And Is There Honey Still For Tea? (25 page)

42

‘We are finally in a position to make a difference,' Anthony said simply. ‘Guy is in the higher reaches of the Foreign Office. Donald is Acting First Secretary in Washington, and is secretary to the British Delegation on the Combined Committee dealing with nuclear development. Kim has been head of Section IX within the Service – the section in charge of operations against communism and the Soviet Union – and is now Head of Station in Istanbul.'

‘And Anthony is surveying the King's pictures,' Guy added, his speech now rather slurred.

Anthony smiled. ‘A more than adequate cover, we can all agree,' he said. ‘And MI5 still consults me from time to time.' He paused for a sip of port. ‘Altogether a most impressive array of talent in a most impressive array of positions of power. We need to take advantage of our hard work and good fortune, James. We need to strike while the iron is hot.'

‘What has that to do with the World Chess Championship?' I asked.

‘It is not about the tournament as such,' Anthony replied. ‘It is more about the opportunities it affords us. There is information we need to send, and which we need to have sent to us. We have access to so much information now, both British and American information, and it is of such high quality, that we need a regular channel of communication. That channel has to be secure and sophisticated. Meeting people like Alex in some café in Hounslow, or wherever, is no longer an option. Kim and I have given quite a bit of thought to the problem, James, and we have finally realised that the solution was right there, under our very noses.'

I looked away.

‘Chess is the Soviet Union's window on the world,' he continued. ‘It is where they meet the rest of the world. It is one of the few opportunities for Soviet citizens to travel abroad relatively freely, and one of the few opportunities for foreigners to visit the Soviet Union with some degree of freedom. The world championship would simply be your introduction to that world. You have the credentials. No one would question you.'

No one spoke for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, I gathered my thoughts and spoke up.

‘I did some of that during the War, as you know,' I said. ‘Even then I was uneasy about it. What I did was illegal. But we were at war, and I persuaded myself that the usual rules didn't apply. I justified it in my own mind because then the Soviet Union was our ally. We were fighting side by side against fascism. That is not the case now. It would amount to spying. I would be betraying my country.'

‘Would you?' Anthony asked.

‘You don't think so?'

‘It all depends,' he replied. ‘It all depends on what sort of Britain you see as your country.'

He leaned forward confidentially, his arms on the table in front of him.

‘James, listen to me. I know you quite well, I think, and I knew Roger also. You both came from a privileged background in terms of money and property and social position. But neither of you found any satisfaction in that. You saw the suffering. You saw what capitalism was doing to the people around you, and you saw that our Government didn't give a damn about it. You saw Europe given over to fascism, and you saw that the Government didn't give a damn about that either, until it was too late. It was Roger and others like him who saw what was going on and tried to do something about it.'

I suddenly saw myself at dinner with Roger, here at the Reform Club, the last time I had seen him. I remembered his telling me how his experiences in South America had changed him, how they had turned him into a man willing to die in Spain for socialism and for the right of people everywhere to be treated properly and fairly.

I felt for those people, and there is no doubt that I had become an intellectual socialist by then. But South America is so far away, and information about what is really going on is hard to come by. I was spending almost all my time on the estate, learning how to run the place, meeting all kinds of important people Father felt I ought to know.
I couldn't even get down to London very often any more. And I suddenly realised that if I went on like this for another couple of years, I was going to forget every principle I had ever learned; I was going to become a country conservative, a loyal son of King and Empire
.

I wondered if that was becoming true for me also. I was becoming a successful barrister, and I was in charge of the estate. I was
Sir
James Digby. Was I, too, in danger of forgetting the principles I had learned?

‘The Soviet Union is still our ally,' Anthony was saying, ‘but in a slightly different context. The battle against fascism has made some progress, but the battle for socialism is just beginning. Think, James, just think, what a truly socialist Britain would be like, a Britain with social and economic justice for all.'

‘A Britain in which art would be at the service of the State?' I asked. ‘Poussin painting propagandist scenes of industrial realism and parades with endless lines of missiles and marching soldiers?'

He laughed heartily.

‘Nicely said, James. But yes, a Britain where art would be at the service of – well the People, that's how I would prefer to put it. Chess too, of course. But don't forget that it works both ways. The chess player is at the service of the People, but the People are also at the service of the chess player. They support him in pursuing his art. In my Britain, Reuben Fine would not have to turn down an invitation to play for the championship of the world.'

