# The Spy

Arthur Tabolti

How did a young Ossetian boy from a poor village rise to become a lieutenant colonel in the Red Army? And later – a world–renowned British scientist?

The story of Grigory Tokayev, or Grigori Tokati, is shrouded in mystery. During his service for the Soviet Union, Grigory was tasked with locating plans and blueprints for long–range rockets in the war–ravaged ruins of Berlin after the Second World War.

Pressure from superiors, dead–end clues, personal moral principles, and the burden of family responsibility – all of these forces pushed the promising scientist towards difficult life choices.

To this day, the memoirs of Grigori Tokati remain classified, and no one has a definitive answer to the central question of his story: in the interest of which country did this remarkable man truly work?

The novel The Spy unveils the chronological events of those times, allowing each reader to draw their own conclusions.

> Dedicated to the loving memory of my mother,

> Aza Sabanti.

> «No one has ever managed to evade the choice that history places before them.»

> Arthur Tabolti, The Spy

Copyright © 2025 by Arthur Tabolti

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

First Edition: June 2025

Cover Design by Catherine Zolotareva

## THE DEFECTOR. In lieu of a preface

On November 3, 1947 a heavy Lancaster bomber touched down at a Royal Air Force base just outside London, having arrived from Berlin. Inside the aircraft were three passengers: a civilian man in his mid-thirties—tall, sharp-featured, wearing a gabardine mackintosh and a double-breasted suit; an attractive woman of similar age, fashionably dressed; and a girl of about eight. They were escorted by a security detail of five soldiers led by a junior officer.

The plane had been expected. As soon as it taxied to a halt and its engines fell silent, a long black limousine with curtained windows rolled up to the boarding steps. The guards handed over the passengers to three plainclothes men, who ushered them into the car. Then, with a jeep full of submachine-gun-toting escorts leading the way, the limousine pulled through the gates and vanished toward London.

That same evening, the telephone rang in a house on Kingston Road. The owner picked up.

“Hopkins speaking.”

The caller was Colonel Anthony Browne, one of MI5 Director General Sir Percy Sillitoe’s deputies and the newly appointed head of the Service’s Russian Section. A veteran of the clandestine world, Browne was in his sixties—he had joined the Secret Intelligence Service back when its entire staff numbered just thirty officers. By 1947, that figure had swelled to nearly eight hundred, with MI5 handling counterintelligence while MI6 ran foreign operations.

Browne’s call to Major Hopkins was unusual. They rarely spoke directly—orders usually came through the Russian Section’s operational chain.

“I need you, George,” Browne said, his voice slightly rasping. “Urgent matter. Get dressed and come outside. A car’s waiting. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Emergency summons had been routine during the war. Now, they were rare. Hopkins knew something was happening—but questions were for later. One didn’t discuss business on the telephone.

He grabbed his hat and trench coat, snatched up an umbrella, and stepped outside. The car was already there. A dark-blue Austin Seven from MI5’s motor pool—the ubiquitous Seven of the era—its polished body glistening under the misty glow of streetlamps. The driver wordlessly opened the rear door, slid behind the wheel, and started the engine without a sound.

This part of London still bore the scars of Hitler’s V-2 rockets. Some buildings had been repaired; others remained as jagged silhouettes against the night, their ruins gaping like missing teeth in the city’s skyline. Hopkins assumed they were headed for Blenheim Palace—the sprawling estate twelve miles north of Oxford where MI5 had relocated in 1940. But instead of turning north, the car swung south, tires hissing over the wet pavement as it crossed Westminster Bridge. The streets beyond were empty, watchful. Then London fell away, and they were swallowed by the blackness of the countryside, where only rain-slick heather lined the road.

“Where are we going?” Hopkins asked.

“Where we need to be, sir,” the driver replied politely, though with a tone that discouraged further inquiry. “Forty minutes.”

So Hopkins waited, staring out at the unspooling ribbon of deserted highway.

