by Daniel Kemp
The following day at the bank, Maudlin used that second letter, adding his numbers to the first, and under Tanya's pseudonym 'Mother', wrote her first message to Paulo. He addressed it to the Mail Box Number in the premises that dealt in such commodities in the Earl's Court Road, next door to the station, two stops on the district line from Notting Hill and a stone's throw from the Russian Consulate. In March of 1957, when the remains of the Army of Occupation left Egypt, the Russians consolidated their Mediterranean anchorage in Alexandria, thus freeing their Baltic fleet.
“It is not a great secret, Comrade Korovin. Lubyanka thinks it was inevitable, and the Kremlin agree; however, it means we can bring forward our preparations. Congratulations, Paulo! Your agent has done well.”
Over the next few years, the information that Maudlin supplied using Tanya's code name was low-grade material, such as the launch of a Skylark rocket from Australia, freedom from British Sovereignty for Singapore, or the stationing of USA Thor missiles in Norfolk. However, all of this, plus what he did at home, established Paulo's rise in the hierarchy of the KGB.
“She is long-term, my Mother. Maybe it will take thirty years to ingratiate herself significantly within their structure. Be patient, my friends. It will be worth it in the long run…Just you wait and see, Comrades!” He announced to his increasing list of devotees and disciples, now-well practised in the black art of deception and lies. So they did, and they are still waiting to this day for something of consequence to come from 'Mother.'
From Garden, Paulo's chosen code name in this operation, came enough to fill that opened file. It kept Dicky Blythe-Smith's hands as 'C' busy and happy. It was never started by the mistake made at the KGB headquarters, the Lubyanka, by an incompetent communications operative. It started with the unearthing of a then current British subject, in cohorts with the USSR.
Chapter Thirteen: Red, White and Blue Petunias
“I'd better go fetch the dog. He's with Phyllis, my neighbour. She looks after him when I'm away, which, thank God, isn't often nowadays. I think he suffers from a recognition defect and forgets who I am if I leave him too long.”
Judith's house was one of the myriad of Victorian terraced homes gracing this fashionable side of London. They were elegant in a modest way; two-storied, bay-fronted dwellings built of yellow brick, with alabaster pillars and scrolled motifs added to enhance their outward appearance. There was a short front garden of no more than three paces along red and black tiling, then an enclosed porch with glazed ceramic glistening tiles reflecting the overhead light, which had either been left on when she had left, or was on a timer. An imposing stained-glass twin-paned door with two deadbolt locks was opened by Judith, and I followed her in.
“On reflection, I'll leave the dog until the morning, you've had enough shocks for one day as it is. Welcome to my home,” she announced, ushering me past, kicking the mail and the assorted leaflets lying on the floor to one side. We were in a surprisingly wide hallway, with a side table under an ornate mirror, doors and arches leading off into the house, and no expected staircase.
“I had it all altered before I moved in. Daddy's money paid for it, of course, but it is all my design. Makes the entrance look bigger than it really is without stairs, don't you think?” She pronounced. “Go through the first arch on the left, Harry. You'll find a bow-fronted high, yew cabinet that hides the drinks. None of your brew, I'm afraid, but there is whiskey in there; help yourself. I'll have that gin and tonic I missed out on now if you'd like to do the honours. I'm going to run my stuff upstairs; make yourself at home.”
I heard footfalls on iron treads, which I figured were spiral steps somewhere to the rear of the house. I considered giving an offer to help, but I could not resist the temptation of a good nose around and the thought of a drink in solitude was impossible to pass up on.
I was in an illusionistic room with geometrically angled white painted lines on a black background, diminishing in width towards the front window, giving the perception of depth and space. The furniture was of an art deco mode: bright red and yellow leather armchairs with sharp-edged hexagonal occasional tables between two groups of three. Everything seemed to have an allotted space. It was a cared for room in an intrinsic way, but not a room to live in and enjoy. I poured two drinks and sat in one of the chairs, as the Bang and Olufsen CD machine was remotely switched on and La Boheme filled the room. I was not alone for long.
