Just 48 hours before an exhausted Peter Sokolov mumbled these words, Paul Dukes had been having problems of his own: should he suffocate or be bitten to death?
The small tomb in the forgotten corner of the Volkovo cemetery which had seemed such a good idea that morning seemed less good now. Although Paul was not exposed to the cold and damp as he had been out on the bogland, he soon found that the air in the tomb was rank and unbreathable. So he had tried sleeping with his head poking out of the gap where the walls had crumbled at the corner of the tomb. He then discovered that this seemed to be the favourite haunt of every mosquito in Petrograd and within minutes his face was covered in bites. So he retreated inside the tomb only to be forced out again a few minutes later because he couldn’t breathe. There was no ventilation at all and if he fell asleep in there he might never wake again. He was too tired and hungry for the irony of this possibility to amuse him.
Eventually Paul compromised by wrapping his scarf tightly around his head and then lay with his head outside the tomb once again. The constant high-pitched whine of the mosquitoes in his ears was annoying, but at least he was not being bitten. He tried to nod off to sleep as a way of forgetting about the hunger cramps in his stomach. His mind drifted back to the sumptuous meal he had been given by the mysterious Zorinsky when he had arrived to begin his second stint in Petrograd in January 1919. It was hard to believe that it had all been just five months ago …
‘So how are things over there?’ Zorinsky had asked.
‘Over where?’
‘In Finland, of course.’
This was not the first time that Zorinsky had almost caused Paul to choke on his vodka, but he was determined not to let it show.
‘It is a pity that you didn’t let me put you across the bridge at Bielo’ostrov as I suggested,’ continued Zorinsky.
‘Oh, but I got away all right. It was a long tramp, but not unpleasant.’
‘I could have put you across quite simply – both of you.’
‘Both of us?’
‘Why, you and Mrs Merritt of course.’
Paul sat back in complete bewilderment. He had only returned to Petrograd the previous day and yet already Zorinsky seemed to know everything about him. How did he do it? More importantly, who else was he telling?
Paul knew that he was taking a risk by coming back to Russia. There were indications everywhere that the Cheka were becoming more effective. The Red Terror of the previous autumn might have been brutal and provoked revulsion throughout the world, but it had also yielded a wealth of intelligence leads which the organisation was now following up. Escape lines were being closed down and conspirators rounded up. Paul knew that he had only a limited time in which to operate.
But he had returned for two good operational reasons: the first was that MI6 desperately needed more intelligence reports. Paul had been welcomed in Helsinki by the British Consul, Henry Bell, but he had been quickly transferred by steamer to Stockholm where he could be safely debriefed – in Helsinki there were too many Bolshevik spies and others who were watching the British Consulate closely. In Stockholm he had spent Christmas week staying with the head of the MI6 station, Major John Scale, and his wife. While there, Paul had been busy writing up all the notes he had smuggled out of the country in code on tiny slips of thin paper. Much of it was little more than his impressions of conditions in the city, the price of food, how people were reacting to Bolshevik rule and so forth, but so little was known in Whitehall about what was happening in Russia that even this was like gold dust. The British government still could not make up its mind whether to attempt to befriend the Bolsheviks in order to try and bring Russia back into the ranks of Western nations or to oppose them utterly and support the White counter-revolutionaries. Despite all the horror stories coming out of the country, the Labour Party and the trade unions were running a very successful ‘Hands Off Russia!’ campaign.
During his stay in Stockholm it became clear to Paul that MI6 had no other sources in Bolshevik Russia. Some officers who had fled from Petrograd in the autumn had been reassigned to areas controlled by the White armies, but as for the Bolshevik territories, he was the only agent who had been able to penetrate the border security and set up a working operation. The message from Cumming in London was unequivocal: ‘Supply ST-25 everything he wants and convey thanks.’ Scale briefed him in more detail on Cromie’s NID agents and also on other MI6 contacts in the hope that he could resurrect the old networks.
The second and for Paul the most important reason for going back was that he had to rescue Melnikov. Despite his desire for revenge on the Bolsheviks who had murdered his parents, the main reason why Melnikov had gone back into Russia was to help Paul find Cromie’s old contacts. He had barely lasted two days before the Cheka had arrested him and now Paul knew that it was his duty to get Melnikov out. He also hoped that Melnikov would become his senior agent in the new network that he was establishing. He had already proved his worth many times over. Unfortunately that meant dealing with the mysterious Captain Zorinsky. Paul was concerned to find that Zorinsky was ‘no trace’ in the records of both MI6 and the NID, but that was a risk he was prepared to take.
