‘Can I quote you on that?’
Philby shrugged. ‘I used to be in the business myself, but I always made it a rule never to tell a fellow journalist how to do his job. In this case it’s up to you. You bide your time, and you’ll get your story. When I’m ready.’
The train was pulling into Dobryninskaya Station for the third time, and Philby stood up, ‘When are you thinking of going back to London?’
‘I’ll have to get back to write my piece. Even if it’s completely harmless it might not be too tactful sending it out from here.’
‘No, perhaps not.’ The doors opened and Philby stepped out on to the mosaic platform. ‘But remember, stick to telling your Sunday readers how I spend my evenings alone with my cats, listening to Brahms and Schubert. And you might add that I loathe Shostakovich.’ He strolled past a couple of uniformed militiamen, with Cayle keeping a few feet behind.
Only when, they were through the barrier did Cayle catch up with him, ‘How will I hear from you?’
‘You won’t. If anything happens. Hennison will call you. And if your editor starts asking tricky questions, just tell him that Kim Philby wants to take you along as his Boswell, to chronicle the final chapter of his eventful but inglorious life.’
They had almost reached the top of the steps to the street, when Philby turned: ‘This is where I leave you, Barry. And if you get any ideas about trying to follow me, I’m taking a taxi back to the office. Thirteen Dzerzhinski Square. Anyone’ll tell you where it is!’
CHAPTER 5
Cayle returned to London and his article on Philby was published. He had been called to a meeting at the Ritz and when he entered, Laurie, the barman, nodded to him and said, ‘Your friend’s already here, Mr Cayle.’
At first Cayle almost missed him. He was sitting by himself on a gilt sofa in the corner of the bar, reading the Financial Times. They had only met once, in the exclusive Royal Yacht Squadron in Cowes while Cayle had been practising for the International Transatlantic Race. All he remembered was a wiry man in oilskins with a pair of frosty eyes under a red woollen pixie-hat. But now Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke was restored to the full dignity of a senior Foreign Office official: two wings of immaculate silver hair, elegant beak of nose, chalk-striped suit, quiet regimental tie, and a thin band of wedding-ring.
He unfolded his legs from the sofa and offered Cayle a limp cold hand. ‘I haven’t a lot of time,’ he said, looking at his watch; and Cayle made the usual excuses about the traffic, while Laurie came over for their orders. When they were alone again, Sir Roger went on: ‘I’d like to make it clear, Mr Cayle, that this meeting is entirely off the record.’
‘Well I should hope so, for Christ’s sake! You were the one who asked me here. And you surely don’t want to chat about spinnakers.’
‘Please don’t be flippant. This is a matter of some importance. And it’s not only my department who are interested. Of course, there is no question of official disapproval for what you wrote. It’s merely a question of clarifying certain details, and filling in some of the background.’
‘You flatter me, sir. Personally, I thought it was a bloody awful piece. It was only printed for the colour — and there wasn’t much of that.’
Sir Roger gave a quick dismissive nod. ‘Quite. Now, I’d like to take it from the beginning. You picked Philby up at the Post Office?’
‘Correct.’
‘On the off-chance that he’d go along that day and collect his airmail edition of The Times?’
‘That’s right, just as I wrote in Sunday’s paper.’
Sir Roger waited while Laurie placed their drinks in front of them. ‘Unfortunately,’ he said when they were alone again, ‘I do not entirely believe you.’
Cayle smiled. ‘Is that my cue for saying, “Are you calling me a liar, sir?”’
‘I think you know what I mean. You travelled to Moscow, on no apparent assignment, and on your first day there you happened to run into a certain Englishman who is wanted for high treason by the courts of this country.’
‘I wasn’t breaking any law I know of,’ said Cayle.
‘I’m not suggesting you were. What I want to know is why Philby was willing to talk to you.’
‘Because he’s bored.’
‘Bored?’
‘Yes, he likes to meet people — people from the outside. Westerners. So we had a nice boozy morning together, and he told me how wonderful the Russian people are, but how he can’t stand the way they get drunk and fight and are sick all over the place.’
‘That’s rich, coming from him!’ Sir Roger muttered. ‘He was never exactly an abstainer himself.’
‘I suppose you knew him too?’
‘Yes, I knew him. There are very few of my generation who didn’t.’ He licked at his Martini. ‘He must have had another reason for meeting you?’
‘I told you — we had a long chat over a bottle of vodka, and he told me he was bored and lonely and wants to go —’ Cayle broke off and gulped at his Bacardi and orange.
‘Yes?’ said Sir Roger. ‘Wants to go where?’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Cayle. ‘Is this an interview or an interrogation?’
‘That rather depends on you. Of course, we have no means — or indeed desire — to pressure you into disclosing information that you’d rather keep secret. But I must point out that there are certain kinds of information which can