“Feel like doing some work tonight, H? You're to see Peter tomorrow, and it would be good if I could say that we've made some progress.” She emphasised the 'some' and I took it as more of an order, than a request.
“Sure…if you tell me who was the girl your lot lost,” I haughtily replied.
“The wife of a young attaché who went on, in later life, to become a member of their Politburo and, even later, a beacon towards capitalism and democracy. She's still around, I strongly believe. Anyway we counted her off the plane, but not back on it. Name of Tanya Korovin. Ever mentioned to you, Harry, that name at all?”
“Was she important to the Russians then, this Tanya? Did she give away our treasures?” I asked, still trying to keep my own agenda separate from Judith's. Where we both wanted to find the murderer, I still wanted to cover Maudlin's back. I was trying desperately hard not to disclose his involvement but was weakening by the moment ever since I was told of my brother's death.
“We can't be certain, as we never found anything about her. She must have assumed another identity, and then vanished. She obviously had to have help for that to happen, but from whom; we don't know. She may be, right now, copying the notes of the last security meeting of ours or of the Americans, and passing them on to Paulo we just can't tell. Tanya might be the biggest fish out there…or she may have genuinely been Korovin's wife, and he made her escape possible. Possibly she never applied for asylum here, because she was protecting her husband, and didn't want Paulo to be exposed back in the motherland…Who knows?”
That was what Maudlin was then, the Schindler of his day, a refuge for escaping refugees from the oppressive Soviet Union but why? Hedonistic reasons, or was it the same sense of patriotism that had driven the Patersons before him? Before that question could be answered though, the one about how he knew the Korovins had to be addressed.
“I have something I think you should see, Judith. It may be of some help in understanding how my family has come to be connected in some way to this.” My resolve was still strong, however; even I could not refute that she had access to what I needed.
Apologetically, I gave her the code that my father had found in the concealed floor safe at 'Annie's', where he found the references to MA and RD appended to the ledgers of missing funds ascribed to them. From my satchel I placed those papers and books our shared table, on top of the yellow rug, shaped like a musical quaver, on which it stood. In the top left hand corner of the sheet of paper containing the 26 letters of the alphabet and the corresponding numbers, was a capitalised number seven, and in the right hand corner the name 'Tanya,' followed in brackets by the word; 'Mother.'
“It's a code, Harry! One of their one-time pad methods!” she exclaimed excitingly, almost overbalancing from the leather red and yellow chair as she reached forward to take hold of one. “You add a number to the seven each time you send or receive. Your father gave you this when he discovered the missing money, didn't he? Why have you been keeping this a secret? Been afraid of finding a red under the family bed, have you?” she asked, damningly.
“In a way, I suppose, yes. Scandals were popping up all over the place in those days, weren't they? Profumo, the Portland circle, George Blake, Blunt, the Queen's art curator…everyone seemed to have one in the closet. It was even more rife in America, more so perhaps because they had more things worth nicking than us. My father was worried that Maudlin may have been helping the Soviets not only with money, but other things as well.”
She was examining the ledgers, and without looking up she asked, “Do you know what the initi
als stand for, Harry?”
“No, that's what puzzled Elliot and me. We thought that they referred to people…but whom, we didn't know. Hadn't a clue,” I declared.
“Then let me enlighten you, and further your education in the ways of your lecherous forbears. MA was Maudlin's Spanish lover and RD his son, your…what is it? Step grandfather, born Romario Dominico Cortez, later to be known as Paulo. Now, here is a piece of the jigsaw, I must say. You've got Russian blood links in your lineage, Harry…and if what I'm assuming is right, it's got enormous arteries pumping red white and blue liquid diagonally through the veins. And not horizontally, as in the Soviet flag.”
“I'm not following you, Judith. You're on a different page to me, old thing.”
“Less of the old, if you don't mind but yes, I know I am. I've been one in front all the time, dear thing, and until now, you haven't been following me at all. I think it was Paulo Korovin you met in Moscow, and if that's right, then Trimble knows all about him and how he fits into the Garden file. Your little piece of paper here opens up a multitude of interwoven streams, leading eventually to the killer, Harry. Too late for brother Edward, but maybe in time to save you.”
