by Craig Thomas
Why? What rescue was possible?
Voronin had turned away from the Aeroflot officer — presumably the pilot — and was heading towards him. His face expressed irritation. "A fault in that engine — a delay of perhaps one hour, maybe more," he announced in a clipped tone.
"I see," Aubrey replied. "It makes little difference — wouldn't you say?"
"Little difference. That is true. Sir Andrew Babbington is unlikely to come to your rescue, I think." Voronin's irritation had vanished. "You will please get aboard the aircraft," he said.
"In a moment."
Voronin's features darkened. Then he said, "As you wish."
Aubrey walked away from him towards the Massingers. The Russian fell in behind him. The Massingers had seated themselves on a trunk — perhaps one of the trunks in which they had been transported to Schwechat? — dazed and silent, their hands linked on the woman's lap. The image persisted. It seemed to be a pose they had adopted for some portrait. This is how they would like to be remembered, Aubrey thought, feeling his throat constrict with guilt.
He paused and turned to Voronin. "Is there no way?" he asked.
Voronin shook his head. His eyes appeared bleak. Yet he rubbed briefly at his chin, as if pondering some statement. Then his eyes were alight with amused malice. "No way," he said. "But, you will not have long, Sir Kenneth Aubrey, in which to be — sorry for them?"
Aubrey was aware, beyond Voronin's shoulder, that the Massingers were both watching him. There was something like pleasure, comfort on their faces. He felt very cold. He wished for a walking-stick upon which to lean. The Massingers' faces displayed common cause with him; companionship. And he loathed it.
Voronin nodded stiffly and quickly. "I must now attend to other matters. You may join your friends."
He walked away towards the aircraft. The man who had sat beside Aubrey in the limousine hovered alertly. Aubrey felt the hard-lit scene lurch, as if he were fainting. He could not become warm.
Every time there was a scandal in the service, every time an intelligence matter became the concern of the Western media, they would use the clip of film. Himself, descending the passenger ladder alongside this aircraft.
Coming home to Moscow.
He knew the fear would begin soon, and not leave him. For the moment, however, a seething rage possessed him. Always, for fifty or even a hundred years, he would be wheeled out into the lights like Burgess, Maclean, Philby and the others. Photographs, details, comment — and the clip of grainy film of his arrival in Moscow. Flashing bulbs, the dying noise of aircraft engines, and his white, startled face.
Coming home to Moscow. His immortality!
Massinger raised his arm in a tentative invitation. Aubrey hurried towards them with the eagerness of a fugitive seeking shelter.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN:
Place of Execution
When the child brought him a bowl of steaming, spicy stew, its dumplings like small boulders amid the meat and vegetables, he felt defeated; drained of all remaining energy and will. He felt he no longer possessed the strength to persuade Langdorf. The man's small, flaxen-haired, narrow-faced, well-mannered daughter had disarmed him. She was perhaps eleven or twelve. Her name was Marthe — after her mother, Langdorf had informed him. His almost-in-focus watch showed five. No — that was the second hand at twelve. It was already five-thirty. He had been in the plumber's flat for half an hour; to no purpose. Langdorf continued to refuse his help, even though his eyes were drawn again and again to the small, neat paper brick of Swiss francs lying between them on the check tablecloth.
Langdorf was wary of his own safety. Perhaps because of his child. "It is too late today," he kept repeating. "Already it is too late. It would be almost dawn before we reached the border. I cannot take you now." He had added, after the second or third refusal: "You can stay here until it is dark again. Then, I will get you across." Marthe had stood at the table's edge, watching Hyde intently. When Langdorf had made his offer, her head had moved slightly, indicating agreement. Now, she stood in the same spot, waiting for him to lift his spoon, taste the stew. He did so.
It scalded his throat and made his eyes water. Langdorf's face, seen through Hyde's tears, wore an amused expression. Marthe seemed to take the matter much more seriously, and he felt compelled to nod approval, and to say: "Thank you — yes, great. Lovely." His stomach resented the heat of the food, but its hunger was evident, and he ate — accelerating with each mouthful, blowing on the meat and vegetables in the spoon.
Eventually, his stomach seemed satisfied. Immediately, he said, "You have to take me — now. Whatever the risks, I must get across before first light." He tapped the little brick of high-denomination notes, knowing it was probably more than Langdorf had ever been offered before for such a crossing. "You have to." Half of Godwin's money lay on the table, the other half in Hyde's overcoat pocket; with the pistol, which might become necessary.
