Cumming ordered quails' eggs and asked a little about my life history. He listened in an uninterested way over lunch until finally he ordered two brandies and turned to the purpose of his hospitality.
"I wanted to ask you, Peter, about how you felt things were going in the Service, technically speaking?"
I had half anticipated his approach and decided it was time to speak my mind.
"You won't get anywhere," I told him flatly, "until you appoint a problem-solving scientist and bring him fully into the picture."
I paused while brandy was served.
"You've got to let him have access to case officers, and he has to help plan and analyze operations as they happen."
Cumming cupped his glass and gently rolled its contents.
"Yes," he agreed, "we had rather come to that conclusion ourselves, but it's very difficult to find the right person. Jones [1] has been making a play for the job, but if we let him in, he'll be wanting to run the place next day."
I agreed.
For a while I had been indicating to Winterborn that I would be interested in joining the Service full-time if a suitable vacancy arose.
"I suppose Hugh has told you that I am interested in joining?" I asked.
"Well, that's just the problem, Peter," he replied. "We have a no-poaching agreement with Whitehall. We simply can't recruit you from there, even if you volunteer."
Cumming drained his glass with a flick of the wrist.
"Of course," he went on, "if you were to leave the Navy, things might be different."
It was typical Cumming, he wanted me to make the first move. I raised the problem of my Admiralty pension. I would lose all fourteen
years of it if I left, and unlike Cumming I had no private income to fall back on. Cumming tapped the side of his brandy glass gently and assumed an expression of surprise that I should even raise the subject.
"I am sure you're well aware that this would be a tremendous opportunity for you, Peter," he said.
He paused and returned to one of his favorite themes.
"We're not Civil Service, and you have to be prepared to trust us. There is always the secret vote. I don't think we could make any written undertakings, but I am sure when the time comes we will be able to arrange something. We don't like to see our chaps suffer, you know."
After lunch we emerged from the rich leather and brandy of the In and Out Club to the watery brightness of Piccadilly.
"Do let me know if you decide to leave the Admiralty, won't you, Peter," said Cumming, "and I'll take some soundings among the Directors."
We shook hands and he strode off toward Leconfield House, his umbrella tucked under his arm.
Cumming's approach was fortuitous. The antisubmarine project was coming to an end. The Admiralty were anxious to move me to new work in Portsmouth which I was not keen to do. The Marconi Company, meanwhile, had a contract to develop the Blue Streak project in conjunction with English Electric. Eric Eastwood, deputy head of the Marconi laboratory, offered me the job of engineering the Blue Streak guidance system. Within a month I had resigned from the Admiralty and joined the Marconi Company as a Senior Principal Scientist.
I found missile research utterly demoralizing. Partly it was because I was hoping I would soon be joining MI5. But I was not alone in realizing that the missile system was unlikely ever to be built. It was a folly, a monument to British self-delusion. In any case this kind of science was ultimately negative. Why spend a life developing a weapon you hope and pray will never be used?
I telephoned Cumming and told him. I had left the Admiralty and waited for his next move. Finally, after six months, I received another invitation to lunch. Hospitality was noticeably less generous than the last time and Cumming came straight to the point.
"I have discussed your proposal with the Board and we would like to have you. But we will be in difficulties with Whitehall if we take you on as a scientist. We have never had one before. It might complicate matters. What we suggest is that you come and join us as an ordinary officer, and we'll see what you make of it."
I made it clear to Cumming that I was not very happy with his proposal. The only difference, so far as I could see, was that he would be paying me at the Principal Scientist (or Ordinary Officer) level, rather than at my current Senior Scientist level - a difference of five hundred pounds a year. There was also an issue of principle which my father had raised when I discussed the matter with him.
"Don't go unless they appoint you as a scientist," he told me. "If you compromise on that, you'll never be able to operate as a scientist. You'll end up being a routine case officer before you know it."
Cumming was surprised by my refusal but made no further attempt to persuade me. He soon left, claiming a pressing appointment at Leconfield House.
A month later I was in my laboratory at Great Baddow when I received a summons to Kemp's office. Cumming and Winterborn were sitting there, Winterborn grinning broadly.
"Well, Peter," said Kemp, "it looks as if I am finally losing you. Malcolm wants to take you on as MI5's first scientist."
Winterborn later told me that Cumming had gone to see Kemp to ask what he would have to pay to get me, to which Kemp, familiar with the extraordinary lengths to which Cumming would go to save a few pounds of government money, had replied: "The same rate I would join for - a fair wage!"
"Of course, there will be a Board," Cumming told me, "but it's just a formality."
I shook hands with everyone and went back to my lab to prepare for a new life in the shadows.
Four days later I went to Leconfield House for my selection Board. The frosted-glass partition in the alcove slid back and a pair of eyes scrutinized me carefully. Although I was a familiar face, I still had no pass. I waited patiently while the policeman telephoned Cumming's office to arrange for my escort.
"In to see the DG today, then, sir?" he said as he pushed the lift bell. The iron gates slid back with a heavy crash. It was an old-fashioned lift, operated by a lever on a brass box. It clanked and wheezed up the building. I counted the floors crawling past until we got to the fifth, where the MI5 senior management had their offices.
A little way down the corridor we turned into a large rectangular room which housed the DG's secretariat. It looked just like any other Whitehall office - secretaries who had seen better days, tweeds, and clacking typewriters. Only the combination safes opposite the window gave the place away. In the middle of the far wall of the room was the door to the Director-General's office. The length of the outer office was deliberately designed to foil any intruder. It gave the DG time to operate the automatic lock on his door before anyone could burst through. When the green light above his door flashed, a secretary accompanied me across the vast expanse and showed me in.
1
R.V. Jones worked closely with Churchill on scientific intelligence during the war. His contributions were brilliant but he was widely distrusted in Whitehall for his independence. Like so many others he was never allowed to make the impact in peacetime that he had made in war.