Gentleman Traitor

by Alan Williams

  At the end of the interview, Cayle asked: ‘How do you feel about leaving your family behind, Sir Roger?’

  To his surprise, the man replied with enthusiasm: ‘My dear fellow, I couldn’t give a damn! My conscience is clear, as they say. I have three grown-up children, none of whom I particularly admire. My first wife is dead, my second is safely married to a minor peer, and “Bubbles” — my third — will just thrive on the notoriety. She may not get invited to any more royal garden parties, but they’ll just love her in those appalling, fashionable clubs she likes going to. She might even make the international set. I’ve left her very well provided for, and I don’t suppose they can take her title away — and even if they can, it won’t stop her using it.’

  He poured them both a last drink. ‘I’m sorry I can’t oblige you with a photograph, but that is strictly against the house-rules.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a safe journey home.’

  ‘One last thing,’ said Cayle. He glanced at Vladimir. ‘Dempster. Will I still be needed as a witness, if you catch him?’

  The Russian shook his head. ‘There will be no necessity for that. We already have sufficient evidence against the man to shoot him many times.’

  ‘Perhaps — if you catch him. But you’re not going to catch him, are you? You’re not even going to try. Because Sergeant Dempster is your trump card. Kim still doesn’t know that a certain group in MI5 have already tried to kill him — over here. In the West it’s going to be a lot easier. As you said, Sir Roger, having Kim quietly rubbed out will be a weight off a lot of people’s minds — including yours. Even if he does bring shame and damnation on the heads of a few old stalwarts in Whitehall!’

  ‘You overestimate him,’ Sir Roger said. ‘Philby is no longer important to us. A temporary embarrassment, perhaps, but we might call that quits. As a source of Intelligence, he will be of very little use now to either the British or the Americans.’

  ‘Pol evidently doesn’t think so.’

  Sir Roger gave a delicate shrug. ‘You imply that Pol engineered this hijacking over Finland? Well, perhaps, but I have no idea what a man like Pol has in mind for Philby. All I can say is, neither of them is actively anti-Soviet.’

  ‘But you still wouldn’t mind if Dempster was allowed to finish the job?’

  Sir Roger shook his head. ‘I’m not going to be drawn on that one, Cayle.’ He finished his drink, then looked at his watch. ‘Your plane leaves in just over an hour. Vladimir has arranged for a car to take you to the airport. But one word of advice. You’ve been very lucky. You have broken Soviet law by entering the country without a correct visa, and have consorted, on your own admission, with a member of British Intelligence in London, for whom you have been running errands here on behalf of a criminal traitor.’ There was silence. Outside, big spangled snowflakes were drifting against the half-curtained windows. ‘The Russians have a proverb — “you lower the bucket into the well twice, and the third time the rope breaks”. Even well-known journalists are dispensable.’

  Cayle felt a dryness in his throat. They were the same words that Dempster had used to him.

  Vladimir stood up, and Cayle followed. ‘Goodbye, Sir Roger.’

  ‘Goodbye, Cayle. Remember me to the “Squadron”.’

  CHAPTER 20

  The ferry put into Stockholm at five next evening. The city and its network of islands were a watery blur through the winter rain, and Swedish Customs and Immigration weren’t wasting time hunting for heroin or hijackers. Although Finland is next door to Sweden, it is not part of Scandinavia, and when a Franco-Soviet airliner gets seized over Russia and taken to Finland, it is no business of the Swedes — if the Swedes can help it.

  Kim Philby had spent the hundred Krone that Donaldson had lent him on a bottle of French brandy which he’d finished after lunch; but they managed to get him down the steps and into the back of the car, and keep him awake while they passed through the landing formalities. The Swedish authorities disapprove of drunks almost as much as of hijackers.

  They drove through the city centre and stopped at the station, where Donaldson bought all the Swedish and foreign newspapers. In most of them the story had only made the stop-press; but the Swedish evening papers were carrying banner headlines. Philby woke up long enough for Donaldson to give him a quick resumé of the reports. The plane had been returned that day to Leningrad, with all the Soviet passengers aboard. The hijackers were described as being of suspected French or Corsican origin, with one who was probably South African. About the mysterious English journalist who had left the plane — and had been disowned by his alleged employers in London — various theories were being advanced, including one that he was a dissident Russian intellectual. Charles Pol had been granting interviews to both the Press and the Suopo, in which he talked of ‘the scandal of international brigandry’ and how he would work and pray to see the pirates brought to justice.

