by Craig Thomas
"Thank you. Scotch and soda." When Aubrey had poured the drinks and reseated himself, Massinger blurted: "I — came to offer my help. I don't know how — it seems almost crazy now — but I wanted you to know—"
Aubrey leaned forward and patted Massinger's knee. "I know, my dear fellow. And — thank you." Then the past two days welled up in him uncontrollably, and he said: "They've abandoned me, Paul. The Cabinet Office, JIC — abandoned me."
"The ingratitude of princes?" Massinger's Bostonian accent had almost been eroded by his twenty years' domicile in London.
"Perhaps. They want to get rid of me, of course — they'd like to see the reins in Babbington's hands."
"I — see…" Aubrey saw in Massinger's face a keen hunger. His expression wore a sheen of excitement. Good. Massinger, despite having resigned from the CIA more than twenty years ago, was being drawn back into the secret world. The alcoholic who, years after his cure, takes the first drink. Massinger was eager once more for the gossip of the secret world, its machinations, perhaps even for its power. He saw help, too, of course. Massinger intended to help him if he could. There was in him an erect and certain loyalty to friends, and an almost priggish sense of right and wrong. In his desperation, Aubrey would take and use Massinger's help if he could. He prepared himself for another interrogation. Massinger said, his face gloomy, wrought-up: "There's nothing to all this nonsense, I suppose?" As Aubrey began emphatically shaking his head, he added: "You know why I'm asking, of course?"
"Yes. I give you my word on it. I did not betray Robert Castleford to the NKVD. That is a complete fabrication." Aubrey moulded his features to an expression of honesty, to an intimate gravity suiting his words and the friendship between himself and the American scholar. Massinger studied his face, and then nodded.
"Thank God," he whispered. "But what about the rest of it?"
In Massinger's face, he saw a reflection of the past; signals of debt. Massinger was perfectly well aware that Aubrey had once saved his career after an operation had gone seriously wrong. Massinger had been blamed for the exposure and arrest of a whole network he had run. Aubrey had proven treachery by another rather than Massinger's incompetence, and the debt had never been repaid. Now, perhaps, it would be. Aubrey suppressed the eagerness he felt, rose and crossed to the sideboard, bringing the whisky decanter when he returned. He began speaking urgently even as he poured. Also, the man's wife would not wish him here; Massinger had come despite her disapprobation, even hatred if she believed the media. Therefore, he might prove a staunch ally.
"… and the original Teardrop was the Deputy Chairman himself. He — set me up for this — all of it," Aubrey concluded a few minutes later. Massinger had remained silent throughout the narrative. "And the Joint Intelligence Committee and the Cabinet Office have decided that they believe this cock-and-bull story, down to the last fabricated detail. Even to the extent of not muzzling the press. They do not intend I should wriggle out of this, Paul — they do not!"
He sipped at his sherry, watching Massinger's clouded face as he examined what he had been told. The whisky went unregarded in his hands. Then he looked up.
"Why should the KGB want you so thoroughly disgraced?"
"To sow confusion—? I really don't know. Mischief, I presume. If the witch-hunts of the past few years have indeed cleansed both services of disciples, apostles, fellow-travellers and the like — then it would serve Moscow Centre's purpose very well to substitute shadow for substance, raise the bogey again." He shrugged. "I really don't know, Paul."
Massinger was silent for a time, then he said: "If Charlie Buckholz was still alive, he'd never have let JIC see that file. He'd have warned you of it at the very least." Aubrey remembered, vividly, Massinger's arm supporting him as they stood at the damp, chilly graveside. The military chaplain had said, his words, Buckholz's coffin had been lowered and the Deputy Director of the CIA had vanished from their lives. Their mutual friend. Then Massinger added: "What can I do?"
Aubrey suppressed a small sense of triumph. "Thank you, Paul."
"How are you fixed here? What access do you have?"
"None. The telephone is tapped. I am guarded day and night."
"Fortunately, Babbington has been kind enough to keep the Press away from my door. There are no other advantages to my isolation."
"Then, what do we do? I have — very unofficial contacts. Nothing I can use to help."
