"Peter, you're too emotional on the subject."
I was doing my best to control my excitement.
John Day began by going through routine details of Hollis' career and early life. Hollis knew the procedure, and began running ahead of the brief.
"We'll take it a little slower, if you don't mind," said John Day.
Hollis showed faint irritation.
"This is a little laborious, if you don't mind me saying so. You must have this information on my R/S."
But John Day was not to be intimidated.
"I think we had best follow procedure in this instance, if you don't mind."
Hollis told a simple story. He said he left home because he realized he was not religious. But Oxford, he claimed, was no escape. It, too, reminded him of his religious upbringing.
"I wanted to get away, do something with my life in the outside world. The only ambition I had was to play golf, and I realized early on at Oxford that I could never make a career out of it. So I decided to travel."
The Far East had always attracted him. Originally he thought he might travel with some friends - Maurice Richardson was one. But the plan fell through. In retrospect, said Hollis, he was glad. They had far too little in common to make good traveling companions.
China fascinated him. Of course, he met the odd left-wing person out there, but then that was normal. Everyone knew Agnes Smedley was left-wing. It was the same at Oxford. He had been friendly with Maurice Richardson and Claud Cockburn, both of whom were best described as pink.
He said his health was a constant problem. TB afflicted him throughout this period, and in the end it forced his return to Europe. He traveled back via Moscow.
"I wanted to see what it was like. Awful place. Dirty, depressing. Nobody smiled. Intellectuals were making a tremendous fuss about the place. But I hated it."
"Did you meet anybody there?" asked John Day.
"On buses and trains. That sort of thing. But otherwise no. You don't meet Russians like you do people in other countries, like China, for instance."
At lunch, Anne Orr-Ewing, John Day, F.J., and I met back at Leconfield House. Hollis' performance had been calm and flawless.
"He'll clear himself, if he goes on like this," said Anne Orr-Ewing.
After lunch we went on to his return to Britain. Suddenly the crisp focus disintegrated. The delivery was still resolute, but all the detail disappeared. He could not remember where he had lived, whom he had met, what plans he had, and yet we had all the answers in the brief. We knew what he had been doing. For instance, he had lived virtually next door to an old MI6 officer named Archie Lyall, who had been a close friend of Guy Burgess. But although they must have seen each other numerous times, Hollis had no recollection of him at all. For an hour or more Hollis stumbled, until he reached the point in his career where he joined MI5 before the war. Suddenly, and as abruptly as it had disappeared, precision returned.
That night the interrogating team met again at the Oxford and Cambridge Club to debate the day's session.
"What about this blank year?" I asked.
F.J. placed his pipe on the table wearily.
"You've got that all wrong," he said.
He told us that Hollis was in a mess when he came back from China - his health was shot, he had no career, no prospects. It did not seem to occur to him that this would have made Hollis much more vulnerable to recruitment. He was drifting, and it was a period in his life he had long wanted to forget. Little wonder, said F.J., that he can't remember where he lived.
"Well, it's a pretty odd state of mind to start applying for a job in MI5 or MI6 for that matter," I remarked. I meant it seriously, but it sounded sarcastic. F.J. bridled.
"For God's sake Peter!" Then he cut himself short. There was still another session to go.
The following day Hollis sat down again.
"Are we ready?" Hollis asked patronizingly. John Day waited in silence. It was a nice touch, and reminded Hollis that, for once, he was not in charge.
Day began on a different tack.
"I want to ask you again about Claud Cockburn's file..."
This had come up the previous morning. Hollis volunteered his friendship with Cockburn at Oxford, and was asked why he had never declared the fact on Cockburn's file, as any MI5 officer was supposed to do if he handled the file of an acquaintance. Hollis brushed the question aside. He said there was no general requirement at that time to record personal friendships on files.
It was a lie, only a small one, true, but a lie nonetheless. The brief contained a full annex proving that it was indeed current practice in MI5 prewar to record friendships, and that Hollis would have known of the regulation.
Day began to challenge Hollis on his answer the previous day. Why had he lied? Hollis was never a stammerer, or a flusterer. There was a slight pause, and then he acknowledged his mistake. Yes, he admitted, there was another reason. He knew that Cockburn was of interest to the Service as a prominent left-winger and Comintern agent, and since he was a recent arrival, and wanted very much to pursue a career inside MI5, he chose to ignore the regulation in case his friendship with Cockburn were seen as a black mark against him.
"I am sure I wasn't the first or the last officer to break that particular rule."
"What about other friends," pressed Day. "What about Philby? Were you friendly with him?"
"Not really. He was too much of a drinker. We had good professional relations, but nothing more."
"And Blunt?"
"More so, particularly during the war. I thought he was very gifted. But I saw him less after he left the Service. Now and again we would meet at the Travelers. Small talk - that sort of thing. He loved to gossip."
Gouzenko, Volkov, and Skripkin he dispatched swiftly. Gouzenko was unreliable. He still doubted that Elli really existed. As for his trip to Canada, there was nothing sinister in Philby's sending the file on to him.
"I was the acknowledged Soviet expert at the time. It would be natural for Philby to refer it to me, particularly because it was a Commonwealth matter."
"And Volkov?"
"I see no reason to disbelieve Philby. He thought Volkov's spy was himself... Why should he go all that way to protect someone else?"
Only once did a trace of the old Director-General break through, when John Day began to ask him about events in the early 1960s. He was asked about the sacking of Arthur Martin. A harsh tone crept into his voice.
"He was being thoroughly undisciplined. I never knew what he was doing. Take Blunt. We agreed on a formal immunity offer relating to events before 1945. Martin goes in to see him, and offers him CARTE BLANCHE immunity. The Attorney-General was incensed, and so was I. There was no controlling him. He and Wright were busy setting up a privileged Gestapo, and something had to be done to break it up. I don't regret it for one moment. I think it was absolutely justified in the circumstances and, if anything, should have happened much earlier."
John Day asked him why he had not allowed Mitchell to be interrogated in 1963.