There was a long pause. Cayle signalled to Laurie and started to order two more drinks, but Sir Roger declined. Cayle told Laurie to make his a double, ‘To hell with it,’ he said at last. ‘I was rung up a few weeks ago by a fellow called Hennison — literary agent who wants me to write a novel about Philby. He suggested I took him a Graham Greene novel as a present — just to smooth the way, so to speak.’
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke sat very still. ‘Which novel was that?’ he asked gently.
‘One of his early ones — The Confidential Agent.’
‘And was that your choice?’
‘No, Hennison suggested it. He said it was one of Philby’s favourites.’
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke’s cold marine eyes were fixed on the chandelier above Cayle’s head and one hand began to pluck at his sleeve. ‘You started to say that Philby wanted to go somewhere. Where, Mr Cayle?’
‘He used the expression “go out into the field again”.’
Sir Roger still stared at the chandelier, and his voice was weary: ‘And what do you suppose he meant by that?’
‘I’d have thought that would have been more in your department,’ said Cayle. ‘Isn’t “the field” more or less the same as “the cold”?’
‘Yes, yes, I know. But what do you think he really meant? He’s far too old for the Russians to start using him again as an active agent.’
‘Well, I guess old Kim’s much like the rest of us — can’t bear the idea of settling down and growing roses for the rest of his life. He wants to have one last fling — to set the record straight, as he put it.’
‘Were those the words he used — “set the record straight”?’
‘More or less.’
There was a pause. Sir Roger seemed to be thinking of something else: his eyes were remote, his patrician cheeks pale. ‘Set the record straight,’ he repeated. ‘And I suppose you’ve no idea what he meant by that, either?’
‘No,’ said Cayle truthfully. ‘No idea at all.’
Cayle had washed up the remains of his Chinese dinner, put on Brahms’ Symphony No. 4, and had just begun playing solo Scrabble when the phone rang. It was his editor.
‘Barry — just had a call from Ron. Your Foreign Office friend you saw today at the Ritz has gone AWOL.’
‘What?’
‘Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke. They found his car abandoned two hours ago near his home at a little place called Stonor, outside Henley. Seems there’s quite a flap on. Thames Valley Police have apparently called in the SB.’
‘Did Ron get all this?’
‘That’s right — contact of his at the Yard. Hasn’t been put out yet. If you hurry you could be first there. But play it close. I wouldn’t let on about you and Sir Roger — not yet, anyway.’
‘You think there’s some connection?’
‘Do you?’
Cayle paused. He could feel the pulse in his thumb twitching against the receiver. ‘I don’t see how —’
‘Get moving,’ said Harry. ‘And ring me at home when you’re through. I don’t mind how late it is.’
They hung up simultaneously. Cayle grabbed his Pentax and flash, checked that he had all his Press cards, then sprang down the stairs four steps at a time.
It had just gone 12.10. The traffic on the Hammersmith Flyover was light, and the night dry and clear. He was on the M4 ten minutes after leaving the flat, and with his foot down and the wind shrieking under the canvas flaps of the Mini Moke, he reached the intersection off to Henley and Oxford by 12.50.
He used a brief pause at the traffic lights in Henley to check the map for Stonor, which was five miles beyond the town on the Watlington Road. He drove through the darkened village at sixty, and found the spot without trouble, a quarter of a mile further on. Two Panda cars and a white Jaguar with a fluorescent orange stripe down the side were parked on the verge next to an open five-bar gate. A motorcycle patrolman was leaning in through the window of the Jaguar, and the radio on his machine was jabbering like a nest of wasps. He turned too late; Cayle had already turned off the road and swung past him, and the Moke was now bouncing down a muddy track between open fields.
The rest of them were round a bend under some trees leading down to the river. There were three cars here: a police Rover with a flashing blue light, a second Jaguar with no insignia, and a dark handsome Alvis drawn up a little further along under the trees. There were about half a dozen uniformed men with powerful flashlights, and a couple of dogs nosing about in the muddy bank beyond the Alvis.
Cayle pulled up at a discreet distance and got out without haste, keeping his camera under his anorak, and began to stroll towards the cars. A radio was putting out a call-signal from the Rover and a constable with bushy sideburns was talking to an inspector beside the Jaguar. There was also a thick-set man in a short brown sheepskin coat, watching the dogs.
Cayle was just crossing the track opposite the first car when he was challenged. ‘Excuse me, sir.’ It was the Inspector.
Cayle showed him his Scotland Yard Press pass, but the man was not visibly impressed. ‘Who gave you permission to come through?’
‘Nobody stopped me,’ said Cayle. The constable had edged forward and was staring at him with a suspicious countryman’s face.
‘This is a restricted area,’ said the Inspector.
‘There was nothing to say so,’ Cayle replied, just as the mart in the sheepskin coat walked up to them and without a word took Cayle’s