And Paul Morphy would not have to go insane and walk the streets talking nonsense to himself until he died a lonely, premature death, I added quietly to myself.

‘I don't ask you to do this out of considerations of self-interest,' he added quickly. ‘You are not a venal man, James, I know that. I ask you because I believe you know that it is the right thing to do, for the People and for your country; and because I believe you want to continue what Roger started; and because you are loyal to your Apostolic Brethren.'

From his semi-comatose position slumped in his chair, Guy raised his right arm and drunkenly held his glass aloft in a mute, self-mocking toast.

And there it was. There was no moment of epiphany, no vision on the road to Damascus, just the sense that my life had been heading in this direction for almost all my adult life, and that the moment which had now arrived was no more than the mature expression of my own deeply-held values. I could no longer pretend, of course, that I was doing anything other than spying on behalf of a country my Government and its allies regarded as a hostile power. There was no fig leaf any more. But in that moment, I no longer needed one. I was finally committed.

43

I arrived in The Hague on 27th February, a Friday. The World Chess Championship was scheduled to begin with a reception on Monday 1st March for the players, the officials from FIDE, the large Soviet delegation of seconds, reporters and assorted minders, and various Dutch dignitaries. The Mayor of The Hague, Meneer Visser, who on the following morning would make the ceremonial first move for Euwe in his first-round game against Keres, made a gracious speech welcoming all the guests to his city. The sense of relief and optimism, the feeling of civic pride which this quintessentially peacetime event engendered was palpable. At last the Dutch people were again doing what they have always done so well, bringing people together, in peaceful causes, in a spirit of celebration.

A room had been booked for me at the Hotel des Indes in the city centre, which I took to be Anthony's private joke – the hotel had been notorious as the favourite haunt of the First World War spy Mata Hari. Having been much favoured by German officers during the occupation, it had survived the second War in prime condition, and I was very comfortably accommodated. The tournament was held in a magnificent structure called
Het Moors Paleis
, or
Het Dierentuingebouw
, which was the centrepiece of the former Royal Zoological and Botanical Gardens. The gardens no longer had any active role in zoology – that had ended in 1943 because of wartime conditions. But the
Moors Paleis
remained and was used for functions of every kind, from exhibitions to concerts to dog shows. It was a fantastic building with a wonderful stone exterior, and elaborate, elegant internal halls, a perfect venue for a chess tournament. In many ways it reminded me of Alexandra Palace, but smaller, and capable of being accessed without trudging up a steep hill.

It had not been easy to persuade either Bridget or my clerk that covering the world chess tournament as a journalist was a sound career move. In fact I had something of a scene with both though, mercifully, both were brief and did no lasting damage. Bridget did understand how important chess was in my life and, after some resistance, she gave her blessing, and agreed to look after the house as well as the estate while I was away. My clerk too, after the mandatory dire warning about how easily absence from London could mark the beginning of the end of any barrister's hopes of success, took a pragmatic view and gave me a firm date towards the end of May, by which I was to be back in chambers for a trial in the Chancery Division. What exactly my duties were as a journalist was not made clear to me at first. Anthony had provided me with a press pass which gave me access to the playing hall and the press room, where I could mingle freely with other journalists, and the Soviet seconds who, I soon discovered, doubled as shameless propagandists not only for their grandmasters but also for Soviet chess and Marxism-Leninism in general. In due course I learned that I was to write a report on each round, giving the moves of each game, with a few comments of my own, and send it by airmail to an address in London, from where it was to be distributed – mainly, as I was to discover later, to a number of publications which had little connection with, or interest in, chess – though some of my pieces did make an appearance in the newspapers and chess magazines. In the case of a particularly dramatic development – and I could not imagine what that might be – I was to telephone a number in London to make an urgent report. And I was to expect contact from my new case officer.

On the evening of Friday 5th March, a week after my arrival in The Hague, I returned to the Hotel des Indes for dinner and decided on a nightcap in the bar before going up to my room to work on my report. The third round was under way and some interesting chess was being played. I was able to collect the moves of each game from the press office, and I found that I was becoming engrossed in the chess, in analysing and writing explanatory notes for my readers. My passion was being re-kindled. In addition to my writing, I gave a short interview to a local newspaper about why Euwe's run of bad form was continuing, and whether he could recover from his bad start. I could easily have forgotten all about Anthony, and socialism, and my Apostolic Brethren, and immersed myself in the excitement of the event going on all around me.

