CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

      Now,  thought Katie, how much to tell Mr. Boyer and Mr. Spollen? Out of professional courtesy they would probably give her whatever information they had, hoping it would keep them in good stead with McClure’s, which paid better than their newspapers. But, as journalists, they would be more than a little curious as to what tree Katie was barking up. Would it be something they should follow up on?
         Katie knew she couldn’t tell them anything that was not the God’s honest truth, but she didn’t have to tell them everything.  Gorgo Toth seemed outside of her inquiry about Philby, but the Brits would want to know the reason for her asking whether any of their papers’ writers had ever gone to Moscow in search of Philby. She could fudge things by simply saying she and David had heard, while they were in Moscow, that other journalists had tried to find out if Philby were still alive or maybe just to nose around Philby’s posthumous affairs, perhaps get his wife to reveal something new about the man. Beyond that, Katie would have to wait and see what her colleagues would try to drag out of her.
         She got Christopher Boyer on the phone first. He reminded Katie he’d briefly met her in New York at a McClure’s office party a few years back. Katie feigned remembering and said, “So, Christopher”—she didn’t know if he went by Chris—“I’m working on a story I hope you can help me with.”
         “Maybe so,” he replied, “though I’ll probably be pissed wondering why Alan didn’t assign it to me.”
         “Oh, it’s not a London story,” she said quickly. She then went on to explain how she was looking for Harry Lime and, noting that she wasn’t the first to make the connection to Kim Philby, she said she had been to Moscow to find what they could about the man.”
         “But Philby’s been dead, for what, ten years?”
         “Well, that’s part of my story,” she said, then cut him off with, “How about lunch tomorrow?”
         “On Alan, I trust?”
         “Of course. Wherever you’d like to eat.”
         Boyer did not hesitate. “Wilton’s on Jermyn Street, off Piccadilly. One o’clock. I’ll make the reservation. For the two of us?”
         “Actually three. I’m here with a friend and colleague named David Greco.”
         “Three then. Under my name. Oh, are you speaking with any other newspaper people over here?”
         Katie was not embarrassed to say she was about to call Thomas Spollen. “Do you know him?”
         “Oh, Tom and I go back a long ways. He used to work for the Times. How about I invite him along for lunch tomorrow?”
         Katie happily said that would be fine, interview two birds over one meal. “Done deal,” she said. “See you at one.”

