The sterling affair, p.37
The Sterling Affair, page 37
Morton shook his head. ‘Just double-check that the biography doesn’t include any of those names,’ he said, reiterating the list of players in the Duggan Case.
Tiana nodded, checked the biography, then said, ‘No.’ She read the opening sentences of the next page, ‘Aleksei Nikolayevich Savin, codename Ruslan?’
Morton shook his head and, once she had scanned the information relating to him, turned to the next page.
‘Melita Norwood, codename Hola?’
‘The Spy who came in from the Co-op,’ Morton commented.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nothing. No, not her.’
Tiana nodded, skim-read her two-page biography and then moved on to the next agent: ‘Arne Herløv Petersen, codename Kharlev?’
Morton shook his head.
‘Detective Sergeant John Symonds, codename Scott?’
Morton shook his head.
‘Arkadi Vasilyevich Guk, codename Yermakov?’
Morton shook his head.
‘Nikita Sokolov, codename Stefan?’ she asked with a wry smile.
Morton nodded his head and grinned. ‘Do you mind if I record your translation?’ he asked and, when she had consented, switched on the voice-recording app on his mobile phone which he placed on the table close to her. He sat with his pencil poised over the yellow pad. ‘Okay.’
Tiana re-read his name and codename, then began to read the single biographical paragraph recorded on this Russian agent: ‘Born in Czechoslovakia in 1912. Arrived in Britain 4th April 1936 as an agent for the OGPU. Lived at Redcourt Hotel, Bedford Place, W.C.1. Worked initially as an assistant to an illegal agent and intelligence officer in the KGB, Viktor Zima. After WW2 Sokolov employed as Second Secretary at the Soviet Embassy in Kensington, London. Recruited several notable agents, including James Hart (HECTOR), a clerk in the Underwater Weapons Establishment at Portland, and Flora Sterling (MEDUSA), mistress to Harold Austin. Handled several agents, including MERCURY, a chemist recruited in 1954; YUNG, an aeronautical engineer recruited in 1952; AKHURYAN, a nuclear physicist recruited in 1949; and LONG, an operator in the Diplomatic Wireless Service, recruited 1944. Defected to the UK December 1957. Given new identity. Further details unknown.’ She stopped reading and looked at him.
Morton was running over the significance of what he had just heard. ‘Defected December 1957,’ he repeated. ‘And Flora Sterling’s handler…’
‘Was that what you were hoping to hear?’ she asked.
‘Er…’ he muttered, thinking. ‘Harold Austin, you said?’
Tiana looked back at the text. ‘Flora Sterling was mistress to Harold Austin. Is he someone I should know?’
Morton shrugged. ‘Depends on how interested you are in the Conservative government of the 1950s.’
She screwed up her face. ‘Not so much.’
‘He was the Foreign Secretary,’ Morton clarified, recalling one of the heavily redacted documents which he had recently examined at the National Archives.
‘Do you want me to read on?’ Tiana asked.
‘One second,’ Morton answered, pausing his audio-recording and opening up a Google search for Harold Austin. ‘Foreign Secretary from 1955 to 1956.’ Morton frowned. ‘But to when in 1956?’ The agreed date shared by the internet of Harold Austin’s last day in government was the 12th November 1956, when he had stepped down on health grounds.
That date rang a bell. ‘Hang on, I just need to check something,’ Morton said, rising from the desk and heading over to the door. He nodded to the archivist and she buzzed it open for him. At his locker, he pulled out his pad and flipped back to look at the notes that he had made on the KV 6 file on Flora Sterling, which he had downloaded from the National Archives website.
A wonderful coincidence! Harold Austin had resigned the very same day that the all-ports alert which had been in force for his mistress—Flora Sterling, a known Soviet spy—had been lifted.
He re-entered the archive room and sat down beside Tiana.
‘Okay?’ she asked.
‘Yeah,’ he replied. ‘I think so.’ He was thinking hard. ‘Could you re-read the paragraph on Nikita Sokolov, please?’
‘Sure.’ And she did.
Morton clicked his fingers. ‘An agent in the Diplomatic Wireless Service, recruited 1944. William Gilmour?’
