At first these tactics puzzled Philby. For despite his innate contempt for Whitehall, he had never expected that they might send him an incompetent, or even an eccentric. Philby had agreed to cooperate with his former employers by supplying them with information, ‘in order to balance the books’, as Thomas put it. But Thomas was not merely collecting the information — he was supposed to collate it, correct and tidy it, so that the final dossier to London would be complete and coherent. Why, then, this haphazard technique?
Philby decided that the clue was in his own drinking. At first this would have appeared to be the one advantage that Thomas had over him, but Philby’s response to alcohol was so bizarre — his capacity to insulate certain compartments of his mind when drunk, and to recover his faculties both quickly and completely — were so notorious that his state of mind while drunk became an actual disadvantage to anyone trying to evaluate the exact worth of his information. Thomas was combating this with his own erratic tactics, so that Philby himself would become confused, and could never be certain whether Thomas had really lost his way or was deliberately changing the subject.
An easier solution for Thomas might, of course, have been to withhold all alcohol from him during his whole stay; but Philby reasoned that Thomas wanted him in his natural state, without pressures or privations. Philby was not, after all, a prisoner, or even a reluctant collaborator. He was merely fulfilling his side of a bargain.
At no time did Thomas imply that he might have been lying or holding out on him. But there was one matter that was never even broached: the identity of Philby’s former Communist friends and masters within the British Establishment. His silence here remained his guarantee against prosecution and possible elimination; and both he and Thomas knew that it was in their different interests that those names remained forever secret.
After the first four days, Thomas had exhausted Philby’s career between 1944 and 1951; and the next two days were taken up with details of his career with the KGB. Here Thomas probed for every scrap of information, however trivial; he wanted to know the brands of cigarettes the various agents smoked, whether they had certain privileges, like being able to shop at the Beriozkas; what clothes they wore, what books they read, music they preferred; which were womanizers, homosexuals, drinkers, gamblers, insomniacs; what their home life was like and where they took their holidays.
London would know many of these details, and Philby was careful not to lie or invent the answers; if he didn’t know, or wasn’t sure, he told Thomas, and they passed on to the next question. The one other area that Thomas never touched upon was Philby’s own life, his own habits, private preferences and dislikes.
They were a tedious two days, and Thomas lightened them by producing a chess-set. The weather was mostly bad, but even when it cleared, Philby was reluctant to go out. He drank heavily; and he talked all the time when he drank, but never about himself or his future plans.
Thomas’s only indication that he was satisfied with their sessions was his announcement, at the end of the week, that the second man would be arriving from London next evening. The rest of that day was spent diagnosing the events which had led up to Philby’s departure from the Soviet Union. It was only then that Thomas, during a full and accurate account of Cayle’s conversation with Hann in the British Embassy in Moscow, described Sergeant Dempster’s attempt on Philby’s life.
‘You’re not out of the fire yet, Duncan — not by a long chalk. Of course, MI5 were acting illegally — quite outside their authorized territory. But that doesn’t mean to say they aren’t getting help, official or unofficial, from the powers on high. And threatening to expose everything you know won’t necessarily help you in the long run. The Establishment’s changed, you know. There’s a lot of new blood come in, and they don’t always have the same standards as the rest of us. You might even say, the Establishment’s become fair game.’ He smiled wistfully. ‘But that’s something I expect you understand?’
Philby’s response was enigmatic; but by ten o’clock that night he was dead drunk and had to be carried to bed again by Hughes. Just after midnight he woke up screaming again, and Thomas found him cowering at the bottom of the bed, his silk pyjamas soaked in sweat. He was sober, and Thomas gave him a whisky and hot milk, and left him. But he was worried. This was the same Philby they had cracked in Beirut; but it was no part of Thomas’s plan to crack him again, here in Sweden.
He was even more worried when Hughes volunteered the details of Philby’s previous nightmare, in the hotel on the way from Stockholm. Thomas had thought at first that Philby had been badly shaken by the news of Dempster; but when he thought more carefully about it, he realized that Philby must have anticipated some reaction of this kind. He was too old a hand to think that everyone in the Service would drop him like a chewed bone. Thomas was worried that there was something else on Philby’s mind — something that only exploded in his subconscious, and which even the subtlest interrogation would be unable to uncover.
Philby had been responsible for the deaths of many men; he was a lifelong spy and a traitor twice over, and vain enough to be proud of it. He had also spent nearly half his life in danger of being discovered, by one enemy or another. Yet there was something on his mind that caused him, in this safe house in the depths of neutral Sweden, to wake in the night screaming and covered in sweat. Something about fishes eating mermaids, Hughes had said.
Thomas hoped that Philby was not, in a quiet unobtrusive way, going mad.
The man who came from London was called Robin Horne. He was youngish, smooth-faced, and wore a blue bowtie. There was a discreet arrogance about him as he greeted Philby, without shaking hands. Men like Horne had a job to do, but it didn’t include shaking hands with traitors.
