Judas, j.g.

"I did what I did, not for gain but to save humanity from the horrors of another war," a tall, pale Swedish petty officer calmly told a Stockholm court last week. What Flag Engineer Ernest Hilding Andersson had done--this navy man of more than 20 years' standing--was to sell a sheaf of Sweden's closest military secrets to the Russians for 4,530 kronor (about $900) expense money.

The 42-year-old spy had been one of eight children, whose invalid father had to scrape along on a pension of $10 a month. He had quit school at eleven and gone to work on a farm. At 18, he joined the navy. A year later, just as openly, he joined Stockholm's Communist Youth Movement. Neither Ernest nor official Sweden apparently saw anything contradictory in the two affiliations. But Ernest Andersson was too good an opportunity to be missed for long by the Russians.

Salmon & Secrets. In 1946 a Communist friend turned him over to a Tass correspondent named Anisimov, who plied him with champagne at his home, treated him to cozy tete-`a-tete dinners of jellied Volga fish, Siberian smoked salmon, choice vodka, potent Swedish export beer and voluble persuasion. After three years of this, Ernest was considered ready for espionage.

His first job entailed a full report on the Stockholm navy yard. He fluffed it, forgetting to mention some minesweepers that were being built. Russian masters administered a gentle rebuke, and Andersson promised to do better next time. He passed secret after secret in prearranged code to Anisimov. Sometimes he would cycle about in civilian clothes pretending to pick berries, but really sketching details of coastal fortifications. Later he would write a report in invisible ink, put it in the toolbox of his bike and leave it parked by a prearranged lamppost. Presently he would return and find another bike in its place. His reward, a bundle of money tied up in ribbons of Sweden's national blue and gold, would be lying in the second bike's toolbox.

Two Questions. In time Ernest was given a new contact: Nikolai Orlov, assistant naval attache at the Soviet embassy. Last summer, Stockholm's police got a tip to look into the frequent meetings between the two naval officers, Swedish and Russian. The police shadowed Andersson, observed his note-taking and followed his exchange of bicycles. In the toolbox of Orlov's bike, they found all the evidence they needed.

Orlov was ordered out of the country. At week's end, the Stockholm court had not yet decided what to do about Andersson. But the "most serious case of espionage ever uncovered in Sweden" had spurred others to activity, in the only large nation in Europe which officially refuses to choose between East & West. Sweden's legislators were hastily shoving through a new law to make wire tapping easier. "The only thing that puzzles me," said a Stockholm cab driver, "is how could a simple navy N.C.O. get access to so many top secrets. Also, why were his Red sympathies ignored for 24 years?"

They were both good questions.

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