She stood up and clung to him, careless of the damage to her hair. ‘Oh Kim! Kim!’
He gently unwrapped her arms, and still holding her round the waist, led her towards the dining-room. ‘I’m famished. This air, Joyce — what a tonic after Moscow — I even walked from the station.’
‘But what kept you?’ she cried. ‘I’ve been waiting since four. I was worried.’
‘My little mouse.’ He squeezed her tightly, guiding her to a table in the corner. ‘I got held up at the last minute. Duty to the Worker State.’
‘Oh I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said, as he evaded a further kiss by pulling out her chair.
The head waiter, hearing them speak English, offered them a Union Jack on a little pedestal from a nearby table; but Kim waved it away. ‘No point in advertising,’ he laughed, and ordered fresh sturgeon, half a bottle of wine for Joyce, and mineral water for himself.
‘You’re being so strong-minded,’ she said.
‘Just keeping a clear head,’ he smiled.
She squeezed his hand. ‘I’m so happy, Kim.’
‘So am I, Joyce. Happier than I’ve been for years.’
They ate to the accompaniment of long speeches in Spanish, broken by noisy applause, from the delegation of brown-suited men at a table along the wall, laid with flags that Philby identified as representing the Democratic Republic of Cuba.
‘Kim, let’s go and live in Cuba!’ she cried suddenly, then paused. His smile was a little slow in coming. ‘Cuba would be all right, wouldn’t it? I mean, it’s a Communist country, isn’t it?’
‘What makes you think I want to leave Moscow, Joyce?’
‘Well — nothing.’ She looked down at her plate. Her face was slightly flushed and under the make-up he could see the lines on her neck. For a moment the conversation sagged like a fallen kite, but he quickly played out more line and had it fluttering up again. He was a master of small-talk, able to make even the most ponderous conversation seem light and easy. It was a virtue that had paid off well in his life, and like all vain men he enjoyed practising his talents even when they weren’t required.
He was helped by a playful interlude during the main course, when a huge ginger cat strolled over to them and began rubbing itself against his leg. He was transported with delight, and even lifted the great creature on to the table and offered it a bite of his sturgeon. To his amusement, the animal merely sniffed at the fish and struggled to be let down.
‘Nothing for the RSPCA to complain about there!’ he cried. ‘God, what a handsome beast.’
He ordered her a second half-bottle of champagne, and a brandy and liqueur chocolates. She had a weak head, and was soon chattering about her schemes for making money out of Lennie’s French employer. ‘It would be lovely to have a nice nest-egg in the West,’ she murmured. ‘It could be transferred from a Swiss bank straight here — at least, to Moscow. We’d be rich, Kim.’
He smiled and patted her hand. If he had grown up in another era than the Cambridge of the Thirties, he thought wryly, he might have made a career out of silly rich women.
But poor Joyce Warburton — she didn’t have a bean to her name; just a lot of random information that she’d no doubt picked up from that scavenger, Lennie Maddox, and which, if pieced together by a discriminating mind, could prove highly damaging, even disastrous. And in a dangerous moment Philby caught himself feeling almost sorry for her.
They stayed until the Cuban delegation had left, and a few locals were finishing their coffee. It was past eleven when he called for the bill. The waiter wanted to know if he would pay with Intourist coupons, but Philby settled in roubles, leaving a generous tip.
Joyce was all for going to bed, but he insisted on a walk by the sea. She agreed reluctantly, and with some surprise.
He was an inveterately lazy man where physical exercise was concerned, always boasting of how he never walked when he could take a taxi.
The night was still warm and the water was as flat as a mirror. They crossed the esplanade, down the stone steps to the short shelving beach where the tide sucked at the pebbles with a sound which he said reminded him of rustling petticoats. They reached a row of skiffs lying on their sides above the tide-mark. ‘Joyce, let’s take one.’
‘But there’s no one to pay,’ she cried. ‘You can’t just take one!’
‘Nonsense. These boats belong to the People — and we’re people, surely?’
‘Very special people!’ she giggled, as he tipped the narrow twin-oared skiff upright and began to slide it down towards the water. His sprained fingers no longer bothered him; and with a smile he remembered that he hadn’t handled an oar since Trinity.
The old woman who came into the waiting-room to open the bar thought at first the man was drunk. He was lying across one of the tables, breathing hard. As soon as she began rattling up the shutters, he woke and came over to her. ‘Koñak,’ he whispered.
From his suit and tie she took him for another erring Muscovite. A middle-aged hooligan, she decided, as she poured a thimble measure of cheap Armenian brandy and held it back while the man counted out twelve kopeks. He swallowed it in a gulp, then returned to the table where he was soon asleep again with his head on his arm. He woke twenty minutes later with a clanging bell on the platform announcing the arrival of the express to Sochi. She watched him lope outside, and mouthed an elaborate Georgian oath as she glimpsed him climbing aboard the first-class sleeping car. These accursed Muscovites, coming down here with their pockets stuffed with roubles,