And so less than two weeks after leaving Russia, in the first week of January 1919 Paul was back again. The return journey had been surprisingly simple. He had been unable to find Ivan Sergeivitch at Viborg and so had gone to see the Finnish border guards he had used before. They were quite happy to help him as long as he paid his way. In fact they had a new, more sophisticated method of smuggling Paul across the frontier – they wrapped him in a big white sheet. This seemed mad, but proved to be surprisingly effective. Paul was put across into exactly the same meadow as before, but this time he was in no fear of being spotted from the cottage because the sheet was almost invisible against the deep snow that covered the landscape. He even managed to avoid the ditch into which he had fallen last time. Once again he rested in the half-built house, sipping whisky until dawn, and then caught the first train of the day into Petrograd.
After checking that his safe houses with Merritt’s housekeeper Maria and the civil servant were still operational, his first call had been to Zorinsky to find out how the plan to rescue Melnikov was progressing. Zorinsky had invited him to dinner at his apartment that evening as he had ‘news’. Now it seemed that quite a lot of that news concerned Paul himself.
Zorinsky pretended not to be angry that Paul had lied to him about going to Moscow, but he did make strenuous efforts to find out how Mrs Merritt had escaped from the prison. Apparently the Cheka were baffled. Paul was wise to Zorinsky’s tricks by now and pretended that he had simply met Mrs Merritt at one of his safe houses after her escape and had no idea how it had been done. Zorinsky was mildly annoyed at this obvious lie, but countered with a piece of news of his own. He asked, quite casually, if Paul had heard of a certain Cheka officer. He then named the Policeman!
Trying not to let the shock show on his face, Paul claimed that he had never heard of this man, but he felt sure that Zorinsky must have been able to see right through him. However, Zorinsky’s information cannot have been as good as Paul feared because Zorinsky did not follow this up. He simply warned Paul that he should watch out for this old contact of Merritt’s as he was thought to be working for the Germans. Paul then chanced his luck by asking if Zorinsky thought there was a link between this informant and Mrs Merritt. Zorinsky said he did not think so and to Paul his answer seemed honest.
Despite the fact that Paul had returned with the balance of the outrageous sum Zorinsky was asking to free Melnikov, the former army officer seemed reluctant to talk about the subject. Paul found that he had been right not to return to the café which Melnikov had sent him to. The Cheka had raided it while he had been in Stockholm and had rounded up the proprietors – including Vera, the pretty young owner – and about twenty other White conspirators. Zorinsky claimed not to know whether this was because Melnikov had talked under torture or because the café had been indiscreet. However, Paul noticed that Zorinsky seemed strangely satisfied about the raid. When he challenged Zorinsky about this the man was unrepentant: the people who went to the café were fools, said Zorinsky, they were bound to have been picked up sooner or later. Paul reflected on the fact that Zorinsky himself had been one of these ‘fools’ for quite some time, although he’d been conveniently absent on the day the raid had taken place …
But, as always with Zorinsky, just as Paul was about to conclude that the former soldier must be some sort of Cheka agent, Zorinsky completely turned the tables. He leaned over and handed Paul a pen sketch of the Gulf of Finland drawn on blue oil paper. He wondered if Paul was interested in it at all? For a moment Paul could not make out the jumble of symbols he was looking at and then he realised: it was a detailed plan of the complete minefield system around Kronstadt! And this was the original document, not a copy. Zorinsky coolly suggested that if Paul was interested he had better copy it right away as it had to be back in its locked drawer in the Russian Admiralty building first thing next morning. Paul did not know what to say. With Cowan’s squadron now operating in the Gulf this was an invaluable piece of intelligence, yet Zorinsky was handing it over as if it was nothing. Paul wondered if it could possibly be genuine. Upon closer examination the plan showed how the minefields were set in two distinct zones. The map also showed the route which a vessel would have to take to pass safely through them. Paul knew that he could not afford to take a chance with something as crucial as this. Despite the risk of working in front of Zorinsky he set about copying it there and then. He could check whether it was genuine later.
While Paul was hard at work, Zorinsky produced another piece of paper and offered it for examination. It was a certificate of exemption from military service. This was a vital document which had only just been introduced by the Bolsheviks. Every male of military age had to have one – even Paul’s certificate stating that he was a member of the Cheka would not be enough to excuse him. The Finnish border guards had not been able to forge one as they had not yet seen an example and Paul knew that if he was stopped on the street without one he could be in serious trouble.
The exemption certificate was signed by the relevant commissar, but the name of the bearer was blank. Once again Zorinsky appeared to have pulled off a miracle. He said that he already possessed one so Paul was welcome to this. He also said that he obtained them from a friend of his who was a doctor who had acquired them when two patients didn’t arrive for their exemption examination. Zorinsky offered Paul a pen and suggested that he sign the form at once.
It was then that Paul realised he was trapped.
