Hennison gave a delicate shrug. ‘No reason. But just remember, Philby’s poison. To both sides.’
Cayle looked at his watch. ‘Thank you for lunch, Mr Hennison. I’ll give you a call when I get back from Moscow.’ He stood up and was turning away, when Hennison called after him: ‘Oh, just one thing, Barry! A little tip that might be useful — if you do manage to track Philby down. I’m told he’s a great reader, and that he’s always glad of books from the West. I’m sure he’d welcome it if you took him one. I suggest something by his old friend and war-time colleague, Graham Greene. The Confidential Agent might be most appreciated. It’s always been his favourite Greene novel. He used to claim that he identified with the hero.’
‘If it’s his favourite, he’s probably got it already.’
‘His English publishers have just issued it in a new uniform edition,’ Hennison said smoothly. ‘And Philby’s a great collector of new books.’
Cayle paused by the table. ‘You talk as though you were bosom pals.’ Hennison smiled but said nothing. Cayle went on: ‘Does it have to be The Confidential Agent?’
‘Yes. Under the circumstances, it would be very appropriate.’
Cayle nodded. ‘Will you send a copy round to my office?’
Hennison laughed soundlessly and lifted his hand: ‘All right, I know what you’re thinking! Microdots — a code — the first word on every other page.’ He shook his head, dislodging a shelf of grey hair into his eyes. ‘No, Barry. You buy it yourself. A brand-new copy, available at all good bookshops. And while you’re about it, you might take in a couple of tins of cat food. That’ll win Philby over completely.’
‘How do you know he’s got a cat?’
‘He’s got two, as a matter of fact. Not an important detail, but one never knows when these trifles will come in useful.’
‘With your sources of information, Mr Hennison, I should think being a literary agent must get pretty dull.’
Cayle left him signalling for the bill. When he got back outside Hennison’s office, he found his Mini Moke had collected a ticket.
CHAPTER 2
‘Now, what’s all this about taking cat food to Moscow?’ Cayle’s editor, Harry, looked past Cayle, out at the sprawl of High Holborn. ‘I assumed you’d been having a very good lunch. However, you seem to have recovered.’
‘I was lunching with a bloke called Peter Hennison. Calls himself a literary agent. Know anything about him?’
Harry nodded. ‘He’s sold us a few features and serial rights over the years. What did he want to see you about?’
‘Kim Philby. He wants to send me to Moscow to try and talk to Philby, on the pretence that I’m writing a book about Russia. He even offered to pay. I turned him down, of course, and told him that if anyone was going to send me on a junket to the Soviet Union, it would be you.’
‘I’m flattered. Did he give any reason for choosing you?’
‘Just that he’d read that piece about me in the Diary a few weeks back. He seemed bloody interested in my theory about Philby having co-conspirators who are still at large. In fact, he spent the first half of lunch trying to talk me out of the idea. But it wasn’t that he just didn’t believe it. My guess is, he not only believes it — he knows one helluva lot about it!’
‘And where does the cat food come in?’
Cayle told him, adding Hennison’s ‘suggestion’ about the Graham Greene novel.
‘You surprise me about Hennison,’ Harry said. ‘The few times I’ve met him, he’s struck me as fairly straight. What’s your opinion?’
‘I thought there was something fishy about him from the start. Never trust a man who can’t look you in the eye. Then it became clear — the man’s a straightforward spook. MI5, MI6, DI6, or whatever they call themselves nowadays — friend Hennison’s one of them.’
‘That’s a pretty heavy accusation to make, just because the man doesn’t happen to look you in the eye,’ said Harry.
‘He admitted meeting Philby during the war, when they were both engaged on secret work,’ said Cayle. ‘And you know what they say about the Secret Service? It’s like the Catholic Church and the Communist Party — once you sign up, they never let you go.’
‘Not necessarily, if it was during the war,’ said the editor, ‘otherwise you’d have half the middle-aged dons and journalists and part-time literati in Britain still running around playing James Bond’s great-uncle.’
‘Maybe. But Hennison also knows that Kim keeps a couple of cats in Moscow. That’s a pretty off-beat piece of information — especially from a London literary agent.’
