The Spy Who Tried to Stop a War. Thomas Mitchell M.

asked? Creating a false coalition? Would the United Kingdom join the United States in this apparent hypocrisy?

      That night, after work, Katharine did not take the bus but instead walked several miles into town through the dark and the cold, wanting to be alone with her thoughts. One in particular, she says, ‘was already running around in my head, that this was explosive stuff’. She reached the café shaking with a combination of cold and rattled nerves, pulled off her heavy sweater, and folded into a chair to watch her husband finish his chores before closing. Nothing was said, not a word about the Koza message. He could not know, not at this point. It was a matter she would have to decide for herself, unless, of course, she had already decided. She thinks, perhaps, she had.

      ‘To be honest, I must admit that the decision to leak the e-mail was instantly in my mind as soon as I read it, not finally made, but certainly in my mind. It was there because of the nature of the message and the impact on me.

      ‘At the time, all I could think about was that I knew they were trying really hard to legitimize an invasion, and they were willing to use this new intelligence to coerce, perhaps blackmail delegates, so they could tell the world they had achieved a consensus for war. I felt so strongly, and I knew there was so much public anxiety and anger about a pre-emptive strike, about rushing into war, that I didn’t really think about my own personal circumstances at that stage.’

      It is along about here in Katharine’s story that her critics howl. What did she think the NSA and GCHQ were doing? Knitting sweaters for poor children in third world countries? She was in the spy business, for God’s sake, they will say. And what was afoot in the business at the moment was a spy operation. Surreptitiously, clandestinely collecting information. The United States and United Kingdom were simply trying to acquire information about the positions of the various target countries. Nothing new – in fact, so old hat as to be boring. So what, they ask, was her problem about a bit of high-stakes eavesdropping at the United Nations?

      ‘Yes, it was eavesdropping,’ Katharine agrees, ‘and that’s what I did for a living.’ But what she did in the normal course of her work was something quite different, as she sees it, from what GCHQ was being asked to do by the NSA. ‘This request was far more than attempting to collect information on negotiating patterns, on likely responses to draft proposals.’ It was how the information was to be used. Here Katharine and her colleagues were being asked to help manipulate those patterns and responses, to legalize what otherwise might well be an illegal war. Much later, in the spring of 2005, what was going on was described to the public as tailoring intelligence to fit policy.[2]

      ‘You’re being asked to participate in an illegal process with the ultimate aim of achieving an invasion in violation of international law,’ Katharine says. An illegal process with the imprimatur of a bogeyman on the loose.

      Ultimately, Katharine believed that if the Koza message was released to the public, people would see clearly that, despite official government pronouncements about seeking a diplomatic resolution to the Iraq problem, behind-the-scenes unofficial government was in pursuit of quite a different solution. And that solution would allow the United States and United Kingdom governments to claim that a unified United Nations believed Iraq was in contravention of Security Council resolutions and was an imminent threat to world peace. War, then, would be both legal and necessary.

      Timing was a significant issue.

      ‘We were all aware that Hans Blix and the WMD inspectors had not yet had a chance to complete their work. From the beginning it had been estimated that it would take them at least six months once in place to provide any kind of realistic assessment. They had been there about three months when Koza’s message arrived. This was troubling, I would guess, for a lot of us.’

      Yasar worked on Saturdays. For Katharine, this Saturday was a day of moving about in something of a fog, the real world obscured behind a hazy scrim, where the words of the NSA memo were all that seemed clear, spelling out what would happen if she were to reveal its contents.

      ‘At no point during the weekend did I consider telling any of my family members, or even Yasar, because I didn’t want to jeopardize anyone else. I wanted everyone else to be wholly innocent of the affair. But also, at the back of my mind, I was thinking that if I did it, I would do it anonymously. And, hopefully, no one would ever know it was me. We regularly see in the press leaks from official sources, and there never seems to be any kind of retribution, anybody being arrested or charged for making those leaks.’

      The question that tortured her throughout the weekend was this: Will I get away with it? She felt confident that she would, that she could remain anonymous. Later, she realized that she didn’t know how to play the game, didn’t know the unwritten rules.

      ‘I knew there are people, especially those who work in London in both the civil service and the intelligence service, who brief journalists very much below the radar, sort of unofficially, without jeopardizing their positions. And they get away with it. You read about the leak, oh, not one of this nature, but you never hear about who was responsible or a manhunt under way to find the source. No one is punished. No one is identified. This is what I hoped for. This is what I expected.’

      Looking back, Katharine recognizes the problem. The ‘official unofficial’ briefings – call them ‘controlled leaks’ – are for the most part institutionalized. A selected journalist, one from each major news entity and each category of news within that entity, communicates directly with his or her assigned contact within an intelligence service. There are unwritten ground rules. The intelligence contact is never named and the information provided is reported to have come from ‘known reliable’ or ‘unnamed government’ sources. The arrangement is mutually beneficial; journalists get information for their stories, and the government releases certain information it wishes to get to the public without having it attributed to a specific individual. Amateurs like Katharine are not allowed to play the game.

      There was a caution that kept returning, a fear that had to be placed into the emotional conflict of indecision. Or, perhaps a decision made but not yet wholly accepted. It was the critical matter of Yasar’s safety.

      They were wildly in love, these two, the blonde, petite Englishwoman and her ‘beautiful, beloved’ husband. Just six months earlier, Katharine had married the man of her dreams, the tall, dark Mediterranean charmer with finely chiselled features and a quick, expansive smile. They met at the café where he worked, where she would go for coffee in the evenings after leaving GCHQ. He would wink from across the counter, and she was enchanted. ‘He was the most beautiful man I’d ever seen,’ she says.

      The café, small, unpretentious, was a comfortable, intimate place, ideal for chatting after work, when the chat had to be about anything but work. Filled with light, the café was perfect for people from GCHQ, whose days were spent in a darkness that had nothing to do with either natural or artificial illumination.

      Most evenings, Katharine was accompanied to the café by a male GCHQ colleague. Yasar, eyeing pretty Katharine seated with her companion, assumed she was ‘taken’, which was not true. The man with her was a friend, not a boyfriend. Since Yasar made no advance other than a wink now and then, Katharine assumed he was not interested. This, too, was not true. Finally, unaccompanied to the café, Katharine winked back. He came to stand beside her.

      ‘I’m going to the cinema,’ she said, and then, surprising them both, ‘what are you doing later?’ He had a break, he told her. Would she like to go for a walk? Yes, she would very much like that; she had time for a walk before the picture started. From that moment on, Katharine Harwood had no space in her life for any other man. Winking led to frequent evening walks, which eventually led to dating. They were married in an intimate ceremony attended by a small group of friends and her parents, newly arrived from Taiwan. The family met the enigmatic young man for the first time the night before the wedding.

      ‘I felt better after meeting him,’ Katharine’s father, Paul Harwood, says. ‘He obviously adores her.’

      Weeks after they first started dating, Katharine discovered that Yasar, still learning English, often communicated with customers in the café by winking. It was a way of greeting people. ‘He winked at everyone,’