Except that it would probably be fatal to threaten his lifeline. His guide. Stupid— a last resort. He groaned inwardly at the prospect that it might come to such a desperate solution. Take the money, you stupid bugger—!
"What's the matter?" Hyde sneered deliberately. "Isn't the money your motivation? Zimmermann told me it was."
Marthe lifted the empty bowl from between Hyde's planted elbows. Her narrow, pale face was filled with reproach, and Hyde realised that she spoke good English. Either that, or she was alive to every nuance of negotiations such as the present one. Practice. She'd seen it all so many times before.
"She speaks English," Langdorf explained, lighting his pipe, streaming blue smoke towards the flat's low ceiling. "I pay for the lessons. It is part of her education." Marthe smiled at her father; in gratitude, it appeared to Hyde's unpractised eye. He felt moved by the exchange of looks; a conspiracy of affection where he might not have looked for it. "Yes," the plumber continued, still dressed in his shabby woolen dressing-gown and slippers. Thick, striped pajama-bottoms protruded from below the hem of the long dressing-gown. "Yes — money is my only motivation, as you say." Blue smoke rose in puffs; signaling contentment, even superiority. Langdorfs features and his relaxed posture at the table suggested that he could not be surprised, taken aback. He knew himself; he could not be insulted or goaded.
Hyde heard the child washing up in the tiny kitchen. She was singing softly to herself. Unlike her father, she had dressed — even brushed and plaited her hair — before appearing before their visitor. Probably, she was standing on something in order to reach into the sink. He heard cups and a plate rattle in the hot water, and looked at his half-finished glass of black Czech beer. Just one, he had announced to himself. Even so, it had further tired him. The child had glanced at the glass, perhaps hoping he would finish quickly so that it might be washed up with the other things. The clink of a spoon on a metal drying-board—
Hyde was tired. Drunk-tired, bone-tired. Utterly weary. Five-thirty. Four hours, and he was on the wrong side of an enemy border. Perhaps the old man had already taken off for Moscow—?
Langdorf's face was still, complacent. Hyde knew that his weariness was about to become acceptance. In a few minutes, a bed for the rest of the night and most of the day would become irresistible…
Schliemann, he thought, rousing himself, his fuddled mind trying to embrace the trigger-word, just as his training had intended. Schliemann. That was what they called it on those occasions when they trained you to the point of exhaustion and beyond. Some classical scholar's choice of a trigger-word. Schliemann, the discoverer of the ruins of Troy. When you were bone-weary, ready to give up, wanting nothing but sleep, ached for rest… Sleep is the last escape, they said. The last thing you want is to sleep. Be like Schliemann. Dig down into yourself, down through level after level until you find your reserves.
How many levels were there of the ruins of Troy, city piled on city for thousands of years? Seventeen, eighteen, thirty — infinite…
Use the Schliemann principle. Never give up. He d
idn't. There's something down there you can find and use. Schliemann. Trigger something, anything in yourself — don't go to sleep!
He groaned aloud, and looked up from the nest he had made of his folded arms. Langdorf was watching him through a billow of blue smoke. The clink of something picked up, banged against another utensil in the process of being wiped. Marthe practicing to be the perfect housekeeper—
He had dozed. Almost fallen asleep. Schliemann. Dig. Dig. Wake up, use anything — other people, anger, insults — anything. Bend events to your pattern.
"What are you grooming her for?" Hyde asked, nodding towards the kitchen. "Miss World?"
He leaned on his arms, studying Langdorf. The plumber had taken the pipe from his mouth. His full lips were now twisted with anger. His eyes had narrowed. His pale brow shone below the receding, greying hair.
"What do you say?" he asked, his eyes flickering nervously towards the kitchen door. The room, like the rest of the flat that Hyde had seen, conformed to the grey, weather-stained concrete block which contained it. Tiled fireplace with an inadequate gas fire, thin carpet, poor furniture. Yet, Langdorf was probably the wealthiest man in the tower block. All for the child—
"I said — what's the money for?"
Use anything, they said. Schliemann. Dig for victory.
Hyde felt tense, strained, but alert. The adrenalin, unexpectedly, began to flow. A high. What it would cost him, he did not pause to consider. He needed Langdorf's assistance. He had to cross the border.
