Reverse Negative

CONTENTS

Dustjacket

Title Page

Cast List

Start Reading REVERSE NEGATIVE

Footnotes

APPENDIX: Hard Data on Kim Philby

Dedication & Copyright

More books by André Jute & Friends

REVERSE NEGATIVE

André Jute

The author is very close to the truth. The book has sufficient fact to make some people sit up. — Richard Deacon, author of A History of the British Secret Service.

*

Kim Philby, the spy who betrayed a generation, has plotted his own death in a fiery helicopter accident. Immediately British Intelligence, the KGB, the CIA and Israeli Intelligence start searching for Philby’s insurance — a set of documents which point fatally accusing fingers at powerful men in high political, security and academic circles.

In England, a Cambridge don suddenly finds himself inextricably tangled in this web of violence. The rival intelligence services want him dead to prevent him talking, alive for questioning with drugs that will kill him anyway, or available for trading with those who want to kill or question him. To survive he must enlist the help of the sole survivor of the Israeli Intelligence team. And to uncover the devastating truth, he must got to the Lubianka, headquarters of the KGB in Moscow…

REVERSE NEGATIVE is a stunning and convincing story of the Fourth Man and of the disgraced darling of the Establishment, Kim Philby, whose treachery to the Western World lives on.

— Jacket copy by Nick Austin from an original edition

*

Wild but exciting. It is a grand job, with plenty of irony. — New York Times

*

So bizarre, it’s probably all true. — London Evening News

REVERSE NEGATIVE

*

André Jute

*

CoolMain Press

www.coolmainpress.com

CAST LIST

British Intelligence

C Head of DI6 (aka Secret Intelligence Service or SIS; previously MI6)

SIR RODERICK COCKMORE C’s deputy, Assistant Chief of the Secret Service (ACSS)

JAMES GUILLERMIN Head of the Soviet Section of Dl6

FERDIE HUMBLE-JONES Head of the Soviet Station in Moscow

MAX BRAYMORE Head of the South European Station in Rome

FORSYTHE Deputy Director of DI5 (Counter Intelligence or, properly, Directorate General of the Security Service; previously MI5)

ARTHUR SEDGELY Head of Registry in London

MARTIN HACKFORTH An operative of Braymore

APPLEPENNY Butler to C

In Department K

COLONL MARLBOROUGH Head of the Department

TOMKIN His second-in-command

DOCTOR Handy with sodium Pentothal

SAFE BREAKER An Australian

Cambridge

STEVEN HALDANE Fellow of Trinity College, emeritus Professor of History

GOOLBAR POLINGTON-SMYTHE Fellow of Trinity College, Professor of Economics

SERGEANT HOOPER Cambridgeshire Constabulary

CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT BRYCE New Scotland Yard

HENRY SYMINGTON GEORGE FLUGG The late, died 1954; rightwing writer and teacher

Other British Figures

PRIME MINISTER A politician

PAYMASTER GENERAL Holds a watching brief over all British Intelligence for the Prime Minister.

Israeli Intelligence.

GENERAL REV HARBAT Director of a unit which kidnaps or kills surviving Nazi war criminals

LINDA SHERI UNTERBERG Money flow expert, seconded to HarBat’s unit

YUM and YO a/k/a Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Gog and Magog, King and Kong: HarBat’s operations planners.

KLEIN A senior executive of Harbat’s unit

DOCTOR Responsible for health of HarBat’s guests

Soviet Intelligence

KIM PHILBY Once an important figure in MI6, now equally important as a KGB Colonel

GENERAL KURUSOV A power in the KGB and the Politburo

NIMINSKI A double-O killer, Kurusov’s bodyguard

GENERAL KELLER Philby’s superior

KERENSKY Watchdog over cultural groups for the KGB

American Intelligence

HERMANSON CIA executive

KAHN CIA executive

The Swiss

HERR LEIBLER Geneva banker, keeper of Philby’s secrets

HERR MATHYS HELMSHOFMAN Lausanne lawyer, also keeper of Philby’s secrets

Those Mentioned

LAVRENTI BERIA a/k/a The Butcher, sometime head of the NKVD,

murdered after Stalin’s death

GEORGE BLAKE British traitor in Soviet service

GUY BURGESS British traitor in Soviet service

JOHN HERBERT KING British traitor in Soviet service

DONALD MACLEAN British traitor in Soviet service

DOUGLAS SPRINGHALL British traitor in Soviet service

FELIKS DZERZHINSKY Head of Lenin’s secret police

DAVID FELLOWES MI6 agent, friend of Philby

COLONEL MICHAL GOLENIEWSKI Sometime head of Polish Intelligence; betrayed George Blake, confirmed Philby’s guilt

