by Alex Gerlis
I’ve got the bloody photograph with me and I’m not prepared to risk travelling with it on a boat. Remember, I’ve seen the bloody thing. I know it’s him for Christ’s sake!
Early on the Tuesday morning he took a Swedish Intercontinental Airlines flight from Bromma Airport in Stockholm to Perth. At Scone Aerodrome, an RAF Avro Lancastrian from Transport Command was waiting on the tarmac with its engines running to fly him straight down to London.
For the first time since he’d seen the photograph in Ponsonby’s office, Porter began to relax. London, it seemed, had finally got the message. For the umpteenth time, he patted his breast pocket to check the photograph was still safe.
Now they’d have to do something about it.
Maybe it hadn’t been such a bad journey after all.
Chapter 7
Moscow and London, December 1943
Viktor Krasotkin wished he shared the confidence his masters had in him.
It’s because we trust you, they kept telling him. It’s because you’re so good. We know you won’t fail.
He used to be so confident – it was impossible to undertake these missions without believing absolutely in what you were doing. But now he wasn’t so sure. He’d been recalled to Moscow in the first week of November: by then the Comintern for which he’d worked no longer suited Stalin’s purposes so it had been dissolved and Viktor found himself working for the intelligence arm of the NKVD, though most of the people in Moscow were ones he’d worked for before. However, some things had changed. The briefing from what turned out to be a bunch of idiots had been a long way from its usual standard, with none of the thoroughness he was used to. Then there was the debacle over his identity.
‘You’ll be a Slovak,’ they told him, ‘an engineer from Bratislava.’
‘Are you mad? I don’t speak Slovak!’
‘But you speak Czech,’ one of the idiots said.
‘Yes, but not fluently and, though it’s similar to Slovak, it’s not the same. Vienna is just a few miles from the Slovakian border: sooner or later I’m bound to bump into Slovaks.’
They returned to the dacha the following day, the three idiots looking pleased with themselves as they spread a selection of documents on the table in front of him, his photograph staring out from some of them.
‘Who’s this?’
‘Alain Vercher,’ said the same idiot who’d thought he could be a Slovak engineer. ‘Apparently many French workers have been sent to Vienna to work in the factories. You’ll be one of them: your French is good enough, no?’
Viktor looked shocked then broke into laughter. ‘And you think a French worker sent to Vienna is just going to be able to wander around the city, without arousing attention? They’ll be slave labour and watched all the time. You’ll have to do better than this.’
‘It’s a solid identity, it…’
‘I tell you what,’ Viktor interrupted. ‘How about I go as an Englishman? My first name could be Winston and maybe you could get me one of those silly round hats that English gentlemen wear. That shouldn’t attract too much suspicion in Vienna, should it? I’m sorry, but this isn’t good enough.’
The three men opposite him looked stunned, and looked at each other then back at him. No one spoke to them like that: ever. ‘Are you refusing to serve, comrade?’
The self-control Viktor had exercised for many years snapped. He leaned across the table and effortlessly grabbed the idiot by the collar, pulling his now crimson-red face to within an inch of his. The man was making a choking noise, his eyes bulging. ‘Refuse to serve? When have I ever refused to serve? I’ve served in enemy territory for all these years and done everything I’ve been asked to do while you’ve been doing nothing more dangerous than cross an empty road. I’m your best agent left out there. I realise I’m not indispensible, but I’m a thousand times more indispensible than you are!’
He pushed the man hard back into his chair, watching as he struggled to regain his breath. The other two sat very still on either side of him, their faces white with fear, avoiding eye contact with Viktor.
He knew if they were going to come for him they’d do it at night, so he sent Darya away, anxious she shouldn’t be caught up in any of this. He began to write a letter to the wife and daughter he hadn’t seen for more than 13 years, but he’d no idea what to say and abandoned it, burning the paper in the fire. He’d shown emotion, which was unforgiveable, and he’d broken the cardinal rules of the service, ones he always demanded of others.
Never question; never discuss; never hesitate.
