Gentleman Traitor

by Alan Williams

  ‘Even with a hijacked plane less than fifty miles away and all the hijackers still on the loose?’

  ‘There will be a lot of confusion,’ Donaldson said smoothly. ‘And even with the journalists’ descriptions they can scarcely close every frontier post.’

  They were coming into Lovisa — rows of neat wooden houses with shallow, deeply eaved roofs thick with snow — like a toy town covered in cotton wool. Kim Philby was not quite home again yet, but he’d reached the garden gate and everything so far was spick and span, except for his passport in the name of Fielding.

  CHAPTER 18

  Ten miles beyond the town they ran into the first police. Two Volvos with spinning blue lights and sirens blaring passed them at a good twenty miles an hour; and a few moments later a convoy of grey vans and an ambulance raced past.

  ‘How far now to Helsinki?’ Philby asked.

  ‘Another twenty minutes and we’ll begin to join the city traffic,’ Donaldson replied. Besides the police convoy, they had only seen a couple of cars and a few trucks since leaving Lovisa.

  ‘It shouldn’t take them m-more than twenty minutes to get to the plane,’ Philby said nervously. ‘And I wouldn’t put it past the Finns to order road-blocks in the centre of the city.’

  For the first time Hughes spoke: ‘We’re making a diversion to the port. They can’t block every road.’

  ‘And anyway,’ said Donaldson, ‘even if Leningrad knows your alias, none of the journalists do.’

  Philby was sweating in the heat of the car. ‘I told one of them,’ he said hoarsely. ‘All right, it was bloody silly, but I thought you bastards would have the sense to hand me my new papers at once.’

  ‘Too bad for you,’ said Donaldson. ‘You can’t blame London for everything.’

  Philby was sweating in the heat of the car, and was thinking again of what Miss Galina Valisova had told him about last night on the Red Arrow Express and how the Australian had disappeared. He was sorry he’d had to leave Galina — she was a sweet little thing and he’d been quite fond of her. Pity she hadn’t been able to keep a better eye on the Australian.

  ‘Have you got something to drink?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll have to wait till the ferry,’ said Donaldson.

  ‘I thought the Swedes were half-dry?’

  ‘Their ferries aren’t. Now relax.’

  Two more police cars sped past. The traffic was beginning to build up now, and they saw the lights of houses dotted about the flat black landscape. Hughes slowed into a suburb and they were stopped twice at traffic lights. The glow of the city lay directly ahead, but Hughes now took a series of turnings to the left, down wide low streets, very clean and almost deserted: then a row of cafés behind misted plate-glass: a building like a great plastic envelope turned inside out: the fairy-lights of ships and the sweep of a prosperous, well-ordered modern port.

  At 6.22 p.m., local time — seventy-eight minutes after the plane had touched down — Hughes stopped in front of a bar with a red neon sign in flowing script, Haaklakuukima. He got out leaving the engine running, hurried through the double-doors, and returned a few seconds later with a little man in a black raincoat and leather hat. The two of them got in without ceremony, the newcomer sitting in the back with Donaldson and breathing hard like an asthmatic. Donaldson said: ‘Give me your papers, Mr Fielding.’

  Philby reached inside his jacket and noticed that Hughes’ hand was in his side-pocket. They weren’t taking any chances, even now. Pol had been far more courteous.

  Philby gave Donaldson a worn calf-skin wallet; at the same time, the little man pulled out a brown envelope. Donaldson took it and sat weighing it in one hand, with Philby’s wallet in the other. ‘Now empty your pockets, Mr Fielding.’ Philby stared at him. ‘Don’t argue,’ said Donaldson; he lifted a polythene bag off the floor and dropped the wallet inside. Philby handed him a collection of keys, matches, an old envelope, notebook, some loose change in kopeks, a Russian fountain-pen.

  Donaldson held up the polythene bag and dropped each item in, as though it were some ritual. ‘That’s the lot?’

  Philby nodded. Donaldson handed the bag to the little man, who opened the door and got out. Donaldson pulled it shut after him, and Hughes eased the car out again into the traffic. Philby just had time to see the stranger disappear again into the café, clutching the plastic bag to his chest. He wondered if he were planning to sell its contents to the newspapers.

