Book Review: Edward Lucas- Deception

“With her sultry looks and alluring long red hair, Anna Chapman seemed to typify the image of the female Russian spy - or at least the one imagined by every James Bond fan” panted the Daily Express last autumn. Indeed in this country (and more specifically in this country’s right wing press) Ms Chapman has become a familiar figure—the public face of Russian espionage. 

This, of course, is rather unfortunate. Ms Chapman may very well be “the perfect image of the female Russian spy”, but she is also a caricature. Her willingness to pose for the camera (and the demand for the resulting snaps) tells us an awful lot about our own society, but little about modern Russia. 

Edward Lucas, journalist and former Moscow bureau chief for the Economist, is very much alive to this danger, and in Deception he argues that we, the ‘West’, dismiss Russian espionage at our peril.  

His thesis can be summarised as follows: spying did not die with the Soviet Union. Indeed the modern Kremlin, characterised as it as by the close links between the state, the security services and organised crime, may well place an even greater emphasis on intelligence gathering than it did during the Cold War. As a consequence, ‘western' nations--particularly the former Soviet states-- have to better protect themselves against Russian operatives. 

This, of course, is an extremely hawkish analysis. Lucas castigates the Russian ruling class and the ‘neo-feudal’ system that they have imposed. By devoting his first chapter to the harrowing and tragic tale of Sergei Magnitsky, he sets the tone for what is searing critique of Putin’s Russia. 

But in truth, while a lively read, Deception comes on rather strong. Lucas’ central argument is not just that Russia constitutes a clear and present threat, but that Russian espionage is a particularly deadly menace. Unfortunately, for both the author and his readers, the workings of the security services are uniquely difficult acts to document, and thus even a journalist of Lucas’ undoubted expertise struggles to construct a truly compelling case.

As such the book’s credibility rests upon just two examples: the long-term project of which Ms Chapman was a part, and the story of Hector Simm — a Russian agent who rose to the top of Estonia’s national security establishment. Both case studies are excellently researched and presented with some style—but the shortcomings to this approach are obvious.  

However, the strangest element of Deception is its turn towards history. This occurs right at the heart of the book and takes the reader somewhat by surprise. Although rather hurried (nearly a century’s worth of action is crammed into less than a hundred pages), Lucas’ diversion into the long and troubling record of the Western security services in Eastern Europe reads well enough. And yet, and this is a key point, these historical chapters fail to advance his central argument which is rooted very much in the present. 

Deception is, therefore, a rather curious read. It is at once excellently researched, fluently written, fascinating and entirely unconvincing. While I have as many qualms about Putin’s Russia as anyone else, I simply don’t buy Lucas’ line that Russian espionage represents a clear, particularly dangerous threat to national security. Or to put it differently: I don’t accept that Russian espionage is any more dangerous, any more threatening, than that of the Chinese. 

I am unsure as to why exactly the book fails to convince. Perhaps it is because Lucas fails to stick tightly to his script, or because his supporting examples are few and far apart. Perhaps it is just because the Cold War now feels very far away. Whatever is the case, I do know that for all its merits Deception tries just too hard, and that, I’m afraid, isn’t an endearing quality.

Book Review: Frederick Kempe- Berlin 1961

John F. Kennedy remains the most divisive figure in modern American political history.  In ‘Berlin 1961’, Frederick Kempe gives the President’s reputation a good kicking, as he unpicks the political and diplomatic events that led to the construction of the Berlin Wall. 

 

Meticulously researched, and written with a good deal of flair, ‘Berlin 1961’ is an engaging and thoroughly entertaining read. That said, some of Kempe’s revisionist conclusions are, to be frank, unconvincing and poorly justified. 

Diplomacy, as far as the author is concerned, boils down to alpha males rutting amidst banquets and courses of strong alcohol. This caricature-- more accurate than desirable-- is a simplification none the less. Thus his description of the Vienna summit, (an unmitigated disaster for the President) which Kempe claims laid the foundations for all that followed, is lacking in subtlety. 

More, his conclusion that Kennedy’s stewardship in 1961 was ‘one of the worst inaugural-year performances of any modern US President’ rests upon a peculiar reading of the Berlin crisis.

