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368 pages, Hardcover
First published July 29, 2014
"I have always operated on two levels, a personal level and a political one. When the two have come into conflict, I have had to put politics first." - Kim Philby
Two middle-aged spies are sitting in an apartment in the Christian Quarter, sipping tea and lying courteously to each other, as evening approaches. They are English -- so English that the habit of politeness that binds them together and keeps them apart never falters for a moment. The sounds of the street waft up through the open window, car horns and horses' hooves mingling with the clink of china and the murmured voices. A microphone, cunningly concealed beneath the sofa, picks up the conversation and passes it along a wire, through a small hole in the wainscotting, and into the next room, where a third man sits hunched over a turning tape recorder, straining to make out the words through Bakelite headphones.
The two men are old friends. They have known each other for nearly thirty years. But they are bitter foes now, combatants on opposing sides of a brutal conflict.
Kim Philby and Nicholas Elliott learned the spy trade together during the Second World War. When that war was over, they rose together through the ranks of British intelligence, sharing every secret. They belonged to the same clubs, drank in the same bars, wore the same well-tailored clothes, and married women of their own tribe. But all that time, Philby had one secret he never shared: he was covertly working for Moscow, taking everything he was told by Elliott and passing it on to his Soviet spymasters.
Angleton was a little like one of the rare orchids he would later cultivate with such dedication: an exotic hybrid, a Mexican-Apache-Midwestern English-sounding poet-spy, rare and remarkable, alluring to some, but faintly sinister to those who prefer simpler flora..
Spies, even more than most people, invent the past to cover up mistakes.
"The privately educated Englishman is the greatest dissembler of earth."
~ John le Carré
Soviet intelligence was playing a long game, laying down seed corn that could be harvested many years hence or left dormant forever. It was a simple, brilliant, durable strategy of the sort that only a state committed to permanent world revolution could have initiated. It would prove staggeringly successful.
[In 1944,] Philby, the veteran Soviet spy, was now in charge of Britain’s anti-Soviet intelligence operations, in a position to inform Moscow not only of what Britain was doing to counter Soviet espionage but also of Britain’s own espionage efforts against Moscow. The fox was not merely guarding the henhouse but building it, running it, assessing its strengths and frailties, and planning its future construction.
"On the subject of friendship, I'd prefer to say as little as possible, because it's very complicated." ~ Kim Philby
No one likes to admit they have been utterly conned. The truth was simpler, as it almost always is: Philby was spying on everyone, and no one was spying on him, because he fooled them all.
... a cultural fault line that predated this crisis, long outlasted it, and persists today. MI5 and MI6 ... overlapped in many respects but were fundamentally dissimilar in outlook... MI6 was more of public school and Oxbridge; its accent more refined, its tailoring better. Its agents and officers frequently broke the law of other countries in pursuit of secrets, and did so with a certain swagger. MI6 was White's Club; MI5 was the Rotary Club; MI6 was upper-middle class (and sometimes aristocratic); MI5 was middle class (and sometimes working class). In the minute gradations of social stratification that meant so much in Britain, MI5 was "below the salt," a little common, and MI6 was gentlemanly, elitist, and old school tie.
MI5 looked up at MI6 with resentment; MI6 looked down with a small but ill-hidden sneer.
Many of Philby’s colleagues in MI6 would cling to that presumption of innocence as an article of faith. To accept otherwise would be to admit that they had all been fooled; it would make the intelligence and diplomatic services look entirely idiotic.
Philby's escape from justice was proof of "how clubmanship and the old school tie could protect their own."