Subject: Cryptome, Romeo Spy autobiography
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Katinka eventually came to my room after dinner, and on our second night together she began to give me some guidance on bedroom manners, as though our first night together had been some kind of assessment. Actually, this was precisely what it had been, although I gained the impression, from a couple of remarks she made, that she had seen my performance with Nina. This could only have happened if our trysts had been filmed, and therefore served to confirm my suspicion that the hotel room we had shared in Berlin had been wired for vision as well as sound. My orthodox, repressed approach to sex, which in my youth had consisted of fumbles behind the rugby club, had never extended to oral sex, and my new teacher revealed to me that there should be much more to love-making than jumping on a woman and reaching a climax as quickly as possible. Over the next few days, after I had attended numerous lectures on secret writing, communications and other tradecraft, she took me in hand in my hotel bedroom and gave me a very practical grasp of how to bring a woman to orgasm, and help her experience multiple climaxes. She was so skilful that it took me some time to realize that she was a KGB officer, and was undertaking an assignment to improve my performance, albeit with obvious enthusiasm. She regarded sex as an art, and educated me to understand and appreciate the very physical needs of women. Her subtlety and tact were so considerate that I did not instantly appreciate that no foreigner could entertain a Soviet in his hotel room without the consent, if not the active planning of my KGB friends. Such contacts were strictly forbidden and there were hotel employees on every floor ensure the rules were obeyed. By definition, throughout the Cold War, any visit to a floor reserved to foreign visitors by a local Russian had to have been authorised by the KGB. On our first night together we had enjoyed our lovemaking and Katinka had appeared entirely satisfied with my performance, although in retrospect I now realise I had made very little effort at foreplay, for on our second night she had asked me whether there was a fire in the building. What’s the hurry? Why rush? She started to take control and, while I found this mildly disconcerting, but recalled the doggerel version of the advice given to Prince Albert before he bedded Victoria: ‘Don’t diddle without a fiddle, fiddle before you diddle, and the more you fiddle the better you diddle’. Once I had begun intercourse Katinka again urged me to go slowly and not rush to a climax, and at one point when I had reached a gallop she gave my penis a small pinch which had the effect she desired without losing my erection. Coitus could be extended, she insisted, if I made the mental application and diverted your thoughts briefly. On our third and fourth nights I was performing to Katinka’s exacting standards, on night four bring her to a genuine climax, and thereby learned how to recognise the genuine article, in contrast to the fake variety so often play-acted by women. On the fifth night Prior to my encounter with Katinka my attitude to love-making had been very pedestrian and, as I was to soon acknowledge, completely selfish. I learned that it was really a matter of good manners to ensure that one’s partner should have at least one orgasm before the man gains his. I also came to realise that there are many different ways of bringing a woman to a climax, as they are all quite different, but if one does not have time for lengthy experimentation the solution is to create the right atmosphere, and then exercise one’s skills at cunnilingus. Quite simply, very few women can resist a gentle massage of their clitoris by a man’s tongue. Getting to that stage, however, is also a matter of technique. Under Katinka’s tuition I developed what can only be described as an art of seduction, which at the outset involved mild flirtation, a lot of eye contact and a few gentle hand squeezes. This was then followed by a very casual kiss on any area of open skin. Katinka explained about the sensitivity of women’s arms, so that even a gentle, lingering brush of one’s lips across a forearm, when the opportunity arose, could set the hormones rushing. I had been more used to a rushed fumble behind the bushes and a struggle with a bra strap, but I was made to see that the unthreatening gradual approach was far more stimulating to a woman. It turned out that although hitherto I had not fully appreciated the advantages of Katinka’s strategy, it made sense and was complemented by some of my natural instincts. I had been taught from an early age to get to my feet whenever a lady entered the room, and my instinctive use of drawing-room manners always made a favourable impression, especially in foreign women who tend to notice men holding doors open for them, or