The World: Spies: Foot Soldiers in an Endless War

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Express reporters called at the Soviet embassy, Second Secretary Vladimir Pavlinov proved to be surprisingly communicative. "His name, gentlemen," said Pavlinov, "was in your newspaper." He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart to indicate that he was referring to a small story. Sure enough, the Express had carried a ten-line item on Aug. 31 about the arrest of Lyalin and his release on $120 bail. Two hours after Lyalin failed to keep his court dates, the Foreign Office confirmed that he was indeed the Soviet defector.

British intelligence had wanted to keep the secret for a while, in hopes of flushing out the frightened British citizens who had been running errands for other Russian spies; in fact, arrests were expected momentarily. By leaking his name and depicting him as an alcoholic and a ladies' man, the Soviets hoped to cast doubt on his importance and his character; in the process, they also betrayed the fact that, even in this drab age, the life of a spy can have its high points. A natty dresser who bought his clothes in Regent Street, Oleg was known as a big spender who, according to one restaurateur, "thought nothing of picking up an £80 [$192] tab." He had a wife and seven-year-old son in Moscow, but British newspapers linked him with at least five women in London—an Israeli student, a Czech student, two English secretaries and "a gorgeous Russian blonde,"—Irina Teplyakova, thirtyish and the wife of another Soviet official. Oleg and Irina had been seen together in London restaurants and nightclubs for months, and though she is not believed to be with the KGB, she defected with him. Oleg was supposed to be a trade official who bought such British-made items as panty hose and negligees for export. He was actually a captain in the KGB, and was thought to be a relative of Lieut. General Serafim Lyalin, head of the KGB directorate that deals with breaking codes.

Limits of Decency

The information furnished by Lyalin proved the last straw for Prime Minister Edward Heath's Conservative government. Douglas-Home wrote to Gromyko last Dec. 3 and again on Aug. 4 to complain about the growing number of Soviet spies in Britain. The Russians never bothered to reply. In a particularly brazen gesture, the Soviets announced that they intended to send to

London as a first secretary in their embassy a KGB agent who had been expelled from Britain only three years earlier for trying to bribe an English businessman to sell military secrets. "It's not for me to say that one shouldn't spy," a top member of the Foreign Office told TIME last week, "but there are limits of decency even in that sort of activity." At a meeting of Heath, Douglas-Home, Defense Minister Lord Carrington and Home Secretary Reginald Maulding, the government decided on the mass expulsion.

Most of Britain's allies, though officially silent, were delighted by London's daring move. Some, however, privately expressed nervousness about the Soviet reaction. For most Britons, the case of the drunken defector gave rise to an exhilarating feeling that the lion had not lost all of its roar. The Foreign Office, its reputation tarnished for two decades by the Burgess-MacLean-Philby case, seemed enveloped in euphoria. The Manchester Guardian weakly applauded the