Philby stared after him, frowning. His innate sense of rank and authority had been mildly offended at the South African’s manner: for Johann Peters, formerly of the Transvaal Special Police Reserve, was Pol’s chief retainer — a cold, brutal, obedient hireling who was paid to do only what Pol told him. His thoughts and opinions were as inscrutable as his closed, scarred face. Philby found him repulsive.
Pol returned five minutes later, mopping his brow with a monogrammed handkerchief, although the villa was fully air-conditioned. ‘You haven’t left yet?’
‘I was waiting for you,’ said Philby.
Pol gave a mischievous grin. ‘For a man who has lived for so much of his life on the edge of a precipice, you’ve come to need me like a nursemaid! Or perhaps a guardian angel? Now, you must hurry.’
‘Good day, Charles.’ Philby made his way down a series of marble corridors and shallow winding stairs that opened on to the gravel forecourt. The six-door Mercedes, which reminded Philby of a Stuttgart dentist’s waiting-room on wheels, was parked at the foot of the steps, with Peters at the wheel. Philby got in beside him, and the car sped forward down the narrow road between cypresses towards the Geneva-Lausanne autoroute. As usual he felt no compunction to chat to Peters, who was a fast but highly skilled driver; and for most of the fifteen miles to Vevey he was left to his thoughts.
Not for the first time during the past three weeks in Switzerland, while he had enjoyed Pol’s lavish hospitality — in a calculated attempt to draw the final vengeance of the British Secret Service — had Philby been rankled and perplexed by the fat Frenchman’s conduct. For although the idea offended his natural vanity, Philby had come to realize over these past weeks that he was fascinated by Pol. During a lifetime of nefarious intrigue and treachery Philby had never encountered anyone dimly like him. He was more than impressed, he was mesmerized: and not just by the enormity of the man, or the opulent flamboyance of everything about him, but by the sheer ease and arrogance with which Pol appeared to arrange both his personal life and his private affairs.
At the first intersection on the autoroute, indicating MONTREUX 2 kms, Peters turned off and began a giddy corkscrew drive down the steep ramp leading to the lakeside. Here Philby found himself wondering once again about Pol’s extraordinary background: Anarchist freebooter in Spain where he had ransomed one of Franco’s generals for a hundred political prisoners; sentenced to death in Barcelona and escaped disguised as a priest; highly decorated member of the Resistance who had settled down after the war to run a supermarket for ladies’ undergarments behind the Gare St Lazarre; leader of a clandestine mission for De Gaulle’s Police Parallèl against the OAS in Algeria; later involved in shady gold and opium deals in the Far East; and now comfortably established as an international financier with what he called ‘an excellent tax position overlooking Lake Geneva’.
Reluctantly — and with a familiar sense of frustration — Philby concluded that he and Pol were very much opposite sides of the same coin: vain, devious, extravagant adventurers, with childish ideas that were half-honest, half a sham to cover their playful machinations against authority. Their one obvious difference was that while Pol indulged himself with silk suits and champagne and luxurious limousines, Philby was content with a patched jacket and frayed tie, and whisky out of a tooth-glass. However, Pol’s sustained interest in Philby was an enigma in itself, unless it could be explained by the Frenchman’s continued commitment to Whitehall. The possibility that Pol had claimed some stake in Philby’s future activities in Africa was something that fired Philby with less than enthusiasm. But Philby had one fatal weakness: he loved adventure; above all, he loved the uncertainty and mystery of adventure; and the more mysterious and uncertain became Charles Pol’s motives and manoeuvres, the more firmly and irrevocably was Philby drawn to him, trapped by him.
Peters had now slowed the Mercedes into the oncoming evening traffic out of Montreux.
Philby said casually: ‘Any idea where we’re looking?’
‘The car I photographed two days ago was parked outside the Hotel du Lac.’ Peters’ eyes remained steadily on the road as he spoke. ‘And if you remember, it was in the same place this morning when it picked us up and followed us on to the auto-route.’
‘Let’s just hope we’re in luck this time,’ said Philby. He spoke with an infectious excitement, like a schoolboy.
Peters drove the length of the street, turned in a square, then started back, very slowly. Several other cars hooted them impatiently, and a big Citroën with French number-plates accelerated past them and cut in dangerously to avoid a truck. Only Peters’ instantaneous reaction saved their off-side wing. Not a muscle in his face moved. After a moment he spoke, dead-pan: ‘It’s behind us. Three — four cars back.’
Philby turned and saw a white BMW 2500 saloon cruising on the outside of the traffic, about fifty yards behind them. ‘Pull up at this tobacconist’s,’ he said.
Peters obeyed, double-parking the huge Mercedes in the full flow of the traffic. Philby ignored the blaring sounds and flashing lights, paused for a moment on the pavement, as though to check that he had his wallet; gave a casual glance back up the street, then entered the shop and bought a packet of Gitanes. When he came out, the traffic had again begun to move, except for the BMW which had pulled into a space six cars back, parked crookedly with its front wheels locked hard left and its engine idling.
Philby began to stroll down the pavement in its direction. The street was now filled with that flat neutral light just before dusk when distances and colour are deceptive. Several cars had already switched on their side-lights. He was calculating that both the crowds
