by Craig Thomas
"Of course he bloody does! So what?"
"I know where he will be tonight, and I know he will be alone."
"Without a screen." Massinger was amused, in a detached manner, at the signals of competence and superiority he was hoisting. "Shall I go on?"
"Oh, please do," Hyde replied with thickly spread sarcasm.
"Very well."
Small, peeled-paint houses and farms, a flour mill, then newer bungalows, pebble-dashed or faced with grey concrete. Pink or light green, many of them. Then the city began rising to two and three storeys and closing in around the car. The river was dark and sluggish to their left. The wheels of the Mercedes clunked over tramlines. Dingy shops bearing weather-beaten nameboards and advertisements, new cars, tall new buildings. Then the heavy, monumental buildings lining the Ring.
They were in the Johannesgasse and close to the Inter-Continental before Massinger had completed his narrative.
"Well?" he asked finally as Hyde passed the hotel and slid into a parking space fifty yards beyond it. The Australian switched off the car engine and turned, leaning his arm on the back of the bench seat. His eyes studied Massinger over the sleeve of his stained overcoat.
Speaking almost into his sleeve, he said: "So there's me, you and Shelley. That's the entire army, is it?"
"Yes." He felt dry-throated from talking without pause or interruption; weary from lack of conviction in what he was doing.
"And you couldn't give a bugger. What about Shelley?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your scheme is harebrained, but it doesn't seem to frighten you. You don't care enough. I can't see us getting away with it unless you wake up."
"I see." Massinger wanted to explain, but then said bluntly: "Unless you help — unless we get to the bottom of this — you're living on borrowed time."
"Sure — and interest rates are going up and up. I know. But — you watching my back? I don't think so, mate. Thanks all the same."
"You know Aubrey is supposed to have betrayed my wife's father to the NKVD in 1946. She believes it, anyway. Does that answer your question? I may not seem to care — but if I want my own answers, my own peace, then this has to be the first step. Now — do we go or not?"
Hyde studied Massinger's drawn and tired face for a long time, then he said: "This bloke Cass — he's laid on, is he?"
Massinger nodded. "He arrives this afternoon. He knows where to contact me."
"Do you know enough to play the Rezident's pal — just through having a couple of drinks with him and watching the opera from the same box?"
"I'll have to, won't I?"
* * *
"You will." Then Hyde shrugged. "I don't have any choice, anyway. Argument's just a lot of finessing crap. I don't have anywhere to go. The body in the alley decided that for me." He held out his hand. "OK, Massinger — light the blue touch-paper and stand well clear."
"You understand, Professor? I'm sure Pete Shelley warned you of the dangers of pentathol interrogation — opening and closing doors?" Massinger nodded. Cass's face was a mere white blank in the darkness of the car. Hyde had left them once more to patrol the street, adrenalin-alert, senses and intelligence heightened to the point where Massinger sensed excitement, even pleasure in him. "Good. You have to be this man Pavel Koslov and you mustn't step out of character, not for a moment. At least, it would be wise not to."
Cass was about Shelley's age, an old school friend of the head of East Europe Desk, clever, fluent in at least five languages, apparently, a good field agent, and totally lacking the other's ambitions. Madrid Station was simply another enjoyable and easy posting on a covert tour of the world. Shelley's assessment of and liking for Cass were both deserved.
"Do you think it'll work?"
"It might — I say only might. I won't be there to increase the dose, or direct you. Shelley made it clear that I should scarper as soon as I've filled his veins."
"Yes, you must get away at once."
"All right. First of all, I'll knock him out with sodium pentathol. Twenty minutes later, I'll inject enough benzedrine to bring him round again. Then he's all yours. I'll stay long enough to check the first couple of questions, to make sure he doesn't need any more benzedrine. He'll be somewhere between waking and sleeping, then. Almost comatose, but bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at the same time. OK?"
"Yes."
"Good. This is a form of narcotherapy. There are other and better drugs that could be used with a greater chance of success, but they're harder to handle. I couldn't leave you to do the whole thing by yourselves."
"I see."
