"His great achievement in espionage was his life's work and fully occupied him till the day he died"
Kim Philby was distracted.
It wasn't so much a distraction from something in particular, just he found it hard to keep his focus on just one thing. Or so he had lately. At home, he'd always had the game to concentrate, on to center himself on, to mold his whole way of thinking around. Here? It was almost like small strings pulling every direction. Tearing him apart.
There was one to the autobiography he had found. He thought he would be able to read through it quickly and find all the answers he needed from the one source he could believe. Except in the beginning of the book, there was a warning, how the contents had been edited by the Russian Government before it had been released. Kim had no doubt that his words could have easily been twisted into a propaganda piece and thus had been researching every bit of information to find what was the truth. But still, it was the best starting place for answers he'd been given and he wasn't giving up.
Another thread led to the recent elections. His want of changing the world that he hadn't yet abandoned had flared it's head and he'd carefully studied the process this time since it had changed from before. He would be the first to give reluctant approval to the idea of representative from all of the working classes of the island but it still needed a lot of work if it was to truly making something of this hodge podge society.
And then there was the thread to the other spies. Anthony was being closed lipped as always. Donald was off making drama with his newest love of his life. Guy was fending off another American starved for his affections. Though despite everything, Kim couldn't help envying them. They all were adjusting to island life, where as he...he still felt very much out of place. Like he didn't belong here.
So Kim was writing. When he'd been a writer for The Times, he'd actually found the process quite comforting, despite what he had to write about: the Facists' ever growing power. He'd developed a process that allowed him to get out everything he wanted to say, before writing what he needed. Often while on the road covering some new German triumph, he'd write out the article as he wanted too, about how the Communists and Russia could easily fix the situation, about how Hitler was a coward and yet kin to the devil himself. But the moment he ripped it from the typewriter, it would be set a light by the nearest candle, as all evidence did, clearing the rush of emotion from his thoughts just as the air carried the ash of the written words away. Then he would write as his editors required. How Hitler was the best thing to happen to Europe in years.
He sat on the beach, his back to some sort of tree. A large flat book rested on his lap, a small notebook on top of it. Beside him was a small fire, built from the remains of Mein Kampf. Kim sat there, scribbling away everything he was thinking onto the pages of the notebook, each of the distracting threads explored in detail by his handwriting. The moment a page was full, he would tear it out and toss it on the fire, watching for only half a second to make sure it caught before he was writing again.
*title--Yuri Modin, KGB controller of the Cambridge Spies
It wasn't so much a distraction from something in particular, just he found it hard to keep his focus on just one thing. Or so he had lately. At home, he'd always had the game to concentrate, on to center himself on, to mold his whole way of thinking around. Here? It was almost like small strings pulling every direction. Tearing him apart.
There was one to the autobiography he had found. He thought he would be able to read through it quickly and find all the answers he needed from the one source he could believe. Except in the beginning of the book, there was a warning, how the contents had been edited by the Russian Government before it had been released. Kim had no doubt that his words could have easily been twisted into a propaganda piece and thus had been researching every bit of information to find what was the truth. But still, it was the best starting place for answers he'd been given and he wasn't giving up.
Another thread led to the recent elections. His want of changing the world that he hadn't yet abandoned had flared it's head and he'd carefully studied the process this time since it had changed from before. He would be the first to give reluctant approval to the idea of representative from all of the working classes of the island but it still needed a lot of work if it was to truly making something of this hodge podge society.
And then there was the thread to the other spies. Anthony was being closed lipped as always. Donald was off making drama with his newest love of his life. Guy was fending off another American starved for his affections. Though despite everything, Kim couldn't help envying them. They all were adjusting to island life, where as he...he still felt very much out of place. Like he didn't belong here.
So Kim was writing. When he'd been a writer for The Times, he'd actually found the process quite comforting, despite what he had to write about: the Facists' ever growing power. He'd developed a process that allowed him to get out everything he wanted to say, before writing what he needed. Often while on the road covering some new German triumph, he'd write out the article as he wanted too, about how the Communists and Russia could easily fix the situation, about how Hitler was a coward and yet kin to the devil himself. But the moment he ripped it from the typewriter, it would be set a light by the nearest candle, as all evidence did, clearing the rush of emotion from his thoughts just as the air carried the ash of the written words away. Then he would write as his editors required. How Hitler was the best thing to happen to Europe in years.
He sat on the beach, his back to some sort of tree. A large flat book rested on his lap, a small notebook on top of it. Beside him was a small fire, built from the remains of Mein Kampf. Kim sat there, scribbling away everything he was thinking onto the pages of the notebook, each of the distracting threads explored in detail by his handwriting. The moment a page was full, he would tear it out and toss it on the fire, watching for only half a second to make sure it caught before he was writing again.
*title--Yuri Modin, KGB controller of the Cambridge Spies