Goodman (Routledge)

A Double Life, by Sir William Hayter (Hamish Hamilton)

Deceiving the Deceivers, by S. J. Hamrick (Yale University Press)

Kim Philby by Tim Milne (Biteback)

Changing Direction: British Military Planning for Post-war Strategic Defence 1942-47, by Julian Lewis (Cass)

British Intelligence, Strategy and the Cold War, 1945-51, edited by Richard J. Aldrich (Routledge)

The Hidden Hand, by Richard J. Aldrich (Overlook Press)

Espionage, Security and Intelligence in Britain 1945-1970 [Documents in Contemporary History], by Richard J. Aldrich (Manchester University Press)

SIS, Grigor Tokaev, and the London Controlling Section: New perspectives on a Cold War defector and Cold War deception, by H. Dylan, in War in History 26(4) (2019)

Super-weapons and Subversion: British Deterrence by Deception Operations in the Early Cold War, by H. Dylan, in Journal of Strategic Studies 38(5) (2105)

The ‘KGB Wanted List’ and the Evolving Soviet Pursuit of Defectors, by Kevin Riehle, in Journal of Cold War Studies, Volume 26, No. 3, Summer 2024)

From the National Archives:

DEFE 28/75-77, 118

CAB 81/80

CAB 121/110

CAB 301/15

CAB 158/1-4, 7

CAB 159/1-4

FO 1093/380

WO 188/663

KV 2/4603-4608 (Rees)

KV 2/4708-4709 (Blunt)

KV 2/4107 & 4115 (Burgess)

KV 4/467-470 (Liddell Diaries, 1946-1949)

(Recent Commonplace entries appear here.)

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Roger Hollis in WWII

‘The Truth About Hollis ‘ – or Maybe Not?

Introduction

This bulletin, the first of two, or possibly three, dedicated to Roger Hollis, started out as a ‘B’-class (‘Businesslike’) report, but soon developed ‘A’-class (Advanced’) tendencies. I discovered a wealth of intriguing new facts concerning Jane Archer and the organization of MI5 at the time war broke out, facts that have been in the public domain for over two decades, but which have apparently been overlooked. I have thus included a deeper analysis of the phenomenon, since it reflects sharply on the role of Hollis. I have overall sacrificed digestibility in the cause of compendiousness, as I believe that it is important that a full story as possible concerning Hollis is recorded.

I have set out to describe Hollis’s responsibilities and achievements during the war, first covering his time within MI5’s B Division until the re-organisation of June 1941, and then his work thereafter in the new F Division until the summer of 1945. In November of 1941 Hollis replaced John Curry as head of F Division, and he led the group for the remainder of World War II. I do not believe that a proper account of Hollis’s role has been written anywhere, and, in that absence, Chapman Pincher’s distorted story has lain as the default, and has probably influenced public opinion in a notorious fashion. In his authorized history of MI5, Christopher Andrew wrote a few paragraphs about Hollis’s contribution, but hardly did justice to the complexity of Hollis’s charter, or his activities. I exploit accounts from various sources: this is not an integrated profile of the MI5 officer, but the process does enable the formulation of some patterns of behaviour and policy.

Confirmed Pincherites should read the whole article: others may wish to jump to the Conclusions and then decide whether they want to study the supporting material.

Contents:

Chapman Pincher’s Mythology

What the Histories Say:

            ‘Defend the Realm’

            John Curry’s ‘Official History’ of the Security Service

            F Division Reports (KV 4/54-58)

Nigel West’s ‘MI5’

Other Sources

Guy Liddell’s Diaries

Other Archival Sources

            David Springhall

            The Communist Clamp-Down

            Engelbert Broda

            George Whomack

            Claud Cockburn and ‘The Week’

Conclusions

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Chapman Pincher’s Mythology

I use as a springboard for my analysis Chapman Pincher’s revised version of Treachery (2012), in order to record and comment on his representation of Hollis’s role and actions, since it has received an unprecedented and unjustified degree of respect in pseudo-academic circles. For example, in the infamous 2015 Institute of World Politics investigation into Hollis, chaired by the FBI’s Ray Blatvinis (see https://fbistudies.com/2015/04/27/was-roger-hollis-a-british-patriot-or-soviet-spy/), the Australian Dr. Paul Monk was introduced in the following terms: “Over the past two years or so he has carefully extracted all the salient facts about Hollis from two major sources. The first is Treachery, a monumental examination of the Hollis case written by the late British journalist Harry Chapman-Pincher [sic]. The other is Defend the Realm authored by Dr. Christopher Andrew, Chairman of the Department of History at Cambridge University and the Official Historian of the BSS.” The consideration that the largely spurious account by Pincher unerringly contained ‘salient facts’ represented such a gross error of judgment that it undermined the whole proceedings. I thus outline here the primary anecdotes that Pincher relates concerning Hollis, as well as the broad allegations against him, annotating them with facts and statements from other sources to highlight the discrepancies.

‘Treachery’
  1. Hollis’s Induction

Pincher correctly uses much ink in describing Hollis’s rather unusual path into MI5 – the abandoned degree course at Oxford, his seeking his fortune as a journalist in China and his subsequent employment in that country by British American Tobacco, his passage through the Soviet Union on leave in 1934, his eventual return to the UK because of tuberculosis, a period of unemployment before joining BAT again, his marriage to Eve Swayne and an enigmatic visit to France at the end of 1937, a stimulating lecture he gave to the Royal Central Asian Society, and a possible introduction to MI5 by Major Meldrum.

The problem is that Pincher’s account is riddled with so much speculation – in China he was friendly with Arthur Ewert, Agnes Smedley and (possibly) Ursula Hamburger (Agent Sonia) and Richard Sorge, and was thus, in Pincher’s mind, recruited into the GRU network. Every time that Hollis is associated with a communist or left-winger, such as in his friendship with Claud Cockburn, that fact confirms for Pincher Hollis’s true affiliations. Each time Hollis disparages communism (such as in his criticism of the state of Moscow), or shows patriotic loyalties (in letters home), that phenomenon is judged as part of his disguise. Pincher has made his mind up that Hollis was recruited, either in Oxford, or in China, or in Paris, to the Comintern cause, and thus began his long career as ‘ELLI’.

There seems to be some confusion as to exactly when Hollis was recruited by MI5, and for how long he was on probation. The tennis-match at Ealing, arranged by Jane (Kathleen) Sissmore, did probably occur in August 1937, and Hollis was asked to submit his qualifications as a potential MI5 officer. Dick White told Pincher that Hollis ‘did not volunteer any special knowledge of international communism at any stage of his recruitment’. Pincher characteristically remarks: “Perhaps wishing to conceal his past association with notorious people like Ewert and Smedley, and possibly Sonia, he remained silent, as he certainly did about his connection with active British communists such as Cockburn.” On the other hand, White and Sissmore might have been impressed by Hollis’s ability to ingratiate himself with such persons without betraying his true allegiances. In any event, Peter Wright told Pincher that Hollis was rejected, first by MI5, and then by MI6, before Jane Sissmore convinced MI5’s director-general, Vernon Kell, to accept him. It is difficult to verify that account, yet Sissmore definitely took Hollis under her wing when he became a regular employee of MI5 in the summer of 1938. A 1938 organizational report has Sissmore listed as B4a, with Hollis, somewhat surprisingly, already given the same designation.

  1. Hollis in B4

Despite his less than auspicious background, Pincher has Hollis becoming, in 1940, ‘the driving force in his speciality, quickly being recognized as MI5’s expert on communism and the prime understudy to Jane Sissmore in that respect’ (p 71). Somehow, ‘driving force’ and ‘Roger Hollis’ do not sit well in the same sentence: Pincher appears to contradict himself by going on to write how dull and reserved Hollis was viewed by his colleagues at this time. In addition, Hollis had been with the service for only two years, and Pincher openly recognizes Sissmore (in fact now Jane Archer) as the premier expert on Communism, while understating the knowledge of Dick White and Guy Liddell in that sphere. John Curry specifically named Jasper Harker and Liddell as the experts. Yet an organizational listing, from December 1939 (viewable at KV 4/127), lists Hollis as the sole officer in charge of B4a, with the Misses Cotton, Creedy, Ogilvie and Wilson working for him. What happened to Jane Archer?

Kathleen (aka ‘Jane’) Archer, nee Sissmore

That KV 4/127 file reveals another startling fact. By December 1939, Jane Archer appears (assisted by Miss McNalty and Miss Small) as the officer in charge of a mysterious unit B14, an entity which I cannot find mentioned in any of the histories. Indeed, the first Krivitsky file (KV 2/802) shows her signing herself as B14 as early as September 1939, in a memorandum to Jasper Harker and Gladwyn Jebb. Thus she had been transferred from her B4a post well before the Krivitsky interrogations in January 1940 – probably in preparation for his arrival, so that she might work on the project investigating Soviet espionage. John Curry mentions this scheme in his history, without ever identifying B14. Strangely, Liddell makes no mention of the creation of B14 in his diaries, although an entry for October 13, 1939, records a discussion he had with Archer after she had visited Percy Glading in prison. On November 16, he writes, rather clumsily, that ‘Jane has got a new man at the Russian trade Delegation that she would like to get at’. That gentleman may have been A. A. Dostschenko, who, as Jane reported on November 24, was found distributing a questionnaire to an informant. Yet, in a note soon after, on November 29, Liddell would appear to be instructing Jane to step into what was domestic territory, namely the investigation of ‘applications for employment in restricted occupations from the Reading area’ – the notorious ‘Russo-German case of F. R. Brown’, who may or may not have been the future England cricket captain of that name. Liddell had also been watching carefully the developments in the Krivitsky case, and shows that he discussed his interview with him with Jane on January 30, 1940. Yet he does not describe her intense involvement, or what the charter of B14 was.

All this would strongly indicate that Archer had a far more serious mission in covering the risks of Soviet penetration than did Hollis, who, with only a year’s experience in MI5, was left in charge of less dramatic domestic issues, such as inspecting Brian Simon’s passport papers, or (after the war started) handling policy on the export of newspapers. Moreover, in December 1939, Hollis was in charge of B4a only – not of B4b, which was led by the more serious student of Soviet intrigues, Milicent Bagot. For example, Guy Liddell’s diary entry for September 17, 1939, shows that B4b (not B4a) was responsible for assessing how many Soviet citizens might have to be interned. An entry for October 9 shows that B4b was likewise charged with investigating the Czech communists in residence. (Extraordinarily, at the end of 1939, all the officers in the numerous B units – up to B18, with Curry as B15 –  seem to have reported directly to Liddell: there was no intermediate head of any entity named ‘B’. Dick White was merely the leader of a two-person band in B2!) Hollis was thus never ‘the prime understudy’ to Sissmore (actually ‘Archer’) in 1940, because they did not work together after September 1939.

Yet Jane Archer, shortly after completing her report on the Krivitsky interrogations, was mysteriously moved over to managing the Regional Security Liaison Officers (RSLO) in the summer of 1940. Hollis, the only officer in B4a, thus did not take over her job at this time: what happened to the B14 operation is not clear, but the dissolution of Archer’s work has very ominous overtones. Neither Curry, nor West, nor Andrew ever acknowledges the creation or dissolution of B14. (Andrew’s first mention of B4 after the 1930s, even, is of its surveillance teams trailing Fuchs in 1949!) One might expect Andrew and West to have overlooked B14, given the lack of archival material, but Curry was there at the time, and he had a professional interest in its activities! Why the coyness? The fact that the existence of a unit that was specially set up to investigate the intelligence from Krivitsky has been suppressed and excised from the authorized history of MI5 is damning. White probably subsumed B14’s role into his own department after the reorganization (an idea that I shall investigate below), but the archival record is woefully bare.

Pincher is thus completely misguided about Hollis’s true role, but he sets about his assault anyway. In a passage that is characteristically vague about dates he accuses Hollis at this time of being responsible for failing to give rigorous advice to the Security Executive about the probably seditious publications of his communist friend Claud Cockburn. Pincher writes: “The Security Executive had repeatedly asked MI5 for the necessary evidence for a prosecution, but Hollis had insisted that he could not provide any that would stand up in court. This may have been true, but it had also been against his interests that his past association with such a notorious Communist activist might become known. Eventually the war cabinet decided to suppress both The Week and The Daily Worker, with or without evidence, and the file on the event shows that Hollis was definitely the MI5 officer required to deal with the case.”

This account is a distortion of what happened, suggesting that Hollis was an influential advocate, acting alone. While the fresh interest in Cockburn started well before Hollis had been given sole control of B4a, in early 1940 several senior MI5 officers weighed in with their views on Cockburn and The Week. (Since the writer W.J. West expands on this story with archival references, I shall explore the events surrounding Cockburn later in this piece.) Hollis admittedly may have mis-stepped in his handling of Cockburn, and in his negligence over George Whomack, but Pincher attributes this behaviour to the obstructionist actions of a penetration agent rather than the inexperience of someone feeling his way. In any event, Pincher asserts that Archer’s eventual sacking for impertinence, in November 1940, immediately elevated Hollis as the ‘acknowledged expert on communism and Soviet affairs’ (p 99). Where he acquired this expertise throughout 1940, and who acknowledged him in this role, are not explained by Pincher, who has failed to recognize the organizational realities of that year, and has given a totally erroneous picture of MI5’s set-up.

iii)       Hollis in F Division

Pincher then grossly misrepresents the re-organization initiated by David Petrie in June 1941, when a new Division F was established under John Curry, responsible for ‘Subversive Activities’, namely domestic challenges to the system from disaffected groups. Hollis was an assistant-director under Curry, responsible for a small team (F2) covering ‘Communism and Left-Wing Movements’, which in turn had one officer tracking ‘Policy Activities of C.P.G.B. in UK’ (Clarke, F2a), ‘Comintern Activities generally, Communist Refugees’ (F2b, immediately  filled by the capable person of Milicent Bagot), and ‘Russian Intelligence’ (Pilkington, F2c). Pincher was excited by Curry’s careless and imprecise statement in his official history that F2c was responsible for ‘Soviet Espionage’. While Curry pointed out the successes in the cases of Oliver Green, David Springhall, and Desmond Uren, Hollis was never charged with assuming Archer’s responsibilities, namely a serious re-assessment of the possible implications of the Krivitsky revelations, the structure and polices of the NKVD and GRU, and the whole phenomenon of deep penetration agents.

Pincher then writes that ‘the deference quickly paid to Hollis as the Soviet expert greatly increased his influence’, although he never describes how Hollis showed his expertise, nor does he identify who the subjects paying deference were. He notes that, when Hollis replaced Curry as head of F Division in October 1941, his access and authority were increased still further. Pincher states that Hollis then brought in his ‘Oxford University drinking companion’, Roger Fulford to help him. Yet Curry’s organization chart for July 1941 shows that Fulford was already responsible for F4, covering Pacifist movements such as the Peace Pledge Union, and thus reporting to Curry, not Hollis. By 1943 Fulford has moved on. Pincher then criticizes Hollis for failing to monitor properly, or restrain, the more than a dozen KGB (actually NKGB) and GRU officers active in London at the time, although how he was supposed to do that with a combined team of probably only three officers and other personnel in F2 in 1941 is not clear. Pincher claims that Kemball Johnston was hired at this time, but the April 1943 chart shows a weakened F2 organization with Clarke still covering F2a, and Shillito now responsible for both F2b and F2c.

That MI5 leaders were not seriously trying to bolster a force against Soviet espionage through F Division was reinforced by a written statement that Dick White made to Pincher in 1983, namely that ‘Hollis and F Division had never been responsible for Russian [sic] counter-espionage, which had always been part of B Division’ (p 102). White was partially correct (as Curry confirms in his official history), if by ‘Russian’ he meant initiatives starting from overseas, as opposed to those native to the CPGB. Yet that supposition was making very fine distinctions, and would have opened a whole field of hazards. Moreover, White, now the Assistant Director to Liddell for B Division, was indeed the officer heading both B1 (Espionage) as well as Hollis’s old section B4, now called ‘Country Espionage’, including B4a. B4a was the unit responsible for non-Nazi counter-espionage, i.e. investigations into espionage deriving from ‘individuals domiciled in the United Kingdom’: White no doubt wanted to keep some measure of control over the function. That did not mean, however, that the task of countering Soviet espionage was being carried out with aplomb. For instance, by June 1943, B4b, charged with investigating espionage in Industry and Commerce, still headed by J. R. Whyte, had been reduced to a small band covering ‘Escaped Prisoners-of-War and Evaders’. (By then, of course, its original function may have well been passed on to Hollis.) Yet the failure to grapple with the Soviet espionage threat was a source of much discussion between Liddell and Petrie as the war progressed. Archival evidence shows that Petrie and Hollis discussed the potential Soviet menace, as did Petrie and Liddell, and Liddell and Hollis, but White is largely absent from the conversation.

The fact that Hollis was not responsible for handling the broader and more sinister aspects of Soviet intrigue does, however, not fit in with Pincher’s view of the world: he argues, somewhat bizarrely, that he does not attribute this ‘misconception’ of White’s to his failing memory, but instead to his willingness to accept responsibility for any incompetence himself, as part of the theme that his protégé needed to be protected. If anything, White’s assertion was a criticism of his boss, Liddell, who was responsible for all of B Division during the war. Certainly, after June 1941, when the Soviet Union was an ally (albeit a difficult and temporary one), the task of countering direct Soviet espionage – as opposed to domestic subversion – was largely buried, and White in particular wanted to shield the potentially embarrassing business of MI6’s enabling of Sonia’s marriage to Beurton, and of assisting her passage to Britain, from prying eyes.

  1. Hollis, Fuchs, Sonia & Springhall

Yet Pincher continually beats the drum that records Hollis’s failure as the wartime Soviet counter-espionage officer, as if he had been responsible for allowing the Cambridge spies to purloin so many documents (p 103), in the years when they ‘perpetrated their worst crimes’ (p 108). Hollis was reputedly lax in allowing Sklyarov and Kremer to meet Klaus Fuchs in Birmingham in August 1941, since, even though new to his job, he had been involved in the takeover procedure for his new assignment for several weeks (p 134). Pincher admittedly would appear to be making a shrewd observation when he points out that D. Griffiths, in F Division [actually F2b], had noted that the source Kaspar had reported that Fuchs was ‘well-known in communist circles’, and Pincher follows up by claiming that Hollis took no action (p 136). Yet this report was made as late as October 10, and Griffith [sic] judged that they could not put off any longer the requests from the Ministry of Aircraft Production for permission to hire Fuchs. The final approval was given by Joe Archer (AI1d) a few days later, on October 18.

The truth is that the investigations had been carrying along at a much higher level by then. For example, MI5’s request to the Chief Constable in Birmingham, C. C. H. Moriarty, for information on Fuchs’s political activities, was dated August 9. It went out, however, under the name of Director-General Brigadier Petrie, signed by Milicent Bagot, as if both Curry and Hollis were out of the loop. (The item is designated “F.2b/DG’.) Moreover, the request to the ‘Watchers’ (Robson-Scott in E4) for information on Fuchs, again under F.2b/DG, was sent to Robson Scott in E1a on August 9, and Bagot and Petrie had to wait over two months for a reply, namely the report from Kaspar. Hollis was thus not the lead officer on the project, and his name never appears in the archive during these months. For him to insert himself in the project at that late stage, when his boss’s boss had been personally involved, would have been inappropriate. Pincher’s slur is simply unjustified. More at fault was perhaps Petrie, for managing the investigation himself, but not taking action during the long delay. What Petrie was doing, delving down to F2b to collaborate with Milicent Bagot early in his career as Director-General, remains a mystery.

Other archival material tells us that Hollis did complain about the recruitment of communists to the Tube Alloys project, but was overruled by the Ministry of Supply and the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research. The Ministry was not concerned about political persuasions if those holding them could help in the war effort against Hitler. Remarkably, Pincher then cites Hollis’s absence, in November 1941 (i.e. immediately after his promotion, but a date that is highly questionable), because of a bout of tuberculosis, as a reason that Moscow Centre broke contact with Fuchs for a while, as they were no longer receiving the ‘regular assurances of safety’ from their man in MI5! How Hollis would have known about Fuchs’s current security, or how he would have delivered such messages of comfort to the Embassy under normal working conditions is not explained by Pincher. By January 1943, when Fuchs’s naturalization papers were being considered, agent Kaspar had changed his tune: Fuchs then bore a ‘good personal reputation’ and was considered ‘a good fellow.’

The next major theme is Hollis’s close collaboration with Ursula Beurton, née Kuczynski (agent Sonia). By some weird reasoning, Pincher interprets the way by which Sonia came to service Fuchs as proof that she had been posted to Oxford from Switzerland for the purpose of supporting someone else – Hollis, who had been working out of Blenheim after the transfer from Wormwood Scrubs (p 158). Shortly after Sonia moved to Avenue Cottage in North Oxford, in October 1942, Hollis returned to duty after his convalescence from tuberculosis. Thus her ‘task of servicing two major suppliers in the area’ was substantially eased, according to Pincher. He then blames Hollis for his negligence in not following up Hugh Shillito’s suspicions concerning Sonia’s possible spying, or the discovery of a large wireless set at the Laski residence where she was staying (pp 160 & 161). Pincher claims that Shillito actually passed up his message, expressing doubts about Len Beurton’s testimony, through his boss, Hollis, to the deputy Director-General. Yet Hollis was, in Pincher’s eyes, solely responsible for ignoring Sonia’s ‘traitorous activities’.

The problem is that Pincher completely distorts what happened. Shillito’s letter, available in KV 6/41, is not addressed to the deputy director-general (who would have been Jasper Harker at the time), but to Major Ryde, the Regional Security Liaison Officer in Reading. His information was gained by virtue of a joint interrogation of Beurton carried out at MI5 alongside a Mr. Vesey and a representative from MI6. D. I. Vesey, who worked for B4b, has already appeared on file, as he had been on the Beurton case all through the summer, and had arranged the interview referred to by Shillito – as his letters and memoranda prove. Thus Dick White’s group was indeed (moderately) active in pursuing cases of possible Soviet espionage, in this case a person who had earlier been tracked now arriving from abroad – even if he was a British subject. In March, 1941, Shillito (then B10c), whose interest in Ursula Beurton had been piqued by her recent arrival to the country, alerted Ryde to that event, and also passed her file to B4b as the natural home for it. So it appears to confirm that an active cell of tracking potential communist threats had endured in B Division, as White claimed, and F Division had not assumed in toto the various B sections, contrary to what Curry claimed in his official history at the end of the war [see below].

What is also interesting, however, is that Vesey, in his memorandum of October 20, 1942, that records the interview with Beurton, does describe the presence of an officer (name redacted) from MI6, but makes no mention that Shillito was present. Clearly, the investigations of Shillito into domestic subversion, and Vesey, into international espionage, had crossed because of the Kuczynski-Beurton shenanigans, and Vesey was anxious to put Shillito in his place. Of course, if the high-ups had wanted to pursue the investigation of the Beurtons, they would have insisted upon it, and they would not have allowed Hollis to display any negligence by showing no action. Moreover, Pincher completely ignores the role played by Vesey and B4b in these incidents.

Pincher next uses the success over the Springhall arrest and prosecution in 1943 to make another wrong conclusion. “Springhall’s conviction should have finally convinced Hollis and his colleagues that Russian intelligence was prepared to use flagrantly open communists as agents”, he writes (p 164). In fact, Springhall’s exploits were firmly in opposition to Moscow policy, which ruled that CP members should take no part in espionage. The NKGB was not at all happy about the way that the CPGB had dragged itself into notoriety. Yet Pincher again blames Hollis for being a major influence in the failure to investigate such characters as Philby, Maclean, Blunt, Klugman, Fuchs, the Kuczynskis, Norwood and Kahle. Apart from the fact (as I have indicated elsewhere) there were special considerations with each of these menacing personalities, it is unlikely that the combined wills of White, Liddell, Petrie and Menzies would have caved in to Hollis’s presumed appeals for inactivity. And Pincher again misrepresents the dynamics, by suggesting that Burgess and Blunt must have experienced extraordinary thoughts when they drank socially at the Reform Club with Hollis, ‘the man they knew to be responsible for detecting Soviet [sic] spies’ (p 167).

  • Hollis and Section IX

The next episode in the saga is Hollis’s apparent shrewdness in recommending that MI6 establish a new Section, Section IX, to ‘intercept and possibly decipher’ wireless messages being transmitted between Moscow and the CPGB headquarters’, especially since ‘certain London members of the party [were] known to be operating illicit transmitters and receivers from their homes’ (p 169). This statement is a distortion of the truth. Apart from the obvious fact that, if CP members were known to have been operating radio sets from their homes (an illegal activity), they would instantly have been picked up, Pincher throws in a completely irrelevant observation that this initiative coincided with a USA attempt to interpret KGB [sic] transmissions between New York and Moscow. (That would been the first few weeks of the VENONA project, and it has nothing to do with the case.)

It is difficult to know what to make of this. Pincher cites Curry’s official history as the source. Indeed Curry does give Hollis a large amount of credit for encouraging the formation of Section IX. He also reports (p 358), that there was one isolated incident of detected wireless traffic involving James Shields of the CPGB, and a former member, Jean Jefferson, who operated from her home in Wimbledon, and that they were being watched. Curry states, however, that there were much broader reasons for MI6’s needing to have a section dedicated to Soviet counter-espionage at the time. In any case, such a technical challenge was the province of the Radio Security Section (RSS) and GC&CS: MI6 would not have brought any fresh skills or insight to the operation.

‘GCHQ’

Pincher also cites Richard Aldrich’s book GCHQ, suggesting that Aldrich had recorded a meeting between Alastair Denniston, ‘the head of the forerunner of GCHQ’ [wrong: Denniston had been ousted by then, and was working on Comintern traffic in London], and ‘a senior member of the RSS’ (actually, our old friend Ted Maltby) to discuss ‘the interception of KGB messages being sent from Soviet agents in various parts of Britain to the Soviet Embassy’ (p 169). If true, that would have been an immense shock to all concerned. But Pincher got it wrong. What Aldrich wrote about was ‘the interception of certain apparently illicit transmissions from this country which have been “DF-ed” [direction-found] to the Soviet Embassy” (p 79). These were messages transmitted from the Embassy, not to it, and were part of the ISCOT project that later revealed information about Soviet post-war plans for Eastern Europe. Moreover, transmissions could not have been characterized as being targeted to any particular location such as the Soviet Embassy. They were available in the ether for anyone in suitable range to pick up. Pincher shows his technical ignorance, mixes up three entirely different projects, perhaps deliberately and out of mischief, and posits the absurd notion that there was a large number of Soviet spies transmitting undetected across Britain.

Richard Aldrich

Yet Pincher’s whole chapter is amplified into a paeon to the ‘two-headed colossus’ of Philby and Hollis working in partnership to thwart any attempt by the British intelligence services to identify and prosecute Stalin’s agents. One of their apparent successes needs to be cited in full (p 170). “A particular significant aspect of this remarkable situation, which was to last throughout the war, ensured that any intercepted messages to and from illicit radio operators in Britian, including Sonia’s, would automatically be passed by Phliby’s section to Hollis for possible action. The messages would be in code, and it was Hollis who would decide whether to have them deciphered or not.” This is utter nonsense. If such a volume of messages had been picked up, RSS and MI5 would have been obsessed with discovering whether any of them derived from German agents first. An undeciphered message would not betray the allegiance of its source –unless the authorities had already pinpointed the location of its sender by direction-finding. Such messages would never have been sent to someone like Hollis, and he would never have been able to make any decisions about their importance if they were undeciphered, anyway! This is all pure fantasy on Pincher’s part. Pincher claims that Hollis was so proud of his achievements in this MI6 initiative that he apparently described it as his ‘best, personal wartime shot’ in his post-war account of his unit’s history (p 175). That report can be seen in KV 4/54. Hollis never mentions radio interception at all, let alone his unique contribution to MI6’s innovations.

vi)        Hollis and the Quebec Agreement

The dual themes of ‘Hollis as ELLI’, and his collaboration with Sonia, are amplified in Chapter 23, ‘A High-level Culprit’, (pp 184-190), which is dedicated to the notion that Sonia betrayed to Stalin the secrets of the Quebec Agreement of September 1943. This is a very involved saga, and I spent much ink analyzing it in my bulletin of over eight years ago, at https://coldspur.com/sonia-and-the-quebec-agreement/. I shall thus not examine it again here, merely summarizing that the case for Sonia’s being the source of any leaks rests on very flimsy evidence, including some reported Soviet archives that are unavailable, and hence inscrutable. It also assumes a very dubious timeline concerning departures of scientists to the USA, and the release of further nominated experts to follow, as well as some highly questionable claims about Sonia’s movements when she was heavily pregnant. Nevertheless, Pincher chooses to portray the incidents as further evidence of Hollis’s guilt (and Hollis at this time, inevitably ‘was regarded as MI5’s atomic expert’ – p 186), while his narrative is riddled with so much speculation concerning events that might have happened, and persons who ‘could have known’, that his argument turns out to be very flabby indeed. Again he emphasizes how Sonia had been sent to the Oxford area specifically to service this important GRU agent. The lack of any direct pointer to Hollis either in Sonia’s memoirs, or in GRU files (which have, incidentally, not been released in any form) is, in Pincher’s twisted mind, attributable to the high level of security that was attached to this supermole. If Hollis ever wrote anything in favour of prosecuting communists, it was a cover for his real designs, claims Pincher. And if there is no evidence for any of his clandestine assignments, that is because they were all carefully covered up.

  • Hollis and Fuchs’s Move to the USA

Pincher would appear to be on firmer ground in his criticism of Hollis’s negligence in allowing Fuchs to proceed to the United States in November 1943, in the chapter 24, ‘Calamitous Clearance’, pp 191-195). His account runs as follows: Fuchs received his visa for transfer on November 22, 1943, and told Sonia that day about his planned departure, which ‘eventually’ was scheduled for December. On November 17, MI5 had been asked if there was any objection to an exit permit, and Hollis had taken charge of the case himself. He reported specifically to an American questionnaire that Fuchs was politically inactive and that there were no security objections to him. On January 10, 1944, Hollis compounded the deception of failing to reveal Fuchs’s communist background by recommending that the dishonesty be continued. In fact, Fuchs had arrived in the USA on December 3 (thus nullifying Pincher’s earlier observation about the scheduled sailing), and on January 10, the Ministry of Supply informed MI5 that he might be required to stay on in the USA longer than expected. Hollis immediately approved such an arrangement, and noted that ‘it might not be desirable to make any mention to the US authorities of the earlier allegations of Communist affiliations’.

Hollis’s coup, according to Pincher, was not only to ensure Fuchs’s entry into the heart of the Manhattan Project, the operation to build the atomic bomb, but also to place the seeds of bitterness on the part of the Americans when they found out about Fuchs’s treachery a few years later. “The fact that Fuchs had been able to betray so many secrets because Hollis had repeatedly ensured his security clearance is regarded by MI5 as pure coincidence”, writes Pincher (p 194). He adds that, early in 1944, Churchill, unimpressed by MI5’s performance, reacted by giving vetting responsibility to a ‘secret panel of Whitehall officials’, and that Hollis insisted, in a memorandum to David Petrie, that all such cases should be referred to him. (As with all of Pincher’s references, no source is given.) Thus (according to Pincher) Hollis’s communist watch was totally ineffective.

The truth was somewhat different, as Mike Rossiter explained in The Spy Who Changed the World, and as I summarized in Misdefending the Realm. Unfortunately, Rossiter does not offer precise references, and his attribution of memoranda is a little awry, but the details can be found in the relevant Fuchs file at KV 2/1245. The sequence of events in the latter half of 1943 is as follows: on July 7, Miss Bosanquet in F2b contacted the RSLO (Captain Dykes) in Birmingham to ask for his opinion of Fuchs. Dykes replied promptly (although his letter is not on file), and Bosanquet wrote again on July 14, stating that ‘as he [Fuchs] has been in his present job for some years without apparently causing any trouble, I think we can safely let him continue in it’. Now that judgment should probably not have been delegated to a junior officer (what kind of ‘trouble’ was she expecting?), and it was the RSLO who immediately challenged it. He wrote the very next day, saying: “Surely, however, the point is whether a man of this nature who has been described as being clever and dangerous, should be in a position where he has access to information of the highest degree of secrecy and importance?”, and he concluded his objection by suggesting that Fuchs should be referred to the Police. Well said, Captain Dykes.

Bosanquet, oddly, continues the exchange, pointing out to Dykes that, in his earlier (unfiled) letter, he had indicated that he had already alerted the Police, since he had then informed her of what the opinion of the local constabulary had been. On July 28, she wrote again, indicating that she had been the officer who had dealt with Fuchs’s application for naturalization earlier that year (May), and that nothing had been found to his detriment. She diminishes the Communist claim as coming from the German consulate in Bristol, and thus being possibly tarnished. (That was a very cloistered and outdated judgment, since Fuchs’s communist activities had been reported from other sources, including Kaspar. It is not clear why Miss Bosanquet was entrusted with this task.) She strongly hints that Rudolf Peierls is the person who has testified to the important service that Fuchs is providing for the country. On August 30, Bosanquet concludes that nothing can be done about Fuchs, and on September 4 Hugh Shillito in F2c agrees, stating that he does not ‘regard Fuchs as being likely to be dangerous in his present occupation’. A fellow named Garret concurs.

The next we learn is that, on November 18, MI5 offers ‘no objection’ to a request for approval for Fuchs’s overseas mission on behalf of the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research. A scribbled and undecipherable couple of letters appears below the stamp ‘No Objection’, but a large stamp, as well as the rubric at the bottom of the document, indicates that it is D4a1 (probably Lt. T. Nesbitt) who has made the judgment, D4A being responsible for travel control, visas and exit permits. The formidable Milicent Bagot, on November 22, records her surprise that Fuchs, ‘who has now applied for an exit permit’ [my italics] is now a British subject, indicating that the approval of his naturalization process had not reached her desk. On November 28, Michael Serpell (F2a) approaches Garret (now shown to be D2) as to whether any period has been set on Fuchs’s visit to the USA, suggesting that he believes that Fuchs has not departed yet. Yet the extraordinary fact is that Fuchs had departed on November 11, as Rossiter reports, under conditions of haste and secrecy. The approach to MI5 for approval for Fuchs’s mission was all a sham. Pincher’s account was well off the mark.

In this fashion another obscure section gets in on the act. On November 29, Major Garret of D2 (Naval Security Measures) informs Serpell that Fuchs’s name was not on the original list of workers going to the USA, and thus must have been added at the last minute. A few weeks later, however, on December 6, Garret seeks confirmation, and writes to Michael Perrin at the DSIR, inquiring whether Fuchs should be considered as one of the party of ‘workers’ who have gone to the USA. (It seems as if MI5 has not been informed of the details of their departure: if there was any expression of outrage from anywhere in MI5, it has been suppressed.) Perrin replied awkwardly two days later, confirming that Fuchs was indeed now in the USA, but regretting that he could not give a firm statement as to the longevity of Fuchs’s mission. He personally believed that Fuchs would remain in the American organization. By January 10, 1944, Perrin appears to have been more alarmed. He confirms that Peierls wants to keep Fuchs out in the USA, but now does raise the security angle, about which the Americans are most concerned, and he expresses some urgency in gaining from MI5 its opinion of Fuchs, and any risk associated with him.

A quick telephone call must have been arranged, because on January 17 Garret writes to Perrin again, saying that he has consulted the relevant department after their recent telephone conversation, and he reinforces the opinion that Fuchs is a reliable character. “It is considered that there would be no objection to this man remaining in the U.S.A. as he has never been very active politically, and recent reports endorse the good opinion you have of his behaviour in this country”, he writes, but adds, ominously, “It would not appear to be desirable to mention his proclivities to the authorities in the U.S.A., and we do not think it at all likely that he will attempt to make political contacts in that country while he is there.” Garrett had been updated by an enigmatic note from a colleague in D2, who has obtained a full picture of Fuchs’s communist activity from Serpell, F2a (although someone has inscribed ‘B1a’ above it). The note adds that “Clarke’s opinion [Clarke being the established officer handling the CPGB in F2a: Serpell has presumably recently been transferred from B1a] is that he is rather safer in America than in this country, and for that reason he is in favour of his remaining in America where he is away from his English friends. Clarke’s opinion also was that it would not be so easy for Fuchs to make contact with communists in America, and that in any case he would probably be more roughly handled were he found out.” Whether ‘safety’ in these circumstances refers to Fuchs’s individual ability to be kept free from harm, or whether it describes the degree by which the authorities might be protected from Fuchs’s possible treacherousness, is left for the reader to decide.

The whole charivari appears to be a ridiculous mess, with senior MI5 officers staying out of the business (having presumably been squared by Perrin), and the junior officers floundering around in the dark – a perennial phenomenon in the execution of MI5’s charter. There was no serious attempt – let alone an opportunity – for F2a and F2b and D to voice their concerns about Fuchs’s proposed mission until after he had left. And thus Hollis must be judged to have been part of that conspiracy to pretend that sending Fuchs to the USA was not a risk, and to have gone along with the insistent demands of Perrin and his department. Yet Pincher’s account is erroneous. He gets the date of departure wrong, and inserts Hollis (alone) as the dominant figure in the imbroglio, ascribing all manner of statements to him that were in fact made by other officers, as can be verified by the wording that Pincher uses, and the evidence of the files. Unless the files were subsequently weeded (Pincher’s book appeared in 2012, Rossiter’s in 2014) there is no archival record that indicates Hollis’s direct involvement. That does not mean that MI5 was not involved in some very weird backroom business, but it does negate Pincher’s highly distorted account of Hollis’s dominant role in the catastrophe.

And that effectively brings Pincher’s coverage of Hollis during the war to a close, as the next event he covers is Gouzenko’s defection in September 1945.

What the Histories Say

While Pincher’s accounts of Hollis’s activity are obviously a distortion of the truth, we should expect any ‘official’ or ‘authorized’ history of his department to be markedly better, and that independent historians would offer a cooler, unbiased assessment of his career.

Christopher Andrew’s Defend the Realm

[Andrew’s history is a problematic compilation. He provides many insights, but his sources usually cannot be verified. His coverage of Hollis is very spotty, although he does provide a different strategic perspective on the Fuchs business of 1943 through his description of concurrent moves at Cabinet level to restrict communists from undertaking sensitive work.]

In his authorized history of MI5, Christopher Andrew is very restrained about Hollis’s career. He records that Hollis was recruited by Kell in June 1938, but, extraordinarily, Hollis’s first appearance in the history is not until 1943, when he is already ‘F2, in charge of monitoring Communism and other left-wing subversion’. Andrew does throw in a retrospective comment that Hollis had regarded the main SIS Communist expert, Valentine Vivian, with veneration, but says nothing about his studentship in Communist affairs under Archer (whose name changed from Sissmore to Archer when she married Group-Captain John Archer, of D Division, the day before war broke out). He briefly covers the reorganization instituted by the selected new leader, David Petrie, who had been approached in November 1940 to take over MI5. Petrie, after performing a study of MI5 and gaining a commitment from Swinton and Churchill that he would be able to run his own ship, decided to create new Divisions, breaking up the overloaded B Division (responsible for counter-espionage) into a new B Division concentrating purely on anti-Nazi counter-intelligence, E Division charged with alien control under Ted Turner, and F Division with a mission of counter-subversion, under Jack Curry. As I have shown, this is an oversimplification of what changes occurred.

Andrew does appear confused about timing: he states that, after the eyes of the Security Service were opened by Krivitsky (in February 1940), it was handicapped in investigating Soviet espionage by lack of resources. “B Division (counter-espionage) was wholly occupied with enemy (chiefly German) spies. Wartime Soviet counter-espionage, which was considered a much lower priority, was initially [sic] relegated to a single officer (F2c) in F Division (counter-subversion).” This is erroneous and misleading: F Division was not created until August 1941 – after Barbarossa. This assessment completely misrepresents a critical year of negligence. There were no potential ‘enemy’ spies apart from Germans until June 1940, when Italy declared war on Britain: Andrew has his categories wrong, and he is careless with dates and responsibilities.

The most thoroughly covered aspect of Hollis’s tenure is the Springhall case in 1943, and the subsequent discussions about open communists working for sensitive government departments. Andrew records how, after Springhall’s sentencing, Hollis and Felix Cowgill (the head of Section V in MI6) interrogated the MI6 secretary Ray Milne, who admitted that she had passed information to an ally (the Soviet Union), and was dismissed but never prosecuted. For some reason, Andrew thereafter emphasizes the role of David Clarke (F2a) rather than Hollis himself. As the file KV 4/251 shows, on October 21, 1943, Clarke submitted a long report that showed how dozens of communists were then working in government institutions, and that many of them had access to information of the highest secrecy. He provided numbers, but did not list names. Hollis passed this report on to Duff Cooper, a rather ineffectual protégé of Churchill, who was Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, and head of the Security Executive at the time. Cooper soon responded (on October 27) that he had drafted a memorandum for the Prime Minister, at the same time asking for a list of those implicated. Hollis obliged the next day. Churchill indicated that he agreed with the recommendations in the memorandum, and the overall approval was minuted on December 13 – with Churchill’s famous decision to have vetting performed by a special panel under the Chairman of the Security Executive.

Hollis had, however, been active in the meantime. On November 4, he noted a discussion with Cooper, who had in turn spoken to the Home Secretary, Herbert Morrison. Hollis looked to the Cabinet for guidance on how to execute any restrictive policies, as he had noticed that high-level officials, while agreeing with such a policy in principle, had problems executing it when it affected their departments. On November 9, Morrison made a strong case to the Prime Minister about removing communists from sensitive work, although he offered an exception for a man ‘whose specialist abilities are so valuable that it is better to take any risk in continuing his employment than to lose his assistance on the specialist job in which he is engaged.’ On November 10, Hollis reported that he had spoken to the Home Secretary, Sir Alexander Maxwell, who informed him that Morrison had expressed concern about MI5’s excluding anybody with left-wing views. Hollis had said that such the number of cases demanding transfer of the employee would be small, and that MI5 ‘would be very conscious of the desirability of being prudent.’ A few days later, on November 16, Director-General Petrie showed his approval of the moves, encouraged Hollis to address such cases himself but to be sure to gain approval from either Petrie or his deputy (Harker).

Of course, in the middle of this exchange, Fuchs had set sail for the USA. It is as if Perrin had got wind of the planned restrictions, maybe gained approval at a high level, and surreptitiously arranged for Fuchs to join the party of scientists. How much did Hollis know of the energetic attempts in his group to restrain Fuchs at this time? It is not clear. It seems more likely that he was in on the secret, maybe alongside Petrie, and that Fuchs had been acknowledged as one of those with ‘specialist abilities’ who could not be surrendered. It would appear that, far from insisting on indulgence towards communists like Fuchs, Hollis was trying to promote the integrity of F2 while acknowledging the political realities of his position. And Churchill’s desire for any future vetting procedure to be taken out of the hands of MI5, as well as to keep the whole process as secret as possible, reflects his need to control the whole process himself, as well as not make any overt gesture that might upset Stalin – a special sensitivity of his at the time.

Andrew elides all the subtleties of these dynamics – as well as the fact that Fuchs’s departure came in the midst of the negotiations. And he quickly runs through the events of 1944 which followed the mini-crisis. KV 2/451 shows that Hollis was involved in intricate negotiations with Edward Bridges (the Cabinet Secretary), Alexander Maxwell, and others throughout 1944 and early 1945, but the attention on possible ne’er-do-wells in sensitive positions was always focused on Communist Party members, and thus bypassed the less hidden but more dangerous threat from penetration agents. Andrew’s final flourish, as far as wartime is concerned, is to trumpet Hollis’s valiant attempts to bolster the efforts countering Soviet espionage. In a telling (but unverifiable) observation, he writes: “The leadership of the Security Service was also well aware that it was failing to keep track of Soviet espionage. With at least partial justice, it blamed its failure on the severe restrictions placed by the Foreign Office on investigation of the Soviet embassy and Trade Delegation, and therefore of the intelligence residences for which they provided cover.” (pp 279-289) He cites a March 1943 entry from Liddell’s diary where Liddell and Hollis discussed the risk, as well as the exposure of doing nothing, although exactly what ‘action’ MI5 might have undertaken, apart from surveilling arrivals and departures at the Embassy more closely, is not clear.

Hollis is described as ‘the senior MI5 officer most alert to the continued threat from Soviet espionage’. Hollis regarded Valentine Vivian in MI6 as the most expert in the field, but he disliked his successor, Felix Cowgill, and was also dismissive of MI6’s overall efforts to investigate international communism. In another unsourced reference, from a memorandum to Petrie in April 1942, Hollis claimed that his group had ‘started, rather belatedly, to follow the activities of the Comintern wherever it appears’ (a project no doubt spearheaded by Milicent Bagot), admitting that F Division was stepping beyond its charter. Petrie encouraged him, but, apart from a voiced suspicion about Blunt, Hollis directed his section’s energies more against members of the CPGB, who, he misguidedly judged, would be the most obvious candidates for espionage. Yet there is no doubt that Hollis was not acting alone, or that he enjoyed the close attention of the director-general. Chapman Pincher chose to ignore these passages from Andrew.

John Curry’s ‘Official History’ of the Security Service

John Curry’s Official History of MI5

Curry’s history, which was written in 1946, and published in 1999, is in some places much more explicit than Andrew’s work. Curry was a complex character: he comes over as insecure and a bit neurotic from his exchanges with Liddell, always wondering where his career was going, and articulating disappointment that his contributions were not being properly recognized. He was probably not a very good leader, but he was a dedicated officer, and attentive to detail. Thus his history – which, as far as WWII was concerned, was much reliant on the assessments made by Division heads of their groups’ performance, but also contained much of his personal interpretation  – is an important contribution to MI5’s form and function, and contains much information (such as on organization) in which Andrew showed only superficial interest.

For instance, the history contains organizational charts after Petrie’s restructuring in August 1941, as well as for April 1943, when Hollis was well-established as the head of F Division, with assistant-director status, after Curry left for a new position in ‘Research’ in November 1941. Curry states that the instructions for re-organisation were issued on April 22, 1941, but were not brought into effect until August 1. He also declares (p 146) that Petrie’s plans were based on Swinton’s proposals, which Swinton, as head of the Security Executive, had not been able to force upon a reluctant MI5 in December 1940. Yet Curry is vague about exactly what Swinton proposed, since the only function allocated to F Division is identified as ‘dealing with the B.U.F.’ – surely an understatement.  As far as the evolution of the new structure is concerned, the charts in Curry’s volume show that Dick White and Major Frost were Assistant Directors of B Division under Guy Liddell in August 1941: Hollis and Aikin Sneath worked under Curry, who had been appointed Deputy-Director in charge of F Division (’Subversive Activities’). F Division was split into four sections: F1, under Lt. Col. Alexander (who worked with a large degree of independence from Curry), responsible for security in the forces; F2, under Hollis, responsible for Communism and Left Wing movements, where Clarke was charged with watching the CPGB (F2a), and Pilkington Russian Intelligence (= Soviet espionage, F2c), by default Hollis being responsible for the vacant slot of watching the Comintern (F2b). Sneath was responsible for Right Wing and Nationalist movements (F3), while Fulford in F4 watched pacifist groups. F3 was the reincarnation of B7 from the previous organization. Curry writes that, after April 1941, there was confusion as to whether MI5 or MI6 was responsible for maintaining adequate records about the Comintern, and that the expert knowledge of Miss Bagot in F2b was the only palliative to the situation.

Curry’s coverage of F Division is a bit erratic, and his account of Hollis’s contribution especially so, as if he bore some resentment for his successor’s responsibilities and achievements. He dedicates a long section on F3 (Fascist, Right-Wing, Pacifist and Nationalist Movements: pro-German and defeatists) in the main body of his tome, since its work was most relevant to the direct war effort. Yet Hollis is not mentioned once in the dense five pages (pp 308-312), and much is written in an irritatingly passive voice (‘it was felt  . . .’). Thus the rest of F Division’s work is relegated to Volume 3, in what is called Chapter V, Part 2: ‘Communism and the U.S.S.R 1941-1945’. Here he introduces the challenges facing F Division in its attempts to defend against the unchanged long-term threats of the Soviet Union while dealing with a Whitehall that (after Barbarossa) regarded it as an ally. He writes that ‘the work of F.2.c has been discussed in detail under “Soviet Espionage”’, but that section does not appear until later.

Thereafter, Curry seems keen to present himself as the expert on Soviet counter-espionage. He provides a fascinating list of known ‘leakages” (without sources, of course), and a decent overview of the post-Springhall turmoil (without mentioning the Fuchs imbroglio). His main trumpeting of Hollis’s achievements occurs when he describes the creation of Section IX in MI6 (see above), but his discourse thereafter is more about MI6 than MI5. He returns to the theme of espionage in returning to Krivitsky, Glading and Springhall, and then describes the constraints placed upon MI5 by the Foreign Office’s prohibition of any attempts ‘to penetrate Russian official or Trade Delegation circles in this country’. He notes that the large Russian [sic] diplomatic establishment in London – over ninety individuals at the end of the war – were allowed to visit every sort of establishment and factory in the country, and had been detected attempting to see much more than that to which they were entitled. Hollis’s job in attempting to harness such activity had indeed been impossible.

F Division Reports (KV 4/54-58)

One gets more of the nitty-gritty, but not so much high strategic insights, from the reports that Hollis submitted to Curry. Hollis’s overview (KV 4/54) has been liberally marked, as if by sixth-form teacher, with question-marks, the occasional ‘No!’, and several ‘Xes’, which presumably mean approval. The assessor is presumably Curry, but a ‘corrected’ version has not been filed. After defining ‘subversion’, Hollis appears to credit himself with the claim that, in the face of the fact that the Communists and Fascists behave so differently, ‘the Head of the subversive division [sic] can give a certain political unity to policy’. What exactly Hollis meant by that, since the Division’s policy against communists had turned out to be largely ineffectual, is not evident, but Curry has indicated his endorsement of this rather woolly claim.

Hollis’s report is a muddle, and is not delivered elegantly. His introduces the incorporation of F Division with the following statement: “At the outbreak of the war the staff of the four sections was seven: B.1. two, B.4.a two, B.4.b two, B.7 one. Of this total two were women. These sections, reconstituted into F. Division, reached high water numerically in 1943, when the staff reached twenty-nine.” That assertion strongly indicates that the four sections were brought over lock, stock and barrel into F Division. Yet MI5’s organization in 1938 shows that Soviet counter-espionage, oddly designated as ‘Civil Security – home & foreign’, B4a and B4b respectively, came under Sissmore and White, with Mr Younger supporting Sissmore. Hollis became the sole B4a officer, of course, during the curious events of September 1939, but Younger does not appear in F Division in the July 1941 chart. Hollis goes on to explain that, in autumn 1940, a new section, B4c, had been formed ‘to deal specifically with Soviet espionage in this country’, and that it was placed alongside B4a and B4b ‘under a single head’. He does not name that head, but the impression given is that it was not Hollis.  That B4c unit presumably became F2c, described by Curry as a one-man band under Pilkington, but presented as ‘Russian Intelligence’.

Yet B4b already existed, set up to investigate Soviet espionage in the UK, and Bagot was described as being its head in December 1939. Perhaps B4c represented the assimilation of Jane Archer’s B14. Since White had been in charge of B4b since 1937, was he perhaps the ‘single head’ to whom Hollis anonymously refers? White is listed simply as ‘B2’ in the December 1939 charts, but he was probably placed temporarily in charge of B4 before the Petrie restructuring took place (the autumn 1940 changes that Hollis described briefly). John Curry can be frustratingly vague over dates and structure in his history, but he does offer the insight in his paragraph concerning that year of 1940 (p 161) that ‘Mr. White was supervising the work connected with the Communist Party and the Comintern and the arrangements for liquidating the Nazi Party  . . .’ I thus conclude that White was indeed the ‘single head’ whom Hollis reluctantly had to acknowledge without identification.

In any event, the records [see Curry, above] indicate that Dick White, when he took over control of B1 in June 1941, retained, as ‘officer in charge’ a B4 section headed by Whyte (who had previously been B2b, responsible for ‘Counter-espionage Germany’) that covered any traces of espionage, whether ‘enemy’ or not,  by UK citizens. That unit may have included other names (such as Boddington and Badham) that appear on the earlier chart, but have not found their way into F Division. A perennial challenge for the chronicler of MI5’s activities is trying to determine what happened to officers who disappear from the radar screen – and sometime return to it. Such a task requires meticulous recording of appearances scattered around files, something that I have not undertaken with any thoroughness, but which is a project that I would cheerfully delegate to my research assistants – if I had any.

Hollis describes how F4 was created in July 1941 (presumably prompted by Swinton-Petrie concerns) to investigate ‘new politico-social or revolutionary movements’, but was dismantled in April 1942 when no signs of such could be found – incidentally when Hollis was at a convalescent home with tuberculosis. The work was absorbed into F3 and F4, and Fulford with it, no doubt. A similar fate awaited F1, commissioned to study the internal security of the Armed Forces, but eventually absorbed into F2a and F3. Hollis provides no date: the section is still present on Curry’s organization chart for July 1943. He then jumps to 1944, when the question of ‘renegades’ (which meant persons who may have helped the enemy, excluding spies) was magnified. That required a new section under the name of F1 to be created on September 30, 1944 – presumably a decision of Hollis’s, although it would have required board-level approval.

There follows a rather cryptic paragraph, where the considerable help provided to the Division overall by ‘new sources’, presumably spies within the CPGB HQ at King Street, is outlined, with redactions. Hollis then closes with summary histories of the different sections. He introduces them by stating that the functions of F Division are ‘only in small part preventive or punitive, since its role is to provide information to various government departments, and to act as adviser to them on subversive activities’. That might be deemed to be too passive by some critics (certainly Chapman Pincher), and Hollis should perhaps have taken on a more energetic part in selling his ideas. We must, however, bear in mind that he was in constant communication with the director-general, who was very sensitive to the political situation, and who would surely have prodded Hollis to do more if he judged a more aggressive approach were merited.

Perhaps the most fascinating account is that of F2b, where the author laments the fact that the section had to shoulder the burden of compensating for the incompetence of MI6’s Section V in handling the threat of Communism, and describes how MI5’s superior Registry personnel even helped its rival service to ‘get in touch with their own records’. Hollis states that the only success that F2c had during the war was that of Green – another surprisingly thin and inadequate account. Oddly, Hollis says nothing about the radio interception issue of which Curry so proudly boasted. Whether that was out of modesty, or whether Curry simply got the whole matter wrong, remains another enigma of F Division’s history.

Nigel West ‘s ‘MI5’

Nigel West’s ‘MI5’ offers a strange account, although it does add some names to the pot. His organization charts refer to ‘wartime organisation’, which is a very fluid concept. Thus Alexander, Boddington, Watson and Curry are shown working under ‘Military Subversion’ in an unreconstituted B Division, whereas ‘Soviet Affairs’ contains Saunders, Bagot, Sissmore and McCulloch. An accompanying chart for F Division indicates it was under Ede, as Director of Overseas Control, with a loosely attached group named ‘Political Parties’ containing Hollis, Kemball Johnston and Fulford under ‘Communists’, and Mitchell under ‘Fascists’. It is a mess. West does not cover the re-organization, and refers to Mitchell as joining F Division’s [sic] anti-Fascist section in 1939. In his narrative, West indicates that, when Frost was inserted into B Division in June 1940, Hollis had recently succeeded Colonel Alexander on the latter’s retirement. But Alexander is presumably the same individual whom Curry shows to be leading F1 in July 1941, still active and unretired. Moreover, West asserts that Hollis was promoted to Assistant Director rank in 1940, after two years in F Division [!], ‘and was also appointed to serve on one of Lord Swinton’s sub-committees, the Committee on Communist Activities, a Whitehall interdepartmental group formed to monitor CPGB sympathizers and the growing diplomatic presence in London.’ (What this committee achieved seems to have been lost.) West thus lazily backdates the functions of F Division in counter-subversion to 1938, the year Hollis was hired.

Other Sources

Hollis turns up in several other books. W. J. West’s The Truth About Hollis (1989) (re-printed in the USA as Spymaster: The Betrayal of MI5) contains much useful information about Hollis’s early life, but it is a rambling work, expressing Pincheresque tendencies, that sheds little detailed light on Hollis’s activities during World War II, and it indulges in a lot of speculation. West does provide some useful insights into Hollis’s relationship with Claud Cockburn, especially during the process to ban the Daily Worker in 1941. West had access to the file on the banning of the Daily Worker (HO 154/25140), but the PF on Cockburn (KV 2/1546-1555) was not released until 2004, five years after West died. West did manage, however, to extract from the National Archives in Washington a document provided by the Security Executive to the FBI which summarized Hollis’s admittedly favourable opinion of Cockburn. (I pick up below the threads of Pincher’s and West’s accusations against Hollis.) West also stresses that Hollis was solely responsible for the oversights concerning Klaus Fuchs. The recurrent problem of such analyses that suggest that Hollis was a dangerous lone wolf undermining the nation’s security is that they credit him with a large amount of inexplicable influence over his senior officers.

‘The Secrets of the Service’

In his Secrets of the Service (1987), Anthony Glees offered a spirited defence of Hollis against the allegations made by Chapman Pincher. Glees presented some searching and highly logical, analysis, but his book is marred by a) his taking Pincher’s accusations too seriously; b) his being too easily impressed by Foreign Office mandarins (in particular Patrick Reilly); and c) his lack of access to archival material. In addition, the introduction of possibly useful material is flawed by its anonymity. For example, on page 326, Glees refers to a document titled ‘List of Foreign Communists considered dangerous by MI5’, reportedly passed by ‘Hollis’s section’ (B4?) to the US Embassy on December 26, 1940. This is a document that Pincher had ‘come across’ (‘how?’, one might ask), and which he had generously passed on to Glees. Yet the document is neither identified, nor described fully, nor re-presented (photographed). Moreover, Glees then goes on to write about ‘the MI5 reports that I have seen’, without explaining how he gained access to them, or who wrote them, when. This is not good historiography, and Glees’s claims cannot be followed up for verification.

