Next Stop Execution: The Autobiography of Oleg Gordievsky

by Oleg Gordievsky

  This process had already started while I was still in the KGB but I warned specifically about it during my early debriefings at the fort. Notes of my conversations, together with an analytical paper by one of the British intelligence officers, soon found their way out to New Zealand. When I arrived on my first visit, in 1986, I found that my information had had a considerable impact. The security services had passed it to the Prime Minister, who, although the architect of the anti-nuclear proposals, was basically a solid Western man. Without abandoning his old policy, he became aware of its drawbacks, and strengthened his security organizations and monitoring activities. This brought him under attack from his own left wing, but he carried on the good work, took a more robust stance on Communism, and later expelled the Soviet diplomat who had been responsible for ideological penetration.

  The New Zealanders also became fascinated by the illegals, about whom I told them a good deal, and eventually in 1991 they caught one, a young man in possession of a false British passport. Because a foreign spy working in New Zealand is not committing any criminal offence, they could only deport him, so they sent him to England, where he was detained for two days in case something incriminating could be found against him. My hope was that the British might use him as a bargaining counter to secure the release of my family but neither of these plans came to anything, and he was sent on to Moscow.

  Other fruitful visits included two to Australia, and single journeys to Singapore, Malaysia, Thailand, South Africa, Kenya, Brazil, Saudi Arabia, Canada, The Netherlands, Spain, Portugal, Italy and Scandinavia. I was much struck that whereas in America, Britain, Canada, Australia and New Zealand I met top-level political leaders, the senior politicians of European countries avoided me — no doubt for fear of Soviet wrath. The difference greatly increased my respect for the Anglo-Saxon nations, and when I once mentioned this at a lecture in an Irish university, the hall exploded with applause.

  In most countries I was immensely impressed by the level of the intelligence officers. The head of anti-Soviet espionage in Stockholm, for instance, was the most splendid eccentric I have ever met. He started his career as a merchant seaman, jumped ship in Spain, spent several months in the bullrings training as a torrero, came home, joined the police, and later moved to the security police. His department had invented an anthem of its own, in which the tune was that of a famous Soviet Air Force march, but the text was about fighting Soviet espionage and expelling intelligence officers on anniversaries dear to the Kremlin. A connoisseur of French wine, and a great lover of opera, which he played immensely loud in his house, the officer invented a theory that mental orgasms, which can be induced by opera, are more powerful than physical ones. This idea notwithstanding, in his late fifties he met a tall, beautiful woman — a police officer — and divorced his wife. Altogether I found him a most engaging character.

  The Israelis were equally brilliant and original. During my first visit the head of the counter-intelligence service asked questions with incredible persistence. Whatever answer I gave, he would say, ‘And why...? And why...?’ never satisfied. At one point he took me into his office alone, leaving everyone else outside, including the curious British officers who were accompanying me, to tell me the story of a scientist who had turned out to be a KGB agent.

  Of all my meetings with leading politicians, none was more stimulating than those with Margaret Thatcher. I already felt I knew her to some extent, for in 1983, while working in the KGB in London, I realized that the Soviet Embassy had never commissioned anyone to write a study of this outstanding leader. When I suggested that I should do so the Ambassador was delighted, so I sat down to compile a biographical-profile-cum-assessment, based on published sources but spiced with my own observations. Knowing that I must include something typically Soviet and propagandistic, I put in a paragraph or two about how she exploited class differences and promoted class warfare, but I also wrote that she had a fresh and imaginative mind. The Embassy liked the paper, and copies of it went back to Moscow, where it became useful on the eve of Gorbachev’s visit to Britain.

  One day in August 1985, when I was still living at the fort, and feeling depressed, my case officer rushed in all lit up. ‘Look what I’ve got!’ he cried. ‘It’s a letter to you from the Prime Minister!’ Her message was that I should not give up hope of recovering my family: keep your spirits up, she wrote, and you’ll get them in the end. Even if I felt that she was over-optimistic, I was grateful for her support and encouragement: I got the impression that she was trying to bolster my confidence.