But as I sat at the bar nursing a whisky and soda and playing in my mind through Reshevsky's accomplished third-round victory over Keres, I was conscious of someone sitting down on the stool next to me, to my left, in the corner of the bar. He ordered a vodka. The accent was unmistakable. I turned to look at him. The face registered immediately, but for a few moments I could not connect it to a name. Smiling, he rescued me from my predicament.

‘James, how nice to see you. I thought I saw you at the reception the other night, but I was with my own crowd and couldn't get away. I have not been able to see much of the tournament yet, because of work I have at the Embassy.'

He held out his hand. ‘Viktor Stepanov. We met in Nuremberg in less happy circumstances.'

I took his hand. ‘Of course. We played to a draw in our heads.'

‘Generous on your part,' he smiled again. ‘You were about to do me serious damage with knight to d5. You had a clear advantage. Perhaps you will allow me an opportunity to give you more of a game?'

I looked around anxiously. My very basic war-time training in tradecraft had not quite deserted me. He laughed, extended a hand, and placed it briefly on my shoulder.

‘Please don't be concerned, James,' he said. ‘I don't have a minder, I assure you. I am an official member of the Soviet delegation. Not that I am entirely exempt, you understand, but I am in a responsible position and my superiors understand that I need a certain freedom of movement to do my job. They won't be fretting about me. In any case, I am familiar with how the minders work, and it's not hard to give them the slip if it should be necessary. I do it just to annoy them, sometimes.'

He finished his vodka in one gulp, and ordered another, asking the barman to give me another of whatever I was drinking. I began to feel as though our conversation in Nuremberg, some three years ago, was continuing as if it had never been interrupted. I remembered why I liked Stepanov – the easy, open manner, the effortless conversational English, so unlike the Soviet stereotype.

‘So, how do you like The Hague? Are you enjoying working as a journalist?'

‘I am, actually,' I replied. ‘It makes a welcome change from what I usually do.'

‘Of course. Arguing cases in the law courts is important, but not as enjoyable as chess, I think. You are playing well, even with so little time to devote to the game. I think, if you were not a lawyer, you would have been British champion by now.'

I raised my eyebrows. ‘You keep up with my progress?'

‘I read the British chess magazines, of course,' he replied. ‘It helps my English reading as well as telling me what is going on in your country. I have studied your games. Alexander is good, very creative, but I think you could be better, and certainly better than Golombek and the rest.'

‘What have you been doing since Nuremberg?' I countered quickly.

‘Playing chess,' he replied. ‘I have the title of grandmaster now.'

‘Congratulations,' I said at once.

We shook hands again. He paused to take a drink.

‘Thank you. But I know my limits, James. I am no Botvinnik. I am not even a Smyslov. I will never play in such a tournament as this. I will probably never even win my country's championship. So I pursue other activities also.'

‘Such as?'

‘Teaching the next generation. I teach at the chess academy in Moscow, give simultaneous exhibitions in schools, you know the kind of thing. We have so many talented young players, James. It is frightening. I see children of twelve who will beat me in two or three years' time.' He laughed. ‘This is sometimes depressing, of course. But this is also good, because it means the game continues to thrive, and the children can study chess at the same time as they pursue their general education. Those who are good enough can go on to play professionally.'

I ordered us another drink.

‘I also work with the Government,' he continued. ‘Ever since Nuremberg, they know I can interpret in English and German. I even picked up some French while I was there but not yet to the required standard. In any case they use me, particularly in connection with chess events. It is very sensitive for them, because they have grandmasters going abroad, and they must be involved in negotiations with the International Federation. I played a small part in the negotiations for this tournament. My God, James, you would not believe how hard-headed both sides were.'

‘I hear that there was some pretty hard bargaining,' I said.

‘You would not have believed it. Where is the tournament to be? Who shall play? How many rounds? What shall be the official language? It went on and on. To tell you the truth, I am amazed that the tournament is being held at all.'

I stared into my drink for some time.

‘Viktor, can I ask you something?'

‘Of course.'

