A Covenant of Spies

by Daniel Kemp

  * * *

  “In the beginning I performed small duties for MI6, using the tradecraft I was taught by a man who called himself Rose. I must admit I found that name somewhat effeminate, which was not helped when he said that my code name was to be Ivy. You must understand I was young and impressionable when that all happened. I was making an uninformed judgement because I wanted a really red-blooded name and an equally manly named handler, not Ivy and Rose! No matter, it worked well enough.

  “The game began in earnest in early 1981. Rose—I hate that name—left instructions for me to become friendlier with the family of the one-time head of the country's Státní bezpečnost, the StB for short: one General Anotoly Vladislav Kava. I had made his acquaintance much earlier than this. The first time I met him was when I was twenty-four and in the middle ranks of the civil police. I was ordered to escort him while he marched his wife to the army barracks, where he shot her. It was either that evening or the next day I accompanied my father and mother to the Kavas' home to offer our condolences to Jana and her brother who, of course, were merely children at that time. I lost touch with the family after the general was himself murdered at the aircraft factory.

  “However, by the time London instructed me to intensify the slight acquaintanceship I had with his family, I was in charge of the civil police force in Prague. Everything went up a notch or two when I started dealing directly with London Control, who urgently wanted Jana Kava, and they wanted me to convert her in any way I saw fit. The best way into her was through her brother. I told her I would incriminate him by planting Solidarity movement propaganda leaflets and have him arrested, then handed over to his late father's StB. The StB were renowned for their long memory, and following the incident with Khrushchev at the Aero Vodochody factory, the Kava name was no longer highly respected in the State Security. The fact that I knew him to be homosexual would not have helped his cause once in the StB's hands.

  “I told Jana what she already knew; as a consequence, her position would become untenable. I was successful in the conversion, but I only saw her as of low-grade value. After all wasn't Russian intelligence the big game? But it wasn't as clear cut as that. From that moment on, things changed considerably for me. London stepped up the pressure. I cannot give you proof, but I sensed a change in emphasis on what London wanted. This would be sometime around late spring, early summer of 1982. London changed from attention on local topics, such as general conversation she'd overheard at party headquarters, or better still at the StB offices on Wenceslas Square. All of a sudden, they wanted to know if her father had known and corresponded with a KGB general named Ivan Aleksandrovich Solidus.

  “I had no idea why Control asked that question until Jana told me of a letter addressed to her dead father with a Soviet army hammer and sickle seal on it, with the KGB badge. She'd opened it. It was from that General Solidus and she still had it. Dalek was still sharing the family home with her then, so she waited for him to leave and met me near our usual spot beside the river. Inside the letter, General Solidus told of a place near his Moscow apartment where he had buried some information about Khrushchev. London's ears picked up! Go on they said, find us more. So I did. In another part of the letter it said that if ever the documents were discovered, then Russia would become the laughingstock of the world because of what happened when Khrushchev was in charge.

  “The following week, I was told that you would be part of the trade delegation that was coming to town. London said to stay clear of you. Leave you to deal and don't interfere. You know the rest, apart from one immensely important detail known only to three people: my Control, myself and now you, Mr West. As I made contact with Jana Kava after you and she parted company in Prague rather hurriedly on a Saturday night, I was told to move to Moscow and by whatever means available find the information that General Solidus had buried. I did. And I think that's one of the reasons why my life and my granddaughter's life are in danger. There is another reason that I think it's more pressing.”

  * * *

  As my stroll came to an end and the elevator rose to the PM's personal secretary's office, I imagined Fraser Ughert salivating by now as the deviousness of Victor Rothschild was uncovered and one more piece of his jigsaw fell nicely into place for his memoirs. I was thinking of the place on the tapes Fraser must be listening to of my conversation with Kudashov as I waited for the elevator to my audience with the PM.