  Then in May 1986 she invited me to lunch at Chequers, the Prime Minister’s official country residence. I drove to Buckinghamshire in the company of Christopher Curwen, still head of MI6, and when we arrived, our hostess herself was standing on the steps to greet us. I noticed that she wore little make up, and looked very simple: it was clear that she was not trying to impress anyone. Rather, she was warm and welcoming. I was feeling tense, knowing that my English was still only moderate but determined to do well.

  When Mrs Thatcher asked what we would like to drink, both Chris and I opted for gin and tonic. Mrs Thatcher ordered something for herself, but then said how much she thought about dieting, and not eating too much, so that she did not put on weight. ‘But surely,’ I said, ‘there are an awful lot of calories in any alcohol.’ To which she replied, ‘I know! But what a pity not to enjoy it!’

  We were joined by Charles Powell, her press secretary, who seemed half-asleep after returning from a trip abroad. When our drinks came, served by girls in military uniforms, Chris and I sat at either end of a sofa, opposite her. As we both moved to put our glasses down on the sofa’s arms, she said, without changing the tone of her voice, ‘Use the side-tables, gentlemen.’ Immediately I thought, What a typical English housewife! She is being very hospitable and nice and courteous to us, her guests, but she will not let us spoil the furniture. In the Orient, by contrast, and to some extent in Russia, a hostess’s attitude would be quite different. She would see it as her duty to be unlimitedly hospitable and generous. ‘You like that coffee-table? Do take it home with you. That chair as well...?’ Here, we were merely cautioned not to damage the sofa.

  After the drinks, I expected to start discussing important matters. But no, first she gave us a tour of the house, showing us many rooms, and telling us something of the place’s history. My mind was concentrating so hard on what I wanted to tell her that I could hardly take in what she was saying. Then she led us into a room with a bow window, which looked out over the fields, and there we had a simple but good lunch. Again the talk was of trivialities, and afterwards, upstairs in the library, the servants offered us coffee in tiny cups, together with chocolates and cigars. I wondered if it was all right to smoke in such a splendid room. ‘Of course!’ she cried. ‘Denis smokes like a chimney all the time.’ So I took a cigar and lit it, still listening to her talking, talking, as I waited for the business of the day to begin.

  At last she became serious and remembered her questions. They were tough and penetrating, about political strategies, arms control, chemical and biological weapons, Gorbachev’s policies. All the big subjects of the day came up. At that time I was well versed in such matters, for it was only nine months since my escape. As I started to speak she listened intently, looking straight into my eyes, obviously taking in every word. Sometimes as she commented on my answers she was seduced by her own love of talking, and set off again, airing her knowledge. I saw that if I wanted to get through my list of points, I must make tactful interruptions — and this I began to do. Our exchanges went on unabated until one of the servants appeared with a note. Mrs Thatcher looked at it and said, ‘Oh, I’m terribly sorry. Someone else has come to see me. I’ll have to stop.’

  Was the interruption staged? We had no means of telling. But the Prime Minister took us downstairs, thanked us profusely for coming, saw us off from the steps, and stood waving as we drove away. She had been courtesy itself, in the best English traditio
n. Yet when I calculated how much time I had spent giving her information, I reckoned that of the three hours and forty minutes we had spent in her company, I had held forth for no more than one hour and twenty minutes.

  My next meeting with her took place at No. 10 Downing Street in March 1987, a difficult period during which Anglo-Soviet relations had been at a low ebb for some time. But now Gorbachev had invited her to visit Moscow, and she wanted tips on how to deal with Soviet journalists. Points for speeches, discussions and press conferences were what she needed, and I started to reel off ideas. Knowing the weaknesses of the Soviet system, and the strengths of the West, I was able to speak fluently, with Charles Powell again taking notes — and before I knew what had happened, seventy minutes had gone by. Mrs Thatcher’s time had run out, but still she was not satisfied and she asked me to go home and make a supplementary list of points, which I did.

