The Russian Interpreter

‘It’s not just the risk.’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have agreed to take part in a deception of this sort even if I had been asked. How can there be anything honest in the world if we behave like this?’

‘Come, come, Paul. Even your friend Konstantin can see the value of espionage.’

‘He may be right. But I don’t want to be involved in it myself. The end may be acceptable, but the means are deceitful and mercenary.’

Proctor-Gould looked round, surprise and hurt lengthening his long face.

‘Mercenary?’ he said. ‘Paul, you don’t think I’m being paid for doing this, do you? You don’t think I’m putting not only my safety but my whole career in jeopardy for a few pounds on the side?’

Manning stared at a concrete Apollo Belvedere on the other side of the path. Water dripped like representational blood from the upraised stump of its concrete arm.

‘I suppose not,’ he said. ‘I suppose you’re doing it out of some self-important idea of the public good, as a contribution to improved Anglo-Soviet relations.’

Proctor-Gould frowned.

‘Don’t you know how these things work, Paul?’ he said. ‘Don’t you know how these things are arranged? Let me enlighten you. A man rings you at the office in London one day. He says he works in a department of the Foreign Office concerned with developing unofficial contacts with Russia. Would you be kind enough to meet him for lunch and give him the benefit of your experience in the matter? You have lunch with him. He asks intelligent, sympathetic questions about your job. He expresses surprise at your answers. He makes notes. Then he says, there seems to be a tremendous amount of valuable material here which could help other people who have professional contacts with Russia. Could you perhaps write it down for him in the form of a memorandum? You write the memorandum and send it to him. He rings up to say he is delighted with it. Could you possibly come to dinner some, time the following week at his flat? He has a friend in the department who has read the memorandum and would very much like to meet you and discuss one or two points arising from it. You go to dinner. The friend knows all about you already. He asks after mutual friends from Cambridge. After dinner you sit and drink whisky and soda. The friend starts to talk about your memorandum. It’s so revealing and so perceptive, he says, that it makes him want to know more. What kind of people are these officials you have dealings with in Moscow? What sort of life do they lead? What are their tastes? What do they believe in? What do they want? Could you write a supplementary memorandum going into this sort of biographical detail? Perhaps at this point you begin to demur. They hasten to reassure you. They don’t want the information for any ulterior motive. It’s just that if Britain is to establish a real understanding with Russia, which is the best guarantee of a lasting peace, the Government must have accurate, up-to-date information about the people they are dealing with. That’s all. You write the supplementary memorandum, perhaps in rather cautious terms. They are still delighted. Once again you are invited to dinner at the flat. They tell you your memorandum has gone up to ministerial level, and remark how pleasant it is to know someone who is in Moscow so often. For one thing the postal service is not very reliable. One of them has a friend there he’d like to send a little present to, if he could find someone to take it. Perhaps next time you’re over you’d be kind enough to oblige? You refuse, politely. You point out that you can’t afford to get involved in anything that might make the Soviet authorities suspicious, since your job depends on having their confidence. At this they become rather grave, and look at each other meaningfully. Your attitude creates rather an awkward situation, they say. Unless they continue to take the most scrupulous care to preserve security, the Soviet officials who look into these things will almost certainly discover that you have had three meetings with British intelligence, and submitted two reports to them. British intelligence? Well, they belong to a department of it, certainly – a perfectly innocuous department, of course, dealing with more or less open information about Russia, of the sort provided by returned travellers. All the same, the Russians would probably not make much distinction between one department and another. Your hosts point out that they could scarcely recommend the continued expense of time and manpower on keeping the connexion with you secret if you are no longer working for the department. And the trouble is, they explain, that if the Russians discover you have been approached by British intelligence they will never be able to be sure that you refused to work for them. So you would certainly never get another Soviet visa. Which, they would imagine, might be rather awkward in your line of business.’