Schliemann.
"For her," Langdorf admitted after a silence. The smoke of his pipe was now a screen, masking his expressions.
"What do you want for her?" Hyde pursued.
The child had entered the room. As if aware she was being discussed, she hovered in the doorway. She wore a small pinafore, and rubbed her hands in the material. Langdorf was aware of her. Hyde sensed an advantage. He leaned forward and whispered: "What do you want for her? What's the money for, Langdorf?"
Langdorf hissed, "She goes to the West. Eventually. I have distant relatives there, in the Federal Republic. When she has enough money, she goes. Money, education, cleverness — she goes."
"Is that your weakness, Langdorf? How much does it take? How much do you have? What do you want?' Hyde grinned at the plumber's confusion. His features were mobile, disturbed. Dig for victory. Hyde said, "I want something, you want even more than that. How much? How much?
Langdorf's eyes expressed hatred. Hyde's cynicism had caught him unawares. Neither of them cared much for anything, anything at all. Langdorf had assumed that when he had opened the door to a tired man who was evidently a professional. But, this man cared for nothing—
Hyde saw the almost-fear and said, "Come on, German plumber with dreams above his station. Give me a clue. Tell me how much you want." He glanced at Marthe, whose head still turned as she looked from face to face. "I won't tell you what I've been through, Langdorf. You wouldn't be interested. You're only interested in money. Everyone believes that about you. So, how much money? Not for freedom, or for the future, or for anything except yourself."
Langdorf had no chance. Hyde said, "What will she need in the West, Langdorf? How much will she need? A lot. How will she turn out, Langdorf? You don't want Marthe—" The girl's eyes gleamed at the sound of her name. Her face was twisted in concentration as she tried to follow his rapid English. " — to end up working in a poky office, typing. Do you? How will she turn out? Will she need her teeth fixing? What about her tits, when they arrive? Will she need them fixed, too? Clothes? Clothes cost a packet in the West, Langdorf, even if you shop at Marks and Sparks!" Hyde stood up, leaning on the table, knuckles white, his face glaring down towards the plumber. The unregarded pipe had almost gone out. "She's going to need so much if she's going to have a head-start, Langdorf. Don't you realise that?" He leaned closer. He felt the sweat prickle on his forehead — dig!
He had him. He had Langdorf. One more rung on the ladder to Babbington.
He had him.
"Don't you realise?" he hissed. "She's going to need everything you can give her, and more. More. You want more? Is that what you want? Then take it out of my coat — go on, dip in the inside pocket and pull out your daughter's future!"
Langdorf's dislike, even hatred of Hyde was evident. Yet he looked older, too; once more like a man roused from sleep. Hair ruffled, eyes slow to focus and darkly stained beneath. Stubble, grey skin. Hyde glanced at the man's small, plain daughter, hands buried in the folds of the pinafore. There was a picture on the tiled mantelpiece of a woman who must have been her mother. Thin-faced, her hair blonde and parted in the middle, tied back. Squinting into the sun as she smiled at the camera. Hyde felt he had blundered into a situation; damaging it. Only he was truly cynical here. He shook his head and the moment passed.
He had four hours to get to Babbington before it was too late for the old man—
Old man? It might already be too late.
Langdorf laid down his pipe and stood up. Immediately, Marthe went to his side and took his rough hand, which gripped the child's thin fingers. The dirt beneath his fingernails was highlighted against her white skin. Then he reached for Hyde's coat.
"The gun's in there, too," Hyde remarked, sitting down.
Langdorf appeared not to hear, yet Hyde saw his hand twitch as it brushed against the butt of the pistol. Then the hand withdrew the torn paper packet and a thumb stained from the pipe riffled the edges of the banknotes. Marthe hovered uncertainly.
Langdorf looked at Hyde, then said, "This is someone's emergency money, I think? Not yours."
"He won't be needing it."
"Marthe — put the money away," Langdorf announced, sweeping up the little brick of notes on the table and tucking them into the elastic band around the packet. He handed them to the child and she took the bundle without word or expression and left the room. Langdorf followed her. A light went on across the narrow hall. Surprised by his own curiosity, Hyde got up and went into the hall.
