The Greatest Traitor (44 page)

All this political excitement was, however, a sideshow. Blake was still on the loose. There was a sense of despondency in some quarters and Special Branch officers interviewing Blake’s mother confided to her that they ‘were on a hopeless quest’. They assumed, they told her, that his escape was the outcome of a professional, well financed operation and that her son had fled the country within hours of getting over the wall.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. The amateur gang, holed up in their North London hideout, had still to work out any viable plan for getting their fugitive to safety.

Randle’s friends ‘Matthew’ and ‘Rachel’ had reconnoitred the area around the Soviet Embassy in Kensington Palace Gardens and believed they had found a sheltered, unprotected spot by the back wall, where Blake could easily be hoisted over. Randle was surprised by the hostility with which Blake rejected the plan: ‘George stared at me pale and disbelieving. Sean too looked shocked. “I would be completely and utterly opposed to that!” he said, with more vehemence than I had ever heard him express before.’ Blake was convinced that the Soviets would view him as a ‘burden and an embarrassment’. His arrival would inevitably cause a major diplomatic incident, and it was entirely possible he would be handed back to the British authorities. He told his friends he had no desire to ‘do a Mindszenty’, referring to Cardinal Mindszenty, who sought sanctuary in the American Embassy in Budapest during the Soviet invasion of 1956 and was forced to stay there for fifteen years. If that was his only option, he would prefer to be back in his cell in Wormwood Scrubs.

The earlier idea, that of changing Blake’s skin colour so he could pass as an Arab, was also ditched. Blake had always been nervous of the possible side effects of taking such large doses of an unpredictable
drug like Meladinine and, despite his initial bravado, it had become clear that Bourke lacked underworld contacts who could be relied upon to produce the necessary forged passports.

The conspirators fleetingly considered crossing the English Channel in a small sailing boat and landing the fugitive on a secluded part of the French coast, but the more they pondered the problem, the more apparent it became that the surest way to smuggle Blake to freedom would be by driving him there in a car or a van, concealed for the duration in a container or a secret compartment. A plan to build a false section in the boot of a car was considered, and then discarded. Randle’s thoughts instead turned to larger vehicles, like a camper van, and he started scouring catalogues and showrooms for a model that might fit the bill.

Most had a bench seat in the back, with storage cupboards underneath. The hinged seat was designed to fold outwards to make a bed, supported by the open cupboard doors. There was potential here, but the storage space under the bed was surely one of the first places Customs officials would search. Randle came up with the idea of supporting the fold-down bed with drawers, rather than cupboard doors. If the drawers remained open all the time, George could hide in the space
behind them
. Only a highly suspicious official would want to pull out the drawers packed full of clothes. With a £1,000 cheque from their benefactor, ‘Bridget’, Randle and his friend ‘Matthew’ selected a type of camper van made by Commer, which had more adaptable fittings than any of the other models. The double doors at the back were valuable too, according to Randle: ‘It would make access to the proposed hiding-place at the back of the driver’s seat that bit more awkward for any Customs officer to reach.’

Blake welcomed the scheme wholeheartedly but the question of his ultimate destination remained unanswered. He had long favoured Egypt: he had lived there as a boy, he had relatives in Cairo, and he spoke Arabic. He knew, however, that the trip would be too complicated and dangerous, and so set his sights instead on a Communist
or neutral European country. For a while, Yugoslavia was top of the list, but was ruled out because there were too many frontiers to cross. Switzerland was considered, but Blake knew from his espionage days that SIS had a close relationship with the country’s intelligence service, the
Sûreté
. Eventually, a consensus of opinion formed around East Germany. Blake, who of course knew Berlin and its environs well after his four-year stint there, was enthusiastic. Moreover, he envisaged a route which would save his collaborators from contact with the authorities of a Communist country.

It was clear that Randle would have to be the driver – Pottle had no licence, and Bourke’s participation in this enterprise was out of the question. Anne was reluctant for her husband to undertake this onerous and risky trip on his own, so she volunteered to join him. By bringing their two young children, aged four and two, they also thought they might attract less suspicion. To all intents and purposes, they would look as if they were on a family Christmas holiday.

