Cayle had already told his story, in varying lengths, to three different people in two days — Dempster, Hann and Sir Roger. He now wanted a quiet lunch with Harry with plenty of time for them both to think; so he had stayed up half the night typing a wadge of notes which he handed to the editor as soon as they met in the restaurant, and left them with him while Cayle concentrated on the quenelles de brochet and a good Sancerre. The notes would form the basis of both the published interview with Sir Roger and any supporting story that the editor might decide to run.
Harry read them through twice, eating slowly with his left hand, and by the middle of the poulet de Bresse he had made up his mind. ‘I’m going to stick my neck out on this one, Barry.’ He took off his spectacles and tucked them behind the folded handkerchief in his breast-pocket. ‘I’m going to assume you’re telling the truth. A lot of people won’t. Or they’ll say the story’s a plant. But there’s nothing here on Jameson-Clarke to contravene the Act. On the other hand there’s nothing to authenticate the interview, except your word. We can assume that Sir Roger was acting on the highest authority. The KGB probably knew that Philby was planning to skip, and that he had a good chance of getting away with it. Wheeling Sir Roger into the limelight will be one way of distracting attention and claiming a little extra bonus from an embarrassing situation — that is, always assuming that the Russians expect Philby himself to come into the open, which — from what you tell me — I rather doubt.
‘Now.’ He smoothed the hair down behind his ears and sucked in the corners of his mouth in a thoughtful pout. ‘I’m not just putting my head on the block, Barry. I’m putting yours on too. By tomorrow afternoon the proofs will be out and so will the hounds. So I don’t want you stepping out at Heathrow, all ready to be interviewed and possibly detained. I want you out of my hair. Lost. In a lonely little spot which only you know about. Preferably here in France, because the French are rather less keen to cooperate with the Foreign Office than most friendly countries — unless it’s an extraditable offence, which in this case, of course, it won’t be. That’s not to say,’ he added, ‘that the British authorities are going to like you and me one bit after Sunday. As it is, I shall no doubt have to fight our own upstairs brigade every inch of the way when I get back. But the story’s going to appear, don’t worry. As for the follow-up —’ He let his fork hang in mid-air and a slight frown creased his neat close-shaven features. ‘It all really depends on what chance there is of Philby still contacting you. If Hann believed you, Philby will know by now — or pretty soon — what happened on the train, and why you weren’t at the airport in Leningrad. The question is: do we quote Sir Roger’s KGB friend, Vladimir, and claim that Philby was the Englishman who was taken off the plane in Finland?’
‘If we don’t, someone else will — eventually.’
Harry shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Where’s the connection unless someone tells them? I hardly think Philby or Pol will, and the Russians certainly won’t. As for anyone having recognized him, there are very few Western journalists who’ve seen him in the flesh since he defected. No, Barry. We sit on this one. My guess is that Philby, and the people who’ve got him out, will want time to breathe. Philby hinted to you, I think, that if he did get out, he wanted you to write it up — but not before he said so.’
Cayle nodded. ‘I was to be his faithful Boswell and record the final chapter of his inglorious life, as he put it.’
‘Well, assuming he still wants you — for whatever operation he and this Frenchman are setting up — he may read into your silence the fact that you’re still willing to go along with him. Are you willing?’
‘I’m still on the job, aren’t I?’
Harry’s face was blank. ‘It’s a slight chance, but I think it’s worth it. Write up a full-colour piece on the background to your interview with Sir Roger — how you first met him at Cowes, then short-circuited your visa and played the sick-act, and how you got picked up and taken to Dzerzhinski Square. Write it straight, and don’t worry if it reads like a thriller. Most of your stories do. But leave Philby out of it. And leave out Hann and Dempster and any mention of MI5 or 6. I’m not scared — I just want to stay out of prison.’
‘How long do I have to keep my head down?’ said Cayle.
‘That depends on what happens after Sunday. If the heat stays on, I may have to send you on a slow-burning story like Cambodia or the Middle East again. But my guess is that if Philby wants you, he’ll make contact, through us, within the next month or two. From what he said to you, it sounds as though he not only wants recognition for this one, but instant glory too. He won’t be over-anxious to start recruiting another journalist at this stage. And if we play right by him, he may well come back to you.’
Cayle’s head was growing muzzy with wine and his eyes stung with lack of sleep. The editor ordered coffee and cognac. ‘Any idea where you’ll be staying?’ he added.
‘I’ve got a
