by Craig Thomas
"Naturally. He — got in my way on every possible occasion. I was looking for Nazis and for Russian agents being funnelled into the other sectors of the city, then to the West, under the guise of displaced persons and even German soldiers. There was — little time for niceties."
Eldon's lips pursed in contempt. "Perhaps Castleford thought that the war was over by the summer of 1946?" he said with heavy irony.
"Perhaps. We simply did not agree as to priorities."
"You were caught by the NKVD in the Russian sector of Berlin in December of '46?"
"Yes."
"Why were you there?"
Aubrey hesitated for an instant. Stick to your original debriefing, he instructed himself. Eldon will have seen the reports. Give him what he expects. He said: "Following a lead — a suspected double in one of the new networks. Not a very spectacular operation. The double knew I was coming, apparently, and proved his real loyalties by turning me over to the NKVD."
Aubrey sat back in his chair. The sunlight on the carpet had reached the round toes of his black, old-fashioned shoes, lapping at them like water. A hateful vision of himself as an old man at the seashore who has slept too long in a deckchair, unaware of the incoming tide, occurred to him. He dismissed it.
"You were interrogated, of course?"
"Yes — for three or four days."
"And released?"
"I escaped."
"During your interrogation — which could not have been gentle, by any standards — you supplied information to the NKVD."
"I did not." Aubrey was suddenly too weary and dispirited to inject any force into his denial.
"But — you did…"
Aubrey, sensing the clear anticipation in Eldon's voice, the knowledge of surprise, narrowed his eyes and steeled himself. What—?
"What do you mean?"
"Castleford disappeared the very day you — escaped — back to the British sector," Eldon said. "No one ever saw him again. He vanished from the face of the earth — utterly and completely. His remains were eventually found in 1951, during the digging of the foundations for a new office block, and finally identified by a ring, his dental record, and a fracture of the leg sustained in a rugby match at Oxford. Remember, Sir Kenneth?"
Aubrey could not disguise a shudder.
"There was a bullet hole in the skull. His remains were brought home, and honourably interred. And that was the end of the story — was the end…"
"Was?" The skull grinned up from the carpet, from the spot where Aubrey had seen the dead face minutes earlier. His hands were shaking.
"We now know what happened."
"You know?"
"Read this if you would, Sir Kenneth."
Eldon removed a number of enlarged photographs from his briefcase and passed them to Aubrey. They goldened in the sunlight, as did Eldon's hand. Aubrey took them with a premonitory shiver.
"Perhaps you would confirm that this is your signature, Sir Kenneth?" Eldon murmured.
Aubrey turned to the final print. What kind of transcript had been photographed? Old, certainly… yes, that was his writing, his signature. He flicked back through the sheaf of prints, rapidly reading the faded Russian, the badly-aligned, inexpert typing — question, answer, question-answer, answer answer answer—
It was an account of his interrogation by the NKVD — and it purported to be signed by himself as being supplied voluntarily and freely, for use in evidence at some unspecified future trial.
Fake, fake—!
"It is, isn't it?" Eldon prompted. There was almost a purr of satisfaction in his voice. "That, of course, is part of the Teardrop file, supplied by our friends in Washington." He smiled wintrily beneath the moustache, "Your file. Experts have confirmed the genuineness of the signature. If your Russian is still as expert as it once was, you will see that you are represented in the text as having supplied Castleford's name and his current whereabouts in Berlin to your interrogator."
Aubrey looked up. "Patently a forgery," he managed to say. His chest felt tight. He could hear his racing heartbeat in his ears, feel its thump in his chest.
"I see. You will also discover, as you read on, that you explain it was Castleford who operated all your networks, presenting yourself only as a minion in SIS's organisation. You deliberately suggested to the NKVD that it was of the utmost importance for them to stop him. Even to get hold of him. You claim in that document that Castleford was your senior officer in SIS. You lied so effectively to the NKVD that they had Robert Castleford murdered as a British agent!" Eldon cleared his throat, then added quietly: "It was at that point, when you had betrayed Castleford, that you decided to throw in your lot with the NKVD and become a Russian agent!"
