waited, watching the crowd. Eventually a small, well-dressed man emerged from the welter of refugees, walked up to the bar and spoke to the server in good Portuguese, tinged with a Spanish accent: “Tea with lemon, no sugar, please.” Risso-Gill studied the man, then sidled up to him. “The view is much better at the table by the steps leading down to the beach,” he said casually. The man looked over. The code words were the ones agreed to for the rendezvous. Juan Pujol smiled and the two men walked to the table, and there Pujol handed over the bottles of secret ink and began to tell his story. He was in the Allies’ hands at last.
Just over two months later, after wrapping up his affairs, Pujol was smuggled out of Lisbon on a British merchant ship headed for Gibraltar, without any luggage, leaving Araceli and little Juan behind, to be brought over later. Risso-Gill personally walked him up the gangway, escorted him past the Portuguese national police guarding the ship and showed him to his room. “My legs were shaking,”Pujol recalled, as Risso-Gill whispered in his ear that there was no need to worry, it was a short journey. The captain had been alerted to their unusual passenger, and given instructions on whom to hand him over to once they arrived. Two men met Pujol at the Gibraltar dock, passed him “a wad of sterling notes”and told him to buy some clothes; prices on the Rock were one-third of those in England. After two days on the island, he flew to Plymouth on a powerful Sunderland seaplane.
As the Sunderland descended toward the black strip of runway, Pujol had a flash of foreboding: “I was suddenly acutely awarethat I was away from home and about to enter an alien land. Would the English be friendly toward me? Would they believe my story . . . ? Would they understand my motives for all that I had done and honestly believe that I wished to work for the good of mankind?” As he walked down the plane’s gangway, Pujol felt the first bite of English frost. “Terrible cold,” he remembered. “Cold outside and icy fear inside.”
Only days after that, he was upstairs in a room at 35 Crespigny Road being debriefed and meeting his future case officer, Tommy Harris, for the first time. It had required a long and often tortured apprenticeship, but the career of the most important Allied spy of World War II was about to begin in earnest. “It seemed a miraclethat he’d survived so long,” Harris would later write. “It was crazy,”Pujol agreed. “I had no idea what I was doing.”
II. Garbo’s Rise
7. A Fresh Riot of Ideas
P UJOL HAD FOOLED the Germans, but an even more rigorous test awaited him: getting past MI5.
On the morning of May 1, 1942,Desmond Bristow stood outside the front door of the small Victorian house at 35 Crespigny Road and blew a breath into the crisp London air. The place was an ordinary-looking two-story detached home, rented from a Jewish officer in the British Armed Forces. Upstairs, Pujol was sitting in a room furnished with four simple chairs and a table, a guard outside the door. For the past three days he’d been telling Bristow the story of his life. Soon the M16 officer would have to tell his superiors whether he believed it or not.
For Bristow, there were two possibilities: either this charming man was telling the truth, or he was a German triple agent trying to infiltrate the Allied war machine and destroy it from the inside.
The British agent glanced up and down the street, looking for Tommy Harris, the brilliant half-Jewish MI5 operative who would help Bristow conduct the next round of interrogation. Nothing.
Bristow had been sent in soon after Pujol’s arrival, and for hour after hour he’d been asking the Spaniard to repeat key parts of his story; he’d backtracked, intentionally mixed up names and dates and tried to confuse the almost handsome and very personable young man. Analysts in London had studied Pujol’s intercepted messages line by line
Just over two months later, after wrapping up his affairs, Pujol was smuggled out of Lisbon on a British merchant ship headed for Gibraltar, without any luggage, leaving Araceli and little Juan behind, to be brought over later. Risso-Gill personally walked him up the gangway, escorted him past the Portuguese national police guarding the ship and showed him to his room. “My legs were shaking,”Pujol recalled, as Risso-Gill whispered in his ear that there was no need to worry, it was a short journey. The captain had been alerted to their unusual passenger, and given instructions on whom to hand him over to once they arrived. Two men met Pujol at the Gibraltar dock, passed him “a wad of sterling notes”and told him to buy some clothes; prices on the Rock were one-third of those in England. After two days on the island, he flew to Plymouth on a powerful Sunderland seaplane.
As the Sunderland descended toward the black strip of runway, Pujol had a flash of foreboding: “I was suddenly acutely awarethat I was away from home and about to enter an alien land. Would the English be friendly toward me? Would they believe my story . . . ? Would they understand my motives for all that I had done and honestly believe that I wished to work for the good of mankind?” As he walked down the plane’s gangway, Pujol felt the first bite of English frost. “Terrible cold,” he remembered. “Cold outside and icy fear inside.”
Only days after that, he was upstairs in a room at 35 Crespigny Road being debriefed and meeting his future case officer, Tommy Harris, for the first time. It had required a long and often tortured apprenticeship, but the career of the most important Allied spy of World War II was about to begin in earnest. “It seemed a miraclethat he’d survived so long,” Harris would later write. “It was crazy,”Pujol agreed. “I had no idea what I was doing.”
II. Garbo’s Rise
7. A Fresh Riot of Ideas
P UJOL HAD FOOLED the Germans, but an even more rigorous test awaited him: getting past MI5.
On the morning of May 1, 1942,Desmond Bristow stood outside the front door of the small Victorian house at 35 Crespigny Road and blew a breath into the crisp London air. The place was an ordinary-looking two-story detached home, rented from a Jewish officer in the British Armed Forces. Upstairs, Pujol was sitting in a room furnished with four simple chairs and a table, a guard outside the door. For the past three days he’d been telling Bristow the story of his life. Soon the M16 officer would have to tell his superiors whether he believed it or not.
For Bristow, there were two possibilities: either this charming man was telling the truth, or he was a German triple agent trying to infiltrate the Allied war machine and destroy it from the inside.
The British agent glanced up and down the street, looking for Tommy Harris, the brilliant half-Jewish MI5 operative who would help Bristow conduct the next round of interrogation. Nothing.
Bristow had been sent in soon after Pujol’s arrival, and for hour after hour he’d been asking the Spaniard to repeat key parts of his story; he’d backtracked, intentionally mixed up names and dates and tried to confuse the almost handsome and very personable young man. Analysts in London had studied Pujol’s intercepted messages line by line
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