Randle spent much of the next three weeks in the garage that ‘Matthew’ owned, working with him on the conversion. It proved much trickier than anticipated. Replacing cupboards with drawers was not a straightforward task, and it soon became clear that everything would have to be stripped out and the interior of the Commer van completely redesigned and rebuilt. ‘We worked intently, almost feverishly, with a radio in the workshop tuned to a pirate station playing non-stop pop music,’ recalled Randle. ‘There was still a sufficient sense of urgency to keep the adrenalin flowing, for we knew that neither George nor the rest of us would be out of danger so along as he remained in the country.’

Back in Willow Buildings, Pottle’s task was almost as tricky; how to keep Britain’s two most wanted men safe and, in particular, how to restrain the restless, volatile Bourke from mischief. Blake, constitutionally self-contained, was content enough with his yoga and a new copy of The Koran, in which he could immerse himself. Bourke, on the other hand, who had for so long been the lead protagonist in
this whole conspiracy and made all the major decisions, now found himself consigned to a minor role. He resented it; also the fact that he was confined to the flat all day. On a couple of occasions, the two fugitives allowed in visitors when Pottle was out – once a man from the TV rental company, and another time the landlord’s workman came to measure up for replacement windows. Pottle was furious.

What he did not know, which would have enraged him further still, was that Bourke was also venturing out on occasional shopping trips, or taking washing to the launderette in Hampstead High Street. The Irishman relished flirting with danger. ‘I had to pass the police station, and I would often pause to read the WANTED notices,’ he recalled. ‘I was constantly passing policemen on the pavement – they didn’t recognise me because they weren’t looking for me.’

By the second week of December, the van had been converted and was ready to go. The secret compartment stretched from behind the two larger drawers – there were three in all – to the underneath of the seat immediately behind the driver’s. A piece of foam rubber had been placed in it to make Blake’s long journey less uncomfortable.

The departure date was fixed, the car ferry tickets bought and the international driving licence and necessary insurance obtained.

Meanwhile, after much soul searching, it had been decided that Bourke would join Blake in the Soviet Union at a later date. The Irishman had wanted to find a way to return home, convinced that once in Ireland the authorities would never extradite him back to Britain. He eventually conceded that it would be wiser if he went missing for a while, allowing the excitement to die down and the trail to run cold. To this end, Randle spent some time in late November forging a passport for him, and an escape route was devised: he would catch the London-Paris train at Victoria at 8.30 p.m. on New Year’s Eve, arriving at the Gare du Nord at 8 a.m. on New Year’s Day. He would then head for Orly airport and board a plane to West Berlin. After spending a night in West Berlin, he would cross over, through Checkpoint Charlie, at 10 a.m. on Monday, 2 January. By then, Blake would have alerted the
Soviets, and there would be a welcoming party ready for him at Soviet headquarters in Karlshorst. Soon afterwards, he would board a plane for Moscow and he and Blake would be reunited.

The plotters gathered at Pat Pottle’s flat at 6.30 p.m. on Saturday, 17 December for a final, valedictory dinner before the Randles and Blake set off for East Germany. Pottle’s by now customary fish pie was on the menu, along with liberal amounts of red wine. Knowing he would be cooped up in the secret compartment for as much as nine hours on end, Blake had deliberately drunk very little that day and restrained himself once more. The mood round the table was one of nervous excitement. Blake proposed a toast to the others: ‘I found it difficult to find words to express my deep gratitude to these brave and exceptional men and women who put their liberty and happiness at risk to help me.’

At 8.15 p.m. they walked out to the van. Blake lowered himself into his coffin-like compartment, taking with him a rubber hot water bottle for when he needed to relieve himself. The flap was closed, the drawer put in place, and the bed folded down and covered with a mattress. Then they were on their way.

The journey progressed smoothly, if more slowly than Randle had anticipated. The Commer van was built for comfort, not speed, and their progress through South London seemed interminable.

