by Graham Ison
Julia Hodder remained completely in control of herself, and Gaffney was beginning to wonder whether he had got it all wrong. He certainly wasn’t penetrating her ice-cold poise. Nevertheless, he persevered; he had no alternative. “Then you embarked on an elaborate masquerade,” he continued, “pretending to be Rita Hamilton. The risks were enormous, but you were desperate, because you had allowed your husband to find out about you. That sort of incompetence is unacceptable to your KGB masters, isn’t it? But to your astonishment, Selby turned out not to be a homosexual; he proved to be an ardent lover, and that’s when you made your biggest and final mistake. You broke all the rules; you took him to Bere Watton. I have asked myself why you did that, and there’s only one answer: Selby had fallen head over heels in love with you.” Gaffney paused. “And you with him…”
For the first time since her arrest, she showed some emotion. “It’s true,” she said. “He does love me, wants to marry me; and I want to marry him.”
“Then it’s up to you, isn’t it? You tell us what we want to know and you will be released: no trial, no prison.” This was the inducement that Gaffney had been authorized to offer, but only if she was prepared to talk. The DPP’s man had argued long and hard in favor of the rule of law, but had eventually been beaten down, as is so often the case, in the face of what are euphemistically called ‘intelligence interests’.”
“I don’t believe you.” Still Julia Hodder’s face remained expressionless. “British Intelligence doesn’t work like that.”
Gaffney smiled. “Oh, but it does, and you know it does. You’ve been a professional intelligence officer for long enough to know how the game’s played. Your people are playing it all the time. Be frank with us and we’ll give you a new identity, somewhere discreet and safe to live, and you can start a new life.”
She tossed her head. “Huh! And be forever looking over my shoulder?”
“Or forever in prison – first a British one, then a Russian one. Do they put female prisoners in the Lubyanka, or do they go to labor camps too?” Gaffney paused, calculating. “You’re thirty-five now. Add twenty-five years’ imprisonment here – that’s sixty; a bit old to start work in a labor camp.” He sat back and waited. The methods he was using were downright coercive, and any evidence that resulted would be inadmissible in an English court; but he didn’t want evidence, didn’t need it. He was seeking intelligence, and that was a different matter altogether – that was always needed.
For minutes, she sat in silence, gazing at a spot on the wall way above Gaffney’s head. He prayed that no one would break the spell.
At last she spoke. “What guarantees do I have?”
“None.” Gaffney spoke coldly. “You’re hardly in a position to demand any, but you don’t have any real choice.”
Suddenly, she smiled. “I didn’t really expect any,” she said. “If our roles had been reversed, I wouldn’t have given you any.” For a moment, her decision hung in the air, apparently wavering. Gaffney held his breath. “All right,” she said, “supposing I tell you what you want to know. What happens then?”
“What you tell me will be assessed by the security authorities, and if it is found to be both accurate and helpful, the Attorney-General will consider withholding his fiat—”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr Gaffney. I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
“In all prosecutions under the Official Secrets Act, the Attorney-General has to give his fiat – his permission – for those proceedings. Without it, there is no prosecution.”
“I see.” She nodded.
“If that happens, then the authorities will arrange for you to be given a new identity and somewhere to live. And they will be in contact with you probably for the rest of your life.”
“Oh! Why is that?”
“Well primarily to protect you, but also to make sure you don’t change your mind.”
“I shan’t change my mind.”
“They all say that,” said Gaffney. “The other thing we will make sure of is that you are not part of an elaborate plot.”
“And how will you do that?”
Gaffney smiled, but said nothing.
There was a pause while she mulled over the proposition. “All right,” she said. “What d’you want to know?”
“Who you are might be a good place to start; we know that you are not Julia Simpson, and never were.”
“My name is Alexandrina Belinska and I was born in Moscow in 1953 – 21st August, so you see I am only thirty-four.”
Gaffney nodded; that was probably quite important to her. “Go on.”
“My father was a party official, so we had our own flat. No sharing.”
Gaffney looked across at the shorthand writer to satisfy himself that what she was saying was being taken down. Admittedly, there was a tape-recorder running, but that was mechanical, and mechanical things could go wrong; shorthand writers tended not to.
“I finished school at sixteen,” she continued. “And then I was selected for special training.”
“What sort of special training?”
“I was sent to learn English, thoroughly.”
“Yes, but for what purpose?”
“I wasn’t told – and I didn’t ask.”
“Yes, go on.” Gaffney glanced at Grierson, inviting him to participate in the conversation, but content – at least for the moment – he waved a hand of dismissal. “Where did you go for this training?”
“Nikolayev – well, near there. It’s on the Black Sea.”
“And what form did this training take?”
She looked across the room, up at the high, wired windows set in the wall near the ceiling. “It was pretty awful. All the streets there are like English streets – are English streets, with English cars and buses, and shops and post offices.” She darted a smile at him. “And English policemen!” She became serious again. “Everything is exactly as in an English town. I heard that Colonel Philby helped to design it, and gives advice every so often.” She smiled.
“Decent of him,” said Gaffney.
