by Craig Thomas
"Take that away and get out!" he cried. Wilkes grinned, shrugged, and left the room, hooking the door shut with his foot. Someone else must have locked it, for Aubrey heard the key turn almost at once.
He listened to the retreating footsteps, then to other noises. A distant car buzzed like an insect. A dog barked. He remained sitting on the bed, head slumped on his chest, utterly weary. He was too drained by defeat to feel anger, or resentment at Babbington for his present captivity and his brief and violent future. Nor was there any professional regret regarding the fate of British Intelligence headed and controlled by Moscow's man.
The first face that came at him out of the darkness behind his closed eyelids was that of Castleford, as he knew it would be. The man was smiling in his habitually, infernally superior way. Aubrey shuddered at what he had come to, absorbed with self while Babbington trampled upon his service and his country. Yet he could not consider that. There was only Castleford's face from forty years ago, grinning at the prospect of his rival's demise.
* * *
Hyde had watched the brown Skoda for almost an hour. It was parked in the Zidovska, almost at the Danube end of the street, loomed over by the Gothic tower of St Martin's Cathedral. Through the steamed-up window of the small, cramped bar, he had an uninterrupted view of both sides of the street and of the cathedral square. Snow fell desultorily into the Bratislava street. People trudged through rutted brown slush on the pavements. Passing cars splashed the dirty flank of the Skoda with grey-brown, half-melted snow.
He had parked the Volkswagen, skis hidden beneath the car, in an underground car-park. It would reside there, dirty and anonymous, until he returned from Prague. It was his escape route. He would simply be returning from his ski-ing trip when he left Czechoslovakia.
In a strange, almost hallucinatory way, he was certain that Kenneth Aubrey was slouched, legs wrapped in a tartan blanket, in the rear seat of the Skoda, waiting for him to climb into the driving seat. The clarity and insistence of his imagination unsettled Hyde. The pressures of his task were mounting. He was unable to close his mind to the background, to the necessity of a successful outcome. Aubrey had assumed an almost physical presence, and he was nervous of crossing the street to the Skoda. He knew by now that it was not being watched, that the STB were not waiting for him. Yet he clung to the safety of the fuggy, murmurous bar.
If I stay here, if I don't get into the car… don't get into the car…
He was was warm, hunched into the padded anorak, his chin still half-hidden by his scarf. The dark Czech beer was numbing. The brown Skoda, anonymous and drab, was like a parcel which might — did — contain a bomb.
Don't get into the car…
Aubrey was there. It was as if the old man might open the passenger door and beckon him at any moment. The detonator. The wires and explosives were the travel visas, the false identity papers, car licence and the other documents that waited beneath the driver's seat. And the pistol taped to the underside of the chassis. He would have to stop on the outskirts of the city and untape the gun — safer. With the gun in the glove compartment — much safer, just in case—
Don't get into the car—!
The dark beer slopped near the rim of the glass. He gingerly put it down on the shelf beneath the window. He studied his hands. They were quivering. He glanced helplessly at his gloves beside the beer glass, as if they might assist him. He thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his anorak.
He knew the car was clean. No tail, no watchers. Whatever they had gleaned from his flat, and from anything Shelley had left lying around, they had no idea where, or why. He was ahead of them — they simply would not think of his scenario—!
Don't—
Go, he told himself. Go now.
He glanced around the bar. Cigarette smoke, grey as the sky beyond the fuggy windows. Pale, lined faces. Laughter and sombre, striking loneliness. The barmaid looked tired — washed-out fair hair and deep stains beneath her eyes. For yourself, he told his clenched hands, still pocketed. Told his legs, which seemed watery and a long way below his mind. For yourself.
Or run forever.
He did not wish to dramatise, would have despised it in others; in himself had he thought or uttered the words in other circumstances. But it was true. Nowhere would be safe, ever.
Unless—
He snatched up his gloves, sending an ashtray spinning with a clatter to the floor. It startled him into a hasty exit from the bar almost before people glanced up at the noise. He saw that the pipe-smoking dominoes players near the door remained oblivious to him, then he was in the street, the door creaking shut behind him, his feet suddenly betrayed into uncertainty by the pavement's slush. He stepped warily to the kerb. A bulky, almost shapeless woman in an old check coat bumped into him, then moved on without glancing at him. Hyde shivered. He glanced up and down the Zidovska, judging the traffic. The cathedral's black steeple against the heavy, smoky grey sky intruded itself behind the overhead traffic lights as they changed from red to green.
