Van der Byl sat back and smiled.
‘He’s a smart fellow, this man Pol,’ he went on: ‘He got the guards to drive him to one of the biggest banks in L.M., where he made them wait outside in their truck, after giving them a solemn promise that he would return in a few minutes with the money safely converted into low denominations of escudos. After nearly an hour, the men outside began to get impatient. The senior officer finally ventured inside the bank. Of course, no sign of Pol.
‘We’ve since learnt that he spent twenty minutes with the president of the bank, who seems to be an old friend. The two of them then left by the private entrance at the back, and had an excellent lunch at the L.M. Yacht Club, during which Pol negotiated the hire of the hundred-foot cabin-cruiser, the Esperança. He was last seen approaching Tanzanian territorial waters.’
‘How very frustrating for you,’ said Philby.
‘Oh, but we still have you to make up for it! Now, for details. It is understood that you be our guest, as you requested, on a chartered plane to any destination you choose — within reason. South Africa, I would suggest, might be your most appropriate jumping-off point. Without prejudicing our friends down there, I can say with a fair certainty that you will not find too much difficulty in getting yourself fixed up with the necessary papers. As for money — well, I don’t suppose you’ll go short, will you?’ He paused, ‘Have you any idea what you’ll be doing? Afterwards, I mean?’
Philby shook his head. ‘I never plan in public, Minister.’
Van der Byl threw back his head and laughed — a loud, clear, oddly pleasing laugh. ‘Very good advice — I must remember it.’ Resting his cane on the floor, he rose with a smooth languid movement. ‘The Press conference is planned for five o’clock tomorrow afternoon in the Cecil Hall. I’m sorry about the delay, but we must give the Press time to get here. At present, all we’ve announced is that a Press conference is to be held on a matter of international importance, and that all existing restrictions on foreign newsmen will be temporarily suspended. In the meantime you will bear with us if we insist on you staying here. I’m sure it will be in your own interest.’
He began to turn, with a swing of his cane, then paused and looked down at the draught-board. ‘It seems you are beating Sergeant Pearce? So much easier than chess, of course. But then I expect you’re also an excellent chess-player? It’s almost the national game in Russia, I’m told?’ He gave another bow, then nodded to the sergeant by the door and walked out with long silent strides.
Sergeant Pearce closed the door again, and Major Robson sat down opposite Philby and pushing the draught-board aside, put the grey case on the table between them. It was a tape-recorder which he now began to adjust, punching buttons and testing the volume, before placing the hand-microphone in front of Philby. ‘Right,’ he said, in a gruff English voice, ‘let’s get started. I’ll let you talk in your own time, and give me everything you know about this man, Pol, and his organization. As a trained Intelligence officer yourself, I don’t think I have to emphasize that even the most trivial details can always prove to be important.’ He pushed the recording button, sat back and pulled out an old briar pipe. As he did so, Philby took out his tobacco pouch.
‘Allow me, Major — genuine Three Nuns.’
The man’s face became even redder. ‘Oh thank you. Thank you very much. Haven’t tried Three Nuns in donkey’s years. Most grateful to you, Philby.’
The Cecil Hall was ringed with police Land Rovers and a double line of armed policemen — two White to every one Black. By 4.30 the international Press corps, heavily armed with cameras, sound-booms and batteries of lights, began to form an undisciplined queue up the steps, waiting to have their credentials checked. Near the front was the big, bent-nosed figure of Barry Cayle, in bush-shirt and canvas trousers.
Inside it was hot and airless under the glare of arc-lamps. The 300 seats were ringed by White police, both uniformed and plainclothes. The stage was bare except for a table and three chairs, behind a row of microphones. Two plain-clothes men, their walkie-talkies jabbering inside their jackets, stood in the wings just out of sight of the auditorium; and behind them, in the corridors and adjoining offices, were groups of Civil Servants, Government officials, diplomats. In one of these rooms sat Inspector Rebot and Chief Superintendent MacIntyre, flanked by a couple more plain-clothes men.
By 4.56 the Press had been finally herded into their seats, with the television crews in the front; and at exactly two minutes to five the Minister of Information and Immigration strode on to the stage wearing a faultless dark suit and formal tie, followed by the small dour figure of Lardner-Bourke, Minister of Justice and Home Affairs. Kim Philby came last. He was greeted by a slow rustling murmur that swelled back across the hall, accompanied by the dazzle of flash-bulbs, a few ironic claps and cheers, and a single solemn boo that was quickly silenced by one of the policemen round the wall.
P. K. van der Byl opened the proceedings, his long body stooping slightly forward, his forefinger resting on the table top. ‘Ladies and gentlemen. This, I venture to suggest, will perhaps prove to be the most unusual conference that any of you have had the pleasure of attending.’ He paused to
