THE SPY WHO NEVER WAS
Jim
(Robbo) Robinson turned to Les Hooper with a quizzical
expression on his round face. “How do you feel about
picking up a deserter?’
Les grinned. ‘It’ll make a break
from chasing armed robbers and tyre thieves.’
Robbo ignored the reply and
continued, ‘Hanos reckons a squaddie is living with a
Greek bint in Miaouli Street, near the British Military
Hospital.’ He pulled out a Player and lit it. ‘I’ve
got the address. This bloke’s pretending to be a Greek
soldier, according to Hanos.’
‘He’s playing a dodgy game,’
Les said. ‘What happens if Greek military police check
him out?’
Robbo blew a perfect smoke ring at the ceiling ‘Ah,
simple. He says he’s English. If the Brits stop him,
he says he’s Greek. Greeks wear the same battledress
as us, so he gets
away with it. He can speak the lingo,
too.’
‘Clever more than simple,
sounds like,’ Les observed. ‘What else do you know
about him?’
‘His name’s Holden and he’s
a corporal in the Royal Army Service Corps and he’s
been AWOL for over a year. Also, and here’s the funny
bit, Hanos says Holden struts around as if he hasn’t a
care in the world.’
Les was now very interested.
‘When d’you propose to pick him up?’
Robbo pondered a while before
his cherubic features lit up. ‘No time like the
present. Well, I mean tonight. I’ll find out if Hanos
knows any more and we’ll go for it.’
Hanos was interpreter for the Salonika Detachment of 96
Section, Special Investigation Branch, Greece. The
Headquarters was in Athens. Robbo was the sole SIB man
in Salonika. Les Hooper was seconded from the provost
company to help his heavy workload. Hanos had a finger
in many pies and information from him could be relied
upon. He knew the name of Holden’s girl – Katy Bezas.
At ten o’clock that night
Robbo and Les, in scruffy battledress, jumped into an
unmarked Jeep and drove to the army hospital, past the
grim castle where convicted rebels faced firing squads
on Monday mornings, and parked in the shadow of the
perimeter wall. There was no moon and the tension in the
air made them speak in whispers. Les nervously fingered
the heavy .38 pistol in his belt. The unlit back streets
of Salonika in 1947 were as safe as a trip on the
Titanic. The ongoing civil war bred violent men.
Just
two nights before, the communist Greek Democratic Army,
under General Markos Vafiadis, shelled the city, killing
a British soldier on guard at the central vehicle
compound. Trigger-happy security forces roamed
everywhere, spicing up the danger.
A high wall with an iron gate
surrounded 23 Miaouli Street. Robbo rang the bell.
Nothing happened. He rang again. Still nothing. Did they
have the right place? After the third time a light came
on and a glass door opened at the top of a short flight
of steps. A tall, heavily built man in uniform
approached the gate. He was clean-shaven and wore
steel-rimmed spectacles. Les gripped his gun. A star
shell burst in the night sky but too far away to worry
about.
The man said something in
Greek.
I’m Sergeant Robinson of the
SIB,’ Robbo grated. ‘I know you’re Corporal
Holden, a deserter, so don’t play games and speak
English.’
‘I'm not. What do you want?’
‘You’ll come with us. There
are questions I want to ask you.’
Holden replied in a steady voice. ‘How
do I know you’re who you say you are?’
Robbo took a deep breath. Les
drew his pistol and stuck it under Holden’s nose
through the gate. ‘Here’s our identity,’ he said
quietly.
Holden’s arrogant manner
faded. ‘You don’t know who you’re dealing with.’
Robbo sighed audibly. ‘Just
unlock this gate before I get upset. You won’t like me
if I get upset.’
Holden blew out his lips, slid
back a bolt and swung the gate open. The
hinges creaked loudly. He wore British battle dress
without insignia and a pair of stripes only on the left
sleeve. Just like the Greek army. Les thought it strange
to be wearing full uniform indoors. He must have changed
into it before coming out, which would explain the delay
in answering. Why?
