as ‘presses’ containing confidential material. Those ex-colleagues who saw him felt a mixture of pity, embarrassment, annoyance and suspicion at his conduct, but the blokey ‘good form’ of the department meant that his manoeuvres were watched but not challenged. During one of these forays he obtained documents which he sold in Paris to the Soviets in May 1933. He and his wife commuted by air between London and Paris during May and June to see Bystrolyotov. OGPU became so alarmed by the likelihood of Oldham’s exposure that all illegal operatives, including Bazarov and Maly, were withdrawn from England.
On 13 July 1933, desperate for OGPU money and under incitement from Bystrolyotov, Oldham returned to the Office in an attempt to lay hands on the cipher codes for the following year. He arrived just before 6 p.m., ostensibly to see Kemp who had already gone home, got hold of a set of keys left momentarily in the door, rushed to the lavatory and there took wax impressions of them. When he reappeared with the keys, he was sweating and his hands shook. Wax was found on the wards of the keys. Eastwood reported the incident next day to Sir Vernon Kell of MI5, who set Harker on the case. Oldham’s correspondence was intercepted, his telephone was tapped and he was put under John Ottaway’s surveillance. Bystrolyotov met Oldham on a bench in Hyde Park, and urged him to try again to get into the safes to obtain up-to-date codes. At lunchtime on Sunday 16 July Oldham was refused admittance when he called again at the Office.
Some days later he was heard in a bugged telephone call to say that he was going to Vienna. He evaded his watchers by instead flying from Croydon to Geneva. From there he hastened to Interlaken, where he met Bystrolyotov calling himself ‘Perelly’ and Bazarov calling himself ‘da Vinci’. After returning from Basel to Croydon on 4 August, Oldham was traced by Ottaway to the Jules Hotel at 85–86 Jermyn Street, St James’s, and tracked to a nearby pub, the Chequers, off a narrow alley joining Duke Street, St James’s to Mason’s Yard. At the poky bar in the Chequers, two MI5 operatives, Herbert (‘Con’) Boddington, a bookie’s son who had been Chief of Dublin Special Branch targeting the IRA in the early 1920s, and Thomas (‘Tar’) Robertson, set to work on Oldham. Robertson (born in Sumatra in 1909) had only recently joined MI5 after working in the City, and was known to his new colleagues as ‘Passion Pants’ because he wore Seaforth tartan trews at headquarters. ‘Con’ and ‘Passion Pants’ got Oldham hopelessly drunk in the Chequers, put him to bed in the Jules Hotel and searched his belongings while he was comatose.17
Oldham was not questioned or detained, although it was obvious to his watchers that he was falling apart. MI5 wished to learn from watching his activities and contacts. Probably the Foreign Office shrank from discovering the extent to which diplomatic secrets had been broached. Still striving to earn OGPU money, dosing himself with paraldehyde (a foul-smelling, addictive sedative taken by alcoholics and insomniacs), Oldham finally broke. He went to his former marital home at 31 Pembroke Gardens, now vacant and unfurnished, and gassed himself in the kitchen. The suspicions of some of his Room 22 colleagues and Russian handlers that he had been killed by MI5 seem unwarranted. In retrospect Antrobus despised his department’s first traitor. ‘A clever little upstart,’ he called him, ‘with a face like a rat and a conscience utterly devoid of scruples.’18
Until Oldham’s attempted break-in, members of the Foreign Office were often visited at work by friends. After 1933, however, visitors were filtered by policemen and doorkeepers: once admitted, they were escorted everywhere by hardy factotums. The locks and keys of the ‘presses’ were changed. Algernon Hay was retired from overseeing Room 22 in 1934. His replacement Antrobus thought of his staff as a ‘little brotherhood’ of ‘learned friends’. He explained: ‘everybody gave of his best, although (very properly) he got no credit for it beyond his own satisfaction’. He believed that ‘in all classes of life and among all sorts and conditions of men’, especially ‘in teams, regiments, and ships’, the best-performing organizations had consciously developed ‘the Spirit of the Old School Tie’. This Spirit motivated and unified men without appealing to class bias: public schools did not hold ‘a monopoly of true fellowship and devotion to an ideal’, insisted Antrobus. A minority of his staff had attended public schools.19
The Foreign Office conducted an internal, amateurish and self-protective investigation of the Oldham case without MI5 or Special Branch assistance. There was little investigation of Oldham’s overseas air journeys, or of his ultimate destinations and contacts, which might have given leads to Bystrolyotov and Bazarov. In gathering clues from outsiders, such as Oldham’s solicitor, it was represented that he was suspected of drugs-smuggling. No hint was permissible that he had been betraying official secrets to a hostile power. There were few leads, as ‘Count Perelly’ and ‘da Vinci’ had vanished and reverted to their true identities as Bystrolyotov and Bazarov. ‘I could have ended up in the Tower, but only if Vansittart had been willing to wash his dirty linen in public,’ Bystrolyotov judged; but the Foreign Office saw no benefit in publicizing the lax security. As to Moscow, OGPU had been exasperated by Oldham’s alcoholic volatility. At times the risks for his handlers seemed nightmarish. His low status in the Office hierarchy had moreover limited his access to secret material. OGPU’s frustrations with him perhaps contributed to the strategy of placing more reliable penetration agents in the Diplomatic Service through the device of recruiting young Cambridge high-fliers.20
Oldham had supplied personal assessments of his colleagues. One of these was Raymond Oake, born in 1894 in Finchley and the son of a railway clerk. After wartime naval service, Oake joined the Communications Department as a clerk in 1920. He was used as an occasional King’s Messenger without being promoted above the level of clerk, amassed debts and borrowed money from colleagues. His bank manager told MI5, when it was investigating Oake’s finances in 1939, that his customer was ‘a weak, foolish man, whose vanity leads him to live above his income, which is about £600 per annum. On one occasion when he was warned as to his account, he created a wild scene and ended by bursting into tears.’21
Bystrolyotov delegated the task of cultivating Oake to Hans Pieck, a Dutchman codenamed COOPER. Pieck, who was the son of a naval officer, had joined his country’s communist party in 1920 under the alias of Donat. He had visited Moscow on party business in 1929. He spoke German, English, French, Danish and perhaps Italian. He was a man of culture and charm, well reputed as a decorative artist, architectural designer and cartoonist, who lived with his wife in The Hague in style (subsidized by OGPU money). ‘He is a good actor who plays his role naturally, sometimes masterfully, finds his bearings quickly in conversation, manoeuvres well and is already ready for initiative,’ Bystrolyotov declared. Pieck was not a staid communist: rather he was ‘Bohemian, disorderly, untidy, inaccurate, incoherent and undisciplined’. Although effective as a talent-spotter and recruiter, he was too fastidious to coerce targets, to kidnap them, to apply blackmail or to threaten lives. Bystrolyotov attributed to Pieck ‘Love for intelligence work bordering on a passion, a romantic attitude to his role close to that of an actor’s enjoyment’.22
Pieck installed himself at the Hôtel Beau-Rivage in Geneva, befriended Communications Department men and consular officials in bars and brasseries, spent a fortune on hospitality and gave handsome presents. In the summary of Valentine Vivian of SIS, Pieck ‘allayed suspicion by posing as the prince of good fellows, habitué of the International Club, always “good” for a drink, a motor expedition, or a free meal – a histrionic effort worthy of a better cause’. Pieck moved deftly towards his target of Oake, who was given the codename SHELLEY. On Christmas Day of 1933 Pieck visited him in Room 22. They had festive drinks together in a nearby pub, where Pieck learnt that Oake had already spent his December wages and loaned him money