“If Peter knows all about Korovin and how I'm connected to him, then why use me to drag him out in Moscow?”
“Exactly, Harry. My thoughts entirely, and that's the road I've been trying to nudge you along all this time. Finally, you've opened up Pandora's box. Let us both hope that it's not empty.”
“You knew about this, then? Maudlin's son being Paulo Korovin all along?” I asked.
She gave a little laugh as she refilled the glasses, and I hoped that we weren't in for the long night that I could foresee coming. As she regained her chair she kicked off her outdoor shoes, tucking those skinny legs of hers under her bum in the now familiar position of questioning repose.
“For all the years that I've worked exclusively on your family's Cockpit Steps file, I have never been able to piece together anything of note. Yes, I managed to uncover the fact that Maudlin had a lover in Spain in the thirties, that was difficult enough, because no one was left alive from those days. By sheer luck, and by trawling through endless documentation, I found an entry in the Embassy log that Maudlin applied for leave in May 1932. It stated 'family reasons' but I found an entry in his private bank account records from Coutts. He had drawn a cheque made payable to the 'Majestic Hotel,' Valencia, for the same corresponding dates. I checked with the hotel, and the amount he paid in those days could not have corresponded to one person's cost.
I figured that he wouldn't have gone all that way to conduct an affair; why should he have done? It was not as though his wife of 14 years was with him. She was at home in Harrogate caring for his three sons and one daughter. I checked. So, I became a bit inquisitive, and started on the hospitals in that city, thinking that I might get lucky and that he may have gone there for a birth. Sure enough, I turned up gold dust. In Santa Maria Hospital, on the fourteenth of that month, a baby boy was born, weighing seven pounds eight ounces. On the registration document, the mother was named as Andrea Isadora Mafalda Cortez, aged 22, and the father was a Martin Paterson, aged forty-four years, of no fixed abode.
As you and I know, it's best to change both names when trying to hide yourself away, but your Great Grandfather wasn't a true spy after all, and he did have a soft touch when it came to women. He wasn't that savvy, was he? The name given to the child was, as I've already stated, Romario Dominico; and, when the Spanish War started in 1936, we know that a great many of Republican supporters, and their families, had been evacuated to Russia. Now, for the first time Harry, I am able to connect the money that Peter Trimble had in 1978, which the then 'C' Dicky Blythe-Smith connected to Maudlin, to a distinct name, MA, his lover, and then in 1946 a year after the War in Europe had finished, RD, his son; it all fits.”
She stubbed out a cigarette in the push down chrome ashtray in front of her, and then continued in her appraisal of what lay before her, not seeking, or needing, my comments.
“Now, Tanya we know about and her alleged marital status to Tovarisch Sergeyovitch Korovin, to give him his full patronymic title, but known politely as our Paulo. On the entry visas he was said to have been born in May 1932, so unless Maudlin had someone else hidden away in the Soviet Union that he owed a favour to, Paulo and Romario are the same person. Are you keeping up with me, Harry? All ears and regrets for not telling me before, instead of hiding behind the past and your prestigious name?”
“I was reading from a different book, Judith. Surely if anyone can understand, then you can? Having a history and a title can be a weighty load to carry. It comes with responsibilities. I was hoping that what my father had found out did not lead down the path he suspected. Yes, I was concerned with our reputation…wouldn't you have been?”
“I don't have those worries, H. I'm only a woman, there will never be more than an Honourable to go before my name, albeit that I won't marry a hereditary peer.”
“Are you proposing, Judith? If so, I would hate to disappoint someone as charming as yourself.”
“Do be serious, Harry. At least that side of you I can stomach. In any case I've been there, done that, got the T shirt, found it didn't fit, don't want another one, but thanks for your offer.”
“Good, that's out of the way, then. Take it that I'm sleeping in the spare room after all? There I was getting my hopes up for a cuddle, seeing as how I'm the one who's lost relatives and in grieving. Have you no sympathetic side, woman?”
