There were two file number references in the Soviet file that he noted and then he reached for the CIA/FBI file. He had virtually no current contacts with the United States security services but he read through the two-line references to other files as he slowly turned the pages. It was on the third page of photographs that he stopped. Despite the grainy blow-ups he recognised both faces immediately. It just said: “Morris Cohen and Laura Teresa Cohen. Associate of the Rosenbergs, David Greenglass, Harry Gold and others. Disappeared from their address in New York immediately prior to arrest of Julius Rosenberg. Present whereabouts unknown. Possible locations, Australia, New Zealand, West or East Germany, United Kingdom. See Washington file 70410/04/3466. Restricted.”
He was looking at photographs of Peter John Kroger and Helen Joyce Kroger, antiquarian bookseller and his quiet suburban wife. The owners of the Rover car that had been parked at the “looker’s” cottage. Associates of the mysterious Mr. Gordon and the middle-aged woman from Weymouth and Portland who owned the cream-coloured Mini.
For ten minutes Harris sat there, collecting his thoughts. He knew by instinct that they were no longer just thrashing around. They were in business at last and it meant a radical change in the operation. This latest piece in the jig-saw would warrant a full surveillance organisation. It could mean thirty or more trained people. And that could mean the operation being taken over by Shapiro himself or someone else equally senior. He reached for the internal telephone and dialled Shapiro’s number. Shapiro had already left the office but he had left a number where he could be contacted. He dialled the number and Shapiro answered.
“Shapiro. Who is it?”
“It’s Harris, sir. I’ve just come across something that alters my operation.”
“Oh, what is it?”
“A connection, sir. A CIA/ FBI connection.”
“Why can’t you deal with it?”
“I think it’s more your level.”
“Can it wait until the morning? I’ll be in early. About eight.”
“I’d rather deal with it tonight if I can.”
He heard the impatience in Shapiro’s voice as he said, “Are you at the office?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“I can come to you if that’s more convenient.”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
Shapiro was in evening dress: dinner jacket, black tie and four miniature medals. He took Harris’s arm and walked to the far side of the reception area. When he came to a halt he said, “Right, what is it?” He sounded as if he resented being disturbed. He frowned as if whatever he was going to be told was unwelcome.
Harris told him of the CIA/ FBI photographs.
Shapiro said sharply, “Are you quite sure? Those photographs are never good quality.”
“Yes, I’m quite sure.”
“We’d better go up to my office.”
As they went up in the lift Harris said, “I’m sorry I’ve had to disturb your evening.”
Shapiro didn’t respond but in his office he took off his dinner jacket. “Show me your photographs and the file photographs.”
It was ten minutes before Harris came back with the material and Shapiro looked at both sets of photographs for several minutes before he looked up at Harris.
“Yes. You’re right.” He paused and leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. “We’ll need a twenty-four-hour team for the Cohens’ place in Ruislip and the bookshop. Another team for the Gordon chap and the spinster at Weymouth. We’ll have to think about Grushko too. Has Grushko got diplomatic status?”
“No. It wasn’t requested for him either.”
“We’ll pull him in when we pick up the others.”
“What about the MP—Maguire-Barton?”
“Go on checking on him and keep me informed—but leave him for me to deal with.”
“Do you want me to stay in charge of the operation?”
Shapiro looked surprised. “Do you know of any reason why you shouldn’t?”
“I thought that as it was getting bigger you might …”
“How many bodies do you want?”
“On my calculations I could get by with thirty. I might need more if it takes long.”
“We might have to call in some outside help if it’s a long term job. Special Branch and Five.” He stopped and looked at Harris’s face. “You’d better leave this to me. Go home and get some sleep. You look as if you need it.”
Shapiro was on the phone even before Harris got to the door and he called out, “Be here at eight, Mr. Harris. There’ll be people to brief.”
“Yes, sir.”
Harris applied for, and got, an incident room and two clerks to record and collate the information coming in from the surveillance team and other sources. Like most surveillance operations whole days could go by with nothing suspicious reported, but when there were contacts every detail had to be noted. Locations, time, photography where possible, identification, description of the meeting, weather conditions, light conditions and all the rest of the information to rebut defending counsels’ insistence in court that the meeting never took place or that the light conditions were too bad for accurate observation.
Harris reported daily to Shapiro who seemed anxious to hurry things along. But there was always one major problem with this kind of surveillance and investigation: they were founded on little more than suspicion, and courts were not interested in suspicion, neither was the Director of Public Prosecutions.
What they wanted was evidence, and, so far as English law was concerned, it had to be evidence not merely of intent to spy but proof of actual espionage. If Soviet diplomats were concerned then suspicion could be enough. They could be declared “personae non gratae” and sent packing. But “illegals,” who had to come before the courts, were given all the benefits that any other defendant could expect.
24
Once Shapiro had arranged for full surveillance teams Harris deployed them
