In the Enemy's House

by Howard Blum

  But Bob, who had learned of the disaster at a hastily called intelligence briefing that swiftly turned as mournful as a wake, had another suspicion. And while people left the session in stunned silence, their eyes averted from one another, Bob saw things clearly. His collaboration with Meredith over the past year, all the leads he’d been following, had convinced him that he was not inventing conspiracies where none existed. A possible link between Enormoz and wartime nuclear fission. He believed, just as Meredith believed, that Russian scientists had “been aided in their effort to build it by information stolen from the United States.” But believing was not the same as knowing. Or, for that matter, proving.

  It was a difficult time. His conjectures weighing heavy on his shoulders, Bob was summoned the next day to another meeting at headquarters. It would be three weeks before a somber Truman would share the news with the American people, but an interagency committee had already been formed to try to get a handle on “the implications of the Russian bomb,” as the shell-shocked intelligence specialists put it. Lish Whitson, the studious new chief of the Espionage Section, was the Bureau’s representative, and before he faced the other committee members, he wanted to hear from his own unit’s supervisors.

  Three of Bob’s colleagues had already taken their places at the round table, and as soon as Bob entered the room he could tell by the stony stares that greeted him that something was not right. Whitson, breathing anger and frustration, started things off with a barrage of hostile questions. They were all aimed at Bob. Every one of them, each in its separate yet accusatory way, wanted an answer to pretty much the same thing: Had the Russians built their bomb using information they had stolen from us? And if they had, why weren’t the culprits behind bars?

  Bob sat there, absorbing the attack, waiting for Whitson to finish. But from the opening salvo, he’d understood what was going on. He was the man, it was well known in the Bureau, who was leading the charge to track down Soviet spies. It didn’t matter that, if scientific information had indeed been taken, the thefts had occurred during the war—long before Bob had gotten on the case. This was not a time for logic. Whitson wanted a scapegoat. And since the Bureau didn’t have an actual Russian to fit with a noose, they’d settle by placing the rope around the neck of the next best thing—the supervisor of the Soviet Espionage desk.

  At last it was Bob’s turn to speak. He did his best to fight back. But it wasn’t much of a battle: he couldn’t reveal too much about what was going on at Arlington Hall, what Meredith had discovered about Enormoz; even the president was still in the dark about the operation. Flailing away, he offered a painfully brief catalogue of espionage activities that “resulted in some information—probably of minor value—being transmitted to the Russians.” But in the end, with a condemned man’s resigned candor, he had to admit that “it wasn’t possible for us to assess accurately how much direct help these penetrations had been to Soviet scientists who had fashioned the Russian A-bomb.” His direct answer to Whitson’s direct question was a hapless I-don’t-know.

  When the torturous meeting finally came to an end, Bob left with his head hung low. He felt he’d let the Bureau—no, the nation—down by failing to round up the Soviet agents Meredith’s magic had revealed. Worse, his sense of shame was compounded because his defeat appeared irreparable. He’d never find the definitive proof he needed to track down the atomic spies. And he’d never be able to stop them before they made off with more of his country’s secrets.

  YET TRUMAN, WHILE MUDDYING THE matter with his xenophobic slur, had nevertheless been onto something when he’d argued that making an atomic device was a complicated business. Uranium would be at the fissionable core of the prototype weapon, but one critical manufacturing problem was that uranium in its natural state is made up of two isotopes, U-235 and U-238. Isotopes are like fraternal, rather than identical, twins. They’re elements with the identical chemical makeup, but at the same time they’re unique. And as with twins, it’s these variations, however small, that make all the difference. U-235 was the more highly radioactive twin, and the one that packed the wallop necessary to power a chain reaction that’d culminate in a nuclear explosion. Only—it was rare. In a chunk of natural uranium, less than one percent of the entire element would be the sleek U-235. The remainder was the heavier, inert U-238.

  The scientists working on the bomb were faced with a daunting technical challenge: How do you separate these two conjoined uranium twins? How can the vital U-235 be extracted from the uranium element?

  American and British scientists had experimented with a variety of complex methods—electromagnetic separation, chemical extraction, and gaseous diffusion. Gaseous diffusion, in the original theories scientists presented, was a sort of Rube Goldberg project involving a high-pressure system with pumps and tubes arranged in an interconnected cascade of more than four thousand stages. Uranium gas would course through this network, making its way through a series of membranes with submicroscopic openings, and the lighter U-235 would complete the journey before its heavier twin. It was such a promising theory that even before all the glitches had been worked out, the Manhattan Project had agreed to build a $100 million gaseous diffusion plant in Oak Ridge, Tennessee.

  And now Meredith sat at his isolated desk reading a KGB cable announcing the delivery of a theoretical paper on the top-secret gaseous diffusion process. For while Bob had been lumbering about like a bereaved man, Meredith had been working. After laboring long hours well into the night, he had succeeded in deciphering a series of cables starting back in February 1944, between the New York rezidentura and Moscow Center that all involved the activities of an agent code-named “Rest.”

  A message dated June 15, 1944, fused all his inchoate findings into a single cry of alarm:

  “. . . received from Rest the third part of Report ‘SN-12 Efferent Fluctuations in a Steam [and here Meredith had stumbled for a moment; he couldn’t unlock several code groups] Diffusion Method’—work his specialty.”

  With that, Meredith knew, and all his suspicions became certainties.

  Just as Bob knew when he read the deciphered cable reporting what the agent code-named Rest had delivered. “It became immediately obvious to me,” he’d say, the words crackling with resolve and anger, “that the Russians had indeed stolen crucial research from us and had undoubtedly used it to build a bomb.”

  As if in an instant, Bob was lifted from his doldrums. His theories had been proven; they were no longer speculations, but cold, hard facts. And there was an additional reason spurring him on. Just a day earlier at an intelligence briefing he’d attended a secret had been shared, albeit in purposefully imprecise, layman’s terms, that gave his activities a new critical urgency. In the aftermath of Russia’s detonation of an atomic device, President Truman had issued the order to build a new superbomb, a hydrogen bomb. “Go to it, and fast,” the president had instructed the Atomic Energy Commission. Bob now feared that the Soviet spies who had stolen the Enormoz secrets would make off with the plans for this new superweapon, too—unless he and Meredith stopped them.

  In his revitalized mood, he swiftly made an operational decision. Elitcher, Sobell, “Christian name Ethel”—all the inquiries into the potential members of Liberal’s ring were to be put aside. That investigation suddenly seemed to Bob to be a diversion, and at best one that offered the prospect of only small rewards; there was nothing in their backgrounds that linked any of these suspects to atomic research. His priority was to track down the spies who had stolen the atomic secrets, Russian agents who could very well still be in place, pilfering the secrets of this new superweapon. His first step in this renewed hunt was to find the answer to the question that now burned inside him with the fiery glow of a vendetta: Who is Rest?

  24

  THE WORLD OF A KGB agent runner was one of frequent change. Stay too long in one place, working one set of joes, and the greater the likelihood the opposition will get a bead on you. And so Moscow Center had pulled Sasha fr
om his posting in New York, praised him for a job well done, and, before too long, had sent him off on a new assignment. On September 27, 1947, Sasha’s destination was the Nag’s Head pub just across from the Wood Green tube station in North London, where he was to meet Rest for the first time.

  Every agent runner has his own “handwriting”—that is, his own style of tradecraft—and Sasha was fond of bars for making visual contacts with his agents. He could wait without attracting attention; what could be a more natural cover than bellying up to the bar, glass in hand? While, at the same time, he could keep an eye on the door to see if the opposition’s watchers had tagged along. The Nag’s Head offered all this and more. It was on a busy street, directly across from a bus stop—the perfect observation post for a discreet reconnoiter before entering. Inside, three low-ceilinged rooms ran into one another, and each was smoky, dark, and crowded, boozy voices roaring up in a constant din on this Saturday night that made eavesdropping impossible. Another blessing, a bell above the door conveniently jingled when someone entered.