He was very affable with Thomas, and spent some time chatting with him about obscure friends in London, deliberately ignoring Philby; then, almost as an afterthought, he took a plain green folder from his briefcase and said, ‘Oh by the way, Saunders, you’d better start studying this. You’re going to have to know it off by heart.’
The folder contained over a hundred foolscap pages of double-spaced typing: the potted biography of Duncan Henry Saunders, with every detail from his background, including his career — the City of London, when he had punted on copper in Northern Rhodesia and made a quick killing. But he had been slow at reading the African political forecasts; and on 11 November 1965 he had woken up to find a fair slice of his wealth frozen in the new independent state of Rhodesia.
Saunders was today a semi-retired gentleman of means and easy charm, and a good social mixer. He could spend money freely — though not so freely as to attract attention. In Rhodesia, Horne explained, wealthy English expatriates with Exchange Control problems enjoyed a special status; and Duncan Saunders was very much one of the old school of Englishmen: bit of a bastard where the women were concerned, drank a bit too much, gambled a lot, especially at backgammon and on the horses, but a good sort really. Very keen on cricket. And his politics were dimly to the right of centre, with no time for any claptrap about Africa for the Africans. ‘One Man — One Vote — Once’, was Saunders’ stock reply to a silly question.
‘You’re not an intellectual,’ Horne told him, ‘but you’re not stupid either. If you meet someone down there with brains, don’t be afraid to treat him as an equal. There are still a few bright people left in White Africa, and they’re not all in the money markets. But don’t talk too big, or be too reticent. And on no account give the impression you’ve got a shady past. You’re not bent, remember. You’ve had your ups and downs, and the downs have been mostly due to taxation and Labour Governments. As far as local politics are concerned, distrust the Blacks, but don’t hate them. Play everything strictly down the middle, at least for the first few months.’
Thomas was rarely present at these sessions between Philby and Horne. And unlike Thomas, Horne quickly insisted on a severe daily routine, which greatly restricted Philby’s drinking habits. After they had est
ablished Saunders’ background and character, Horne took him through an exhausting study of both the political and social climate of White Africa.
Philby himself had never been south of Egypt, but he would now have to learn as much about Africa as Duncan Saunders knew: a well-to-do Englishman who liked to winter in the sun, with plenty of servants and drinks by the pool, and rounds of cocktail parties where they talked cricket and rugby.
‘White Rhodesia’s got the same population as Leicester,’ said Horne, ‘and a lot of the same sort of people. Small-time Midland businessmen and shopkeepers who’ve emigrated into big houses, and do everything to keep up with the neighbours, even if it means making do with a second-hand Toyota and local gin, so they can afford an extra houseboy to keep the front lawn trimmed and the swimming-pool clean. If you mention Kafka, they won’t know what you’re talking about. They’ll think Van Gogh’s a South African politician, and if you bring up Graham Greene they’ll think you’re either an intellectual snob or a subversive. They’re stupid, bigoted, and they long to be loved. But they’re also getting to hate the English, or what they think of as the English — a nation of strike-happy, long-haired degenerates. But however stupid you find them,’ Horne added: ‘always remember one thing. They’ve got one of the most efficient Security Forces in the world, and probably the only one that is against both the CIA and the KGB, not to mention us. That might be an advantage to you. But whatever else you do, never underestimate them.’
‘It sounds like Darkest Surrey,’ Philby said, ‘without the wife-swapping parties.’
Horne didn’t smile. He pointed to the green dossier. ‘I suggest you spend the rest of today and tomorrow studying that. I want you to know it so you can tell me how many Distinctions you got in the Old School Cert., and what was the name of the cruise-ship you first took to Cape Town, and who were the members of Boodle’s you used to win money off at backgammon.’
‘I’m not a backgammon player,’ said Philby.
‘That’s another thing you’re going to learn before you leave. I’ve got a board with me.’ He said good night and left.
Philby fetched a fresh bottle of whisky and began to read. His mind was exactly suited to the dreary task, and even as he drank into the night, he retained the most minute, even frivolous details. He learnt them as an actor learns his lines, repeating them as he fell asleep, and by morning he could recite them in any order, without a mistake.
When Horne came down to question him, Philby passed word perfect; and although Horne was loath to show it, he was impressed.
One detail troubled Philby. It concerned Saunders’ blocked bank account in Rhodesia. Philby assumed that such an account must exist. Indeed, the necessary documents, with which Horne had provided him, all looked convincingly genuine. Either the account had been opened before 1965, in which case London had been anticipating the operation long before Pol came on the scene; or somewhere there was, or had been, a real Duncan Saunders.
One evening, while they were playing backgammon, Philby asked: ‘Is he dead? Or on ice?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer that,’ Horne said. ‘The fact is, I don’t know. And I probably couldn’t find out if I tried. All such matters are dealt with through Personnel and Banking Section. Does it worry you?’ he added, throwing a double. He was winning the ninth game that evening.
‘I’d just like to be sure that the real Saunders doesn’t pop up, like the ghost at the feast, during some rowdy barbecue-party while I’m chatting up one of van der Byl’s bed-fellows, that’s all.’
