by Craig Thomas
She believed it all.
She recognised her surroundings for the first time, as if she had only that moment opened her eyes. The cathedral — the Stephansdom. The great roof, the slender nave, the chancel — the musty, cold, still air, the boy trebles whose voices floated just below the roof.
It was something she did not believe. There was no comfort for her here, except that it was out of that apartment and out of the wind and she was almost alone. She sat wearily, perching herself on the edge of a chair, as if about to kneel on the hassock at her feet. She listened to the anthem, and the organ quietly decorating it. Dusty lights glowed faintly, running down towards the high altar. Gold gleamed dully, paint obtruded shapeless colour in patches and glimpses. There was nothing for her here—
Except the almost quiet, the almost stillness…
When she noticed that the choir and the organ had become silent, and that she was cold, despite her coat — her legs especially were chilly — she looked around her, then at her watch. It was almost six-thirty. Immediately, she thought of Paul, and she looked about anxiously, as if expecting to see him close at hand. She thought, too, of Aubrey, and of the written account he had promised her. She did not want it. She would tell him so. He could destroy it, if it helped him.
For the moment, she realised, she was drained of all feeling. She accepted her emptiness with gratitude. It was over, if only for that moment or that day. She would not anticipate its return. She stood up after chafing her cold legs. Then she turned towards the west door and left the cathedral.
The Stephensplatz was still busy. Crowds of people seemed to disappear into the maw of the metro entrance across the square. Homegoers hurried past her as she walked slowly back towards the shoe-shop and the archway and courtyard and apartment that she now felt she could confront.
She turned up her collar. The wind had not lessened. It flicked and whirled around her, lifting the skirt of her coat, as she passed under the archway. The fountain had become a weak, broken peacock's tail, and the green plants rattled in the wind. She pressed the bell.
And saw that the door was unlocked, not fully latched…
No one had answered the bell — she had not heard the catch released. The door had been open. She went in and up the stairs, rehearsing her manner towards Aubrey, especially towards Paul.
The double doors were open into the drawing-room, after the door at the head of the stairs had also been found ajar. Every door was open. The drawing-room was empty.
"Paul," she called. Then, more loudly: "Paul!" Finally, hoarse with suspicions-becoming-fears: "Paul!"
The chair on which Clara Elsenreith had seated herself was overturned. The armchairs and the sofa still bore the imprints of their three bodies. There were glasses, and a smell of whisky spilt on the huge Chinese carpet. She bent down to pick up one of the tumblers, and her fingers were red when she clutched it. For an instant she imagined she had cut herself, and then she saw the patch of blood on the pattern of the rug, almost circular and dyeing its tight pile. There was a smear of it on the chair, too, and on the arm of the chair, as if someone wounded had slumped…
It was the chair where Paul had been sitting!
She heard a faint, distant knocking, muffled and unimportant. Paul—! Where was he? Where was Aubrey—? Blood—?
She heard footsteps coming quickly, lightly up the staircase.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
All Our Rubicons
The sunlight gleamed on the fins and flanks of the parked and taxiing aircraft at Rome's Leonardo da Vinci airport. It was a bright, springlike day after the cold and mountains of Afghanistan. Yet for Hyde it was, also, a scene viewed through too much glass, too visible. It prompted suggestions of the imminence of surveillance and discovery, even though before entering the telephone booth he had swept the main passenger lounge a dozen times and found it clean of everyone except airport security.
He was still wrapped tightly in his dark overcoat. They had handed it to him in Peshawar as if it formed a part of a new and enemy uniform. They had watched him with clever, sad, disapproving brown eyes and serious dark faces. Miandad's people, all of them disappointed, hurt that it was he who had come back, yet punctilious in carrying out their dead superior's orders. Medical attention, food, bath, shave, telephone provision with secure line, transport. Because he could not write with his bandaged, aching hands, they had given him the use of a portable tape-recorder and an empty room. Once ensconced and securely alone, he had dictated into the receiver every clearly recollected word Petrunin had spoken concerning the retrieval of Teardrop from the security computer in Moscow. That and everything else had been done swiftly as if by well-trained servants, survivors of the Raj. Only their lips and eyes betrayed, at odd and quickly caught moments, their disappointments, the laying of blame at his door.
