The Private Life of Spies

by Alexander McCall Smith

He pointed to one of the photographs. It was a black-and-white picture taken in an office somewhere. A man sat at a desk, while another stood behind him. In the corner was a third figure, wearing a strange costume. The man in costume was diminutive. ‘See?’ he said. She peered at the photograph. ‘Washington,’ he said. ‘The man sitting down is the British ambassador, a man called Archibald Clark Kerr. A very colourful character, which is putting it mildly.

Behind him there, that tall, distinguished-looking man is Donald Maclean.

And in the corner there – that’s Yevgeni Yost, the ambassador’s Russian valet, believe it or not, dressed as a Cossack. A dwarf, as they called such people in those days. And still do, I think, although there may be a new term – it’s so difficult to keep up.’

Archibald Clark Kerr, Lord Inverchapel as he became. He was actually born in Australia, but he always made a great thing about being Scottish, although he never actually lived there.

Some of the most Scottish people there are actually don’t live in Scotland.

But then Archie Clark Kerr was odd. He would never have made it in the civil service today, let alone in the Foreign Office. But times were different then. There were characters, you see, and there wasn’t the same expectation of conformity.

The diplomatic service that Archie entered in 1906 was very different from its modern equivalent. Entry was by competitive examination, but was far from open to all. Not everybody could afford to apply: junior staff were expected to have a private income sufficient for the needs of somebody in their position – an important consideration, bearing in mind that they were not paid at all until they had been promoted to the level of third secretary. Once in post, their duties were mundane – opening letters, deciphering telegrams, and filing. Much of their time was spent in idle pursuits of one sort or another, and although they were not as free from duties as were Trollope’s non-resident clergymen, the hours were far from demanding. Further up the ladder, Foreign Office mandarins tended not to start their day’s work until after eleven in the morning, which left relatively little time to work before they went off for lunch.

One could buy ties already made up, with wire in the bow to keep them from dropping, but he would never resort to those.

He said, ‘Why is it that women need to paint their faces? Look at these Chinese women. It’s as if they’re putting on masks.’ ‘Perhaps women need masks,’ she replied. ‘Perhaps men make it necessary for them to have masks.’

There were always those lone wolves who seemed happy enough with their own company and who did not need the company of others.

From China, Archie’s next appointment was that of ambassador to the Soviet Union.

He found the Russians to be difficult allies – suspicious and resentful of the way in which they were treated by the United States and Britain.

he got on well with Stalin, who was not always the easiest of company. They shared an interest in pipes and pipe tobacco; it was a rare, and important, friendship.

Churchill did not like it. He thought of Russia as a gloomy place, with people to match;

‘A very rough figure, our Comrade Stalin,’ Churchill suddenly muttered. ‘I don’t suppose he ever learned any manners.’

‘He insulted me.’ Archie raised his voice. It was unintentional, but it made Churchill slow down again, even if he did not turn round. ‘But that’s what they’re all like, Prime Minister.

The world was so precious, so beautiful – so fragile. Civilization hung by a thread, and had always done so, perhaps, although it was only occasionally that we realised it.

Now it was him upon whom the fulcrum of history rested. Him: Archie Clark Kerr, Australian, Scotsman, Knight Commander of the Order of St Michael and St George, who had wandered into history and now had to do what history demanded of him. ‘Prime Minister,’ he said, his voice more controlled now. ‘Prime Minister, Stalin wants in his own rather clumsy way to patch things up. I saw what happened last night at the dinner. I saw him following you to the door. He wanted to talk. He wanted to say sorry – once again, in his own, unusual way. It would cost you nothing to rise above his social ineptitude. You are a man of standing – you come from a background of distinction and achievement. He comes from nothing. He hasn’t had your advantages. You should extend a hand to him. It would make all the difference, believe me.’

Archie thought, I have just been present at a moment which may have decided the fate of western civilization.

He understood the theft that had been committed – and that was the only word for it – the theft that had been committed by those who took from the working classes the fruits of their labour.

Capitalism was simply wrong. It was not complicatedly wrong – it was simply wrong.

Look at the whole, rotten edifice, Philby thought. Look at it. The House of Windsor, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the pious platitudes, the police and prisons, the hangman, the servitude of the millions in the colonies, the daily grind of the people who actually made things, who grew the food, who cleaned up, who went down the mines in rattling cages and who died because the coal dust blocked their bronchial tubes. Look at that, and ask yourself how could you possibly not feel complete revulsion. How could you not?

insouciance

‘There is a woman who is employed in the embassy. Local staff.’

‘She has a brother.’

‘Unfortunately, this brother of hers is in a spot of trouble.

He deserves to be punished,

But there are extenuating factors in this case.

‘And what are these factors?’

‘He is a dwarf.’

‘So, the problem’s a small one.’

‘And you want me to let him off?’

Stalin thought for a moment. He looked out of the window. Then he turned and said to Archie, ‘Why don’t you take him as your servant? I am very happy to give him to you.’

‘He can be your house servant.

Archie was almost too astonished to speak, but he realised that he had just saved a man’s life.

concomitant

‘Tell me about him,’

‘I’ve only just met him.’

‘He arrived yesterday,’

‘And he’s got a very dry sense of humour.’

She pointed out that he had said that the ambassador was a Scotsman. Or even an Australian. ‘Paper Scotsman. Australian-born.

‘He likes to be called Archie,’

‘And the jury is out

And finally he referred to the valet he’s brought with him.’ ‘Why would anybody be interested in him?’ asked Melinda.

‘Because he’s a Russian dwarf.’

‘He told people that Stalin had given him to him.

‘He has a great sense of humour,’ said Donald.

‘Well, at least he’s not dull,’ observed Melinda.

There’s no mistaking him – he dresses as a Cossack.’

Donald was one of the most efficient and hard-working first secretaries in the entire British Diplomatic Service.