Robbo grimaced. ‘Glad you’re
sensible. I cry when people get hurt. D’you want to
make it
easy or do I handcuff you?’
Holden half-raised his arms as
if warding off evil. ‘You’ll be sorry. Can I tell my
girl I’m leaving?’
‘Make it quick,’ Robbo
ordered. ‘If you’re not back in two minutes, we’ll
fetch you.’
Holden returned within a
minute. His cockiness had returned. ‘Let’s go and
get this nonsense over with,’ he said.
Robbo and Les looked at each
other and shrugged.
They made sure Holden carried
no weapons and installed him in the back of the Jeep. On
arriving at the commandeered hotel on Egnatia Avenue,
housing the SIB and provost company, Holden seemed
reluctant to get out. He clung to the metal struts
holding the canvas hood.
‘Move yourself,’ Les
growled and rapped his knuckles with the gun barrel.
Holden clambered out. A
half-moon rose over the rooftops, lighting up Holden’s
waxen face. As they escorted him into the building and
up to the office, he glanced nervously around.
‘You’re in safe hands,’ Robbo soothed him. ‘We
ain't Gestapo.’
‘No officers here?’ he
asked.
‘Why do you want to know?’
Robbo asked.
Holden drew himself up to his
full height. He
sniffed imperiously. ‘I am in possession of
information I cannot disclose to anyone below the rank
of major,’ he announced haughtily.
‘Oh, yeh,’ Robbo quickly
riposted, ‘and I’m in possession of information
which discloses you’re a deserter from the British
army, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it.’
Holden snorted. ‘You do keep on. I’m warning you. Be
careful.’
Robbo and Les left Holden alone
and mulled over his remarks. Robbo decided as he acted
so brazenly to see an officer, why not?
The duty officer was Franklin,
a provost sergeant who believed he should occupy a seat
on Mount Olympus, the home of the gods, just 50 miles
away across Salonika bay. He appeared on the scene and
poked his nose in. He took Holden aside and afterwards
told Les to watch his step because Holden was a very
important person and could make trouble.
There was a lot of talk and
phone calls for the next couple of hours. Robbo was in
the thick of it. Finally he got together with Les again
and explained Holden carried documents identifying him
as an intelligence officer.
Les screwed up his face in
disbelief. ‘Come off it,’ he sneered. ‘Hey, if he’s
a spy, why is he blowing his cover?’
Robbo nodded agreement. ‘I’ve
got to go along with what he says at present. Franklin’s
involved and he’s almost kissing his feet. We’ll put
Holden up for the night
and sort it out in the morning.’
‘Didn’t he say he needed to
speak to a major?’
Robbo lit a cigarette and
watched smoke spiral upwards. ‘We don’t have one so
he decided Franklin would do.'
During all the chat, Holden
revealed the names of two officials at the British
Council, a building in Vas. Konstantinou on the seafront
- Stappard, the English Language Centre director, and
McKenzie, a language teacher. When seen they admitted
knowing Holden but timidly refused to enlarge on this.
Their initial coyness puzzled Robbo. Finally, after some
persuasion, a remarkable tale surfaced.
At this point, suspend your
incredulity.
Corporal Holden belonged to a
special British Intelligence group operating in the
Balkans. As cover, he was posted to Greece as a soldier
and later, as arranged, went AWOL. Holden enlisted
Stappard and McKenzie into his intelligence cell. They
produced identity documents with the letterhead:
HIS MAJESTY’S CABINET INTELLIGENCE AND ENQUIRY SERVICE
This was endorsed “Top
Secret Absolute” and carried the proviso it should not
be shown to anyone below the rank of major. Any who
disclosed this information would suffer dire peril under
the Official Secrets Act. The document bore a British
consular coat of arms and authentic-looking rubber
stamps.
Holden showed the same kind of
document to Franklin, hence the bootlicking
performance. The document also called upon the
army to arrange Holden’s discharge.
