7
D-Day was approaching, the Allies were advancing and Kim Philby, Nick Elliott and their OSS colleague Jim Angleton, like so many others who had come of age in war, began to wonder what they would do with their lives when it was over. Each was determined to remain in the intelligence game, and make a career of it; each had found success in the arcane art of espionage, and all three were destined for rapid promotion, two through merit, and one by an office putsch.
As the Nazi threat receded, the fear of Soviet espionage revived. Before the war, MI5 and MI6 had expended considerable energy, resources and anxiety on combating the communist menace, both inside and outside Britain. But the overwhelming challenge of the war with Germany, and the alliance with Stalin, had diverted attention from Moscow’s covert activities. By 1944 the Soviet espionage threat was coming back into sharp focus. ‘We’ve been penetrated by the communists,’ Sir Stewart Menzies told Angleton, ‘and they’re on the inside, but we don’t know exactly how.’ Waking up to the threat of communism from within, the chiefs of British intelligence were increasingly aware that new weapons, and a restructured service, would be needed to take on ‘the next enemy’, the Soviet Union. The battle lines of the Cold War were being drawn.
In March 1944, Philby suggested to C that the time had come to resume the fight against communist spies by establishing a new section, Section IX, for the ‘professional handling of any cases coming to our notice involving Communists or people concerned in Soviet espionage’. C was enthusiastic, and so was the Foreign Office ‘provided you do not do anything in the USSR itself (despite Soviet espionage in this country)’. An MI5 officer, Jack Curry, was initially placed in charge, but the obvious person to run the new division in the long term was the experienced head of Section V, Felix Cowgill. Philby later claimed that Moscow ordered him to elbow aside Cowgill, a task he did not relish. ‘I must do everything, but everything, to ensure that I become head of Section IX,’ Philby wrote. ‘Cowgill must go.’ It seems more likely that Philby suggested the setting up of Section IX with the firm intention of taking it over, and Cowgill was in the way.
The removal of Cowgill was carried out with surgical detachment, and no remorse. Philby carefully stoked the antagonism between Cowgill and his senior colleagues, brittle Valentine Vivian and venomous Claude Dansey; he whispered darkly to those in authority of the sour relations between Cowgill and MI5; and he manoeuvred himself into a position as prime candidate to take over Section IX in Cowgill’s stead. Finally, in September 1944, Philby was summoned to C’s office, received with ‘great warmth’, and told that he would be running the new Soviet section. Philby accepted with pleasure, but not before planting a small and suitably deferential suggestion in C’s mind. Since Cowgill’s dealings with MI5 had been so bad, might it be sensible to ensure the sister service had no objection to his own appointment? Philby was not remotely fearful that MI5, where he had many friends, would actually challenge his promotion. He merely wanted to be sure that MI5’s fingerprints were all over this decision; that way, if the Security Service should ever investigate how he had come to be in such a powerful position, he could point out that they had helped to put him there. Menzies swiftly became convinced that ‘the idea was his own’. When Cowgill discovered he had been passed over for the top job, he resigned in fury, as Philby knew he would.
Section IX was originally envisaged as a counter-intelligence unit, to attack Moscow’s espionage efforts abroad, but it would soon expand to include running intelligence operations against the Soviet bloc, as well as monitoring and secretly attacking communist movements in Europe. 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 hen house, but building it, running it, assessing its strengths and frailties, and planning its future construction. As a contemporary later observed, ‘At one stroke he got rid of a staunch anti-communist and ensured that the whole post-war effort to counter communist espionage would become known in the Kremlin. The history of espionage offers few, if any, comparable masterstrokes.’
