by Peter Murphy
I embarked on the SS Asturias II at Southampton on the 5th August with Hugh, Harry Golombek, Stuart Milner-Barry, and Baruch Wood. We had planned to arrive in Buenos Aires in good time to get in some practice and analysis before the tournament began on the 21st. The voyage was a delightful break in itself. The cares of my practice and the estate seemed very far away. One evening, the five of us sat in the dining room late after dinner and talked about ourselves. Like lawyers, chess players are good at talking shop, but often have nothing to say to each other about anything else, particularly intimate details of their lives. But on this evening, for some reason, we talked freely about ourselves, including the part chess played in our lives, and inevitably the conversation turned to the lack of opportunity to play professionally. Hugh and Harry knew many British players for whom it was a dream, but there were too few tournaments and too little money in the game. As a result, no British player could afford to take the risk, and none had ever formally held the rank of grandmaster, even though many would have made the grade given the right opportunities. Hugh and Stuart seemed content with chess as an avocation, but Harry would have gladly been a professional, and had plans to associate himself with the game in other ways, such as journalism, and work as a chess arbiter and referee. Most remarkable of all, Baruch had started his own magazine, Chess, about four years earlier, and it was doing well. But all these diversions intruded on the time available for serious study and for playing in tournaments. Fortified by several glasses of red wine, I found myself opening up too, and I told them of my passion for the game, which even a successful career at the Bar would never displace.
Harry mentioned the Soviet Union and, in a striking echo of what Anthony had said about art on the night I learned about Roger’s death, he related, without praising it, the Soviet view of chess. The Soviet Union’s success in chess was a demonstration of the superiority of Marxist-Leninist thought. The State entered into a pact between Society and the chess player, whereby the player was given the opportunity to show his ability, and if sufficiently talented, would be supported in his profession in return for placing his ability at the service of the State and acknowledging the Soviet State as the creator of, and inspiration for, his success. That night I lay awake in my cabin, watching the dark sea through the porthole, and feeling the rhythmic rocking and swaying of the ship as she made her way through the gentle waves. I tried to imagine my life as it would be if I could live in an England which took the Marxist-Leninist approach to chess. As I fell asleep I was conversing in my mind with Anthony about the artist’s responsibility to the Proletariat, and the conversation turned into a dream.
34
The tournament was scheduled to last from the 21st August to the 19th September. It was an extraordinary event. Twenty-seven nations competed, more than in any previous tournament, and there was great excitement about the participation of Cuba, led by the legendary José Raúl Capablanca whose games I had studied with Mr Armitage. We made a good start, and qualified from our group for the finals. But on the 1st September, when the finals were scheduled to begin, we were awakened in our hotel rooms and asked to dress without delay and report to the British Embassy. A car was waiting for us outside.
When we arrived, the Embassy was in a state of high excitement, with officials running in every direction carrying files and telegraphs. We waited in the lobby for no more than two minutes, before being introduced to the Ambassador, Sir Esmond Ovey. Despite the hour – it was now a little after 3 o’clock – he was immaculately dressed in a beige lightweight suit and his Club tie. Without any formalities, he wished us a brisk good morning and led us up two narrow, creaking, wooden flights of stairs to a quiet corner room. On the door was a notice which warned, in English and Spanish, that unauthorised entry was strictly forbidden. Sir Esmond fumbled with a large set of keys for some time before selecting one which admitted us to the room. It was empty except for a small conference table, six chairs, a sideboard with a jug of water and several glasses, a radio transmitter and a bank of cabinets containing massive tape recorders. A large ceramic ashtray, which had apparently escaped the attention of the cleaners, assuming that cleaners were authorised to enter, occupied the centre of the table. An unobtrusive young man wearing a worn light grey suit and a crumpled red tie followed us into the room, donned headphones, and set about activating the tape recorders. We took seats around the table.
‘This room is supposed to be completely secure,’ Ovey said, as the young man completed his preparations. ‘I hope to God it is, especially given the astronomic amount of money it cost the taxpayer to set it up.’
The young man nodded to indicate that all was ready.
‘Gentlemen,’ the Ambassador said, ‘as from this morning, Great Britain will be at war with Germany.’ He looked around the table to gauge our reactions.
The news was not really a surprise. When we had left England, we knew, as did every thoughtful follower of the political situation, that the outbreak of war was more a question of when, rather than if. Personally, I found the news welcome. I was glad that the Government had confronted Hitler and had been forced to abandon Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement. I thought that perhaps we had been given a second chance to overthrow fascism after the dreadful defeat in Spain and, of course, I hoped to play some part in taking advantage of that chance, for Roger’s sake and my own. Inevitably, the likelihood of war had been a subject of discussion among players from all the competing nations, and the question had arisen of what we would do if war broke out during the tournament. Most players thought that the tournament should continue, despite the diplomatic and political issues which would inevitably arise, and so most teams, including ours, were against an immediate return home. Our Government had different ideas.
‘HMG takes the view that you should all return home without delay,’ Ovey continued. ‘There is a sailing the day after tomorrow for Southampton, calling at Le Havre just for an hour or two, and then home. I don’t think you are in any danger here in Buenos Aires, but we will extend you diplomatic protection, just in case. We will have people watching you until you leave and we will make sure you get on board ship without difficulty. There will be someone to meet you when you dock at Southampton.’
There was silence for some time. The reference to protection rather baffled us. We were chess players, not high-ranking state officials or generals. Why would we be in danger in a neutral country? Why would there be any need to spirit us out of Argentina so urgently? Hugh was our captain, and we looked to him to reply.
‘Ambassador, we appreciate your concern, of course. But the general feeling at the Olympiad is that the tournament should continue. It will be over in less than three weeks. Surely it would be better to show the flag and not let Hitler send us scurrying home? Do you have any intelligence that suggests we may be in danger?’
Ovey smiled thinly. ‘As I said, Mr Alexander, the decision that you should return at once was made by the Government, not by me. I am only the messenger, so to speak. We have a substantial number of British subjects in Argentina at any given time, and this moment is no exception. We shall give assistance to all of them in getting home as, and when, they must, or wish to do so, but I assure you that we do not have the resources to offer all of them protection, or fight for berths for them on every steamer leaving Buenos Aires. This is an arrangement we are making in your case on express instructions from London.’
Hugh nodded slowly. ‘May we know why?’
‘I have instructions to explain exactly why,’ the Ambassador replied at once. ‘That is why we are in a hopefully secure room. Before I do, you all need to sign a form for me.’
He gestured to the young man, who took off his headphones and picked up a small pile of papers from the top of the sideboard. He gave us each one form.
‘You will get used to signing these before long,’ Ovey said. ‘You will be doing it quite regularly from now on, I expect. Read it through, please. All it s
ays is that you agree to keep what you are about to hear secret, on pain of being prosecuted. Take it seriously. The consequences of being prosecuted are serious enough in peacetime. I imagine they become considerably more serious in time of war.’
‘The Government,’ the Ambassador continued, as the young man collected our signed forms, ‘is about to set up a centre dedicated to breaking enemy codes. It is believed that the ability to penetrate the enemy’s communications without their knowing may be a vital factor in securing a quick victory. This cannot be done without men who have the necessary abilities. The Government has been advised that certain people, including mathematicians and chess players, are more likely to have those abilities than others, and they are keen to recruit men with those abilities without delay. So the Embassy has instructions to deliver Mr Alexander, Mr Golombek and Mr Milner-Barry to England as promptly as possible.’
‘Where is the centre to be situated?’ Stuart asked.
‘Sorry, I can’t answer that,’ Ovey replied. ‘If you have any objections to the Government’s plans for you, you will have to take it up with them when you get back, I’m afraid. Not my department. My job is just to get you there safely. Your contact at Southampton will give you further instructions.’
Then Ovey looked at me.
‘The Government also has plans for you, Sir James, but they are slightly different. You speak fluent German, I believe?’
‘Yes,’ I replied.
He nodded. ‘I am sure that has something to do with it. Your contact at Southampton will put you in touch with the Special Intelligence Service.’
‘MI6?’ I asked, surprised.
‘The very same,’ Ovey replied. ‘I don’t know exactly what the arrangements are, but you will be meeting a man called Burgess.’
‘Burgess?’ I fairly gasped. I stared at the Ambassador for several seconds. ‘Not Guy Burgess, by any chance?’
I do not know why I should have made that connection. I knew Guy had left the BBC, but it had been some time since I had bumped into him at the Reform, and I did not know what he had been doing since. Guy was an officer of MI6? In so many ways the thought was ridiculous. Yet Donald was in the Foreign Office, so in a strange way everything seemed possible.
‘Yes,’ Ovey replied. ‘Do you know him? Well, anyway, he is in charge of some new group called Section D. God alone knows what they get up to, but I am sure Burgess will tell you all about it himself.’
35
‘Sabotage, my dear,’ Guy announced cheerfully, as he waved me into a seat opposite him at the small table. ‘That’s what Section D does – sabotage.’
On arriving at Southampton I said goodbye to my fellow team members with feelings of sadness. The tournament had brought us together and made us friends. But when we would get the chance to play chess again we had no way of knowing. My contact whisked me through customs without their giving me a second glance and, after collecting my luggage, took me to a small café, from where I called Bridget, to make sure she knew I was safe. I asked her to let my clerk know that I was back. My contact, who used the name Dave, and said nothing further about himself at all, instructed me that I was to be at St Ermin’s Hotel in Caxton Street SW1 in time for lunch the next day. I would be given further details of my proposed assignment at that time. I signed another form. We shook hands. He asked me to remain in the café for another ten minutes, after which I would be free to make my way to the station and take a train home to London. Bridget was very pleased to see me. We went out for dinner and afterwards made love very affectionately. I told her that it had been thought best that the team should return home immediately, but not why. I suppose that was partly because of the forms I had signed, but I have talked to Bridget about such things many times since, and the main reason was that I still did not know the answer to that question myself. Fortunately, it was the legal vacation, and my clerk had no plans for me the next day, so just after midday I had made my way to St James’s Park tube station and around the corner from Broadway into Caxton Street.