Mike Rossiter’s profile of Klaus Fuchs, The Spy Who Changed the World, is intelligently written, but does not mention Hollis until the events of 1949, when Fuchs returned to Britain. Trinity, the compendious biography of Fuchs by Frank Close, is generally excellent, offering meticulous inspection of the archives. Close covers the oversights concerning Rudolf Peierls’s approaches to have Fuchs join him in Birmingham in July of 1941 (see below), which triggered exchanges between C. C. H. Moriarty, the Chief Constable of Birmingham, and Milicent Bagot of F2B. What is extraordinary is that Bagot signs the letters under David Petrie’s name, as if they were working in close co-operation. Close rightly observes that Hollis did not appear to be involved in these discussions. But the author mistakenly presents Hollis as being head of F Division at that time, when he did not replace Curry until November 1941. Hollis’s role as head of F2 should have required him to be closely attentive to the Fuchs case, but Petrie appears to exclude him. Thus a remarkable phenomenon is overlooked: both Hollis and Curry were for some reason kept out of the loop over Fuchs’s recruitment, while Petrie’s involvement can hardly bolster a case that claims that Hollis behaved wantonly, as opposed to carelessly, over allowing Fuchs into a sensitive project. While sometimes challenging Pincher on his more questionable claims, Close is also a bit too willing to use him as one of his primary sources.

‘A Matter of Intelligence’

A Matter of Intelligence, the 2014 work by Charmian Brinson and Richard Dove, subtitled MI5 and the Surveillance of Anti-Nazi Refugees 1933-50, is an uneven work. The authors are a bit too keen to tilt the balance in favour of Pincher’s claims about Hollis. Their book contains much valid scholarship, as well as some sloppy attribution. For example, on page 199 they claim that, on June 2, 1942, Hollis, writing as C2B, after making ‘only desultory checks’ on Fuchs’s application for naturalization, approved the process, citing KV 2/1245. They quote the report from him that stated that MI5 had no objection The trouble is that the request for information truly did originate from C2b (Mrs Wyllie) on May 28, C Division being responsible for Examination of Credentials. The note was addressed to F2b, in the person of D. Griffth. Griffith replied on May 30 that MI5 had no objection, allowing Wyllie to contact the Home Office, as she did, on June 2, confirming the judgment. Hollis does not appear anywhere in this exchange: he was in fact absent in the sanatorium at the time. Thus another myth entered the books. In addition, Brinson and Dove also misrepresent the attitude that Hollis took to the suspected espionage of Engelbert Broda in May 1943, when he expressed his opposition to applying surveillance on him (see KV 2/2350). They do not faithfully reflect Hollis’s complete statement, which I explore below. They intriguingly assert (without giving evidence) that Hollis was known as ‘the master of inaction’ within MI5.

The substantial volume produced by K. D. Ewing, Joan Mahoney, and Andrew Moretta, titled MI5, the Cold War, and the Rule of Law (2020) contains a few pages on the post-Springhall clamp-down on Communists in government, using KV 4/251. They do, however, miss the main point, echoing the untruth that the CPGB encouraged espionage, and even annotating the absurd tale that Springhall had been named (by Andrew Boyle) as ‘running the Cambridge Five’. (I cover those episodes below.) Finally, Ian Maclaine’s Ministry of Morale (1979) cites a memorandum written by Hollis to the Foreign Office in October 1940, which gives a ringing endorsement of Hollis’s insights as he took over Archer’s role. It is worth quoting: “MI5 voiced astonishment at the Ministry’s failure to appreciate the link between the British communists, the Soviet Union and the Comintern, an attitude largely irrelevant to the matter at hand but one shared by Lord Swinton’s Committee on Communist Activities, an interdepartmental body which monitored the doings of British communists.” (INF 1/910). [This was a new one on me: file CAB 123/55 at TNA indeed covers this Committee’s activities, and I have added it to the list to be photographed.]

Guy Liddell’s Diaries

[Liddell’s Diaries, if interpreted with caution, can provide some valuable insights into the dynamics of MI5’s operations. Yet we must bear in mind that they are episodic, not comprehensive, and thus not necessarily representative, and may even show biases. Hollis assuredly had significant conversations with other MI5 officers (particularly White and Petrie) that were never recorded for posterity.]

Guy Liddell maintains a running commentary on his interactions with Hollis through the war years. Immediately war broke out, with the Soviet Union a party to the Non-Aggression Pact with Nazi Germany, Guy Liddell brought Hollis in to try to resolve how MI5 should treat the Communist Party. In this respect, it may be with deliberation that Liddell apparently bypassed Jane Sissmore, since he chose the day of Sissmore’s marriage to Joe Archer (September 2, 1939) to have this first recorded conversation. Here Liddell cites Hollis as saying ‘that the Communist Party shows strong signs of supporting the war on grounds of Germany’s aggressive action to deprive the Poles of their independence’ (a line shortly to be undone by Moscow’s rebuke of the CPGB), but, oddly, Hollis is also brought into consultations on British Fascists (September 25). On December 11, Liddell reports that Hollis’s notes on Willie Gallacher and Captain Archibald Ramsay (the fascist sympathizer) have been shown to the Prime Minister.

Moreover, on February 13, 1940 (just before Krivitsky returned to Canada), Liddell records that he ‘had a talk with Roger Hollis about the Communists in the event of a war with Russia’, suggesting that Hollis already had an authority beyond what the managerial structure would indicate, and that he was not solely involved with communist subversion. Jane Archer was no doubt completely occupied with Krivitsky at this time, and preparing her report, but it is clear that she has nothing now to do with possible suppression of the British press. Liddell has further discussions with Hollis on how the CPGB and Communist shop stewards should be dealt with should war with the Soviet Union break out. By March 18, Liddell is able to report that ‘Roger’s plan for dealing with the Communist Party here is now complete and is being sent to the Home Office’, a plan that includes arrangements for internment. It is Roger’s plan, not Jane’s.

It is now that the pair go to talk to the mysterious G. H. Leggett (see https://coldspur.com/astbury-simon-long-and-blunt/), Hollis’s actual status and office in MI5, and his professional relationship with Archer in MI5, remaining undisclosed. They seek Leggett’s advice on ‘what to do about Communists?’. Yet Liddell had gone to see Leggett, without Hollis in attendance, on January 4, when he reported that Leggett thought that the Daily Worker was making a fool of itself over the Finland business [the Soviet Union’s attack on the nation], and that Labour leaders were revelling in its clumsiness. Thus Leggett believed there was no point in trying to suppress the newspaper now, although he thought it should not be exported. Did Liddell use this occasion to feed Hollis with guidance on what would be a sensible strategy? It is all very strange. On February 20, Hollis had gone to see Leggett, alone, and Leggett strongly suggested that interning CP leaders would receive strong support in Trade Union circles. Liddell (to whom Hollis must have reported this conversation) reflects that he is not so sure, and shows himself to be a ditherer, and not a good delegator.

Soon afterwards, Hollis is indisputably collaborating with Dick White, as in early April they jointly present a memo that outlines the threat for espionage and sabotage represented by communists. The advice is firmly in favour of internment, and restrictions of movements. By June, however, Hollis visits Leggett again, who does not want to use 18b (Defence Regulation B, allowing internment without trial) against communists, unless there were exceptional circumstances. This advice would suggest that Leggett was at this time part of the Legal team in MI5. The service had enough on its plate at this stage of the war, since, with Churchill’s arrival as Prime Minister, the pressure for interning more right-wingers – as well as any refugees from Germany –  intensified. From an intelligence standpoint, however, the moves would suggest that MI5 was taking the Nazi-Soviet Pact seriously, and did not yet regard it as merely a tactical convenience.

In echo of this assessment, a significant entry for August 26, 1940, contains the startling conclusion by Hollis that Moscow is intent on fomenting conflict, revealing its message that ‘no steps should be taken to oppose a German landing in this country since a short period under a Nazi regime would be the quickest way of bringing about a Communist revolution’. Hollis had studied CPGB documents that had been in the possession of one Eric Godfrey (a mysterious figure who was something of an irritant within the CPGB: how MI5 gained access to such papers is not explained). While he seems to have taken on a responsibility that should properly have been handled by the Joint Intelligence Committee, a crisper reminder of the danger from Moscow could not be asked for. In fact, Hollis’s concerns did reach higher echelons, since he and Liddell met with the Vice-Chief of the Imperial General Staff on October 5 to discuss Communism and troop morale.

The record on Hollis for 1941 is sparse, although tensions can be seen by early April, with the new Director-General, Petrie, devising plans that would effectively relegate John Curry (who had become Liddell’s deputy in September 1940), and Hollis, in favour of Theo Turner, who would command an overriding ‘Aliens block’. After Curry, Hollis and Liddell conferred with Menzies and David Footman about setting up a cross-service group to handle ‘contemporary social movements’, that initiative was quashed by Petrie’s re-organization of April 22, when the new F Division was set up under Curry, relieving B Division of subversives and aliens control. Curry, with his keen insights into the Comintern’s machinations, felt he was being sidetracked. Liddell wrote how depressed Curry was at his loss of status, and in early October, he was moved into a staff position under Petrie. (Curry elsewhere stated that he could never work under Dick White.) Thus the position of head of F Division, with the title ‘Assistant Director’, fell into Hollis’s lap.

Soon afterwards, Hollis was out of action because of a recurrence of his tuberculosis. Pincher records his succumbing as occurring in November 1941 (a date that should not be trusted), and Liddell’s next mention of Roger is not until October 7, 1942, when he records that he has returned ‘after a long illness’. Presumably F Division marched on without him. (Elsewhere, Roger Fulford is recorded as standing in for him.) Hollis was not known as a very inspiring leader: he kept information to himself, and behaved rather disdainfully towards his troops. Yet he had been keeping an eye on matters from his sanatorium. Maxwell Knight had written a paper in September 1941 titled ‘The Comintern is not dead’, thus warning of casualness in interpreting the new alliance with the Soviet Union. Apparently Petrie (and Roger Fulford) had implied that the Comintern had ceased to function. (How Curry, in his research position, and with his confidence that he understood the communist threat as well as anyone, had contributed to that idea is not stated. Stalin did not formally dismantle the Comintern until 1943, and that move was a bluff.) Pincher reported that, on July 6, 1942, Petrie passed to the Home Office and the Foreign Office a memo from Hollis on the subject, showing that he must have been cogitating from his sick-bay.

That diary entry for October 7 shows that Liddell and Hollis were well alive to the danger, and were resisting Petrie’s complacency. It includes this passage: “Neither Hollis nor I think that there is any evidence to show that the policy of the Soviet Govt. and the Comintern has changed one iota. Clearly the second front campaign is dictated from Moscow. Whether the instructions come by courier or through the Embassy makes no difference. There is no doubt that the Russians are taking every possible advantage of the present situation to dig themselves in and that they will cause us a great deal of trouble when the war is over.” And a few weeks later Liddell writes (on October 27): “Roger Hollis came to talk to me about the Communists. We appear at the moment to be extremely well informed about their activities. There is no doubt that they are trying to make hay while the sun shines, and serious efforts are being made to penetrate the armed forces.” There is an irony about this: by ‘Communists’, Hollis no doubt means the CPGB, since he and his fellow-officers were obviously not well-informed about the activities of the penetration agents.

While Hollis had been away, furious arguments had been going on about the ACE (Amalgamation of Counter-Espionage) project, an initiative to combine the CE forces of MI5 and MI6 into one unit, which had been provoked by the phenomenon of MI6’s (and SOE’s) agents arriving in the country, and thus immediately coming under MI5’s bailiwick. MI6 resented the intrusion, and was protective of them. On the other hand, MI5 did not trust MI6’s records, and insisted on interrogating possibly dubious characters who arrived at the London Reception Centre in Wandsworth. Memoranda were exchanged between (predominantly) Petrie and Vivian. Liddell and White judged that Petrie did not acquit himself well, and there were obvious concerns on both sides about which service would take control if there were some sort of merger. Claude Dansey was a malign influence in the background. Hollis had largely escaped this controversy, as if the challenges of overlap in counter-espionage were restricted to the threats of disguised German agents, but as 1943 drew on, the subterranean threat from Soviet communism moved closer to the surface.

In March 1943, Section V of MI6 actually asked for Hollis’s help in providing someone versed in communism to help them. And, later that month, a meeting between Hollis, ‘Tar’ Robertson and White expressed concern about how Hollis should contribute to the monthly report on MI5’s activities to the Prime Minister – a recently initiated procedure, agreed to by Petrie and Duff Cooper, about which MI5 was necessarily nervous, given Churchill’s inclination to meddle. ‘How much should Hollis reveal about Soviet espionage?’ was the voiced worry, with Liddell describing it in ambiguous terms that suggested that the matter went further than CPGB intrigues. Liddell noted it as follows: “I had a talk with Hollis about doing something more about Soviet espionage. There is no doubt to my mind that it is going on and that sooner or later we shall be expected to know about it. On the other hand if we take action and get found out there will be an appalling stink. Hollis and I are going to discuss the matter with Loxley on Monday.”

This may have been referring solely to the David Springhall affair. After being surveilled for a while, Springhall was arrested in June when caught red-handed with a document provided by Olive Shehan in the Air Ministry, but the nervousness and indecision suggest darker subversions. Liddell senses that more is going on than MI5 can confirm, and it could be interpreted to mean that the espionage may go beyond disclosures by CPGB members to Soviet Embassy officials to hostile acts undertaken by the Soviets themselves. It is impossible to tell, although, much later, in a diary entry for February 3, 1947, when Liddell recorded his view that Blackett should not be on the Scientific Advisory Panel for the London Controlling Section, he strongly intimated that Blackett had passed confidential material to Springhall. In any event, Liddell appears, however, to be torn between conflicting objectives: investigating possible Soviet espionage might lead to obloquy if such ventures were detected, given the sensitive relationship with Soviet Union as an ally, and its ongoing claims that Britain was being dilatory over the ‘Second Front’. On the other hand, if MI5 did nothing, it would likewise be criticized for ignoring a durable threat. Peter Loxley was a well-respected ally in the Home Office (and lost his life in an air-crash on the way to Yalta in 1945). Maybe Liddell did not trust Petrie to try to gain a clearer statement of policy from the Prime Minister himself.

‘Churchill’s Spy Files’

As it turned out, Hollis was excluded from the list of officers who provided reports, and Petrie took it on himself to summarize the Springhall affair for Churchill. Nigel West’s compilation titled Churchill’s Spy Files shows that the reports focused almost exclusively on Nazi espionage, and especially the exploits of the ‘double agents’. Petrie’s brief accounts of the Springhall episodes describe how he and other CPGB members were disclosing secrets to the Soviet Embassy, but Petrie is careful to point out that the danger to British security comes from the undeniable loyalty to Soviet Russia of CPGB members, and makes no mention of externally driven espionage – such as might have been pursued from Krivitsky onwards. I also point out here that the officer entrusted with gathering all the information for the monthly report was Guy Liddell’s assistant, Anthony Blunt.

Hollis was certainly alive to the multi-headed communist threat. He knew that the Fighting French were riddled with communists, and looked for guidance as to how to warn them of the fact, given that they seemed insouciant. On June 7, 1943, he told Liddell that he wanted telephone checks and special facilities on certain doubtful members of the Russian Trade Federation, who were probably roaming around stealing industrial secrets. He was closely involved with the Springhall trial, its security implications, and its aftermath, and he tracked how Springhall’s diary led to the identification of Ann Greeson and Ray Milne, a Soviet loyalist in Section V of MI6, who was in due course dismissed, and to the SOE spy Desmond Uren. (I cover more deeply Hollis’s actions during the Springhall investigation below, under ‘Other Archival Sources’.)

The end of the year saw Liddell and Hollis discussing succession-planning, with Liddell starting to campaign for himself as Petrie’s successor, and recording that both White and Hollis judged that he was the right man for the job. (Harker, while nominally deputy, had discredited himself in the early days of the Security Executive.) Hollis had opinions of his own – specifically on Maxwell Knight’s organization. He deemed that Knight had in general done a good job running his agents, but was too removed from the action in his Dolphin Square fastness. It appears that Hollis also disapproved of some of the enticement efforts undertaken by Knight’s intrusions into fascist cells. Liddell had brought up the Marita [Perigoe] case, expressing the desirability of flushing out such dangerous persons, and Hollis perhaps shows here a depth of character otherwise concealed. Liddell writes (October 4): “Roger’s view is that the country is full of evilly-intentioned persons but that there is no necessity to drag them out of their holes. They had much better be left to rot in obscurity, and will be swamped by the common sense of the community as a whole.”

In fact, Hollis was so concerned about the isolation of Knight’s group that he wrote a paper in November, claiming that it was completely out of touch with F Division. He stated that he had not seen Knight for three months – but does not explain why he had not himself made overtures. That was characteristic. Hollis often waited for people to approach him rather than taking initiatives himself – and he suffered from some of the same traits of not adequately mingling with his own people (‘Management by Walking Around’ it was called in the 1980s), or engaging with other officers. Liddell appeared to agree with Hollis that Knight’s agents should be managed by a relevant officer from F Division, but again, Liddell must have been equally responsible for not approaching Knight directly. On November 29 Hollis came up with an example where Knight’s agents wasted time on a known miscreant, a stateless Russian who was known for telling everyone that he was an agent of the OGPU, and he pointed out that Knight should have consulted him.

Post-war reorganization dominated discussions in 1944. Curry continued his prima donna poses, wanting to enjoy seniority over White and Hollis, not realizing his zenith was over. According to Hollis, Curry wanted to keep on working with the ISCOT project (decrypted Comintern messages from Eastern Europe) when Hollis himself had set his eyes on owning it. Hollis was also under pressure from MI6, who wanted to annex F Division, and he had written up some original ideas for the amalgamation of MI5 and MI6’s Sections V and IX, recommending they be housed in one building, with a shared registry, but separate managements. Hollis seems to be leading the debate, and influencing Liddell, although Liddell shows a rather naïve opinion on how the Soviets might plan to use the CPGB to apply pressure on the Government.

No doubt concerned about his own future, Hollis also made some territorial moves of his own. In a cryptic diary entry for September 26, 1944, Liddell wrote that Hollis had approached him about ‘taking over B.4a and the formation of a renegade section under Shelford’. It is clear that it was not the section itself that was renegade, but the class of defaulter that would be tracked. Under Hollis, Shelford led F3, which bore the rather ponderous title of ‘Fascist, Right Wing, Pacifist and Nationalist Movements, pro-German and Defeatists’ and whose job may well have been less onerous by then. Seymer may have replaced Jock Whyte in B4a (‘Escaped Prisoners of War and Evaders’ – hence the ‘Renegades’), and Hollis might have made a good case that this group did not belong under ‘Espionage’, and had more of an affiliation to F3’s work. Liddell managed to convince Hollis that there was no special value in getting Shelford and Seymer collaborating in the same room, and the matter was dropped pending a proposal to Petrie. Ominously, on November 27, Blunt approached Liddell seeking assistance from Hugh Shillito, who worked for Hollis. Hollis responded to this by telling Liddell that Shillito was ‘lazy’, and therefore of not much use to Blunt. Was this a feint? Shillito had earlier shown himself to be more perspicacious and eager than his senior officers in investigation into the Beurton affair, and he had been congratulated by Hollis on his report on Green, but was discouraged from following up further. It is difficult to discern exactly what games were being played here.

Hollis does not come off well in the final months of the war. Curry was still after his job. Hollis might have had an ally in Jane Archer, however. Jane brought over from MI6 to Hollis (rather than to White or to Liddell or even Cury) her report on the ISCOT decryptions, and Hollis presented it to Liddell on March 30, 1945. Despite Hollis’s professed desire to take over the project, it seems a formality rather than based on any idea that Hollis might have insights into the Communist Internal Liquidation Committee, which, as Liddell pointed out, had replaced the Comintern. Yet Hollis had other staff problems. In April, he said that he wanted to get rid of Shillito, and then the redoubtable Milicent Bagot expressed her frustrations with working for Hollis, saying that she wanted to join the Austrian Control Commission. Hollis would not stand in her way. Perhaps he had given up on his own future: he even suggested that Russian espionage should be handed back to B Division (despite the fact that White claimed that he had never relinquished it completely). Again, there may be confusion between CPGB-based espionage and more clandestine Soviet agents: Liddell again showed his naivety by indicating that all Soviet espionage occurred through the Party. In any case, where Soviet counter-espionage went, Bagot should have followed. Right at the end of the war, John Marriott expressed his frustrations with working for Hollis: it seemed that his boss kept too much close to his chest, and was not easily approachable. It was not a very distinguished performance by Hollis and Liddell as the war wound down.

Other Archival Sources

In my analysis above, I have used the single Fuchs file from this period (KV 2/1245) to show Hollis’s actions (or inactions). The other major items of evidence are the substantial collection of files on Douglas (‘Dave’) Springhall (KV 2/1594-1598, and KV 2/2063-2065), and a file on the challenge of known communists working on secret government work (KV 4/251). I also inspect the Home Office file on the suppression of the Daily Worker (HO 144/21540), which event excited Chapman Pincher when he considered the friendship between Hollis and Claud Cockburn. The Kuczynski files (specifically KV 2/1871-1877 for this period) are remarkable for Hollis’s complete absence from the scene. Milicent Bagot industriously tracks all of Jürgen Kuczynski’s movements (while his mail is also intercepted), but, even after Hollis returns from convalescence, Bagot handles everything, including granting explicit permission for Kuczynski to be recruited by the USAF as a statistician. The Engelbert Broda material, in KV 2/2349-2354 includes a few provocative items. A short item in the file of George and Edith Whomack (KV 2/1238) is also worth noting. These excerpts are by no means inclusive, but they should be representative. (I encourage any reader who has tracked other significant actions by Hollis to contact me.)

David Springhall

Douglas ('Dave') Springhall
Dave Springhall

The Springhall case was a coup for F Division, exploited by Hollis to highlight the insidious nature of the CPGB, and the misplaced loyalties of its members – not that those phenomena should have been of any surprise, but the conviction proved to be a propaganda opportunity with the British public. Springhall had been a very obvious, militant communist rabble-rouser for years, and had been closely monitored. Hollis appended his initials, as F2a (actually W. Ogilvie), in a memorandum to Special Branch, on December 11, 1941, advising the unit of Springhall’s change of address. Matters began to heat up in early 1943, when the Home Office showed renewed interest in Springhall’s activities. Hollis provided evidence to Sir Alexander Maxwell of Springhall’s visit to the Soviet Union in August-September 1939. Because of the close surveillance, Springhall’s clumsiness, and the sharpness of the flat-sharers of his informant Olive Shehan, Springhall was caught in the act of receiving confidential documents concerning the RAF’s ‘Window’ project.

On June 6, Hollis wrote a detailed report describing the circumstances around the decision to arrest Olive Shehan, with Special Branch and Major Cussen of the MI5 legal team. By June 18, Springhall had been arrested as well, and Hollis effectively handed the case over to Sir Frank Newsam in the Home Office. Thereafter, Hollis’s role was to negotiate with such bodies as the Air Ministry, the Home Office, the Foreign Office and SIS over the nature of Springhall’s trial, whether it should be held in camera, how much publicity should be given to it, and, afterwards, how to use the conviction for propaganda purposes. On June 24, he accompanied Petrie and Harker to the Foreign Office, where Alexander Cadogan gave them a very enigmatic opinion about the implications for relations with the Soviets. The detailed analysis and follow-up were very competently managed by David Clarke of F2a (that same person highlighted by Christopher Andrew), who presented detailed reports on the findings arising from a study of Springhall’s diary, and the activities of his friends (such as Peter Astbury). His outstanding report of August 25, 1943, can be seen on page 16 of KV 2/1596-1.

The Communist Clamp-Down

As for the project to transfer communists from sensitive government positions, the record (in KV 4/251) shows how Hollis was prompted to use the Springhall case to effect a clamp-down on communists in sensitive government positions, but was frustrated by Petrie’s caution, and by Churchill’s meddling. [This section is effectively a re-statement of how I earlier represented Andrew’s analysis of the matter.] Yet other paradoxes remain. Hollis engaged Duff Cooper, then Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster, to present his case to the Prime Minister. In Cooper’s report appears this sentence: “Attached to this memorandum is a list of known members of the Communist Party employed on secret work in various Government Departments or in the Services, from which it will be seen that their net is very wide.” The offering contains no list of members, however: instead it lists all the affected departments, with a number opposite indicating how many CP members were known to be working for it. In a separate note of October 28, Hollis records that he handed to Cooper the list of names of the relevant Communists, thus indicating that the material needed to be kept confidential.

Cooper’s submission is accompanied by a report from David Clarke, dated October 21, 1943. Its overall tone is almost apologetic. It points out how the vetting system may have failed, but that the mishaps may have been due to out-of-date information. It records how risky decisions had sometimes been made in favour of dubious persons (specifically mentioning Professor Haldane), and points out that MI5 was frequently not informed of the nature of the secret work, precisely because it was ‘secret’. It declares that much ‘secret’ work has been carried out by private undertakings, such as I.C.I., and thus remains outside the vetting process. It stresses the loopholes that exist in vetting recruits for the Armed Forces. While describing the extent of the problem, however, Clarke carefully suggests that the exposure is primarily one of the CPGB’s gaining information illegally to further its own objectives. It never indicates that the Soviet government has been behind any such schemes of espionage, although it admits that it may have benefitted from being passed such information illicitly.

Cooper’s memorandum, in one of the additions inserted on Hollis’s recommendation, makes a stronger claim about the role of the CPGB in espionage: “Though the Communist Party disclaimed all knowledge of Springhall’s activities, it is known that in fact the Party machine is regularly used for espionage and that this has continued since the conviction of Springhall.” This was a weaselly and provocative assertion by Hollis. The passive ‘it is known’ calls out for a ‘by whom?’ If MI5 knows about the continuing espionage, why has it done nothing about it? In what forum has the CPGB disclaimed all knowledge, and how should that intelligence be interpreted? Neither Cooper nor Hollis appears to have been challenged over these opinions. That assertion about the Party’s continuing involvement in espionage, apparently invented by Hollis on the spur of the moment, never appears in Clarke’s submission.

Moreover, Clarke wrote a very deep and insightful report on August 25 (viewable on page 16 of KV 2/1596-1, and well worth reading) that provided support for the theory that the CPGB (‘King Street’) had not been aware of Springhall’s network, and that it strongly disapproved of it when he was arrested. MI5 had various means of tapping what the CPGB leaders were saying to each other, and Clarke’s introduction to his section ‘Soviet Espionage’ starts off as follows: “Although Springhall denied that he had any organization for his contacts, Pollitt is convinced that a special apparatus exists in this country for Soviet espionage. He has expressed his determination to get to the bottom of it and to cut the Party away from it. The use of Springhall as an agent has aroused considerable animosity against the Embassy among certain Party leaders. According to Pollitt the trial has caused some perturbation among Embassy officials.” All this seems to confirm that Springall was a rogue agent, acting without authority, whose escapades embarrassed both the CPGB and the Soviet Embassy.

Thus Hollis surely had some motive in ascribing to the CPGB an involvement in espionage that it did not deserve. Maybe he hoped that that formulation would aid his cause of taking Communists out. Perhaps he thought that such a framing of the proposal would distract attention away from the vaguer knowledge that agents well distanced from the CPGB were involved in dangerous espionage. In any event, his appeals met with resistance. Petrie was a cautionary advisor at his shoulder, as was Herbert Morrison, the Home Secretary, who performed a classic piece of fence-sitting. The Home Office and the Prime Minister were against any type of publicity for the initiative. Furthermore, Churchill wanted to replace the authority of MI5 with a panel led by members of the Security Executive, which Hollis and Petrie considered a bureaucratic nightmare, as the panel would require justifications of accusations made by MI5, while the Security Service would be reluctant to disclose from what ‘secret sources’ it gained its intelligence. The panel idea fizzled on throughout 1944. Hollis reported to Petrie, in November 1944, on Clarke’s deeper investigations into ‘certain high-class secret groups of the Communist Party’. Petrie noted that ‘we must proceed with the utmost caution’.

Engelbert Broda

Engelbert Broda

The contemporary case of Engelbert Broda is also enlightening. I earlier pointed out that Brinson and Dove inexplicably misrepresented the facts. They notoriously recorded that Hollis had been opposed to applying surveillance on Broda, even though he was probably passing on confidential information on the Tube Alloys project to the Soviet Union (July 7, 1943, in KV 2350/1). Hollis was responding to a request for verification on Broda from Captain Bennett in D2, since Broda’s employer, the DSIR (Department of Scientific and Industrial Research), had started to have misgivings about him. Moreover, Broda had been involved with more sensitive work recently. It is worth citing what Hollis said earlier in his note, citing records of the Broda case that appears in the file: “These show that the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research was warned of BRODA’s history, and that in spite of this took the responsibility of employing him, stating at the time that he would not be employed on the more secret part of the work. Apparently this latter undertaking has now been broken.” In other words – why does the DSIR not simply take action now, instead of coming crawling to us? Hollis’s late reasoning is nevertheless a bit perverse: he recommends that the DSIR might not want to fire Broda, as it might ‘embitter’ him. ‘Who would care?’, one might say: it would be better than continuing to nourish a snake in the grass.

These facts can be verified by earlier exchanges. Despite warnings from MI5, Sir Edward Appleton, the Secretary of the DSIR, declared in December 1941 that ‘the exigencies of this Department do override objections on security grounds to Mr. Broda’s employment on the work for which his services are desired; and that it is essential to ask that a permit may be issued accordingly for his employment by the University of Cambridge in the Cavendish Laboratory.’ He added that Broda would not be employed on the more secret part of the project. When the matter of his continued employment first came up in May 1943, Milicent Bagot (F2B) wrote: “There is evidence from his lectures that BRODA has followed the regular Party line both before and since the entry of Russia into the war. There is, therefore, a definite risk that any information that BRODA may get will be passed on to the Communists.”  One cannot be surprised that Hollis would express his frustrations over the obtuseness of the bureaucrats. Yet it is also astonishing why academics like Brinson and Rose would overlook such obvious facts.

George Whomack

In comparison with the Broda business, the incident with George Whomack is trivial. Whomack, who had been convicted alongside Percy Glading in the Woolwich Arsenal spy case, had been released from prison at the end of 1940. KV 2/1238 shows that, early in February 1941, the Bexley Labour Exchange had passed Whomack on to a firm called Napier’s, which made aircraft engines. The Exchange had then informed his employer that it had discovered that Whomack had served two years in gaol for espionage. Joe Archer (D3, the husband of Jane), responsible for RAF liaison, was not happy. On February 22, he registered his strong protest to Hollis in B4 at the exposure invoked when MI5 allowed convicted spies to be employed in munitions factories, and he described the firm’s ‘indignant’ reaction. Hollis had to apologize, admitting that he had failed to ask Special Branch to keep a watch on Whomack (although he had done so with Williams). He explained how difficult it was, in any case, to keep track of such released prisoners unless MI5 took the Labour Exchanges into their confidence. This was a rather sophistical argument by Hollis: the problem was convicted spies with Communist backgrounds, not simple felons. Yet his error would appear to be mere carelessness and oversight rather than malicious intent. If Hollis had really been a Soviet agent, he surely would not have made such a self-evident and revealing decision!

Claud Cockburn and ‘The Week’

Claud Cockburn

Claud Cockburn had been in MI5’s sights for years. His PF, specifically KV 2/1552, shows that, at about the time war broke out, he was not considered particularly harmful. An anonymous and note in that file, undated (but surely created in August 1939), in the context of positioning Cockburn’s weekly newsletter The Week, runs as follows: “Cockburn is an important member of the Communist Party and is said to be closely connected with the Western European Bureau of the Comintern. It is certain that he has large number of very knowledgeable contacts in this country and on the continent, and he is general well-informed. The Week is written from a left-wing angle, but it is not openly communist. It has been issued regularly since March, 1933, and so far nothing to which we could take exception has been published in it.”

This is rather feeble and provocative item, to my mind. For whose eyes was it intended? Since Cockburn was an important member of the Communist Party, what was the distinction between ‘a left-wing angle’ and a Communist line? What would make its opinions ‘openly’ communist? Why the passive ‘it is said’? Does MI5 not have firmer intelligence than this? Why is there no concern expressed about his ‘very knowledgeable contacts’ in the UK? Yet the fact that the author reports that MI5 has been tracking The Week for six years – apparently without dismay – suggests that it was not written by Hollis, who had, after all, been with the Service for only just over a year, and would not have been entrusted with making such a judgment.

By then, The Week was expanding its distribution, and had been available in the USA since July 1939. Complaints started arriving that autumn, and in November MI7 (a Military Intelligence section), distressed by an article written by Cockburn in the Daily Worker, wrote to Hollis asking why ‘this stuff’ was not being suppressed. Hollis replied that MI5 had taken up the matter with the Foreign Office and the Home Office, but he did not state the obvious – the fact that MI5 was not in the business of censorship. Hollis issued a modified version of the August note on January 9, 1940. Two weeks later, he wrote to Frank Newsam in the Home Office, advising against Cockburn’s being allowed to visit Finland, declaring that MI5 believes that he is a member of the Comintern, and signing off by stating that ‘Cockburn is in our opinion one of the most dangerous members of the Communist Party in this country  . . .’ That was pretty forthright.

Yet Hollis was not the only MI5 officer involved. On March 13, the US Embassy complained to Guy Liddell, who in turn (as B4b!) asked Gladwyn Jebb in the Foreign Office whether Cockburn’s cables to the USA were being given preferential treatment. On April 8, Director-General Vernon Kell informed the Commissioner of Police in Trinidad that The Week had not so far ‘given the censors any cause for complaint’. On April 16, Lord Halifax, the Foreign Secretary, wrote to Sir John Reith at the Ministry of Information, requesting tighter censorship procedures. Jebb replied to Liddell on April 20, saying that the Foreign Office was not responsible for censorship. On May 6, Kell informed the Defence Security officer in Hong Kong that MI5 had ‘no objection to the circulation of The Week’: his letter mysteriously went out under Hollis’s signature, but he must have approved it, even though, apart from alerting the Home Office to possible leaks of information on May 15, it may have been one of his last acts as D-G. He echoed that opinion on May 28 to the Inspector-General of Police in Singapore, and likewise to the Commissioner of Police in Kenya on June 10.

By July, Jasper Harker had taken charge. On July 12, Maxwell in the Home Office informed Harker that the Home Secretary (John Anderson) was under some pressure to stop the publication of The Week, possibly by interning Cockburn, and asked Harker whether he could send Anderson a report on him. Harker advised caution: Cockburn’s detention would cause ‘a good deal of trouble in journalistic circles’, although Cockburn would be on the list for immediate arrest should the Communist Party be banned. He recommended that Defence Regulation 2C or 2D should be invoked if the Home Office wanted to stop The Week. On October 11, Hollis declared to the Home Office that he had conferred with the legal people at MI5, who had opined that certain passages from The Week amounted to sedition under Common law. Hollis called for checks to be applied to Cockburn, and he added that MI5’s legal section was contacting the Director of Public Prosecutions. The DPP was cautious, trying to pass the buck to the Secretary of State to apply Regulation 2D. Everyone appeared to be wary of being the first to exploit the emergency powers that had been granted. On October 25, the Home Secretary decided that prosecution for seditious libel against Cockburn would not do any good.

The next item in the file is a copy of a letter to his subscribers by Cockburn, dated January 31, 1941, which explains that The Week has been suppressed by the Home Secretary under Regulation 2D. I thus turn now to HO 144/21540, which covers a variety of possibly seditious and anti-war activities. By late 1940, several ministries had become concerned about the number of communist leaflets that were being distributed outside factories, and in general assemblies, and at a meeting of the Security Executive on January 25, it was unanimously recommended that the Daily Worker be suppressed, but that the Communist Party itself not be banned. Curiously, another note records, on January 23, that the War Cabinet had already decided, before January 17, to suppress the newspaper. This memorandum reflects the fact that the procedure to enforce it had been discussed with Mr. Hollis of M.I.5., with others. This is the only occasion when Hollis’s name appears in the file.

What is extraordinary is the fact that W. J. West relies exclusively on HO 144/21540 for his accusations against Hollis, including an assumed request in 1940, when the Security Executive sent a strong request to Harker, requesting immediate action over a seditious article in the Daily Worker. According to West, who quoted the words of Harker from an undated memorandum, Harker replied that nothing could be done, referring to a file that indicated that nothing published ‘could be produced in court as evidence about the secret machinations of the communist party’. West illogically goes on to suggest that this statement shows that Hollis was keeping direct control over Cockburn’s file, or was even using him as an agent. He affirms that Hollis continually objected to the ban, but provides no evidence. Yet HO 144/21540 contains no such item: either the file has been severely bowdlerized since West saw it, or he was shown extracts that may have derived from other files – such as those belonging to the Security Executive. The absence of any decision on The Week in the records of HO 144/21540 suggests that West may well have been shown other material, and then blurred his story to protect his sources. (In his Preface, he claims that all the documents he cites have been derived from files made publicly available in four sets of National Archives.)

In any case, the range of opinions articulated by other MI5 officers shows that Hollis was not an independent instrument with a unique ability to contradict and confound the judgments of his superiors. Whether he was truly honest over his relationship with Cockburn, or even warned him about the investigation, is hard to tell, but for an apprentice agent for the Soviet Union to stick his neck out over such a matter, and presumably gain only disdain and disapproval from his superior officers at the beginning of his career, would have been quite absurd. On the other hand, it is clear that Pincher deliberately ignored the evidence in Cockburn’s PF because it was inconvenient to his story, while West, who did not have access to that same file, elaborated his own account out of faulty record-keeping, or because he was leaked information by someone who wanted to blacken Hollis’s reputation. And, of course, HO 144/21540 (which has enjoyed a convoluted history) may well have been weeded since its original release – a date that is not shown in the registry of the archives.

Incidentally, Churchill rescinded the ban on the Daily Worker in February 1942, and a similar decision allowed The Week to resume publication later that year.


Conclusions

  1. Roger Hollis spent a workmanlike but undistinguished career during World War II. 1940 was spent on relatively mundane tasks after the transfer of Jane Archer in September 1939. In 1941 he had to come to grips with Petrie’s re-organization. He was absent sick for most of 1942. 1943 was dominated by Springhall, Fuchs, and the renewed attention to the CPGB. 1944 and 1945 were consumed by preparation for post-war organization. Hollis showed no sign of potential Director-General material, nor did he offer any evidence that he was a deep penetration agent for Soviet intelligence.
  2. Hollis’s instincts were in the right place, but he did not give indications that he was a profound thinker. He may have struggled orally, and he probably preferred to marshal his ideas in written format. At least, Guy Liddell liked some of his reports. Hollis made a number of errors in logical thinking in his reactions to events.
  3. Hollis was not a good personnel manager. He was aloof and often unapproachable. It seems that he misjudged the talent he had working for him, such as in his opinions of Shillito. When he was in charge of F Division, it would have been highly irresponsible if he had allowed Milicent Bagot (who must have been frustrated that her warnings were ignored) to leave the service. Hollis showed a lack of engagement with Bagot as she tried to unravel the malign influences of Soviet intelligence, surely because he considered that she was going beyond her charter.
  4. As the war drew to its close, Hollis rightly started to be concerned about his future. Fortunately, he had an ally in Jane Archer, and Guy Liddell seemed to appreciate his insights and underplay his weaknesses, which worked in his favour.
  5. The September 1939 break-up of B4 into the highly strategic B14 unit and a new, stripped-down B4a is highly significant, but has been ignored by all historians. Hollis’s B4a was left with a more mundane mission investigating possible subversion in British institutions: moreover, he was not responsible for Miss Bagot’s more strategic B4b. The clandestine way in which B14 was set up, and then dissolved, points to alarming equivocation by Liddell and White (whose fingerprints are on the schemes). The saga undermines the whole Pincher story.
  6. It is clear that Soviet counter-espionage was badly mismanaged beyond those events, and throughout the war. Petrie and Liddell admitted it. Hollis was given neither the directive nor the resources to tackle the broader threat, and his energies were focused on the activities of the CPGB and other subversive groups. Dick White managed his own unit watching Communist agents. Petrie was in close contact with Hollis throughout the war: if he had wanted Hollis to perform otherwise, he would have directed him to do so.
  7. The evidence above reinforces the idea that a cabal of senior officers in MI5 withheld information from their junior officers, leading to much wasted time and frustration. Apart from the Philby, Blunt and Burgess fiasco, the circumstances of the Beurtons, Kuczynskis, and Klaus Fuchs confirm that some secrets were too sensitive to be shared with the troops responsible for carrying out the real investigations.
  8. Petrie and Hollis were nervous about upsetting the ministries over communist suppression. After Barbarossa, government ministries were much more indulgent towards useful scientists with communist backgrounds. In addition, the government bureaucracies showed a great deal of pusillanimity in handling troublesome situations, unwilling to take the bull by the horns, and keen to pass decisions on elsewhere. That behaviour was totally different from how the Nazis or the Communists behaved, but it was in the cause of such pluralist muddle that the war was being waged.
  9. Chapman Pincher was a charlatan: his poisonous attacks performed long-lasting damage.

Lastly, for those who have not yet seen them, I direct readers to my verses on Liddell and Hollis, at https://coldspur.com/the-diary-of-a-counter-espionage-officer/.

(This month’s Commonplace entries can be seen here.)

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Filed under Espionage/Intelligence, Management/Leadership, Politics, Warfare

Summer 2025 Round-Up

Contents:

  1. Publicity
  2. Richard Davenport-Hines
  3. The coldspur Library Project
  4. Blunt Lessons
  5. Detective Work
  6. Roger Hollis in Australia
  7. VENONA
  8. Victor and Venetia (continued)
  9. Car accidents?
  10. The Illegals
  11. ‘Murder in Cairo’
  12. Other Books Read
  13. Ethnicity
  14. British Magazines

Publicity

Every week, I receive several unsolicited emails from around the world, coming from consultants who have discovered coldspur, and want to improve my SEO (Search Engine Optimization) performance. The messages follow a regular pattern: the firms have detected multiple errors on my site, with their help I could vastly improve coldspur’s rankings with Google and other search engines, and I could therefore dramatically increase the number of visitors as well as the revenue derived from them. They all want me to respond by requesting a cost proposal. Fortunately all these messages go into my Spam folder, and individually they trouble me no more.

Yet I believe these outfits would not have noticed coldspur unless it had already cropped up frequently in search engines. These chaps have clearly not even looked at what I publish, since they would have realized that the tight editorial procedures imposed by the coldspur team mean that coldspur does not contain errors – and if one or two do slip through, they are quickly rectified. Moreover, if they had spent only a cursory glance at the coldspur format, content and delivery, they would have understood that it is a vanity project, with no advertising, and no subscription service, and thus carries no opportunity for increasing revenue. Lastly, I believe that coldspur already ranks very highly with search engines. For example, I have just typed in to the Google search bar ‘Missing Diplomats’, and the first relevant item listed is a page from coldspur. I next typed in ‘Peter Smolka’, and coldspur appears second, after the Wikipedia entry. That looks to me as if my reports are receiving due attention. Or is some kind of AI bot gratifying me? Is this the experience of others? ( I suspect Google results vary from country to country, and maybe by user.)

Thus I do not think that my visit to the UK in September is going to make much difference to the visibility of coldspur. I had vaguely thought about putting some effort into arranging further talks around the one arranged at Whitgift School, in order to help publicize my research, but I am not now going to bother. I have been let down in this area before. Readers may recall the nonsense with the University of Aberystwyth a few years ago, as well as the incident of the Norwegian professor who last summer promised me a slot in Oslo to talk about the PB614 disaster at Nesbyen. Stimulated by his enthusiasm, I started to make plans in the UK, and then his deal fell through. Earlier this year, I was grossly insulted by the Friends of the National Archives (who completely ignored me), the Friends of the Bodleian are too busy, and after four weeks of waiting for Christ Church to respond to my offer to speak on Dick White, I have given up in disgust. I shall probably abbreviate the length of my stay by a few days, and simply enjoy meeting individual friends and contacts, and maybe visiting one or two archives or museums – especially the MI5 exhibition at the National Archives, which is reported to be displaying some special items on Philby ‘loaned’ from MI5.

Richard Davenport-Hines

Richard Davenport-Hines

Readers will recall my expressed frustration with trying to get in touch with the renowned historian, biographer and critic Richard Davenport-Hines. The Times Literary Supplement had published a letter from him on the Borodin business, and, in a correspondence with the Letters Editor at the weekly, I had sought an introduction so that I could discover what the source of Davenport-Hines’s very fragmentary – and dubious – evidence was. I had worked out that D-H had discovered my review of Agent Sonya, but he declined to contact me. Eventually, however, I was able to get an alternative email address from an acquaintance of his, and I was very gratified to receive a response from him. Sadly, D-H had undergone a stroke, which had affected his memory, and he apologized to me, since he had assumed that he had already communicated with me.

In the meantime, I had stumbled upon the source of his intelligence – some items at the front of the Goronwy Rees file that I had overlooked beforehand. I had not come across the Borodin affair when I first studied the file, and those components had meant nothing to me at that time. Since then I have discovered much more about the very bizarre goings-on involving Guy Liddell, Goronwy Rees, Guy Burgess and Anthony Blunt and the attempted disinformation campaign (as I am confident it was) to deceive the Soviet Union, as well as details of how the 1949 Conference at Worcester College, Oxford was set up, and what its detailed agenda was. These details are all to be found in Guy Burgess’s Personal Files, and I shall report on them at a later date. I was happy to explain my ignorance to D-H, pointing to my coldspur posts to demonstrate why I thought much more sinister activities were afoot.

D-H was gratifyingly very positive about my research. I was amazed that the first paragraph of his message to me was: “What a wonderful source Coldspur is! I have been reading through it, & have learnt much, & been given much to think about. I had consulted Coldspur in the past, but because of my brain damage, had forgotten all about it: I won’t forget again: it is too good to miss.” He went on to compliment me on Misdefending the Realm: “Your mastery of the sources, and your fairness in evaluating them, is first-rate,” and he went on to encourage me to get the Borodin story published in a book, since it was ‘very original stuff’. We exchanged some thoughts about Donald Maclean and David Footman, but the exchange has since died out. No matter: I am enormously pleased that such a celebrated expert should have recognized my contributions to intelligence research, and just deeply sorry that his skills as an analyst and story-teller may have been impaired by his disability. Here I publicly wish him a full recovery.

He is not the only coldspur-reader who has urged me to write another book. Yet I doubt that will happen. After my last experience, when I had to do practically everything myself (even ordering a review copy from amazon.uk for the TLS since my publisher had gone on holiday to India without informing me), I do not really want to embark on another book-production venture, with no agent and no publisher, and being domiciled 3,500 miles from the action. The opportunity cost of tidying-up, repackaging, index and sourcing one of my major stories in the hope that a publisher would accept it is too high. I have too many other projects that I wish to address before I shuffle away in my slippers, hang up my boots, or pop my clogs. My stuff will continue to appear on coldspur – subject to the accessibility of my library.

The coldspur Library Project

‘The Percy Family Support Fund’

Progress has been made in transporting books from my library to the Percy Family Special Collection at the University of North Carolina in Wilmington. In January, a team arrived at my house to box up over a thousand volumes – items not critical for my ongoing research, but still significant. (I have already reached out for a volume of the old Dictionary of National Biography only to be reminded that that set was included in the first shipment). At the end of this month, a further two thousand books – history, biography, poetry, miscellaneous –  were boxed up and transported. It is with mixed feelings that I see the departure of these items: I have to keep telling myself that this is what I wanted. It was my strong desire to see my collection housed properly in an academic institution, but I shall adjust poorly to trying to work when I can no longer have immediate access to a vital publication. Eventually even the ‘core’ component of one or two thousand books on intelligence and espionage will have to go too, and my ability to perform my traditional research will dissipate. A visit to the university, thirty-five miles away, will have to be carefully planned so that I shall be able to access efficiently what I need.

Thus I can envisage the day – perhaps at the end of 2026, when I shall have entered my eighty-first year – when the nature of coldspur will change. I may then focus on shorter analyses of digitized archives, and on book reviews, and not attempt such deep, multi-dimensional analysis. I may concentrate on more autobiographical entries, and gradually wind the blog down. Yet the whole purpose of the exercise is to ensure that the coldspur archive, already over three million words almost exclusively on intelligence matters, will be permanently available. Not only will my library be available for visitors, but an electronic portal will be constructed that will introduce visitors to my research, and provided indexes to other paper archival material (articles, letters, magazines, clippings, etc.) as well as the vast electronic vault of information (notes to books, registers of personalities in intelligence, summaries of archival meta-data, articles and other digitized information, photographs of undigitized archives, correspondence with other researchers and historians, etc., etc. as well as my ‘Crown Jewels’, the enormous Chronology of Events for the twentieth century that comprises over four hundred pages of line entries on Word, with sources.

My objective is that, as the National Archives eventually declassify more material during the rest of this century, historians will be able to pick up my research, and extend it when they interpret the files that have been hung on to for far too long. That is why proper organization of the portal, and appropriate marketing of the facility, are essential. When future historians need to consult original published volumes on intelligence, they will find no more comprehensive collection of texts available in one place than in the Percy Family Special Collection. I have to report with some regret that I have had some problems convincing the authorities at UNCW of the seriousness of the project, but I am hopeful about sorting out such teething problems soon. In that respect, the Bodleian Library has since reacted with greater interest to my announcement from last year than has UNCW! I have been a Lifetime Friend of the Bodleian for many years now, and, in its centenary Special Edition magazine, the story of my arrangement with UNCW, and long-standing relationship with the Bodleian, were featured. (I do not believe that this periodical is on-line, but I can send a pre-release electronic version to anyone who is interested.)

Blunt Lessons

The nature of my research frequently encourages me to move towards a culmination of a particular topic, as in my recent theory about the management of the disappearance of Burgess and Maclean. Yet that is an illusion: the research process is endless, and my continuing study of the Burgess, Maclean and Blunt Personal Files has unveiled events and accounts that are vital for extended interpretation. Thus I occasionally insert fresh discoveries into what should be summary pieces. It may appear clumsy, but I am in a hurry to publish new analysis, with sources identified. Occasionally I go back and revise an earlier piece, a practice I dislike (as an anecdote below exemplifies), but I am careful to annotate where and why I have done so. That is, at least, a benefit of having control of an on-line publication.

Two recent experiences with the vast Blunt (‘Blunden’) Personal Files – KV 2/4700-4722 – highlight the challenge. I decided, in mid-May, that I needed to start work on them even though I had not finished with the Burgess and Maclean PFs. After showing a useful miscellany of pieces from 1935, KV 2/4700 starts the ‘modern era’, i.e. post-May 1951, at sn. 24f, on page 186 of 316 (working backwards). It consists of a very familiar report, ‘Concordance Of Events Immediately Before And After The Disappearance Of Burgess And Maclean On 25th May, 1951’, the original of which appears in Maclean’s PF 604558 at sn. 98z, on page 10 of KV 2/4140-2. Yet I immediately noticed an anomaly (see image below). A hand-written entry has been inserted for Burgess’s activities on the evening of May 24, reading as follows: “Talked to BLUNT privately for a long time at the Reform Club”, with a reference of PF 604582 1112 bc.

The Modified Concordance

This was rather shocking. When had that entry been made? If the fact had been known early on in the investigation, it should have provoked a serious inquisition of Blunt, in order to determine what he and Burgess had been discussing the day before the escape. This version of the report is undated, but I verified that the original was compiled by J.A. of B2B on October 14, 1952. I needed to inspect the source at 1112bc in KV 2/4720. It turned out that it derived from an interview with Squadron Leader Richard Leven undertaken on August 18, 1972. (I wrote about that encounter in last month’s coldspur.) The MI5 officer Maconachie who wrote up the meeting added, helpfully, that ‘the information that BLUNT and BURGESS had a long conversation in the Reform Club in the early evening of either day [sic] seems to be new to us.’ Who are the ‘us’, one might ask? Who in 1951 was still around in 1972? And might that information have been known at the White level, but withheld from junior officers?

In any case, I think the insertion without a date was a very irregular and irresponsible practice. It could lead a researcher to believe that the information had indeed been officially known in October 1952, and thus should have been acted on. The implications are very controversial: maybe someone decided to insert the annotation for that very reason. If Burgess had been under such strict surveillance as the rest of the record suggests, and his activities at the Reform Club closely monitored, such a meeting would have had profound significance, and Blunt should have been questioned about it. In the master schedule in KV 6/145 (which was compiled in June 1953), Blunt is indicated as being seen with Blunt at the Reform Club on May 23, and as speaking with him on the telephone at 10:00 am on May 25, but no record of the May 24 meeting is presented. In fact, it presents a conflicting dinner engagement between Burgess, Peter Pollock and Bernard Miller at the Hungarian Csardas Restaurant that evening. (Did that event really take place?) Moreover, all questioning of Blunt on his involvement with Burgess before the disappearance is restricted to the telephone call on the morning of May 25. It is outrageous that Blunt’s inquisitors had not familiarized themselves with the chronology, and had let him get away with claiming that his short meeting with Burgess on the morning of May 25 was his first exchange since the Monday of that week.

So, how to interpret the insertion? Remember, these events occurred between Blunt’s confession (1963) and his unmasking (1979), at a time when MI5 was concerned about the truth coming out. J. A. Cradock (of K7, which was responsible for investigating Soviet penetration), to whom Stella Rimington gave her report on Leven, appears confused by the chronology in his memorandum of January 3, 1973 (at sn. 1128a). Another hand-written annotation appears on it, apparently by ‘LK’, drawing attention to the ‘long talk’, but inexplicably getting the date wrong (May 25). The handwriting is the same, so LK must have been the officer who made the amendment to the Concordance in KV 2/4700. [Unfortunately, Stella Rimington makes no mention of her personal projects on Blunt, Burgess and Leven in her memoir, Open Secret.] Yet both items are undated, so it is impossible to determine when, and with what authority, the change was made. My enduring questions: “What did he or she know at that time, and what did he or she see as her task?” face perpetual challenges.

The fact that the annotation was made on a file that would not have been generally available suggests to me that it was made with high authority. Leven must have been deemed a trusted source, and LK must have judged that the omission was important enough to appear on the record, perhaps as a subtle hint that the investigation into Blunt had not been as thorough and objective as the official story told. On the other hand, the utterly careless approach to chronology is bewildering, as is the lack of open recognition that the several meetings or exchanges between Blunt and Burgess in May 1951 should have come under closer scrutiny. There must be fresh secrets to be revealed – especially when I come to unravel the antics of Peter Wright (whom Rimington did not think highly of).

The other lesson derives from an interview of Blunt carried out by Ronnie Reed and Courtenay Young on May 15, 1956 (sn. 207c in KV 2/4702). It makes painful reading: the inquisitors are anxious to extract information from Blunt without antagonizing him, which means they do not challenge him vehemently on the obvious holes in his stories. One topic does, however, appear to rattle Blunt, and that is when Courtenay Young informs Blunt that a member of British Counter-Intelligence in London had handed over to the RIS dossiers on members of the Soviet Embassy, so that they could be photographed. (Razin is not mentioned by name, but this episode clearly has its roots in the Petrov affair.) While Blunt is given time to collect his thoughts, Young interpolates that the only candidates who had access, and were in London around that time were Hugh Shillito, Young himself, and Blunt. Young then excludes himself, claiming that he was also out of London at the time. “I think this certainly is a real tougher one,” ponders Blunt, earnestly.

Blunt’s explanation is that, to his immense chagrin, he took documents back to Bentinck Street to read in the evenings. Young interrupts to ask whether Burgess was a photographer (the implicit suggestion being that, if the dossiers were to find their way to the Embassy, Burgess would have had to photograph them quickly, before he was noticed.) Blunt does not think that was one of Burgess’s talents, so Reed helpfully suggests that Burgess must have handed over the originals for photographing. Yet, instead of querying how Burgess could have managed to convey the dossier to the Soviets without Blunt’s noticing (when he had, after all, brought them home only for the evening), Young disastrously lets Blunt off the hook, suggesting that Burgess, who came into the MI5 office frequently, could have gained access to the documents – which were presumably lying around instead of being locked up. (Young and Blunt agree that security was pretty shambolic.) Of course, Blunt cannot remember clearly whether he had left Burgess alone in a room or not. Despite the fact that the evidence points to a stream of files being passed on over a period of time, the conversation peters out, as if three old codgers were reminiscing.

The whole exchange was recorded, and can thus be read. Young’s summary of the discussion (dated June 5, 1956) is feeble. He admits that Blunt could offer no plausible explanation as to how the leakage occurred, and instead he reports Blunt’s revised assertion that he would have not taken the dossiers back to Bentinck Street, since there was no reason for him to study them, or to take action. Young concludes his paragraph by quoting Blunt again: “I think this is extremely obscure and I am sorry I cannot offer any help.” Ten days later, the Deputy Director-General Graham Mitchell noted: “D.1. [Young] and Reed conducted the interview with pertinacity and skill.” It makes one weep. [Calm down, coldspur. It’s just counter-espionage. Ed.]

The ineptitude in not following up the obvious holes in the case is enormous: If Blunt took the dossiers to Bentinck Street, how could he consider such an appalling security lapse? How big were the dossiers? When did Burgess have the opportunity to inspect them? Read them? Photograph them? Then why did the report state that the originals had been taken to the Embassy for photographing? And why did Blunt change his mind and suggest that Burgess had borrowed them at St. James, where MI5 was housed? And how come such files were conveniently left hanging around, over a period of time, for Burgess to pick and choose? [I note here that, in his ‘confession’ to Arthur Martin in April 1964, Blunt claimed that he had never seen any PFs of Soviet Embassy staff!] Even if Mitchell and his crew felt uneasy challenging Blunt over such points in their ‘interview’, they should have returned for a much colder and well-prepared interrogation at a later date.

Lastly, this episode represents a spooky echo of what happened in June 1951, when Dick White undertook his similarly disastrous interview of Philby immediately after the latter’s return from the United States. It is not clear what White’s objectives were in this interview, but he gives every impression of trying to let Philby off the hook, instead of challenging him on the points of the critical dossier on his subject that he had just sent to the FBI. In my earlier report (https://coldspur.com/special-bulletin-not-the-kim-philby-personal-file/) I explained how White raise the notion that Burgess might have got wind of the HOMER investigation by snooping around the British Embassy in Washington – a notion that Kim Philby encouraged. It is almost as if White had trained Blunt what he should say should he ever be confronted with the embarrassing evidence coming from Razin. I shall be exploring these conundrums further in next month’s coldspur.

