A Spy Among Friends: Kim Philby and the Great Betrayal

20

Three Old Spies

Kim Philby did not love Moscow, and Moscow did not love him, though both tried to pretend otherwise. Philby may have believed, back in 1934, that he was joining an ‘elite’ force, but found he had no KGB rank, and little to do. In Russian eyes, he was an agent, not an officer, and one of little further use. He was welcomed, thanked, debriefed and rewarded; but he was never quite trusted. The ease with which he had escaped from Beirut may have rekindled doubts long dormant in Moscow, the uneasy, queasy suspicion that he might yet be double-crossing the KGB. Yuri Modin found him unreadable: ‘He never revealed his true self. Neither the British, nor the women he lived with, nor ourselves ever managed to pierce the armour of mystery that clad him . . . in the end I suspect that Philby made a mockery of everyone, particularly ourselves.’ A KGB minder accompanied him everywhere, ostensibly as protection against possible British retaliation, but also as guard, and jailer. He remained, in the words of one KGB officer, an ‘Englishman to his fingertips’, and therefore innately suspect. In Britain, Philby had been too British to be doubted; in Russia, he was too British to be believed.

When Philby’s copies of The Times arrived in Moscow, usually weeks after publication, he carefully ironed them, and then pored over accounts of cricket matches long since over. He ate thick-cut Oxford marmalade on his toast, sipped imported English tea, and listened to the BBC World Service every evening at seven. When his children visited from the West, they brought Marmite, Worcestershire sauce, and spices for the Indian meals he liked to cook. He wore a tweed jacket in hound’s-tooth check, and a woollen tie. He drank Johnnie Walker Red Label whisky, often obliteratingly. He described Russia as his ‘homeland’, insisting that he had never really ‘belonged’ to the British ruling class, and could not, therefore, have betrayed it. But more honestly, he admitted that he was ‘wholly and irreversibly English’. At times he sounded like a retired civil servant put out to grass (which, in a way, he was) harrumphing at the vulgarity of modern life, protesting against change. The new ways of cricket baffled and enraged him. ‘Aluminium bats, white balls, funny clothes . . . it is all too confusing for a gentleman of the old school like myself.’ In an unconscious echo of Marcus Lipton MP, he grumbled about ‘the ghastly din of modern music’ and ‘hooligans inflamed by bourgeois rock music’.

Other old habits persisted. His marriage to Eleanor staggered on for a time, but it was broken inside. She found Moscow grey, cold and lonely. One day she asked him: ‘What is more important in your life, me and the children, or the Communist Party?’ Philby’s answer was the one he always gave when asked to measure feeling against politics. ‘The party, of course.’ He not only demanded admiration for his ideological consistency, for having ‘stayed the course’, but sympathy for what it had cost him. ‘If you only knew what hell it is when your political convictions clash with your personal affections,’ he wrote in a note to the diplomat Glen Balfour-Paul. On the few occasions he received visitors from the West, he asked hungrily after news of friends. ‘Friendship is the most important thing of all,’ he declared, as if he had not undermined every one of his own. Lorraine Copeland wrote that it was ‘painful to think that during the years we all loved Kim and had him constantly in our homes, he was all the while laughing at us’. Philby bridled at that suggestion. ‘I wasn’t laughing at them. 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. The conflict can be very painful. I don’t like deceiving people, especially friends, and contrary to what others think, I feel very badly about it.’ But not so badly as to stop.

Philby rekindled his friendship with Donald Maclean and his wife Melinda, and the two exiled couples were naturally thrown together. Maclean spoke fluent Russian, and had been given a job analysing British foreign policy. He often worked late. Philby and Melinda started going to the opera, and then on shopping trips together. In 1964, Eleanor returned to the US to renew her passport and see her daughter. In her absence, Kim Philby and Melinda Maclean started an affair. It was a fitting liaison: Philby was secretly sleeping with the wife of an ideological comrade, and cheating on his own wife, repeating once again the strange cycle of friendship and betrayal that defined his world. Eleanor returned, discovered the affair, and announced she was leaving him for good: Philby did not try to stop her. He did, however, present her with his most treasured possession, his old Westminster scarf. ‘It had travelled with him – from school days to exile in Moscow,’ wrote Elliott. This symbolic loyalty to his old school was, Elliott thought, a ‘supreme example of schizophrenia’. At the airport, a KGB officer sent Eleanor on her way with a bunch of tulips.

Like Aileen before her, Eleanor did not long survive their final break-up. She wrote a poignant, pained memoir, and died three years after returning to the US. ‘He betrayed many people, me included,’ she wrote. ‘Kim had the guts, or the weakness, to stand by a decision he made thirty years ago, whatever the cost to those who loved him most.’ Eleanor spent the remainder of her life wondering who she had really married, and concluded: ‘No one can ever really know another human being.’

