Our Woman in Moscow(3)
Burgess shakes his head. “Nothing takes place above Philby’s head. MI-6 trusts him like a priest. My God, they handed him the Volkov defection case, didn’t they? About as hush-hush as it gets. He speaks to the CIA head on a daily basis. He and Jim Angleton are like brothers.”
“Nevertheless. They will have been made suspicious by these telegram decryptions. They will have realized our network has penetrated their agencies and their government departments at the highest level. It is possible and even likely that they will have undertaken an operation outside of the intelligence service itself, to root out everyone who has been disloyal.”
“That’s your own paranoia talking,” Burgess says. “I assure you, the British don’t see it that way. They can’t conceive a Cambridge man passing along secrets to a foreign country. They’ll go on assuming it was some cipher room clerk from Reading who needs the money to pay off his bookie.”
Lyudmila stares at him with distaste. He’s slovenly, this man. His shirt collar is stained, his teeth are indescribably yellow, his skin is slack and paunchy from incessant drinking, from overindulgence in rich food, from scorn for physical exercise. Possibly he’s the most undisciplined man she’s ever met, at least in this profession, and what’s worse, he’s an open homosexual who makes no effort at all to disguise or control his voracious carnal appetites. But while Lyudmila is suspicious and puritanical, she’s also fair. Burgess possesses a brilliant intellect and exerts enormous charm, when he chooses. He also knows everything about everybody.
She decides to lay a single card on the table.
“We have recently intercepted a communication from here in Moscow to a contact named ASCOT in London. Do you know who this ASCOT might be?”
He flicks some ash from his cigarette into the overflowing tray at his elbow. “Not the slightest idea. I’ve never heard of an agent named ASCOT. Where was the communication directed?”
“To a private address. A flat in West London that seems to be owned by a shipping company called Lonicera. We have the flat under surveillance at the moment, but we have not been able to determine anything of significance. We suspect, however, that this communication may be the key to a number of recent security leaks, for which we have been unable to identify the source.”
“Lonicera, eh? Doesn’t ring a bell.”
As an intelligence agent of nearly two decades’ standing, Burgess is a practiced liar. Still, Lyudmila can’t detect any sign of deception in his voice or his affect. He looks so at ease, he might be sprawled in his own living room, except Lyudmila suspects that Burgess’s living room—the one he left behind in London, anyway—is equally as squalid as Burgess himself.
“Very well,” she says. “You will, of course, inform us immediately should your memory ring a bell, after all?”
“With pleasure. I’m eager to be of service.”
If she were alone, Lyudmila’s mouth would curve with contempt. Defectors! Really, they’re such a nuisance. They know too much, they’re altogether too eager to be of service. Don’t they understand that defection means retirement? What use can a defector possibly be? He’s already given up all his information. He can’t go back to his home country for more. His only value is publicity—the triumph of Soviet intelligence. Otherwise, he’s just a drain on the state. You have to find him some job that will keep him out of trouble. You have to give him a nice apartment and access to luxury Western goods, so he doesn’t complain. You have to keep a close eye on him, to make sure he’s not getting restless and disillusioned.
In fact, Lyudmila can think of only one defector whose assimilation has gone smoothly, without any headaches for her—a happy, contented Soviet citizen with his happy, contented family.
Almost as if he can read her mind, Burgess stubs out his cigarette and says, “By the by, how’s Digby coming along?”
Lyudmila gives him a hard stare. “HAMPTON,” she says, with emphasis, “has been a model citizen. He and his family are now living in Moscow. He serves us as an academic and adviser on matters of international affairs.”
“Given up the booze, has he? That’s what I hear.”
“Where do you hear this?”
He shrugs as he lights another cigarette. “Here and there. Well, that’s fine news. He and I were chums for a moment or two, back in London. Good chap, for an American. Wife’s a trifle uptight for my taste, but the children were charming.”
“Yes.” Lyudmila checks her watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Comrade Burgess, I’m afraid I have other demands on my time this afternoon. My colleagues will arrive shortly to continue the debriefing.”
Burgess props the cigarette in the ashtray and stands to shake hands. He is, after all, an English gentleman.
Lyudmila makes her way to her afternoon appointment, which is of such long standing that she doesn’t have to think about her route as she navigates the Moscow streets. She thinks instead about Burgess—so pleased with himself, so delighted to have created such an international ruckus. The world’s press is in the middle of an apoplexy right now over the missing English diplomats, and Burgess is enjoying every moment.
Still, for all his faults, Burgess has always been loyal. More mercenary than the others, to be sure, but only because he has expensive tastes and a Foreign Office salary. He’s provided a wealth of priceless information over the years. Not once has any of that information proved false. Nor did he display so much as a hint of the classic signs of deception, throughout the course of the interview.