***
It was 9.00 on the morning of Wednesday 15th December and the freezing cold that had gripped Christopher Porter since he’d set off for Moscow three weeks previously had now been replaced by overwhelming exhaustion. Apart from a few hours here and there in Stockholm, he’d hardly slept since Moscow and, now back in London, he was doing all he could to stay awake.
In an ideal world he’d have taken the day off to allow himself a decent sleep, an indulgent hot bath, a decent breakfast at his club and perhaps an overdue visit to his barber on Jermyn Street. But since the revelation in Neville Ponsonby’s office, his was certainly no longer an ideal world. Instead, he was in a cramped and stuffy secure room, high above St James’ Square. Sir Roland Pearson was present because Downing Street had begun to take a dim view of Porter’s department’s tendency to withhold from other agencies intelligence they believed only they should be privy to. Edgar was there, of course, along with George Whitlock, looking worse than ever but insisting he was still Head of Station in Vienna even though he hadn’t been in the city for more than five years.
‘Your message was that this is an urgent meeting, Porter.’ And it had better be, unspoken but implicit.
Porter stood up, increasing his chances of staying awake.
‘I returned from Moscow yesterday. To be wholly accurate, I returned from Stockholm yesterday. It took me the best part of a week to get back from Moscow. It wasn’t that much quicker than by convoy, though a damn sight safer – and warmer.’
‘We weren’t actually aware you were going to Moscow until you were halfway there, Porter,’ said Sir Roland.
‘I think I may have sent the cable just before the convoy left Scotland. I do apologise for that, Sir Roland, but it was terribly unclear as to when it would leave: it all depended on how long it would take for the convoy to form and for its close escort to arrive.’
‘Hardly a reason for not informing me of your visit before you left,’ said Sir Roland. ‘And do you now feel able to share with us the purpose of this visit?’
‘That’s why I’ve asked you all here at such short notice. Neville Ponsonby had asked to see me as a matter of some urgency, but obviously it was impossible in the circumstances for him to say why, hence my visit. I didn’t feel this was something I needed to clear with you, Sir Roland. I considered it a routine operational matter, not one you’d want to be bothered with. Ponsonby has something of a history of jumping the starter’s gun and I couldn’t be sure this wasn’t another of those occasions: a false alarm in other words. I didn’t want to waste your time if it was. As it transpired, it wasn’t a wasted journey.’
Porter paused for a moment, picking up a cup of now lukewarm tea from the table and sipping from it. His hands were shaking and his eyes felt heavy. Edgar slid a silver cigarette case over to him and he happily helped himself to one, his hands still shaking as he lit it.
‘You’ll be aware, Sir Roland, that this country, along with the United States and the Soviet Union, signed a declaration in Moscow at the end of October,’ said Porter. ‘The declaration covered a number of issues to be dealt with after the war, but the one Ponsonby was most concerned about was this one, the Declaration on Austria. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining copies for you. I’m not sure if you’ve seen it, Edgar, nor you, George.’
From his briefcase he removed three single sheets of paper, each headed ‘Declaration on Austria’. He distributed them around
the table and allowed a minute or so for the others to read the short statement.
‘As you can see,’ continued Porter. ‘The Declaration guarantees Austria’s neutrality, with all three parties agreeing it should be a free and independent state after the war. Since the declaration was signed, Ponsonby has picked up quite a lot of talk in Moscow that the Soviets have no intention of honouring this agreement. In short, they don’t envisage Austria being neutral but rather very much falling within their sphere of influence.’
‘You say “a lot of talk”,’ said Sir Roland. ‘What precisely do you mean by that? Gossip?’
‘Intelligence, Sir Roland.’
‘Specific intelligence?’
‘Well…’
‘Well then,’ said Sir Roland, gathering his papers in front of him and preparing to leave. ‘A complete waste of time. Ponsonby brought you all the way to Moscow to share some half-baked gossip. Maybe he was lonely, I don’t know – wanted a friend to pop over and have a reassuring chat, something like that. What you need to be aware of is this: Winston quite rightly sees the Moscow Declaration as a very important diplomatic achievement. He’s delighted with it. It’s a real feather in Eden’s cap and this bitching behind the back of the Foreign Office has got to stop. Sooner or later this wretched war will come to an end and, the way things are going, we shall be the victors, along with the Soviets. We have to think of the peace that follows.
