‘My guest, ladies and gentlemen, needs no formal introduction. But for the record, and on behalf of Mr Lardner-Bourke here and the rest of my colleagues in the Rhodesian Front, let me emphasize that our invitation to him in no way reflects the political or moral attitude of our Government towards his career. However —’ and he paused again, theatrically, bending further forward — ‘what he now has to tell us may well reflect on the integrity of the permanent public servants of a certain nation which since our independence in 1965, has seen it as its high moral duty to pass judgement on our own small independent country. When you have heard what our guest has to say, you may wonder whether these righteous gentlemen have the moral right to pass judgement on anyone!
‘Ladies, gentlemen, I give you Mr Harold Philby.’
As the applause and catcalls died down in the auditorium, Inspector Rebot and Chief Superintendent MacIntyre were joined outside by a grey-haired man who whispered something to MacIntyre, then turned to Rebot and said, ‘I’m Colonel Dexter — Immigration. I’m very pleased you could come, Inspector.’ They shook hands. ‘The car’s ready outside,’ he added; ‘and we have a special escort laid on to the airport. But all depends on absolute secrecy. Lusaka have confirmed landing clearance, on the condition that no word of the arrest reaches the Press. So things here will have to be handled with the utmost discretion.’
‘You can count on that, Colonel,’ said MacIntyre, and looked at his watch. ‘We’re estimating that with questions, he could go on for half an hour. The Minister will then wind up.’
Dexter nodded. ‘Fine. I’ll wait outside. I’d rather like to hear what he has to say.’
‘Plenty of time to read about it in the papers,’ MacIntyre said.
Philby had been talking for just over ten minutes, without a trace of stammer, his soft voice amplified across the hall where the only movement was the scribble of shorthand and the occasional swing of a sound-boom.
He looked tired and rather small under the lights. He spoke without notes, gazing out across the rows of faces, and sweating slightly.
‘Now I come to what I believe is a matter of some historical importance. As I have already said, my motives in appearing before you remain my own concern. I know that many will criticize me, many will condemn me. But I wish to go on record as stating that in what I did, I was not alone. I was never alone. While I was working for the interest of the Soviet Union, there were others in my job — others far more important, far more powerful than I ever was — who were working with me in the same interests, for the same cause. Some of them are still working for that cause.’ He paused and closed his eyes against the lights; then, with what looked to some of the audience like a wince of pain, he reached inside his jacket. He stood for several seconds very still, then opened his eyes and slowly drew out a crumpled sheet of paper.
‘Gentlemen —’ he steadied himself against the table. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began again, ‘I am now going to read you the names of five men. They all hold high positions in Britain today, and three of them are still Her Majesty’s principal Civil Servants — who are, and have been, to my certain knowledge, for more than thirty years — in the employment of the Soviet State Security Organization.’ He jerked his head down to the paper in his hand, dropped on to his knees, and rolled over on the floor.
In the ensuing uproar, van der Byl called for calm. The two plain-clothes men in the wings were already leaning over Philby. He was breathing in quick gasps. The first journalist to reach him from the floor was Barry Cayle. Philby showed no sign of recognizing him. His eyes had become shiny slits and his face was like wax. One hand was still locked round the sheet of paper; the other fluttered beside him, then lay still.
‘Someone get a bloody doctor, for Chrissake!’ Cayle yelled. He was down on his knees, trying to prise the paper out of Philby’s fingers. Then he saw Philby looking at him. There were bubbles of spit on his bloodless lips. His fingers released the crumpled piece of paper. Cayle opened it, then looked at Philby.
Above the noise, Philby started to speak. Cayle had to lean close to hear. ‘You d-don’t think I’d be fool enough to put it in writing, d-do you?’
A beefy plain-clothes man pulled Cayle to his feet and shoved him back towards the edge of the stage. He was met by a crowd of journalists on the floor of the hall. ‘What’s happened?’ they cried.
‘Heart attack, looks like. And what a time to choose!’ He opened the piece of paper in his hand. It was blank. ‘He conned us all again. The bastard.’
***
Want to carry on the adventure? Read SHAH-MAK — Book Four in the Charles Pol Espionage Thriller series.
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ALSO BY ALAN WILLIAMS
THE CHARLES POL SERIES
Barbouze
The Tale of the Lazy Dog
Shah-Mak
Dead Secret
Holy of Holies
OTHER NOVELS
Long Run South
The Widow’s War
Snake Water
The Beria Papers
The Brotherhood
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Copyright © Alan Williams, 1974.
Alan Williams has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this work.
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