He had carefully concealed his operational name, the name that was on his passport and other forged papers, from Zorinsky. But now he was caught – he must either write his new operational name down so that it matched his other papers, right here on the desk where Zorinsky could see it, or he could refuse and Zorinsky would know that the game had come to an end. Zorinsky would probably pass his name and details to the Cheka within the hour. The bounty for an English spy would be very high.
Zorinsky lolled in his rocking chair, watching Paul’s hesitation with interest. Paul later confessed that he suddenly felt ‘an intense and overpowering repugnance’ for this man who was controlling him so easily.
Paul decided he had no choice. He sat at the desk and carefully wrote his new operational name, ‘Joseph Krylenko’, trying to match the handwriting to that already on the form. For a moment he thought he was in the clear, but Zorinsky glanced at the form and pointed to the line below. There was a space next to the abbreviation zan, which stood for the Russian word zaniatia – occupation. Paul tried to pretend to Zorinsky that he had no occupation and should leave it blank. But Zorinsky was not falling for that story for a moment. He told Paul to put whatever it said on his passport. Once again, Paul knew that he had no choice. In every respect the exemption form must match the new ‘Krylenko’ passport that the Finnish guards had recently forged for him. He took the passport from his pocket and wrote on the form that he was an officer of the Extraordinary Commission, the Cheka. He also wrote down his age from his passport: 36, six years older than his real age. He noted the reason for the medical exemption with bitter amusement: ‘incurable heart trouble’ – exactly the diagnosis that had prevented him from serving in the British army in 1914.
Standing over him, Zorinsky picked up the Cheka passport and examined it. He admired the quality of the forgery and then turned over the single dog-eared sheet of paper, looking for the registration of the bearer’s address which should have been on the back. But that requirement was a very recent regulation and Paul’s passport did not have it. Disappointed, Zorinsky handed it back.
And then, finally, as if he had now disposed of all the other business he wished to deal with in this meeting, Zorinsky turned to the subject that Paul had been trying to raise all evening: the rescue of Melnikov. Zorinsky said that unfortunately the investigator was now asking for the whole sum of sixty thousand roubles in advance. When Paul asked what guarantee there would be that the investigator would carry out his side of the bargain Zorinsky barely bothered to look up from the copy of Pravda he was reading:
‘Guarantee? None,’ he replied.
Paul had little choice if he wanted to save his friend. He considered asking the Policeman to look into the case but, having risked his neck to save Mrs Merritt, Paul knew that he dared not start asking questions about another of Cromie’s former contacts. Reluctantly, Paul agreed to bring the money the next day.
Paul spent the night at Zorinsky’s flat so that he could finish copying the map of the minefields, confident that Zorinsky would not betray him as long as there was the prospect of another thirty thousand roubles to be delivered. Paul was angry. He knew that he was being played for a fool. Zorinsky was not only older than him but clearly much more experienced. But the intelligence that Zorinsky had provided so far had been top-notch according to Major Scale and if this map of the minefield also turned out to be genuine then the risk Paul was running was well worth it. Other than the money for Melnikov’s release, Zorinsky did not even ask for much, just a few thousand roubles for expenses now and again. If he really was trying to squeeze Paul dry then he could easily have asked for ten times what he was actually getting for the intelligence he was providing.
As he lay in bed thinking, Paul turned the exemption paper over and over in his hands. This paper had increased Zorinsky’s control over him, but what could he do about it? He had to have one if he was to move on the streets safely. Paul decided to fold the certificate a few times so that it would not look brand new. It was as he did this that the paper separated into two pieces. Paul realised that this was not one exemption form, but two! Whoever had torn this from the pad had accidentally taken two papers that were stuck together and not even Zorinsky had noticed. Naturally, the second printed form was blank and had not been signed by the commissar, but the signature would be the work of moments to copy. Paul now had the chance to create a totally new identity about which Zorinsky would know nothing. But where could he get such an identity?
Paul went to sleep turning the problem over in his mind, but by the morning he was no nearer a solution. The trouble was that whatever identity he created would need all the other supporting papers to go with it and he had no means of forging those, nor a contact who could supply them. It was an issue he would have to shelve for the moment. All that he had resolved was to try and track down Melnikov’s uncle at the hospital on the other side of the city. Melnikov had trusted him enough to stay with him and had spoken of him in terms which led Paul to believe that he knew something of Melnikov’s work. With Melnikov in prison Paul needed to follow up any lead which might guide him to his friend’s underground contacts.