SIR ROGER HOLLIS Sometime head of MI5

OTTO JOHN Senior German intelligence officer abducted by Soviet espionage operatives

GENERAL WALTER KRIVITSKY A high-level Soviet defector

JOHN PROFUMO Sometime British Cabinet Minister

VLADIMIR SEMICHASTNY Sometime head of the KGB

WILLIAM SKARDON Best interrogator MI5 ever had

HUBERT SMULLER SS Totenkopf officer, abducted from Rio de Janeiro and later killed by Israelis

JOSEF STALIN Sometime Soviet dictator; a mass murderer

HUGH TREVOR-ROPER Regius Professor of History at Oxford

SIR DICK GOLDSMITH WHITE Sometime head of MI6

THE FIRST DAY

New Year’s Day

How, where and when I became a member of the Soviet intelligence service is a matter for myself and my comrades.

Kim Philby

My Silent War

SYNTHESIS 1(1): MOSCOW

Kim Philby(2) was in jocular mood.

The gold watch committee, he repeated and laughed again, pleasantly, without affectation. His companions on the other side of the desk didn’t laugh. Dourness is habitual to their race and to their profession. A man who laughs gives too much away. But the man behind the desk had security backing his laughter. In the days before Mr Halfnice— the interspersed English word jarred with his accent-less Russian —I would probably have called it the death watch.

One of the older men, not understanding the joke, looked bewildered. Another explained. Mr Halfnice. A joke, a pun on the name of Vladimir Semichastny. In English.

Nobody seemed to find it unusual for an English gentleman to make a pun on the name of an absent person or, if they did, kept their own counsel. Semi-nasty, half nice, one muttered. Yes, I see. He didn’t. Later he would assign an aide to prepare a report for his elucidation.

A last chuckle before Philby continued. I took advantage of the privilege my birthday affords me to ask you all here to celebrate that event and to make an announcement which some of you may consider overdue.

The two younger men, still in their fifties, nodded almost imperceptibly. Of the older men two remained impassive and one, two years older than Philby, scowled briefly.

Philby opened a drawer and took out a bottle of vodka and six small glasses, plain and heavy. He arranged the glasses along the edge of the desk and poured liquid into each until it was full to the brim. Though he continued talking, keeping only half an eye on the vodka, he didn’t spill a drop. You may remember that one of the improvements I helped to bring about in the organization of our friends across the sea was having the retiring age lowered from sixty to fifty-five.

Na zdorove, said the man in the group who seemed to be of exactly middle age. The others echoed him deferentially. Na zdorove! They drank the fiery spirit in one gulp and replaced their glasses in a neat row on the edge of the desk. Philby poured again as he continued. More and more each passing year his manner resembled that of his father who always accompanied his lectures with a pointed forefinger. Na zdorove, he acknowledged the toast.

I am now well past those ages and my usefulness here is declining. He waved his hand slightly across the desk to still the murmur of protest. No, my friends. Let’s face facts. Many years have passed since I came home.

They held up their glasses in a silent toast to him and one of them wiped the corner of his eye. Kim Philby smiled inwardly at such sentimentality but kept his face carefully composed. His eyes wandered briefly to the wall where photographs of Stalin and Feliks Dzerzhinsky flanked his large photograph of Mount Ararat’s twin peaks with the little hump on the right. He remembered Beirut briefly: the friends who insisted that the negative must have been reversed when the print was made, who would never have believed that the photograph had been taken from the Russian side. He was the only man at Lubianka who could dare to keep a photograph of Stalin on the wall of his office — windowless for security, not lowly status. If I were born Russian, he thought, perhaps I too would be wiping away a tear.

But that is not why I ask you to let me go, Philby continued. l am tired and I want to rest. The years have strained me.

None has earned his rest more than you, Tovarich, the oldest though not the most senior general present said with feeling. The man they deferred to took the bottle from Philby and poured more vodka. They drank in silence, looking thoughtful.

l will be available for consultation, should you need me, Kim Philby said and was surprised at the stutter. It had been a long time since he stuttered. It was a sign of emotion, obvious to these perceptive men. But perhaps it was appropriate: he was one of them after all.

The senior man looked around the others. All generals, he said slowly, except Kim, who has done as much as we have and often at greater risk. Perhaps a promotion. It was half-statement, half a request for information. Nobody in the room was inexperienced enough or so naive as to consider it a call for agreement.

The difference in pension between a colonel and a general is considerable, the oldest general murmured.