The reaction in Moscow was, naturally, ecstatic. ‘The new appointment is hard to over-estimate,’ the British section of the NKVD reported, noting that Philby was ‘moving up in his institution, he is respected and valued’. Soviet suspicion of Philby had already waned, and now dispersed altogether, in part because Elena Modrzhinskaya, the doyenne of conspiracy theory, had retired with the rank of colonel to give lectures on the evils of cosmopolitanism at the Soviet Institute of Philosophy. Notwithstanding her suspicions, Philby and the other Cambridge spies had been loyal throughout the war, and astonishingly productive. Philby had reported on the ‘Manhattan’ atomic bomb programme, the plans for D-Day, Britain’s Polish policy, OSS operations in Italy (thanks to Angleton), MI6 activities in Istanbul (thanks to Elliott), and much more, all perfectly truthfully. In the course of the war an estimated 10,000 documents, political, economic and military, were sent to Moscow from the London office of the NKVD. Modrzhinskaya stands as a symbol of Stalinism at its oddest: she was consistently ideologically correct, while being utterly, hilariously wrong.
Philby’s latest Soviet case officer was Boris Krötenschield, a young workaholic codenamed ‘Max’ – a ‘jovial, kindly man’ who spoke an antique, courtly English that made him sound like a tweedy country squire. Krötenschield was closer, in mentality and character, to the men who had recruited Philby back in 1934, ‘a splendid professional and a wonderful person’ to whom he could ‘unburden’ his thoughts and feelings. Some of his former hero-worship was returning. The Centre showered him with praise and presents. ‘I must thank you once again for the marvellous gift,’ Philby wrote in December 1944. ‘The prospects that have opened before me in connection with my recent change at work inspire me to optimistic thoughts.’ Philby’s new job in MI6 was coincidentally reflected in a change of spy name: agent ‘Sonny’ was now agent ‘Stanley’.
*
In Istanbul, Elliott remained oblivious to the way Philby had ousted their old boss. He knew only that his friend had landed an important new job as head of MI6’s powerful Soviet counter-espionage section, and Elliott was rising through the ranks in tandem. After a few months back in Turkey, Elliott was summoned to London and told by C that he had been appointed MI6 station chief in neutral Switzerland, a crucial intelligence battleground during the war that would acquire even greater importance as the Cold War grew hotter.
After a long and difficult journey across newly liberated, war-wrecked France, Elliott crossed the Swiss frontier in early April 1945, and checked into Geneva’s Hotel Beau-Rivage as night was falling. ‘After the gloom of London and France it was an extraordinary contrast to be shown up to a clean bedroom with a view across the lake and to relax in a hot bath with a whisky and soda.’ After Turkey, Switzerland seemed disconcertingly civilised, tidy and regulated, an almost artificial world. Here were no dodgy nightclubs where spies swapped secrets with belly-dancers, no bomb-throwing assassins or corrupt officials ready to sell truth and lies for the same inflated price. Elliott was nettled to hear the Swiss complain of their wartime privations, when the war seemed to have swept around and over Switzerland.
But beneath a placid, neutral surface, the place was riddled with spies. Swiss efforts to discourage espionage during the war failed utterly: Allied, Axis and freelance agents had converged on the country, as a base from which to launch intelligence operations into enemy territory. The Soviets had run at least two, linked spy networks based in Switzerland, the Rote Kapelle (Red Orchestra) and the Lucy Ring, extracting top-secret information from Nazi Germany and funnelling it to Moscow. In 1943, an anti-Nazi German diplomat named Fritz Kolbe had turned up in Berne and offered his services to the Allies: first to the British embassy, which turned him away, and then to the OSS station chief Allen Dulles (who would go on to become director of the CIA). Kolbe became, in Dulles’s words, ‘not only our best source on Germany but undoubtedly one of the best secret agents any intelligence service has ever had’. He smuggled more than 2,600 secret Nazi documents into Switzerland, including German plans before D-Day and designs for Hitler’s secret weapons, the V1 and V2 rockets. As Hitler’s regime crumbled, Switzerland became a magnet for defectors, resisters and rats leaving the sinking Nazi ship, all clutching their secrets. During the war, the Soviets ran their own networks, and the British and Americans ran theirs, in wary cooperation. But with the coming of peace, Soviet and Western intelligence forces would turn on each other.