Three weeks later, at 10.30 a.m. on Sunday, 25 January 1919, Paul was sitting in the flat belonging to Melnikov’s uncle at one end of Kamenostrovsky Prospekt, just a short walk along the road from the hospital. Over the course of the previous three weeks, this man had become a firm friend, but their first meeting had not been auspicious. When Paul had arrived at the hospital and found the uncle’s office, the man had at first denied all knowledge of Melnikov’s activities. He certainly denied that Melnikov had told him about any Englishman. Paul had expected this. The man’s nephew had just been arrested by the Cheka. What would be more natural than to send round an agent provocateur to see if they could trick him into admitting that they knew of his counterrevolutionary activities? Paul continued to insist that he was a British agent and told the uncle all about Melnikov drinking every drop of whisky before they set out from Finland. That one small detail seemed to finally tip the scales and convinced Melnikov’s uncle that this ruffian on the other side of the desk must be the real thing.
Over the next few weeks Paul had come to trust the old man more and more. Like Paul he had initially been a supporter of the Revolution and like Paul he was now convinced that it had lost its way. Paul told the uncle all about the meetings with Zorinsky and valued his opinion on whether Zorinsky was telling the truth. On this morning in January, Paul was complaining about how Zorinsky had accepted the balance of thirty thousand roubles but they were no nearer to Melnikov’s release. Every time Paul raised the subject Zorinsky would claim that it would just be another few days or that his contact was away from the city for a while.
Melnikov’s uncle asked a few simple questions about Zorinsky. For instance, was he demanding a lot of money? Paul replied that Zorinsky rarely asked for anything except a few expenses and some money to support Melnikov’s sister …
Melnikov’s uncle pounced: Melnikov had no sister.
This was the first time that Paul had caught Zorinsky in an outright lie. No wonder he could work so cheaply – he was taking all the escape money for himself. Melnikov’s uncle pointed out that Paul had better go on paying for this non-existent sister unless he wanted to alert Zorinsky. But Paul’s greatest worry was what all this meant for the chances of Melnikov’s rescue. Was he being lied to about that as well? He decided that he would have to use the Policeman to find out what was really happening to Melnikov. It would take several weeks for the informant to come up with an answer and in the meantime Melnikov’s uncle promised to see what he could do about procuring a new passport for Paul. One of Melnikov’s contacts, someone named ‘Shura’, might be able to help.
Just a few days later Paul called to see the uncle again and found a brand new passport waiting for him. It was in the name of Alexander Vasilievitch Markov, who was a 33-year-old clerical assistant at the main Post and Telegraph Office in Petrograd. The real Alexander Markov had been sent to Petrograd from Moscow on temporary duty, but because his wife had fallen sick he had returned to Moscow after just one week and the mysterious ‘Shura’ had purchased the Petrograd passport from him. Markov would simply tell the authorities in Moscow that he had lost it. Paul used the uncle’s typewriter to change the name on the form to ‘Markovitch’ and then filled in the blank exemption form to tally with his new identity. The Markovitch passport would be valid until the end of May 1919. Paul hoped that his mission would be over by then and if it wasn’t then at least he had plenty of time to deal with the problem.
In the meantime, Paul had committed another foolish mistake, one which could probably be attributed to his lack of training as an agent by MI6. It is strange how many espionage operations are brought down by the most mundane of details, but whilst Paul had brought a great deal of money with him into Russia he was desperately short of clothes, especially underwear (this was long before the days when ‘going commando’ was thought to be an option for a respectable gentleman – or even a secret agent). He was also constantly changing his appearance but the sort of articles he wore a lot of – such as hats and jackets – were in short supply in the Petrograd second-hand markets. He borrowed as much as he could from contacts but all the time he kept thinking about his own clothes, which were still locked away at his flat.
Eventually Paul could resist the temptation no longer and broke every rule in the book by returning there. It was very likely that someone in the building would report the presence of a stranger to the Cheka. Fortunately, it seems that his current disguise of long hair and shaggy beard was so successful that even his own housekeeper did not recognise him and it was only with great reluctance that she accepted a letter from ‘Mr Dukes’ stating that this Alexander Markovitch was an old friend who should be given every assistance.
When he was finally admitted, Paul found that he had taken the risk almost in vain. The flat had already been ransacked both by the Cheka and a family of peasants who had used it as a squat for several weeks. All the good clothes had been taken and those that had been left behind had been ripped to shreds. Paul did find some of his underclothes, but it was a poor return for such a risk. It seems strange to think that the entire operation almost came to grief just so that Paul could have a pair of pants.
Another risk that Paul took was to contact one of his old friends who was still living in the city. In the middle of January he had lost Maria, Merritt’s old housekeeper, when she had returned to the countryside. She told Paul that he could still use the flat, but a young stable boy from Merritt’s former farm outside Petrograd came to live there in place of Maria and although the lad was honest he was not very bright. Paul could not be sure that the youngster would not make some stupid comment which would give him, Paul, away.
