‘Where to, for Chrissake?’
‘Jo’burg. With a connecting flight to Salisbury, Rhodesia.’
‘Rhodesia! So I’m on a new assignment, am I?’
‘You’re on the same assignment, Barry. Only we can drop the hush-hush on the phones. The story’s broken wide open. We got it early this morning. The Smith régime has announced it’s holding a Press conference — Thursday, 5 p.m., in Salisbury. And they’re inviting just about every representative of the non-Communist Press, radio and television networks.’
‘Sorry, Harry, I’m feeling dull. I’m just not with you. If it’s a regular international Press conference, you can get it off the wires. You don’t need me.’
‘Yes I do. You’re the only one who has the whole background story — still exclusive.’
‘Background to what?’ Cayle yelled.
‘Simmer down,’ said the editor. ‘The point is, we’ve had a strong report from two sources — and so far with no official denial — that the conference has something to do with your friend Kim.’
‘Holy snakes! What the hell’s he doing down there?’
‘That’s what you’re paid to find out. Now get moving. And if you miss that conference, I promise you I’ll have you on “Unmarried Mothers” for the next three weeks — part of a new series we’re running on the social services. Ring me the moment you get to the airport. And good luck.’
Cayle had to return to the farmhouse to fetch his passport, but did not bother to pack. He caught the last train to Paris with a couple of minutes to spare.
CHAPTER 28
The door opened and the police sergeant sprang up with a scrape of his chair. Philby remained seated. Into the room stepped a very tall, lean man dressed in a black frockcoat and stiff wing-collar, his thick grey hair combed straight back from his forehead. His face was thin and hooked and very dark; and it was rumoured by his enemies — of whom there were many — that the Minister of Information and Immigration had Indian blood.
He stood staring at Philby with his black vulpine eyes, while his long fingers caressed the silver top of a malacca cane. ‘Good evening, Mr Philby.’ He gave a slight foppish bow, and sweeping back the tails of his coat slid into the chair vacated by the sergeant. ‘Enjoying your game?’ he added, glancing at the draught-board on the table between them.
Philby nodded sullenly. He was both repelled and fascinated by the man, who reminded him of a cross between an old-fashioned head-waiter and a stand-in for Count Dracula — although the effect was far from comic.
P. K. van der Byl turned to a stout red-faced man with a white moustache who had come in behind him and now stood beside the table, holding a grey plastic case. ‘This is Major Robson,’ he said, ‘one of our chief Security officers.’
The red-faced man remained standing, glaring at Philby. There was a soft click as the sergeant closed the door and stood with his back to it.
‘Now, Philby, I’m going to put you in the picture.’ The Minister leant forward and placed his narrow elbows astride the draught-board. ‘We have fully discussed your proposition, and in principle we agree.’
‘In principle?’
Van der Byl gave a very white smile. ‘I must beg your pardon, I was being pedantic — Civil Servants’ language. It’s one of the bad habits we pick up in Government. Yes, we agree, Philby. We accept your conditions.’
He went on smiling, as Philby said cautiously: ‘You’ve arranged full coverage? And I don’t just mean your own Press minions from here and South Africa. I mean the world Press, even the ones that are persona non grata?’
Van der Byl gave his little bow, which in no way dislodged his immaculate hair. ‘Of course. The British, Americans, French, Germans, Scandinavians, they will all be present. I only regret that your Russian friends will have to go by default. But then, no doubt they will take the word of one of their former colleagues?’ His black eyes never moved from Philby’s face.
‘Now, the other half of the bargain. I have discussed the matter fully with the Cabinet, as well as our Security people. We’ve been doing some checking on the information you’ve already given us. So far it seems satisfactory. We have been following some discreet inquiries through channels close to the French authorities. These confirm your description of the Frenchman, Pol. Of course, here we will have to tread with some care. As you know, our relations with France, while officially still non-existent, are by no means cold. It is essential, therefore, that we do nothing to upset them.’
‘What’s happened to Pol?’ said Philby.
Van der Byl leant forward and began to fondle the silver top of his cane. ‘His little private army has been successfully bagged, as you would say. Thanks, in large part, to the information you have given us.’
‘And Pol?’ Philby repeated.
Van der Byl tapped his cane gently on the linoleum floor. ‘I’m afraid that in the case of Pol himself, we have had rather less luck. A warrant was issued yesterday morning to have him apprehended by the Portuguese. This was done as soon as he showed up at L.M. airport to take a flight to Nairobi. Unfortunately, the Security troops who accompanied him back into the city seemed to have proved unreliable.’ He shrugged: ‘What can one expect, with this new crypto-Communist government in Lisbon? Anyway, the man Pol has disappeared. We were afraid at first that the troops had killed him. For we have since had reports that he was carrying on his person very large sums of money — mostly in