  Her trip to Moscow took place at the end of March and the beginning of April. A blazing success, it was dominated by the unforgettable interview she gave on Moscow television. Today, Russian journalists are as cheeky and aggressive as any in the West but in 1987 they were still respectful of authority, and they looked up to Mrs Thatcher as the Boss. Three leading commentators on foreign policy had been assigned to interview her and she cut them all to shreds. She argued, interrupted, bludgeoned and destroyed them, talking so fast and forcefully that often they could not even ask their next question. One of the ideas I had suggested made a particular impact. ‘Tell them that 74 per cent of people in Britain have their own homes,’ I had suggested. ‘Not flats, but proper houses, with several bedrooms, all the facilities, and gardens.’ She put this over straight, along with numerous other facts about Soviet SS-20 missiles in the heart of Europe, and the need for arms control. Her triumph was total, and Russians spoke about it for a month afterwards.

  When she came home, she sent me a letter thanking me for my points, which had been so useful — and that touched me more than I could say. What Soviet official ever thanked a consultant for his help? I was delighted by the Prime Minister’s modesty and gratitude, by her understanding of realities, and her acknowledgement of who it was coming up with ideas.

  My third meeting with her, in September 1989, was not so successful. Again she invited me to 10 Downing Street, to discuss the rapid development of the Soviet Union, and all went well until she asked what I thought about the reunification of Germany, which then seemed only a possibility. ‘Everybody’s talking about it,’ she said. ‘What do you think it would mean?’

  I told her I thought she need not worry. ‘You, the British, made such a good job of de-Nazifying Germany in the forties that today the country has become one of the most liberal democratic countries in the world,’ I said. ‘If it comes to reunification, I’m sure West Germany will re-educate East Germany, and the whole thing will turn into a normal European state.’

  I could see from her face that she did not like what I was saying. ‘Bur surely the Soviet Union will object!’ she exclaimed. ‘They’ve always been against a strong, militarized Germany.’

  I said I was not so sure. In the 1940s, when everyone was still in shock after the terrible casualties of the war, that was certainly true. But today, with nuclear weapons of all kinds available, the Kremlin no longer saw Germany as a threat. Second, and more important, the Soviet basic belief had always been that it would be wrong to object to the reunification of the nation. It was true that for a while the Kremlin had propped up East Germany — and, of course, Russia would prefer a Communist or socialist Germany to a right-wing one. ‘But if it comes to the point of reunification,’ I said, ‘I don’t think Moscow will raise any major objections. A united Germany has always been part of official Soviet ideology, and I think the Kremlin will remain true to that.’

  Here Mrs Thatcher positively glared at me, intensely disliking everything she heard. I had not known that her ideas on the subject were precisely the opposite of mine, and that she was busy gathering allies to support her line. Just before I left, I quietly asked that when she next saw Gorbachev she would put in another plea for the release of my family — and she nodded. But it was a cool goodbye, and I knew that something was wrong. For a while I feared that my personal request had been out of place; but soon I learnt that it was not this which had upset her. What were out of place were my views on German reunification — and this was one of the few areas in which Mrs Thatcher proved wrong. Her role in bringing the Cold War to an end in the Soviet Union and Eastern Europe was tremendous, but over Germany she took the wrong line.

  I am glad to say that our personal relations survived this setback. When we met again after she had left office, she was most friendly, and it was a pleasant surprise to find that she gave me a couple of positive mentions in her memoirs.

  *

  When I met President Ronald Reagan in 1987, there were two main objectives on our agenda. One was to impress and help the CIA, and the other to secure from Reagan a pledge that he would work for the reunion of my family. A few words would be enough. If the President said, ‘We’ll help you,’ that would do: his word would be his command.

