by Craig Thomas
London. Should he move the car now, while there was time—? London. He dialled the final digit of Sir William Guest's number in Albany that Margaret Massinger had given him, and wondered again about the car. The connection was made, the number began to ring. Three, four — come on… the car? He listened to the noises from the street. A vehicle passed, he held his breath, but it did not stop or turn. Five, six, seven… come on — go and move the car—! He felt trapped now, as if bound to the chair and the telephone, unable to free himself. Then—
"Sir William—!" he blurted before his caution stopped him. Relief flooded him, making him weak and shaky, even as he warned himself to say nothing more until the recipient of the call identified himself.
"Who is that?"
The voice is too young—.
"Get me Sir William."
"Who is that?"
Did he recognise the voice? Did he, or was it just the tone, the accent? Who—?
"Is Sir William there?" he insisted.
"You sound as if you've been rushing, old man," the voice drawled. "I'm afraid Sir William's not yet returned… we're expecting him sometime today. Can I help you?"
"Who are you?" His free hand clutched the cassette in his pocket, as if to crush it. Useless now—
"One of his staff. He asked me to call, collect some papers… lucky to have caught me, really. Who is speaking? Where are you calling
from…?" The words were affectedly indifferent, no more than a polite enquiry, yet Hyde sensed the tension beneath the facade.
"Fuck you," he whispered and slammed down the receiver. It didn't matter who it was, Babbington's man or Sir William's flunkey. It wasn't Sir William…
Useless. He bit his knuckles, enacting his rage as he stared at the telephone. Useless—
Before Sir William returned, the old man would be in Moscow, ready to go on show, maybe even dead.
"Oh, fuck it!" He slumped back in the armchair, his eyes pressed tightly shut and damp in the corners, his face raised to the ceiling. He was deeply, utterly weary. He had the evidence — and now they knew it, or they would know it soon… Babbington would be told before morning. Then he'd waste no time in getting rid of Aubrey and the Massingers. The consignment for Moscow would be on its way east. Babbington would know it was him and Aubrey would disappear, just as if he, Hyde, had given them a warning, time to act. Babbington would want to be on Guest's doormat to explain Aubrey's disappearance the moment Sir William returned. He'd speeded them up, hurried them to a final course of action—
He sat for whole minutes, still and silent, face raised and eyes pressed shut. His hands gripped the arms of the chair, his body slumped into its sagging container.
And he'd done for himself, too. They knew he was here, they knew what he'd done, and he wouldn't be able to get out the way he came in. He'd not get as far as Bratislava, in all probability. They'd shut the country up to keep him in.
He continued to sit in silence, unmoving. There seemed no point to activity, movement, decision. Part of his awareness listened beyond the flat to the noises from the street, the noises above and below him in the house. Normal. All normal. Someone playing a radio upstairs, walking from lounge to kitchen and then returning to the lounge. His heartbeat settled, his breathing calmed.
He sat bolt upright in the chair.
Zimmermann. Hyde stared at the telephone, then at his watch. Fifteen minutes since he had entered the flat. Fifteen—! He cursed himself. He had to get out. Survival. Continued living and breathing. They'd kill him, not just put him in the bag. They'd kill him for certain—
Zimmermann. Call me if anything goes wrong — very wrong. The German had volunteered his services as emergency case officer. if it's too much to handle, and you can't get out…
He listened. Normal. He dialled feverishly. Godwin could be talking now, could have talked already—! The last three digits, what were they? What—? What, damn you—? His finger quivered over the dial, then he remembered. Four, two, seven.
He waited. Was Zimmermann in the bag, too, by now? Would a younger voice answer the call, smooth and dangerous? He waited. The receiver at the other end was picked up.
"Yes? Zimmermann," he heard. The voice checked with his memory.
"It's me — Hyde."
"What is it?" Zimmermann asked immediately and in English. "You are in trouble?"
"Listen — I may not have much time. Godwin's disappeared — he must have been picked up. They can't be far behind me now."
"I understand. But, you have—?"