"Now — lull him at first by talking slowly, sleepily if you like — the old-fashioned hypnotist's voice. Mm?" Massinger nodded. "Then come across as strongly as you can in the guise of Koslov. Create an atmosphere for him, a conversation. Now, if he begins to doze off, don't slap his face or shake him about. You might start waking him up properly. I'll leave you a syringe. Ten milligrams of benzedrine if he falls asleep. OK?"
"How long do I have with him?"
"Perhaps an hour, even an hour and a half. But if at any time ten milligrams doesn't bring him back to you, leave it. Unless you don't mind what happens to him."
"I don't want him — harmed," Massinger replied.
"OK, that's that, then. All we have to do now is wait."
Cass settled back in the seat, arms folded across his chest. He seemed sublimely unconcerned. Massinger scanned the street for Hyde and eventually saw him drifting back towards the car from the direction of the Michaelerplatz and the massive facade of the Hofburg Palace. The girl's apartment was on the second floor of an elegant nineteenth-century house, the ground floor of which was a jeweller's shop.
Hyde thrust his head inside the Mercedes, and announced: "Not a bloody sausage, Massinger. The street's clean for three blocks, and the square's strictly kosher. OK? Can I get warm now?"
"Thank you, Hyde."
Hyde got into the car, looked at Cass's dozing form, then settled down in the driving seat. He had brought the smell of cold into the car, together with the scent of excitement. Massinger was aware of his own adrenalin, sluggish at first like melting ice, now prickling and prodding him into alertness. He was aware of how little he had considered Margaret in the past hours, and was abashed and grateful. He and Hyde did have something in common — the drug of the secret life. Temporarily, at least, his wife had receded in his heart and mind. Now he did want this, he did want to know.
"What time do you have?" he asked Hyde.
Hyde slanted his watch to catch the light of a street-lamp.
"A couple of minutes to nine. If, as you tell me, this bloke's as regular as a sergeant-major's bowels, he'll be here in a mo."
"Quite." Massinger's smile, hidden by the darkness, was eager and almost childish. "Cass?" he whispered. Cass sat upright.
"Here's a black Mercedes — no official plates," Hyde reported. "Probably his own car."
The car passed them and pulled in at a vacant parking meter on the opposite side of the Herrengasse. It was less than twenty yards from the front of the jeweller's shop and the discreet, narrow door between its window and the next shop, where jackets and skirts, cardigans and trousers lay like the victims of a skirmish, softly-lit from the ceiling. All three men leaned forward in their seats.
A short, plump man got out of the car. He was alone, and little more than a dark overcoat and trilby hat. He locked the car and, as he passed the boutique, they saw his face for a moment. Massinger sighed.
"That's him," Hyde said unnecessarily.
"We'll give him ten or fifteen minutes. He mostly stays until after midnight. Her only client on Thursday evenings. Drinks first, I guess," Massinger almost drawled.
"Open a couple of tinnies, eh?" Hyde murmured. "Gives him wind while he's performing, I'll bet."
"Hyde—?"
"I know. Is your joking really necessary? No, it isn't. But I haven't had many laughs lately."
The Vienna Rezident of
the KGB rang the bell and the door opened a moment later. They had seen him bend forward to speak into a grille set to one side of the door.
"Damn," Massinger muttered as the door closed behind the Russian.
"Don't worry. Speak Russian," Hyde instructed. "He'll let us in if he thinks it's official. Sound annoyed at being dragged out on a night like this. It'll work wonders."
"No, I think German. The police," Massinger replied. He looked at his watch. "Ten minutes, then we'll go in while he's still drinking his second glass of champagne." His voice was light, filled with an unaccustomed excitement.
"You're the boss," Hyde said. "You're the boss."
* * *
"Anything in today's airport snaps?"
"Couple of girls with big tits — LOT hostesses."
"All right — bring them over. I'd better look them over before I initial the docket."
"There. Couple of wasted rolls. Oh, those two in that shot. RGB back from London leave. See the M & S bags full of goodies. Should guarantee them a good time in Moscow when they next go home."