“But the worst part is in the dacha. Each of the students has his or her own dacha; it’s a small villa. In every one of the rooms there is a television or a radio. You cannot turn them off. All day and all night they are on.”
“What do they broadcast?”
“All the English programs. They are beamed on satellites, straight from England, then recorded and played back. Everything you see and hear, we see and hear. The first night you cannot sleep; the second night you are exhausted. But by the end of the first month, I knew that Harold Wilson was the Prime Minister, and that there was civil war in Northern Ireland. The opening of the Victoria Line was on television, and I knew all about Coronation Street and Crossroads. I watched Panorama, and saw all the party conferences. For three years I soaked up everything that you put out. All the time we used English money…” She broke off and laughed. “It was much easier when you changed to decimal in 1971. Every newspaper was available to us, and we had to read them; they would test us – all the time, tests on language and customs and current affairs.”
“How long were you there, Mrs Hodder? You don’t mind if I continue to call you that, do you? I don’t think I could pronounce your real name.”
She smiled. “I’m not very good at it either. It’s a long time since I used it.” She leaned across the table and pointed to the cigarette packet. Gaffney nodded and gave her his lighter. She pulled deeply, inhaling the smoke. “Three years I was there.”
“And then?”
“A year’s illegal.”
Gaffney looked puzzled. “A year’s what?”
“A year here. I was an illegal immigrant, but with all the right papers, not that you need them. I spent a year here in London, familiarizing myself with your way of life – getting the feel of the place, I suppose you might say. Then I went back to Nikolayev for another year.”
“What was the purpose of that?”
“To iron out the problems. To learn how to look a policeman in the eye without feeling guilty; you know, the sort of thing you would never do in Russia. We had to make a list while we were here of all the things that worried us, that we found hard.”
“And what did you find hard? What were your problems?”
“Flirting with men. It is done differently here from the way it’s done in Russia.”
Gaffney thought that she had learned well. “And then what?”
“I went to Nigeria – to Lagos – to learn my life.”
“Your life?”
“Yes, learning to be Julia Simpson.”
“Tell me about it.”
“The authorities – the KGB that is – knew about her death in Nigeria, and they knew it wasn’t in the records at St Catherine’s House.”
“But it was in the High Commission in Lagos.”
“It was?” She looked shaken by that, shaken not only that the great impeccable KGB could have made such a mistake, but that they had put her at risk. “It’s been done before,” she said, as though that excused their incompetence, “with Colonel Konon Molody, who your people knew as Gordon Arnold Lonsdale.” Gaffney nodded. “I had to learn all about Julia, and my parents, George and Helen, who were conveniently killed in an air crash in 1975. I familiarized myself with where I was supposed to have been brought up. Then I went to Ethiopia and did some relief work with a charity, building up my life story all the time.”
“Had it been decided at that time what you were going to do?”
“I don’t know. One does not ask. But while I was there I was given my orders and a very full briefing on Geoffrey.”
“By whom?” Grierson spoke for the first time. “Can you remember the name?”
“Kuprin,” she said, turning to face the MI5 officer. “Colonel Alexis Kuprin – he was the military attache at the Soviet Embassy in Addis.” She spoke without hesitation, instantly recalling the man’s rank, name and post.
“Where did you receive this briefing? In the embassy?”
She laughed scornfully. “Of course not. What would an English relief worker be doing going into the Soviet Embassy in Addis Ababa? No, it was specially arranged – in a safe house.”
“Where was it? Can you recall the address?”
“Yes. It was Harar Street, number 17.” She paused to take another cigarette – this time without asking – and light it. “But it’s no longer there. Since the revolution things in Ethiopia are much easier for us.” She spoke contemptuously, implying that Grierson should have known that.
“What were your instructions – in relation to Geoffrey?” asked Gaffney. “That you should come to England and seduce him?”
“Yes. It was all exactly as you said.” Her blue eyes looked straight into his, unwavering.
“Were you aware of what he did – what he was?”
“Of course. It was a thorough briefing.”
“Please go on.”
“I came to England, to Surrey. I was given exact details. I bought Raven Cottage and got to work.” Gaffney smiled at her businesslike approach. “It was easier than I’d hoped. When I saw Elizabeth, I knew it was going to be a pushover.” For the first time, she looked a little sympathetic. “Poor old Geoffrey.” She wrinkled her nose. “He didn’t stand a chance, really,” and she laughed.
“I can imagine,” murmured Gaffney. Grierson frowned; he didn’t enjoy flippant remarks about his late colleague.
“The one thing that my training hadn’t prepared me for, though, was the hostility of English women.” She smiled at the memory. “They were so unkind. But things got better when I married. They didn’t seem to mind me so much then.”
“As a matter of interest, what would have happened if you’d become pregnant? Would you have had the child?”
“That would not have been possible.” She frowned slightly, a wistful expression. “I had to be sterilized before leaving for duty abroad. It’s not considered quite proper for majors in the KGB to have babies – especially when they’re on active service.” The frown disappeared and she smiled again.
