Then, in the late afternoon, when he’d slept it off, he discovered that his telephone was being tapped. He had put through a call to Fielding, and heard that brief silence, followed by the tiny familiar click as the dialling tone started. Fielding had come on the line with forced cheerfulness.
‘You’ll be there later this evening?’ Philby asked.
‘’Course, old man — where else? It’s as dead as a morgue round here after dark. Don’t think I can stick another week of it.’
Philby had said he looked forward to seeing him again back at Meikle’s and hung up; then instantly lifted his receiver and again heard the tell-tale click. He knew of subtler, less detectable ways of tapping a phone, but they were expensive, and he concluded that the Rhodesians were still unaware that they were dealing with an expert. To hell with them anyway, he thought. Only a few more hours to go.
He stayed in again that evening, and this time had the African cook prepare him a Spanish omelette; but he was not hungry, and did not even have the urge to drink. At ten o’clock he rang the Hillcrest again, but this time — after the listening-in click — there was no dialling tone. He called the operator, and was told that there had been a fault on the line since seven that evening. Then, as he was leaving the phone, he felt a spasm of his old trouble — a sharp ache under the breastbone, which made him pause, panting for breath. It was several minutes before he could return to the bedroom and lie down; and he made a mental note to ask Freddie Frobisher to recommend him to a good doctor. It was nearly a year since his last check-up. He could not sleep; and by first light he had decided on a firm line of action. It was the kind of bold, outrageous gesture that his mad old father would have so well understood and appreciated. If London were willing to play games with Salisbury — and he had reluctantly come to the conclusion that somehow London must be involved — then he would start playing games with both London and Salisbury. His plan only needed the final confirmation.
He had just dozed off, when he was woken by the telephone. It was Freddie Frobisher. ‘Duncan? Heard the news? Bloody ghastly. Poor old Jimmy Fielding’s dead — whole of the Hillcrest Hotel massacred last night! Fucking munts broke in and butchered the lot — women, several kids — two of them tots in their beds. Killed all the servants too. Not a living person left. It’s bloody war, I tell you.’
Philby had some difficulty getting Frobisher off the line. Meanwhile, he had done his best to sound suitably shocked and horrified: although it was neither shock nor horror that he felt, but a mixture of relief and resolute anger.
He shaved and bathed, and twenty minutes later was outside Randolph Grant’s house. He had driven fast and had seen no car following him. One of the African servants let him in, and kept him waiting several anxious minutes before showing him out to the patio where Grant was sitting up on a long chair, speaking urgently into a telephone, a cigar smoking away between his fingers. From somewhere in the house a radio was giving the latest news of the massacre at Hillcrest. No arrests had been made.
Grant waved him to a chair, grunted something into the phone, and hung up. ‘Hello,’ he said vaguely. ‘Heard the news, I suppose? Bloody business. Really bloody.’ He sucked at his cigar and frowned. ‘I’m afraid your chum Fielding was one of them. Sorry about that — he was a good mucker, I liked him.’ He breathed out smoke, and suddenly cried: ‘They’ll damn well have to catch the bastards this time! My God, if they don’t we’ll have the lynch mobs out! People are angry, y’know. Doesn’t take much to upset that stiff-upper-lip nonsense out here — my God it doesn’t!’
Philby said: ‘Randy, I’ve come to ask you a favour. Something vitally important to us all. I must talk to van der Byl.’
‘Christ, on a day like this? Not a chance. P. K.’ll be doing his nut dealing with the reporters.’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s absolutely essential that I talk to him. Immediately. What I have to tell him might —’ he paused, controlling his stammer — ‘might have a bearing on what happened last night at Hillcrest.’
Grant watched him, screwing up his small eyes against the cigar smoke. ‘You choose your moments, don’t you?’ he said at last. ‘What sort of bearing?’
‘I may know the identity of the men responsible for the attack. But I’m only prepared to give the information to van der Byl personally.’
‘You’re not drunk, are you, Saunders?’
‘I wish I were.’
Grant nodded, stamped out his cigar, and lifted the telephone.
Barry Cayle sat under the oil-lamp next to a pitcher of raw local wine and was retyping the second chapter of his embryo-book The Bored Man’s Guide to Plain Cooking, when the old French laundrywoman came in with the telegram.
The dateline was London, and had been sent that morning: URGENTEST AWAIT CALL 6.00 P.M. HARRY. Cayle swore. It was now nearly nine in the evening.
He ran most of the way to the hotel, where he learned that there had been altogether eight calls for him, from both London and Paris. He decided again to defy standing orders, and booked his own call direct to Harry at his London office. He was still waiting for it, when the ninth call came. It was Harry calling him: ‘Thank God! Where the hell have you been?’ But before Cayle could answer,