‘If I go along with your reasoning,’ said the editor, ‘and accept that this man Hennison does work for MI6, then it follows that by telling you about Philby’s cats, he was perhaps deliberately dropping you the hint that he’s in on the Intelligence game. Have you any theories about why he’d do that?’
‘My guess is that Hennison and his friends are worried. They’re worried that I may know more about this conspiracy theory than I’m letting on. As soon as I mentioned the possibility of Philby having had accomplices who are still at large, Hennison looked distinctly windy. At the same time,’ he added with a grin, ‘I think he half-took me for the usual dim, hairy-arsed fireman who can be relied on to run a sucker’s errand.’
‘And you didn’t disillusion him?’
‘Why should I? I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’ Harry stared at him for some time without speaking. ‘So what do you want to do now?’ he said at last.
‘I’d like you to send me to Moscow. All nice and above-board — fare and expenses paid, and visa applied for through the Foreign Desk.’
Harry turned back to the window. ‘What do you hope to get out of such a trip?’
‘Hennison’s no fool. He may have misjudged me a little, but I won’t hold that against him… He’s got a good reason for wanting me to go to Moscow and contact Philby. And providing there’s a new angle, Philby’s still news — isn’t he?’
‘That would depend on the angle,’ said the editor. ‘I’m not sure I like it, Barry. You know my rule about staff men doubling up with Whitehall — let alone MI6. Well, it applies to you too.’
There was a long pause. Cayle smoked another cheroot and gazed at the ceiling. Finally, Harry spoke. ‘Were the book and cat food the only things he asked you to take in for Philby?’
‘He didn’t exactly ask me. It was more in the way of a suggestion. Rather like Red Cross parcels during the war.’
The editor put his hands on the desktop and stood up. ‘I’ll think about it, Barry. And I’ll let you know.’
Aeroflot’s midday flight from London to Moscow via Copenhagen left only an hour late. Two-thirds of the four-engined Tupolov had been gutted to make room for cargo cases, which were covered with tarpaulins. The passengers sat up at the front. They were all men, mostly Russians in greatcoats and astrakhan hats, whom Cayle put down as diplomats or heads of trade missions. The only one he couldn’t place was a short red-headed man in a hairy tweed jacket and a purple shirt that showed too much cuff. He hardly looked like the ordinary Soviet citizen, though Cayle had heard him speak several times to the stewardess in what sounded like fluent Russian. He now sat with an attaché-case folded open on his lap and was scribbling rapidly with a gold pen.
The stewardess, who looked comically like a wardress, ordered them, in Russian and English, to fasten their seatbelts and extinguish all cigarettes. She then strode down the aisle and forcibly removed cigarettes from the unsuspecting passengers’ mouths, several of whom gave cries of pain as flecks of skin were torn from their lips; but they made no complaint. A moment later the steward appeared, carrying a whole tray of cigarettes, of English and Russian brands, which he proceeded unsmilingly to offer round. Cayle sighed contentedly; even before they’d taken off, he felt already close to Russia.
He was unable to fasten his seatbelt, as the buckle was missing, so he knotted it i
nstead. Eventually the pilot came aboard, sucking an orange; and a few minutes later they took off. The stewardess came round again, this time with chocolates, beakers of wine and mugs of kvas, an insipid grey liquid made from bread and which is known as ‘Russian Coca-Cola’. Cayle’s beaker was replenished at generous intervals, and he soon dozed off.
He woke to feel his legs numb with cold. The other passengers, including the red-haired man across the gangway, were again wearing their overcoats. Cayle pulled his anorak down from the rack, but it did not reach below his thighs. He eventually attracted the stewardess and asked for a blanket. ‘It is being used,’ she replied stiffly.
Someone gave a harsh laugh; it was the red-haired man.
‘Bloody typical! I know some people who only travel on this line with a water-bottle.’ He was leaning over towards Cayle. ‘Mind if I join you?’ Before Cayle could reply, he had slipped across the gangway and dropped into the seat beside him. ‘Going to Moscow? Or stopping in Denmark?’
‘Moscow,’ Cayle said, without enthusiasm. He had had a late night and was hoping to get some sleep on the plane. Besides, the stranger’s appearance was not prepossessing. He was about forty, with a low forehead, sharp predatory features, and a slight inflation round his nose and his mouth as though he suffered from a permanent cold. His red hair was tough and wiry, and reminded Cayle of rusted iron wool.
