And Is There Honey Still For Tea?

by Peter Murphy

  Baxter closed his file and held it facing down to the ground.

  ‘And so it goes on,’ he said. ‘You can work your way through it on your own. I need hardly add that this record has a very limited circulation. It is made available only to senior officers who have a clear need for the information it contains.’

  ‘I take it you are not suggesting that it was made available to Sir James Digby?’ Wesley asked.

  ‘I am not suggesting anything,’ Baxter replied. ‘I am not authorised to discuss with you any significance that this record has, or does not have. My remit is only to explain it. But I do feel free to direct your attention, as a purely factual observation, to the dates on which information about the agents was received, and to invite you to correlate it with the dates of Sir James’s trips to Russia. You will find that there is not an exact correlation, but a reasonably close one.’

  ‘Then, you are suggesting something, aren’t you?’ Ben said. ‘You are suggesting a correlation between Sir James’s presence in Russia and whatever fate is believed to have befallen your agents.’

  ‘Again, Mr Schroeder, I am not drawing any conclusions myself. It will be for others to draw conclusions.’

  Digby was gripping the arms of his chair as if he intended to crush them. His face was bright red.

  ‘On a purely factual basis,’ Bernard Wesley asked calmly, ‘and without attributing responsibility to anyone, how many agents are believed to have died, or are unaccounted for, during the period between 1948 and 1960?’

  Baxter looked down and pursed his lips.

  ‘Approximately five hundred,’ he replied, ‘not to mention a significant number of innocent individuals who got caught up with them. But you will forgive me if I add that I do not think of these men and women only as numbers.’

  Wesley nodded. ‘No, of course. I asked simply for information purposes.’

  He paused.

  ‘And the information recorded in these documents – and I am not asking for any details at all – is derived from intelligence which officers of your Service received, evaluated, and presumably rated reliable enough to include in the record?’

  ‘That is exactly correct, sir,’ Baxter replied.

  Wesley exhaled deeply.

  ‘Yes, well, thank you, Mr Baxter. Does anyone have any further questions?’ Wesley asked. There was no response.

  ‘Ben, Barratt, do you have an adequate note?’ Both nodded.

  ‘If there should be any further questions, Mr Wesley,’ Baxter said, ‘Miss Cathermole knows how to contact me. I would be glad to help, as long as they are factual questions about the record.’

  After Baxter and Ginny Castle had left, Wesley stood and stretched his arms and legs.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Ben, why don’t you go to the clerks’ room and tell them we need more coffee, and ask them to send out for sandwiches? We need to go through this material in detail. Now.’

  40

  ‘Ben’, Wesley said, ‘let’s summarise what we have, or what we think we have. Applying Baxter’s code, do the figures for losses of agents during the period correspond with the estimate he gave us?’

  They had worked all afternoon, until almost six o’clock. Bernard Wesley’s room was strewn with screwed up pieces of paper, coffee cups, sandwich wrappings and other debris. They had all removed their jackets and, with the exception of Bernard Wesley and Ben Schroeder, who wore stiff collars, ties hung loosely around necks. Ben and Barratt had made a full note of the discussions and the analysis of the documents, and their work almost filled both notebooks. Ben flicked through his notes, and did some quick arithmetic in his head, pointing to figures with his pencil. Barratt had made his own separate note, and was checking Ben’s addition.

  ‘It’s very close,’ Ben confirmed. ‘Baxter said about five hundred. If we are reading the code correctly, I make the total number of agents subject to the code 485.’

  ‘487,’ Barratt smiled.

  ‘Fine, let’s say 485 to 490,’ Ben said. ‘The majority are codes 3 and 4, with about 80 code 1.’

  ‘Spot on,’ Barratt confirmed.

  ‘That’s a considerable number,’ Wesley said quietly. ‘We didn’t ask Baxter what it would represent in terms of the percentage of all western agents active behind the Iron Curtain at the relevant times, and I am sure he wouldn’t tell us if we did ask him.’

  ‘I will leave it in as a possible follow-up question,’ Ben offered. ‘You never know.’

  ‘It’s all nonsense,’ Digby said suddenly. He had been silent for most of the afternoon, watching absently, as if uninterested, as his legal team analysed the evidence. His intervention now took everyone slightly by surprise. He threw his hands in the air.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘You told me to keep quiet while Baxter was here, and I did. I presume I am allowed to say something now.’

  Ben and Barratt exchanged glances.

  ‘You can say whatever you wish, James,’ Wesley replied.

  ‘Thank you. Look… this kind of stuff is completely unreliable. I was given raw intelligence like this all the time when I was interrogating suspects during the War. It was all we had, so we had to use it. There wasn’t anything else. When you have agents working in the kind of conditions we are talking about, you get all kinds of reports. Often they are totally unfounded. At best they are unreliable. Nobody really knows what is going on, but agents feel they have to keep feeding information to whoever is running them. It makes them feel useful. Most of it is bound to be suspect. You can’t draw any conclusions from this material at all, and I don’t see how any judge could properly admit it in evidence. We do have rules of evidence, after all. It is all hearsay and speculation.’