Detective Work

Richard Osman

A few weeks ago, I was irritated by the theme in the Spectator crossword puzzle, in the issue of February 22, titled ‘Very large fellow’. It concerned someone named Richard Osman [‘OutSize – Man’ – geddit?], and the unclued entries were all characters in some obscure book that he had apparently been responsible for.  The Spectator is supposed to be a magazine with an international audience, and the puzzle, by Doc (Tom Johnson), who is the periodical’s crossword editor, was typical of the trivialization of themes that he has encouraged over the past couple of years. Having to resort to the Web to hunt down the names, I discovered that Osman had written a book titled The Thursday Murder Club. I thought little of it, submitted my entry on-line, and awaited next week’s puzzle.

Some time afterwards – perhaps on Facebook – I picked up the fact that the movie rights to the book had been acquired, and that Helen Mirren and Ben Kingsley would be appearing in the film, which was impressive. Netflix has started advertising it. The reviews of the book seemed quite glowing (it had been a New York Times best-seller, but, since I no longer subscribe to that journal, the fact had escaped me), and I hence inspected a copy of the book at Barnes and Noble a few weeks ago, and bought it. It started off well and wittily – hokum, of course, but a pleasant diversion from my customary gritty reading – but then became rather tiresome as it wound down, with too many unlikely complications and some slip-ups in chronology. Yet it reminded me that what I try to do in my analysis of intelligence conundrums is precisely what the members of the Murder Club (Elizabeth, in particular) set out to do when a body drops in front of their eyes.

Take my latest puzzler – Milo John Reginald, Lord Talbot de Malahide, who was accused by some of being another Cambridge spy, and, in his highly dubious role as deputy Security Officer in the Foreign Office at the time of the Burgess/MacLean disappearances, spoke up much too late about his knowledge of what his cronies had been up to. Based on what Malahide’s friend Tony Scotland has recently written about him, he had been interviewed intensely at the time, but nothing had happened. Indeed, when his boss, George Carey-Foster, moved on the following year, Malahide was appointed acting Head of Security, which provokes all manner of observations about foxes, chickens and henhouses.

Lord Talbot de Malahide

Moreover, was there a murder angle? On April 14, 1973, Malahide was found dead in his cabin on the M.V. Semiramis, ‘lying in bed as though asleep, with what looked like a broken blood vessel under the skin on his forehead’. His companion Hugh Cobbe assumed it had been a heart attack, and the ship’s doctor, who carried out a careful examination, formally confirmed death by natural causes. No post mortem was required. Now, I have been in this business long enough to be very suspicious when anyone associated with Soviet intelligence is found dead, alone, in a hotel room or other secluded area, with symptoms of having had a heart attack. I think of Harold Gibson and Herbert Skinner alongside the more well-recognized victims. Had this been some kind of revenge attack, or punishment, by the Special Tasks unit? Speculation in the Irish media afterwards suggested that it could have been a KGB or MI5 job.

Maybe that was going too far, but the case of Malahide is very odd. He had had a career in MI6 and the Foreign Office, and was brought into Carey-Foster’s security team (‘Q’ Section) in 1950, although his attendance was erratic. Yet, if he came under suspicion in June 1951, what happened to the transcript of his interview? Why was he allowed to leave for a holiday in Tasmania soon afterwards? Why, if there were undeniable claims about his close relationship with Guy Burgess from their Cambridge days, was he not invited to resign, as was David Footman in MI6? Why, in those circumstances, was he appointed as acting security officer when, in 1952, Carey-Foster moved on (to Rio, and then Warsaw, where he maintained a close interest in the Burgess-Maclean post-mortems)? Was Carey-Foster pushed out? Why, when the Foreign Office was cracking down on homosexuals and other dubious characters in the wake of the Cadogan Report, was Malahide promoted? And what was the role of Patrick Reilly, who had been a close friend of Malahide’s at Winchester College, and had gone on holiday to France with him in 1930? Had Reilly contrived to insert Malahide into the Security Office, since Carey-Foster’s attempt at broom-cleaning was proving very unpopular with the Foreign Office mandarins? Was Reilly behind Malahide’s promotion? And why was Malahide eventually forced to resign in early 1954 – before the Petrov incident blew up? Was he suspected of having been a Soviet agent in the Ankara Embassy in 1945, shortly before the Volkov incident? Had Malahide really been a Soviet agent, or was he perhaps an agent-of-influence, like Rothschild or Berlin, who was careful never to touch or pass on any confidential material, but could certainly help to manipulate events?

Rothschild himself is a conundrum. He was willing to dribble out names to MI5’s investigators, but may have deliberately concentrated on small fry. Why did Rothschild not identify Malahide when he was providing ‘helpful’ tips to MI5 about Burgess’s cronies? Malahide’s name first comes up overtly in March 1966, so far as I can tell, when Evelyn McBarnet and Peter Wright interview the Rothschilds. At sn. 74a in KV 4532, after a long discussion about Klugmann, Harris, Walter and others, the following note appears: “PMW read out a list of members of the Foreign Office who, by virtue of their age and university background, might have been connected with the ring. Only three names provoked any reaction. And the first was Milo TALBOT (Lord Talbot of Malahide), who was remembered as a friend of Richard LLEWELLYN-DAVIES, and ‘who certainly knew all the members of the Group very well’.”  Yet what the reaction was is not recorded, as if Victor and Tess had nothing really to say.

There may, however, have been a hint to Malahide the previous year. In November 1965, Rothschild was passing on names of dubious characters to Peter Wright, and admitted that ‘he had always been extremely suspicious of xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx’, a very long name redacted in KV 2/4531, sn. 49a.  (See Item 7 in the image.) But why, if he had always been so suspicious of Malahide, had he not mentioned his name earlier? And why was the name redacted at this late stage in the game? And why did Peter Wright not do anything about it? William Tyrer, who has studied the complete Blunt files, let me know that Blunt had casually brought up Malahide’s name in one of his ‘interrogations’ by Peter Wright a few months beforehand, so Blunt may have warned his old friends, Tess and Victor, to be ready for any reference.

From the Rothschild PF

You can see what I mean. It is like a detective story. Too many dogs that did not bark in the night-time. And I continue to dive around archives and memoirs looking for clues. It never stops. I thought I had processed the Rothschild files comprehensively, taking extensive notes, but I go back, and find that there are extracts from the recorded interviews with David Footman that I had not considered significant, as well as a tantalizing reference to an anonymous person whose redacted name looks suspiciously like that of Lord Talbot de Malahide. Just count the characters. This one will run and run.

Roger Hollis in Australia

Later this year, I plan to provide a detailed analysis of Roger Hollis’s service to MI5 – including his time in Australia, where he helped set up ASIO, the Australian Security Intelligence Organisation.  As part of my research, I have read David Horner’s rather dry The Spycatchers; The Official History if ASIO, 1949-1963, where Hollis’s contribution is described. It presents a typical Hollisian endeavour – plodding, and with little imagination, since he recommended replicating the MI5 structure and procedures on the Australian continent, when its size and devolved political organization, as well as the nature of the Communist threat, really called out for a more inventive approach. Soon after, I started discussing Horner’s book and the story of Hollis with one or two of my Australian contacts, but was rather shocked by what I heard.

Hollis is viewed unfavourably by many influential Australians, it seems. I recall the infamous investigation by the FBI, seeded by the Australian Paul Monk, that used ‘argument-mapping’ to come to the conclusion that there was an ELLI in the heart of MI5, and that Hollis probably fitted the bill. (See https://fbistudies.com/2015/04/27/was-roger-hollis-a-british-patriot-or-soviet-spy/). Monk advertised how much he had relied on Chapman Pincher’s Treachery for extracting ‘all the salient facts about Hollis’, as well as exploiting Christopher Andrew’s Defend the Realm. If that was the extent of his research, he should have been banished from the investigation, but he nevertheless participated remotely from Melbourne. It was all a very shallow exercise, far too much influenced by the lies and distortions peddled by Pincher, but it seems to have lasted well over the ten years since it was so earnestly presented.

The reason I say that is that I was astounded by something one Australian colleague wrote to me. He had described himself as a long-time enthusiast for Misdefending the Realm, and a fan of coldspur, and we enjoyed some very cordial exchanges by email. In February of this year he introduced me to a book by a former secret intelligence officer Molly J. Oliver-Sasson, who had died last year at the age of 101. At her funeral, my contact had delivered a tribute to her (written by a friend who could not be present), and he also sent me a review by the notable intelligence author Hayden Peake of the memoir, titled More Cloak Than Dagger. (The book contains a gratuitous and out-of-place slur against Hollis, simply reproducing Pincher’s assertions.) My colleague then introduced Peake’s review by stating that ‘an unexpected bonus’ in it was ‘that he was prepared to go on the public record to describe Hollis as a “suspected Soviet agent”’.

‘More Cloak Than Dagger’

I immediately challenged such a crass error of judgment, considering that it was undignified and unscholarly. It is one thing to harbour doubts about Hollis, but quite another to welcome some superficial analysis as confirming what I can only call a prejudice – especially from someone who was presumably familiar with my coverage of ELLI, Gouzenko, and Hollis. I wrote, very politely: “And why would you be so enthusiastic about this opinion being aired, I wonder, given that the case against Hollis has almost entirely been dismantled, with no solid evidence against him. Is the prevailing opinion in ASIO, and in Australia generally, that Hollis had been a Soviet agent?” My colleague provided me with some further information about the defector Tokaev (whom Sasson had nursed), and promised to provide more detail about Peake, and his judgment, but I have not heard from him since.

I thus took up my case with an experienced Australian in this business (who has asked to remain anonymous), asking him where the conviction that Hollis had been a traitor derived. In all seriousness he replied: “Ethnocentric bias. He was a Pom.” He went on to describe some of Hollis’s operational failings, but I was already dismayed. I told my contact that his explanation was feeble. Now, I understand some of the bias held against Britons (I have experienced it myself on business trips Down Under) because of the patronizing way some of them/us behave, but this was absurd. I can also understand that, in the Spycatcher trial, Robert Armstrong made a fool of himself in the courtroom trying to defend the indefensible actions of the Cabinet Office, and he would have provoked further Oz mockery of the typical British toff.

Yet the prime accusers of Hollis, Peter Wright and Chapman Pincher, were both members of the upper drawers of British society (although Wright’s later costumes and habits tended to undermine that status), and they should thus have been regarded with the same disdain. This pervasive judgment shows an utterly casual and sloppy attitude to what should be a serious business. Is Dick Ellis considered not to be a traitor because he was Australian-born, and thus not a Pom? But, of course, there were many Australian citizens revealed by the VENONA transcripts who, despite their presumably working-class background, and non-patrician manners, became willing and eager servants of the Soviet state. One of the criticisms given by my friend was that Hollis was too ‘impressionable’, but I could lay that accusation on a large number of the ‘thinking’ Australian public, it seems. Hollis in Australia – that would be a good idea for an opera, on the lines of Nixon in China. A great sequel to that blockbuster, Who Framed Roger Hollis?

VENONA

During my work on the investigation of Donald Maclean, I was constantly reminded of the role that the VENONA transcripts had played in his identification as the spy in the Washington Embassy, while I remained uncertain of exactly what cryptological breakthroughs had been made when. (VENONA was the program that decrypted – at least partially – a large number of messages sent between various Soviet Embassies at the end of the war, when the security of such was undermined by the reuse of One-Time-Pads by the cryptographic staff.) Indeed, it was VENONA itself that revealed that vital messages exchanged between Halifax and Churchill concerning the fate of Eastern European countries had been purloined, and then paraphrased, and that an important agent ‘G’, later expanded to ‘GOMER’ (= HOMER) had been responsible for passing them over. What civil servants reminded each other consistently at the time was the necessity of saying nothing about this source, for fear, presumably, that the Soviets would learn that their methods had been broken.

Yet I could never understand why such an attempt at secrecy was necessary. William Weisband, a linguist at Arlington Hall, had informed his Soviet masters of the project, and by 1948 the Soviets were able to undertake a total overhaul of their encryption procedures. Kim Philby also informed them of the progress made on the exercise. Yet the Foreign Office (who admitted to being controlled by MI5’s demands) stubbornly insisted that there was a security risk. As late as September 28, 1953, Talbot de Malahide (yes, he!), responding to a request by Patrick Dean as to why the Office was against releasing all our knowledge of the Maclean/Burgess affair, wrote:

The argument roughly is that it is most important to conceal from the Russians our knowledge of Bride [i.e. VENONA] material. They cannot, of course, now prevent us from extracting what we can from it. But if they knew we were doing this, they could take defensive action which would probably ruin any chance we still have of making use of the knowledge we obtain in this way. [FCO 158/126]

Dean annotated: ‘Thank you! I agree.’, thus endorsing the code of silence. Yet why Malahide and co. thought that the Soviets would not already be taking ‘defensive actions’, based on their knowledge of the exercise, rather than waiting for the British to declare to the world what they had discovered, defies explanation. Of course, those illusions would shortly be shattered by the Petrov revelations a few months later.

For some reason, American institutions also decided to try to keep the details about VENONA secret until writers like Chapman Pincher and Robert Lamphere started leaking details in the 1980s. It was not until 1995 that an admission was made, and a bi-partisan commission started releasing materials. From my study of the archives, I would conclude that the professed anxiety about admitting the VENONA programme to the public was attributable more to the embarrassment over the way that British institutions had been infiltrated, and to the decisions made about re-instituting Burgess and Maclean in prominent positions, than it was to the concern about divulging damaging secrets to the Soviets.

While there was a justifiable conviction that trying to use the transcripts themselves as evidence in any criminal trial, because of the use of cryptonyms and the lack of transparency in how the decryptions themselves had been made, it seems to me that a substantial propaganda coup could have been made by explaining the stunning achievements of the exercise. It was not that it would have alerted the Soviets: they had made the necessary adjustments as soon as they learned of the exposure. It was not like the secrecy over the ENIGMA project, and the corresponding British Type-X equipment, which had been supplied to other countries after the war, and thus might have provoked embarrassing questions. This was a once-off example of a lapse in procedure, and a spectacular effort to exploit it. Chrsitopher Andrew wrote: “The value of VENONA as a counter-espionage tool was diminished, sometimes seriously, by the extreme secrecy with which it was handled.” (Defend the Realm, p 380)

It seems to me that a fresh re-appraisal of VENONA is needed. I have been trying to work out who called the shots in that critical period between 1948 and 1951 – how much did Dick White know when Maclean returned to Britain in April 1950, for instance? MI5 was supposed to be in charge of the whole project (to the chagrin of Carey-Foster in the Security section of the Foreign Office), but several tensions existed. Sir Robert Mackenzie (ex MI6, and the Security representative at the Embassy in Washington) clearly did not appreciate receiving instructions from a greenhorn like Carey-Foster. Valentine Vivian of MI6 spread his wings, sometime misinforming his boss, ‘C’, Stewart Menzies, while communicating with his own representative, Peter Dwyer, in Washington, and busied himself investigating wartime British Security Co-ordination and retrieving missing telegrams from the Moscow Embassy. Arthur Martin, Dick White’s assistant, seemed to be working in parallel with Guy Liddell, but occasionally he and White veered off on tracks not aligned with those of the deputy director-general, while Martin communicated with MI5’s representative in Washington, Dick Thistlethwaite. Edward Travis of GCHQ was negotiating on cryptographic sharing with his counterparts at Arlington Hall, but often very secretively. And they all had to consider how to deal with the FBI, and how they could make inquiries concerning the lamentable security procedures at the Embassy without upsetting anybody, or alerting the spy (who might still be in residence) as to what they were up to.

I see a number of opportunities. First of all, a renewed attack on partially deciphered messages, using much faster computers, and probably advanced AI techniques, could surely reveal much more about the traffic and persons involved than was decrypted decades ago. Second, an integrative approach to the interpretation of information would be highly desirable since records released during the past twenty years for the Foreign Office, MI5, and GCHQ, as well as resources like the Mitrokhin Archive, would probably point to conflicting missions, and oversights in analytical opportunities. Third, much of the material that has been published has been redacted because of old sensitivities to living persons, and also contains errors or partial information that could be easily corrected based on intelligence that is now available. With the passage of time, and the deaths of such persons, such names should be restored. One of the most frustrating aspects of VENONA decrypts is that it has been impossible to determine what breakthroughs were made, when, which has complicated the task of historical interpretation.

Nigel West’s book, VENONA, and that by Haynes and Klehr, VENONA: Decoding Soviet Espionage in America, were published in 2000. Defend the Realm (2009) has a decent and provocative chapter on it.  Romerstein’s and Breindel’s Venona Secrets appeared in 2014, but it has a strictly American focus. Andrew’s coverage in The Secret World (2018) is shallow: he could not even find room for an entry to VENONA in his Index. John Ferris’s Behind the Enigma (2020), the history of GCHQ, is feeble. A fresh look is required. Intellectually, I would find it an appealing challenge, but much of the material is contained in undigitized GCHW (HW 15 series) files that would have to be photographed. Furthermore, I am still working my way through the Burgess and Maclean PFs, and some residual FCO files, and still have (for example) the Philby and Blunt files to work on. Ars longa, vita brevis.

Victor and Venetia (continued)

Readers may recall my investigation into the society figure, Venetia Montagu, and her dalliances with men young enough to be her son, from last December’s Round-up (see https://coldspur.com/2024-year-end-roundup/). At that time, I stated that I was not going to shell out $100 to read Stefan Buczacki’s My Darling Mr. Asquith: The Extraordinary Life and Times of Venetia Stanley in order to learn more. Well, the price came down, I acquired it, and have since read it.

‘My darling Mr Asquith’

I was intrigued by Mr Buczacki’s interest in this range of not very attractive aristocratic persons from the Edwardian era, and beyond. I sought to learn more about him, since it sounded as if he might have fascinating antecedents deriving from some corner of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (actually, more likely to be Poland, though borders in that region have been very fluid over the past one hundred and fifty ears). I was delighted to discover that he simply describes himself as ‘English’, but I have been unable to determine whether he comes from the Huntingdonshire or the Somerset branch of the Buczacki clan. No matter. He has written a vastly entertaining book, although his understanding of the correct use of the comma is woeful, as are his occasional lapses into ‘from whence’, and the occasional erroneous ‘whomsoever’, when ‘whosoever’ was required. And, of course, no qualified editor was around to help him.

I shimmied my way through the perverse attentions to young women of the Prime Minister, Herbert Henry Asquith, and the assortment of Wodehousian characters of whom Venetia’s set consisted – such as ‘Crinks’ Johnston, ‘Scatters’ Wilson, ‘Bongie’ Bonham-Carter – to find my way to the meat of the book, where Venetia meets Victor. Sadly, there is not much more to learn. Venetia probably met him because Victor’s father must have known Edwin Montagu, Venetia’s husband, in the Ministry of Munitions in 1916, and both were keen naturalists with an interest in East Anglian fauna (although Edwin liked to advertise his infatuation by shooting many of them). Buczacki states that Victor was at Trinity when Venetia ‘was passing through a phase of taking a sightly unorthodox interest in young research students’.

Buczacki does not believe that Venetia and Victor ever had an affair, but they remained friends, and Victor apparently took a ‘surrogate paternal interest’ in Venetia’s daughter Judy (thirteen years younger than him) after Edwin’s premature death from an infection picked up in South America. She did meet William Grey Walter through Victor, however, and he became ‘the most unlikely of all her lovers’, but, for some reason, that distinction does not merit Walter’s gaining an entry in Buczacki’s Index. Walter was just eight months older than Victor, was elected to the Apostles at the same time as Victor in 1933, and later became the Society’s secretary. “He was further to the left however and a serious fellow-traveller,” notes Buczacki, so MI5 were probably justified (to the extent that any of these surveillance activities were at all useful) in opening a file and keeping an eye on him. Isaiah Berlin met Venetia, but there is no mention of Guy Burgess or Donald Maclean, and that strange summer get-together in Cap Ferrat goes unnoticed. I tried to contact Buczacki via his website, but was put through such a hostile privacy rigmarole, being required to download some software that I did not trust, that I abandoned the idea.

I did discover, however, a reference to the sojourn in the Blunt archive, from August 27, 1969, when he was interviewed by Peter Wright and Cecil Shipp (sn. 729a in KV 2/4713). Blunt said that he was sure that the incident occurred in 1934, and that, apart from him and Burgess, the following had attended: ‘Dadie’ Rylands, Anne Barnes, Venetia Montagu, Penelope Dudley-Ward, Gerald Cuthbert, Claude Phillimore and Arthur Marshall. (Isn’t it extraordinary how reliably Blunt’s power of recall worked when it would not adversely affect him?) When Wright later jolted his memory about Grey Walter, Blunt did reflect that he might well have been in the party. He judged that Walter, also an Apostle, was an ‘extremely cold fish’, an opinion that one must assume was not shared by Venetia Montagu, whose embraces Walter was enjoying. He reinforced the laboratory link between Victor Rothschild and Walter, but did not remember him as a friend of Burgess, adding the intriguing observation that he thought ‘Burgess would have got to know him through Lettice Ramsey, whose boyfriend he had been for some time.’ History does not tell us whether Wright followed up this intriguing lead.

Car Accidents?

I mentioned earlier the suspicious circumstances in which Lord Talbot de Malahide died, and referred also to similar cases involving Harold Gibson and Herbert Skinner. When reading recently Michael Braddick’s biography of Christopher Hill, I learned that Hill and his second wife, Bridget, in August 1957 ‘were involved in a tragic car accident, in which their eleven-month-old daughter, Kate was killed’. That set my mind racing about other car accidents that had befallen Communist apostates or traitors, or their families. What about the death of George Graham’s son in 1949, in High Wycombe, when an errant wheel flew into his face? Or that of Paul Dukes, who died in South Africa in 1967, the result (according to his wife) of a serious motor accident in England the previous year? And what about Tomás Harris, who died in a mysterious motor accident in Mallorca in 1964? Nor should we forget Goronwy Rees, who almost died from a hit-and-run-accident in 1977. It seems to me that, statistically, these persons who had defied the KGB suffered an unusually high accident rate from motoring exploits.

I mention again the long list of deaths of such characters – including those who maybe simply knew too much – under other suspicious circumstances. Added to Malahide (found on a yacht with mysterious markings on his body), Skinner (found alone in a hotel room in Geneva, with symptoms of a heart attack), Gibson (found shot in his apartment), I would list the following deaths that have not been properly examined and explained:

  • Humphrey Slater, died in Linea, Spain, at age 51
  • George Placzek, physicist, died in Zurich in 1955‚ ‘probably a suicide’
  • John Costello, journalist, died on flight to Miami in 1995
  • Aileen Philby, wife of Kim, who might have committed suicide, or been murdered, in 1957
  • High Gaitskell, who was diagnosed with lupus after visiting the Soviet Embassy in January 1963
  • Victor Serge, who died ‘of a heart attack’ in Mexico in 1947, and whose son believed he had been poisoned by NKVD agents
  • Konstantin Umansky, who died in a plane crash in 1945, cause unknown
  • Victor Kravchenko, defector, who died from a gunshot wound in New York in 1966, his son believing he had been murdered

I have come across rumours affecting other premature deaths over the years, such as Alexander Kojève, Gordon Lonsdale (Molody), Alexander Foote, George Orwell even. These may simply be ‘conspiracy theories’, and easily debunked. I don’t know. And a whole host of earlier assassinations have been recorded by such as Boris Volodarsky, including (but not limited to) Miller, Serov, Kutepov, Krivitsky, Poyntz, Frunze, Agabekov, and Ryumin, as well as the famous cases like Trotsky. I noted Nikolay Zorya, found dead from a gunshot wound in his hotel room at the time of the Nuremberg trials in 1946, in an earlier coldspur. Molly Oliver-Sasson [see above] writes about the assassination attempt on the defector Tokaev, whose handler she was. I am thus sure that there were more assassinations than have been officially recognized. A project for someone else to pick up.

The Illegals

This spring I read two books on the Soviet-Russian ‘illegals’ programs, Russians Among Us (2020), by Gordon Corera, whom I knew through his Art of Betrayal, and The Illegals (2025) by Shaun Walker. As a reminder, the project for inserting long-term agents behind the borders of the western democracies, with false identities and ‘legends’, outside the protection of ambassadorial conventions (the ‘Illegals’), originated in the 1920s, and has continued well into Putin’s term as President of Russia. These two books take very differing approaches to updating the public, however. Corera’s book is a more journalistic effort that concentrates exclusively on the project since the dismantling of the Soviet Union in 1991. Alexander covers the same territory (and describes the actions and betrayals outlined by Corera in almost identical terms), but sets out to cover Russia’s century-long mission to infiltrate the West, as well.

‘Russians Among Us’

Russians Among Us is more a work of its time. It contains no bibliography, and its sources are primarily reports from the press, and on-line blogs and bulletins. Corera tells a pacy story, well-crafted, with Macintyreish flair, about the Heathfields, the Murphys, and the notorious and glamorous Anne Chapman, who apparently inspired The Americans (a television series I own, but have not yet viewed). They were all betrayed to the FBI by Alexander Poteyev, who worked for the KGB, and then its successor, the SVR, and who was recruited by the Americans. Amazingly, he managed to escape just before the FBI started its arrests.

‘The Illegals’

Walker is far more ambitious, setting out to describe the whole program since its inception by Meer Trilisser, born in 1883. I judge that Walker misses his mark in several ways. He offers a large bibliography, which includes the obvious work, Nigel West’s volume of the same name (1993), but fails to recognize a very important book, William E. Duff’s A Time For Spies: Theodore Stephanovich Mally and the Era of the Great Illegals (1999). Moreover he fails to cover this ‘era’ adequately. ‘Mally’ (or ‘Maly’) has no entry in his Index, and Walter Krivitsky is related to a minor footnote. He provides a chapter on the buccaneering character Bystrolyotov, but adds little new to what has already been published. It is a very disappointing coverage for anyone looking for a comprehensive and fresh approach to the subject.

Instead, Walker veers from his topic. He includes detailed coverage of an exercise from World War II, where NKVD agents were infiltrated behind German lines – but still on territory from the Soviet Union – to assassinate Wilhelm Kube, the governor of Belarus. Now, this is a gripping story – one that I had not encountered before – but the fact that the agents masqueraded as German officers in uniform does not make it an ‘illegals’ programme. Nor, by classifying the insertion into Afghanistan of a troupe of commandos to assassinate the troublesome Communist Party leader, Hafizullah Amin in 1978 as the birth of the ‘Fighting Illegals’, does the author shed any light on his core thesis. It is a muddle.

Wilhelm Kube

Both authors point out the drawbacks of the project as it was resuscitated in the 1990s. In the 1930s, the arrival of émigrés from Eastern Europe, bearing vague genealogies and questionable certificates, was hardly a cause for concern for the western democracies, what with the feverish ideological clashes between fascism and communism, and no obvious reason for the authorities to be on their guard against hostile penetration. And the period of the ‘great illegals’ came to an end because Stalin liquidated most of them. But it became increasingly difficult as the century wore on, with greater attention to stolen identities from gravestones, and better exchange of records between security departments.

When the program was resuscitated (with the USA especially targeted), intense energies were spent in providing watertight identities for apparently genuine citizens (normally originating in Canada). But part of this exercise meant that the illegals were a genuine married couple, living a typical American life, with a house in the suburbs – and children. That proved to be the most troublesome aspect of the arrangement, since the kids were encouraged to grow up as normal teenagers when they were being deceived by their parents, who were never supposed to reveal their true allegiance. This led to tensions when the fervent communist dad clashed with the natural interest in western delights shown by his son.

One last observation I make is that both authors appear to be tone-deaf to the possibility of the Americans running illegals in the Soviet Union – or Russia. Corera very naively attributes the lack of any such program to the obvious objection any CIA officer would have to spending decades in the country, completely ignoring the fact that attempting to live as an illegal, even if one had been born there, in totalitarian Russia would have been utterly impossible. Allen Dulles found that out the hard way (as Alexander briefly notes), but he should have worked it out before he initiated the CIA’s disastrous attempts to insert rebels into Belarus and other places in the 1950s. I also think that the authors misjudge the issue of allegiance in the twenty-first century, and why an illegals program was necessary. The illegals of the 1930s were able to recruit nationals to work for Moscow because of the ideological appeal of international communism, but once the horrors of Communism were laid bare after the war, what educated Briton (or American) would want to dedicate him- or her-self to that cause (as opposed to spying for financial reasons, or because of blackmail)? And why would Putin’s weird brand of Orthodox Christian ethno-nationalism motivate anybody outside Russia? It is no wonder that the resolve of the new illegals vacillated, with their bosses in Moscow never having any idea of exactly how they had to operate, but also fearful that they would adjust too well to their masquerades, and come to prefer the freedoms of a liberal democracy.

The project has now moved into the cyber space –  a whole new game of subterfuge. For that reason, Alexander’s chapter on the ‘Virtual Illegals’ is worth reading.

‘Murder in Cairo’

‘Murder in Cairo’

I stumbled on Murder in Cairo, by Peter Gillman and Emanuele Midolo, in a review in the TLS of May 9 by Stephen Glover. It concerned the killing of the journalist David Holden in Cairo in November 1977, and sounded intriguing. I consequently went to order it from amazon, although for some reason the book was described there as Desperate Times, by Peter Brookes, published in 2021, while the image of the cover indicated the current, correct title. Furthermore, when I tried to find it on LibraryThing with the correct ISBN, amazon likewise came up with the ‘ghost’ version (a phenomenon familiar to my colleague Andrew Malec). I thus ordered it anyway, thinking perhaps that a ‘ghost’ book might demand only a ‘ghost’ payment, and the book arrived, as Murder in Cairo, a few days later.

It comes with the conventional arresting and gushing blurbs, from such as Daniel Finkelstein, Tina Brown, and Richard J. Aldrich. Yet I wondered: did they read the same book as I did? Were they all pre-publication tributes, before they actually got round to working through it? (The back-cover did not say.) Going back to Glover’s critique, I judged it very fair. He was not unconditionally positive about the book, writing: “On finishing the book, some readers may reasonably exclaim: so what?” That was very much my reaction, as the denouement does not reflect any breakthrough analysis that was not apparent after about page 10 – that Holden was probably some kind of KGB asset, and that the CIA was somehow tied up with his assassination, and too embarrassed to discuss it.

Gillman had returned to the investigation after forty years, when Times editor Harold Evans had originally sent a crack squad to Egypt to work out what had happened. With the help of the more Internet-savvy Emanuele Midolo, he was able to discover a raft of new leads and tidbits, and to interview several more people who may have been involved (or had known, or were related to persons who had been involved, since most of the latter were dead by then). Yet they never found a smoking-gun, and the obvious questions were never answered. For what transgression had Holden been killed? And why would the murder have been carried out in such a gruesome and clumsy manner? And why then, on Holden’s first visit to Egypt for several years? And if Holden had somehow upset the applecart of Egypt-Israeli-Arab relationships (or whatever), why would the CIA have been involved in arranging the execution of a British citizen? Hadn’t other journalists done such, or worse? Even if he had been some kind of KGB agent of influence, he did not have access to confidential information, so was therefore not a spy.

The reader has to engage in a mass of tense investigation, which the authors are no doubt extremely proud of, but it involves a cast of thousands. It can be difficult to track the personalities, since the authors sometimes refer to persons by their first name, sometimes by their second, sometimes by the identity of their second (or third) marriage. Fathers and sons can be mixed up, and Gillman and Midolo provide no useful charts of organizations and relationships. The book contains references to most of the intelligence elite of the late twentieth century. For the aficionados, you will find here Kim Philby, James Angleton, Dick White, Frank Wisner, Allen Dulles, George Blake, Ralph Deakin, Archie Gibson, Edward Crankshaw, Antony Terry, Patrick Seale, Jeremy Wolfenden, Jan Morris, Peter Smolka, Phillip Knightley, Nicholas Elliott, Donald McCormick (aka Richard Deacon), Seymour Hersh, Fred Halliday, Oleg Gordievsky, Ian Fleming, Andrew Cavendish, Guy Burgess, Anthony Blunt, Donald Maclean, and many more. The only obvious names missing were Goronwy Rees, Ursula Kuczinski, and Dame Edna Everage. (Yes, in case you asked, Ben Macintyre was interviewed.)

The problem is that, as the investigators search for ‘facts’ they come across persons who are dissembling half the time, and they do not know which half it is. The authors admit (and even boast of) this technique, inherited from the Sunday Times ‘Insight’ team, as if an accurate story could miraculously evolve from such a barrage. The impression I got from the descriptions of the actors is that a lot of unattractive people, if they were not plotting against their rivals, sat around in various watering-holes in the Middle East, getting sloshed at the tax-payers’ or their employers’ expense, while imagining that their gossiping constituted some advance in intelligence-gathering. My reaction is that Holden’s death might have been more because of what he might reveal than what he had actually written. Why he could not have been disposed of quietly, in an isolated hotel-room, with symptoms of a heart-attack, as the KGB’s Special Tasks squad would have carefully managed, is as much a puzzle as the reason for his being taken out. The assassins did not just want him killed, as retribution for his defiance or betrayal, they wanted to send a strong deterrent message. But who would have picked up any pattern? November 1977, eh? At exactly that time, Dick White was warning Andrew Boyle not to persevere with his questions about Blunt. That was a few years after Malahide met his sudden end, and a couple of years before Blunt was eventually outed  . . .

‘Manifest Lies’

As I was contemplating all these matters, I discovered Manifest Lies, a fictionalized version of the Holden case, written by Max Heaton, and published in 2024. As coldspur readers will know, I am not a fan of this particular genre. This novel is, however, quite well done, although I found the motives for Holden’s assassination far-fetched. Yet Heaton appeared to have trodden exactly the same research trails as had Gillman and Madioli, which set me wondering – who could he be, and why was he hiding behind an alias? I could find no footprint for Heaton on the Web, which was strange: moreover, the copyright notice in Manifest Lies was very odd. Perhaps Gillman was masquerading as Heaton, and, having been severely warned off publishing his real story by the CIA, had decided to write it up as fiction under an assumed name?

I took my theory to the Editor of hugejam, the publisher of Manifest Lies, first asking her whether she could tell me anything about Max Heaton. She replied promptly, saying that Heaton did not want anything about him disclosed, but she did not explicitly deny that Gillman could have been he. I thought that was provocative, as eliminating Hillman would not really have reduced the field by much. My next step, therefore, was to approach Gillman himself, and describe my interest and my hypothesis. He likewise responded promptly, energetically denying that he was Heaton.

I had a very fruitful exchange of emails after that. Gillman is a charming man, and happens to come from the same part of the world as I. We differed politely on one or two points of investigative journalism (he had read my quote from his book in my May coldspur by then), but I reinforced my view that, while the Sunday Times Insight team had performed a marvellous job in the 1960s and 1970s, too many authors today still followed the procedure of indiscriminately gathering as many ‘facts’ as they can about a case, and trying to weave a coherent story around them. Having been pointed to my website, Gillman said it was ‘terrific’, which was very gratifying. He said that he was also intrigued by the hidden identity of Max Heaton, who, he believed, had probably relied on Harold Evans’s My Paper Chase for much of his research. He also stated that he was close to homing in on him.  I am hoping to meet Gillman when I come to the UK in September. (Despite the collegiality I developed with him, I have not altered my less than stellar review of the book by him and Madioli.)

Other Books Read

I present here a few thumbnail comments on other books on intelligence and history that I have read this year, and which have not been mentioned elsewhere (either in this report, or in earlier coldspur bulletins in 2025).

Red List by David Caute (2022)

Caute provides a compendium of the leftist intellectuals whom MI5 tracked in the twentieth century, rightly pointing to the enormous effort that was expended to little effect in surveilling hundreds of persons who may have been naïve, but whose influence was meagre. His work is marred by the fact that he appears to believe that all relevant information consists solely of the Personal Files released by MI5, and to show a barely concealed admiration of Stalinism and the Soviet Union. (B-)

The Mysterious Case of Rudolf Diesel by Douglas Brunt (2023)

A timely investigation of the life and mysterious death of the inventor of the diesel engine, Rudolf Diesel (1858-1913), who may have conspired with Germany’s adversaries when he saw how his technology was going to be used. Brunt has performed some innovative research, and has a lively journalistic style, but he pads out his story with too much repetition and digression. (B-)

‘The Traitor of Arnhem’

The Traitor of Arnhem by Robert Verkaik (2025)

Verkaik’s thesis is that Anthony Blunt passed on to the Soviets information about the Arnhem operation, which they in turn gave the Germans, as a ploy to help the Red advance on Berlin. While his text contains some major errors, Verkaik presents some engagingly fresh research on the leaks of 1944. I am going to have to read this book again, very carefully, before passing full judgment, but it seems to me utterly impossible that Blunt (who did many stupid things) would have consciously leaked information to help the Germans, as he would have known that he would face the hangman’s noose if detected. Verkaik may have made some major mistakes of identification. (B)

Paris 1944 by Patrick Bishop (2024)

An original approach to telling the story of Paris’s liberation, by describing it from the standpoint of an eclectic set of observers and participants. I was drawn to this book since I enjoyed Bishop’s The Reckoning, about the Stern Gang. Perhaps a bit too much on Hemingway, for my liking, but Paris 1944 is a refreshing and informative account of an ambiguous period, frequently misrepresented, and it gives an arresting account of the summary justice that was meted out before de Gaulle applied discipline. (B+)

The Secret History of the Five Eyes by Richard Kerbaj (2022)

Be very wary of books that announce themselves as the ‘Secret History’ of anything. For if the history is published, it is no longer secret. And, if it is based on insider leaks, it may well be unreliable, and certainly will not be verifiable. Much of the material published here has been presented before, but the later chapters provide a useful compendium to information-sharing between the USA, the UK, Canada, Australia and New Zealand – the Five Eyes of the title. (B)

Operation Biting by Max Hastings (2024)

A typically lively and gripping account by the renowned journalist/historian of the February 1942 Bruneval raid on the French coast to steal secrets of Germany’s radar network, specifically the Wûrzburg apparatus. This story was already familiar to me from George Millar’s Bruneval Raid (1974): Hastings has dug out some fresh sources, but the overall conclusions are not new. He does quote, however, one astonishing statement made by de Gaulle to a confidant that Patrick Bishop overlooked: “Between ourselves, the Resistance is a bluff which has succeeded.” (B+)

The Strategists by Phillips Payson O’Brien (2024)

O’Brien came up with the rather absurd notion that Churchill, Stalin, Roosevelt, Mussolini and Hitler were all competent ‘strategists’, and he inspects their individual experiences in World War I to show how their expertise was developed. Yet the idea is a clunker: none of the five really understood grand strategy or military strategy, and the occasional biographical insights do not make amends for what is an ill-conceived and clumsy book. (P.S. This book received a stellar review in the TLS issue dated June 13. I do not change my opinion one iota.) (C)

‘The Spy Who Helped . . . .’

The Spy Who Helped the Soviets Win Stalingrad and Kursk by Chris Jones (2025)

This book wins my award for Worst Title of the Year. Jones (who consulted me on his subject, and has some nice things to say about coldspur), has valiantly attempted a biography of Alexander Foote, the radio operator for the Lucy Spy Ring in Switzerland, who later ‘defected’ back to the British. Jones has dug out some useful facts about Foote, but offers a very uneven assessment of his life, neglecting, for example, an explanation as to why two versions of his ghosted memoir Handbook for Spies were published. (B-)

Operation Splinter Factor by Stewart Steven (1974)

Professor Haslam encouraged me to track down Operation Splinter Factor (a CIA project to foster insurgencies in Eastern Europe) in the work of Richard Deacon. I found nothing in Deacon, but discovered Steven’s journalistic work – in many ways fascinating, but not very scholarly. It offers a bibliography, but no individual references, and grossly exaggerates the role that Allen Dulles played, as well as that of the Communist dupe Noel Field. The trials and purges were more a factor of Stalin’s paranoia. (B-)

The Future Is History by Masha Gessen (2017)

An essential volume for understanding how totalitarianism returned to Russia under President Putin. The author skillfully weaves personal stories of friends caught up in the maelstrom into an account of Putin’s rise and manipulative methods. The book is probably 100 pages longer than it needed to be, and it focusses rather too much on what I shall reluctantly have to refer to as the ‘LGBTQ’ aspect of suppression, but digesting it was still a very rewarding experience. (A-)

‘The Determined Spy’

The Determined Spy by Douglas Waller (2025)

A comprehensive biography of Frank Wisner, the obsessive and bipolar head of the CIA’s Office of Policy Coordination, who committed suicide at the age of 56. Supported by Dulles, he pursued a relentless quest for subverting Soviet influence around the world, an activity that caused much havoc, and rebounded badly on the reputation of the USA. The author spends too much space on familiar exploits (such as Guatemala and Iran, where Wisner was not closely involved), and not enough (in my estimation) on Wisner’s capacity to charm, despite his demons, and on his personal relationships – such as why persons like Isaiah Berlin and William Deakin were drawn to him. (B+)

Naples ’44 by Norman Lewis (1978)

Brilliant! I was drawn to this book by a Lewis revival presented in the TLS, encouraged by my previous analysis of Allied invasions of Italy in 1943-44, and by my vague knowledge that my father must have taken part in them. Lewis, an intelligence officer, shows that not everything the American and British forces did was valorous and heroic, and he sheds an ironic and insightful eye on the superstitions of the Neapolitans, the inherent cruelty in a society driven by vendettas, and the baleful influence of the Camorra. I even forgive this fabled writer for his ugly deployment of unrelated participles. (A)

Christopher Hill: The Life of a Radical Historian by Michael Braddick (2025)

This could have been an engaging life of the Stalinist dupe, Christopher Hill. Braddick knows the ins and outs of CP factions in the 1950s, and the trends in historiography since, and he writes tolerably well. Yet he is so much in sympathy with Hill’s Marxism that everything is reduced to ‘class’ terms – ‘bourgeois’ culture, the ‘capitalist ‘press (when there were ten competing daily newspapers in England alone!), as well, of course, as ‘the capitalist class’, sounding as if it were taken from a cartoon in Krokodil, but in truth deputising for a variegated world of free enterprise, which itself consists of a complex set of entrepreneurs, small business-owners, investors, risk-takers, losers, profiteers, managers, directors, pensioners, regulators, competitors, unions, etc. Then there is the dreary figure of Hill himself, who as his life drew to a close, admitted that he did not really understand economics, and was no longer a Stalinist, a communist, or even a Marxist. It was a shame it took him so long to work that out. (B-)

‘The Theory and Practice of Communism’

Postscript: Reading the above book prompted me to go back and re-read R.N. Carew Hunt’s The Theory and Practice of Communism (I still own my 1964 Pelican edition). Carew Hunt was an advisor to MI5, and this book was distributed to MI5 officers after the war. It drives home how utterly stupid today’s ‘marxists’ are to adhere to the absurd, ponderous, self-contradictory ramblings of someone who lived one-hundred and fifty years ago, had no clue as to how the world worked, had no imagination, and saw society only through artificial class-dominated eye-glasses.

Ethnicity

Regular readers will be familiar with my disdain for sociologists and bureaucrats who try to classify me by ‘race’ or ‘ethnicity’. I am reminded of a management training course that I attended shortly after I arrived in the USA in the summer of 1980. The shiny and very confident instructor stressed to the class that it was against the law to inquire of any job candidate what his or her race was. (Ethnicity had not really made an impression by then, Human Resource departments were still called ‘Personnel’, and employees were not yet classified as ‘associates’.) Then, twenty minutes later, he was telling us that companies had to keep track of promotions and evaluations by racial classification, in order to ensure that no discrimination was taking place. I perked up, and asked, if employers did not know what the race of each employee was, were they relying on the employees to declare their race to Personnel, and how would the department know that they were telling the truth, and how would this information be divulged to each employee’s manager? Or did Personnel make a categorization of race based on what the employee looked like? It all sounded very invidious and unscientific to me. (This is the dilemma that the French and German governments have avoided by prohibiting the collection of such data.) The instructor was speechless for several seconds. I cannot now recall how he resolved the issue.

I am always on the lookout for intellectuals who are open about debunking these absurd notions, as a way of countering the proclamations of such as Ta-Nehisi Coates, and his calls for reparations. They are of course based on marxist ideas that each of us belongs to a class, and we are either ‘oppressors’ or ‘victims’, depending on what we have inherited. The fact that amongst one’s forbears there might be imperialists and slave-traders as well as serfs and slaves appears to have escaped such analyses. I have a well-developed resistance to any methodology that attempts to package people into oppressed ‘minorities’, and Thelma, my chief Sensitivity Reader, carefully goes over my text each month to make sure that I have included a slur against at least one of such groups, and that I have not been discriminatory in insulting any particular group less  than another.

Thus it was with some pleasure that I chanced on a review by Professor David Abulafia in May’s Literary Review, where his subject was Laura Spinney’s Proto: How One Ancient Language Went Global. Professor Abulafia, when discussing the spread of Indo-European languages six thousand years ago, carefully dissected the myth that migrant tribes were united by language or ‘ethnicity’, and he went on to write: “Ethnic purity is a myth and we are all mongrels.” Splendid stuff! Yet, towards the end of his review, he wrote: “She [Ms. Spinney] makes it clear that there are still mysteries about how languages spread and are adopted, and about the relationship between language and ethnicity  . . .” I was dismayed. Having just dismissed the notion of ethnicity, Abulafia professed to endorse it. I had to write to him for an explanation.

His response was prompt and charming. He apologized for the fact that the exigences of a short book review imposed simplifications of an argument, and he explained that his comment about ethnicity and language related to the lack of congruence between the origins of a tribe and the origins, real or imagined, of a language. We enjoyed a brief exchange where we agreed that many persons, encouraged by these experts to mix up ‘ethnicity’ with ‘identity’ (two notions at cross-purposes) often very selectively picked which one of their forebears they regarded as dominant in their ‘ethnicity’, and were taken in by the false notion that such culture was inherited, or ‘in their DNA’. The Professor signed off by stating that he was once asked by the British Academy to indicate his ethnicity after a public lecture he had attended, and he wrote down that he was a Martian. I (who once declared on a USA government form that I was a ‘South Sea Islander’) responded that the Academy probably paid somebody to check whether it was attracting a ‘diverse’ enough audience. Not enough Venusians, perhaps. Thank you, Professor! A true mensch.

And then I read, in The New York Review of Books (June 26), a review of a book titled Proust: A Jewish Way by Maurice Samuels, who wrote: “The debate over Proust’s relation to his Jewish identity ultimately turns not just on his personal attachments but on how he represents Jewish characters in his novel.” No it does not, Maurice! Proust’s father was a Catholic who insisted that Marcel was baptised at birth! So he could hardly have a Jewish identity, could he? Your so-called debate is completely artificial. Zut alors!

Lastly, I read a passage in the Spectator (June 7) by a man I generally admire, Sir Anthony Seldon. (He was one of the examiners of my doctoral thesis: I notice that he has encountered some controversy recently over his Vice-Chancellorship at the University of Buckingham, but I do not know the facts.) He wrote: “As the son of a Jewish father who married a Jewish woman, I believe strongly in Israel’s absolute right to exist.” I first read that as indicating that his father married a Jewish woman. Is that not an extraordinary way to describe one’s parents? For his father, Arthur Seldon, married Marjorie Willett (née Stenhouse), who appeared to come from a  traditional English Christian background (see https://www.dailymail.co.uk/home/you/article-2711061/Love-loss-shadow-war.html). Maybe, like Victor Rothschild’s first wife Barbara Hutchinson, Seldon’s mother converted to Judaism before the marriage. And then it occurred to me that what Seldon meant was that he himself married a Jewish woman. Again, his first wife (Joanna Papworth) would appear to have been traditionally ‘English’. He married his second wife (Sarah Sayer) a few years ago. Is this a roundabout way of stating that Seldon does not consider himself ‘Jewish’ since membership of that ‘tribe’ is conventionally passed through the mother? And, in any case, why should such a pairing appear to guarantee from their offspring a belief in the Zionist project  (‘as the son . . .’)? There are many more seriously ‘Jewish’ couples who reject the whole notion. I wonder why Sir Anthony believes that his opinions are in some way determined by the arrangement to which his parents came, or by the background of his second wife. This whole ‘ethnic’ business, and how it encourages even intellectuals to go down illogical paths, and to publicize their misconceptions, continues to astonish – and dismay –  me.

British Magazines

For keeping current on what is happening in the United Kingdom, I rely a lot on magazines. I subscribe to the Times (primarily for the crosswords), so I can inspect its website for news and analysis, although I find much of the coverage shallow and repetitive. I am currently a subscriber to three print magazines as well, Private Eye (since 1965), the Spectator (since 1985), and Prospect (since 2015). Yet I have recently found that all are going to the dogs.

A recent ‘Private Eye’ cover

Private Eye rarely makes me laugh these days – which was the main objective of subscribing. Its cartoons are mostly weak, and its satire and parody usually repetitive and unimaginative. Its serious coverage obsesses over the media, and the knavery of local government. I can read only so much about fourth-rate persons, severely overpaid, who perform abjectly at administering services for the populations who presumably voted them in –  and that goes especially for my home town of Croydon, Surrey, which seems to be an utter basket-case. The letters are uniformly dreary. And, of course, I recognize the players in any forum, from the BBC to the Street of Shame, less and less, which makes the whole exercise become gradually more pointless. The magazine occasionally offers some first-class investigative journalism, such as in the Post Office Horizon scandal, and the further inquiries into the Nurse Lucy Letby case, but I did offer the Editor a scoop on my Flight PB416 research, and he did not even acknowledge my email.

The Spectator has for a long time been a vital organ for the distribution of generally conservative but independent and insightful analysis – both of domestic and European affairs, and it occasionally still provides respectable and useful articles. Its recent change of ownership, however, seems to have occasioned a tilt to preachiness and promotion of superstition, with far too many interviews of clerical personnel, columns by obvious Christian enthusiasts, articles about the Papacy and the Church of England, and letters from such sympathizers. For its recent Easter edition, it even recommended that ‘society’; should take the Easter story ‘seriously and literally’. Its new editor, Michael Gove, seems to be a bit barmy. In a recent long article (April 5), he wrote enthusiastically about ‘progressives’ from ‘the left and the right’ who have ‘thoughtful plans for long-term welfare reform’, and he even twittered on about making ‘social justice’ the ‘lodestar for policy’ in an attempt to tackle ‘entrenched economic inequality’ through ‘a coherent industrial policy’ – hardly the opinions of a conservative-leaning thought-leader, and resembling more a Labour dirigiste from the 1980s. I like to be challenged intellectually (why else would I have subscribed to the New York Times for so long?) but I cannot put up with such nonsense. Moreover, the crossword has deteriorated sharply over the past year, with too many ill-conceived ideas poorly executed. Doc should retire.

Prospect was given a new editor about a year ago – Alan Rusbridger, who used to be editor of the Guardian. He has quickly taken the magazine into the land of leftism and wokery, and its columns are generally filled with familiar complaints about inequality and ‘late-stage capitalism’, and the trumpeting of DEI initiates, ethnic identity, and grievances. Prospect has always been very think-tanky, with its absurd annual assessment of the ‘Best Thinkers of the Year’, but I have tolerated that for the occasional fine article on an important issue. Likewise, I cannot put up with its stale and irritating nonsense for long.

So – where do I turn to? The Oldie?

(This month’s Commonplace items can be viewed here.)

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Third and Fourth Men: The Great Cover-Up

How did the Foreign Office and MI5 so massively mess up the surveillance of Burgess and Maclean?

This month I explore the first topic concerning the ‘Missing Diplomats’, an affair that continues to perplex – see last month’s bulletin:  https://coldspur.com/the-missing-diplomats-literature-since-1987/. I am dedicating a complete report to this first set of questions, as its scope is so large, the analysis is pivotal to the exercise, and the implications are very significant. I shall cover the remaining questions at the end of April.

This is how I introduced the topic:

  1. ‘The Third Man’: Was the Third Man the leaker who first gave the warnings about HOMER? Or was he the person who supposedly precipitated the escape at the last minute? Did the UK authorities deliberately make the question ambiguous? Did the question help to divert attention from Blunt’s true ‘third man’ role?

Contents:


Dispelling the Rumour

The Third Man

Hoover Intrudes: The Commons Debate

The Petrov Files: The Defection

Burgess & Maclean

MI5 Reacts

Further Entanglements

Reinspecting Cookridge’s Claim

Nervousness in London

Philby’s Story

The Washington Connection

Summary and Conclusions

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *         

Dispelling the Rumour

Edward Heath

On July 1, 1963, Edward Heath, Lord Privy Seal, appeared in the House of Commons intending to put the longstanding ‘Third Man’ rumour to rest. He addressed the Members of Parliament with the probable intention of forestalling any public announcement that Kim Philby, who had disappeared from Beirut earlier that year, might soon make in Moscow. After claiming that no evidence had been found in 1951 that Philby had been responsible for warning Burgess and Maclean, or that he had betrayed the interest of his country, he declared:

            The secret services have never closed their files on this case and now have further information. They are now aware, partly as a result of an admission by Philby himself, that he worked for the Soviet authorities before 1946 and that in 1951 he had warned Maclean through Burgess that the security services were about to take action against him.

This statement contained so many ambiguities and half-truths that it should have provoked further questions, even at this late stage. When was the admission by Philby made, under what circumstances, and to whom? Had Philby really stopped spying for the Soviets – phrased as the almost respectable ‘Soviet authorities’ –  in 1946 (something he erroneously claimed in his ‘confession’ in Beirut)? How did the secret services know that for sure? What other sources had led the secret services to their conclusions? How and when had Philby (located in Washington at the time) communicated with Burgess to warn Maclean? How imminent was the ‘action’ to be taken against Maclean? If the security services had been about to make such a move against Maclean (alone), why did Burgess accompany him?

Marcus Lipton

Marcus Lipton, a member of parliament who had originally raised the possibility of Philby’s being the ‘Third Man’ in a parliamentary debate in October 1955, had been forced soon after to make an apology when Philby, after conducting his notorious press conference, was publicly exonerated. Eight years later, Lipton now asked: “Does the Lord Privy Seal’s statement mean that Mr. Philby was, in fact, the third man that we were talking about at the time of the disappearance of Maclean and Burgess?” He received Heath’s reply: “Yes, sir”.

Yet had anyone (‘we’?) in fact been talking about a third man in June 1951? Apart from a vague and unsupported rumour aired in the Daily Express on June 21, the answer is ‘No’. Had the memory of the honourable and gallant member for Brixton really been so frail? At first, the Foreign Office had claimed that it knew neither the reason for the duo’s sudden departure, nor whither they had vanished – let alone that a collaborator had aided their escape. This was despite the fact that, in an unguarded moment, Percy Sillitoe, the MI5 director-general, had told the Daily Express in August 1951 that the pair were ‘behind the Iron Curtain’ (see KV 2/4106, sn. 273b). The mood of studied relaxation continued. A year later, in July 1952, Anthony Nutting, the Under-Secretary at the Foreign Office, answered a question from Lipton in the House of Commons by stating that the search was still continuing, adding rather nonchalantly that Burgess and Maclean had been dismissed from the service on June 1.

With rumours about their possible political unreliability floating around, the popular press analysis was that the primary problem behind the disappearance of Burgess and Maclean was the fact that they had still been employed by the Foreign Office at the time, not that their employer had been derelict in failing to prevent their escape. Extraordinarily, one or two stories in the Press were overlooked. On June 8, 1952, the Sunday Pictorial published a column that claimed that Maclean had known that he was under surveillance, that he had been suspected of being a Soviet spy, and that Burgess had helped his escape by hiring a car. Lady Maclean (Donald’s mother) brought it to the attention of the Foreign Office, asserting that it was libellous. But nothing happened. And the period of what the Daily Express called the ‘Four Years’ Silence’ continued.

‘Sunday Pictorial’ column (with Lady Maclean’s annotations)

By 1955, however, the Foreign Office was forced to make an announcement in the wake of the defection of Vladimir and Evdokia Petrov in Australia, and it was only then that the concept of a ‘third man’ (a ‘tipoff man’) took root. The Petrovs had defected in April 1954, in very dramatic circumstances, and Vladimir had immediately begun to talk – both to the press, and in a series of debriefings carried out by the ASIO (Australia Security Intelligence Organisation) officer G. R. Richards.  Edward Heath, nine years later, took the opportunity to remind his listeners of the circumstances of that time, trying to convoy the notion of a ‘third man’ through the potential minefield. He explicitly confirmed the substance of such an entity, but he felt confident enough to discount any possibility that Philby might have been suspected of filling that role:

            Both Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, when he was Foreign Minister, and former Prime Minister Sir Anthony Eden, now the Earl of Avon, had told the House in 1955 there was no reason to suspect Philby had been the tipoff man in the Burgess and Maclean case.

Heath did not explain to his audience exactly what Macmillan and Eden had been told at the time by their intelligence chiefs, or how such guidance contributed to their confident judgments. They probably did not have a clue: the FBI and the CIA knew more about the case than the leading members of the UK government. For example, after the Conservatives won the November 1951 election, Prime Minister Churchill and Foreign Secretary Eden were, according to Foreign Office mandarins, told the ‘full story’, namely that Maclean had come under suspicion because of his mental breakdown in Cairo. Eden gave a peremptory answer to a parliamentary question, namely that he had no knowledge of the ‘present whereabouts’ of Mr. Burgess and Mr. Maclean. I doubt whether Eden, if pressed, could have explained the circumstances of the ‘tipoff man’. So where and when did the ‘Third Man’ story originate?

The Third Man

One prominent source appeared in a book that traded on the concept. In his 1967 volume profiling Philby, The Third Man (a title to which the author does not really perform justice), E. H. Cookridge – an Austrian-born journalist who had known Philby well in Vienna in 1934 – described how the Australian Royal Commission on Espionage, on September 18, 1955, had delivered its report on the discoveries made by the revelations of the Petrovs. According to Cookridge, the report contained Petrov’s deposition that Burgess and Maclean had supplied the Soviets with a rich trove of photographs and other documents from the Foreign Office. Vladimir Petrov stated that he had learned these facts from a cypher clerk who worked for him in the Canberra rezidentura from October 1952, one Filip Kislitsin, who had provided operational support to Burgess and Maclean when he worked in London during the late 1940s, and had later, in Moscow, helped organize their exfiltration from London. Kislitsin was proud of his performance in this case and boasted that it had gone off ‘exactly as we had planned’. When the news of Melinda Maclean’s successful break-out to join her husband in Moscow was published in 1953, Kislitsin had been prompted to tell Petrov what he knew about the Burgess-Maclean business, and Petrov had skillfully elicited further information from him.

