Philby himself had never been south of Egypt, but he would now have to learn as much about Africa as Duncan Saunders knew: a well-to-do Englishman who liked to winter in the sun, with plenty of servants and drinks by the pool, and rounds of cocktail parties where they talked cricket and rugby.
‘White Rhodesia’s got the same population as Leicester,’ said Horne, ‘and a lot of the same sort of people. Small-time Midland businessmen and shopkeepers who’ve emigrated into big houses, and do everything to keep up with the neighbours, even if it means making do with a second-hand Toyota and local gin, so they can afford an extra houseboy to keep the front lawn trimmed and the swimming-pool clean. If you mention Kafka, they won’t know what you’re talking about. They’ll think Van Gogh’s a South African politician, and if you bring up Graham Greene they’ll think you’re either an intellectual snob or a subversive. They’re stupid, bigoted, and they long to be loved. But they’re also getting to hate the English, or what they think of as the English — a nation of strike-happy, long-haired degenerates. But however stupid you find them,’ Horne added: ‘always remember one thing. They’ve got one of the most efficient Security Forces in the world, and probably the only one that is against both the CIA and the KGB, not to mention us. That might be an advantage to you. But whatever else you do, never underestimate them.’
‘It sounds like Darkest Surrey,’ Philby said, ‘without the wife-swapping parties.’
Horne didn’t smile. He pointed to the green dossier. ‘I suggest you spend the rest of today and tomorrow studying that. I want you to know it so you can tell me how many Distinctions you got in the Old School Cert., and what was the name of the cruise-ship you first took to Cape Town, and who were the members of Boodle’s you used to win money off at backgammon.’
‘I’m not a backgammon player,’ said Philby.
‘That’s another thing you’re going to learn before you leave. I’ve got a board with me.’ He said good night and left.
Philby fetched a fresh bottle of whisky and began to read. His mind was exactly suited to the dreary task, and even as he drank into the night, he retained the most minute, even frivolous details. He learnt them as an actor learns his lines, repeating them as he fell asleep, and by morning he could recite them in any order, without a mistake.
When Horne came down to question him, Philby passed word perfect; and although Horne was loath to show it, he was impressed.
One detail troubled Philby. It concerned Saunders’ blocked bank account in Rhodesia. Philby assumed that such an account must exist. Indeed, the necessary documents, with which Horne had provided him, all looked convincingly genuine. Either the account had been opened before 1965, in which case London had been anticipating the operation long before Pol came on the scene; or somewhere there was, or had been, a real Duncan Saunders.
One evening, while they were playing backgammon, Philby asked: ‘Is he dead? Or on ice?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not in a position to answer that,’ Horne said. ‘The fact is, I don’t know. And I probably couldn’t find out if I tried. All such matters are dealt with through Personnel and Banking Section. Does it worry you?’ he added, throwing a double. He was winning the ninth game that evening.
‘I’d just like to be sure that the real Saunders doesn’t pop up, like the ghost at the feast, during some rowdy barbecue-party while I’m chatting up one of van der Byl’s bed-fellows, that’s all.’
‘You need have no fear of that,’ Horne said, with a complacent smile, and won the game.
‘I was only asking,’ Philby said lightly. ‘And I haven’t asked very much so far.’
‘No,’ said Horne. ‘You’ve been very trusting.’
Philby stayed at the house near Medstugan for thirty-three days. At the end of them his debriefing was complete; his alter persona of Duncan Saunders had been instilled in him like an actor taking on a leading role that he knew he would be playing for at least a year; and his new mission in life, at the age of sixty-five, had been planned to the last detail. He had even grown a short grey moustache.
At 10.30 on a bright April day in Stockholm, a plump, well-dressed Englishman walked into the offices of the Crédit Suisse on Kindstugaten and asked to see the manager. He showed his passport and two letters of introduction.
Forty minutes later Harold Adrian Russell Philby, alias Duncan Henry Saunders, crossed the Slottsbachen and entered the Kreiskaffee on the corner, to have a farewell drink with Thomas.
For the first time in his life Philby found himself with money to spend; yet what he wanted most he could never have: the 3000 books, none of them very valuable, which he had collected over the years and abandoned in his flat in Moscow. He also wondered who would be taking care of Donald Maclean and Guy Burgess. They wouldn’t be getting any whisky in their milk every morning, that was for sure. There were some things that even a Swiss bank account couldn’t buy.
CHAPTER 21
Cayle had been lying low for five weeks.
He had flown out of Moscow on the last night plane, an hour after leaving Sir Roger Jameson-Clarke, and had broken his journey in Copenhagen where he’d checked into the airport hotel and put through a personal call to his editor at home. He gave him the gist of the story in a couple of sentences, which were enough for Harry to forbid him
