The cheque books were from the Credit Suisse, Geneva, and from Barclays, Lombard Street, London, EC3. One of the sealed envelopes was from the Swiss bank, informing him that a numbered account 4462481 had been opened in his name for the sum of 600,000 Swiss francs, with a covering letter introducing Monsieur Duncan Saunders ‘To Whom It May Concern’. The second envelope contained two similar letters, one informing him that he had a current account of £2868.90 and a deposit account of £5960, both with Barclays’ head branch in London.
‘Satisfied?’ said Donaldson.
‘I’m worried about the signatures,’ said Philby. ‘Do Swiss banks usually open a numbered account without a specimen signature?’
‘That matter has already been dealt with in your absence through previous correspondence. London Banking Section opened the account and explained that you were abroad and not contactable. An arrangement was made by which you present yourself in person, with your passport, to the Stockholm branch of the Crédit Suisse, and sign the specimen there. The same applies to the Barclays account.’
The car had stopped. About fifty yards ahead were the ferry gates, under the illuminated sign, JØRGENSEN. Donaldson leant forward and handed Philby a ballpoint and a sheet of paper. ‘You’d better practise that signature before you sign the passport. You’re going to have to get used to it.’
Philby’s handwriting was small and neat, and he had some difficulty simulating the fluent scrawl of a natural signature. After a couple of dozen attempts he settled for a flowing elision of Dun-H-Sauers, rounding it off with a flourishing s. His performance on the passport was not quite as good as the dress-rehearsal, but it was adequate. ‘And I’d like some cash,’ he said.
‘There were no arrangements for cash,’ said Donaldson. ‘However, I can probably lend you a hundred Krone. That’s nine pounds. And I’ll need a chit from you. But we can deal with all that on the ferry.’
Hughes had driven up to the gates where a man in a blue uniform tore off part of their tickets. They drove on past two policemen with white peaked caps who just nodded, and were stopped by a man with gold tabs on his shoulders who glanced at their passports, read the number of the car, then waved them on to join a queue of cars waiting on the quay.
‘When do we board?’ said Philby.
‘About now.’
‘You timed it well.’
‘Your French friend timed it well. Don’t thank me for anything — not even the nine pounds.’
‘You haven’t given them to me yet,’ Philby said, with a haggard grin. ‘You don’t approve of me, do you, Donaldson?’
‘I don’t discuss personalities, Mr Saunders. One gets used to all sorts in this business. Like doctors with sex.’
A revolving blue light flashed through the rear window, coming closer. They were the last in the queue, and the police car stopped a few yards behind them. Four men in white caps got out; two of them carried Sten guns. They came round the Volvo, two on either side, and one of them tapped on Hughes’ window. Hughes rolled it down and a hard flat face with slanting eyes under the peaked cap said, ‘Passports!’
The three British passports were handed over, and the man outside passed them to a second policeman who looked like an officer. Philby murmured to Hughes. ‘If they search us, and find that gun on you, don’t expect any help from me.’
Hughes flushed but didn’t reply. The officer leant into the open window and said, ‘Where you come from?’
‘We’ve been staying at the Finlandia,’ said Donaldson.
The officer looked steadily at each of them for several seconds, turning to examine the photographs again in the three passports in his hand. ‘Hotel Finlandia?’ he repeated. ‘Okay!’ He thrust the passports through Hughes’ window and the four of them moved round the car ahead — a Mercedes with Swedish plates.
Three more vehicles pulled up behind the Volvo, as well as a second police car with another four men inside. It was nearly half an hour before the queue began to move on to the ferry. Hughes parked the Volvo on the lower car-deck, and the three of them started up to the cabins, when two Suopos — plain-clothes Finnish Security police — stopped them at the top of the stairs and asked for their passports again. Philby blinked at them through his plain-lensed spectacles. The Suopos handed the passports back, and the three of them made their way to the main lounge. Philby hoped that Donaldson had been right about the bar.
CHAPTER 19
Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke said: ‘I have never had any great respect for your trade, Mr Cayle. However, I accept that you’re paid to do a job, and that’s why you’re here. In this particular case you can consider yourself extremely fortunate.’
‘You sodding old hypocrite,’ Cayle said, with a grin. ‘You’re bloody lucky yourself you haven’t got twenty-five years! What frightened you off? Something I said in the Ritz? The title of the book I took to Philby? The Confidential Agent? That was the password and introduction, wasn’t it? And the second book, The Heart of the Matter, was the green light. But you were already feeling the heat and had the good sense to skip when you heard I’d taken in the first book.’
‘I’m really not in the least interested in your speculations,’ said Sir Roger. ‘It has been agreed with my colleague here —’ he nodded at the