“No, I suppose not.” It was difficult for Gaffney, despite his experience, to visualize this attractive woman opposite him as a KGB major. “How easy was it for you to extract information from your husband? Or was it very difficult?”
“At first, yes, very hard. So I didn’t try. I waited for about six years—”
“Six years!”
She looked at him patiently. “Of course. When you have invested so much time in an operation – a creation – you don’t rush it, only to fall at the first fence. There was always plenty of time. We were not in a hurry for anything.”
“No, I suppose not.” Gaffney couldn’t help admiring the girl’s professionalism.
“Then Geoffrey was promoted – that would have been about two or three years ago…” Behind Julia, Grierson nodded at Gaffney. “He began to feel the strain. Quite frankly, I think it was a mistake. He wasn’t up to it. It happens in Russia, too, you know. People get over-promoted. What’s that lovely expression? Promoted to the level of their incompetence. Well that was poor Geoffrey. Not unnaturally I took advantage of that. It was a long, slow process, but it paid off in the end. I could see he was worried. So, carefully and gently, I got him to confide in me, in a way that wouldn’t make him suspicious. It meant making some sacrifices, of course—”
“Oh?” Gaffney raised an eyebrow.
“Oh yes. I could have prevented the arrest of the man you knew as Charles Godfrey, but I had to let you have him. It was all part of building Geoffrey’s confidence in me, so that in the end he would tell me everything. And he did. Unfortunately, he told me so much that he began to realize. It was a pity about Peter Dickson – coming so soon after Nikitin and Gesschner. If it had stopped there – at least for a while – I might have got away with it. But Major Armitage was such a gift – and Peter Dickson so valuable an operator – that I really had no choice.” She shrugged her shoulders so that it opened the front of her dress a little more. Gaffney smiled inwardly, pleased to have official confirmation that his trap had been so successful.
“You say that he began to suspect?”
“More than that. He knew. He was really frightened by the Dickson disappearance. I’ve never seen him in such a state – a nervous wreck. And after that interview with you at Scotland Yard, Mr Gaffney, I think he knew that there was going to be trouble. It was like a blinding glimpse of the obvious. He asked me outright if I was an agent.”
“And what did you say?”
“I denied it, of course. What else could I do?”
“Obviously you were going to have to do something.”
“Obviously.” Suddenly her face was very stem, possessed of a steel-like quality that lent her features a frightening, almost compelling attraction. “I was going to have him liquidated.” Even Gaffney, with all his experience, was staggered at her coolness, at the cold matter-of-fact solution to a problem. She betrayed no emotion at the prospect of disposing of a man with whom she had lived for nigh on ten years. “It was him or me,” she said.
Gaffney tapped Tipper’s foot under the table, a signal for him to take over the interrogation. With several murder investigations under his belt, Tipper was a natural for dealing with murder, attempted murder, threats to murder and conspiracy to murder. “What plans did you make?” he asked.
She smiled at him, and again he felt uncomfortable. Whoever had trained her in the subtle art of seduction had done a good job. “None. I just thought about it. And that’s not a crime, is it?” She continued to gaze unwaveringly at him. “I didn’t have to. The next morning he went to work and committed suicide.” She switched her gaze back to Gaffney. “You did say it was suicide, didn’t you?”
Gaffney nodded. “Yes, it was.” He felt Tipper’s foot touch his. Tipper was out of his depth and wasn’t afraid to say so. He’d spent a professional lifetime interrogating prisoners against whom there was some sanction: usually a ch
arge for a serious offence. This gentler persuasion was not his medium. “How did you get on to Selby?” asked Gaffney.
“You seem to know that already,” she said, and smiled. “Geoffrey told me about him, as you suspected. He told me about all the people he worked with.” She shot a glance over her shoulder at Grierson. “But Peter seemed the best. From what Geoffrey said, he was different: he loved music and the arts. And he was single. I’d already decided that Geoffrey had served his purpose, and he was becoming a danger to me. It was time for a change.” She was chain-smoking now. “I got my controller to find out more about Selby.”
Grierson looked as though he were about to ask a question. Gaffney knew what the question was, but he had no intention of allowing it to upset the flow. The identity of Julia Hodder’s controller would come later: another day in all probability. He shook his head briefly. “How did your controller find out more?”
She spread her hands in a gesture of ignorance. “I don’t know.” She spoke sharply, implying that a professional like Gaffney should know. “I presume he had him followed: I don’t really know. Anyway, I was told that he went to concerts, always by himself, and that he was very keen on Monteverdi. Then one day I got a telephone call from my controller to say that Peter was going to a concert at a country house in Sussex that evening. So I went too; and I bumped into him, literally, and emptied my glass of wine over him.” She smiled at the memory. “It was him who apologized.”
“Was that part of your course in how to seduce men?” asked Gaffney, smiling also.
“No.” She looked serious. “It just seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“And so you went on to develop a relationship with Selby in exactly the same sort of way that you had done with Geoffrey Hodder – yes?”
“That was the intention, certainly, but it didn’t work out quite like that.”
“Oh?” Gaffney had a brief glimpse of sadness, perhaps the only time he was to see the real Julia behind the mask of the KGB agent.