Truth may not be stranger than fiction. In the case of My Silent War, it is both more outrageous and less plausible. Kim Philby was the master double agent of all time. For a good fifteen years, he was at the heart of the British-American espionage effort against the Soviet Union. He rose to the top of the MI6-SIS, whichever you want to call it, network, and was the main point man in dealing with the Byzantine complexities and constant backbiting between the FBI and the CIA and other American spy agencies. Philby was urbane, witty, a close observer of everything that went on around him, and the ultimate old line British upper class scion. Nothing about him suggested that he was anything but a privileged insider in the Anglo-American diplomatic establishment. Yet the entire time he was a Soviet double agent, with access to the most inner secrets of the West during the cold war. He funneled more information to the designated enemy more than any spy in history, yet never lost his legendary British cool, even long after his role was at last unearthed. In the mid-sixties he escaped to Russia, where he lived out his life as an honored foreigner and wrote his memoirs.
For all his machinations, Philby may be remembered best as a writer. He started his career, and his ineffable style, as a journalist, editing a Nazi paper in Austria, then covering the Spanish Civil War thanks to the generous contributions of Generalissimo Franco. All the while, he was a tireless worker for the other side. In his journalistic career, which he pursued both before and after he became a spy, he developed a writing style nearly equal to his friend Graham Greene, superior to John Le Carre, who based his entire output on Philby and his Cambridge Five.
As a writer, Philby projects his personality to perfection. He is literary without overwriting, witty in a way that only a subtly snobbish Englishman of the upper class can be, and a devastating nailer of character. His method in introducing the many intelligence officers with whom he worked on both sides of the Atlantic is to give a couple of brief summary descriptive strokes that establish uniqueness, then put the person into interaction with others to add depth and complexity. No novelist has done it better. One almost has the impression that Philby created his own bizarre character in order to be able to write about him and the impossible adventures in which he was involved.
For all that, something is missing at the heart of My Silent War. We know what Kim Philby was like in public, but we have no idea who Kim Philby was. What drove him to take his collegiate infatuation with the Soviet Union and turn it into a lifetime of treachery? What made this quintessential Brahman dedicate his life to the workers' paradise which seemed so alien to his personality and background? How did he justify his actions as he maneuvered himself through the highest circles of British and American government, employing strategies that would be the model of double agent behavior for generations to come. Even last year, the film version of John Le Carre's Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy, based upon Philby's autobiography and quite inferior to it, garnered critical praise.
Perhaps we will never know what drove the inner Kim Philby as opposed to the outer one the world knows so well. But on one level it doesn't matter. He gave us some of the best autobiographical prose of the twentieth century. In the end, that is what makes him immortal.