He hurried to the car. The back seat was empty. He urged his hand to the driver's door handle, opened the door, bent his head and shoulders, aware of the space between his shoulder-blades, almost anticipating the heavy descent of someone's hand.
The home-knitted cardigan, reindeer on the pockets. As Shelley had promised. He'd seen it first, on the front passenger seat, an hour ago; identifying the car. Now—?
The Beano Annual, on top of the wardrobe in its thin, cheap wrapping paper. Biffo the Bear on the stiff, shiny cover, together with the old, fat, red-garbed gentleman sitting in his sleigh, a cartoon reindeer in the traces, its antlers decked with Christmas baubles. The first time he had really noticed an image of snow, an image of reindeer, of winter…
Hyde grinned. Aubrey's spectre was banished from the car. He felt warmer now, safer. The memory signalled a returning self-awareness. He was the priority, his life was at stake. On those terms, he could cope.
He climbed into the driving seat, felt underneath it for the wrapped package of papers — yes. Was aware of the gun taped beneath the car, protected by polythene from the slush. He knew it would be there, just as he knew Godwin would be waiting at a bus stop on the outskirts of Prague.
He had two hundred and fifty miles to cover. He started the engine.
* * *
He described himself as the Deputy Rezident, temporarily fulfilling the office of the dead Bayev, shot while being interrogated by Hyde and Massinger. Yet to Babbington he had about him something akin to prison pallor, the sense of having newly emerged from Moscow Centre. He was evidently Kapustin's man, and Babbington despised himself as he hastened to reassure, moved and spoke briskly from bluff rather than authority. The young man's eyes were chilly, intent, clever, and he said very little, forcing Babbington to fill the cold silences with ever more exaggerated expressions of confidence.
The gardens of the Belvedere — had this man, on Kapustin's orders, deliberately chosen the meeting place? Aubrey had been arrested here. Was this a reminder of that and a call to duty? Or a demand for payment, for results? The paths were slippery, glazed with the hard frost. The hedges were stiff and thick with rime and the lawns — whenever they emerged from one of the hedge-lined avenues — smooth white carpets. The statuary seemed lighter than stone against the grey sky.
The young man, whose name was Voronin, kept pace with Babbington, while Wilkes and the young man's principal bodyguard walked a few paces behind them. Voronin looked curiously old-fashioned in his brown trilby and heavy dark overcoat; but not innocuous. Babbington was aware of the dampness of his scarf as it lay upon his chin and throat. His smoky breath had condensed like cold perspiration. Other watchers moved to the right and left of them, also ahead and behind them. Babbington, however, felt the open nakedness of the Belvedere gardens. Was he intended to? Anyone might see him here… Yet the young man had insisted on this outdoor meeting.
"It still does not answer the question of the woman, and of Hyde,"
Voronin pointed out, without rancour or impatience. The voice of a not unkindly pedagogue. Babbington heard Kapustin's tones, even those of Nikitin, through the lips of the young man. He controlled a slight shiver, and looked at Voronin. He was taller than the Russian — whole inches taller; bulkier. He tried to believe his own significance.
"That is simply a matter of time — both are simply a matter of time," he asserted.
"Yes, yes," Voronin snapped, and now there was impatience. "This man is not important, I agree. Somewhere, at some time, he will show his head above ground and will be taken. But — the woman. She is another matter…" He paused in his step, facing Babbington. "She has connections, she is familiar with powerful people. She cannot be allowed to remain at liberty."
"Then agree to my request," Babbington replied angrily. "Agree to my proposals for the disposal of the bodies."
Voronin shrugged and, almost as if ignoring Babbington, began walking ahead. Babbington uttered what might have been a growl of protest, and then hurried to his side. The Russian said at once: "Your solution does not, at the moment, include the woman. Where is she?"