Aubrey felt choked. He could not speak.
They had him.
* * *
The telephone rang and Massinger snatched up the receiver. Ros's plump hand hovered near his for a moment, and then she stepped away from him, as if to dissociate herself from the conversation to come. She gathered the tortoiseshell cat to her large breasts.
"Yes?"
"Massinger?"
"Yes." It was Hyde. He felt flooded with relief. He had spotted no tail on his way to Philbeach Gardens, but he wondered at the extent of his own competence. It had been too long since he had needed those old skills to be certain he still possessed them.
Hyde was evidently using a call box, yet there was the sound of music in the background which Massinger strove to identify. A string quartet — Mozart? "Where are you? Are you safe?" he asked.
"Just. They're getting closer. I'm at a recital, chamber music. No one would look for an ignorant Ocker in a place like this."
"You're keeping off the streets?"
"Yes. And away from the bus depots and stations. Last night, it was close."
"How close?"
"Inches. A coat of varnish."
"But you're all right?"
"I'm still operational, if that's what you mean. But it can't last much longer. Vienna Station tried to kill me again last night."
"My God, you're certain? Sorry, yes, you're certain. I — must come to Vienna. I'm seeing Shelley later today. He should have some information for me that could be of use. Tomorrow. I'll arrive tomorrow."
"A room at the Inter-Continental, then."
"Is there anything else? Anything I should be aware of?"
"No…" Hyde replied relucantly.
"Anything?" Massinger demanded.
"All right — last night, I had to kill one of them. One of ours."
"Damn!"
"It wasn't open to choice."
"I understand. Look, I have a copy of the file on Aubrey — the frame-up. It looks very bad for him."
"It's bloody worse for me, mate!"
"Yes, I know that, I have a plan, something we might be able to do to change things. In Vienna — "
"Christ, mate, all I want to do is get out of Vienna!"
"I'll have papers to make that possible, Hyde. But, perhaps you won't be able to leave at once."
"Christ—!"
"Look, hold on. This matter is — it's so big, Hyde, that we may have to take risks, greater risks than ever, if we're going to help Aubrey. You understand? It's not simply a question of your life any longer."
Yes, Mozart. One of the 'Haydn' quartets. A door had opened somewhere near Hyde and the music had swelled out. The B flat quartet, the 'Hunt'… door opening…?
"Hyde? Are you all right?"
"Yes. Don't get jumpy. Just hurry it up, will you?"
"OK. Tomorrow." Aubrey's signature at the bottom of a full confession, naming Castleford. For a moment, the document he had read at his club — so that Margaret would have no idea of what he was doing — was vivid in his mind. Very clever, very tight; noose-like. The document had taken his breath away, removed for perhaps ten minutes any facility to believe it a forgery. In Vienna, the Mozart quartet had ended. He could hear muted applause.
"Tomorrow," he repeated. "The Inter-Continental."
> He heard Hyde's exhalation of relief.
"See you."
The connection was broken and the telephone purred. Slowly, Massinger replaced the receiver, unaware that he was not alone in the room; unaware of the room.
"Is he all right?" Ros asked.
"Mm — what?" Massinger looked up. The cat nestled against Ros's breasts like a stole. "Oh, yes. For the time being."
"Can you help him?"
"I think so."
Ros's face was restrained momentarily then a naked and complete fear possessed it. "Then for Christ's sake do it!" she wailed.
* * *
Massinger turned his back upon the sharp, cruel — and now so personalised — satire of Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode. His eyes caught the timeless glances of Mr and Mrs Robert Andrews, their tranquil security evident to him in a moment, before settling upon Constable's Salisbury Cathedral, white and green and blue, colours of an innocence he could not pretend. Room XVI of the National Gallery was quiet except for the mutterings of a troop of schoolchildren being shepherded through part of their undesired heritage.
He and Shelley stood side by side, almost caricatured in their identical dark overcoats.
