“Philby of The Times,” I said, offering a paw. He didn’t shake. I’m not even sure he noticed the gesture.
After a long while, during which he gnawed the inside of a cheek, he inquired, “Have we met?”
“In Flanders, yes.”
“Oh, dear, Flanders. Was that in the First Great War or this one?”
“This one, I should think.”
“I trust you’ll bear with me—I recall things well enough but I am often uncertain in what order they occurred.”
“News from the front being what it is, I expect there are not a few back home in the same boat,” I said.
“Do you? Well, misery does appreciate company. We are off to Dover soon. I rather think the arrival will take place after the departure.”
He didn’t smile and I understood he wasn’t attempting a joke.
Respectfully,
H. A. R. Philby
11: LONDON, JUNE 1940
Where Mr. Philby Promises to Keep a Straight Face for the Photograph on His Identity Badge
Looking out of sorts, as men will when they turn up for assignations with women whom they have never before set eyes upon, the Englishman wandered into the forecourt of St. Ermin’s Hotel on Caxton Street near Victoria station and glanced round uncertainly. He saw me sitting in the small alcove near the curtain that led to the corridor that led to the loos, but didn’t for a fleeting second entertain the possibility that his rendezvous was with me, though I was the only human in sight if one doesn’t count his reflection in the mirror. I was gray-haired and elderly, not to put too fine a point on it. He checked his wristwatch, shrugged, and turned to leave. At which point I inserted two fingers between my lips and whistled—a charming trick my late brother Nigel taught me when I was twelve and has since stood me in good stead flagging down hackney carriages on rainy days. H. A. R. Philby turned back in terminal confusion. I beckoned to him with an index finger. “Do join me for tea,” I called across the room. “I am Miss Maxse, your four o’clock.” I was already filling a second cup with a wonderful green tea from China, the stock of which St. Ermine was unlikely to replenish if the European war spread to Asia, as I reckoned it would. “Do you take sugar, Mr. Philby?”
He settled onto the seat facing me. “I don’t r-remember.”
“Well, you do give satisfaction, Mr. Philby. I can’t recall the last time I so discombobulated a male of the species he forgot if he took sugar with his tea.”
“Ahhh, yes. Two p-please.”
“Good. It has come back to you.”
“I was rather expecting…” He let the thought slip through his fingers.
“Dear boy, do spit out what you were expecting.”
“I’m not quite sure what I was expecting.”
“Let me assist you in your inquiries. You weren’t born yesterday. When your foreign editor at The Times, the very crabby Mr. Deakin, suggested someone was eager to interview you about war work, you will have figured out you were being sized up by the Secret Intelligence Service. But you were expecting someone younger.”
His failure to respond was response enough.
“You were expecting a gentleman, surely,” I said.
My vision is not what it used to be but I could have sworn I saw a blush tint his ruddy cheeks. “I didn’t know ladies were employed by … whoever it is that employs you,” he said.
“Other than in secretarial positions.”
“You are trying to p-put me on my b-back foot. I must admit you are succeeding.”
“These days I gratefully accept whatever little successes come my way.”
He sipped at his tea. “I p-presume you are a ranking officer—they would be unlikely to send a secretarial p-person to vet a prospective recruit. I didn’t really think it through but I must have assumed that above a certain rank it would be like the army officer corps.”
“Men’s room types. Gents who pee into solid Armitage Shanks urinals, concentrating all the while at the ceiling so as not to catch a glimpse of the willy next door.”
“Quite.”
“Well, at least we’ve cleared the hurdle of your preconceptions. If you are going to come to work for us, you must learn to keep an open mind.”
“Duly noted, Miss Maxse.”
I am thought of as someone who doesn’t smile a great deal but I suspect I might have broken the rule then with a grin. Clearly I was in charge of this conversation; it went where I steered it. “Your father seems quite keen on your joining the service,” I remarked.
“In this instance, Miss Maxse, you are more familiar with my father’s wishes than me.”