They were just ten miles away from Dover when Anne thought she heard a knocking noise coming from the hideout. Hurrying to make the ferry on time, and unable to hear anything himself, Randle drove on. A few miles further on, they both heard clearly a persistent banging, and pulled in to the side of the road. The children, Sean and Gavin, were moved from the bed to the front of the van and wrapped up in a blanket, before the drawer was pulled back to let Blake out. He crawled out of his hideout looking pale and gasping for breath. Stumbling out of the van, he began to retch, before taking in great gulps of fresh air. The gas-like smell of the hot water bottle had made
him feel nauseous, but after a few minutes the colour started to return to his cheeks, and he clambered back into his ‘coffin’ – minus the water bottle.

The Commer van reached the Dover docks around 11.50 p.m., late for check-in. Fortunately, others had been delayed as well and, after a cursory passport check and no Customs search whatsoever, they were allowed onto the ferry. The most perilous part of the escape was successfully completed: Blake was now out of Britain.

For the crossing, the Randles had to sit upstairs in the lounge with all the other passengers. Below, Blake remained in the hold in his hiding place. Once the ferry had docked at Ostend, Michael drove clear of the city before stopping the van by the roadside. Somewhat fearfully, he and Anne then opened the drawer and peered into the compartment. They had not seen or heard Blake for over eight hours and, given what had happened on the way to Dover, their anxiety stretched to fears that he had been suffocated. Randle recalled the moment vividly: ‘“George! Are you OK?” There was a shuffling sound from inside the cavity. “I’m fine,” he whispered back. “A bit stiff, that’s all.” “My God, I am glad to see you!” I said as he got out. “Anne and I were giving you up for dead.”’

It was agreed, for now, that there was no need for him to return to his hideout. Instead he sat on one of the seats at the back, the children in front unperturbed by the arrival of the new passenger in their midst. Blake was no stranger to them – they knew him as ‘Dave’ from previous meetings. Perhaps they thought such funny goings-on were a natural part of any holiday.

At around 8.30 a.m., the Commer van passed through Brussels, but they then missed the road to Aachen. Michael stopped to ask for directions and, much to Anne’s consternation, Blake interrupted in Flemish. Although more relaxed now safely across the English Channel, she saw no reason to take unnecessary risks.

As they neared Aachen, Blake returned once more to his hiding-place. Passing through the checkpoint into West Germany proved easy
– neither the Belgian nor German officials inspected the van, and gave their passports only a cursory glance. They were through, and soon on the autobahn heading north.

This should have been one of the quickest, smoothest stages of their journey, but the rain began to beat down heavily, and to compound matters, the windscreen wipers stopped working. Michael pulled into a garage to see if he could get them repaired but, once again, Blake’s over-eagerness got the better of him, and he insisted on explaining the problem to the mechanics in their own language. It was a Sunday, so there was no way of getting the necessary spares. All the mechanics could do was put back the motor, making it possible to rotate the wipers by hand – a tiring labour which Anne and Blake took in turns.

It stopped raining at around 6 p.m., by which time they were passing Hanover. Michael had by now been driving for twelve hours across unfamiliar terrain in difficult conditions: ‘I was overcome by an overwhelming desire to sleep. I bit my lip and concentrated all my energies on fighting drowsiness, but still the car lights in front seemed to sway and I could feel my eyelids drooping.’ He had been popping ‘uppers’ along the way to help ward off fatigue, and took another couple for the crucial leg of the journey towards Helmstedt, the point where the West met the Communist East.

It was just before 8.30 p.m. when they approached the border. Blake was hidden away for the final time, and the Randles’ two boys were put back to bed. Passing through the West German checkpoint was a mere formality, with no inspection of the van, no rigorous examination of their passports. The scrutiny they encountered at the East German frontier, however, made for a tense experience. The guard there directed Randle into the customs and immigration shed. After handing him application forms to sign for transit visas, he asked him to open up the vehicle – the first time this had happened on the entire journey.

‘The children were in bed at the back, though not asleep as they had
only recently been disturbed when we hid George. The guard glanced round, but didn’t bother lifting the bed to examine the contents of the drawers. He nodded again, and the examination was over.’ Inside, Blake waited in trepidation: ‘I held my breath, but a moment later the doors were slammed to again and I heard Michael climbing into the driving seat. Then we were on our way again.’