“I think it must have been in nineteen thirty-seven—around the time of the Spanish Civil War—that I went to stay with the writer Somerset Maugham at his fabulous villa on the French Riviera. There were five of us, I think. Dadie Rylands, Anthony Blunt, Victor Rothschild, Victor’s girlfriend Anne Barnes, and me. Victor had a smart new Bugatti and we drove to the Cap from Monte Carlo, where we’d been staying. I think I may have tried to sound him out as a potential recruit to the cause but Maugham wasn’t much interested in politics; he was much more interested in boys, and I remember I had a rather marvelous time as his guest. Certainly after Victor and Anne left. For a young and highly impressionable queer like me, it was like peeking through the keyhole at Trimalchio’s party and an insight into what it might be like to live quite openly as a practicing homosexual. God, how I envied that man. We all did. Anyone who was queer, that is.

“From the French Riviera I went to Rome and from there to Paris, which both the GRU—the GRU is Russian military intelligence—and the KGB were using as a recruitment and clearance center. It was a chance for me to meet my controller in a more relaxed environment, which is to say, far away from the risk of surveillance. I even made a pitch to Edouard Pfeiffer, Daladier’s chef de cabinet, who at the time of my proposition was playing ping-pong across the body of a naked young man in lieu of a net. I stayed on in Paris until just before Christmas nineteen thirty-seven. The Paris Bureau of the Comintern introduced me to all sorts of interesting people, many of them sympathetic Englishmen, such as Claud Cockburn and John Cairncross. Meanwhile, Arnold Deutsch took me out to dinner with all sorts of strange folk, not all of them obvious recruitment material. People who had no languages. People who hadn’t even been to university. Some of them were downright dull. Not to say stupid. I remember a very uninspiring young English salesman recently returned from China, where he’d been working for a tobacco company. I mean, this chap hadn’t even been to university, let alone Cambridge. All he could talk about was tobacco and the Chinese and about some awful bloody girl he’d married back in Somerset. And I remember thinking, what’s the point of trying to recruit a chap to the cause who’s going to be happily married and selling cigarettes? Are the Russians so desperate for spies that we’re willing to fund the local tobacconists? Not that he took Arnold’s ruble, so to speak. Anyway, ours not to reason why and all that rot. Of course, lots of these people are dead now. Killed in the war. Disappeared. God knows.