‘The problem with you chaps in intelligence,’ – Sir Roland paused and made a dismissive sweeping gesture around the table, as if to emphasise that what he was saying applied to all of them – ‘is that for you the difference between war and peace is of almost academic interest. Once this war ends you’ll no doubt begin to start worrying about the next one: by the sounds of it, you’ve already started to do so. I understand that, it’s part of your job. But I’m not prepared to have the Moscow Declaration undermined on the basis of little more than chit-chat. You see…’
‘… I’m sorry to interrupt Sir Roland,’ said Porter. ‘But I have to say that was certainly my view at first. However, Neville Ponsonby is no fool: he wouldn’t still be in Moscow if he was. He had something much more specific to tell me and he’d very good reason to feel the need to do so in person. He has a very reliable source who approached him shortly after the Declaration was signed. According to her, one of the Soviet Union’s top agents was recently recalled to Moscow. The agent – who she knows as Vitaly – is being prepared for a very special mission. He’s to be sent to Vienna. If true, it would of course lend some credence to the view that they wish to undermine Austrian neutrality.’
‘But is that all, just the name Vitaly? As I say, little more than chit-chat,’ said Sir Roland, now putting his papers back into his briefcase.
‘Hang on, please.’
Porter opened his own briefcase and from a compartment inside the lining extracted an envelope, from which he produced a photograph. He passed it first to Whitlock who peered at it and shook his head before passing it on to Sir Roland, who did likewise.
But it was a very different story when it was passed to Edgar, who until that moment had been sitting quietly, apparently not terribly interested in the meeting. He bolted upright from what had been an almost slouching position and held the photograph tightly, a look of shock on his face. From his pocket he whipped out a pair of reading glasses and studied it more closely, turning it slightly to the left then tilting it upwards, all the time his eyebrows raised in apparent disbelief. He stood up, angling the picture towards the light, his eyes wide open, with a look of sheer surprise and not a small amount of fear.
‘Well I never,’ he said eventually. ‘And this picture…’
‘Ponsonby’s source took it at the dacha where this Vitaly is staying, quite recently – in the last couple of weeks we believe.’
There was a tense silence in the room. Porter allowed a smug appearance to rest briefly but pointedly upon him, while Sir Roland and Whitlock looked confused. Edgar shook his head in continued disbelief.
‘Jesus Christ,’ he muttered, now looking agitated. ‘Jesus… Christ.’
‘You know him?’ said Sir Roland.
‘Jesus Christ? No, not as such… But as for the chap in this photograph…’ Edgar was waving the picture quite aggressively. ‘… Well I certainly know him. It’s Viktor Krasotkin. If this is the man the Soviets are planning to send in to Vienna, then you can tell Winston we have a very serious problem.’
Edgar had a reputation as being a man of few words. He rarely showed any emotion, beyond a general air of irritation and generally having something better to do with his time. So his excited reaction at seeing the photograph ensured the undivided attention of the other people in the room. Sir Roland looked startled and some colour returned to Whitlock’s face.
‘You’re sure it’s this chap?’ asked Sir Roland.
‘I certainly am,’ said Porter. ‘I’ve only ever seen photographs of him but I recognised him straight away. It’s a good picture, decent light and all that. Apparently he was dozing at the time, which was why she was able to risk taking the picture. Admittedly his eyes are closed, but I’m not sure that detracts from it. Edgar?’
‘Doesn’t detract from it at all,’ said Edgar. ‘No question this is Krasotkin. I’ve seen him in person, though from a distance. But I’ve also seen plenty of photographs of him: Hurst’s team took some especially good ones of him in Paris in ’39 and we have plenty of him in Switzerland in ’40 and ’41. Do you remember that double agent we were running from Switzerland, Sir Roland?’
‘Henry something or other wasn’t it?’