“Not for you, Harry. More for my poor dog, actually. Anyway, we're a long way off bedtime. You need to hear one more story before it's jim-jams time. Hypnos only visits the righteous at this time of day, and you're as far from that as I am.”
“Ah…that does sound interesting. Get down and dirty Judith, let's empathise with each other. You show first, then it's my go. Tell me about your sordid life. As you already know most of mine, it's only fair. That's where I can be of help to you. I'm very experienced. I'll point the way to your salvation.”
Another laugh in mockery, and another drink; it was going to be a long drawn out night, after all.
“It's not me who needs saving, Harry. You forget, there's no one wiping out the Davenports. The dish of the day is Paterson. Let's waste no more time…take me to Moscow in September seven years ago, and don't skimp on it, H. Give me every button on his tunic, and how many hairs were on his head.”
Chapter Fourteen: Topiary
“He was taller than me, about an inch or so, maybe six foot three. I put him round about sixty-eight years old, but I was out by four years on you, so I'm not great at estimating age. If this was Maudlin's son, then he would have to have been seventy-two. I could have been wrong, because he looked in good shape. He had a head of thick black hair I thought that it had been dyed, as it looked too perfect to have been natural but it certainly was not a wig.
He had what I would term a 'boxer's' face, a flat forehead with deep eye sockets under a pronounced eyebrow line. He wouldn't have made a successful pugilist as his prominent nose would have been a distinct weakness, and there was a line across the bridge suggesting that at one time it had been broken and snapped back straight. There was another scar on the left side of his chin about two inches long, his chin was the same as mine, squared and dimpled.
I could detect no more similarities between him and me. He had grey eyes, whereas mine are blue, thin lips where mine are thick. He did have something in common with you, though. He had a dog, a big hairy German Shepherd, which he had brought with him into the hotel. He made it sit obediently while he introduced himself, then he passed the dog to his chauffeur. I thought this a rather odd thing to do it was as if he was showing off the fact that he owned a dog!
Overall I'd say that he was an extremely confident man, someone who was accustomed to being in charge of situations, and had spent more time inside than out. His skin, although tanned, was not wrinkled by sunlight nor weathered by wind and rain or, I
must add, by alcohol. There were no red veins on his face, no liver spots on the back of his hands. I would say an administrator, not an operative. That might have accounted for his bad neck which, from time to time, he rubbed vigorously.
An elegantly tailored man, with expensive taste in clothes. One who was accustomed to refinement, but I judged had come across them late in life. It was only a feeling…nothing I could put my finger on. There was a showiness about him, particularly with the silver-topped cane, for which I could not detect a reason. I find the same pretentiousness in those who have made money, rather than inherited it. It's as though they are aware that they might lose it one day, so they wear it big and loud for everyone to see and notice. With him it was the same. He wore a large, ostentatious diamond and emerald tie stickpin, with matching cuff links and a gaudy Rolex oyster. Oh, and a wedding ring. It all never quite gelled.”
Judith interrupted me. “I'm now wondering who was the more insecure you, or him? I guess you were underdressed for the occasion, as usual…or is it just your latent snobbery bursting through?” She had not been able to resist the sarcasm, but I found it easy to pass over the chance of replying.
“He also had a two-headed eagle badge, with a mounted figure slaying a dragon, in his jacket buttonhole.” I paused, waiting for any more sharp-tongued retort, but none was forthcoming. I carried on.
“There was a note in my room on my arrival stating that he would meet me at seven that night for dinner in the Princess room, and not to worry, as he would recognise me. I was punctual and he was five minutes late, but, as I said, I had noticed him standing in the hotel foyer as I had passed through. It was hard to miss him.
He had been with one other person, who I later found out to be his driver. His command of the English language was obvious and absorbing, although there was something obsequious about him. He continued to use the phrases 'my Lord' or 'your Lordship,' even though I had told him to call me Harry. Eventually it was me that felt inferior, as if the references had intended to be derogatory and not simply oily, or overused politely. He introduced himself as Sergey Andreovich Goganof and, in his words, 'a retired public servant.'