by Daniel Kemp
Tovarisch, to give Paulo his full Russian name or far more commonly referred to as simply Comrade Sergeyovitch, was, at the time of his mother's death in 1955, twenty-three years of age, and had served in the KGB for three years since leaving Leningrad University, where he had written his final thesis on international law. He had joined the Communist Party when he was sixteen and at the time of the wedding, working in the fifth Directorate dealing in counter intelligence, widening his thoughts on his own expectations of life.
On their arrival in Leningrad in May 1935, Andrea Isadora Mafalda Cortez was 26, and her son Romario three. They were part of the Basque refuge's evacuated from Spain at the start of the Civil War to the Republican supporters; Russia. Andrea had sewn money given to her by her lover and the father of her son, Lord Maudlin Paterson, into both her own and the child's clothing, hoping that their temporary communist hosts would not search them too thoroughly.
“I managed to get it in roubles, and it should see you through for a year or two. I will send more for the boy and yourself as soon as I can; you may need it.”
Maudlin told her this, after he had said that his homeland of England was out of the question for them to relocate to, owing to the position he held. He never quite explained what that was, but knew it would be sufficient for the practical and realistic Andrea. It was to be the last of his escapades, as his own father was, by now, showing the first signs of dementia and by 1939 his future lay at 'Annie's' door. He sought one last dash, before representing his country through the Bank of St George in a much more restrained way.
Ireland had ended badly for him. On the slaughter of the 'Cairo Gang' his cover had been blown, and his patriotism and respect for others smashed, so he had looked for more adventures elsewhere in a solo role, unconnected with the echelon of rank. Spain was the obvious choice, with the tensions between the ruling Republicans and the Nationalists, led by General Franco, rising by the day. He offered himself to the British Foreign Office and was sent to San Sebastian, on the northern coast, to monitor the arrivals of the volunteers to Franco's fascist army. He simply noted their names, and feigned friendship.
He was forty-three, with a family of four children at home in Yorkshire, but that did not stop his philandering eye selecting the beautiful, dark-skinned, Andrea as his next mistress. She had fallen pregnant early in their relationship, much to Maudlin's initial annoyance; however, Andrea's appeal was deeper than one just based on sex. Maudlin had found love for the umpteenth time in his lecherous life. That version of his love had lasted an abnormal amount of years compared to other moments of amore he had endured previously, but one year later it was beginning to wane.
She had told him, in one of their heart-to-heart conversations, of relatives who had settled in the City of St Petersburg in the time of the Tsar and of its golden steeples and marbled halls; so it had seemed to him to be a perfect place in which to park-up his mothering lover. He was as good as his word when he received her one letter home allowed by the Soviets, addressed to him at the Embassy in Madrid.
The bonds were dispatched with no enclosed letter of remorse or sympathy. He was unmoved emotionally, by her and his son's distress, confident in the solid belief that they were far enough away to cause no such pain in his own life, and money would solve their predicament. Daft, he was not at least in a monetary way, never expecting them to be cashed to their face value in some High Street bank but he believed, sincerely, that the black-market would cash them for her and give in return sufficient roubles for their wants. However, he was unaware of Kim 'Stanley' Philby's intervention. In any case, by November the following year, that so-called love for Andrea had been replaced by a new, more opportune one, named Veronica, who lived around the corner in Hans Place SW1.
The earth moved from beneath Maudlin's feet when, in July of 1946 a letter, redirected from the Madrid Legation Ministry, arrived at his Eton Square home, and he was forced into a whole new direction. He did not recognise the writing, but knew instantly who it was from.
Part of Maudlin's benevolence had been invested by Andrea in the absorption of the English language, taught to her son by an émigré who had fled the British Isles, seeking the neutrality of the USSR at the start of the war in which to hide his cowardice; only to find himself conscripted into the Red Army in 1941, where his conscientious objections counted for nothing.