‘Pardon?’ Tiana said.
He began to scribble his thoughts down on the yellow pad.
Flora Sterling - known Soviet spy, mistress to Harold Austin
Harold Austin - Foreign Sec, in charge of operations overseas, inc. Middle East. Suez Crisis November 1956. Resigned 12 Nov ‘56
Alexander Emmett – Operation Sawdust – undermine Pres. Nasser
William Gilmour - Diplomatic Wireless Service. Communist. Worked Middle East 1945. Handled by Nikita Sokolov. Charged with communicating secrets to the enemy
Nikita Sokolov – recruited Flora Sterling. Handled William Gilmour? Defected Dec ‘57
Morton exhaled. It might not quite cross the threshold for Genealogical Proof Standard, but he felt that the evidence before him was sufficient to confidently argue that Flora Sterling had obtained state secrets about the Middle East, specifically the Suez Crisis, which she had left, in whatever format, in the garden opposite William Gilmour’s house on the 6th November 1956. Gilmour, with his training in the Diplomatic Wireless Service and obvious communist beliefs, had transmitted these secrets to Moscow. Harold Austin had resigned but, Morton assumed, had first granted immunity to his mistress, Flora Sterling.
The narrative was becoming more robust, yet Alexander Emmett’s role was still defying clarity. His original identity still remained unknown, but he had taken on the dead double of Maurice Duggan, who had grown up in Ardingly with William Gilmour. Alexander had grown up in Port Said, the epicentre of the Suez Crisis. And, finally, Alexander had ended up marrying a member of MI5—responsible for the surveillance of Flora Sterling—who happened to kill herself in the same month as Nikita Sokolov had defected to the UK.
Morton saw the overlap between all of this disparate information as a series of Venn diagrams, but where the central portion, which unified them all, was empty. But he was getting closer, of that he was certain.
The archivist, he noticed, was staring at Tiana because she was staring at him and the hurried squiggles that he had been making on his yellow legal pad. Morton smiled to them both in turn and then said, ‘Carry on.’
Tiana tucked a piece of errant hair behind her ear, then turned the page and began to read. ‘Sirioj Husein Abdoolcader, a clerk in the Greater London Council motor licensing department?’
‘Nope,’ Morton answered.
‘Terrence McMillan, Labour MP?’
Morton shook his head.
She flicked the next page, read a few lines and then turned to him with a wide smile. ‘Alexander Emmett.’
Morton rolled his chair closer to her and peered over the text, none of it legible to him. ‘What does it say? What does it say?’
Tiana frowned. ‘It’s terribly hard to read. I don’t think I can make this one out.’
‘What?’ he asked incredulously, before noticing her mock-grimace. ‘Very funny.’
Tiana laughed. ‘So, it says this—’
‘Hang on,’ he interrupted, restarting the voice-recording app.
‘Born in 1927. Recruited in 1944. Returned to UK 20th May 1946, working as a journalist. Lived at 46a Lancaster Gate. Sent to Middle East to cover Suez Crisis. Active lead on Operation Sawdust to undermine government.’
“Active lead’… Did it not give his codename, at all?’ Morton asked.
Tiana checked the file again. ‘Oh, yes. Erm…’ She glanced at him with an ominous look on her face.
Morton asked, ‘What is it?’
‘It’s Jericho.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
4th February 1957, London
Ellen was at her desk on the third floor of Leconfield House, discreetly drying her eyes with a handkerchief scrunched in her left hand. Her desk was all but empty. All that remained now was the pathetic handle-less mug which had dutifully served as a receptacle for her stationery since her first day here. The keys of her faithful typewriter were currently being pounded across the room by her younger, more glamorous replacement, Gladys Perrier.
‘Gonna miss us, ay?’ John Potter called over to her, his pipe bouncing in the corner of his mouth, as he spoke.
‘Some of you, yes,’ she answered, sniffing back another surge of emotion.
‘Tough act for her to follow,’ he replied, nodding to Gladys, then licking his lips. ‘Reckon she’ll fit in nicely, though.’