"If only Hyde were here—!" Aubrey burst out.
"Hyde? Who is Hyde?"
"A good field man."
"Would he help?"
"I think so. But, I can't reach him and neither can you."
"Where is he?"
"He was with me in Vienna when I was arrested. He — fled."
"Why?"
"I don't know. He must have had good reason. What he knows or suspects, who can say? If only he would come in…"
"Who else?"
"Peter Shelley. He's got East Europe now, you know. I promoted him. He could be our man."
"Will he have been warned off?"
"Yes. Yes, I think everyone will have been warned off. The situation is extreme — I am not believed. I am guilty… but I think Peter will come through. He has to come through if I'm to escape this net."
"Very well, Kenneth. I'll see him."
"Invite him to lunch — today," Aubrey instructed with a dry, hungry eagerness.
"If you wish — from a call-box, naturally," Massinger replied with a boyish smile. Yes, he was hooked, Aubrey concluded. He had begun drinking again, had become addicted to the secret life once more. "Who's running your whole show at the moment?"
"Babbington — the Cabinet Office, Sir William Guest that is, has dumped everything in his lap. DG of MI5, chief investigating officer in the case of yours truly, and acting DG of SIS. An unparallelled array of finery!" he concluded with surprising venom.
"Do you think I should talk to him — unofficially, of course, as a friend of Margaret…?"
"Babbington wants my head, and my job."
"OK," Massinger concluded heavily. He felt manoeuvred; shuffled and dealt like cards. Aubrey was at his most threatened, and therefore his most calculating. "What do you want from Shelley?"
"The last two years of my life," Aubrey replied grimly. "He will have access to the files, the recordings, everything. I need it all. And he must find Patrick Hyde for me. I must have Hyde's voice — and I must know why he ran away."
"Can you prove your innocence — with no shadow of doubt?"
"I must. I must break the mirror and show the reality behind it. I am not Teardrop. I must prove that. Otherwise—" His spreading arms indicated, even embraced, his surroundings. " — all of this is lost. I am lost."
Massinger perceived that Aubrey felt his whole career, his whole past, to be in the balance. Forty-five years and more of secret work, secret loyalty, secret pride. All of it was threatened now.
"And 1946?" he asked.
"That must wait." Aubrey paused for a moment. Massinger saw his jowls quiver slightly, and the greyness of his face as a gleam of watery sunlight caught it from the tall window. Motes of dust danced uncertainly in the beam of light as Aubrey swept doubt aside with a gesture of his hand. "That must wait — it is the recent past that will save me. I have to prove that I controlled Teardrop — that he did not control me."
"You're fighting shadows. It doesn't matter to your people, maybe, that the X-ray machine has a fault. It's snowing up a shadow on your lungs, and that's enough for them." Massinger's face was bleak. He appeared out of his depth, even regretful that he had come, made his offer.
"Dammit, Paul—!"
"OK, Kenneth. I'll help — if I can."
Massinger sighed involuntarily, even shook his head. Then he looked up at Aubrey, grimaced as if with pain, then nodded. His features seemed to clear of doubt, become heavy with a decision already made. "I owe you, Kenneth," he said.
Aubrey waved the remark aside, murmuring: "Not that old matter…"
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"Nevertheless," Massinger persisted, "I owe you my career — at least, until I changed it for college teaching. I don't know if I can help. I just know I have to try. There isn't anyone else who will, is there?" Aubrey shook his head. "Though what a retired professor of European history has to bring to this thing, I'm not sure." Massinger's smile was rueful, and he added: "Though I was a good operations controller in the field, back before the Flood!" His face darkened when he said: "You always involved yourself too personally in operations. You should never have gone near that Deputy Chairman — not within a mile."
"Meals with the Devil and the virtues of a long spoon, you'll be telling me next."
"Exactly."
"Another drink, Paul?"