"I've told you, Voronin, I don't know! She has only one ally in this city… she must be with Hyde—"
"If Hyde is here."
"I have no doubt he is. Why else would Shelley be concerned with Czechoslovakia?"
"Why is Shelley concerned with Czechoslovakia?"
"Heaven alone knows! Perhaps Hyde wants to hide out — where better, mm, than under your noses?"
"Had you bugged the telephones in the house, you would have discovered exactly why Shelley was so interested in Czechoslovakia."
It was a patent rebuke. Babbington flushed angrily and snapped, "Unlike your own dear country, Voronin, security operations require records, permissions, signatures, authorisations, I decided it was better to keep a low profile. It was extremely unlikely that Hyde would ring his own flat — the woman upstairs was merely his landlady, according to our information." He recognised apology in his tone and said with steely indifference, "Forget it, Voronin. It's unimportant."
"The Massinger woman—?" Voronin insisted.
"Vienna Station is looking — your people are looking… will you be patient and give your attention instead to my proposal?"
"What can I do?"
"Signal Moscow Centre — Kapustin. Tell him what I have told you. Aubrey is to be taken to Moscow. Massinger is to be disposed of. I don't care how — the woman, too. Perhaps they should all be taken to Moscow? It would prevent the slightest possibility of their remains being discovered…" Babbington broke off for a moment. A vivid image of Castleford's body being discovered, years after his death, had forced itself upon his awareness. He thrust it aside. "Yes. That would be best. Take them to Moscow and dispose of them at once. In any event, Aubrey must appear in Moscow. It will silence all doubts. Surely you see that?"
They came to the end of the avenue, and the lawns stretched away from them, up towards the Belvedere. Babbington saw the windows not as dull, lightless panes, but as he had seen them on the last occasion he had walked in the gardens — lit by the last of the sun, glowing deep orange in colour. He saw Kapustin leaving the gardens, and saw Aubrey's overcoated figure. He shook his head as if to clear it of alcohol.
"To me it seems a very risky thing to do," Voronin remarked, gazing towards the Belvedere.
"Risky?" Babbington snapped. "What risk is there for you?"
"Risky for you, I mean."
"It was risky for me that First Secretary Nikitin and Deputy Chairman Kapustin let Petrunin live a single day after they initiated Teardrop. Don't you realise that?" Anger, and its undercurrent of fear, gave him the authority he sought.
Voronin's eyes now displayed uncertainty and loss of confidence. "Perhaps," the Russian offered in reply.
"It's the only satisfactory solution," Babbington pressed.
Voronin shrugged. "If you had the woman—" he began.
"With or without the woman!" Babbington turned to Voronin, his face mobile with rage. "I must be back in London tomorrow, without fail the following day. I must have, before tomorrow, your agreement to my proposal. I want Kapustin's agreement. You will organise and execute a rescue of your agent Aubrey, who will be spirited to Moscow by Aeroflot and then subsequently appear at some kind of staged interview with selected members of the Soviet and Western press — my God, man, you have the drugs to make him do handstands and sing soprano for the cameras if you care to use them!" One hand had emerged from his pocket, clenched into a fist. He appeared to threaten Voronin with physical violence. "Now — will I have Kapustin's agreement? Time is pressing."
"The raid," Voronin murmured, shaking his head. "I don't know—"
"How else will you explain my losing Aubrey?" Babbington taunted. He was inwardly satisfied. Voronin was unsettled, out of his depth. And half-persuaded—
The fear returned, churning at his stomach, tightening his chest. He breathed in slowly, exhaled the warmer, smoky air carefully; calming himself.
"Well?" he prompted.
Voronin hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. He sighed audibly. "Very well," he said. "I will signal Comrade Deputy Chairman Kapustin at once, informing him of your proposal. Perhaps he will agree—"
"He has to agree. There's no other way. I want Aubrey out of Vienna and on his way to Moscow within forty-eight hours at the outside. I want it to be seen and understood as a desperate KGB rescue operation on behalf of their blown agent."
"For the sake of realism, some of your people will have to suffer?"
Without glancing behind or around him, Babbington nodded. "Naturally. Some of the Vienna Station personnel who will be guarding Aubrey must inevitably be killed in action. Very regrettable."