"I've got everything. The computer threw up the whole meal. Everything… Babbington's name, even. Even his name. I've got the whole elaborate frame…"
"Can you get the information to me in any way?"
"No. It's on a tape. And I can't rely on the post, can I? Listen, Zimmermann — I can't go out the way I came in. They'll be waiting for me everywhere. Any suggestion's?"
Hyde felt the hand that held the receiver begin to pain him. He studied his other hand. Raw new skin, still healing. It seemed a badge of his fragility, his uselessness. He waited, willing Zimmermann to provide an escape route.
Eventually, Zimmermann said, "Yes. You have to get out. Do they know what you have done?"
"Yes. I was almost caught."
"And Godwin, of course… mm." Zimmermann paused for a moment. "There is precious little time, if any. I can do nothing, we can do nothing without the physical evidence. I am suspended. An enquiry is to begin soon. I am to speak to no one. However, I can help you. There is a plumber, a German, living in the small border town of Mytina, south of Cheb. Less than three hours from Prague. You have a map?"
"Yes."
"Mytina. You will find him at this address… do you wish to write it down?"
"No. Go ahead… OK, I've got that."
"He has acted unofficially for us on a few occasions. There are others like him, but not so close to the border or Prague. But, he needs money. His name is Langdorf, and he does nothing without money. Also, you will need to explain that you have his name from me. You have money?"
"Godwin must have standard issue Krugerrands in the flat somewhere, or there's a cache of Swiss francs here. I'll find them. I can pay."
"Then go at once. You must cross tonight — before dawn. I will be waiting for you…" There was a pause. Zimmermann was evidently studying his watch, making his calculations. "Yes, I can be there before dawn. Very few people know of my suspension at the moment… I will be waiting. Try very hard to be there, Mr Hyde. For all our sakes."
"I'll try. Thanks."
"Before dawn, remember. We do not have tomorrow."
"Yes."
Hyde put down the receiver and gently rubbed the hand that had held it. He listened to the street outside, then crossed to the window, lifting the curtain gently to one side. Traffic thin, pedestrians few, as if midnight had hurried them home. Man loitering in the dark doorway… no, girl there, too. No one suspicious. No curtains wide for surveillance, no muted lights. Hyde breathed deeply, clouding the cold window-pane, expelling the air like a decision made.
He turned from the window to face the room, his mind flicking through the rooms of the flat like a sequence of still pictures projected upon a screen.
Urgency returned like the onset of a renewed bout of fever. Now, he was aware of the flat, of the street, of the roof that might have to serve as his escape route…
And of Godwin, under a bright light, fending off the anticipated moment when he would let something slip or would have to tell what he knew.
The rooms were illuminated in his mind as starkly as if he shone a torch rapidly over the contours and contents of each of them. Where? Godwin would have concealed his Krugerrands or Swiss francs like every other agent posted abroad. The Sinking Fund, they called it in London. A lifeline; a way out. To be used when not waving but drowning. In this case, where?
Begin — come on, begin, he ordered his body. His hand flicked the curtain aside once more. The Skoda, a hundred y
ards away on the opposite side of the Celetna, was passed, light thrown upon it for a moment, by a late bus. At the far end of the street, beneath the Powder Tower, blue sparks flashed from an overhead cable as a tram rattled its way towards the river. Nothing else — there was still time, Godwin was holding out or remained unsuspected. There was time, time—
Little or no time, little or no time, no time…
He got onto all fours and scrabbled around the circumference of the room, his hands feeling the carpet like those of a blind man searching for something dropped. Nothing. He glanced under the dining table. He touched the undersides of the chairs, tilted the armchairs and the sofa… Godwin would, might need the money quickly, so it would have to be easy for a cripple. No bending or lifting or crawling or climbing…
Hyde smoothed the curtains, but there were no lumps, no rustlings. No weights that might have been coins. The old sideboard — his fingers touched and caressed the backs and undersides of drawers, lifted the clock and the tray on which Godwin's bottles of whisky and gin stood. He began, perhaps prompted by the clock, to glance at his watch after handling or moving or touching each object; punctuating his search.
