A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [146]
Earlier in his career, British intelligence had been convinced that Philby was the Third Man, even to the point of asking for his resignation. Yet they held off, because the consequences of publicly revealing an enemy within outweighed the practical necessity of unmasking him: the shame would have been too much for the Establishment to endure. Philby, Burgess and Maclean all survived undetected for so long precisely for this reason, precisely because of their gentlemanly polish, their wit and erudition. In short, no one believed it possible that such men would betray their country. They induced a sort of class blindness in the intelligence community.
In spite of their suspicions, SIS allowed Philby to operate in Lebanon for some time, using journalism as cover. While still on the SIS payroll he filed for the Observer, in between feeding cocktail party gossip to low-level KGB agents in Beirut. Throughout all of this, SIS acted as if Philby was a problem that would eventually disappear. Which in the end, of course, is exactly what he did.
When they were sure, when they knew that they had their man, they sent Philby’s best friend - his Saul - to Beirut to flush him out. Nicholas Elliott was also SIS, under instruction to offer him immunity from prosecution in return for a full confession. He was given twenty-four hours to reveal the full extent of his activities, but over that period was left to his own devices. What is astonishing to me is that on the night of Elliott’s visit Philby attended a dinner party at the residence of the First Secretary to the British Embassy, and then drank himself into a coma on cheap Lebanese whisky. When he woke up he made the decision to defect. He contacted his KGB controller, was given false papers as a Russian sailor and spirited back to Moscow on a freight ship before anyone had time to notice.
33
Caccia
The days after seeing Kate continue to feel awkward and unsettled, like the guilt that follows an infidelity. The morning after I first slept with Anna there was this sense that I had succumbed to a needless temptation with no net gain which threatened to destroy everything. The pursuit was all: actually to wake up beside her, to adjust to her routines and smells, was the least enjoyable part of it. And yet I went back to her, time and again, for no better reason than that she provided me with a sense of excitement, a pitiful rush of adrenalin.
Telling Kate about JUSTIFY, having not seen her for more than two years, feels oddly similar, for she is a stranger to me now, someone whom I no longer know. The confession was pointless: none of my anxiety has subsided and, if anything, telling her has actually compounded the problem. I feel no less guilty about Cohen - whose condition in Switzerland is deteriorating - and I have broken the explicit pledge made to Lithiby, Caccia and Hawkes to maintain absolute secrecy.
But perhaps the most damaging consequence of contacting Kate is that there is now someone out there who knows the truth about me. This endangers both her and the security of the operation. Although I can trust Kate to keep her mouth shut in the short term, it may not be too long before she feels the need to open up to someone. There is a sell-by date on secrets.
Nevertheless, it is astonishing how quickly things begin to slip out of control.
On the afternoon of Thursday, 1 May, election day, I get a call at my desk direct from Caccia. He would never normally phone me in person. Barbara would do it, or he would send an encrypted message to Uxbridge Road.
When I pick up, he says:
‘Alec. It’s David.’
I do not disguise my surprise with any skill.
‘We need to have a talk,’ he says. ‘Right away. Can you come up?’
‘Of course.’
Instinctively, I look up to check for Cohen’s whereabouts, to ensure that he has not overheard the conversation, and it is only after a couple of seconds that I realize my mistake. Tanya is eating a yoghurt at her