Spycatcher

by Peter Wright

  Arrangements in Moscow were even more extraordinary. MI6 arranged for Penkovsky to hand over exposed films to Mrs. Chisholm, the wife of a local MI6 officer, Rory Chisholm, in a Moscow park. This procedure was followed more than a dozen times, long after both Penkovsky and Mrs. Chisholm had detected KGB surveillance of their movements. By the time I read the Penkovsky files, we also knew from George Blake's prison debriefings that Chisholm's identity as an MI6 officer was well known to the Russians. I was certain of one thing: even MI5, with our slender resources, and the restrictions placed on us by custom and the law, could not have failed to detect the Penkovsky operation, had the Russians run it in London the same way MI6 ran it in Moscow.

  When I circulated my Penkovsky paper it was greeted with howls of outrage. The operation was marked with great courage and daring, and seemed, on the face of it, such a triumph, that people simply became overemotional when criticisms were voiced. Harry Shergold, Penkovsky's case officer, practically went for me at a meeting in MI6 one day.

  "What the hell do you know about running agents?" he snarled, "You come in here and insult a brave man's memory, and expect us to believe this?"

  The question remains, of course, why should the Russians have sent Penkovsky as a disinformation agent, if such he was? The answer, I think, lies in the politics of Cuba, and the politics of arms control. The Russians had two major strategic ambitions in the early 1960s - to preserve Castro in Cuba, at a time when the Americans were doing all in their power to remove him, by either coup or assassination, and to enhance and develop the Soviet intercontinental ballistic missile (ICBM) capability without arousing suspicions in the West. This was the era of the "missile gap." The fear that Russia was moving ahead in the production of nuclear weapons was a major plank in John Kennedy's 1960 presidential election campaign, and he committed his administration to closing the gap. The Soviets were desperate to convince the West that the missile gap was an illusion, and that, if anything, the Soviets lagged behind the West.

  Part of the reason for the fears about Soviet missile capability was the fact that, intelligence-wise, the West was blind at this time, because the U2 surveillance flights were cancelled after Gary Powers was shot down in May 1960, and photoreconnaissance over the Soviet Union did not become available again until the launch of the first satellite toward the end of 1962. During that time the only intelligence available to the West was the interception of telemetry signals and radio communications from the rocket-testing ranges in Soviet Asia, and, of course, Penkovsky.

  The essence of Penkovsky's information was that the Soviet rocket program was nowhere near as well advanced as the West had thus far suspected, and that they had no ICBM capability, only intermediate-range ballistic missiles, IRBMs. Armed with that knowledge, Kennedy was able to call the Soviet bluff when the Americans detected IRBM facilities under construction in Cuba. The fact that the Russians were seen to be installing what, according to Penkovsky, were their state-of-the-art rockets in Cuba tended to confirm to the Americans the validity of Penkovsky's message that the Russians had no ICBM capability. Khrushchev was forced to withdraw, but achieved his major aim - an eventual acceptance from the USA that Cuba would remain unscathed.

  Penkovsky's message was later confirmed by the two defectors from the Soviet delegation to the UN who contacted the FBI in the early 1960s, Top Hat and Fedora, the latter of whom, like Penkovsky, was allegedly a scientific and technical officer. Both agents, but especially Fedora, gave intelligence which supported Penkovsky's message that Soviet rocketry was markedly inferior to the West's. Fedora gave immensely detailed intelligence about weaknesses in Soviet rocket accelerometers.

  The confidence which Penkovsky's intelligence, and that of Fedora and Top Hat, gave to the Americans was a crucial factor in creating the climate which gave rise to the SALT I arms control negotiations, and the era of detente, and that, I believe, was his purpose. He helped to lull suspicions in the West for more than a decade, and misled us as to the true state of Soviet missile development.

  In the mid-1970s the climate began to change, and doubts began to emerge. Satellite photoreconnaissance was dramatically improved, and when the accuracy of Soviet ICBMs was analyzed using sophisticated measurements of the impact craters, the missiles were found to be much more accurate than had been detected by telemetry and radio intercepts. The only explanation was that a bias had been introduced into Russian signals, with the intention of misleading American detection systems.

  While Penkovsky retained his status as MI6's finest postwar achievement, Fedora and Top Hat, for reasons which are too lengthy to detail here, were officially recognized by all sections of the U.S. intelligence community as provocations. Fedora's information about the accelerometers was found to be wrong, and there was even some evidence that the Russians had introduced a fake third gyro on their missiles to make them appear less accurate than they in fact were.

  Findings like these cast doubt on the validity of previous arms control agreements, and fears about the ability of the USA to accurately assess Soviet missile capabilities in the end sounded the death knell for the SALT talks in the late 1970s. There was a growing realization in the U.S. defense community that on-site inspections were vital in any future negotiations, a concession which the Soviets have resolutely refused to concede. Today a consensus is beginning to emerge among Western defense strategists that the West was indeed overconfident in its assessment of Soviet missile strength in the 1960s, and that the Soviet used the era of detente as the cover for a massive military expansion. The idea that Penkovsky played some role in that is not now as farfetched as it once sounded.

