announced a policy of non-intervention. Sorge told Moscow, on Hotsumi Ozaki’s authority, that the country would enter the war only when it was confident that it had identified the winner. He added that the German embassy expected the Japanese to remain neutral, and was even nervous they might join the Allied camp.
Sorge’s surreal relationship with Col. Ott’s mission took a new twist when he was offered a staff post as its press attaché. He declined, as usual because he was fearful of the security checks into his past that acceptance would have provoked, but he worked four hours a day in the embassy building, while assuming a new journalistic role as a stringer for Frankfurter Zeitung. It was scarcely surprising that in October the Japanese police foreign section, the Tokko, committed an agent – twenty-eight-year-old Harutsugu Saito – to shadow Sorge. They suspected that he was spying … for Germany. Saito noticed Max Clausen and began to take an interest in him, too.
During the months that followed, stresses on the network intensified. Branko de Voukelitch disclosed his work for the Soviets to his adored Japanese lover Yoshiko. In 1940 the couple were married, and she never betrayed him, but his indiscretion was appallingly risky. Max Clausen became grossly overweight, and his health deteriorated. Bedridden for some time, he had to get his wife Anna to assemble the transmitter before tapping out messages to Moscow from his sickroom. His employers were unsympathetic. Clausen was peremptorily informed by the Fourth Department that funding was tight: pay was being reduced. His little blueprint reproduction company employed fourteen people, had opened a branch in Mukden and was fulfilling assignments for the Japanese War and Navy Ministries. Moscow said that he must henceforth subsidise himself out of its profits. In a farcical twist, Clausen became increasingly admiring of Hitler – who was, after all, now supposedly Stalin’s friend.
But the radioman kept sending: in 1940 he transmitted sixty times, sending 29,179 words of Sorge’s wisdom. Prominent among the spy’s scoops was the draft of a proposed Japan–China peace treaty. It was deemed a vital Soviet interest to keep the China war going, because its termination would free the Japanese army to strike at Russia. When the treaty leaked and the draft was torn up, Sorge was also able to supply the substitute version – though this, too, remained unsigned. From the German embassy he secured data on the Mitsubishi and Nakajima aircraft factories. He provided accurate forecasts on Japan’s aggressive intentions towards French Indochina. He was not infallible, however, and gave Moscow some cause for scepticism. He predicted, for instance, that the British would reject Tokyo’s demand for closure of the Burma Road supply route to China shortly before they did so for three months. As is so often the case with intelligence, Sorge’s original report was not mistaken: Churchill simply changed his mind.
By the end of 1940, Sorge’s standing was higher in Berlin than in the Kremlin. Indeed, the excellence of his reports for the Nazis almost caused his undoing: Schellenberg of the RSHA ran a security check which revealed his communist past. The Gestapo’s Joseph Meisinger was posted to Tokyo as embassy security officer, with orders to look closely at Sorge, though as yet the Nazis had no suspicion of his supreme duplicity. Meisinger was ill-equipped for his task: a creature of Reinhard Heydrich, he was a thug whose reputation rested upon a few months of orchestrating brutality in Warsaw. Much more serious for the spy ring was the fact that some of its principal members were breaking down. Though Sorge sustained his journalistic career, penning fifty-one articles for Frankfurter Zeitung in the first six months of 1941, his nerves were shredded. His drinking worsened, and Hanako found him an increasingly violent lover. When she sobbed and begged him to explain himself, he responded sullenly, ‘I am lonely.’ She said, ‘How can this be, when you have so many German friends here in Tokyo?’ He muttered, ‘They are not my true friends.’ In a September 1940 signal to Moscow, he said that he was forty-four years old and desperately tired. He yearned to be allowed to go ‘home’ to Russia, though he must have known that Centre would never countenance this until the war ended.
Max Clausen became too sick to keep pace with transmission of Sorge’s flood of material, and began secretly to destroy unsent a substantial proportion, arbitrarily selected. Thus, while it is known what information Sorge claimed to have passed on to the Fourth Department, it is unclear what actually reached them in 1941: Russian releases of some of his material in the 1990s must be treated with caution, because selective. From the end of 1940 onwards, Sorge was personally convinced that Germany and the Soviet Union would go to war. He was deeply troubled by the prospect, and by its implications for himself. During the early months of 1941 he reported an increasing Japanese focus on a ‘Strike south’ strategy against the European Asian empires. On 10 March he wrote of German pressure on Japan ‘to invigorate her role in the Tripartite Pact’ by attacking the Soviet Union. But Sorge added that this war would only start ‘once the present one is over’.
In May he asserted that Hitler was resolved ‘to crush the Soviet Union and keep the European parts … in his hands’, but suggested that there was still scope for diplomacy to prevent war. Later that month he said that his German contacts expected an invasion to be launched before June, but then added that some important visitors from Berlin believed that the prospect of such action taking place in 1941 had receded. Both these signals probably reflected Sorge’s conversations with Lt. Col. Schol, a Wehrmacht officer passing through Tokyo en route to taking up the post of military attaché in Bangkok. On 30 May he wirelessed: ‘Berlin has informed Ambassador Ott that the German offensive against the USSR will begin in the second half of June. Ott is 95 per cent sure that the war will begin. The indirect proofs that I see at the present are as follows: The Luftwaffe technical delegation in [Tokyo] has been ordered home. Ott has requested the military attaché to halt the transmission of important documents via the USSR. The shipment of rubber via the USSR has been reduced to a minimum.’
Sorge’s reports were as good as any government at any moment in history could ask from a secret agent, but he was one among many voices that cried in the wilderness surrounding the Kremlin. Stalin was no more willing to trust the word of his Tokyo man than that of any other source. He once described Sorge, about whom he had been briefed, as ‘a lying shit who has set himself up with some small factories and brothels in Japan’. Although the Soviet warlord was notoriously wrong about ‘Barbarossa’, few national leaders have lost empires by declining to accept the unsupported word of secret agents. Historians carve spies’ coups in letters of gold, but seldom detail the vastly larger volume of humint that has been partially or wholly misleading. Molotov said in old age: ‘I think that one can never trust the intelligence … The intelligence people can lead to dangerous situations that it is impossible to get out of. There were endless provocateurs on both sides … People are so naïve and gullible, indulging themselves and quoting memoirs: spies said so and so, defectors crossed the lines …’ Stalin would have been more likely to believe Sorge had the spy reported that the Germans’ posturings formed part of a plot concocted by the faraway British.
3 THE ORCHESTRA PLAYS
The most authoritative intelligence sent to Moscow in advance of ‘Barbarossa’ came from the Russians’ Berlin networks. What became known as the Rote Kapelle – the Red Orchestra – was not a single entity, though supposed to be such by the Germans. It was a cluster of separate GRU and NKVD networks, which only careless tradecraft and operational emergencies caused to become entwined. The Rote Kapelle was less important for its impact on the war, which proved slight, than for the fact of its existence. The Western Allies secured extraordinary military intelligence through Ultra, but never had humint sources of any significance inside Germany – unless we include a product of Purple, described later – until some members of the anti-Hitler Resistance contacted Allen Dulles of the OSS in 1943. The Russians, by contrast, controlled a shaft to a goldmine.
The Harnack/Schulze-Boysen network supplied Moscow with information from an ever-widening circle hostile to the Nazi regime. Although they themselves were people of the left, they appear to have forged links with some conservative Resistance figures such as Dietrich Bonhöffer, and also to have had contact with the White Rose group in Munich. Given the number of informants involved, and their reckless
