By casually revealing — to a man whose heart beat for Moscow — that he was eager to get to Germany and "steal" talent, Allen Wilson knew exactly what he was doing. The British, Americans, and French would all be doing the same; nothing scandalous about it.
The point wasn't sudden ideological conversion. Allen wasn't about to pledge his life to internationalism. His motives were coldly imperial.
In history, after Germany's surrender, the scramble for scientists and engineers had been won decisively by the Americans. The Soviets, hobbled by their command economy and the blood feud of the Eastern Front, inspired little enthusiasm among German specialists.
By the time Moscow grasped the scale of the opportunity, the Western Allies had already stripped most of the prize assets. The Soviets made do with what they could seize: factory equipment, research archives, and the occasional second-tier expert.
The Americans took the lion's share. Britain and France — already waning powers — had little allure by comparison.
So Allen's leak through Philby was deliberate. If the USSR could claim more of the spoils, the postwar balance might tilt away from total American dominance. A year's delay in U.S. rocket research would be victory enough.
The irony was bitter: to slow the Americans, he had to feed their enemy. If Britain captured talent, Washington could simply pressure Whitehall to hand it over. But if the Soviets got it? That was a different problem altogether.
Allen would rather see a strong adversary in Moscow than an unchallenged ally in Washington.
In the meantime, he played the part of the India Office liaison — on paper — while on secondment to the Foreign Office. Despite having been back in London only a short while, he'd already leveraged the necessary rounds of polite dinners, working lunches, and corridor whispers to cultivate friends in both departments.
Everyone knew the type: civil servants returning from the jewel colonies were rarely poor. Allen fit the mould perfectly. In wartime Whitehall, a man who had just served in wealthy India drew no shortage of invitations. Young, urbane, and "already going places" — if he wasn't going to Europe, then who was?
Connections built themselves at this pace. And at one of those gatherings, Philby appeared with a guest.
"Allen, this is my friend Guy Francis Burgess. Former BBC broadcaster, now with the Foreign Office. He may find himself posted abroad before long — much like you," Philby said smoothly.
"Pleasure. I've heard about you," Burgess said, extending his hand.
Allen took it with a polite smile, hiding his private wince. Another one. Burgess, too, was Cambridge Five. Philby was aristocracy — son of an earl — which in Britain was far more than a mere honorific.
Burgess, for his part, had been the life of Cambridge's elite: the famed Apostles, the exclusive Pitt Club. A man of charm, connections, and a taste for being at the centre of things.
"I'd only heard there was an interesting fellow back from India. First time meeting in person. Europe's still dangerous — take care if you head to Germany," Burgess added warmly, before vanishing into the crowd like a man who already knew everyone.
Philby stayed at Allen's table, swirling his glass. "Any idea what you'll be doing once you're sent off?"
"Nothing official yet," Allen said lightly. Then, shifting tone: "But from my perspective, the priority will be dismantling Germany's war machine. Their rocketry and the late-war experimental weapons — they may be crude now, but once we have the data in Britain, we can make them work."
He let the thought hang, then added: "And the leftover arms — whether they're destroyed, mothballed, or something else — well, that's up to policy."
Philby gave a faint nod. "Exactly. You don't need perfection; just being part of the process will gild your CV. But I suspect dealing with our… allies will consume most of your energy."
Allen met his gaze with a bland smile, wondering which "allies" Philby meant.