       
                                                                        *                         *                    *

         Wilton’s was one of the oldest restaurants in London, dating back to 1742, when George II was king of England. Known for its traditional French-influenced British fare—oysters, potted shrimp, game in season, a carving trolley and desserts like bread and butter pudding—the dining rooms had worn far better than some of the city’s historic restaurants. Etched glass, equestrian prints, carving trolleys and Edwardian décor gave it a timeless look, even though it had been at its Jermyn Street address only since 1984, immediately identifiable by its lighted sign of a top-hat wearing prawn with a cocktail in his claw. It was the kind of restaurant London journalists felt quite at home in—if someone else were paying—but one where David Greco  thought he’d feel out of place.
         “Place looks like something out of a Rex Harrison movie,” he whispered to Katie as they entered. He was wearing his worn blazer and had stuck a crumpled necktie in its pocket if needed.
         “What’s wrong with that once in a while?” asked Katie, who earlier that day had purchased a proper British tweed hacking jacket at DAKS, right on Jermyn Street. David had spent the time looking in the windows of the shoe stores and bespoke tailor shops without prices on the clothing.  As much as he loved being with Katie, shopping with a woman was not among his favorite activities.
         They announced to the proper but amiable maître d’ they were in the Boyer party, were acknowledged as such and shown to a fine, linen-draped alcove table in a dining room off the bar. Around them were arrayed the kind of Europeans said to be “of a certain age,” both men and women who seemed to have little more to do that day than spend most of it at Wilton’s. 
         Boyer and Spollen arrived together, both dressed in dark suits, without a necktie—which relieved David—and brown shoes, not quite a uniform but hinting at a kind of adapted newsman look that wore well for lunch and into dinner. Boyer was tall and David would not have been surprised to find he’d once played rugby. Spollen was slight, his red hair tousled and re-tousled throughout the meal. To David they both spoke with the same accent, but Katie picked up the sound of a higher class in the way Spollen spoke, while Boyer dropped the last letters of many words in his short sentences.
         David was already feeling miserable, believing he couldn’t possibly lend anything to the conversation, which was sure to be newspaper business bullshit.
         Most of it was. At least through the main course and two bottles of wine. Boyer had asked Katie how high could they go in price on the wine before Dobell threw a fit. “Let’s try to keep it under fifty pounds a bottle,” she said. 
         Over Colchester oysters, smoked eel and Devonshire crab they spoke of Alan Dobell and McClure’s. Over the grilled Dover sole, roast pheasant and a mixed grill of beef, lamb, kidney and black pudding they gossiped about London media and Bill Clinton’s sex life. Finally, Boyer said, “Well, I suppose we need to speak about whatever it is you want to speak about, Katie. How can we help?”
         David remained silent, pouring himself the last of the wine.  Katie began her story, how they’d been on the trail of Harry Lime and the possible connection to Kim Philby.  She glanced at David and said softly, “Now what I’m about to tell you two gentleman is confidential. O.K.? Off the record?”
         Boyer and Spollen chimed, “Of course, of course.”
         The dessert arrived, and coffee brought. Katie told them as briefly as possible about their meetings with Southey and Lentov and how they went to Moscow to meet the man Lentov said was a dying Philby.  She told them about their meeting with the Russians in Moscow and the MI6 officials at Heathrow. Then she said nothing, waiting for it to sink in with the Brits.
         “Good God, Katie, that is quite the story,” said Spollen, smiling broadly. “I can’t believe Philby is still alive and you spoke to him.”
         “And you’re sure the people you spoke to were the Philbys?” asked Boyer. “Could they have been actors?”
         David spoke up. “They were definitely the Philbys. I used to interrogate people for a living and these were not actors.”
         “And so what is it you think we might know about all this?” asked Boyer.
         Katie had not said anything about Harold Neame and Gorgo Toth, though she felt she might have to.
         “Well, in order to dispel or refute what the Russians and MI6 told us,” she said, “we’ve got to find out if there ever have been any journalists who ever went to Moscow on assignment in order to find Philby. Has either of your papers ever assigned anyone like that?”
         Both the men had been on the international desk for quite some time and Katie could see they were wracking their memory for any possibility of such a scenario.
         Boyer said, “I don’t know about the Guardian, Tom, but nothing like that has ever been assigned at the Times that I know of.  I certainly would have heard about it and it would have had to be approved by my desk.”
         Spollen was silent for a moment, then said, “I don’t recall anyone ever getting such an assignment. But something in the back of my mind rings a faint bell that there was a freelancer who proposed such a venture, perhaps nine or ten years back. He didn’t get the assignment from us, so I have no idea if he ever went on his own.”
         “Do you remember his name?” asked David, taking out his pen.
         Spollen searched his memory, then said, “I seem to recall his name was . . . Pogue, yes, Jonathan Pogue. He’d written a few Sunday Magazine stories for us.”
         “But you don’t know if he ever went to Moscow on his own?” asked Katie.
         “Not that I heard.  Certainly no story ever appeared.”
         Boyer then said, “Ah, I remember that fellow Pogue. Young and impetuous, always seemed to be following some fantastic lead that never had enough behind it to garner an assignment. Not sure he ever wrote for us.”
         “Do you know where we might find him?” asked Katie.
         “Easy enough to find out,” said Spollen, taking out his cell phone and dialing the desk at the Times.  “Hello, Ruth, Spollen here.  Can you look up the name of a freelancer for me? Name of Jonathan Pogue. Wrote a few pieces for us a while back. Thanks so much.  Call me back, will you?”
         Both the Brits sensed there was something more behind Katie and David’s escapade to Moscow, something that had more to do with Harry Lime than Kim Philby. Katie could see it in their demeanor and knew they wanted professional courtesy to shift to their side of the table.
         “Can we ask what Philby told you when you saw him?” said Boyer. “Did the bastard seem repentant? Happy to be living it up in those Moscow nights? And did he say anything about Lime?”
         Katie spoke in a measured way. “He certainly didn’t seem content with how things were ending for him, which included his premature burial in the Moscow cemetery. He did seem very concerned—and his wife said so, too—to let the world know that he was not the monster the world thought he was. And he said very clearly that he was on the verge of dying soon. I think he somehow believed we might tell his side of the story, or his version of it.”
         “And about Lime?”
         “He absolutely denied it and seemed frustrated anyone would ever make such a connection.”
         Boyer was squinting slightly, asking, “So he never suggested who Harry Lime might have been? Or, should I say, whomever it was Greene based him on?”
         David looked at Katie as if to say, this really is your project and your people so do what you have to do.
         “I’m sorry, guys,” she said, “that’s a part of my story I’m still trying to figure out. I will say that Philby made a suggestion as to who he thought it might have been.”
         “Another double agent?” asked Spollen.
         “I don’t think so. I don’t think he had anything to do with MI6 after the war. And besides, David and I have nothing definite on his whereabouts.”
         David spoke up, saying, “I checked all the official files both in the U.S. and here in the archives and they all say he either escaped or was killed or just faded away.”
         Now Boyer was looking very serious. “I completely understand, Katie, but if you want us to check our newspaper files on the name, I’m happy to do it, if you tell me the name, that is.”
         Katie replied, “That’s very generous of you, Christopher, but I did check the newspaper files yesterday while I was looking for any Philby stories your papers might have done in the last five to ten years.”
         “Yes, well, we have deeper files than what you might have seen. Let me see what I can find out. If you give me the name.”
     Katie looked at David, who shrugged.
         “Still off the record?” asked Katie.  Both the Brits crossed their hearts like little boys. “Okay, the name Philby gave us was Neame, Harold Neame.”
         “Well, it doesn’t ring any bells with me,” said Spollen, “but we’ll have a look.”
        Spollen’s phone went off.
         “Ruth? Find anything? Uh-huh. Right. Ten years ago. Right, right. Okay, thanks so much.”
         The three others looked wide-eyed at Spollen.
         “Well, my secretary looked him up and had a phone number and address, but there was a note attached saying that Mr. Pogue died about ten years ago.  Odd, he was quite young, as I recall, about twenty-eight or so at the time.”
         “Did your secretary say how or where?”
         “No, just that the paper only found out he’d died after we tried to contact him for a possible assignment. Ruth tried to find an obit for him, but nothing turned up.”
         “Well,” said Spollen, “We’ve got deadlines—at least I have—so we shall leave you to pay the check on Alan’s behalf and speak to you later this afternoon if we find anything out, all right?”
         Katie thanked the two men profusely—reminding them this was all off the record—while David felt relieved they were leaving.  Katie paid the bill, which was more than any she’d ever paid on assignment, chalking it up to the strength of the pound Sterling. The two Americans were very graciously shown out onto Jermyn Street to catch a cab back to their hotel.
        “They will keep—what do they say over here?—mum about all we told them?” asked David.        “Absolutely,” said Katie. “If you swore another cop to secrecy, wouldn’t he keep it to himself?”        
          “Probably not.”