‘Henry Hunter – also known as Henri Hesse,’ said Edgar. ‘The Soviets recruited him as early as 1929 or 1930, we can’t be absolutely sure. We ran him as a double agent, not that he was aware of it. We even got him into Germany – and out again, somehow. He was an extremely useful conduit for us to pass on information that suited us to the Soviets. Well, Viktor Krasotkin was his handler, perhaps from when he was recruited – and remained so until Hunter’s… demise in 1941.’
Edgar removed his jacket and carefully chose a cigarette from his silver case, spending some time examining its tip for no apparent reason. He allowed a few puffs of smoke to travel the short distance towards the ceiling and watched them dissolve before picking up the photograph, holding it with the reverse facing him so the others could see the picture.
‘So, who is Viktor Krasotkin?’ He turned the photograph around so he could see the face. ‘He’s a quite remarkable person: he has the ability to operate undercover and in different guises throughout Europe. He speaks a number of languages and is fluent in French and German, to the extent that he can pass as a native in those countries. He’s a big man, but has the ability to not stand out in a crowd: there are times when very experienced teams of ours have followed him and he’s simply disappeared. We know for certain he was in France for most of ’39 to ’41, but he was also in Switzerland during that period. We’re fairly sure that in late ’39 he went back to Moscow, but not for long: he soon returned to Western Europe. The very fact he’s survived so long is a testament not only to his own skills, but also to the way he’s regarded by his masters. Moscow tends to see senior agents as being disposable because they lose trust in people who’ve operated away from the Soviet Union for long periods of time: they’re concerned they’ll lose a connection with the motherland and start to affect bourgeois tendencies.’
‘All of which means, Sir Roland,’ said Porter, ‘that Krasotkin is perhaps their top agent. Sending him into Vienna is a clear sign Austria is a priority for them. They wouldn’t waste one of their top men there if it wasn’t.’
The silence around the table was interrupted only by the sound of Sir Roland drumming his fingers on its surface and Whitlock’s cough. It was Sir Roland who spoke first.
‘Assuming all this is true – and I’ve no reason to doubt it – then it’s one thing the Soviets calling this Krasotkin back to Moscow to send him t
o Vienna and no doubt set up a clandestine operation there. But actually getting him to Vienna is quite another thing. I…’
‘He’ll get there, don’t you worry about that,’ interrupted Edgar. ‘Please don’t countenance him failing to do so.’
‘What makes you so sure Edgar?’
‘Because Viktor is Viktor, Sir Roland. If they need him in Vienna, he’ll get there. It’s in our interests to assume he’ll be operating from there very soon. He may even be there now. Who knows?’
‘I shall of course let Winston know about this,’ said Sir Roland. ‘But I know what he’ll say: do what we can to observe him in Vienna and counter whatever he’s up to there. You’re frowning, Porter. Whatever’s the matter?’
‘We hardly have anyone left in Vienna, Sir Roland. George ran it, as you know, and he’s sitting here.’
‘What do you mean by hardly anyone?’ Sir Roland sounded incredulous.
‘There’s the nun, Sir Roland,’ said Porter. ‘But she’s not been terribly willing recently. That chap Wanslake barely lasted a day and that was more than two years ago. That’s it really.’
‘Hardly anyone, Porter? That sounds like no one!’ said Sir Roland. ‘You need to remedy that pretty damn quick. Get someone reliable into Vienna. We need to know if Krasotkin is there and, if so, what he’s up to. When I brief Winston I’ll tell him you have this in hand. Now, if you’ll excuse me I have to…’
‘Could I ask you to remain for a while, Sir Roland?’ Edgar spoke so firmly that Sir Roland obediently sat down from his half-standing position.
‘It’s in connection with what you’ve just said,’ said Edgar. ‘I agree that, having heard what Christopher has had to say, we do need to get someone into Vienna. But what I’m about to tell you will show that’s now even more imperative. Sir Roland, Christopher – I hope you’ll excuse the fact I’m rather springing what I’m about to say on you, but this really is the first opportunity to do so. George is aware of it though.’