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On the anniversary of D-Day, writer David Baird reveals the secret life of legendary MI5 agent Garbo (right), how he met him in Andalucia and how his handler mysteriously died in Mallorca
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OU don’t often meet a man who has come back from the dead. Nor a man who helped to change the course of history. But above all, it’s rare to find journalists admitting they missed the story of a lifetime. So you can excuse my mixed emotions as the anniversary for D Day approached this week - June 6 when in 1944 the Allies launched the biggest naval landing in history and the world held its breath. Every journalist has his tale about ‘the one that got away’ — the fantastic scoop that they somehow missed. But most of these are small beer compared to mine, which concerned a momentous event, the Normandy landings and the man who played a vital role in their success. This is the tale of an infamous double agent named ‘Garbo’ whose false intelligence reports misled the Germans into believing the real invasion would come near Calais. It is also the tale of his fellow agent, Tommy Harris, who died a mysterious death in a Mallorca car crash. Everybody believed that the mysterious Garbo had died shortly after World War Two. So I was not inconsiderably surprised when, 40 years later, I met him face to face in Spain. There he was, walking along the main street of my village, Frigiliana, in Andalucia. With him was a friend, Desmond Bristow, a charming fellow with a fund of entertaining anecdotes. The trouble was that you did not know how much to believe. With a wicked smile, Desmond told me: “This is an old colleague and he has a EXPAT: Desmond Bristow very important appointment in London.” And sure enough, that bald, unassuming fellow at his side, did have an appointment a few days later — at Buckingham Palace, where he chatted with the Queen and Prince Philip and emerged with an MBE, the medal awarded him 40 years earlier, but which he had never been able to collect. Too late, I realised I should have listened to Desmond a little more carefully. Many an evening over a few glasses of wine he had spun tall tales from his past. Too late, I realised that he had guarded a secret that would make headlines around the world. On the surface Desmond was just one more expat enjoying retirement in the sun. In fact, he was a wily ex-MI6 agent who had made a name for himself as a master of deception. And here’s the irony. Secret agents live their entire careers in a twilight zone. They sign oaths of confidentiality and are expected to take their secrets to the grave. They may receive medals but can never reveal exactly what they are for. But they are only human. Deep down, they crave recognition. Imagine all those exploits they are warned not to talk about, ever. It’s not surprising that some decide to spill the beans. As Desmond finally did. After leaving the Secret Service, he had first worked for the De Beers diamond com-
la cultura
June 8th - June 21st 2017
Spyca D-DAY LANDINGS: Thanks to Garbo the allied landings in Normandy were made a success
MONUMENT: An American tank has become a Normandy monument
pany before retiring to an old mill on a hill launched an attack, the guards rushed overlooking the coast near Nerja. out with guns drawn. It took all Desmond’s He was discretion personicharm and diplomacy to calm fied – well, most of the time. matters down. He did attract the authorities’ I had always imagined that attention on one occasion — discretion was a vital part Imagine all those in an explosive manner. of a spy’s armoury, but DesTo extend his house, workexploits they are mond dispelled that view. Afmen needed to blast away ter a few glasses of wine, he some rock. Unfortunately warned not to talk would launch into amazing they overdid the dynamite tales. Thus he recalled that about, ever. and a huge blast shook the Peter Ustinov’s father had whole village and lumps of once worked for British intelrock soared hundreds of feet ligence. into the air, then crashed onto the roof of “Klop he was called. A colourful fellow,” he the Civil Guard barracks. would say. “Did useful work for us in LisSuspecting that Basque separatists had bon. I remember once…ah…hmm…yes, but
that’s another story.” Desmond always knew when to stop. Raised in Huelva, where his father was a mining company executive, he spoke fluent Castilian and spent much of World War Two in counter intelligence in Spain and North Africa. He was based in Gibraltar when the Germans were assiduously monitoring all the traffic passing through the Straits and in and out of the Rock, though Allied submarines escaped surveillance by secretly docking in caves carved below sea-level. Desmond and colleagues would often hop over the frontier to enjoy food and wine in neutral Spain and on one occasion they entered the restaurant of the stately Hotel Reina Cristina in Algeciras to find none other than Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of the Abwehr (German intelligence), lunching there. “Each side pretended not to notice the other,” recalled Desmond. “But the Germans knew who we were and nodded politely as we left the room.” In Algiers, Desmond (using the codename Tapwater) ran deception operations. His speciality was locating spies working for the Germans and ‘turning’ them to work for the Allies. I never dared ask what gentle means were used to achieve this. Then in 1942 arrived a young Catalan named Juan Pujol offering his services to the British. Initially he was rebuffed. But finally they realized his potential value (he revealed that he was already supplying false information to the Germans under the name of Arabel) and he was flown to London. There, Desmond was asked to use his flu-