‘Why are you telling me all this, Kim?’
‘You’ll want something to write for your paper, won’t you? A bit more than a frivolous piece about meeting me over a bottle of vodka and a gun, with two heavies in the corridor outside. If I’m still considered as important in the West as you say I am, I shall presumably be expected to say a few important things.’
‘Like having a few thoughts about redefecting?’
Philby chuckled. ‘I deny it. Even if you got your people to print it in the first place.’
Cayle looked round and saw they were drawing in to Svedlova Station for the second time round. He was wondering how long Philby was going to wait before taking the plunge. But as the train pulled out, and Philby still didn’t speak, Cayle decided to try head-on: ‘What made you choose me?’
‘Hennison chose you. He’s a shifty sod, but he’s a shrewd judge of character. I just wonder how long he’d been fishing around before he lighted on you.’
‘Hennison’s not touting a piece about you for my paper, Kim. Or for any other paper. So what the hell’s he up to?’
Philby paused. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about Hennison, if I were you, Barry. It would just complicate things.’
‘Things seem to be pretty damn complicated already,’ said Cayle. The air in the train was dry and stale, and he badly needed a long cool drink.
‘How’s your patience, Barry?’ Philby said at last.
‘Depends what’s at the end of it.’
‘Something big. Probably the biggest story you ever handled. Exclusive — world rights — the lot.’
Cayle sat very still, watching their dim reflections in the windows opposite.
Philby went on: ‘Confidential. Top secret. For your ears only, and nothing in writing. If you break it before I give the OK, I shall deny it, as I said — even if anyone believes it, which is unlikely. I’m a nomad, Barry. Always have been. I pitch my tent, graze my cattle, then move on. I told you just now, I’m bored, I’m ready to strike camp once again. I’m going back into the field, Barry. For one last time.’
Cayle turned and blinked at him. ‘Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk telling me this?’
Philby leant over and patted his knee. ‘Perhaps you’ll understand if I tell you that I’ve got one last thing to prove — to set the record straight. The last thirteen years haven’t been altogether easy ones, you know. Better than a prison cell, perhaps, but not exactly the way of life I’d have chosen if I’d been completely free.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got to remember that before I came here I’d led a fairly exciting life, by any standards. But I’d also had to work undercover — unknown, unrecognized. And when I finally did get to Moscow, certain people said I’d come home.’ He gave Cayle a baleful stare. ‘Moscow’s not home, Barry. I don’t have a home.’
‘Can I quote you on that?’
Philby shrugged. ‘I used to be in the business myself, but I always made it a rule never to tell a fellow journalist how to do his job. In this case it’s up to you. You bide your time, and you’ll get your story. When I’m ready.’
The train was pulling into Dobryninskaya Station for the third time, and Philby stood up, ‘When are you thinking of going back to London?’
‘I’ll have to get back to write my piece. Even if it’s completely harmless it might not be too tactful sending it out from here.’
‘No, perhaps not.’ The doors opened and Philby stepped out on to the mosaic platform. ‘But remember, stick to telling your Sunday readers how I spend my evenings alone with my cats, listening to Brahms and Schubert. And you might add that I loathe Shostakovich.’ He strolled past a couple of uniformed militiamen, with Cayle keeping a few feet behind.
Only when, they were through the barrier did Cayle catch up with him, ‘How will I hear from you?’
‘You won’t. If anything happens. Hennison will call you. And if your editor starts asking tricky questions, just tell him that Kim Philby wants to take you along as his Boswell, to chronicle the final chapter of his eventful but inglorious life.’
They had almost reached the top of the steps to the street, when Philby turned: ‘This is where I leave you, Barry. And if you get any ideas about trying to follow me, I’m taking a taxi back to the office. Thirteen Dzerzhinski Square. Anyone’ll tell you where it is!’
CHAPTER 5
Cayle returned to London and his article on Philby was published. He had been called to a meeting at the Ritz and when he entered, Laurie, the barman, nodded to him and said, ‘Your friend’s already here, Mr Cayle.’
At first Cayle almost missed him. He was sitting by himself on a gilt sofa in the corner of the bar, reading the Financial Times. They had only met once, in the exclusive Royal Yacht Squadron in Cowes while Cayle had been practising for the International Transatlantic Race. All he remembered was a wiry man in oilskins with a pair of frosty eyes under a red woollen pixie-hat. But now Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke was restored to the full dignity of a senior Foreign Office official: two wings of immaculate silver hair, elegant beak of nose, chalk-striped suit, quiet regimental tie, and a thin band of wedding-ring.
He unfolded his legs from the sofa and offered Cayle a limp cold hand. ‘I haven’t a lot of time,’ he said, looking at his watch; and Cayle made the usual excuses about the traffic, while Laurie came over for their orders. When they were alone again, Sir Roger went on: ‘I’d like to make it clear, Mr Cayle, that this meeting is entirely off the record.’
‘Well I should hope so, for Christ’s sake! You were the one who asked me here. And you surely don’t want to chat about spinnakers.’
