Philby read the memo with mounting, if hidden, horror: Volkov’s allusion to the Soviet spy running a counter-intelligence section in London could only refer to himself. Even if Volkov did not know his identity he had promised to hand over ‘copies of the material provided’ to Moscow, which would soon be traced back to him. The spies Volkov threatened to uncover in the Foreign Office must be Guy Burgess, now working in the news department, and Donald Maclean, first secretary at the British embassy in Washington. This lone defector had enough information to break up the entire Cambridge spy chain, expose the inner workings of Soviet intelligence, and destroy Philby himself. Struggling to compose his features, Philby stalled, telling C the Volkov approach was ‘something of the greatest importance’. He would ponder the memo overnight, he said, and report back in the morning.
‘That evening I worked late,’ Philby wrote many years later. ‘The situation seemed to call for urgent action of an extra-curricular nature.’ The insouciant tone is misleading: Philby was close to panic. He arranged a hasty meeting with Krötenschield, and told him what had happened. Max tried to calm him, in language that sounds like one Englishman discussing a cricket match with another: ‘Don’t worry, old man. We’ve seen a lot worse. The score will be settled in our favour.’ Philby should prevaricate, said Krötenschield, and try to control the situation. That evening, British radio interceptors picked up (but failed to attach any significance to) a sudden surge in coded radio messages passing from London to Moscow, followed by another increase in traffic between Moscow and Istanbul.
The next morning, Philby was back in C’s office, full of enthusiasm, since any hint of reluctance would look deeply suspicious if matters came to the crunch. ‘Someone fully briefed should be sent out to take charge of the case on the spot,’ he said, with the task of ‘meeting Volkov, bedding him down with his wife in one of our safe houses in Istanbul, and spiriting him away, with or without the connivance of the Turks, to British-occupied Egypt’. C agreed. In fact, he had met just the man for the job at White’s Club the night before: Brigadier Sir Douglas Roberts, head of Security Intelligence (Middle East) – SIME – based in Cairo, who happened to be in London on leave. Roberts was an experienced intelligence officer and a veteran anti-Bolshevik. Born in Odessa to an English father and Russian mother, he spoke Volkov’s language fluently. Indeed he was the only Russian-speaking intelligence officer in either the Middle East or London, which says much about MI6’s state of preparation for the Cold War. Roberts would be able to smuggle Volkov out of Istanbul with ease, and Philby knew it. All he could do was hope that his ‘work the night before would bear fruit before Roberts got his teeth into the case’.
Once again, Philby’s uncanny good fortune intervened. Brigadier Roberts was a brave man, a veteran of the First World War, but he had one fear: flying. Indeed, so extreme was his aviophobia that his job description explicitly excused him from having to fly anywhere. When asked to head to Istanbul at once and take over the Volkov case, he barked: ‘Don’t you read my contract? I don’t fly.’
The obvious replacement for Roberts was Nicholas Elliott. From Berne he could reach Istanbul, his old stamping ground, in a matter of hours. He had done a fine job of extracting Vermehren two years earlier, and had excellent contacts in Turkey. He even appears to have met Volkov at some point during his stint in Istanbul. But Elliott, precisely because of his suitability, was the last person Philby wanted to handle the case. For once, instead of delicately planting an idea on the boss and waiting for him to believe he had coined it, Philby directly intervened, and suggested that C send him to Turkey to extract Volkov in person. Menzies agreed, ‘with obvious relief’ at this bureaucratic problem solved. Philby now gave the impression of busily making preparations, while dragging his feet as slowly as possible. He first underwent a crash course in wireless coding, to ensure he could bypass the penetrated embassy systems, and then dawdled for three more days. When his plane finally took off for Cairo, it was diverted to Tunis, causing further delay. He was still en route when the Turkish consulate in Moscow issued visas for two Soviet ‘diplomatic couriers’ travelling to Istanbul.
Philby finally arrived in Turkey on 26 September 1945, twenty-two days after Volkov’s initial contact. The city was looking particularly beautiful in the late summer sun, but Philby grimly reflected that if he failed to prevent Volkov’s defection, ‘this might be the last memorable summer I was destined to enjoy’. When Reed asked him why MI6 had not sent someone sooner, Philby lied blandly: ‘Sorry, old man, it would have interfered with leave arrangements.’ Reed later found himself pondering the ‘inexplicable delays and evasions of Philby’s visit’, but at the time the Foreign Office man held his tongue. ‘I thought he was just irresponsible and incompetent.’
The following Monday, with Philby standing over him, Chantry Page picked up the telephone, dialled the number of the Soviet consulate, and asked the operator for Konstantin Volkov. Instead, he was put through to the consul general. Page phoned again. This time, after a lengthy pause, the telephone was answered by someone who claimed to be Volkov but who spoke good English, which Volkov did not. ‘It wasn’t Volkov,’ said Page. ‘I know Volkov’s voice perfectly well. I’ve spoken to him dozens of times.’ The third call got no further than the telephone operator.
‘She said he was out,’ complained Page. ‘A minute ago, she put me on to him.’ Page’s face was ‘a study in puzzlement’. Silently, Philby rejoiced. The next day, Page called the Soviet consulate again. ‘I asked for Volkov, and the girl said “Volkov’s in Moscow”. Then there was a sort of scuffle and slam, and the line went dead.’ Finally, Page marched over to the Soviet consulate in person, and returned enraged. ‘It’s no bloody good. I can’t get any sense out of that madhouse. Nobody’s ever heard of Volkov.’ Philby was privately triumphant. ‘The case was dead.’ And so, by this point, was Volkov.
The two ‘diplomatic couriers’, hitmen despatched by Moscow Centre, had worked with crisp efficiency. A few hours earlier, two figures, bandaged from head to foot, were seen being loaded onto a Soviet transport aircraft, ‘on stretchers and heavily sedated’. In Moscow, Volkov was taken to the torture cells of the Lubyanka where, under ‘brutal interrogation’, he confessed that he had intended to reveal the identities of hundreds of Soviet agents. Volkov and his terrified wife, Zoya, were then executed.
Philby later reflected that the episode had been ‘a very narrow squeak’, the closest he had yet come to disaster. As for Volkov, Philby dismissed the Russian as a ‘nasty piece of work’ who ‘deserved what he got’.
Konstantin Volkov left no traces: no photograph, no file in the Russian archives, no evidence about whether his motives were mercenary, personal or ideological. Neither his family, nor that of his wife, have ever emerged from the darkness of Stalin’s state. He had been right to assume that his relatives were doomed. Volkov was not merely liquidated, he was expunged.
Philby sent a coded message to Menzies, explaining that Volkov had vanished and requesting permission to wind up the case. In a subsequent report, he proffered several plausible explanations for Volkov’s disappearance: perhaps he had changed his mind about defecting, or had got drunk and talked too much. If the Soviets bugged the consulate telephones, they might have discovered the truth that way. At no point did he even hint at the possibility of a tip-off from the British side. Menzies, comfortable with Philby’s explanations, concluded it was ‘extremely unlikely’ that ‘indiscretion in the British embassy in Istanbul was the cause. The more probable explanation is that Volkov betrayed himself . . . It is quite possible that his quarrels [with the Soviet ambassador] led to him being watched, and that either he or his wife, or both, made some mistake.’