The 1956 Olympics were to be Mitrokhin’s last tour of duty in the West. In the aftermath of Khrushchev’s ‘Secret Speech’ earlier in the year denouncing Stalin’s ‘cult of personality’ and his ‘exceedingly serious and grave perversions of Party principles, of Party democracy [and] of revolutionary legality’, Mitrokhin had become too outspoken for his own good. Though his criticisms of the way the KGB had been run were mild by Western standards, he acquired a reputation as a malcontent and was denounced by one of his superiors as ‘a member of the awkward squad’. Soon after returning from Melbourne, Mitrokhin was moved from operations to the FCD archives, where for some years his main job was answering queries from other departments and provincial KGBs. His only other foreign posting, in the late 1960s, was to the archives department of the large KGB mission at Karlshorst in the suburbs of East Berlin. While at Karlshorst in 1968, he followed with secret excitement the attempt just across the German border by the reformers of the Prague Spring to create what the Kremlin saw as an unacceptably unorthodox ‘Socialism with a human face’. Like Khrushchev’s ‘Secret Speech’ twelve years before, the invasion of Czechoslovakia by the forces of the Warsaw Pact in August 1968 was an important staging post in what Mitrokhin called his ‘intellectual odyssey’. He was able to listen in secret to reports from Czechoslovakia on the Russian-language services of the BBC World Service, Radio Liberty, Deutsche Welle and the Canadian Broadcasting Company, but had no one with whom he felt able to share his outrage at the invasion. The crushing of the Prague Spring proved, he believed, that the Soviet system was unreformable.
After his return to Moscow from East Germany, Mitrokhin continued to listen to Western broadcasts, though, because of Soviet jamming, he had frequently to switch wavelengths in order to find an audible station. Among the news which made the greatest impression on him were items about the
Chronicle of Current Events
, a
samizdat
journal first produced by dissidents in 1968 to circulate news on the struggle against Soviet abuses of human rights. By the beginning of the 1970s Mitrokhin’s political views were deeply influenced by the dissident struggle, which he was able to follow in KGB files as well as Western broadcasts. ‘I was a loner’, he later told me, ‘but I now knew that I was not alone.’ Though Mitrokhin never had any thought of aligning himself openly with the human rights movement, the example of the
Chronicle of Current Events
and other
samizdat
productions helped to inspire him with the idea of producing a classified variant of the dissidents’ attempts to document the iniquities of the Soviet system. He had earlier been attracted by the idea of writing an in-house official history of the FCD. Now a rather different project began to form in his mind - that of compiling his own private unofficial record of the foreign operations of the KGB. His opportunity came in June 1972 when he was put in charge of moving the FCD archives to Yasenevo. Had the hoard of top-secret material which he smuggled out of Yasenevo been discovered, the odds are that, after a secret trial, he would have ended up in a KGB execution cellar with a bullet in the back of his head.
For those whose ideals have been corroded by the widespread cynicism of the early twenty-first-century West, the fact that Mitrokhin was prepared to risk his life for twenty years for a cause in which he passionately believed is almost too difficult to comprehend. Almost equally hard to grasp is Mitrokhin’s willingness to devote himself throughout that period to compiling and preserving a secret archive which he knew might never see the light of day. For any Western author it is almost impossible to understand how a writer could devote all his or her energy and creative talent for many years to secret writing which might never be publicly revealed. Yet some of the greatest Russian writers of the Soviet era did precisely that. No biography of any Western writer contains a death-bed scene comparable to the description by the widow of Mikhail Bulgakov of how in 1940 she helped him out of bed for the last time so that he could satisfy himself before he died that his great, unpublished masterpiece,
The Master and Margarita
, was still in its hiding place. Against all the odds,
The Master and Margarita
survived to be published a quarter of a century later. Though Alexander Solzhenitsyn’s greatest work was published in his own lifetime (initially mostly in the West rather than the Soviet Union), when he began writing he told himself, like Bulgakov, that he ‘must write simply to ensure that [the truth] was not forgotten, that posterity might some day come to know of it. Publication in my own lifetime I must shut out of my mind, out of my dreams.’