  Wesley thought for some time.

  ‘I am sure that some of the intelligence they received was wide of the mark,’ he replied. ‘But it can’t all be wrong, can it? I mean, whoever in London was running these agents behind the Iron Curtain would find out eventually that an agent had been arrested, or a network had been blown, simply because there were no further communications, wouldn’t he? The only thing the intelligence would tell him in addition is how bad things were – whether he was dealing with a code 3 or a code 1, for example. But it would be pretty clear that he had lost an agent, or lost a network.’

  Digby was shaking his head, but he did not reply.

  ‘And actually,’ Wesley said, ‘you could discount a lot of this material, and still have an appalling attrition rate. The losses would still be horrendous.’

  There was silence for some time.

  ‘We still have the point about the dates, though, don’t we?’ Herbert Harper suggested. ‘Even Baxter conceded that there was no consistent correlation between the supposed dates when agents disappeared and the dates when James is known to have been in Russia.’

  Wesley nodded. ‘Yes, but I am not sure what degree of correlation you would expect to see. Let’s go with Baxter’s apparent theory for a moment – even though he was careful to insist that he was not offering us a theory. Let’s assume that James’s visits to Russia coincide with the supply of information about agents or networks to a person or persons unknown in the Soviet Intelligence Service. So, now the Russians know who or what they are looking for. But still, you wouldn’t expect an instantaneous reaction, would you? Especially if the network was not in Russia but, say, in Poland. They would need time to investigate, and they would need to make a plan to take the network down, which might not be an easy thing to do, at least without giving the game away and allowing the agents the opportunity to run for cover.’

  ‘Or they might risk compromising a counter-intelligence agent of their own,’ Barratt suggested. ‘In any case, it would take some time. I think you are right, Bernard. We can’t take much comfort from the dates.’

  Ben stood, turned his chair around, and leaned against it.

  ‘I think we
are approaching this in the wrong way,’ he said.

  Wesley smiled. ‘Pray continue.’

  ‘Let’s allow Hollander these documents,’ Ben said. ‘Let’s concede that they are a completely accurate record. Let’s concede that almost 500 western agents were betrayed and came to grief behind the Iron Curtain between 1948 and 1960 as a result of someone’s treachery in passing information to the Russians. What evidence is there that James was that person?’

  ‘Well, we know Baxter’s theory about that,’ Barratt replied.

  ‘The evidence Baxter has provided us with,’ Ben rejoined, ‘shows that James made annual trips to Russia to cover the Soviet Chess Championship as a journalist. That’s all. There was nothing secret about what he was doing, nothing clandestine. He had a visa to visit the Soviet Union. It was all out in the open, all documented. What Baxter has not given us is one shred of evidence that James had any access to information about western agents behind the Iron Curtain. He had not worked for the Security Services since the War. If he was a courier of information, who was supplying him with the information, and to whom was he delivering that information?’

  ‘Thank you, Ben,’ Digby said.

  ‘If we start with the concession that the information was passed to Moscow, and they acted on it in due course,’ Ben continued, ‘that still leaves open the question of who was passing it. It seems to me that if you were to compile a list of suspects, the name of James Digby would be nowhere near the top of the list. It is much more likely to be the work of Burgess, Maclean, Philby – all known Soviet agents, and all far more likely to have access to this information than James.’

  ‘That is true during certain periods,’ Herbert Harper pointed out, ‘but not all the time. For example, Burgess and Maclean are gone after May 1951.’

  ‘Yes,’ Ben countered, ‘but almost everybody accepts that they were not the only ones involved in espionage during that period. All you have to do is assume that there was at least one other active Soviet agent within MI6 during the relevant period – which many people today believe to be true – and the name of James Digby hardly registers on the list of suspects at all. In legal terms, it doesn’t come close to proof of the truth of what Hollander wrote in his article.’

  ‘You make a good point, Ben,’ Wesley agreed. ‘But Herbert’s concern remains valid if we put it in a slightly different way. Your point is that we can offer more plausible suspects for the passing of information during the period 1948 to 1960. I agree. It seems that we probably can, and that tends to let James off the hook. But I am concerned about a slightly different question: what was happening before 1948; and what has been happening since 1960?’

  Ben nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly.

  ‘It would disturb me greatly,’ Wesley said, ‘to find out that this pattern, or scale of losses, of western agents began in about 1948 and ended in about 1960; that it was far lower before 1948 and was far lower again after 1960. A consistently higher rate of attrition over a particular period of twelve years would be hard to dismiss as a coincidence, wouldn’t it? That would give Baxter every reason to suspect a link with James’s trips to Russia. It would not necessarily rule out other suspects, but it would push him up several places in the list.’

  ‘But if Baxter had that evidence,’ Ben said, ‘why didn’t he provide us with it? He has given us nothing except 1948 to 1960.’

  ‘That is the one question we need to ask him,’ Wesley said. ‘We can’t ignore it. If the other side hit us with that at trial, we are in a lot of trouble. If there is any such evidence, we need to know exactly what it is. I can’t see why Baxter would want to keep it from us. Let’s ask him for the data from the end of the War until the end of 1963.’

  Ben nodded.

  ‘I will get in touch with Ginny tomorrow.’

  ‘Good,’ Wesley said. ‘Now, before we call it a day, I want to get your sense of where we are in the light of the evidence – subject to the question I have just raised, of course. Subject to that, how do you feel about the state of our case? Do we press on? Is there any reason to explore the possibility of a settlement? Where do we stand? James, I suppose I should start with you.’

  ‘Yes, I would hope so,’ Digby replied. There was some sympathetic laughter. He allowed it to die down before replying. ‘We go on, of course. This evidence provides no justification for Hollander’s article at all, certainly insofar as it refers to me.’

  ‘I agree that we should go ahead,’ Harper said. ‘Unless any further evidence comes to light, there is no reason to think we would not win at trial.’

  ‘I agree,’ Wesley replied. ‘But I must add one thing. I’m afraid Hollander has achieved the first of his objectives. Our hope of striking out Hollander’s Defence is now gone. This evidence may not see him home once we get to trial, but in my view it does entitle him to go to trial. It may not be a strong case, but James does have a case to answer.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Barratt said.

  ‘Agreed,’ Ben confirmed.

  Wesley nodded.

  ‘Good. Well, it seems that we are unanimous. Ben will let us know if any further evidence is forthcoming. Subject to that, we will start to make our preparations for trial.’

  41

  Sir James Digby

  When I returned from Nuremberg towards the end of 1946, my war was over, and I returned to full-time practice. All of us at the Bar had feared that, with the economy once again in ruins, it would take a long time for a flow of work to build up. But ironically, wartime conditions played a part in ensuring that my chambers had more than enough work to tide us over. There was a sudden flurry of activity in the world of probate litigation. Many wills had been made in haste during the war, some by soldiers about to be deployed to the front line, some by relatives left at home. They were often hand-written, scribbled on whatever scrap of paper had been close at hand at the time; and formalities such as dating the will and having signatures witnessed tended to be overlooked. It was not only a question of formality; the language of a will written by someone with limited education might be hopelessly vague or ambiguous. Some were written faintly in pencil and some by people with illegible handwriting. There was usually a way to give formal effect to the will if someone was still alive who remembered it being made; and the judges were charitably inclined even to fairly outrageous interpretations of the language if it would benefit a war widow and her children. All of us in chambers gave a lot of free advice, and appeared in court free of charge, for families of servicemen if the estate was not unduly large. There were also some cases where the estate was larger and the will was contested, and solicitors who were grateful for the work we did for their less well-off clients remembered us and steered such cases in our direction. Life was returning to some semblance of normality. Bridget and I were able to travel up to the Manor more frequently. I began to play chess again.

  I truly believed that my connections with the Security Services were at an end. Indeed, within a day or two of my return from Nuremberg I had a short interview with a senior person in the Foreign Office, who told me as much in so many words. He thanked me for my service and indicated that it would not be forgotten – when the time came for me to take Silk, he said, I would find the door open for me. And there it ended. Until I went to the Reform Club for dinner a few days after the New Year in January 1948.

  * * *

  I had gone to the Reform with every intention of having a quiet dinner on my own. We had spent Christmas in London, but Bridget had gone up to the Manor to check that it was surviving a spell of freezing weather, and to see her parents for the New Year, and was not due back for several days. Not much was happening in chambers; it would be another week before solicitors and the courts resumed their normal pace of work as they reluctantly bade farewell to the Festive Period.

  As I was finishing the remains of my Club claret, Anthony and Guy walked into the dining room, looked around, an
d walked casually over to my table. I had enough experience by now to sense that their arrival was no coincidence. Anthony had become a much-respected figure in the art world, and was more than two years into his prestigious appointment as Surveyor of the King’s Pictures. But his increasingly socialist view of the role of art in Society was no secret, and I had every reason to believe that he was still active behind the scenes in recruiting others to the socialist cause, particularly at Cambridge, where there were dark rumours that he was talent-spotting among the undergraduate population in the Soviet interest. Guy had left the BBC and had joined the Foreign Office, where he continued to lead a charmed life, and had been acting as personal assistant to a Minister of State. For the benefit of the other diners we went though the motions of wishing each other a Happy New Year, before Anthony suggested that we adjourn upstairs for a glass or two of port. I paid my bill and followed them upstairs to the library floor where the magnificent balcony offers a commanding view over the foyer on the ground floor. We sat at a table on the side of the square farthest from the staircase, outside the main library, where we would see anyone approaching before there was any danger of being overheard. A waiter brought a bottle of the Club port and three glasses.

  As ever, Anthony showed no sign of haste. He began by asking with his usual formal politeness about Bridget, and my practice. Guy said hardly a word. I had the distinct impression that Anthony had instructed him to keep quiet. In retaliation, he slumped in his chair and launched into the port with a vengeance.

  ‘I understand you are playing chess again?’ Anthony asked.

  ‘Yes, when I have time.’

  ‘Your practice still gets in the way, of course?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He sipped his port.