*

James Jesus Angleton’s personality was transformed by the realisation that he had never really known Kim Philby. His faith in his fellow men had never been strong, but he had believed in the British notion that the inner ring could always be trusted; after Philby’s defection a profound and poisonous paranoia seemed to seize him. ‘The emotional wreckage of that close friendship made him distrust everybody and coloured his life from that point on.’ He became convinced that a vast, overarching conspiracy must be taking place under his nose, orchestrated by Philby, from Moscow. ‘Jim just continued to think that Philby was a key actor in the KGB grand plan,’ one CIA contemporary said of Angleton. ‘To him, Philby was never just a drunken, burned-out ex-spy. He was a leader of the orchestra.’ In Angleton’s warped logic, if Philby had fooled him, then there must be many other KGB spies in positions of influence in the West. ‘Never again would he permit himself to be so badly duped. He would trust no one.’

Convinced that the CIA was riddled with Soviet spies, Angleton set about rooting them out, detecting layer after layer of deception surrounding him. He suspected that a host of world leaders were under KGB control, including British Prime Minister Harold Wilson, Olof Palme of Sweden and German Chancellor Willy Brandt. He drew up more than 10,000 case files on suspect individuals, anti-war protesters and internal dissidents, often gathering information by illegal means. The damage he inflicted on the CIA reached such levels that some even accused him of being a Soviet mole himself, destroying the organisation from within by creating a climate of debilitating suspicion. Uncompromising and obsessive, more than a decade after Philby’s vanishing act Angleton was still ascribing every fresh sign of treachery to the man he had once idolised. ‘This is all Kim’s work,’ he would mutter.

Nicholas Elliott watched and wondered as Angleton descended into his wilderness of mirrors. They remained friends, from a distance, but the warmth had gone. The Philby betrayal seemed to metastasise in Angleton’s mind. ‘He had trusted him and confided in him far beyond any routine relationship between the colleagues of two friendly countries,’ wrote Elliott. ‘The knowledge that he, Jim, the top expert in the world on Soviet espionage, had been totally deceived, had a cataclysmic effect on his personality. Jim henceforward found it difficult to trust anybody, to make two and two add up to four.’ Elliott believed his old friend was being devoured by distrust: ‘Over-suspicion can sometimes have more tragic results than over-credulity. His tragedy was that he was so often deceived by his own ingenuity, and the consequences were often disastrous.’

James Angleton was forced out of the CIA in 1974, when the extent of his illegal mole-hunting was revealed. He retired with his orchids, his fishing rods and his secrets, a man of deep and enduring mystery, and a brilliant fool. In retirement, he spent much of his time in the Army and Navy Club, a place strongly redolent of an old-fashioned London gentleman’s club. He continued to insist that he had suspected Kim Philby from the start, but his weeding from CIA files of every reference to his relationship with Philby was proof enough of the falsity of that claim. Philby haunted the CIA. ‘I don’t know that the damage he did can ever be actually calculated,’ wrote Richard Helms, the CIA chief appointed in 1966. One CIA historian assessed the cost by means of italics: ‘at least twenty-five major, but major operations, were destroyed.’

In 1987, Angleton attended a luncheon with former CIA officers at the Officers’ Club in Fort Myer outside Washington. He was sixty-nine, but looked a decade older, his body racked by cancer that had started in the lungs. His colleagues urged him to ‘come clean in the Philby case’. Angleton gave one of his crippled half-smiles, and said: ‘There are some matters that I shall have to take to the grave with me, and Kim is one of them.’

A week later, true to his word, he was dead.

*

Nicholas Elliott’s career was hobbled by his association with Philby. Some in MI6 believed he had allowed Philby to flee Beirut out of personal loyalty. Some still do. By the 1960s, the Robber Barons who had come of age in the 1940s were creatures of the past. MI6 was more professional, less buccaneering, and in Elliott’s view, a lot less fun. Sir Stewart Menzies and Elliott remained close friends. In 1968, the former C fell off his horse while riding with the Beaufort Hunt, and never recovered. Elliott was the only serving MI6 officer to attend the funeral. By now he was Director of Requirements at MI6, responsible for the quality and relevance of information produced by the intelligence service for other government departments. It was an important job, but bureaucratic, and exactly the sort of role he had always despised. ‘To be in administration was, in my view, the last resort.’

