He stayed in again that evening, and this time had the African cook prepare him a Spanish omelette; but he was not hungry, and did not even have the urge to drink. At ten o’clock he rang the Hillcrest again, but this time — after the listening-in click — there was no dialling tone. He called the operator, and was told that there had been a fault on the line since seven that evening. Then, as he was leaving the phone, he felt a spasm of his old trouble — a sharp ache under the breastbone, which made him pause, panting for breath. It was several minutes before he could return to the bedroom and lie down; and he made a mental note to ask Freddie Frobisher to recommend him to a good doctor. It was nearly a year since his last check-up. He could not sleep; and by first light he had decided on a firm line of action. It was the kind of bold, outrageous gesture that his mad old father would have so well understood and appreciated. If London were willing to play games with Salisbury — and he had reluctantly come to the conclusion that somehow London must be involved — then he would start playing games with both London and Salisbury. His plan only needed the final confirmation.
He had just dozed off, when he was woken by the telephone. It was Freddie Frobisher. ‘Duncan? Heard the news? Bloody ghastly. Poor old Jimmy Fielding’s dead — whole of the Hillcrest Hotel massacred last night! Fucking munts broke in and butchered the lot — women, several kids — two of them tots in their beds. Killed all the servants too. Not a living person left. It’s bloody war, I tell you.’
Philby had some difficulty getting Frobisher off the line. Meanwhile, he had done his best to sound suitably shocked and horrified: although it was neither shock nor horror that he felt, but a mixture of relief and resolute anger.
He shaved and bathed, and twenty minutes later was outside Randolph Grant’s house. He had driven fast and had seen no car following him. One of the African servants let him in, and kept him waiting several anxious minutes before showing him out to the patio where Grant was sitting up on a long chair, speaking urgently into a telephone, a cigar smoking away between his fingers. From somewhere in the house a radio was giving the latest news of the massacre at Hillcrest. No arrests had been made.
Grant waved him to a chair, grunted something into the phone, and hung up. ‘Hello,’ he said vaguely. ‘Heard the news, I suppose? Bloody business. Really bloody.’ He sucked at his cigar and frowned. ‘I’m afraid your chum Fielding was one of them. Sorry about that — he was a good mucker, I liked him.’ He breathed out smoke, and suddenly cried: ‘They’ll damn well have to catch the bastards this time! My God, if they don’t we’ll have the lynch mobs out! People are angry, y’know. Doesn’t take much to upset that stiff-upper-lip nonsense out here — my God it doesn’t!’
Philby said: ‘Randy, I’ve come to ask you a favour. Something vitally important to us all. I must talk to van der Byl.’
‘Christ, on a day like this? Not a chance. P. K.’ll be doing his nut dealing with the reporters.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s absolutely essential that I talk to him. Immediately. What I have to tell him might —’ he paused, controlling his stammer — ‘might have a bearing on what happened last night at Hillcrest.’
Grant watched him, screwing up his small eyes against the cigar smoke. ‘You choose your moments, don’t you?’ he said at last. ‘What sort of bearing?’
‘I may know the identity of the men responsible for the attack. But I’m only prepared to give the information to van der Byl personally.’
‘You’re not drunk, are you, Saunders?’
‘I wish I were.’
Grant nodded, stamped out his cigar, and lifted the telephone.
Barry Cayle sat under the oil-lamp next to a pitcher of raw local wine and was retyping the second chapter of his embryo-book The Bored Man’s Guide to Plain Cooking, when the old French laundrywoman came in with the telegram.
The dateline was London, and had been sent that morning: URGENTEST AWAIT CALL 6.00 P.M. HARRY. Cayle swore. It was now nearly nine in the evening.
He ran most of the way to the hotel, where he learned that there had been altogether eight calls for him, from both London and Paris. He decided again to defy standing orders, and booked his own call direct to Harry at his London office. He was still waiting for it, when the ninth call came. It was Harry calling him: ‘Thank God! Where the hell have you been?’ But before Cayle could answer, he went on, ‘You’re going to have to move fast. Try and get to Paris tonight, or at the latest, first thing in the morning. We’ve booked you on every available flight until tomorrow evening. After that you may be too late.’