F. V. Kislitsyn

Cookridge then made a startling claim, introducing a new actor on the scene:

            Also in Petrov’s deposition was the statement that Kislitsin had told him that a ‘third man’ in Washington had informed Colonel Vassilyi Raina, head of the First Directorate of G. U. R., that Maclean was under investigation and there was a danger that he might be arrested. This ‘third man’ had apparently warned Maclean by sending a friend to London. Kislitsin was obviously unaware that the emissary was Burgess; neither did he know the name of the ‘third man’ in Washington.

Note that this claim carefully points to the tipoff occurring while Burgess was still in the USA: it is a general warning about the investigation, not an alert about an imminent arrest. It suggests that Philby was, improbably, in direct contact with Raina. It also provocatively implies that Raina and his organization did not have the means to contact Maclean directly, and that the Soviets had had to rely on Philby to provide the alert by very circuitous means. In any case, if this assertion by Cookridge were true, it pointed to a shocking oversight by MI5 and the Foreign Office. Had a direct pointer to a person undeniably identifiable as Philby been made public as early as September 1955? The British authorities had appeared ignorant of this disclosure by Petrov (or had believed that they could safely repress it), as they published, on September 23, a notorious statement on the defections that took no account of the assertion, in the form of a White Paper titled ‘Report Concerning the Disappearance of Two Former Foreign Office Officials’. How could they have ignored the statement to which Cookridge referred?

It seems that the Foreign Office had been waiting for the dust to settle in Australia before delivering the paper, but it had also been pushed into activity when an item about Burgess and Maclean that had been published in the Australian press appeared in an article in The People on September 18. It was an extract from the Petrovs’ ghost-written and as yet unpublished memoir Empire of Fear.  Rebecca West wrote that an enterprising journalist called the Foreign Office for comments, fully expecting to get rebuffed, but instead received confirmation of all the basic facts about the pair and their escape, including the critical one that they had left because they knew that they [sic!] were being investigated. Two cats were out of the bag.

The Government’s White Paper did contain two important paragraphs concerning the defections, however. Paragraph 11 read:

            It is now clear that in spite of the precautions taken by the authorities Maclean must have become aware, at some time before his disappearance, that he was under investigation. One explanation may be that he observed that he was no longer receiving certain types of secret papers. It is also possible that he detected that he was under observation. Or he may have been warned. Searching enquiries involving individual interrogations were made into this last possibility. Insufficient evidence was obtainable to form a definite conclusion or to warrant prosecution.

The suggestion of a tip-off man was very tentative, and was restricted to the possibility that Maclean had been warned of the investigation ‘some time before his disappearance’.  Nevertheless, the end of paragraph 26 ran as follows:

            It was for these reasons necessary for the security authorities to embark upon the difficult and delicate investigation of Maclean, taking into full account the risk that he would be alerted. In the event he was alerted and fled the country together with Burgess.

The tone has changed: the notion of a tip-off man is firm. Yet this is a different dimension: it suggests that the tip-off occurred at the last minute, and that it probably provoked the flight. It shows confidence that Maclean had been alerted – yet how did the security authorities know that for sure? I do not believe the scandalous implications of this second statement have ever been analyzed closely. The government made an explicit admission that it knew that Maclean had been alerted, but never stated what the evidence was, or why such evidence did not lead to the source. It also did not explain how the authorities thought Maclean might have been alerted: were their own security procedures so frail, or did they suspect that Maclean had conspirators in high office? It was also ingenuously vague and incongruous about the circumstances: ‘embark[ing] upon the difficult and delicate investigation’ suggested an extended process that in fact went back several months, while the description of the alert, and Maclean’s subsequent flight, indicated a more sudden event. This assertion had another very important implication: by indicating that the twosome had been able to make a quick decision to abscond, it finessed the whole question of the need for a Soviet logistics effort to enable their passage to Moscow once they reached France.

The extent of the confusion – or self-deception – can be shown by other archival sources. The Foreign Office file FCO 158/133, a heavily redacted 1955 report claiming to analyze the possible penetration of the Foreign Office by Soviet agents includes the following passage:

The suggestion that Maclean (or Burgess) may have been ‘tipped off’ by someone in the Foreign Office proper or in the Foreign Service overseas has been exhaustively examined. While a deliberate warning cannot be entirely ruled out, or an inadvertent and innocent ‘tip-off’ conceivably given in London to Maclean, it has been concluded that the disappearance of the two men, at that particular time, can be explained quite independently of any warning.

So much for the White Paper confirmation that Maclean indeed ‘was alerted’. Maybe the report was simply trying to exculpate the Foreign Office, and detach it from MI5’s rather shabby account. Yet leaks in the Foreign Office had indeed been recognized early on. As recorded in KV 2/4104, Malcolm Cummings in B4 of MI5 had on June 12, 1951 described ‘slipshod security’ at the Foreign Office. A member of the cypher staff there had informed MI5 that a large number of people at the Foreign Office were aware of the investigation into Burgess and Maclean. There was little evidence of the ‘exhaustive’ examination claimed by the anonymous official, in that case. A simpler admission of this fact could have saved the Government a lot of grief.

Moreover, other contradictions were obvious. Another internal Foreign Office memorandum, by Arthur de la Mare, dated November 7, 1955 (see FCO 158/177), recorded that members of the Press had noticed that the White Paper told how ‘Maclean and Burgess made their escape when the Security Authorities were on their [sic] track’, when elsewhere the Report had stated that Burgess had not been under suspicion. De la Mare tried to explain away the contradiction by saying that the impression was given by the account of Petrov’s testimony in paragraph 23, but it was not a convincing defence. Foreign Office high-ups were aware of the contradictions.

Percy Hoskins’ Eight Questions

The British Press immediately picked up on that critical phrase: ‘he was alerted’, and the concept of the Third Man thus took root – in September 1955. Yet the journalists overall did not cover themselves with glory over these ambiguous signals. Percy Hoskins of the Daily Express tried valiantly to energize the discussion, and in one column listed ‘eight points’ – questions he believed MPs should be asking in the forthcoming parliamentary debate, which astutely highlighted some of the anomalies in the White Paper. He drew attention to such embarrassing items as Maclean’s taking the day off on May 26, without any indication of concern by his bosses. (The column can be seen at sn.502 in FCO 158/7.) The Foreign Office was alarmed enough over the adverse criticism it received in the Press to create a tabulation of the questions raised: this in itself could have acted as a comprehensive assault on the flimsiness of the case presented. At the end of September, the Foreign Office was preparing some tentative responses that Prime Minister might be able to deploy when the inevitable Commons debate took place. Yet, perhaps because the media were so fragmented and competitive, no concerted challenge evolved. Members of Parliament were either distracted, confused, or cowed into silence, and presented no substantive confrontation.

Percy Hopkins

As an example of how scattered and random the criticisms were, in one of the reflective pieces which Hoskins supplied between the issuance of the White Paper and the debate in the House of Commons, he raised again the subject of the tip-off man. wrote: “It has been assumed that he [Burgess] had been tipped off by a contact in Washington or London, that he had hired the car to flee . . .”. (Note that it is now Burgess, not Maclean, who has been tipped off: Hoskins had sharply pointed out that it was absurd to consider that Burgess should have been able to escape after renting a car on the day of his disappearance, but the lead was not pursued.) Who had made that assumption is not stated: Hoskins was no doubt using an insider source who had given him the hint concerning an informant in Washington. *

[* An intriguing entry in Guy Burgess’s file KV 2/4104, at sn. 203z, dated June 25, 1951, declares, based on evidence from Judy Cowell: “The leakage to the Daily Express occurred in Percy Hoskins’ bar – his flat, at Arlington Court, is a rendezvous for civil servants, police officers and officers of the Security Service.”]

There appears to be no paper-trail of these fragmented revelations, although they obviously came to the notice of Cookridge as well. My first reaction was that any relevant records that emanated from Australia must have been weeded by MI5, and that a disgruntled insider had passed them on to Cookridge. I had to remind myself that, back in April 2109, I had concluded that Guy Liddell had been Cookridge’s informant: see the second section of my posting at https://coldspur.com/the-importance-of-chronology-with-special-reference-to-liddell-philby/. Liddell had resigned from MI5 in May 1953, so would not have officially been exposed to the Petrov business at close hand. The Petrov files, however, show that he visited Australia, with the knowledge of ASIO, in the autumn of 1954, returning after a satisfactory visit in November. He may well have been on an undercover assignment to gather information on Director-General White’s behalf. He certainly had an interest in diverting attention away from Blunt to Philby, which this ‘extract’ undeniably does. Thus he might have continued to feed information to Cookridge, while Cookridge may have added the flamboyant flourish himself.

Yet Hoskins, who acted as the doyen of the journalists, never asked himself: How could a Third Man in Washington have given a last-minute tip off? Hoskins never re-assembled the dual dimensions of leakage that had explicitly been stated in the White Paper, and instead he applied the secret intelligence he possessed solely to the phenomenon of the last-minute alarm. Marcus Lipton’s question to Prime Minister Eden had similarly failed to grasp the nettle, since he concentrated on the ‘Third Man’ activities of Harold Philby, when it was well-known that Philby returned to Britain after Burgess and Maclean had disappeared. An opportunity was missed: any properly focussed attention was probably distracted by an event across the Atlantic.

Hoover Intrudes: The Commons Debate

J. Edgar Hoover

It would appear that the information described by Cookridge had slipped out already – even to the USA. J. Edgar Hoover, the F.B.I. chief, who had, as I have explained elsewhere, been tipped off by Dick White, via Arthur Martin, in June 1951 as to Philby’s role as the ‘alerter’ in Washington, entered the fray. (Please see the following bulletins for the full story:  https://coldspur.com/dick-whites-devilish-plot/ and https://coldspur.com/dick-whites-tangled-web/ ). At that time, White’s logic had been as follows: Philby was already under suspicion; he was indoctrinated into the HOMER inquiry; his close friend, Burgess, stayed at his house outside Washington; Burgess returned to the UK, and consorted with Maclean; Burgess and Maclean absconded. Thus Philby was responsible. Instead of having to battle with Philby’s employers and allies at MI6, why should White not induce the Americans to force the issue, and have him outed? White’s scheme had been received enthusiastically by Geoffrey Patterson, the MI5 representative in Washington. In fact, Philby had been recalled before the Americans took action.

When the Petrov story broke, Hoover pursued his own investigation, however. According to David Horner’s Official History of ASIO: 1949-1963, in August 1954 Hoover ‘arranged for an FBI liaison officer to visit Spry in Melbourne’, which led to more solid relations between the two agencies. Horner continued (p 380):

            Hoover then wrote directly to Spry asking for various pieces of information from the Petrovs. The information was cross-checked against that provided by the Soviet defector Rastvorov in the United States, and both ASIO and the Americans were satisfied that Petrov’s evidence was reliable.

Rastvorov had defected in Japan in February 1954, after receiving a recall instruction in the wake of the purge of Beria’s men. Horner’s attention to detail is regrettably lax, however. His source for this item is an unidentified ASIO memorandum dated July 9, 1974: the chronology does not make sense. What Rastvorov claimed about Burgess and Maclean is thus not easily verifiable. (Rastvorov contributed three articles to Life magazine at the end of 1954, but they contain only a cursory reference to Burgess and Maclean.)

White’s little game with the FBI was a dangerous one: he was suffering from delusions of grandeur. His behaviour in 1951 and 1952 had been one of the most disreputable aspects of the whole affair. He had for a long time believed that he was running the whole show at MI5, and he had given that impression to others. In a diary entry for January 28, 1948, Malcolm Muggeridge, having just lunched with White, wrote: “He is now more or less head of MI5”. Sillitoe was just a figurehead, and Deputy Director-General Liddell had been carefully sidelined. Having executed his ruse of leaking his strong suspicions about Philby to the FBI via Arthur Martin’s dossier, White then had to face the prospect of having Philby interrogated when the latter was recalled in June 1951, and he took on the responsibility himself.  He was, however, mentally, psychologically, and technically unprepared for this task, as the transcripts in the PEACH files show. He had probably expected that the reaction from the United States would have eliminated Philby by then – or even pushed him to defect, too.

Yet, having failed at his task, and with MI6’s senior officers rallying to Philby’s support, White had to delude his own team about the implications of the man’s guilt. In an extraordinary minute recording a meeting of MI5’s B2 team (Soviet counter-espionage) held in February 1952 (see sn. 387z in KV 2/4108), White explained to the officers present that, after Helenus Milmo’s interrogation of Philby in December 1951, he was known to be a Soviet agent and was deemed responsible for the leakage of information that led to the flight of Burgess and Maclean. White warned everyone in attendance that no mention of the case could be made to anyone not present. If the information became public, he explained, serious damage to MI5’s relations with the US security authorities might occur. B1 and B4 also received the lecture. Guy Liddell apparently did not get the message. It was a hypocritical and deceitful show of behaviour of the lowest order on White’s part. There would be many who would recall White’s recklessness in the years to come.

In any event, Hoover ordered a story to be leaked to the New York Sunday News, in which Philby was named as the ‘Third Man’. It appeared on October 23, 1955. The timing was extraordinary, since Hoover’s insertion simply caused all the attention in the UK to shift from the several relevant questions about the whole surveillance project to the more volatile and eye-catching theme of the tip-off man. (Might the story’s release and timing have been arranged behind the scenes? I do not regard it as impossible.) The disclosure encouraged the terrier-like but not outstandingly smart Marcus Lipton, at Prime Minister’s Question Time in the House of Commons on October 25, to shift his focus. He requested that a Select Committee be appointed to investigate the Burgess and Maclean business, and he followed up with the following question:

            Has the Prime Minister made up his mind to cover up at all costs the dubious third man activities of Mr Harold Philby, who was First Secretary at the Washington embassy a little time ago, and is he determined to stifle all discussion on the very great matters which were evaded in the wretched White paper, which is an insult to the intelligence of the country?

It appeared that Lipton was brazenly, but confidently, using Hoover’s leak to exploit intelligence that could only have derived from the debriefing of the Petrovs – information that he had acquired clandestinely. Anthony Eden’s reply, however, was to fence off the whole matter:

My answer was “No” to the hon. and gallant Member’s Question, which was not about all that but asked for the appointment of a Select Committee. My answer remains “No.” So far as the wider issues raised in the supplementary question are concerned, the Government take the view that it is desirable to have a debate, and an early debate, on this subject, in which I as Prime Minister will be glad to take part.

Harold Macmillan

The outcome was that a further debate did indeed take place, on November 7. Foreign Secretary Harold Macmillan’s long exculpatory speech can be seen at https://hansard.parliament.uk/commons/1955-11-07/debates/45728b3c-a5e0-48ac-829f-a47d00fec839/FormerForeignOfficeOfficials(Disappearance) .  On Philby, he made the following statement:

It is now known that Mr. Philby had Communist associates during and after his university days. In view of the circumstances, he was asked, in July, 1951, to resign from the Foreign Service. Since that date his case has been the subject of close investigation. No evidence has been found to show that he was responsible for warning Burgess or Maclean. While in Government service he carried out his duties ably and conscientiously. I have no reason to conclude that Mr. Philby has at any time betrayed the interests of this country, or to identify him with the so-called “third man,” if, indeed, there was one.

While the charge of having ‘had communist associates’ sounded a feeble reason for suspension (of how many leading members of various government administrations might that have been said?), it was allowed to pass. If that was all that Philby had been accused of, he could have borne justifiable grievances about his peremptory dismissal. (When one considers how Burgess and Maclean were kept on and sustained after their reprehensible patterns of behaviour, it is almost comical.) Also allowed to pass was Macmillan’s naïve but very characteristic questioning of the existence of a ‘Third Man’, even though the earlier government report had admitted that Maclean had indeed received a warning from someone of presumably humanoid origins. Moreover, the outcome of Macmillan’s clearance of Philby, the virtuoso performance to the Press by Philby at his mother’s home, and his subsequent challenge to Lipton to repeat his accusation outside the protection of the House of Commons, meant that Lipton had to make an abject apology. If Philby had been courageous, he might have declared that it was impossible that he could been the Third Man who gave the last-minute tip-off, since he was over 3,500 miles away from the action at the time. Yet he might thereby have rekindled the idea of an unidentified Third Man in Washington who much earlier had alerted Maclean to the investigation, and he thus could also have turned the spotlight afresh on someone else, the last-minute informant in London.

Yet how was it that the statements issued in the House, and the White Paper issued on September 23, could so glibly avoid the revelation that Cookridge later identified? And why did Lipton have to withdraw his remarks, if the evidence was so unambiguous? The Government had admitted that there had been a ‘Third Man’, but happily went along with Philby’s resolute denial that it had been he. In that case, however, the real Third Man was still at large. A more dogged approach by the Press and the Members of Parliament should have pushed the Government to explain why their investigations had failed to unearth who the true culprit was, and it could have applied pressure for it to explain the paradox about warnings from Washington and leaks in London.

The fact is, however, that in one critical respect Cookridge was completely wrong about the Washington-based alert. No such statement concerning a ‘Third Man’ had ever been published in the Australian proceedings. The Final Report of the Royal Commission on Espionage has no indexed entries for Burgess or Maclean, and the detailed transcripts of the Commission’s inquiries that lasted for one-hundred-and-twenty-six days, dating from May 1955, contain no testimony from the Petrovs that referred to the fact that Burgess and Maclean may have received a tip-off before they escaped. All the relevant information was concealed in secret exchanges between ASIO and MI5 in London. No doubt Cookridge, Lipton and Hoover, and senior members of the CIA’s counter-intelligence staff, all received the same damaging item from an insider source, but were constrained by the ethics of source protection. Thus the story died for a while, and the Foreign Office breathed again. The clandestine proceedings of the handling of the Petrovs were to reveal, however, that MI5 and the Foreign Office were in 1954 and early 1955 trying to protect some very dark but related secrets.

The vital aspect of the two paragraphs in the White Paper is the fact that they implicitly pointed to the possible existence of a Third Man as well as that of a Fourth Man, two separate persons giving warnings at different stages of the investigation! And this was, of course, precisely true, namely Philby (stage 1) and Blunt (stage 2). Dick White and his subordinate officer Graham Mitchell (head of D Division), responsible for the text of the White Paper, surely never considered that the wording of their statement might have given the whole game away. Neither the honourable members of Parliament nor the less honourable members of the Press could possibly imagine that there were two tip-off men involved, and they failed to pick up the obvious but probably unintended clues that had been thrown to them.

Where was the accountability? For four years, the British authorities had pretended there had been no exposure or malfeasance, but were then forced to acknowledge that the pair had indeed been spies, and that Maclean (at least) had been tipped off. They then forcefully denied that Philby had been the Third Man who had alerted the pair, and they defended him. Another eight years were apparently spent doing nothing –  until Philby’s disappearance forced them to admit that he had indeed been that individual. In attempting to explain their dismal performance over the whole imbroglio, however, the Foreign Office and MI5 had opened a Pandora’s box of puzzles and conundrums that has never been closed. What exactly did the defection of the Petrovs uncover, and why were the disclosures not followed up with any vigour?

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The Petrov Files: The Defection

The National Archives files on Vladimir and Evdokia Petrov are gigantic. They encompass KV 2/4339 to KV 2/4388 – fifty discrete files. Most of these, for reasons of size, are split into further sub-files, numbering from two, three, four, five – even to eight in one case. Most of these sub-files contain a hundred pages or so. They are a mess. The transcripts of the hearings (KV 2/3478 to KV 2/3487), comprising the full record, over one-hundred-and-twenty-six days, and consisting of photocopies of densely-typed pages, should have been extracted into a separate file, alongside the relatively brief official ‘Report of the Royal Commission on Espionage’, dated 22 August 1955, at KV 2/3488. The remaining files are  a largely disorganized accumulation of memoranda, reports, telegrams, interviews, etc. etc. dealing with the investigations into the Petrovs, the attempts by London (the Foreign Office, the Ministry of Defence, MI5 and MI6) to control what was going on, and the arduous role of MI5’s Service Liaison Officer with ASIO in Canberra to act as a mediator.

There are many highly valuable items in the archive, such as fascinating reports on the structure and methods of Soviet Intelligence, and profiles of its agents abroad in many countries, but they are interspersed with much repetitive information, and a rather chaotic set of correspondence. Moreover, the files have been weeded and redacted. Since cable numbers were applied serially, the existence of missing items is obvious by virtue of the discontinuity of identifiers. Several items (including a few relating to Burgess and Maclean) that are listed in the Minute Sheets have been removed from the dossier. On the other hand, significant pieces concerning the pair are absent from the Petrov files, but can be found in the Burgess PF (in KV 2/4111). Names are frequently redacted. Memoranda are referred to, often as enclosures, but they are not attached. It is utterly chaotic – maybe deliberately so. Wading through these files is a laborious – but necessary – process.      

Yet a careful examination reaps great rewards. To a small extent, the MI5 officers who studied them have helped researchers. They were on the lookout for references to Burgess and Maclean in the transcripts, and inserted their hand-written notes where information needed to be extracted to the defectors’ files. Thus, when the examiner is trying to pinpoint the date when Kislitsyn (aka Kislitsin) arrived, in KV 2/3485 (Day 93, February 2, 1955), Evdokia Petrov helps the investigator by indicating when the news was received that Melinda Maclean had made her escape.         At the top of the first page of the Transcript for each day, the MI5 officer has carefully listed all the Personal Files that need to be updated with relevant information from the record, and the officer responsible (R. T. Reed, a name that will be familiar to many coldspur-readers) has faithfully listed Maclean (D.D. – to distinguish him from an unrelated Australian Maclean) and Burgess for processing with items on page 2002. Thus, if Reed and his colleagues were doing their job properly, we should be able to rely on them for a comprehensive collection of Burgess and Maclean sightings. The gems derive from the mass of other material.

Evdokia & Nikolai Petrov

This was not a normal, clandestine defection. Vladimir Petrov had been under close inspection ever since he arrived in Australia, and ASIO had marked him out as a potential defector in July 1953. While Petrov had been discreet in his negotiations, he had not been open with his wife, Evdokia, who worked alongside him as his cypher clerk. She was torn between loyalty to her husband and her concern for relatives left behind in the Soviet Union, and she actually defected two weeks after Vladimir. A very public attempt at abduction of Evdokia by KGB goons was caught on camera, and the world’s press was alerted to a major story. Vladimir was interested in milking the highest bidder to pay him for what he knew, and the Australian government knew that it could not keep him quiet. Petrov brought very little documentary evidence of espionage with him, however: most was in the heads of him and his wife.

There was also much political controversy, since an election was to take place on May 29. The incumbent Prime Minister, and leader of the Liberal/Country Coalition, Robert Menzies, had feared a strong challenge by dint of the free-spending promises of Dr. Evatt, the opposition Labour leader. When Menzies won the election, Evatt, a communist sympathizer, claimed that Premier Menzies had arranged the defection for electoral purposes, and that the documents were fake. Tension existed between the fledgling ASIO (set up and trained by Roger Hollis) and the MI5 officers in London. ASIO wanted to show its independence in what it saw as an Australian affair, while the UK was concerned about the broader implications, and was already uneasy in its relationship with the Americans because of VENONA-related leakages in Australia. Indeed, VENONA cast a shadow over the whole proceedings, since many of the identifications of Soviet agents that the Petrovs were able to make could not be revealed in open court because of the secrecy behind the VENONA programme. Yet, owing to a coincidental acquaintance, the Petrovs had some fresh secrets to reveal about events way beyond Australia. They had insider information about the abscondment of the Missing Diplomats.

Burgess & Maclean

The fact that what the Petrovs had to say about the Burgess-Maclean business was based on second-hand evidence was of no concern to such as the Daily Express, but it was a critical concern for MI5 and the Foreign Office, who went to strenuous lengths to make sure that anything inflammatory was described as purely speculative. As early as April 7, 1954 (i.e. a couple of days after Petrov defected) the Security Liaison Officer (SLO) in Canberra, Derek Hamblen, summarized in a cable the major points Petrov had already revealed: that the NKVD had recruited Burgess and Maclean as students; that, when the pair considered they were under surveillance, the MGB ordered their retrieval; that the escape arrangements were handled by Kislitsyn; and that the spies had taken valuable information with them. MI5 was very concerned about the details behind these allegations, and it wanted to prevent any fresh bare facts from coming out.

The references to the university background of the recruitment of the pair might have provoked greater concern than was apparent. After all, if you find a couple of dead bats in your attic, it is unlikely that there are not many more who have decided to roost under your rafters. The public at large may not have thought twice about this phenomenon, but any MI5 officer who had been exposed to the Krivitsky disclosures should have reacted with alarm. If Burgess and Maclean, what about Philby, Blunt, Rothschild, for starters – and that was just Cambridge? White, Liddell, and Archer (especially) all knew about the Imperial Council spy and the journalist in Spain. Could the lid be kept on that part of the story?

One of the hitherto unspoken areas of interest must have been the implication that Burgess and Maclean contacted their Soviet handlers when they realized that they [sic!] were under surveillance: since the pair had been closely watched since Burgess’s arrival, and no contact with members of the residency had been noticed, who had been the messenger? This conundrum would not have been apparent to the outside world, but it was of critical importance for MI5. When the first report from Australia on Petrov’s testimony on Burgess and Maclean arrived in London on April 7, declaring that the Soviet Embassy had ordered their withdrawal after the couple had told them they were being surveilled, someone has inscribed: ‘How did they know?’. Indeed, Robertson immediately replied, in a message visible at sn. 519a in KV 2/4111, but which (I believe) is absent from the Petrovs’ PF: “Urgently interested to know why BURGESS and MACLEAN considered Security Service were on their track.”

[I insert here what I believe are important comments about the organization of MI5 at the time. In May 1953, Dick White had been appointed Director-General to replace Percy Sillitoe, much to the chagrin of the Deputy D-G Guy Liddell, who retired to work at AERE Harwell. White, who knew where the bodies were buried, and was determined not to let their whereabouts harm his career, set out to re-build MI5. In October 1953 he implemented his changes. Roger Hollis moved from C Division to become White’s deputy. Divisions now became Branches. F Branch was re-formed to intensify domestic surveillance of subversive movements. The Counter-Espionage B Division was reconstituted as D Branch: in what must have been a surprise move, the relatively inexperienced and untested Graham Mitchell (who had been responsible for ‘Vetting’ under Hollis in C3) was appointed head of D. Whether James Robertson, who had worked closely with White on counter-espionage projects such as the Blunt business in 1951, was miffed by this apparent snub, cannot be ascertained. Robertson (as head of D1, the Soviet counter-espionage section) continued to lead the Burgess/Maclean inquiries while his boss, malleable under his new protector, learned the ropes. The Petrov case immediately applied pressure on the somewhat unworldly Mitchell, while Robertson disappeared from D Branch records late in 1955 – perhaps because he was disgusted with the shape that the White Paper had taken – although he did resurface as ‘D’ in July 1956. That was the month in which Roger Hollis replaced White as Director-General, and Mitchell was moved into the deputy spot. Courtenay Young, who had served as Special Liaison Officer between ASIO and MI5 from 1952 to 1955, and also ghost-wrote Alexander Foote’s memoir Handbook for Spies, had joined D1 from B1k earlier in the year, but in June 1956 he reported that Rodney Reed had been taken away from him. Young was left to hold the fort on Burgess and Maclean himself as D1, until D. M. Whyte was moved in a couple of months later. Thus there were certainly continuity problems in D Branch, and probably some concerning morale, as well.]

Very curiously, moreover, the narrative takes two different courses at this point. The relevant Burgess Personal File (KV 2/4111) includes documents that are not to be found in the corresponding Petrov Files (KV 2/3440 and 2/3442). KV 2/411 shows that a contentious exchange of cables took place at the end of April 1954, in which Charles Spry, the head of ASIO, accused the Foreign Office of making unauthorized and unnecessary comments on confidential material. London, in response, suggested that leakages of information to the Press had occurred in Australia, and that it was a mistake for the Australian authorities to be arranging press conferences for the Petrovs. In fact, ASIO had to concede that a source close to Evatt had leaked information to the Press after a Cabinet meeting. The Burgess file does include a fuller attempt by the SLO to explain what Petrov knew and had said about the communications between Burgess and Maclean and the Embassy, but the defector’s story varied, possibly because of translation issues, and the Petrovs started to clam up as they did not want to say anything that might damage their ex-colleague, Kislitsyn.

Returning to the annotation of puzzlement above, I declare that this simple reaction has very deep implications. First of all, the author of the note was probably interested in knowing how the couple knew that they were being surveilled, but it could also refer to an explanation of how the Soviet Embassy learned of their suspicions. After all, if Burgess and Maclean were being closely surveilled, any contact with Embassy personnel would surely have been picked up. Yet there is a degree of naivety in the inquiry: since the surveillance of the duo was so very obvious (and maybe designed to frighten them into an indiscretion such as arranging a meeting with their Soviet handlers), why would Robertson appear to be so surprised that Burgess and Maclean had detected that they were being watched? Was he perhaps ignorant of the true nature and purpose of the surveillance exercise? This would not be the only occasion when aspects of the project were being withheld from lower-level MI5 officers. It seems that Petrov had assumed that the pair had been alerted rather than working it out themselves, but he may have been fed a leading question.

The response could have been very provocative, and a little troubling, but it is not clear that Robertson’s question was directly addressed. An item in the ‘Kislitsyn’ file maintained by ASIO (Volume 3: A6119, p 17), recording an interrogation of Petrov that took place on April 13, confirms the evidence: “According to GLEB [Kislitsyn] they [Burgess and Maclean] reported to the contact man that they were fairly certain that Security were taking an unusual interest in their activities. Sometime later the Soviet arranged their escape.” A ‘contact man’, eh? Who might that be? I could not find this nugget in the KV Petrov files. And MI5’s Watchers had not noticed any meetings between Burgess or Maclean and members of the Soviet Embassy. Yet Anthony Blunt had been in plain sight. Was there a possible exposure here?

MI5 Reacts

In any event, MI5 jumped into action – before the date of the above ASIO minute. It expressed great interest in trying to persuade Kislitsyn to defect, too, as a cable from Robertson, sent as early as April 9, reveals. ‘Prepared to go to any reasonable limit financially’, he adds. This was assuredly because the KGB officer might have been able to shed light on how the London residency learned of the investigation into Maclean. MI5 had its suspicions of Blunt’s disloyalty by then, of course (with White wanting to give him immunity for a full confession back in the summer of 1951), but the Security Service had apparently not seriously considered that he had acted as an emissary between the Missing Diplomats and the MGB. Information from an insider might give them vital information. However, as with Petrov, it was a two-edged-sword. If Kislitsyn were to defect, and start talking casually to the Press, MI5 and the Foreign Office would lose control of the process, and embarrassing stories might emerge. As it happened, Kislitsyn, who witnessed Yevdokia’s struggles at Darwin airport, accused the Australians of trying to kidnap her, and coolly continued on his route to Moscow. Moreover, the chief of ASIO, Charles Spry, had enough defectors on his hands: he did now want to have to deal with Kislitsyn as well. *

Charles Spry

[* Astonishingly, when questioned by the panel at the Royal Commission on Intelligence and Security, in February 1976, Spry twice referred to Kislitysn as ‘probably one of the most important defectors ever to defect from the Soviet Union’. It is clear from the context, however, that he was referring to Anatole Golitsyn, and that the stenographer mis-recorded the name. The error was never noticed, and the document never corrected. In such a manner do mistakes in chronicles occur, and erroneous history is written.]

After Evdokia made her choice, the Petrovs were made available for press questions as early as a couple of weeks after Menzies’ announcement of April 13 that an official inquiry into Soviet espionage would take place. By the end of the month, MI5 was urgently requesting full details of exactly what the couple had already said. The local Daily Express stringer, Morley Richards, was feeding information to Percy Hoskins in London, and the newspaper started to publish stories. An alarming article appeared in the Daily Mirror (Sydney) on April 28, 1954, citing a column in the Daily Express from the same day, in which Petrov was claimed to have told reporters who planned the escape of Burgess and Maclean from Britain, and who helped them across the Continent. It is probably safe to assume that messages on this topic were being exchanged between MI5 and the SLO about this article, but any record of such has been weeded out from the files.

In his Soviet Defectors (pp 244-245), Kevin Riehle in an Endnote explicitly highlights this Daily Express article for the revelations of Petrov (whom he identifies as ‘Shorokhov’), and he provides the headline ‘Maclean: Petrov Tells: The Full Story of Vanished Diplomats Sent to Britain’. I have tracked the article down [see image introducing this report]. It is unremarkable – more titillating than revelatory. It dramatically indicated that the authorities now knew who had arranged the escape, and where Burgess and Maclean were now resident, questions that may have been of great interest at the time, but it did not describe exactly what the Petrovs had disclosed.

Nevertheless, MI5 was alarmed, and thus requested, on April 29, further details on exactly what Petrov had divulged, and from whom he had gained the information. MI5 pleaded that ‘nothing the Petrovs say (especially regarding Burgess and Maclean) is made available for publication except after consultation with us’. Perhaps in recognition that this was a futile request, MI5 then changed tack, starting to emphasize that the testimony of the Petrovs was based on second-hand (or even third-hand) evidence, and was thus only ‘hearsay’. That line was adopted when questions were asked in the House of Commons on May 3, to which Selwyn Lloyd replied that ‘such information about Burgess and Maclean which had so far been elicited was of limited and general character and it was not known whether it was based on Petrov’s personal knowledge or hearsay’. For several months, this strategy seemed to work. By July, however, fresh alarm bells began to ring, as Foreign Office and MI5 sensitivity to scrutiny came under intense media pressure, probably fuelled by MI5 insiders dissatisfied with the cover-up.

The greatest concern for MI5 and the Foreign Office was the possibility of stories appearing in the press about i) the claim (much later referred to by Cookridge) that there had been a British officer in Washington who had managed to communicate an early warning to Maclean about the investigation, and ii) the notion that the local Soviet residency had instigated the exfiltration, based on knowledge acquired clandestinely, rather than responding solely to the beliefs expressed to them by Burgess and Maclean that they were under surveillance. (Yet even that theory had its dangers, as I suggested above, and shall later explain.) The exposure of these tales would have been disastrous: it would have confirmed all the accusations against Philby, and unveiled his associations with Burgess, and it would have also strongly reinforced the idea that the Soviets were receiving regular updates on the situation from a friendly source in London as well. There is no evidence, in April 1954, that a specific reference to a Washington link in the chain had been revealed to ASIO and MI5 by the Petrovs. But matters were to become a bit messier.

Further Entanglements

Nikolai Khokhlov

A further shock must have been an item published in the Brisbane Sunday Mail, on May 23, when another Soviet defector, Nikolai Khokhlov, appeared on the scene. Rather dramatically titled ‘The Burgess-Maclean Mystery Is Solved’, the short piece concentrated on the escape of Melinda Maclean and her children that had been facilitated by the KGB, but it also stated that Khokhlov had provided an accurate story to his US debriefers of how Burgess and Maclean ‘slipped behind the Iron Curtain’. Khokhlov had been on a mission to assassinate the Russian opposition activist Okolovich earlier in 1954, but had felt horror at the last minute, admitted his role to his would-be victim, and then defected to the Americans in Germany on February 19, 1954. The CIA gave him a thorough debriefing. How the news filtered through to Brisbane, but apparently nowhere else, is puzzling. Yet, since ASIO picked up the story, and has a clipping in its files, the information presumably went to London, too.

More information followed. On June 30 (see KV 2/3456, sn. 79a), the SLO reported that Petrov had provided additional information about the set-up in London, with Chichaev (the NKVD representative to SOE) named as playing an important role in the escape. Petrov also described the size of the MGB cadre in London at the time. And on July 14, the SLO provided, by cable, identified as Y.262, a very focused, single item of information gained from the interrogation of the Petrovs (see KV 2/3457, sn. 91b). The item was troubling, and its essence contained the following sentences:

            RAZIN informed P. it would be very useful if they could secure agent inside Swedish Service who might be able to tip them off about surveillance and other counter espionage measures against N.K.G.B. RAZIN said (?they had) such a man in London who worked in British counter-intelligence and passed on valuable information to N.K.G.B. about British counter measures. RAZIN gave P. NO other information.

It concluded by stating that the report would follow by diplomatic bag.

The full report contained several additional items, and it was indeed sent by diplomatic bag the same day. (It appears at sn. 101z in KV 2/3457.) These ancillary statements were not so shocking: they simply add background as to the means whereby Razin might have learned the information. For the record, I present the slightly fuller text that appeared as the first item in this Report (‘RAZIN’s reference to an Agent in the U.K.’)

While RAZIN was the N.K.G.B. Chief Legal Resident in Sweden (i.e. 1944-1945/6), he told PETROV (who was his N.K.G.B. cypher clerk) that it would be very useful if they could secure an agent inside the Swedish Counter-Intelligence Service who might be able to tip them off about surveillance and other counter-measures practised against the N.K.G.B. RAZIN added that they possessed just such a man in London who worked in the British Counter-Intelligence Service, and passed on valuable information to the N.K.G.B relating to British measures. RAZIN gave no further details.

The Foreign Office was alarmed. That it was embarrassed by what it knew, and that it was executing a cover-up, was indiscreetly recorded as early as November 1954, in an attempt to forestall what might emanate from the Petrov disclosures. A memo from A. J. de la Mare, freshly appointed as Chief Security Officer in the Foreign Office, to his boss, Sir Patrick Dean, appears in FCO 158/198, where he writes, on November 4: “The Security Service tell me that elaborate precautions are being taken in Australia to ensure that the proceedings of the Royal Commission will not disclose the source which revealed the treachery of these two men.” Apart from the clumsy phrasing (to whom was the ‘treachery’ revealed? or was the discovered treachery simply an accidental outcome of the source’s actions?), the implication is clearly that the identity of the source was known.

Officials continued to give the game away. A few months later, in March 1955, as work on the Petrovs’ book, ghost-written by ASIO officer Michael Thwaites, was under way, Graham Mitchell, the head of D Branch, made an extraordinary reference to the exchange from that previous July. His telegram is significant, and it deserves to be quoted in full:

  1. Foreign Secretary, after consultation with Cabinet colleagues, has decided to make no B and M comment.
  2. This decision reached in full awareness that PETROV will give publicity to story in due course and that this could happen at any time.
  3. Generally recognized here that events in Australia must be allowed to take their course. On behalf of F. O. and ourselves we express only the following wishes:
  4. The longer publication delayed the better;
  5. Assumption in paragraph 1 of our DS/2066 of 22.2.55, on which you gave welcome assurance in paragraph 1 of your Y.79 of 4.3.55, repeated with emphasis;
  6. As example of specially embarrassing matter which we hope will in no circumstances be made public, we cite RAZIN story first referred to in your Y.262 of 14.7.54, partly on general grounds, partly because of possibility of Press here connecting culprit with name of PEACH.
  7. Story such as that drafted by Thwaites and enclosed with your PF703 of 8.3.55 would be unobjectionable, subject only to it being made clear that it was B and M who warned M.G.B. of their danger and not vice versa. This would be in accordance with all known probabilities and with earlier recollections of PETROV as several times repeated.
  8. Spry’s sympathetic co-operation on this delicate matter warmly appreciated.

Notes: (1) RAZIN: Vasilli Razin had been the rezident in Stockholm (1943 or 1944 to spring 1945) when the Petrovs worked there. He is Cookridge’s ‘RAINA’.

            (2) PEACH: PEACH was the name given to Philby in the eponymous 1951 inquiry.

            (3) DS/2066 & Y79: These items appear in the Minute Sheet of KV 2/3462, but have apparently been withdrawn from the file.

            (4) PF 703: This item is likewise missing from the relevant KV 2/3463 file.

What is remarkable is the fact that, while the passage containing the reference to a Soviet agent in London appears in the archive, the apparently obvious hint to the presence and contribution of PEACH in Washington was either never made, or has been weeded from the file. There is no obvious redaction in a long memorandum that describes what Razin knew (‘Supplementary Information from the Petrovs concerning aspects of the Burgess and Maclean Case’), in KV 2/3457, sn. 101a(i), apart from a possible final Item 23. It seems unlikely that a note on the Washington connection would have been extracted and despatched separately, but the message from Mitchell is incontrovertible. The key, however, is the reference to ‘Y.262’, which identifies the precise telegram number, as described above. It does not appear to have been doctored or redacted: there are only three paragraphs, and the third indicates sign-off by simply stating ‘Report follows by bag’.

Mitchell’s admission (in March 1955) that the matter was ‘specially embarrassing’ is very telling. What had been the reaction of MI5 when the message was first received? We do not know. No response is recorded, whether of surprise, or shock, or horror. Yet Mitchell’s communiqué suggests that the SLO was in on the guilty secret – that there was no surprise in the claim that a Soviet agent was (or had been) working in the guts of British Intelligence in London, but that nothing had been done about it. (And it was not Gouzenko’s ‘ELLI’: MI5 had put out feelers to the Petrovs on this possibility, but it had drawn a blank. Vladimir and Yevdokia did not respond to the name.) Was Mitchell simply being clumsy about the possibility of PEACH’s being identified as ‘the man in London’ from May 1951? Why, in March 1955, would he have been concerned about the possibility of the Press’s associating Razin’s defined NKGB agent as Kim Philby? Philby would officially have been an unknown to the Press at this time – and when journalists did learn about him, they would before long discover that he had been out of the country at the time of the escape. In the normal course of events, they would have known nothing about Burgess’s close friendship with Philby, or the fact that he had stayed with him in Washington. It suggests that rumours must have been floating around – kindled no doubt by disgruntled insiders in MI5 – that Philby indeed had acted in that role at some time, and that it was only Edgar Hoover’s publicly naming of him that prompted Lipton to bring the insinuations out into the open. That initiative was abetted, of course, by the People article of September 18 that reminded the British public that the government had been very evasive and secretive about the whole business. So what was the truth behind the ‘Third Man’ claims?

Reinspecting Cookridge’s Claim

Cookridge’s claim needs to be re-inspected. He specifically stated that the Third Man in Washington both alerted Raina (Razin) and sent a friend to London to warn Maclean. Where and how Kislitsyn gained these pieces of intelligence is not explained. Cookridge’s item appears bogus. For one thing, Philby would not have been in direct contact with Razin. Since Philby had been in touch with his Soviet controllers via Makayev in the USA, one would expect Kislitysn to have assumed that the customary secret backstage channels would have been used to alert Maclean. The other vital error is the fact that, as most commentators have now concluded, Philby never arranged for Burgess’s recall to London! A complete mythology has grown (as I explained last month) about the notion that Philby exploited Burgess’s traffic offences to send him to London bearing the bad news, and to alert Maclean. Even if Razin and Kislitysn had later been exposed to such a rumour (one that Yuri Modin reinforced, by the way), they would not, in the period of the escape and its aftermath, have been able to endorse such a story. Cookridge’s nugget states that Razin knew the names of neither the Washington-based agent nor his messenger. I conclude that Cookridge’s informant (probably Liddell) must have packaged up his gobbets of intelligence in more formal dressing in order to try to enhance their credibility. The author’s assertion in The Third Man thus loses all claims to genuineness and authenticity, even though it carries a hint of historical truth.

One has to wonder, again, how clued up Mitchell was on the whole operation, and how sharp he was. He was clearly unaware of the implications of the surveillance on Burgess and Maclean, since he stressed how important it was to clarify that ‘it was B and M who warned M.G.B. of the danger and not vice versa’. That judgment would have been considered dangerous by Dick White, since it explicitly pointed to the ineffectiveness of the surveillance process, or the awkward fact that there had been a messenger, someone who had been in MI5’s direct sights during those hectic May days, but who had been overlooked. Given the thoroughness of the surveillance process, the testimony should have been an enormous wake-up call for MI5: perhaps White and his cohorts did take it seriously, but buried the traces. In any case, it was careless of the custodians of the archive not to have noticed this inconsistency, and to have let Mitchell’s comments pass unredacted.

Another concern of Mitchell’s might have been the disclosure of these reports to the Americans. In David Horner’s 2014 official history of ASIO, Volume 1, from 1949-1963, The Spycatchers, the author writes “Nonetheless, despite initial criticism from MI5 that ASIO was not [sic] passing information to American agencies [sic: plural], from as early as June 1954 Spry was forwarding copies of the Petrovs’ statements to the Americans.” (Chapter 14, p 359). Horner cites as his source: ‘Memo, Spry, 3 June, 1954, ASIO records’. This was despite a published plea by MI5 and the SLO that Spry keep such communications in his private store. What Spry actually did, and why he would even selectively pass on any depositions when the matters were sub judice, is a mystery. Yet, if such information did reach the CIA and FBI, it would not have helped the cause of MI5 to keep a lid on its secrets. It remained under stress.

Nervousness in London

As work on the Petrovs’ book Empire of Fear progressed, the mandarins in London became more nervous, especially when the White Paper was being prepared by Mitchell in September 1955. On August 8, the SLO had informed MI5 that he regretted overlooking the fact that Petrov’s version of his recall had appeared as ‘my recollection’ rather than ‘my belief’. On August 19, Mitchell let J. E. D. Street in the Foreign Office know that he was edgy about requiring further changes to the text (which was, amazingly, already in the hands of various media outlets around the world) since it would draw attention to areas of sensitivity. A couple of weeks later, in light of an imminent press conference geared around the Burgess & Maclean revelations – an event approved by Charles Spry, the ASIO chief – the SLO advised London that the ASIO officers should be able to ensure that the Petrovs stick to a firm line, that the couple assert that the Thwaites draft covers all they know about the defectors, that they will refrain from further speculation, that they will not exaggerate Melinda Maclean’s role, and that ‘no mention to be made of Razin’s story concerning the U.K.’ [my italics].

Robertson and the Foreign Office reacted in alarm, wanting Spry to reverse his decision. In any event, they wanted the Petrovs’ pronouncements to be closely monitored. Apparently, the Petrovs must have been suitably cowed (or bribed), since the conference went ahead without incident, and an innocuous story appeared in the Melbourne Sun of September 17. With an almost detectable sign of relief, Mitchell was able to inform the SLO on September 20 that his White Paper would probably be published the next day, and that it contained no material concerning the story and exfiltration of Burgess and Maclean beyond the content of the Thwaites’ chapter 12, titled Maclean and Burgess (pp 271-176).

The chapter contained no fresh revelations, and covered the activities of Burgess and Maclean quite superficially. It did, however, make a strong but erroneous point about the surveillance of the pair, an assertion that would not have publicly embarrassed the British authorities unduly, but would provoke some anxious soul-searching privately: “When Burgess and Maclean discovered that they were under investigation by the British security authorities, they reported the matter to their Soviet contact in the utmost alarm.” As I have already pointed out, the subtleties of the joint discovery, and the relationship of the alarm to the notion of a ‘Third Man’ informer’ were lost on the journalists when the book was published in 1956, but the claim that the pair were able, despite close surveillance, to make swift contact with their Soviet control was a disturbing disclosure for the Foreign Office-MI5 team.

Yet the problem did not go away entirely. The revelations in Empire of Fear, mild as they superficially appeared, had a much more dramatic impact in Europe than they did in Australia. The Swedish Press was especially attentive to the affair, given Petrov’s disclosure about Soviet subversion in Stockholm, and various newspapers reported on the story – and on the British White Paper – with fascination. One report included the suggestive sentence: “It has not been disclosed whether the British Secret Service was aware of their flight plans”, as if that had been a distinct possibility. The SLO reported on November 12 that the Daily Express had offered £1000 to Petrov if he agreed to an interview with two of their reporters, and he followed up by stating that this opportunity could be used to the security services’ advantage provided that Petrov refused to indulge in speculation and ‘made no mention of the Razin story’.

Mitchell backed down in a cable two weeks later, but attached greatest importance to the elimination of any reference to Razin. The same day he informed de la Mare in the Foreign Office what was going on, again stressing that the interview would go ahead ‘so conducted as to exclude mention of the Razin story’. Like Basil Fawlty mentioning the war, he presumably believed that he would get away with it. Yet the panic might have passed. In December, Evdokia was very ill, and thus could not take part, and Vladimir was considering that his existing contracts might prevent him from taking the Express’s shilling.

Moreover, the previous month, further evidence of Philby’s guilt had arisen. Christopher Andrew writes (Defend the Realm, p 431) how a fresh VENONA decrypt had been provided to a group of VENONA initiates by Meredith Gardner on October 10, 1955. It referred to agent STANLEY’s contributions to the analysis of the Gouzenko affair in September 1945. The context clearly showed that STANLEY was Philby: one of those in MI5 who were indoctrinated into the disclosure was C. P. C. de Wesselow (D1a), the officer who had been carrying on the negotiations with ASIO over the Petrovs. Yet nothing was done.

Philby’s Story

Meanwhile, what of Philby? In the final chapter of My Silent War (‘The Clouds Part’), he described how the ‘next storm gathered’ after the defection of Petrov [sic: singular], and ‘some not very revealing remarks he made about Burgess and Maclean’, and he associated these disclosures with the Fleet Street quest for the Third Man. Yet he claimed that, before the events of April 1954, when he was seriously considering the possibility of escape, he received an encouraging message that prompted him to think again. He wrote:

            Finally, an event occurred which put it right out of my head. I received, through the most ingenious of routes, a message from my Soviet friends, conjuring me to be of good cheer and presaging an early resumption of relations. It changed drastically the whole complexion of the case. I was no longer alone.

Who was the bearer of the message? Suspicion has fallen on the Australian Charles ‘Dick’ Ellis, who, having retired from MI6 when investigations into his loyalty were dropped, in September 1953 sailed out to Australia to work for ASIO on a two-year contract. Yet, after being present at a briefing by Charles Spry in November of that year when Petrov’s impending defection was being discussed, he suddenly returned to London. As Ellis’s biographer, Jesse Fink, relates, Chapman Pincher and others had theorized that Ellis had mistaken Vladimir Petrov for his old nemesis Vladimir von Petrov, and caught fright. He arrived in London on February 11, and, soon afterwards tried to contact Philby, suggesting they meet. In The Spycatchers, Dabid Horner cites a 1967 letter from MI5’s A. A. Macdonald to Spry, indicating that Fink and Philby probably never met.

Charles ‘Dick’ Ellis

Yet the recent release of the PEACH Personal File shows that Philby was still under surveillance, and that he and Ellis did in fact get together. KV 2/4731 indicates that they met at the Athenaeum on March 4, 1954, although the event is not recorded until May 12 (sn. 490a). From a telephone intercept, we learn that Philby told his girl-friend on March 3 that he would be meeting Ellis the next day. But there is no trace of his telling her that ‘the clouds are parting’ (a touch added by Pincher) after their meeting, and Philby does not appear to mention what had transpired to Tomás Harris [HONEY], with whom he was heavily involved in plans to write his memoir at the time. Thus, while the possibility that Ellis gave Philby a serious warning is real, it is unlikely that Philby would have interpreted Ellis’s signals as an opportunity to relax. (I recommend Fink’s Eagle in the Mirror for an analysis of this puzzle, although it was published before the record of the Philby-Ellis encounter was declassified.)

Ellis’s behaviour was very odd. It was one thing to make a very sudden and flamboyant journey from Australia to the United Kingdom, giving spurious reasons for his travel plans, but then seeking out Philby could have drawn even more attention to his intrigues. And, if he did intend to transmit a warning, what could Philby do? By then, he had no contact at the Soviet Embassy with whom he could communicate, and, if he had, giving an alert about the imminent Petrov defection, and thus pre-empting it, would only have drawn attention to his meeting with Ellis. Perhaps the visit makes sense only in the context of Ellis’s wanting to warn Philby to clear out, but was that gesture not a little excessive?

Philby believed that someone had leaked his name to the newspapers, and referred to a Daily Express article (undated), in which a ‘security officer from the British Embassy in Washington’ had been asked to resign. One of his friends in MI6 told him that the leak came from a retired senior officer of the Metropolitan Police, a gentleman they both knew ‘for his loose tongue’. Yet Philby adds that it took four years for the Press to get on to him, which would suggest that it was not until the summer of 1955 that the rumours started flying. That does not tally with the timing of the critical cables deriving from the intelligence from Kislitsyn and Razin that were sent in July 1954. Of course, nothing that Philby writes can explicitly be trusted, but perhaps all that is proved by these events is that Graham Mitchell did not have his ear very close to the ground.

The Washington Connection

So where did the story about the tip-off man in Washington originate? I summarize what I think are the relevant facts:

  • Vladimir Petrov did not reveal anything about a Washington link in the interrogations undertaken before his wife joined him on April 20.
  • The much-highlighted reports in the Press on April 28, 1954, from both Australia and the United Kingdom, were provocative, but melodramatic, and held little substance.
  • On April 28, Morley Richards of the Daily Express in Australia claimed that the latest information had come from the Australian Government, ‘who was prepared to sell the whole Petrov story to the highest bidder’.
  • On April 28, the Australian Government offered to make the Petrovs available for interview by six members of the Press.
  • The event was scheduled for May 10, but was cancelled so as not to prejudice the Commission’s Inquiry.
  • The Petrovs felt betrayed by the Daily Express article. Vladimir dried up, but he said he had already told all he knew. Yevdokia had a special relationship with Kislitsyn, and she may have known more.
  • The SLO in Australia judged the Daily Express article to be contradictory, and suspected that it was angling stories in order to gain a reaction, whether confirmation or denial.
  • There is no mention of the Washington link in any of the exchanges between Australia and London during April-May 1954. Nevertheless, since many cables are missing (as can be determined by noting the discontinuity of the numbers), complete exchanges may have been excised from the record.
  • Both MI5 in London and ASIO were aware by July 14, 1954 of Razin’s allegation of a Soviet agent in London.
  • Cookridge’s citation of a text (made in 1967) has a ring of genuineness (it sounds like an official message) but not authenticity (the content is dubious). The attribution of the statement to Petrov may have been guesswork on his part. His informant probably misled him, by dressing up a rumour in more official-looking garb. Cookridge was wrong about the assertion that Petrov’s evidence had appeared in the Commission Report.
  • In the archival material relating to the events around July 14, 1954 [see above], no messages referring to the Washington link can be found, but that date coincides with the recent release of testimony given by the Petrovs to the Commission, specifically that of Yevdokia. [KV 2/3444, sn. 308a].
  • By July 1954, testimony given by the Petrovs was considered sub judice, since the Commission had started its work,
  • In a period of one month (January 24-18 February 1954) three other Soviet agents, Rastvorov, Deryabin and Khokhlov, had defected – in Japan, Austria and West Germany, respectively. Khokhlov, in particular, claimed to bring knowledge of the Burgess-Maclean escape with him.
  • The head of the FBI, J. Edgar Hoover, had in June 1951 been supplied with information by MI5’s Arthur Martin and Percy Sillitoe that marked Philby as a tip-off man in Washington.
  • Hoover was in contact with ASIO Director-General Spry over the Petrov testimony, and had checked it against what the FBI had been told by Rastvorov.
  • At some stage between the issuance of the White Paper (September 23, 1955) and the subsequent debate in the House of Commons (November 7), in an undated article, Percy Hoskins made reference to that same person in Washington.
  • Insiders from MI5 or from the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police had probably been leaking Philby’s name to the Press for some months before the Hoover disclosures.

There is no obvious place in the Petrov archive where the Washington reference could have been smoothly entered, and later redacted.  Mitchell’s reference is specific, and verifiable. Even though its content is vague and not totally logical, it would seem that the story of a London-based agent emanated here, rather than from other defectors. On the other hand, outside Philby’s own testimony, no precise reference to a Soviet agent working in Washington has appeared apart from Hoskins’ rather vague statement in his article between the appearance of the White Paper and the debate in the House of Commons. Hoskins probably gained his main story from Hoover, although he was certainly being fed hints by disgruntled insiders as well. Likewise, the detail given in Cookridge’s statement suggests that an insider gave it to him, and that it came from an item in MI5 files subsequently weeded, but the authenticity of the piece is highly dubious. Cookridge had good contacts within the intelligence services: he used them to solid effect in his book on SOE. What is surprising is the fact that he waited until 1967 to tell the world, and he then got his facts wrong. I judge it unlikely that he invented the whole story, but he may have embellished a simpler version. Yet the discomfiture of Mitchell shows that Cookridge’s claim was essentially correct.

Summary and Conclusions

In summary, here is displayed the whole ghastly story in all its ignominy. MI5 and the Foreign Office had strong third-party confirmation of what they had known all along – that the suspect Philby had initiated the escape plan for Maclean from Washington, by informing the MGB of the investigation. Yet they could not admit such, as in October 1955 they had just publicly exonerated him, with the Government deceiving the House of Commons. It was better to suggest incompetence than conspiracy or lies. But ‘incompetence’ set in motion a number of other challenges. The Petrov revelations had started to unravel a skein that was hard to control. Burgess and Maclean were shown to have been spies for some time. Maclean had been under suspicion for the specific HOMER identification. The authorities had to admit that Maclean was being watched, but could not satisfactorily explain why Burgess had joined him in the escape, how the pair had been alerted, why the Foreign Office had not learned about the communist backgrounds of the duo until after they disappeared, or why both had been appointed to sensitive or important positions after their misdemeanours. They obviously had to conceal the fact that for some time they had had stronger evidence of the treachery of both diplomats.

In a way, Hoover came to the rescue of the Foreign Office-MI5 team. Despite the disappointment in seeing Philby brazen himself out of the situation, the authorities were able to use the smokescreen of the ‘Third Man’ to suggest that a leaker had confounded their attempts at secrecy by managing to alert both Burgess and Maclean to the ‘imminent’ interrogation of Maclean, even though they knew that the framework was bogus. In 1955 they confirmed that such a warning had been given, locally in London, but got away without having to explain why they had not been able to identify who was responsible. In 1963, after Philby’s disappearance, they managed, implausibly, to transfer the agency to Philby, even though he had been 3,500 miles away at the time, thus successfully diverting attention away from Anthony Blunt. Edward Heath had been able to suggest that Maclean alone was under suspicion, and that Burgess had merely acted as a naive go-between. No one noticed the failure of recall. The authorities successfully confused the two issues, and no one called them out on it.

The final irony consists of the fact that it was Dick White, through Arthur Martin, who had planted the fateful dossier on Philby to the FBI in June 1951. I listed the seven critical points that summarized Philby’s probable guilt, and which were passed on to Robert Lamphere, the last being ‘Philby was suspected of assisting in the disappearance of Burgess and Maclean’. Yet, when Philby was recalled in June 1951, White’s woeful series of ‘interrogations’ of Philby failed to extract the confession from him that MI5 needed, and, when the task was passed in December to Helenus Milmo, Q.C., the latter was not given enough time to prepare. Philby survived; he exploited his supporters within MI6, and was even re-hired as an agent, able to renew his operational contact with the KGB until the events of 1963 provoked his exfiltration to Moscow where he could join his cronies.