Ellen took a long breath in. Her work in the A4 section of MI5 was over. On Saturday she would be marrying Alexander Emmett and, adhering to another of the nonsense rules which governed operations here and elsewhere, she was unable to continue working as a married woman. Quite why, nobody had been able to tell her. Her mother, when Ellen had raised the question with her on her last day off, was mortified that she would even contemplate the idea of carrying on with her work after marriage. ‘Why on earth would you want to do that?’ she had asked. ‘Your role as a housewife is a much more important duty than…than whatever it is you do at the moment. Goodness me, what a suggestion.’
But Ellen’s enquiries and mild incredulity were actually hypothetical: she could no longer work in her condition, as she was now beginning to show. Yesterday, Angela Jones had made not-particularly-subtle enquiries as to why her blouses were no longer loose-fitting around the midriff, as they had always been. Ellen had managed to brush aside the comments, she hoped, by mumbling something about eating a lot more since having met Alexander.
Despite her sadness at the prospect of leaving the section, she was very much looking forward to getting married. The last three months with Alexander had been a whirlwind of dinners, romantic walks and out-of-the-way weekends in country hotels. ‘But it’s ever so quick,’ her mother had said pointedly. ‘Do you know enough about him? I’ve not even met him, yet, for heaven’s sake.’
‘Yes, Mother. I do,’ she had responded, not quite truthfully. When she and Alexander spoke, it was always about the present moment or their future plans together, never about either of their pasts. She had guessed a long time previous that, in common with her, he was unable to discuss certain aspects of his job. She strongly suspected that he was working for MI6.
‘Do you love him?’ her mother had pressed.
‘Yes,’ Ellen had answered, this time honestly. He was somewhat of an enigma, but, so far as her limited experience had shown, so were all men.
She looked around the office at the men at work today; all of them were enigmas in their own way. Perhaps only Mr Skardon was the straight-forward man that he presented himself to be.
Ellen stood up and wandered aimlessly over to the blackboards at the back of the office. A whole new espionage network was now under investigation. Two black and white photographs, labelled Harry Houghton and Ethel Gee, were at the centre of the boards and thus at the centre of the new enquiry.
Following William Gilmour’s suicide and Harold Austin’s resignation, the investigation into the Sterling Ring had been formally closed. Even the prime minister, Anthony Eden, had resigned on health grounds. But still two things bothered Ellen: one was why, on the 12th November, Flora Sterling had turned herself in to MI5, being released just hours later with no charges having been brought against her and no further investigation into her associates; two, the definite identity of Jericho had still remained unsolved. It was an anomaly which had been strangely disregarded in the office since the collapse of the investigation. Some still believed that Gilmour was Jericho, some didn’t care, some presumed him deceased and some, under hushed whispers, proposed that Jericho’s identity was being protected by higher powers. Ellen had her own theory: that Jericho was an agent in the field, loosely connected to the so-called Sterling Ring, and only being contacted when intelligence gathered from other sources had a bearing or impact upon Jericho’s own operations.
Maybe it no longer mattered, since all intelligence regarding Jericho had fallen silent.
Ellen turned around, about to head back to her desk, when she noticed that everyone in the office had gathered together and were staring at her with inane grins on their faces. ‘What’s going on?’
Mr Skardon stepped forward, carrying a large cardboard box, which he set down in front of him. ‘Miss Ingram,’ he said. ‘I would just like to say, on behalf of everyone in the section, how much we have valued working with you. You have been an outstanding agent for A4, bringing great intuitiveness, discretion and aptitude to the role. Your keenness—and sometimes forthrightness—has been a great asset to the security services. Your dogged determination late last year brought about a swift and fantastic conclusion to the Sterling Ring, making this country a much safer place. And so, on behalf of all your colleagues in the section, I would like to wish you all the luck in the world for your forthcoming marriage—’
‘You’ll need it!’ John Potter chipped in.
‘And,’ Mr Skardon continued, ignoring the comment, ‘we would like to present you with these gifts by way of our appreciation for all your efforts. Thank you, Miss Ingram.’