And then, at the beginning of February, Paul also lost the flat occupied by Stepanova, Ivan Sergeivitch’s housekeeper. Her nephew Dmitri had already been transferred with his regiment to another city, which meant that she was always short of food. One day Paul made his usual telephone call to check that it was safe to visit the flat. He asked Stepanova if her father was well – this was done in case the line was being monitored by the Cheka. This time Stepanova said that her father was ill, in fact he was probably dying. This was the signal that something was badly wrong. A few hours later Paul met Stepanova in Kazan Cathedral, their emergency rendezvous.
It turned out that Varia, the nanny, had become involved with sending messages to Finland. Eventually a man arrived who said he had come from Ivan Sergeivitch and that she should return with him to Finland, bringing some things for Ivan’s wife. Varia had left with the man and the next thing Stepanova had heard about her was that she was in the hands of the Cheka. Apparently Varia and her companion had gone to the Finland Station where they had been supposed to meet a man who would get them out of the country. But somewhere on the journey the Cheka were waiting for them: the three of them had been ambushed and arrested. Stepanova could not find out what was going to happen to Varia, but she had been told that the two men were going to be shot. It was only a matter of time before the Cheka raided the flat. It might already be under surveillance. Varia might even have been tortured and told the Cheka of the mysterious Englishman who often stayed there. Stepanova insisted that Paul must never risk returning to the flat again. He agreed. Paul did try to find out what had happened to Varia, but because of all the difficulties in getting information about the Cheka’s activities he never managed it. He never saw Varia or Stepanova again.
With Zorinsky appearing to be less and less trustworthy and Paul’s safe houses disappearing one by one, Paul desperately needed somewhere else to go. Unfortunately MI6’s network in the city had been so poor that there were no new contacts who were suitable. Once again Paul was thrown back on his own untrained resources. He decided, against all the rules of espionage, that the time had come to contact an old friend. She was a pretty young English governess, Laura Ann Cade.
Paul had known Laura from his earliest days in the city when they had both been members of the St Petersburg Guild of English Teachers, a social club for tutors and governesses. The Guild organised parties and staged plays and reviews. Teaching work had dried up since the Bolsheviks had taken control of the city, but Laura Cade still occupied the same spacious flat where her English school was based, together with a rather fat female servant known to one and all as ‘the Elephant’.
Paul telephoned to make sure that Laura was still at the flat, but replaced the receiver as soon as she answered in case the line was being monitored. Unfortunately this scared the life out of Laura because she thought it must be the Cheka who were calling. She very nearly refused to let Paul into the flat when he arrived in his ruffianlike disguise. However, once he had convinced her who he was he was allowed in and, as he had suspected, she was happy to take part in his cloak-and-dagger activities. She agreed to store his reports, hidden between the pages of old textbooks, at the flat. There were hundreds of these books in the disused classrooms and it was unlikely that the Cheka would have the patience to go through them. Paul also found in one of the classrooms a hole in the wall that he thought would make a good hiding place for larger items such as disguises. Because the apartment housing the school was quite large and consisted of several rooms, Laura warned Paul that she was sometimes forced to have Red Guards billeted there for several days at a time. This was a danger, but Paul could also see it as an advantage – the Cheka would be far less likely to search a place that was used regularly by the Red Army. Even so, Laura and Paul decided that it was best to arrange a recognition signal: she would place a flowerpot in a certain window if it was safe to come up to the flat. If it was not there, Paul would know that the Red Guards were in residence.
With Laura Cade’s combined apartment and school and one or two other places found for him by Melnikov’s uncle and the Policeman (who, despite his rather repulsive character, Paul was beginning to trust more and more) Paul soon had a new set of safe houses that he could use. However, he still followed Melnikov’s rule of never spending more than two nights in the same place – in fact, no more than one if at all possible.
Paul was managing to get a fairly steady stream of intelligence out of the country. He sent the reports out in two batches, using two different couriers. One of them did not return: he was a well-known White sympathiser and the risk for him was too great. But the other courier, a former army NCO and law student whom Paul contacted through Melnikov’s marvellous uncle, turned out to be the best of the lot: Peter Sokolov. Peter went out to Finland and returned. But, disappointingly for Paul, whoever had enciphered the message in Helsinki had made a mistake and the message from MI6 was undecipherable. So Paul asked Peter to return again that very night. He went, but never returned. Now Paul was without any means at all of contacting MI6. He had no idea what he was expected to do next. He was also running dangerously short of funds. Most of the money he had brought with him had been spent either in paying the balance for Melnikov’s release or in supporting the owners of his various safe houses.
But then, on 10 February, came the greatest blow of all. The Policeman finally returned with news about Melnikov. The information had been some time in coming because Paul had been careful not to express too much interest in the case lest the Policeman should string him along as Zorinsky had done. Now, when he called the Policeman, he was told that there was news about a ‘family member’. This was the code phrase for news about Melnikov. Paul hurried to the Policeman’s flat.
