Friends and Traitors

by John Lawton

  “That’s not the way it was. Viktor was her mentor … Viktor was her lover … Viktor taught me piano … but I never met her until this year. Now, I’m sure you’ve a dozen questions. And I’m not going to answer any of them. We will both be happier if you just concentrate on answering mine. What’s your interest in Méret Voytek?”

  “Nosiness, plain old-fashioned nosiness. That and …”

  “And what?”

  “I’m not sure how much to tell you. I’m not sure how much you know.”

  “I know what you’ve told half London for the last fifteen years. Is it not your practice to get pissed and tell whoever you are with that you’re a spy?”

  “I wouldn’t say it was. I may have let slip, once or twice, here and there …”

  “For God’s sake, Guy.”

  “I mean, did you know …”

  “Well, if I didn’t, you’ve gone out of your way to tell me tonight, haven’t you? You threw down your calling card. I think you thought for one witless moment that we were two of a kind and I might do the same.”

  Burgess looked a little word-bludgeoned, but stuck to his guns.

  “I mean, how long?”

  “It was pointed out to me the first time we met.”

  “I see. Your brother was there that night, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was. But like a lot of people he chalked it all up to the times we were living in. Not so much pro-Stalin, as decidedly anti-Hitler. The one thing we neither believed was you joining the Anglo-German Fellowship. You might as well have glued a red star to your forehead.”

  “And now?”

  “You had your youthful indiscretion, your case of the Communist measles. The least offensive way of putting it is that he sees you as a buffoon promoted beyond your talents. Plus, your private life is hardly likely to gain approval from a man who’s never looked at another woman since the day he met his wife, let alone at another man. And come to think of it, the problem with your private life is that it’s rather public. He warns me about you from time to time. I just tell him to fuck off.”

  “He’s always polite to me if we pass in the corridors at the Commons.”

  “Politeness in the hands of a man who exudes decency the way my brother does is a deadly weapon. But we stray from the point. You and Miss Voytek.”

  “Curiosity. Real curiosity. The only people I know in this … business … oh God, it’s not a business is it? … and it’s not a game either … are … people I don’t or can’t have much to do with, but are people I’ve known for almost twenty years … friends who are … strangers—and a few grim-faced Russian agents whom I meet in caffs in the East End. It’s quicker and more mercenary than a paid blow job in the gents. Quicker still and utterly faceless are the dead letter boxes in Limehouse or on Hampstead Heath. It’s all a bit isolated. Comrade really isn’t the word, there’s no bloody comradeship at all. I found the idea that she might be doing the same thing … the stupid possibility that you might be … hmm … reassuring. And I wished I’d met her sooner. I wish I’d known who or what she was when I met her.”

  Troy pondered this. It was close to pathetic and he’d never thought of Burgess as pathetic.

  Burgess filled the silence.

  “I get lonely.”

  Troy topped up his glass, pushed it across the table to him.

  “You may well be the most gregarious man I know, Guy.”

  The Scotch necked in an instant, the glass held out for more.

  “I say again. I get lonely.”

  “And I say again, what do you know?”

  “About Miss Voytek? Only what I read in the papers.”

  “And you came here seeking more?”

  “I don’t know why I came here. I was sober at the time. That so rarely happens. I make all my best decisions pissed. Nobody sent me if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Troy leaned in a little closer, lowered his voice.

  “Guy, we each have our secrets. A bucketful apiece. But whereas your bucket is small, enamelled, and cream with a yellow stripe, perfect for making sandcastles, mine is a five-gallon galvanised slop bucket into which you seem hell-bent on stepping. I can keep your secret—nobody seems willing to believe it anyway—but you must keep mine. You never met Méret Voytek, you never talked to me about her … she is never mentioned in any report you make to the Russians … and if you ever get to Moscow, you keep your mouth shut even when they get out the lead pipe and the rubber hoses.”

  Burgess seemed to perk up at the word Moscow, a glimmer of pointless self-respect surfacing in the pool of booze and self-pity.

