At seven o’clock the first call went out for Flight BA 307 to Zürich. Cayle folded the newspapers under his arm and made his way down to the departure gate. ‘You’re on the Paris flight, sir,’ the girl said, as he handed her his boarding-card: ‘It’s not due to be called till a quarter to eight.’
‘I know,’ he said; ‘I like to give myself lots of time in the duty-free shop.’ He walked through and showed his passport to Immigration.
‘Where are you going, sir?’
‘Zürich.’
The man nodded and handed his passport back. A second official glanced at him, then stared past his shoulder at the passengers behind. Cayle walked through to the departure lounge.
Two hours later he was at Orly. The CRS at French Passport Control had shown no interest in him; they had been told to look out for a distinguished British diplomat with a pedigree that went back to the Norman Conquest.
Cayle checked out his luggage, drank half a bottle of champagne at the bar, changed $500 of American Express traveller’s cheques into cash, then bought a single ticket to Athens on Olympic Airlines. When the flight was called, only one passenger caught his eye — a florid little man with swept-back grey hair who followed him through the departure gate, showing a British passport. On the plane he sat in the row behind Cayle, but at Athens he disappeared.
Cayle now booked a seat with Air France on a flight leaving Athens that afternoon for Teheran. As he came aboard, the stewardesses were handing out copies of the French evening papers, which carried photographs not only of Sir Roger, but of Guy Burgess, Donald Maclean, and Kim Philby. With Gallic glee, and untroubled by threats of libel, the black headline proclaimed: Nouvel Scandale d’Espion en Angleterre? Diplomat Disparu Sème la Panique à Londres!
He had been served a tray of pâté, bœuf en croûte, Boursin and half a bottle of Volnay, when he spotted the little man with the swept-back hair, sitting a few rows ahead of him this time. The sight gave Cayle a pleasurable thrill and he ordered a large brandy with his coffee, switched on the reading light and settled back to enjoy the last tortured days of Scobie, in his steamy outpost in wartime West Africa. It was a Penguin edition this time. Hennison had not specified an edition, only the title: The Heart of the Matter.
They touched down at Teheran shortly after midnight, local time. It was a chill starless night, and the terminal was empty except for a few lethargic officials and a man in pantaloons pushing a mop across the floor, pausing every few minutes to spit into a pail of sand.
While they waited for the luggage to come through, Cayle strolled over to a locked souvenir shop and glanced at the goods in the darkened window. A man stood close to him and nodded. ‘Handsome bugger, isn’t he?’ His swept-back hair had fallen over his ears and he looked hot and sweaty. He nodded again, at a black plastic bust of the Shah on a chromium pedestal. ‘Reza the Second. One of the sods that screws us for oil.’
‘You always drink on duty?’ said Cayle.
The man blinked at him, then laughed. ‘Think I’ve had one or two, do you? As a matter of fact I’ve had eight. It’s flying that does it, see. Always think the wings are going to drop off. One day they will too — I know it.’
‘That why you changed planes in Athens?’
‘Ah, you’re a smart one, you are!’ He gave him a slap on the arm, and Cayle dropped The Heart of the Matter. ‘Whoops!’ the man cried, and picked it up off the floor. ‘Going far?’ he added.
‘Stick around and find out.’
The man chuckled, and glanced round the hall. The luggage was coming through. ‘Bar’s closed,’ he said. ‘All the children go to bed. Talk about the exotic East — you could have more fun in Tooting bloody Bec!’
‘I’ll see you on the plane,’ said Cayle.
‘You going on to Delhi?’
‘Who knows?’ Cayle began to walk away, and the man called: ‘Hey, don’t you want your book?’
‘Thanks,’ said Cayle. He went over and collected his luggage, then checked at the desk where he was told the next flight to Kabul didn’t leave until eight in the morning. But there was a hotel at the airport where he was assigned a single-bedded concrete cell with a cupboard-sized bathroom on the eighth floor.
It was still only 1.30 a.m., four hours ahead of London time, and he couldn’t sleep. He took a shower and dressed and went downstairs. The bar and restaurant were closed. A couple of black-eyed men in heavy lambswool coats were handing in their keys, then walked out through the entrance and got into a chauffeur-driven Mercedes.
Cayle went out after them and started walking down a deserted avenue under high strips of bluish light. The only sounds were the occasional boom of aircraft and choruses of wild dogs shrieking out of the darkness on either side. Ahead lay the orange blur of the city. He had been walking for about ten minutes, and was thinking about the little Englishman with the red face and swept-back hair.