Elliott retired in 1968, after almost thirty years as a spy. ‘Rather to my surprise I did not miss the confidential knowledge which no longer filtered through my in-tray,’ he wrote. He joined the board of Lonrho, the international mining and media company based in Cheapside in the City of London, and led by the maverick businessman Tiny Rowland. Elliott considered Rowland ‘a modern Cecil Rhodes’, which did not stop him from joining a boardroom coup against him. When this failed, Rowland ousted the rebels, including Elliott, whom he described as ‘the Harry Lime of Cheapside’. Elliott was thrilled to be compared to the sinister character played by Orson Welles in Graham Greene’s The Third Man, and adopted it as his soubriquet. He joined a firm of stockbrokers, but found himself ‘incapable of leading that kind of life without relapsing into a slough of depression and boredom’ and soon gave it up, to pursue a life of esoteric and eccentric interests.

Elliott bought a share in a racehorse, and never missed a day of Ascot. He watched a great deal of cricket, and built up a fine wine cellar. He became interested in graphology, the pseudo-scientific study of handwriting, and found he had a ‘gift for dowsing’, the ability to locate underground water, ore and gems. He could be frequently seen marching across the countryside of the Home Counties with his divining rods, and then energetically digging holes. He approached MI6 with a plan to exhume buried Nazi treasure from the grounds of a monastery in Rome. He also took up transcendental meditation, which he considered a spiritual ‘alternative to involvement in religion’. Klop Ustinov turned up at Wilton Street from time to time, with hot veal kidneys à la liégeoise, in a hat box. Elliott’s daughter Claudia died tragically young but, as ever, his stiff upper lip precluded public grief. He spent much of his time in clubs, where he was admired as a raconteur of risqué anecdotes, the conversational refuge of the Englishman who does not know quite what to say, or cannot say what he really knows. He was no longer in the inner ring, but he did not yet abandon the secret world.

In the early 1980s, a tall, spare figure in an immaculate three-piece suit could be seen from time to time slipping without fanfare into Number Ten, Downing Street. Nicholas Elliott had become – no one was quite sure how – an unofficial adviser on intelligence matters to Margaret Thatcher. What was discussed during these meetings has never been fully revealed, and Elliott was far too discreet to say, but his political antennae were impeccable: after the break up of the Soviet Union, he correctly predicted the emergence of an authoritarian government in Russia; he foresaw the growth of Islamic fundamentalism, the rise of Iranian aggression, and the growing economic and political clout of China. Thatcher undoubtedly shared his view that post-imperial Britain was ‘showing a quite unjustified lack of self-confidence’. The costume of an éminence grise fitted him well.

As Elliott aged, the pain of Philby’s perfidy ebbed. Unlike Angleton, he would not allow Philby’s ghost to torment and destroy him. He came to see the way he had been duped not as a mark of shame, but as a badge of honour. Philby had been able to manipulate Elliott’s loyal constancy, his adherence to an old code of behaviour, as a weapon against him, and there was no dishonour in that. Yet he never ceased to wonder how someone who had been raised and educated as he had, someone he had known ‘extremely well over an extended period’, could have chosen such a radically different path. ‘I have naturally given thought to the motivations behind treachery,’ he wrote. In later life, he found himself trying to understand ‘Philby the man, and make some form of analysis of the personality that evolved.’ Whenever he reflected on the lives Philby had wasted, his anger welled up. ‘Outwardly he was a kindly man. Inwardly he must have been cold, calculating and cruel – traits which he cleverly concealed from his friends and colleagues. He undoubtedly had a high opinion of himself concealed behind a veil of false modesty and thus a firm streak of egocentricity.’ Philby had been a two-sided man, Elliott concluded, and he had only ever seen one, beguiling side, ‘a façade, in a schizophrenic personality with a supreme talent for deception’.

Though part of Elliott detested Philby, he also mourned him. He recalled Philby’s small kindnesses, the devotion he inspired in others, his enchanting mischief. He imagined him living a ‘sad exiled life’ in Moscow, with ‘dreary people, a spying servant, drab clothes’ and felt a twinge of something like sympathy for a man of rare talents, whose life had been ‘wasted in a futile cause’, who had ‘decided to betray his friends, his family, and country for a creed that is now universally discredited’. He missed the spark that had drawn him to Philby on the very first day they met in 1940. ‘He had charm to burn,’ he wrote, with a reluctant wistfulness. ‘He is said to have it still.’

Philby also found his thoughts turning to Elliott in old age, and reached the firm conclusion that he had been manoeuvred into fleeing Beirut: ‘The whole thing was staged so as to push me into escaping.’ Elliott had been motivated by the ‘desire to spare SIS another spy scandal in London’, and had unloaded him on Moscow.