  “Moscow? Why in God’s name would I ever go to Moscow? You forget. I’ve been there. Bloody awful place. I just couldn’t do it. I could never live in Russia. My soul would wither on the vine.”

  “And as ever, Guy, you have the advantage of me. I’ve never been there.”

  “Don’t … don’t don’t … I have seen the future and it’s boring. Boring boring boring. Moscow … Moscow makes you want to wear red underpants and learn to tap dance. Moscow makes you want to teach the dog to Charleston … Moscow … is a Primitive Methodist Sunday school on a winter’s afternoon in Yorkshire …”

  “Poetic as that sounds, can you stick to the point? Méret Voytek.”

  “Who? … never heard of her.”

  “So glad we agree.”

  “We appear to be out of Scotch, Fred.”

  Burgess had downed about half a pint all on his own. No matter. The man’s ability to function through the haze of booze was little short of legendary. Troy doubted he’d forget what he’d just said. And he doubted he’d ever renege on it. A curious thing to think of a spy and liar, but Burgess had always struck Troy as being a man of his word—but then there were so many words.

  “I believe I have a drop of Bell’s somewhere.”

  §16

  It was past midnight when Burgess staggered to the door.

  “What say we meet over Christmas?”

  “‘Fraid not, Guy. I’m leaving for Berlin as soon as I can get a flight. The air corridor is rather crowded at the moment as you may imagine.”

  “Berlin? What’s in Berlin?”

  Troy was never going to answer that.

  Burgess stood in the doorway looking up at a clear, cold winter sky.

  “No raid tonight. Makes a change.”

  “The war’s been over three years, Guy.”

  He twitched. Shook his head as though trying to dislodge an insect from his hair.

  “Eh? What? Bloody hell, so it has. Must be more pissed than I thought. Who’d ever have thought we’d end up missing the war? Hot war … cold war … that’s a joke … this isn’t a cold war … it’s a lukewarm egg custard of a war.”

  Burgess trundled off down the yard towards St. Martin’s Lane, to the corner where Ruby the Prostitute had stood until a matter of weeks ago—unsteady on his feet, happy as a newt.

  If there really had been a raid on, Troy would have left him on the sofa under an eiderdown rather than booting him out on a cold December night. But there wasn’t. There might never be again, and Troy saw no reason to take him in.

  As Burgess turned the corner Troy wondered if, this time, he might actually have seen the last of him.

  §17

  Tuesday, July 18, 1950

  Troy sat at his desk. The Manchester Guardian spread out in front of him.

  From our Moscow Correspondent:

  Méret Voytek, the Austrian cellist who vanished from her London home nearly two years ago, was seen in public yesterday for the first time since her disappearance and her exposure in this and other papers as an agent of the Soviet government.

  At a ceremony in the Kremlin, Miss Voytek was awarded two medals by Deputy Prime Minister Bulganin: Hero of the Soviet Union [Герой Cоветского Союза] and People’s Artist of the USSR [Народный артист СССР].

  The USSR has never admitted that Voytek was an agent. And while the Artist’
s award might be considered self-evident, the award of Hero of the Soviet Union might also be considered an admission that her services to the USSR went somewhat beyond playing the cello.

  Her Majesty’s government had no one available for comment.

  Troy wondered how strong his pact with a drunken Burgess really was. Of course, sooner or later she had been bound to surface, and when she did she’d strain Burgess’s sense of secrecy as his overwhelming sense of curiosity took over. He had occasionally wondered if Burgess had understood the pact. He had been loth to spell it out. He thought it simple enough. If Moscow learnt that Troy, a Scotland Yard CID inspector, had helped Voytek escape, then sooner or later they would conclude that she had denounced herself—the balance of doubt would never be in her favour—and her life wouldn’t be worth two kopecks.

  Troy’s deputy, Jack Wildeve, stuck his head around the door.

  “Chap on the phone for you. Jack or Jim somebody. Northern accent. Didn’t give a surname.”

  “Then why should I talk to him?”

  “Well … he did give a surname, just not his own. Burgess.”

  Oh fuck. So soon?

  “Put him through.”

