Next Stop Execution: The Autobiography of Oleg Gordievsky

by Oleg Gordievsky

  Eventually things began to go better. I could see that it was difficult for Michael to relax but at least his hostility lessened. When I felt that things were winding down, I said I wanted to work for the British with a clear conscience, and to that end I wished to lay down three conditions.

  ‘First,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to damage any of my colleagues in the KGB station, because there are some nice people among them. Second, I don’t want to be secretly photographed or recorded. Third, no money. I want to work for the West out of ideological conviction, not for gain.’

  There was a pause while Dick and Michael glanced at each other. Why I had come up with the second condition, I could not be sure: perhaps it was just instinctive shyness, or some inhibition caused by the fact that I was launching into a new career. Then Michael said, ‘Your second and third points — absolutely all right. No problem. But as to your first, how can we damage your colleagues? For one thing, we don’t want to, and for another, there’s no operational need to harm them. On the contrary, if you do co-operate with us, we’ll find ways of giving your colleagues extra protection. Now we know what your position in the station is, we’ll think not twice but three times before we or our allies take a decision to expel anybody.’

  I was glad to hear that. Then Michael said, ‘Look, we can’t continue talking in restaurants. Somebody’s bound to see us, and everything will be destroyed. What we’ll do is rent a safe flat, where we can meet in protected conditions.’

  ‘Really!’ I said. ‘That’ll be very expensive.’

  ‘Worth it, though.’

  ‘But if we’re only meeting once a month...’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  To my disappointment, Michael said that it would be he who ran me — and the meeting was at an end.

  I had one more brief encounter with Dick, who gave me details of the flat and a date for my first rendezvous there. He also supplied me with materials for invisible writing together with an address in London: if anything went wrong I could summon help. The new flat was way out in the suburbs but, because Copenhagen is quite small, I could reach it by car in only twenty minutes. I began going there in the spring of 1975, and visited the place regularly throughout 1976 and 1977, up to July 1978. Luckily I was under surveillance far less often than during my first tour: I was, in any case, of less interest to the Danes because I was operating so much above board, and now, although the surveillance teams had no inkling of my connection with the British, I expect that oblique pressure was applied on their superior officers to give priority to other targets. As far as I know, I was never followed as I drove out to the rendezvous.

  One potential hazard was my diplomatic number plate, but fortunately I could leave my car tucked away in a good park between apartment blocks and walk the rest of the way. Only once in those three and a half years did the car pose a problem. As I was driving out one winter evening, dark had already fallen, and it began to snow — not the sort of conditions in which you would expect anything suspicious to happen. Quite by chance a member of the Danish security service, who probably lived close by, noticed the number plate of my parked car, and was able to follow my footsteps in the settling snow. He tracked me right to the top floor of the block of flats, and then, by careful observation, even deduced which flat I had gone into. In the morning he reported to a senior officer, and his operational section began to investigate. (At a high level the British were passing some of the information I gave them to the Danes but, of course, this was not known lower down the ladder.) It took a tremendous effort on the part of two senior bosses to call off the hunt. They had to cook up some excuse for not authorizing any action —and somehow they succeeded — but the mishap gave us a shock whose after-effects lingered.

  *

  At first I was disappointed by the British failure to appreciate the depth of my alienation from the Communist system. I repeatedly told my contacts that my ideological development had been completed on 21 August 1968, the day Soviet tanks rolled into Prague; I kept saying that I was 100 per cent aware of the political realities that prevailed — and yet the message did not seem to penetrate. At our early meetings, Dick — an intelligent man by any standards — insisted on bringing along cuttings from British newspapers that described some fresh Communist outrage, some appalling example of Soviet behaviour. He knew that I could not read the English reports, but perhaps he felt that they would bolster my resolve.

  ‘Look, Dick,’ I would say, ‘I know it all ten times better than the hacks who wrote those articles. I know all about the crimes. I know about the millions who died in concentration camps. And here you are, trying to persuade me that Communism is bad! My mission is to show you that the system is even more ghastly and dangerous than you think. I come from the heart of it, so I know. And yet you bring me newspaper cuttings to turn me into a political dissident! Good God, I’ve been a fully fledged dissident for seven years and more.’

  Gradually we progressed to more useful topics. During the first eighteen months I concentrated on one particular subject before I forgot the details — the immense and highly sophisticated operation the KGB ran to create false identities. Then, it was only three years since I had been involved in it. I remembered a great deal and, for meeting after meeting, I talked in German to Michael about it.

  Then one day he came along with a paper, saying that he had made a detailed summary of my remarks. He asked me to read and check it. I found it excellent. When I reached the end, I said, ‘First class. You must have very good analysts in your service.’

  ‘Analysts?’ he said. ‘Where? Who? I did it all myself.’ Whereupon this man, who was always so serious, laughed happily because I had paid him a compliment. Even at that moment, though, I was wondering whether anyone could have written so full a paper from notes alone, and later I realized that, of course, all my talks had been recorded.[23] In bugging me, the British had broken their word about one of the fundamental conditions I laid down at the outset. They also occasionally lied to me about the nature of our partnership: they claimed that they were running me without the knowledge or support of the Danes but, of course, I knew that this was nonsense. I resented their finding it necessary to tell these untruths but thought that the Danes may have asked them to: if I were arrested by the KGB, I would at least be able to claim that the Danes had never been involved.