Irrespective of the fact that the process by which MI5 came to the conclusion of Philby’s guilt, and with how many officers White shared his convictions, it is not surprising that the ire of J. Edgar Hoover was raised when Philby was publicly exonerated – especially if he had been put up to his disclosures by friends in London. Moreover, a telling item in the Petrov file, dated April 12, 1954, just as the aspirations for getting Kislitsyn to defect were being voiced, proves how confident MI5 was of Philby’s treachery at this time. Robertson remarked on the increased radio traffic detected between Moscow and London, and speculated that the Russians might be making plans to exfiltrate Philby. Dick White alerted Commander Burt of the Special Branch, who was instructed to put a watch out at all British ports  . . .

And who was the Director-General of MI5 who in September 1955 had to pass on to Foreign Secretary Harold Macmillan the White Paper that covered up the whole story? Step forward, Dick Goldsmith White, Machiavellian and Chief Court Jester. Thus White, who in June 1951 was eager to pass on to a foreign power the intelligence that Philby was probably a Soviet agent and the tip-off man for Maclean, in September 1955 firmly set out to conceal that selfsame information from his own government. Meanwhile, as the pooh-bahs at MI5 and the Foreign Office squirmed over their deceptions and intrigues and cover-ups, the junior officers in MI5 no doubt marvelled at the ingenuousness of their superior officers, and started to leak their knowledge to the outside world  . . . The role of a counter-intelligence organization is to deceive the enemy, and to confound its stratagems. But when it spends so much of its efforts misleading its own leaders, its members, its sister services, its government and its allies, no good can come of it.

Envoi: The month after Heath made his statement, Guy Burgess died, in August 1963. In December of that year Anthony Blunt was granted a pardon for providing – absurdly –  ‘a full confession’. That fact was revealed to the House of Commons by Margaret Thatcher sixteen years later.

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Special Bulletin: Not the Kim Philby Personal File

I post this Special Bulletin, outside the normal monthly cycle, to offer an initial commentary on the recent MI5 declassification of several Personal Files. I concentrate on the first of the PEACH (Kim Philby) files.

“Government files that are allowed into the public domain are placed there by the authorities as the result of deliberate decisions. The danger is that those who work only on this controlled material may become something close to official historians, albeit once removed. There is potential cost involved in researching in government-managed archives where the collection of primary material is quick and convenient. Ultimately there is no historical free lunch.” (Richard J. Aldrich in The Hidden Hand: Britain, America and Cold War Secret Intelligence, p 5)

The January 2025 Release

I came across this text when belatedly reading Aldrich’s epic 2001 volume for the first time last month. It has a bold ring of truth, and I implicitly agree with it. Yet, as with any such broad-brushed assertion, I believe it merits closer inspection. Who are those ‘authorities’? Are the persons who decide that files may be declassified in 2025 in essence of the same calibre and school as the experts who judged that some of the information revealed in them was too sensitive seventy years ago or more, and had to be redacted? Is there a level of corporate memory in existence here? Are regular meetings held, and minutes taken, whereby the lore and potential exposures are solemnly recorded for posterity, so that wise decisions are always taken to protect the surviving family members – and of course the Institution of MI5, the Foreign Office, and perhaps MI6 themselves? Can any individual, or Committee, hold all the relevant facts at their fingertips to be able to judge what is safe to release? For example, who at MI5 today can explain the whole FEABRE/PHILBY imbroglio, and provide guidance on its implications? And are there perhaps some subversive agents at work, resembling those who once leaked the essence of some documents to outsiders out of frustration at the misdeeds of their senior officers, their successors now believing that the public deserves to be told more? I do not know the answers to those questions, and I am not going to attempt any hypotheses.

The latest tranche of KV (MI5) Personal Files provides an excellent case-study. The announcement from The National Archives of January 14 was headlined by the following statement: “The release reveals new details in the cases of the Cambridge spies Kim Philby, Anthony Blunt, and John Cairncross, including their confessions, and also sheds light on related cases including Constantin Volkov, and Philby’s first wife Litzi.” It then lists ninety-seven consecutively numbered Personal Files (PF), comprising those maintained on the three listed above, as well as several others (see https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/about/news/latest-release-of-files-from-mi5-2/). Is this a counter-example to Aldrich’s ‘free lunch’?

Apart from stating the obvious that it will take anyone months and months to analyze and interpret this material properly, I shall restrict my comments in this piece almost exclusively to one file, the first of Kim Philby’s set of twenty-one, comprising KV 2/4723-4743. I make a very important point, however, that I think has eluded other commentators. These files derive from Philby PF 604584, namely the file created when Philby emerged as the subject of the June 1951 investigation known as the PEACH Inquiry, PEACH being MI5’s codename for Philby. Indubitably, much information on him was maintained before the events surrounding the escape of Burgess and Maclean, but it is scattered among other files, the most important of which (in my judgment) has not been declassified.

Files on the Philbys

Notes on Kim first appeared in the file of his father, Harry St. John Philby (PF 40408), which was created in 1926, and was declassified as KV 2/1118 & 2/1119 in October 2002. Kim came to the notice of MI5 as a member of the Cambridge University Socialist Society in 1933, but the service presumably thought that, since the son had a famous father already under watch, it was appropriate to post occasional items about him in PF 40408. I have written earlier about the exchanges between Valentine Vivian and Guy Liddell concerning Kim’s application to join MI6 in 1939, which can be found there. Yet, in late 1939, a file was opened on Lizy [sic], aka Litzy or Litzi, Philby, in which can be found very provocative, and perhaps incriminating, information concerning her husband, such as a full list of the many trips abroad that Litzy made in the 1930s. (It seems that that information was collected only in June 1951, after Philby was called back to the UK: Helenus ‘Buster’ Milmo tried to exploit it in his interrogations of Philby in December, but he failed to break the suspect.)

This file is numbered PF 68261, and it was released simultaneously with the PEACH files listed above, as KV 2/4663-4667, and does not terminate until 1974. The catalogue description states that the file was opened on October 26, 1940, but it contains entries dated from 1939. (In fact it contains NO entries for 1940, which is very suspicious.) The presence of entries from 1939 is due to the transplantation of relevant items from her father-in-law’s file after her own file was opened. Yet, beyond these desultory items (that extend into 1942), the first entry in the file bears the date September 16, 1945, and several of them refer to a Litzy Feabre ‘who had married an Englishman’, the authors presumably unaware of her real identity.  It is remarkable that the file was developed seriously only at that late date: with her background, Litzy surely must have come under MI5’s microscope before then, especially since her husband had been a ‘person of interest’ during the 1930s. Why would a file be started on her only at the exact time that her husband became an officer in MI6, but then no entries made until the war was over? Her file shows clearly that many of her multiple trips abroad during the 1930s were recorded, and her activities during the war were surely worthy of notice. I suspect that PF 68261 was a holding-place for a whole lot more, but the evidence has been carefully weeded.

I referred to the existence of PF 68261 in coldspur postings two years ago (March and April 2023: see https://coldspur.com/litzi-philby-under-the-covers/ and https://coldspur.com/kim-philby-always-working-for-sis/ ), and assumed that it was a designated Kim Philby file, in which his wife was joined. I had found several references where items (from Georg Honigmann, for example) had been copied into the thinly disguised ‘Lizzy Feavre’ file, Feavre (or Feabre) being a clumsy and mysterious alibi for Litzi Philby.  Now that it has been declassified, we can see that it is truly dedicated to Litzy, with attention paid towards the end of the war to her relationships with such as Edith Tudor-Hart and Georg Honigmann. By this time, of course, her husband was established as an upright officer in MI6, and thus no longer merited any special attention – apart from the incidental questions raised by the behaviour and actions of his spouse. I shall have to return to the fascinating revelations from Litzy’s file another time.

What is nevertheless significant is that KV 2/4723 explicitly draws attention to the existence of PF 40408, and the annotations indicate that a few items have been extracted from it to be inserted in the PEACH file. Some have been removed to the PEACH file, and thus appear only as vestigial entries in the Minute Sheet of KV 2/1118. Curiously, the two items representing Vivian’s communications with Guy Liddell concerning Kim’s recruitment by Section D (sn. 57b and sn. 64a, of September 24 and October 2, 1940 respectively), have not been transferred to the PEACH file – whether this was by oversight, or done deliberately, I have no idea.  What is still surprising is the fact that so little information about Philby’s activities in the 1930s exists. We can be sure that some potentially damaging observations were recorded, by virtue of those few items that have survived after being extracted to PF 604584, but the cupboard is very bare. If there had been another Philby file, I believe there would have been references to it somewhere – unless the weeders have done a superlatively conscientious job.

One of the reasons that the research potential of these records is so great is the light they show on the suspicions about Philby. Last March, in ‘Dick White’s Tangled Web’ (https://coldspur.com/dick-whites-tangled-web/ , I drew attention to a passage in Bower’s biography of Dick White that ran as follows:

Shortly after that encounter, White immersed himself in the research prepared by Arthur Martin and Jane Archer about Philby’s past. For the first time, Archer produced a thin MI5 file compiled in 1939 and then forgotten. A report contrasting Philby’s communist sympathies at Cambridge and his sudden espousal of fascism made a deep impression. Alongside was Philby’s own résumé. One coincidence was interesting. Philby mentioned his employment by The Times covering the Spanish civil war. Krivitsky had claimed that among the Soviet agents he controlled from Barcelona was one unnamed English journalist.

I note a few important points from this passage. The encounter was White’s so-called ‘interrogation’ of Philby immediately after his return – actually three separate interviews on June 12, 14 and 15. (Transcripts appear in KV 2/4723, and I shall report on them later in this piece.) Bower states that White immersed himself in Martin’s research after the encounter: of course, he should have done so beforehand, in order to prepare for the interview properly, and surely had given it at least a cursory look-over, as Martin had left for Washington on June 11, with the dossier on Philby. Thus Archer would also have produced the ‘thin file’ some weeks before. Yet what was this ‘thin file’? It was clearly not the file on Philby père, which was quite fat. Moreover, that file does not contain any report contrasting Philby’s youthful communism and sudden conversion to fascism. Neither does it contain Phiby’s own résumé. The Litzy Philby file was indeed opened in 1940, but does not contain these two items, either. The PEACH file has been populated with five brief items from the 1930s, taken from PF 40408, (which I analyze below), but it does not contain those two critical pieces identified by Bower’s inside informant.

I thus conclude that a further file – maybe the special ‘List’ file for Kim and Litzy, namely L.212 (884), which is frequently referred to in the recent Philby batch – exists, and is yet to be released.  How it could have been ‘forgotten’ is simply unimaginable. It may well have been given special security status, so that no prying eyes of junior officers could casually look it over, but I am in no doubt that White and Liddell knew about it, and Jane Archer (who had returned to MI5 some time after the war, following her banishment to MI5 at the end of 1940) would have been extremely interested in it. I do not regard it as likely that she knew about it when she was still employed by MI5, as her sharp eye would have made the connection between Krivitsky’s hints and Philby’s admitted role as a journalist in Spain. Unless, of course, she was party to the Philby * volte-face as well  . . .

[* ‘The Philby ‘volte-face’ refers to my theory, unconfirmed by any archival material, that, after the Nazi-Soviet Pact of late August 1939, Philby, fearing that the defector Krivitsky might soon unmask him, broke cover, used the Pact as a pretext for claiming to MI6 that he (and Litzi) had renounced their communism sympathies, and announced that he was ready to serve British Intelligence. See https://coldspur.com/kim-philby-always-working-for-sis for further details.]

KV 2/4723 – Analysis

I now proceed through the file, offering comprehensive analysis of the miscellaneous items before moving to the bulk, which originates from 1951.

  • Pre-War Miscellanea

1a is extracted from 16x of KV 2/1118, dated 7.9.1933: a notice that H.A. R. Philby is a member of the Cambridge University Socialist Society.

2a is extracted from 17b of KV 2/1118, dated 15.11.1934: it refers to Smolka’s planned partnership with Philby (which exists in the Smolka file as well).

2b is dated 16.8.37, and is sourced from OF.511/3: it notes that Philby is now a member of the Anglo-German Fellowship, according to its 1935-1936 Annual Report. A directive indicates that it should be extracted to PF 604584, but, since that PF did not yet exist, the procedure may not have happened until December 1967, a date printed on the item.

3z is an undated extraction from a Special Branch Report on Smolka, dated 19.8.1938, in which Philby is mentioned. The original full report can indeed be seen at 220D in Smolka’s file at KV 2/4169.

3a is dated 27.9.39, and consists of the Trace Request from Section D of MI6 to MI5, recording that Philby was a correspondent with the Times during the Spanish Civil War. This has likewise been extracted from PF 40408, sn. 44a, confirmable from the Minute Sheet, although the item does not specifically state the source.

4z is another freshly typed extract from 121b in the Smolka file.

4a describes information gained from Special Branch about the Philbys from an acquaintance, a Nazi sympathizer named Gerhardt Egge, dating from 19.12.39, but not entered until 9.2.40, apparently in PF 68261/Y, as sn 1w. This item appears as 47a in KV 2/1118, and is noted there as being moved to PF 68261.

6a, dated 19.6.40, is another Trace Request on Philby from Section D of MI6 (although it had three days earlier been absorbed into SOE), to which MI5 notes the previous request, and confirms that Philby is working as B.E.F. correspondent for the Times. It is not explicitly sourced.

6b and 7a really concern Philby senior, the latter having written a letter referring to Kim, which had passed through censorship on 26.5.40. They reflect (but are not images of) sn.s 54a and 53b in KV 2/1118.

8ab & 8abb are minor items taken from Smolka’s file by Brooman-White in B1g, dated 12.9.42.

These few items constitute the total up to the end of World War II, confirming that the items ‘discovered’ by Jane Archer have not yet been released, and that the L.212/884 (List) file probably holds the key. The single entry for ‘5’ has been redacted.

The next few items are important records, but mostly unremarkable. Philby’s divorce from Litzy is noted as having been made absolute on 17.9.46 (without any details), and his marriage to Aileen (25.9.46) is recognized on August 1, 1947. The record then jumps forward a few years. On June 6, 1951, B2A recommends that a Home Office Warrant be placed on Philby in Washington, unaware that he is being ordered home the same day. Philby’s famous ‘re-think’ memorandum concerning Burgess, dated June 4, is registered. Data on Philby’s relatives are assembled, and Ronnie Reed seeks his passport papers. A note on June 11 points to White’s interview the following day, and indicates that B2b is preparing a brief for it – a bit late, one might say. Parts of an interview White has with one Flanagan (PF 604589), who knew Burgess and Philby well, are recorded.

  • Philby’s Statement

There next follow two long statements (11 and 7 pages, respectively) typed by Philby, at Dick White’s request, undated, describing his relationship with Burgess, and providing a potted curriculum vitae. It is scattered with outright lies, mischievous asides, and unlikely lapses of memory. His life-story is quaint: he claims that is father pushed him into the Cambridge University Socialist Society in 1929. About his time in Vienna, he states that his money ran out, and that he (not ‘he and his wife’) decided to return home in May. (So much for attending the May Day Parade in Camden Town, as Chapter 2 of his memoir, published in The Private Life of Kim Philby, later recalled). He also states that the marriage was ‘hurried’, and that it took place in April, two or three weeks before his [sic] return. He was only two months late in his dating: it is a foolish man who forgets the date of his own marriage. He claims that the marriage was ‘wrecked’ by the end of 1936, but he conveniently cannot remember his wife’s travels at this time. He vaguely remembers helping her get a passport in September or October 1939. (What he does not say is that, in his appeal to help Litzy get to Paris on September 26, 1939, he referred to the fact that they shared a lease on the flat in Paris, which would expire in October, and that Litzy needed to travel there to remove their effects – see KV 2/4663, sn.17a.)

When he joined SIS in 1940, he considered divorce, but his lawyers told him his chances were slim. He claimed he did not see Litzy between that year and 1945. (There is no mention of the job reference he gave her, as described to Seale and McConville by Vivian.) And then, in that same year, Litzy contacted him, wanting a loan. He helped her out, and raised the divorce question again. His lawyers were now optimistic, and Litzy agreed to start proceedings, ‘which were successfully concluded the following year’. After that he claimed that he neither saw her or heard from her, apart from visiting her in Maida Vale during the proceedings. Thus the sudden travel abroad in the summer of 1946, with Litzy meeting him in Vienna or Paris for the quickie divorce, is completely ignored. (If, indeed, a divorce had been granted in the UK, there would be a record of it. How come no one has been able to locate it?) An attached note recording the PF numbers of everyone mentioned in Philby’s statement indicates that he made his deposition on June 12, after White’s first interview.

At this stage, a clumsy attempt to obscure the name of Esther Whitfield, Philby’s secretary, is made. (She had a PF 604688.) White cables Washington, reporting on his ‘interrogation’ ‘(I saw Philby yesterday’). He is eager to promote the notion that Guy Burgess may have picked up information on the Embassy leaks from Ms. Whitfield, or happened to have seen relevant documents in Philby’s office. Philby deemed it impossible that Whitfield could have been indiscreet, but he also gave helpful hints about Burgess’s visits to New York, and White even ventures that Guy may have made contacts with Russians in America. A transcript of White’s discussion with Goronwy Rees of June 7 is then inserted in the file.

Director-General Sillitoe next sends a cable from Washington (dated June 14), reporting on the urgent investigations of the FBI and the CIA. “If they discover his first wife was a Communist realizing we had withheld this would inevitably disrupt present good relations with F.B.I.”, he wrote. Poor Sillitoe had been kept out of the loop. He did not realize at the time that Philby’s marriage to the Communist Litzy had been Point 4 of the dossier that Arthur Martin had carried with him when the pair travelled to Washington together. White responds the same day, indicating that Philby had been twice questioned. He confirms the Litzy details, but generally waffles about the outcomes. Another interrogation is set up for Saturday June 16. And thus we come to the main course.

  • The Philby ‘Interrogations’

I am not going to parse the transcripts of these interviews in detail. Yet I will strongly claim that the methods displayed by White are an object-lesson in how NOT to conduct interrogations. They took place in a room in which the noise of telephones and other movements interrupted the conversation, and interfered with the sound-recordings. White showed himself to be hopelessly unprepared for the exchange, not having read and internalized the papers prepared for him. He had not thought out the questions he wanted to pose to Philby, and, in those cases where the question was loaded, he did not know the answer when he should have done so. He interrupted his subject, talked too much, and mumbled vaguely when he opened his mouth. He led Philby by feeding him possible ideas. The whole exercise was not an interrogation at all, but an attempt to make Philby agree to make some sort of statement on the whole business while incriminating Burgess. Overall, White made Arthur Martin look like Buster Milmo. Moreover, while White did go back over the transcripts to correct the obvious errors, and undetected names, he did not perform a comprehensive job. He should have been – and probably was – utterly embarrassed by his whole performance.

In the first interview, White tried to get Philby to shed light on Burgess’s full career. Philby attempted to be helpful, actually winding White up. At one stage he replied: ‘That would be a –  do you mean for instance, that there was an early tie-up between GUY and MACLEAN  . .?’ and followed up with the speculation that MacLean’s nervous breakdown was ‘due to his catching some sort of wind of the Embassy leakage in Washington’. Philby then fostered his theory by describing how Maclean must have become on the alert since papers were being withheld from him, and how Maclean may have judged that, since Guy was okay after the leakage, he could organize the getaway. There are over forty pages of this stuff, the absurd aspect being that White has already made up his mind that Philby is guilty, something that Philby probably recognizes himself, yet they appear to be chatting away like old chums, with White’s objective at this time not to alienate Kim, and to have the indictment come from somewhere else.

White reported to Washington on his second ‘examination’ of Philby (which took place on June 14) on June 16, observing that Philby ‘answered all questions put to him about his own position and his association [with] BURGESS with frankness’. [Is that right, Sir Humphrey?] He emphasized Philby’s denial that he had ever been a Communist or in league with Communists, and that he had completed his separation from Litzy in 1936. Before the transcript of the second interview a few artefacts have been inserted, including copies of letters and a cable sent to Burgess by Philby from Ankara, an affidavit from his grand-mother, dated February 14, 1934, to support the legality of his marriage ceremony, and Kim’s letter from Washington of May 11 complaining about Lincoln car that Burgess abandoned. These items had all been recovered from Guy’s flat on June 7 (thus confirming an important date). Philby was apparently also interviewed by Percy Sillitoe, since the Director-General asked him to put on paper what he had said during their discussion. Philby’s report was entered on June 18. Next appears the highly inaccurate testimony by a diplomatic acquaintance (name redacted, but identifiable as Denis Greenhill) concerning Philby and Burgess ‘who were classmates at Oxford’.

This leads to the transcript of this second interview, delivered on June 19. It is another absurd, rambling conversation in which White again tried to encourage Philby to agree with him that Burgess may have had ample opportunity to pick up intelligence about the Embassy leakage. White even asked for useful facts from Philby which would help MI5 disassociate him from communists. He asked about Smolka, but got his first name wrong, and then became distracted by their bringing up names of Communists from the 1930s. It was all very pointless. White rather desperately brought up the abandoned trip to Moscow in 1940 made by Burgess and Berlin, but did not know what to ask about it. White confused MacArthur (the General) with McCarthy (the anti-communist Senator). They exchanged awkward sentences about homosexuals. White asked Philby whether he was ever a member of the Apostles. ‘No, no, no!’ was the reply. White wanted Philby to give the matter of a statement his utmost priority, and the session ended with his saying to his interviewee, with that crisp and elegant articulation for which intelligence chiefs are renowned: “I mean what is officially said eventually when this whole thing comes out according to how things go, I feel that sooner or later you will have to be in a position to make some statement, which you and ourselves can use vis-a-vis C.I.A. and F.B.I.” “Yes”, replied Kim.

For the dessert course of the meal we have a 57-page transcript of the third interview of June 16. At least by now White has read Kim’s statement about Burgess, and they compared notes about such important matters as the relative beauty of Goronwy Rees’s lover Rosalind [actually ‘Rosamund’: Ed.] Lehmann. White had very little to say about Philby’s statement on Guy, but was prepared to lay down the law: “I am afraid there is no escape GUY was working for the Cominform [actually, Comintern: Ed.] in 1936.” Kim was flabbergasted: “Is that so?????” (It is not clear why the transcriber has felt it essential to multiply the question-marks.) Dick reminded  Kim that he [Kim] never was a communist, lest he forget. And so they meandered on, talking about Vienna and Kim’s marriage. Kim told Dick that Litzy never lifted a finger on behalf of the Communists in England, although the couple had to correct themselves over Smolka and the unnamed Honigmann (whom Kim later claimed that he has never heard of). The exchange resembled more of a ‘Desert Island Discs’ radio programme, with White performing his Roy Plomley role by offering helpful prompts, such as that concerning the Philby’s circumstances in London: “You weren’t very rich at that time”. Kim suggested that Litzy must have reverted to Communism because of the influence of that unpleasant Honigmann fellow. The story about Litzy, and her movements and her finances, is a mess, but White failed to attack, or point out flaws in Philby’s responses.

They rambled for a while about Spain, and Philip Jordan (did he know Guy?). Klugman was discussed. And then they moved on to an important connection – which could be almost overlooked. An incoherent exchange concerning Burgess led them to discuss ‘Freddie’. The transcriber cannot make out the name, so she writes ‘(Coombe?????)’. Kim responded very positively to this reference, and Dick continued, as the transcriber valiantly tried to make sense of it all: “That’s one of the (things??) that were? under examination before he went out to (the United States???)”, helpfully adding ‘from security’, to suggest that Burgess was under surveillance because of the Coombe business. Kim got excited, and told Dick that he is ‘almost certain’ that he was correct in saying that Guy met the Coombe fellow in Washington.

White again failed to pick up the point, but then he was probably aware that he had said too much. For it came to me that this ‘Freddie Coombe’ was in fact ‘Freddie Kuh’, a notorious American journalist and spy for the Soviets. Burgess had been discovered passing secrets to Kuh in London before he left for Washington, as Guy Liddell’s diaries confirm (see especially January 23, 1950). The reason this is so important is that White had declared elsewhere that Burgess had been under no suspicion at the time he returned from the USA, and his revelation here confirms one of the multiple reasons for keeping a close eye on Burgess, as I related in my piece on Rees and Blunt a few months ago (see  https://coldspur.com/an-anxious-summer-for-rees-blunt/ ). White notably did not correct the name of ‘Coombe’ in the transcript.

Philby then described Burgess’s recall to London, explaining that it was all arranged by Burgess as a successful ‘wangle’. The pair discussed Burgess’s possible motivations for plotting with Maclean, with Kim suggesting that Guy perhaps felt responsible for his comrade. Kim helpfully added that the Russians must have come in at an early stage on the escape plan, and that it could have been Guy in the USA, or Guy in London. Or else through the Dane (Klixbull, probably, whose name came up in the Flanagan interview, though as Kilxbull) – a whole new vista to be opened. Dick nervously wondered whether Guy must have had a collaborator – who could have been Russian, of course. The discourse continued incoherently for several more pages. I leave it to Charlotte Philby to make sense of it all.

The file petered out with some details about Philby’s two sisters, and a note that there had been no trace of Lizzie Honigmann or Philby during the past two years. A cable from Washington dated June 26 indicated that the FBI wanted the results of the Philby and Auden interviews. (Readers may want to return to My Silent War to re-assess Philby’s account of these interrogations, the first of which, so he claimed, Jack Easton attended. Philby points out that White missed out on the opportunity to trap him over his expenses in Spain, when he had been a freelancer.)

Conclusions

  • I re-emphasize that what we have been given on Philby is an assortment of three separate files: the traditional file on Harry St. John Philby, and the newly released files on Litzy, and on PEACH. Vital information has still been withheld, and it will probably be found in the L 212(884) file.
  • Readers should be wary of trusting what breezy and broad-based analyses of these newly-released files may emanate from experts such as Calder Walton or Ben Macintyre. What I have presented above concerns just one file on Philby. There are another twenty to be processed. They need to be inspected closely.
  • If you ever wanted confirmation that Philby was mendacious and slippery, and that his word should never be trusted on anything, this file should provide it.
  • The ‘interrogations’ were a disaster. Dick White was a clown, and his antics were shocking. He was a man utterly out of his depth. He could not imagine how his plots could blow up, but he managed not only to survive, but to be so highly regarded that he headed both MI5 and MI6 in his career. Quite amazing.
  • Who are Flanagan and Klixbull? A pair of music-hall artistes? Or spies? Answers on a postcard, please.

[Postscript: 8:08 PM, February 14: I believe that FLANAGAN represents a clumsy attempt to conceal the name of David FOOTMAN. I notice that the PF allocated to FLANAGAN at sn. 11e in this file is 604589, the same as that allocated to FOOTMAN elsewhere.]

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Filed under Espionage/Intelligence, General History, Politics, Warfare

Biological Espionage: The Hidden Dimension

Contents:

Introduction

Primary Sources

‘One Man in his Time’ – Reprise

The Development of Penicillin

Penicillin in the Soviet Union

Borodin’s First Mission

Borodin’s Second Mission

Bacteriological Warfare

The Communist Threat

Ominous Undercurrents

After the Defection

Florey and Chain Redux

A Real Defection?

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Introduction

In 1984 Christopher Andrew and David Dilks famously described intelligence history as the ‘missing dimension’ of historical inquiry. I borrow their phraseology to represent biological (mainly bacteriological) espionage as the missing dimension of Cold War rivalries. A vast amount of print has been dedicated to exploring the protection and purloining of secrets concerning atomic weaponry, but I can find very little on the subject of bacteriological warfare. The re-release of the Soviet scientist and defector N.M. Borodin’s memoir last summer prompted me to perform an intensive investigation into the topic.

I have to declare that I find much about the tale of N. M. Borodin’s defection very bogus. Readers will recall that I devoted a Special Bulletin (see https://coldspur.com/special-bulletin-the-conundrum-of-n-m-borodin ) to a brief analysis of the memoir – originally published in 1955, and this year re-issued unchanged – complemented by some references to the biologist that I found in Guy Liddell’s Diaries and in sundry other archives. I promised to return to the subject, and this report consists of the results of my studies into miscellaneous articles, CIA reports, and books on the history of penicillin and bacteriological warfare, integrated with other archival material, and the exploitation of a closer reading of One Man in His Time.

I suspect that I am only scratching the surface of what appears to be a complicated series of events. I hope that this report stimulates further discoveries.

Primary Sources

  1. One Man in His Time by N. M. Borodin (1955, re-issued 2024)
  2. The Mold in Dr. Florey’s Coat by Eric Lax (2005)
  3. Howard Florey: Penicillin and After by Trevor I. Williams (1984)
  4. Ernst Chain: Penicillin and Beyond by Ronald W. Clark (1985)
  5. A Higher Form of Killing by Robert Harris and Jeremy Paxman (2002)
  6. Britain and Biological Warfare by Brian Balmer (2001)
  7. A Suspicion of Spies by Tim Spicer (2024)
  8. Cold Drugs, Circulation, Production and Intelligence of Antibiotics in Post-WWII Years by Mauro Capocci (Journal of History of Medicine, 2014)
  9. Nikolai Mikhailovich Borodin: the little-known person involved in the USSR penicillin project by E. V. Sherstneva (Probl Sotsialnoi Gig Zdravookhranenniiai Istor Med. 2022 May)
  10. CIA Vault: www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP83-00415R001300030006-7.pdf
  11. CIA Vault:  www.cia.gov/readingroom/docs/CIA-RDP82-00457R002100040005-3.pdf
  12. Daniele Cozzoli,’Penicillin and the European response to post-war American hegemony: the case of Leo-penicillin’ in ‘History and Technology’, June 2014, at http:/ / dx.doi.org/ 10.1080/ 07341512.2014.902232
  13. The Spy Who Came in From the Mold by Anthony Rimmington (https://medium.com/@t.rimmington/the-spy-who-came-in-from-the-mold-n-borodin-the-first-russian-biological-defector-to-the-west-516d8dfa03b3)
  14. The Diaries of Guy Liddell (National Archives: KV 4/470 & 4/471)
  15. Personal File for Goronwy and Margaret Rees (National Archives: KV 2/4603-4608)
  16. Personal File for George and Ada Eltenton (National Archives: KV 2/2166)
  17. Biological Warfare Sub-Committee Minutes, 1947 & 1948 (National Archives: DEFE 10/261-262)
  18. Letters from Ernest Chain to the Soviet Trade Delegation, 1948, from the Wellcome Foundation (https://wellcomecollection.org/works/aqmau24k)
  19. ‘The case for a state-owned penicillin factory in this country’, 1948, from the Wellcome Foundation (https://wellcomecollection.org/works/ycu4j9hg )
  20. ‘The Industrial Production of Penicillin’, 1948, from the Wellcome Foundation (https://wellcomecollection.org/works/kvrua3z3 )
  21. Letter by Richard Davenport-Hines to the Times Literary Supplement (August 2, 2024)

‘One Man in his Time’ – Reprise

Borodin’s memoir is a very strange composition. The brief Foreword he wrote in 1955 appears unembellished and uncomplemented in the new edition, apart from a not very helpful Introduction by the BBC sage John Simpson. In the Foreword, Borodin asserted that he wrote the book in English, which he had spoken only since 1945 (when he was being trained for a mission to the United Kingdom), and continued: ‘. . . nevertheless I like to use this tongue for thinking, speaking and writing equally well with my native Russian’. That was a strange and bold claim to make, and the phrasing itself is a little clumsy: ‘with a proficiency equal to what I have in my native Russian’, perhaps? And it would be a rare individual who would gain that expertise in those few years, no matter how broadly exposed he or she was to the English language.

No mention of a translator, or even an editor, appears in any acknowledgment. Yet the text, to me, often shows the habits of a competent, but slightly careless, translator from the Russian. For instance, it reads (p 331): “One night his deputy, Natradze, myself and Katkovsky, earmarked for the function of chief of penicillin production, were discussing a project of the Ministry’s scientific council.” A more elegant writer would lay it out as follows: “One night, his deputy, Natradze, Katkovsky, earmarked. . . . . , and I . ..” (“Myself” is reflexive, and inappropriate as the subject of a sentence, and “I” should be the last nounal item.) Second-rate English writers (and even those who are frequently regarded as first-rate, such as Anthony Powell) frequently get this wrong, as they display obvious discomfort distinguishing between the proper use of ‘me’ ‘myself’, and ‘I’. A native Russian speaker would be much more sensitive to the inflections here: the Russian form of this construction is an unusual ‘we with Natradze and Katkovsky’.

Other errors caught my eye. ‘A verbal report’ (p 192), when ‘oral is meant: that is a very common mistake among English speakers. I would expect a Russian to be more careful. Borodin writes about ‘bottles of “Molotov’s Cocktail”’ (p 286), which again suggests that the phrase has been provided by a translator not familiar with this aspect of warfare. An enormous gaffe occurs on page 121: “Vyshelessky started to work with this terrible bacteria.” It should, of course, be the singular form, ‘bacterium’. No scientist worth his salt would allow such a clumsy malformation to appear on the page. [I was dismayed, however, to read, in Howard Florey: Penicillin and After, by Dr. Trevor Williams – who worked in Florey’s laboratory during the war – the following ugly sentence: “The bacteria he named Micrococcus lysodeikticus and the dissolving agent. . . . was called lysozyme.”] There are other such examples to be found, which leads me to believe that his manuscript was in fact written in Russian, and then handed over to an anonymous translator.

It is not clear to me why this deception (if, indeed, it is such) was carried out, but I also have reservations about the authenticity of his text. Overall, Borodin comes across as a hard apparatchik, a loyal servant of Stalin, who is complicit in the denunciations, violence and executions that occur through the tribulations of that era – the atrocities, the famines, the purges, the exiles, the liquidations. Occasionally, however, he protests, but is miraculously allowed to get away with it. It is not until the final pages that he yields completely and decides to defect. Yet whole aspects of his life are overlooked. We can learn from other sources that he had a wife and family in Moscow, but they are never mentioned, and his interactions with women are very coyly described. The facts of his life up to World War II can obviously not be verified, but then matters take an odd turn. Borodin gets very cavalier with his chronology, and very selective in his reporting.

I tried to date the many events, from World War II onwards, to which Borodin does not give precise information. He participated in the deportations of (primarily) Germans from Elenendorf to Central Asia – which can be verified as occurring in 1941. The next event he describes is his award of the Lenin Prize in Moscow, on a cold winter’s day, when he remarks that the Soviets have just freed Warsaw. (That places it in January 1945.) Yet he states that the award was given by the Chairman of the Presidium of Supreme Soviet, Shvernik. (Shvernik was Chairman from March 19, 1946 to March 15, 1953, however.) He is appointed factory director in Baku, where it is clear the war is still raging. He describes soldiers ‘going to the front’, and his friend Antonov being burned in a tank fighting against the Germans. There are further adventures in Baku, with episodes involving illicit black-market activities based on penicillin stolen from his factory, and then he is recalled to Moscow, where Mikoyan informs him he is to be sent to England.

Yet Borodin is not ready for the mission. He has started learning English, but is not proficient enough, and has to take more lessons. Furthermore, he reports a long delay in screening, and getting his passport approved. Nevertheless, he flies with Anita, a cipher clerk, via Finland and Sweden and arrives at Croydon Airport. (The date is not given, but in his official self-supplied biography to the authorities, he wrote that it was in September 1945.) He describes a New Year’s Party at the Soviet Embassy. (It must be January 1946.) He writes nothing about the circumstances of his invitation to stay in Oxford, but remarks that Gouzenko’s defection (September 1945) was a hot topic of conversation. He refers to a newspaper that had an article titled ‘Who invited Doctor Borodin?’ on its front page, but does not say which newspaper, or when. [I have not been able to track this down.] Nor does he indicate who might have concluded that he was on some possibly illicit information-gathering mission.

Borodin is recalled in December 1946, and soon gets into trouble for comparing Soviet techniques for manufacturing penicillin unfavourably with those in the West. His friend Parin is arrested, and later executed, for wanting to share information with the Americans (as opposed to merely stealing it from them.) Borodin receives a warning, and is urged to reinforce the claim that penicillin was a Soviet invention. Nevertheless (one can work out it is July 1947 now), he is entrusted with one more mission – to go to the USA in an effort to acquire American know-how and equipment. He travels there with two assistants, cannot gain export licenses, gets into some trouble again for not denouncing one of his assistants, and is then ordered to England to try there instead. He arrives in time for Christmas (1947).

By now, Borodin is starting to get fearful about the purges taking place in Moscow. He is anxious about the fate of his assistant Utkin, who has been recalled, and whom he failed to denounce. The Ministry of Medical Industry is abolished. At the beginning of August 1948, a session of the All Union Academy of Agricultural Science is held, at which a purge takes place. When he is asked in London to report on the performance of a nervous visiting technician, Gerchikov, who is not a party member, Borodin funks out. When he receives the recall himself, he decides to defect. Without apparently having contacted the British to verify that he will be accepted, he sends his letter to the Ambassador the very next day, leaving him with no clear exit strategy.

What I find extraordinary is the blatant, flamboyant, and unnecessary letter that Borodin claimed he wrote to Ambassador Zarubin on August 27, 1948, which he brazenly describes as ‘High Treason’. (The text appears on pages 350-352 of the book, and, in a very bizarre and provocative presentation, is the sole item in a National Archives file, FO 1093/552, that bears no outward mention of Borodin.)The criticism of the USSR, and implicitly, Stalin, was a reckless move that would immediately have brought in Sudoplatov’s ‘Special Tasks’ force to hunt Borodin down and kill him. Among defectors, only Vladimir Orlov was allowed to get away with such an insult, since he promised to stay silent about Stalin’s pilfering the Spanish gold if the vozhd left Orlov untouched in the USA. If Borodin really wanted to defect with a chance of survival, he would have slunk quietly away in the night, picked up a new identity, never shown his face again, and been protected by the British authorities. But that did not happen, and that is what perplexes me.

Moreover, how did this matter of penicillin manufacture become so controversial?

The Development of Penicillin

Alexander Fleming

Every schoolchild knows that Alexander Fleming discovered penicillin, and many are aware that he, Howard Florey and Ernst Chain (who collaborated in the project of purifying, stabilizing and testing it, and developing manufacturing processes for it) were awarded the Nobel Prize for physiology and medicine in 1945. But few have probably learned of the feuds, conflicts, and arguments that bedevilled the relationships between the trio. These were to do with professional rivalries, contrasts in temperament, behaviour and methodology, suspicions of secret dealings, and failures to give credit. Furthermore, as the project of scaling up production advanced, some deep philosophical divisions emerged as to whether the availability of penicillin should be universalized, and about the role of commercial interests in reaching that goal.

Alexander Fleming had discovered penicillin in 1928 when working at St. Mary’s Medical School in London. He had noticed that some colonies of staphylococci had degenerated after being contaminated by some spores of mould. Yet he did not conceive of the potential of this finding, that it might contribute to the manipulation of a powerful antibiotic agent, and he thus continued his research into lysozyme, an enzyme that had almost no efficacy against deadly microbes. He wrote up the experience, and spoke about it, but he was not a great writer or communicator, and the opportunity to pursue the phenomenon further was ignored for several years.

Howard Florey
Ernst Chain

It was not until 1935 that serious study of the phenomenon began. In that year Howard Florey, then Professor of Pathology at the Dunn School of Medicine at Oxford University, was introduced to Ernst Chain, a biochemist who was working under Sir Frederick Hopkins at Cambridge University. Both men were immigrants: Florey was a second-generation Australian, and Chain a German Jew, with a Russian father, who had escaped from Hitler’s Germany in 1933. They differed in temperament: Florey was down-to-earth, overall very patient and a good man-manager, but prone to brusque behaviour on occasions. Chain was highly-strung, insisted on Prussian-style disciplines, was protective and jealous, and felt much more alienated in the country where he had landed than did Florey, who had been able to make a much more deliberate choice of destination. Chain accepted Florey’s invitation to join him in Oxford. At first, they co-operated well: Florey recognized that he needed the talents of a chemical biologist to complement his work. Moreover, Chain brought an excellent laboratory technician with him, Norman Heatley, whose imaginative design of equipment to refine the process of assaying penicillin has in my estimation been undervalued in the story of success in proving that penicillin was both safe and effective.

Yet Florey and Chain soon fell out. While they made steady progress in refining the amount of penicillin that could be used to fight infection, while ensuring that it did not have deleterious effects on other tissue, their philosophies on making it a compound for broad distribution clashed. Heatley began working for Florey: Chain was jealous. Chain urged Florey to approach an American firm for mass production: Florey was not yet confident that predictable yields could be harvested from the mould, and its therapeutic value had not been proven. In June 1941, Florey and Heatley left for the USA on an exploratory mission: Chain did not learn about it until the last minute, and he was justifiably upset. Chain, working from his German background, believed strongly that penicillin should be patented. The Medical Research Council (supervising the whole operation) looked askance at commercialization, and financial rewards for pure researchers. Florey agreed with that policy. When Florey returned to Oxford in October 1941, he found the laboratory in somewhat of a shambles under Chain’s management.

The development of penicillin in mass amounts was a missed opportunity by the British. In an important paper written in 1948 ‘The case for a state-owned penicillin factory in this country’, almost certainly written by Florey, but appearing in the Chain archive *, the author complains about the lack of entrepreneurialism among British pharmaceutical companies, with the result that the Americans forged ahead. He also criticizes the Ministry of Supply for continuing to pursue the surface culture method of production when the Americans had shown that deep culture fermentation was far superior. Their methods had also accelerated the deployment of penicillin taken orally rather than through injection. The author concluded by recommending that the government counter the US dominance by funding a native penicillin factory for an outlay of £120,000.

Penicillin Structure

The essence of the story is that the Nobel Prize was awarded to Alexander, Florey and Chain in October 1945, but by then, Florey and Chain were not on speaking terms, with Chain expressing strong grievances that his contribution had not been properly recognized. Both of them, however, resented the exaggerated claims that Fleming made about his achievements, belatedly seeking more of the limelight – and gaining it in the Press. These tensions and rivalries would play out fully in the complex political world of the Cold War. By 1945, however, penicillin had played an enormous role in saving lives in the battlefields of World War II (ironically against syphilis as much as gas-gangrene), and American companies had invested heavily in manufacturing techniques and plant to produce vast quantities of the drug. Why an antibiotic that surely was of benefit to the whole of mankind suddenly became a technological secret that required confidentiality is an accident of deteriorating political relationships between the USA and the USSR.

[* It seems that this unsigned paper has been attributed to Chain, since his biographer Ronald W. Clark describes his push for a state-owned factory, and Daniele Cozzoli comes to the same conclusion in directly citing the words as Chain’s. The author of the piece refers to himself as ‘the author’ but also mentions Florey and Chain in the third person. The style, context, and tenor of the piece, however, all point to Florey’s authorship, an assertion that would appear to be reinforced by the fact that the author refers to his recent work with Mrs. Philpot in converting aqueous solutions of penicillin to a dry state. Flora Philpot worked alongside Florey, and co-authored papers with him. Moreover, with his mind clearly focused on his Italian and Russian projects at this time, it is highly unlikely that Chain would have been concerned about the British government’s constructing its own penicillin factory.]

Penicillin in the Soviet Union

In fact, tensions between the UK and the USA over the production of penicillin had already arisen, with claims that the Americans had hi-jacked the whole area from the Britons. Conflicts between commercial opportunism, the seeking of patents, and possible anti-trust collusion in the United States were apparent. In 1943, the United States imposed a ban on any material relating to the chemistry of penicillin, a prohibition that remained in force until the end of 1945. All this occurred at a time when the USA was an ally of the USSR, and there were many politicians on both sides of the Atlantic who throughout this turmoil advanced greater collaboration with the Communists. At the Teheran Conference at the end of November 1943, Churchill, Roosevelt and Stalin agreed to a joint American-British mission to Moscow by two scientists from each country, so that they could discuss a number of medical advances, primarily penicillin, with their counterparts. Florey according left for Moscow with his assistant Dr. Gordon Sanders (who had worked in the Middle East in deploying penicillin) on December 23. They took with them phials of the agent, and several reports, but did not arrive in Moscow until a month later.

The story of penicillin in the Soviet Union is predictably murky, what with the Politburo’s control of information, and its need to control the dissemination of facts, and to emphasize the virtues of communist methodology in science. The history consists of a bewildering account of overlapping institutes and organizations, all entrusted with the Party’s indelible correctness of mission, but all tripping over each other as responsibilities are shuffled. Borodin’s memoir provides some possibly reliable insights, and more recent research has rescued him from the obloquy of being a treasonous non-person for several decades, and has thrown some more realistic light on the political struggles and rivalries of the 1940s and 1950s. The Soviets had enjoyed some access to the breakthroughs of Florey and Chain in the early 1940s. Before further publication of successes was banned in 1943 (under the necessary policy of trying to prevent Hitler’s scientists from learning about the discoveries), copies of The Lancet would have been distributed to neutral countries such as Switzerland and Sweden, and both the Nazis and the Soviets would have been able to pick up valuable information. My correspondent Edward M. provided me with the valuable information that the spy George Eltenton, ostensibly with a mission to acquire nuclear secrets from Oppenheimer, had in 1943 been approached by his handler Peter Ivanov to try to gather information about penicillin.

Zinaida Yermolyeva

The case of Zinaida Yermolyeva is characteristically ambiguous. As Head of the Department of Microbial (or Bacterial) Chemistry in Moscow, she was awarded the Stalin Prize in 1943, and two Orders of Lenin, for her pioneering work in penicillin production. Yet some doubts have been recorded concerning her integrity. Borodin met her shortly before his first visit to England, described her as ‘ambitious’, and noted that, while her first husband had been arrested twice, and her second had died in prison having been arrested as a ‘wrecker’, Yermolyeva herself remained untouched. Borodin learned from the secretary of the Party in the institute (a pretty girl named Ksana) that Yermolyeva had won Stalin’s prize for the discovery of ‘Soviet’ penicillin, but when her department sent sample ampoules of the compound to the Central Committee, they actually contained American penicillin, since it was of a purer strain. Yermolyeva had also made herself famous (and maybe notorious) by writing a paper in which she described how she had swallowed a solution containing the bacterium vibrio cholerae, and how she had survived owing to the ingestion of penicillin crustosum.

Florey was not impressed with Yermolyeva when he met her in 1944, stating that he believed she owed the success in her career more to her charm than her scientific ability. He did not think much of her production facilities, and did not trust her accounts of success with penicillin crustosum – thus perhaps echoing the substitution story. He was more impressed by what Dr. Gause had developed at the Institute of Tropical Medicine, including the production of gramicidin, although it turned out to be too toxic for systemic use, but useful for local infections. Florey concluded that the Soviets knew virtually nothing about penicillin, but he exchanged his vials of penicillin with them for some ampules of gramicidin.

The CIA has published information on the Soviet penicillin project, but it is largely reliant on what they learned from Borodin itself. Borodin told them that Yermolyeva’s strain of penicillin was probably not crustosum, but notatum. He confirmed that the batch submitted to the Academy of Medical Sciences probably had American penicillin substituted. (The Soviets, rather perversely, seemed to think that penicillin had been an American discovery, whereas the Americans had contributed mostly to production breakthroughs.) Between 1943 and 1945 Yermolyeva struggled to scale up any serious production capability. She could provide penicillin only in a soluble form, as freeze-drying capabilities for creating powder were not available. Borodin told Smirnov, the People’s Commissar from the Meat and Dairy Industry, that the process for creating the antibiotic was flawed, but his advice was ignored. For a couple of years, the potential for co-operation between the Soviet Union and the USA/GB remained solid. Florey even recommended a mission by the Soviets to visit production capabilities in the UK, but his suggestions came to nothing. In the summer of 1945, however, Mikoyan, the Minister responsible for the penicillin project, realizing that the project was in danger, became fearful about failure in this critical endeavour, and summoned Borodin to Moscow. Equipment would have to be purchased from the Allies.

Borodin’s First Mission

Considering that he was in the UK for fifteen months (September 1945 to December 1946), Borodin was very reticent about what he was up to. In his memoir, he mentions Oxford, encounters with English Communists, parties at the Embassy, even a disturbing article in the newspapers about his dubious activities, but that is it. I relied upon Trevor Williams to provide some initial depth. He wrote that Borodin came to work in Florey’s department, and that he, Florey, and Philpott ‘published an account of an antibiotic, tardin, produced by Penicillium tardum’, but that ‘it proved to have no clinical value’.

That was not all that Borodin achieved, however. E. V. Shertseva’s 2022 profile states that ‘he systematically and continuously transmitted materials on penicillin and other antibiotics to the Motherland – using various methods’. She goes on to write that, through the Trade Mission in the UK and Professor Sarkisov, he built good relationships with Florey and Chain. Borodin acquired ‘secret’ materials on penicillin, which he sent through diplomatic mail to USSR. This strongly suggests that Borodin was betraying his hosts by committing espionage. Indeed, after the Nobel Prize was announced (in October 1945, shortly after Borodin’s arrival), Florey and Chain, no doubt flushed with their success became more welcoming, but still allowed only perusal of some material. Shertseva reports that Borodin photographed such documents overnight, and wanted his name concealed from any article that was published. He sent an important letter to Mikoyan, dated April 23, 1946, with appendices: Mikoyan kept the information to himself, treating the knowledge as power. Borodin also managed to secrete to Moscow two new strains of penicillin, notatum and streptomycin.

Shertseva had access to some of the letters that Borodin wrote from Oxford. In a bold foray, he explicitly criticized his Soviet bosses, telling them of their inferior approach and organization towards producing penicillin. In April 1946, he informed them that they did not understand the essential chemical heterogeneity of the substance. The Soviet form was very labile, and thus soon perishable. Meat-peptone broth (on which Borodin had apprenticed himself) was no longer used as a culture for preparing the antibiotic in the United Kingdom. He outlined a seven-point plan for getting the Soviet project on track, which included the acquisition of technology from the USA. When the Minister of Medical Industries, Tretyakov, received the news, he accepted it, but did not dare tell Stalin, as it was unwise to suggest to the leader that Soviet science was again lagging in a vital sphere. The Ministry had been founded only in the autumn of 1946, and in December of that year the USSR Council of Ministers decreed that all penicillin production was to be placed under Tretyakov.

The fact that Borodin was given such extended hospitality throughout 1946 is a bit surprising, since both the USA and the UK were tightening up on the confidentiality of information on such strategic programmes. The Gouzenko defection had occurred just before Borodin’s arrived, and the blatant and overt attempts of Soviet spies to gain access to atomic secrets alarmed many politicians. In November 1945, the procedures for producing penicillin were labeled as state secrets. Yet many scientists were still strongly sympathetic to the Soviets, and may have concealed their sharing of information from the authorities. In the USA, as late as January 1946, as Williams reports, a group of eminent scientists launched a fund to provide the Soviet Union with materials and know-how to construct a plant capable of producing 80 billion units of penicillin a month, matching the output of a typical large American factory. It even had the notorious useful idiot Joseph Davies on the committee. By September, however, the project was fast collapsing because of the political climate.

When Borodin returned to Moscow in December 1946, he found a very tense situation. He describes how the ideology of Soviet supremacy in science was rampant: hence describing the discovery of penicillin as being a British achievement was heretical. Nevertheless, Borodin’s multiple bulletins from the United Kingdom had found favour with Stalin. In April 1947 the Council of Ministers approved Tretyakov’s proposal to create an All-Union Scientific Research Institute of Penicillin and Other Antibiotics, and, despite some questions about his loyalty, Borodin was appointed its head. Meanwhile, his ex-colleague, Parin, had been arrested, and then executed, on the charge of being an Anglo-American spy. The Ministry was in perpetual crisis, and in great danger of not meeting its production targets. Dismissals, demotions and purges were rife. Borodin was not afraid to speak his mind to Mikoyan about the dysfunctional approach to the project. With this fraught background, he was sent to the USA on a second mission, to acquire plant, and learn more about production techniques.

Borodin’s Second Mission

When he left, in late summer 1947, for the USA, Borodin was accompanied by two colleagues, named Utkin and Zeifman. The need for a triad derived from the requirement to keep surveillance on possible untrustworthy elements. Two characters might plot silently, or exchange counter-revolutionary ideas. If a third person was there, and heard about such whispers from the first person, while the second person had not reported them, the second was as guilty as the first. And, indeed, Borodin got into exactly that trouble, when Utkin’s anti-Soviet behaviour was criticized by the dedicated Stalinist Zeifman, who then threatened Borodin for not informing on Utkin. Borodin managed to deceive Klimov, the head of the Communist Party in Amtorg, the trade organization, about what went on in the denunciations.

The USA mission fizzled out just as this conflict heated up. The team initially received a warm welcome in New York, and then visited many universities, colleges, and industrial firms. But all the negotiations had to be made through Moscow, with approval coming from the capital. Moreover, the atmosphere had changed. New legislation made the selling of plant to the Soviet Union almost impossible, with penicillin another strategic technology just behind atomic power and weaponry. The companies they encountered (primarily Merck) all declined any opportunity to do business: no export licenses were granted. In December 1947, Borodin was ordered to stop all negotiations and to go to the UK instead.

Borodin came to Britain, as representative of Technopromemport, and as one of a triad again, the watchful Zeifman still keeping an eye on him, alongside a man called Chernyarski. He found a more responsive chord with one of his old allies from his first mission, Ernst Chain. Chain had the advantage of being able to speak Russian (from his father), and displayed some enthusiasm for a joint venture with the Soviets. Borodin conducted long discussions with Chain on the purification, crystallization and assay of penicillin, and by July had prepared memoranda on the production in the Soviet Union of a project to build a very large plant for the production of penicillin and streptomycin. As Williams writes: “The longer-term intention was that, for a substantial consideration, Chain should visit Russia from time to time to advise on the building of the plant and thereafter act as a consultant on an annual basis.”

The Soviet Trade Delegation in Highgate

The details of this agreement are quite extraordinary. It involved a premium of £35,000 (an enormous sum for those days) to be paid on signing, with an annual fee of £3,000 to follow during the course of the project. A draft of Chain’s initial proposal, in manuscript, written in early 1948, lies in the Chain Archive at the Wellcome Institute, as well as typed letters to the Soviet Trade Delegation in Highgate. Chain is careful to inform Borodin that ‘I am not aware of any regulations in this country which could be an impediment or the signing of this agreement’. The implication would be that the agreement was completed on July 20, since Chain follows up with a request for expenses on August 17, referring to the agreement of the previous month. The following day, aware that Borodin and Zeifman are due to return to Moscow very shortly, he provides a full inventory of all the information on manufacturing methods that he has compiled. Whether any money changed hands is uncertain. Neither is it clear how the nature of this agreement might have rebounded adversely on Borodin, although Chain’s correspondence in September suggests that he is unaware of the defection. All that Chain’s biographer, R. W. Clark, writes about it is that ’Borodin fell out of favour, and the project was still-born’.

This was quite a dramatic turn of events, and one wonders how much the authorities knew of the arrangement. An undated report from Chain’s archive suggests that the scientist was quite open about his recommendations for helping the Soviets to construct a modern factory. Trevor Williams suggests that there were no objections, but how much did the JIC and MI5 know about the project? The legality might have been true in respect of any lack of conflict with his obligations at Oxford, as he was about to depart from England, with leave of absence, to take up an appointment in Rome at the Istituto Superiore di Sanitá. At this stage, the Communists in Italy exercised a lot of power, and were in regular contact with Moscow. Yet what sounds like an underhand deal to have Chain handsomely remunerated by the Soviets for undertaking activities that surely would not have gained government approval is quite shocking. When the Americans later heard about it, they took a strong view, and Chain’s trafficking with eastern bloc cost him his US visa.

The turmoil in Moscow intensified. As I recorded above in my description of his memoir, Borodin apparently began to feel intensely worried. He felt responsible that his colleague Utkin had been recalled, and probably executed. A purge in the Academy of Agricultural Science took place in August. A visit by a suspect functionary, Gerchikov, to London required Borodin to listen to his presentation at a meeting, and report whether he was ‘on message’. And when Borodin was ordered to sail on the next boat, he feared for his life, decided to defect, and wrote those two extraordinary letters. At least, that is his version of events.

Guy Liddell’s Diaries, on the other hand, suggest that British Intelligence had been well aware of what Borodin was up to for some time. In a startling observation on February 4, 1948, after a Joint Intelligence Committee meeting on Bacteriological Warfare (the first time that this subject had been recorded in Liddell’s Diaries, I believe), Liddell writes that Borodin has been reported as buying up penicillin equipment. It is obvious that a close watch is being maintained on him. Moreover, William Hayter, chairman of the JIC, asked about the possibility of Borodin’s becoming a defector. What the motivation behind this was is not clear. Presumably, the Committee considered that Borodin possessed valuable information about the Soviet Union’s progress in penicillin production and bacteriological warfare. While it is clear now that they were several steps behind in many ways, that may well have been a story that Borodin had started to spin for them as he considered his next steps, and contemplated and compared a future life in England with an ominous recall to Moscow.

But how did the penicillin business become transformed into an issue of bacteriological warfare?

Bacteriological Warfare

It is difficult to determine the links between penicillin production and bacteriological warfare from a study of the relevant literature and archival material. The biographies of Florey avoid any inspection of his post-war role in research into offensive weaponry. The accounts of the committees that discussed the need and prospects of such capabilities refer only obliquely to the contributions of Florey. Indeed, the whole history of bacteriological warfare activity in the UK is couched in very cautious terms, and the details are scattered across multiple archival sources.

What is significant is the fact that Florey, from the time soon after his arrival in the United Kingdom when he worked at London Hospital, developed a strong professional relationship and personal friendship with Paul Fildes, who was the prime activator of bacteriological warfare research during and after the war. Fildes had come to prominence when Sir Michael Hankey had recommended to the Committee of Imperial Defence (CID) in 1936 that ‘an expert official body’ be set up to consider the offensive and defensive aspects of bacteriological warfare. Ironically, Edward Mellanby, the Secretary of the Medical Research Council (MRC), who had been such a significant influence in getting Florey appointed to the chair at Oxford in 1935, refused to have anything to do with any project that invoked medical research for destructive processes. This stance opened the door to Fildes, who became a leading member of what was initially called the Microbiological Warfare Committee, later the Bacteriological Warfare Committee (BWC).