‘Where to, for Chrissake?’
‘Jo’burg. With a connecting flight to Salisbury, Rhodesia.’
‘Rhodesia! So I’m on a new assignment, am I?’
‘You’re on the same assignment, Barry. Only we can drop the hush-hush on the phones. The story’s broken wide open. We got it early this morning. The Smith régime has announced it’s holding a Press conference — Thursday, 5 p.m., in Salisbury. And they’re inviting just about every representative of the non-Communist Press, radio and television networks.’
‘Sorry, Harry, I’m feeling dull. I’m just not with you. If it’s a regular international Press conference, you can get it off the wires. You don’t need me.’
‘Yes I do. You’re the only one who has the whole background story — still exclusive.’
‘Background to what?’ Cayle yelled.
‘Simmer down,’ said the editor. ‘The point is, we’ve had a strong report from two sources — and so far with no official denial — that the conference has something to do with your friend Kim.’
‘Holy snakes! What the hell’s he doing down there?’
‘That’s what you’re paid to find out. Now get moving. And if you miss that conference, I promise you I’ll have you on “Unmarried Mothers” for the next three weeks — part of a new series we’re running on the social services. Ring me the moment you get to the airport. And good luck.’
Cayle had to return to the farmhouse to fetch his passport, but did not bother to pack. He caught the last train to Paris with a couple of minutes to spare.
CHAPTER 28
The door opened and the police sergeant sprang up with a scrape of his chair. Philby remained seated. Into the room stepped a very tall, lean man dressed in a black frockcoat and stiff wing-collar, his thick grey hair combed straight back from his forehead. His face was thin and hooked and very dark; and it was rumoured by his enemies — of whom there were many — that the Minister of Information and Immigration had Indian blood.
He stood staring at Philby with his black vulpine eyes, while his long fingers caressed the silver top of a malacca cane. ‘Good evening, Mr Philby.’ He gave a slight foppish bow, and sweeping back the tails of his coat slid into the chair vacated by the sergeant. ‘Enjoying your game?’ he added, glancing at the draught-board on the table between them.
Philby nodded sullenly. He was both repelled and fascinated by the man, who reminded him of a cross between an old-fashioned head-waiter and a stand-in for Count Dracula — although the effect was far from comic.
P. K. van der Byl turned to a stout red-faced man with a white moustache who had come in behind him and now stood beside the table, holding a grey plastic case. ‘This is Major Robson,’ he said, ‘one of our chief Security officers.’
The red-faced man remained standing, glaring at Philby. There was a soft click as the sergeant closed the door and stood with his back to it.
‘Now, Philby, I’m going to put you in the picture.’ The Minister leant forward and placed his narrow elbows astride the draught-board. ‘We have fully discussed your proposition, and in principle we agree.’
‘In principle?’
Van der Byl gave a very white smile. ‘I must beg your pardon, I was being pedantic — Civil Servants’ language. It’s one of the bad habits we pick up in Government. Yes, we agree, Philby. We accept your conditions.’
He went on smiling, as Philby said cautiously: ‘Yo
u’ve arranged full coverage? And I don’t just mean your own Press minions from here and South Africa. I mean the world Press, even the ones that are persona non grata?’
Van der Byl gave his little bow, which in no way dislodged his immaculate hair. ‘Of course. The British, Americans, French, Germans, Scandinavians, they will all be present. I only regret that your Russian friends will have to go by default. But then, no doubt they will take the word of one of their former colleagues?’ His black eyes never moved from Philby’s face.
‘Now, the other half of the bargain. I have discussed the matter fully with the Cabinet, as well as our Security people. We’ve been doing some checking on the information you’ve already given us. So far it seems satisfactory. We have been following some discreet inquiries through channels close to the French authorities. These confirm your description of the Frenchman, Pol. Of course, here we will have to tread with some care. As you know, our relations with France, while officially still non-existent, are by no means cold. It is essential, therefore, that we do nothing to upset them.’
‘What’s happened to Pol?’ said Philby.
Van der Byl leant forward and began to fondle the silver top of his cane. ‘His little private army has been successfully bagged, as you would say. Thanks, in large part, to the information you have given us.’