He had been bundled aboard a military jet to Karachi and put on the first commercial flight to Rome. He knew he was no more than luggage. Handled carefully and with respect because it was the property of a wealthy and powerful man, but it was nevertheless done in a remote and detached manner. His debriefing had been skeletal, concerned mainly with the way in which Miandad had met his death. Even the demise of Petrunin seemed of little interest to them. It seemed that nothing which had occurred was deemed worthy of the sacrifice of Colonel Miandad. Petrunin was the bane of the Pathans and the other mujahiddin. His death might console the families for the loss of Mohammed Jan and the others.
Thus, they had dispensed with his company as soon as they were able. Officially, he had never been in the country, had never crossed the border with Miandad. They had repeated many times during his period with them, Miandad's last words as reverently as if they had come from the Koran. Mr Hyde must be given every assistance, whatever the circumstances, whatever the outcome.
It was why their helicopter had spotted him, picked him up.
He had spent more than an hour on the telephone to Shelley, whom Ros had summoned to the flat in Earl's Court. He had been fully debriefed, even to reciting once more Petrunin's useless retrieval instructions. Shelley had been shocked by his revelations; bemused by the computer jargon; numbed by their incapacity to do anything against Babbington.
On the flight from Karachi, Hyde had slept because there was nothing else to do; nothing left to do. He knew, and his knowledge was useless to him, useless to Shelley. He had measured progress only by the decreasing pain in his hands and face.
Clumsily, with his bandaged right hand, he dialled the number of his flat, and waited for it to ring four times. Then he put down the receiver, picked it up and dialled again. On the third ring, Shelley picked up the receiver in Earl's Court.
"It's me," Hyde announced. "What's the news?"
"Catastrophic, Patrick — nothing sort of disastrous." Over the telephone, Shelley sounded lugubrious in an almost comic way. Yet Hyde sensed shock and fear beneath the gloom.
"What?"
"Babbington's got the old man, and Massinger."
"Christ, how? When? You didn't even know where they were yesterday."
"Vienna—"
"Massinger went back there? The glass around him was acquiring the faint opaqueness of his tension. I don't believe it—!"
"I thought they were in Bonn, with Zimmermann, just as I told you yesterday. But, they got a lead on what happened to her father in 1946, in Berlin—"
"What the hell are they doing bothering with that, for Christ's sake?"
"His wife's obsessed by it — poor woman. But, the old man was there, too — in the apartment of a woman he knew in Berlin, and one Gastleford knew, too." Shelley's voice was very quiet and distant, a long way away. "I've spoken to her — got her number from Zimmermann… he's been suspended from his post, by the way. The word from on high—"
"So, Babbington got the lot of them? They all walked right into the cage. Christ, while I'm out in Apache country, the old man's revisiting one of his old flames and the bloody Massingers are worrying about dear dead Dadd
y's spotless reputation! What a fucking mess, Shelley! What a God-awful fucking cock-up!"
"Feel better now?" Shelley asked after a few moments of silence.
"What else is there?"
"They didn't get Massinger's wife, nor this Clara Elsenreith woman. Both of them were out of the apartment when the two men were taken. There was blood on the carpet, and the maid locked in a wardrobe. This Elsenreith woman's a hard one but she's scared, too. She knows what's at stake — Aubrey must have confided everything to her."
"Where's the Massinger woman now?"
"Stored safely."
"And the old man?"
"I don't know. I do know Babbington's booked to Vienna this afternoon."
"Then he's going to see the old man. What are you fucking well doing about it?"