Thank you, my friends, Kim Philby said, stuttering badly. In that part of his brain which was always detached he thought In Whitehall they would not have discussed it with me present. He was glad they took his point about consultation, that he would not be going too far away. It would have been difficult if there were any suspicion of or resistance to his retirement. Perhaps fatally difficult, he thought wryly, and said:

But I did not only ask you here to drink my health. Or to indulge in mutual admiration, though I admire you all greatly. I need your advice, co-operation and consent. I have something planned, here, he tapped his head in an uncharacteristic gesture. One last service. Perhaps the greatest service of all.

Ah! The senior man present, fourteenth in the Politburo and therefore in the hierarchy, grasped the point immediately. Your insurance.

Yes, my insurance. Kim Philby smiled. He was a handsome man.

May you live forever. There were small smiles, nods of wise heads. Your insurance could be very expensive, perhaps more than we can afford.

That is what my plan is for, to take care of the insurance, to cash it in, to realize its current value. In other words, I think I know how we can all spend my insurance right now, one last spree.

The senior man looked around the room at the other men. He put his glass down and made a slight movement with his hand.

They will all be in the plan, essential parts of it, Philby said.

The senior man looked at each one in turn. Philby had not invited only those closest to him, the ones he exchanged records and books with; those present included even one or two who at one time or another had opposed Philby. Satisfied with the security aspect, all business now, he ordered Tell us, General Philby, how you will collect your life insurance without dying.

Philby poured more vodka while ordering his thoughts. These men could drink vodka like water and keep a clear head; it was an essential qualification for reaching and retaining high office in the KGB.

Let me first outline something with which most of you are already familiar. He had their attention. "When I came home in 1963, I left behind me a number of frightened and angry men, men who would have thought my life little recompense for the damage I had done to their pride.

"In order to prevent them killing me, which would have satisfied their pride and obviated the necessity for keeping the bargain I had struck with some of them, I lodged some letters and other documents in reliable hands with instructions to publish them all in the event of my death by any means.

"Those instructions were and are irrevocable, even by me.

Such publication will do us all harm. This I need not point out to you. Indeed not, he thought. Though he had not said so the papers were, at least in the early days right after Beirut, his insurance against the actions of these men as well. He knew it and they knew it.

"But now the papers are irrelevant, not in themselves, but to my situation. My British friends have kept their side of the bargain. The assassins sent by the CIA have proved incompetent. And I am retiring with honor.

My plan will put these destructive papers, which could harm us all so much, to constructive use.

They were appreciatively attentive. They had long accepted him as their equal in cunning. He relaxed and the stutter disappeared as he started outlining his plan.

Kim Philby was at work, plotting his own death.

THE SECOND DAY

…surely we must speculate on the nature of his master… He understood us better than we understand ourselves; was he our countryman? He recruited only gentlemen; was he himself a gentleman? He recruited only from Cambridge; was he a Cambridge man? All three recruits [Philby, Burgess, Maclean] would travel far on the reputations of their families alone; was he too a man of social influence? Today… he may be walking the streets of London…

John le Carré Introduction to

Bruce Page, David Leitch, Phillip Knightley

Philby: The Spy Who Betrayed a Generation

SYNTHESIS 2: MOSCOW

For a banker, Herr Leibler’s interest in toys was excessive.

Leibler was Swiss, undoubtedly so from the arrow-straight parting in his hair to the knife-edge creases in the trousers of his dark grey suit. And nobody would ever mistake him for anything but a banker: the clasps and hinges on his impossibly slim black leather attaché case were too dull a yellow to be other than unadulterated gold

The Swiss banker’s interest in toys may have stemmed from his love of children. Childless himself, he donated annually and unselfishly to The Children’s Fund and served on its main Board of Trustees in Geneva. This and more was in his file.

Even so it was not unnatural that his monthly visits to Ditsy Mir, the children’s toy and department store across the street from KGB headquarters in Moscow, should attract attention. True, he had good reason to be in Moscow once a month. True, he was vitally interested in children and in what would keep them amused. But only the most undiscerning member of Komsomolsk, the Communist Youth League, would claim that the toys in Children’s World (Ditsy Mir) rivaled the products of Switzerland for precision of manufacture or inherent interest. Or even for simple amusement value. One was left with the ridiculous argument that Leibler, a busy and important man, disciplined in his predictable behavior, had been going to Detsky Mir once a month for more than a decade simply to amuse himself. And this not even the most gullible would credit.

Leibler was not a stupid man in any sense of the word, nor was he naïve. As a member of the consortium of Swiss bankers responsible for the sale of Russian gold on the Swiss bullion markets, he knew that he would be considered an important man and watched. In the early days of his monthly visits to Moscow, before it had become part of his routine to visit Detsky Mir, the surveillance had been openly executed by his lntourist guides who let him out of their sight only in his bedroom and bathroom. Later he thought the surveillance had become covert and intermittent, though he could not be sure because he lacked the means to find out.

