Gentleman Traitor

by Alan Williams

  Hennison’s eyes were again lowered, his features smooth and colourless. The only trace of emotion was a hand that plucked steadily at the sleeve of his jacket.

  ‘I’m not just talking about the man who first recruited the three of them back in Cambridge,’ Cayle went on: ‘I’m talking about the one who “ran” them. Is he still alive? Still around? Does he have a nice big office in Whitehall and a cushy armchair in White’s? And who are his cronies? His associates? His fellow-conspirators who kept quiet for all those years, and were able to kick over the traces when the going got rough?’

  Hennison peered up at him now with a weak smile. ‘Even if there were some truth in your theory, most of the people concerned would be retired by now, or dead.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Cayle. ‘Given the fact that they’d be only a few years older than Kim, they’d still be in their sixties or early seventies. And top Civil Servants rarely retire completely. Unlike politicians, there are no voters to kick them out.’

  ‘What facts have you got?’

  ‘The facts are gone. Buried. Destroyed by Philby’s co-conspirators.’

  ‘You sound very sure. Have you tried talking to retired members of the FO? Or even old MI6? There are quite a few disgruntled people about who might be prepared to talk — especially with a whisky or two inside them.’

  Cayle shook his head. ‘You’d never get near the people who really know the truth. Trying to get a straight answer out of your average British Civil Servant is about as easy as listening for a snake to fart.’

  ‘Have you any particular theory about who this person might be?’ Hennison asked slowly.

  ‘My bet is, it must have been someone very close to the three of them. Someone who knew and understood each of them perfectly. Someone able to keep them on the rails. A sort of glorified friend — father — schoolmaster — priest — professor. He also had to be someone powerful enough to cover up for them when the crunch came. And in the case of Kim Philby, he even got the whole British Secret Service to cover up! Because one thing’s for sure. That “someone” was no bullet-headed apparatchik. He was — and probably still is — someone on the inside, and very high up. What’s more, he almost certainly wasn’t alone. It would have needed a full professional team to run a spy network like that. Otherwise, if one accepts your comfortable theory about Burgess, Maclean and Philby being exceptional cases, they’d have been rumbled long ago.’

  ‘They were, finally.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cayle. ‘And what happened? They scarpered — just as they were supposed to.’

  Hennison had not moved.

  Cayle continued: ‘We know that Kim was the Third Man who tipped off Burgess and Maclean before they skipped in 1951. But now let’s look at what happened to Kim. In 1962 he was still sunning himself in Beirut as the Middle East correspondent for the Observer and the Economist — to whom he’d been obligingly recommended by his old chums in the FO. Then suddenly the roof fell in. A high-ranking Polish Intelligence officer defected to the West. The first thing that happened was the arrest of George Blake, who was jailed for forty-two years, before he miraculously escaped and popped up in Moscow — which raises a few more unanswered questions.

  ‘As for Kim, he’d have known that if this Pole could put the finger on Blake, he’d be able to do the same to him. So by the end of ’62 Kim was in mortal danger. Yet what does he do? Or more important, what do the British do? Well, they let him sit in Beirut more or less permanently pissed for the next couple of months, while MI6 send out one of his old mates to visit him, and spend hours with him in his favourite bar at the Normandy Hotel, trying to soft-talk him into making a nice helpful confession — the official theory being that he’d be more amenable in a bar in Beirut than in a cell in Brixton. And if people believe that, they’ll believe the Pope’s a Jew.’

  ‘If I remember rightly,’ Hennison said, ‘the details of that Beirut episode are very hazy. You’ll pardon my saying so, Barry, but you’re in danger of confusing fact with hypothesis.’

  ‘One fact I’m damn certain of, Mr Hennison. Kim Philby stuck around in Beirut for those two months because he was bloody certain that the British didn’t dare touch him. Christ! — he even made a couple of trips to the Yemen during that period, and each time his plane had to land in Aden, which was still a Crown colony, where the British could have picked him up as easily as if he’d been in Piccadilly Circus.’

  ‘So what made him finally leave?’