Porton Down in WWII

When Hitler warned of ‘secret weapons’ in 1939, the Committee for Imperial Defence feared that he might be referring to biological (i.e. bacterial or viral) armaments, and the very secret laboratory at Porton Down, Wiltshire, was set up in 1940 under Paul Fildes. Fildes was considered the country’s expert in bacterial physiology, focusing on bacterial nutrition, but he was also an energetic champion of the need for offensive research, since the deployment of bacteriological ‘bombs’ of some kind might be the only effective method of retaliation against an attack. He interpreted what were admittedly very loose guidelines given to him by the Committee, and selected anthrax as the most suitable pathogen to deploy, even visiting the United States to review progress, and to prod George Merck, the head of the War Research Service, into more vigorous research.

Paul Fildes

Yet Fildes soon encountered opposition from a truly startling figure – Victor, Lord Rothschild, another member of the BWC, who represented MI5 on the Committee. In 1943, Rothschild voiced his strong concerns about Fildes’ surpassing his remit, and not taking into consideration the security hazards of storing anthrax ‘bricks’, which might be exposed to enemy bombing attacks. Rothschild even described Fildes’ attitude as ‘ghoulish’. In response, Fildes regarded Rothschild as ‘uninformed’, interfering with his plans. Rothschild continued by elevating his protests to the War Cabinet. Matters looked as if they might meet an impasse, but, just as the BWC was fortified by representatives from the armed forces, the disintegration of the German war effort was noted, and the plans were shelved. Yet Rothschild’s awareness of what was going on has enormous implications when the activities of his sidekicks and affiliates such as Burgess, Blunt and Rees are examined later.

As the war concluded, attention turned to the new threat of the Soviet Union, reflecting an interest that went back some years. The Committee of Imperial Defence was chaired by Lord Hankey, but the members of the committee were not aware that Hankey’s secretary in 1941 was one of the Cambridge spies, John Cairncross. In 1941 alone Cairncross delivered 3,449 documents to his masters. On May 31, May 1941 (i.e. before Barbarossa), a large package of vital documents was sent to Moscow from London in the diplomatic bag. Among the articles was a report, from the commission of the BOSS (Hankey’s cryptonym), on the means and methods of bacteriological warfare. If the NKVD’s interest had not already been sparked, it certainly would have been energized now.

Fildes declared that he did not want to be involved in biological warfare anymore, and he left Porton Down in August 1945 to work at the Lister Institute again, with his retirement due in two years’ time. Yet he maintained a close interest in the subject: in November 1945 he dismissed the notion that the country could defend itself against bacteriological attack merely through a program of research and vaccination, and his views were reinforced by Brigadier Wansborough-Jones, Scientific Adviser to the Army Council, who judged bacteriological research to be only in its infancy. By the summer of the next year, the Chiefs of Staff had elevated bacteriological armaments to the same level of priority as atomic weaponry. It was decided to build a new germ warfare base next to the chemical warfare station at Porton Down. In July 1946, the Biological Research Advisory Board (BRAB) was established.

And it is here that the link becomes clearer. The capability of creating and stabilizing antibiotics, and taking them into mass production, closely matched that of the process of building a mass store of pathogens for military purposes. What was more, the capabilities of the enemy (now seen clearly as the Soviet Union) in the sphere of penicillin production could probably provide a useful pointer to how advanced it was in the bacteriological warfare race. Fragmented snippets of minutes of meetings indicate that ‘meagre’ intelligence reports indicated that the Soviet Union was not well advanced in penicillin production. Borodin’s name is never mentioned in these accounts, but it is clear that the intelligence derived from him in 1947 and 1948, as the earlier section confirms. After all, why would the Soviets be so anxious to make such a blatant attempt to acquire techniques and technology if they were well advanced along the project?

The Communist Threat

It is difficult to weave a fluent account of the events of 1948 from the fragmented items available. The final months of 1947 had seen general concerns about Soviet intentions deepen. Colonel Grigory Tokaev [STORK] had defected in November, and he had given severe warnings about Stalin’s warlike plans. This led to the Joint Intelligence Committee’s calling for tighter registration of all Soviet citizens working in various guises in the country, but especially those visiting factories. The first suspicions about Klaus Fuchs, the atom spy, had surfaced at this time. The government was undertaking a purge of communists holding positions in strategic government departments. Early in 1948, Prime Minster Attlee, on MI5’s advice, had decided not to appoint the prominent scientist Patrick Blackett to head the Atomic Research Committee, as his political opinions were too far to the left.

Guy Liddell, the deputy director-general of MI5, made some incisive comments about such matters, and especially on bacteriological warfare (BW), in his Diaries for 1948. On February 4, a lengthy discussion on BW took place at a meeting of the Joint Intelligence Committee, where the difficulties in establishing solid information about Soviet capabilities were aired. Liddell suggested that contacting those factories that were producing such material for Britain’s own purposes might lead to identification of those foreigners who were seeking equipment and know-how vital to the production effort. It is here that Borodin’s name first comes up, as Liddell is obviously aware that Borodin ‘is ostensibly purchasing penicillin plant’.

A few weeks later, at an internal MI5 gathering, a group of officers discussed the case of ‘X’ [a name redacted], who was stated to be at the centre of BW planning, but was known to be a Marxist of long standing. The entry adds that ‘up till 1943 he was a member of the C.P.’. Thus, in the event of war, his loyalties might be doubtful, and the opinion of C Section of MI5 was that an approach should be made to the Ministry of Supply to have him removed elsewhere. Who was ‘X’? I considered J. D. Bernal, Dorothy Hodgkin, and J. B. S. Haldane, all famous biologists of some kind, and all admitted friends of communism. I quickly eliminated Hodgkin, as the text indicates that the person was male, and I considered of the other two Haldane the more likely candidate.

On February 26, Liddell actually attended a meeting of the BW Committee, and I believe it is useful to cite the complete paragraph from his Diary entry for that day:

Johnstone and I attended a meeting of the BW Committee, to discuss the penicillin problem. Sir Paul Fildes, who I believe is the last word in B.W., said that, if the Russians tried to cultivate B.W. Agents with a penicillin plant, those concerned would probably die of a foul disease, since any plant of the kind would be much too leaky, but when challenged by Professor Wilkins, he agreed that the technical “know-how” of the penicillin plant might give the Russians valuable clues. This, however, was a matter to be explored with the firm of Glaxo, who are apparently the principle suppliers of the best penicillin. It was agreed that Wilkins and Sir Paul Fildes would see Glaxo tomorrow and report immediately on their views. Meanwhile it was felt that we should clear up our position vis a vis America, who had sold us their manufacturing rights. If it was their policy to refuse penicillin plant and technical “know-how”, we should have to keep in step.

Apart from the fact that the British might be judged as to have already transgressed against their agreement with the Americans, the re-entry of Fildes into the business is significant. By this time Fildes was working under Florey, who had of course been the mentor of the dubious Borodin during his first mission. Brian Balmer’s book points to some of the dynamics of the arrangement. In November 1947, Fildes had written to the Biological Research Advisory Board (BRAB), claiming that advances in research on the physiology of pathogenic bacteria and viruses would come from the schools of bacterial chemistry, at Oxford and Cambridge, thus pointing to his own institution. Yet Florey soon afterwards hinted at struggles. Described as ‘a senior BRAB member’, he reported on January 18, 1948, that ‘the pilot experimental fermenter was experiencing setbacks’, and that valuable staff might be lost if the new laboratories were to suffer similar delays.

The fact that various groups might be working at cross-purposes is shown by Liddell’s Diary entry for May 19. He had sent John Marriott to see Howard Florey, who had indicated to him that ‘there would be no harm in allowing the Russians to purchase penicillin plant in this country’. Liddell pointed out that this opinion was irreconcilable with what ‘the eminent Professor Fildes’ had expressed, although a more subtle interpretation might be adduced. Florey may have been encouraging the sharing of penicillin techniques with the Soviets on humanitarian grounds. Fildes, on the other hand, had ventured the opinion that, if the Russians tried to deploy penicillin-manufacturing plant and techniques to the creation of BW agents, the project would blow up in their faces – literally. In any event, Florey displays a level of ignorance concerning the control that the Americans claimed to exert over the systems they had developed.

The Seduction of Comrade Borodin

I wrote earlier how Liddell’s Diaries reveal that MI5 in early 1948 was keeping close tabs on Borodin and his activities, and how the British authorities were considering encouraging him to defect. A critical part of the entry for February 4 is another worth citing in full:

On the other hand, we have a very considerable interest in a man like BORODIN. If BORODIN is in fact purchasing chemical plant consciously for B.W. purposes, he may also be seeing information about our own efforts, and for all we know he may have got in touch with somebody important. If we could satisfy ourselves about his intentions and knowledge, we might consider him as a potential defector, and take steps accordingly. Quite apart from the espionage or defector aspect of the case, it seems to me that we are the only department which can exploit the field to the full extent. J.I.B. can talk to the firms, but it may be necessary for us to apply all our resources where BORODIN goes and whom he visits. Hayter [the Chairman of the JIC] asked about BORODIN’s potentialities as a defector. I said that we were looking into his case but were far from being able to say that he was a likely bet. Apart from the many difficulties in making an approach in a case of this sort, it was first of all essential to know whether he had near relatives in Russia.

That seems to me to be a very complacent and uninspired piece of analysis from Liddell. He implicitly admits that he knows nothing about Borodin’s first mission to the UK, where he had for several months been purloining secret material, and passing it on to the Soviet Embassy. Even now, MI5 appears uncertain of Borodin’s whereabouts: would representatives of Soviet trade missions not have to report their movements, especially if they were visiting factories manufacturing strategic material? Thus encouraging him to defect seems a very defensive measure, as if committing him to stay in the United Kingdom would somehow prevent the leakage of strategically valuable information, when the damage had already been done. And, if they thought that he might have useful information to give them, they should instead have tried to pick his brains there and then, and held open the hope that he might return to the UK with fresh updates at some time in the future – in other words, turning Borodin into an ‘agent in place’ rather than a defector.

A cryptic follow-up occurred on February 18, where Liddell conspired with Kenneth Strong and Lamb of the J.S.T.I.C. (Joint Staff Technical Intelligence Committee?) to exploit the Borodin case as a superior method of gaining intelligence, allied with overt sources and signals intelligence. Liddell wrote that the three agreed that using SIS (MI6) and its assumed spy network, except in a limited sphere, was a waste of money. This entry suggests that the investigation of Borodin had moved quickly over the past couple of weeks.

George Thomson

At a critical meeting of the Bacteriological Warfare Sub-Committee (reporting to the Chiefs of Staff) on February 26, 1948, some contradictions in policy, as well as some unresolved differences in opinion, were evident. Sir George Thomson, representing the Imperial College, showed remarkable naivety in his assessment of Soviet ambitions and progress in both atomic weaponry and BW. He recommended sharing intelligence with Soviet scientists, since ‘such discussions might serve a useful purpose by informing the world at large of the true potentialities of BW’. Wansbrough-Jones and Fildes disagreed with him, but thought that, while British industrialists could be trusted not to give away secrets, any international fora should be avoided. The Committee showed confusion over the value of penicillin plant, believing (despite what Fildes said elsewhere) that it could be useful for creating pathogens, but nevertheless deemed it advisable to sell such capabilities to the Russians anyway, on humanitarian and commercial grounds.

Wansbrough-Jones

Despite all this, the Committee, showing its familiarity with the impending expansive contract between Glaxo and the Soviet Delegation, wanted the JIC to check with the Americans that they approved the venture, and requested that the Ministry of Supply investigate how the export of plant might be prevented, given that an export license was not required. It was familiar with Borodin’s past movements in the UK and in the USA (where the Soviet Union had already spent $500,000), and it also showed awareness that Borodin was currently trying to acquire a deep culture plant from Bennett and Shears. There was, however, ‘no indication he has any interest in Penicillin than in its curative or prophylactic properties’. Nor was there presumably any doubt about the integrity of the ‘British industrialists’ controlling the project. The Committee was evidently at sea, and it needed a stronger Chairman on the tiller.

In any event, some more successful overtures were apparently made over the next few months. As the Soviet sources indicate, Borodin was working primarily with Florey’s adversary Ernst Chain at this time, and he was formulating ambitious plans for building plant in the Soviet Union. Chain was apparently encouraging such projects quite openly, to the degree that he filed copies of his letters to the Soviet Trade Delegation. On July 2, however, Borodin had turned up at the premises of his earlier mentor, Florey, in Oxford. Florey had contacted Dick White in MI5 to let him know that Borodin was seeking his assistance. John Marriott was despatched to Oxford to speak to Florey, and he returned the same day to give Liddell a positive report. Yet the way in which Borodin’s intentions were articulated is very confusing – partly, perhaps, because of sloppy recording.

Despite his belief that ‘he thinks he will be liquidated if he goes back to Russia’, Borodin was reported to be ‘not in the least apprehensive’. He had apparently thought out everything carefully, and part of the plan seemed to be that he would return to Russia. There is no conditional verb: “He does not think that his return to Russia will [i.e. not ‘would’] have any effect on his family either one way or the other, but is certain that he himself will be liquidated.” That is hardly the mood of someone who declares himself unapprehensive, unless it reflected a death wish to save his family, who would surely suffer if he decided not to return. Borodin also expressed how he wanted to clean house in England, so that there could be no accusation of misappropriation of funds. Was he perhaps concerned about the financial agreement with Chain, and how it might cast suspicions on his role and interest? The report closes: “He has a great deal to tell us and is willing to co-operate to the full.”

Something must have caused his plans to change, as his memoir suggested. Liddell has nothing more to say about Borodin, although his Diaries have an extraordinary vacant patch between July 30 and September 23 – a period for which he simply states that he had been ‘away’.

Ominous Undercurrents

Meanwhile, a possibly shady exploit was carrying on. MI5 had been making some clumsy moves in investigating the suppliers of penicillin-manufacturing material, as Liddell’s diary entry for February 19 attests. The offender was William Skardon, who took time off his interrogation duties to visit the premises of Bennett and Shears, one of the firms involved in the manufacture of penicillin, and to ask questions about industrial mobilisation in Russia. When the proprietors wondered what his game was, he discovered that he had not brought any identification with him. Liddell was introduced to the embarrassing problem, and he was asked to sort it out.

Henry Yorke

What is astonishing is the communication channel by which Liddell learned about the incident. In all innocence, Liddell records that the news came to him from Anthony Blunt, who himself received it from Guy Burgess, who had been in contact with Goronwy Rees. Rees had some sort of justification, because he was working for his friend Henry Yorke at Bennett and Shears, which worked out of Shoe Lane in London, and specialized in manufacturing brewing and distillation equipment. This might seem an unusual appointment for a Fellow of All Souls, but maybe he simply managed the books, as he had skills in this area, and managed the estates of his illustrious college. In A Chapter of Accidents, Rees describes his less than arduous duties sitting alongside Henry Yorke, a writer he admired, as he led the family firm. In Looking for Nobody, however, Rees’s daughter, Jenny, presents the firm as Pontifex. Pontifex had apparently acquired Bennett and Shears back in 1908: Jenny states that her father worked in George Street, Marylebone in the mornings and walked to the MI6 building at 54, Broadway for his afternoon stint. In any case, when Liddell talked to Rees, the latter thought it had all been a misunderstanding, but he confirmed that the Russians were buying penicillin plant. Whether Rees had been inserted at Bennett and Shears by MI6 is a possibility that has to be raised.

Anthony Blunt, however, had retired from MI5 in 1945. True, Liddell often used him as a ‘consultant’, but what was Blunt doing getting involved with penicillin-manufacturing, and what was Guy Burgess’s role in all this? Apart from hinting that Burgess and Rees were co-operating in some way, which contradicts the way that Rees tried to distance himself from Burgess in the years to come, the events suggest a very conspiratorial network, in which Victor Rothschild, probably in his role as an outspoken member of the BRAB, was probably colluding with the three cronies listed above. Perhaps, with Rees reporting to MI6, it was a canny way of getting a message to Liddell without ruffling feathers at 54, Broadway. Yet for Liddell to be ignorant about Rees’s position at Bennett and Shears, and for him to send in a poorly-prepared snoop to check out what was going on, seems utterly amateurish. Moreover, he would not have been pleased that MI6 was meddling on his turf.

Liddell had a further meeting with Blunt and Rees on March 11, where they discussed penicillin. Why Blunt had to be at the lunch is unexplained, but Liddell took time to explain to Rees that British Intelligence was concerned about the possibility that the Soviets could use penicillin plant to create BW agents. He rather undermined his own advice by stating next that expert judgment (i.e. Fildes) indicated that the project ‘would come to a sticky finish’. How Rees was supposed to process this advice is not clear, and the issue of US manufacturing bans was not overtly mentioned. But the details of the conversations were surely transmitted to the Soviets by Blunt. Liddell must have cast out of his mind the fact that Blunt had been caught red-handed passing over military secrets to the Russians in 1944.

In addition, the actions and motivations of Rees cast further doubts on the story he compiled for himself. If he was indeed upright and loyal in his position at Bennett and Shears, he showed lamentable judgment in confiding in the known subversives Burgess and Blunt about the investigations of Skardon, and the deeds and acquisitions carried out by Borodin. On the other hand, the chain of Rees-Burgess-Blunt-Liddell anticipates the same eerie set of communications that occurred in the summer of 1951, when Burgess and Maclean absconded. Rees’s MI5 Personal File proves that some officers in the service considered that Rees had unlawfully helped the Soviets gain penicillin equipment from the USA, in contravention of the ban, and others have suspected Rees of having been involved in nefarious activities well after his declared change of heart in 1939. These events would tend to reinforce the argument that he was still working closely with Burgess at this time. My analysis is necessarily sketchy. The episodes cry out for the release of more useful archival material – which must surely exist.

Of course the implications are dire. While MI5 was starting to understand the extent of Soviet penetration of the secrets of atomic weaponry, it did not appear to have any idea that a more blatant exercise was being carried out in the field of bacteriological warfare. That was doubly dangerous, since secrets would be passed on about the progress being made in technical research, thus fostering an ability to kick-start the Soviet program. Yet the exposure was more complex. The intelligence would also have included the fact that Chiefs of Staff were not simply considering defensive mechanisms, but also harbouring plans for attacking the Soviet Union with pathogenic substances, which would indubitably have increased Stalin’s fears about aggressive Western intentions. One cannot avoid the suspicion that Rothschild may have been passing on to Burgess some highly confidential material derived from his role on the BRAB.

After the Defection

Richard Davenport-Hines

So Borodin dramatically – melodramatically – defected in August 1948. Information about his movements thereafter are very sketchy. Richard Davenport-Hines, the noted historian of the early twentieth-century British intelligentsia, made a bizarre contribution by writing a letter to the Times Literary Supplement after that magazine published a review of One Man in His Time in July of this year. It is a strange, anecdotal account without sources or references, under that quaint literary tradition by which ‘experts’ are allowed to make apparently authoritative statements in the Letters pages, without any fact-checkers interfering, and where the only critics may appear among the magazine’s correspondents. I reproduce the main content of his letter:

The Security Service gave Borodin the codename of Julep after his defection. He was secreted in a safe house called Barrow Elm between Quenington and Hatherop in Gloucestershire. Before Borodin could be established in a new identity in Canada, the former literary editor Goronwy Rees, who was then dividing his working hours between a department in the Secret Intelligence Service run by his friend David Footman and a manufacturing business run by his Friend Henry Yorke, learnt from his official work of the Russian’s defection. He improperly divulged the incident to Yorke, who is best known as the novelist Henry Green. Yorke’s business was involved in a project to supply a penicillin plant to India: he was dissatisfied by its temperamental technical adviser, the Nobel laureate Ernst Chain. Accordingly, in March 1949, Rees approached Guy Liddell, deputy director general of the Security Service, and proposed that Yorke might be allowed to consult or recruit Julep. Footman backed Rees’s proposal in a separate talk with Liddell. This curious initiative seems to have been quashed by the Security Service’s refusal to jeopardize Borodin’s new identity in Canada before he had taken it.

‘Barrow Elm’

There is enough apparent insider information in this story to give it a gloss of conviction. But where does it come from? [If you perform a Google search on ‘Julep Defector’, the search returns just the TLS letter – a true hapax legomenon.] Moreover, Davenport-Hines displays a bewildering ignorance of the barrage of facts that preceded these events, and he suggests a story that defies all reason. Overall, what use would a defector be if he had immediately to be secreted away to Canada? If Borodin had been nosing around at Bennett and Shears looking for knowledge and techniques, why would Yorke think that he might be a valuable resource to replace the testy but expert Chain? If he needed assistance, and his project was legal, why did he not contact Howard Florey or Paul Fildes, who would presumably have been able to point him in the right direction in a far more security-conscious way? Was it really India or Italy (see below) that was the target for the plant? And why would Footman and Liddell even think twice about the wisdom of hiring Borodin for such a venture? And, if someone as high as Liddell approved the scheme, who was it in MI5 that quashed the initiative? I cannot see Percy Sillitoe interjecting himself sagaciously into the debate.

I suspect that Davenport-Hines may have been given a dodgy dossier at some stage. Moreover, the account of Borodin’s hiding away in leafy Gloucestershire does not hold water. In another diary entry, dated August 9, 1949, Liddell offers his readers the following gem:

There has been a successful conference on Russian affairs at Oxford. We put up a strong team, who apparently acquitted themselves extremely well, which stood out in strong contrast to others present. E. H. Carr, late of the ‘Times’, and also Borodin, gave talks. Outstanding on our side on Far Eastern matters was MacDonald. Guy Burgess was there from the Foreign Office, but was not nearly so good.

In A Chapter of Accidents, Goronwy Rees describes this event as a weekend summer school run by the Foreign Office, where Burgess ‘was chosen to lecture Britain’s representatives, who included members of both MI5 and MI6, on Red China’. So much for protecting Borodin’s new identity, and hiding him away from prying eyes. He is paraded at a conference where he has apparently been openly identified, in a forum bound to provoke questions, and one of his fellow-speakers is Guy Burgess, who has been acquainted with the saga from the Bennett and Shears days. It is difficult to imagine how Borodin could have lasted long after this episode. As a reminder of the Soviets’ need for revenge against traitors at this time, I quote from Tim Spicer’s recent biography of ‘Biffy’ Dunderdale, A Suspicion of Spies, where he describes what happened to the defector Tokaev the previous year, when he and his wife were placed in a safe house protected by MI5 and the Metropolitan Police:

Soon after their arrival, a suspected assassin was detected outside the house which prompted a rapid evacuation to Frittiscombe, a very remote farmhouse at Chillington near Kingsbridge in Devon, then owned by Fred Winterbotham, who had, by this time, retired.

‘A Suspicion of Spies’

An eerie coda to this episode occurred later in 1948, when Tsarev, another defector who had been recommended by Tokaev, fled from his safe house in Kensington in search of the Soviet Embassy. Spicer writes: “SIS concluded that CAPULET’s change of heart had been prompted by his fear of retribution against his 20-year-old son, Vasili, who was living in Moscow.”

Florey and Chain Redux

The feud between Florey and Chain did not die. On September 30, 1948, Guy Liddell recorded a visit made to him by Florey, accompanied by one Lang Browne. They had come to discuss the case of Dr. Chain, which formulation suggests that a controversy over the Nobel laureate was already alive. The entry reads:

Dr. CHAIN, who had somewhat improperly entered into a contract with the Trade Delegation (Soviet) to sell them information on penicillin, has gone on a years [sic] holiday to Italy. Florey would like to edge him out, but if necessary would like, at some future date, to inform the appropriate authority at Oxford that we could confirm the Professor’s information about the disreputable conduct of Dr. CHAIN. I said that I could see no objection.

It was left that Florey would make fresh contact with MI5 if the necessity arose. The main conclusion from this entry, however, is the fact that MI5 knew about the Chain-Borodin agreement, and disapproved of it, although the ‘somewhat improperly’ is a weak qualification (litotes? irony? or simply inadequate knowledge?). It would seem that the Security Service did not know the extent of what Chain had promised to deliver, but that it was perhaps generally supportive of an exercise designed to lead the Soviets up the garden path.

The impression given here is that Florey is unaware of his rival’s true mission in Italy, and expects him to return to the UK soon, at which time he wants him expelled from the Dunn School of Pathology. Eric Lax reports that Chain had been requested by the British Council in 1947 to give several lectures on penicillin in Rome. His visit was such a success that it prompted the Istituto Superiore di Sanitá to invite him to organize and direct a research centre for chemical microbiology and a penicillin plant. He left Oxford in the summer of 1948 without resigning his post – or informing Florey of his departure. Instead he wrote an awkward letter of apology when he arrived in Rome (Florey had been in London the day he left town!), and regretted their severe falling-out.

Chain, however, had multiple irons in the fire. Mauro Capocci’s article informs us that he had been helping many governments at this time, include the Czechs. In the spring of 1948 (Capocci writes) Chain had been approached by Soviet representatives (i.e. Borodin, Zeifman and Cherniavskii) to set up a fermentation facility, and agreement was signed on July 20. Soon afterwards, namely just before Borodin’s defection, Chain compiled a 100-page report for the Russians: he said that their surface culture method of producing penicillin was antiquated. The British government had by then stopped the Soviets from receiving training from Distillers and Glaxo. Italy was a convenient cover for Chain’s work, as the Communists were still strong in northern Italy at that time, a red takeover having been averted only in April 1948. For some years Chain exercised significant influence behind the Iron Curtain, and he acted as the World Health Organization chairman in the early 1950s.

What is astonishing is the indulgence shown to Chain, the lack of enforcement of bans on selling equipment to the Soviets, and the neglect of close surveillance of Borodin. It suggests that MI5 and the JIC were indeed taken in by his potential as a defector, and that allowing him to deliver some success to his masters in Moscow was part of the plan for maintaining his reputation, and perhaps developing him as a useful agent in place. In that respect, however, the handling of Borodin could well point to a disinformation exercise. Knowing that penicillin-manufacturing techniques could not be safely adapted for creating mass bacteriological agents, the authorities might have allowed Borodin to learn all he could, and pass it on to his masters, in a show of humanitarian generosity. The US ban on selling related equipment could have been an enormous bluff to suggest to the Soviets that the technology was indeed highly strategic and valuable for offensive purposes in BW. Whether Chain was in on the scheme is uncertain, but Florey’s comments would tend to confirm that he was aware of what was going on. The bitterest irony, however, was the fact that Anthony Blunt had learned from Liddell the nature of the scheme, and had surely passed the intelligence on to the Kremlin, which might have given the Soviets a pretext for keeping Borodin on a leash in the United Kingdom.

A Real Defection?

In conclusion, what does my analysis indicate about the reality of Borodin’s defection? Recall the following (apparent) facts:

* Borodin was sought out as a possible defector more out of propaganda value than for the reward of his knowledge, since he had already disclosed all he knew to the Americans.

* Borodin wrote an unnecessarily flamboyant and destructive letter to the Soviet Embassy, which would immediately have jeopardized his chances of surviving in exile.

* His letter was compiled the day after he made his decision to defect, when he had no guaranteed refuge in Britain.

* Borodin’s appearance in Oxford in 1949 would have broken all the rules about keeping defectors in seclusion.

* Borodin’s defection occurred at exactly the same time that Chain was armed to undertake penicillin development work in Italy and behind the Iron Curtain.

* Despite the alarms expressed by MI5 and Borodin himself about possible harm to his family, Borodin went ahead with the defection.

* Nothing reliable about Borodin has surfaced anywhere since, and his memoir published in 1955 was shrouded in mystery, and lacked any context.

* Soviet archives represent him as an ‘unperson’, recognizing him only in the 2000s, but relegating him to an insignificant role, and undermining Soviet excellence.

I thus consider three scenarios: 1) A legitimate defection; 2) A modified defection that went wrong; and 3) A fake defection engineered by the Soviets.

  1. If we take Borodin’s account at face value, the scientist, shocked by the new atmosphere at the Embassy, and fearful of being executed if he returned to Moscow, applied to the British for asylum, and was accepted, leaving his family members to their fate. He was never heard of again (apart from the possible appearance in Oxford) until he published his memoirs, in English, in 1955, and revealed the brazen declaration of his defiant letter of August 27 to Ambassador Zarubin. He was regarded as a pariah by Moscow: nothing reliable about his life and whereabouts after 1948 can be ascertained.

This scenario contains so many contradictions and paradoxes that it is hard to take seriously. MI5 and the JIC had been considering trying to persuade Borodin’s to defect for months, but they had expressed concern about his family. In early July (i.e. several weeks before his alleged decision), Borodin had contacted Professor Florey, and discussed defection, and his possible return to the Soviet Union. He was thus not a sudden asylum-seeker, but he had practically no value as a defector, since he had passed on all he knew, and his main role as a functionary was to gather information. One might expect an account of one of Sudoplatov’s squads attempts to assassinate Borodin – an inevitable outcome if the facts are true – but no record of such has appeared. Borodin’s presence in Oxford would surely have energized the hunt.

2. If MI5 and the JIC had become excited about the prospect of enticing Borodin to defect, they might have originally seen it as a propaganda coup. On reflection, however, they may have asked themselves how they would exploit him once he defected, as he would have been of little utility. At that stage, they might have considered trying to use him as an ‘agent in place’, having him return to the Soviet Union, and then provide them with constant updates on the state of the Russians’ work on bacteriological warfare (rather in the manner that Oleg Penkovsky was used.) Such a strategy would have overcome their humanitarian concerns about Borodin’s family, and the conversations in early July hint at such an arrangement, even though Borodin fears for his life.

While this scenario reflects in principle a more practical strategy for exploiting Borodin, there is no solid evidence for its existence. Liddell’s Diaries never explicitly indicate such a tactic. And it would encounter some severe obstacles. Once Borodin returned to the Soviet Union (and his declarations concerning his probable execution express a grim reality, since Stalin still regarded citizens who had spent too much time abroad as dangerous influences, and there was a deadly purge still going on), it was highly unlikely that he would be allowed to return to the United Kingdom, and attempting to contact him to have intelligence passed over would have been futile and fatal. If Borodin had indeed been tempted to consider such a course of action, he either talked MI5 out of it, or MI5 itself must have undergone a quick re-think.

3. Could the whole defection have been a set-up by the Soviets? If Borodin received an overture from the British, he probably reported it to his party bosses. They had their man in place, who had delivered the goods by stealing secrets, and now was conspiring with Chain to construct a detailed program for them to follow. If Borodin stayed in the United Kingdom, he could keep in touch with progress made in bacteriological warfare (and they knew that Britain’s intentions were serious, from what they learned from Burgess and Blunt). Thus the MVD might have encouraged Borodin to negotiate, and stall, while he was executing his assignment with Chain at Oxford. If his utility ran out, or his access to fresh intelligence were prevented, there would come a time when he could be safely exfiltrated, and re-united with his family. If Borodin did indeed escape later, that would explain the complete silence thrown over the affair by the embarrassed British authorities, as the propaganda exercise would have been thrown back in their faces. Yet Borodin, as someone who was on the blacklist for maligning Soviet science, might have experienced the cellars of the Lubyanka soon after his return to the homeland. Mikoyan may well have suspected (learning from his spies in the UK) that Borodin was about to make a serious defection, and he might even have wondered whether the scientist had made a secret deal on the side to benefit from the large payments to be made to Chain. Thus Borodin may have taken fright, and decided that he needed to break away completely.

This seems to me the likeliest explanation. I have not seen any evidence that the Soviets boasted about such a coup, suggesting that Borodin may have double-crossed them. But what about the inflammatory letter to the Ambassador? I suspect it was never issued, as it would have been far too clumsy a ruse for MI5 to be taken in, and the Security Service would have even more dramatically pulled their horns in, and made Borodin utterly useless to the adversary. I believe it far more likely that the letter was compiled to accompany Borodin’s memoir, at a time when he may no longer have been in this world. I expressed my doubts earlier about Borodin’s ability to write such a memoir in English at that time. He probably wrote it in Russian, and left it with MI5, who had it translated. When the book was published (after Stalin’s death), an MI5 officer probably wrote the letters and had them inserted as a last fling, with a pinch of authenticity, to publish what many Soviet functionaries truly thought about the Communist regime. After all, the standalone letters appear as the totality of the file FO 1093/552. Why would that be? Only the ruse now looks hopelessly naive.

If I imagined I might find some sort of closure in this research activity, I was severely disillusioned. Yet I believe I have uncovered enough facts to set the hares running. A large number of questions remains to be investigated, and I hope that this report finds the right persons to help answer them.

(Recent Commonplace entries can be see here.)

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Summer 2024 Round-Up

Los Altos, CA

Contents:

Introduction

‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’

The coldspur Archive

Helen Fry’s ‘Women in Intelligence’ (2023)

The Darkrooms of Edith Tudor-Hart

‘Nothing Short of a Scandal!’

Guy Burgess at Kew

A Death in Nuremberg

Holiday Reading: Volodarsky et al.

Coldspur under stress

News from Academia

Similarity and Identity

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Introduction

Readers can probably imagine the flurry that takes place in the days just before the publication of the monthly coldspur. After I have submitted my copy, my team of fact-checkers goes over it, verifying names, dates, titles, and professional positions. Thelma, my lead grammarian and Sensitivity Reader, goes over my text with a toothcomb, looking for dangling participles and ensuring that the subjunctive mood is deployed properly, checking nounal and verbal agreements, and verifying that colons and semicolons have been used correctly. She also has an eye out for any offensive remarks I may have made concerning disadvantaged minorities. (She is not certain whether the category of ‘authorized historians’ comes under that rubric.) My Editor next reviews the overall style of my piece, and analyzes it for any opinions or assertions that may have legal implications: we discuss them, and make any necessary changes. Meanwhile, my Graphics Editor has been scouring the Web for suitable images to decorate my pallid prose. Lastly, cross-referenced urls have to be reconciled and verified, and the posting properly indexed for optimization by search engines. On the last day of the month, before breakfast my time, the piece goes into Production status, and eager readers, from Memphis to Murmansk, from Montevideo to Melbourne, can pick up their monthly fix.

Thus my absence in California at the end of June, accompanied by my wife and daughter to visit our son and his family, caused a fair measure of disruption at coldspur HQ. We did not return until the early morning of July 3, and the staff had to interrupt their Independence Day plans in order to meet the new deadline. I thank everyone for their sacrifices and noble efforts. Life will be so much easier when Conspirobot© takes over completely.

‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’

Memorial Panel

I was relieved to have completed writing the saga of the 1944 crash at Saupeset, and to be able to publish it, by the end of March. I have had several complimentary messages from coldspur readers around the world, and it has been my intent to drum up interest in the story in time for the eightieth anniversary of the incident in September of this year. I strongly believe that the relatives of the sacrificed airmen deserve a full explanation and apology from the Ministry of Defence. I also believe that my story is strong, and very defensible, with incontrovertible evidence about the impersonated airmen and their subsequent tragic deaths, even if the documentation behind the conspiracy is sadly missing. I also feel it is appropriate, among all the celebrations surrounding the liberation of 1944, that honest appraisals of mistakes be made as well. For example, several recent books have disclosed the massive French civilian casualties that were caused by RAF and USAAF bombing after the D-Day landings, in places like le Havre, and the manner in which such slaughter was given justification, in the context of the objective of destroying German units, is receiving fresh attention from historians.

One of the early converts to my story was Professor Torgrim Titlestad, who has a very special interest in Peter Furubotn, the Norwegian Communist who defied Stalin. He has spent a large amount of time in updating a biography of Furubotn, one first published in Norwegian in 1997, but not yet published in English (A synopsis of his life is available through his website at https://furubotnarkivene.no/en/about_peder_furubotn/index.html). The Professor believed that what I wrote shed fresh light on Furubotn’s career – and on his avoidance of an early grave. Moreover, he had a close connection with Furubotn, as his father had been Furubotn’s security officer in 1944, and had accompanied him in his escape from the Gestapo. If any academic were to be sceptical about theories of assassination plots via RAF aircraft, it would have been the Professor.

At one stage earlier this year, Professor Titlestad even invited me to speak on the subject at a conference in Oslo later this year. I jumped at the opportunity, and started planning possible speaking events in the United Kingdom to leverage my presence in Europe, believing that I had interesting stories on such as Philby and Smolka to relate, as well as the ‘Airmen’ saga. I very much enjoy public speaking, and dug out my passport to see if it needed renewing. The Professor even asked about my expenses, and how I thought they should be met. I responded promptly –and generously, I think – but then the Professor went quiet. I did not go begging to him to determine what happened, but am dismayed by his behaviour. I do not know whether a political dispute interfered with the invitation (the Norwegians are still at loggerheads over some aspects of the wartime resistance), or whether the Professor decided he did not care for my revisionist views of Furubotn. As the conclusion of my piece clearly states, I am dismissive of the Professor’s attempt to present Furubotn as some kind of ‘Eurocommunist’ liberal, and found the references to Bukharin ill-advised. In any event, I had to withdraw my preliminary approaches for other speaking events, which was very annoying.

I thus turned my attention to media outlets who I considered might be interested in the story. My on-line colleague Keith Ellison had kindly converted the web pages of the story into PDFs, so I now had a version I could distribute rather than simply referring addressees to coldspur. I saw two classes of outlet – a) institutions with some responsibility for, or ownership of, the case, and b) investigative journalists with a penchant for uncovering breakthrough stories. In the first category, I picked the Squadron 617 Association and the magazine RAF News (‘the official voice of the Royal Air Force’). Neither entity even acknowledged my email. As for the second, I wrote to Private Eye and the Mail on Sunday (who had used material by Anthony Glees and me on Sonia a few years ago). Again, neither even acknowledged my message.

I had to change tack, obviously, and approach individual names. Having exchanged emails with the historian Andrew Roberts a few years ago (before he became Baron Roberts of Belgravia), I had joined his distribution list for updates on his new books. I thus tried to invoke his help. He responded very promptly, said the domain was however outside his sphere of interest, but immediately copied in a journalist at the Daily Mail, one Andrew Yates. I never heard back from him, either. I contacted a couple of historians with whom I had become acquainted via the SOE chat-site: they were both very enthusiastic about my research, but they could not offer any leads to further promotion. At about this time (early May) I also reached out to the journalist Mark Hollingsworth, with whom I had created a friendly rapport after I had reviewed his book Agents of Influence on coldspur.

Mark was very supportive (he was impressed with my research on Smolka), and he suggested that I create a synopsis of the material, in order to enable easier assimilation of the rather complicated story, and that I contact historians and journalists with expertise or interest in the war in Norway. I thus boiled the story down to 2000 words (see https://coldspur.com/the-airmen-who-died-twice-synopsis/) , and prepared to search out a list of likely candidates. I disagreed, however, with part of Mark’s guidance. He felt that no journalist or historian would touch the story without documentary evidence of the major plank in the story – that Churchill and Stalin must have exchanged messages of some kind in order for the flight and impersonations to have occurred. As my conclusion boldly stated, I felt it extremely unlikely that anything would appear, given the extraordinary circumstances of the enterprise. I could quickly list multiple events from World War II that have been discussed in serious terms when primary documentary material was not available. The authorized historians Foot, Hinsley and Andrew had all made categorical statements about events that had no documentary back-up. There were enough established facts about the case to warrant its broader promulgation. Besides, everyone likes an aspect of mystery. So I continued.

I picked out the names of six prominent historians whose books related to the subject I had read: Tony Insall, Ian Herrington, Richard Petrow, Patrick Salmon, Olivier Wieworka, and Max Hastings. Sadly, Petrow has died. I then tried to find email addresses for them, but such figures normally hide behind their agents and publishers. Apart from Insall, this was the case, so I had to craft individualized messages to those who represented them, asking for my package of synopsis and PDFs, with a brief explanation of what I was trying to achieve, to be forwarded to the relevant author. That was on May 16. The same day I made a separate approach to the Chairman of the Squadron 617 Association. Soon after, I sent personalized emails to journalists Ben Macintyre (of the Times), and Ben Lazarus (of the Spectator), both of whom I had exchanged messages with – concerning Sonia, of course – a few years ago, and suggested that they might be interested in promulgating the story. I never heard back from either of them. At the end of the month I posted a piece on FaceBook that drew attention to the new Synopsis now available on coldspur.

And then, at the end of May, I had two glimmers of light. None of the other historians responded to my approach, but Professor Patrick Salmon, who had edited Britain & Norway in the Second World War, published almost thirty years ago, responded with interest. He regretted that he was no longer close to Norwegian affairs, but he would try to help. He is now Chief Historian at the Foreign, Commonwealth and Development Office, which sounds like an influential position. Shortly afterwards, I received a long email from Dr. Robert Owen, Official Historian, 617 Squadron Association, to whom my message had been routed. A few days later I responded in kind, with a polite and thorough analysis of his points. The outcome was, however, tremendously disappointing. I felt that our communications deserved greater publicity, and I accordingly posted the exchange as a Special Bulletin on coldspur on June 11 (see https://coldspur.com/the-617-squadron-association-historian/).  

Professor Salmon, meanwhile, has continued to be very helpful. He recommended that I contact the Air Historical Branch of the RAF, and make a request for the Casualty File for Flight PB416 under the Freedom of Information Act. This I performed on June 13: Professor Salmon told me that the Branch has to provide a reply within twenty business days. On June 15, I received a confirmation of my request, and an indication that I should receive a reply by July 15. On the other hand, disappointments still occur. Mark Hollingsworth recommended that I contact a prominent historian of RAF matters, Paul Beaver. Through his publisher, I made contact, and he responded promptly, and with apparent interest in my story. After ten days, I had heard nothing, so I emailed him again, and he disappointingly wrote that he had been too busy to read it . . . And Nigel Austin, the man who initiated this whole project because he had a relative who was killed in the crash, expressed great enthusiasm when I completed the project, and vowed to promote the story. Yet he has now disappeared from the scene, and no longer responds to my emails.

I am finding this tepid response not only demoralizing, but also a little eerie. As one of my coldspur colleagues wrote to me, my story would make a great documentary. It has everything: mystery, disaster and tragedy, war, Nazism and communism, institutional confusion and cover-up – as well as a very timely anniversary. Yet several experts do not even show any interest in its potential or topicality, let alone engage in debate to challenge my hypothesis. It is almost as if a celestial D-Notice has been placed on my research. My mission at coldspur has been to reveal when government institutions – in my domain of interest, primarily MI5, MI6, the Home Office and the Foreign Office – have covered up the facts out of a desire to protect themselves, in the belief that the British public cannot be trusted to know the truth. Thus my investigations into (for example) the concealment of knowledge over Klaus Fuchs, the cover-up over Kim Philby, the refusal to divulge the clumsy attempt to manipulate Agent Sonia, the colossal mis-steps over Peter Smolka, the censorship of activities behind the demise of the PROSPER network, and the improper release of rumours to journalists to discredit officers like Hollis were all prelude to my research into the shenanigans with the disaster of PB416.

In the past few months there have been resounding echoes of such governmental misbehaviour in the willful mishandling of the Post Office HORIZON project, the revelations concerning the tainted blood fiascos of the 1970s (of which my sister was a victim, I believe), and, very recently, the investigation into the cover-up of Nazi crimes on Alderney. Not solely in the world of intelligence and military history are the issues too important to be left to the authorized and official historians to analyze and report on, and I shall continue to plough my furrow without concerning myself about upsetting anybody in authority, or the repercussions therefrom.

The coldspur Archive

As I reported a few months ago, I successfully arranged a home for my library of books and archival material (see the press release from the University of North Carolina, Wilmington at  https://giving.uncw.edu/stories/new-special-collection-to-make-randall-library-a-destination-for-researchers-worldwide.). This is an important agreement, since it relieves me of the distress of fearing that my collection might be dispersed or even destroyed when I go to meet the Great Archivist in the Sky. (By the way, I shall not ‘pass’: I shall die.) I believe the value of the complete set, and its availability for researchers from near and far, greatly exceed the usefulness of the individual volumes. I suspect that, as an assemblage of books on intelligence and twentieth-century history and literature, primarily British but also American, it may be unmatched by even the most learned institutions. The University, as part of our deal, has committed to providing administrative support to catalog properly the whole collection, and to provide enhanced capabilities for an electronic portal to all my coldspur research, and the documents and systems that have supported it, such as my epic 400-page Chronology (my Crown Jewels and secret sauce), and notes made on a vast number of books and archival material.

The transfer of books will probably start at the end of this year. This will be a wrench, as I dread the idea of losing direct access to all the volumes that I have become accustomed to exploiting each time I create a coldspur posting. The Library at UNCW is about forty miles away, so I shall have to plan my visits very carefully if I am going to continue with my conventional research. I suspect, however, that I shall have to cut back the depth of my investigations, and gradually wind down to a more routine and less dramatic series of postings. Thus I shall spend the remainder of this year reviewing what important commitments I still have, and identifying what files I have on my desktop that have not been processed properly. I also have a lot of work to do in cleaning up electronic files and references, as well as documenting carefully the various paper items (letters, printed reports, sets of old magazines, many of which contain important articles, clippings, etc.) that will constitute an important part of the archive.

Meanwhile, the project to register all the books continues. Every Sunday morning I allocate a couple of hours to entering another hundred items on LibraryThing. I am now approaching 5,000 volumes recorded in my private on-line library, with a lot still to be processed. This can be an easy task, if the book contains an accurate ISBN, but the older volumes require some digging around to find the correct year and publisher, and some of the more antique items have to be entered completely manually. It has turned out to be a revelatory exercise, in which I have encountered books I had forgotten about – or even lost. (Some have been retrieved from obscure niches, having fallen down behind others.) There have been some duplicates, some deliberate, as I had purchased newer editions, but others by mistake, such as when I had acquired an item in a second-hand book-shop, and did not recall that I owned it already. Some I bought because the title was different – as often happens when a publication appears under a different name when it is released in the USA.

And there have been several interesting finds. Titles that I only skimmed, and shall probably never read cover to cover. (I am sure no other bibliophile has this problem.) Some classics that I should have read years ago: I think that, in my declining years, I would prefer to re-read Raymond Chandler or Kingsley Amis than tackle Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. And all those Trollopes! I enjoy him, but they simply take too long. Items that I had carelessly overlooked, and should have read long ago, such as E. P. Thompson’s account of his brother Frank’s death in Bulgaria on an SOE mission – which oversight was remedied last month. A few gems revealed, such as a very old guide to Oxford bequeathed to me by my father, in which he has written ‘1775?’ in the margin. And a few books that I had thought lost, such as the paperback of Raymond Williams’s Keywords, which I had been searching for a few months back. (It had been woefully misplaced in the Travel and Mountaineering section: members of staff have received a reprimand.) This had been a useful, though very earnest and cautious, guide for me back in the late 1970s, and had comprehensive entries on such concepts as ‘Class’, ‘Progressive’, ‘Status’, and ‘Imperialism’ (but not ‘Colonialism’). But it had no room for ‘Equity’, ‘Diversity’, ‘Inclusion’, ‘Identity’, or even ‘Populism’, ‘Race’ or ‘Ethnicity’– let alone ‘Intersectionality’! How did we manage to interpret social trends accurately and engage in intelligent discourse in those days, I wonder? [I was not aware that you tried, coldspur. I thought you were too busy playing cricket and having a thrilling social life. Ed.]

Helen Fry’s ‘Women in Intelligence’ (2023)

I did not have high hopes with this book, published last year, as I have found Fry’s approach to writing history lacking in discernible method and suffering from a very sloppy style. Yet I considered this item a necessary part of my reading agenda. As it turned out, I was pleasantly surprised in some ways. Fry has performed her usual diligent research, reveals a host of new facts, and someone has obviously given her some guidance on how to write more crisply and less elliptically. (In one of the blurbs, Kate Vigurs writes that ‘all is told in her usual inimitable style’. It occurred to me that the comment might not have been intended as a compliment, but I shall instead conclude that perhaps Ms. Vigurs has not been paying close attention.) I must question the whole endeavour, however: while it is important that the contributions from women be given their proper credit (as Jackson Lamb said somewhere: “You won’t find a more ardent feminist than me”), a description of exercises and operations that focuses almost exclusively on the achievements of the fair sex [is that expression still allowed, Thelma?] will be bound to distort the picture.

And so it turns out. Fry offers no explanation of how she approached the subject, or how she made her choices. (She mercifully does not engage in a debate about what ‘woman’ means in this decade, and how that term should be applied retrospectively to simpler days.) The blurb on the cover merely states: ‘The first full history of women in British intelligence across two world wars’. In many aspects, Fry’s work is a remarkable achievement. She has excavated some fascinating stories about women in the various intelligence services that had evaded this particular reader, and we should be very grateful to her. Unfortunately, the text reveals itself as a rather relentless catalogue of female success, and frequently distorts the broader picture, and misrepresents the facts. Along the way, a vast amount of familiar material has to be regurgitated to give the unwary reader context. Moreover, there is little room for records of failure, as one glorious contribution follows another. We are told, for instance (p 265) that ‘Hodgson and Holmes were the “brains” behind all operations into Austria, Yugoslavia and Hungary’, and (p 272) that ‘women such as Holmes, Stamper and Hodgson were the driving-force behind SOE’s success’, yet the incursions into those countries were largely disasters, and the unqualified trumpeting of SOE’s success when it clearly made a large number of mistakes does not contribute to valid and objective scholarship. Fry is also a little too trusting of what Vera Atkins’s personal file states.

Moreover, the history is not ‘full’, or consistently accurate. The author is strangely errant over the career of one of the most impressive of intelligence officers, Kathleen (Jane) Sissmore, who married John Archer (of MI5’s RAF liaison, a fact she does not mention) on the eve of the war. She mistakenly says that Archer was killed in 1943: it was his son who perished. Fry claims that Archer was fired because of her disrespectful comments on the previous MI5 director, Vernon Kell, when it was the acting director Jasper Harker who had been the subject of her derision. She overlooks Archer’s transfer to lead the group of Regional Security Liaison Officers, which task she performed very creditably for several months in the summer of 1940, and she suddenly places her with Philby’s counter-intelligence group in MI6. Archer did indeed move to MI6, but did not work for Philby until his new section was created in 1944. Fry says nothing about Archer’s subsequent return to MI5 at the end of the war, and what projects she was involved with, although the archives mention her occasionally. Nevertheless, Fry is confident enough to assert that Archer ‘would have made a brilliant director-general of MI5’.

And there are some notable omissions and mistakes. Fry writes nothing about the highly important Freya Stark, or Ann (Nancy) Lambton, who both played important roles in propaganda and intelligence-gathering in the Middle East. Since Fry does include a section on post-war activities, one might have expected her to mention MI5’s Evelyn McBarnet, who played a prominent part in the molehunts of the 1960s and 1970s, and had earlier worked on the Robinson papers of the Red Orchestra. (Peter Wright wrote that she had had many years more experience in counter-espionage than he or Arthur Martin, which suggests she was active in the war years.) Fry also neglects Anne Last (actually ‘Glass’), who had a very significant career in MI5, having joined in May 1940, and who later married Charles Elwell, an MI5 officer. Fry’s sketch of Joan Miller fails to mention a vitally significant episode of her career, when she detected the Major (probably but not incontrovertibly Leo Long) stealing information and passing notes to his communist contact in 1944. Ray Milne, the communist agent inside MI6, who was detected and forced to resign, is overlooked (perhaps because she was a baddie).

(I should also mention that, in the September 2023 issue of Magna, the Magazine of the Friends of the National Archives, appears an article by Phil Tomaselli, titled ‘MI5 women spies during WW2’. It is not a very accurate title, since MI5’s charter was counter-espionage rather than espionage –  although it did maintain ‘agents’ who spied on subversive groups – and much of Tomaselli’s text is taken up by women who served during World War I. Nevertheless, Tomaselli lists a number of names who should be added to the roster, including Mary George, and Hilda Matheson of the Joint Broadcasting Committee.)

Fry briefly covers the five years that the highly dubious Tess Rothschild (née Mayor) worked in B18, the anti-sabotage section of MI5, but she presents a very odd interpretation of MI5’s suspicions of her after the Blunt confession. The failure to recognize the important pair of MI6 agents in Bern in WWII, Elizabeth Wiskemann and her sidekick Elizabeth Montagu (aka Scott-Montagu), is particularly egregious. Wiskemann received a prominent biographical treatment by Geoffrey Field last year (see https://academic.oup.com/book/44709/chapter-abstract/378977699?redirectedFrom=fulltext), and I have referred to Montagu in my writings on Smolka. The novelists Sarah Gainham, married to MI6’s Antony Terry, and Helen MacInness, married to another MI6 officer, Gilbert Highet, should perhaps have been covered as well, to give some variety and useful perspective. Of course there were some other notable British subjects, naturalized through marriage, working in intelligence such as Ursula Beurton, Edith Tudor-Hart, and Litzi Philby aka Feabre – and at least two native-born, Jenifer Hart, married to the MI5 officer Herbert Hart, and Melita Norwood – but since they were communist agents working against the interests of the United Kingdom they presumably fell outside her purview. Nevertheless, Nigel West returns the compliment that Fry recently granted him on his recent book: “A fascinating, minutely researched study of women in the espionage business.”

Thus the reader has to wade through a lot of extraneous material to pick out some splendid nuggets about meritorious heroines whose careers have very creditably been brought to light at last. The relentless feminist propaganda begins to chafe. Moreover, Fry can be both very risk-averse and highly provocative. At critical points, she steps back from providing any analysis of controversial incidents. For example, in wrapping up her section on SOE, she writes: “Exactly why Buckmaster and Atkins continued to send their agents into Europe remains the subject of debate.” That is a very cautious insertion that screams out for a more incisive inspection, and invites an examination of the dynamics of the situation, and whether there was any male-female dimension to the disastrous decisions that were made by the managers of F Section. On the other hand (as I pointed out in last month’s bulletin), she can lob a grenade over the parapet, as she does when she gratuitously reports (p 92) that, in 1933, the MI6 head of station in Vienna, Thomas Kendrick, alongside his agents and secretaries was tracking the movements of communist spies and activists ‘through journalists like Eric Gedye and a young graduate, Kim Philby’. This is a much more assertive and provocative statement than she allowed herself in Spymaster, and represents the claim that brought my female academic contact into apoplexy when I mentioned it to her a couple of months ago. So what say you, Westy? Did you spot that?

Because of the repetition, and the lack of valuable new insights, the volume should in my opinion have been better compiled as a biographical dictionary rather than a conventional narrative. It would in that way have been more usable, more concise, and more easily maintained. New histories of SOE, for example – focussing on country campaigns, rather than conventional broad-brushed approaches – are certainly desirable, and in such works the successes and failures of men and women should be clearly explained, as opposed to the romanticized and gung-ho narratives that are so frequently found. I entered in last month’s Commonplace collection what I considered a pertinent observation by a woman called Imogen West-Knights: “Perhaps I am letting feminism down to say it, but just because a group of women organised something, this does not mean that the organisation of that thing is naturally interesting.” Indeed. There should be no ‘feminist’ history – just history that gives comprehensive credit to the contributions of women and men equally.

The Darkrooms of Edith Tudor-Hart

I have always been prepared to admit to erroneous analysis and faulty conclusions displayed in my research. As Keith Ellison has pointed out to me, the Major observed by Joan Miller secreting notes may not have been Leo Long, as I claimed in Misdefending the Realm, and one of these days I am going to have to return to the records to verify the place, the time, and the institution, in order to confirm what was going on. Likewise with Edith Tudor-Hart: I have constantly expressed my amazement that such a transparently subversive, neurotic and muddle-headed woman could have played a major role in Soviet espionage, and I have treated Anthony Blunt’s claim that she was ‘the grandmother of us all’ (when she was in fact born a year later than the art historian) as a sour joke designed to disguise someone else. (Of course, similar doubts and objections were raised over the outrageous Guy Burgess.) And yet the attention swells, what with Charlotte Philby’s very bizarre Edith and Kim, and Edith’s great-nephew (or second-cousin once-removed) Peter Stephan Jungk contributing a biography in German, Die Dunklekammern der Edith Tudor-Hart (2015), which reinforces the myth that she not only led a parallel life to Kim Philby, but was as significant as he was, and that it was really she who was astute enough to identify Philby as a worthy candidate for Soviet Intelligence, and introduce him to Arnold Deutsch. I recently read Jungk’s book very carefully.

Thus I continue to inspect the evidence to check whether I am wrong. (Care is need when treating sources such as Wikipedia and Spartacus, which are very cavalier with dates, and the accounts of Tudor-Hart’s activity in Deadly Illusions and The Crown Jewels, both of which boast Oleg Tsarev as a contributing author, are so riddled with errors, contradictions and anomalies than I am inclined to treat them as disinformation.) What I find extraordinary is that MI5 opened a file on her (as Edith Suschitzky) in 1930, when she was noticed mixing with known communists at a demonstration in Trafalgar Square, and she was expelled from the country. From Vienna, she immediately wrote to Tudor-Hart, asking him to testify that she was a solid communist, as the local cadres mistrusted her! Thus, while the evidence undermined any official authority she might have had, she stupidly drew attention to her subversive objectives.

MI5 (and MI6, when she was in Austria) thereafter kept a close watch on her for over twenty years. She was known to be a communist, she married her lover Alexander Tudor-Hart in Vienna in August 1933 when she got into trouble with the law there, and consequently was able to flee to Britain as a subject through her marriage. She was allowed to have her mother join her in 1937 (her father having committed suicide). In 1938, she was interrogated by MI5 over her undeniable involvement in the Percy Glading case, since a receipt for her Leica camera had been found on Glading’s premises, but the authorities did nothing. Despite the constant surveillance, she was allowed to continue her associations with subversive groups in exile unhindered. MI5 devoted an enormous amount of time tracking her activities – all to no avail. Perhaps it was because they thought that she would lead them to bigger and more dangerous fish, but maybe, since they could not haul her in on any charge, they just wanted her to know that she was under constant watch, in order to frighten her. Yet they overlooked some of her most obvious activities, such as her affair with Engelbert Broda, the atom spy, and her role as a courier.

Yet the burning question remains: Why would the NKVD entrust any clandestine role to a person who so obviously was a communist agitator? She was expelled by the British early in 1931 for that reason. From Vienna she appealed for help from her lover to confirm her communist credentials, she was imprisoned for suspected subversive activity in May 1933 (when another lover Arpad Haasz, left the country in a hurry), and Tudor-Hart, who had at last divorced his wife, arranged their marriage in August 1933 so that she could escape to the UK. Agents of the NKVD normally took instructions from their bosses concerning their marital arrangements, but, if the agency had serious plans for Edith, it surely would have forced her to provide a better cover story than this, and it would have been very wary about the British authorities’ picking up where they left off when Edith had been banished in 1931.