  He held out his hand and Donaldson gave him the envelope. Philby slit the gummed flap and shook out a British passport, British and international driving licences, a couple of sealed manila envelopes, a plastic folder full of credit cards, two cheque books, a single cabin-ticket on the Jorgensen line to Stockholm, and a pair of clear-lensed spectacles.

  He put on the spectacles and looked at the passport. Its cover had lost most of its gilt and its corners were soft and threadbare. It was made out in the name of Duncan Henry Saunders, British Subject, born Sheffield, Yorks, 20.6.18; Profession, Businessman; Country of Residence, Great Britain; issued by the Foreign Office, 6 Sept. 1968; renewed 11 Sept. 1973, and valid until 6 Sept. 1983. The photograph was of a bespectacled, square-faced man in his middle sixties. Special peculiarities, nil. Only the signature was missing.

  Inside were a number of West European entry and exit stamps, together with five Binnekoms and Vertreks from South Africa, and two Portuguese visas for Mozambique, one issued in London in November 1971, the other in Pretoria in April 1974. There were also valid vaccination certificates for smallpox, stamped by the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea, and for cholera, on a yellow BOAC card. The back pages of the passport were full of T-form entries for sums varying between £300 and £500, issued by Coutts & Co, Cavendish Square, London, W1.

  The cheque books were from the Credit Suisse, Geneva, and from Barclays, Lombard Street, London, EC3. One of the sealed envelopes was from the Swiss bank, informing him that a numbered account 4462481 had been opened in his name for the sum of 600,000 Swiss francs, with a covering letter introducing Monsieur Duncan Saunders ‘To Whom It May Concern’. The second envelope contained two similar letters, one informing him that he had a current account of £2868.90 and a deposit account of £5960, both with Barclays’ head branch in London.

  ‘Satisfied?’ said Donaldson.

  ‘I’m worried about the signatures,’ said Philby. ‘Do Swiss banks usually open a numbered account without a specimen signature?’

  ‘That matter has already been dealt with in your absence through previous correspondence. London Banking Section opened the account and explained that you were abroad and not contactable. An arrangement was made by which you present yourself in person, with your passport, to the Stockholm branch of the Crédit Suisse, and sign the specimen there. The same applies to the Barclays account.’

  The car had stopped. About fifty yards ahead were the ferry gates, under the illuminated sign, JØRGENSEN. Donaldson leant forward and handed Philby a ballpoint and a sheet of paper. ‘You’d better practise that signature before you sign the passport. You’re going to have to get used to it.’

  Philby’s handwriting was small and neat, and he had some difficulty simulating the fluent scrawl of a natural signature. After a couple of dozen attempts he settled for a flowing elision of Dun-H-Sauers, rounding it off with a flourishing s. His performance on the passport was not quite as good as the dress-rehearsal, but it was adequate. ‘And I’d like some cash,’ he said.

  ‘There were no arrangements for cash,’ said Donaldson. ‘However, I can probably lend you a hundred Krone. That’s nine pounds. And I’ll need a chit from you. But we can deal with all that on the ferry.’

  Hughes had driven up to the gates where a man in a blue uniform tore off part of their tickets. They drove on past two policemen with white peaked caps who just nodded, and were stopped by a man with gold tabs on his shoulders who glanced at their passports, read the number of the car, then waved them on to join a queue of cars waiting on the
quay.

  ‘When do we board?’ said Philby.

  ‘About now.’

  ‘You timed it well.’

  ‘Your French friend timed it well. Don’t thank me for anything — not even the nine pounds.’

  ‘You haven’t given them to me yet,’ Philby said, with a haggard grin. ‘You don’t approve of me, do you, Donaldson?’

  ‘I don’t discuss personalities, Mr Saunders. One gets used to all sorts in this business. Like doctors with sex.’

  A revolving blue light flashed through the rear window, coming closer. They were the last in the queue, and the police car stopped a few yards behind them. Four men in white caps got out; two of them carried Sten guns. They came round the Volvo, two on either side, and one of them tapped on Hughes’ window. Hughes rolled it down and a hard flat face with slanting eyes under the peaked cap said, ‘Passports!’