  ‘As I heard it, the Yanks had decided to move in on the job. I know for a fact that the day after Kim disappeared, on the night of January 23rd 1963, the whole of Beirut was swarming with CIA boys who weren’t making any secret of the fact that they’d come to settle his hash once and for all. They had a pretty big score to pay off, remember. Kim had been the chief British liaison officer with the CIA during the height of the Cold War, when he probably did his greatest damage to the Western cause. Washington had clearly rumbled him themselves, and Kim knew it — perhaps through his old MI6 friend, or perhaps through someone even higher up. Anyway, he skipped out in such a hurry that he didn’t even pack or kiss his wife goodbye.’

  Hennison sat for a moment in silence. When he spoke, it was with a tone of benign patronage: ‘It might make a good yarn, Barry. But it’s an awfully long way from proving your grand conspiracy theory. The truth, I suspect, is much simpler and much duller. When the authorities knew for certain that Philby was a spy, they probably weighed up the pros and cons of the case, and decided on balance that since the damage had already been done, no good could come of a messy trial, even in camera. Nobody benefits from a spy scandal — except the newspapers.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Cayle, ‘and keep the skeletons hidden under the dress-shirts. The fact that a few more spies and traitors are still at large in high places doesn’t matter, of course?’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know a lot about the details of Intelligence work, but I do know that an important part of it is the debriefing of enemy agents. And when that agent turns out to be one of your own boys, it becomes doubly important. In Kim’s case, he’d not only have been an invaluable source of information to the British and Americans — able to give them all kinds of insight into how Soviet Intelligence had worked during his thirty years with them. But he was equally invaluable to the Russkies. For them he must have been a walking encyclopaedia on how MI6 and the CIA operate — giving them all kinds of details that he could never have got out to them while he was working undercover in the West. So by letting him go, the British chalked up a double minus. They lost their chance to debrief him themselves, and at the same time handed him to Moscow on a plate.’

  Hennison finished his smoked salmon and wiped his fingers on a napkin. ‘You must remember that nothing in Intelligence work is ever straightforward. For all you or I know, there may have been quite a number of good reasons why MI6 allowed Philby to leave when he did.’

  ‘Sure there were. They wanted to avoid the biggest bleeding scandal in the history of the British Empire!’

  ‘All right. I see no point in arguing about it.’ There was a tetchiness in Hennison’s voice now, while his eyes still held that uncomfortable shifting expression. ‘I’ve asked you this already,’ he added, ‘and you didn’t give me an answer. Do you know the names of any of these so-called fellow-conspirators of Philby’s? Or shall I put it another way. Have you ever heard any names mentioned?’

  ‘Without wanting to be rude,’ said Cayle, ‘I’d say that question’s rather out of court, coming from a literary agent. Particularly as I’m not even your client yet.’

  Hennison blinked, then lowered his eyes again. ‘Very well, I understand how you feel. What you journalists call “confidential sources”? But let me ask you something else. Have you ever had any direct — or even indirect — dealings with Philby?’

  ‘Yeah. I met him.’

  ‘Not recently, surely?’

  ‘No, about thirteen years ago, when I was cutting my teeth doing fr
eelance work in the Middle East. It was in Beirut, just about the time the heat was being turned on him, and he was getting ready to do a bunk — although I had no idea, of course. I only bumped into him a couple of times. The first was at eleven in the morning in the St George’s Hotel, and he was sprawled out in his customary fashion, asleep on the bar. I remember the incident because he’d woken up to order a round of drinks. He was just dropping off again, when a young man came in and took him under the arm, and walked him out to a waiting taxi. Kim seemed so confused he didn’t even say cheerio, let alone pay for the round. But the person I remember most was the man he left with. He was British all right — you couldn’t mistake his clothes and accent. Smarmy little bastard with oily eyes. Straight out of the top drawer — obviously not a journalist. He didn’t say anything to the rest of us — just gave us a quick once over, as though we were piles of dog-shit. I didn’t see him again, but I wouldn’t mind laying pretty long odds that he was one of Kim’s mates from British Intelligence.’

  ‘And the second time?’