11
Though Mitrokhin never had any literary pretensions, the survival of his archive is, in its own way, as remarkable as that of
The Master and Margarita
. Once he reached Britain, he was determined that, despite legal and security difficulties, as much as possible of its contents should be published. After the publication in 1999 of
The Sword and the Shield,
the Intelligence and Security Committee held a detailed enquiry at the Cabinet Office to which both Vasili Mitrokhin and I gave evidence. As the ISC’s unanimous report makes clear, it was left in no doubt about Mitrokhin’s motivation:
The Committee believes that he is a man of remarkable commitment and courage, who risked imprisonment or death in his determination that the truth should be told about the real nature of the KGB and their activities, which he believed were betraying the interests of his own country and people. He succeeded in this, and we wish to record formally our admiration for his achievement.
12
While in Britain, scarcely a week passed without Mitrokhin re-reading his papers, responding to questions on them and checking translations. On the eve of his death on 23 January 2004 he was still making plans for the publication of parts of his archive.
With his wife Nina, a distinguished medical specialist,
13
Mitrokhin was also able to resume the foreign travels which he had been forced to discontinue a generation earlier when he was transferred from FCD operations to archives. Mitrokhin’s first visit to Paris made a particular impression on him. He had read the KGB file on the defection in Paris of the Kirov Ballet’s greatest dancer, Rudolf Nureyev, and had followed with personal outrage the planning of operations (happily never successfully implemented) to break one or both of Nureyev’s legs with the aim - absurdly expressed in euphemistic KGB jargon - of ‘lessening his professional skills’.
14
In October 1992, while Mitrokhin was meeting SIS in Britain to make final plans for the exfiltration of his family and archive in the following month, Nureyev, by then seriously ill with Aids, was directing his last ballet,
Bayaderka
, at the Paris Opera. When, after the performance, Nureyev appeared on stage in a wheelchair, wrapped in a tartan rug, he received a standing ovation. Many in the audience wept, as did many of the mourners three months later during his burial at the Russian cemetery of Sainte Geneviève des Bois in Paris. On his visit to Paris, Mitrokhin visited Nureyev’s tomb as well as the graves of other Russian exiles, among them both White Russian refugees from the Bolshevik Revolution and dissidents of the Soviet era. Though also deeply interested in other Western sites associated with Russian émigrés, from Ivy House in London, home of the great ballerina Anna Pavlova, to the New York Russian community at Brighton Beach, his travels ranged far more widely. After the death of Nina in 1999, he flew around the world on his British passport. Only a year before his own death in 2004, he went for a walking holiday in New Zealand.
Save for his love of travel, Mitrokhin mostly remained, as he had always been, a man of simple tastes, preferring his own home-cooked Russian cabbage soup,
shchi
, to the elaborate cuisine of expensive restaurants. His favourite London restaurants were ‘The Stockpot’ chain, which specialize in good-value ‘home-cooked’ menus. Though Mitrokhin himself drank little, he would usually produce wine when entertaining friends and liked to splash out for family birthdays and major celebrations. On a visit to the Ritz the family splashed out more than it intended, having failed to appreciate the cost of a round of vintage cognacs. Mitrokhin was no more motivated by fame than by money. It was only after long persuasion that he agreed to include any of his career in volume 1, and only a few months before publication that he consented to the use of his real name rather than a pseudonym. Strenuous efforts by the media to track Mitrokhin down after publication were, happily, unsuccessful. He was too private a person and had arrived in Britain too late in life with too little experience of the West to have coped with the glare of publicity. Mitrokhin had, however, perfected the art of being inconspicuous and travelled unnoticed the length and breadth of the United Kingdom on his senior citizen’s rail-card. Until his late seventies he also remained remarkably fit. Intelligence officers from a number of countries were mildly disconcerted by his unselfconscious habit, when meetings dragged on, of dropping to the floor and doing a set of press-ups.