  When I first wrote my Penkovsky analysis Maurice Oldfield (later chief of MI6 in the 1970s), who played a key role in the Penkovsky case as Chief of Station in Washington, told me:

  "You've got a long row to hoe with this one, Peter, there's a lot of K's and Gongs riding high on the back of Penkovsky," he said, referring to the honors heaped on those involved in the Penkovsky operation.

  Perhaps not such a long row today.

  - 15 -

  By the beginning of 1964 both Arthur and I were convinced that Hollis, rather than Mitchell, was the most likely suspect for the spy we were certain had been active inside MI5 at a high level. Only this hypothesis could explain the incongruities in the Mitchell investigation. Hollis' long-standing refusal to entertain any possibility of a penetration of the Service, his unwillingness to authorize technical facilities during the Mitchell case, his refusal to sanction the interrogation, or brief the Americans until his hand was forced, all seemed to us to point in one direction.

  Then suddenly, as we waited for Symonds' second report on Mitchell, an old case fell into our laps. Sir Anthony Blunt, Surveyor of the Queen's Pictures, international art historian, and former wartime senior officer for MI5, confessed in April 1964 to having spied for Russia throughout the war. It brewed up in late 1963, when MI5 were informed by the FBI that an American citizen, Michael Whitney Straight, had told them that Blunt had recruited him for the Soviets while they were both at Cambridge University in the 1930s. Arthur Martin flew over to interview Straight, who confirmed the story, and agreed to testify in a British court if necessary.

  The question of how to handle the Blunt case was considered at a series of meetings in Hollis' office. The management saw it as a dreadful embarrassment. In the everlasting game of inter-Secret Service rivalry, the fact that MI6 had harbored proven traitors, but thus far MI5 had not, was of enormous importance to the Service's prestige in Whitehall. Hollis, in particular, craved the respect of mandarins in the Cabinet and Home Office, and feared the effect the Blunt case would have on MI5's status. Beyond this, there was a terror of scandal. Hollis and many of his senior staff were acutely aware of the damage any public revelation of Blunt's activities might do to themselves, to MI5, and to the incumbent Conservative Government. Harold Macmillan had finally resigned after a succession of security scandals, culminating in the Profumo affair. Hollis mad
e little secret of his hostility to the Labor Party, then riding high in public opinion, and realized only too well that a scandal on the scale that would be provoked by Blunt's prosecution would surely bring the tottering Government down.

  Arthur and I had simple motivations. We wanted to get our hands on Blunt as soon as possible, to see if he could shed any light on the question of further penetration of MI5. A trial involving Straight would in any case be unlikely to succeed, and would delay, if not jeopardize entirely, our chances of ever gaining his cooperation. The decision to offer Blunt immunity was possibly the only decision of note concerning the penetration of MI5 where all parties agreed, and after the matter had been cleared with the Attorney-General, Blunt was confronted by Arthur Martin and almost immediately admitted his role as Soviet talent spotter and spy.

  A few days after Blunt confessed, I was buzzed by Hollis' secretary early one evening and told to come to the DG's office at once. Hollis and F.J. were sitting on either side of his desk, looking solemn; Victor Rothschild was standing at the window staring out across Green Park.

  "Hello, Victor," I said, a little surprised that he had not warned me of his visit to the building.

  "Thank you for coming, Peter," he replied in a brittle voice, turning to face me. He looked distraught.

  "I have just told Victor about Anthony," said Hollis, interrupting quickly.

  Little wonder Victor looked devastated. Blunt and he had been close friends for nearly thirty years, first at Cambridge, and then during the war, when both men served inside MI5. After the war their careers took them on different paths. They were both men of extraordinary gifts in an increasingly gray world, and their relationship remained close. Like Blunt, Victor also fell under suspicion after the Burgess/ Maclean defections. He had been friendly with Burgess as an undergraduate, and had originally owned the lease on a house off Welbeck Street, No. 5 Bentinck Street, where Blunt and Burgess both lived during the war. But while the suspicions against Victor swiftly melted, those against Blunt remained, particularly after Courtney Young interviewed him in the mid-1950s.

  Victor's main concern, as soon as he was told the truth, was how to break the news to his wife, Tess. He knew as well as I did that news of Blunt's treachery would, if anything, have a more traumatic effect on her than on him. I had got to know Tess Rothschild well since first meeting Victor in 1958. She was a woman of great charm and femininity, and was closer to Blunt in many ways than Victor had ever been. She understood the vulnerable side of his character, and shared with him a love for art. In the 1930s she moved in that same circle of gifted left-wing intellectuals who studied in Cambridge, partied in London, and holidayed at Cap Ferrat, as the world tottered into World War II.

