by Daniel Kemp
Sir John Scarlett returned my call, providing more information, this time on Kudashov's movements made on our behalf since any reference was made to the code name of Ivy. I ran a comparison check between the dates he'd provided and the sites of 'known to be' active biological weapon laboratories that were listed on the file I was given on Thursday evening, originating from the Foreign and Commonwealth Office. There were two matches. The off-putting thing was they both were in Poland. As the CIA had a partial hand in the running of Jana Kava in Poland whilst I was there, I wondered if they knew of more sites than the FO had listed and Kudashov had strayed across their path as well. In order to clear that detail away, there was someone to meet that I would rather stay away from, but couldn't. I found the resolve to call and arrange to meet with him: Spencer Morrell, the Director of the CIA in London.
He had met Hannah several times and had attended our wedding. My messages on the Whitehall screens, and on my mobile phone, were full of ones from him of condolences and concern. After the customary exchanges, we agreed to meet that evening for dinner at Scott's in Mayfair, London.
* * *
I had first run into Spencer at the scene of an attempted assassination of the Israeli ambassador outside the Dorchester Hotel in June 1982. I had been home from Prague a few days before being assigned to the team who arrested the perpetrators. We met again five days later, when President Reagan visited our shores, and I was on his protection detail. There was a twenty-year gap before our paths crossed again when in 2002. I was in a pub in Derry in Ireland, and a nail bomb decimated the collective clientele. Morrell was on his way there to liaise with me and another Brit on the green, as a tour of Ireland, with any connection to the IRA, was called.
The date of June 1982 was smiling at me as it slowly travelled around my mind. I was home from what I believed was a successfully completed overseas mission with a page-long index of phone numbers of attractive women to further my education with, and no time for Jana Kava and her dead brother to get in the way. As so often in recollections of pleasant times, something comes along to disturb it. I remembered a conversation Spencer and I had whilst engaged in the craft of babysitting at the Houses of Parliament. He with a President and me an Iron Lady to look after. Morrell alleged that MI6 knew of the conspiracy to kill the Israeli ambassador months before it happened but, he said, they were stood down from intervening by the British government. He went on to allege the government wanted to assist Israel in the dispute with the PLO.
The attempt on the ambassador's life was used by Israel as justification for the 1982 invasion of Lebanon and the beginning of the war. Morrell had inside information that the Iraqi Intelligence Service was behind the assassination attempt and they too wanted the PLO out of Lebanon. But for them it was for political ends in neighbouring Syria. This gave rise to an interesting question—was Miles Faversham shunted from his Middle East desk in May '82 because of Her Majesty's Government's knowledge, and if so, was that the reason for him to die?
* * *
We had got past the tragedy of Hannah's death and were into the main course from Scott's menu by the time I raised that twenty-five-year old allegation of his. If I were to be asked why I didn't believe his face of astonishment, then an answer would fail me. But some things in life, and particularly the business I'm in, are beyond explanation. By the time we reached the dessert course, the murky darkness was clearing slightly.
“There was a hell of a stink over here in the press about it, Patrick. I'm surprised you can't remember. It was started by some questions put to Prime Minister Thatcher by some lord of somewhere I've forgotten the name of. It was notable because he was in the House of Lords when he asked it and beyond your archaic laws of slander. He had Palestinian connections and wanted to draw Thatcher out about what he alleged was a cover-up. Of course, nothing happened. After a day of headlines in the national press, all was forgotten and swept away.”
Morrell was coming up for air every now again, leaving the sweet smell of his treacle pudding and custard to waft across the table and fill me with envy as I cast my eyes at the bleak coffee I'd chosen with Hannah's words of warning ringing in my ears: just by thinking about sweet puddings is enough to put weight on, Patrick. Stop being wicked and stop thinking of them. I told myself at least I had a brandy on which to sulk. He did not stay submerged in the custard for long.
“June that year was dominated by the Falklands War and all the comings and goings of diplomats to see your PM. Reagan sent down instructions for us to help out where he could, but he was pulling back on full Presidential support, worried about drawing the Soviets in. Chile was also on your side, which helped you a lot as the Argentinians kept some of their elitist mountain army divisions back on the border, worried Chile might take advantage of the situation and invade. But you had no British Commonwealth down there and most, if not all, South American countries were lining up against you. A couple of them even offered to send paratroopers when things looked dodgy for the Argentinians. It was a tough time for us in the CIA keeping a lid on things.”
His sarcasm released an unrestrained and hearty laugh that for reasons best left unsaid, always reminded me of the Soviet-made heavy machine pistols the IRA got from Libya. We confiscated a few and used them ourselves. My stomach was churning over by the time he stopped laughing, and it wasn't due to the food.
“Did you ever run across a Russian name of Kudashov, Nikita Sergeyovitch Kudashov, Spencer?”
“It's good that your Russian is better than average. For a minute there, I thought you meant that little bald-headed guy who used to slam his fist down and shout a lot about Cuba, name of Khrushchev. I know he was nasty. How about the one you're talking about; is he a nasty Ivan as well?”
