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London was carefully hiding itself under the snow; a perfect white cover would last till morning before turning into mud, of course, but in the evening illuminated by soft light of street lamps, it looked soothing, peaceful even.
A man was carefully untying his black tie; he was standing in front of the window, his gaze unfocused as he watched the snowflakes. Nick Elliott and his wife Elizabeth just came back from the Christmas dinner organised for MI6 stuff.
‘You know whom I bumped into in the City before the party tonight?’
Elizabeth Elliot was in the bathroom in front of the mirror. ‘That writer, what’s his name?’ She watched her husband in the mirror while taking off her golden earrings. Nick bought them last year for her birthday.
‘David Cornwell,’ nodded Nick. ‘Known as…’
‘Ah, yes, John Le Carré, that’s the man,’ Elizabeth said, dropping the earrings in a jewellery box. Her necklace and bracelets followed. Once she finished, she turned to see Nick’s slightly amused face. ‘I read his book.’
‘What do you think?’ Elliott shrugged off his evening jacket and sat on the edge of their bed. His gaze studied Elizabeth’s almost neutral expression which usually meant a harsh criticism was on the way.
‘The part about SIS is complete nonsense,’ Nick chuckled but said nothing, ‘but the plot is solid, I liked it.’
‘He didn’t work for us long, so he invented the parts which he wasn’t allowed to explore at his time. It is nonsense to you and every single one of the SIS breed people but for the rest of us mortals he is a best selling author, a spymaster even if his spies are imaginary. People are already demanding the next book.’
‘What did he tell you?’ She closed the bathroom door behind her and walked to the big window in their bedroom. It wasn’t snowing outside anymore but threatening to start all over again.
‘He said I looked rather lost,’ Nick sighed, his velvety voice with Cambridge vowels sounded falsely lazy. ‘I asked him whether he was working on the new novel, he said yes, he was.’ Elizabeth cocked her eyebrow waiting for Nick to continue. ‘He wondered if I was interested in an interview with him.’
‘Is he a journalist now?’
‘Maybe he wants to improve his SIS descriptions and needs my expertise,’ Elliott said and smiled charmingly. Elizabeth didn’t have to roll her eyes for her husband to understand; his grin grew winder.
She closed the curtains giving one last glance at the orange lit street below and went to sit next to Nick on the bed. ‘What is his new book about, did he tell you?’
‘A traitor. Right at the top of British Intelligence, he's been there for years,’ Nick answered casually.
‘Then you should talk to him,’ Elizabeth replied, her tone suddenly serious.
‘Oh, but haven’t you heard, darling? I didn’t recognise a traitor while looking him straight in the eyes for almost thirty years. What can I possibly tell him?’ Elliott was still smiling that distant kind of a smile that most of the privately educated Englishmen adopted to mask all of their emotions.
Elizabeth put her palm atop of Nick’s, it was cold despite the warmth of their bedroom. Sometimes she thought about the only glimpse of Nick’s hurt and despair she ever witnessed was in the dim light of the theatre when during the comedy show her husband failed to hide his own tears; his whole body was trembling slightly. He looked broken, his gaze lost somewhere far searching for a man whom he loved and cared about deeply and lost in one of the most brutal ways possible. The only other human being he actually ever loved.
‘Talk to Cornwell and tell him stories not about the betrayal but about the parties, the dances and the belly laughs.’
Nick closed his eyes, nodding, ‘It’s the moments like those we joined the service for, the belly laughs, eh? Oh, the belly laughs.’
‘You need to talk, and because you won’t talk to me, god forbid a man like you confesses that he is a damn fool to a woman let alone a wife,’ Nick made an offended noise but Elizabeth ignored him and continued, ‘you need to talk to someone just like you but outside the Circus. So I strongly encourage you to meet Mr. Cornwell, get drunk and bloody talk. No one can bear undeclared grief.’
‘Nothing to grieve, he didn’t die, alive and well in bloody Moscow,’ Nick muttered under his breath. Then he blinked and smiled. ‘I never talk when I am drunk, you know that,’ his fingers brushing against Elizabeth’s knuckles.
‘No, you are right, darling, you become an unbearable arse when drunk,’ she agreed and Nick laughed silently.
****
Nick Elliott didn’t contact David Cornwell for a week after he accidentally ran into him. When they finally did talk on the phone David invited him to his home; at five in the evening just a couple days before Christmas David opened his front door to see Nick with an umbrella in his hands. He stared at it rather intently as if it offended him personally but then looked up and smiled cheerfully.
‘Mr. Cornwell, how do you do?’ He said, studying the other man's face with careful curiosity.
‘Please, call me David,’ the man answered, shaking hands with a spy. ‘Thank you for accepting my invitation, I am very happy to have you here,’ he said earnestly.