inviting ladies to walk through a doorway first. Even my service in the Metropolitan Police had not erased my memory of the good manners required in the officers’ mess, and I was able to play on expectations of how a gentleman should behave. I suppose I had been too busy, embarrassed or inhibited to read the Kama Sutra, Masters & Johnson, or any of the literature on sexual behaviour, but Katinka gave me a wonderful course on the female anatomy and what are now referred to rather clinically as erogenous zones, starting with the ears, neck and then the rest of the body. Under her guidance I learned that there was indeed such a phenomenon as a nipple orgasm, and that many women can be brought to experience a special kind of climax simply by gentle manipulation and sucking of an erect nipple. Of course, this does not occur in all women, and I had noticed, for example, that African women had very little feeling in their nipples. On the other hand, others can only reach a climax with the help of continuous, sometimes not so gentle nipple-pinching, as I was to discover within a year when I was in South Africa, hitting on a thirty-something American librarian in a cultural centre sponsored by the Agency for International Development. She had demanded some rough treatment to her nipples and had turned up at my hotel the following day, with quite bruised nipples, to have them massaged and caressed back to their usual sensitivity. This had not been my idea of giving, or receiving pleasure or sexual gratification, but I made the sacrifice. Everything I had been told by my truly gifted instructor turned out to be true, including the more esoteric information that at the time I rather thought she had made up. All the breast is hyper-sensitive to touch, and women love a gradual, zig-zag manoeuvre before the tongue finally finds its objective. Combined with a whispered admiration for her breast, this tactic eliminates any apprehension and creates confidence. One way to prevent a woman from achieving an orgasm is to undermine her confidence as the process is as much mental as it is physical. Women spend a long time wondering about their own breasts, and comparing them to those of their friends, so a few murmured words of admiration go a long way. I soon came to believe that with a little encouragement most women are very keen to show off their bodies and play to an appreciative audience. My sole task, at the initial stage, as Katinka explained, was to instil that confidence in my partner and gain their trust. All women have different special erogenous zones, and in the right circumstances they are usually willing to confide what really turns them on, although shyness and social inhibitions often prevent this vital information from being communicated. These are her secret points, usually only discussed in women’s magazines, but often imparted to Muslim men, especially in Pakistan, at an early age. On the issue of oral sex, I was a complete novice, and truthfully I really had not had any experience of going down on a woman. According to Katinka, this was the really crucial dimension to love-making. Also, much the same tactics were required as before. The slow, diversionary kisses of the tummy and inner thighs, gradually licking and kissing one’s way up to one partner’s knickers. More tantalising and teasing should follow before finally, almost imperceptibly, pulling the gusset aside and letting one’s tongue caress the rim of the labia, scarcely touching it, while simultaneously working at a nipple with one’s thumb and forefinger. The really delicate part of my training concerned the manipulation of the clitoris, that mysterious part of the female anatomy about which I had been completely ignorant until Katinka’s expert tuition. It may be that some women have a ‘G-spot’ in the wall of their vagina, but there is no guarantee that ordinary intercourse will either stimulate it or even have any impact on it at all. However, there can be no doubting the powerful effect of a tongue flickering over and around the clitoris. Just a few moments of this treatment will cause the lips of the labia swell, and this is a good moment to probe the vagina itself, either with a finger or a tongue. Within a minute the attention should return to the now extremely sensitive area around the clitoris, and a rhythmic circular motion of the tongue will start the little tremors or vibrations that suggest a climax is close. The final push over the end can be achieved either by a very gentle introduction of a tooth, or the tongue just faintly touching the tip of the now extended clit. A clitoral orgasm brought on by gentle cunnilingus has an effect that lasts for several seconds and doubtless there is an elaborate medical explanation for the physiological changes that occur as the tension and pheronomes are released, but some moments of quiet, with some kissing to the breast and neck will have a