“He has put in a word, though I will confide he wasn’t the one who raised your candidacy.”
“May I ask who raised my candidacy?”
“No.”
“Ahhh.”
Actually his candidacy had been raised by his old Trinity sidekick Guy Burgess, whom we’d lured over from the F.O. several weeks earlier. What with war raging on the Continent and SIS frantically expanding its staff to cope, we regularly asked new recruits to suggest friends or colleagues who might be qualified for what was euphemistically called war work. The first name on the index card Mr. Burgess had given me was Harold Adrian Russell Philby. He was described as someone who spoke several foreign languages and knew Europe like the palm of his hand. Curious expression, that. I myself am not familiar with the palms of either of my hands. I happened to be in the Caxton Holy of Holies on the sixth floor introducing Mr. Burgess to Colonel Menzies, who had been named SIS chief on the death of Admiral Sinclair in ’39, and mentioned in passing I would be vetting a Mr. Harold Philby. “Oh, you mean Kim,” Colonel Menzies said. “I know his people. Westminster. Cambridge. Trinity. Good British stock. Though the paterfamilias—ha! I recollect the Admiral nicknamed him the Hajj—is something of a character, what?”
Normally a testimonial from the Holy of Holies is thought to be the equivalent of one foot in the door. But like my late chief, the Admiral Sinclair, God rest his soul, I was old school. Which meant Mr. Philby still had the other foot outside the door. As a matter of routine I ran his candidacy past the long noses of our MI5 cousins, who sent me a minute so succinct I am able to recite it in its entirety from memory:
From: Mr. Montague Smallwood, MI5 security subdivision
To: Miss Marjorie Maxse, MI6 recruitment subdivision
Subject: Harold Adrian Russell Philby, aka Kim
1. Nothing recorded against.
“More tea, Mr. Philby?”
“Thank you, no, Miss Maxse.”
“Good. Let’s talk turkey, as the Yanks say. We know all about your Cambridge escapades—your membership in the notorious Socialist Society, your canvassing for Socialist candidates in Romsey Town. We know about your motoring off to Vienna to assist refugees fleeing Nazi Germany. Good God, did you actually ride a motorcycle from England to Vienna?”
He leaned forward. “It was a Daimler with one of their new V-twelve Aero engines—”
“One should avoid telling a person more than he or she can possibly grasp, Mr. Philby. That is something else you might keep in mind if you come to work for us.”
“I am taking this all in, Miss Maxse.”
“As I was saying, we don’t hold your escapades against you. We take the broad view that those who aren’t revolutionaries in their twenties have no heart, those who remain revolutionaries in their thirties have no head. Good gracious me, if we ruled out hiring staff who had a fling with Marx in their misspent youth, we should have to fight the war with the Women’s Auxiliary. We know, of course, about your marriage to Miss Friedman. Rather good show on your part, I should think. Jewish damsel in distress situation. You are still wedded to her, are you not?”
“I am indeed. We both thought it b-best to stay wedded so long as Hitler menaced Europe.”
“What is your actual relationship, apart from being wedded?”
“I beg your p-pardon?”
“Do you sleep together? Do you copulate
?”
“You are disconcertingly direct, Miss Maxse. We haven’t slept together since I went off to cover the war in Spain for The Times.”
“When and where did you last see Miss Friedman?”
“In Paris. During what the papers took to calling the Phony War. I was covering the British Expeditionary Force from Arras. Litzi—Miss Friedman—met me for b-breakfast at La Coupole. She’d come over to try and sell two small charcoals by an Italian painter named Modigliani. Our reunion was extremely civilized. She turned up with her lover. Decent sort. Journalist, I gather. Georg something or other.”
“Honigmann.”
“Sorry?”
“His name was Georg Honigmann.”
“Ahhh. That sounds about right. He and Litzi spoke German to each other.”
“That, too, sounds about right. Is he a Communist?”
“I haven’t the foggiest idea, Miss Maxse. Though knowing Litzi, who is very much a Communist, he could well be.”