George Hopkins was thirty. Before the war, he had graduated from Trinity College, Cambridge, with a degree in Slavic studies. Even as a boy, he’d had a gift for languages—German, fluent French—but Russian had always been his passion. He dreamed of translating the enigmatic prose of Dostoevsky and Chekhov, whose existing English versions struck him as lifeless, missing the haunting depth of the originals.

Now, it seemed, his skills were about to be put to more immediate use.

But the career of a translator was not to be. The war came, and George was conscripted into the Admiralty department handling Lend-Lease negotiations with the Russian allies. Twice, he escorted convoys to Arkhangelsk. The last one ended badly—the ships were ambushed by German fighters and bombers, three freighters loaded with Studebakers sent to the bottom. During the attack, George took over a dead gunner’s position on an anti-aircraft mount. His frantic shooting did little damage to the enemy, but when shrapnel tore through his shoulder, he kept firing until the raid ended. Command noted his nerve. They awarded him the Military Medal. In the hospital, a man in an unmarked uniform visited him. Asked questions. Offered him a job in counterintelligence.

“What does the job entail?” George asked.

“Hunting German spies. We need men like you. Your languages won’t go to waste.”

“Can I think about it?”

The man smirked. “Will three minutes be enough?”

Three minutes later, George said:

“I’m in.”

After a crash course, he was commissioned as a lieutenant and assigned to MI5’s operational branch.

During the war, catching German agents had been the sole priority. By 1945, seized Abwehr files revealed that 115 Nazi spies had operated on British soil. All were caught. Only one escaped arrest—by swallowing cyanide. Some were turned, feeding Berlin carefully crafted disinformation from MI5’s desks.

Then Churchill spoke at Fulton on March 5, 1946 at Westminster College. A week later, Stalin told Pravda that Churchill was no better than Hitler—a warmonger pushing the West into conflict with the USSR. The Allies became adversaries. The Cold War began.

For MI5, the game had changed entirely. Germany’s spies had always struggled in Britain. The British distrusted Germans on principle. But the Russians? That was different. Memories of the Eastern Front still lingered—the shared sacrifice, the hard-won victory. The Communist Party operated openly, boasting fifty thousand members. Socialist ideals seduced academics, artists, even some in Whitehall. Perfect soil for Soviet recruitment.

MI5 reorganized. A new Russian Section was formed, staffed by the sharpest minds in the service. All other departments answered to it now. And among its officers was Major George Hopkins.

The car turned off the highway onto a country lane and, after some time, came to a halt before wrought iron gates.

“Here we are, sir,” the driver announced.

There was a two-storey manor at the end of a long drive, its entrance flanked by columns, the upper windows wide and generous, the lower ones barred with iron grilles. George knew the place well. Early in the war, it had been acquired—either leased or bought under a front—by MI5’s administrative branch. Here, sabotage teams had trained before being dropped behind German lines: radio operations, explosives, weapons drills under the watch of hardened instructors. Behind the house, screened by a dense stand of oaks and maples, lay a small sports ground and a firing range. George himself had spent months here overseeing the diversionists’ preparation.

Two armed guards meticulously checked their papers before swinging the gates open. The Austin crunched up the drive—its surface strewn with crushed red brick—and stopped at the manor’s entrance. Already parked was the hulking black Daimler belonging to Anthony Browne. Browne himself sat in an armchair on the first-floor drawing room, smoking a pipe and reading The Times, grey morning coat and black bow tie giving him the air of a retired gentleman at his club rather than a seasoned counterintelligence officer. “And what do I look like?” Hopkins caught himself wondering. A junior bank clerk, most likely.

Browne set aside the paper and nodded amiably.

“Come in, George, do take off your coat. Apologies for ruining your evening. You’re doubtless wondering what prompted this.”

“Intensely, sir,” Hopkins admitted.

“You’ll see directly. Come along—there’s something to show you.”