‘That’s great! We’re going there together.’ The little man held out his hand; it was small, but gave Cayle’s a bone-cracking squeeze. ‘Maddox is the name. Leonard Maddox…’
‘Barry Cayle.’
‘Glad to meet you, Barry.’ He paused, then turned, grinning like a dog. ‘Barry Cayle,’ he repeated: ‘I know that name from somewhere. I’m certain I do!’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Don’t tell me — I’ll get it in a jiff. That’s it — you’re a writer. Newspapers — the telly.’ Maddox stretched his neck, showing a rim of acne under his collar. ‘Not that I get much time to read the papers, mind — ’cept the financial pages. And in Moscow, o’ course, it’s just the Morning Star. But I’ve always been interested to meet you journalist chaps. Never know when you might pick up something useful.’
Cayle felt that this was somehow his cue, but deliberately ignored it. He did not like this turn of the conversation. For a start, he was fairly modest about his status, and was always surprised when he was recognized by people outside the profession. Besides, on his own admission, Maddox didn’t read newspapers; and apart from a BBC film of his ill-fated Transatlantic yachting expedition, Cayle scarcely appeared on television.
Maddox went on: ‘Going to Moscow on business, or pleasure?’ He laughed. ‘Silly question, I know. A good journalist’s always on business. Like policemen — always on duty.’
Cayle again declined the cue. Instead, he said: ‘And you, Mr Maddox?’
‘Business, o’ course! You don’t get me holed up in a dump like Moscow unless there’s something in it for Lennie Maddox. And I don’t mean women. In Moscow that’s a dead loss — unless you don’t mind sharing your bed with Galina Borisovna.’ He caught Cayle’s eye and leered: ‘KGB, old boy. Never refer to the outfit by its real name. Here, take this.’ He snatched a card out of his top pocket and handed it to Cayle. One side was printed in English, the other in Cyrillic. Cayle read:
Leonard E. Maddox AMA
Entreprises Lipp SA
5, Quai du Mont Blanc
Genève
Room 1727
Hotel Intourist
Pushkin St
Moscow I, USSR
He started to hand it back, but Maddox waved it away. ‘What line of business are you in, Mr Maddox?’
‘Money.’ Maddox gave his canine grin. ‘Money, money, money! You’d be surprised, the Russians are just as keen on it as the next man. Once you’ve hacked your way through all the red tape, and made them sign on the dotted line, you’ve got a deal. Ever heard of a Russian welshing? They’d get bloody shot if they did!’
‘You spend a lot of time in the Soviet Union?’ said Cayle.
‘On and off. Not a bad country, once you get used to it. The great thing about the Russian people is they’ve got no side to them. They accept you for what you are. That’s what’s wrong with Britain — everyone bangs on about free enterprise and opportunities for all, but when it comes to the crunch, what still matters is what bloody accent you’ve got and whether you wear the right tie.’ He paused. ‘I’ve got a little confession to make to you, Barry. That card I just gave you, it tells a bit of a fib. Those initials after my name — AMA, short for Association of Management Accountants — well, I used to be a member, see, but I got struck off. No skin off my nose, mind! I was just too good at my job. Fixed a beautiful tax dodge for a property company I was working for, only the Revenue boys didn’t like it and they started to lean on me. Always the same — show a bit o’ gumption in Britain today and they squeeze you out — unless, o’ course, you belong to the right club.’ He inclined his head, grinning for approval; and when Cayle said nothing, he went on: ‘With Lipp Entreprises you don’t get any of that crap. We’re a big international company, dealing in big money.’
‘What’s your exact tie-up with the Soviet Union?’ asked Cayle.
‘More or less anything that comes along, old boy. This time it’s an aircraft deal. The boss is flying in from Geneva soon to supervise it. French chappie — great character. One of the fattest sods you ever saw! Can’t be more than five foot two and weighs at least sixteen stone. Should be in a bloody circus!’
‘Is it a private deal,’ said Cayle, ‘or does he represent the French Government?’
