Rebot sat with his hands on his knees, saying nothing; and suddenly MacIntyre gave him a bony grin. ‘If it’s the man I think it is, I’ll be gladly rid of him — don’t you worry yourself about that. Some may call me and my kind rebels — but at least we’re not traitors!’ His grin hardened, as he stretched out and detached one of the documents. ‘You will, of course, have realized that we have no extradition treaty with any country besides Portugal and the Republic of South Africa?’
Rebot replied, almost without moving his lips: ‘The Soviet Union has such a treaty with Zambia.’
‘Ah yes, Zambia.’ MacIntyre’s hand slid back on to his hollow lap, still holding the document. ‘Yes, that might indeed be a most fortunate way of expediting matters.’ He looked down at the paper in his hand. ‘I assure you that on behalf of the Rhodesian Government I undertake to comply with this order. However — with the greatest respect to you and your organization, Inspector, we would appreciate it if you would allow us a few more days before taking action. In the interests of our own security, as well as that of our Intelligence Service, it would be useful to observe the activities of this man a little more closely. He may have made contacts here in Rhodesia which would be of interest to us.’
Rebot raised no objection. A room had been reserved for him at the Park Lane Hotel, and an unmarked police car drove him straight there from the meeting.
CHAPTER 27
It was on Sunday morning, just before lunch, that Philby first realized that he was being followed. He was driving to Meikle’s for his midday tipple, when he noticed a blue Volkswagen about a hundred yards behind. It followed him to the corner of Cecil Square, and was waiting for him when he came out of the hotel half an hour later. There was only one man inside, reading a newspaper. Philby strolled across to the ‘Abominables’, collected his Telegraph and had a drink with a few casual friends; then, not feeling hungry, he decided to drive out to Lions’ Den and the Sinoia Cave, about fifty miles north-west of the city.
The Volkswagen followed him for the first fifteen miles. Then just outside Mbinga it disappeared. The driver had kept too far away for Philby to see him clearly, but he hadn’t looked like any of Pol’s men. A few miles further on, he noticed a brown Renault driving at a steady distance behind him, although he kept his own speed down to less than 50 mph, allowing a number of cars to pass; then a few miles before Sinoia he pulled up at a gabled house with thatched roof and leaded windows, which advertised itself as ‘The Sundowners’ Pub’. He sat down at a table outside, and a moment later saw the Renault draw up, and a young couple get out and disappear into the pub.
He stayed long enough to drink a beer and let the couple inside make the necessary phone call. They did not follow him when he left; and five miles back down the road towards Salisbury he spotted the relief ‘tail’ — this time a Land Rover with two men inside. It stayed with him until he was two blocks from Cambridge Drive, then left him.
For the moment he was more puzzled than worried. The idea that Pol might be in cahoots with the Rhodesians seemed unlikely; a more plausible explanation was that London, or some section in London, had tipped off the Rhodesians; but for the time being — at least for the next twenty-four hours — he preferred the optimistic view that it was a routine screening that involved most newcomers to the country: that his open-handed welcome at the airport five weeks ago was now being balanced by a more thorough check by the Security service. What he absolutely refused to countenance was the possibility that by some slip of the tongue, or some flaw in Horne’s briefing, he had himself aroused suspicion.
He stayed at home that night, cooked himself a curry, and drank himself to sleep. But in the small hours he woke from another nightmare — this time with Pol’s naked body making love to the bloated corpse of a woman with no face. He got up and gave himself another drink; and in the silence of the house he began to view his situation in a less sanguine light. The police were shadowing him: there had been a leak somewhere — his passport, bank account, even a pro-Rhodesian agent in London.
And for the first time since leaving Russia, he began to consider seriously cutting his losses and bolting.
He still had two lucrative and legal bank accounts outside Rhodesia. As for his identity, passports could be bought, forged, exchanged; he could vanish on the next plane down to Jo’burg, then perhaps go to the East, to South America, even to one of the Arab countries.
But by morning, despite a painful hangover, his mood had become more aggressive. After all his varied fortunes, Kim Philby was not going to allow himself to be scared off by a few Rhodesian police thugs, or by a conniving Ananias in Whitehall, or even by the murderous Pol and his gang of mercenary butchers.
By lunchtime he had recovered enough to make a boisterous entrance into the ‘Abominables’, where he ran into Freddie Frobisher and a crowd of his cronies. They had lunch together and Philby drank too much and had