The office burst into applause, as Ellen, with her cheeks flushed, stepped forward to the box. ‘Thank you very much,’ she muttered. ‘Shall I open it now, or after the wedding?’
‘Oh, as you like,’ Mr Skardon replied, over general murmurs that she should open the gift now.
Ellen lifted the lid of the box. Inside were two items: an Electrolux Vacuum Cleaner and a carriage clock. ‘Wow, thank you very much,’ Ellen said, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
‘Don’t want you to not have time to clean up after your husband,’ Paul Reynolds said, with a titter.
‘Lovely,’ Ellen said, feigning great admiration for the contraption.
‘We felt practical presents would be the order of the day,’ Mr Skardon enthused.
‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Ellen repeated, as tears of mourning for her career welled in her eyes.
‘Right, back to work, everyone,’ Mr Skardon said. ‘We’ve got spies to catch.’
The gathering around Ellen dissipated and she dragged the cardboard box over to her desk. She sat down glumly and gazed at the grimy windows, wondering how on earth she was going to cope with the void left by work, as she became a wife and mother.
Back at her flat, Ellen entered the spare room. One wall was still obscured by the large quantity of intelligence relating to the Sterling Ring and her attempt to identify Jericho. When the investigation had ceased at work, Ellen had covertly made photostats of the entire file and added it to the collection on her spare room wall.
Alexander had been nagging her for some time now to take it down and get ready to move into his flat on their wedding day. Up until now, she had resisted, hoping that some new intelligence might come to light, but the time had come for its removal.
She stared at it as a whole picture, then looked again at each piece of evidence, as she began to unstick it from the wall, hoping that she might see something that she had previously missed. How many times had she stood here like this, though? Dozens and dozens of times, for hours on end. Some of the intelligence she could even recite verbatim; there was nothing here that she hadn’t already analysed a hundred times over.
Maybe she should just accept the narrative which was generally shared and agreed within the corridors of MI5 and MI6 regarding the Sterling Ring: that top-secret documents pertaining to operations in the Middle East had been stolen from the Foreign Secretary by Flora Sterling and passed to William Gilmour, who had transmitted them to the USSR. Not a ring at all, in fact, but a very simple linear chain, which had been completely dismantled.
Where nobody could assuage her doubt, however, was regarding the film cartridge which Flora Sterling had deposited at the dead drop in Burlington Avenue. It had contained top-secret intelligence relating to Operation Sawdust, destined to be transmitted by William Gilmour to the Soviets, but, crucially, that transmission had never actually occurred. Mr Skardon had all but confirmed that Jericho was indeed responsible for tipping off President Nasser that his plane had been sabotaged. Perhaps, as Mr Skardon believed, Gilmour was indeed Jericho and had at his disposal several sources of information, Flora Sterling being just one of them. Perhaps.
With reluctance, Ellen continued to clear all of the intelligence from the wall, placing it carefully into a cardboard box. After a few minutes, the wall was cleared, and only rashes of brown Sellotape residue gave any indication that the investigation had ever existed.
Ellen sealed the box and placed it on to a growing stack of her belongings, all of which would be transported to Alexander’s flat in the next day or two.
She touched her swollen belly and smiled. It was time for the next phase in her life.
Great torrents of freezing rain lashed down on Tudor Street, changing direction at the whim of the gales currently thrashing London. Alexander, wearing a bowler hat and a long black coat, left the Observer office, driving his umbrella into the air above him.
He had just completed his final story before the wedding: a piece about the effects of the recent fuel rationing and the hope that the Suez Canal might be reopening next month.
No more work for three weeks, until he and Ellen had returned from honeymoon in the South of France. He smiled to himself, nervously excited about the coming days. Last November, when they had first got together, his immediate concern had been how he would prevent Ellen from discovering his double-identity, which she had seemed on the verge of doing. In the end, she herself had solved the problem by announcing that she was pregnant. He had proposed, there and then, knowing full well that marriage and a child would bring an end to her career at MI5 and, thus, put an end to this bizarre obsession in which she had to try to unmask Jericho. But now, he couldn’t wait to marry her; true love having arrived almost immediately following the night of the Czechoslovakian Ambassador’s Ball.