At first the Policeman was confused. He checked Melnikov’s real name with Paul. Paul confirmed it.
‘He was shot by the Cheka between 15 and 20 January,’ said the Policeman, reading from a strip of paper.
Zorinsky had been lying all along.
Paul was still not sure what to do now. Although this news might have seemed damning there was still the fact that most of Zorinsky’s intelligence had been genuine. Paul had even managed to verify the map of the Kronstadt minefields with one of Cromie’s old agents at the Russian Admiralty. The map had been so well guarded that the agent had not been able to take it away, but he had seen it and from map references given to him by Paul he confirmed that Zorinsky’s map was genuine. Paul thought long and hard. If Zorinsky was a Cheka agent why had he given Paul a genuine map? Why not a forged one which the British navy would use – and thus run their ships onto the mines? And just because Zorinsky had strung Paul along about Melnikov did not mean that the man was a Cheka agent. It was only natural that Zorinsky should try and get as much money from the relationship as possible.
And yet …
Paul decided to wait a little longer. He had enough money for perhaps two more weeks. He would get what intelligence he could from Zorinsky and his other contacts and then make a run for it. Peter Sokolov had told him of a new route across the border: by pony sleigh over the frozen waters of the Gulf. He had given Paul the name of a smuggler who would make the run – provided he was well paid.
But once again Paul was forced to change his plans. Before he even saw Zorinsky again, Melnikov’s uncle asked to see him. Like Paul he had long been suspicious of Zorinsky and he had also been checking with Melnikov’s old friends to see what they knew. It was the mysterious Shura who came up with the answer: he confirmed that Zorinsky was working for the Cheka.
On its own this was not enough – after all, the Policeman worked with the Cheka, but he was reliable. Paul was not so naive as to believe that someone who could provide intelligence as good as that provided by Zorinsky would have clean hands. But together with the other information – the way that people whom Zorinsky knew seemed to end up in the hands of the Cheka, the money for Melnikov’s non-existent sister, the death of Melnikov – this news made Paul’s mind up. It was time to leave. The only way he could continue to work in the city was if he got out of the country, threw Zorinsky off his trail and then returned with a new identity and new resources.
The next night Paul gathered the last of his reports from the hiding place at Laura Cade’s academy and headed for the remote suburb where Peter’s smuggler contact lived. The area was known as Staraya Derevnya – the Old Village. It was right at the mouth of the river Neva. In summer it was busy with holidaymakers and the exertions of lumber yards dealing with timber brought down the river. But in winter it was a desolate place. The heavy snow meant that it was impossible to tell where the shore ended and the frozen sea began and the flat featureless expanse was swept by bitterly cold northern winds. Peter’s smuggler contact owned a tiny wooden hut on the very edge of the shore. With a small pony and sleigh he was able to travel out across the ice and make the journey of a few hours to the coast of Finland to collect black-market goods. Paul was lucky. The smuggler, who was actually Finnish, had just smuggled a load of butter into the city. Now he was about to make the return journey. Since he was going anyway it did not take much persuasion to allow Paul to ride with him on the sleigh.
They set off just after midnight. Overall, the distance was about 40 miles because they needed to give the shore a wide berth. The journey should take between four and five hours. Conditions were clear, no snow was falling. This would make their progress faster, but on the other hand they would be easier for the patrols to see. Paul snuggled down in the hay in the back of the sleigh and prepared himself for the long ride. The smuggler twitched the reins and the sleigh set off.
Once they were out on the sea ice the sleigh soon picked up speed. The ice was surprisingly flat and because the layer of snow on the surface was frozen solid there was good traction for the pony’s hooves. Even so the ride was not without risk. The sea ice was not absolutely level and twice they hit ice ridges that capsized the sleigh completely. The Finnish smuggler was unperturbed and seemed to accept this as a normal hazard of the journey. It was simply a matter of righting the sleigh, loading everything back on and setting off again – as long as no one had broken their neck …
In the silence and darkness the whine of the sleigh blades cutting through the ice was surprisingly loud and Paul eyed the coastline nervously. It seemed to him that the smuggler was steering far too close to it, but, as if sensing Paul’s concern, the man pointed to the massive silhouette of Kronstadt fortress where it sat in the middle of the Gulf. Powerful searchlights played out from the battlements of the fortress and the risk of being caught in the beam of one of those was far greater than the chance of being heard by a patrol on shore.
Even so, as they drew abreast of the fortress Paul peered intently at the coastline. The searchlight flicked past them once or twice and illuminated the shore for just a moment. This was Lissy Nos, the narrowest point of the strait. Paul estimated that they were now a mile away from the coast, maybe less, and he was amused by the way that at this distance the waving tops of the pine-forest trees looked like the sabres of charging cavalry.