  * * *

  “I think you were suspicious about my wife's death when we spoke of it and if I'm right I know why. In the MI6 file you have on Ivy, the death is recorded to have happened in Prague, but that's not the case. She died by her own hand in our apartment overlooking Polosk Park in the centre of Moscow soon after we moved there in October 1982. My wife's passing was written up the way it was to save me from whoever it was in the CIA who killed young Jana Kava in Gdańsk. London were covering my back by throwing misinformation at the CIA computers. That's the more dangerous pressing reason I mentioned. I think the CIA have caught up with me.

  “Anna's heart was broken when she saw what Lenin and his Bolsheviks, then Stalin and the war had done to Moscow. In 1985, things started to ease up in Russia because of Gorbachev's glasnost and his opening up of East-West dialogue. I was one of the lucky ones and allowed a travel pass out of Russia. When I was in Czechoslovakia, things were different. But to get a pass out of Russia, well, I was lucky. It seemed as though the decadent aristocrats of yesteryear were back in fashion. I followed London's orders by hiding the Solidus papers on me, travelling to Switzerland where, after some very elaborate precautions I met a man named Macintosh, but his name was not that and neither of us needed a mackintosh that gloriously sunny day overlooking Lake Geneva.”

  I asked Kudashov for a description of Mr Macintosh and it quickly became obvious who he was. Mr Macintosh was Miles Faversham and the place abroad where he met his death was Switzerland. I could think of only one person who could pull the necessary strings to get Faversham to Switzerland and leave no trace in a file or document within the secret intelligence service and that was Dickie Blythe-Smith. What I couldn't work out was, why send an overweight desk man?

  Just as I trying to fathom out why my control officer for the first part of Operation Donor was possibly murdered, the elevator had risen and as its doors opened there sat the PM's secretary ostentatiously checking his watch.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Codes

  The Prime Minister's questioning alternated between why had I not briefed him on the special forces incursions across the Iraqi border into Iran, to could we find some connection between Aybak Khoury and his Defenders of the Levant with the Iranian National Guard, whom the American President Bush wanted to declare as terrorists before he found a real reason to invade their country?

  “He's gaining more and more support for an invasion of Iran, and I'm hoping we can use the Victoria Station bomb incident in some way to help him. Israel is on side and if there is to be an international alliance again, I want the UK leading from the front. There's more business to come our way if we are among the first in the country, West.”

  The PM wanted me to contact the Egyptian lawyer who was director general of the International Atomic Energy Agency and persuade him to speak in favour of an American-led intervention in Iran when the IAEA met the following week. I suggested it would carry more weight if it came from the Minister for Foreign Affairs and, when he prevaricated, I flatly refused to do it. The disagreement became heated and where once I might have gone too far, I was held back by thoughts of Hannah's anger at my indiscretion when I returned to the apartment. But she wasn't there, was she? Nevertheless, my resolve to remain judicious persevered and I left his office saying that I would see what I could do in respect of the IAEA.

  There are many entrances and exits from Number 10 which are shielded from intrusive eyes and I was met at one by the returning team pairing of Jimmy and Frank. We swapped updates of the morning along with verification of health issues, and I thanked Jimmy f
or the deafness I temporarily suffered from. Less sarcastically, I thanked him for his awareness and accuracy. As we made our way on the journey to Windsor, and the awaiting Mrs Jacqueline Price, I was saved from further elaborating on the simple 'thanks for what you did, Jimmy' by my phone bursting into life. I was anticipating Fraser, but I was wrong, it was Michael Simmons.

  “I'm pleased I found you, sir, and obvious congratulations about this morning. I hope the leg's okay. Listen.”

  Nine times out of ten he started a conversation in such a way: listen. It was infuriating and for the umpteenth time I reminded myself to say something to him. My nerves were grated.