  As I sat waiting in a pleasant antechamber of the White House, I felt unaccountably nervous. There was no need to feel like that, I knew, yet my anxiety persisted. Then General Colin Powell, deputy head of the National Security Council, came to fetch me, and we went into the Oval Office. Two chairs were set out facing the rest of the room, one for the President, the other for myself. It was an awkward arrangement: to look at Mr Reagan I had to twist round to my left, and the opposite if I wanted to face the audience out in front.

  Somebody asked a question, and I began talking generally about Soviet espionage networks. I made a point about the illegals, saying that there were still a lot at large, and then spoke about Moscow’s attempts to spread propaganda, create front organizations and influence public opinion. This subject was evidently close the President’s heart, for he launched into a story — one of his favourites, I gathered afterwards — about how, as head of the cinema workers’ trade union, he had tried to protect his people from Soviet influence and penetration. After that I felt less tense, and the atmosphere lightened. I was impressed by his warmth and cordiality, but as I was speaking I noticed that a look of bafflement occasionally came into his eyes, and I wondered if he understood what I was saying, or whether he had any real interest in matters of detail which lay beneath the most general facts.

  In any case, I got twenty-two minutes of his time (the Labour politicians Neil Kinnock and Denis Healey got eighteen), and the all-important moment came at the end, when he put his arm round my shoulder and said, ‘We know you. We appreciate what you’ve done for the West. Thank you. We remember your family, and we’ll fight for them.’ As he said goodbye, he repeated something similar, and the British head of station was delighted. ‘You’ve got it!’ he said. ‘You’ve got it!’

  When I met Mr Reagan’s successor, George Bush, two years later, the format was exactly the same. The moment I was shown into the Oval Office, a photographer started to take pictures, and I was put into a chair in the same awkward position, with the President to my left and eight other people to my right, so that if I faced him I could not see anyone else. It struck me that he looked tired: even though he was only in the first year of his term, his face was drawn with exhaustion.

  He led off in what I can only call typical Bush-speak: although I recognized a good many individual words, I simply could not understand a single sentence. What the hell was he saying? I felt petrified, and when he stopped, I hardly knew what to do. But when he asked, ‘What do you say to that?’ I had a minor inspiration, and deflected the question to the onlookers, by turning to them and saying, ‘You know, I really didn’t come here to deliver a lecture. That would be presumptuous of me. I’d prefer to answer simple questions about the current situation in the Soviet Union. Could you please ask about that?’

  Very easily, without the slightest fuss, Mr Bush said, ‘OK, th
en: will Gorbachev stay?’

  That was exactly the lead I needed. I gave an answer, and immediately, like a university professor with a class of students, the President said, ‘All right, and now let’s have some questions from the floor.’ Everybody tried to speak at once, and someone asked, ‘If Gorbachev is demoted and replaced, what will Soviet policy be?’ Without hesitation I replied, ‘It’s quite impossible to say. Whoever takes over, one fact is clear: that man’s policy will have nothing to do with his previous speeches and articles. That is a rule of Soviet life. In the summer of 1917 Lenin wrote Statement of Revolution — and when the revolution came, his policy bore no relation to what he had said in the book. Stalin made endless statements in the 1920s, and his subsequent actions bore no relation to them. Khrushchev was allegedly a Stalinist, yet it was he who started de-Stalinization. Gorbachev was entirely a man of his own circle, and now look at his policy.’

  At this Robert Gates, then deputy chairman of the National Security Council, nodded his head vigorously, so that I felt I had got my point across. Another member of the audience, Vice-President Dan Quayle, also showed strong interest, and when we finished, after a good stint of thirty minutes, President Bush tried to introduce him to me. As I had already met him on the way in, this created some confusion, but Quayle then asked me to go along to his own office so that we could have a private word.

  In his big room we found two good-looking women of about forty, smartly dressed and got-up, sitting on a table swinging their legs. ‘Ladies, ladies!’ cried Quayle. ‘I’m sorry. Another half hour, please’ — whereupon they jumped to the floor (with slight reluctance, I thought) and went out. It would have been easy to put the wrong construction on that odd scene but one was his wife and the other a friend of hers.