"First thing," Shelley said, "Hyde's new papers. They've been carefully checked. They should remain secure for at least a few days, perhaps longer." He passed a small flat package to Massinger, who guiltily hurried it into the breast pocket of his coat. It was as if he had finally accepted membership of some subversive organisation. Shelley's face looked pale and strained with worry and lack of sleep. "Another thing," Shelley added, "there's a recent snap of the Vienna Rezident — his name is Karel Bayev, by the way — included with Hyde's papers."
"Thank you, Peter. I've spoken to Hyde."
"How — is he?"
"He's killed one of your people in Vienna."
"God—"
"He had to."
"I see. Are they that close to him?"
"He can't have long."
"We have to have Hyde's testimony."
"I know. But, it won't be enough. We have to have everything."
"I know," Shelley replied glumly.
"Then what do you have for me? Shall we walk?"
They began to patrol the room. Massinger regretted leaving the impossible cleanliness of Salisbury cathedral, reaching out of the placid green meadow. Even its illusory peace was something to be treasured.
Gainsborough and Reynolds portraits; satisfied, aristocratic eighteenth-century faces. Their exuded security irritated him as his glance lighted on them while Shelley recited what he had — gleaned from Registry. Massinger nodded from time to time, absorbing each fragment of information. Turner's Fighting Temeraire, then the misty, swirling rush of his Rain, Steam and Speed. The schoolchildren trooped out of the room; silence returned. Shelley's voice dropped to accommodate itself to the renewed hush. An attendant's heels clicked on the tiles. Finally, they confronted the obscure shapelessness, the formless half-world of Turner's Sun Rising in a Mist. Its reduction of the world to muted colour and pearly, bleared light echoed Massinger's mood.
And Shelley's final words.
"… if, if you go on with this, then Cass is a good man with pentathol. He can get to Vienna tomorrow afternoon. Remember, unless you're skilled at this or familiar with the techniques—?" Massinger shook his head abstractedly. " — then you can make mistakes. You can close the oyster-shell as easily as you can open it. The whole thing is very risky, Professor."
Turner's wan sun struggled in the mist.
"I know."
"Then, do you think you can do it? Why not just bring Hyde out?"
Massinger shook his head, vigorously. "No, Peter. This has to be done. Desperate remedies. We must know what's behind it. Vienna Station is working for someone other than you. Hyde is right about collusion. We don't know friend from enemy. We don't even know if we have any friends."
Shelley shrugged. "Very well. Then you must gain this man's confidence. Pavel Koslov is his closest friend. You speak Russian, Professor — you know Koslov. When you talk to the Vienna Rezident, under pentathol, you must be Koslov." Shelley announced this in the manner of an examination, a test for his companion.
Slowly, Massinger nodded; the abstracted, detached agreement of an academic conceding an argument. "I see that. Very well, if that is what is required."
"But can you do it?" Shelley asked in exasperation.
"I have to, don't I?" Massinger smiled humourlessly. "Quit worrying, Peter. It's our only chance — isn't it?"
"Do you think it's one of their 'House of Cards' scenarios actually being put into operation?"
"It'd have the same effect, maybe, if it succeeded," Massinger replied. "Throw your service into total confusion, sow discord at all levels — I guess that's possible. But it could as easily be a vendetta against Aubrey."
"But our people are helping them to carry it out."
"The last twist of the knife. That's why I have to succeed in being Pavel Koslov. Why I have to get the Rezident to talk to me."
"Couldn't we go to JIC, even the PM, with what we have? With Hyde?"
"I've been warned off once."
"What about Sir William?"
"It was Sir William who warned me off. We wouldn't be believed. Just Aubrey's old friends and colleagues. Interested parties. No, it has to be a fait accompli or nothing." He looked once more at the Turner painting. "Let's walk, Peter. That picture is giving me a chill."
"You're still relying on a lunatic plan, Professor—"
"I know it. But, if we can get at even some of the truth and tape it — then we can go to Sir William, or even the PM, and show them what good little boys we've been on their behalf." His smile was both self-mocking and grim. "There's no other way, Peter. We must have corroboration."