“Are you suggesting all of her lovers have been Communists?”
“I am not suggesting anything of the sort. Surely my failure to keep track of my former lover’s lovers will not be a black mark against me.”
“Are you a Communist, Mr. Philby?”
“Good Lord, no.”
“It is a question I am obliged to put. We have read all the articles published by The Times from its special correspondent in Spain. You obviously had little sympathy for the Republican side. In one article you justified the Nationalist bombing of Barcelona docks on the grounds that Soviet supplies were off-loaded there. In another you suggested that Republican mines and not Nationalist firebombs caused the destruction of the town of Guernica.”
“I must admit to being flattered by your attention to the details of my dossier.”
“Whilst in Spain, you had another liaison.”
“You are referring to the Canadian actress Frances Doble. We slept together. We copulated. Often, actually.”
“I am relieved to hear it, Mr. Philby. Is Miss Doble a Communist?”
Mr. Philby laughed silently. “Frances is to the right of Franco, which is to say she is a royalist who looks forward to the return of Alfonso to the throne he fled when the Spanish Republic was declared in 1931.”
“What is your relationship nowadays?”
“We occupy separate b-beds in separate rooms in separate hotels in separate cities in separate countries. She has decided to wait out the war in P-Portugal. Intercourse of any sort, most especially sexual, is difficult under these circumstances.”
“I like your spunk, Mr. Philby. You seem to have survived the Phony War, not to mention the subsequent shooting war, in fine fettle.”
“Only just muddled through. Still can’t figure out why the French strung their Maginot Line along the border with Germany but stopped when they reached Belgium, leaving the northern flank of the country dreadfully exposed.”
“They supposed Herr Hitler’s tanks would be unable to negotiate the Ardennes Forest,” I said.
“French got it terribly wrong, didn’t they? B-but all that is history.”
“‘What’s past is prologue,’” I said. “Sorry ’bout that, I don’t make a habit of quoting Shakespeare. Saw John Gielgud doing The Tempest the other night. The line lodged in my mind.”
“Indeed, what’s p-past most certainly is p-prologue.”
“I expect it must have seemed like the end of the world to someone like yourself who witnessed the debacle.”
“It was the end of the world we knew,” he said. I seem to recall his looking off to one side, his eyes focused on bitter memories. “In hotels, guests stopped setting shoes outside the d-doors of their rooms to be shined whilst they slept—nobody knew if the guests, or the shoes, or the shiners of shoes would still be in town come morning.”
“Between Austria and Spain and France, you will have seen more than your share of violence, Mr. Philby.” He nodded in grim agreement. I changed the tone of the conversation with, “Do you have stomach for more?”
“I abhor violence, Miss Maxse.”
“That’s a declaration. It’s not an answer to my question.”
“I am incapable of killing someone, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Nobody would expect you to kill someone with your bare hands. But could you betray an agent to torture and almost certain death in order to achieve specific objectives?”
“You are asking me if ends justify means.”
“I am.”
“In certain situations, certain ends justify certain means, yes.”
“Well put, Mr. Philby. Welcome to the world’s second-oldest profession.”
“Ahhh. I shall need to give notice at The Times.”
“I will take care of that detail for you. Consider yourself to be on gardening leave. Report to Caxton House between Broadway Buildings and this hotel Monday at seven. There will be two security men at a desk inside the door. They will be expecting you. Show them your passport, sign their ledger book. They will send you to a room where your photograph will be taken for an identity badge. Do try to keep a straight face for the photographer. I cringe when I see colleagues smiling at me from identity badges.”
“I shall not make that mistake, Miss Maxse.” He cleared his throat. “I hate to raise the banal question of salary—”
I took the liberty of interrupting him. “Material questions are seldom banal. Your salary will be fifty pounds a month, which you are not expected to report to Inland Revenue.”
“Can you give me an idea of what I shall be doing when I come on board?”