  Over the months, Michael gradually softened. He was Scottish, and, looking back, I see him as an austere Presbyterian priest, serious about his religion and ethics. He was not an easy man with whom to joke, but he was dedicated and hardworking, always making notes, preparing himself well and asking good questions. After living for years in England, I now see that he was rather less outgoing and relaxed than most British people, and his not-very-well-developed sense of humour occasionally made the going heavy. When, after about a year of discussions, I once again remarked that there were a number of good people in the KGB, he said, ‘Oh, come on. That’s absurd!’ — quite unable to accept an idea which did not fit in with his own preconceptions.

  Michael remained my man for two years. Then one day he announced that he was about to be moved, and that it was a blow for him to have to leave because his association with me had been fascinating and so useful for him. His successor, Andrew, whom he introduced, was inspiring in every way, always cheerful, always sincerely apologetic about any mistakes he made, and helpful in explaining to me how Whitehall and the British government functioned. This proved important for me, as I began to understand how a Western society worked, which gave me a tremendous advantage. This new man was about three years older than me, and spoke adequate Russian; but he was highly able, and also had German, as well as three other languages.

  The question arose of how to convey secret KGB information to the British with maximum efficiency. At one stage they suggested lending me a camera, with which I could photograph documents in the Residency. The idea appalled me: just one glimpse through a half-open door, and everything would be finished. Then I
began to wonder: were the British under the same pressure as our own people? The Operational Techniques Department in Moscow was constantly producing new technical devices — miniature cameras, secret writing materials, short-wave radios — which they forced on the officers in the field, and through them on the agents, because use of the gadgets at the front justified their own existence. In the stations we tried to make our contacts use all these devices, not because they were necessary or beneficial but merely to satisfy the Centre.

  When the British started to suggest secret photography, I said, ‘Look, is there some demand from London for this? Do you have a norm of the number of devices that have to be in use? Because if you do, I’ll accept one, and we can pretend I’m using it just to make life easier for you.’ When they saw what I was getting at, they burst out laughing, and I felt embarrassed at having revealed how ignorant I still was of Western mental attitudes.

  A better alternative was for me to make notes and bring them out. I could not take away telegrams from Moscow because they were too well protected, but at least I could copy out relevant parts of them. Then we devised a more effective plan. As I have said, messages for the KGB were brought from Moscow by couriers as film, which the Resident cut into lengths and handed to each officer concerned with that section. When Andrew heard this, he asked if I could bring out my part of the film, the messages from my department, which might amount to a dozen or more letters and documents, and lend it to him so that he could copy it.

  All I had to do was hand over the film at a rendezvous during the lunch break, and collect it half an hour later. But extracting the film from the Residency was not as simple as it sounds. The KGB station was still on the top floor of the Embassy building, under the roof, alongside the GRU. Strictly speaking, the Embassy cipher clerks were supposed to collect all sensitive material and lock it into the referentura during the lunch-hour; in practice, secret films and papers remained in our briefcases, which were on our desks or in steel lockers in our rooms, while we were out. Yet there was still a chance that one of the clerks, who were theoretically entitled to search briefcases during the lunch-hour, would come looking for a particular item while I was away, and not be able to find it. There was also a small risk that I would be caught entering or leaving the Embassy with incriminating, top-secret material in my pocket. Every excursion to meet Andrew was therefore highly charged.

  Since I normally went out to lunch anyway, either home or to meet a contact, there was no need for elaborate cover stories. I usually went only a short distance and met Andrew in St Annae Platz, near the Royal Palace and the harbour, in the city centre. I would go into a telephone kiosk and apparently be making a call, when he would come past and stop, ostensibly to ask directions. In that brush-contact I would slip him the film. About thirty-five minutes later we would pass each other again at some other agreed place nearby and complete our handover.

  Once, for a change, we met on the Island of Amager, and there he took me to his hotel room to show me what he was doing. Before unpacking my roll of film, he put on a pair of thin white cotton gloves and then used a simple but ingenious light device to copy it. So quick and efficient was his method that I was able to hand the British hundreds of classified KGB documents, some of them extremely illuminating. One coup was that we managed to copy the whole 150-page annual concerning the diplomatic side of the Soviet Embassy, a document which proved of high value to the Danes.

  Now that I was actively working for the British, I was much easier in my mind. Far from having qualms of conscience about collaborating with them, I felt relief and euphoria that I was no longer a dishonest man working for a totalitarian state. My new role gave point to my existence. At the same time, of course, I had to conceal what I was doing from everyone in my life, Yelena included. Had we been close to each other, this would have made things awkward at home: for everyone’s safety, a spy has to deceive even his nearest and dearest. Our relationship had degenerated so badly, however, that I felt no difficulty about keeping my activities to myself.