"We know those two. Log them back in."
"Wilkes?"
"Yes?"
"Why are we after Hyde — I mean, really after him?"
"You don't believe he's been turned?"
"I've worked with Hyde before. He's a barmy Australian, I grant you, but he'd never take orders from some KGB control. Too bloody-minded for that."
"Look, you weren't there the other night. He didn't hesitate to kill that poor sod Philips."
"I know that—"
"There you are then. Would he do that if he wasn't working for the other side?"
"I suppose not."
"He's been on the run ever since they took in that old bugger Aubrey. He's Aubrey's man, all right."
"I have my doubts about Aubrey, too."
"For Christ's sake, Beach! London arrested Aubrey, the DG himself. They wouldn't dare if they didn't have a good case. Now, be a good lad and pour some coffee while I glance at these snaps."
"OK, Wilkes."
"Mm… nothing there… big knockers is right… Boris and Doris, the terrible twins. Caught London just right for the January sales… no, nothing in those two… thanks — mm, not bad for a beginner. Too much sugar."
"So sorry, Wilkes. What did your last servant die of?"
"I don't recognise him — ah, Ivan the Dreadful, on duty-go at Schwechat again, I see. It must be his boils they don't like… no, no… nothing, nothing, nothing… stop bloody whistling, will you, Beach, it goes right through my teeth… no, no, and no… almost done — hello, do I know you from somewhere?"
"Found something?"
"No, shouldn't think so. Just a face I thought I knew… mm? Can't place it. Just a look-alike, I expect… where's that bloody glass? Ah, let's blow you up a bit… no? Now, who the hell is that? I'm sure I know him."
"Let's have a look, then—"
"You're too young to remember. I think this face goes too far back for you… there. Recognise that bloke with the small suitcase, tall one?"
"Looks British to the core. Banker? Company director? Civil servant? I don't recognise him."
"Back in time… years ago… civil servant, you said? Like us or the 'Yes, Minister' mob? Now, who the bloody hell are you? No — I don't think he's anything to do with us. Come to think of it, I don't think he's British. But I'm just sure there's some connection with Aubrey."
"More coffee?"
"Oh, Christ!"
"What is it?"
"I've just remembered who this bloke is!"
"Go on, let's have another look."
"You won't know him. Paul Massinger — yes, that's right, he's a Yank — CIA years ago. A friend of Aubrey. I've seen him with the old man. Aubrey's used him unofficially as an adviser from time to time. Paul Massinger."
"What's he doing here, then?"
"I don't know — but I'll bet London would be interested. What time was this — bloody hell, he's been here half a day already. You hang on here, I'm going to signal London now. Someone's bound to think this isn't a coincidence."
* * *
The silences between their words were little islands of civilised living. As soon as either of them spoke, the mellow whisky and the subdued lighting and the rich velvet curtains retreated, and Aubrey was once more fighting for his survival and Andrew Babbington was his declared enemy.
Staring into his crystal tumbler, Babbington said with a pleasurable finality: "I really came to tell you that JIC and the Cabinet Office and myself are to meet the PM early next week to formalise the setting up of the new Security and Intelligence Directorate. SIS and MI5 will no longer continue their separate existences." He looked up. There was a flinty, satisfied calm in his eyes. "And I have been instructed to prepare papers in your own case for the DPP as soon as possible." His eyes gleamed like those of a cat.
Aubrey felt winded. He studied his own whisky greedily, but did not drink. He silently cleared his throat and drew saliva into the roof of his mouth from his cheeks so that his voice would not betray him when he spoke. Then he said, "So, you have it all. King, Cawdor, Glamis, all as the weird women promised."
"Do you fear I have played most foully for it?" Babbington countered, his teeth appearing mirthlessly between his lips.
"No. Foolishly and dangerously, perhaps."
"How so?"
"Andrew, if you do not see that I cannot be guilty of these things, then I cannot persuade you. You are blinded by your own supreme ambition, and your blindness has served you well. What you may, by omission, have done to my service and your own, I can't say."
"Your service?"
"My former service. They mean to send me to trial, then?"