  When war broke out, Tess Mayer, as she then was, joined MI5, where she served with great bravery and distinction alongside her future husband. During this period, she too had rooms in No. 5 Bentinck Street along with Blunt and Burgess. Tess' other roommate was Pat Rawdon-Smith, later Lady Llewellen-Davies. Tess was well aware of MI5's doubts about Blunt after the Burgess/Maclean defections, but she defended him to the hilt. Both she and her husband, Victor, knew how it felt to be innocent, yet fall under suspicion through having been friendly with Guy Burgess. To her, Blunt was a vulnerable and wonderfully gifted man, cruelly exposed to the everlasting burden of suspicion by providence and the betrayals of Guy Burgess.

  "Anthony used to come back tight to Bentinck Street, sometimes so tight that I had to help him into bed," she used to say. "I would have known if he was a spy..."

  Victor realized that we would need to interview Tess now that Blunt had confessed, but he dreaded telling her the truth.

  "That is why I asked you up to Roger's office," he said quietly. "I think it would be better if the news came from you."

  I knew that he needed to get away from Leconfield House, and gather his thoughts alone.

  "Of course," I said, as gently as I could, suggesting that I bring Evelyn McBarnet as well, since Tess knew her.

  A few days later Evelyn and I took a taxi over to St. James's Place. We were shown up to Victor's study, a light, scholarly room overlooking Green Park, and stamped with his extraordinary character-paintings, scientific diagrams, musical instruments, books ancient and modern, and on the wall a huge self-designed slide rule. There was also a piano, on which Victor played jazz with great skill and elan. Victor was ill-at-ease, and I could tell that Tess sensed something was wrong. After a few minutes, Victor said I had some news for her, then slipped out of the room.

  "Is there anything wrong, Peter?" she asked nervously.

  "It's Anthony," I told her, "he has confessed at last."

  "What to? You are not saying he was a spy?"

  "Yes, I am, Tess."

  For a second she raised her hand to her mouth as if in pain; then she let it slip gently onto her lap. I told her the story as best I could: of how he had admitted being recruited in 1937, a year or two after Philby, Burgess, and Maclean, and how he had given a long and detailed account of his espionage activities throughout the war. Tess did not cry; she just went terribly pale, and sat hunched up and frozen, her eyes staring at me as she listened. Like Victor, she was a person for whom loyalty in friendship was of surpassing importance; to have it betrayed shook her, as it had him, to the core.

  "All those years," she whispered, "and I never suspected a thing."

  I began to understand for the first time the intensity of feelings which had been forged in the crucible of those strange, long-ago years in Cambridge in the 1930s.

  The Blunt confession had a drastic effect on Arthur's behavior. After years of toil, here finally was proof that he had been right all along. From the beginning he suspected Blunt, even though many people in the office, like Dick White, who had been close friends with Blunt during the war, initially doubted that it was possible. Arthur became even more driven, even more difficult to handle. He had the look of a man who could smell red meat, a ravenous, voracious manner as he collected his ancient scalp.

  The confession dramatically sharpened attitudes toward penetration. The unthinkable, that there could be a spy inside MI5, became suddenly much more real. Arthur was convinced that if only we could keep the momentum up, the new D Branch team could get to the heart of the 1930s conspiracy. He felt that while things were running our way, and defectors and confessions were coming thick and fast, he might still resolve the greatest riddle of all - the identity of the mole inside MI5 today. But as Arthur pressed for speed and urgency and action, he was faced by the new D Branch Director, Cumming, who favored a slow and cautious approach.

  The relationship between the two men deteriorated in an alarming way during the early part of 1964. Arthur had little respect for Cumming: he felt his approach was out of date. Arthur had been largely responsible for rebuilding Soviet Counterespionage since 1959, and because of his reputation, his influence spread way beyond D1. He was an ambitious man, and understandably so, but he lacked tact. He felt he should have been D Branch Director rather than Cumming, and made little secret of the fact that he expected the job very shortly. To him, Cumming was mishandling the whole penetration issue. Cumming deeply resented Arthur's attitude, which was rarely hidden, as well as the intrusions on his authority. He was bitter, also, about the way he had been kept out of the Mitchell inquiry, and suspected that Arthur harbored secret suspicions about Hollis. A showdown was clearly only a matter of time in coming.

  Shortly after Blunt confessed, it occurred. In May 1964 I visited Washington to try to persuade the CIA to help our fledgling Movements Analysis program. Hal Doyne Ditmass, who ran the Movements Analysis, and I wanted the CIA to provide computer effort to process the mass of material which the program was producing (7 million movements a year) and my request to the CIA had Hollis' approval. Angleton was totally supportive, and Helms agreed to send over not just one or two technicians, but a twenty-man team and a guarantee of all the computer time in the CIA that the program required. As soon as I got back, wit
h the CIA computer team due to arrive the following week, Arthur told me that Hal Doyne Ditmass was being transferred. I exploded.

  "How the hell can we do any planning if vital staff are transferred just as soon as they familiarize themselves with an area?" I raged. "Hal and I have spent four years developing this work, and just when it really starts to produce results, he gets a transfer!"