Bathroom. Cistern dirty but otherwise empty. No waterproof package. Shower offering no place of concealment. Back of the wash-basin — twelve-twenty — edges of the thin, weary carpet on the bathroom floor. Nothing.
Kitchen. Undersides of the wall cupboards, just the right height for Godwin the cripple — twelve twenty-one — the stove, the pedal bin, dust and dead flies and a mummified spider on top of the wall cupboards. Buckets and mops in a cupboard, tins of food, including those for the neighbour's thin black cat. Behind the fridge — twelve twenty-two, no three — freezer compartment of the fridge, only ice-cubes and a slim package that contained some cold meat left from a meal.
Hallway. Cupboard. Hands slipping between folded sheets, shirts, smoothing down the ironing board as if searching a spreadeagled suspect. Suitcases in the bedroom, on top of the wardrobe. Bedroom. Twelve twenty-five. He was missing things, he couldn't afford to be really thorough, but he was still taking too long…
Gambling on Godwin holding out because he knew, with utter certainty, that they had him and by now they would have become suspicious. Some STB man would make the connection, bring the questioning round to—
Twelve twenty-six. Nothing in the suitcases or their linings. Nothing on the underside of the narrow bed that looked like a cot from some institution. Nothing in the dressing-table or at the backs of the drawers. Carpet — nothing. Twelve twenty-seven. Hyde's forehead was damp and prickly despite the cold of the flat. He felt his body heating up inside his clothes. He could smell the dust from beneath the bed and in the carpet. Curtains — nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing—!
Twelve twenty-eight. He had been in the flat for two minutes over half-an-hour. There could be no more than a few minutes now. Godwin would have had to supply his address — they'd know it anyway, from his file — and a police or STB patrol would be dispatched; routine in a workers' paradise. They'd be here for certain, and soon. They were already overdue. He was sweating freely now, and he could hear his own panting breaths. The exertion of tension, of frustration, was as great as that of his flight down the Castle Steps.
It had to be within easy reach, easy reach — twelve twenty-nine. Easy reach. Godwin couldn't even kneel easily, couldn't climb onto chairs to reach up, couldn't overturn or move heavy furniture without a huge, time-devouring effort. It had to be within easy reach—!
A car drew up in the Celetna. He heard the sound through the drawn curtains. He had heard it subliminally as it moved down the street, coming from Old Town Square, but had fought to ignore it. Now, he couldn't. He heard one of its doors close quietly and moved to the window, lifting the curtain very gently. Two men. Uniforms. Police car. Looking around, then beginning to lift their heads to look up — he dropped the curtain. Routine patrol, diverted to check out Godwin's address — twelve-twenty… no, twelve-thirty. Where? He heard, or imagined, boots on the pavement's rutted slush, and the murmur of voices. He listened. No other cars. A tram clanged over points in the distance.
Where — easy — where, easy for Godwin — where?
And then he knew, as he heard the doorbell ring in the flat below. The flats were too few and cramped to have a concierge. Tenants answered their own bells. But they'd rung the ground floor to confuse and mislead anyone in Godwin's flat.
Godwin had given up. Hyde saw him as he had seen him at that bus-stop in the suburbs. Waiting out the remainder of his crippled existence. He'd never have expected or tried to escape. He would have sat waiting for them whenever they came. No run for the border for Godwin — he'd given up.
Hyde flung the old sofa over on its back as if wrestling with an intruder. He ran his hands along the edges of the sacking covering its base. Blood. A prick of blood on one finger. He heard the street door open, and quiet voices. He sucked his finger, knowing that Godwin had broken a needle that had been too light to perform the task of resewing the sacking to the material of the sofa. Its broken-off end had remained embedded in the frame. And the stitching was less neat, newer. Godwin had really hidden the money — buried it. He ripped the sacking away and the noise hid for a second the sound of boots ascending the stairs. His hand fumbled with horsehair and springs, then withdrew the expected package. He tore the brown paper. Swiss francs, high denomination.
