To catch a spy
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section7mfuShort Affair challenge 30 October (Bunk. Black)
To catch a spy
On a surveillance mission to find the third man in the Cambridge spy ring, Illya is taken unawares - and there are more than three
London. Mid-January 1963
Covent Garden after midnight was quite a hazardous area for late-night revellers passing the market. Produce of every kind was piled high on every street, and vans and lorries added to the dangers. Even stepping off a pavement might mean breaking your ankle tripping over a fallen cabbage, or being run down by a fast-moving porter with a laden trolley and being more-or-less amiably shouted at: “Mind yer back!” or possibly, “Git aht of it!”
Passing the flower market, next to the now silent Opera House, Illya breathed in that mixture of damp soil, crushed leaves and fragrant blooms, redolent of another world, before turning into Floral Street. No-one paid any attention – he was just another porter.
There were similar men leaning against walls, also paying no attention.
*****
The boy was hidden in the shadows of one of the alleys between Floral Street and Long Acre. All around was the noise of the market, but in the alley it was quiet, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when a figure all in black suddenly seized him, clamping a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t make a sound!” it whispered fiercely. The boy nodded energetically and was released.
“Wotcha want, mister?” he demanded in an undertone.
“You to be quiet,” said a faintly accented impatient voice, definitely not the English of this part of the West End. “What are you doing here?”
The boy thought for a moment, then on the assumption that his interlocutor was also nefariously inclined, he said, “The Old Bill. Me dad’s up there.”
“Old Bill?”
“Coppers – don’t you know nuffink?”
“Obviously not. What’s he doing?”
“Wotcha fink?”
“Burglar?”
The boy shrugged, and heard a faint chuckle. “Don’t you tell,” he muttered.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t you tell on me either, huh?”
“Nah, course not.”
“Now, can you give me a bunk up? I need to get in through that window.”
The boy looked at what he could see – a man not much bigger than himself. “All right,” and bent, hands on his knees, feeling a sudden weight and pressure as the man leapt for the window sill above. He heard a scrabbling and the man was gone. He looked up and saw a partly-open window quietly closing.
***********************
The room was empty and dark. Illya made his way carefully to the door and opened it a fraction. No-one, a dark corridor. He stepped out and silently moved along it towards a line of light showing under a second door. Standing to the side he could hear two men talking quietly, both with definably Oxbridge accents. Odd words only: a suspicious woman; keeping things from the PM and the Queen; and finally, Moscow and KGB. Drawing his weapon, Illya opened the door and pointed it at the two startled men.
He stepped into the room. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you’d better come with me.”
“Who the hell are you?” said the stockier of the two.
“We’ve been watching you. Joint surveillance – UNCLE and MI5.”
The thin, greying, man looked stunned but, as Illya said, “Come, we’re wasting ...” there was a little flash of triumph in the man’s eyes. It was the last thing he saw before collapsing. A third man, who had been silent throughout, waved the butt of his pistol with a flourish, and executed a little bow.
“We’d better separate and get out of here from different exits,” he said.
***************
The boy heard the window open, but the man who dropped down wasn’t the one he had spoken to. He shrank back out of sight and watched as the man, ominously keeping a hand in his pocket, ran silently down the alley towards Long Acre. Then there was silence.
Then his dad dropped from another window.
“Woss goin’ on?” he said. “There’s men everywhere. There’s a little one laid aht, up there.”
“Is he OK?”
“Why should you care?”
“I helped him get up there. He spoke to me, quite polite. Maybe he needs help.”
“Nah. Not me, kid. Look – I got stuff.”
They turned to go, when there was a sound from above, and a small figure slipped out of the window and fell awkwardly to the ground beside them.
“Help me up,” he said, recognising the boy.
“You all right, mate?” said the burglar.
“As right as I’ll ever be,” groaned the other, holding his head. “Is this your dad?” he said to the boy.
“Oo’s asking?” demanded the burglar belligerently.
“Pleased to meet you, too,” said Illya, getting to his feet and walking unsteadily away. “Good night.”
***********************Considering the badly botched outcome of this surveillance, Illya felt he was getting off lightly – apart from the lump behind his ear.
“The first one said something about keeping things quiet from the prime minister and the Queen.”
