even less likely traitor . Kit still blamed himself. He had been briefed about them, but he trusted his intuition and his intuition was shit. A year after he defected, Donald Maclean made a statement to the press. Kit kept a copy of it taped to the corner of the mirror: I am haunted and burdened by what I know of official secrets, especially by the content of high-level Anglo-American conversations. The British Government, whom I have served, have betrayed the realm to Americans. I wish to enable my beloved country to escape from the snare which faithless politicians have set. I have decided that I can discharge my duty to my country only through prompt disclosure of this material.
As Kit sat over his morning tea and toast, he opened his first-edition copy of The Portrait of a Lady to the appropriate page. He found a piece of lined paper and wrote out the message in standard four-letter groups for encoding. IWAN TTOB UYAS MALL BOAT TWEN TYTO TWEN TYFI VEFE ET. He then copied out the encryption key for the day from the novel: ONES COUS INAL WAYS PRET ENDE DTOH ATEO NESH USBA ND. Kit encoded quickly. He didn’t need to add up; he knew the seven hundred and thirty-six combinations of the tri-graph by heart. He then wrote the encoded message, WJEF VHIT … on a blank sheet of paper and popped it in an envelope. It was risky sending it that way. If Brian opened the envelope he would never be able to break the code, but he would know that someone was communicating in code. Next time he met Jennifer, Kit would show her how to hide encoding within a seemingly innocent letter. For example, lay out the letter so the left-hand margin contains the encoded message.
Kit put on his best lounge suit, white shirt and grey silk tie. It was St Patrick’s day and there was a reception at the Irish Embassy. He wondered if he should wear a green tie or green socks or a green jockstrap. It was all so stupid. He supposed they’d all have to wear cardboard shamrocks in their lapels or something similar. It was one of the most drunken occasions of the diplomatic year. Everyone enjoyed watching the Brits trying to interact with their hosts as if the Easter uprising and partition had never happened. That bit was always great fun and almost made it worth going. The Russians were fun too – and really did get drunk, no olive-oil prophylaxis beforehand. Irish whisky was too good to waste.
There was a lot of traditional Irish food to soak up the booze: so most people stuck to the booze. Vasili, Kit’s counterpart in the Soviet Embassy, raised a Waterford crystal tumbler of single malt to greet the American. Kit had known Vasili for ten years. The Russian was now KGB Chief of Residency, the Soviet equivalent of CIA Chief of Station. At the top level, there was no coyness or pretend secrecy about one another’s job or identity. They were all members of the same club, even though they went out on the court to thrash each other. And, like gentleman players, they were polite to each other in the clubhouse afterwards. And, like aspiring professionals in any sport, they charted each other’s progress through the rankings. Vasili had done much better since the death of Stalin and the execution of Beria; likewise, Kit had profited from the replacement of Dean Acheson – a pompous ass largely responsible for teeing up the Cold War – by Foster Dulles, who was an even worse ass but less hostile to Kit’s career.
Vasili winked and gestured for Kit to come over. Kit flashed him a middle finger, then looked up to see the Irish Ambassador frowning directly at him. Kit nodded and smiled blandly, then made his way to the drinks table and served himself. He then circulated past the Uruguayan chargé d’affaires, who was speaking in German to the Papal Nuncio, and found himself next to Vasili. The Russian, by way of small talk, began by asking, ‘How are the British getting on with their hydrogen bomb?’
Kit laughed and gestured with his thumb
As Kit sat over his morning tea and toast, he opened his first-edition copy of The Portrait of a Lady to the appropriate page. He found a piece of lined paper and wrote out the message in standard four-letter groups for encoding. IWAN TTOB UYAS MALL BOAT TWEN TYTO TWEN TYFI VEFE ET. He then copied out the encryption key for the day from the novel: ONES COUS INAL WAYS PRET ENDE DTOH ATEO NESH USBA ND. Kit encoded quickly. He didn’t need to add up; he knew the seven hundred and thirty-six combinations of the tri-graph by heart. He then wrote the encoded message, WJEF VHIT … on a blank sheet of paper and popped it in an envelope. It was risky sending it that way. If Brian opened the envelope he would never be able to break the code, but he would know that someone was communicating in code. Next time he met Jennifer, Kit would show her how to hide encoding within a seemingly innocent letter. For example, lay out the letter so the left-hand margin contains the encoded message.
Kit put on his best lounge suit, white shirt and grey silk tie. It was St Patrick’s day and there was a reception at the Irish Embassy. He wondered if he should wear a green tie or green socks or a green jockstrap. It was all so stupid. He supposed they’d all have to wear cardboard shamrocks in their lapels or something similar. It was one of the most drunken occasions of the diplomatic year. Everyone enjoyed watching the Brits trying to interact with their hosts as if the Easter uprising and partition had never happened. That bit was always great fun and almost made it worth going. The Russians were fun too – and really did get drunk, no olive-oil prophylaxis beforehand. Irish whisky was too good to waste.
There was a lot of traditional Irish food to soak up the booze: so most people stuck to the booze. Vasili, Kit’s counterpart in the Soviet Embassy, raised a Waterford crystal tumbler of single malt to greet the American. Kit had known Vasili for ten years. The Russian was now KGB Chief of Residency, the Soviet equivalent of CIA Chief of Station. At the top level, there was no coyness or pretend secrecy about one another’s job or identity. They were all members of the same club, even though they went out on the court to thrash each other. And, like gentleman players, they were polite to each other in the clubhouse afterwards. And, like aspiring professionals in any sport, they charted each other’s progress through the rankings. Vasili had done much better since the death of Stalin and the execution of Beria; likewise, Kit had profited from the replacement of Dean Acheson – a pompous ass largely responsible for teeing up the Cold War – by Foster Dulles, who was an even worse ass but less hostile to Kit’s career.
Vasili winked and gestured for Kit to come over. Kit flashed him a middle finger, then looked up to see the Irish Ambassador frowning directly at him. Kit nodded and smiled blandly, then made his way to the drinks table and served himself. He then circulated past the Uruguayan chargé d’affaires, who was speaking in German to the Papal Nuncio, and found himself next to Vasili. The Russian, by way of small talk, began by asking, ‘How are the British getting on with their hydrogen bomb?’
Kit laughed and gestured with his thumb
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