‘So why were the British so bloody keen to cover up for him?’
Hennison sighed. ‘Oh dear, were back to that conspiracy theory again, are we?’
Cayle lit a cheroot and looked steadily at his host, one eye half closed against the smoke. ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand about you, Mr Hennison. You invited me here to talk about a novel I’m thinking of writing. I say a novel, because it seems the likeliest way of getting round the libel laws and the Official Secrets Act. When you originally contacted me, you said you might be able to help me. So far all you’ve done is tell me that Kim Philby was a bottom-pincher and all-round shit, then throw cold water over my whole idea. What the hell are you after?’
Hennison stared at a point just above Cayle’s shoulder. ‘I’d like to make a suggestion,’ he said at last. ‘Why don’t you try to see Philby? Sound him out. Perhaps get him over a few vodkas and see if he’s prepared to volunteer anything himself about your theory.’
Cayle chuckled. ‘You’re not trying to tell me that you’d believe anything that Kim said?’
‘I’d certainly be interested to hear what he said.’
‘Are you offering me a commission?’
‘That’s something we’d have to discuss. But given your reputation, I don’t think it would be too difficult to get a publisher’s advance for, say, a travel book about Russia. Certainly enough to cover your expenses. How much do you know about Philby’s life in Moscow?’ he added.
‘We get the odd report from journalists there,’ said Cayle. ‘But unlike the old days, Kim keeps well clear of his old mates in the Press. Last I heard, he’d had a slight heart attack. Before that, his mistress, Melinda — Donald Maclean’s wife — had run out on him and gone back to her hubby, who’s supposed to have terminal cancer.’
‘So Kim’s the happy bachelor again?’
‘I don’t know about happy.’
‘Oh?’ Hennison looked interested. ‘Why do you say that?’
Cayle grinned. ‘Have you ever tried living in Moscow?’ Hennison did not reply. ‘Well, you were the one who mentioned his lifestyle. Maybe after thirteen years in the Workers’ State, the old fellah’s getting itchy feet. Might even be thinking of coming back.’
Hennison’s whole manner fractionally changed: behind the bland composure he had become alert and wary. He said: ‘Have you any ideas about how you might make contact with Philby?’
‘He has an office in the KGB headquarters in Dzerzhinski Square, and he always goes there with at least one bodyguard. If Westerners accost him in the street, he usually answers in Russian and walks on. And nobody’s yet tracked down his private address. In other words, it won’t be easy.’
‘You’re a resourceful man. You’ll find a way. Philby can’t be changed all that much. As you say, he must get lonely over there. He likes company, drinks, parties.’
‘Oh, I can find him all right,’ said Cayle. ‘Only there’s no guarantee he’ll tell me anything. And even if he does, I’m pretty sure it’ll be on his terms. But first I’ve got to get to Moscow.’
‘That shouldn’t present any problems, surely? As I said, you’ll go in a professional capacity, paid for by a publisher’s advance.’
‘Now just a minute! Let’s get one thing straight, Hennison. I’m not jogging off to the Soviet Union on some subsidized jaunt, posing as a phoney novelist or travel-book writer. If I go, I go as the official representative for my paper. I’m too old to spend the next few years carving chessmen somewhere in the Gulag Archipelago.’
‘I think you’re being a trifle melodramatic,’ Hennison said primly.
‘Could be. I’m also touchy about accepting money from strange men.’
Hennison seemed unperturbed by this remark. ‘I appreciate your professional loyalty, Mr Cayle. Go for your paper by all means, if you can persuade them to send you.’
‘And why shouldn’t they send me?’
Hennison gave a delicate shrug. ‘No reason. But just remember, Philby’s poison. To both sides.’
Cayle looked at his watch. ‘Thank you for lunch, Mr Hennison. I’ll give you a call when I get back from Moscow.’ He stood up and was turning away, when Hennison called after him: ‘Oh, just one thing, Barry! A little tip that might be useful — if you do manage to track Philby down. I’m told he’s a great reader, and that he’s always glad of books from the West. I’m sure he’d welcome it if you took him one. I suggest something by his old friend and war-time colleague, Graham Greene. The Confidential Agent might be most appreciated. It’s always been his favourite Greene novel. He used to claim that he identified with the hero.’
‘If it’s his favourite, he’s probably got it already.’
‘His English publishers have just issued it in a new uniform edition,’ Hennison said smoothly. ‘And Philby’s a great collector of new books.’
Cayle paused by the table. ‘You talk as though you were bosom pals.’ Hennison smiled but said nothing. Cayle went on: ‘Does it have to be The Confidential Agent?’
‘Yes. Under the circumstances, it would be very appropriate.’
Cayle nodded. ‘Will you send a copy round to my office?’
Hennison laughed soundlessly and lifted his hand: ‘All right, I know what you’re thinking! Microdots — a code — the first word on every other page.’ He shook his head, dislodging a shelf of grey hair into his eyes. ‘No, Barry. You buy it yourself. A brand-new copy, available at all good bookshops. And while you’re about it, you might