As the Cold War raged, Philby was used as a propaganda tool by both sides. The Soviets set out to prove that he was living, in the words of one apologist, a life in Moscow of ‘blissful peace’. In 1968, with KGB approval (and editing), he published a memoir, My Silent War, a blend of fact and fiction, history and disinformation, which depicted Soviet intelligence as uniformly brilliant, and himself as a hero of ideological constancy. Political voices in the West insisted that the reverse was true, and that Philby, drunken, depressed and disillusioned, was getting his just deserts for a life of betrayal and adherence to a diabolical doctrine. US President Ronald Reagan declared: ‘How sleepless must be Kim Philby’s nights in Moscow . . . how profoundly he and others like him must be aware that the people they betrayed are going to be victors in the end.’ One former MI5 officer even claimed to know what was going through Philby’s mind when he did fall asleep: ‘He’s a totally sad man, dreaming of a cottage in Sussex with roses around the door.’

The truth was somewhere in between. Philby was deeply unhappy during the early years in Soviet Russia, a place Burgess had memorably described as ‘like Glasgow on a Saturday night in Victorian times’. The affair with Melinda soon fizzled out; she returned to Maclean, and then left the USSR for good. Philby drank heavily, often alone, and suffered from chronic insomnia. He would later admit that his life became ‘burdensome’. At some point he tried to end it, by slashing his wrists. But in 1970, his spirits began to lift when George Blake, his fellow exile, introduced him to Rufina Ivanovna, a Russian woman of Polish extraction twenty years his junior, who would become his fourth wife. The KGB sent them a tea set of English bone china as a wedding present. The lingering suspicion of the Soviet intelligence service cleared, and in 1977, Philby gave a lecture to KGB officers, in which he insisted that the secret agent should admit nothing under interrogation, and on no account provide a confession. ‘Any confession involves giving information to the enemy. It is therefore – by definition – wrong.’ Some of his audience must have known that Philby had himself confessed to Nicholas Elliott back in 1963. They were much too tactful to point this out.

Philby’s last years were quiet, dutiful and domesticated. Rufina tried to wean him off the booze, with only partial success. He did odd jobs for the Soviet state, including the training of KGB recruits and helping to motivate the Soviet hockey team – even though, as Elliott once noted, he was addicted to cricket and ‘showed no interest whatsoever in any other sort of sport’. He was awarded the Order of Lenin, which he compared to a knighthood, ‘one of the better ones’. In return, he never criticised the system he had supported all his adult life, never acknowledged the true character of the organisation he had served, and never uttered a word of remorse. In the officially approved Soviet style, he maintained that any errors in practical communism lay not with the ideas, but with the people executing them.

Philby died in a Moscow hospital on 11 May 1988. He was given a grand funeral with a KGB honour guard, buried at Kuntsevo cemetery outside Moscow, and lauded for his ‘tireless struggle in the cause of peace and a brighter future’. He was commemorated with a Soviet postage stamp. In 2011, the Russian foreign intelligence service put up a plaque with two faces of Kim Philby facing one another in profile, an inadvertently apt monument to a man with two sides to his head.

Elliott hatched a plan for a different sort of memorial. He recommended to MI6 that Philby be awarded the CMG, the order of St Michael and St George, the sixth most prestigious award in the British honours system, awarded to men and women who render extraordinary or important non-military service in a foreign country. Elliott further suggested that he write a signed obituary note to accompany the award, in which he would say only: ‘My lips have hitherto been sealed but I can now reveal that Philby was one of the bravest men I have ever known.’ The implication would be clear to Moscow: Philby had been acting for Britain all along; he was not a valiant Soviet double agent, but a heroic British triple agent, and Elliott had been his spymaster. The idea that Philby had fooled the KGB would cause ‘a tremendous fluttering in the dovecotes of the Lubyanka’, Elliott wrote, and inflict the most gratifying posthumous revenge. It would be a splendid tease at Philby’s expense, to which he could have no answer. Elliott’s proposal was turned down. The new-style MI6 did not do jokes.

As his own end approached, Elliott reflected on a life that had been ‘undistinguished, albeit mildly notorious’, and tremendous fun.

He had known indignity, misfortune and intimate betrayal, but his fund of natural optimism never ran out. ‘I feel I have been extraordinarily lucky,’ he wrote. ‘I look back on my career with some wonderment.’

Elliott kept a part of Philby with him always. He treasured the old umbrella he had bought so many years ago, in admiring imitation of his closest friend, and his worst enemy. When Elliott died in 1994, he left behind a short memoir, mostly consisting of off-colour stories, with a rueful, self-mocking title: Never Judge a Man by His Umbrella.

It was a joke that only two people could have fully appreciated: Nicholas Elliott, and Kim Philby.

See Notes on Chapter 20