“Did you get a chance to look up the name I gave you, that one I thought was a US agent in Poland and Czechoslovakia?”
“Yeah, the Petr Tomsa one. I did look. That was an interesting one. A little beyond what I'm supposed to do, but hey, that's what friends are for, right? We had him, but not for long. Apparently, we poached him from your lot when you weren't looking. Lasted from sometime in May '82 until around September that year. No printed signatures on his sign-up papers and no existing retirement package. Came and went like a winged Pegasus disappearing into the night sky.”
I was into my second brandy as Spencer began his first. Time to savour revelations of how Jana Kava (as Petr Tomsa) functioned within the CIA, and to see if the brandy would make Kudashov's name be inadvertently mentioned.
* * *
Spencer Morrell had an annoying characteristic. He had an irregular need to clear the back of his throat, which not only broke up his sentences, making the conversation difficult to follow, but often caused alarm to those unaccustomed to his ahem, which was proclaimed loud and distractingly. Notwithstanding that impediment, some very interesting new information was revealed that evening as a result of my wallet being emptied on glasses of expensive booze. One tale he told was of what must have been Jana's last report as a CIA agent on the 31st August 1982, the same date I was in Warsaw. He said it had the highest classification, with the name of a Polish colonel redacted, but not the name of Petr Tomsa as the field operative. It did not take long to find out why that was.
Jana was in Warsaw on British business. She was there to meet a Polish army colonel attached to the Soviet 8th Army Group. The colonel had met Jana twice before, but each time she had been with her brother. On those occasions, Dalek had passionately spoken of the Solidarity movement, attempting to persuade the colonel to incite unrest within his army contingent that would coincide with the planned uprising. London's interest was centred on when the colonel was officer commanding the forward communications headquarters position overseeing one of the biggest military exercises the Soviets had ever organised. It was staged in and around Gdańsk.
One objective was to show the West how strong and flexible the Red Army was, but another reason for choosing Gdańsk was to show, beyond doubt, what sort of
strength the dissent students in the Solidarity movement would face if they tried to overthrow the Polish government. It hadn't worked. The protests went ahead and much blood was spilt. Whether or not the colonel's sympathy lay with the anti-Communist Solidarity students and supporters before the riots or after was never said, but there was no military uprising. None of that information was included in the CIA report. I had it in a corresponding file attributed to agent Ivy, London's code name for Kudashov.
The following was essentially the same in both reports, the one I had on file from Ivy and Spencer Morrell's spoken account. At first, the colonel asked Petr Tomsa the whereabouts of Dalek Kava. He was told he was hiding in the university, having escaped the security services when they forcibly broke up the demonstrations. He was further told Kava couldn't come out of hiding, but any message he wanted to send to him would be passed on. He blushed and looked embarrassed by Petr's oblivious recognition of emotional feelings towards Tomsa's brother, but he successfully reassured him that all was well. This was where the reports differed.
In Spencer Morrell's account, Petr Tomsa told his CIA contact that the colonel wanted to defect to America. He needed instructions on how to combat the security ring the Polish security services had established around the US Embassy in order to stop the students approaching. He said he had most secret information and wanted to come over straight away, but only if Dalek Kava would come with him.
In the MI6 file I'd drawn from the archives, there was a different story about the information this colonel had. In this report it said the colonel gave Jana the English code name of an American who was a highly placed operative working inside GCHQ in Cheltenham, on America's behalf. That's where my information came to an end.
There was nothing recorded that Spencer could read of what transpired at that meeting. He had no idea that the colonel had given Jana the coded name of an American spy inside one of this country's most secretive establishments. Nor was he aware of what I strongly believed—another part of the CIA being responsible for the murder of Jana Kava. The secret Soviet radio signal coding I sent to London on that same day had not been released to any other agency by the time Jana was killed, and at that stage I couldn't work out why she had been murdered, but murdered she was; I was sure of it.
Kudashov said he sent the signal of Jana's meeting to the Soviet Satellite desk on the 31st of August, which meant that both Glenister and Scarlett would know the coding used to conceal the name as soon as my signal was decoded, but there was no record of Jana's Warsaw signal being received at that desk on the date in question. In fact, according to every logbook I could find, there was no Warsaw signal sent to London Control other than mine. Were three people lying or had Dickie Blythe-Smith still got his hands in the pot, even after leaving Joint Intelligence? Were Kudashov and Dickie Blythe-Smith playing games?
I needed to discover why was the Imagery Control Commission in Germany sent pictures from an over-fly of Poland by a NSA satellite, and why did they find their way to one of our Joint Air Reconnaissance platforms? Rattling bones were gaining prominence inside my head. In Sir John Scarlett's words, Dickie Blythe-Smith was running the Warsaw operation whilst in retirement, and Scarlett thought he had set a ball rolling that was yet to stop. Why, Dickie, why?
* * *
I convinced myself I had found the ball Dickie had started to roll and I was at the beginning of the hunt for its end. Maybe my persistence had prised open only a smidgeon on the books of untold secrets involving this country and our ally, the United States, but it was enough to whet my appetite for more thought-unlocking brandy in the long lounge of Hannah's and my Sussex home, where some of our shared memories floated in my cigar smoke.