And, indeed, her romantic entanglements were a mess. The management of her affairs tended to be clumsy, and she was often mistreated and manipulated by the men in her life. She fell in love with Arnold Deutsch in the late 1920s, but his girl-friend Josefina, absent from Vienna for much of the time, discovered her love-letters to him, and Deutsch soon married ‘Fini’ in 1929, and then left with her for Moscow. Jungk says that Edith had several other meaningless affairs during this time. When she returned to England, she picked up with the still married Tudor-Hart. After her expulsion to Vienna, she took up with Arpad Haasz, a fellow-conspirator, who fled when the going got hot. After Edith’s marriage to Alexander, he mistreated her, and abandoned her and her young son when he went to work as a doctor helping the Republicans in Spain. During the war, she developed a relationship with Engelbert Broda, but he also left her, in 1945, telling her that he was going back to Austria to marry his girl-friend (a decade older), from whom he soon separated. Edith then fell in love with the psychiatrist, Dr. Donald Winnicott, who was treating her severely autistic son, and they had a very unprofessional relationship. But Winnicott would not leave his wife, and tired of Edith’s clinginess. Edith developed a crush on the architect Baron Holford of Kemp Town, but he had to reprimand her in writing for stalking him.

I shall be writing further when I have completed a deeper analysis of her files, and the stories built around her, but here I simply want to mention two items that caught my eye recently. In his 2012 profile of Philby, Young Kim, Edward Harrison made a very shrewd observation over some text in a letter (in German) that he found in Edith’s file, sent to Tudor-Hart on June 22, 1933, and intercepted by Special Branch. It makes a reference to students at Cambridge, and the need to convert intellectuals to the cause, and asks the question: ‘What is M.D. doing?’. At the time, Special Branch interpreted ‘M.D.’ as referring to Alison Macbeth, who was a doctor, and then married to Tudor-Hart. It was not until December 1951 (in the heat of the Burgess-Maclean-Philby investigations) that MI5 went over the passage again, and decided that ‘M.D.’ stood for Maurice Dobb. So Edith had been acquainted with Philby’s tutor at Cambridge.

This should perhaps not have come as any surprise, since Dobb had written to Alexander Tudor-Hart in December 1930, in dismay, offering sympathy at the detention of Edith after the Trafalgar Square incident, and the subsequent report of her expulsion order. (All letters to Tudor-Hart were being intercepted.) Thus an immediate link between Soviet conspiracy, and the planned contributions of a Cambridge academic, are visible three years before Philby was sent on his way to Paris/Vienna by Dobb. And there is even an attempt by Edith to mask Dobb’s identity – a successful one, of course. What had the three of them discussed, one wonders? Tudor-Hart was a contemporary of Dobb’s, and both had studied under Keynes at Cambridge, so they were natural communist allies. Tudor-Hart had also studied orthopaedics in Vienna in the 1920s, so may have encountered Edith there. 1930 would obviously have been an early date for Philby’s potential to have been recognized (he did not enter the university until October 1929), but Dobb’s interactions with Edith are undeniable.

The other item of interest to me is Edith’s exposure to Philby, and her supposed role in recommending him to her former lover, Deutsch, in May 1934. I find it difficult to pin down the exact relevant dates of the early autumn of 1933, as even Jungk’s account is vague, but the other accounts (which claim to be based on KGB archives) are divided as to whether Edith became impressed with Philby’s potential when she knew him in Vienna, or whether she came to that conclusion when her friend Litzy introduced her to him in May 1934, soon after the Philbys arrived in London. Jungk first tells us that Edith married Alexander on August 16, and that they left for the UK a few weeks later. Yet, later in his book, he informs us that, on her release one month after her imprisonment in May, she went immediately to the apartment of her best friend, Litzy Friedmann, and discovered that Litzy had a lodger named ‘Kim’, who had been there just a few days. This is, of course, nonsense, as Kim did not arrive in Vienna until late August, at the earliest. Moreover, The Crown Jewels asserts that Edith’s famous photograph of the pipe-smoking Philby was taken in Vienna during those precious few days before she left with her new bridegroom, while Jungk asserts that it was taken in Hampstead the day after Philby met Arnold Deutsch in Regent’s Park. It is all an inglorious muddle.

The irony is that Jungk, in his eagerness to find out the truth about Edith, went to Moscow in the 1990s, and tried to chase down historians and archivists to let him see the secret files on her. He was devastated when the officials (including Dolgopolov, the biographer of Philby) directed him solely to Deadly Illusions and Borovik’s Philby Files. Whether they had more which they were not prepared to reveal cannot be determined. But the implication is that the mess that has accumulated and been carelessly echoed over the decades in the western media may be all that there is. There are too many competing narratives tripping over each other, of which I have shown here only a sample. I shall explore all the paradoxes and conflicts of 1933 and 1934 in my end-of-July posting.

‘Nothing Short of a Scandal!’

In my February bulletin I reported that I had located an article by Charmian Brinson on Peter Smolka, titled ‘Nothing Short of a Scandal’, but had been frustrated in my attempts to read it, as neither Professor Brinson nor the Austrian periodical that published it had acknowledged my emails. Thanks to Andrew Malec, I was able to find the complete text at academia.edu (of which I am a member), and, as promised, I am now offering a summary of what Brinson brought to the table. (She is not, incidentally, the mystery female academic who behaved so ill-manneredly to me in the email exchange on which I reported in March.)

I have to characterize Brinson’s contribution as ‘workwomanlike’, but not very imaginative. She has performed a vast amount of relevant research: she has read (almost) all the right books, memoirs and histories, British and German, and gone deep into the archives, from those of MI5 and the Home Office, to the records of Czechoslovakia’s show-trials. She has dug our articles in remote places, located papers from obscure universities, accessed old items from newspapers such as the Times in the 1930s, and recovered interviews with Smolka’s sons. And yet her conclusion is simply the rather bland: “So Smolka was and remains a man of contradictions”, as if that could not be said of countless other persons in intelligence who have left a confusing trail behind them. It is as if Brinson wants to serve up all she can find and leave it to the reader to make a judgment. Each time that she appears to be about to explore a fascinating aspect of his life – such as the confirmation that Smolka was a spy, with the cryptonym ABO – she steps back from providing any penetrating analysis. I believe historians – as opposed to chroniclers –  should go farther than that.

So I simply note here some of the information that was fresh to me, and some observations on her commentary. She exploits the memoirs of Bruno Kreisky, who was the Austrian Chancellor from, and those of Hilda Spiel, the novelist. Both were close to Smolka in his teens. Brinson supplies the background to Smolka’s highly biased view of Siberia evident from his reports in the Times, and his subsequent book, but shows no interest in trying to discover why he received so much good publicity. She does not attempt to explain why he received the degree of support from the Foreign Office in the late 1930, or what the oily Rex Leeper was up to. She leaves the ‘nothing short of a scandal’ incident undeveloped, treating Smolka’s apparent redemption as routine.

On the other hand, her coverage of Smolka’s work for the Ministry of Information during the war is very thorough, although she doesn’t attempt to adjudicate on the tricky question of when Smolka was recruited to Soviet intelligence, and by whom (a topic which I dismantled a few months ago.) She highlights some important questions about Smolka’s energetic pro-Soviet stance, raised by MPs and others, but offers only a lukewarm explanation as to how he was able to get away with it, before moving calmly on to the discovery of papers produced on his typewriter that were found in Guy Burgess’s flat. And then she suddenly jumps from 1951 to 1961, where she briefly covers the Arthur Martin interview, without astonishment. She does, however, offer an insightful anecdote about the extent of Smolka’s anglicisation, sourced from Hilda Spiel, who also expressed surprise that Smolka would want to return to war-damaged Vienna with his young family once he had had a taken up British citizenship. Brinson also offers useful evidence of Smolka’s pro-communist reportage in Vienna after the war, and describes his relationship with Ernst Fischer, the Minister of Education.

One thing that caught my eye was the statement, again from Spiel, that one George Knepler, a musician, had been living in Smolka’s house at this time (1948). Knepler was a name I knew, as it was he to whom Kim Philby had been directed in 1933. Knepler described the lavish parties that Smolka held for leftish acquaintances and public figures. What did surprise me, however, was the fact that Brinson dedicated only one sentence to the complex ‘Third Man’ business, apparently trusting the story that Smolka provided Greene with his anecdotes. She does not explore any of the contradictions of this bizarre chain of events. On the other hand, she does provide more substantive details on the accusations against Smolka at the Slansky trials, made by an unfortunate liar, Eugen Loebl, who had probably been tortured.

Brinson accurately covers the stories of MI5’s vain hopes to convince emigres like Smolka to ‘defect’, but without any attempt to explore the sense or stupidity of such ventures. She appears to trust the accounts of Smolka’s deteriorating health, which did not prevent him from founding and editing, in the 1970s, the journal Austria Today, at Kreisky’s request. Both Kreisky and the Times gave him a generous obituary when Smolka died in 1980, which leads to Brinson closing her piece with the radically different opinions of Siegfried Beer, who deemed Smolka a Superspy, and those of Smolka’s widow and elder son, who perversely continued to claim that he had never been a spy at all. Thus, for the Smolka devotee who wants to hoover up all the bare facts about his life, Brinson’s article will be a valuable contribution, but as a work of historical analysis it is disappointingly sterile.

Guy Burgess at Kew

I have previously drawn attention to the scandalous state of records pertaining to Guy Burgess at Kew. My detailed analysis of the FCO 158 series (“Foreign Office and Foreign and Colonial Office: Record Relating to Guy Burgess and Donald Maclean (known KGB spies) and subsequent investigations and security arrangements”) shows that nearly three hundred separate files are listed, most of which have not been digitized. Many of these are needlessly fragmented: thus we can see, for instance, FCO 158/111, ‘Correspondence with member of the public on Burgess & Maclean’, followed by FCO 158/112, ‘Question from member of the public’. There is no reason why several of such items could not have been collected into one file. The objective must be to make it more onerous for anyone to order these files and trail through them.

Moreover, a large number are closed, without proper justification. For example, FCO 158/15, ‘Guy Burgess Private Papers’ is simply listed as ‘Closed and retained by FCO’, with no release date, as are a variety of other papers on topics such as ‘Foreign Office Key Points 1951’, ‘Security Recommendations at DWS’, ‘Correspondence with Irene Ward’, and dozens of records of individual vetting operations from the 1950s that are described only in terms of ‘Vetting of “name withheld”’, with the relevant year following. A file on Petrov, the defector from Australia, is similarly marked.

Others indicate a release date, sometimes with highly spurious reasons for the retention period. Thus some extracts from the contact of Burgess and Maclean with Foreign Office officials under the PEACH inquiry (FCO 158/30/1) – which sounds very bizarre – has been declared ‘closed for security reasons: open January 1, 2035’). One vetting of ‘name withheld 1951-80’ will be made open on January 1, 2073 [should any of us live that long . . .  And will left-wing academics still be railing against ‘late-stage capitalism’ in the London Review of Books at that time?]. A file titled ‘Allegations against “name withheld” 1948-1955’ has been ‘closed for Health and Personal info’, but will be available the same date. A closed extract from the Cadogan Inquiry (FCO 158/206) will be opened on January 2032. There are many others of similar characteristics: a minute of September 5, 1952 (FCO 158/254/1) has been closed ‘for health reasons, and will be opened on January 1, 2073’. Maybe the frail subject of that inquiry will have recovered by then.

I believe this is all shameful and scandalous. Why the public cannot be trusted with seeing these records of seventy years or so ago, or why the Foreign Office believes that the disclosure of such items would harm national security, is beyond belief. It must point only to an enormous institutional embarrassment, or simply a loss of any expertise with any incumbent officials to know how to make proper judgments about the material. It is just simpler to pretend that no problem exists, and to hope it goes away. Yet the registration of all these incriminating morsels, and the sensitivity of the Foreign Office about them, points to the existence of highly disturbing testimony to the foibles of British intelligence at the time.

What should happen, of course, is that Freedom of Information requests should be made over all these files. I am advised, however, that block requests are unlikely to have the desired effect, which means that individual files would have to be selected. But where to start, and who has the time to do that? Can some sort of mass public protest be mounted? Come on, ye doyens, get weaving!

Lastly, I was intrigued to read, amongst the Rothschild papers (KV 2/4533-1), in a report dated January 27, 1971, that Guy Burgess’s file was created only in 1942! (That note suggests to me that the writer thought it should have been created earlier.) Of course, MI5 has never admitted that it existed, and his Personal File 604529 (one of dozens created during the PEACH investigations of 1951) is the only one recognized in the various letters, notes, reports and memoranda that emerged during the interrogations of Blunt and the inquiries with the Rothschilds. What prompted that 1942 event is something worth considering. It was a fairly quiet year for Burgess, since he was working for the BBC in the Talks Department, arranging pro-Soviet speakers. Was it perhaps his selection of the Soviet agent Ernst Henri, masquerading as a journalist, that triggered MI5’s fresh interest in him?

A Death in Nuremberg

After an important reference somewhere, I was prompted to acquire Francine Hirsch’s 2020 book Soviet Judgment at Nuremberg, since it claimed to provide fresh information on the trials derived from an analysis of Russian government files. I was especially interested because I wanted to know more about Nikolai Zorya, one of the Soviet prosecutors, who was found dead in his hotel room during the trial. This had been judged by Western participants as very suspicious: the Soviets claimed that it had been an accident that occurred as he was cleaning his rifle, but others considered that his mishandling of the episode of the Katyn Massacre had been the event that led to his demise.

I have long been interested in cataloguing the deaths, in mysterious circumstances, of western civilians with possible past ties to Soviet intelligence. While Boris Volodarsky’s 2009 book The KGB Poison Factory provided a solid guide to many prominent cases, I do not believe that enough attention has been paid to other questionable deaths or accidents that occurred when no one was around to witness exactly what happened. (I have just acquired Volodarsky’s follow-up book, Assassins, and shall be writing about it at some stage.) Any occasion in which someone died of a heart attack in a remote hotel room should especially have been investigated with utmost urgency. The unresolved cases of Tomás Harris and Hugh Gaitskell are quite familiar, but what caused Alexander Foote’s early demise (1956)? Has Herbert Skinner’s premature death in a Geneva hotel (1960) been explained? Or Archie Gibson’s death by shooting in his Rome apartment (1960)? What had happened to Hugh Slater when his body was discovered in Spain (1958)? Did Victor Serge really have a sudden heart attack in Mexico (1947)? Was the event that killed Georg Graham’s son truly an accident? Was Paul Dukes’ car crash purely providential? Did John Costello really die from food-poisoning?

Zorya was of course not the only Soviet citizen to be targeted since the war. (The death of Konon Molody, aka Gordon Lonsdale, from eating poisonous mushrooms, has been laid at the door of the KGB.) But the openness of his probable murder was shocking. As Hirsch writes: “It would have been more typical for Stalin to call someone back to Moscow and then have him arrested and shot.” She goes on to write that Zorya’s son maintained that ‘his father had grown uneasy about the Katyn case and had asked to return to Moscow to talk to Vyshinsky about flaws in the Soviet evidence’. In that case, the NKVD might have been concerned enough to decide that no time should be wasted, lest Zorya share his thoughts with members of the American and British delegations – something he may already have done.

The obstinacy of the Soviet prosecutors in highlighting the Katyn Massacre as an example of Nazi war crimes was really obtuse. Stalin had gone to enormous lengths to show that the killings of 22,000 members of the Polish military and intelligentsia had taken place when the Germans had occupied Belarussia rather than in the summer of 1940, when it was under the control of the Soviet Union. Churchill and Roosevelt were confident that it had been a Soviet crime, but were shabbily reluctant to challenge Stalin over it. When it came to Nuremberg, Moscow naively believed that the trials would be held like those from the 1930s Purges, with defendants tortured and trained what to say, no proper defence counsel offered, guilty verdicts pre-arranged, and summary executions carried out. The Soviets were then surprised that principles of western democratic justice were to be applied to the Nazi criminals, and the prosecutors struggled to adjust to the process. They somehow wriggled out of the embarrassing situation.  Zorya was the victim: it was not until 1990 that Moscow admitted that the wartime communist government had been responsible for the massacre.

Holiday Reading: Volodarsky et al.

‘The Birth of the Soviet Secret Police’

As my primary serious reading during our holiday/vacation in California, I packed Boris Volodarsky’s recent book, The Birth of the Soviet Secret Police: Lenin and History’s Greatest Heist 1917-1927. Like Volodarsky’s other works, I found it both utterly fascinating and extremely annoying. I had submitted several pages of corrections (mainly typographical) to Volodarsky when his Stalin’s Agent appeared in 2014 – a submission that he eventually thanked me for about two years later. His latest book is very similar, jam-packed with stories of subversion, and profiles of those who carried it out in Europe (mainly), but it desperately needed an editor. Volodarsky has no sense of historical narrative, and owns what I suspect is the inability of someone with a photographic memory to exclude any related facts from his story, which means that he has presented a largely indigestible set of mini-biographies, a compilation of acronyms, aliases, birthplaces, marriages, mistresses, etc. – with the dominant outcome for the participants being a bullet in the head, in the Lubyanka cellars, in 1937 or 1938. Moreover, the text has a woefully large number of typographical and grammatical mistakes, many the mis-spellings of proper names, but also some blunders and direly botched edits that indicate that no one read the final electronic version carefully.

It is not that Volodarsky has the wrong intentions. Halfway through his screed he offers the very sensible guidance: “An absolute sine qua non is that all sources, even primary, must be checked, double-checked and rechecked again. There’s a lot of stuff in the archives that got there by chance, like a forgery accepted as a genuine document, or a report based on a biased interpretation or opinion but nevertheless duly filed. Sometimes a testimony, even of a seemingly credible witness or reliable defector, or a source described as ‘a subject of undoubted loyalty’, may be completely invented and include false claims which later leak into the books and articles. There, as it happens, they are sometimes further misinterpreted or misrepresented.” He uses this method to pass out some harsh words on some of his fellow-historians, such as Helen Fry, whom he chastises for swallowing whole the reputation the SIS representative in Vienna, Thomas Kendrick, had acquired for his provision to his bosses of alleged valuable information, when Volodarsky believed it was totally the invention of money-seeking phoneys. He also has harsh words for dupes like John Costello and Nigel West, being taken in by the wiles of the KGB and its stooge, Oleg Tsarev. Intriguingly, he keeps some of his choicest words of disparagement for Christopher Andrew, whom, while he praises some of the latter’s work (Volodarsky was, after all, a member of Andrew’s intelligence seminar), he criticizes for his naivety in such matters as the Zinoviev Letter, and for his credulity over what Gordievsky fed him.

Yet Volodarsky himself commits similar sins. I was enormously impressed with the author’s encyclopædic grasp of the literature, in books and obscure articles, in multiple European languages, which allowed him to integrate an enormous amount of information. Yet a process of verification must allow not only the primary author to ‘check, double-check and re-check again’ his or her sources: third-party researchers must also have the opportunity to inspect them. Volodarsky frequently refers to (O)GPU (i.e. emergent KGB) files without identifying them. His Endnotes contain acronyms presumably defining Russian archives (e.g. GASPI, GA RF) that are never explained. He cites such sources as the State Military Historical Archives of Bulgaria (an institution probably beyond the reach of most enthusiasts) without explaining why they can be trusted. He refers to documents that exist only in his personal archive, and ‘secret’ files of MI5. (If they have been declassified, they are not ‘secret’). It is as if the rules do not strictly apply to him.

As an example of his style, I quote two passages concerning a subject and period that I have been focussing on recently: “A quick recap: in February 1934 Deutsch went to London and Reif joined him there in April. They worked together until June when Reif left for Copenhagen again. By that time, they already had under Soviet control a considerably large network of sources; agents (in today’s terms – intelligence agents, facilities agents and agents of influence) as well as talent-spotters, confidential contacts, couriers, and so on. In August or September Glading (GOT) introduced Deutsch to an important source whom Deutsch immediately named ATTILA. He usually gave codename to his assets by association . . .” Elsewhere he writes: “Nevertheless, there are reasons to believe that Arthur Willert had evolved from a major source of information inside the Foreign Office in the early 1920s into a fully-fledged Soviet agent named ATTILA while his son was recruited as agent NACHFOLER [sic], translated from German as successor, follower, or replacement. All three definitions pass perfectly. This unsophisticated but quite appropriate code name was given by Dr Arnold Deutsch, the recruiter of Philby and two dozen other Soviet agents in London in the 1930s.”

Apart from the typical misprint (‘NACHFOLER’ should be ‘NACHFOLGER’), I find these assertions about a ‘considerably large network’, developed in such a short time (February-June 1934), utterly preposterous. Philby was interviewed (if his account can be trusted) only in June, and he was not formally recruited until months later. Volodarsky claims that Deutsch recruited two dozen other agents in the 1930s: nowhere does he explain how he is sure of this fact. Nor is the significance of ‘London’, as opposed to Oxford and Cambridge, made explicit. (Moreover, it is not clear why a volume that is supposed to take us up to 1927 dabbles in these events, in any case.) The agent ATTILA, whom Volodarsky in one section confidently identifies as Sir Arthur Willert, is much more tentatively described as unknown in another passage. I find it highly unlikely that Percy Glading, an open member of the CPGB who worked as an engineer at the Royal Arsenal, would move in the same circles as Sir Arthur Willert, or that, if the latter had been a potential agent, he would risk being seen in the company of such a character. Volodarsky suggests that Willert was named ATTILA because he reminded Deutsch of an Austrian actor he knew: it sounds to me as if it were just a simple contraction of ArThurwILLERt’s name.

Amidst all the complexities and muddle one can find many useful insights. Volodarsky performs a solid demolition of the accounts of the Zinoviev Letter. He brings the overhyped Sidney Reilly (‘Ace of Spies’) down to size. He makes an intriguing and provocative identification of PFEIL (‘ARROW’ or ‘STRELA’) as Margarete Moos (who had visited Krivitsky in New York after his story in the New York Post appeared in April 1939). Deutsch wrote, however, that he had recruited STRELA in Vienna, at a time when Moos apparently was in London: more research is needed. Volodarsky offers some very useful notations about the highly suspicious (in my mind) Rex Leeper, who was Willert’s deputy, and later helped Peter Smolka (a story that Volodarsky has not reached yet.) He is rightfully scathing about the propaganda ruse executed against the British in the KGB-controlled Oleg Tsarev collaborations with Costello and West. There are innumerable fascinating leads to be followed up.

Yet he seems so wrong on many points – for instance, in his assessment of Krivitsky, whom he savagely debunks, resurfacing his criticisms from Stalin’s Agent, and in his throwaway claim that GC&CS was able to start decrypting Soviet traffic at the outbreak of war in 1939, a highly controversial assertion for which he offers no evidence. The merciless display of sometimes trivial facts about a host of dubious characters wore this particular reader down. Some day I hope to give the book a more thorough treatment. And incidentally, why the ‘Secret Police’? Policing is a task for internal security forces, not active subversion undertaken in foreign countries. The KGB did both, but the title is inaccurate. A volume for the diehards only.

While I was away, I read five books borrowed from the excellent Los Altos Public Library. Mary Kathryn Barbier’s Spies, Lies, and Citizenship was a weak, unimaginative and poorly-written account of what the Office of Special Investigations did concerning the hunt for Nazi criminals who had been allowed to escape (C+); Scott Miller’s Agent 110, about Allen Dulles’s attempts to go beyond gathering intelligence to forging deals with the Germans in Switzerland was a respectable and restrained integration of several key stories, but revealed little new, and could have benefitted from more rigour in background history (B); Howard Blum’s Night of the Assassins addressed a potentially gripping and important topic, namely the German plot to kill FDR, WSC and Stalin in Teheran in 1943, but Ben Macintyre would have done a better job. Despite an impressive list of primary sources, and a pragmatic approach to truth-telling, Blum provided a long-winded and cliché-ridden concoction – replete with ‘doe-eyed, raven-haired’ mistresses, ‘lantern-jawed, broad-shouldered’ intelligence officers, and too many incidences of ‘Jawohl, Herr Obergruppenführer’ (C+). Sleeper Agent, by Ann Hagerdorn was excellent. The story of how George Koval, born in the USA, went with his parents to their birthplace, the Soviet Union, in 1932, and then was infiltrated back in 1940 to become one of the most important atomic spies for the GRU, was very compelling. He absconded back to the Soviet Union in 1948, just in time to experience Stalin’s renewed persecution of the Jews, but he was not identified by the FBI until decades later, partly because of Solzhenitsyn. A remarkable piece of investigative research by Hagerdorn, free of rhetoric, padding, and cliché, although it is diminished somewhat by the fact that her Acknowledgments list hundreds of persons who helped her (was she a project manager or an author?). The lack of identification of GRU archival material is also a letdown, since she relies too much on Vladimir Lota (A-). Never Remember: Searching for Stalin’s Gulags in Putin’s Russia, an essay by Masha Geesen with photographs by Misha Friedman, is a poignant description of how Putin has undone all the revelatory work that Memorial performed to bring home the horror of the Gulag.

While in Silicon Valley I bought Jason Bell’s Cracking the Nazi Code, a volume that I had ordered some weeks ago from the History Book Club, who informed me, just before we set out for California, that it had no copies left. It’s a misleading title, since it refers to the achievements of Winthrop Bell, the Canadian philosophy professor who was recruited by MI6 at the end of WWI to advise on how to handle a defeated Germany, in interpreting various German political initiatives. It is an extraordinary book in many ways, since the author (no relation) was able to exploit the Bell archive, opened in 2012, to discover how Bell had alerted the British and Canadians to the dangers of nazism well before Hitler’s arrival, in the activities of Ludendorff and the Freikorps in 1919. He echoed these warnings in 1939, when he pointed to the coming mass murders of non-Aryans. I do not believe this story has been told before: I would have given it a higher marking had the author, in the last third of the book, not become so repetitive, or distracted by the story of radar, and not indulged in so many observations about phenomenology. He overall provides decent context, but is a little too consumed with the excellence of his biographical subject (B+).

Coldspur under stress

My friend of many years, Nigel Platts, recently informed me that, while he was on holiday in Cumbria, he was unable to access coldspur, the browsing of which must be a highly desirable diversion in those wild and occasionally bleak parts of the United Kingdom. Sky, his broadband provider, informed him that its ‘shield’ had blocked the site on the grounds that it was associated with ‘hate, gore, and violence’ (or similar wording), which came as a bit of a surprise to us both. Even my invectives against charlatan historians could hardly be described as inflammatory, so I wondered whether my descriptions of Cheka outrages over a century ago could somehow have engaged the censor’s attention. (Of course the exclusion could have been performed by some AI-enhanced mechanism, which would explain a lot).

Yet this was not the first occasion of blocking that I have come across. A long-time correspondent in the Liverpool area used to tell me that he had to deploy some devious tricks to get round a similar prohibition. I recall also that, when I was working at the National Archives in Kew, coldspur was permanently unavailable, which perhaps hints at some more deliberate attempt at security, and at preventing pollution of correct thinking among the country’s elite researchers. Could browsers who have had similar experiences perhaps inform me of them? I shall need to maintain a dossier to provide evidence if and when I take this further.

And then I had to deal with the Chinese. I received a strange email from a businessman in Shanghai, who claimed that one of his clients wanted to use coldspur.cn and coldspur.com.cn for their business. The fellow claimed that he had tried to talk his clients out of it, but they were insistent, and he invited me to register the names myself, so that my ‘business’ could be protected. Of course, I didn’t believe a word of it. He was just trying to collect registration fees from me. According to that logic, I would have to register coldspur with every other national suffix to prevent my hordes of eager browsers from being misdirected.

Oh, the trials of being a website administrator  . . .

News from Academia

In the middle of May I received the following message from the University of Oxford American Office:

Dear Tony, June is LGBTQ+ Pride Month in the US, and this month we are celebrating by highlighting the exciting work being done to teach LGBTQ+ history at Oxford and how you as an alumnus can help. There is an enormous appetite for LGBTQ+ History among graduate students, and scholarships associated with the Jonathan Cooper Chair of the History of Sexualities, the UK’s first permanently endowed Professorship in LGBTQ+ History, will allow these students to pursue their interests and become future thought leaders. 
The Jonathan Cooper Chair   Named after Jonathan Cooper OBE, an expert in international human rights law and activist for LGBTQ+ rights across the globe, the Cooper Chair, held by Professor Matthew Cook since 2023, explores histories of sexual diversity in all their variations, exploring their intersection with categories such as race, class, generation, occupation, education (dis)ability, nationality and community. Professor Cook is the first postholder of the Cooper Chair, made possible by the generosity of philanthropists.   There followed a message from Professor Cook:   “This work matters not only to LGBTQ+ individuals and communities but to us all: histories that look from the margins provide fresh perspectives on shifting norms and enhance our understanding of wider social, cultural and political realms. Scholarships are key to this mission: I see so many talented students diverting away from further study because they lack the funds – an issue especially for those who lack family support. Underpinning their further study is an investment in their talent and in histories which play a key part in the drive for social justice.”    – Professor Matthew Cook

I was astonished, and a couple of days later, responded as follows:

I thought at first that this message must be a spoof, but I then realized you are utterly serious. How can you pretend to any academic excellence when you ascribe such importance to this non-subject?

Whatever “LGBTQ+” means, it is a ragbag of genetic dispositions and behavioural choices (most of which should probably be kept private), a creature of the media and phony academics kowtowing to fashionable notions of ‘exclusion’, ‘victimisation’ and ‘identity’. What about adulterers, asexuals and foot-fetishists? Why are they excluded? How could anyone claim to be able to study ‘histories of sexual diversity in all their variations’?

‘Exciting work’, ‘enormous appetite’, ‘future thought leaders’, ‘LGBTQ individuals and communities’, ‘drive for social justice’, ‘constructs that disempower historically marginalized groups’ – what a lot of pretentious nonsense. It reads like a parody of an old ‘Peter Simple’ column in the Daily Telegraph. How anything useful or insightful could come out of such ‘research’ is beyond me. But I do know that the University has forfeited all chances of my making any further donation to any of its causes, however worthy.

Sincerely, Tony Percy (Christ Church, 1965)

Then, from the other end of the spectrum, on June 14, I noticed that Christ Church Development had posted an announcement on Facebook. It read:

 His Majesty the King has approved the appointment of two new Regius professorships at Christ Church.

We look forward to welcoming Professor Luke Bretherton as Regius Professor of Moral and Pastoral Theology, and the Revd Professor Andrew Dawson as Regius Professor of Divinity in the coming months!

Ye gods! What possible fresh revelations could these two gentlemen come up with? I can understand the study of religion as a topic of interest under Anthropology, perhaps, but Chairs in Gods [and Goddesses? Please verify. Thelma.] and Godliness? I learn, however, that the Regius Professorship of Moral and Pastoral Theology was established by an Act of Parliament in 1840, and the show must therefore go on. But is it not time for a repeal? I also read that Professor Bretherton arrives from Duke University in North Carolina, where he has been Distinguished Professor of Moral and Political Theology. His latest book ‘provides a new, constructive framework for what it means to live a good life amid the difficulties of everyday life and the catastrophes and injustices that afflict so many today’. His role sounds more like a preacher or social worker, to me, rather than an independent and disciplined academic. I hope he will adjust quickly from the difficulties of living in Durham, NC to those of provincial England. I would also suggest Bretherton ought to get together with Professor Cook and work on the ‘social justice’ goals. Dr. Spacely-Trellis, where are you?

But then others will say: a doctorate in Security and Intelligence Studies? Can that really be an academic discipline? Seriously?? Maybe if it took up the ‘social justice’ cause  . . .

Similarity and Identity

The primary objective of our spell in Los Altos, California, was to re-engage with our three grand-daughters, whom we hadn’t seen for a couple of years. The twins, Alyssa and Alexis, celebrated their eleventh birthday just before we arrived, and the photo above shows them with the gifts we had given them. I was struck by the resemblance of Alexis (on the right) to (a younger version of) Emma Raducanu, who represents England – by way of Canada – as a tennis-star. Now I note that Ms. Raducanu has a Romanian father and a Chinese mother. Alexis is 50% Vietnamese, 25% English (whatever that means, with Huguenots, Germans and possibly the Perskys from Minsk in the running), 12.5% Irish (probably), and 12.5% ‘Black’ West Indian (more likely African than Black Carib, the descendants of the original islanders who still live on St. Vincent). Is the similarity not a bit uncanny?

Emma Raducanu

I write this just to show how absurd all tribal identities can be. When I fill out government forms, I am always dismayed by the long list of entries under ‘race’, one of which I am required to fill out (although I can actually cross the ‘Decline’ box). I recall checking ‘South Pacific Islander’ on one fanciful and courageous occasion during my recent Tahiti phase, and, some time afterwards, I received a visit from a Census Bureau officer. He confronted me by suggesting that I had offered an untruth on a government form – rather like Hunter Biden denying that he was a drug user when he applied for a firearms license, or von Bolschwing omitting his membership of the Nazi party in his naturalization application, I imagine. I protested that I sincerely believed, with the current focus on ‘identity’, that a citizen was entitled to make any choice that he or she wanted to. If I could choose my own pronouns, why shouldn’t I pick my own ethnicity? After all, I didn’t see why an indigenous Quechua from Peru, whose forbears had been the victims of the Spanish Conquest, should be encouraged to enter the meaningless term ‘Hispanic’ when he or she applied for food stamps, or a passport renewal, or whatever. As proof of my ethnicity (or denial of any), I could now show any such official the photograph of Alexis. “Doesn’t she have the Percy chin, officer?”

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Special Bulletin: ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’ – Part 4

Peder Furubotn

[I present the final segment in my series ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’, offering a bold but confident hypothesis concerning Stalin’s objectives for the mission of sending agents to Norway disguised as British RAF officers. I have added a page containing the whole report in PDF format at ‘Airmen Who Died Twice’ (PDF), which may make the experience easier. This process is something of an experiment for me. I hope to improve the presentation soon. Feedback and tips appreciated!]

Chapter 7: Resistance in Norway

The overwhelming questions to be answered regarding the Soviet Union’s ability to stow two agents on a British plane, dressed in RAF uniforms, to parachute into southern Norway in September 1944 are: What possible objective could such a mission have had? And why would the RAF agree to such a foolhardy and potentially embarrassing adventure? The assumption must be that, for the mission to be successful, the agents, probably incapable of speaking fluent and unaccented English, would have been deemed capable of carrying out the impersonation of legitimate British officers, and thus of gaining access to the circle of a communist leader in whom Joseph Stalin had a particular interest. His name was Peder Furubotn, and he had for some time been incurring Stalin’s acute displeasure. Yet, if anything went wrong – or, equally astounding, even if the project were successful – the agents’ costume would immediately have implicated the RAF, with highly embarrassing implications.

In the analysis of these conundrums, it is useful to recapitulate the role of Norway in the war, its occupation by German forces, the collaboration or competition between various sabotage organizations and the nation’s governments at home and in exile, and the tenuous and contradictory relationship it held with the Soviet Union, a nominal ally. Norway was separated from Stalin’s fortress only by a thin section of the Finnish Petsamo region, an area rich in minerals, however, and thus bearing strategic importance.

The country had been ill-equipped to resist the German invasion of April 9, 1940. Hitler had designs on Norway’s natural resources, including its hydro-electric power, but he also needed to control the flow of iron-ore from neutral Sweden across the natural land-route. Great Britain and France had been aware of the threat, and they had prepared to send an Expeditionary Force to gain control of the valuable port of Narvik. This was conceived during the war between Finland and the Soviet Union, which started in September 1939. At that time, Nazi Germany and the Soviet Union were signatories to a joint non-aggression pact, and control of Finland had been granted to Stalin for purposes of national self-defence. Any communist-inspired resistance movements against the Germans were forbidden – until, of course, the Barbarossa invasion of Russia in June 1941 changed all the rules.

Britain in fact had had to beat a hasty retreat, assisting with the escape of the Norwegian royal family to London to create a government-in-exile in June 1940. It had overestimated the power of its own navy and misread the intentions of the Wehrmacht. Thus Norway fell into the category of occupied territory, and a cowed population had to decide what form resistance to the German invaders should take. In fact, the Nazis were overall more indulgent with the Norwegians than they were with other conquered nations: they regarded the Nordic race as Aryan brothers, and hoped to integrate the populace into the New Order when the war was won. That favouritism, however, did not extend to mercy when violence was exacted against their police and military forces, with some harsh reprisals enacted, and this tension played a major role in the following years.

Routes of Arctic Convoys

Soon after Barbarossa, however, Norway took on fresh significance when Churchill and Roosevelt resolved, in August 1941, to assist the Soviet Union by sending supplies through the Arctic convoy system. This required ships to navigate the dangerous Norwegian and Barents seas to reach, primarily, the ports of Murmansk and Archangel, skirting the northern coasts of Norway, and thus becoming potential prey to German craft berthed in Norwegian ports and inlets, such as the battleship Tirpitz. The convoys continued (with some interruptions) until the end of the war. Stalin kept a close eye on Norway, and he evolved his strategy as the war progressed.

The accounts of resistance in Norway present a contradictory picture: some display ignorance, others practice concealment, and others distort (for political reasons). It is consequently often difficult to pin down the details of events – both their motivations and their outcomes. It seems to me that both London (in the guise of the government-in-exile and SOE) and Moscow (the NKGB) believed that they were controlling the strings, when in fact the agencies on the ground often pursued unlikely alliances to further their goals. I here try to concentrate on the less controversial facts, identifying the main motifs in the plotline.

The British Special Operations Executive trained and prepared a vigorous Norwegian section to carry out sabotage within Norway, which became more intense when the British suspected the Nazis of creating ‘heavy water’ as an important part of the project to build an atomic bomb. Yet fierce reprisals in response to SOE raids alarmed the major resistance organization in place, Milorg, and it resolved instead on a more passive approach, and to focus on preparation to assist invading forces for the time when the Nazis began to lose the war. Milorg was led by a lawyer, Jens Hauge, an enigmatic and controversial figure, who had sought a medical discharge from military service in 1939. He joined in early 1942. The tensions between SOE and Milorg were then resolved by the creation of the Anglo-Norwegian Collaboration Committee in the spring of 1942, and SOE’s independent course was officially halted by October of that year. Yet Milorg did not halt its own sabotage activities, and it pursued a course of assassinations of known traitors.

There was, however, another resistance group, Osvald, which evolved out of the pre-war antifascist Wollweber League, and was led by the more aggressive Asbjorn Sunde. He invoked the assistance of the Communist Party (now strictly underground), and established training centres around the country. Sunde was a tougher character, a sailor who had learned sabotage and assassination in the Spanish Civil War fighting with the Communists for the Republican movement against Franco’s Nationalists, and he was a loyal Stalinist. Thus a pattern familiar elsewhere in occupied Europe emerged: certain resistance groups were set on restoring the pre-war political configuration (such as SOE collaborating with the royalist/social democratic government-in-exile), while others were being directed by Moscow in preparation for a post-war communist takeover. Sunde was ordered to minimize sabotage activity, and to concentrate instead on providing intelligence to his NKGB bosses. Yet the relationships appear to have been very complex: the government-in-exile sometimes gave directions to the Stalinist Osvald group on sabotage projects, and it appears that even Milorg collaborated with it, engaging Sunde’s hitmen to carry out its targeted assassinations.

Added to this recipe was the afore-mentioned Peder Furubotn, leader of the Communist Party in Norway. Furubotn’s organizational skills and connections allowed him to sponsor resistance groups in Oslo, Bergen, and Hallingdal. He was also a controversial figure, known for his independence of thought: he was an outlier, a provincial, with his power-base in Bergen away from the capital centre of Oslo. But he was also a dedicated patriot who desired to bring a domestic Communist regime to Norway after the war through democratic processes, not under the thrall of the Soviet Union (rather like an unauthoritarian Tito). He had in fact spent the years 1930-1938 in Moscow, an experience that included the witnessing of the Great Purge and the execution of some of his friends, which assuredly made him deviate from the solid Stalinist line he had taken up in the 1920s.

Professor Titlestad

According to his biographer, Professor Torgrim Titlestad, who has uniquely been able to inspect Russian archives, Furubotn had long been under the threat of execution, since in Moscow he had aligned himself closely with Bukharin, the executed ‘traitor’, and had refused to declare his public support for the outcome of the show-trials in 1938. Before Barbarossa, the Norwegian Communist party had tried to have Furubotn, who had from Bergen independently undertaken resistance in that period, removed from the Party, but the tables were turned when the Soviet Union became an enemy of the Nazi occupiers. At the time most other important Norwegian communists had either been killed, were in the hands of the Germans, or were refugees in Sweden, and Furubotn was elected General Secretary at the end of 1941. This was in defiance of Stalin’s orders of 1938 (when Furubotn was banished back to Norway from Moscow), that he should hold no senior position in the Party.

Furubotn was able to work independently for many years. He was a survivor. In spite of frequent unsuccessful attempts to bring him in line, during the war Moscow lacked local resources or the military reach to change his behaviour, or to remove him from office. At first glance, the need to have him out of the picture should have appeared less urgent as the war progressed, since Norway (apart from the strategic Petsamo region) did not feature strongly in Stalin’s plans for territorial control of Europe. It was not a conventional ‘buffer state’, hardly a threat to his ambitions, and Stalin accepted that it was part of the ‘western’ sphere of influence. The Soviet dictator did not want to waste resources in trying to control it, although he supported British-American desires to prevent valuable troops from being transferred from Norway to the battle zones in Germany, and he did collaborate with the British and Americans in the plan to oust the Nazis from the Finnmark (the North-east Norwegian territory abutting the Soviet Union).

Sunde’s Osvald group – perhaps surprisingly, given Sunde’s Stalinist aims – gained his funds primarily from the government-in-exile in London, supplemented occasionally by Moscow (through the agency of the Soviet legation in Stockholm, as the VENONA transcripts show). Yet Sunde looked to his rival, Furubotn, for funds, too. In September 1942 he agreed to supply guards at Furubotn’s central camp of the Norwegian Communist Party (NKP) in Hemsedal, in exchange for a continuing supply of money and materiel from the NKP leader. Furubotn had tried to make Sunde sabotage-leader for the NKP, but on the condition that he break his ties with Moscow – something Sunde refused to do, which strained the relationship, and led to severe friction by the end of 1943. Sunde established a training centre in Rukkekdalen in the winter of 1942, and recruited a network of saboteurs in the Torpo-Gol and Nesbyen areas, in the Hallingdal valley. This was the same area used by Milorg to establish its ‘Elg’ base in the early summer of 1944.

Reichskommissar Terboven

Yet the decreasing effectiveness of sabotage, and the costs of maintaining the subversive units, prompted a change of plan. By February 1944, Milorg, alongside the Foreign Office, SOE, and the OSS, had openly disparaged the Communist sabotage efforts, and had applied pressure on Osvald to reduce its aid for Furubotn. The feud between Sunde and Furubotn (which had sharpened when Furubotn had threatened to kill Sunde if he followed through on a plan to assassinate the Nazi Commissar Terboven) intensified. A month later, Sunde did indeed withdraw protection for Furubotn and his network, and he turned his attention to Norwegian exile groups in Sweden. The British increased their operations in support of eventually ousting the Germans: Operation FIRECREST was launched by sea in April 1944, a four-man team landing and then starting to give weapons training. In May, Moscow, through Pavel Sudoplatov (of Special Tasks), ordered Sunde to wind up his organization, and refrain from any further sabotage, Stalin explicitly admitting that the British were in charge in southern Norway, and that the theatre was too far away from Moscow for it to exert any influence. In June, however, Sunde’s network, including Furubotn’s group, came under fresh attack from the Gestapo and the Wehrmacht in Operation ALMENRAUSCH.

Furubotn did not respond well to these moves, and he was increasingly isolated: he had enemies in Hauge and Sunde already, but now, with his autonomous subversion efforts, became an irritant to the British to compound the enmity to him maintained by Stalin. That may have been a fresh pretext for Stalin to want to have him eliminated – as a proven ‘Trotskyist’ defying the policy of the vozhd – and a move against him could represent a useful gesture to his allies. Furubotn had incurred Stalin’s anger by defying his order to stay out of the Party organization when he had returned to Norway, by executing subversive campaigns during the period of the Nazi-Soviet pact (which he had openly criticized), by refusing orders to move to Sweden (where he feared he might be killed), by expressing support for the Norwegian government-in-exile in London, for attempting to wean Sunde away from the NKGB, and for openly publishing anti-Stalinist tracts in the summer of 1944. Others had been killed for less, and Furubotn believed that attempts would be made on his life on his home territory. Professor Titlestad has suggested that Moscow may have recommended to Sunde that he remove his security details from Furubuton’s hideout, thus perhaps allowing the Gestapo to infiltrate the NKP, and to take on the task of eliminating Furubotn. Yet Furubotn had escaped the ALMENRAUSCH assault, despite Sunde’s apparent betrayal, and may thereby have come afresh in Stalin’s sights.

The circumstances of the ALMENRAUSCH operation are puzzling. If a sizeable force assembled by the Wehrmacht with the help of the State Police (the Statspolitiet) did in fact conduct a punitive operation against Norwegian resistance forces (including Milorg, and the two factions of the KPN) on June 13, 1944, it is astonishing how little loss of life there was. The Wikipedia entry (the only account in English, I believe) at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Almenrausch indicates that a force of eight-hundred was deployed, but that the operation was largely unsuccessful, even though it attacked a ‘secret’ hideout. Eight communists were arrested, but only one was executed. That does not sound like a typical Nazi response. Professor Titlestad explains it as a combination of the Nazis not wanting to kill a large number of fellow-Aryans, as well as a degree of nervousness about the chances of survival of the members of this punitive force in a hostile rural region. Yet the Professor also writes that Furubotn had been the Gestapo’s most wanted man, and that it had tortured and killed Norwegians in an attempt to track him down. The decisive outcome for Stalin, however, was that, in July 1944, Furubotn was still alive.

If an agreement solely for the infiltration by air by NKGB agents to Furubotn’s camp, without any explicit goal of assassination, did take place between Stalin and Churchill (which must be the least alarming hypothesis), it occurred at a time when relationships between Great Britain and the Soviet Union were rapidly deteriorating. SOE had grown frustrated with the lack of co-operation in Moscow, and the Foreign Office was infuriated by Stalin’s abuse of its Military Mission there. The Warsaw Uprising, when Stalin refused to allow Allied planes to refuel on Soviet territory, and the Red Army watched what was happening from across the Vistula, contributed to the discord. In addition, the pressure on the War Cabinet to return to the Soviet Union all POWs they had been liberating, and the lack of co-operation from the Russians over the efforts to attack the Tirpitz, conspired largely to an atmosphere of utter distrust. On August 18, Foreign Office Permanent Secretary Orme Sargent even declared that the Soviet Union was the future Enemy Number 1.

What is certain that some intense discussions took place in London towards the end of August, with Milorg’s chief, Hauge, visiting for four weeks, having been authorized to use the ‘bearing ball’ run by Mosquito from Stockholm to Leuchars. One outcome of that visit was that Milorg now became known as ‘Home Forces’. According to one account, sensing that victory was in sight, the ANCC in January had authorized the provision of a large amount of weaponry to Milorg, and in June SHAEF (now having taken charge of SOE projects) approved of attacks on Nazi industries and lines of communication. Professor Færøy, on the other hand, has stated very confidently that these increased shipments did not take place until ‘the autumn’. The scope of military coordination debated then included measures to counter German scorched earth policy, the capture of Gestapo documents, the destruction of the Gestapo HQ in Oslo and (perhaps most provocatively) a list of agreed assassination targets. Hauge’s meetings in Britain to determine these policies were held at senior level with the Norwegian Government in exile, with Special Forces Headquarters, with the Anglo-Norwegian Collaboration Committee, and with Viscount Selborne, the Minister of Economic Warfare in London, as well as with General Thorne in Edinburgh. Thorne was responsible for the deception plan of FORTITUDE NORTH, as well as for the preparation for the liberation of Norway. Yet, because of the sensitivity of the conspiracy, it is hard not to conclude that the meetings in the United Kingdom must have been entirely coincidental to the plot against Furubotn.

More reliable wireless communications were now being established between SOE and Milorg, and, in Operation GOLDEN EAGLE, two more agents were dropped directly in the Hallingdal area on August 28, to help establish the Elg base with improved radio contact, and to enable preparation for further intensive and frequent drops of supplies over the following months. And then, as Britain started to consolidate its hold over subversive operations in southern Norway, in early September 1944 the very sudden and highly momentous intelligence arrived that Stalin had approved the launching of attacks on the Tirpitz from Soviet territory, which caused a sudden flurry of changes to the PARAVANE project.

Whether the planned assassination of Furubotn (which is posited here as the motivation for the infiltration into southern Norway of Stalin’s agents) was related to the permission Stalin gave for British bombers to fly from Soviet airfields is probably unverifiable. The British must have had something important to gain from the arrangement, but any decision taken must have occurred at the highest levels of command. It is possible that Churchill did not know what Stalin’s precise plan for his agents was, but his agreement in allowing them to assume the identities of live RAF officers is extremely incriminating. If any knowledge of the details of the conspiracy did exist, it must surely have been restricted to Churchill and Gubbins, the head of SOE. SOE/MI6 had a direct – but highly insecure –  line to Moscow through its representative George Hill, who was on good terms with Stalin, so negotiations could have been carried on through that medium. The relevant archival material shows some intense exchanges between London and Moscow in August and early September of 1944, but nothing obviously attributable to the Furubotn plot.

As for the RAF, it would obviously have known that it was being ordered to mount a highly irregular operation, but the leaders (i.e. Portal, Harris, Cochrane, McMullen, and Bottomley at the Air Ministry) would not have been aware that the objective of the mission was in fact assassination. They were probably informed that the subterfuge was simply part of an extended PICKAXE operation (i.e. one in a series of co-operative ventures between SOE and the NKGB), where Soviet agents had to be infiltrated in disguise in order that they would be welcomed properly by Hauge’s Milorg network. They would not have known that Sunde (probably) would then lead the twosome to Furubotn’s lair.

Stalin and Churchill

On the other hand, it was a low-risk undertaking for Stalin: he did not care about the fate of agents sent abroad on sabotage missions; their lives were expendable, and, since they would be wearing RAF uniforms, it would be difficult to trace anything to him, in any case. But for the British, it was a highly dangerous operation, involving deceit, not just with RAF crewmen, but with the Norwegian government, who, if its members learned of the plot, would not have taken kindly to the phenomenon of murder missions by foreign Communist infiltrators being abetted by their close wartime ally. Even if the mission had been successful, and the perpetrators had in some way been removed without their masquerade being detected, word might have leaked out, because of the packed Lancaster, the airmen who made it back safely, and the knowledge of the impersonated officers returning home. But if it failed – and in such a disastrous and spectacular fashion, as it did – the repercussions could have been tragic and far-reaching. Yet the destruction of the plane, and all inside it, managed to impose an eighty-year silence that has succeeded in exculpating all the perpetrators.

[I thank Professors Titlestad and Færøy for their advice on this chapter. The opinions represented here are of course my own, and I likewise take responsibility for any errors. coldspur]

Chapter 8: Conclusions

No documentation to prove that Churchill and Stalin conspired to launch the operation to Hallingdal has appeared, and it probably never will. Yet such a decision, to have NKGB agents dressed up in the uniforms of living RAF officers, and be equipped with their ID-tags, can have been authorized only at the very top. It was assuredly not an SOE operation (although SOE radios and servicemen were certainly employed); nor was it an idea of Bomber Command, which would have been fiercely resistant to the subterfuges and risks associated with such an enterprise. Churchill’s irrational and misguided desires to placate Stalin must have convinced him that the Generalissimo’s demands were worth acceding to. The opportunity to carry out an attack on the Tirpitz from Soviet territory, with a presumed greater chance of success than flying directly from Scotland, must have been irresistible to him.

Lancaster at Yagodnik

One can imagine the strained atmosphere when Lancaster PB416 prepared for take-off at Yagodnik on September 17, 1944. Because of the damaged and unusable planes left behind, their crews had to be allotted to the remaining flightworthy aircraft, resulting in crowded conditions. The mood would probably have been very positive, however, given the (modest) degree of success of PARAVANE, and the prospect of returning home with no loss of squadron life. And yet two Soviet citizens were foisted on this particular team, and the members must have been informed that the couple, equipped with parachutes, was to be dropped somewhere along the flightpath. They might not have known that the agents were masquerading as British fellow-airmen underneath their jackets, but they were probably disconcerted about this irregular deviation from the plans.

Etnedal

PB416 was never blown off course by inclement weather, as RAF reports later claimed. As the last plane in loose formation, it peeled off from the chain ahead of it off the coast of Sweden, and made a course for southern Norway. We know it was expected, because the navigator radioed his co-ordinates over Oystogo in Etnedal when the plane arrived there soon after one o’clock in the morning of September 17. These measures were recorded without alarm, even though the location was over three hundred miles to the north-west of the path on which the rest of the sixteen Lancasters were cruising home.

What went wrong? One can perhaps imagine that the NKGB agents had second thoughts – not that they probably had any first thoughts of their own volition over the exploit. Threats had probably been made concerning their families. They knew that they must be on a suicide mission: even if they were successful in finding Furubotn, and assassinating him, they would not survive long in their British greatcoats, with their British ID-tags, but probably owning only a smattering of English, if any. Furthermore, they had to survive the parachute drop itself. It is highly unlikely that they had had parachute training, let alone from a British bomber, and the prospect of landing correctly on hard ground uninjured, and then meeting up with a friendly reception committee, must have seemed distant.

One could conjecture that they perhaps tried to convince the pilot that he should abandon the drop, and take his ‘stowaways’ onwards to Scotland. But Squadron-Leader Levy had his orders, and he would not have wanted to present himself at Lossiemouth with two illegal NKGB agents in his complement of passengers, with much explaining to do, and no doubt flak to be received from the high-ups. The agents were probably armed. Perhaps some sort of skirmish took place, and the plane circled while attempts to resolve the issue, with Levy trying to convince the agents of their duty, took place. The dangers of the terrain went unnoticed, and the plane hit a treetop on the mountain in the Saupeset valley above the town of Nesbyen.

RAF at Dyce, Aberdeen, which had been tracking the movements of PB416, must have known of the mission, and soon assumed that the plane was lost without any survivors. Yet the details appear, strangely, to have escaped their notice. If the Milorg reception-party, aided by SOE agents recently arrived (and maybe attended by Sunde), were in wireless contact (which they surely were, to have been able to finalize the arrangements), they would have transmitted the facts about the horrific collision with the mountain, and presumably have added that there could have been no survivors. Local civilians quickly erected a cross to indicate the ten bodies discovered, which they promptly buried. And yet this news never reached Bomber Command, or, if it did, was ignored. After the defeat of the Germans in May 1945 locals remembered the dead airmen with a hand-painted plaque in Norwegian.

The fact was that it was more convenient for the full list of crew members to remain unknown and unknowable. The story about NKGB ‘stowaways’ could thus remain a secret for a while: the facts buried in red tape and obfuscation – the fog of war. Yet that calm was disturbed when the initial Graves Report was issued in July 1945, and then altered the following month, after an on-site inspection of the markers in Nesbyen revealed the names of Wyness and Williams among the casualties. By then, of course, Wyness and Williams were dead, and could tell no tales. Some coughing, and shuffling of papers resulted, and by the end of December 1946 the final report was able to declare that one unknown airman (of undefined nationality, but perhaps that need not be explicitly stated) had perished alongside the nine certain casualties. No one seemed to want to pose the question: how could the RAF not know who had boarded PB416 in Yagodnik?

Even in this decade an incurious listlessness governs the attitudes of the War Graves Commission in England. Its representative acknowledges the paradoxes articulated in the records, but he shows no interest in taking the matter further. One could assume, perhaps, that corporate memory in the RAF (and in other departments of the UK government) endures to the extent that its employees and associates are firmly cautioned not to encourage any members of the public to press too hard on certain matters. One can admire the dedication that such civil servants (and volunteers) apply to maintaining histories and records while at the same time one has to challenge their lack of resolve.

617 Squadron Badge

As another example, in 2021, the painstaking Nigel Austin posed a question to the Official Historian of the 617 Squadron Association about the procedures involved in compiling a Flight Loss Card. (There is no mention of the loss of Lancaster PB416 on the Association’s web-page.) Dr Owen patiently explained the roles of the Air Ministry, Bomber Command, and the International Red Cross, and suggested that lines of communication became tangled during the investigations. He implied that the initial reports were confused because it seemed that items of clothing belonging to Wyness and Williams had presumably been borrowed, but he overlooked the issue of ID-tags. It was as if this were the first time that anyone associated with the Squadron has investigate the enigma, and Owen concluded his response as follows: “The more one looks, more gaps and unanswered/unanswerable questions emerge with regard to this loss”. Is the word ‘unanswerable’ telling – a sign of policy? In any case, no follow-up occurs.

Even today, almost eighty years after the events, it would be politically highly embarrassing for the truth to be conceded. First is the fact of the cover-up itself – a betrayal of openness, a disgraceful lack of admission of responsibility to the relatives of those who died in the crash, and a promotion of lies about its cause. Second is the damage it performs to the reputations of those involved – the institutions themselves, of course, but also those who led them, and in particular Winston Churchill, with his sentimental behaviour towards Stalin, and his unforgivable tendency to relish picaresque adventures, and to become too involved in them. That is an aspect that his biographers have touched on, but – alongside his interventions in the betrayal of SOE ‘F’ circuits in France in the summer of 1943 – it merits much greater attention.

Churchill had conflicting motives: to make a bold enough gesture to appease Stalin, but to keep it so secret that he would not offend the Norwegian government. Sadly, his obsession over Tirpitz was misguided: he did not know how sparse were its fuel supplies; he did not realize how cautious Hitler’s plans were for deploying the battleship, in his anxiety to protect his Nordic fleet; and he was unaware of utterly low the morale of the Tirpitz crew had sunk, frustrated by inactivity and the barrenness of northern Norway. Yet he surely could not have imagined that the destruction of the Lancaster aircraft, and all on board, could have been a possible outcome of his reckless agreement. The plane having reached Oystogo, it could have continued its flight, taking the Soviet agents to Scotland, where they would never have been heard of again, without Stalin being any the wiser. Whether the impersonators were anguished that the mission had been abandoned, or whether they pressured the pilot to cancel the drop, and save them, will almost certainly never be known. Yet the ineluctable fact that nothing about the operation ever seems to have leaked out from Norwegian sources who were involved on the ground is perhaps the most remarkable phenomenon of this tragic event.