In Berne, Elliott rented a flat on the Dufourstrasse, not far from the British embassy, in which he installed his family, which now included a baby daughter, Claudia. (Elliott had insisted that the baby be born on English soil; had she arrived on her due date, VE Day, 8 May 1945, she would have been christened Victoria Montgomeriana, in patriotic tribute to the British general. Luckily for her, she arrived late.) The baby was the responsibility of ‘Nanny Sizer’, the widow of a sergeant-major, who had enormous feet, drank gin from a bottle labelled ‘Holy Water’ and doubled up as Elliott’s informal bodyguard. Officially, Elliott was second secretary at the British embassy and passport control officer; in reality, at the age of thirty, he was Britain’s chief spy in another espionage breeding ground. In the summer of 1945, after only a few months in post, he was invited to meet Ernest Bevin, the new Foreign Secretary. One of Britain’s earliest Cold Warriors, Bevin remarked over lunch: ‘Communists and communism are vile. It is the duty of all members of the service to stamp upon them at every possible opportunity.’ Elliott never forgot those words, for they mirrored the philosophy he would take into his new role.
*
While Elliott settled in to Switzerland, James Angleton took up residence in neighbouring Italy. In November 1944, the young OSS officer was appointed head of ‘Unit Z’ in Rome, a joint US–UK counter-intelligence force reporting to Kim Philby in London. A few months later, at the age of twenty-seven, he was made chief of X-2 (Counter-espionage) for the whole of Italy, with responsibility for mopping up remaining fascist networks and combating the growing threat of Soviet espionage. With an energy bordering on mania, Angleton set about building a counter-espionage operation of extraordinary breadth and depth. It was said that during the final months of the war he captured ‘over one thousand enemy intelligence agents’ in Italy. Philby kept Angleton supplied with the all-important Bletchley Park decrypts. The American was ‘heavily dependent on Philby for the continuation of his professional success’.
Angleton chatted up priests and prostitutes, ran agents and double agents, and tracked looted Nazi treasures. An ‘enigmatic wraith’ in sharp English tailoring, he ‘haunted the streets of Rome, infiltrating political parties, hiring agents, and drinking with officers of the Italian Secret Service’. At night he was to be found among his files, noting, recording, tracking, plotting, and wreathed in cigarette smoke. ‘You would sit on a sofa across from the desk and he would peer at you through this valley of papers,’ a colleague observed. His fevered approach to his work may have reflected a poetic, if misplaced conviction that he, like Keats, was destined to die of consumption in Rome. He smiled often, but seldom with his eyes. He never seemed to sleep.
Over the coming years, as Soviet intelligence penetrated deeper into Western Europe, James Angleton and Nicholas Elliott worked ever more closely with Philby, the coordinator of Britain’s anti-Soviet operations. Yet the separate sides of Philby’s head created a peculiar paradox: if all his anti-Soviet operations failed, he would soon be out of a job; but if they succeeded too well, he risked inflicting real damage on his adopted cause. He needed to recruit good people to Section IX, but not too good, for these might actually penetrate Soviet intelligence, and discover that the most effective Soviet spy in Britain was their own boss. Jane Archer, the officer who had interrogated Krivitsky back in 1940, joined the section soon after Philby himself. He considered her ‘perhaps the ablest professional intelligence officer ever employed by MI5’, and a serious threat. ‘Jane would have made a very bad enemy,’ he reflected.
As the war ended, a handful of Soviet officials with access to secret information began to contemplate defection, tempted by the attractions of life in the West. Philby was disdainful of such deserters. ‘Was it freedom they sought, or the fleshpots?’ In a way, he, too, was a defector, but he was remaining in place (though enjoying the fleshpots himself). ‘Not one of them volunteered to stay in position and risk his neck for “freedom”,’ he later wrote. ‘One and all, they cut and ran for safety.’ But Philby was haunted by the fear that a Soviet turncoat would eventually emerge with the knowledge to expose him. Here was another conundrum: the better he spied, the greater his repute within Soviet intelligence, and the higher the likelihood of eventual betrayal by a defector.