definite psychological effect, and the whole experience will change the nature of the relationship. After the first couple of orgasms more experimentation will establish particular preferences, and some women adore their entire external genitalia to be taken into a man’s mouth and gently manipulated. Others prefer a gentle bite as the climax approaches, but everyone has their own favourite, and the secret is to induce a state of ecstasy where usual inhibitions are abandoned. I learned that many women never experience an orgasm from a man, but those that do can develop a physical, as well as a mental dependence on their partner, which is the moment when the Romeo spy can make his needs known. The climax itself is, for a woman, a moment of great significance because something is happening within almost ever fibre of the body over which they have almost no control. She has reached an erotic state where she is on the point of giving up her entire self, ready for takeover. You, the man, is the person supervising this phenomenon, and thus the man acquires considerable influence, if not mental power. The man has taken a position of importance in his partner’s emotional life, and having delivered her to a place of complete satisfaction, she is very likely to want to repeat the experience, and it was to be my task to exploit their minds too. Under Katinka’s gentle tutelage I felt as though I had been transformed into a 200mph sports car, cruising in a 30mph limit, and I was anxious to put my training to the test. When I returned to Moscow after a visit to Leningrad I encountered a second teacher, a olive-skinned, black-eyed oriental beauty from Kazakhstan in Soviet central Asia with body curves that would have inspired Rodin. We met casually, and in retrospect I suspect she was probably a professional because she took a cool, detached businesslike approach to our relationship and taught me some interesting new techniques, including one using hot wax, which I never found an opportunity to use in the field, and another using ice cubes. A veritable encyclopaedia of sex, she had explained about the necessity od mastering the urgencies of one’s own body and how to apply heat and cold to the sex organs. First of all she dampened my ardour by preparing a kind of ice poultice, of crushed ice wrapped in a towel, and doused me with it, then using her mouth and tongue over the area that had been so cold. The difference in temperature proved astonishingly exciting, especially when she repeated the exercise, and I did the same to her. Taking really sensitive parts of the body from below freezing to 98.4 degrees has tremendous erotic potential, and is entirely risk free. She also showed me how to apply ice to her nipples, then moving my lips to them, causing them to spring up stiff and instantly erect. Forever afterwards, whenever a woman has asked a waiter for more ice, I have had to suppress my amusement, but have occasionally allowed my giggles to be an opportunity to explain my mirth and indulge in a little flirtation. Her other pleasure, in anal sex, she claimed was shared by fifty percent of women, and at her insistence I obliged her frequently, although I was hesitant to do so, accepting that this was another sacrifice I would have to make to please the KGB. My Kazakhstani teacher also introduced me to bondage, telling me that many women, herself included, gained huge pleasure from being restrained, either lightly with their hands tied loosely, or manacled with chains as though they had been enslaved. I was never particularly enthralled with this fetish, but I took the view that if the KGB wanted to send me across the world at their expense, the lady being bedded was entitled to whatever she wanted, and it was my responsibility to satisfy her needs. It was essential, my tutor explained, that the ties or rope around a woman’s wrists must always be sufficiently loose to allow her to slip of them should she feel the need to do so. She also revealed that many women will already have scarves or restraining devices handy, and in the middle of love-making may call out ‘top drawer’, to indicate where they are kept. In such circumstances I should express no surprise, but take it all in my stride. Her final piece of advice was to avoid being tied up myself in case ‘Yankee bandits’ burst through the door when I was bound to the bedposts! I only lasted a couple of weeks with my new teacher, by which time she had judged me proficient. Either that, or I was enjoying my work too much! The final test had been an earth-shattering, simultaneous clitoral and vaginal orgasm which had engulfed my teacher. “Fascinating” I had remarked, feigning detachment. “Thank you, darlink” she had replied. Goodness knows where she had learned her trade but Miss Kazakhstan certainly knew how to put it to good use and even inducted me into masochism and the joys of hot candle wax, inflicting just enough