He knew that sooner or later his regular visits to Detsky Mir would be noted. The knowledge did not disturb him. The man who made the arrangement was an expert and, if the visits were to be observed, had undoubtedly planned for this to happen. Leibler did not read fiction and suffered no mistaken fear of being hauled from his bed and tortured for his secret. In fact the man who made the arrangement had told him to answer plainly any properly identified official who asked the reason for his visits to Detsky Mir. But he had never been asked.

He stood just inside the glass door of the heated store and looked across the snow turning to sludge in Dzerzhinsky Square. Number two, better known as Lubianka, headquarters of the KGB, did not strike him as sinister or threatening. Leibler could not remember when he last felt insecure. Money in the tenth generation and security amid continued turmoil has that effect on a fortunate few of dispassionate detachment. Leibler, an efficient man, would have shuddered had he known of the incompetence of the KGB, which only three years ago discovered that his visits to Detsky Mir formed a regular pattern but still had to find a logical explanation for the regular calls on a building overlooking their headquarters. Aware of the sluggishness of large bureaucracies, he undoubtedly would have drawn a moral from this: the KGB, with 420,000 employees, had grown too big for efficiency.

Across the square came a stoutly handsome man wearing a heavy fur-collared coat of ungainly cut, fur hat, checked scarf hanging loosely around his neck outside the coat, and grey gloves of fine leather. Even at this distance the gloves were too elegant, out of keeping with the rest of the ensemble, incongruous with the baggy pants cut wide in the Russian manner, out of touch with the open-necked woolen shirt. His eyebrows were greying but his face was little lined; he looked like a man content with his lot and a good night’s sleep. He did not glance at the children’s store but walked through the door of number two, the Lubianka. Two guards came to attention and he nodded casually to them. After he passed through the door they stood at ease again.

Leibler scrutinized the man carefully. Satisfied, he stood for a few moments then walked briskly out of the store, anxious not to be late for his meeting with the Minister in charge of Russian gold production. The man he had watched with such interest seemed to be dawdling but this was an illusion. He had moved briskly and been exactly on time.

Leibler approved. He abhorred breaches of punctuality.

After his meeting with the Minister, Leibler returned to his hotel. In two hours the car would come for him. He sat down at the scarred bureau in his room to make notes on the meeting. When he opened the door to a knock that was not discreet enough for a servant, even in egalitarian Russia, he was not surprised to find two large men facing him. It had been a long time coming.

He stood aside to allow them into the room but they did not wish to enter.

Herr Leibler? The same harsh but perfectly inflected German spoken by most educated Russians, probably learned at one of the East German universities.

I am Herr Leibler.

The leader and his companion showed identification cards behind clear plastic in leather folders. Leibler held out his hand for both folders. He studied them carefully, going over the Cyrillic script slowly until he was sure he understood who they were.

Researchers from Internal Security? he asked. It did not strike him as amusing.

KGB. Analysis and cataloguing directorate, his visitor informed him blandly. A fair analysis for somebody who doesn’t speak Russian. Would you come with us please?

There was no menace in the words. By whose authority? Leibler asked.

You’re not being arrested, Herr Leibler. You may choose not to come. This is simply a request to co-operate with the authorities. The courteous manner indicated the man was a senior official sent to do a menial task.

I have to go to the airport in in hour and a half, the Swiss banker protested.

I know, the Russian official replied. We were told to ask you to attend a meeting on the way there.

With whom will the meeting be? Leibler asked.

I wasn’t told. It will be in a private apartment though. That is all I know.

They waited while Leibler considered. There was no sign of impatience, nor did he expect them to show any. They were well trained officials such as he would hire himself, courteous, competent, content not to exceed their brief.

Very well. My bags are over there.

The silent one carried the bags downstairs and put them on the front seat of a heavy black car. His senior left clear instructions with the desk clerk, who seemed subservient and very frightened, to send Herr Leibler’s car after him. He joined Herr Leibler in the back of the car but did not speak.

When the car stopped at an apartment block, indistinguishable from many such decrepit blocks scarring the face of Moscow, he held the door and beckoned the banker to precede him.

The assistant carried the bags up three flights of grubby stairs. At a door the senior researcher checked the apartment number against a sheet of paper and knocked. When it opened he exchanged a word in Russian with the inhabitant and stepped back. Goodbye, Herr Leibler, he said politely. The silent one nodded and they left.

Leibler walked into the flat. The man he watched in Dzerzhinsky Square that morning stood half behind the door. He closed it. The large room was furnished with a folding card-table and two canvas chairs. On the table stood a bottle of vodka with a shot glass. By the ashtray was a newly opened packet of Gauloises and a box of matches. There was also a bottle of Wilhelm Tell