"Mm? No thanks. I guess I'd better be going—" He looked at his watch. " — if I'm to talk to Peter Shelley today." He hoisted himself stiffly to his feet. Aubrey rose. Massinger, leaning on his stick, looked down on the older man. He smiled slightly, sardonically. His eyes were lidded and he appeared weary. "OK, Kenneth. I'll do what I can…" Something evidently still nagged at his mind. He said diffidently: "I feel — like a traitor myself." Aubrey winced at the word. "Margaret wouldn't forgive me, even though you didn't do it…?" He ended on an interrogative note.
"I swear to you, Paul, I did not betray Robert Castleford to the NKVD," Aubrey said with finely-judged solemnity.
Massinger seemed relieved. "I know."
"Tell Peter to find Patrick Hyde," Aubrey instructed urgently. "And — and tell him I shall need a transcript of that file our defecting friend took to the CIA — that damned Teardrop file, as it's called! I need to see that."
"Very well. I'll be in touch tomorrow." He looked once more at his watch. An expensive gold watch on a thick gold bracelet, Aubrey noticed. Subtle wealth. Castleford money.
Aubrey shook Massinger's hand. Light flashed from the face of the watch.
"Thank you, Paul — thank you!" he said.
* * *
The upstairs room of Antoine's in Charlotte Street was almost empty. Peter Shelley watched Massinger over the rim of his glass, and then sniffed the armagnac. He sipped at it, savoured it, and sensed his moment. He shook his head firmly. Massinger's hand, about to pick up his demi-tasse of black coffee, quivered. The tiny cup rattled in its saucer.
"I'm sorry, Professor Massinger — there's nothing I can do. There's a shutdown order on everything. Christ, I'd like to help the old man — but he's out of bounds. They're watching me, for God's sake!"
"Who?"
"Babbington's chums. I'm near the top of the list of potential help the old man might try to employ. I couldn't fart without them knowing about it."
Massinger stared into his coffee, then absently swilled the pale armagnac in his glass. From the moment the lobster had been served, he had known this would be the outcome. Aubrey's fall had left Shelley still in the directorship of East Europe Desk, but his hold upon his new office was precarious. He was an Aubrey man. He might yet go. Shelley was keeping his head down until the gunfire stopped.
"Babbington intends to control both services, finally?"
Shelley nodded. "Oh, yes. He's ambitious, and he's favoured. It's happened before, in the sixties, and since then. One man doing both jobs. Babbington's the man, apparently."
"You must owe Aubrey a great deal," Massinger suggested.
"I do," Shelley replied frostily, his face twisted into an ugly grimace as he drained his glass. He evidently disliked being reminded of his debts, especially by someone outside his service, and an American, at that. Massinger controlled his anger. "And I'm aware of it, and I'm grateful. But, I can do nothing." He leaned confidentially towards Massinger. "To begin with, JIC has impounded all the papers, the tapes, everything. Sir William sent in some people and they took stuff away by the lorryload. And I just can't get you a transcript of the Teardrop file. It's much too hot and much too jealously guarded. I haven't even seen a copy. Any one of the few copies in existence would be missed immediately. I can't do it. The old man's being sent to the wall, Professor. There's nothing to be done about it."
Massinger sighed impatiently, admitting inwardly that Shelley was right. He was not even craven, simply right. "What about Hyde?"
"Mm. Vienna Station say he's disappeared. They've heard nothing from him."
"You don't believe that, do you?"
"Patrick Hyde's a funny bloke — but he wouldn't leave the old man up to his eyeballs in the shit without a very good reason."
"Then what does he know, or suspect? What did he see or hear that night?"
"I've no idea."
"And you're not curious?"
"I can't get hold of him without going through Vienna Station. And I can't do that with any hope of secrecy. Hyde's cut off. He might even be dead."
"Why should he be dead?"
"I don't know," Shelley whispered fiercely with growing exasperation. "But unless he calls in, no one is ever going to find out what spooked him."
"What's his home address?"
"I—" Shelley paused, then added: "I'll write it down for you." He scribbled on the back of an envelope. Massinger pocketed it without reading the address. "He won't be there."
"Would there be anyone else at home?"
Shelley looked thoughtful. "There's a woman upstairs — she actually owns the place. His landlady. I've no idea what their real relationship is. Most odd…" He shrugged.
"Would he trust her? In trouble, would he try to contact her?"
