Also by John Lawton
1963
Black Out
Old Flames
A Little White Death
Bluffing Mr. Churchill
Flesh Wounds
Second Violin
A Lily of the Field
Sweet Sunday
Then We Take Berlin
The Unfortunate Englishman
FRIENDS AND TRAITORS
JOHN LAWTON
AN INSPECTOR TROY NOVEL
Copyright © 2017 by John Lawton
Cover design by Carlos Beltran
Cover photograph © Popperfoto/Getty
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FIRST EDITION
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: October 2017
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data available for this title.
ISBN 978-0-8021-2706-8
eISBN 978-0-8021-8921-9
Atlantic Monthly Press
an imprint of Grove Atlantic
154 West 14th Street
New York, NY 10011
Distributed by Publishers Group West
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17 18 19 20 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
for
Sara Coward
1948–2017
… The only toy he cares for is a box of matches; and up the houses and barns and hayricks go, in crackling flames. That was Burgess’s distinguishing mark: the flashing smile of the fire-raiser, full of secret pleasure in mischief and destruction. Even his most loyal friends had no illusion about his favourite toys. Some were affectionate and benevolent people who wanted to help and protect him against this innate viciousness; and some were people who were mischievous and destructive but would not risk their own safety, and found a vicarious gratification in his recklessness.
—Rebecca West, The New Meaning of Treason, 1965
A true hero of our time … hip before hipsters, Rolling before the Stones, acid-head before LSD. There was not so much a conspiracy gathered round him as just decay and dissolution. It was the end of a class, of a way of life; something that would be written about … with wonder and perhaps hilarity, but still tinged with sadness, as all endings are.
—Malcolm Muggeridge, The Infernal Grove, 1973
All humanity’s misery derives from not being able to sit alone in a quiet room.
—Pascal, Pensées, 1670
Table of Contents
Cover
Also by John Lawton
Title Page
Copyright
Praise
I Burgess
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
II Burgess & Maclean
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
III Voytek
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
IV Gus
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
V Troy
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
VI Wilderness
Chapter Eighty-Five
Chapter Eighty-Six
Chapter Eighty-Seven
Chapter Eighty-Eight
Chapter Eighty-Nine
Chapter Ninety
Chapter Ninety-One
Chapter Ninety-Two
Chapter Ninety-Three
Chapter Ninety-Four
Chapter Ninety-Five
Chapter Ninety-Six
Chapter Ninety-Seven
Chapter Ninety-Eight
Chapter Ninety-Nine
Chapter One Hundred
Chapter One Hundred One
Chapter One Hundred Two
Chapter One Hundred Three
Chapter One Hundred Four
Chapter One Hundred Five
Chapter One Hundred Six
Chapter One Hundred Seven
Chapter One Hundred Eight
Chapter One Hundred Nine
Chapter One Hundred Ten
Chapter One Hundred Eleven
Chapter One Hundred Twelve
VII Venetia
Chapter One Hundred Thirteen
Chapter One Hundred Fourteen
Chapter One Hundred Fifteen
Chapter One Hundred Sixteen
Chapter One Hundred Seventeen
Chapter One Hundred Eighteen
Chapter One Hundred Nineteen
Chapter One Hundred Twenty
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-
One
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Twenty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Thirty
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-One
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Thirty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Forty
Chapter One Hundred Forty-One
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Five
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Six
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Seven
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Eight
Chapter One Hundred Forty-Nine
Chapter One Hundred Fifty
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-One
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Two
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Three
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Four
Chapter One Hundred Fifty-Five
Stuff
Acknowledgments
Back Cover
I
Burgess
§
England: 1958
Someone was following Frederick Troy.
§1
Mimram House, Hertfordshire: July 1935.
He felt foolish. As though he’d rummaged in the dressing-up box and tried on something better suited to his brother.
The damn thing simply didn’t fit.
A voice from the doorway. Laconic and softly mocking.
“You look like a twat, bro.”
“Sasha, if you can’t be helpful, just fuck off will you?”
Just as his mother passed by his door.
“Pourquoi avez-vous appris l’anglais juste pour utiliser tous les gros mots de cette langue?” Why is it that you two learnt English just to use all the worst words it has to offer?
“Il nous reste une demi-heure avant le dîner. Nos invités vont bientôt arriver. S’il vous plaît, les enfants, s’il vous plaît.” We have half an hour before dinner. Our guests will be arriving soon. Please, children, please.
With that she was gone. Sasha stayed.
“As I was saying …”
“I know I look like a twat. It doesn’t fucking fit. I’ll be Constable Scarecrow, the laughing stock of Hendon.”
“Or worse … the mascot.”
Troy was legally too short to be a copper. His father had capitulated to his wish to join the Metropolitan Police Force after much argument, but with good grace, and had pulled strings, of which he had plenty, to get his younger son accepted at Hendon College as a cadet. It had pained him, and pained him doubly. Troy was well aware of that. Eighteen months ago Troy had turned down an Open Exhibition, a lesser form of scholarship, to Christ Church College, Oxford, to work on one of his father’s newspapers as a cub reporter. Like Charles Dickens, he had begun as a court reporter, sitting on the hard benches of magistrates’ courts day after day and recording the fragmentary lives of shoplifters, drunks, and flashers. Then he had graduated to the Old Bailey, to the rank of crime reporter, and after a year of such reporting, his vocation, if such it be, had become apparent to him. He wanted to be a copper. Above all he wanted to be a detective. The uniform was simply a hurdle en route. What he didn’t know was how many hurdles he’d have to jump to get out of uniform.
