Faithless Page 16

  "Do you know how hard it is to be a woman in this organisation? Even females from the landed gentry have to start as assistant officers. So how much harder do you think it has been for me? I'm from Stepney. My father is a plumber. I started at the age of 16 in Registry filing - not even allowed to type. I went to night classes to get my A Levels so I could be accepted first as a secretary and then as an assistant officer. How many women do you think have managed that?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. I'm guessing you're going to tell me."

  "One - me."

  "Well done you. More power to your elbow."

  "And you and your public school friends just swan in here like you were born to own the place."

  John laughed. "I don't think I'm that."

  "You went to a private school."

  "On scholarship."

  "That makes no difference. You joined the club and the club will look after you."

  "I didn't know you were so radical, Sue."

  "You make me sick - you and your kind. No one is more loyal to this Office than me. No one. I'm a patriot."

  "As I said, well done, but I think you're way over the top."

  Sue said. "I simply can't work with you. You have no regard for seniority. You play by your own rules. You decide what's important and what leads you will follow."

  John shook his head and ignored her hoping she'd get the message. He picked up a report from his in-tray. He flicked it open.

  She still stood there. "I would have you fired, but I can't."

  He looked up. "Why can't you?"

  "B Branch blocked it."

  "So what now?"

  "So, we're transferring you to K3 where you can play with your friends. I'm sure you arrogance will lead you to mess up there and then we'll have enough grounds to fire you."

  "K3?" John felt wildly happy.

  "I can see you're pleased. You will go on the next TC3."

  "The agent running course?"

  She nodded. "The sooner you're out of here the better." The idea that what she intended to be a dismissal pleased him upset her but this was the best she could do. She then went back to her desk, glowering with anger at him. John couldn't help humming to himself. When Rob didn't come back he went out to find him. He was sitting on a chair in the K8 team's office.

  "She finished?" said Rob.

  "Yep. Guess what?"

  "Well you seem happy. Have you been sacked?"

  John shook his head. "Nearly. But no. Guess again."

  "Well you seem deliriously happy. She gave you drugs to make you confess but instead you enjoyed them?"

  John shook his head again. "No. I'm being transferred to K3"

  "Hot dickety damn. So you get to do the agent running course?"

  "Yep. Soon."

  "Well I'm jealous. And all because Sue hates you?"

  "Apparently."

  "How do I make her hate me too?"

  1982, Curzon Street House, London: From 1974 to 1982 John worked as a Russian linguist in A2A, the technical section responsible for the transcription of phone taps and hidden microphones as well as the translation of any documents intercepted by post. Each group of linguists was under the management of a Coordinator. The work was sometimes interesting, often routine - phone calls between Russian husbands and wives, business meetings. Never anything of direct intelligence value as the Russians were aware that they were being listened to. The Office encouraged him to learn Afrikaans and from then on he also listened to officers of the South African Intelligence Service - BOSS - as they organised braais and shopping trips. The BOSS officers weren't as tight in their security as the KGB and occasionally nuggets would drop. The South Africans' main target in London was the ANC who they would try to penetrate and, should they get the chance, kill. MI5 also listened to the ANC because they were in turn penetrated by the South African Communist Party. It was a joint operation between MI5's F2R section - which also monitored other Communist Penetrated Groups like the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament - and MI6's UKC - part of their London Station. John grew fond of his targets - both Russians and South Africans. As well as drinking black Russian tea he would buy biltong and read Afrikaans poetry. Of them all, his favourite targets were the ANC - he sympathised with their fight against apartheid and found them lively, likable people. He doubted they would like him much if they knew he was spying on them.

  The years went by. He and Karen married. The wedding was a thing foretold - enjoyed by all but no surprise. The next thing would be children, unreflected upon and as natural as Summer follows Spring. But Karen had trouble conceiving. Lots of visits to the doctor but while they waited for the National Health Service, life went on. After several years, he began to feel that he was stuck in his job so he applied for a transfer to General Intelligence Duties. This would promote him to the "officer class". He had to take a Civil Service IQ test but then a peculiarly MI5 written test which was of two parts. The first part was a multiple choice questionnaire which included such tasks as putting the aristocracy in order of precedence and saying which items required an export licence - an old master painting, a vintage bottle of Haut Medoc wine, and an Arab Stallion going to Argentina. After that they asked him to compose a letter as if he were the assistant of some nobleman on his country estate trying to persuade the Government to be lenient on death duties. It was a long way from the coal mines of Lothian but fortunately he had his education at the distinguished Heriot School to fall back on - where having your vintner send you a case of Haut Medoc and requesting export licences for stallions were everyday matters.

  After the exams he met with Charles Blount, his personnel officer in B Branch, to discuss the results. Charles was a career MI5 officer, who despite family connections had chosen counter espionage over Merchant Banking. Charles would spend a posting as a personnel officer then some time in Protective Security before another posting in Counter Subversion or Counter Terrorism. He spoke in an accent that conflated mouse with mice and where house rhymed with lice. He wore a grey suit with a thin pinstripe. He invited John to sit.