Kempe would have us believe that the President had several options before him, and that he chose the worst: do nothing. In reality, however, the Americans’ were in an invidious position. Had Kennedy chosen to plough through the wall, he would have been required to mobilise forces, this in turn would have begat Ulbricht and Khrushchev to do the same. Of course, one cannot be sure how such a confrontation would have played out. It is possible the Soviets may have backed down; possible, but far from certain. 

Thus, Kennedy’s basic assessment that ‘a wall is a hell of a lot better than a war’ is one many of his contemporaries- on both sides of the Atlantic- would have shared. Indeed, I struggle to believe that Truman, Roosevelt, Johnson or even Eisenhower would have reacted differently, as fundamentally-- despite the rhetoric—Washington was not prepared to risk nuclear war over Berlin. 

This is not to say the President’s decision making was above reproach. Kempe rightfully points out there were several missed opportunities to improve superpower relations, and that Washington failed to respond promptly to the Wall’s construction. Yet, I fear most readers will share my assessment that Berlin was not the ‘defeat’ Kempe presents it as. 

This is because, in crude geopolitical terms, the Wall merely codified the pre-existing balance of power. Kennedy realised this, and indicated to Khrushchev that he was free to do as he wished on his ‘side’ so long as he afforded Washington the same leeway in theirs. To my mind, this implicit acceptance of the status quo was a useful and rather astute compromise (if tragic for the people of Berlin). To Kempe, however, and to a certain American sensibility, such an approach runs contrary to cherished beliefs and values. After all, wasn’t it America’s aim to roll back communism? To stand up for liberty and stem the red tide? 

Accordingly it is the hawks, such as Dean Acheson (outside party with the President’s ear) and General Clay (hero of the earlier airlift) that emerge with the most credit, as Kempe attempts to revise the narrative of 1961. 

One aspect, however, that escapes attention is how the Western intelligence agencies missed Ulbricht stockpiling the materials required for construction. Kempe mentions in passing how the East Germans  concealed the arrival of vast amounts of barbed wire, but chooses not to investigate how exactly the build up passed undetected. This is all the more surprising because it is reasonable to presume a link between Ulbricht catching the West off guard and the feeble American response.

For the sake of balance, I should add that Kempe’s book is neither overtly partisan nor infuriatingly biased. In general, his observations are astute and his criticisms of the President fair. My main gripe then, is with his overarching thesis which becomes explicit only at the end. Not only does he chastise Kennedy unfairly, but he draws an erroneous link between Berlin 1961 and the Cuban missile crisis of a year later. 

Put simply, to argue that Kennedy’s handling of the German question encouraged Moscow to ship warheads to Havana, is to conflate two separate events, and to engage in reductionist history. Or to put it another way, there is no evidence to suggest that a tougher stance over Berlin would have dissuaded Khrushchev from sending missiles to Cuba twelve months later.

Indeed, I couldn’t help thinking that Kempe at times mistakes pragmatism for weakness. Sure, Kennedy might have adopted a tougher line; he may have challenged Khrushchev more readily, and taken it upon himself to dictate the tempo of events. But such manoeuvres were fraught with risk. Kennedy was feeling his way into international affairs; and as such it paid to be cautious.

Historiographically, Kempe’s revisionist account forms part of a wider trend which has seen scholars challenge the perceived wisdom of the Kennedy administration. This year, for instance, in the latest volume of his biography of Lyndon Johnson, Robert Caro painted a none too flattering portrait of the Kennedy Whitehouse. He wasn’t nearly as scathing as Kempe, but his overall impression was far from entirely favourable. 

In terms of Cold War history, ‘Berlin 1961’ offers a snapshot of one particularly tense moment that had the potential to explode into something more. In this sense expect several similar works to be published in the near future as historians and writers move away from the over-arching narrative and towards smaller incidents which, at any given moment, could have precipitated another global conflict. 

There are, however, two potential dangers with such histories. First, there is the temptation to sensationalise the event. Kempe, for example, often deploys short- suspense laden- sentences which attempt to ratchet up the drama; to put the very future of mankind on a knife-edge. This is not always necessary, and the reader should remember that in a Cold War context, any incident, anywhere, at anytime can be described as potentially monumental. 

Second, the collapse of the Soviet Union often colours a scholar’s account of the entire period. In other words, it’s all too tempting to look back and ask: could it have been different? To Kempe’s credit he does recognises this weakness in his intellectual position, and argues that just because America ‘won’ the Cold War, this doesn’t mean all American President’s got it right. Yet, while true, just because the Soviet Union collapsed, this doesn’t mean Moscow was always susceptible to the kind of pressure it came under during the late 1980s. 

