"If we have a deuced mess, and we try to rearrange things, one chap here, one chap there, one chap somewhere else, then we may still be moving around people who might be loyal to Ivan. In which case we are only rearranging our problem, not solving it."
"Go on. Please do."
"Let's not close down the section. Matter of fact, let's keep it going. Strong."
"But we don't even know who we have there! The Russians know who we have there. They have the only list for our Middle East section."
"Which shows how stupid they are. Taking the only list was a mistake. They should have made a duplicate and let us go on thinking we had somewhat secure agents out there."
"I think it was a snatch and grab. No great internal mole. Some clerk slipped a few quid, snatched a list here or there, and it happened to be an important one."
It was then that Lord Philliston showed his true brilliance. The plan was to let the Russians know that MI-5 believed they had only carelessly misplaced the list. MI-5 would start a search for it and allow the Russians to do their job right by smuggling back the entire original list to some intelligence department.
"Then what?"
"Then we continue to rely on the useless people."
"Wouldn't that be a bit purposeless?"
"Not at all, because in our disaster is their comfort. We should stop at nothing to let the Russians and the rest of the world believe that we have become the worst, most riddled intelligence system in the world."
"I beg your pardon, Lord Philliston."
"Try the mousse, will you?"
"I beg your pardon. What is this insanity?"
"Because we will, starting today, start a new intelligence system, protected by the Russians' certainty that they own pieces, if not all, of ours."
"From scratch you mean? From the bloody start you mean?"
"Absolutely," said Lord Philliston. The trumpets were announcing the first race. "Our real intelligence system will be one no one has ever heard of."
"Brilliant. We will show the Americans we can still hack it."
"We will show them nothing. The Americans are addicted to talk. A major American secret is one that is reported by only a single television network."
"An excellent idea. I knew you were the right fellow for this thing, Lord Philliston. I suppose we will have to give you your MI code. Would you like MI-9?"
"No label. No codes."
"We have to call you something."
"Pick a word then," said Lord Phiiliston.
"Doesn't seem quite right to launch an intelligence operation without an MI code."
"Call the bloody thing 'Source.' "
"Why 'Source'?"
"Why not 'Source'?" said Lord Guy Philliston.
And thus the Source was born that afternoon at Epsom Downs. No one quite knew how Lord Philliston managed it, and he was not one to tell. Information that the Americans could not gather was immediately placed at the disposal of every British prime minister. News of major Russian decisions and the reasons for them began appearing on plain typed paper. More often than not it was too late to do anything about these major Russian moves, but the reports were always accurate, if not brilliant. Guy Philliston performed with a tenth of the personnel allocated to the public intelligence system. And never once did he seek promotion or fame.
His success only confirmed what all of the good friends knew in the first place: one of theirs knew how to run things best. Always had, always would.
One never went wrong trusting someone who used the right tailor. And the best thing about Lord Philliston's Source was that it never made public noise, never embarrassed anyone. A legend grew up among those who ran things that if it were brilliant and impossible to figure out, it had to be Source.
One reason Lord Philliston's Source could use so few men was that he didn't have to waste years and manpower penetrating the inner circles of the Kremlin.
He merely had lunch at the right club. There in his private mail, which no one would dare open, were the reports in English, neatly typed, of what was going on in the world. There was also a very handy summary of what they referred to, so that Lord Guy Philliston could get through a month's work in less than five minutes. One minute, if he chose to speed-read the summary.
The information about the Kremlin was accurate because it came from the Kremlin. And the original list of British agents had been returned.
In fact, everything Lord Philliston had told his friends at Epsom Downs that day had been worked out for him by his KGB contact, who was also his lover, and who knew that what Lord Philliston liked best in the world was generally to be left alone. The one thing he hated in the world was the Philliston duty of serving Queen and country.
Running the Source allowed Lord Philliston the utmost respect of his family and friends with the least amount of work or danger. Russia certainly wasn't going to endanger her absolutely prime position with him in charge of Britain's secret security unit. Daddy wouldn't press him to join the Coldstream Guards, and Mummy wouldn't demand he escort one properly bred sow after another if he could claim that his time was fully taken up by Her Majesty's Service. Being a traitor to Queen and country had been an asbolute blessing to a lazy lord who preferred the love of men to that of the women his entire family wanted him to breed with.
There was occasional elements of risk in this job. Like the day he was told by the Russian contact to retire to his safe room because an American was about, mucking things up.
He did not like Philliston Hall. Even the parapets where one could survey the Philliston countryside were gloomy. And the safe room, once the master bedroom of the lords of this fortress, was gloomier still. Not even a slit for air. Fifteen feet of rock on every side and not an inch of it provided insulation. Stone never did.
No one had even bothered to put in a proper toilet. Rather, one relieved oneself in a little niche with a narrow hole to accept one's discharge. It had taken workmen three months to cut in the narrow holes for the security lines. One of them went to Whitehall, another went to Scotland Yard, another went to Number 10 Downing Street, and the one that had the really impenetrable scramble system went to the cultural-affairs department of the Russian embassy. Guy, of course, had direct access to the chief KGB officer there.
"This is ridiculous," said Guy. He was wearing a scratchy cashmere sweater pulled on over a cotton shirt that had too much starch. The brandy was adequate, but it kept chilling. The only way to heat anything in the room was to start a fire, but fires made smoke and the air was already deucedly unbreathable.
"Stay right where you are,'' warned the Russian. "Do not leave the room. The American is near you."
"One American is forcing me to hide in this stone-cold chamber?"
"He has run through some of your best staff and right now he is parked less than two hundred yards west of Philliston Hall."
"Who told you that?"
"Your guards. Stay where you are. You are too precious for us to risk. This man may be dangerous."
"Well then, let's give him what he wants and get rid of him. Then let me get back to London. This place is worthless. Useless."
"Stay where you are."
" 'Stay where you are,' " said Guy Philliston, imitating the soupy Russian accent before he hung up with force. He hated the Russian accent. Always sounded like they had something they wanted to cough up. Israelis sounded like they were about to spit something out, and Arabs hissed. Americans sounded like their tongues couldn't handle vowels, and Australians sounded-rightfully-as though they had all just been let out of Old Newgate Prison. Why, Lord Philliston asked himself, couldn't Britain fight the French? The French would make lovely enemies. They were cultured. The only real flaw of their race was that the men liked women too much.
Into this dreary cold life came the most beautiful surprise. Virtually out of a wall came the most handsome man Lord Philliston had ever seen. He had magnificent dark eyes, high cheekbones, and was in perfect trim. His body movements made Guy Philliston quiver with excitement. He was carrying something white, which he let drop to the stone floor with a clatter. They were bones. Human bones.