"I don't know. Perhaps…"
Massinger leaned forward. "Look," he said, "you don't believe any of this nonsense against Aubrey, do you?"
Shelley shook his head. He looked young and cunning and ambitious and embarrassed. "No, of course not—"
"Then—?"
"I can't—!" he protested. His long index finger tapped the tablecloth, then stirred the crumbs from his bread roll as he continued. "There's nothing that can be done to help him, Professor. I know that. I'm there every day. No one is going to help him buck JIC, the Cabinet Office, and HMG. No one wants it to happen, but they can't fight it." He looked up from the curling comet's tail of crumbs on the white cloth. He shook his head emphatically. "Nothing can be done. The old man's beyond saving."
* * *
In the foyer of the Inter-Continental Hotel, Hyde passed a row of long mirrors which reflected a man he might not have recognised had he not created him. The glass windows of the souvenir shop mirrored him more palely than wide-skirted dolls and curved wooden pipes. Then the window of the newspaper shop caught and held him again. But the face that stared back at him from the front page of the evening newspaper suddenly exposed the truth, masked only by the moustache, the clear spectacles and the three-piece business suit. His own face — the familiar one that confronted him in his shaving mirror and the face of the man who had slept rough for two nights in Vienna, by the river and then in an alley behind a restaurant — stared at him from the rack. His disguise was at once useless and foolish. Gingerly, he took one of the newspapers, flinching as a large, middle-aged Austrian did the same before passing into the shop to pay for it. Hyde opened the paper. The small headline and the story lay below the photograph. The snapshot was official. It matched his passport photograph. It was his passport photograph. SIS must have supplied it.
Drugs. Wanted for suspected drug offences.
KGB — SIS — Viennese police.
He felt the weight of the falling net upon his shoulders.
Upstairs, in the suite he had booked with the passport he had stolen on the metro, the rest of his new clothes, the too-large suitcase that was part of his cover, the new toothbrush and comb and after-shave all waited like props he could no longer use because the play had closed. He had booked into one of Vienna's most expensive hotels because it would be among the small hotels and pensions that they would look for him first.
Now, drugs. He was a police matter. He shuffled the clear-glass spectacles on the bridge of his nose, fingered the pads in
his cheeks; his disguise seemed pitiful, amateurish. He thrust the newspaper back into the rack, and walked away from the shop. Arabs lingered over coffee in the foyer, a group of Americans queued at Reception, there was laughter from the bar. He reached the lifts, then paused.
What—? Who—?
He had not dared attempt to hire a car, or try the airport or the railway stations. Now, he might have to. Now he had to get out of Vienna before his face began to stare nightmarishly at him from lamp-posts and newspaper and metro station walls and trolley-bus windows. This was only the opening bombardment. The pressure would increase, the crimes grow in enormity, his capture become more essential.
Savagely, he stabbed his finger on the button to summon the lift. He needed to retreat to the hideously expensive suite on the tenth floor which he could not use any of his own credit cards to pay for. The doors sighed open and he stepped in. The lift ascended, smooth and swift, as if rushing him away from possible identification and arrest. He felt fear; pure, undiluted and inescapable. He knew he was beaten.
Train, car, bus, boat…
The lift doors sighed open. He hurried along the corridor, passing an open suite door. Two Arab women and two children sat there, a tray of fruit and biscuits outside the door. They were prisoners of the hotel, like himself. He fumbled his key into the lock, opened the door, and closed and locked it behind him.
His breathing was loud and ragged. His body was heavy, wanting only to sink into the cushions of the sofa or lie upon the bed in the next room. His hands were shaking. There was no way out, his body urged. Give it up…
Train, car, bus, aircraft…
All watched. All watched.
The telephone lay on the writing desk. He could ring, call Parrish or Wilkes at the embassy, play along, ask them what they wanted—
Or just walk in. They couldn't execute him in cold blood. Whatever they wanted or didn't want from him, he could listen to them, agree to do it, forget what had happened…
That would be as easy as telling them about the tape he had dropped, the tape they undoubtedly had by now. He damned his stupidity, his gullibility, once more. Easy -