  ‘About a week later. We were all being flown on a chartered plane to Aden, then up to Sa’ana in the Yemen. Kim had had a pretty heavy night and in the morning he wasn’t on the bus to the airport. We were sitting in the plane with the engines revving up, when a figure came running across the tarmac with a battered old briefcase and just managed to scramble aboard before the steps were taken away. It was Kim. He hadn’t shaved and he looked terrible. He took his seat to a standing ovation from the whole Press corps.’

  ‘A popular chap?’

  ‘Sure. Everybody’s favourite drunk.’

  ‘Do you remember anything else about him?’

  ‘Only that he kept coming up to us and saying, “I’ve just found a little place where they do excellent Abyssinian goat.”’

  ‘How did he get on in the Yemen — it being “dry”?’

  ‘Didn’t seem to worry him at all. That was what struck me most about him. Not only could he turn his drinking on and off like a tap, but he was amazingly adaptable. He took to the Arab way of life as though he’d always lived there. It was probably hereditary. After all, his father, St John Philby, had been a great Arabist.’

  ‘That mad bastard,’ Hennison muttered, with surprising venom. ‘He had a lot to answer for. Like father, like son. Rebels and misfits, both of them. That was the real trouble with Philby — he wanted to fit in and couldn’t. But going back to those final months in Beirut, there’s one thing you haven’t explained. From all I’ve heard, Philby was obviously cracking up. You said yourself he was drunk most of the time. So if — as you claim — he wasn’t frightened of being arrested by the British, what was worrying him? Why didn’t he pack his bags and go straight to his beloved Moscow, instead of hanging around risking the vengeance of the Americans, or anyone else who didn’t particularly approve of what he’d been doing?’

  ‘My own hunch,’ said Cayle, ‘is that once he knew the game was up and realized he’d have to take the jump, he drew back at the last moment. He’d given his whole life to Moscow, but when it came to the point of having to go and live in the bloody place, with no options and no escape, perhaps the prospect wasn’t quite so appetizing.’

  ‘It’s a possibility, knowing Philby’s lifestyle. Even if his ideology affected to despise material wellbeing, he certainly enjoyed his creature comforts. He wasn’t a member of the Athenaeum for nothing. And I know that he was very bucked at getting his CBE.’

  ‘Sounds as though you knew him?’ said Cayle.

  ‘I did — quite well, for a time, in a rather humble capacity during the war. He was stationed with Section Five of SIS near St Albans, and I had a job co-ordinating codes from the Resistance movements. Philby was the man I dealt with.’

  ‘How did he strike you?’

  ‘Amiable enough. Lot of charm. Rather schoolboyish sense of humour. Hard drinker and hard worker. And damned conscientious. A good man to work with.’ He paused. ‘He was also an A-one copper-bottomed bastard.’

  ‘Was that the opinion you formed at the time?’ said Cayle. ‘Or with hindsight?’

  ‘I formed it pretty early on. I’ve always been on my guard against people with charm, and Philby was very charming. But underneath, there was also something very coarse about him — something that showed in his humour, particularly when he got drunk. He got drunk like an upper-class lout. He was a great suspender-snapper and bottom-pincher, and quite often used to strip down to his underpants and dance on the table — that is, when he wasn’t under the table.’

  ‘Sounds a pretty harmless war-time pursuit,’ Cayle murmured.

  ‘He was also a thief,’ said Hennison. ‘He’d steal anything — reputations, jobs, State Secrets, wives, people’s affection, trust, loyalty. About the only thing he didn’t steal was money. Because Kim Philby was no cheap spy in a dirty mackintosh, selling his country’s secrets for a few bundles of fivers. Oh no! He was an idealist — he had a cause. You might even say a calling. Which perhaps explains that sanctimonious guff that Graham Greene wrote about his having a “higher loyalty”. Kim Philby had about as much higher loyalty as a black mamba.’

  ‘So what attracted him to Communism?’

