‘James Bond is just a piece of nonsense I dreamt up,’ the former naval intelligence officer Ian Fleming once said. ‘He’s nota Sidney Reilly you know.’
Sidney Reilly was not really Sidney Reilly either; but he was certainly a James Bond. Born Sigmund or Schlomo Rosenblum (this is a book full of caveats), he spoke possibly six languages and identified at different times as an Englishman, an Irishman, a Greek or Turkish merchant, a German machine-tool operator and a Tsarist officer. In fact he came from a Ukrainian Jewish family, but ignored his heritage as much as prevailing anti-Semitism would permit, and devoted his life to making love and money and, with only slightly greater dedication, fighting Bolshevism as an MI6 spy.
First arrested, aged 20, by the Okhrana, the Tsarist secret police, Reilly emerged from the cells grief-stricken by the death of his mother during his incarceration but free to make his own way in the world. Reaching London via Paris, suspiciously richer after the sudden deaths of two anarchist money couriers, he launched himself on his triple career as ‘businessman, conman and spy’. Money, like women, passed rapidly through his hands, providing sparkle rather than security. Another dubious death and a quick marriage furnished not only funds, but also a Foreign Office passport under the name of Sidney Reilly. It was far easier for him to travel as an Irishman than as a Jew from Odessa, and soon he was a spy to several masters, including MI5 and MI6.
The rest of Reilly’s colourful life was spent against the changing backdrop of Shanghai, Tokyo, Manila, Rio, Paris, London and various parts of Russia, although little feeling for these glamorous locations is evoked in Benny Morris’s book.
Comments
Join the debate for just £1 a month
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for £3.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just £1 a monthAlready a subscriber? Log in