  All the same, I began to be more careful in my political statements. In the past I had often been quite flippant, and more prepared than most of my KGB colleagues to criticize the regime. Now I stopped, so as not to attract attention: I had no wish to be sacked or punished for irresponsibility while I had more serious business in hand. It was easy enough to do this for the atmosphere both in the KGB and in Soviet society was deteriorating: openness and lightness disappeared and the regime headed into a neo-Stalinist age.

  This trend was made clear to me by a visit of the well-known literary critic Vladimir Lakshin, who had become famous in the 1960s for his praise of Solzhenitsyn: a brilliant article about the novel One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich had made him the darling of the intelligentsia. But now, when he came to Copenhagen, and I rushed to greet him, full of 1960s’ enthusiasm, he turned cold and dismissive, not wanting to talk. Later I realized that after Solzhenitsyn’s expulsion from the Soviet Union Lakshin knew how vulnerable he himself had become — and since all embassies were full of spies, why should he open his heart to a stranger?

  New officers coming from Moscow gave other indications of how things were going downhill. Nikolai Gribin, who arrived in 1976, was by no means a liberal: on the contrary, he was thoroughly conformist. Yet even he said that things were getting worse, which made it easy for me to keep quiet. Another distinguished visitor from Moscow was the composer Dmitri Shostakovich, who came with his young third wife and his son to give a lecture. At the end I asked the speaker which other contemporary composer he considered to be nearest to him in spirit. He answered, ‘Benjamin Britten.’ Next morning the son asked me to translate reports from the local press and, although I warned him that the Copenhagen newspapers tended to be disrespectful, he pressed me to go ahead. I had hardly started on an article by one exceptionally rude music critic, when he cried, ‘Enough! Enough!’

  *

  During my second tour in Denmark badminton came to play an important part in my life. Having joined a club, I took an active part in its affairs, playing in matches and competitions, especially on Sundays. Badminton enabled me to live like a normal Western person, playing with Danes and relaxing afterwards over a beer in a cafe. Back in the Soviet Union after my first tour, I had found that the Soviet Badminton Federation was in a poor way: the sport received no subsidy from the State, and was supported only by the efforts of enthusiasts. Hoping that I might be able to improve things, I offered my services and was made a member of the board. In Denmark again, I wrote fictitious memoranda, allegedly emanating from important people, saying what a shame it was that the Soviet Federation was not a member of the World Badminton Federation or even of the European Badminton Federation. Our friends and sympathizers, I wrote, regarded our presence in those organizations as highly desirable, to counterbalance the influence of the Chinese. That did the trick: the Soviet Federation joined both major bodies, and later I arranged a visit of five Russian teams, accompanying them on a tour round the country.

  In 1977 yet another complication entered my life in the form of Leila Aliyeva, a girl who was working in the typing pool at the World Health Organization’s offices in Copenhagen. The daughter of a Russian mother and an Azeri father from Azerbaijan, she was tall and striking, with distinctly Oriental looks — very Turkish, in a nice way, except that she had a big nose. She was then twenty-eight, eleven years younger than me, and I fell in love at first sight.

  The circumstances were awkward, to say the least. She was living in a flat, to which I never went because she was sharing with other girls and was surrounded by neighbours. Obviously we could not go to my flat. The result was that although our love flared up quickly, we only went twice to a hotel before the time came for me to return to Moscow. Nevertheless, we made plans to marry as soon as I could disentangle myself.

  For different reasons, we were both eager to have a family. After a sterile and disappointing first marriage, I was approaching forty, and some animal i
nstinct was telling me to look for a woman who could become the mother of my children. Leila also felt that her time was running out and, because Azeris are such warm, family people, the prospect of remaining childless was worse for her than for purely Russian women.

  I found that as the daughter of a strict Muslim household she had been kept away from boys until it became impossible for her father to control her any longer. She had been isolated from outside acquaintances until she was almost twenty; and from sixteen to eighteen, when other girls were rushing from party to party, from one boyfriend to another, she had been kept in seclusion. Even at school her father had forbidden her to play volleyball, because he thought it unacceptable for a woman to show her legs by wearing shorts.

  Unusually for a Moscow girl, she had started work straight from school. Most parents tried to get their daughters into university at any price, but Leila began as a typist in a designer bureau at the age of only eighteen. Then she switched to the youth newspaper Moskovsky Komsomoletlz — one of the better publications, which was still trying to be lively and interesting. There, too, she worked as a secretary, but because, like most of her family, she wrote well, she soon moved up to being a reporter. Her happiest memories were from her two years spent covering events in Moscow. Then someone told her that if she applied to the Ministry of Health she might get a job in the World Health Organization, and, after a kind of positive vetting, she did just that. Again she became a typist, but she was eager to work and live abroad, and also she earned a good salary — even if she had to pay the lion’s share of it back to the Embassy, as did all Soviet citizens who worked in other organizations abroad.

  In Moscow, as she told me rather sketchily, she had had a passionate affair, at last, with a completely unsuitable man. He was a heavy drinker and lacked direction in life but, because she was madly in love, she became almost a slave to him — a relationship that he enjoyed and exploited, treating her like dirt. After a while, this became unbearable for her, and they parted.