‘Sabotage?’ I asked incredulously. ‘You?’
Guy was taking the first drag of a cigarette. He expelled the mouthful of smoke quickly and waved the cigarette in the air, laughing uproariously.
‘Yes, I know, I know. It’s too outrageous.’
‘It certainly is,’ I agreed.
‘Believe me, I know. The only bad part, my dear, is that the training centre is going to be miles away from London, so God knows how I will meet any beautiful boys. I suppose I will have to sneak away and get on a train when they are not looking. You’re not supposed to know that; it’s all very hush-hush, so forget I told you. If you tell anyone they will take you to the Tower and have you beheaded.’
‘I am sure you have a form ready for me to sign,’ I said.
‘But of course, my dear.’
Whenever I had seen him at the Reform after he joined the BBC, Guy had looked far more respectable than when I had known him at Cambridge, and he had maintained the improvement now that he worked for MI6; but there was still always something dishevelled about him – the suit or the tie always a bit crumpled, the hair always rather wayward, the shoes always a bit scuffed. Today was no exception, and I suspected that the dry martini he had in front of him was not his first of the day. I ordered coffee. But he had chosen the table well, in a corner of the mezzanine lobby where he commanded a view both of that floor and of the entrance hall on the ground floor below us. And I sensed a new focus, a seriousness and deliberation behind the usual flippancy. Something about Guy was very different.
‘What kind of sabotage?’ I asked. ‘If you’re allowed to tell me.’
‘Oh, just your common or garden variety, blowing up bridges and pipelines, disrupting supply lines, generally buggering about with the enemy and making his life difficult. This all happens abroad, of course. I don’t get involved with any of that. My job is to take charge of people who can do things like that and recruit people who can train them. The armed forces actually find these people, of course. All I do is act as administrator, but it is all quite complicated in terms of supplies and equipment.’
I looked at him for some time, sipping my coffee.
‘And how exactly do I fit in with this?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know anything about sabotage.’
‘Nor should you, my dear,’ he replied, lighting another cigarette. ‘Nor should you. We would all be better off if left in ignorance of it, I daresay.’
He suddenly leaned forward and his focus showed itself again.
‘Actually, James, you will not be involved with Section D directly. But the SIS does need your services, and Section D may very well be one of the beneficiaries. I was asked to recruit you because we knew each other at Cambridge, but you will be working with a number of people in other Sections as well.’
‘Doing what?’ I asked, still genuinely puzzled.
‘Interrogations and translations,’ he replied.
I must have looked blank.
‘There will be many occasions when we need to question people who speak German, or have documents translated from German into English,’ he continued, ‘and when we do, it will always be urgent, and the product will always be extremely sensitive. To take my department, for example, we may have all kinds of ne’er-do-wells and reprobates sent to us by the military because they have an ability to blow things up, or know ten ways to kill a man instantaneously. In many cases, no one will have given much thought to checking into their backgrounds and asking whether we can actually trust them, whether they are actually on our side – basic things like that. There is not likely to be much in the way of records, so it is up to us to gather information by asking the right questions. Many of these people will speak German. That’s where you come in.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, I see.’
‘As the war goes on, there will also be suspected German spies, agents, saboteurs, what ha
ve you, from whom we need to obtain information. The Service has used barristers for this kind of thing in the past. It seems an obvious place to find good interrogators. But they are often hampered by having to rely on interpreters, and some of them understand interrogation to mean trying to intimidate people by shouting at them. That doesn’t work. The Director feels that we need to take a different tack – find someone with a quiet, low-key, but systematic approach to cross-examination, such as you chaps use in the elegant surroundings of the Chancery Division.’
I laughed. But I was impressed. Guy – or someone – had been thinking about this.
‘And unlike those we have used in the past, you have the advantage that you probably won’t need the interpreter,’ Guy added. ‘You will pick up some nuances that someone with only a basic command of German, or none at all, would miss completely; though that will be our secret, and you will always have an interpreter so that you don’t have to give away the fact that you understand every word they are saying.’
‘Yes, I can see that’, I said.
‘So we want you to stay in place in your chambers,’ he said, ‘and continue with your practice. But we expect you to be at our beck and call, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. We will give you some leave, of course, and we will compensate you for your time, though not at the rate you would expect for a juicy probate case.’
I nodded. Guy did not rush me.
‘What if I’m in court?’ I asked. ‘I couldn’t just …’