Not so Tricþ Dicko
A recent book by Dick Hughes, sola of R-ichard Hr-rghes, pertra-ps the lTìos;t distingr-rished, and rrrost color-rrÍhl, corresl2ondent ttre Ch-rb ha.s l>een able to l>oast, sr-rggested the gleat llaa-la .ñzas a dor-rt>le a-gel1t for tkre Britisla and lìussia-n se<rurity senzices. I{erzin Sinclair ha_s his doubts. \Y/n.n the Hong Kong Press Club W was rbundeà back in the e arly seventies whimsical reporters made Richard Hughes an honorarymember. They gave him a membership card that bore the number 007.
It
clelighted Dicko vastly. During many of his legendary lunches, he'd screw his battered monocle
into his eye, scowl menacingly
mostly of the diplomatic persuasion, connected with intelligence gather-
around the table, fossick through
ing and analysis.
his wallet (bulging with notes and
But somehow, the legend grew that Dick was more than a reporter
other peoples' name-cards, not with cash) and wave his 007 card in the
of the well-meant use his friends had made of his gargantuan personality in
That was about as close Dick Hughes got, as far as he ever said, to
espionage. In a recently published biography, his son, also a journalist named Dick, says his fatherwas a Cold War double agent for the British, slipping disinformation to the Russians. SØhat passed between father and
son, of collrse, is something nobocly
will ever know. But
anyone who
knew Dick Hughes (and I had lunch
with him a couple of times a week for 15 years) would find the idea lar fetched, at least in the last decades of his long life. Dicko scored notable scoops in Moscow in the fifties and was the first reporter to interview any of the bely of traitors who fled Britain when they were about to be unmasked. His boss was Ian Fleming, creator of James Bond, and Dick later appeared, thinlyveiled, as a characterin one ofthe 007 stories. John Le Carré also used Dick as the model for Old Craw in Tbe Honourøble Scltoolboy.
In that pen poftfait (set largely around the FCC) the burly aging newsman/spy delicately cleveloped photo-
graphic prints in his own darkroom. This occasioned much hilaritv one July 1994
conduit for
bellow. Chortling with huge amusement he'd knock back another triple vodka and give his affable beam as he blessed the table with his priestly dispensation. Holmes, as he reached for the Chateau Smith trordeaux.
THx coRaf,SPONIt[NT
a
information. Maybe this was because
he would quote his beloved Shedock
è
after a story, that he was
air. "Double-oh Seven!" he would
"You know my methods, 'SØatson, "
Ë-r
Iunchtime with Dicko, Chadie Smith and a bunch of other regulars at the Hilton Grill speculating on the disastrous results of the real-life model for Old Craw trying to perform anything so complex. Dick was the least technical\'minded person on the planet. He had, of course, manl'friends,
His l>oss.w¡as Ia-n Flerning, crea-tor of Jarnes Bond, and Dick later a1¿1¿eared, thinly rzeiled, a-s a ch.aracter irr one of the OO7 stories their novels. Maybe it partly developed because of his habit of invariably bellowing at a close friend from the China section of the US consulate: "VØatch out, here comes the CIA".
He was fascinated by espionage and frequentlT,, after long lunches, would rerninisce on his hunt (unsuccessful) for Kim Philby. His disdain and
disgust for the British uppercrust traitors was total. "Hang 'em all by the balls, " he'd call out, giving any tardy lady toufistinThe Grjlla case of thevapours.
Dick a spy? V4ren he was
in Toþo
before
Pead Harbour, he briefly met Richarcl
Sorge,
the cold, arrogant Nazi who
was later unveiled (and executed) as a
brilliant Soviet agent spying onJapan. Dick harbourcda greaf admiration for the Comintern spy who had wormed his way into the Nazi party and the Japanese military.
time in Laos and other areas of Indochina, long before the American involvement there. There is little doubt that he shared his background knowledge withAustralian and British diplomats back in Bangkok. Recruited by the Soviets and work-
ing for the Brits? Well, he certainly nevef mentioned it to me. But then, if he had played such a dodgy game, he'd hardly talk about it, would he? But Dicko in a trenchcoat and fedora doing a Third Man down a back alley? You can'thelp smiling. The image of the huge figure sneaking ftlrtively down a dim-lit lane to keep a secret rendezvous is an unlikely spectre. I've no doubt Dicko exchanged views and
news with his thousands of sources. Who doesn't? If he heard something on tlÌe grapevine, he would doubtless check it out with those who might be able to amplify. But a secret double agent peddling disinformation to the Kremlin? No, I doubt it. There can have been few hu-
man beings in history less likely to
be overlooked than Dick Hughes. Not just his physical frame, but his personality was enormous. He inevitably drew attention to himself. If youwere a KGB spymaster, would this be the sort of fellow you'd recruit? Would you feel happy that the thoughts of Lenin were being rigorously observed by a 2801b Australian who retained to the end his broad accent, who wore a Prussian monocle, blessed his pals like a cardinal and, as he whacked back his fifth or sixth triple vodka and prepared to attack the strawberries swimming in a pool of kirsch, trumpeted: "Death to commie dogs!" I think not. Dicko was many things; philosopher, writer, joker, good husband, bad Catholic, above all, a giant of heart and dear friend. But being an unobtrusive agent may have been least likely of his attributes.
About the closest Dick Hughes came to beingJames Bond was carrying his Press Club card OO7.
Durìng the fiÍties, Dick spent much
@ Jrtly 1994 rf,E
0oRRESP0NIIENT