Nick smiled again and bowed his head, silently saying the pleasure was all his. ‘My wife has read The spy who came in from the cold the other day, she finds it most interesting and asks when she can read another book of yours. Told me to find out how the new one about the traitor is going to end.’
For a moment David’s face was horrified, he turned around to look at Elliott two steps behind him. He was watching him, smiling innocently. Slowly David’s cheeks turned deep pink; he blinked and quickly cleared his throat. ‘Well, it’s called Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and I think it will be a trilogy,’ there was no pride in his voice, only excitement.
‘How marvellous,’ Elliott murmured when they resumed their climb up the stairs to the drawing room.
When two men entered the room, David pointed at the armchair with a comfortable looking pillow on it and then asked if Elliott wanted some whiskey. Elliott answered yes, please, if it was not too much trouble for him.
‘I wanted to make it clear, Mr. Elliott,’ he began.
‘Nick.’
‘Nick, right, that my next novel has not been built around the “Philby-Elliott relationship”,’ he made an air quotation, holding a heavy whiskey bottle in his left hand. ‘I contemplated a plot before the whole scandal broke,’ he passed the tumbler to Elliott.
‘Sure thing,’ Nick answered simply, feeling the inevitable “but” was coming.
‘But I thought about a piece of a live theatre, perhaps?’ David continued with enthusiasm, ‘a two-handler, a Nick & Kim Show, spread over twenty years of mutual affection, devastating, relentless betrayal and I dare almost call it lo…’ he stopped abruptly when he noticed Elliott’s face. He was grinning.
The silence between the two men gradually became heavy. Nick raised his eyebrows.
‘My goodness, you were serious, weren’t you?’
David nodded, his eyes shining with hope.
Oh dear.
‘May we not ever again think about the play, ’ Elliott pronounced the word ‘play’ with such cold disgust, it immediately made Cornwell shiver. ‘Kim is the reason so many people are dead, some of whom were our friends. He didn’t see the problem in betraying his friends, his family and his country. He didn’t care about the pain he caused and the people he left,’ ‘me’ was left unsaid. The silent look on David’s face showed he clearly caught that. ‘So I don’t think it is a suitable material for a show,’ he added quietly.
After a moment Nicholas took pity and smiled softly at him. ‘There are, however, a lot of hilarious stories because spies are the most entertaining breed who drink with a professional skill. As you know, alcohol was so much a part of the culture of MI6 in those days that a non-drinker would be suspected of being subversive or worse,’ he added in a theatrical whisper.
It was a tactical retreat of a person who did not quite know what to say on a subject that really mattered, or could not say what he really knew, let alone the restrictions of the Official Secrets Act which after all these years still hold him silent.
David slowly nodded thinking. ‘Would it be acceptable if I take notes while you tell me more about these stories?’
‘Of course, dear boy,’ Elliott answered. He fished out a cigarette and offered one to Cornwell. The man shook his head and showed Nick his pipe. ‘You know how our story ends, Nick & Kim show,’ his cigarette sparked orange for a second. ‘What about your book, your traitor among tinkers, tailors, soldiers and spies?’ He nodded at the typewriter sitting on Cornwell’s desk.
‘His cover was blown, he was arrested and before they could sent him to Moscow, he was shot by his best friend,’ David answered quietly. ‘C’s orders. Or someone who came after his retirement. Cruel but inevitable. I…I haven’t written it explicitly but it’s suspected and mostly ignored by everyone in the Circus but Jim Prideaux was very fond of Bill Haydon. That’s why the betrayal felt so personal to him,’ he added quietly. Nick was looking past him, his eyes lost somewhere very far.
‘Did they dance?’ Elliott asked suddenly, a cigarette between his index and middle fingers. He observed David Cornwell carefully.
‘Who?’ David’s eyes darted at Nicholas.
‘Your star crossed spies. Did they dance?’ Elliott cocked his head, bird like. ‘You know how many parties the MI6 usually throws - lot’s of music, even more alcohol, no one cares and everyone is happy because only there these spies can be themselves. So they should dance at, say, the New Year’s party?’
***
‘Ah, Nick, just the fellow, will you care to join me for a dance?’ Philby said cheerfully, appearing suddenly next to Nick who had been drinking his third Martini. Someone giggled drunkenly behind them and Guy Burgess wolf whistled.
Philby smirked and Elliott smiled charmingly before answering without batting an eye. ‘Well that took you long enough, I thought you’d never ask.’ Philby offered him a hand and Elliott took it standing promptly on his feet in one swift move.
Philby carefully took the glass away from Nick’s fingers and put it on the nearest flat surface. But not before finishing the last sip of Martini with a cheerful grin while Nick jokingly gasped, looking offended.
The thing about both Kim Philby and Nicholas Elliott was that they were five-star entertainers, bold, witty and funny as hell. Most of the time it looked like they were performing some sort of an impromptu piece of a dialog straight from the P.G. Wodehouse’s story as if trying to amuse themselves and everybody around them.