“Listen well to these lessons, my boy. You will never regret it. The language will stay with you all your life, if you listen well.” Andrea had told her son, as she ruefully remembered her own inability to concentrate at Maudlin's feet. His proficiency in Spanish was, unfortunately, their preferred means of parlance.
Maudlin's illegitimate son had penned that letter of 1946, in which he detailed his and his mother's plight. He told of how they had been unable to locate the relatives and were still at the Baskov address and how he had been educated at school number 193 in that district. How the leather-jacketed 'Chekists' had issued them new papers, identity cards, and new names. Andrea, he told, had expected money, but none had come. She does not blame you, father. She never has. It is the system that she holds responsible.
She had spoken to her son of how time must have moved on in Maudlin's life, and how she accepted that, ascribing no accountability to Maudlin in any way. He quoted his mother's words again, when he wrote: 'You were a kind man, and I knew what I was doing in our affair. I was aware of your marriage. You were as honest to me as I was to myself.'
He went on to say how they felt betrayed by the Soviets; and imprisoned by them.
We cannot leave this country as they told us we could. They say it is Franco's fault, not theirs, but not all countries have been overrun by fascists, surely? We are housed like animals, and treated much the same. You cannot trust anyone, as everyone is frightened by the authorities. Mother has made friends in the Postal Sorting Office, where she works, so that is how we have been able to send this letter. If I have been successful in reaching you, then I will acknowledge any reply you make. Please, if there is anything you can do for us in the way of money, we will love you forever. The political officer in the Sorting Office is the one who taught me my English, and is a particularly good friend. Address any letters to Tovarisch Sereyovitch Korovin. He will be less suspicious, and not jealous. He signed the letter Paulo.
Rather than ignoring the cry for help that lay on his desk he picked up the challenge, and began to pull his ex-lover and his child free from their misery. He sent Bonds in smaller denominations than before, and again in roubles.
He cautioned Paulo to be vigilant in their exchange, and begun to school him in the arts of deception.
“If you're asked where they came from, tell them that you got the money from an uncle abroad; say Spain, it will suit your cover story better than England. If you can use banks over there, then enlist the help of others, and pay them well for their silence. If you have to rely on the black market then use the same man, if it is at all possible. It will cut down the chances of you being discovered. Do not spend the money in large quantities, or waste it. Use it to buy influence and favour, and note well who they are, the people who take your bribes. You may be able to use that information. Use the system that you're in to further yourself within it. Buy your status, but be careful. Get a sound education through your own endeavours on which you can build your foundation. There is nothing I, or anyone else, can do regarding repatriation. There's an iron curtain being pulled across the whole of Europe, and Stalin has the cords. You must wait until it is reopened.”
“That bastard Stalin! A curse on Russia!” Paulo would repeat over and over, whenever he was alone with his mother.
Those, and more, were the words of wisdom and advice that Maudlin passed on to his son, and Paulo began to admire his father through those dispatches. The frequent references to secrecy particularly impressed him and stirred his already fertile imagination. Not being one to sit on his hands and let life unfold before him, he decided to change his lot. On joining the KGB,
he was immediately noticed for his excellent English and his devotion to the Communist cause. In 1956 he was selected to become third Naval Attaché and assistant translator at the Soviet Union Embassy in London. In readiness for the State visit of First Secretary of the Communist Party; Nikita Khrushchev, and his Foreign Secretary, Bulganin.
By now, Paulo had relayed the sad news of Andrea's passing, and of his own marriage. He had explained the full reasons of this, and detailed the commitments he had made to Tanya. After carefully reading his letter, Maudlin developed a deeper affinity towards his son. Why this was, is a matter of conjecture. Judith, with her understanding of the human psyche, could well have diagnosed some sort of regressive personality disorder dating back to his abandonment of Andrea and his son. A feeling of guilt, compared to Paulo's acceptance of his responsibilities and reaction to those. Maybe it could have been a repressed feeling of inadequacy. However, Judith wasn't there to pass judgement, and even had she been, it would have had no bearing on the outcome. Whatever it was, he denied it no longer. Maudlin congratulated his son on his well thought-out plan, and offered his help.