‘And Pol?’ Philby repeated.
Van der Byl tapped his cane gently on the linoleum floor. ‘I’m afraid that in the case of Pol himself, we have had rather less luck. A warrant was issued yesterday morning to have him apprehended by the Portuguese. This was done as soon as he showed up at L.M. airport to take a flight to Nairobi. Unfortunately, the Security troops who accompanied him back into the city seemed to have proved unreliable.’ He shrugged: ‘What can one expect, with this new crypto-Communist government in Lisbon? Anyway, the man Pol has disappeared. We were afraid at first that the troops had killed him. For we have since had reports that he was carrying on his person very large sums of money — mostly in Swiss francs and US dollars. But Pol appears to have been too clever for them. The money he was carrying was in very high denominations, and we guess that he must have persuaded his guards that any simple Portuguese soldier trying to change such money would immediately attract attention.’
Van der Byl sat back and smiled.
‘He’s a smart fellow, this man Pol,’ he went on: ‘He got the guards to drive him to one of the biggest banks in L.M., where he made them wait outside in their truck, after giving them a solemn promise that he would return in a few minutes with the money safely converted into low denominations of escudos. After nearly an hour, the men outside began to get impatient. The senior officer finally ventured inside the bank. Of course, no sign of Pol.
‘We’ve since learnt that he spent twenty minutes with the president of the bank, who seems to be an old friend. The two of them then left by the private entrance at the back, and had an excellent lunch at the L.M. Yacht Club, during which Pol negotiated the hire of the hundred-foot cabin-cruiser, the Esperança. He was last seen approaching Tanzanian territorial waters.’
‘How very frustrating for you,’ said Philby.
‘Oh, but we still have you to make up for it! Now, for details. It is understood that you be our guest, as you requested, on a chartered plane to any destination you choose — within reason. South Africa, I would suggest, might be your most appropriate jumping-off point. Without prejudicing our friends down there, I can say with a fair certainty that you will not find too much difficulty in getting yourself fixed up with the necessary papers. As for money — well, I don’t suppose you’ll go short, will you?’ He paused, ‘Have you any idea what you’ll be doing? Afterwards, I mean?’
Philby shook his head. ‘I never plan in public, Minister.’
Van der Byl threw back his head and laughed — a loud, clear, oddly pleasing laugh. ‘Very good advice — I must remember it.’ Resting his cane on the floor, he rose with a smooth languid movement. ‘The Press conference is planned for five o’clock tomorrow afternoon in the Cecil Hall. I’m sorry about the delay, but we must give the Press time to get here. At present, all we’ve announced is that a Press conference is to be held on a matter of international importance, and that all existing restrictions on foreign newsmen will be temporarily suspended. In the meantime you will bear with us if we insist on you staying here. I’m sure it will be in your own interest.’
He began to turn, with a swing of his cane, then paused and looked down at the draught-board. ‘It seems you are beating Sergeant Pearce? So much easier than chess, of course. But then I expect you’re also an excellent chess-player? It’s almost the national game in Russia, I’m told?’ He gave another bow, then nodded to the sergeant by the door and walked out with long silent strides.
Sergeant Pearce closed the door again, and Major Robson sat down opposite Philby and pushing the draught-board aside, put the grey case on the table between them. It was a tape-recorder which he now began to adjust, punching buttons and testing the volume, before placing the hand-microphone in front of Philby. ‘Right,’ he said, in a gruff English voice, ‘let’s get started. I’ll let you talk in your own time, and give me everything you know about this man, Pol, and his organization. As a trained Intelligence officer yourself, I don’t think I have to emphasize that even the most trivial details can always prove to be important.’ He pushed the recording button, sat back and pulled out an old briar pipe. As he did so, Philby took out his tobacco pouch.
‘Allow me, Major — genuine Three Nuns.’
The man’s face became even redder. ‘Oh thank you. Thank you very much. Haven’t tried Three Nuns in donkey’s years. Most grateful to you, Philby.’