‘You need have no fear of that,’ Horne said, with a complacent smile, and won the game.
‘I was only asking,’ Philby said lightly. ‘And I haven’t asked very much so far.’
‘No,’ said Horne. ‘You’ve been very trusting.’
Philby stayed at the house near Medstugan for thirty-three days. At the end of them his debriefing was complete; his alter persona of Duncan Saunders had been instilled in him like an actor taking on a leading role that he knew he would be playing for at least a year; and his new mission in life, at the age of sixty-five, had been planned to the last detail. He had even grown a short grey moustache.
At 10.30 on a bright April day in Stockholm, a plump, well-dressed Englishman walked into the offices of the Crédit Suisse on Kindstugaten and asked to see the manager. He showed his passport and two letters of introduction.
Forty minutes later Harold Adrian Russell Philby, alias Duncan Henry Saunders, crossed the Slottsbachen and entered the Kreiskaffee on the corner, to have a farewell drink with Thomas.
For the first time in his life Philby found himself with money to spend; yet what he wanted most he could never have: the 3000 books, none of them very valuable, which he had collected over the years and abandoned in his flat in Moscow. He also wondered who would be taking care of Donald Maclean and Guy Burgess. They wouldn’t be getting any whisky in their milk every morning, that was for sure. There were some things that even a Swiss bank account couldn’t buy.
CHAPTER 21
Cayle had been lying low for five weeks.
He had flown out of Moscow on the last night plane, an hour after leaving Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke, and had broken his journey in Copenhagen where he’d checked into the airport hotel and put through a personal call to his editor at home. He gave him the gist of the story in a couple of sentences, which were enough for Harry to forbid him for the moment to put foot back in Britain. Instead, he ordered him to catch the first morning flight to Paris and meet him for lunch in a little restaurant off the rue St Honoré.
Cayle had already told his story, in varying lengths, to three different people in two days — Dempster, Hann and Sir Roger. He now wanted a quiet lunch with Harry with plenty of time for them both to think; so he had stayed up half the night typing a wadge of notes which he handed to the editor as soon as they met in the restaurant, and left them with him while Cayle concentrated on the quenelles de brochet and a good Sancerre. The notes would form the basis of both the published interview with Sir Roger and any supporting story that the editor might decide to run.
Harry read them through twice, eating slowly with his left hand, and by the middle of the poulet de Bresse he had made up his mind. ‘I’m going to stick my neck out on this one, Barry.’ He took off his spectacles and tucked them behind the folded handkerchief in his breast-pocket. ‘I’m going to assume you’re telling the truth. A lot of people won’t. Or they’ll say the story’s a plant. But there’s nothing here on Jameson-Clarke to contravene the Act. On the other hand there’s nothing to authenticate the interview, except your word. We can assume that Sir Roger was acting on the highest authority. The KGB probably knew that Philby was planning to skip, and that he had a good chance of getting away with it. Wheeling Sir Roger into the limelight will be one way of distracting attention and claiming a little extra bonus from an embarrassing situation — that is, always assuming that the Russians expect Philby himself to come into the open, which — from what you tell me — I rather doubt.
‘Now.’ He smoothed the hair down behind his ears and sucked in the corners of his mouth in a thoughtful pout. ‘I’m not just putting my head on the block, Barry. I’m putting yours on too. By tomorrow afternoon the proofs will be out and so will the hounds. So I don’t want you stepping out at Heathrow, all ready to be interviewed and possibly detained. I want you out of my hair. Lost. In a lonely little spot which only you know about. Preferably here in France, because the French are rather less keen to cooperate with the Foreign Office than most friendly countries — unless it’s an extraditable offence, which in this case, of course, it won’t be. That’s not to say,’ he added, ‘that the British authorities are going to like you and me one bit after Sunday. As it is, I shall no doubt have to fight our own upstairs brigade every inch of the way when I get back. But the story’s going to appear, don’t worry. As for the follow-up —’ He let his fork hang in mid-air and a slight frown creased his neat close-shaven f
eatures. ‘It all really depends on what chance there is of Philby still contacting you. If Hann believed you, Philby will know by now — or pretty soon — what happened on the train, and why you weren’t at the airport in Leningrad. The question is: do we quote Sir Roger’s KGB friend, Vladimir, and claim that Philby was the Englishman who was taken off the plane in Finland?’
‘If we don’t, someone else will — eventually.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Where’s the connection unless someone tells them? I hardly think Philby or Pol will, and the Russians certainly won’t. As for anyone having recognized him, there are very few Western journalists who’ve seen him in the flesh since he defected. No, Barry. We sit on this one. My guess is that Philby, and the people who’ve got him out, will want time to breathe. Philby hinted to you, I think, that if he did get out, he wanted you to write it up — but not before he said so.’
Cayle nodded. ‘I was to be his faithful Boswell and record the final chapter of his inglorious life, as he put it.’
‘Well, assuming he still wants you — for whatever operation he and this Frenchman are setting up — he may read into your silence the fact that you’re still willing to go along with him. Are you willing?’
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