He paused. They were back at the Dobryninskaya Station, and waited while the passengers shunted on and off. As the train moved off again, Philby turned to Cayle and began to speak rapidly, excitedly. It was like the out-pouring of a man who has been marooned many months on a desert island.
‘What I really can’t stand is the way these Russians get drunk — in restaurants, public places — and start fights with the waiters and puke under the tables. I suppose you think I sound squeamish? Well, perhaps I am. But in the capital of the second most powerful country in the world, one wishes people were just a little more civilized!’
Cayle laughed. ‘Kim, I’m beginning to think you’re hankering after the old easy life in the West.’
Philby looked at him. His expression was grave. ‘We’re all what we were born to be, Barry. I was born a spoilt English upper-middle-class youth with a taste for adventure. Oh, I can do without the luxuries of life — the fast cars and big houses and strings of race-horses and beautiful girls. I’ve never had the least interest in all that. What I miss here is civilized company.’
‘And the Russians aren’t civilized?’ said Cayle.
‘Oh, don’t misunderstand me. I like the Russians. In some ways I think I even love them. I’ve done enough, God knows, to prove it! The trouble is, they’re the people you can never really get used to — you’re either in tune with them or you’re not. It’s taken me a long time to realize it, but I just don’t fit in with them. It’s my loss, not theirs.’
He stretched his legs and stared mournfully at the ceiling of the carriage.
‘Hark to the confessions of an old man! Well, I’m certainly not as young as in the old SIS days, though I’m still a long way from the wheelchair. And whenever I get round to thinking about it, I suppose I’ve got damn little to complain about. Of course, it’s not quite the same as when I first got here. They even made me a Hero of the Soviet Union, literally. Actually, it was all a bit of a fraud. My arrival happened to coincide with the craze in the early Sixties for miniskirts and the Beatles and other wicked Western influences. And I, as an upright Britisher of the old school — a gentleman and a Communist to boot — was set up as the antidote. Not that the magic could ever have lasted. Still, I’m treated pretty well. I’ve got a decent flat. I’ve got my music and my books. Guy left me his whole library when he died, you know. And I’ve got a responsible job. Nine-thirty to five-thirty. I’m also bored.’ His face sagged and Cayle could see the red linings of his eyes.
‘Why are you telling me all this, Kim?’
‘You’ll want something to write for your paper, won’t you? A bit more than a frivolous piece about meeting me over a bottle of vodka and a gun, with two heavies in the corridor outside. If I’m still considered as important in the West as you say I am, I shall presumably be expected to say a few important things.’
‘Like having a few thoughts about redefecting?’
Philby chuckled. ‘I deny it. Even if you got your people to print it in the first place.’
Cayle looked round and saw they were drawing in to Svedlova Station for the second time round. He was wondering how long Philby was going to wait before taking the plunge. But as the train pulled out, and Philby still didn’t speak, Cayle decided to try head-on: ‘What made you choose me?’
‘Hennison chose you. He’s a shifty sod, but he’s a shrewd judge of character. I just wonder how long he’d been fishing around before he lighted on you.’
‘Hennison’s not touting a piece about you for my paper, Kim. Or for any other paper. So what the hell’s he up to?’
Philby paused. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much about Hennison, if I were you, Barry. It would just complicate things.’
‘Things seem to be pretty damn complicated already,’ said Cayle. The air in the train was dry and stale, and he badly needed a long cool drink.
‘How’s your patience, Barry?’ Philby said at last.
‘Depends what’s at the end of it.’
‘Something big. Probably the biggest story you ever handled. Exclusive — world rights — the lot.’
Cayle sat very still, watching their dim reflections in the windows opposite.
Philby went on: ‘Confidential. Top secret. For your ears only, and nothing in writing. If you break it before I give the OK, I shall deny it, as I said — even if anyone believes it, which is unlikely. I’m a nomad, Barry. Always have been. I pitch my tent, graze my cattle, then move on. I told you just now, I’m bored, I’m ready to strike camp once again. I’m going back into the field, Barry. For one last time.’
Cayle turned and blinked at him. ‘Aren’t you taking a bit of a risk telling me this?’
Philby leant over and patted his knee. ‘Perhaps you’ll understand if I tell you that I’ve got one last thing to prove — to set the record straight. The last thirteen years haven’t been altogether easy ones, you know. Better than a prison cell, perhaps, but not exactly the way of life I’d have chosen if I’d been completely free.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You’ve got to remember that before I came here