‘Please don’t be flippant. This is a matter of some importance. And it’s not only my department who are interested. Of course, there is no question of official disapproval for what you wrote. It’s merely a question of clarifying certain details, and filling in some of the background.’
‘You flatter me, sir. Personally, I thought it was a bloody awful piece. It was only printed for the colour — and there wasn’t much of that.’
Sir Roger gave a quick dismissive nod. ‘Quite. Now, I’d like to take it from the beginning. You picked Philby up at the Post Office?’
‘Correct.’
‘On the off-chance that he’d go along that day and collect his airmail edition of The Times?’
‘That’s right, just as I wrote in Sunday’s paper.’
Sir Roger waited while Laurie placed their drinks in front of them. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said when they were alone again, ‘I do not entirely believe you.’
Cayle smiled. ‘Is that my cue for saying, “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”’
‘I think you know what I mean. You travelled to Moscow, on no apparent assignment, and on your first day there you happened to run into a certain Englishman who is wanted for high treason by the courts of this country.’
‘I wasn’t breaking any law I know of,’ said Cayle.
‘I’m not suggesting you were. What I want to know is why Philby was willing to talk to you.’
‘Because he’s bored.’
‘Bored?’
‘Yes, he likes to meet people — people from the outside. Westerners. So we had a nice boozy morning together, and he told me how wonderful the Russian people are, but how he can’t stand the way they get drunk and fight and are sick all over the place.’
‘That’s rich, coming from him!’ Sir Roger muttered. ‘He was never exactly an abstainer himself.’
‘I suppose you knew him too?’
‘Yes, I knew him. There are very few of my generation who didn’t.’ He licked at his Martini. ‘He must have had another reason for meeting you?’
‘I told you — we had a long chat over a bottle of vodka, and he told me he was bored and lonely and wants to go —’ Cayle broke off and gulped at his Bacardi and orange.
‘Yes?’ said Sir Roger. ‘Wants to go where?’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Cayle. ‘Is this an interview or an interrogation?’
&n
bsp; ‘That rather depends on you. Of course, we have no means — or indeed desire — to pressure you into disclosing information that you’d rather keep secret. But I must point out that there are certain kinds of information which can place their receiver in a rather delicate situation.’ He sat for a moment studying his perfectly tended fingernails. ‘Who sent you to see Philby, Mr Cayle?’
There was a long pause. Cayle signalled to Laurie and started to order two more drinks, but Sir Roger declined. Cayle told Laurie to make his a double, ‘To hell with it,’ he said at last. ‘I was rung up a few weeks ago by a fellow called Hennison — literary agent who wants me to write a novel about Philby. He suggested I took him a Graham Greene novel as a present — just to smooth the way, so to speak.’
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke sat very still. ‘Which novel was that?’ he asked gently.
‘One of his early ones — The Confidential Agent.’
‘And was that your choice?’
‘No, Hennison suggested it. He said it was one of Philby’s favourites.’
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke’s cold marine eyes were fixed on the chandelier above Cayle’s head and one hand began to pluck at his sleeve. ‘You started to say that Philby wanted to go somewhere. Where, Mr Cayle?’
‘He used the expression “go out into the field again”.’
Sir Roger still stared at the chandelier, and his voice was weary: ‘And what do you suppose he meant by that?’
‘I’d have thought that would have been more in your department,’ said Cayle. ‘Isn’t “the field” more or less the same as “the cold”?’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But what do you think he really meant? He’s far too old for the Russians to start using him again as an active agent.’
‘Well, I guess old Kim’s much like the rest of us — can’t bear the idea of settling down and growing roses for the rest of his life. He wants to have one last fling — to set the record straight, as he put it.’
‘Were those the words he used — “set the record straight”?’
‘More or less.’
There was a pause. Sir Roger seemed to be thinking of something else: his eyes were remote, his patrician cheeks pale. ‘Set the record straight,’ he repeated. ‘And I suppose you’ve no idea what he meant by that, either?’
‘No,’ said Cayle truthfully. ‘No idea at all.’
Cayle had washed up the remains of his Chinese dinner, put on Brahms’ Symphony No. 4, and had just begun playing solo Scrabble when the phone rang. It was his editor.
‘Barry — just had a call from Ron. Your Foreign Office friend you saw today at the Ritz has gone AWOL.’
‘What?’
‘Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke. They found his car abandoned two hours ago near his home at a little place called Stonor, outside Henley. Seems there’s quite a flap on. Thames Valley Police have apparently called in the SB.’
‘Did Ron get all this?’
‘That’s right — contact of his at the Yard. Hasn’t been put out yet. If you hurry you could be first there. But play it close. I wouldn’t let on about you and Sir Roger — not yet, anyway.’
‘You think there’s some connection?’
‘Do you?’
Cayle paused. He could feel the pulse in his thumb twitching against the receiver. ‘I don’t see how —’
‘Get moving,’ said Harry. ‘And ring me at home when you’re through. I don’t mind how late it is.’
They hung up simultaneously. Cayle grabbed his Pentax and flash, checked that he had all his Press cards, then sprang down the stairs four steps at a time.