No one found it odd when a slightly drunk Philby asked Elliott to dance with him that evening. He tried to look more drunk than he actually was and a royally drunk Kim Philby was something Nick was very familiar with. He might have fooled the bystanders of the SIS organised New Year’s party but when he looked at Elliott, his gaze was surprisingly clear and very soft. He smiled watching corners of Nick’s lips slowly curling upward and then carefully put his left hand on Nick’s waist.
For a moment Nick adjusted their hands standing chest to chest with Philby. Then he looked up, nodded slightly and gently squeezed Philby’s palm in his. Despite having enough alcohol in their blood they moved graciously without breaking eye contact. Kim’s gaze became fogged, however, not by the consumed whiskey but by the thoughts circling in his mind. After a moment Nick realised Kim’s eyes shifted and paused on his lips studying them with lazy curiosity.
Nick smiled slowly, mirroring the playful shadow on Kim’s own lips. Philby usually carried himself with some sort of detached swagger and possessed the capacity to draw people in just by the way he presented himself. It could be his very British ability to appear as someone who knew things no one else did; it might have been his unshakable cheerfulness that everything will be fine in the end. Together with his melodic baritone people usually were charmed by him very quickly.
At the very beginning Nick Elliott was captivated by him. But he quickly proved to be as witty and charming as Philby. He resembled a peacock with his feathers all fanned when surrounded by people and Kim by his side - eager to entertain them with his arm always crooked for a glass of martini, telling dirty limericks to make his audience roar with laughter and Philby giggle like a schoolboy. However, under that posh, jovial exterior there was something very hawk-like in his eyes, very watchful, dangerously calm and extremely attentive. A keen observer of human behaviour Elliott liked to think he knew Philby better than anyone. But at that moment when they moved in perfect synchronicity of the waltz he couldn’t name the emotion in the eyes in front of him, nor could he decipher what it made him feel deep in his chest. Kim’s smile wasn’t mocking or even very happy; it was private and gentle - a combination that appeared very rarely and surprisingly more often than not directed at Nick.
Nick stepped backwards, trusting Kim would follow and adjust their dancing pattern seemingless, which he did; his eyes studying Nick’s face without blinking. It wasn’t a heavy stare, Philby never stared at people, his gaze was always very alive with hidden sparkles of energy and mischief. That gaze together with his warming smile made people feel instantly welcomed, they lowered their guards almost immediately after meeting Kim Philby. That was what made him a fucking brilliant spy.
Kim’s thumb brushed against Nick’s knuckles; wave of heat spread from the points where their hands touched each other and a moment later it settled in Nicholas’ chest.
They continued dancing, ridiculous paper hats on their heads and loosened bow ties on their necks. Their movements were gracious and looked oddly in harmony with the drunken cheerfulness of the New Year’s party: bright paper decorations across the walls, helium balloons in atrocious colours floating around the room, music from the record player almost lost in the loud voices and laughter of the colleagues around them.
‘Happy New Year, Nick,’ Philby said quietly once he leaned closer, his lips inches away from Elliott’s earlobe.
‘Happy New Year, old socks,’ he answered, holding Kim close; at that moment he felt the irrational desire not to let Kim go or share him with any of the merry spies around them or their secretaries who tried to steal Kim’s glances. But eventually the song ended and they stopped dancing.
Philby smiled, his gaze suddenly very melancholic; without a hesitation he leaned forward and pressed his lips to Nick’s knuckles, his hot breath tickling the skin.
‘Well, aren’t you a proper gentleman,’ Nick said quietly, feeling Guy Burgess’ stare on himself.
Kim laughed and announced they needed more drinks to celebrate. Once he turned around and saw Guy’s wandering gaze, he winked and smirked at him - this time there was nothing gentle in his smile, it was almost predatory and it made Burgess shiver. He raised his eyebrows and shifted his gaze to Nicholas who also winked at him, unaware Philby did the same just a moment ago. The pair of them looked hungry and elegantly disheveled.
Burgess hurriedly raised to his feet and retreated to the opposite side of the room.
Someone was fiddling with the gramophone and while there was no music in the room, a merry voice of Donald Maclean suddenly started singing the Soviet anthem. People laughed and a couple of others joined him with mockingly serious faces. Elliott smirked and shook his head, watching his colleagues, or rather comrades, making fools of themselves.
‘Here you go, drink with me, old chap,’ Philby reappeared suddenly and his voice murmuring above Nick’s ear.
Elliott turned around, meeting Kim’s smiling eyes. ‘Let’s go to the balcony, their off key singing making me feel a sudden urge to find a sickle and a hummer and knock some senses into them.’ Philby silently laughed at that.
