For like the Volkov incident, the sight of Carter-Smythe talking to Pol, in a far-off corner of the crumbling Portuguese Empire, caught him totally off-guard. He felt exposed, helpless, even foolish. Yet as soon as he began to consider the matter more rationally, he realized that he should not have been entirely surprised: for the idea of Pol betraying him was certainly not new to him. This chance encounter in the ‘Girasol’ only confirmed it. He’d always known that Roland Carter-Smythe had never been one of the pious mandarins who had agreed to the deal in Beirut; nor was he any diplomatic buccaneer who would lend his name to Pol’s current activities in Rhodesia. Smith’s régime might continue to be a nuisance to Whitehall; but the mere hint that HMG was lending a hand to terrorism and murder in order to topple that régime would create a political scandal that would rival even the secret knowledge that Philby possessed.
Carter-Smythe could only be conferring with Pol for one reason. Kim Philby, alias Duncan Saunders, was to be written off.
By the time his taxi dropped him at the Polana, he had decided what to do. There remained forty minutes before his appointment with Pol. He ordered a stiff Scotch and sat down in the lounge to wait.
CHAPTER 26
‘Hit and run,’ Pol repeated in English, his lips dripping with melted butter. ‘Here, there — everywhere! In the important places — les endroits de classe — where the big people go, the rich, the snobs, the tourists. A bomb, un attrape-nigaud — how do you say it?’
‘A booby-trap,’ said Philby.
Pol nodded vigorously and his fat little hands ripped open a lobster claw, his fingers almost indistinguishable from the white meat and pink shell, as he dipped it in the butter and scooped it into his mouth.
‘You see the strategy?’ he continued: ‘Hit, run, like the classic guerrillas, as the handbook says — to use the jungle like the fish use the water.’ He licked his fingers and reached for the napkin. ‘You, my dear Duncan —’ he giggled — ‘you are like the barracuda. Or perhaps better, what you English call a Portuguese man-of-war?’ And he relapsed into French: ‘Lying in the sea, your tendrils drawn in, waiting.’
‘Waiting for what?’ said Philby. They were in a little restaurant by the port; from up the street came the baying of Afrikaners outside a striptease club that specialized in Zulu girls.
‘I have planned a little operation for next week,’ Pol continued in French. ‘Something rather special that will upset your new compatriots. Something that will be quite a surprise!’ He sat back and patted his belly. Philby waited, saying nothing.
‘As I have emphasized,’ Pol went on, ‘security remains our top priority. For the moment the Rhodesian authorities are confused. They are not used to having the foxes escape from the poultry-run. They know they are dealing with a well-organized unit, but they probably still suspect the Frelimo, or some other African outfit. Our great advantage is that they do not know who they are looking for. Once they do, they will change their tactics and our whole strategy will have to be revised. Therefore they must not find out. That is where you come in, Duncan.’ He paused to order another bottle of Mateus Rosé.
‘However, I think it better — for your sake — that for the moment you do not know too many of the details.’ He gave a grandiose shrug: ‘Just the remote possibility, you understand, that the plan fails and you are interrogated. Their methods of interrogation are very effective,’ he added, ‘and far from scrupulous, particularly here in Mozambique.’ He sniggered over his wine, as though taking an indecent relish in the idea.
‘Come to the point,’ said Philby, in English.
‘Yes. You have heard, I think, of the Hillcrest Hotel, between Umtali and Inyanga? A favourite tourist spot — very good for trout fishing, I understand.’
‘You intend to make it your next target?’ said Philby quietly, still in English, while Pol continued in French: ‘Not precisely. We intend to use it more as a rendezvous. You will meet us there — after you have satisfied us all that the terrain is secure.’
‘And how the hell do I do that? Cut the telephone wires?’
Pol looked at him gravely. ‘There is no necessity to use sarcasm, please. You will ascertain, for instance, that there are no police patrols around the hotel on Tuesday night —’
‘Tuesday?’ Philby repeated in French.
Pol nodded. ‘You will go to the hotel on Monday. If you have trouble getting a reservation, you must use what influence is necessary. It is vital that you be there.’
‘And how do I get in touch with you?’
‘One of us will be in touch with you. By telephone, or possibly in person.’
‘But why can’t you find out if there were any patrols yourself?’
‘We could — but it would mean sparing an extra man. Our work is both dangerous and demanding. And besides, none of us are exactly English gentlemen. But you, Duncan — you have the perfect credentials to visit the Hillcrest Hotel. You will attract no unwelcome attention.’
‘Thank you,’ said Philby. ‘But you will have no objections if I take my own precautions? I am not known at the Hillcrest. I may decide to travel under an alias. In case, as you said, something goes wrong.’
‘An alias?’ said Pol.
Philby smiled wearily. ‘I have a second passport, remember? Issued to me in Moscow by my kind protector at the British Embassy, Mr Hann.’
‘But I understood that you surrendered that passport in Helsinki?’
‘That was the plan,’ said Philby. ‘But I never believe in doing anything in life without