"There's — nothing I can do. Who would listen?"
"Sir William — he's got a pipeline straight to the PM."
"He's been Babbington's patron for years. He wanted the new set-up, SAID, and he wanted Babbington to run it. He might look at proof, but he would never listen to assertion. And once a breath of what we know gets out, we're both dead."
"I'm dead anyway when they catch up with me — remember? Babbington will know by now, and he's bound to believe Petrunin told me everything before he died."
"Well, we can't try Sir William. What chance do you think there would be of finding Massinger and the old man alive if we tell anybody? Babbington would know in five minutes."
"Ballocks to Massinger! He's a silly bugger anyway. What does 1946 matter when you could be pushed under a bus any minute?" Hyde paused, and then asked: "How could Babbington get rid of them without questions being asked?"
"His KGB pals could take care of it for him. They might take the old man to Moscow for all I know, so they can send back pictures of his emergence there before they kill him. As for Massinger, he could be driving a hired car when it leaves the road and goes over a cliff- how the devil do I know? But, he'll do it."
"The bloody crunch, then," Hyde murmured. "The bloody crunch."
"What can we do about the old man, Patrick?"
"God knows. Where is he?"
"Somewhere in Vienna — there's no one in Vienna Station I dare trust, no one I can even send out."
"There's only us—?"
"Yes."
"Christ…" Hyde breathed. "Then, for God's sake, think of something — someone. Anyone. You must be able to trust someone who knows computers!"
"There's no one. God. I've racked my brains, but I can't come up with a single name — not one I can be certain of."
"Then tell someone — without the proof- just tell someone!"
"I can't—! It's too dangerous. Look, your job is to go to Vienna and talk to Mrs Massinger—"
"Now I'm supposed to commit suicide— Christ!"
"She's desperate, she's afraid. She may know something — she may be able… look, Patrick, Sir William is her godfather—"
"And Babbington's a family friend. I know the set-up."
"She could be your only chance," Shelley said softly and calculatedly.
"You bastard," Hyde breathed. "All right, all right. But you — you think of something else. Back-up. This won't be enough, and you know it."
"All right — I promise. But, if you can get her out, do it. Put her somewhere safe. We could need her."
"Shelley — what about the old man?"
"Forget about the old man, Patrick — we can't get near him for the moment."
"For Christ's sake, Shelley — thinking is your bloody job! So thinkl The old man could be in Russia by tomorrow or the day after — find some way to stop it happening. You owe the old man everything." His anger had provoked a return of the pain in his hands, especially his left hand as it awkwardly clutched the receiver. His cheek, too, burned once more.
"All right, all right — you don't have to remind me. I'll think."
"Find an answer. Now, give me the number of this Elsenreith woman in Vienna."
* * *
"How — dammit, how?"
Shelley stood before the huge map of Europe, the Middle East, and Asia which he had tacked to one wall of the sitting-room of Hyde's flat. Ros watched him with undisguised disapproval. Hyde was untidy, yes — but during his frequent absences she was always able to restore the flat to an approximation of the perfect reality it had possessed in the Golden Age before she had let it to Patrick Hyde.
And she fussed and tutted about it now because Shelley had told her where Hyde was and the danger he was in and she did not wish to think about either subject.
"I've brought you some lunch," she said, offering a plate of sandwiches and a large can of Foster's to Shelley's back. Peter Shelley turned, attempting a smile. His brow was furrowed and his face pale. He looked almost debauched by tension and failure. She witnessed fear, too, in his eyes, above the dark smudges. He was afraid for himself and attempting to ignore the feelings.
"Thanks, Ros." He took the plate and flopped onto the sofa. He drank greedily at the beer, staring at the torn sheets from his notebook scattered on the coffee-table and the carpet beneath. The cat had toyed with his felt pen, wiping it in a thin trail across the green carpet, leaving a broken, blue, wobbly line. As if apologising, the tortoiseshell rubbed itself against Ros's denims. She gently pushed it away with her foot. Unoffended, the cat jumped onto the sofa next to Shelley, attracted by the scent of the tuna sandwiches.