“Blackmail, do you think?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think so.”
“Who was the other man, any idea?”
“I didn’t know him. Not to be certain. He said something about his wife and needing to get back – he didn’t say where.”
“You’re certain there was mention of the KGB?”
“And going to Moscow, yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Pity you missed the third one.”
“Pity he didn’t miss me.”
“Serves you right. Where did you learn house-breaking, by the way?”
“Strictly-speaking,” Illya replied, not answering the question, “it was burglary – the window was open. I didn’t have to break in.”
His chief laughed. “All right. This will have to be kept under our hats for a while. I think we know who we’re looking at with one of them. Bit sensitive, this.”
================================================Notes
Covent Garden market moved out of central London, after 300 years, in 1974.
The two spies were recruited to spy for the NKVD while at Cambridge in the 1930s:
Kim Philby after leaving MI6 in 1955, worked as a journalist in Beirut. He fled to Moscow in late January 1963.
Anthony Blunt was the Courtauld Institute’s director, 1947-1974, and Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures 1945-1972. Blunt confessed in 1964 and was given immunity. He was exposed in 1979.
To catch a spy
On a surveillance mission to find the third man in the Cambridge spy ring, Illya is taken unawares - and there are more than three
London. Mid-January 1963
Covent Garden after midnight was quite a hazardous area for late-night revellers passing the market. Produce of every kind was piled high on every street, and vans and lorries added to the dangers. Even stepping off a pavement might mean breaking your ankle tripping over a fallen cabbage, or being run down by a fast-moving porter with a laden trolley and being more-or-less amiably shouted at: “Mind yer back!” or possibly, “Git aht of it!”
Passing the flower market, next to the now silent Opera House, Illya breathed in that mixture of damp soil, crushed leaves and fragrant blooms, redolent of another world, before turning into Floral Street. No-one paid any attention – he was just another porter.
There were similar men leaning against walls, also paying no attention.
*****
The boy was hidden in the shadows of one of the alleys between Floral Street and Long Acre. All around was the noise of the market, but in the alley it was quiet, so he nearly jumped out of his skin when a figure all in black suddenly seized him, clamping a hand over his mouth.
“Don’t make a sound!” it whispered fiercely. The boy nodded energetically and was released.
“Wotcha want, mister?” he demanded in an undertone.
“You to be quiet,” said a faintly accented impatient voice, definitely not the English of this part of the West End. “What are you doing here?”
The boy thought for a moment, then on the assumption that his interlocutor was also nefariously inclined, he said, “The Old Bill. Me dad’s up there.”
“Old Bill?”
“Coppers – don’t you know nuffink?”
“Obviously not. What’s he doing?”
“Wotcha fink?”
“Burglar?”
The boy shrugged, and heard a faint chuckle. “Don’t you tell,” he muttered.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Don’t you tell on me either, huh?”
“Nah, course not.”
“Now, can you give me a bunk up? I need to get in through that window.”
The boy looked at what he could see – a man not much bigger than himself. “All right,” and bent, hands on his knees, feeling a sudden weight and pressure as the man leapt for the window sill above. He heard a scrabbling and the man was gone. He looked up and saw a partly-open window quietly closing.
***********************
The room was empty and dark. Illya made his way carefully to the door and opened it a fraction. No-one, a dark corridor. He stepped out and silently moved along it towards a line of light showing under a second door. Standing to the side he could hear two men talking quietly, both with definably Oxbridge accents. Odd words only: a suspicious woman; keeping things from the PM and the Queen; and finally, Moscow and KGB. Drawing his weapon, Illya opened the door and pointed it at the two startled men.
He stepped into the room. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you’d better come with me.”
“Who the hell are you?” said the stockier of the two.
“We’ve been watching you. Joint surveillance – UNCLE and MI5.”
The thin, greying, man looked stunned but, as Illya said, “Come, we’re wasting ...” there was a little flash of triumph in the man’s eyes. It was the last thing he saw before collapsing. A third man, who had been silent throughout, waved the butt of his pistol with a flourish, and executed a little bow.
“We’d better separate and get out of here from different exits,” he said.