Then it dawned on him that the ‘trees’ were charging cavalry!
Paul sat upright and thumped the smuggler hard on the back. The old man looked round and immediately saw the half-dozen horsemen who were riding down on them. He gave a moan and lashed the pony. The sleigh leapt forward.
‘Ten thousand marks if we escape!’ bellowed Paul into his ear, but the smuggler did not need any encouragement. They both knew that these were Russian Bolshevik troops and that the penalty for speculators was death.
Paul pulled a small revolver from his pocket. He looked back. The riders were gaining fast. He raised his pistol to take a shot, but it was impossible because the sleigh was bouncing around over the ice. It was all he could do to stop himself being thrown off, let alone aim.
There was a crack and a zing as a bullet narrowly missed Paul’s head. Then another and another. Paul could clearly see the flashes coming from the rifles of the riders. They were good shots, possibly Cossacks. At the sound of the shots the smuggler’s nerve seemed to fail him and the sleigh began to slow up. Paul immediately held the revolver to the man’s head and shouted that he would blow his brains out if he did not keep going. With another heartfelt groan the smuggler lashed the poor pony harder and the sleigh leapt forward again. Another bullet fizzed past so close that Paul had to throw himself flat in the hay. The riders were almost upon them. And then disaster struck. The sleigh hit an ice ridge, slewed sideways, crashed into another ice ridge and came abruptly to a complete stop.
Paul did not hesitate for a second. He threw himself off the sleigh and pounded away across the ice. He had only one chance now. The horsemen would be more intent on looting the sleigh than chasing one lone fugitive – at least for a while. It was pitch black and he might get away in the darkness. As he ran he reached into the pockets of his overcoat and pulled out a package, ready to fling it across the ice. It contained all his secret dispatches for Cumming in London. He knew he was dead anyway if they caught him, but he was damned if they were going to get the reports as well. Glancing back, he saw that some of the riders had dismounted to search the sleigh and arrest the driver, but he knew that at any moment they would remount and be after him.
Paul ran on. Then, to his horror, he heard hoofbeats closing in again. He kept running and running, his lungs burning with the effort, knowing that at any moment there would be one last shot and the whole adventure would finally be over.
The hoofbeats grew louder. They must be right on top of him. He looked around wildly for cover, but the view was flat and barren in all directions, just mile upon mile of sea ice, great patches of dark grey and black.
Black!
Paul threw himself flat and at the same time sent the package skittering across the ice, trying to remember the direction it went in so that he could find it later. He lay there gasping as quietly as possible, dragging freezing air into his aching lungs. His gloved hands were over his head, his eyes shut tight like those of a child hiding under a blanket from imaginary monsters.
The hoofbeats clattered up alongside his head and horses skidded to a stop all around him. There were shouted orders. The horses trotted backwards and forwards, stamping and snorting heavily in the cold night air. Paul waited and waited, but still the final shot did not come. He risked a quick glance. Some of the hooves were almost close enough to touch, but the horses seemed keen to avoid the slippery black sea ice and kept shying away to the grey areas where a thin layer of snow gave them firm footing.
There were more barked orders. They were in Russian but the dialect was hard to understand. After a minute or so of peering into the darkness, the riders galloped on. Moment by moment the sound of their hooves drew further and further away. Beneath him, Paul could hear the sea rumbling and gurgling under the covering of thick ice like a distant underground train. He waited and waited until there was silence. Eventually the intense cold and sheer curiosity forced Paul to push himself up on his elbows and look cautiously around.
There was nothing to be seen in any direction: the horsemen, the sleigh, the driver – all had disappeared. Paul was alone on the ice with the distant searchlights of Kronstadt as the only sign of life. Brushing himself down, he walked over to where his document package lay. He picked it up and stuffed it back into his pocket. He then tried to judge his location from the position of the Kronstadt fortress on one side of him and the dark line of the coast on the other. Then he looked at his watch: it was half past one. He estimated that the sleigh had travelled less than halfway before they had been caught. He had a very long walk ahead of him, perhaps six hours or more in freezing conditions. But there was nothing for it. He pulled his overcoat tighter around himself and trudged on.
Paul later described the walk across the ice that night as the hardest journey he had ever had to make. The sea ice was slippery and he skidded or stumbled almost every step of the way. In addition he had not realised how tired he was from the nervous strain of living undercover – half-sleeping each night, waking at the slightest sound in case it was the Cheka. Soon he was at the point of exhaustion. He had to stop frequently to rest, peering ahead through the gloom, but the coast of Finland seemed no nearer.