* * *
Judith had parked the car about thirty yards from her home in Brownswood Road in the leafy London suburb of Clapham, just off the Common, opposite a huge, yellow flowing forsythia, swarming in bees. My nemeses; as my reaction told.
“Oh, don't be such a girl, Harry! They're only bees.”
“To you, maybe, but I'm allergic to them. You could have found a better place!”
“That's who went missing, Harry. A girl. The person we lost track of…and never found.”
Chapter Twelve: Water Lilies
In April 1956, Lionel Crabb a frogman, once of the Special Boat Services or SBS, and a highly decorated hero of the Second World War went missing underneath the warship that brought President Khrushchev to Portsmouth harbour. He was working for MI6, in attempting to ascertain why the ship caused no echo passing over the underwater sonic beacons in the Solent, and the diplomats had their knickers twisting around their necks. We denied all knowledge of underwater swimmers lurking around the ship, until the Soviets declared that they had him; and wouldn't let him go. We said he was out testing new equipment; they said he was a spy. It was in the only time in history that the 'Chief' resigned. The newspapers were awash with bellicosity. Give him back, or else! They screamed. Get stuffed! The Soviets replied, and they sailed off, into the night.
Tanya seized her opportunity. 'You must take the first chance that comes your way don't wait for the door to be opened for you! You are to be the companion of the Ambassador's wife. It is their way of showing how they care for us peasants. There will be receptions and planned visits…you will know when it is right. Memorise the address. If he is not there, tell them to call him. Make them understand that it is urgent.'
I wonder if it was my father who made this incident happen? Paulo contemplated, when he recalled the instructions he had given his wife.
When Paulo received his posting orders to London, he pleaded his case for taking his new wife with him to the bureaucrats. He begged for compassion and leniency in recognition of her sudden blindness, offering to have his meagre salary docked for her air passage in way of recompense. No one bothered to examine Tanya, nor did they refuse Paulo's request.
“Comrade Doctor, do you remember me? Yes, you treated my mother. Well, I came across this new, shining, stethoscope whilst on official business at the Leningrad Medical Laboratory, and having noticed that yours was old and worn out, I thought of you. Please accept this one. Oh, I nearly forgot…here's a new blood pressure recording apparatus as well. Yes, I know they are extremely difficult to come by. What? You've been waiting almost a year? You should have told me! I've been fortunate since becoming a KGB officer in making many friends. If you're short of anything in the future, do contact me. Oh, I almost forgot something else in my excitement. While I'm here, could you do me a small favour? My wife of two months has an eye infection, and I do not want to leave her here, alone, while I am in London with First Secretary Khrushchev. Yes, him. I work for him you know. Write me a note to say she must go with me, please? Address it to his secretary and I'll pass your name upwards, perhaps reaching his exulted ears.”
Since the news of his new assignment, he and Tanya had thought hard and long about how she could accompany Paulo to England, what temporary affliction would persuade the officials to show compassion. Paulo remembered a warning he had been given when he acquired the poison laid down to deter the rats that infested the block each winter.
“Wear gloves when you put it down, and hide it from any children. Whatever you do, don't touch your eyes afterwards without washing your hands it can make you blind,” the chemist, whom he had bribed, told him. They practised for the remaining weeks left to them in Russia; testing quantities and effects, how much weeping was enough for sympathy and not too much for inquisitive attention or worse, examination, until they reached a comfortable enough compromise.
The day after Lionel Crabb's disappearance, the wife of the Russian Ambassador was told that all things were to appear normal, and she must keep her prearranged visit to the decadent Harrods Store in Knightsbridge. Appearances were to be kept up, no matter what the circumstances, and how harsh she would find the experience. Mrs Ambassador had never considered the task of escorting Mrs Khrushchev to one of her favourite stores as being burdensome. The opportunity presented many advantages that could be exploited; the one of free gifts came readily to mind.