  “Freddie … Jack Hewit here.”

  Burgess’s live-in. Troy could not abide him. He’d always struck Troy as a cross between Uriah Heep and Count Dracula.

  “Are you free on Friday evening? A bit of a do for Guy.”

  Another one? They came around as regularly as a 38 bus.

  “A farewell do, as a matter of fact.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Guy’s been posted to Washington. Second Secretary at our embassy. He’ll be off in a matter of days. Anyway. Seven thirty Friday. All the old crowd will be there and he’d love to see you.”

  Old crowd? Was he part of an old crowd? God forbid.

  And what lunatic in the Foreign Office thought Washington was a fit posting for Burgess?

  §18

  Friday, July 21, 1950

  Troy had no idea how to dress for an orgy, so he made no attempt. He wore his black suit, one of many, and went straight from Scotland Yard to Bond Street, leaving as late as he could in the hope of missing something.

  A warm night, the windows open, and the sound of Burgess’s farewell was audible almost as far as Piccadilly. Someone had brought Nat Gonella records. Trumpet raucous.

  Two young men were leaning in the doorway, smoking, as Troy walked up Old Bond Street. Camp-looking, lean street-trades. Troy could swear they were wearing eye shadow, and perhaps mascara too.

  “Who’s a pretty boy?” In a Cockney accent.

  He was used to that. A certain kind of man and the occasional woman, who talked to him as though teaching a parrot to speak.

  “I am,” he said, and pushed past them.

  Burgess’s bedroom was just by the front door. Troy added his raincoat to the pile on the bed and stepped into the sitting room, hoping against hope that Burgess had invited a few ordinary people too.

  He had, and at first sight there was not a lot of difference between this party and those his father had thrown before the war.

  The ever-present Baroness Budberg—getting stout now and looking more like a real babushka with every pound gained. Burgess’s old boss at the Foreign Office—Hector McNeil MP. A bloke he knew by sight but didn’t think he’d ever spoken to—Anthony Blunt, a cousin once removed (or possibly more, Troy never understood the term) of the Queen, and the appointed “surveyor of her pictures,” whatever that was. Guy Liddell of MI5, with whom he’d had professional dealings and hoped to have no more. The writer James Pope-Hennessy—Troy had met him several times. He had shared a flat with Burgess just after the war. And … he was a man on a mission—the English country house, and as Troy owned one, Pope-Hennessy had invited himself to Mimram. They’d got on rather well, and having no real wish to talk to Liddell or Baroness Budberg, Troy helped himself to a drink and cut a path across the room to greet him.

  “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “James, I think I might be in the minority in not being fancy.”

  Pope-Hennessy looked around.

  “I wouldn’t worry about that, Guy is catholic in his taste. Friends across the sexual spectrum, although I think one or two of them must be aghast at the rough trade Guy’s roped in tonight. Personally … I rather fancy the sailors.”

  Troy followed his gaze to two uniformed naval subalterns deep in conversation with a handsome young man who looked much like the two Troy had encountered on the doorstep.

  “Do you think he just invites them in off the street?”

  “I know damn well he does.”

  “Risky?”

  “You don’t think of the risk. You think of the man, and inevitably you think of the pleasure. The sheer delight in a young body. Speaking of delight. I have one for you. An old body. Blunt wants to meet you. You’ll like him. Smart as they come. There’s nothing Anthony doesn’t know. He could get culture a good name.”

  Pope-Hennessy was right. Troy took to Blunt. Blunt asked a dozen questions about things he’d no idea anyone outside his family knew—about the paintings and statues Alexei Troy had collected on his travels.

  “Is it true he knew Gauguin?”

  “Doubt it,” Troy replied. “My father didn’t leave Russia until a couple of years after Gauguin’s death. His collecting begins with his exile.”

  “Picasso?”

  “Doesn’t everyone know Picasso?”

  Blunt smiled at this.

  “Yes. My father knew Picasso. About the African time … ‘08 … ‘09 … he told me once he’d called on him at his studio and the painting he described Picasso working on was Les Demoiselles d’Avignon.”