‘Is there any truth in the rumour that …'

He suddenly roared with laughter.

‘That we will fix the tournament to let Botvinnik win? You ask me about this? You think I would answer this to an English journalist? You think I want to see my name in
The
Times
of London, saying that the Soviet Union fixes chess tournaments? James, my dear friend, I will have to defect also. You must give me political asylum for this, I think.'

I had to laugh.

‘I'm not asking as a journalist,' I said. ‘I'm not asking for anything I can write. I'm asking as a friend, for very personal reasons. Off the record.'

He stared at me for some time. He eventually nodded.

‘Then I will tell you the truth. No, there is no fix, James. Botvinnik will win, but he will win because he is the best player. As for Smyslov, his time will come, I think, but not yet. Keres – Keres I like very much, James, I like him personally. He is such a nice man, so modest, and he plays many brilliant games; but he does not have the depth of Botvinnik and, over the course of a long tournament, I do not believe he can prevail.'

‘Thank you,' I said.

* * *

‘You know why I am here, of course,' he said, after a lengthy silence.

‘Yes,' I replied.

He turned around to survey the bar. It was getting late and we were almost alone. The bartender looked as though he wanted to close up for the night as soon as he could, and go home. Viktor ordered one last drink for us, and paid the bill. We left our stools to move to a corner table.

‘Before I left Moscow,' he continued quietly, ‘I was summoned to appear before the chief of a directorate of Moscow Centre. The Comrade Director told me that he had important contacts within the Security Services in Great Britain and also in the United States. There was an urgent need to exchange information. I was to be useful in making arrangements for this. He told me that it had been arranged with someone in London or Washington that, while in The Hague, I would meet a contact.'

‘Me?' I asked.

‘Yes.' He smiled. ‘I had no idea who it was until I arrived here. I learned of your identity through a top-secret communication yesterday from Moscow Centre to our Embassy, where I am based during the tournament. When I saw your name, I was pleased, of course.'

‘And surprised?'

He shrugged. ‘No, not surprised. It makes sense that they choose you, as we already know each other. But I am very pleased. James, listen, this is what I have been told. The Comrade Director wishes us to devise a system, whereby you can bring information to be conveyed to Moscow, and Moscow can send information back to London and Washington. I do not suggest that we discuss this yet. When the tournament moves to Moscow, they will make arrangements for us to talk in more secure surroundings. But the Comrade Director wishes me to know that he will do all in his power to help.'

I looked questioningly at him.

‘By this, he means that I can provide you with money to defray any necessary expenses while you are abroad, if your own people do not give you enough. He will also ensure that you always have a visa to enter the Soviet Union, and you will be given a press pass in connection with any chess tournament you wish to observe or report on as a journalist. While in the Soviet Union you will not be harassed or troubled by minders. And eventually …'

‘Yes?'

‘If, after some period of time, you wish to come over to us, or if it becomes necessary for you to do so, you would be given employment in connection with chess. What this would be, I cannot say, but it can be negotiated.'

I felt overwhelmed. In my head I was hearing Anthony's voice again, and then Roger's. I closed my eyes, and I saw Bridget, and my clerk, and the Manor, and they all seemed unreal, as if they belonged to another world. Was this happening? Who was I, and what world did I live in? I was no longer sure. I had to get out of there and clear my head. I stood.

‘Look, Viktor, I'm really tired, and I have a report to file. Can we talk again, another time?'

He showed not the slightest irritation.

‘But of course, James. Perhaps tomorrow evening?'

‘Yes, tomorrow evening,' I agreed. ‘Here, after dinner?'

I had spoken too quickly. I was not sure I would be ready to talk in such a short space of time. It was not good tradecraft to repeat the venue, and I was momentarily embarrassed by that alone; we should have gone somewhere different. I was about to offer an alternative, but he seemed perfectly relaxed, and agreed immediately.

‘I will come here for dinner,' he replied. ‘I understand the food is excellent. I will see you here in the bar afterwards.'

* * *

When we met the next evening, we drank for some time, and then he took me for a long walk, how long I could not say. But I remember that we passed the Binnenhof and the Buitenhof and the Mauritshuis at least twice, and walked through many nameless little streets full of tall, narrow houses and, in the cold night air of The Hague, I talked to him; talked, with barely a pause to draw breath, until I had bared my soul for him to see.