Randall also enjoyed his privileged knowledge of the habits of other diplomats in the Kremlin and in the American and other foreign embassies. He knew of a counsellor in his own embassy engaged in currency racketeering, of a homosexual in the British Embassy who had so far managed to contain his inclinations, of an Italian having an affair with an Intourist guide, of a Russian in the Foreign Ministry who hoarded art treasures in his dacha in the country and exported them illegally to the West, of an East German who, when he had finished his daily bottle of whisky, still toasted Hitler before turning in for the night.
He knew the identities of many intelligence agents of other countries and guessed at others. They were not difficult to spot—junior political officers not quite as drearily stereotyped as their colleagues, journalists working for newspapers which could not normally afford a Moscow correspondent, businessmen on hopeless export missions. He knew the identities of two of his fellow CIA agents and was aware that there were others.
Randall was also aware that his way of life, particularly since his wife left him, had aroused the interest of many men in Moscow and Washington. If he had been an ordinary diplomat then there would have been a rebuke from the Ambassador, possibly a recall to Washington. But his other masters had decided that he might have his uses in his present role. They realised that it was too obvious to send a bachelor to Moscow to go whoring for secrets—diplomats were never so extrovertly lecherous. But his marriage break-up and his return to bachelor pursuits seemed perfectly natural. He was now ideally established to corrupt—or be corrupted. Randall suspected that there would have been disappointment in Washington if he had not seduced their last courier.
In Moscow his fellow diplomats regarded him with suspicion and envy. Suspicion that he had influential friends—the Ambassador, maybe, or someone even higher in Washington—and not that he worked for the CIA because few took the department seriously; envy that he had discarded a bitch of a wife and seemed to be able to fornicate freely without reprimand.
The Ambassador accepted Randall and his unorthodox behaviour because he knew he had to. No one had ever positively identified to him the agents on his staff—and he was grateful that officially he had not been informed. But he thought he knew most of them and he certainly had no doubt about Randall. He despaired of Randall as a diplomat and resented his cynicism towards a profession in which he believed; he admired him in his other role because he suspected that the big sardonic man might be very good at it; he liked him as a man; he treated him with respect as a poker player because he had never forgotten a certain evening when Randall had relieved him of several hundred dollars. He tried to convince his Minister that Randall was really a very able diplomat but the Minister only smiled knowingly implying that he was aware that even the United States foreign service was susceptible to nepotism.
Randall tried to make friends with some of the Twilight Brigade—Communists from the West, traitors, misguided innocents and retired idealists who formed a shy, restless community of their own in Moscow. Men like Donald Maclean, the defector from the British Foreign Office, who used the name Fraser; Kim Philby, his mentor, also from the British Foreign Office; old Len Wincott from Britain who fought the Germans in the Red Army in the last war and was rewarded by Stalin with ten years in a labour camp; Joe Melia, a Communist and United States patriot who had been converted to disloyalty by Senator McCarthy; Harry Waterman, the pathetic Cockney who fled from the military police after a brawl in Berlin after the war and presented himself to the Russians reciting Communism which he had not understood then or now.
Most of them worked in the State publishing houses, translating or writing propaganda; some represented foreign Communist newspapers in Moscow; some lived in uneasy leisure. But it was not easy to gain their trust. They were suspicious of everyone; aware that they were regarded with pity by their compatriots and contempt by the Russians. And as far as the journalists were concerned the Russians seemed to have more respect for newspapermen from the Capitalist Press than they did for foreign reporters who were as predictable as their own.
All members of the Brigade were reticent about their predicament: wary of criticising a regime which had betrayed their ideals in case the secret police were listening, wary of praising it in case they jeopardised their remote chances of returning to their homelands. Only those treacherous beyond redemption allowed their praise of the Soviet Union to be published abroad.
Those who had retained their nationality were sometimes invited to official functions by their embassies. They attended defiantly but were as embarrassed as their hosts. They were courteously squeezed to the corners of rooms where they discussed the weather with the more simple wives, asked about life back home, and departed for their flats leaving behind only relief at their departure.
Under the influence of drink, or the cameraderie of meeting fellow countrymen, these men whose passports ensured that they might one day return home sometimes went to parties and joked about Soviet life. About fat generals, abortions, Khrushchev, queues and the KGB. But not those who had discarded their birthright: for them there was little to joke about.
A few believed that their early notions of equality for all men might one day be realised here at the fount of Communism. They looked around and rejoiced at the new homes breaking the skyline, at the families crowding planes and trains for the summer vacation, at the clothes and food in the shops. Rejoiced and wished they could do so without the guidance of the Soviet Press which rejoiced daily.
They also looked around and saw a people who had never known freedom; and tried to forget that they who had known it had relinquished it. Of this they never talked, not even when they met within their own outcast community.
Each cherished the idea that one day he might see again Oxford Street, Times Square, The Champs-Elysées, the Via Veneto; the mansion or cottage where he was born; his school, his sky, his sea. Few ever returned because of the retribution they anticipated or because the Communist Parties in their own countries stopped their visas fearing bad publicity. And, like long-term prisoners who sometimes plead to be kept in jail, they also feared what they would find if they went home—new landscapes, new attitudes, new values; thus many never tried to return; one day, they said, they would go back but they died before the day dawned.
Randall had attended a funeral for an American member of the Brigade. They had all been present like family mourners. There was little grief, just a brooding awareness of futility among them. The dead man, like so many of them, yielded to impetuosity, sought a new meaning to life like a jilted girl fleeing to the monastery; and had found failure in different garb. Together the mourners supported his failure, their failure.
Pressmen attended the funeral, too. Taking pictures and seeking the faces of known defectors who had not yet materialised in Moscow. They mostly talked to Harry Waterman who was less reticent than the others, and that was where Randall met him.
He spoke to Dick Hellier, a youngish agency chief whose face was pinched and aged by feverish dedication to his job. ‘Could you introduce me to Waterman?’ he said. ‘He sounds as if he might be interesting.’
‘He was interesting once,’ Hellier said. ‘And that’s it. Once you’ve heard about Siberia you’ve heard everything. He had a tough time but you can’t be sorry for people all the time.’
‘Why does everyone bother with him then?’
‘He’s useful to us. He knows all the Twilight Brigade and when he’s stoked up with a few vodkas he sometimes drops the odd crumb of information.’
‘That