Philby no longer had his old Soviet passport. His only means of identity had been through Cayle.
The lawyers would ponder the situation, and probably decide to adhere to their original brief. The death or disappearance of Duncan Henry Saunders would be of no interest to them. The second affidavit would be filed away and forgotten — like Philby himself.
But Kim Philby was no coward. On his first morning in Salisbury he decided on a course of ‘business as usual’. He called first at the head office of the largest bank in Rhodesia, where he met with the same genial welcome that he’d received at the airport. As Horne had said, a true Britisher with a blocked sterling account was a man to be respected in this landlocked citadel of the Imperial dream. And Philby was dismayed to find how easily he was accepted as one of the dreamers. All chums together — the better class of White Man holding his own against the menacing hordes of disorder and darkness.
The manager was a large fleshy man with a powerful handshake and dissipated good looks beneath an over-fresh tan. He invited Philby into his inner office and offered him South African gin and tonic. His name was Freddie Frobisher and he was president of a club called ‘The Abominable Snowmen’, whose members were all expatriates with frozen assets in Rhodesia. On their second drink Kim Philby was invited to a party next evening.
‘You’ll find a lot of the old troopers there,’ said Frobisher. ‘And we’ve got a special consignment of Haig — brought over from Beira by a very fly chappie. Can’t breathe his name, though — damned strict on security round here.’ Then quite casually, he turned to the matter of Philby’s account. He called in a young clerk and told him to look up Saunders’ file. ‘Seem to remember that we’ve been sitting on your lot for some time,’ he added. ‘Must be quite a bit of interest that’s built up.’
The file was brought with surprising speed. ‘Perishing bore, this Sanctions business,’ Frobisher said, passing the folder to Philby. ‘But what I maintain is, there’s a lot worse places to spend your money in than Rhodesia. A friend of mine reckons that the post-UDI crop of girls are about the best-looking you’ll find anywhere in the civilized world.’ He raised his glass. ‘Splash your money around and enjoy y’self while there’s still time, that’s my motto.’
They parted finally, pumping hands and promising to meet next evening at the party, which was being given by a certain Randolph Grant — ‘known to everyone as “Randy”,’ Frobisher added. ‘Frightfully good mucker. He’s run through four wives — all absolute stunners, except for the current one, and she’s stinking rich. He now screws about everything that moves. He’s also a great chum of P. K. — y’know, van der Byl, our illustrious Minister of Information and Immigration.’
Philby left him with a sense of achievement: P. K. van der Byl was one of the Old Guard of hard-liners who’d been in the Smith Government since UDI. But unlike most of his stiff-lipped colleagues, he had a sense of humour, and was known to be sometimes outrageously indiscreet. Philby decided there might be a useful opening there.
The next thing he did, after leaving the bank, was to buy himself a gun. He chose a .32 Beretta pistol, which he obtained simply on production of his passport. He had been a fair shot back in his SIS days in the war, and he planned to keep himself up to the mark with plenty of practice. Then, following a hearty lunch, he went to a leading estate agents and consulted a list of houses to rent. There seemed to be no shortage. He wanted something neither too central nor too secluded: a bachelor house where he would be allowed his privacy, yet not be too exposed to interlopers. The agent recommended an address on Cambridge Drive, in a quiet residential area seven minutes by car from the city centre. It had a garden and swimming-pool, and separate staff-quarters for an African couple whom the agent assured him were thoroughly reliable. The rent seemed to Philby absurdly low.
The agent drove him out to the house and he found it to be exactly what he wanted. It was between two larger houses, which were both occupied; there was a high fence between the gardens, and the back of the house looked on to a long lawn that offered no obvious cover. The African couple were middle-aged, with a well-drilled servility that Philby found a relief, as well as mildly repulsive. In Moscow, private servants had been almost impossible to find, and equally difficult to keep.
The house was also fitted with the most modern locks, on windows as well as doors, and an alarm system connected to the nearby police station.
He drove back with the agent, signed the papers, paid a deposit and six months’ rent with his virgin cheque-book and walked out into the clear