In sum, this is a fine book, a fine, well researched, excellently paced and engagingly written book, which ultimately draws some pretty debatable and rather fiery conclusions.

Book Review- The Anatomy of a Moment- Javier Cercas

The moment in question occurred during 23 February 1981. Just as parliament was holding the investiture vote for the incoming Prime Minister, Lieutenant Colonel Tejero --accompanied by a band of rebellious civil guards -- burst into the chamber and unleashed a coup designed to check Spain’s advance towards democracy.

Caught live on camera (you can see it here), the attempted coup began in dramatic fashion. After making his presence known, Tejero ordered the deputies to ‘Get down on the floor’. However, the Deputy Prime Minister, General Manuel Gutierrez Mellado, refused to obey the command. Soon he is confronted by some of the guards, and then, almost instantaneously, the dynamic changes completely when others fire their weapons. Terrified, all the deputies fall to the floor, all that is except for three men: the Prime Minister Adolfo Suarez, the Deputy Prime Minister, and Santiago Carrillo, the leader of the newly legalised communist party.

It is this moment that Cercas explores in detail. Part microhistory, part investigation into post-Franco Spain, The Anatomy of a Moment is an utterly absorbing tale which eludes categorisation.

Undoubtedly this has something to do with Cercas’ background. A novelist by trade, here Cercas has written (largely) a non-fiction book. This means that The Anatomy of a Moment has a different feel from most other works of history.

Most obviously, it reads differently. Yet, it’s not just the sentence structure that is unfamiliar. Normally in non-fiction writing, participants are ‘actors’; agents, who instigate, shape, or take part in an event. In The Anatomy of a Moment, however, we are presented with a series of characters; rounded individuals who come to embody a certain element of Spanish society.

This means that Cercas spends less time discussing deeds, and more time probing the psyches of those involved. At once, these characters represent themselves, their communities, and the particular notion of ‘Spain’ that they and their communities wish to realise.

This also means that not all of Cercas’ analysis is factual, and that it can be unconvincing at times. For instance, take this passage recounting a mid-coup conversation between General Armada (the political leader of the coup, who longs to be Prime Minister), and General Milans (the military leader of the coup, who wants to dismantle the democracy Suarez has fostered):

‘So Armada accepts Milans’ proposition [his suggestion was for Armada to go to the Parliament to negotiate the release of the deputies, and to form a unity government that would end the crisis], but, in order not to reveal his complicity with the rebel general before the generals who surround him at Army General Headquarters...publically he rejects it at first: as if the ambition to be Prime Minister has never entered his mind and he’d never spoken of it with Milans, he displays surprise at the idea and rejects it nosily, gesticulating, posing almost insuperable objections and scruples, then, slowly, sinuously, he pretends to give in to Milans’ pressure, he pretends to find himself convinced by his arguments, he pretends to understand that there is no other acceptable way out for Milans...and finally he ends up declaring himself ready to make this sacrifice for the King and for Spain demanded of him at this momentous hour for the nation.’

My problem here is that Armada’s actions are explained as if he were a character from a novel (indeed this passage reads as if it were from a novel), and that rather than focusing on the words he uttered (note the conversation is not quoted), Cercas attempts to deconstruct Armada’s thought process.

While this approach is not invalid, it produces a certain type of historical account, one which looks for answers not in documents, but in people. This means that Cercas ends up toeing the line between fiction and non-fiction, as often he probes motives, and dissects characters, instead of reconstructing events, or explaining actions.

This is not to say that The Anatomy of a Moment of inaccurate, or ‘bad’ history. I thoroughly enjoyed the book, and found it poignant at times. But, in a bid to flesh out those characters he presents us with, Cercas frequently engages in conjecture.

One final point, as the above passage demonstrates, the book is littered with colons and semi-colons. Add this to the fact that the translator, Anne McLean, has remained extremely faithful to the original text, and it’s worth pointing out that occasionally passages can prove heavy going.

But ultimately, any effort on the reader’s part is worth it. The Anatomy of a Moment is an important and engaging book that details how democratic Spain’s gravest crisis was also its greatest triumph.