In her bedroom, Marthe was locking the money into a tin strongbox which lay in the bottom drawer of a chest. The room had pink walls, pink lamp-shades. It appeared at odds with the rest of the flat. The small bed was covered with a brightly coloured duvet. There were a number of small soft toys lying on either side of a depression in the pillows. Waiting for Marthe. A cassette-playing radio, Japanese — a small television set, West German. Langdorf looked round and saw Hyde. His face was angry, as if he had surprised an intruder or a peeping-tom. Then he looked around his daughter's room, and his features relaxed. Something in him wanted Hyde to see, to approve and admire. Hyde nodded and attempted a smile. He had seen Langdorf's dream. The child was being spoiled; or prepared for life in the West. He saw a new, large, expensive doll's pram, a shelf of souvenir dolls from different countries. A hamster in a cage; goldfish in a tank, lit and heated. Marthe closed the drawer and smiled nervously up at her father. She looked, momentarily, like an unwilling accomplice.
"Go to bed now, Marthe. Ask Mrs Janovice downstairs to take you to school with her boys — understand? Tell her I had to go out on an emergency job." Marthe nodded. "Don't be rude, remember to say thank you. Don't be late—"
He kissed his daughter. Hyde saw her thin arms around the man's neck, and then he returned to the sitting-room. He felt an intruder, yet tension once more gripped him. He was becoming angry with the delay.
He looked up as Langdorf came back into the room. He appeared calm, satisfied, his face younger and less tired. He picked up his pipe, struck a match, and puffed smoke across the table. Hyde was relieved. The man was now businesslike, no longer reluctant.
He took his pipe from his lips, and announced, "When she finishes in school, she goes to the West. I have maybe five or six years more. She will be wealthy when I take her across."
"And that's it, is it?"
Langdorf nodded. "That's it. That is why. You had enough for me to be unable to refuse. That is all."
"You c
ould go any time. You could find work."
Langdorf shook his head. Blew smoke. "Not for me," he murmured. Even though his head did not move, the hushed intensity of his voice drew Hyde's attention towards the framed photograph on the mantelpiece. Between two cheap statuettes that stood stiffly erect like candles beside a votive picture. "I will not go."
"Christ, you can't like it here—!"
Langdorf shrugged. He began to unfold the map he had brought back with him from Marthe's bedroom. He smoothed it like a new cloth over the table.
"It doesn't matter. I give no trouble, I am not troubled. They do not know what I do. Agreed, for that I would be shot. But, otherwise…" He looked up, pipe clenched in his teeth; competent, intelligent, almost amusedly in control of the situation. "Communism, capitalism, freedom— who cares? The system does not matter if the price is right — mm? You see, I am a cynic." He looked at his watch.
"Not quite," Hyde replied.
"I would have gone, if the three of us could have gone. But now — ach, I would not fit in over there. My family has been here for generations — longer than the Party! Marthe goes alone. A wealthy young woman. Then I stop this business, and no one will be able, by any means, to persuade me to continue." His pipe-stem tapped at the map. A border line wriggled from north to south through shaded land, indicating mountain and forest. "It could have been cigarettes, or electrical goods, or the best sort of sanitary towels. But people like you — professional people — pay better."
"You don't help dissidents — the Charter 77 people?"
"Only if they can pay — then, with reluctance. They talk too freely. Many of them are good Marxists, you see. They object to — private enterprise is what you call it, mm? They would be queuing outside the door if I helped them regularly. All with sob-stories and insufficient money. No, not them, unless your sort of business is very slack!" Again, he tapped the map with his pipe-stem. "Now, pay attention, please. We have perhaps less than two hours if we are to act in safety. Here is Mytina. We drive up into the hills here, to the point where this track ends — near the border. There is wire — not too many towers, but dogs, and occasionally the helicopter. The wire runs beside this river here… you see?" Hyde nodded. "A fast-running stream. It is not much used as a crossing-point, except by those who know the area well. Your poor dissidents on the run from Prague or Brno or Plzen wouldn't come here. They can't get maps or pictures of this area to help them!" Langdorf chuckled. "Herr Professor Zimmermann knows of this crossing-point. He will be here, near the road to Waldsassen." Langdorf stood up. "Study that map — and these photographs…" He fanned out a sheaf of colour prints towards Hyde. "I took them with the Japanese camera I bought for my daughter. Learn the terrain. I will dress now. We must leave immediately, otherwise it will be light."