Tanya saw things differently through her weepy eyes. It was not commonplace gifts she sought, but the gift of promised freedom. It was all she had dreamed of; and now was the day that all could come true. My great Paulo has arranged this for me…I must take my chance, she thought, and she prepared herself for the challenge.
There were three cars that set off that day from Kensington Gardens, whilst the rest of the Embassy staff busied themselves on more pressing agendas, such as what to do with Crabbs floating under battleships. The first heavy Zil, specially imported from Russia, carried the armed guards who were to protect the wife of the First Secretary. The second automobile would carry the lady herself, along with Mrs Ambassador, Madam Katrina, who would have preferred her usual British car with its obvious luxury to the practicality of this Russian beast. In the third was Tanya, and the other companions to the more important ladies who travelled before them.
London Police had surrounded the building, but democracy ruled that day and had not closed the department store, instead limiting the number of shoppers to a manageable size. Had it have been Khrushchev himself, it would have been a different matter. Luck still held for Tanya.
She had to use the toilet, she told Comrade Madam Katrina. “Yes, I can manage, my eyes are not so bad today, thank you,” she replied to Mrs Ambassador's concerned question, and was allowed to go alone. The self-sacrificing Katrina preferred the comfort of an escort at her side, and the closeness to the attention of the Western Press with its flashing cameras, that the entourage brought.
“I will come straight back, yes. I promise I will not stop at the jewellery counter and ask for that huge diamond ring you admired so much.” Tanya joked, as she dabbed the tears away.
She kept her word in regards to the diamond, but not her word on the rendezvous. The calm Tanya took her chance, and left by the side door. She jumped into a cab, thrusting her note of the memorised address into the drivers hand, then went the short distance to 16 Eton Square and the welcoming arms of her father-in-law, Lord Maudlin Paterson, now Earl of Harrogate.
“All is done, Comrade Petronikov,” Paulo reported to the Head of Station at the Russian Embassy in London. “She has been placed as we arranged.”
Tanya gave Maudlin the letters sewn into her coat lapel, and he began to read. The first part of the first letter was all about how they were to contact each other and where Maudlin was to deposit the bulk of the money, as well as arrangements for his 'everyday expenses incurred', as Paulo put it.<
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I have found inducement, and the fear of my position, powerful weapons in the forced concurrence of others. I have been subtle and selective in its use, and will continue in this way. However, as I climb higher in this corrupt organisation, I will need more elaborate means to effect that coercion. I will need something from you soon, to cement my position and that of Tanya's. Add one to the Cardinal number each day, until twenty-one, then start again and wait patiently for my contact. It may be years before I am able to help in changing the world.
The second part of the first letter was the surprising part, and the one Maudlin had not been prepared for.
Tanya carries my child, your grandchild inside her. It was a moment of indiscretion on both our parts, but not one I am regretful of. You are a great man, as I have come to recognise over our time through our correspondence. You have proved your devotion to me and made ample recompense for the years my mother and I spent in isolation, none of which can be attributed as your responsibility. Your responsibility can, now, be demonstrated in full. Treat my child as your own, I do not expect knighthoods bestowed upon him or her I understand your personal position but I do expect what I know you can give: respect.
The second letter, he filed away in a ledger at 'Annie's'.
In October of the same year, Maudlin was in Boodles where he was joined by a leading Civil Servant from the War Department. After the exchange of pleasantries and several glasses of a splendid Chateau Margaux, he learnt the unpleasant news that our special friends, the Americans, would not support the action being taken in the Suez by the British, the French, and the Israelis.
“They're going to pull the plug, old boy, and back Nasser. They think the Reds will get involved if we don't all pull back!”