pain to heighten one’s pleasure, but leaving no permanent skin damage. I never had to use this technique on my targets, and on the couple of occasions I lit a candle thinking a woman might like it, I found she would go all gooey and romantic instead! During the day I was given training by a KGB retiree, introduced to me as ARTHUR, whom I met in a safe-house near the KGB headquarters at Yasenevo. He told me that he had operated in the United States, and when he mentioned he had been arrested and exchanged in a spy-swap, I thought perhaps he might have been the legendary Rudolf Abel, but in fact he had died in 1971, so his precise identity remains a mystery to me. Whoever he was, he looked a little like my grandfather, albeit without his broken nose, being short and bald. He spoke perfect English with a slight American accent and I recall that he said he came from the city that had been the capital of Russia before Ivan the Terrible. I recall that he put particular emphasis on the use of hats, claiming that witnesses always remember a trilby or a straw hat, rather than the person wearing it. He was enthusiastic about disguises, advocating the use of false beards and moustaches, and the application of skin darkeners. He also recommended wearing glasses and scarves which could be discarded on a train so one’s appearance is completely altered by the time one alights, and gave other tips on how to elude clandestine surveillance. Such counter-surveillance measures are all tricks of the trade, and ARTHUR knew them all. The use of aliases and cover names, even among members of the same organisation, while odd to the outsider, is standard practice within almost all intelligence communities, and is intended to protect the professionals when they undertake assignments abroad. Similarly, their reports will be sourced to a codename, almost certainly unknown to the person involved, and this measure is also designed to avoid compromising the individual concerned. Accordingly, it took me some time to learn that ‘Nick’s’ real first-name was Viktor, and that I appeared in the KGB’s files as SCOT. Such matters are entirely routine for insiders, but I only grasped the implications after weeks of indoctrination and training. As well as training me to satisfy women, I underwent an intensive course on surveillance and counter-surveillance techniques, and we practised in the streets of Moscow but, whenever I was sure I had shaken off my tail, someone unexpectedly touched my shoulder to show they still had me in sight. I never saw more than half a dozen of my opponents, but the KGB must have deployed far more. At that stage, of course, I had never heard the expressions ‘Romeo spy’ or ‘Red Casanova’, and it would be some years before such tabloid terms came into my vocabulary, but it was not long before I realised that this was what the KGB had in mind for me. Despite my complete naiveté regarding women, I had always known that I was considered physically attractive by the opposite sex. This state of affairs had dated back to my childhood when a neighbour, Mary Potts, had stalked me on my way home from school, and she had become such a nuisance that I had altered my route to avoid going past her house, a precaution that was made all the more difficult because she only lived two doors away, and seemed to be permanently on the look-out for me. Stalking is the modern term, but it is entirely appropriate to what I experienced, albeit on a non-threatening level. My first practical test was set by the Second Chief Directorate, having been lent to them by the FCD, which I found to be very generous employers, always flush with roubles. The difference between the two branches of the organisation was considerable, with my colleagues in the FCD being an elite, behaving like gentlemen, and reminding me of my days as an army officer. In contrast, the Second Chief Directorate was run by men very reminiscent of some of the thugs I had encountered in the Yard’s specialist squads. I soon learned that many of them wanted to join the FCD and took correspondence language courses to improve their chances of switching over to the KGB’s most prestigious branch, foreign intelligence. Like the FCD, the Second Chief Directorate was sub-divided into geographical branches, with its Second Department covering Britain, Canada and Australasia. The First Department, of course, was aimed against ‘the Main Adversary’, the CIA. The division of responsibilities meant that targets such as John Vassall, compromised by SCD personnel in Moscow, were handled upon their return home by FCD case officers attached to the local rezidentura, so it was quite a novelty for SCD officers to travel abroad. Usually when they did so it was in connection with a recruitment made in Moscow, or perhaps on temporary duty to provide security for a delegation overseas. It was on just such an assignment to Geneva in February 1964 that Yuri