“Outrage, of course, most of it directed at Nicholas Elliott. He thought Elliott had blundered by not placing Philby under lock and key. He later came to the conclusion it was no blunder, that Elliott and his friends in London actuallywantedPhilby to escape.”
“Thus avoiding another public spectacle.”
Seymour abruptly changed the subject. “Know much about Philby’s time in Moscow?”
“The Russians set him up in a comfortable apartment in the Patriarch’s Pond section of the city. He read old editions of theTimesthat were sent to him by post, listened to the news on the BBC World Service, and drank a great deal of Johnnie Walker Red Label, almost always to the point of unconsciousness. The former Eleanor Brewster lived with him for a while, but the marriage collapsed when she found out he was having an affair with Donald Maclean’s wife. Later, Philby took a fourth wife, a Russian named Rufina, and was generally quite miserable.”
“And his relationship with the KGB?”
“For a time, they kept him at arm’s length. They thought he escaped from Beirut rather too easily and were convinced he might be a triple agent. Gradually, they started giving him little projects to keep him busy, including helping to train new recruits at the KGB’s Red Banner Institute.” Gabriel paused, then added, “Which is where Sasha entered the picture.”
“Yes,” said Seymour, “the phantom Sasha.”
“Ever heard the name?”
“No. And with good reason,” added Seymour. “Sasha exists only in the imagination of Sergei Morosov. He spun you a tale of treachery and deceit, and you bought it hook, line, and sinker.”
“Why would he lie?”
“To prevent you from killing him, of course.”
“I never threatened to kill him. I only threatened to hand him over to the Syrian opposition.”
“That,” said Seymour, “is a distinction without a difference.”
“And the woman?” asked Gabriel. “The communist Philby met in Beirut? The woman who bore him a child? Did Sergei Morosov invent her, too?”
Seymour made a show of thought. “And what shall I tell the prime minister and the esteemed members of the Joint Intelligence Committee? Shall I tell them Kim Philby has risen from his grave to create one last scandal? That he turned his illegitimate child into a Russian agent?”
“For the moment,” answered Gabriel, “you tell them nothing at all.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t.”
A silence fell between them. There was only the rain rattling against the window.
“But what if I were able to find her?” asked Gabriel at last. “Would you believe it then?”
“Philby’s lover from Beirut? You’re assuming there was only one. Kim Philby was the most faithless man in history. Trust me, I know.”
“Your father knew it, too,” said Gabriel quietly.
“My father’s been dead for nearly twenty years now. We can’t very well ask him.”
“Maybe we can.”
“How?”
“Old spies never die, Graham. They have eternal life.”
“Where?”
Gabriel smiled. “In their files.”
43
Slough, Berkshire
For an intelligence service, the management of files is a deadly serious business. Access to information must be restricted to those who truly need to see it, and a careful log must be kept of those who read a specific file and when they read it. At MI6, this is the job of Central Registry. Current files are kept within easy reach at Vauxhall Cross, but the bulk of MI6’s institutional memory is stored in a warehouse in Slough, not far from Heathrow Airport. The warehouse is guarded at all hours and monitored by cameras, but late on a wet Tuesday evening only a single registrar called Robinson was on duty. Robinson, like Parish the caretaker at Wormwood Cottage, was old service. He had a long face and a thin mustache and wore brilliantine cream in his hair that fouled the air in his vestibule. He regarded Nigel Whitcombe and his written request with a cold eye.