In September 1945, Igor Gouzenko, a twenty-six-year-old cipher clerk at the Soviet embassy in Ottawa, turned up at a Canadian newspaper office with more than a hundred secret documents stuffed inside his shirt. Gouzenko’s defection would be seen, with hindsight, as the opening shot of the Cold War. This trove was the very news Philby had been dreading, for it seemed entirely possible that Gouzenko knew his identity. He immediately contacted Boris Krötenschield. ‘Stanley was a bit agitated,’ Krötenschield reported to Moscow with dry understatement. ‘I tried to calm him down. Stanley said that in connection with this he may have information of extreme urgency to pass to us.’ For the first time, as he waited anxiously for the results of Gouzenko’s debriefing, Philby may have contemplated defection to the Soviet Union. The defector exposed a major spy network in Canada, and revealed that the Soviets had obtained information about the atomic bomb project from a spy working at the Anglo-Canadian nuclear research laboratory in Montreal. But Gouzenko worked for the GRU, Soviet military intelligence, not the NKVD; he knew little about Soviet espionage in Britain, and almost nothing of the Cambridge spies. Philby began to relax. This defector, it seemed, did not know his name. But the next one did.
*
In late August 1944, Chantry Hamilton Page, the vice consul in Istanbul, received a calling card for Konstantin Dmitrievich Volkov, a Soviet consular official, accompanied by an unsigned letter requesting, in very poor English, an urgent appointment. Page discussed this odd communication with the consul, and concluded that it must be a ‘prank’: someone was taking Volkov’s name in vain. Page was still suffering from injuries he had sustained in the bomb attack on the Pera Palace Hotel, and he was prone to memory lapses. He failed to answer the letter, then lost it, and finally forgot about it. A few days later, on 4 September, Volkov appeared at the consulate in person, accompanied by his wife Zoya, and demanded an audience with Page. The Russian couple were ushered into the vice consul’s office. Mrs Volkov was in a ‘deplorably nervous state’, and Volkov himself was ‘less than rock steady’. Belatedly realising that this visit might presage something important, Page summoned John Leigh Reed, first secretary at the embassy and a fluent Russian speaker, to translate. Over the next hour, Volkov laid out a proposal that promised, at a stroke, to alter the balance of power in international espionage.
Volkov explained that his official position at the consulate was cover for his real job, as deputy chief of Soviet intelligence in Turkey. Before coming to Istanbul, he explained, he had worked for some years on the British desk at Moscow Centre. He and Zoya now wished to defect to the West. His motivation was partly personal, a desire to get even after a blazing row with the Russian ambassador. The information he offered was priceless: a complete list of Soviet agent networks in Britain and Turkey, the location of the NKVD headquarters in Moscow and details of its burglar alarm system, guard schedules, training and finance, wax impressions of keys to the files, and information on Soviet interception of British communications. Nine days later Volkov was back, now with a letter laying out a deal.
The Russian had ‘obviously been preparing his defection for a long time’, for his terms were precise: he would furnish the names of 314 Soviet agents in Turkey, and a further 250 in Britain; copies of certain documents handed over by Soviet spies in Britain were now in a suitcase in an empty apartment in Moscow. Once a deal was agreed, and Volkov and his wife were safely in the West, he would reveal the address, and MI6 could collect the papers. In exchange for this haul, Volkov demanded £50,000 (equivalent to about £1.6 million today), and political asylum in Britain under a new identity. ‘I consider this sum as a minimum considering the importance of the material given to you, as a result of which all my relatives living in the territory of the USSR are doomed.’ The Russian provided just enough detail to prove that his information was genuine: among the Soviet spies in important positions in Britain, he revealed, were seven in the British intelligence services or the Foreign Office. ‘I know, for instance, that one of these agents is fulfilling the functions of head of a section of the British counter-espionage service in London.’
Volkov insisted on several more conditions. On no account should the British allude to him in wireless messages, since the Soviets had broken the British codes and were reading everything sent through official channels; the Russians also had a spy inside the British embassy, so any paperwork relating to his offer should be closely guarded, and handwritten. All further communications would be through Chantry Page, who could contact him on routine consular business without raising suspicions among his Soviet colleagues. If he did not hear from Page within twenty-one days, he would assume the deal was off, and take his information elsewhere. Volkov’s nervousness was entirely understandable. As a veteran NKVD officer he knew exactly what Moscow Centre would do, and how quickly, if it got wind of his disloyalty.