  The three British passports were handed over, and the man outside passed them to a second policeman who looked like an officer. Philby murmured to Hughes. ‘If they search us, and find that gun on you, don’t expect any help from me.’

  Hughes flushed but didn’t reply. The officer leant into the open window and said, ‘Where you come from?’

  ‘We’ve been staying at the Finlandia,’ said Donaldson.

  The officer looked steadily at each of them for several seconds, turning to examine the photographs again in the three passports in his hand. ‘Hotel Finlandia?’ he repeated. ‘Okay!’ He thrust the passports through Hughes’ window and the four of them moved round the car ahead — a Mercedes with Swedish plates.

  Three more vehicles pulled up behind the Volvo, as well as a second police car with another four men inside. It was nearly half an hour before the queue began to move on to the ferry. Hughes parked the Volvo on the lower car-deck, and the three of them started up to the cabins, when two Suopos — plain-clothes Finnish Security police — stopped them at the top of the stairs and asked for their passports again. Philby blinked at them through his plain-lensed spectacles. The Suopos handed the passports back, and the three of them made their way to the main lounge. Philby hoped that Donaldson had been right about the bar.

  CHAPTER 19

  Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke said: ‘I have never had any great respect for your trade, Mr Cayle. However, I accept that you’re paid to do a job, and that’s why you’re here. In this particular case you can consider yourself extremely fortunate.’

  ‘You sodding old hypocrite,’ Cayle said, with a grin. ‘You’re bloody lucky yourself you haven’t got twenty-five years! What frightened you off? Something I said in the Ritz? The title of the book I took to Philby? The Confidential Agent? That was the password and introduction, wasn’t it? And the second book, The Heart of the Matter, was the green light. But you were already feeling the heat and had the good sense to skip when you heard I’d taken in the first book.’

  ‘I’m really not in the least interested in your speculations,’ said Sir Roger. ‘It has been agreed with my colleague here —’ he nodded at the Russian who had brought Cayle to the room, and who was now sitting beside him — ‘that I should grant your newspaper an exclusive interview. I feel dutybound to the British people, and to the world at large, to make certain of my views public. I am relying upon you to do an honest reporting job, and not to turn this matter into a vulgar, so-called “spy scandal”.’

  ‘I’ll report exactly what you say, Sir Roger. But that won’t rule out what other people will be saying. For instance, your link with Kim Philby.’

  Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke steepled his fingers together and stared at the ceiling. When he spoke he sounded tired and bored. ‘Philby seems to have become a nuisance to everyone. I wish to God we could forget him.’

  ‘Where is he now?’

  Sir Roger glanced at the Russian, and paused. ‘We don’t know,’ he said. ‘He left Moscow yesterday morning. He hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Can’t you keep a check on him?’ said Cayle.

  It was the Russian who answered: ‘Colonel Philby is a senior officer in the Committee of State Security. His present activities do not concern us.’ As he spoke a green light began winking on Sir Roger’s desk. The Russian crossed to it in one stride and snapped down a switch. A voice crackled at him and he said ‘Harasho!’ and flicked the switch up again. At the same moment there was a tap at the door and a tall thin man in spectacles drifted across the carpet and laid a roll of telex messages on the desk. The Russian read them standing, while the man waited behind him. Sir Roger didn’t move.

  The Russian gave an order and the thin man nodded and withdrew. For several seconds the room was quiet. Then the Russian spoke, addressing himself formally to Sir Roger: ‘There has been a serious incident over Finland. The Troika-Caravelle, on its demonstration flight from Leningrad this afternoon, has been forced to land near Helsinki. A Soviet member of the crew was killed, but there are no reports of any further casualties. However, an English journalist, who has so far not been positively identified, was taken off the plane by the hijackers. The hijackers have since escaped, without making any ransom demands.’ He looked straight at Cayle: ‘You still say you know nothing of why Colonel Philby arranged for you to travel to Leningrad last night?’