Browne tapped his pipe out into a crystal ashtray, tucked it into his coat pocket, heaved himself up, and led the way out. No guards were visible, but Hopkins knew they were there—one, sometimes two, on every floor.

Descending to the basement, Browne unlocked an iron-bound door. Beyond lay a small room with a low ceiling and a narrow, floor-to-ceiling window overlooking a larger, brightly lit chamber some meters below. This secondary room contained a long central table and four metal chairs bolted to the floor. George knew the setup: the lower room for interrogations, the upper for observation. Sound carried via hidden microphones; the glass was polarised, allowing the watcher to see everything while remaining unseen himself.

Pacing the interrogation room was a tall, powerfully built man—youngish, with black hair cut in that curious Russian military fashion, short at the sides and long on top. His face was dark with stubble, his well-cut black suit (shoulder pads fashionably prominent) sitting awkwardly on him, as civilian clothes often do on career soldiers. He smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, crimping the filter between his fingers. On the table lay a homemade cartridge-case lighter and a packet of papirosy bearing the image of a horseman against a mountain backdrop. The ashtray overflowed. But what struck George most: the man wore mismatched shoes—both black, similar, but unmistakably not a pair.

“Well, George?” Browne murmured.

“Who is he?”

“Our defector. Russian officer—Lieutenant Colonel Tokayev.”

“Not Slavic features.”

“No, Ossetian. Small republic in southern Russia. But that’s not what matters. Since ‘45, he’s been secretary to the Allied Control Council in Germany—Zhukov’s lot. Later transferred to the Military Secretariat, hunting von Braun’s rocket scientists. Recently approached our man in Berlin, asked for asylum. I approved. Brought him in today—him, his wife, and daughter. Had to scramble the RAF for extraction. Never thought I’d see the day a Lancaster flew such cargo.”

“How did he manage to evade surveillance?” Hopkins asked, surprised. “And with his family, no less! They must have been under close watch.”

“That’s precisely what we need to determine.”

“Where are his wife and daughter now?”

“Somewhere secure.”

“Do you want me to interrogate him?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I want. He doesn’t speak English. You’ll be spending quite some time with this man—days, months maybe. He knows a great deal. Do you understand the most critical question we need answered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then get to it.”

Hopkins descended the iron staircase into the basement. A guard armed with a STEN submachine gun opened the heavy door. At Hopkins’ entrance, the defector stopped pacing and glowered up at him from under his brow.

“Sit down, Mr. Tokayev,” Hopkins said amiably. “Let’s get acquainted. My name is George Hopkins. I work in counterintelligence. Call me George. I understand you don’t speak English, so we’ll converse in Russian. What should I call you?”

“Grigori. Where is my family? Where have they been taken?”

“Don’t worry, they’re safe. Your wife and daughter are quite comfortable.” Hopkins leaned forward slightly. “Indulge my curiosity, Grigori. I couldn’t help but notice you’re wearing mismatched shoes. Why is that?”

“Have you ever had to pack in a hurry?” Tokayev countered. “When even a minute’s delay could be fatal?”

“No.”

“I have.”

“Under what circumstances?”

“You’re asking the wrong questions first, George.” Tokayev exhaled smoke. “There’s only one thing you really want to know.”

“And what’s that?”

“Whether my defection is a Soviet intelligence operation to infiltrate me into Britain. Am I right?”

“You are. How do you answer that question?”

“If I say ‘no,’ you won’t believe me.”

“I won’t,” Hopkins agreed.

“You won’t believe anything I say.”

“That’s the nature of our job.”

“Then you’ll have to find the answer yourself.”

For the next fifty-six years—until Lieutenant Colonel Grigori Tokayev’s death—British counterintelligence officer George Hopkins would never definitively answer that most critical of questions.