  ‘Power, and mischief.’ Hennison leant forward, his pale eyes showing a slow flicker of enthusiasm. ‘Look, if you’re going to get anywhere trying to understand Philby’s true motives, you’ve got to realize that he wasn’t fired by any passion for the working class, which he’d never had anything to do with, or by any real love for Mother Russia, which he’d never been to until he fled there, or even by a belief in Marx, whom I happen to know he found too boring to read. With Philby it was a game. He was like a child at a birthday party who goes round bursting the other children’s balloons. He was accepted by the Establishment, and he despised it — he thought he was too good for it. What he really enjoyed was being one-up — the snigger in the sleeve as he was entrusted with another top secret document — stammering his sympathies to the CIA bosses after he had sent a few hundred Albanian exiles to their deaths. He’s a ruthless, vain, murderous shit.’

  ‘So why were the British so bloody keen to cover up for him?’

  Hennison sighed. ‘Oh dear, were back to that conspiracy theory again, are we?’

  Cayle lit a cheroot and looked steadily at his host, one eye half closed against the smoke. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand about you, Mr Hennison. You invited me here to talk about a novel I’m thinking of writing. I say a novel, because it seems the likeliest way of getting round the libel laws and the Official Secrets Act. When you originally contacted me, you said you might be able to help me. So far all you’ve done is tell me that Kim Philby was a bottom-pincher and all-round shit, then throw cold water over my whole idea. What the hell are you after?’

  Hennison stared at a point just above Cayle’s shoulder. ‘I’d like to make a suggestion,’ he said at last. ‘Why don’t you try to see Philby? Sound him out. Perhaps get him over a few vodkas and see if he’s prepared to volunteer anything himself about your theory.’

  Cayle chuckled. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that you’d believe anything that Kim said?’

  ‘I’d certainly be interested to hear what he said.’

  ‘Are you offering me a commission?’

  ‘That’s something we’d have to discuss. But given your reputation, I don’t think it would be too difficult to get a publisher’s advance for, say, a travel book about Russia. Certainly enough to cover your expenses. How much do you know about Philby’s life in Moscow?’ he added.

  ‘We get the odd report from journalists there,’ said Cayle. ‘But unlike the old days, Kim keeps well clear of his old mates in the Press. Last I heard, he’d had a slight heart attack. Before that, his mistress, Melinda — Donald Maclean’s wife — had run out on him and gone back to her hubby, who’s supposed to have terminal cancer.’

  ‘So Kim’s the happy bachelor again?’

  ‘I don’t know about happy.’
r />   ‘Oh?’ Hennison looked interested. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Cayle grinned. ‘Have you ever tried living in Moscow?’ Hennison did not reply. ‘Well, you were the one who mentioned his lifestyle. Maybe after thirteen years in the Workers’ State, the old fellah’s getting itchy feet. Might even be thinking of coming back.’

  Hennison’s whole manner fractionally changed: behind the bland composure he had become alert and wary. He said: ‘Have you any ideas about how you might make contact with Philby?’

  ‘He has an office in the KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinski Square, and he always goes there with at least one bodyguard. If Westerners accost him in the street, he usually answers in Russian and walks on. And nobody’s yet tracked down his private address. In other words, it won’t be easy.’

  ‘You’re a resourceful man. You’ll find a way. Philby can’t be changed all that much. As you say, he must get lonely over there. He likes company, drinks, parties.’

  ‘Oh, I can find him all right,’ said Cayle. ‘Only there’s no guarantee he’ll tell me anything. And even if he does, I’m pretty sure it’ll be on his terms. But first I’ve got to get to Moscow.’

  ‘That shouldn’t present any problems, surely? As I said, you’ll go in a professional capacity, paid for by a publisher’s advance.’

  ‘Now just a minute! Let’s get one thing straight, Hennison. I’m not jogging off to the Soviet Union on some subsidized jaunt, posing as a phoney novelist or travel-book writer. If I go, I go as the official representative for my paper. I’m too old to spend the next few years carving chessmen somewhere in the Gulag Archipelago.’

  ‘I think you’re being a trifle melodramatic,’ Hennison said primly.

  ‘Could be. I’m also touchy about accepting money from strange men.’

  Hennison seemed unperturbed by this remark. ‘I appreciate your professional loyalty, Mr Cayle. Go for your paper by all means, if you can persuade them to send you.’

  ‘And why shouldn’t they send me?’