‘Oh, I’d say you have a certain following, Kim — with those who enjoy seeing the nobs get egg all over their faces.’
Philby stood for a long time looking at the little window; then he gave Cayle a faint, official nod and said, ‘It’s time you left. The men outside will see you as far as the street. There’s a Metro station opposite the Pushkin Museum, three blocks from here, if you turn left. You’ll find an excellent cigar counter just inside the entrance. You can pick up a Romeo y Julieta corona for thirty kopeks. It’s one of the great advantages of living in a Socialist country.’
Cayle got to his feet, feeling muddle-headed and sore-eyed from the thick black cigarette smoke. He started towards the door, when Philby added, ‘Remember, smoking’s forbidden on the Metro. However, if you feel like enjoying a cigar at the entrance, I might join you.’
They shook hands and Cayle crossed to the door.
Cayle’s Havana cigar had burnt down almost to his gloves, and he was stamping his boots to keep warm, when he saw Philby coming down the steps towards him. He was alone, dressed in the same dark bulky overcoat and black fur hat that he had been wearing yesterday at the Post Office.
He gave Cayle a nod and bought two five-kopek tickets. It was just after midday and the marble platform, with its vaulted ceiling lined with triple chandeliers, was almost empty. The train slid in a few seconds later and Philby carefully chose a seat with his back to the platform. Cayle sat opposite, a little to the left of him. Neither of them spoke until they reached the Svedlova station, where Philby got up to leave. Cayle followed at a decent distance.
There was more of a crowd here, most of them in shapeless overcoats and fur hats, and Cayle had to be careful not to lose his escort. At one moment he found himself following a fat middle-aged Muscovite who seemed to be conducting a furious argument with himself. Cayle caught up with Philby just as the latter was boarding the train bound for the Dobryninskaya Station, on the Moscow Circle Line.
At Dobryninskaya they followed the same routine. Philby had sauntered to the far end of the platform where the carriages were less full. Cayle boarded by a different door and waited until they had passed the first two stops, before taking his seat beside Philby, again with their backs to the platform. Philby yawned and stared at the ceiling; he did not seem in the least drunk. ‘Who sent you here?’
‘Officially, my editor. As you probably know, he has a particular interest in your case.’
‘And unofficially?’
‘Fellow called Hennison. Works as a literary agent in London. Said he used to know you during the war when he was on codes.’
Philby closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Donnish sort of fellow. Bit of a snob. Believe he’s married to someone called Lady Audrey.’
‘That’s more than I know,’ said Cayle. ‘But I can tell you, he doesn’t seem to like you much. Said something about you being an A-one copper-bottomed bastard.’
‘Oh but I am, old boy! I am. Though Hennison’s hardly the one to talk. Still, it was probably just a touch of depression or jealousy.’ He paused as the train drew in to the Park Kulturi Station and a massive woman trundled aboard, laden with soggy brown paper bags. Philby watched as she arranged herself on the seat opposite, then said: ‘And Hennison gave you the book?’
‘He didn’t give it to me. He told me the title and I bought it myself.’
‘You’re a good trusting fellow, aren’t you, Barry?’
‘I’m after a story.’
‘What sort of story?’
Cayle leant dose to Philby, conscious of the old woman’s beady-eyed stare from the seat opposite, and lowered his voice just enough for Philby to hear him above the roar of the wheels. ‘Tell me, Kim — was there ever a Fourth Man?’
For several seconds Philby sat motionless; then he turned and gave Cayle a slow bleary smile, his eyelids beginning to droop. ‘You don’t think that Guy and Donald and I were the only ones, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘And you’re certainly not green enough to think that I’d take a total stranger into my confidence, just on the casual introduction of an old war-time colleague?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ said Cayle. ‘But there’s something you want to tell me.’
They passed through Krasnopresnenskaya and Komsomolskaya stations before Philby spoke again. ‘What the Great Western Public really wants to know is how Colonel Philby of the KGB is making out after thirteen years in Moscow. Well, let me start, Barry, by making a few random observations on the Russian people. They’re a fine people, you know. In some ways, the finest in the world. It’s just that they’re so bloody difficult to live with. Sometimes I really feel almost sorry for them. Wherever they go, they always seem to make themselves so damned unpopular. And I don’t mean politically — that’s another story. It’s the character of the race. For instance, you invite a Russian for lunch at one, and he’s quite likely to turn up at nine, drunk.’
‘I should have thought that would have been rather your style, Kim. Bloody sight livelier than British suburbia, with the doorbell going ding-dong on the dot, and everybody standing around with gin-and-tonics, talking about their hotted-up Ford Cortinas.’
Philby smiled. ‘I suppose you’re right. God knows, I should be the last to complain! The trouble is, Barry, it seems to work the other way
