Anthony - On This Page
Disclaimer thingie: Anthony Blunt and Guy Burgess really existed, spied for the KGB in Britain in the '30s-'50s, yadda yadda, but besides the brief biographies avaliable at Wikipedia, my knowledge and characterization of them comes wholly from the BBC miniseries Cambridge Spies. Thus, besides the date of Anthony's confession and his title, all is based upon said series making this... historical fiction twice removed. Or something. Also my first jab at Cambridge Spies fic, god help me.
April 24, 1964.
Guy,
One is generally supposed to begin a letter with the usual pleasantries – how are you, how is the weather, how is work going, that sort of thing. Even if this were such a genuine letter, instead of just an absurd and fruitless exercise in god-knows-what, I would most certainly know all three answers – pissed, bloody cold, and it isn’t – and so wouldn’t waste your time and my ink asking them, now would I? No matter, anyway, no one is going to read this letter except perhaps for my fire, unless lines of communication between London and Moscow have improved significantly without my knowledge.
Though even if they miraculously did improve tomorrow morning, it would be too late. You’ve been gone almost a year now, haven’t you? Yes, yes, I know. I still have a friend or two who can pass me that information if they wish it, months late it may be (and no, you fool, not that sort of friend, you can put your drink down and stop smirking. Though while we are on the subject, you have no idea how many young men I have met lately whom I would have sent in your direction had it been possible. I can only hope you were similarly cursed - in reverse, of course.) I shall not even scold and sigh, for as always we shall leave that to other people, but only say that I hope you were able to live life as you had wished it, and sod the consequences.
I’ve a confession to make. No, I’ve made too damn many of those lately. But I’ve got something I need to say to someone, and I (a line crossed out) know that you will not be ashamed of me. Kim, oh, he would, certainly. Don’t look so surprised, you did not have to see his face when I told him I was backing out, and God knows now he’s up in Moscow doing glorious things while I sit here in Windsor’s luxury. Donald, likewise, would never look at me quite the same again. But not you. Even if you did not understand my actions, you would not fault me for them.
Yesterday I made a full confession. The four of us, recruitment, our work, the lot of it. It was surprisingly easy, knowing that now you are all untouchable in one way or another. I suppose fate finally just caught up to me – I was approached, they questioned me and offered a bargain for the disclosure, and I agreed. I know practicably that they knew, they had found out somehow, and there was no point in denying it anymore, but it still feels a small treason.
So now it seems I have betrayed both my countries. Perhaps that is the purpose of foolish letter, to make sure I do not round off that record by betraying my friends as well.
I’ve missed you. There, I’ve said it, now don’t wait to hear it again, though I expect you know it well enough - if you do not, you are an even greater fool than I ever imagined. The others as well, but you were my friend first, and always most. Your drunken madness and wild flirtation, your madcap schemes that I could step back and shake my head at fondly. You were a fool, and I loved you as you loved life and love itself.
I can only hope that that coat of yours served you well, my dear friend.
Yours forever,
Sir Anthony Blunt.