  Yet despite all the operational cards he was holding, on the day of the meet, Sasha was uncharacteristically wary. Just three months earlier, newly arrived in Moscow after his five and a half years in America, he had been summoned to the Center and found himself facing an impassive Lieutenant-General Sergei Romanovich Savchenko, the head of intelligence, and Leonid Kvasnikov, his old boss in New York who had become the head of the KGB’s Tenth Directorate for Scientific and Technical Intelligence. They advised him of his new mission. Comrade Feklisov was to take control of the agent who was “one of the key elements in the construction of the Soviet A-bomb.” The agent code-named Rest had previously worked at Los Alamos and had made regular deliveries of secret materials that had proven essential to Russian scientists. In July 1946, he returned to England as head of theoretical research at Harwell, the center for the British atomic weapons program. For the past fifteen months Rest had been out of touch, but he’d recently sent word that he had new material. Sasha was to be assigned to the London embassy, once more masquerading under diplomatic cover, to handle the reactivation of Rest. He was specifically ordered to “satisfy all his requests.” And at the same time, Sasha was to convey to Rest specific questions from the Soviet team that was trying to keep pace with the Americans’ surprisingly public development of the new superweapon, the hydrogen bomb.

  The session with the two spymasters concluded with a mission statement that was delivered with an icy hardness: “An arrest would be in and of itself a serious setback; any kind of problem could be potentially disastrous for Soviet scientific research.” Sasha understood: He’d received a warning. And with so much hanging in the balance, he did not need to be informed of the penalty if he was the cause of Rest’s apprehension.

  Sasha proceeded to the eight p.m. meet with a professional’s care, leaving, as was his practice, hours in advance. He had always preferred to act alone. His customary maxim: The more agents at a secret rendezvous, the greater the risk. But this time, with the stern warning he’d received in the Lubyanka still ringing in his ears, Sasha decided a more cautious tradecraft was necessary. After cabling the center for permission, he’d recruited Volodya, the good-natured young embassy chauffeur, to act as both his legman and babysitter. And so, with Volodya watching his back, he traveled to the southern edge of London, before reversing course and heading north by a combination of buses and underground trains. When Sasha had set out, a thin sun had been shining through the autumn clouds, but by the time he emerged from the Wood Green station, the sky was dark and the operational gods had further blessed the evening with a concealing fog.

  Still, Sasha waited. Prudent tradecraft required that he look before he leaped. If the opposition had been trailing him, or, an even more dire thought, if they had been following Rest, their surveillance teams would be in position along the street in front of the Nag’s Head. He walked slowly to the bus stop, and stood there, pretending to read the newspaper, while all the time praying a bus wouldn’t come before he had time to check for all the watchers’ telltale signs. He looked for smoke trailing from the exhausts of parked cars; vans with an array of antennas on their roofs; or clumps of drinkers scattered on the street who never touched their pints or exchanged a cheery word with their mates. He kept a sharp eye but saw nothing that gave him any cause for alarm.

  With an impressive punctuality, at precisely eight p.m. a tall man with a thin wisp of blond hair above a broad dome of a forehead that seemed high and wide enough to hold an encyclopedia of scientific secrets entered the pub. He walked with a martial erectness, shoulders back like a soldier on parade. He was the very image of the photograph Sasha had scrutinized at Moscow Center of the agent code-named Rest. Sasha waited an additional five minutes or so just to be sure no one was trailing behind, and then he crossed the street to join the lively Saturday-night crowd inside the Nag’s Head.