  So far no newspaper had mentioned the name Philby.

  Philby went back to sleep as they joined the autobahn north to Uppsala. Hughes drove fast for three hours through the sub-Arctic twilight, stopping once for petrol near the town of Avesta, where Philby drank a couple of black coffees. Donaldson had told him they were going north, to a little place near the Norwegian border called Medstugan. But Philby showed little curiosity; he didn’t even ask to see it on the map.

  At nine o’clock, when it was dark, they stopped for dinner in a pine-log restaurant where Philby and Donaldson shared a bottle of root-beer. Philby seemed quite sober again and they ate almost in silence. There was nothing strained or artificial about their relationship: it was simply a matter of rank. In Finland Donaldson had been in command; he had even treated Philby with a certain impatient contempt. But once they reached neutral Sweden, Philby had taken on a new status. Donaldson now assumed a subtle deference towards him, as though he accepted that he and Philby were not on the same level, socially or politically. Hughes hardly spoke at all, even to Donaldson. He was merely the chauffeur.

  When the meal was over, Donaldson paid, carefully folding the receipt into his wallet, and they got back into the car. For the next hour they passed through a flat wasteland of forest and frozen marsh, and at eleven they stopped at Östersun, on the edge of a large lake. It was cold and damp, with a stench of decayed tundra. Donaldson had already booked three rooms in the hotel. An old man with a face like a ball of brown string carried in their luggage, including the case and overnight bag which Philby had been given on the ferry. The case was of old pigskin, with silver-plated fittings and the initials DHS in faded gold, and was covered with hotel stickers from the President, Johannesburg, and the Polana, Lourenço Marques. Both cases had TAP airline tabs tied to the handles.

  Donaldson put in a call for 6.45, said goodnight, and the three of them went to their rooms. Philby half unpacked, partly for convenience, and partly because he was curious to know what personality London had concocted for Duncan Henry Saunders, Esq.

  The contents of the luggage, like the cases themselves, were expensive and in good condition: a leather toilet-case from Asprey’s, a pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes, silk pyjamas from Simpson’s in Piccadilly, all monogrammed with his new initials; a hound’s-tooth jacket, cavalry-twill trousers, cashmere sweater and a tartan-lined raincoat. There were also changes of socks and underwear, and four Turnbull and Asser shirts, size sixteen — his own. The overnight bag contained a rechargeable electric shaver, electric toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of Vetiver de Carven, the latest editions of Time, The Economist and The Investor’s Chronicle, and a jumbo paperback of Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quartet.

  Philby chuckled to himself. Duncan Saunders was a fastidious, well-to-do businessman with South African interests and middle-brow intellectual pretensions. He undressed and put on the silk pyjamas which fitted him perfectly. He was still very tired, and lay down under the duvet and was asleep almost at once.

  At about four in the morning, Donaldson, who was in the next room, was wok
en by a scream, followed by sobs. He leapt up and ran into the passage. The scream came again, from behind Philby’s door. The door was locked. Donaldson hammered on it, and there was another sob, then Philby’s voice, scarcely recognizable, crying what sounded like, ‘The fishes! The fishes!’

  Donaldson began hammering again, and calling, ‘Saunders!’ in a loud whisper. There was silence. He stood back, wondering whether to kick the lock in, when there was a shuffling sound and the door opened.

  Philby stood just inside, pale and sweating. Behind him, under the light in the passage, Donaldson could see the duvet lying humped on the floor at the foot of the bed. ‘What the devil’s going on, man?’ he asked, still in a whisper. ‘You’ll have the whole place awake!’

  ‘Sorry — b-bit of a nightmare.’ Philby swayed against the side of the door, and Donaldson saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘W-was dreaming about dead m-mermaids,’ he muttered, and tried to smile. ‘B-bloody silly. You haven’t got a drink, have you?’

  ‘I’ve got some Scotch,’ said Donaldson. ‘Stay there — I’ll get it.’

  Philby had rearranged the duvet and turned on the bedside light when he returned. Donaldson fetched a tooth-glass and poured some whisky into it. Philby was sitting on the bed, breathing hard. Donaldson handed him the glass and waited until he had taken a drink, then said, ‘Just mermaids?’

  ‘What?’ Philby’s eyes seemed to focus on him with difficulty. ‘Oh yes. I get them sometimes — when I’m overtired. Had them since I w-was a child.’

  ‘Always about mermaids?’

  Philby sat turning the glass round in his hand. ‘Not always. This one was just silly. Fish eating dead mermaids.’ He looked up at Donaldson and this time his eyes were quite steady. ‘Ever seen a body that’s been in the water a long time?’ Donaldson didn’t answer. ‘The police call them “floaters”. They’re worse than ordinary bodies.’

  ‘Have you seen one?’ said Donaldson.

  ‘N-no. But I’ve been told about them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You know all about me, Donaldson. I’m a squeamish bastard. I don’t like to see things hurt. Especially animals. And I hate dead things. When I go, I want to be cremated. I can’t stand the idea of what happens in one of those bloody boxes.’

  ‘Do you need something to make you sleep?’

  ‘Pills, you mean?’ Philby shook his head and climbed back under the duvet. ‘I never take pills. And don’t start feeding me any, either. That’s not part of the deal.’

  ‘Good night,’ said Donaldson, and walked stiffly out. The door locked automatically on the inside.

  They left next morning at seven o’clock, driving north again through the same flat forest landscape, broken by misty lakes and great stretches of tundra, like mouldering patches on a white-dappled carpet. After two hours they came to a small town where they stopped at a café, and Hughes fitted on snow-chains. The café was full of leathery-faced men in anoraks and high boots; they looked like woodsmen or hunters. They turned together and watched Donaldson and Philby with suspicious pale blue eyes. Donaldson, assuming his deferential manner, asked Philby what he would like, and Philby said, ‘Schnapps.’ Donaldson gave the order and was told they served only beer. He ordered two coffees and a beer for Philby. A few moments later they were joined by Hughes. Donaldson kept looking at his watch. It was hardly the sort of place where they were likely to be greatly interested in a hijacking over Finland; but they’d remember three well-dressed foreigners asking for hard liquor in the middle of the morning.

  A few miles beyond the town they joined a smaller, snow-covered road that led eastwards into the fir-covered mountains. Hughes drove slowly and carefully. There was no traffic, and the snow was getting thicker, with ruts of rock-like ice. The sky had a grey glare that seemed to belong to no time of day. It was still too far south for the Midnight Sun, but the kind of place where day and night pass without variety, like the bleak unbroken landscape. A timeless place. A place as empty and neutral as the rest of Sweden, and even more dull.

  Towards noon they crawled through a one-street town with single-storey log houses heavy with snow — and just outside, turned up a steep track round bends that twisted up between the tall endless fir-trees, until Philby felt that familiar cold place in his stomach that he had felt many times before. Duncan Henry Saunders was going to ground.

  The house was a wooden chalet with two floors and a garage. The fir-trees grew so close to the door that there was almost no room in which to turn the car. They were let in by an old woman who looked like a witch out of Grimm. Inside it was all stained pine, and so dark that the lights were on, although it was still only mid-afternoon. The rooms were small and full of heavy carved furniture. There were no books, and the only pictures were dim portraits of Christ in rusty metal frames.

  Donaldson showed Philby into a room with a four-poster bed. ‘Come down when you’re ready.’

  ‘I’m ready now,’ said Philby. He left his cases on the bed and followed Donaldson down into a long wooden room. A man turned, with his back to the stove, and held out his hand. ‘Mr Saunders! I’m Thomas. How do you do?’

  He was very tall and as bald as an egg. His face was almost translucently white, with a bluish pallor round the eyes. Philby found it difficult to guess his age, though he put him around ten years younger than himself. His voice had the languid self-confidence of a man used to giving orders, though unlike Donaldson there was nothing military about him.

  ‘I expect you’re ready for a drink?’ he added, and turned to a large open dresser, well-stocked with bottles. Philby asked for whisky, straight, and Thomas poured him a tumbler three-quarters full. It was a gesture of hospitality that Philby was to get used to in the coming weeks.

  ‘You’ll be staying with us for about a month,’ Thomas went on, as they sat down in the stiff armchairs. ‘The exact time will depend on the progress we make. There is, as you see, very little to distract us. Major Donaldson will be leaving us tomorrow, and then we will have the whole week to ourselves. You should be quite comfortable. And Miss Meedla, our housekeeper, is very discreet. At the end of the week, if things go well, a man will be joining us from London. He will be concentrating on the technical details regarding your past — or rather, Duncan Saunders’ past.’ He gave a slight, deceptive smile. ‘We must make sure that Mr Saunders becomes a man of substance — and not just financially.’

  ‘When do I get back to Stockholm to confirm the bank accounts?’ said Philby.

  Thomas lifted a bald eyebrow. ‘You won’t be requiring any money while you’re here, surely?’

  ‘The money is simply your earnest of good faith, Mr Thomas. That’s all I’m interested in.’

  ‘The bank accounts are all in order, I assure you.’

  ‘But I don’t sign them until you give the nod? In other words, if I don’t cooperate, the accounts are cancelled?’ Philby glanced at Donaldson, who sat empty-handed, staring at the floor. ‘I imagine that if London could fix the accounts in the first place, they can always unfix them?’ He gave them both a slack grin. ‘London seems to have improved since I’ve been away. They can no doubt fix a lot of things. Especially in the wilds of the Swedish-Norwegian border?’

  Thomas frowned. It was like the creasing of rice-paper; Philby almost expected the man’s skin to tear. Thomas said: ‘There is really no point in being melodramatic. We promised you a “safe house”, and this is it. I have no intention that it should be anything but safe. Now, Duncan — I shall call you Duncan from now on, to help you get used to it — when you’ve finished your drink, we might have something to eat? Then perhaps you’d like a little rest? Or we can start work straight after lunch.’

  ‘We can start now,’ said Philby.

  ‘Fine.’ Thomas turned and called, ‘Miss Meedla!’ The old crone appeared at once, as though she’d been standing outside the door. Thomas spoke to her in Swedish, and she grunted something and disappeared again.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said to Philby, ‘Miss Meedla
doesn’t speak a word of English.’

  Over the next week Philby spent an average of ten hours a day with Thomas. It was an arduous but ideal arrangement for a debriefing. There were no distractions, no recreations, except conversation and drink; and Thomas was generous with both. He showed no concern about Philby’s drinking. Philby could drink what he liked, as much as he liked, when he liked. The hours didn’t matter. Even the dull meals of ham, coleslaw and tinned fish were served to accommodate his drinking.

  Sometimes he stayed up till the small hours, sometimes he passed out and woke before dawn, sometimes he began drinking early and slept half the day; but Thomas seemed always to be available, and although sober himself, he remained the perfect drinking companion — affable, responsive, patient. Occasionally, and only with Philby’s agreement, he took notes. His questions were intelligent, well informed and, above all, well timed. He never coerced or contradicted, never insinuated even a hint of doubt or scepticism; for Thomas was too experienced an interrogator to underestimate Kim Philby, even when the man was most drunk. Thomas knew just how far to push him, and just when to pull back; he never tried to trap him when he was drunk, and never made the mistake of assuming that Philby would have forgotten things when he was sober again.

  Donaldson had left on the second day, but Hughes stayed on as a kind of batman-cum-butler, taking the car for the daily shopping in Medstugan, chopping wood for the stoves, and carrying Philby to bed when he was incapable of walking. There was no telephone in the house, but Philby guessed that there might be a short-wave radio — probably in the garage, which was always kept locked, even when the car was away. Philby never saw a newspaper or heard any news at all from outside; but far from complaining, he found the isolation restful, even stimulating.

  Most of his sessions with Thomas were erratically informal. Philby’s various masters had always admired his precise mind, despite its alcoholic lapses, and his phenomenal memory; but even he found it difficult to keep track of their daily progress; and sometimes it seemed that Thomas himself had lost the thread. One afternoon, after a heavy liquid lunch when Philby had been building up to a detailed picture of his activities in Washington after the war, Thomas suddenly suggested a break; and when they resumed towards evening, he began instead asking about Philby’s financial difficulties after he’d been sacked by SIS in the wake of the Burgess-Maclean scandal. It was only next morning, almost casually, that Thomas brought him back to his contacts with the CIA.