* * *
I was in the gym around six a.m. and then had breakfast with Kudashov that Sunday morning at about eight, but before either of us could enjoy what was offered, I had to listen to his complaints. They ranged from being held a prisoner against his will to not having a drinking companion for the plentiful supply of vodka in the cupboards, and he would prefer it to be his long-time partner who would be concerned for his welfare. I settled that by informing him that we had told her he was away until at least Tuesday, helping the newly arrived Russian trade under-secretary to acclimatise himself to London's hidden treasures.
According to the background I'd read, he had been active as a field agent for almost forty-five of his seventy-odd years of age. He had never been apprehended in any country he had operated in, which were exclusively Warsaw Pact countries and Russia itself. Dangerous places for even the best professional. My own record of fieldwork was nothing in comparison to his, and my experience as an interrogator was minimal. Could that be the reason why he chose me to come to and present his story? I tried to put those self-doubts behind me, taking this as an ideal opportunity to find out if my hidden theories were right.
“Tell me some more about Cilicia. Was she staying with you when her parents died and was it you and your wife who raised her after that plane crash of theirs?”
“Yes, she was and yes, we did, Patrick. They were on a fishing holiday in northern Norway. It was something they did every year since Ludvík had got his wings four years beforehand. He loved flying and they both shared a love of Arctic fishing.”
“Did he get that love of both things from you or your wife?”
“Not from either of us, no. Karina's father was the keen fisherman as I remember, but sadly after the accident we drifted apart. I hope that doesn't happen with you and Hannah's relatives, Patrick.”
I didn't want to speak of Hannah to him or anyone. “How long did Cilicia have with you both before your wife passed away?”
“My granddaughter was twenty-one when my Anna died. It was true she had another year to do at university, but she was already working in the counter-intelligence surveillance section of the Federal Security Service at Moscow Centre. Her whole education was aimed at that position and the technical qualifications she would need. In Russian universities, such courses are much sought after,” he proclaimed with obvious pride.
“I imagine they are, Nikita. I find it strange that you've never mentioned your wife before. How long were you married?”
The conversation drifted along cozily, with him sharing some fond memories of their wedding and honeymoon in the Sudetes mountain range, near Germany. Memories of other holidays were like photographs spread before me, along with general recollections of happy times; each one was like a dagger stabbing at my heart.
“Anna was my connection to the Russian Romanov family, you know. It was she who was the daughter of a legitimate cousin of the last Tsar. I can't be sure of course, but I think it was because of the tsarist connection that I was never suspected of being a spy. They probably thought I wouldn't have the balls as you would say in England.”
I was pouring more coffee as I asked how his wife died.
“She committed suicide when I wasn't at home with her.” He fell silent and motionless.
I shared the grief that death brings. Perhaps it was speed of his reply, or the tone in his voice, but there was something wrong in that confession.
“I'm so sorry. I should have read all the records, but what with everything that's happened of late—well, time has not been that kind to me. Did that happen in—what I've read—sounds like a very prestigious apartment you have in the centre of Moscow, or where you lived in Prague? Oh no, of course, you moved from Prague in the same year as Jana Kava went missing in Poland, did you not?”
In Kudashov's red file, the one that should have every detail of an agent's history, his wife Anna died in the apartment he and she shared in Moscow some twenty-one years after he had left his role as police commissar in Prague. However, as I've said, I didn't believe her death was recorded correctly, but I didn't know why. We locked eyes, with him trying to discover exactly what I knew without answering my question and me trying to dig away at the covering that hid the real Kudashov. It was I who spoke next.
“Our Civil
Aviation Authority turned up a really strange twist of fate when they contacted their Norwegian counterparts to verify your son's air accident in 1997.”
He did not avert his attention from what remained on his breakfast plate.
“There was another accident involving a modern version of the aircraft your son was flying. It happened on the Sunday of last week, two days before you reached out to Fraser Ughert. The pilot was killed, as was his only passenger, a woman in her fifties by the name of Claudette Avogova. Perhaps you could shine a light on that name for me, Nikita.” I stood and looked down at him before continuing. “But no, I don't need your help just yet. Claudette Avogova died in 2001 whilst in Sierra Leone. The Norwegian police traced the body to a classified CIA file, which we managed to access. Normally I wouldn't get involved in a case like this as it's way beyond my realms of interest, but there's something else in that incident that the Norwegians reported.”
Although anyone would show some form of interest to this story of intrigue, Kudashov showed no sign of any. His eyes were empty of remorse and the detached expression he wore on his angular, ashen coloured face did not alter in the slightest until I introduced the Norwegian report.
“As I said, something else is strange other than the similarity of the make of aircraft involved in this latest incident. The woman carrying Claudette Avogova's passport boarded her private flight at a place very near to where your son and his wife's aircraft crashed ten years previously. It's so deserted in that region that they took the precaution of recording where they were heading each day with the Norwegian Arctic Rescue coordinated from Narvik. We were able to take a look at the copy of the log your son and wife registered with the Norwegians whilst on their fishing holiday.