  “I know this is old hat, sir, but I think I've turned up something from a search I conducted using the AIS monitors at Greenwich and the advanced geospatial intelligence they offer. It threw up something that could be of interest connected to the 1982 Israeli insurgence into Lebanon. Someone gave us a heads-up four months before that war commenced. The information I uncovered included specific details of ensuing PLO movements. One route of withdrawal was a supposedly protected route to a Syrian village called Harfa.

  “Sixty-three escaping PLO members were met at that village and completely wiped out. With obvious reasoning, the Israelis were blamed for the massacre. Not only did that blame come from the higher echelons of the PLO, along with the Syrians who threatened reprisals, but from the American government. But it was not the Israelis who ambushed the PLO. Signals I've downloaded conclusively show it had been a prearranged operation between Syrian special forces and a department in the American National Security Agency.

  “We have decrypted the NSA signal sent to Damascus from Royal Air Force Menwith Hill, sir. It has been encrypted into the databanks at AIS Greenwich, marking all the CIA pings they used in those days as verification. We also have the original coded script that Menwith Hill relayed back to the American army intelligence and security command at INSCOM headquarters, Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Signal analysis of Echelon, and can I add—with Frosting on top, sir.” Michael had a sense of humour it seemed. “I've copied the case files and consigned them for your eyes, Mr West. I'm at Group at the moment. Do you need me at Whitehall, sir?”

  As I told him that I didn't need him at present but might do later, we were joined by what the PM's secretary had told me were to remain as my permanent police outriders and escorting vehicles. Their presence made me feel important, but it also intensified the feeling of loneliness.

  * * *

  The door to number 74 Rydal Drive, Windsor, was opened by a woman I knew to be sixty-seven years of age, but whatever it was she dieted on made her look at least ten years younger. Her long blonde hair sparkled as the afternoon sun struck her, lighting up her face and briefly showing the brilliance of her blue eyes before she shielded them from the glare. As she did, I briefly wondered if it was the air quality away from London that made a difference to her and Glenister's appearance.

  “This will give the neighbours something to natter about,” she declared as those blue eyes scrutinised the convoy of vehicles blocking the road with the motorcycle escorts at each end with flashing blue lights and an armed police officer at her gate. “Please, come through. I've prepared a tray of cakes and biscuits. Would you both like tea or coffee to go with them?” she enquired politely.

  I asked for the coffee, excusing Frank from either, saying he was here just to look around, citing that morning's terrorist incident as a reason. Whilst he busied himself with security matters, I thanked her profusely for allowing the visit and followed her into the kitchen. I mentioned I'd seen her work record and noted how accomplished she had been in applying her talents in the various photography intelligence fusion centres, as well as Military Intelligence Section 4 during the years that were of interest to me.

  As Frank poked his head through a doorway, announcing the place to be 'all clear, boss. Mr Price is in the greenhouse,' I had a distorted picture of Jack Price at eighty years of age tending tomatoes, and then I thought of how many times Fraser had shouted down the phone connection on the journey here. “I told you Victor was clearly in on it from the start,” and I wondered how I had connected those two images.

  Jacqueline was placing the teapot on a tray as I was visualising Fraser jumping up and down in front of his computer screen, punching the air as if he'd won a boxing match. Molly was probably there, or on her way, to quieten him. Maybe she checked his blood pressure or administered any of the tablets he had to take daily, anything to avoid exacerbating his heart problems. When he finished congratulating himself on his wisdom over Victor Rothschild, he was most probably rattling off the questions I should put to Jacqueline Price about the 1982 signal, and in his voice I could hear the excitement of predicted pleasure in Jacqueline's twenty-five-year-old memory.

  “Of course she'll remember it, Patrick. It wouldn't be every day of the week a section head of photographic analysis in Germany gets a coded signal with the Century House SIS logo somewhere on it, asking her to keep her mouth shut about a secret. Of course she'll remember. Hugo Glenister just remembered a name, so why won't she remember a signal? How could she forget that?”

