‘How do you know he’s got a cat?’
‘He’s got two, as a matter of fact. Not an important detail, but one never knows when these trifles will come in useful.’
‘With your sources of information, Mr Hennison, I should think being a literary agent must get pretty dull.’
Cayle left him signalling for the bill. When he got back outside Hennison’s office, he found his Mini Moke had collected a ticket.
CHAPTER 2
‘Now, what’s all this about taking cat food to Moscow?’ Cayle’s editor, Harry, looked past Cayle, out at the sprawl of High Holborn. ‘I assumed you’d been having a very good lunch. However, you seem to have recovered.’
‘I was lunching with a bloke called Peter Hennison. Calls himself a literary agent. Know anything about him?’
Harry nodded. ‘He’s sold us a few features and serial rights over the years. What did he want to see you about?’
‘Kim Philby. He wants to send me to Moscow to try and talk to Philby, on the pretence that I’m writing a book about Russia. He even offered to pay. I turned him down, of course, and told him that if anyone was going to send me on a junket to the Soviet Union, it would be you.’
‘I’m flattered. Did he give any reason for choosing you?’
‘Just that he’d read that piece about me in the Diary a few weeks back. He seemed bloody interested in my theory about Philby having co-conspirators who are still at large. In fact, he spent the first half of lunch trying to talk me out of the idea. But it wasn’t that he just didn’t believe it. My guess is, he not only believes it — he knows one helluva lot about it!’
‘And where does the cat food come in?’
Cayle told him, adding Hennison’s ‘suggestion’ about the Graham Greene novel.
‘You surprise me about Hennison,’ Harry said. ‘The few times I’ve met him, he’s struck me as fairly straight. What’s your opinion?’
‘I thought there was something fishy about him from the start. Never trust a man who can’t look you in the eye. Then it became clear — the man’s a straightforward spook. MI5, MI6, DI6, or whatever they call themselves nowadays — friend Hennison’s one of them.’
‘That’s a pretty heavy accusation to make, just because the man doesn’t happen to look you in the eye,’ said Harry.
‘He admitted meeting Philby during the war, when they were both engaged on secret work,’ said Cayle. ‘And you know what they say about the Secret Service? It’s like the Catholic Church and the Communist Party — once you sign up, they never let you go.’
‘Not necessarily, if it was during the war,’ said the editor, ‘otherwise you’d have half the middle-aged dons and journalists and part-time literati in Britain still running around playing James Bond’s great-uncle.’
‘Maybe. But Hennison also knows that Kim keeps a couple of cats in Moscow. That’s a pretty off-beat piece of information — especially from a London literary agent.’
‘If I go along with your reasoning,’ said the editor, ‘and accept that this man Hennison does work for MI6, then it follows that by telling you about Philby’s cats, he was perhaps deliberately dropping you the hint that he’s in on the Intelligence game. Have you any theories about why he’d do that?’
‘My guess is that Hennison and his friends are worried. They’re worried that I may know more about this conspiracy theory than I’m letting on. As soon as I mentioned the possibility of Philby having had accomplices who are still at large, Hennison looked distinctly windy. At the same time,’ he added with a grin, ‘I think he half-took me for the usual dim, hairy-arsed fireman who can be relied on to run a sucker’s errand.’
‘And you didn’t disillusion him?’
‘Why should I? I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about that.’ Harry stared at him for some time without speaking. ‘So what do you want to do now?’ he said at last.
‘I’d like you to send me to Moscow. All nice and above-board — fare and expenses paid, and visa applied for through the Foreign Desk.’
Harry turned back to the window. ‘What do you hope to get out of such a trip?’
‘Hennison’s no fool. He may have misjudged me a little, but I won’t hold that against him… He’s got a good reason for wanting me to go to Moscow and contact Philby. And providing there’s a new angle, Philby’s still news — isn’t he?’
‘That would depend on the angle,’ said the editor. ‘I’m not sure I like it, Barry. You know my rule about staff men doubling up with Whitehall — let alone MI6. Well, it applies to you too.’
There was a long pause. Cayle smoked another cheroot and gazed at the ceiling. Finally, Harry spoke. ‘Were the book and cat food the only things he asked you to take in for Philby?’
‘He didn’t exactly ask me. It was more in the way of a suggestion. Rather like Red Cross parcels during the war.’
The editor put his hands on the desktop and stood up. ‘I’ll think about it, Barry. And I’ll let you know.’
Aeroflot’s midday flight from London to Moscow via Copenhagen left only an hour late. Two-thirds of the four-engined Tupolov had been gutted to make room for cargo cases, which were covered with tarpaulins. The passengers sat up at the front. They were all men, mostly Russians in greatcoats and astrakhan hats, whom Cayle put down as diplomats or heads of trade missions. The only one he couldn’t place was a short red-headed man in a hairy tweed jacket and a purple shirt that showed too much cuff. He hardly looked like the ordinary Soviet citizen, though Cayle had heard him speak several times