  “Or something very like.”

  “Well said. He couldn’t swear to that, and indeed, he bought a ‘something very like.’”

  There seemed to Troy to be only one good-mannered satiation to Blunt’s good-mannered curiosity. He threw out an invitation to visit Mimram and see for himself. He’d take it up or he wouldn’t.

  After Blunt, the wagging finger of Baroness Budberg beckoned. Troy prayed for an intervention, and after a couple of minutes it came in the shape of the elusive host.

  “You’ve been neglecting your guests, Guy.”

  Burgess grinned wickedly.

  “S’awright. They haven’t been neglecting me.”

  And the grin broadened.

  “So soon in the evening, Guy? The night is yet young.”

  “And the roughs are even younger. Take a look at the chap taking off his shirt right now. Pecs like scallop shells. A bum like a peach.”

  Troy turned. It was one of the two boys he’d encountered earlier, stripping off—much to the amusement of the two Royal Navy officers.

  The shirt whirled around his head and flew across the room.

  “Guy, you don’t suppose—”

  “Oh yes.”

  And in seconds the boy was naked, shoulders back, belly out like a dancer in a Moroccan club—but that which shook was not his belly.

  The muttered “I say” and “Good Lord” drowned out by the whistles and cheers.

  The first cock out had divided the room.

  People would make their excuses and leave now or stay on to see what happened next. Troy was unsure which camp he was in.

  As the young rough shimmied around the room, Burgess’s old boss, Hector McNeil, Minister of State at the Foreign Office, came up to him, forcing a smile and bidding him goodnight.

  “Guy. I have known you for years, and you are dear to me, and whether you like it or not I have shielded you from your enemies just as long. I feel I have earned the right to offer a word of warning.”

  “Fire away, old man.”

  “For God’s sake, Guy, remember three things when you get out to the States. Don’t be too aggressively left-wing. Don’t get involved in race relations, and, above all, make sure that there aren’t any homosexual incidents which might cause trouble.”
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  For just long enough Burgess seemed to be giving it the consideration McNeil clearly thought it deserved. Then …

  “I think I understand you, Hector. I’ll be OK as long as I don’t fuck Paul Robeson.”

  Anyone within earshot burst out laughing at this. It was Burgess at his worst and best. But worse was waiting.

  “Hang on a mo’ you bunch of cynics. It’s not that funny. There is a serious point to be made here.”

  The look on Burgess’s face told Troy the opposite was far more likely.

  “I give you … before your very eyes … you lucky people … the words of the Vice-Marshal of our Diplomatic Corps …”

  Cries of “what?” and “who?” went up across the room. “Diplomatic what?”

  Burgess pulled a scrap of paper from his back pocket.

  “… the one, the only Sir Magnus Lowther, author of Guidelines for the Diplomat Embarking on Overseas Service. HMSO. Revised edition, 1947. Section 3, paragraph 1 … ‘When in Washington … But …’”

  Burgess switched from his variety-theatre routine, his Tommy Trinder/Max Miller persona, to a parody of the accent of three-quarters of the men in the room. Posh enough to crack a wine glass.

  “‘But … if protocol should present few problems, there are more general standards of behaviour which Mr. and Mrs. John Bull will ignore at their peril.’”

  A cry of “when was this written? 1850?”

  Burgess had to pause a moment to be heard over the laughter he so relished.

  “‘To be shy is a defect.’”

  The room exploded. For what seemed to Troy like several minutes, Burgess could not go on. This was better than any music-hall routine and all the funnier for being real.

  “‘To look bored is an error.’”

  Now it was Burgess consumed in his own mirth, shouting above the hubbub.

  “Bored. Bloody hell. Me? Bored? Do I ever look bored? … and I save the best for last … ‘But to appear superior is the eighth deadly sin!’”

  It might have been a Roman emperor cuing the next round of the gladiatorial circus, the next bout of coupling in the orgy. It was a world away from the man who’d owned up to feeling lonely. How lightly the star of the footlights rested upon the sad and lost individual to be found at the bottom of the Scotch bottle.