Maddox jerked his chin up and gave a crafty smile. ‘To be frank with you, Barry, I shouldn’t really be telling you this. It’s a bit hush-hush, y’see. This French boss o’ mine has a concession to flog the Russians some aircraft — stocking up the old Aeroflot junk, some of which is nearly twenty years old. But he’s also arranged a special new deal with them — a Franco-Soviet airbus. They’re calling it the Troika-Caravelle. And it’s likely to cause a lot of aggro in the EEC.’
Cayle nodded. He wondered if Maddox were merely shooting a line, or whether he was being extraordinarily indiscreet. It seemed hardly credible that this unprepossessing little man should be privy to an international secret; and even if he was, why was he blurting it out to a journalist whom he’d only just met, and who was himself travelling to the Soviet Union, where the deal was presumably to be clinched?
Cayle was not a suspicious man by nature, but his profession had trained him to be wary of importuning strangers. He considered the possibility that Lennie Maddox was giving him this information for a purpose.
He said: ‘Do you work for this Frenchman personally?’
‘I do. And he’s a lovely man to work for. Never entertains without the champagne and caviar. Rich as Croesus — bloody great place on Lake Geneva, travels like a prince, always the best hotels, servants fetching and carrying wherever he goes — and yet he calls himself an international socialist! God knows what the Russians really make of him. But he certainly seems to get his way with them — perhaps because they’ve never met anybody like him before.’
‘When do you say he’s arriving in Moscow?’
‘Next week, next month. You never know for certain with old Charlie boy.’
‘What’s his full name?’
‘Pol. Charles Pol, President and chief shareholder of Entreprises Lipp, and the biggest left-wing capitalist from the Kremlin to Wall Street.’
‘I’d like to meet him,’ said Cayle.
‘Ah. Might be tricky. Don’t know that he’s too keen on the Press — not unless he’s got something special to tell them.’ He finished his wine and let his seat back. ‘Well, must get a bit o’ shut-eye now. Nice talking to you, Barry!’
His interest in their conversation seemed to cease as abruptly as it began, and after the forty-minute stop at Copenhagen, Maddox returned to his seat and went back to the work in his attaché-case.
They landed at Moscow’s Sheremetyevo Airport at seven o’clock local time. It was a black misty evening, with the runway covered with freezing slush. Inside the terminal they were bunched into a bleak concrete hall, filled with the smell of Russia — the bitter-sweet fumes of Soviet petrol, black tobacco, and a hint of cheap soap. A woman with henna-stained hair handed Cayle a pink Customs form warning of the severe penalties for importing firearms, explosives, drugs, livestock, undeclared roubles, Western newspapers and magazines, and literature hostile to the Soviet Union; and a young Customs officer, in a square-shouldered greatcoat reaching over the top of his calfskin boots, politely examined his luggage. He looked through the new Bodley Head edition of Graham Greene’s The Confidential Agent — bought the day before at John Sandoe’s, off the King’s Road — but ignored the two tins of Whiskas, from Cayle’s local supermarket in Fulham.
Maddox had a car waiting for him outside, but pointedly failed to offer Cayle a lift. However, before driving off he asked him where he was staying.
‘The Metropol,’ Cayle replied reluctantly.
‘I’ll call you, Barry. We must get together and have a night out.’ He waved as the car drove off in a wake of slush.
There seemed to be no airport bus, only official limousines. Eventually Cayle found a taxi, and they pulled out into the dark suburbs of the Russian capital.
Like the desert, the sense of adventure on entering Russia is soon dissipated by its vast, sterile emptiness. Cayle felt at once cut off from all spiritual and emotional contact, and was left not so much depressed as crushed and listless. They reached the Leningrad Prospekt, a six-lane highway bordered by apartment blocks like rows of tombstones: then the blaze of light as they approached the city centre, beneath the wonders of Stalinist Gothic with its soap-stone maidens embracing giant sheaves of corn and concrete workers carrying cog-wheels the size of houses.
The Metropol loomed out of the night like a well-lit factory. An ancient porter carried Cayle’s cases through the revolving doors, into a high-vaulted lobby like the entrance to a railway station, full of liverish marble and crowds in steaming, dripping fur. The intourist reception desk was along the far wall, where long queues were waiting to have their passports checked, in return for coupon vouchers and numbered passes to their rooms.
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