He carefully grabbed Nick’s forearm and tugged him to the balcony door. It was cold and the dump December air made both men shiever. Kim patted his jacket pockets, trying to find the matches. A cigarette miraculously was already between his lips. Nick observed him for a while then sighed and put his whiskey on the parapet.
‘Come here,’ he said, fishing out his own matches.
‘Good man,’ Philby answered as he stepped closer. He leaned forward, shielding the flickering match in Nick’s fingers from the wind. A spark of warmth from the touch burnt Nick’s skin for a moment but sensation quickly passed. They were standing shoulder to shoulder, smoking in silence. Nick felt sudden tiredness. He leant heavily on the parapet.
They stood there for a moment, muffled sounds of the New Year’s party behind them, when Elliott saw a flickering light and Kim’s cigarette fell down on the ground with an inaudible hiss. Both men watched its trajectory of the fall; Nicholas raised his eyes and looked at Kim. ‘Is this some kind of elaborate plan to trick me into giving you my own cigarettes or you are just drunk?’
‘I am not sure,’ Philby answered slowly. He blinked and smiled apologetically. ‘Will you share yours with me?’
Nick gave Philby a look but without any real menace behind it and reached out his hand, stopping it in front of Kim’s face, who leaned forward and carefully took a drag on a cigarette between Nick’s fingers.
Kim slowly exhaled and it was Nick’s turn. It felt strangely intimate and Nick thought that he should probably just give up and let Philby finish his cigarette or offer him a new one. He didn't, instead he moved his hand again and this time he felt Philby’s dry lips on his fingers as he pressed to have another drag.
It was the second time this evening he felt Kim’s lips on his hands, Elliott thought. Philby came to the similar conclusion because he stared at the man next to him and then suddenly very quietly, honest to God, giggled.
‘Good Lord, you are actually drunk,’ Nick said amused. Kim’s laughter was contagious and he looked beautiful despite his ridiculous paper hat and an askew tie.
Kim stepped forward and without a warning grabbed Nick by the lapels of his tuxedo; he crashed his lips against Nick’s rather forcefully which made Elliott gasp quietly but he didn’t flinch or step back. When he parted his lips, allowing Kim’s tongue to breach inside, Kim eagerly proceeded while his palms wandered around Nick’s shoulders and back.
Philby was greedy, he kissed and bit too hard, making Nick’s lips swell and turning them feverishly red.
‘Step back away from the window, you ridiculous man, half of the SIS can see us,’ Elliott’s voice was hoarse.
‘No one of them is sober enough to remember anything in the morning,’ Philby answered before stepping backwards into the shadow and pulling Nick with him. When they kissed again it was softer, Elliott’s palms were on Philby’s face, carefully mapping it with his fingertips.
Both of the men were again chest to chest just like when they were dancing. Philby’s hand slid down Nick’s back and grabbed his arse, laughing between the kisses when Nick managed to protest.
Nick Elliott blinked several times and shifted his gaze to meet Cornwell’s. ‘New Year’s party was a success and turning on the hymn of the USSR was a stupid thing but it’s the absurdity of it that cheered us up.’
‘I do like that,’ said David in earnest.
‘Use it in your book,’ Elliott winked, watching David write something down in his notes rapidly. After a moment he finished and carefully looked up. Elliott was still sitting in front of him with the same polite but empty smile which could never reach his eyes.
‘I think… Philby is adept at deceiving others; you are as equally adept at deceiving yourself.’
He sounded genuine, Nicholas thought. Memories of Kim’s lips on his neck and collarbones sparked and burnt his mind, the dull aching pain in his heart momentarily became sharp and fresh. The tenderness of his touches and the private jokes they shared while lying in bed together. That trip to Berlin and the sight of Kim sitting alone in the bar, a broken man without a hope - Elliott hated himself for going. For not staying. For loving too much.
He smiled. ‘Yes, that’s probably true.’
David Cornwell didn’t say he was sorry but his eyes betrayed him, they spoke loud and clear even when his mouth was shut.
***
On his way home Nick thought what would Elizabeth think of those spies in Cornwell’s new book. How much would they resemble Philby and himself? How much of them would Le Carré use for the dramatisation effect of his own story?
Suddenly he stopped the car, hands gripping the steering wheel. Nick inhaled and exhaled slowly, his eyes blurry. There was a post office, squeezed between a newsagent shop and a tailor.
He has lied to you and he has used you. That is all that he has ever done, and that is all that he will ever do.
Elliott didn’t register how long he was sitting in the car without moving. But when he finally reached inside the inner pocket of his coat, he took out his notebook and a pen. His hand trembled.
Dear Kim,
I hope you are missing cricket, marmalade and the rain in your grey new apartment. I heard Berlin looks as awfully gloomy as London does this time of year. I am thinking of checking it myself, God knows why, in a week time. Maybe even going to the opera to make sure the Germans still use battle horns and drums even and especially in love ballads.
Yours always,
Nick