Nosenko had defected to the CIA and revealed the scale of the SCD’s technical operations against foreign diplomatic missions in Moscow. On that occasion, guided by Nosenko’s detailed information, US State Department ‘sweepers’ had found and removed more than sixty listening devices installed in the fabric of the US Embassy. Nosenko had previously approached the CIA in Geneva in June 1962, when his lurid tales of homosexual entrapment in Moscow had convinced his debriefers of his authenticity, and led them to pass on to MI5 a tip about a British victim of the Second Department of the SCD who had been blackmailed into espionage, and was quickly identified as John Vassall. It was only after I had agreed to help the SCD that I learned from my new handler, who looked like the boxer Jack Dempsey, of their interest in the British embassy and its staff. Hitherto I had regarded the KGB as a gigantic monolith, and had paid no attention to its various sub-divisions, but I quickly learned that the SCD ruled Moscow and took a close interest in all the foreign embassies in the capital. They appeared to have almost unlimited resources to devote to surveillance, licensed the hookers who trawled the hotels in search of foreign clients, and even provided the locally-employed staff who could be found in almost every diplomatic mission. Every businessman, tourist, diplomat and foreign student came under the SCD’s scrutiny, and many were selected for special attention by the KGB’s expert watchers of the Seventh Directorate. The objective was to identify the professional intelligence officers engaged in hostile operations, break the commercial or diplomatic covers of case officers seeking to communicate with their spies in the capital, and run offensive operations against potentially profitable targets. These activities ranged from the casual ‘dangle’ where a Soviet approached a candidate and offered to supply tempting information, to the elaborate honey traps, using ‘swallows’ or ‘ravens’ to blackmail the unwary. In the not so recent past I was aware of the case of Commander Anthony Courtney, a Tory MP who had been filmed in action, through a two-way mirror in his room in the Ukrainia, with a local beauty, Zinaida Volkova, his Intourist guide, and then threatened with exposure if he failed to cooperate, and the wretched John Vassall who had fallen for a handsome young skier and caught on camera in flagrante delicto. Whereas Courtney had resisted the rather crude attempt to coerce him, but had lost his wife and his Harrow East Parliamentary constituency as a result when some compromising photos were circulated in London, Vassall had succumbed to the KGB’s pressure and had agreed to pass his contacts secret documents from the British embassy where he worked as the naval attaché’s clerk. Indeed, Vassall had proved an excellent investment for the FCD because he had continued to spy undetected for the next seven years until his arrest in September 1962. The SCD’s methodology was to survey the embassy, spot the SIS station commander posing as a diplomat, look for a security man from MI5, and then watch the rest of the staff for any opportunities. To assist in achieving its objectives the SCD tapped all the phone lines, monitored any wireless traffic, placed bugs in all the walls, floors and furniture, and ensured that only its own UPDK personnel were allowed to work as cleaners, maids, guides, drivers, interpreters, telephonists and administrative staff. Although supposedly a semi-independent state agency, the UPDK was a monopoly wholly controlled by the SCD which selected and vetted its personnel and chose who would work where. According to one of the rumours I heard, the SCD even ran its own sex training school at Verkhonoye, near Kazan, for its agents. For many years the SCD had been headed by the notorious General Oleg Gribanov whose successes included blackmailing the long-serving French ambassador, Maurice Dejean, who had been seduced by a KGB ‘swallow’, and his air attaché, Colonel Louis Guibaud. Stories had circulated in Moscow about a French diplomat who had been so delighted by the blackmail photos pictures by the KGB’s hidden cameraman that allegedly he had asked for extra copies, but in reality Dejean had succumbed to the coercion, whereas Guibaud eventually had committed suicide. It had been the defection in London of a KGB co-optee, the playwright Yuti Krotkov, in September 1963, that had alerted the west to the fact that Vassall’s experience had not been an isolated incident. He had played a part in the Dejean affair, introducing the ambassador to his seductress, and according to him, even Dejean’s beautiful wife had been the victim of a separate attempt to seduce her. Thus the French embassy had been the focus of the SCD’s malign attention and, under the new management of General Grigori F. Grigorenko, the British were about to get more of the same treatment. |