  I had not shared Fraser's confidence when we left Hugo Glenister's conservatory, but as I followed Mrs Price into a large sitting room, my confidence was growing.

  “Will your husband be joining us?” I asked.

  “No, I told him this was old ministry business and to clear off.” Her smile was not only genuine, but had been in use many times, judging by the way the creases were etched around her eyes and mouth. “He would probably be in his greenhouses all day if I let him.” The smile remained and, if anything, it became more intense and sincere. “He spends a lot of time in there now. It's the tomatoes you see. Tomato rot is around at this time of year. It's been very hot in there. Whereas I have my project that's tied to the Ministry, his hobby is gardening. We've been married too many years to get in each other's way. I can introduce you if you want?”

  “Perhaps later, if there's time.” I wanted her to take the lead as I didn't want my visit to appear as if it was an inquisition. I took my coffee and a digestive biscuit, then sat back in the soft armchair opposite hers.

  “Now, Mr West, what exactly can I do for you? Your secretary was rather secretive about it, but I can understand why that was. By the way, I saw the BBC News coverage of the Victoria Station incident. Am I right in assuming the man you came with was there, as someone looking distinctly like him was?” she stated emphatically.

  “He was, yes. A very upsetting time for all those involved, I'm sure.” My presence at Victoria was censored from any news broadcast both at home and abroad.

  The coffee was good. Made from the same filter thing we had in the F&C apartment. Where did the 'we' come from? There was no 'we' any longer. As long as my thoughts were kept in my head, I was okay. I ignored those notional questions and concentrated on why I was there. Jacqueline Price understood the reason for confidentiality; could that be because she remembered the signal?

  “But sorry, I'm taking up too much of your time. It's the signal you're after of course.”

  Bloody hell, Fraser was right; she does remember. Can I jump up and down in delight, or does the death of one's wife preclude all celebrations?

  “You're after the bounced signal that was addressed to me, section head in Photographic Analysis, but wasn't meant for me. It came with instructions in plain English to hold on to it without showing it to anyone. There were two aerial photographs that, again, I was told to keep until a later date. All of that stuff was typed, but there was a handwritten note as well.”

  Could one faint if one was sitting down? I held my coffee cup tighter in case that happened to me. “Do you remember what that written note said, Mrs Price?” I adopted an ostrich's approach by averting my eyes from her, hoping she would not recognise the nervousness I felt.

  “I still have it all, you know. I wasn't going to chuck any of that away. I used to muse over what sort of spying caper I wa
s caught up in. I don't suppose you can tell me, can you, sir?” I felt her eyes on me and I returned her stare with an answer to her plea.

  “It was important back in 1982, the Cold War days and all that, but now it could be an embarrassment to a Russian official at the United Nations. With all that's happening in the Middle East, we cannot rock any diplomatic boats in the peace process that we and Russia might propose.”

  “I completely understand, Mr West. Peace is a quality we all strive to achieve for more reasons than one. Would you like another coffee while I fetch it from upstairs? It won't take me long, but I thought it safer to wait until your arrival before I got it ready. No good having it lying around then finding pressure of work causing your departure to be cancelled.”

  Having praised her for the quality of the first cup of coffee, my refusal of another seemed impolite and I'm sure Hannah would have disapproved, but I managed to take the edge off any discourtesy I'd caused by commending her carefulness. “You are very wise, Jacqueline. Who knows what might have occurred.”

  My patience was at breaking point, plus the hole in my leg was throbbing like mad, which was my fault as I'd forgotten to change the morphine patch an hour ago. Thankfully, she wasn't too long.

  The message showed both the coded version and, after being transliterated into plain script, it read: Keep until the West arrives.

  “Obviously at the time I received it, I had no idea what that meant nor, of course, the other message. But as soon as the official from the Home Office confirmed it was your secretary who called me, I knew you must be the one this is intended for. I put it all together in this envelope for safekeeping. I hope you don't mind me checking up on you?”