At one point as he was resting he heard footsteps approaching across the ice. Repeating the trick he had learned when fleeing from the cavalry, Paul threw himself onto a patch of the black sea ice and lay completely still. The footsteps grew louder and shortly afterwards the silhouette of a figure passed just a few metres away. Someone was hurrying in the opposite direction, towards Petrograd. Paul never found out who this was or what they were doing. Once the footsteps had receded safely into the distance, he moved on.
It was dawn before Paul finished his journey. He wanted to make sure that he was in Finnish territory, but he did not have a map or compass so he decided to keep going until he was absolutely certain. It would not do to be picked up by a Russian patrol just when he was so close to getting away. At last he saw a signpost on the shore in Finnish and he knew that he had made it. This stretch of the journey had taken him almost eight hours instead of the three it would have taken by sleigh. He staggered forward into the trees that lined the shore and started to make his way through the pine forest which came right down to the shoreline. Even though he had no map, he reckoned that if he stayed within sight of the shore he should reach a town eventually and he could ask for directions from there. But he was so tired that he soon gave up. He collapsed out of the wind in the lee of a fisherman’s hut and promptly fell asleep.
Paul dreamed that someone was barking harsh orders in a foreign language and opened his eyes to find two Finnish soldiers armed with rifles standing over him. They prodded him with their bayonets and demanded that he put his hands up. Paul protested that he was an English officer, not a Russian refugee, but with his long hair and ragged clothes they refused to believe him. He was marched at bayonet point to the nearest coastguard station where he was stripped of all his belongings and thrown into a cell. A few hours later he was marched several miles further inland to the border fortress at Terrioki. In February 1919 this was not under the command of the kindly Sarin but of an unnamed German officer. Many German officers working under General Mannerheim had assisted Finnish forces during the civil war against the Bolsheviks and had stayed on after the war was won. Following Germany’s recent defeat by Britain and the Allied Powers this officer was not well disposed towards Paul. He took away all his money and papers, but finally allowed him to ring the British Consul-General in Helsinki. As soon as Henry Bell heard that Paul was being held at Terrioki, he arranged for him to be transferred to the British Consulate immediately. Paul was finally safe. He slept for a day and a half.
Bell sent a message to Stockholm and it was an indication of Paul’s growing importance that this time Major Scale came to Helsinki to see him. Apparently Paul’s other courier had never reached Finland so half his reports had been lost. Paul spent the next few days recreating these from memory and also decoding the other notes he had brought with him. They were everything that Cumming could have hoped for. Not only was Paul reporting on naval and military movements but he was able to produce complete sets of top-secret minutes from within the Petrograd Soviet. Even today, intelligence-service analysts acknowledge that these reports were better than any intelligence that MI6 had ever produced before. When reaction to them arrived from London, Scale impressed upon Paul just how valuable they were. Other than interviews with Russian refugees, the British government had no way of knowing what was happening inside the Bolshevik state. And then Scale asked the obvious question: would Paul go back again?
Paul later confessed that the excitement of working undercover had got to him. It had become a passion and he actually could not wait to go back. He was suffering from a problem common among operational officers: he was hooked on the adrenalin high of having his life in constant danger. The most important issue was: how was he to get out if he had to? He had barely made it this time and the land border was now almost impassable. The same problem would apply to his couriers. There was no point sending him back into Russia if he could not get the intelligence out.
Major Scale was honest: he had no answer to that question. All he could do was give Paul his absolute assurance that ‘very special measures’ would be taken to solve the problem and that MI6 would make his safe return their top priority. There was nothing that Paul could do. He would just have to take their word for it. He wondered what that might be worth?
Within a week he was on his way into Bolshevik Russia for the third and last time.
Paul lay in Michael Semashko’s tomb, coughing and occasionally swatting at the endless, relentless mosquitoes. They had even managed to crawl inside the scarf wrapped around his head. In the distance he could hear naval gunfire. It seemed that the long-threatened revolt by Kronstadt and Krasnaya Gorka had happened at last. Very special measures indeed! Well, he had found out what the word of MI6 was worth. Peter Sokolov was the last of the couriers and he had worked wonders keeping Paul’s dispatches moving across the border for the past four months. But each journey had been more dangerous than the last and he had failed to return from the last journey, so presumably the Bolsheviks had finally got him. He had been a brave man. But now Paul was trapped. The money had run out, the last safe house had gone. As he lay there in the dark he reckoned that he had only a few days left before his health gave in completely. Then he would face the choice: the revolver in his pocket or a last desperate attempt to get away – which would almost certainly mean arrest, torture and death. A peaceful end at his own hand seemed like the better option.
Dawn finally crept into the sky above the cemetery: the curfew was over. Paul clambered slowly and painfully out of the tomb. He staggered away down the road which led into Petrograd.
Just one last time …