Holden began to live up to
Hanos’s description of marching around as if he owned
Buckingham Palace. He even spoke to Les about the spying
game in communist Bulgaria and told him anyone who
became a thorn in the side was “bumped off.”
‘How?’ Les inquired with
false naivety.
‘Usually a traffic accident,’ Holden sniffed. ‘Then
no questions are asked.’
When army headquarters were
informed of Holden’s detention, a brigadier exploded
into angry action and ordered Holden to be released
immediately because he was involved in matters of no
concern to the SIB. Holden’s secret papers obviously
had a wide distribution list. So Robbo let him go. He
shook hands with both Robbo and Les and thanked them for
treating him kindly.
But there was no way Robbo
would accept a load of codswallop, brigadier or not.
For instance, Holden could not keep his mouth
shut. He bragged about his spying missions. Also
down-strokes in a signature – A.
Barrymore – on a document showed where the pen
nib separated and left tiny blobs of ink. And
typographical errors in the documents. Holden’s story
had more holes in it than Emmental cheese. Les thought
he was the biggest liar since Joseph Goebbels.
As Robbo succinctly put it, ‘If
he’s an intelligence agent, I’m a soft-boiled egg!'
He finally took a deep breath and stubbed out his
cigarette. ‘Let’s take the bull by the horns.’ And
he arranged a small ploy.
That evening the two men again
pressed the buzzer at 23 Miaouli Street. Even nearby
gunshots failed to distract them. Holden emerged. With a
disarming smile Robbo explained there were a couple of
points to clear up and everything would be fine and
dandy. Holden invited them in and they saw Katy Bezas
for the first – and last – time. A pretty,
dark-haired girl with wide, inquisitive eyes like black
olives. No wonder Holden was infatuated.
Robbo sprung his trap. He
spread a document on a table and asked Holden to sign to
confirm fair treatment. His lips curled. ‘Sorry, I’ve
forgotten my pen.’
Holden signed with his own
fountain pen. Tiny ink blobs appeared on the
down-strokes. From small trickles wide rivers flow.
Robbo grabbed him by the front of his shirt, yanked him
close and smiled wickedly into his startled face. ‘I
said you wouldn’t like me if I got upset.’ He shook
the large man like a mucky duster. ‘You big lying
bastard. You’re under arrest and this time you won’t
wriggle free.’
The menu listed no choices this
time. Robbo handcuffed his prisoner, threw him into
the Jeep and roared back to the office. Holden
collapsed. Any bravado swirled away like water down a
plughole. He admitted everything – pretending to be a
spy, forging
papers for his army release,
fraudulently arranging a British passport and lying to
everyone.
With Holden behind bars, Robbo
found the typewriter used at the British Council. Few
printers operated in Salonika, so the detectives soon
located who printed the forged papers and made rubber
stamps. And the rest, as they say, is history.
Some very red faces kept their
heads down at army headquarters, particularly one
belonging to a certain brigadier, which had egg all over
it. Robbo and Les received no accolades for a tricky job
and surely unique among SIB case files. More chance of
the United States presenting Stalin with a humanitarian
award.
Holden, undoubtedly clever,
possessed a complex personality, even a touch of
megalomania. His downfall came about because ego
smothered common sense. The irony is, had he not gone
AWOL and served his time, he would have been lawfully
released from the army long before his arrest.
Lonely years passed before he
again slept in the soft arms of Katy, his olive-eyed
beauty, for the sad truth is he succumbed to the wiles
of a well-known predator - the femme fatale.
There, but for the Grace of God………
Yasoo.
NOTE:-
The RMP/SIB used
to be issued with the Hiatt 104 handcuff for escorting
an AWOL back to barracks, or if taking a prisoner on
anything other than a local journey. For work on, or
around a military base, they tend to use plasticuffs.
Just as in the civilian police, the Speedcuffs are
becoming more common as they can be used for single
handed application, and effective control.
