This rather difficult interview was followed by the usual banquet. At it, for the first time, I saw Rado affected by alcohol. He confessed later that it was the first time for many years that he had drunk more than one glass of spirits at one time. If one got out of a Russian dinner having consumed ten times that quantity, one was doing very well. During the course of this convivial dinner- convivial on the surface but with certain rather sinister undercurrents- every subject was discussed save the Swiss network. Despite Rado's libations he acted rather as the skeleton at the feast. The only fact of interest that I learned was that he had arrived about a fortnight before.
This gave me furiously to think. For a fortnight I had been kept ignorant of the fact that Rado had arrived, despite the fact that he had seen Novikov and that Novikov knew that I wanted to see Rado. We had obviously been deliberately kept apart until both our stories had been taken and there was no longer any risk of our comparing notes and concocting a co-ordinated story. Rado's arrival had also coincided with the "change of plan" by which I was no longer to go to Annemasse as a Dutchman but to return to Moscow for "consultations." Obviously Moscow was not satisfied with the Swiss setup and it seemed equally likely that Rado had put in a story which differed radically from mine. Rado was, of course, unaware that I had overstepped all the normal espionage rules and had, in fact, contacted all our sources after my release from prison. He assumed, therefore, that I was ignorant of the state of the network after Rado had left it in the air and thought that I was in no position to contradict him.
Moscow, therefore, was determined to have us both back there together so that they could cross-examine us at leisure and compare one story against the other. This did not particularly bother me. Admittedly, Rado was a theoretical colonel and a man of high standing with the Centre, while I was only an equally bogus major, unknown personally to anyone at the Centre and of comparatively new standing. On the other hand, the account I had given to the Centre via Novikov was true in every respect and could easily be checked by reference back to Switzerland. Similarly, all my accounts were in order and could be checked by anyone and found to be correct to a dollar. Also in my favour was the fact that I had left Switzerland having made all arrangements by which a new resident director could pick up the threads easily and quickly; while Rado on the other hand had escaped in a hurry, leaving everything completely in the air and having made no arrangements for any continuity. In theory and in fact my position was impeccable- if only
Moscow would realise it and take the trouble to check the work of an unknown agent against that of an agent who had worked for the Centre for years. I looked forward to the trip to Moscow with somewhat mixed feelings.
For some time I had been considering my position vis-a-vis the Russians. Indeed, for a long time I had been disillusioned and unhappy about the attitude of the Centre. It was entirely ruthless, with no sense of honour, obligation, or decency towards its servants. They were used as long as they were of any value and then cast aside with no compunction and no compensation. The director expected miracles from the agents and the local Communist parties, and when the miracles were performed, there were no thanks and only a formal acknowledgment. Similarly, when the Centre demanded the impossible or the foolish- or both- and it was pointed out to them that the action would either end in disaster or frustration, there was never any sign that they had learnt a lesson or that they had any symptoms of contrition. Some of these attributes are no doubt common to all intelligence services, but the cold-bloodedness of the Centre and its lack of any common humanity or decency made it stand alone.
I argued to myself that I could not consciously and deliberately desert the work and throw my hand in altogether. It would have been perfectly easy for me to go to the British diplomatic or service authorities in Paris and explain who and what I was and get speedy repatriation to England. Similarly, I could throw a brick through a Paris police station window and get myself arrested, with an exactly similar result. But this I would not do.
The war was still on and the information available in Switzerland was useful, if not vital, to the Russians - who were Allies. It was clearly my duty to do all I could to get the network against Germany working again. Deliberately to desert the work would have been in my eyes equivalent to desertion in the face of the enemy. On the other hand, I argued that if once I got to Moscow it might be many years before I saw Europe again, if at all, and all my desires to get the Swiss network re-established so as to extract the vital information out of Germany might be equally frustrated by suspicious Kremlin officials.
In the end I made no decision one way or the other and left the whole thing in the lap of the gods. I made no attempt to get myself arrested or to contact the British or Americans. On the other hand, I continued to live in hotels and to move freely round the town as if I had been the best-, rather than the worst-, documented Englishman in Paris. At the time the police were making frequent raids and setting up unexpected check points in the city in an endeavour to catch deserters and also to check up on the many alleged Abwehr agents who were supposed to have been left behind at the time of the liberation. In addition, there were, of course, the various swoops and checkups by the military police of the Allies.
Soon after I had come to my decision I thought that the matter was quite definitely going to be taken out of my hands. I was on my way to my favourite restaurant, Chez Mermoz, in the Rue de Tremoille, for dinner and had taken the Metro and got out at Marboeuf only to find that the police had blocked all the exits and were examining all papers. I was last in the queue and felt a certain relief that finally the future had been taken out of my hands and that I need think and plan no more. I presented my visaless and unstamped passport for inspection. The inspector in charge of the point saluted and waved me on without a glance. The dice appeared definitely cast for Moscow.
Despite my rather troubled mind I enjoyed my stay in Paris. It was pleasant to be able to pass the time without any thought of immediate work, and a good meal often did much to dispel the nagging doubts about what I should do and how I should do it. I courted all kinds of dangers which lurked for anyone in my visa less state. Never once, the whole time I was in Paris, was I asked for my papers though my stamping grounds ranged from the blackest of black market restaurants to American officers' messes.
All things come to an end in time and on January 6, 1945, at nine in the morning, I took off for Moscow in the first Soviet plane to leave France since the liberation. The plane was alleged to be carrying Russian prisoners of war being repatriated to Russia, but this was a convenient Soviet fiction. How hollow a fiction it was can be seen from the fact that the plane had four vacant seats despite the equally hard fact that there were over a million Russian prisoners of war in France clamouring for repatriation. It is perhaps pertinent also to note that in our planeload there was- in fact only one genuine Russian prisoner of war.
All the passengers held Russian repatriation certificates. Certificate No. 1 was held by a veteran Bolshevik, Myasnikoff. A likable old ruffian, looking like a venerable edition of Maxim Gorki, he had led the general strike in Russia in the early 1920s which almost overthrew Lenin and Trotsky. Trotsky had wanted him shot but Lenin had overruled this and he had merely been exiled to Siberia. He was offered a pardon if he cared to return to European Russia, which he had accepted. Later he had again been exiled. This time he had escaped to Turkey and from there had come to France, where Briand offered him asylum. During the war years he had been in hiding, as the Germans were after him, and after the liberation he had been seen by Bogomolov, who had offered him a pardon and an important post in Moscow if he would return. Thorez had offered him the same, and Myasnikoff showed me a letter signed by Thorez when the latter had been in Moscow, couched in similar terms. He had no liking for Stalin and I think had little real hope that the promises would be honoured. I never saw or heard of him again after I reached Moscow, nor have I ever seen his name in the press. It is more than likely that he is now tasting Siberian exile for the third time. He had an extremely alert brain and did much to lighten the tedium of the journey.