## 1

On April 25, 1945, six armies of the First Belorussian Front and three armies of the First Ukrainian Front launched their assault on Berlin. In the early hours of May 1, the assault flag of the 150th Idritsa Rifle Division (Order of Kutuzov, 2nd Class) was raised over the Reichstag. At 22:43 Central European Time on 8 May, the German Instrument of Surrender was signed in Berlin’s Karlshorst district. The signatories were Field Marshal Keitel, Chief of the Supreme Command of the Wehrmacht; Colonel-General Stumpff of the Luftwaffe; and Admiral von Friedeburg for the Kriegsmarine. The unconditional surrender of Germany was accepted by Marshal Zhukov and British Marshal Tedder, Deputy Supreme Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force. As witnesses, American General Spaatz and French General de Lattre de Tassigny added their signatures.

The Third Reich ceased to exist. Germany was carved into four occupation zones: the Americans took the southwest, the British the northwest, the Soviets the east. France, at the expense of Anglo-American territory, received a small zone of its own. All of Berlin, however, had fallen to the Red Army—a situation unacceptable to the Allies. During the Potsdam Conference in August 1945, British Foreign Secretary Bevin and Soviet Foreign Minister Molotov struck a deal: Allied forces would withdraw from Thuringia, and in exchange, the USSR would cede the western sectors of Berlin. When Stalin was briefed on the terms, he reacted with sharp displeasure. But Molotov persuaded him, arguing the necessity of compromise on what had become one of Potsdam’s most contentious issues—German reparations.

At the Yalta Conference in February 1945, an agreement had been reached: Germany would pay reparations totaling twenty billion U.S. dollars, half of which would go to the Soviet Union. But by Potsdam, the Western delegations had backtracked, arguing that the sum was excessive—Germany had lost vast territories, and its industry lay in ruins. After tense negotiations, U.S. Secretary of State Byrnes’ proposal was adopted: no fixed reparations total; each power would extract goods from its own occupation zone, with the USSR receiving an additional 25% of dismantled industrial equipment from the Western zones. Yet the debate didn’t end there. Stalin abruptly announced that the USSR would renounce claims to German gold and foreign investments, limiting its reparations solely to its own zone. The Allies accepted—puzzled but relieved. They didn’t know that uncontrolled shipments of German machinery and materials to the USSR were already underway. By late 1945, a strict quota had been imposed: 3.6 million tons of rail cargo and 1.2 million tons by sea.

The annexation of Thuringia to the Soviet zone accelerated this plunder. Berlin’s factories had already been stripped bare; Thuringia’s industrial base was a windfall. Of particular interest were the Ore Mountains, where Soviet geologists suspected uranium deposits—critical for Stalin’s atomic program. These considerations proved decisive.

Thus, when Major Grigori Tokayev of the Engineering Corps arrived for duty in the Soviet Military Administration in Germany in autumn 1945, Berlin had already been quartered. The American sector held Neukölln, Kreuzberg, Tempelhof, Schöneberg, Steglitz, and Zehlendorf; the British took Charlottenburg, Spandau, Tiergarten, and Wilmersdorf; the French, Wedding and Reinickendorf. The Soviet zone, the largest, encompassed Pankow, Weißensee, Prenzlauer Berg, Mitte, Friedrichshain, Lichtenberg, Köpenick, and Treptow.

The Berlin that greeted Tokayev was a vision of hell. The city lay eviscerated—buildings gutted, their innards exposed like anatomical models. The Reichstag’s skeletal dome framed the low-hanging clouds. Survivors crawled from cellars to scavenge the ruins, prying charred timbers from rubble to fuel cookfires.

“I’d seen devastation before,” Tokayev later told Major George Hopkins during interrogation. “Bombed-out blocks in Moscow, the shattered ruins of Kyiv’s Khreshchatyk. But Berlin… For days afterward, I couldn’t sleep. I felt suffocated, as though walking through a graveyard. I knew war was terrible. But there, I understood it was something else—something diabolical. I swore then to do anything in my power to prevent it from ever happening again.”

