For the man was a true Imperialist: he admired strength and order; he hated the flabby, insipid affluence of the West, the anaemic Britain over which he had so long presided, with its permissive liberalism and tatters of colonial glory. For him, Hungary and Czechoslovakia had received the just deserts of renegade colonies. Imprisoned and persecuted writers and artists were spoilt, arrogant upstarts who presumed to set something called culture above manual labour. Why should a verbose novelist be held more important than a steel worker, a truck driver, a crippled war veteran, none of whom were ever awarded the Nobel Prize, showered with Western currency or pampered by the world’s Press?
Cayle did not argue with him. He was a reporter, and he reported what Sir Roger said. He did try a few careful questions about the man’s Oxford background, and who had recruited him, and how and where; but here Sir Roger was revealing nothing. Perhaps he had his own list of names tucked away in a Swiss bank vault, just in case the going got rough and the hounds began to close in.
At the end of the interview, Cayle asked: ‘How do you feel about leaving your family behind, Sir Roger?’
To his surprise, the man replied with enthusiasm: ‘My dear fellow, I couldn’t give a damn! My conscience is clear, as they say. I have three grown-up children, none of whom I particularly admire. My first wife is dead, my second is safely married to a minor peer, and “Bubbles” — my third — will just thrive on the notoriety. She may not get invited to any more royal garden parties, but they’ll just love her in those appalling, fashionable clubs she likes going to. She might even make the international set. I’ve left her very well provided for, and I don’t suppose they can take her title away — and even if they can, it won’t stop her using it.’
He poured them both a last drink. ‘I’m sorry I can’t oblige you with a photograph, but that is strictly against the house-rules.’ He raised his glass. ‘Here’s to a safe journey home.’
‘One last thing,’ said Cayle. He glanced at Vladimir. ‘Dempster. Will I still be needed as a witness, if you catch him?’
The Russian shook his head. ‘There will be no necessity for that. We already have sufficient evidence against the man to shoot him many times.’
‘Perhaps — if you catch him. But you’re not going to catch him, are you? You’re not even going to try. Because Sergeant Dempster is your trump card. Kim still doesn’t know that a certain group in MI5 have already tried to kill him — over here. In the West it’s going to be a lot easier. As you said, Sir Roger, having Kim quietly rubbed out will be a weight off a lot of people’s minds — including yours. Even if he does bring shame and damnation on the heads of a few old stalwarts in Whitehall!’
‘You overestimate him,’ Sir Roger said. ‘Philby is no longer important to us. A temporary embarrassment, perhaps, but we might call that quits. As a source of Intelligence, he will be of very little use now to either the British or the Americans.’
‘Pol evidently doesn’t think so.’
Sir Roger gave a delicate shrug. ‘You imply that Pol engineered this hijacking over Finland? Well, perhaps, but I have no idea what a man like Pol has in mind for Philby. All I can say is, neither of them is actively anti-Soviet.’
‘But you still wouldn’t mind if Dempster was allowed to finish the job?’
Sir Roger shook his head. ‘I’m not going to be drawn on that one, Cayle.’ He finished his drink, then looked at his watch. ‘Your plane leaves in just over an hour. Vladimir has arranged for a car to take you to the airport. But one word of advice. You’ve been very lucky. You have broken Soviet law by entering the country without a correct visa, and have consorted, on your own admission, with a member of British Intelligence in London, for whom you have been running errands here on behalf of a criminal traitor.’ There was silence. Outside, big spangled snowflakes were drifting against the half-curtained windows. ‘The Russians have a proverb — “you lower the bucket into the well twice, and the third time the rope breaks”. Even well-known journalists are dispensable.’
Cayle felt a dryness in his throat. They were the same words that Dempster had used to him.
Vladimir stood up, and Cayle followed. ‘Goodbye, Sir Roger.’
‘Goodbye, Cayle. Remember me to the “Squadron”.’
CHAPTER 20
The ferry put into Stockholm at five next evening. The city and its network of islands were a watery blur through the winter rain, and Swedish Customs and Immigration weren’t wasting time hunting for heroin or hijackers. Although Finland is next door to Sweden, it is not part of Scandinavia, and when a Franco-Soviet airliner gets seized over Russia and taken to Finland, it is no business of the Swedes — if the Swedes can help it.
Kim Philby had spent the hundred Krone that Donaldson had lent him on a bottle of French brandy which he’d finished after lunch; but they managed to get him down the steps and into the back of the car, and keep him awake while they passed through the landing formalities. The Swedish authorities disapprove of drunks almost as much as of hijackers.
They drove through the city centre and stopped at the station, where Donaldson bought all the Swedish and foreign newspapers. In most of them the story had only made the stop-press; but the Swedish evening papers were carrying banner headlines. Philby woke up long enough for Donaldson to give him a quick resumé of the reports. The plane had been returned that day to Leningrad, with