  "You've passed. But only just," he said, raising his eyes from the notes in front of him.

  "Thank you," said John graciously.

  Thinking John had misheard him, he rephrased his point. "I'm not sure it's a solid pass."

  John smiled awkwardly. "I think the questions on the aristocracy threw me. A little out of my experience."

  Charles looked at him over his gold-rimmed spectacles with a questioning glance. He said, "In my experience, linguists do not enjoy becoming intelligence officers."

  "I didn't know you were a linguist," said John, knowing his impertinence.

  "Not my personal experience of course."

  "But it's still a pass," John insisted.

  "Yes." Charles put the papers down, feeling a trifle irritated. "Tell me, why do you want to transfer?"

  "I feel the role will be more varied. I've been doing what I've been doing for nearly eight years. Also, it'll be a salary increase."

  "Quite." Charles looked down at the papers in front of him. "You are married, I see." The idea of struggling for money was alien to Charles but he was aware it was a problem for some people. He pondered. The transfer could be seen as a rational move. Generally he felt that being dissatisfied with one's place in life showed arrogance: as if one had the right to change things. As if one were a better judge of the order of things than Providence itself. Charles was traditionally religious. His mind drifted off from the conversation to fond memories of country churches near his family's home in Berkshire. After allowing a pause for politeness, John answered, "Yes, just after I joined the Office,"

  Charles returned to the matter in hand. Children?" he said.

  "Not yet, unfortunately."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." He meant it. His own children were a blessing.

  "But we're still trying."

  "And the salary increase will help with that." Charles understood John's situation better and his irritabili
ty passed. He felt suddenly avuncular.

  "Well it seems to make sense." Charles put down the papers on the desk and steepled his fingers together.

  "So what happens now?" asked John

  Charles nodded. "Yes. Well, you will be posted to F2."

  "Communists?"

  "Yes. It's either that or F7."

  "Trots?"

  For the first time Charles laughed. "Yes. Difficult to choose between them, but I think the Tankies are more likeable than the Trots. You should get joining instructions in the next few weeks."

  John was posted to F2. But first he had to go on the new officers induction course, the creatively named Training Course 1. There he met Rob Parry who became his friend. Rob had gone to a minor public school in the North of England then to Reading University where he'd studied history. Others on the course included the daughter of a gentleman farmer from Oxfordshire, the heiress to a substantial fortune that John had never heard of, the daughter of a wine dealer, a man from Birmingham who still had a strong regional accent, an ex member of Hong Kong Special Branch and around six others. They learned the basic skills of identification and had lectures from the various MI5 specialists on Communism, Trotskyism, Anarchism, Soviet Bloc Espionage, Arab terrorism, protective security, as well as an overview of the technical A Branch sections. There were some basic field exercises designed to introduce them to tradecraft. The only one going to an agent running section however was the ex Special Branch officer.

  The course took about four weeks and then he arrived with Rob at F2A. He was responsible for identifying all the members of the Communist Party in North West England. Most members were already identified as by the early 1980s British Communism was not a growth area. He found that one of them was his University friend William Frankton.There were no central surveillance resources devoted to the CPGB but the local Special Branch sometimes followed them around. Any anti War or anti Poverty or anti Nazi marches would be photographed and the photographs would be sent to John to list who had been present. Often he would get minutes from the local CPGB branch meetings provided by agents working for Special Branch or directly for F4, MI5's communist agent running section. There were also reams of tedious telephone intercept material. Party members tended to be verbose and speak in Marxist-Leninist jargon. The branch officials' letters were intercepted and again were routine. He read the Communist Party newspaper The Morning Star every day. He would also receive NOISY PAINTING material - photographed membership records as every branch had at least one if not several MI5 agents with covert cameras. They used to joke that there were so many MI5 or Special Branch agents on each branch committee that it was they who were really running the CPGB. Rob once said, "If we stopped paying our agents there would be no Communist Party".

  One day there was a flicker of excitement when a Soviet Embassy official was travelling up to give a talk in Manchester. He was meeting the local CPGB branch secretary. Afterwards, the Russian was going for dinner with a local businessman. The K4 desk officer asked John to speak to Special Branch to see if they had any contacts who could report back on what the meeting was about. John phoned Greater Manchester Special Branch and spoke to a policeman who said he would look into it. When John told him the name of the businessman. The policeman perked up. "Oh that's handy. He's the chairman of the local Conservative Party."

  John urged caution. "Perhaps leave this one then. We don't want to get too close to politicians."

  "No, " said the policeman, trying to reassure John. "Don't worry. We do favours for them. They do favours for us. It's a longstanding arrangement."

  John wondered what favours Special Branch could do for the Conservative Party.