The new British ambassador to Turkey, Sir Maurice Peterson, was allergic to spies. His predecessor, Knatchbull-Hugessen, had come horribly unstuck through the spy Cicero. Peterson wanted nothing to do with such people, and his reaction to Volkov’s approach was to shovel the whole thing, as fast as possible, onto MI6: ‘No one’s going to turn my embassy into a nest of spies . . . do it through London.’ Even the MI6 station chief in Istanbul, Cyril Machray, was kept in the dark. John Reed wrote up a report, by hand, and put it in the diplomatic bag. It landed on the desk of Sir Stewart Menzies ten days later. C immediately summoned his head of Soviet counter-espionage, Kim Philby, and handed him the report. Here was another potential intelligence coup, a trove of information that might, like the Vermehren defection two years earlier, change the game completely.
Philby read the memo with mounting, if hidden, horror: Volkov’s allusion to the Soviet spy running a counter-intelligence section in London could only refer to himself. Even if Volkov did not know his identity he had promised to hand over ‘copies of the material provided’ to Moscow, which would soon be traced back to him. The spies Volkov threatened to uncover in the Foreign Office must be Guy Burgess, now working in the news department, and Donald Maclean, first secretary at the British embassy in Washington. This lone defector had enough information to break up the entire Cambridge spy chain, expose the inner workings of Soviet intelligence, and destroy Philby himself. Struggling to compose his features, Philby stalled, telling C the Volkov approach was ‘something of the greatest importance’. He would ponder the memo overnight, he said, and report back in the morning.
‘That evening I worked late,’ Philby wrote many years later. ‘The situation seemed to call for urgent action of an extra-curricular nature.’ The insouciant tone is misleading: Philby was close to panic. He arranged a hasty meeting with Krötenschield, and told him what had happened. Max tried to calm him, in language that sounds like one Englishman discussing a cricket match with another: ‘Don’t worry, old man. We’ve seen a lot worse. The score will be settled in our favour.’ Philby should prevaricate, said Krötenschield, and try to control the situation. That evening, British radio interceptors picked up (but failed to attach any significance to) a sudden surge in coded radio messages passing from London to Moscow, followed by another increase in traffic between Moscow and Istanbul.
The next morning, Philby was back in C’s office, full of enthusiasm, since any hint of reluctance would look deeply suspicious if matters came to the crunch. ‘Someone fully briefed should be sent out to take charge of the case on the spot,’ he said, with the task of ‘meeting Volkov, bedding him down with his wife in one of our safe houses in Istanbul, and spiriting him away, with or without the connivance of the Turks, to British-occupied Egypt’. C agreed. In fact, he had met just the man for the job at White’s Club the night before: Brigadier Sir Douglas Roberts, head of Security Intelligence (Middle East) – SIME – based in Cairo, who happened to be in London on leave. Roberts was an experienced intelligence officer and a veteran anti-Bolshevik. Born in Odessa to an English father and Russian mother, he spoke Volkov’s language fluently. Indeed he was the only Russian-speaking intelligence officer in either the Middle East or London, which says much about MI6’s state of preparation for the Cold War. Roberts would be able to smuggle Volkov out of Istanbul with ease, and Philby knew it. All he could do was hope that his ‘work the night before would bear fruit before Roberts got his teeth into the case’.
Once again, Philby’s uncanny good fortune intervened. Brigadier Roberts was a brave man, a veteran of the First World War, but he had one fear: flying. Indeed, so extreme was his aviophobia that his job description explicitly excused him from having to fly anywhere. When asked to head to Istanbul at once and take over the Volkov case, he barked: ‘Don’t you read my contract? I don’t fly.’
The obvious replacement for Roberts was Nicholas Elliott. From Berne he could reach Istanbul, his old stamping ground, in a matter of hours. He had done a fine job of extracting Vermehren two years earlier, and had excellent contacts in Turkey. He even appears to have met Volkov at some point during his stint in Istanbul. But Elliott, precisely because of his suitability, was the last person Philby wanted to handle the case. For once, instead of delicately planting an idea on the boss and waiting for him to believe he had coined it, Philby directly intervened, and suggested that C send him to Turkey to extract Volkov in person. Menzies agreed, ‘with obvious relief’ at this bureaucratic problem solved. Philby now gave the impression of busily making preparations, while dragging his feet as slowly as possible. He first underwent a crash course in wireless coding, to ensure he could bypass the penetrated embassy systems, and then dawdled for three more days. When his plane finally took off for Cairo, it was diverted to Tunis, causing further delay. He was still en route when the Turkish consulate in Moscow issued visas for two Soviet ‘diplomatic couriers’ travelling to Istanbul.