The doorbell rang. A voice immediately called out Godwin's name, using the English prefix Mister. They'd seen lights, they expected someone — perhaps even him. He stood up, shaking with relief, and thrust the package into the inside pocket of the overcoat. He snatched up the pistol from the table, and hurried into the kitchen. Heavy knocking, then the short, ominous silence before forced entry. He climbed into the sink and over the sill, hearing the lock tear free of the door-frame as they entered the flat. His hands gripped the window-frame, and his arms quivered. He tested the frosty tiles with one foot, then stepped out onto the roof. Voices called behind him, but not yet to him, at him.
He scuttled, bent almost double, along the sloping roof, concealing himself in a crouch behind a bulky chimney. Sleet whisked round him, the clouds glowed from the lights of the city. Voices at the window, issuing orders, then the crackle of an R/T as assistance was summoned. Boots clattered on the sill, on the roof. He peered between the chimney-pots.
There were only two of them — until help arrived. He withdrew the pistol from his pocket, feeling its barrel brush against his thigh and side. He shuffled on his knees away from the chimney, saw the policeman's face in light from the kitchen as the man's mouth opened. Hyde fired. The Czech policeman buckled, fell onto his back, scrabbled with dying hands, and then slid down the roof and off, disappearing. Hyde heard the dull concussion as his body landed in drifted snow in the alley at the side of the building. He fired twice more, and the second policeman ducked out of sight.
Hyde, hunched over, scampered cautiously down the roof. When he reached the gutter, he paused to look down. The snow was ghostly, heaped in the alley. He could see a dark shape spreadeagled on a mound some yards away. He crouched, then jumped. Air rushed, his feet sank in, his body was chilled instantly, then he was rolling down a drift. He was winded, still struggling to breathe, as he got to his feet, his teeth chattering, his dark coat patched with lumpy snow.
Ankles? Yes, OK. Breath coming back — he gulped in air, his lungs burned, he exhaled. The second policeman's R/T crackled somewhere out of sight above him, uttering indecipherable orders. Hyde looked up. Nothing. Twelve thirty-three. He possessed the lapping athlete's sense of passing time. Three minutes since he had ripped open the sofa. He ran past the dead policeman towards the end of the alley. A car passed, making him huddle in sudden terror against the wall. It moved away down the street. He listened. A distant siren. He peered round the corner at the door of the house. No one emerged.
He hurried down the street, past the Skoda, observing the empty Celetna ulice. Eve
n the lovers had gone. His breath smoked like signals of desperation. He crossed the street, unlocked the Skoda's door and climbed into the driving seat. The curtains in Godwin's lounge remained undisturbed. The second policeman was playing it safe until help arrived.
Twelve thirty-four. He started the engine. It caught at the second attempt. Driving mirror empty, nothing coming towards him from the Powder Tower. He turned the wheel. Pain back in his hands as the icy cold of the drifted snow faded and allowed feeling to return. He grimaced, watching the mirror and the windscreen, and drove past the police car outside the flat, then immediately turned off the Celetna into a narrow sidestreet. Moments later, a wailing siren sounded behind him, but the mirror remained empty. The windscreen was clouding with the heat and tension he exuded. He turned left, then left once more. A wide boulevard, tall streetlights at regular intervals. Wenceslas Square. People, traffic. He was becoming anonymous.
As he headed for the motorway to Kladno, Karlovy Vary and Cheb — his route to Mytina — he began to think about Aubrey. Once out of immediate danger, self receded. Twelve-fifty. Into a scrubby industrial suburb with few lights and no traffic and an abiding sense of grey, dirty stone and uncleared slush. He could not fend off the growing fear that he was already too late. Babbington must know by now; Babbington wouldn't waste a moment, not a single moment, in disposing of the evidence against himself. He would be too late to save Aubrey's life. His journey to the border was meaningless. Hopeless.
Twelve fifty-nine. Aubrey would be gone before daylight. On his way east, perhaps even dead along with the Massingers. One o'clock. It was too late to save them.