“I should think you’ll join your friend Mr. Burgess, who only recently came over to us from the F.O. He has been assigned to Section D. The D stands for Destruction. He will take you under his wing, show you the gents’ room, show you where spare typing paper and carbons can be had. The two of you will join Colonel Grand’s team—they are recruiting some serious talent, including Mr. Hugh Trevor-Roper, Mr. Malcolm Muggeridge, Mr. Graham Greene. You will all be brainstorming about how we might sabotage German railway lines. We’re looking for weak points in the German resupply system that can be attacked from the air or from the ground by partisans. Railroad bridges. Key junctions. Marshalling yards. That sort of thing. At the same time you will be learning the tricks of the trade—simple ciphers, secret writing techniques…”
“The art of getting lost in a crowd even in the absence of one.”
“I am impressed, Mr. Philby. I can see you have a natural talent for intelligence work. Down the road, when you’ve learned the ropes, I have no doubt, what with your knowledge of the Iberian Peninsula, you’ll fit nicely into counterintelligence.”
I spotted a waiter in the entranceway of the forecourt and made a sign that he was to add the tea to our running tally. Philby stirred uneasily in his chair. “May I put a last question, Miss Maxse?”
“Please do.”
“Is there a handbook I might read? Something along the lines of how one becomes a Secret Intelligence Service spy?”
“Dear boy, do get ahold of Somerset Maugham’s Ashenden. It will tell you everything you need to know and then some.”
12: LONDON, DECEMBER 1940
Where Mr. Burgess Lets the Cat Out of the Bag in an Interoffice Memo
Kim old sod,
Bloody marvelous being a member of His Majesty’s Secret Intelligence Service. It doesn’t take long for the cockteaser crowd to suss out one has a secret life. When they ask what I mean by war work, I smile knowingly. I am the teensiest bit more forthcoming with chaps who have security clearances. I mumble something about Caxton House, and if they have the dimmest idea what that might be I name-drop Section D into the conversation, though I never say the D stands for Destruction. I have, after all, been sworn to secrecy. Beats me how you managed a straight face when they took your photograph for the identity badge. I was hard put to stifle a grin, though two or three of my absolutely closest mates have remarked the gleam in my eye
. Christ, it’s exhilarating to not be able to talk about what one does for a living! To let the cat out of the bag, espionage is an aphrodisiac. (Best keep this hush-hush lest Miss Maxse become swamped with postulants.) On top of which, we’re helping win this bloody war, you and I, Kim. When I fucked one of the code breakers at Bletchley Park and he let slip the date of the German invasion of Soviet Russia, I thought I was really contributing, like you when you rode off to Vienna.
You will tell our mutual friend on the park bench it was me who got the date from the code breaker when you pass it along?
I say, Kim, do remember to burn this note immediately once you’ve read it.
Guy
13: LONDON, JANUARY 1941
Where the Soviet Rezident Gorsky Proves He Is a Spy After All
My comrades in the Rezidentura at the Soviet Embassy could not remember a colder winter. Several had taken to joking about having been posted east to Siberia instead of west to Great Britain. The iciness gripping London City had frozen the Gentlemen’s Bathing Pond on the Highgate side of Hampstead Heath. Young men in gymnasium costumes and their lady friends in woolen leggings and flaring thigh-length skirts were spending Sunday afternoon ice-skating. “Do they skate in Russia?” Sonny inquired. He was sitting on the crabgrass, his back against an old oak, his overcoat, its collar up, buttoned to the scarf around his neck, his hat balanced on a knee, his head angled toward the arctic sun.
“They do,” I said, settling onto the ground next to him, my back against the same tree. I leaned toward him and lit a cigarette on the embers of the one in his mouth. For a moment our faces were quite close. I detected alcohol on his breath. “We have a park named after the late Maxim Gorky,” I said. “Muskovites skate when the pond in the park freezes over. At night some hold flaming torches. The police light fires in trash cans on the pond’s edge so the skaters can warm their hands. Old babushkas peddle hot wine from thermos bottles. You would like it.”
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