"These are good," Shelley remarked. There were cat hairs on the lap and calves of his dark suit. Ros forgave him for his patronising tone.
"Will he be all right?"
Shelley looked up, startled. "I hope so."
"He could always go back to Aussie — nobody'd find him there. Not that he'd want to…"
"Do you want a sandwich?"
"I've had my lunch, ta." Nevertheless, she sat opposite him in an armchair that fitted her large frame snugly, even tightly. She watched him, then looked at the map spread on the wall behind him. He had scribbled on it in several places — rings, crosses, names, dates — pieces of torn notebook, frayed-edged, were also pinned to the map, obscuring much of the Mediterranean, some of the North Sea, parts of the Soviet Union and the Middle and Far East. It looked like the creation of a peculiar, fastidious, regimented man planning his holiday or even writing a travel guide. "What is it?" she asked, nodding towards the map.
He glanced at it almost guiltily, as if embarrassed that it should represent hours of work. His stomach rumbled and he apologised. He looked at his watch. It was after three — no surprise that he was hungry.
"It's every Soviet embassy in Europe and most of them elsewhere, and everything I can remember about them — and about our people in the same places." He grinned. "It's all highly secret, of course."
"Sure," Ros replied.
Shelley had told her some, but by no means all. She had needed to be assured concerning the importance of what Hyde was doing, required some vague suggestions that all would eventually be well, and had then seemed satisfied. Shelley did not understand her relationship with Hyde, or her feelings for him. And he did not have the time to spare to consider the situation.
His face must have appeared impatient, for she stood up and smoothed the creases from her denims. "I'll leave you in peace," she said.
"There's just no way in," Shelley murmured, his fingertips pushing the separate sheets of his notebook like pieces on a board, with deliberation and intensity.
"What?"
Shelley looked up. "Oh, sorry. Talking to myself."
"It — it is dangerous, isn't it?" Ros blurted out suddenly. Her large, plump hands held each other for comfort beneath her huge bosom.
Shelley nodded. "It is. Not for you—"
"I didn't mean that!" she snapped. "I meant him — and you, and that Massinger bloke… and your boss. It's a stupid bloody game to begin with, and bloody worse when you find out it's for real!"
"I'm sorry."
Ros snorted in derision and anxiet
y, then left the room. The cat squeezed through the door just behind her feet. Left alone, Shelley stood up and walked around the sofa to confront the unyielding map once more, the can of Foster's still in his fist. His other hand was thrust into his trouser pocket. He began toying with his car keys. The car was even parked two streets away, just in case. Alison had gone to stay with her mother in Hove — he'd taken that precaution immediately after Hyde's call from Peshawar. Arguing all the way to the coast — but he had managed to return to London without them.
He had used the excuse of having caught a cold in order to leave his office less than an hour after reporting that morning. He had returned to Hyde's flat to await his call from Rome and to tell him the damaging, possibly fatal news of Aubrey and Massinger. He had spent the greater part of the previous night on the telephone in his flat, and the last few hours before dawn trying to sleep in Hyde's bed, which he found too hard. He was camped out, homeless.
Hiding, he reminded himself. I'm on the run like Hyde. I am hiding. No one knows it yet, but I'm already on the run.
He studied the map once more, his eyes roaming at first over whole continents, then reading his notes attached to those embassies and consulates he considered most vulnerable to a penetration operation.
He'd run all kinds of penetration ops from Queen Anne's Gate and from Century House, plenty of times. But he'd never held Aubrey's safety in his hands before, and the concentration required to play this kind of esoteric chess — this war-game — would not come because the old man's face was always there at the back of his mind. He sighed and swallowed more beer. It was gassy. He belched politely. The room was warmer now, with the central heating turned up.