Hitler's peace

“I couldn’t see the point, quite frankly. I think I would have worked for them if I’d stayed on in Austria. But for Litzi’s sake I had to leave. So I came back here, got a job on the Times. But I saw Otto again, in 1937, when he was on his way to Russia. I think he was rather lucky not to get shot in the Great Purge. Anyway, he tried to recruit me here in London, would you believe? God knows why. I mean, any information a journalist gets, he tends to pass on to his readers. I was a Communist, of course. Still am, if the truth be known, which, if it was, I’d be out of the service on my ear.”

“Why are you telling me this, Kim?”

“Because I think I can trust you, old boy. And what you were saying earlier. About the idea of our side in this war negotiating a peace with Jerry.”

I didn’t recall saying anything much about that, but I let it go.

“I think if I ever did find out something like that, then secrecy be damned. I’d march straight round to the Soviet embassy and shove a note through the bloody letterbox. Dear Comrade Stalin, The British and Americans are selling you down the Volga. Yours sincerely, Kim Philby, MI5.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

“No? Ever hear of a chap called George Earle?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact he’s one of the reasons I’m here. Earle’s the president’s special representative in the Balkans. He wrote an unsolicited report for FDR about the Katyn Forest massacre. He’s a pal of Roosevelt’s. Rich. Very rich. Like the rest of Roosevelt’s pals.”

“You included,” chuckled Philby.

“That’s my family you’re talking about, Kim. Not me.”

“Lord, now you sound just like Victor.” He laughed. “The epicurean ascetic.” Philby grabbed another glass of champagne.

I grabbed one myself and sipped it slowly this time. I wanted to cool down and stop myself from punching Philby. I excused him because he was drunk. And because I wanted to hear more about George Earle.

“Listen,” he said, with the air of someone who couldn’t make up his mind if he was offering up gossip or a state secret. It seemed quite possible that he didn’t know the difference. “The Earle family made its money in the sugar trade. Earle dropped out of Harvard, and in 1916 he joined General Pershing’s army, trying to hunt down Pancho Villa in Mexico. Then he joined the U.S. Navy and won the Navy Cross, which is how he’s so thick with Roosevelt. FDR’s a big navy man, right?”

I nodded. “Where are you going with this, Kim?”

Philby tapped the side of his nose. “You’ll see.” He lit another cigarette and then snatched it from his mouth impatiently.

“A lifelong Republican, Earle nevertheless supported Roosevelt for president in 1932. And as a reward, FDR made him his naval attache in Ankara. Now, then. Here comes the good part. Hefty-that’s our chum Earle’s nickname-has a girlfriend, a Belgian dancer and part-time prostitute named Helene, who works for us. I’m telling you all this so you’ll know where some of our information is coming from.

“In May of this year, Hefty met the German ambassador in Ankara. As I’m sure you are aware, the ambassador is also the former German chancellor, Franz von Papen. According to Helene, Hefty and von Papen conducted some secret peace negotiations. We’re not quite sure if the talks were initiated by Earle or by von Papen. Either way, Earle reported back to FDR and von Papen reported back to someone in Berlin-we’re not exactly sure to whom. Nothing much seemed to happen for a while. Then, just a few days ago, Earle had a meeting with an American by the name of Theodor Morde. Ever hear of him?”

“I’ve never heard of Theodor Morde,” I said, truthfully.

“Morde’s a chap who used to work for COI in Cairo before it turned into your mob, the OSS. I thought you might know him.”

“I’ve never heard of him,” I repeated.

“Morde’s an American who travels on a Portuguese passport. Works for the Reader’s Digest organization. The sort of fellow your mob could very easily deny. I’m sure you know the kind of thing. Anyway, this fellow Morde had a meeting with von Papen just two days ago. We’ve no idea what was said. Helene isn’t fucking him, unfortunately. But other sources seem to indicate that afterwards, Morde gave Earle some kind of document from von Papen for Roosevelt. And that, for now, is as much as we know.”

Throughout Philby’s discourse I felt my jaw tighten. Blunt’s information about Vasily Zubilin had been surprising enough, but this was much more disturbing, and the apparent insouciance with which Philby had delivered his bombshell, so typically English, only seemed to make matters worse.

“And did you go straight round to the Soviet embassy and shove a note through the letterbox? Like you said?”

“Not yet,” said Philby. “But I still might.”

“What stopped you?”

“You did, as a matter of fact.”

“Me?”