  ‘Nothing, beyond what I’ve told you.’ And before the Russian could answer, Cayle added: ‘Would I be out of line if I thought Kim Philby and that English journalist are one and the same?’

  The Russian said woodenly: ‘The man was equipped with what seem to have been valid documents, including a Press card issued, apparently, by the English newspaper, the Observer.’

  Cayle began to laugh: ‘You’ve got to hand it to old Kim! He does have a sense of humour.’ He turned to Sir Roger. ‘Does this change things? For me, I mean? Do I still have your word that when our interview is over, I’m free to leave?’

  ‘You have my word,’ said Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke. Unlike the Russian, his expression was genial and relaxed: at least he would now be spared a long and bitter investigation into Philby’s true loyalties over this last decade.

  ‘Vladimir, I think we might now have some refreshments,’ he added.

  The Russian walked stiffly over to the buhl cabinet and offered a choice of Western drinks. Cayle asked for Scotch and soda, and Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke had a gin and lime. The Russian drank nothing.

  Cayle’s interview with Sir Roger lasted three-quarters of an hour.

  Roger Laval Pugh Jameson-Clarke had been recruited into the Soviet Intelligence Service, the GPU, in 1931 while he was reading Greats at New College, Oxford. He had never been a member of the British Communist Party, but had remained, throughout his career in the British Diplomatic Service, an unflinching supporter of the new social and ideological order which had found its roots in Soviet Russia. He agreed with Lenin that Russia had been ill-equipped to pioneer the Marxist Revolutionary experiment, but the accidents of history had to be accepted, and their results shaped accordingly.

  Sir Roger was a great believer in history. He explained the excesses of Stalinism as a historical lapse; but Stalin had had to be ruthless or the Soviet experiment would have failed as surely as the Chilean fiasco under Dr Allende. Liberal democracy was a luxury which only a tiny percentage of the world could afford, or were indeed interested in. The Nazi-Soviet Pact had not worried him: Stalin had been merely buying time, just as Chamberlain had, only Stalin had used his time more cleverly. Not only had he rearmed, but he had annexed the Baltic States as a vital buffer between himself and Hitler. Sir Roger had wanted Stalin to absorb Finland too. Force had to be met with force, and Hitler had had to be beaten, and it had been the valour of the Russian fighting man — with more than seven million dead in combat — that had beaten him.

  The only emotion that Sir Roger showed throughout the interview was when he recalled those English officers and diplomats in their London clubs during the war, who had talked as though Britain were defeating Germany single-handed. ‘In comparison with Moscow and Stalingrad,
the Battle of Britain and El Alamein were pillow-fights!’ he cried. Otherwise his discourse, delivered in a precise level tone, reminded Cayle of a bizarre mixture of muddled Utopianism and cold-blooded sophistry, of a fanatical old don and a rambling leader from the New Statesman of the Thirties, with every so often the gleam of the Cromwellian axe — Sir Jolly Roger, stripped of his starched collar and chalk-stripes, in his oil-skins and pixie hat, the rogue sailor turned pirate, helping to command a ship he despised, sailing under the secret colours of a nation that wielded the brute power of the new Imperial colossus, and which fired the blue blood in Sir Roger’s ancient veins.

  For the man was a true Imperialist: he admired strength and order; he hated the flabby, insipid affluence of the West, the anaemic Britain over which he had so long presided, with its permissive liberalism and tatters of colonial glory. For him, Hungary and Czechoslovakia had received the just deserts of renegade colonies. Imprisoned and persecuted writers and artists were spoilt, arrogant upstarts who presumed to set something called culture above manual labour. Why should a verbose novelist be held more important than a steel worker, a truck driver, a crippled war veteran, none of whom were ever awarded the Nobel Prize, showered with Western currency or pampered by the world’s Press?

  Cayle did not argue with him. He was a reporter, and he reported what Sir Roger said. He did try a few careful questions about the man’s Oxford background, and who had recruited him, and how and where; but here Sir Roger was revealing nothing. Perhaps he had his own list of names tucked away in a Swiss bank vault, just in case the going got rough and the hounds began to close in.