As for Stalin, it should come as no surprise that he would pursue such an adventure. He was ruthless, exploited weaknesses in his allies (both Churchill and Roosevelt), and single-mindedly hunted down anyone who challenged his authority. Furubotn would have been just another victim in the line of such as Ignace Reiss, Juliet Poyntz, Walter Krivitsky, Leon Trotsky, and a whole lot more. The opportunity arose, Stalin grabbed it, and he formulated the plot in a way that it could not be easily traced to any of his decisions, whether it succeeded or not. Not that any attribution to his scheming would have worried him: everything would have simply been denied.

Peder Furubotn probably never knew about the exploit, or that he had avoided yet another attempt on his life. Did he really deserve the fate that Stalin had decreed for him? Professor Titlestad has devoted a large part of his career to investigating Furubotn, and he has written a biography of him, unfortunately not yet published. The Professor has created, however, a website dedicated to his researches, at https://furubotnarkivene.no/, and the ‘English’ tab introduces the visitor to a very useful article on his subject. What is startling to this writer is that the Professor sets out to rehabilitate Furubotn, describing him as ‘one of Norway’s most colorful and charismatic political leaders of the 20th century’ and that ‘for five years, he fought a life-and-death battle to avoid being killed by the Gestapo in Norway and became a role model for surviving the illegal struggle against the overwhelmingly powerful German occupation and its Norwegian collaborators in the NS [the Nasjonal Samling, the only legal party in Norway from 1942 to 1945]’. That was not how I had initially interpreted his role, but Furubotn’s daring example was converted into significant success for the Communist Party after the war.

Professor Titlestad present some fascinating insights into Furubotn’s post-war career, when he even returned to Moscow and remained unscathed, describing him as a more constitutionally sensitive Communist, perhaps a ‘Euro-communist’ of the kind that excited leftist politicians in the western democracies in the 1950s. While I am in any case unqualified to comment on such analysis, this article focusses on the war years alone, and it seems that the record of Furubotn’s activities between 1940 and 1945 is very hazy. It is difficult to track at what time the revolutionary Communist morphed into the simpler and rather sentimental left-winger that the post-war record shows. What is clear, however, is that Furubotn defied Stalin too many times, and his enemies within the KPN made sure that accounts of his misconduct got back to the vozhd.

I thus have to express some reservations about Furubotn’s heroism and reputation. Furubotn seems rather a sorry figure to me: a man lacking formal education who learned about Marxism only when he went to Moscow, and who, after the war, drifted into a vague socialism that invoked the Bible as often as it brought in The Communist Manifesto. If Furubotn had been a Communist during the war, whether Stalinist or not, the mission of a communist was class warfare, authoritarian control (‘the dictatorship of the proletariat’, of course, which was a ridiculous slogan). The institution of Communist power always ended in the incarceration or execution of class enemies, and the abandonment of any constitutional safeguards. The senior resistance organization, Milorg, detested the Communist Party, whether it was Sunde’s or Furubotn’s, and Milorg became the official voice of the people representing the government-in-exile. Yet the Communist message still resonated strongly among major sectors of Norway’s population.

I thus maintain a few doubts about the Professor’s assessment of the integrity of Furubotn and his motives. He writes, also, that the Oslo Harbour sabotage operation orchestrated by Furubotn in the autumn of 1944 was an epochal event. “This activity, which carried the death penalty from the German side, greatly contributed to keeping the hope of liberation alive among Norwegians”,  he writes. Yet such an attack went entirely against the grain of what Milorg (and, reportedly the Stalinist rump group led by Sunde) was trying to achieve, and the reprisals could have been severe. Most Norwegians must have realized by then that the Nazis were on the run, and that the Allies were moving inexorably into occupied countries, including Norway. Which Norwegians would have been excited about the destruction of the capital’s port by a subversive revolutionary at that stage of the war?

One last aspect of what appears to me to be a controversy lies in the Professor’s account of Furubotn’s time in Moscow before the war. He somewhat mysteriously writes that ‘Stalin reluctantly allowed him to return to Norway in the autumn of 1938 after 8 years in Moscow’, adding that Stalin kept the family of his son, Gilbert, in the Soviet Union as hostages. I was not aware that Stalin undertook any action ‘reluctantly’, which suggests unrealistically that the vozhd would actually listen to advice from his ministers – and that that group would actually proffer advice to him rather than simply await instructions. (The Black Book of Communism states that Furubotn ‘escaped’ from Moscow.) Elsewhere, Professor Titlestad notes that Furubotn was sent back and essentially demoted to serve a minor role in the Party in his hometown of Bergen, and the Professor has explained to me, having inspected KGB archives in Moscow, that Stalin let him go because he believed that the Gestapo would perform the murderous job for him. Yet Stalin’s ability to recall that he had let Furubotn slip through his fingers would give him additional incentive to extinguish the rebel: the PARAVANE episode of September 1944 was not the first attempt to silence Furubotn for good.

Nikolai Bukharin

The other observation that I found incongruous was the categorization of Nikolai Bukharin, whom Furubotn admired, and whom Sunde had apparently invoked alongside Genrikh Yagoda in denouncing Furubotn. Professor Titlestad writes: “Bukharin had long been one of the leading liberal Soviet leaders after the revolution in 1917, and his trial attracted significant international attention.” I believe that this is a serious misconception. Bukharin was innocent of most of the crimes he was accused of (but perhaps not that of threatening Stalin’s power), but he was no ‘liberal’. He was a Bolshevik who had enthusiastically embraced the revolution, and he was until his death a firm champion of the ‘glorious Cheka’ and its barbarous methods. A too facile equivalence of Bukharin and Furubotn glosses over what Furubotn might have become.

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Postscript

Lastly, a few observations on methodology. My collaborator on this project, Nigel Austin, has been a determined sleuth, tracking down arcane sources, identifying persons who have some connection with the mystery, and refusing to let go. I know, however, that he was continually on the search for proof of exactly what happened on that night in September, the proverbial ‘smoking gun’, and he might have proceeded forever until he found such. I have occasionally been able to track down such items in my attempts to solve intelligence mysteries, such as with the memorandum about Guy Burgess and the Comintern, the Letter from Geneva concerning Len and Ursula Beurton, and the article in the Viennese newspaper that revealed much about MI6 and Kim Philby, but such moments are very rare.

I decided to explain to Nigel that historiography is frequently an exercise of the imagination, a detective investigation, in which one searches for clues, and then tries to construct a pattern of behaviour and events that can explain what is superficially inexplicable. There is not going to be a solid paper-trail in a case as complex as this. And that is how it was with ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’. To me, the borrowed uniforms and ID-tags suggested stowaways of some kind. Yet in those conditions the stowaways could not have been furtive: they must have had approval. They could not have been British airmen: that group was completely accounted for. They must therefore have been agents, saboteurs, spies, of some kind. They would not have been Norwegian communists in exile: such persons would not have had to disguise themselves that way, impersonating British RAF crew members. They must have been NKGB agents – Russians. And if they were agents, they must have had a mission. And the obvious mission was assassination. A study of Norwegian resistance quickly came up with the name of Peder Furubotn, who had offended Stalin.

Thus was the theory constructed. It all seemed rather tenuous: had Furubotn really annoyed Stalin that much? And why would Stalin choose that time to set his murder-squad off the leash? And then the encounter with Professor Titlestad’s latest research indicated that assassination attempts had already been made against Furubotn. Stalin could no longer rely on the Gestapo or the Sunde organization to get rid of his foe. So he took on the task himself, and invoked the gullible Churchill to assist him. As the cliché goes: ‘The rest is history’. But in this case it has not been so – until now. And it would be commendable if the British Government, through the Ministry of Defence, made some sort of statement and apology to the public and to the relatives of the dead airmen in time for the eightieth anniversary of the crash on September 17, 2024.

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Special Bulletin: ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’ – Part 3

(This bulletin contains the third segment of my study of ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’, which explains why two Soviet agents were carried on board a British Lancaster aircraft in September 1944, a flight that ended in disaster when the plane crashed into a hill in Norway. For the previous two segments, please turn to Part 1 and Part 2.)

The Lofotens

Chapter 5: Intelligence Manœuvres

The implications of co-operation between the RAF and the NKGB in infiltrating Soviet citizens with subversive objectives into a third country occupied by the enemy are highly significant. It is such a sensitive issue that one would have to conclude that one of Britain’s wartime intelligence organizations was involved. Admittedly, southern Norway was beyond the regular range where the Soviets were able to drop agents for intelligence purposes, but they would not have sought British assistance unless it were not a routine operation. It does not appear that they wanted to parachute in a spy or saboteur blind, without some sort of reception committee. Hence they must have been seeking help from British or British-trained contacts on the ground. Such a pattern is not unprecedented, but the utter lack of any reference, in the records of the RAF and the intelligence agencies, to the joint operation over Norway points not just to a highly clandestine operation, but also to a monumental embarrassment when it ended so dismally and tragically.

The two institutions that maintained networks in countries occupied by the Nazis were the Special Operations Executive (SOE) and the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, sometimes known as MI6). The first was essentially a sabotage organization, a civil unit reporting to the Ministry of Political Warfare, although many of its leaders were military men. It had been created by Winston Churchill in 1940, specifically to cause havoc behind enemy lines. SIS, on the other hand, was an intelligence-gathering service with some history that worked more by stealth. It resented SOE’s very existence, since the business of sabotage tended to draw the attention of the enemy, while the agents of SIS worked as quietly as possible. Moreover, the fact that SOE had agents in the field meant that they were also a provider of intelligence. Claude Dansey, the assistant chief of SIS, made it his mission to undermine SOE whenever he could.

Hugh Dalton

SOE had an occasionally very strained relationship with the governments-in-exile of the countries where they built their networks. Hugh Dalton, the first minister responsible for SOE, was a socialist who viewed the mission of his organization to enhance the possibility of implementing socialist ‘revolutions’ throughout Europe after the Nazi foe had been defeated. Such a strategy was anathema to most governments-in-exile which, composed of members of the pre-war ruling class, hoped to reinstall the previous form of government, and its attendant privileges, after the war. In addition, Dalton was a notorious showman, who misrepresented SOE’s achievements in Norway, and over-promised to Churchill what the section could achieve. In turn, Churchill, ever the romantic, in February 1942 told the Norwegian government-in-exile that Norway would be the first country to be liberated – a foolish claim.

On the ground, however, much of the strongest resistance to the fascists came from underground communist groups, who had suspended their disgust when the Nazi-Soviet pact occurred. After June 1941, when Hitler invaded the Soviet Union, and Stalin’s dictatorship became an ally of the western democracies, these cells renewed their vigorous ambitions for proper (not Daltonian) revolution. A pattern across Europe occurred whereby weapons and supplies dropped by parachute, intended for patriot forces, frequently ended up in units taking orders from Stalin. The perennial problem with SOE was that its strategy was apparently to prepare patriot armies for the coming arrival of British troops, but that event often took years in the making, or never happened at all, which was damaging to morale. Moreover, there was a permanent risk of arms caches being discovered by the Germans, or simply falling into disrepair. SOE’s management of expectations was poor, to say the least.

Frank Foley

This pattern repeated itself in Norway. Before the war, the SIS station in Oslo reported through Stockholm, but after some embarrassing events in Sweden, Frank Foley (who had been posted to Oslo in September 1939) returned to London in early 1940, and was put in charge of the whole of Scandinavia and the Low Countries. The Royal Navy soon made demands on SIS for intelligence on German naval movements along the coast. The arrival of SOE agents complicated matters, however: Norway was too thinly populated for networks to remain isolated, and there were several clashes between the two organizations. Moreover, SOE initially worked independently of both the Norwegian government-in-exile, and of Milorg, the military arm of the Norwegian Home Front, which, despite its name, was more focused on the future liberation of the country than attention-drawing sabotage adventures. SOE kept clear of it, as it regarded its security as lax. Likewise, the small communist groups also stayed apart from Milorg. They criticized it for its passivity, and were less concerned about Nazi brutalities.

The Lofotens Raid

Thus some harsh lessons were learned. The reprisals after the Lofotens raid of December 1941 triggered Norwegian animosity to SOE, which led to the establishment of a Joint Anglo-Norwegian Committee in London in February 1942. In January, a new SOE Norwegian section was split off from the Scandinavian unit, and the very pragmatic John Wilson had been appointed its head. Yet it took time for the Committee to exert any influence. In April 1942, mismanaged landings at the community of Telavåg, involving mis-steps by both MI6 and SOE in which two Gestapo officers were killed, led to fearsome reprisals. SOE accordingly made contact with Milorg in September of that year, in a spirit of collaboration. It took the first major operation undertaken by SOE and Combined Operations forces (commandos), the November 1942 attempt to land gliders in an attack on the Vermork heavy-water plant, to change policy. The assault was a disaster. The participants were executed: severe reprisals on the civilian population followed. Both Milorg and the government in London were horrified, and their disgust led to a more cautious approach to sabotage. The eventual sinking, in February 1944, of the steamer carrying heavy water on Lake Tinnsjo bolstered SOE’s reputation, but twenty-six persons were drowned in the process.

Reprisals after Telavag
Norsk Hydro, Vermork

1943 was a transition year. After Milorg had supported, in April, an attack by the communist Sunde’s group on labour offices in Oslo, the government in exile called it to stop collaborating with communist organizations. In May, at a conference in Sweden, Milorg agreed that its future activities would be determined by the Allied Supreme Command, and that its mission would be to prepare for liberation. Norway had a role to play in diversionary exercises away from the main European theatre (Operation TINDALL, as part of the COCKADE deception plan), and some weaponry was parachuted in for the Norwegian resistance. Yet SOE itself suffered a major setback that autumn, when the infiltration of its Dutch and French circuits was discovered by the Chiefs of Staff. SOE survived (thanks to Churchill’s intervention), but was put under military control, the Norwegian Section of SOE coming under Special Forces Headquarters in May 1944. Soon afterwards General Eisenhower sent out a stern message to the Norwegians that, in the wake of the Normandy landings, no national uprising should take place, as the Allies had no immediate plans to invade their country. A predictable lowering of morale ensued, and, in recompense, some steady carefully-targeted sabotage operations were encouraged.

The early months of 1944 had created a new climate, however. In February, the Foreign Office reported that uncontrolled sabotage by the Communists was increasing, sometimes with the aid of arms supplied by SOE. That was not part of the plan. In May, the Germans tried to press-gang Norwegian workers for work in the Reich, and hundreds of youths fled to the mountains, thus creating a kind of Norwegian ‘maquis’. An unuathorized but efficient group known as the ‘Oslo Gang’ reached a peak of sabotage activity in August. On August 17, Milorg executed a very damaging operation in which an oil storage depot at Son, on the Oslofjord, was exploded. More serious plans for guerrilla attacks were forged, and in May 1944, four sites were identified for the congregation of partisans, one of which was at Elg, north-west of Oslo – a few miles from Nesbyen, the site of the crash. Two men parachuted into Elg on August 31, 1944, and over a hundred men assembled there, with weapons and food stockpiled. That same month Jens Hauge, the head of Milorg, had travelled to London for four weeks of consultations with SOE, Army chiefs, the Ministry of Economic Warfare, and the Norwegian government-in-exile, and he crossed back into Norway from Sweden.

Meanwhile, SIS in Sweden had been experiencing its own tribulations. The Admiralty applied pressure on the organization to provide intelligence on Kirkenes, on the Norway/Russia border, which led to a catastrophic joint project with the Soviets, where two SIS agents were flown into an airbase in August 1942. Instead of parachuting them in promptly, however, the Russians held them for two months, and then dropped them, improperly equipped, into Finland rather than Norway. They were captured, handed over to the Germans, and shot. Soon afterwards, the hapless head of station John Martin was replaced by the Russian-speaking Cyril Cheshire, but the lessons from trying to collaborate with the Soviets on clandestine operations appeared not to have been passed on, and properly internalized.

Improbably, the closest cooperation between SOE and SIS occurred within the section of SOE that worked in the Soviet Union. At the end of 1941, an exchange of missions between London and Moscow had been set up, with an old WWI Russia veteran George Hill appointed as leader. He took a small group with him to start negotiating with the NKVD on shared sabotage endeavours, while the obdurate Colonel Chichaev took up a corresponding post in London. The whole project was highly controversial, since the Soviets wanted SOE help in parachuting agents into Western Europe, which was out of reach of their aircraft. The governments-in-exile would have had a fit if they had known that a British intelligence unit was abetting a potential Communist revolution in their home countries. Moreover, the Foreign Office – quite enthusiastic about ‘co-operating’ with Soviet diplomats – was alarmed at the prospect of collaboration with Communists in more murky quarters.

As it turned out, the operation (named PICKAXE) was for many reasons a disaster, and incriminations started to flow both ways. Collaboration was called off in practical terms by early 1944. Yet by then, the SOE mission in Moscow had been badly abused by the NKGB (as the NKVD became). Hill had probably been appointed by Menzies, the head of SIS, and he represented both SIS and SOE in some of his agent management roles. Unfortunately his cipher-clerk, George Graham (who was of Russian aristocratic birth), allowed himself to be suborned by NKGB intrigues, with the result that Soviet intelligence gained access to SIS codes and cyphers. How that helped Stalin in his preparation for Yalta is an untold story.

A further group in the drama was the 30 Mission, a British military unit sent out to Moscow in 1941, charged with exchanging military intelligence as a way of improving Allied combat against the Nazis. This was another troubled enterprise, since the officers who went there mostly returned in disgust after a short spell, frustrated by Soviet obtuseness and secrecy. Its negotiations had to take place via contacts in a department of the NKGB, and its direct exchanges with the Red Army (and even more so, the Air Force, which was subsidiary to the Army and Navy) were few and constrained. With the Arctic Convoys playing a large role in sustaining the Soviet Union’s goodwill, and ability to counter the Wehrmacht, a large body of sailors and other men was required in Murmansk, a presence that alarmed the NKGB, for fear of ideological infection of the local populace. 30 Mission was the hub through which all the problems and challenges had to be routed: General Martel, and his successor, General Burrows, tried vainly to make the Soviets see reason, and concluded that resolution and hard bargaining produced better results than attempts to please their reluctant hosts.

Voskresenskaya-Rybkina

Last but not least was the offensive arm of the NKVD/NKGB. In July 1941, after Barbarossa, Pavel Sudoplatov was appointed director of the Administration of Special Tasks, charged with sabotage and political assassination abroad. (Sudoplatov had been overall responsible for the murder of Leon Trotsky in 1940.) One of his closest associates was a woman called Zoya Voskresenskaya, also known as Rybkina, via marriage, and as a working alias, Madam Yartseva. Rybkina was sent by Sudoplatov to Stockholm, ostensibly as the press attaché to the Ambassador, Alexandra Kollontai, but in fact as the head of the NKVD station, which exercised a firm control over the activities of all the staff. Her husband, who went by Boris Yartsev as a junior diplomatic official in Stockholm, returned to Moscow in 1943, was present at Yalta, and met his death in Czechoslovakia, in 1947, in one of those mysterious car crashes that prematurely took the lives of intelligence officers who fell out of favour.

In his memoirs, Sudoplatov wrote glowingly about his protegée, who had actually been his handler in Helsinki at the beginning of his career. In 1942, Sudoplatov was also put in charge of collecting information about atomic weaponry, and agents working for Rybkina in Sweden gained information from Lisa Meitner, who had discovered fission with her nephew, Otto Frisch. Sudoplatov claimed that the British knew about the NKGB’s networks in Sweden, and that they were collaborating with the Soviets on joint sabotage operations in Europe. Like many agents who worked under Beria, she was purged (but not imprisoned or killed) after Beria’s own execution.

The deHavilland Mosquito

Yet the most remarkable aspect of Rybkina’s possible contribution to this story is the journey she made to the United Kingdom in February 1944. The VENONA transcripts inform us that Vasily Razin, the First Secretary at the Stockholm Legation, informed Lt.-General Pavel Fitin, the head of the Foreign Intelligence Directorate in Moscow, that IRINA (Rybkina) had successfully arrived in England, by air, on February 6. This flight was operated as part of the so-called ‘ball-bearing’ run, almost certainly deploying a modified Mosquito. It was actually run by the Norwegian Air Force, but under civilian registration, with crews wearing BOAC uniforms and carrying British passports. It was a harrowing and dangerous experience: there was room for only one clandestine passenger, in the bomb-bay. Niels Bohr, the atomic scientist, was one beneficiary, and almost died from lack of oxygen.

The Mosquito Bomb-bay

Why permission should be granted to a known Soviet intelligence agent to take advantage of such a facility is mysterious, and can only point to some very high-level and secret negotiations. What is more, soon after Rybkina arrived, Colonel Chichaev had a private meeting with Colin Gubbins of SOE, a record of which may never have been made. Whether these events were related to the sudden movements in August, 1944, when Colonel Burrows of 30 Mission was recalled to London, his opposite number in the NKGB, General Slavin, disappeared abroad on some unspecified business, Jens Hauge, the head of Milorg, also travelled to London to meet with SOE officers, and two SOE agents were parachuted into the mountainous country north-west of Oslo, is still a matter of speculation. The coincidences are remarkable, yet the need for extreme secrecy over the negotiations with Stalin probably indicates that the particulars of the parachute drop were not on the agenda of the meetings.

Chapter 6: Stalin’s Organs

‘Smersh’ by Vadim Birstein

The rationale behind Stalin’s constant re-organization of his security apparatus is sometimes hard to unravel. In 1943, he separated some functions from the NKVD (The Peoples Commissariat for Internal Affairs) into a structure that had briefly existed in 1941, the NKGB (The People’s Commissariat for State Security). The latter was supposed to focus on the territories that had been briefly held between 1939 and 1941, and were shortly expected to return under Soviet rule, such as the Baltic States. But it lacked ample security forces. The NKVD had its foreign mission withdrawn, and concentrated on domestic affairs, such as surveillance of the citizenry, and management of the GULAG. At the same time, Stalin created a new body, SMERSH (‘Death to Spies!’), peeling off those cadres in the NKVD responsible for monitoring disaffection and cowardice in the armed forces. According to Pavel Sudoplatov, Stalin made this move to prevent his NKVD chief Lavrenty Beria from interfering with military promotions – and demotions.

SMERSH existed between April 1943 and May 1946. Its head was Viktor Abakumov, who, like many of Stalin’s security and intelligence chiefs, came to a grisly end. Yet, while its initial task was to root out corruption in the military, it soon took over a more aggressive role identifying and eliminating real or imagined opponents of the Soviet regime in newly conquered territories. Moreover, while the initial threat was identified as German infiltration of the armed forces, its innate suspicion of foreigners in general meant that it turned its attention on the presence of Allied forces on Soviet territory. Notably, supervision of the American air bases in Ukraine had become the responsibility of SMERSH, alongside keeping a close eye on the naval mission in Murmansk supporting the convoys, and on the short-lived presence of PARAVANE operational staff at Yagodnik.

Foreigners might not only be spies: they might also exert a pernicious influence on Soviet citizenry, and the records show that the organs assiduously kept a watch on any liaisons between Soviet citizens and members of the visiting armed forces and their support crews, and followed up with dire threats. Yet the war diaries of the PARAVANE operation do indeed show that some officers showed a more than casual interest in Soviet installations of technology, such as communications. The fact that such interest paled into insignificance against the wholesale theft of Western technology and ideas that the GRU (Military Intelligence) and the NKVD/NKGB had been undertaking for years was irrelevant to the earnestness of SMERSH’s hunt to extirpate any such activity.

Mikhail Ryumin

A SMERSH officer submitted a report on the PARAVANE operation on October 6, 1944, casting doubts on the true motives of the RAF members who led it. The report was probably written by a sadistic thug called Mikhail Ryumin, who was head of the Counter-Intelligence White Army Flotilla, reporting directly to Admiral Panteleyev in Archangel and Abakumov in Moscow. Ryumin had moved up the NKVD ranks by being a protégé of Nikolai Yezhov, the short-lived executor of Stalin’s most dreadful purges, but had survived after Yezhov’s execution. He was later a prime mover in the so-called ‘Doctors’ Plot’, a mirage of Jewish conspiracy conceived by Stalin, and he even denounced his boss, Abakumov. Stalin fired him for incompetence, however, and, after the dictator’s death, Beria had Ryumin arrested and executed.

Ryumin’s report shows that he had a hazy understanding of the PARAVANE mission, emphasizing the failure of the attack on the Tirpitz as a cover for the true objective of seeking information about Soviet military installations (“It can be concluded that under the pretext of the shuttle operation, the flight had an exclusively reconnaissance purpose.”). He refers to the loss of one Lancaster over Norwegian territory, but indicates mistakenly that the return flights were undertaking another bombing raid on the battleship. As evidence for his conclusions about ulterior purposes of the mission, he lists misleading data about the weight and explosive capacity of the Tallboy bomb, the pilots’ cancellations of call-signs on the radio, and an understatement of the number of officers and men who would be arriving (which was, in fact, justified).

The fact that he had been kept in the dark about the true circumstances surrounding the change of plan is shown by the fact that he attributes the haphazard landings at various airfields to a deliberate ploy by the RAF to determine the location, size, and condition of those same airfields. Of course, his report may have been crafted to show the appropriate communist diligence in disparaging the RAF’s failure to sink the Tirpitz, the objective of Operation PARAVANE. Its timing, moreover, could be significant: it was submitted to his boss, Abakumov, three days before the start of the so-called ‘Tolstoy’ Conference in Moscow, where Stalin hosted Churchill and Eden, and the notorious agreements about the carve-up of Europe were made without Roosevelt’s presence.

Group Captain McMullen

Yet some inappropriate nosing around was undertaken by some of the RAF contingent (see Chapter 3). Captain Abercrombie, who had joined the (military) 30 Mission in Moscow the previous April, sought permission to take photographs without constraints, and asked questions about the radio and power stations in Archangel. Ryumin also had negative things to say about a Lieutenant-Colonel Happen, who, after a request by Group Captain McMullen to travel via Moscow, Stalingrad and Tehran to Cairo been rejected, apparently made disparaging remarks and spread ‘anti-Soviet sentiments’. The fact was that the RAF members generally had good relations with their opposite numbers in the Soviet Naval Air Force, and probably said too much in unguarded moments. Such conversations were bound to be overheard by or reported to the SMERSH commissars embedded in the units. (An Appendix to the War Diary refers to ‘the sprinkling of N.K.V.D. personnel (male and female) to check that the interests of the Communist Party are not prejudiced’.) The Diary nevertheless expresses great appreciation of the support they received, especially from Colonel Loginov, who was Chief of Staff to the Commander of the Air Forces of the White Sea Flotilla, and McMullen wrote generous letters of thanks. These commendations (which may have been largely political) would have cut no ice with Ryumin.

Pavel Sudoplatov

One significant Soviet officer who was familiar with Ryumin (and had a low opinion of him) was Pavel Sudoplatov, who had been appointed head of the NKVD ‘Special Tasks’ unit in July 1941. Sudoplatov, who had engineered the assassination of Trotsky, was thus responsible for sabotage behind enemy lines, as well as further assassinations. He also took on a major role in handling disinformation exercises to fool the Germans about a potential anti-Soviet movement within the Soviet Union, as well as Operation MONASTERY, which aimed to penetrate the Abwehr’s intelligence network behind Soviet lines. Abakumov was jealous of Sudoplatov’s role, wanting it for himself, and challenged him in 1942 to turn over all radio deception games against the Germans to him. He was partially successful, but Sudoplatov kept the MONASTERY operation, as well as the COURIERS operation, which claimed the existence of an anti-Soviet faction within the Russian Orthodox Church. Thus the rivalries between Sudoplatov and Abakumov may have contributed to some mis-steps in the execution of the mission to Nesbyen.

The relevance of these connections is important in the PARAVANE story because of Sudoplatov’s relationship with the NKVD officer Zoya Voskresenskaya, also known as Rybkina, after her marriage to another NKVD officer. She had worked for Sudoplatov at the beginning of the war, planning sabotage, and training partisans, when she and her husband were suddenly sent to Stockholm, where she was appointed nominally the press attaché to the Ambassador, Alexandra Kollontai, and took up the name Yartseva. Stockholm, the capital of Sweden, a neutral country, was, like Portugal’s Lisbon, a nest of spies and intelligence-gathering, and it controlled through regular communication the Stalinist faction of the Norwegian Communist Party, as well as providing it with funds. Yartseva was actually the most important person in the Embassy, and was also responsible for controlling the receipt and transmission of all the intelligence coming from the Soviet Union’s Rote Kapelle network in Germany. (Ian Fleming’s Rosa Klebb was reputedly based on her.)

Voskresenskaya-Rybkina

Sudoplatov’s relationship with Yartseva went back many years, since she had actually been his controller in Finland in the early 1930s, and they stayed in close touch. Yartseva had more recently been involved with Sudoplatov’s COURIERS operation, controlling members of the clergy in Kalinin. Sudoplatov also claimed that Yartseva was part of his management team on the ENORMOZ (atomic weapons) project, but his version of events has been challenged by Western experts. Yet they did have another important colleague – Colonel Chichaev, the NKVD representative in London charged with liaising with SOE and its Russian section, and maybe even handling some of the NKVD’s nest of spies. Chichaev had spent time at the Stockholm Embassy in 1940, working with Yartseva.

These threads would come together as Stalin’s strategy for Scandinavia took shape. His ambitions were overall modest for neighbouring territories that were not to be occupied by the Red Army. Finland was problematic. It had a long border with the Soviet Union, and after losing a war in 1940 against the Communist regime – in which the Red Army was at first humiliated – the country had dangerously aligned itself with Nazi Germany, in the belief that Hitler would be the victor. While Stalin respected the Finns for their courage, he resolved to exploit them because of their support of the Fascists rather than waste military forces in conquering them. He was anxious to gain strategically useful territories from them, such as islands in the Gulf of Finland, in order to give him protection for the port of Leningrad and the Baltic States, and regain ownership of the Petsamo (Russian: Pechenga) region in the far north, with its valuable nickel mines. Moreover, the Communist Party was strong in Finland, although Stalin had purged many of its leading members in Moscow.

Pechenga

Sweden was not really a consideration: it had remained neutral during the war, and was geographically not so relevant. Norway had been occupied by the Nazis, and harboured a somewhat subdued resistance movement. Despite the lack of contiguity, some of Stalin’s ministers had pressed for Sweden and Norway to come under the Soviet ‘sphere of influence’, with Norway’s Communist Party a potential asset. The Norwegian government-in-exile was fearful that the Red Army would make incursions through the north of the country, and in early 1944 made appeasing overtures through the Soviet ambassador to avert the possibility. While Stalin probably found satisfaction in keeping that threat alive, and gaining concessions from the Norwegians, he in fact did not want to move Red Army divisions to Norway. He would prefer that the British take responsibility for clearing the country of Nazi troops, although he did not want the latter pouring into Northern Russia. (The negotiated restoration of Pechenga would present the Soviet Union with a narrow border with Norway.) Thus, in the summer of 1944, he pressed Churchill and Eden to take a leading role in the liberation of Norway, and gained a concession from them in August that Finland naturally fell in his bailiwick, and that the British had no strategic interests there.

The western Allies wanted to consolidate their assaults into western Europe and Germany before dealing with the Wehrmacht in Norway: to that end the Chiefs-of-Staff had developed an operational feint called RANKIN designed to pin German troops in Norway through the D-Day invasions. On the other hand, the British did not want premature uprisings in Norway, hoping to preserve the partisan forces to hold their fire until the real day of reckoning. They were aware, however, of maverick Communist Party guerrilla units continuing to cause trouble. Yet Stalin, as in France, did not want any Communists to engage in provocative behaviour and risk turning the Americans against him before the Nazis had been beaten. Thus British and Soviet needs in the area began to converge. Stalin wanted to sign a pact with Finland, using it as a proxy.  He planned to demand from it the harassment of German divisions in the north of the country, as he wanted to move the few divisions he maintained on the Finnish border to the vital German battlefield, and he sought British assistance in the endeavour.

On September 19, 1944, a few days after the PARAVANE Operation was executed, the Moscow Armistice was signed by representatives of Finland, the Soviet Union and Great Britain. The British War Cabinet had reviewed its protocols as early as September 7. They laid out some strict conditions: for example, the withdrawal of Finnish troops to the frontier as it existed in 1940; Finland to be responsible for disarming German land, air and naval forces in the country; the transfer to the Soviet Union of critical territories, such as Pechenga; the provision of up to three hundred million dollars’ worth of goods as indemnification for Soviet losses; and the handover of airfields in southern Finland for the Soviets to attack German forces in the Baltic States. Whether this last item was part of a quid pro quo with the British for the use of Soviet airfields in the attacks on the Tirpitz is not stated. But the timing is intriguing, and Stalin was accustomed to including ‘secret’ protocols in his political agreements.

The negotiations that led up to this agreement are regrettably opaque. Yet the intrigues in sending Yartseva to London in February 1944, and the subsequent meetings (see Chapter 5) must have had some serious objectives. Stockholm was a notoriously isolated location: it took the Petrovs nine months to reach it from Moscow in 1942. For Yartseva to gain approval from the British and Norwegian governments for a valuable place on the ball-bearing run to Leuchars in Scotland (and presumably a return flight) must have meant that they considered she had both clout and information of great value, and that it was both safe and wise to allow her to have discussions with Chichaev. What political backdrop could have led to such a concession?

(The final part of this story will appear on April 15.)

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Special Bulletin: ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’ – Part 2

(For those readers who have expressed interest in the disposal of my Library I should like to draw your attention to the following press release, issued by the University of North Carolina on February 6: https://giving.uncw.edu/stories/new-special-collection-to-make-randall-library-a-destination-for-researchers-worldwide.)

The first two chapters of ‘The Airmen Who Died Twice’ can be seen at https://coldspur.com/special-bulletin-the-airmen-who-died-twice-part-1/.

The Memorial at Saupeset

Chapter 3: The RAF in Yagodnik

When the decision to launch the attack from Soviet soil was made at this late stage, on 11th September, the security questions raised in April 1943 were sadly overlooked. Bomber Command (or whoever was calling the shots) was apparently able to take the final decision without further consultations with the Soviet Air Force. Amazingly, approval for this revised plan must have been received immediately. It is probable that Stalin now encouraged it, as it would enable him to lay his hands upon the Tallboy itself, and not simply bombers with empty payloads, as well as to exploit the homeward flight of a Lancaster for his own devious purposes. It is certain that an agreement in principle had been hammered out some time beforehand, but that Stalin had wanted to wait until the Warsaw Uprising had been quashed before granting permission.

Preparations for the refined operation were very hurried. One significant outcome of the new arrangement was that, on that same day, 11th September, the Lancasters flew directly from Bardney and Woodhall Spa in Lincolnshire to Yagodnik, while the Liberators (which were originally scheduled to arrive in an advance party to prepare for the Lancasters’ arrival) proceeded to Lossiemouth, and then Unst in the Shetlands, for re-fuelling. This was to have serious implications when one third of the Lancasters lost their way in looking for Yagodnik. One of the reasons that the Liberators were originally supposed to arrive before the Lancasters was to provide improved VHF radio guidance, and the reliance on confusing Soviet signals and beacons certainly contributed to the errant landings and resultant written off aircraft. Moreover, the weather in Yagodnik was, in McMullen’s words, ‘appalling’. Whatever forecast had been issued from London was completely off the mark, and the Soviets (who had surely provided the forecasts themselves, and in fact given one for the day after the arrivals) were amazed that the planes had attempted the journey in such conditions.

Routes to Yagodnik

Thus, ironically, while the ground-rules of the Operational Order had been ostensibly changed because of unfavourable weather forecasts for Altenfjord, the whole mission was jeopardized because of a failure to predict very poor weather in Archangel, the error in not implementing proper communications and signalling protocols, and the delay in sending out the Liberators which were intended to guide and welcome the Lancasters to Yagodnik. It all comprises an extraordinarily incompetent example of leadership and decision-making. One might suspect, nevertheless, that the Soviets were not too concerned about the safe arrival of all the planes. After all, there was valuable new technology to be inspected and exploited. In the developing saga of the disaster at Nesbyen, the immobility of some grounded aircraft in the swamps and forests around Archangel would turn out to have dire and unexpected consequences.

Group Captain McMullen, in his report following Paravane, stated that atrocious weather conditions from the Finnish border, incompatible call signals between Russian and English alphabets, lack of WT beacon information, and maps without towns or railways led to the scattering of one third of the planes of Squadrons 9 and 617 on arrival in Russia. Only twenty-three Lancasters, one Liberator, and one Mosquito, from a total of thirty-nine aircraft, landed safely at Yagodnik on 11th September. The remaining fourteen planes and forty-two Lancaster crewmen, with their hi-tech munitions, crash landed or were diverted to Kergostov, Vascova and Onega. These became the object of a frantic Anglo/Soviet search and rescue operation on September 12. One of the pilots added that lack of fuel was a major cause for these forced landings. McMullen did not mention this factor in his report.

In spite of the lack of English-speaking Russians or RAF interpreters there was a concerted and effective drive to locate and retrieve the fourteen lost planes and crews. Soviet efforts are illustrated by the parachutist who was dropped by one crash-site and then guided the crew to a lake where it was collected by a Soviet flying boat for return to Yagodnik. Squadron Leader Harman noted in the official diary: “We were very fortunate that we have no casualties”. All forty-two RAF crew were safely returned to their Squadrons within forty-eight hours. McMullen and his Soviet counterpart Colonel Loginov worked closely to coordinate the rescue so that, by 14th September, twenty Lancasters with Tallboys, six Lancasters with Johnny Walkers, one Mosquito film unit and both Liberators were in place at Yagodnik ready for the assault on Tirpitz.

The Airstrip at Yagodnik

McMullen made clear that very few of the expected facilities to ensure a successful mission were in place on site. The essential refuelling was limited by bowser numbers and capacity to 6 x 350 gallons instead of the 8 x 3,500 gallons and 4 x 2,000 gallons expected. As a result, the Squadron was not ready to fly for another twenty-four hours, delaying action until 14th September. It is almost an understatement when he asserted: “Misleading intelligence of this kind can be most embarrassing and can even ruin all chances of success”. What is not clear is whether he was blaming British 30 Mission in Moscow, 5 Group in UK, or the Soviet authorities at Yagodnik for the misinformation supplied to Squadrons 9 and 617 before 11th September. He concluded that close cooperation with 30 Mission was essential to operate in Russia, implying that this had not been a priority for 5 Group in the UK.

Ralph Cochrane, Air Vice Marshal at 5 Group Headquarters, Swinderby was responsible for coordinating the Squadrons for Paravane, reporting to Arthur Harris, Commander-in-Chief of Bomber Command. Cochrane had no doubt that the careful work of his planning staff at 5 Group was responsible for the success of the operation, as he declared to Harris on 15th October. He acknowledged none of the practical problems which plagued McMullen in Russia nor why basic technical coordination with the Russians essential for navigation was not prepared by his planning staff and communicated to the crews.

Tirpitz in Kafjord, inner to Altenfjord

On the 15th September at 9.30 am, over a twenty-three minute period, twenty-six Lancasters and one Mosquito took off to attack the Tirpitz in Altenfjord. They flew at 1,000 feet until they reached the Finnish border, when an altitude of 12,000-14,000 feet was maintained over Norway. Within sixty miles of the target all planes, in four waves, would dive to bombing height to despatch their Tallboy and Johnny Walker bombs. Flak was intense from shore and ship, but it was ineffective. There was no German fighter plane opposition. Although surprise was achieved by using the southerly approach against Tirpitz, the smokescreen to hide the battleship was in place within seven minutes of the RAF arrival.

In the debriefing after the attack the crews confirmed that one of the seventeen Tallboys had hit the target: sixteen did not. The outcome from the deployment of the Johnny Walker bombs designed to target the hull of the ship ‘walking’ through the sea was uncertain. At 18.20 the battleship remained afloat. The Mosquito film crew was not able to secure a damage report until 20th September: it appeared to show a possible hit. The disappointing result was heightened by the knowledge that Tallboy and the SABS (Stabilized Automatic Bomb Sight) were radically new weapons designed to be accurate within a hundred yards and to destroy any obstacle. Only Squadron 617 was equipped to deliver the 12,000 lb. rotating bomb guided by computerized SABS at 715 mph, which detonated only from inside the target. On 15th October Cochrane told Harris: “None but the heaviest and strongest type of bomb could penetrate (Tirpitz’s) horizontal armour and burst within the ship.”

With the safe return of all Lancasters late on 15th September from Altenfjord, McMullen had two priorities: first, the refuelling and repair of the planes for return to the UK and active duties over Germany, and second, the salvage of the munitions scattered across the region. By 19th September Thomas Williams, assistant Chief of Air Staff, was anxiously demanding information from Harris and Cochrane on radar equipment, gun sights and bomb sights on board the Lancasters that had crashed on arrival on in Russia. A systematic campaign was launched by RAF to salvage or destroy any technology which their Russian hosts might be keen to acquire, although the RAF remained awkwardly reliant on Russian aircraft to reach the remote wrecks.

By the 20th September the chief engineer reported that all fuses and detonators had been removed from the remaining Tallboys and returned to the UK. McMullen was under instruction to retrieve everything of value from the wrecks. Despite Williams’s concern that the Russians would not allow retrieval of the Tallboys, 30 Mission was able to confirm their safe shipment to the UK on 3rd November. As a Soviet engineer wryly observed of his RAF allies: “The British dismantled or destroyed radars, radio stations, bombsights. All aircraft were stripped of the most scarce power units.” The limits of Anglo-Soviet military cooperation were clear.

The enthusiastic cooperation leading to the Tirpitz attack was replaced by growing strains between both sides. Squadron Leader Harman’s official diary charted this tortuous breakdown. On 18th September McMullen secured agreement from Loginov for the use of the Russian Dakota to inspect crashes at Belomorsk and Vascova. On the 19th September the plane was suddenly not available. Finally, on 20th September, ‘after a lot of pressure had been put on the Russians’, McMullen was able to visit the sites. When, however, a repeat exercise was attempted on 24th September with the RAF Mosquito, fuel was denied by the Russians. While thirty Lancasters, with one exception, had returned safely to the UK by 17th September; the Liberators loaded with the salvaged equipment were trapped at Yagodnik as the weather deteriorated. McMullen tried to secure Russian permission on 22nd and 24th September to fly south via Moscow to escape the northern storms: this was refused. At one point Harman despaired at the prospect of spending the winter in Russia.

Was this Russian recalcitrance due to disappointment at the apparent failure of the RAF attack on Tirpitz? Had the Russians become angry that the British were so determined to deny them access to the Tallboy and SABS technology? A report on 5th October by Mikhail Ryumin, head of SMERSH Secret Police in Archangel to his Moscow Head Office provides a clue. Describing the activities of Flight Lieutenant Abercrombie seconded from 30 Mission Moscow ‘who sought permission to take photographs as he pleases’, he added that he ‘persistently asked where the radio and power stations are located in Archangel.’, while his colleague Wing Commander Hughes was carefully recording the size and state of various Russian airfields.

If this British research was simply practical preparation for Paravane a secret Appendix in the 15th October report to Cochrane appears to confirm the Secret Police’s worst fears: “Some details regarding North Russian Airfields were obtainable but it was not possible to get much information from the Russians without arousing their suspicions. For instance it is rumoured that a very big airfield is being constructed near Molotovsk, and during a flight from Yagodnik to Belomorsk the Russian pilot could not be induced to get off track to permit one to see this rumoured airfield.” This was the same flight which McMullen and Hughes took on 20th September in the Russian Dakota to inspect the Lancaster crashes.

Group Captain McMullen was at the centre of this swirling confusion of military cooperation and political subterfuge. His praise for the Russian military was generous. “They gave full and free cooperation in every respect”, he wrote, which contradicted Harman’s meticulous record of Russian obstruction from 17th September. McMullen blamed ‘misleading intelligence’ for almost ruining the Operation, much of which originated from the Russian sources at Yagodnik.  His official final letter to Russian commanders and Yagodnik ground staff was glowingly uncritical: “Your cooperation enabled us to gather the force sent to attack the Tirpitz. For that we shall always be in your debt.” On the other hand, in private to Cochrane, he conceded: “The praise in the letters is lavish, but I was advised that the Russians value this kind of thing.”

Yet a man who tacked his position to suit the audience of the moment was adamant on one point: he strongly recommended to Cochrane that Colonel Loginov, Major General Dyzmba and Vice Admiral Pantaleyev be awarded the highest British honours for their service to the RAF in Yagodnik. Although Cochrane was silent on this point in his report to Harris, the Foreign Office obliged with CB and CBE honours to all three Russians. We can only surmise whether this repayment for the debt that McMullen confirms he owes his hosts was given freely or under duress.

On 27th September the two Liberators finally left Yagodnik, eleven days after the attack on Tirpitz and the subsequent mysterious crash of Lancaster PB416 in southern Norway.

Chapter 4:  The Crash at Saupeset

Nesbyen Cemetery

At about 5:15 pm on 16th September, 1944, the first group of sixteen Lancaster bombers, with a total of a hundred and thirty-one crew, took off over a two-hour period to return to the UK, over the airspace of neutral Sweden, avoiding occupied Norway. Each plane, which normally had a crew of seven, was carrying extra passengers because of the disabled planes that had had to be left behind. Leading the group, Wing Commander Tait confirmed his safe return to the UK at 1:39 am on September 17, after a fair-weather flight. All the other planes returned safely, except the Lancaster piloted by Frank Levy, PB416.

At 5.20 pm the following day, Group Commander McMullen, on temporary assignment in Yagodnik, near Archangel, sent a Top Secret WT (wireless transmission) concerning the disappearance of Lancaster PB416, assumed missing, to Ralph Cochrane, Commander of 5 Group, to Sir Arthur Harris, Commander-in-Chief of Bomber Command, to Sir Thomas Williams, Assistant Chief of Air Staff at the Air Ministry in Whitehall, and to the 30 Mission in Moscow. It ran: “Following were crew of Victor 617 Squadron: Levy, Groom, Fox, Peckham, McGuire, McNally, Thomas, Naylor, Shea.” McMullen was responsible for the overall organisation of Operation PARAVANE, the air assault on the German battleship Tirpitz, from the airbase at Yagodnik, including liaison with his immediate RAF commanders in the UK, Cochrane and Harris. He also reported to Williams at the Air Ministry in London, who was responsible for defining operational requirements, and to 30 Mission Moscow. 30 Mission coordinated the project with the Soviet armed forces as well as with the British base at Archangel across the river Dvina from Yagodnik.

In the ORB (Operations Record Book) entry from the end of September Squadron Leader Tait stated: “This aircraft was lost on the return from Yagodnik to base on 17/9/44. An acknowledgement for a QDF (map location fix) from Dyce was received at 0121 GMT.  Nothing else was heard from this aircraft.” Willie Tait had recently been promoted commander of No 617 Squadron that had achieved fame for its ‘bouncing bomb’ raids against the Möhne and Edersee dams in 1943. He held responsibility for the attack on the battleship Tirpitz launched by the RAF squadrons at Yagodnik. At 15.05 on 17th September Squadron Leader Harman had confirmed the coordinates of the QDF request from PB416 in the Squadron Diary as 60 50 North 009 45 East.  Harman was both a Squadron Leader and Acting Adjutant for Operation PARAVANE. In the latter role he compiled a daily diary of the Operation, which was supplied to Group Commander McMullen.

The QDF coordinates refer to Oystogo, in southern Norway, a remote hamlet in a grassy valley with steep mountains on two sides. The river Etna runs through the valley. It is about fifty miles from Saupeset where Lancaster PB416 crashed, three-hundred-and-thirty miles off course from the rest of the group of sixteen Lancasters returning to the UK. The RAF Flight Loss Card for PB416 confirmed the crash location as lying approximately 110 km north-west of Oslo at about 0138 GMT. Nine crewmen were shown on board, the same as the details on McMullen’s wireless telegram.

PB416’s Flight Loss Card

It is both curious and provocative that Norway was identified as the target. There was no indication that this aircraft had been engaged in Operation PARAVANE and was supposed to be flying home from Yagodnik. In general RAF records present specific, functional, and accurate data. The clerk who completed the Loss Card would have used information provided by RAF No 617 Squadron. This is the only known official record confirming Norway as PB416’s target for this date, and it was clearly not considered a problem to state the target as Norway so soon after the crash. In other words, PB416 was meant to be over Norway and had confirmed its target by the transmission of its coordinates, over Oystogo, to RAF Dyce Aberdeen. By this reckoning the location of PB416 was not an accident: it had reached its target by 0121 GMT on 17th September and confirmed the same to the RAF base in the UK.

On 15th October Cochrane confirmed to Harris: “With the exception of one aircraft which is presumed to have crashed in Norway all aircraft in Russia less the six which could not be repaired had arrived back in this country by September 28th”. The site of the crash is well documented. At a height of about 3,500 feet, Saupeset is a steeply wooded ridge overlooking a valley with the village of Nesbyen below. Saupeset is used for summer pasture with few human inhabitants. A Lancaster bomber exploding on impact with at least one third of its fuel unused would have been a colossal shock to the remote rural scene. In the days following, a shallow mass grave was dug in the rocky ground close by the crash, most probably by local residents from Nesbyen. No names were permitted to be recorded by the German authorities, whose Gestapo Headquarters at Gol was about ten miles away. With active Norwegian Resistance from Milorg in the Hallingdal area the Germans were determined to minimise any boost to local morale which this unexpected British Lancaster might have supported. In spite of the Germans, the local Norwegians erected a simple wooden cross with ten nails to represent the ten bodies they had buried.

The Grave at Saupeset

The next official document to appear was the initial registration made by the GRU (Grave Registration Unit) on 24th July 1945, two months after the German surrender in Europe. This was the first stage of the task of the War Graves Commission, namely to identify graves, reconcile names of casualties and where required prepare reburial to a designated military cemetery. This July registration by Captain Byrne confirmed eleven bodies as casualties of the crash of PB416. Strangely the same document was amended on 22nd August 1945 by Captain Byrne to show only nine bodies, which of course tallies with the RAF Crash Card from September 1944. The two names deleted in August from the initial July register were Squadron Leader Wyness and Flight Lieutenant Williams.

Squadron-Leader Wyness (front left)

It is puzzling why there should have been such confusion over the most simple of tasks, namely confirming the number of crew on board a Lancaster departing the Soviet Union and determining the number of bodies found at the crash site of the same plane on a remote mountain in Norway. The evidence is moreover contradictory. One clue was an unofficial memorial panel, hand painted with Norwegian text, which was installed at the crash site. According to local sources it was attached to the cross with ten nails as soon as the Germans had retreated from the area in May 1945. The panel confirmed ten RAF crew as casualties, including Williams and Wyness. These were the same airmen who were included on the British GRU report in July and then deleted in August 1945. Curiously the Norwegian panel omits Flight Sergeant McGuire, who is included in all RAF and GRU records. If McGuire’s name had been added to the Norwegian memorial panel in May 1945, the total number of casualties would have been eleven.

Memorial Panel

The Norwegian list was based on the physical identity of the casualties before burial in September 1944.  Their names were confirmed by the ‘dog tags’ worn on the wrist and the ID on each serviceman’s uniform. A severe crash and explosion might have made verification of bodies difficult, but the Norwegian panel confirms the clear identity of ten airmen, with the exception of McGuire, which tallies exactly with the same ten names in the GRU report in July. This implies that the ‘dog tags’ were readable on ten bodies. This assessment further suggests that the initial British GRU list in July 1945 was based both on RAF records and cross referenced with local Norwegian records including the memorial panel. Otherwise the names of Williams and Wyness would not have been included. It is unlikely that the mass grave on Saupeset was exhumed by the British in July 1945, since the fact that McGuire’s ID was missing would otherwise have been questioned by Captain Byrne in his report to the RAF. The question must be asked: Why did Captain Byrne delete Williams and Wyness from the GRU list on 22nd August 1945? The reason is that, although the ‘dog tags’ and uniforms of these two airmen were found at the crash site, these two officers were not on flight PB416 from Yagodnik.

The Squadron records show Williams was hospitalized at Yagodnik with severe dysentery on 16th September when PB416 took off. (Perhaps that is the reason his uniform was ‘borrowed’). Wyness did indeed leave Yagodnik with the sixteen Lancasters on 16th September, but as a passenger on Flight Lieutenant Iveson’s Lancaster ME554, which landed safely in the UK at 0124 GMT on 17th September. (Wyness’ own plane had crashed on landing on 11th September  and was abandoned in the Soviet Union.) But both the Norwegian memorial and July 24th GRU record confirm the identities of Williams and Wyness at the crash site. If Williams and Wyness were not on board PB416 on 16th September, who, then, were wearing their uniforms and IDs when the plane crashed at Saupeset?

Wyness’s plane grounded

We know for certain that Williams and Wyness were not passengers. Their fate was one shared by many brave airmen who served their country and flew with Bomber Command. Together with six other Lancasters of 617 Squadron, on a mission to bomb the Kembs barrier on the river Rhine, their plane was hit by anti-aircraft fire and crashed at Rheinweiler, Germany on 7th October 1944. Although they successfully bailed out before impact, they were captured by German troops and executed, in breach of the Geneva Convention for the treatment of prisoners-of-war. Wyness, aged 24, the pilot, was buried at Choloy, in France and Williams, aged 22, was buried in the Dürnbach Cemetery, in Germany.

In Memoriam
In Memoriam

By 1946, further notifications in the record had been made. The Grave Registration document early that year shows ten allocated graves in the cemetery, one of which, XII G2, has been left blank and is later overtyped, “UNKNOWN BRITISH AIRMAN 17.9.44”. This document confirms the reburial of the bodies from the top of Saupeset to individual graves in the church yard below. These details were reconfirmed in the Graves Concentration Report of 9th August 1946. The record now states that ten bodies had been transferred from Saupeset and re-interred at Nesbyen, with nine names matching those in the RAF Crash report plus one ‘unknown British airman’. McGuire was included: Wyness and Williams had been withdrawn. The resolution thus appears to reflect faithfully the RAF Flight Loss Card, perhaps ascribing the extra body to a clerical oversight.

Final Report on PB416

When asked about the inconsistency of GRU and RAF records for PB416 the Commonwealth War Graves Commission (CWGC) confirmed that all data was based on the lists supplied by the Germans at the time of the initial burial, forwarded to the Red Cross and subsequently to the RAF. When the Red Cross and International Red Cross were requested, however, for their record of the accident, both confirmed that they had no information of either the crash or any of the casualties at Saupeset on 17th September 1944. When asked about the Norwegian memorial from May 1945 the CWGC said they had no knowledge of its existence.

So why did the first GRU report of July 1945 include Williams and Wyness, while RAF records did not? The implication is that Captain Byrne of the GRU, on the first British visit to the crash site, took the details he had been given from the RAF crash card, which showed the nine names. On discovering the new names of Wyness and Williams from the local Norwegian memorial, he simply added them to give a total of eleven casualties.  Yet McMullen was clearly aware that Williams and Wyness were not on board PB416 on 16th September and knew that they had become casualties in Germany on 7th October 1944, not in Norway. After submitting his list of eleven names to RAF on 24th July 1945, Byrne was surely advised to delete the names of Williams and Wyness, which he did on 22nd August.  This left a total of nine casualties, consistent with the RAF version, but not with the Norwegian memorial that showed they had buried ten bodies, with ten readable ID tags, the year before. That may explain the need for the addition of the ‘unknown British airman’ for the reburial in March 1946 to bring the total number of graves at Nesbyen to ten.

How could one set of IDs been lost? PB416 was carrying approximately 800 gallons of fuel on impact, so it is quite possible that the eleventh body was so badly burned in the crash that the airman’s ID was unrecognizable. This probably explains why McGuire’s name was missing from the Norwegian memorial panel. Yet the lack of any process to reconcile differences is disturbing. When the RAF received Byrne’s report of 11 bodies at the mass grave on 24th July 1945 it was the first time that McMullen’s account of nine casualties on PB416 had been challenged. McMullen was still Commander at RAF Bardney at this time, and he was presumably a difficult man to challenge. His list of nine RAF airmen was partially accurate, but he had omitted the identity and existence of the two passengers who must have been wearing the uniforms of Williams and Wyness, which brought the true total of people on board PB416 to eleven.

A local story has circulated in Nesbyen that, after the first British inspection in July 1945, a transportation was arranged by British troops with local assistance to move one body from the Saupeset grave to the British Embassy in Oslo. If the story is true it aligns with RAF instructions to Byrne in August 1945 to reduce the number of identifiable casualties in the report from eleven to nine, while honoring the Norwegian memorial, with its count of ten. Unlike the GRU, the RAF and McMullen were aware of the number of people who boarded PB416 at Yagodnik on 16th September, 1944, and that by physically removing one casualty from the mass grave this would leave ten bodies on Saupeset. The RAF had to admit that Wyness and Williams had not been on the flight, because of subsequent events, but they had to bury the fact that their uniforms and IDs had been borrowed by unnamed passengers and had been found at the crash site. The final step in adjusting the body count was made public in March 1946 when the casualties were reburied at Nesbyen, ready for visits by families from the UK. A tenth body was now added to the adjusted GRU reports in March, confirmed in August 1946 and designated ‘Unknown British Airman’. It is certain that McMullen was aware that the tenth and eleventh bodies were neither RAF nor British: hence there was little risk of their families being aware that the GRU or the RAF had been involved with the burial of foreign servicemen in a British War Cemetery in a remote part of Norway.

Defence Attache Matt Skuse in Nesbyen Graveyard

This total perfectly aligned with the 10 new gravestones in Nesbyen cemetery for the ten bodies brought down from Saupeset in Spring 1946. It is likely that the instruction for this change by GRU was made and approved by the RAF in line with previous changes by the GRU. If the eleventh body was transported to the British Embassy in summer 1945 it would have required an order from the RAF and official sanction from the Foreign Office in London. Yet, by making one body physically disappear to the British Embassy in 1945, and the second body being made anonymous as ‘Unknown British Airman’ in 1946, it was as though the two persons wearing the uniforms of Williams and Wyness had never existed and certainly could not be traced.

But they did exist. What next has to be investigated are the questions of who might have been wearing the uniforms belonging to Williams and Wyness, why they were on board an RAF Lancaster three-hundred-and-thirty miles off route in Southern Norway, and why the RAF, the CWGC and local Norwegians still prefer not to discuss the matter. For they were certainly Soviet agents authorized at the highest level to be flown on a secret mission to Norway.

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