  When trying to identify someone from a name or a phone number there was a recognised process to go through to make sure the correct details were obtained and no innocent person ended up with a file. As part of this identification process any possible trace would be sent up for the desk officer to compare against the hundreds of thousands of files held by MI5's registry. These files could be for anyone, no matter why they had been recorded. Thousands of the files had been created due to MI5 responsibility to make sure that people who were a security risk did not gain access to government secrets. Vetting was usually carried out when someone applied for a job. John remembered seeing various files of careers blocked on people who would never realise why. For example there was the file of a young naval rating who, in a political debating session, had argued too well for Maoism. That was reported it to Naval Security and whenever he came up for promotion he did not get it. Another one was a young soldier who time after time was recommended for promotion by his commanding officer but because when he originally joined the Army the local Special Branch reported that his father had Communist views, he stayed a private. Because vetting was based on intelligence there was no need for the evidence that someone had left wing views to be strong - just that some provincial policeman had heard that your father was a Leftie.

  MI5 made efforts to appear apolitical. It could not just open a file on anyone. There had to be a specific security reason. To support this method a system of "recording categories" was drawn up which related to MI5's task of protecting the British State from terrorism, subversion or espionage. Some individuals who had left wing views but had not joined any political party. In this case they were "unaffiliated subversives". The standard of evidence for putting someone into this category was by definition, ill-defined

  One day John looked his father up. It was strictly against the rules but no one in MI5 knew who his father was or that he had been a Communist. James Fee's file was in the Archive and came to him three days later. It gave details of his father's life on yellowed typed paper. Where he'd been born, his address. There was an agent report on his views as a pro-Soviet hard liner. There was a photograph of him going out of his front door. It was grainy and old but he looked just like John. There was a report of a meeting where he condemned the Zinoviev letter, which had been forged by MI6 in order to bring down the Labour Government. In the file was a reference to another file with a higher security level. John took a chance and sent a slip requesting it. His need to see the file might be challenged, but it was closed and old, so he took the chance. When it arrived he realised it was an agent file. It detailed an operation run by a now retired MI5 officer – Bunny Panchev. Panchev had been a White Russian émigré. John had heard of him. His family had owned land and factories but had to flee the revolution in 1917. He had got alongside John's father by pretending to be a Soviet illegal - a classic false flag operation. The file said that James had been fired from his job at the colliery for punching his boss. After that, James had no money and was vulnerable. The file detailed a series of meetings where Panchev flattered his father that he was helping the workers' cause. As time went on, he requested more and more sensitive material. One night he gave James some money just to help him out, saying he knew how tough things must be. Then when the money was taken, Panchev revealed he was an MI5 officer and said if James didn't continue to help them he would tell his communist colleagues that he was a traitor.

  As John read the story of his father's betrayal with mounting horror he began to feel sick. He looked at his shaking hand. Suddenly he stood up.

  "You all right mate?" asked Rob.

  "I feel odd. I'll just go to the bathroom."

  He went out into the corridor. His head spun. He made it to the toilet but there noisily vomited.

  5th April, 1984: Karen and John's twin girls were born on 5th April 1984 at Finchley Memorial Hospital. John had driven her in the early hours when she woke him to tell him her waters had broken. The labour took hours. Karen was offered fish and chips but didn't want them so he ate them and read the newspaper.Even at the height of her labour, she never swore at him, she never blamed him for her pain. Eilidh was born first, her blonde curls and blue eyes wrapped up in a clean towel and handed to him while Karen pushed to deliver Morag. Nine minutes later the small, red headed bundle came into th
e world.

  John's mother and stepfather had come down in Karen's parents' car from Scotland.

  "Well," said John's mother. "I thought I was never going to have any grandchildren, and now I've got two!"

  "We have go two!" said Karen's mother. They laughed like kindly witches.

  The two grandfathers insisted on taking John out for a pint while the women cooed around the babies and Karen in the maternity ward.

  "It's no so bad this English beer," said William. "Drink up, I'll get ye another pint, Archie. And you too John, unless you fancy a whisky? Or both!"

  "Aye get me them both," said John.

  William went off to the bar. Archie Laurie said, "They're bonnie wee things and you've called them queer old Highland names."

  John laughed. "Aye, my grandmother was from Skye. She was Eilidh. We wanted them to have Scottish names. We liked Morag. Karen said she had an aunt Morag."

  "Aye, the wife's sister. Pity they couldn't be born in Scotland though," said Archie.

  "Never mind. We'll bring them up to cry at Flowers of the Forest and drink Irn Bru, don't worry."

  William came back with the beer and a whisky for John. "It's gey dear, the drink down here."

  As he put down the beer he bumped into the back of a young man who was part of a loud group, who from the emblems on their shirts were members of a rowing club."Watch where you're going," he snapped.

  "No offence there son," said William.

  The young man sneered in his posh accent, "I'm not your son," and all his friends laughed. John felt himself tense, he moved to get up and Archie put his hand on his arm. "Easy Johnny. It's supposed to be a happy occasion. Forgive and forget."

  John looked at the two men. Old before their time with a lifetime of hard physical work. They'd worked all hours and had little to show for it. Those on the table opposite had got everything for nothing. It began in his heart, not his head, but John knew that now his children had been born something had to change. "Why should I forgive or forget?," he said.