So far no newspaper had mentioned the name Philby.
Philby went back to sleep as they joined the autobahn north to Uppsala. Hughes drove fast for three hours through the sub-Arctic twilight, stopping once for petrol near the town of Avesta, where Philby drank a couple of black coffees. Donaldson had told him they were going north, to a little place near the Norwegian border called Medstugan. But Philby showed little curiosity; he didn’t even ask to see it on the map.
At nine o’clock, when it was dark, they stopped for dinner in a pine-log restaurant where Philby and Donaldson shared a bottle of root-beer. Philby seemed quite sober again and they ate almost in silence. There was nothing strained or artificial about their relationship: it was simply a matter of rank. In Finland Donaldson had been in command; he had even treated Philby with a certain impatient contempt. But once they reached neutral Sweden, Philby had taken on a new status. Donaldson now assumed a subtle deference towards him, as though he accepted that he and Philby were not on the same level, socially or politically. Hughes hardly spoke at all, even to Donaldson. He was merely the chauffeur.
When the meal was over, Donaldson paid, carefully folding the receipt into his wallet, and they got back into the car. For the next hour they passed through a flat wasteland of forest and frozen marsh, and at eleven they stopped at Östersun, on the edge of a large lake. It was cold and damp, with a stench of decayed tundra. Donaldson had already booked three rooms in the hotel. An old man with a face like a ball of brown string carried in their luggage, including the case and overnight bag which Philby had been given on the ferry. The case was of old pigskin, with silver-plated fittings and the initials DHS in faded gold, and was covered with hotel stickers from the President, Johannesburg, and the Polana, Lourenço Marques. Both cases had TAP airline tabs tied to the handles.
Donaldson put in a call for 6.45, said goodnight, and the three of them went to their rooms. Philby half unpacked, partly for convenience, and partly because he was curious to know what personality London had concocted for Duncan Henry Saunders, Esq.
The contents of the luggage, like the cases themselves, were expensive and in good condition: a leather toilet-case from Asprey’s, a pair of ivory-backed hairbrushes, silk pyjamas from Simpson’s in Piccadilly, all monogrammed with his new initials; a hound’s-tooth jacket, cavalry-twill trousers, cashmere sweater and a tartan-lined raincoat. There were also changes of socks and underwear, and four Turnbull and Asser shirts, size sixteen — his own. The overnight bag contained a rechargeable electric shaver, electric toothbrush, a half-empty bottle of Vetiver de Carven, the latest editions of Time, The Economist and The Investor’s Chronicle, and a jumbo paperback of Lawrence Durrell’s The Alexandria Quartet.
Philby chuckled to himself. Duncan Saunders was a fastidious, well-to-do businessman with South African interests and middle-brow intellectual pretensions. He undressed and put on the silk pyjamas which fitted him perfectly. He was still very tired, and lay down under the duvet and was asleep almost at once.
At about four in the morning, Donaldson, who was in the next room, was woken by a scream, followed by sobs. He leapt up and ran into the passage. The scream came again, from behind Philby’s door. The door was locked. Donaldson hammered on it, and there was another sob, then Philby’s voice, scarcely recognizable, crying what sounded like, ‘The fishes! The fishes!’
Donaldson began hammering again, and calling, ‘Saunders!’ in a loud whisper. There was silence. He stood back, wondering whether to kick the lock in, when there was a shuffling sound and the door opened.
Philby stood just inside, pale and sweating. Behind him, under the light in the passage, Donaldson could see the duvet lying humped on the floor at the foot of the bed. ‘What the devil’s going on, man?’ he asked, still in a whisper. ‘You’ll have the whole place awake!’
‘Sorry — b-bit of a nightmare.’ Philby swayed against the side of the door, and Donaldson saw there were tears in his eyes. ‘W-was dreaming about dead m-mermaids,’ he muttered, and tried to smile. ‘B-bloody silly. You haven’t got a drink, have you?’
‘I’ve got some Scotch,’ said Donaldson. ‘Stay there — I’ll get it.’
Philby had rearranged the duvet and turned on the bedside light when he returned. Donaldson fetched a tooth-glass and poured some whisky into it. Philby was sitting on the bed, breathing hard. Donaldson handed him the glass and waited until he had taken a drink, then said, ‘Just mermaids?’
‘What?’ Philby’s eyes seemed to focus on him with difficulty. ‘Oh yes. I get them sometimes — when I’m overtired. Had them since I w-was a child.’
‘Always about mermaids?’
Philby sat turning the glass round in his hand. ‘Not always. This one was just silly. Fish eating dead mermaids.’ He looked up at Donaldson and this time his eyes were quite steady. ‘Ever seen a body that’s been in the water a long time?’ Donaldson didn’t answer. ‘The police call them “floaters”. They’re worse than ordinary bodies.’
‘Have you seen one?’ said Donaldson.
‘N-no. But I’ve been told about them.’ He took a deep breath. ‘You know all about me, Donaldson. I’m a squeamish bastard.
