What was the Englishman suggesting? asked Colonel Monks impatiently.
The journalist replied: ‘The only solution that fits all the facts as we know them, Colonel, is that the killers could not have been African. They must have been Europeans.’
CHAPTER 1
It began with an item in the diary column of one of London’s plumper Sunday newspapers:
I hear that my intrepid Antipodean colleague, Barry Cayle, is thinking of writing a novel about “Kim” Philby — still believed by many to be the greatest spy of all time. Cayle is convinced that the whole story has been far from told. I suggested that as so much has already been written about Philby, is there anything new to say? Cayle thinks there is: “Something the Press can’t touch because of the Official Secrets Act and the libel laws.” Knowing Cayle’s reputation as one of Fleet Street’s ablest fact-finders, Whitehall will no doubt be among those most eagerly awaiting his first excursion into fiction.
The day before the paper came out, Cayle left for the Middle East on a trip round the new Arab-Israeli peace lines. On his return three weeks later he found a letter waiting for him at the office from a Mr Peter Hennison, literary agent. It was dated two days after the diary piece had appeared, and stated that Mr Hennison was familiar with Barry Cayle’s work and concluded, ‘I should be most interested to discuss the whole Philby story with you. Perhaps you could ring me and we could meet for lunch?’
Cayle forgot; but when he phoned two days later and gave his name to a secretary, he was put through at once. Hennison suggested they meet next day at 12.45 at his office in Holborn. He had a pleasant cultured voice, and though not in the least patronizing, there was just a hint to suggest that he did not expect Cayle to refuse. Cayle knew and cared almost nothing about the literary world, and had never heard of Peter Hennison Ltd; but the address was close to the paper’s offices, and since he had nothing else to do for lunch next day, he accepted.
At ten past one he parked his mud-coloured Mini Moke on a yellow line outside a Georgian house overlooking Lincolns Inn Fields. Hennison received him in a handsome room with walls crowded to the ceiling with books — the majority of them in foreign languages. Hennison was sitting in his shirt-sleeves on a cluttered desk, swinging a leg and talking on the telephone. He waved Cayle into an armchair and went on talking, in rapid fluent German.
Cayle sat down and tapped out one of his Dutch cheroots, while Hennison, still talking, leaned back across the desk and flicked a lighter at him. He hung up at last. ‘Sorry about that. Long distance. Barry Cayle, isn’t it? How do you do?’ He sprang off the desk and came round with his hand extended. ‘Glad you could make it!’
He was a slight, rather untidy man with loose grey hair and a faintly donnish manner. Cayle put him in his middle fifties, and guessed that he might have had an interesting war record. He gave Cayle a quick smile. ‘I won’t beat about the bush. Unlike some professions, we literary agents tout for work. I saw you’re writing a novel about Philby, and, as I said, I’d like to discuss it with you. No commitments, just a chat. I’m rather interested in Philby myself. I might even be able to help you.’ He was interrupted by the telephone. ‘Damn. Just a moment.’ He lifted the receiver, listened, then told the caller to ring back. ‘It’s no good — we’ll never be able to talk here. Let’s pop round to the pub.’
He pulled on a tweed jacket and led the way out. In the outer office he stopped to tell his secretary — a graceless girl with uneven make-up — to take the names of all callers and say he’d be back at three o’clock. He grinned as they reached the stairs. ‘Same old story! — too much work and not enough staff. I need an assistant who speaks at least two languages, besides English. You see, I specialize in foreign rights. Mostly non-fiction. You’d be an exception.’
The compliment made Cayle slightly uncomfortable. ‘I should explain, Mr Hennison,’ he said, as they reached the front door, ‘that I haven’t written a word yet. I haven’t even got a plot worked out.’
‘Not to worry, my dear fellow, it’s the idea that counts. And I’ve a suspicion that it’s a damned good idea!’
He opened the door and strode out into the February cold. Cayle was wearing his Sherpa Tensing anorak — a memento from his coverage of the last International Everest Expedition — but Hennison had only his jacket, without even a waistcoat or sweater. They crossed into Lincolns Inn Fields; and although Cayle was a fast walker, and had longer legs than Hennison, he found it difficult to keep up with him.
Hennison talked all the way. He was an easy, skilful talker who made even personal questions seem like casual conversation; and by the time they had crossed the Fields, Cayle had outlined most of his career since coming to London nearly fifteen years ago: how he’d worked first as second-string to the crime reporter on a notorious Sunday tabloid, then done freelance pieces on anything from bird sanctuaries to an Australian bachelor’s view of London girls; and later travelled to Beirut where he’d become an occasional contributor, then full-time correspondent for the paper on which he now worked, rising over the years to be cast as their front-line trouble-shooter and general Outdoors Man: anything from wars and revolutions to