Mitrokhin was both an inspiring and, at times, a difficult man to work with while I wrote the two volumes of the Mitrokhin Archive.
15
In his view, the material he had risked his life to smuggle out of KGB archives revealed ‘the truth’. Though he accepted the need to put it in context, he had little interest in the work of scholars however distinguished, which failed, in his view, to recognize the central role of the KGB in Soviet society. Mitrokhin tolerated, rather than welcomed, my use of such works and a wide range of other sources to complement, corroborate and fill gaps in his own unique archive.
16
My admiration for some of the books which neglected the intelligence dimension of twentieth-century international relations was beyond his comprehension. Though Mitrokhin did not, alas, live to see the publication of this volume, it was virtually complete by the time of his death and I am not aware of any interpretation by me of material in his archive with which he disagreed. The opportunity he gave me to work on his archive has been an extraordinary privilege.
Since the original material in the Mitrokhin archive remains classified, the content of this second volume, like that of the first, was examined in great detail by an ‘interdepartmental working group’ in Whitehall before clearance for publication received ministerial approval.
17
Though the complex issues involved caused extensive delays in publication, I am grateful to the working group for the time and care they have taken, and for clearing all but about two pages of the original text.
As in volume 1, codenames (also known as ‘worknames’ in the case of KGB officers) appear in the text in capitals. It is important to note that the KGB gave codenames not merely to those who worked for it but also to those whom it targeted and to some others (such as foreign officials and ministers) who had no connection with it. Codenames are, in themselves, no evidence that the individuals to whom they refer were conscious or witting KGB agents or sources - or even that they were aware of being targeted for recruitment or to influence operations. At the risk of stating the obvious, it should also be emphasized that the vast majority of those outside the Soviet Union who expressed pro-Soviet opinions had, of course, no connection with the KGB.
Christopher Andrew
Acknowledgements
I am very grateful to those colleagues who commented on parts of this book during the brief interval between the clearance of the text by the Whitehall interdepartmental working group and its delivery to the publishers: Mr Geoffrey Archer, Sir Nicholas Barrington, Professor Chris Bayly, Dr Susan Bayly, Mr Kristian Gustafson, Professor Jonathan Haslam, Mr Alan Judd, Professor John Lonsdale, Dr Gabriella Ramos, Dr David Sneath and Sir Roger Tomkys. I also owe a considerable debt to the intellectual stimulation provided by the remarkable group of young scholars from around the world in the Cambridge University Intelligence Seminar who are transforming the academic study of intelligence history. While writing this book, I have been especially fortunate to have the opportunity to supervise and learn from the doctoral research of the outstanding Australian historian and Gates Scholar Ms Julie Elkner, who is conducting path-breaking work on the image of the secret policeman in Soviet and post-Soviet culture. I have also benefited from her extensive knowledge of published sources.
Christopher Andrew
1
Introduction: ‘The World Was Going Our Way’
The Soviet Union, the Cold War and the Third World
Communism, claimed Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels, would change not simply the history of Europe and the West but the history of the world. Their
Communist Manifesto
of 1848, though chiefly directed to industrialized Europe, ended with a clarion call to global revolution: ‘The proletarians have nothing to lose but their chains. They have a world to win. Working men of all countries, unite!’ (Working women, it was assumed, would follow in the train of male revolutionaries.) After the Bolshevik seizure of power in October 1917, Vladimir Ilyich Lenin hailed not only the triumph of the Russian Revolution but the beginning of ‘world revolution’: ‘Our cause is an international cause, and so long as a revolution does not take place in all countries . . . our victory is only half a victory, or perhaps less.’ Though world revolution had become a distant dream for most Bolsheviks by the time Lenin died seven years later, he never lost his conviction that the inevitable collapse of the colonial empires would one day bring global revolution in its wake: