‘Go on,’ said the Inspector. ‘You heard.’
One of them trod on his heels as they followed him back to the Mini Moke. Cayle slipped into reverse and lurched hack from them. They watched him as far as the bend, where he was just able to turn round. The men at the entrance to the track gave him no trouble, and he was back at his flat in Thackeray Mansions, off the North End Road, by 2.30.
He fixed himself a stiff Scotch and rang his editor, who answered at once: ‘Well?’
‘Just as you said. AWOL since before dinner. And his car’s parked down a farm-track on his own land. According to the map, it’s about half a mile from the river. They’ve already got dogs on the job, as well as an SB man who seemed rather less friendly than usual. I took a pic, which he didn’t like at all. So you may hear from someone.’
‘Don’t worry, we look after our own.’ Harry sounded cheerful, even at 2.30 in the morning. ‘How does it strike you?’ he added.
‘A bit odd. I mean, they’ve moved in on it bloody fast. Normally, you’d expect the local fuzz to keep it to themselves for at least twenty-four hours.’
‘And you think it’s something big?’
‘If he doesn’t turn up pretty quick, I’d say it was bloody big!’
There was a pause. ‘Listen, Barry, I think we’d better continue to play this very carefully. I don’t want a word about tonight, or about yesterday at the Ritz — not even to Ron or Bruce — until I say.’
‘What happens if the fuzz start asking questions?’
‘I think we deal with that when it happens. We still don’t know that a crime’s been committed, remember.’
‘What do you think? Do the Russkies still go in for rough stuff?’
‘Highly unlikely. Last case was in Germany back in the early Sixties, I think. But that was a refugee they knocked off with a cyanide bullet. Hardly the sort of thing you’d expect in a quiet country lane in Oxfordshire.’
‘No,’ said Cayle: ‘Any more than you’d expect a traitor to be a member of the Athenaeum.’
The editor chuckled. ‘Good night, Barry, and get a good sleep. You may need it.’
CHAPTER 6
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke made the BBC’s ‘World at One’ and the front-page leads in both London evening papers: MYSTERY OF MISSING DIPLOMAT and YARD HUNT TOP DIPLOMAT. But from the stories themselves it was clear that the news editors were having the same problems as the police, and were grabbing at anything that looked like an angle, however remote. Scotland Yard had put out a statement that they were ‘not ruling out foul play’; and the early TV bulletins carried interviews with Lady Jameson-Clarke, a handsome woman with frothy hair who seemed almost as concerned about how last night’s dinner had been ruined as about the loss of her husband.
Cayle had been back at Thackeray Mansions for an hour, and was going through Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke’s envelope of Press cuttings from the library when they called.
The bell was broken, and they had to give a couple of loud knocks. ‘Evening, Cayle. Mind if we have a word with you?’ He was still in his sheepskin coat and had his foot inside the door instantly Cayle opened it. He held up a card in a celluloid holder and said, ‘Special Branch, Sergeant Dempster. This is Mr Mayhew.’
Behind him stood a balding man in a mackintosh who might have been from the Ministry of Pensions. Dempster stood aside to let him through. Mayhew nodded. ‘I hope this isn’t inconvenient, sir?’
‘Any time.’ Cayle waved them both into the sitting-room. ‘Drink?’
They shook their heads and remained standing without removing their coats. Cayle turned to the dresser and poured himself a canned beer.
‘You live here alone?’ Dempster said; he was looking down at the unfinished Scrabble game on the table.
‘On and off,’ said Cayle. ‘It’s not an offence, is it?’
‘It’s an offence to withhold information from the police, Mr Cayle.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like not telling us last night that you knew Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke.’
‘I wasn’t asked.’
‘Sure, sure.’ Dempster gave a tight humourless smile. ‘I’d better tell you that we checked his appointment book. He had a date yesterday for twelve at the Ritz. No name, but the barman downstairs confirmed that he’d been there. Seems he’s a friend of yours — the barman, I mean. Told us you talked with Jameson-Clarke for about half an hour. Right?’
‘Right,’ said Cayle.
‘Why didn’t you tell us that this morning?’ said Dempster.
‘I might have done, if you hadn’t been so stroppy.’
‘Sensitive, are you?’
‘You’d be surprised!’
They faced each other in morose silence. Mayhew, who had been quietly filling a knobbly black pipe from a plastic pouch, said: ‘Would you mind telling us what you and Sir Roger talked about?’
Cayle took a deep drink and said carefully: ‘I came back from Moscow last week. Sir Roger wanted me to fill him in on a few things. It was a routine chat. A lot of the Foreign Office boys do it. Keeping in touch.’
Mayhew put a match to his pipe and sucked at it with a slow wheeze. ‘How did Sir Roger seem to you yesterday, Mr Cayle?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did he appear anxious? Nervous? Worried about something?’
‘Well, he wasn’t trembling in fear of his life, if that’s what you mean.’
Mayhew looked at him for a moment with quiet, deep-set eyes. ‘We know from his secretary that he cancelled an appointment yesterday to meet you.’
‘Really? I should be flattered.’
‘I think you should be concerned,’ said Mayhew. ‘It may well be that you were one of the last people to see him.’
‘The last? You mean, he’s kicked the bucket?’
‘I didn’t say that. Now, just try and remember exactly what you both discussed. It’s just that Sir Roger may have said something — something apparently quite innocuous — which might give us an idea of where he’s gone. Try and remember, Mr Cayle.’
Cayle fetched himself another can of beer and told them about how he’d met Sir Roger down at ‘The Squadron’ in Cowes last summer, when they’d both been messing about in boats. As for the Moscow trip, Sir Roger had been interested in the usual background impressions — the general atmosphere of the city, what the locals were talking about, what sort of people they were, and how they reacted to a foreign journalist.
While he was talking, Sergeant Dempster walked across the room and began examining the bookshelves. Cayle watched him take out several copies and leaf through them; they were from a corner he kept for works on international espionage. Dempster pushed one of them back into the shelf and turned. ‘Very interested in Kim Philby, aren’t you?’
‘Aren’t we all?’
‘I wouldn’t say all. Some of us, maybe. But you seem to be a real fan — you got half a dozen books on the bastard.’
‘I’m thinking of writing a book on him myself. You might even get a warrant to read the first draft.’
Dempster gave him a blank stare. Mayhew was peering into the bowl of his pipe. He said, without looking up: ‘You met Philby in Moscow last week, I understand, Mr Cayle?’
‘That’s what the story said.’
‘Yes, quite. And I expect no doubt the subject of this meeting came up in your talk yesterday with Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke?’
‘I think it was mentioned.’
Mayhew knocked out his pipe into an ashtray and stood up. ‘Well, thank you, Mr Cayle. I’m sorry we had to trouble you. By the way, will you be going abroad in the next few days?’
‘Better check with my editor.’
‘Yes, we will. Good night, Mr Cayle.’
Cayle opened the door for him, then paused. ‘You didn’t ever run into Kim Philby yourself, did you, Mr Mayhew?’
Mayhew suddenly smiled: it was as though an electric light had been switched on inside his skull and lit up his sunken eyes like a Halloween mask.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact I did. Never got on with him, though. About the only thing we had in common was the same birthday.’
Cayle laughed. ‘Don’t tell me — another poor kid who got all his presents on Christmas Day?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t follow you.’
‘You were born on New Year’s Day — a Capricorn.’ He grinned. ‘Stubborn and determined.’
‘No, Mr Cayle, my birthday’s in October.’
The editor lifted the red house-phone, pushed down a switch and said, ‘Alistair? Harry here. How are your contacts with the secret boys?’ He listened, then nodded. ‘Man called Mayhew — could be CID or Special Branch, but more likely MI5.’ There was a pause. ‘Yes? Yes, right. That’s marvellous, Alistair. Many thanks.’
He hung up and turned to Cayle. ‘You were right. Your friend Mayhew’s one of Five’s liaison men with the Home Office. Mostly deals with counter-espionage against the Soviet bloc. You’re getting the full treatment, Barry.’
‘Hell I am. What do I do now — wait for them to come for me with the meat-wagon?’
‘I don’t think you need worry. You haven’t done anything wrong yet.’ He paused. ‘I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, Barry. I’m going to give you a straight choice. You can either take a three-week holiday — anywhere within reason, providing it’s abroad. Or you can follow up that tip you got in Moscow about a Franco-Soviet aircraft deal.’ He held up his hand: ‘I know — it’s not your line of country, but it won’t do you any harm to diversify.’
Cayle thought: You crafty old sod! Mustn’t be seen subsidizing amateur secret missions to Moscow, or catering to the vanity of an arch-traitor; but you can’t pass up the chance of a good story, either.
The editor was keeping his options open. He said, ‘By the way, how would a Soviet citizen go about escaping to the West?’
‘Well, I’d say that if he happened to be a KGB colonel, he could probably swing something with the Frontier Police, who are a branch of the KGB. He’d probably use a fairly remote border post — somewhere down in the Soviet Asiatic Republics, and get over into Turkey or Persia.’
Harry drummed his fingers on the desktop. ‘And how would a Westerner get into the Soviet Union without a visa?’
‘You mean, legally?’
Harry nodded.
‘Well, there’s Leningrad,’ Cayle said. ‘You sign on for a day-trip over from Helsinki by sea, which you can do without a visa, and you manage to miss the boat back in the evening. The trouble with that method is, you have to surface pretty quickly, or risk being run in. In other words, the most you get is a few hours on the loose before the next boat sails.’
‘What’s the most you could get — another way?’
‘Seventy-two hours. But it’s expensive. You go to Afghanistan, check on to an Aeroflot flight from Kabul to Russia — Tashkent, and on to Moscow. Once you’re with Aeroflot’s internal services, you get an automatic forty-eight-hour transit visa, with a further twenty-four-hour extension if you miss your connecting flight to the West. In theory, you could go on getting extensions indefinitely, providing you could come up each time with a good enough excuse.’
‘How do you manage to shake off the Intourist people?’
‘Ah, well that’s the beauty of it! On the internal routes they don’t check you into an Intourist hotel at all. In Moscow you get dumped in the Aeroflot Hotel, a couple of miles out of town, with three thousand guests from all over the USSR, arriving in busloads day and night. And apart from the floor-bouncers, there are no official guides — nobody to know you’re even a Westerner, if you dress right. You just get in the lift and ride down to the Metro station, which is bang under the hotel, and take a train to anywhere in the city.’
‘And all perfectly legal?’
‘Perfectly. Providing your ticket’s in order.’
The editor was staring out of the window. ‘How would you like to take a holiday in Afghanistan, Barry?’
Cayle gave a slow, sour grin. ‘With all expenses paid?’
‘If you agree.’
‘What happened, Harry?’
‘The Russian Embassy were on to us this morning — a sort of pre-emptive call. They informed us, very politely, that there is no need for you to apply for another visa. You won’t get it.’
‘I see. Is that all they said?’
‘They did mention that if you applied again in a few months, they might get another reply from Moscow. The Foreign Desk asked them if they would contact us when they heard from Moscow, but they said, “When we hear from Moscow, you contact us”.’
‘Very funny. And no reasons?’
‘None. I suppose we can safely assume that any Westerner who’s been nosing around Philby is bad news.’
‘There was nothing in my piece that could possibly have offended either Philby or the KGB.’
‘No,’ said Harry. ‘Unless it was someone else, using their influence.’ Cayle said nothing. The editor went on: ‘I’m not in any way trying to pressure you, Barry. You must make up your own mind. But if you do decide to go, may I make a suggestion? Start your trip from somewhere other than London. Fly to Paris or Amsterdam, and then get your ticket to Kabul. And pay for it in cash.’
‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you, Harry?’
‘Well, I did take the precaution of applying for an Afghan transit-visa for you. It should be through tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER 7
Cayle again checked the cars parked outside Thackeray Mansions; they were all empty, including his Mini Moke.
It was still dark, but the juggernaut traffic was already building up along Finborough Road, where he caught a taxi to Heathrow and told the driver to drop him at the British Airways entrance of Number Two Building. Here he checked in for the 8.00 a.m. flight to Paris, and bought all the morning papers.
Sir Roger was still holding his own on most of the front pages; there were photographs of him with the Queen, the PM, with sundry Heads of State, and most recently in a box at Covent Garden. The stories themselves, though still lame for lack of information, were full of sinister promise. Sir Roger had not been found. The Thames was being dragged for another five miles on either side of Stonor, and dog-patrols and civilian volunteers were searching all woods and waste-ground as far as Watlington and Marlow. Several papers made the point that Sir Roger had been happily married to his third wife, which seemed to rule out suicide; and there was a report — which the Home Office refused to confirm or deny — that a special watch was being kept on all sea- and airports, and that the police forces of Western Europe had been alerted.
At seven o’clock the first call went out for Flight BA 307 to Zürich. Cayle folded the newspapers under his arm and made his way down to the departure gate. ‘You’re on the Paris flight, sir,’ the girl said, as he handed her his boarding-card: ‘It’s not due to be called till a quarter to eight.’
‘I know,’ he said; ‘I like to give myself lots of time in the duty-free shop.’ He walked through and showed his passport to Immigration.
‘Where are you going, sir?’
‘Zürich.’
The man nodded and handed his passport back. A second official glanced at him, then stared past his shoulder at the passengers behind. Cayle walked through to the departure lounge.
Two hours later he was at Orly. The CRS at French Passport Control had shown no interest in him; they had been told to look out for a distinguished British diplomat with a pedigree that went back to the Norman Conquest.
Cayle checked out his luggage, drank half a bottle of champagne at the bar, changed $500 of American Express traveller’s cheques into cash, then bought a single ticket to Athens on Olympic Airlines. When the flight was called, only one passenger caught his eye — a florid little man with swept-back grey hair who followed him through the departure gate, showing a British passport. On the plane he sat in the row behind Cayle, but at Athens he disappeared.
Cayle now booked a seat with Air France on a flight le
aving Athens that afternoon for Teheran. As he came aboard, the stewardesses were handing out copies of the French evening papers, which carried photographs not only of Sir Roger, but of Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean, and Kim Philby. With Gallic glee, and untroubled by threats of libel, the black headline proclaimed: Nouvel Scandale d’Espion en Angleterre? Diplomat Disparu Sème la Panique à Londres!
He had been served a tray of pâté, bœuf en croûte, Boursin and half a bottle of Volnay, when he spotted the little man with the swept-back hair, sitting a few rows ahead of him this time. The sight gave Cayle a pleasurable thrill and he ordered a large brandy with his coffee, switched on the reading light and settled back to enjoy the last tortured days of Scobie, in his steamy outpost in wartime West Africa. It was a Penguin edition this time. Hennison had not specified an edition, only the title: The Heart of the Matter.
They touched down at Teheran shortly after midnight, local time. It was a chill starless night, and the terminal was empty except for a few lethargic officials and a man in pantaloons pushing a mop across the floor, pausing every few minutes to spit into a pail of sand.
While they waited for the luggage to come through, Cayle strolled over to a locked souvenir shop and glanced at the goods in the darkened window. A man stood close to him and nodded. ‘Handsome bugger, isn’t he?’ His swept-back hair had fallen over his ears and he looked hot and sweaty. He nodded again, at a black plastic bust of the Shah on a chromium pedestal. ‘Reza the Second. One of the sods that screws us for oil.’
‘You always drink on duty?’ said Cayle.
The man blinked at him, then laughed. ‘Think I’ve had one or two, do you? As a matter of fact I’ve had eight. It’s flying that does it, see. Always think the wings are going to drop off. One day they will too — I know it.’
‘That why you changed planes in Athens?’
‘Ah, you’re a smart one, you are!’ He gave him a slap on the arm, and Cayle dropped The Heart of the Matter. ‘Whoops!’ the man cried, and picked it up off the floor. ‘Going far?’ he added.
‘Stick around and find out.’
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