"Very well." Voronin seemed pleased at the display of ruthlessness. It was as if Babbington had correctly answered the final question of a long and searching interview. "Very well. Shall we go, Sir Andrew Babbington?" For once, Voronin's grasp of English usage was at fault.
Babbington smiled. "Yes, Comrade Voronin — let's go."
Babbington turned, nodded to Wilkes, who seemed relieved, and began to stride confidently down the avenue towards the Lower Belvedere, the gates, and his car. Voronin hurried after him and the screen of watchers seemed trawled in their wake; a small shoal of overcoats and trenchcoats being hauled in.
Margaret Massinger watched the leading man, the one closest to her, turn as at an invisible signal and move away. She felt immediately cramped, cold, and weak. She watched the man's retreating trenchcoat, less white than the snow covering the lawns, as it passed one of the ornate fountains. When it emerged once more, it was distant and small. The eyepiece of the camera seemed cloudy, her eyes wet. The telephoto lens scraped on the stone of the balcony. She looked up, away from the camera, at the features of Maria Theresa worn by one of the stone sphinxes. She felt lightheaded. The sphinx threatened to topple on her as she crouched behind the balcony of the terrace in front of the palace.
Her imagination was filled with photographic stills, as if she were watching some clever, tricky sequence in a film. People moved in her mind, stopped, were photographed, moved again. Stop, move, stop, snap, move, stop, snap, move—
She rubbed her frozen cheeks with her woolen-gloved hands. She was utterly cold inside her fur jacket. She rubbed her aching, chilled thighs. Her feet were numb. She felt too weak to stand.
* * *
For wildlife photography, Hyde had said, and grinned at her. The smile had been transparent, and she had seen the uncertainty behind it. The assistant in the camera shop had nodded, displaying a range of telephoto lenses to accompany the Nikkormat camera. She had tried to attend. The sleepless night in the anonymous hotel had not helped. Hyde's presence was that of a stern examiner. Yet she had eventually understood, simply by reading the literature that accompanied the camera and the lenses.
Babbington clenching his fist into the unidentified man's face — the faces clear in the eyepiece, everything
else blurred and unrecognisable behind them because of the small depth of field of the 1000mm lens. She had used the largest of the lenses because she was afraid. She wanted the greatest distance between herself and—
And him. Babbington. Not so much the watchers in the white trenchcoats and the dark overcoats — the small fish — rather the one man. She was afraid of him, even in the artificial close-up of the telephoto lens; as if he might turn in her direction at any moment and be in reality as close to her as he seemed through the eyepiece. And recognise and apprehend her. But, she had protected herself behind the shelter of the balcony.
Slavic cheekbones and lips beneath the trilby hat — picture, picture, picture, the motor whirring the film forward. Babbington and the Russian, their nearest bodyguards no more than blurred outlines beyond them. Adjusting the focus, taking shot after shot, fumbling to change the film with cold, frightened fingers. More shots, more, more, more—
Proof, proof, proof, the motor recited as it whirred on. More, more, more, proof, proof, proof, more proof, more proof…
When they turned, the second roll of film was finished and she was spent. Babbington's heavy, handsome features filled her mind.
She raised her body slightly and looked through the eyepiece of the camera. Nothing. Babbington, the Russian, their guards, had all disappeared from the gardens. The light seemed diminished. She looked at her watch. Three-ten. Immediately she began to worry about the aperture setting, the quality of the pictures she had taken—
Out of focus, too dark? Would they be able to identify Babbington? The other man, the Russian? Jerkily, she stood up, slapping her body to warm it. She stared at the camera. There had been too much haste, too little time to think, to plan. After watching Hyde cross the border she had returned to observe the house where Paul was kept prisoner. Little more than twenty minutes later, Babbington had climbed into his car and had headed for Vienna, unescorted. She had kept well back. The camera and lenses had lain on the passenger seat like a challenge. She had waited, daring no more than a sandwich, while Babbington had lunched at the Hotel Sacher. Finally, he had been driven to the Belvedere, part of a small convoy of cars. She had parked in the Prinz Eugen strasse, scrabbled up the camera and lenses, and hurried into the palace gardens.