***************
The boy heard the window open, but the man who dropped down wasn’t the one he had spoken to. He shrank back out of sight and watched as the man, ominously keeping a hand in his pocket, ran silently down the alley towards Long Acre. Then there was silence.
Then his dad dropped from another window.
“Woss goin’ on?” he said. “There’s men everywhere. There’s a little one laid aht, up there.”
“Is he OK?”
“Why should you care?”
“I helped him get up there. He spoke to me, quite polite. Maybe he needs help.”
“Nah. Not me, kid. Look – I got stuff.”
They turned to go, when there was a sound from above, and a small figure slipped out of the window and fell awkwardly to the ground beside them.
“Help me up,” he said, recognising the boy.
“You all right, mate?” said the burglar.
“As right as I’ll ever be,” groaned the other, holding his head. “Is this your dad?” he said to the boy.
“Oo’s asking?” demanded the burglar belligerently.
“Pleased to meet you, too,” said Illya, getting to his feet and walking unsteadily away. “Good night.”
***********************
“The first one said something about keeping things quiet from the prime minister and the Queen.”
“Blackmail, do you think?”
“Possibly, but I don’t think so.”
“Who was the other man, any idea?”
“I didn’t know him. Not to be certain. He said something about his wife and needing to get back – he didn’t say where.”
“You’re certain there was mention of the KGB?”
“And going to Moscow, yes.”
“Hmm.”
“Pity you missed the third one.”
“Pity he didn’t miss me.”
“Serves you right. Where did you learn house-breaking, by the way?”
“Strictly-speaking,” Illya replied, not answering the question, “it was burglary – the window was open. I didn’t have to break in.”
His chief laughed. “All right. This will have to be kept under our hats for a while. I think we know who we’re looking at with one of them. Bit sensitive, this.”
================================================
Covent Garden market moved out of central London, after 300 years, in 1974.
The two spies were recruited to spy for the NKVD while at Cambridge in the 1930s:
Kim Philby after leaving MI6 in 1955, worked as a journalist in Beirut. He fled to Moscow in late January 1963.
Anthony Blunt was the Courtauld Institute’s director, 1947-1974, and Surveyor of the Queen’s Pictures 1945-1972. Blunt confessed in 1964 and was given immunity. He was exposed in 1979.
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no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 04:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 04:34 pm (UTC)I met Anthony Blunt once - is there any kudos attached to having chatted to, and shaken hands with a spy and traitor? My tutor at university (where I read history of art) had been one of his students and, after he came to York to teach, invited Blunt to give a lecture here - this was in 1974. Brilliant lecturer, interesting man, but in the 30s, when you had to choose, preferred communism to fascism. The mystery is how he reconciled the barbarism of the NKVD with his conscience and his intelligence.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 04:56 pm (UTC)And you definitely get kudos for actually having met Blunt. Wow. The mystery of how he reconciled the barbarism of the NKVD with his conscience and intelligence is one that holds true for a number of people. I guess it's a case of distancing ones self emotionally, and intellectually. Out of sight, out of mind as it were.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 05:54 pm (UTC)I watched a lovely bit of archive footage of Covent Garden market as it was in 1957 to remind myself of the atmosphere. It's difficult now to imagine how it worked - the area has been so tarted up since the market moved out. The Floral Hall, for instance, where the flower market was held is a very fancy restaurant and bar for the Opera House now. It's a very beautiful piece of architecture, which wasn't apparent when the market had it.
You're probably right about Blunt and his conscience. His past wasn't known to us in 1974, I ought to make that clear. I just remember that it was a terrific lecture - he spoke without notes, which is always impressive. It's something I've tried to do whenever I've had to give a public talk. Sadly, nothing like as impressively...
no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 06:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 06:34 pm (UTC)Hope the NYC markets are still there.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 06:51 pm (UTC)Sadly, the modern age has taken away the charm and functionality of the past.
no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 07:34 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-30 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2017-10-31 09:44 am (UTC)One of the medieval kings (Edward III), who used to come to York a lot, used to complain regularly about how smelly it was. People kept pigs and other beasts in the streets, and the products of slaughter, and worse, no doubt coloured the atmosphere more than a little. The Shambles, York's most famous street, where the butchers were, must have been dreadful. It's quite fragrant now.