Philby finally arrived in Turkey on 26 September 1945, twenty-two days after Volkov’s initial contact. The city was looking particularly beautiful in the late summer sun, but Philby grimly reflected that if he failed to prevent Volkov’s defection, ‘this might be the last memorable summer I was destined to enjoy’. When Reed asked him why MI6 had not sent someone sooner, Philby lied blandly: ‘Sorry, old man, it would have interfered with leave arrangements.’ Reed later found himself pondering the ‘inexplicable delays and evasions of Philby’s visit’, but at the time the Foreign Office man held his tongue. ‘I thought he was just irresponsible and incompetent.’
The following Monday, with Philby standing over him, Chantry Page picked up the telephone, dialled the number of the Soviet consulate, and asked the operator for Konstantin Volkov. Instead, he was put through to the consul general. Page phoned again. This time, after a lengthy pause, the telephone was answered by someone who claimed to be Volkov but who spoke good English, which Volkov did not. ‘It wasn’t Volkov,’ said Page. ‘I know Volkov’s voice perfectly well. I’ve spoken to him dozens of times.’ The third call got no further than the telephone operator.
‘She said he was out,’ complained Page. ‘A minute ago, she put me on to him.’ Page’s face was ‘a study in puzzlement’. Silently, Philby rejoiced. The next day, Page called the Soviet consulate again. ‘I asked for Volkov, and the girl said “Volkov’s in Moscow”. Then there was a sort of scuffle and slam, and the line went dead.’ Finally, Page marched over to the Soviet consulate in person, and returned enraged. ‘It’s no bloody good. I can’t get any sense out of that madhouse. Nobody’s ever heard of Volkov.’ Philby was privately triumphant. ‘The case was dead.’ And so, by this point, was Volkov.
The two ‘diplomatic couriers’, hitmen despatched by Moscow Centre, had worked with crisp efficiency. A few hours earlier, two figures, bandaged from head to foot, were seen being loaded onto a Soviet transport aircraft, ‘on stretchers and heavily sedated’. In Moscow, Volkov was taken to the torture cells of the Lubyanka where, under ‘brutal interrogation’, he confessed that he had intended to reveal the identities of hundreds of Soviet agents. Volkov and his terrified wife, Zoya, were then executed.
Philby later reflected that the episode had been ‘a very narrow squeak’, the closest he had yet come to disaster. As for Volkov, Philby dismissed the Russian as a ‘nasty piece of work’ who ‘deserved what he got’.
Konstantin Volkov left no traces: no photograph, no file in the Russian archives, no evidence about whether his motives were mercenary, personal or ideological. Neither his family, nor that of his wife, have ever emerged from the darkness of Stalin’s state. He had been right to assume that his relatives were doomed. Volkov was not merely liquidated, he was expunged.
Philby sent a coded message to Menzies, explaining that Volkov had vanished and requesting permission to wind up the case. In a subsequent report, he proffered several plausible explanations for Volkov’s disappearance: perhaps he had changed his mind about defecting, or had got drunk and talked too much. If the Soviets bugged the consulate telephones, they might have discovered the truth that way. At no point did he even hint at the possibility of a tip-off from the British side. Menzies, comfortable with Philby’s explanations, concluded it was ‘extremely unlikely’ that ‘indiscretion in the British embassy in Istanbul was the cause. The more probable explanation is that Volkov betrayed himself . . . It is quite possible that his quarrels [with the Soviet ambassador] led to him being watched, and that either he or his wife, or both, made some mistake.’