This one bagged around his ankles, sagged at the arse, and would have accommodated another slim-ish person at the chest without bursting its silver buttons.
“It’ll never fucking fit.”
“Y’know, Freddie … it’s nothing a good tailor couldn’t work wonders with. When do you actually start?”
“Monday of week after next.”
“Fine. Whip round to your man in Savile Row and get it tailored.”
“I doubt very much whether Foulkes and Fransham bother with uniforms.”
“Then find another. God knows somebody must tailor uniforms. Think of all those RAF pilots, think of all those Guards officers. Do they go around saggy-baggy? Do they, fuck. Anyway, get it off now and get your black tie and togs on. Ma is right, there’ll be a posse of the old man’s oddities knocking back the gin any minute.”
“Then close the door.”
Sasha closed the door.
“I meant from the other side.”
She slumped in a chair and Troy realised that she had been knocking back the gin already, that she had, in fact, been holding a large gin and It in her hand all the time, concealed by the door frame, and that she might well be more than a bit pissed.
“Don’t be silly. We’ve never given toss about nudity.”
Indeed, they hadn’t, but …
“We’re not in the nursery any longer.”
She sipped, gulped her gin, but didn’t move.
She had a point, Troy knew, they had undressed in front of each other and his other sister, Masha, since childhood. They had only one rule … never comment on what you see. And he wondered why self-consciousness should become paramount at this moment, and he knew the answer. The uniform. It changed everything.
He stripped down to nothing, Sasha looking at him, then not looking at him, and all the time looking unconcerned, until he reached break point … the fastening of the black tie itself.
“Still can’t do it on your own, eh?”
She stood behind him, taller even when she was barefoot, but now she almost towered over him in heels, her hands at his throat, peering around him to see them both in the mirror, deftly knotting the bow tie, whispering about a rabbit down a hole.
“Oddities?”
“Eh?”
“You mentioned the old man’s oddities … his choice of dinner guests. Who’s coming?”
“Hmm … well. There’s Rosamond Lehmann.”
“I know that name.”
“Novelist. Pretty good one actually. Three or four to her name. She’s John’s sister … you know John. Rod was at Cambridge with him. One of the Trinity bright boys.”
“Will John be coming?”
“Yep. And then there’s Moura Budberg.”
“Again? Weird.”
“Dad seems to enjoy her company.”
“Ma doesn’t. Moura name-drops all the bloody time.”
“I think the Baroness Budberg brings a little bit of Russia back to the old man, and, needless to say, Ma doesn’t need or want any little bits of old Russia. And Moura makes for a good guessing game. Is she a Soviet spy or isn’t she?”
“I can’t see any point in the Soviet Union having spies who tell you they’re spies over the fucking soup course.”
“And then there’s Harold Macmillan …”
“And weirder.”
“Macmillan’s a rebel … you know how the old man loves troublemakers. Mac’s a charmer. A hopeless charmer, a backbencher with about as much chance of cabinet office as our cat.”
Sasha stepped back.
“You’re done.”
So he was. Troy looked in the mirror and could see himself again, something he had not been able to do dressed as a police cadet-cum-clown.
“If you’d asked me when you were thirteen and spotty if you’d ever be handsome only good manners would have restrained me from saying no, but I will say this, our Fred: for a little ‘un you’re really rather cute.”
Troy said nothing.
Sasha reverted to the subject.
“And then there’s that new bloke he’s got writing book reviews for one magazine or
another … Burgess, Guy Burgess.”
§2
Troy looked around and felt lost. Eighteen guests strung out either side of the table. His father at one end, his mother at the other. His elder brother, Rod, sat at his mother’s right hand. Macmillan sat at his father’s right, a rather obvious clue that Alex had an agenda of things he meant to say and meant Macmillan to hear.
Troy was slightly closer to his father, off-centre, next to his sister Masha, twin of the now completely sozzled Sasha. He wondered if he’d been placed there to keep an eye on Masha or she on him. She’d not appeared for cocktails, but had emerged from her dressing room looking like Greta Garbo or Anna Karenina … black dress, pale skin, and plenty of cleavage. He wondered who she might be tarting at but could spot no likely candidate.
Centre table was Burgess, on the far side of Masha. She leaned Troy’s way, her lips all but touching his ear.
“Who’s the new bloke?” she whispered.
“Guy Burgess.”
“Hack, novelist, pol?”
“Hack. I gather the old man’s taken him on. Rod tells me they overlapped at Cambridge.”
“Funny. Never heard Rod mention him.”
“Me neither.”
“Have you seen his fingernails? Looks as though he scrapes dung off a cow’s backside for a living.”
“Say it a bit louder and he’ll hear you.”
“Don’t care. I wouldn’t let those fingers up me.”
“For Christ’s sake, Masha.”
“Only saying!”
“Only saying what?”
It was Burgess, pricking the illusory bubble that Masha had sought to blow around the two of them.
“That you and Rod were at Cambridge together.”
“Oh, yes. Not exactly together. I think Rod came down at the end of my first year. And we never quite mixed in the same circles.”
“Rod tells me you were in Russia a while ago?” Troy said, hoping for and getting the desired effect.
No other word would have exploded into the room, slicing through all other dinner chit-chat, quite like “Russia.” Facing him were his uncle Nikolai and Baroness Budberg. Within earshot, his father, and, just out of it, his mother. All of them Russian exiles.
Before Burgess could answer Nikolai leapt in.
“When?” he asked simply.
“Last summer. Went Intourist with a Cambridge chum. The quid quotidian—a pound a day to see Moscow. Cheaper than Blackpool or Skegness.”
“Ah,” said Nikolai. “The fellow travellers’ package.”