  REST SAT ON A HIGH stool, a beer in front of him, as he skimmed the pages of the Tribune. The newspaper had been the recognition signal ordered by Moscow Center, but Sasha’s stomach dropped precipitously as he realized the choice had been an operational mistake. The Tribune was too left wing for a scientist with the highest security clearance to be seen reading in these suspicious Cold War days.

  Sasha carried a book with a red cover clutched in his hand—another previously ordained sign—and Rest acknowledged his arrival with a small nod of his head. Sasha quickly looked away, and found a place at the other end of the bar. And once again he waited. He knew this was a crucial moment. If the enemy had been following, now would be when they’d enter the bar. Either all his fears would remain locked in his imagination, or in an instant his worst nightmare would become very real.

  Suddenly, the bell above the door jingled and in Sasha’s shaky mind it clanged like a fire alarm. The door flung open and two men walked in. In a series of observations that passed so rapidly as to be a single instant in his mind, Sasha saw that they were old enough to be retirees; their faces shone with the rosy glow that comes from a night’s drinking; and, with voices jolly and booming, they greeted the bartender like old friends when they ordered their pints. Although never partial to beer, Sasha took a long, relieved swallow from his glass, and for once the tepid, bitter taste was a pleasure.

  Rest was the first to leave his seat. There was a corner of the dark room where the wall was decorated with framed photographs of British pugilists, their fists raised menacingly as if ready to do battle, and, as per the plan, he walked over and focused his attention on them. The Center had decreed that in addition to the recognition signals, a word code should be exchanged. Before leaving Moscow, Sasha had memorized the dialogue.

  “The stout is not as it should be,” was his line.

  “Nothing can compare to Guinness,” would be Rest’s response.

  But once he arrived in London, the local rezident informed him that Rest had vetoed the exchange. He had taken it upon himself to come up with a new script, to which Sasha had agreed without protest. Once in the field, the agent, not the handler, is always in control; he sets the rules.

  When Sasha approached, Rest murmured, “I think the best British heavyweight of all times is Bruce Woodcock.” He said the words as if he were merely thinking out loud, talking to no one in particular. His eyes remained glued to the photographs.

  Sasha replied: “Oh, no. Tommy Farr is certainly the best!”

  Rest didn’t continue the argument. He returned to the bar, but suddenly he was in a hurry. He finished his beer in a single gulp, paid his tab, wished the barman a good evening, and was on his way. Sasha moved toward the window, a man finding a place to stand. But his gaze looked out toward the foggy street: there was no one on Rest’s tail as he walked slowly down the block.

  Sasha caught up with him several minutes later.

  “Hello. My name is Eugene,” he said, adding one more cover name to a lifetime of aliases. “I’m happy to see you.”

  “Hello, Eugene. I’m
happy as well,” said Rest with a smile that seemed genuine. “I thought you had forgotten me.”

  The two men shook hands and continued down the nighttime block, talking all the way as cars hummed along the High Road.

  IT IS THE DUTY OF case officers to get to know their agents. And it is a practice that is driven by more than mere curiosity or good manners. It is necessary for survival. A professional has the training and the experience to sort through the clutter of his agent’s life and make judgments about security, about what might set off the chain of events that will culminate in the enemy’s counterintelligence team crashing through the door.

  On that first evening stroll through the foggy streets of Haringey, Sasha peppered Rest with questions. He wanted to know about the scientist’s life at Harwell. The British atomic research center, as Rest described it, was a compound surrounded by barbed-wire fences and checkpoints, a world of “endless security requirements.” But his handler was cheered to hear that Rest had moved into a nearby boardinghouse and, thanks to the generous salary he earned, had his own car.

  Sasha also discussed the risks Rest would be taking, and in doing so he had to walk the fine line that is the handler’s constant balancing act: he wanted the product, but he didn’t want his agent to get caught. “How will you be able to take out documents, calculations, graphs, and sketches?” he asked. What if they are discovered “while checking your ID card just as you are leaving Harwell?”