On his way home, Philby stopped off in Rome to visit James Angleton. The strain of the Volkov scare had rattled him, and he proceeded to get extremely drunk. American intelligence knew of the failed defection, and Philby’s desire to see Angleton may have been partly to ‘test the waters’, and find out how the story was playing in Washington. Angleton listened attentively to Philby’s account, and ‘expressed sympathy that so promising a case had been lost’. But the American seemed more preoccupied with his own concerns: he was worried about ‘the effect his work was having on his marriage’ since he had not seen his wife, Cicely, for over a year and ‘felt guilty about it’. Philby was sympathetic. ‘He helped me to think it through,’ Angleton said. After three days of bibulous secret-sharing and mutual support, Angleton poured Philby onto a plane, ‘worse for wear of the considerable amount of alcohol he had consumed’.
Settling into his new job, Philby’s life developed a pattern of duality, in which he consistently undermined his own work, but never aroused suspicion. He made elaborate plans to combat Soviet intelligence, and then immediately betrayed them to Soviet intelligence; he urged ever greater efforts to combat the communist threat, and personified that threat; his own section worked smoothly, yet nothing quite succeeded. Information from the defector Igor Gouzenko had enabled MI5 to identify Alan Nunn May, another secret communist recruited at Cambridge, as a Soviet mole working on nuclear research in Canada. May’s method of contacting his Soviet controller was to stand outside the British Museum carrying a copy of The Times. A trap was set, but neither May nor his handler turned up. Philby had tipped off Moscow, just as he almost certainly ‘warned the Centre about other agents identified by Gouzenko who were under British and American surveillance’.
Philby worked closely alongside the other panjandrums of the secret elite of the powerful Joint Intelligence Committee; in formal meetings and private parties, he mixed with the cream of the secret services, people intensely secretive outside this charmed circle, and so indiscreet inside it. Philby’s Section IX gathered information to discredit Soviet dignitaries, it laboured to stimulate defections, glean secrets from former Soviet prisoners of war, and eavesdropped on diplomats and spies. Philby approved every move in the game, and then told Krötenschield, who told the Centre. From his contacts in MI5 and MI6, from Elliott and Angleton, Menzies and Liddell, from every corner of the intelligence machine, Philby extracted secrets to bolster the revolution and stymie the West, and passed on everything, ‘without reserve’, to Moscow.
During the war, the Bletchley Park decoders had enabled Britain to discover what German intelligence was doing. Philby’s espionage went one better: he could tell his Soviet handlers what Britain’s spymasters were intending to do, before they did it; he could tell Moscow what London was thinking. ‘Stanley informed me of a plan to bug simultaneously all the telephone conversations of all staff in Soviet institution [the embassy] in England,’ reported Krötenschield. Thanks to Philby, the Russians were not one step ahead, but two. And they were grateful: ‘Stanley is an exceptionally valuable source . . . His eleven years of flawless work with us is irrefutable proof of his sincerity . . . Our goal is to protect him from discovery.’
Spies love to receive medals they can never wear in public, secret rewards for secret acts. In 1945, Elliott was awarded the US Legion of Merit, although with typical modesty he joked that he had probably been given the medal for rescuing Packy Macfarland, his OSS counterpart in Turkey, drunk, from an Istanbul bar. Early the following year, a grateful Britain appointed Kim Philby to the Order of the British Empire for his wartime work. A few months previously in Moscow, Philby had been secretly recommended for the Soviet Order of the Red Banner in recognition of his ‘conscientious work for over ten years’. By the end of 1946, Philby had achieved something no other spy could boast: the award of three separate medals from nationalist Spain, the communist Soviet Union, and Britain.
Kim Philby, OBE, was increasingly seen by his colleagues in British intelligence as a man marked out for great things: the consummate intelligence professional, the captivating star of the service who had worsted the Germans at the intelligence game and was now leading the fight against Soviet espionage. Stewart Menzies had served throughout the war as Britain’s spy chief, but eventually C would have to pass on the torch. ‘I looked around,’ wrote waspish Hugh Trevor-Roper, ‘at the part-time stockbrokers and retired Indian policemen, the agreeable epicureans from the bars of White’s and Boodle’s, the jolly, conventional ex-Navy officers and the robust adventurers from the bucket shop; and then I looked at Philby . . . he alone was real. I was convinced that he was destined to head the service.’