1
6 March 1963
My neighbour says his name is Roger and he works for Jaguar Cars. I think he’s telling the truth.
‘I’m Vienna,’ he says, ‘I used to be Rome.’ Planting his forearm on the rest between us, he leans close enough for me to smell the in-flight brandy on his breath. ‘Ah, Rome, what a city,’ and he gives me a man-to-man smile.
To be sure he’s the off-the-peg salesman he appears to be, I ask him about his business. Growth at last, he says. Jaguar didn’t sell with the Soviets occupying the city, but Austria has been independent for seven years now and people are ready to spend: the new model E-type is proving a sensation.
‘Have you driven one?’ He pauses for my name.
‘Harry. Harry Vaughan. I’ve seen pictures.’
‘Beautiful, isn’t she, Harry?’
Then he asks what I drive. He would love to take me for the price of a car in the two hours we’re obliged to spend together flying from Vienna to London. I don’t mind. I’m relieved, because Roger is Roger. He isn’t a policeman, he isn’t a spy: he’s a burly car salesman in his late forties.
‘What do I drive? Nothing special,’ I say, which is his opportunity to convince me that I’d like to. Then he asks me what I do, how long I’ve lived in Vienna, and if I’m Welsh. I don’t want to answer his questions. Roger, it’s over and out. I fold away my table, settle my chair back and pretend to take forty winks. I won’t sleep. I can’t sleep. I can only teeter at the edge.
When I feel I’m falling, a shadow thought of what may await me when we land in London is enough to set my heart racing. The cause I date precisely to ten minutes to nine on 30 January.
I was shaking snow from my coat when the station duty officer scuttled from the cipher room with a MOST IMMEDIATE message.
‘It’s in two parts,’ he said, and thrust the first at me. THE FOLLOWING NAME IS A TRAITOR. Printed out carefully in bold on the second were the letters P-H-I-L-B-Y. ‘Did you know Kim Philby?’ he said, consigning him to the past already.