Massinger felt dwarfed by the large Renaissance canvases lining the walls on either side of them as they moved towards the main staircase.
"What can I do while you're in Vienna?" Shelley asked, as if requiring some form of self-assertion between the huge paintings.
"Check Vienna Station — anything, any means. We must know how rotten the barrel is — and whether it's the only rotten barrel in town."
Shelley nodded. He appeared relieved to have been given some task; relieved, too, to be obeying orders. Massinger had become a surrogate Aubrey. The weight of the realisation burdened Massinger, and his feet felt uncertain on the marble steps down to the entrance hall. He felt old, rather tired, very reluctant. Ahead of him lay danger, doubt, and perhaps an unsatisfactory outcome. More than those professional risks, however, his wife lay ahead of him in time. As he envisaged her, she seemed unsubstantial, about to vanish like his own tormenting, betrayed Eurydice. If she even so much as suspected, she would never forgive him. She would not remain with him; she'd leave and never return. He was so certain of that that there was a sharp physical pain in his chest.
He would tell her he had been invited to a Cambridge college for a couple of days by the Master; a former academic rival, a present friend. She would accept that. She had a great deal of committee work during that week; she would be relieved that he, too, would be busy, in company.
The lying had begun. He had taken the road he profoundly wished he could have avoided.
He and Shelley parted on the steps. Across Trafalgar Square, a flock of pigeons rose into the cold sunlight like a grey cloud.
"Be careful," Shelley offered. Then, as if unable to let the matter take its course, he added: "It doesn't seem sufficient!" His protest was deeply felt, almost desperate. "It can't be enough to guarantee success — surely?"
"I don't know, Peter," Massinger replied gravely. "We simply can't sail a better course or grab a bigger stick. We have to do it this way. There isn't a choice. Take care yourself."
The words of each seemed comfortless and empty to the other.
* * *
It was almost dark when Massinger reached the house. He let himself into the ground floor hallway, and
began climbing the stairs. He had studied Hyde's new papers at the club, had sat at an eighteenth-century writing desk jotting down everything he had been told, and everything he knew and could remember concerning Pavel Koslov. And he had booked his seat on the British Airways morning flight to Vienna, and a room at the Inter-Continental Hotel. The ascent seemed to become steeper as he mounted the stairs, as if a weight of guilt and reluctance pressed against his head and body. Margaret was there, waiting for him. She would have begun preparing dinner; supervising the housekeeper but preparing the sauces and the dessert herself. There was a hard lump in his chest which would not disperse.
He fumbled his key into the latch and pushed open the door. He listened, but there were no noises, no wisps of conversation from the kitchen. He opened the door of the drawing-room.
Margaret and Babbington were both sitting, apart yet somehow subtly united, facing the door. Babbington's face was serious to the point of being forbidding. The man was charged with the electricity and danger of disobeyed authority. He was still wearing his overcoat. Massinger had passed his hat and gloves unnoticed on the hall stand.
Margaret's face was angry. Betrayed, flushed. Her eyes were hard, accusing.
She knew — somehow she knew…
Babbington had told her.
Told what?
He was acutely aware, like some schoolboy pilferer, of the evidence of Hyde's new papers in the breast pocket of his coat.
CHAPTER FOUR:
Into Exile
After the initial shock, it was the tense, unaccustomed silence that struck Massinger. There was so often music in this room; records Margaret might be listening to, Margaret doodling at the piano, even singing—
Music and the idea of it brought back the 'Hunt' quartet over the telephone and the guilty knowledge of Hyde and the palpable bulk of the package.
Then she burst out; "Paul, where have you been?" It was matronly yet somehow desperate. Babbington had introduced her to subtle nightmares. "What's going on, Paul?" she continued. "Andrew's been telling me all sorts…" She looked down, then, her voice trailing into silence. She sensed herself as part of a conspiracy against him. He saw Babbington watching her with what might have been an eager hunger — a suspicion of some former relationship between them stung him inappropriately at that moment — then the man looked up at him. His eyes were satisfied.