The two men shook hands. Elliott inquired about the bandage on Philby’s head. Philby explained that he had fallen over after a party. The embassy secretary poured tea, and then discreetly left the apartment. The two men sat down, for all the world as if they were meeting in the club. In the next room, Peter Lunn and a stenographer, both wearing headphones, hunched over a turning tape-recorder.
The full transcript of the ensuing dialogue has never been released by MI5. Indeed, parts of the recording are almost inaudible; Elliott was no technical expert. Shortly before Philby’s arrival, he had opened the apartment windows and as a result, much of their dialogue is obscured by the sounds wafting up from the busy Beirut street below. One of the most important conversations in the history of the Cold War takes place to the accompaniment of car horns, grinding engines, Arabic voices and the faint clink of china teacups. But enough could be heard to reconstruct what followed: a display of brutal English politeness, civilised and lethal.
Elliott asked after Philby’s health.
‘Perfectly tolerable,’ said Philby, adding that he was recovering from a double bout of flu and bronchitis. ‘They were both against me.’
Philby asked after Elliott’s family. All well, said Elliott. Mark was starting the new term at Eton.
‘Wonderful tea,’ he said.
A pause.
‘Don’t tell me you flew all the way here to see me?’ said Philby.
Elliott took out his Mont Blanc pen, placed it on the table, and began to roll it back and forth under his palm. It was an act of nervous tension, but also an old interrogation trick, a distraction.
‘Sorry for getting right on with it. Kim, I don’t have time to postpone this. And we’ve known each other for ever, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll get right to the point,’ said Elliott, not getting to the point. ‘Unfortunately it’s not very pleasant.’ Another pause. ‘I came to tell you that your past has caught up with you.’
Philby immediately counter-attacked. ‘Have you all gone mad once again? You want to start all that? After all these years? You’ve lost your sense of humour. You’ll be a laughing stock!’
‘No, we haven’t lost anything. On the contrary we’ve found additional information about you. It puts everything in place.’
‘What information? And what is there to put in place?’
Elliott stood, walked to the window, and stared down into the street.
‘Listen Kim, you know I was on your side all the time from the moment there were suspicions about you. But now there is new information. They’ve shown it to me. And now even I am convinced, absolutely convinced that you worked for the Soviet intelligence services. You worked for them right up until ’49.’
Philby later expressed bafflement as to why Elliott should identify 1949 as the date he stopped spying for the Russians. The answer was simple: 1949 was the year Philby went to Washington; if he admitted to spying while in America then James Angleton, the CIA and the FBI would all want to know what intelligence secrets he had given away, and could well demand his extradition to face charges under US law. The offer of immunity would be meaningless. For the purposes of the deal, Elliott needed Philby to admit spying up to, but no later than, 1949. That way, the problem could be dealt with ‘in-house’ by MI6, without American involvement.
But Philby was not ready to admit anything.
‘Who told you that nonsense? It’s totally absurd’ – and, appealing to Elliott’s sense of fair play – ‘You know yourself that it’s absurd.’
But Elliott pressed on: ‘We have new information that you were indeed working with the Soviet intelligence service . . .’
‘Do you want me to go into all this again?’
‘Kim, the game’s up. We know what you did. We’ve penetrated the KGB, Kim. There’s no doubt in my mind any more that you were a KGB agent.’
Decades of friendship were fracturing around them. But still the atmosphere remained calm – though taut – the words polite. More tea was poured. Elliott rolled his pen back and forth. Philby broke the silence.
‘Look how stupid this seems. Astonishing! A man is suspected for a long time of mortal sin, they can’t prove a thing, they’re embarrassed in front of the whole world. They apologise. Then ten years later, some chief is struck by the old idea again. They decide to send an old friend, a wise and decent man, with only one goal, to persuade an innocent man to confess that he’s a Russian spy . . . Is that why you’re here?’
‘Kim, if you were in my place, if you knew what I know . . .’
‘I wouldn’t talk to you the way you’re talking to me.’
‘And how would you talk to me?
‘I would offer you a drink instead of this lousy tea.’ It was meant to be a joke, but Elliott did not laugh. And he did not offer him a drink.
‘Do you want me to give you my version of your work for the Russians? Do you want me to tell you what you were thinking?’
‘Nicholas, are you serious?’
‘I am.’
Elliott had spent years believing he knew what was in Philby’s mind, only to discover that he had been completely wrong. The speech he now delivered was that of a man struggling to understand the incomprehensible.
I understand you. I’ve been in love with two women at the same time. I’m certain that you were in the same situation in politics: you loved England and the Soviet Union at the same time. But you’ve worked for the Soviet Union long enough, you’ve helped it enough. Now you must help us . . . You stopped working for them in 1949. I’m absolutely certain of that. Now it’s January 1963. Fourteen years have gone by. In that time your ideas and views have changed. They had to change. I can understand people who worked for the Soviet Union, say, before or during the war. But by 1949, a man of your intellect and spirit had to see that all the rumours about Stalin’s monstrous behaviour were not rumours, they were the truth. You decided to break with the USSR.
Philby shrugged, and shook his head. ‘You came here to interrogate me. And I keep thinking I’m talking to a friend.’
It was the second time Philby had invoked their friendship. Something snapped: Elliott suddenly exploded.
‘You took me in for years. Now I’ll get the truth out of you even if I have to drag it out. You had to choose between Marxism and your family, and you chose Marxism. I once looked up to you, Kim. My God, how I despise you now. I hope you’ve enough decency left to understand why.’
These were the first angry words he had ever spoken to Philby. The pretence of politeness was gone. Neither man moved, or spoke.
Elliott slowly regained his composure, and eventually broke the crackling silence. ‘I’m sure we can work something out.’
Elliott laid out the deal. If Philby confessed everything, back in London or, if he preferred, in Beirut, then he would not be prosecuted. But he would need to reveal alclass="underline" every contact with Soviet intelligence, every other mole in Britain, every secret he had passed to Moscow over a lifetime of spying. ‘I can give you my word, and that of Dick White, that you will get full immunity, you will be pardoned, but only if you tell it yourself. We need your collaboration, your help.’
Philby said nothing, and Elliott’s voice hardened as he continued. If Kim refused to play ball, if he persisted in denying the truth, he would be left in the cold. His passport would be withdrawn, and his residence permit revoked. He would not even be able to open a bank account. He would never work for another British newspaper, let alone MI6. His children would be removed from their expensive schools. He would live the rest of his life as a penniless pariah, a ‘leper’ in Elliott’s words. The choice was stark: a gentleman’s agreement, safety in return for a full confession; or he could stand by his denials, and ‘his life would be rendered intolerable’. There was, of course, a third option, so obvious to both men that Elliott had no need to mention it. Philby could cut and run.