Stella Rimington - Illegal Action

Beckendorf was warming to his theme. “The Russians long ago recognised that for the most secret work an intelligence officer under a completely false identity was much more likely to escape the attentions of the security service in the country where he was living, than an intelligence officer inside the embassy. As you all know the intelligence component of the embassy is called the ‘Legal Residency.’ So those outside it are ‘Illegals.’

“An Illegal is supported by an officer in the embassy but he is not supposed to have any direct contact with him, except in an extreme emergency. He gets his instructions by direct communication with his controllers at home. But an Illegal is never documented as a national of the country he is infiltrating. They are carefully trained to pose as foreigners. Obviously if they wanted to infiltrate the United States, it would be far too risky for their officer to pretend to be American: such an impersonation would be virtually impossible to sustain. So instead he would present himself as something different altogether—as a Brazilian, say, who has come to live in the U.S. This ‘third nationality’ has always made Illegals extremely hard to detect. And the damage they have caused in the past has been proved to be immense.”

“One of the most famous cases,” chipped in Peggy—in her usual thorough way she had researched the recent history of Russian espionage—“was in England. There were two spies at the Admiralty in the fifties, called Harry Houghton and Ethel Gee, and they were controlled by Colonel Molody of the KGB, who was documented as a Canadian businessman called Gordon Lonsdale.” Peggy stopped abruptly, realising that she had stolen some of Herr Beckendorf’s thunder.

“Quite,” said Beckendorf, taking back the initiative. “Some people,” he said, making clear this did not include himself, “have gone so far as to think that this phenomenon has disappeared altogether. But they are wrong. It is with us again.”

By now he had his audience’s full attention. Peggy herself found the history of Illegals intriguing, but it had always seemed to her just that—history. Another aspect of the Cold War passed and gone. Surprised by the dramatic start to Beckendorf’s talk, she began taking careful notes.

“For the last three years the BfV has been keeping an eye on Igor Ivanov, an economic attaché at the Russian Embassy in Berlin. We learnt some time ago from a defector to a friendly country”—America, thought most of the delegates—“that he is an Illegal support officer. He travels frequently in Germany, which is understandable, given his official duties. What has interested us very much are his regular trips to Norway. It seemed curious. After all, there is a Russian Embassy in Oslo, with a good number of SVR officers in it.”

“Twelve,” interjected Miss Karlsson quietly.

“After his third trip, I asked Miss Karlsson and her colleagues if, on the next occasion Ivanov travelled to Norway, they would keep an eye on him.”

The Norwegian woman flicked the switch on the microphone on her desk. “After arriving in Oslo, Ivanov took a train the next day to Bergen, then returned the following afternoon and went back to Germany. Six weeks later, he visited Norway again, and this time we followed him to Bergen. His anti-surveillance measures are excellent and unfortunately, once there he managed to lose our surveillance. He went to extraordinary pains to do so, though we do not think he knew we were there.”

Beckendorf resumed. “We thought perhaps Ivanov had personal business in Bergen. Possibly even a mistress.” He allowed himself a fleeting smile. “But then why not fly direct to Bergen? Why take a slow train, unless you were trying to cover your tracks even more carefully than a straying husband? And why leave the hotel in Bergen? Is it not hotels where these sorts of assignments are conducted?” he asked rhetorically.

He must have said “assignations,” thought Peggy, amused by the first slip in the translator’s otherwise flawless English.

“Excuse me,” interjected Scusi, speaking in his heavily accented English and looking confused. “You say he wasn’t assigning anyone?”

“On the contrary,” said Beckendorf, sticking to German. “I am certain he was. But not a lover. I think it was an altogether different type of person. An Illegal. As I have said, a support officer hardly ever actually meets with the Illegal—it’s far too risky because he himself will most likely be known to the security agencies. He may just have been leaving something the Illegal needed. But in my view they met; that would explain why Ivanov travelled so far and went to such trouble to be unobserved.”

“We decided to mount full-scale surveillance on Ivanov if he returned to Bergen,” said Miss Karlsson. “With any luck, we would discover who he was meeting; then we would investigate this person.”

Peggy and the others waited, caught up in the chase. Beckendorf gave a shrug, and said, “It never happened. He did not go to Norway again.” Peggy noticed with a start that Miss Karlsson and Herr Beckendorf seemed to be looking at her.

“But,” said Beckendorf, “we have just learnt that he is intending to visit London. We believe that may mean the Illegal has moved to London.”

Just before three the same day, as Peggy was waiting impatiently at Charles de Gaulle airport, Geoffrey Fane was stalking confidently along the corridors of the Foreign Office on his way to see Henry Pennington, head of Eastern Department.

Fane regarded Pennington with scorn. The two men had known each other for years and much earlier in their careers; when they were young men, they had served together in the British High Commission in New Delhi, Pennington as a second secretary and Fane undercover as a press attaché. They had never got on. Pennington thought Fane was deeply unreliable and Fane regarded Pennington as a panicker, with a tendency to paralysis in a crisis. Even if events hadn’t amply demonstrated this, it would, Fane secretly thought, have been evident enough from his peaked face with its large nose and his jerky hand movements. He would rather have been dealing with almost anyone else in the Foreign Office than Henry Pennington, but the man was responsible for relations with Russia, so it was with him Fane had to share what Victor Adler had related.

The nose hasn’t got any smaller, thought Fane, as Pennington rose from behind a massive mahogany desk. The room had a high ceiling with an elaborate white cornice, a marble fireplace and windows overlooking St. James’s Park. Propped upright beside the fireplace was a violin, its presence proclaiming that this was the office of a highly cultured man. Fane thought the conceit pathetic.

Without much more than the briefest of courtesies, Fane recounted his conversation with Victor Adler the night before. He watched as Pennington’s expression moved gradually from cautious curiosity to anxiety and his hands began to clutch each other jerkily, suggesting, to Fane’s experienced eye, the beginnings of panic.

“Didn’t Adler have any idea who they might target?” asked Pennington plaintively.

“No. He had the impression that there has been a decision, but who and how may not have been settled yet.”

“Why should we think they’ll do it in the UK?”

“Most of the oligarchs live here,” said Fane mildly, “so London seems rather more likely than, say, Peru.”

“Christ!” Pennington exclaimed. “This is the last thing we need. We’ve got the PM due to go to Moscow, the counter-terrorist liaison is rocky and the press will go mad if there’s another Litvinenko.”

“Quite,” said Fane, trying to look sympathetic.