"Perhaps. Cooperation could forestall that…?"
"How can I cooperate? I do not know the script of the play!" Aubrey snapped, getting up from his chair and topping up his whisky. Babbington refused the proffered decanter.
"I see," he said.
"How far will they take this matter?" Aubrey asked, his back to Babbington, shoulders slightly hunched as if he were leaning heavily on the sideboard for support.
"I'm not sure — no one is at the moment."
"I don't want a trial. I don't think I could face that," Aubrey murmured.
"Then—"
"I have nothing to offer as cooperation!"
"Then — let me say this to you. There are elements — not necessarily in the majority — who consider a trial, in camera, of course, but certainly a prosecution before the law, could be useful. A cleaning of the stable, purification of the house — reconsecration, so to speak. Good for Security and Intelligence Directorate at its inception."
"And, of course, there is always the PM's stern, Noncomformist morality to deal with. The PM would be inclined to a trial, no doubt. After all of them, all the old bogeymen who've been let off, allowed to go free, brushed under the carpet, kicked upstairs and even honoured for treachery — the buck stops here!" He turned to face Babbington. His face was drawn and tired, but animated. "The wrong place at the wrong time. One traitor too many to stomach, mm?"
Babbington shrugged. "Perhaps…"
"And, of course, my background isn't quite what it might have been."
"That is nonsense—"
"Is it? Is it really?"
Aubrey appeared about to continue, but the telephone, ringing in the hall, silenced him. Babbington got up immediately.
"Probably for me. I gave them your number—"
Aubrey shrugged and Babbington crossed swiftly to the door, closing it behind him. It moved ajar slightly, but Aubrey had no desire to listen. There was no motive for suspicion. Babbington was keeping nothing secret from him. His end had been prescribed; etched in clean, deep lines. They were determined that he should be finished, and that he should be seen to be finished. The king must die. His ashes would fertilise the new seed — SAID. And Babbington, who would be Director-General of the new organisation, would then possess supreme power
in his country's secret world.
Resentment died, to be replaced by a hollow, deflated feeling. Emptiness.
He realised that they had succeeded in taking his life from him. Not simply his past, or his reputation and credibility; not his achievements or his probity; not his rank or his honours. His life. More important even than his good name. He was not Othello. He could no longer do as he had always done, he could no longer involve himself, belong…
They had taken away his reason for living.
"I warned him — I warned him," Babbington was saying heavily in the hall. There was a brutal power in the man's voice; naked strength. Babbington was too strong an opponent and Aubrey had no will or allies with which to fight him. Kapustin had known all this, had known everything that would follow from the instigation of his damned Teardrop!
Aubrey's eyes were damp with rage and self-pity. Damn Kapustin. He had guessed correctly at every turn of the cards, every throw of the dice. Teardrop was cast-iron, watertight, unsinkable. There was nothing he could do.
"You've done that? Good," Babbington was saying. "Yes — oh, no, it was no coincidence. He went deliberately, to make contact. Yes. No risks. Yes."
The receiver clicked back onto its rest. Aubrey straightened his slumping tired old body, forcing it to replicate a former self.
Babbington entered the room again, his face dark with anger. A domestic tyrant facing a squeaking, fearful little rebellion from one of his children. Not endangered or unsettled, simply enraged at the enormity of defiant words or disobedience.
"Your friend Massinger—" he began, then swept his hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. "Why concern ourselves with him? The man is a fool!"
"A sentimentalist. They are only the same thing once in a while, usually over women or small animals. Paul is no fool."
"If he tries to help you, he is."
"Has he—?" Aubrey could not prevent himself from asking.
"Inadequately, yes. There's no comfort in it, though."
"No," Aubrey admitted.
Babbington crossed to his briefcase, and removed a buff file.
"Read these," he said, pressing them into Aubrey's hand. "They contain the details of your arranged escape from NKVD custody in Berlin, and Soviet instructions to ensure that you reached the British sector safely." The papers shook in Aubrey's grasp, and he could not prevent them doing so. Babbington seemed delighted.