It had just gone 12.10. The traffic on the Hammersmith Flyover was light, and the night dry and clear. He was on the M4 ten minutes after leaving the flat, and with his foot down and the wind shrieking under the canvas flaps of the Mini Moke, he reached the intersection off to Henley and Oxford by 12.50.
He used a brief pause at the traffic lights in Henley to check the map for Stonor, which was five miles beyond the town on the Watlington Road. He drove through the darkened village at sixty, and found the spot without trouble, a quarter of a mile further on. Two Panda cars and a white Jaguar with a fluorescent orange stripe down the side were parked on the verge next to an open five-bar gate. A motorcycle patrolman was leaning in through the window of the Jaguar, and the radio on his machine was jabbering like a nest of wasps. He turned too late; Cayle had already turned off the road and swung past him, and the Moke was now bouncing down a muddy track between open fields.
The rest of them were round a bend under some trees leading down to the river. There were three cars here: a police Rover with a flashing blue light, a second Jaguar with no insignia, and a dark handsome Alvis drawn up a little further along under the trees. There were about half a dozen uniformed men with powerful flashlights, and a couple of dogs nosing about in the muddy bank beyond the Alvis.
Cayle pulled up at a discreet distance and got out without haste, keeping his camera under his anorak, and began to stroll towards the cars. A radio was putting out a call-signal from the Rover and a constable with bushy sideburns was talking to an inspector beside the Jaguar. There was also a thick-set man in a short brown sheepskin coat, watching the dogs.
Cayle was just crossing the track opposite the first car when he was challenged. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ It was the Inspector.
Cayle showed him his Scotland Yard Press pass, but the man was not visibly impressed. ‘Who gave you permission to come through?’
‘Nobody stopped me,’ said Cayle. The constable had edged forward and was staring at him with a suspicious countryman’s face.
‘This is a restricted area,’ said the Inspector.
‘There was nothing to say so,’ Cayle replied, just as the mart in the sheepskin coat walked up to them and without a word took Cayle’s Press pass from the Inspector’s hand. He stood reading it carefully, compared Cayle with the photograph, turned it over, and said, ‘Barry Cayle? Don’t I know you from somewhere? You were on the box a few weeks ago, sailing round the world?’
‘Almost.’ Cayle nodded at the Alvis under the trees. ‘What’s going on?’
‘You mean you don’t know?’ the man said, in a flat toneless voice.
Cayle shrugged. ‘Something about an abandoned car, I was told.’
‘Who told you?’
‘I work for a big organization. Better ask them. I just got a phone call telling me to come out here.’
The man stood watching him with muddy eyes. ‘What’s the particular interest?’
‘About the same as yours, I should say. It’s a nice car. The owner must be proud of it. They don’t make them anymore. Seems funny to dump it out in a place like this in the middle of the night.’
‘Any theories?’
‘Maybe he’s a nature fetishist and went for a midnight swim. Or perhaps he’s crept off to smoke pot?’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Cayle.’ One of the flashlights swung round and the man’s complexion showed up hard and lumpy, like cold porridge. ‘I asked you a question. What brought you here?’
‘I told you. A phone call.’
The man sighed and squared his shoulders. ‘You know who the car belongs to?’
‘Should I?’
‘Don’t arse around — this is important.’
‘Yeah, I rather got that impression. You know, you’ll have half Fleet Street swarming all over this place by morning. But we don’t publish till Saturday night.’
‘Meaning what?’
Cayle shrugged. ‘Gives you plenty of time to start slapping on the “D” Notices.’
‘They’ve been abolished, don’t you know that?’
‘Just a figure of speech,’ said Cayle, ‘seeing there might be a Security angle.’
‘Nobody said anything about a Security angle. It’s just a routine check — may turn out to be nothing. One of the gardeners had left some tobacco down here and came back to get it, and found the car about ten-fifty. He reported it to Lady Jameson-Clarke, who n
otified the police. She’d been expecting her husband back for dinner.’
‘And nobody saw the car drive in here?’
‘We haven’t found anybody yet. It’s all private property round here.’
‘His property?’
The man nodded, and began to turn.
‘What about the hospitals?’ said Cayle.
‘We’ve got a call out. Nothing yet.’
‘And London Airport?’
‘What about London Airport?’
‘It’s less than half an hour away, if you drive fast.’
The man looked at him steadily and said, ‘All right, that’s the lot. Run along.’
Cayle opened his anorak and aimed the Pentax at the Alvis and the dogs under the trees. For a moment he thought the man was going to jump him, but at the last moment he stepped smartly out of the frame, just as the flash went off. Cayle was only able to get the one shot before, the camera was pushed back, against his chest.
‘I could have you for this, you bastard,’ the man said quietly; and Cayle felt a hand close round his arm. It was the Inspector’s. ‘I told you — this is a restricted area,’ he said.
Cayle grinned at the man in the sheepskin coat. ‘What’s the matter, sport? Shy of having your picture taken?’
‘If you’re not away from here in one minute, Cayle, I’ll have you for trespass and obstruction — just for a start. Now bugger off.’
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