“He seemed sincere,” Hopkins noted in the margin of the transcript.

## 2

Gogki Tokaty Akhmaty fyrt was born in 1913 on the southern fringes of the Russian Empire, in the impoverished Ossetian village Novourukhskoye, Vladikavkaz District, Terek Oblast. His father died in 1917, and by 1920, the family had been resettled to new lands in northwestern Ossetia, near the Kabardino-Balkarian border. It was there, in the village of Stavd-Dort, that he spent his childhood. Young Gogki never set foot in a schoolhouse. From the time he could walk, he worked—herding goats, gathering firewood and dung for fuel. As he grew older, he labored alongside adults in the cornfields. There was no time for formal education, but his innate curiosity burned bright: he taught himself to read and write, devouring anything printed—books, newspapers, even pre-revolutionary magazines.

Like all his peers, he came of age under Soviet rule. The promise of a radiant future, one that would replace their hardscrabble existence, resonated deeply with him. He joined the Komsomol early and became a member of the All-Union Communist Party (Bolsheviks) in 1928. By then, he’d already mastered the Fordson—one of the first tractors in the North Caucasus, and the only one in the region—learning to repair it himself. His sharp mind and imposing stature caught the attention of local officials, who secured him a spot at the workers’ faculty (rabfak) of the Leningrad Mining Institute in 1928. He excelled, particularly in mathematics, earning a transfer to Moscow’s prestigious Bauman Higher Technical School. After graduation, he enlisted in the Red Army and was assigned to the Zhukovsky Air Force Academy. Within a year, he was leading one of the academy’s laboratories. By 1941, he had passed PhD defence and become dean of the aeronautical engineering faculty.

Yet he never returned home. The Ossetia of his memories—its mountains, forests, and icy rivers—remained etched in his mind. In 1989, at 76, the now-renowned Professor Tokaty was nominated for a British knighthood in recognition of his scientific contributions. But the honorific “Sir” would never precede his name. To accept, he would have had to swear an oath of allegiance to Her Majesty the Queen—a step he refused. “I, Gogki Tokaty, an Ossetian, was included in that list,” he later explained. “But it required a declaration of loyalty to the English Crown. A foreigner cannot become a ‘Sir’ without this oath. I declined. Why? I am not English—I am Ossetian. Though I am endlessly grateful to this country for the honor, I am a son of the Caucasus. It is there I first drew breath. No title or award could ever make me less Ossetian.”

By 1941, Grigori Tokayev—as he was now known—had firmly established himself in Moscow. He married Aza Baeva, a Vladikavkaz native studying at the Mendeleev Chemical-Technological Institute, and they were allotted a room in a sparsely populated communal apartment on Furmanny Lane. Their daughter, Bella, was born in 1938. Life was full: exhilarating work at the Zhukovsky Academy’s aerodynamics lab, a happy young family, a promising academic career ahead.

All of it ended on June 22, 1941.

## 3

From the interrogation transcript of Lieutenant Colonel Tokayev by Major Hopkins, December 14, 1947:

> “Go on, Grigori. What happened to you after the war began?”

> “First, explain the two-week gap in our sessions. Don’t tell me you were occupied with other matters. You have only one case now. Me.”

> “You provided extensive details about your work at the Air Force Academy and the research conducted there. I couldn’t verify their accuracy. Your statements were sent to our military specialists. I only received their assessment today.”

> “And?”

> “No evidence of disinformation was found in your account.”

> “Does that convince you of my sincerity?” “Not entirely. Everything you described was already known to our experts. Don’t ask how. London watches Soviet military developments very closely. The only novelty was your claim about aviation rocket-engine research. Our experts doubt the Russians have made significant progress there.”

> “What would dispel their doubts? A squadron of Soviet jet bombers over London?”

> “Your view of the political situation is overly grim.”

> “It’s realistic. You still don’t grasp why I defected, George. Let me clarify. First, a question: Does your intelligence know which Red Army units are stationed in Germany?”