The Cecil Hall was ringed with police Land Rovers and a double line of armed policemen — two White to every one Black. By 4.30 the international Press corps, heavily armed with cameras, sound-booms and batteries of lights, began to form an undisciplined queue up the steps, waiting to have their credentials checked. Near the front was the big, bent-nosed figure of Barry Cayle, in bush-shirt and canvas trousers.
Inside it was hot and airless under the glare of arc-lamps. The 300 seats were ringed by White police, both uniformed and plainclothes. The stage was bare except for a table and three chairs, behind a row of microphones. Two plain-clothes men, their walkie-talkies jabbering inside their jackets, stood in the wings just out of sight of the auditorium; and behind them, in the corridors and adjoining offices, were groups of Civil Servants, Government officials, diplomats. In one of these rooms sat Inspector Rebot and Chief Superintendent MacIntyre, flanked by a couple more plain-clothes men.
By 4.56 the Press had been finally herded into their seats, with the television crews in the front; and at exactly two minutes to five the Minister of Information and Immigration strode on to the stage wearing a faultless dark suit and formal tie, followed by the small dour figure of Lardner-Bourke, Minister of Justice and Home Affairs. Kim Philby came last. He was greeted by a slow rustling murmur that swelled back across the hall, accompanied by the dazzle of flash-bulbs, a few ironic claps and cheers, and a single solemn boo that was quickly silenced by one of the policemen round the wall.
P. K. van der Byl opened the proceedings, his long body stooping slightly forward, his forefinger resting on the table top. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. This, I venture to suggest, will perhaps prove to be the most unusual conference that any of you have had the pleasure of attending.’ He paused to move his head slowly sideways so that the cameras caught every angle of his saturnine profile. There was silence, except for the soft whirr of the cameras.
‘My guest, ladies and gentlemen, needs no formal introduction. But for the record, and on behalf of Mr Lardner-Bourke here and the rest of my colleagues in the Rhodesian Front, let me emphasize that our invitation to him in no way reflects the political or moral attitude of our Government towards his career. However —’ and he paused again, theatrically, bending further forward — ‘what he now has to tell us may well reflect on t
he integrity of the permanent public servants of a certain nation which since our independence in 1965, has seen it as its high moral duty to pass judgement on our own small independent country. When you have heard what our guest has to say, you may wonder whether these righteous gentlemen have the moral right to pass judgement on anyone!
‘Ladies, gentlemen, I give you Mr Harold Philby.’
As the applause and catcalls died down in the auditorium, Inspector Rebot and Chief Superintendent MacIntyre were joined outside by a grey-haired man who whispered something to MacIntyre, then turned to Rebot and said, ‘I’m Colonel Dexter — Immigration. I’m very pleased you could come, Inspector.’ They shook hands. ‘The car’s ready outside,’ he added; ‘and we have a special escort laid on to the airport. But all depends on absolute secrecy. Lusaka have confirmed landing clearance, on the condition that no word of the arrest reaches the Press. So things here will have to be handled with the utmost discretion.’
‘You can count on that, Colonel,’ said MacIntyre, and looked at his watch. ‘We’re estimating that with questions, he could go on for half an hour. The Minister will then wind up.’
Dexter nodded. ‘Fine. I’ll wait outside. I’d rather like to hear what he has to say.’
‘Plenty of time to read about it in the papers,’ MacIntyre said.
Philby had been talking for just over ten minutes, without a trace of stammer, his soft voice amplified across the hall where the only movement was the scribble of shorthand and the occasional swing of a sound-boom.
He looked tired and rather small under the lights. He spoke without notes, gazing out across the rows of faces, and sweating slightly.
‘Now I come to what I believe is a matter of some historical importance. As I have already said, my motives in appearing before you remain my own concern. I know that many will criticize me, many will condemn me. But I wish to go on record as stating that in what I did, I was not alone. I was never alone. While I was working for the interest of the Soviet Union, there were others in my job — others far more important, far more powerful than I ever was — who were working with me in the same interests, for the same cause. Some of them are still working for that cause.’ He paused and closed his eyes against the lights; then, with what looked to some of the audience like a wince of pain, he reached inside his jacket. He stood for several seconds very still, then opened his eyes and slowly drew out a crumpled sheet of paper.
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