‘There was no chance of your making a mistake?’ said Pol.
‘I’d say it was more a question of their making a mistake. And they’d hardly do that with a car like yours.’
‘Did you see them?’
‘Peters recognized one of them from two days ago. He took a polaroid snap of them while they were parked in Vevey.’
Pol cocked an eyebrow: ‘More than one?’
‘Two.’ Philby glanced round as the blond man, Peters, appeared at his side and handed him a thick frosted glass with a straw.
Pol drank some champagne and chuckled; then again, without turning his head, shouted: ‘Peters!’
The blond man remained rigid beside Philby’s chair, his pale eyes staring dully at the lake.
‘The photographs, Peters.’
Peters withdrew, and returned less than a minute later with two buff envelopes. From each he shook a shiny colour photograph showing an identical street scene, taken in poor light, with cars parked along the curb facing the camera. Philby studied them both carefully. In each picture the second car along was a white BMW with only half the number-plate visible; but it was enough to see that it was a foreign Zollamt registration. Both pictures also showed two men in the front seat. The driver looked young, sandy-haired, nondescript. Beside him, half-hidden by the car in front, was a broad chunky-faced man in wrap-around dark glasses.
Philby hesitated, compared both pictures together, then handed them across to Pol. ‘I can’t be certain — not without seeing the man in the flesh. The only reference I’ve got is an old mug-shot I once saw in the Zapiski — that’s the KGB central archives. They contain files on over eighteen million foreigners, including all known or suspected enemy agents.’
‘But you think you might recognize this one?’ Pol jabbed his thumb at the top photograph in his lap, indicating the broad man in dark glasses.
‘As I said, I wouldn’t like to swear to it,’ said Philby, and took a long drink. ‘But if it’s the man I think it is, he’s called Sergeant Dempster — William Michael Dempster, officially attached to the Special Branch. That’s the section of the British police which deals with political and subversive activities. Unofficially, he’s what you would call a “gorilla”, or a muscle-man for MI5 — the branch of British intelligence engaged in internal counter-espionage.’
‘Which seems to indicate that he’s operating above and beyond the call of duty?’
‘It means,’ said Philby, ‘that they’re scraping the barrel or they’d be using their regular thugs from MI6 — the foreign section of the Secret Service.’
Pol nodded slowly and sipped some champagne. ‘I foresee a small problem. The Mercedes is registered with one of my French shadow-companies. But if this man — this sergeant of the British police — can call on the services of British Intelligence, or at least certain members of it, it will not take him long to track the car down to me. Now don’t misunderstand me — I have no reason to fear the British Secret Service. But I don’t want those clumsy Swiss oafs coming up here and asking all kinds of damnable questions. That’s one reason I bought this place — as a retreat, a haven of peace in an angry world.’
‘One thing I can assure you,’ said Philby: ‘In this case — in my case — British Intelligence are operating with very little rope.’
‘They seem to have given this sergeant of yours plenty of rope,’ Pol murmured.
Philby nodded: ‘And he’s now at the end of that rope. The plan seems to have worked, Charles. Three weeks cooped up here waiting, and now the bastard’s ready to strike. He had his big opportunity back on the Red Arrow Express, and finished up getting lumbered with that damned great Australian journalist. His bosses in Whitehall won’t have been too happy about that. If my guess is right, this’ll be his last chance.’
Pol drained his glass, glanced at his watch, then, with an agility that always amazed Philby, he bounded up on to the balls of his slippered feet and came striding round the chair with arms outstretched. ‘It will be dark in one hour, mon cher. I estimate that if your English friend is to be given his last chance, you should hurry. Peters, have the car ready.’ He turned back to his chair and poured himself another glass of champagne.
‘You’re not coming?’ said Philby.
‘One fish is enough!’ He giggled. ‘Besides, I’m too old for amateur heroics.’ He looked up as Peters, who had already left at Pol’s earlier command, now reappeared in the archway to the patio.
‘Monsieur Pol, there is a telephone call for you from Geneva.’
Pol gave a gesture of dismissal, slopping champagne over his loose sleeve. ‘Tell them to call back.’
‘The gentleman said it was most urgent,’ Peters said, in his pedantic French that betrayed the clipped South African accent.
Pol turned and for the first time looked directly at him. ‘All calls I receive are urgent, Peters. Did this gentleman give his name?’
‘Yes, monsieur. Marmut.’
Pol frowned, then gave Philby a quick beady stare, and without a word waddled away into the darkness of the villa. Philby glanced at Peters. ‘Marmut? Sounds like an Arab name.’
Peters said dully: ‘There are a lot of Arabs in Switzerland, sir. Rich ones, too. They find it a good place to keep their money, now that London’s going bust.’
‘You don’t like the British, do you, Peters?’
Peters turned to him, and for a moment a small dead-eyed smile crossed his face — or perhaps it was just the slightly crooked wince where the scar tissue met. ‘I keep my likes and dislikes to myself, sir.’ He swung on his heel and disappeared through the