> “I assume so.”

> “Write this down. Under Marshal Sokolovsky’s command: the 3rd Shock Army (Magdeburg), 8th Guards Army (Weimar), 2nd and 1st Guards Mechanized Armies (Dresden), and the 16th Air Army (Wünsdorf)—nine fighter divisions, three ground-attack, six bomber, one night-bomber, over 2,000 aircraft total. Support troops: four artillery divisions, two tank brigades, five anti-aircraft divisions. Add the forces in Austria and Poland. Does this mean nothing to you?”

> “Are you suggesting Stalin might attempt to seize all of Europe?”

> “You think he wouldn’t?”

> “In 1945, Churchill believed it possible. The Allies couldn’t have stopped the Red Army then. That’s why Wehrmacht units surrendering to us were held in camps along the demarcation line—kept in uniform, drilling, weapons stored nearby. They’d have absorbed the first Soviet strike. Later, when Churchill decided Stalin wouldn’t attack, the prisoners were moved inland for denazification.”

> “What changed his mind?”

> “The American atomic bomb.”

> “Churchill was hasty. A bomb won’t deter Stalin. He knows the U.S. won’t risk using it in Central Europe—this isn’t Japan. Nothing would stop Soviet tanks. They could reach the Channel in 48 hours. They’re only waiting for the order.”

> “Why do you believe such an order might come?”

> “I know the state of those forces. They’re at full readiness. Meanwhile, the U.S. and Britain are demobilizing. This imbalance is dangerous. Insist your superiors heed this, George.”

> “I will. Now, let’s resume.”

> “Ask your questions…”

## 4

War, like a force of nature, rewrites destinies in a single day. A schoolteacher becomes an infantryman, a university professor turns militiaman, a medical graduate is now a combat surgeon, and a lathe operator an artillery gunner. So too, in the span of 24 hours, did Grigori Tokayev—PhD, dean of aeronautical engineering at the Zhukovsky Academy—shed his title for the rank of Military Technician 1st Class and depart for a heavy bomber regiment, barely pausing to kiss his young wife goodbye.

The regiment, part of the Special-Purpose Heavy Bomber Group, was stationed at Nikiforovka Airfield near Michurinsk, a forward base. Through the summer and autumn of 1941, its squadrons of Tupolev SB and TB-3 aircraft supported General Kuznetsov’s 51st Army, defending Crimea against Manstein’s 11th Army. The lumbering bombers hauled fuel, engines, and searchlight equipment to Kerch and Bagherovo, dropped paratroopers behind German lines, and raided rail yards at Dzhankoy and Simferopol. Stormy autumn weather grounded the Luftwaffe; fog clung to the Crimean coast like a shroud, allowing most sorties to return unscathed.

The moment the engines coughed silent and crews clambered out, ground teams swarmed the aircraft. Tokayev’s unit draped camouflage nets over the giants, refueled them, slung bombs into bays, and restocked ammunition. By dawn, the squadrons were airborne again.

A loudspeaker hung in the mess hall. When the metronome’s ticking ceased, all eyes turned to Levitan’s voice reciting Sovinformburo bulletins. The vagueness of “successfully repelled enemy attacks, inflicting significant losses” needed no decoding for the men here. It meant the Germans kept advancing. Smolensk had fallen. Leningrad was besieged. Moscow’s outskirts burned. By October, Kerch was lost, and Red Army units retreated to the Taman Peninsula.

Twenty-five bombers of the Special-Purpose Group relocated to Grabtsevo Airfield near Kaluga, preparing for the Vyazma airborne operation. But camouflage failed. On 27 January 1942, Ju-88s and He-111s struck in waves. Four aircraft from the 1st Regiment, three from the 3rd, two TB-3s each from the 14th Regiment and 4th Independent Squadron—all gone. A follow-up raid on 3 February incinerated two more bombers under repair.