trundled into the square, its brakes protesting as it stopped. Immediately, the beam began bouncing and sliding in the square like a great golden ball striking the walls of the buildings.
He doubled up in shadow, gasping for breath. Skidded slightly, dragging his cheek against cold stone. The shadow opened up in front of him like a cliffs edge. The Castle Steps. Voices, public address, the bouncing ball of light, heels clicking on frost, the roar of engines.
Godwin—?
His car was near Godwin's flat, damn.
He looked at the steps for a moment, clutching the stone of the wall as if affected by vertigo. Light bounced over him and he hunched his shoulders as if under a weight. The light moved on, someone shouted; it bounced back towards him, slithering along the wall and pavement. Orders were bellowed. He ran.
In tens. His gloved hand skated down the frosty, dead-cold railing. Steps were in tens. He skipped down them, reached the level, then the next ten steps before the next level. Old street-lamps threw a muted, dusty light, making his shadow enlarge to monstrous size then quickly diminish. Blaring his shape against the walls.
He paused to look back. Torches, noise — they'd seen him, damn. He ran on, hearing the first pairs of boots clattering in pursuit. The noise of a rifle dropped—? The glow of a television set through open curtains as he passed the window of a tall, narrow house. A door opening—
He cannoned into someone, the body soft and yielding, perhaps that of a woman. He heard breath escape like an explosion, smelt a strong, cheap perfume, then hurried past, hearing the breathing begin again and the abuse commence. The steps zig-zagged, and he lost the sounds of the woman's voice and the footsteps of the pursuit.
Another ten steps, then the level, then another ten steps. Level, steps, level. Street-light, looming shadow, shrunken dwarf on the peeling stucco of the wall, darkness, steps, level, shadow, giant, dwarf, shadow, steps, level—
Crumbling stucco, treacherous, icy steps. His breath was laboured, legs almost gone. He was slowing and was aware of it. A pool of light seemed to open fuzzily ahead of him, like the opening of a door into a brightly lit room. He hesitated, afraid of what might be a searchlight. Then he plunged on, hearing once more the clatter of boots and the scraping of metal funnelled down the Castle Steps after him.
He staggered as he reached the bottom of the steps, clinging to the railing as a bout of coughing seized him. A narrow street, more light at the end of it. He forced himself to run, his feet noisy on the cobbles. Then he turned the corner into Little Quarter Square. The church of St Nicholas rose in front of him. A rank of black cars stood outside the palace that had become the Regional Party School. The headquarters and the church outfaced one another across the cobbles. Hyde crossed the square into the deep shadows beneath the church—
Shadows?
Lights, suddenly, as if they had waited in ambush for him. He gazed around him wildly, clutching the gun in his pocket, clutching the tape cassette. The doors of St Nicholas swung open. Noises, footsteps and tali. An audience emerged. A notice-board near his head advertised a recital that evening. He shook with relief as he began pushing into and through the audience as it descended the steps, dispersing into the square. He crossed the facade, the west door, bumped and hidden by people talking in loud, delighted voices. The recital had been a success.
He eased ahead of the small crowd and his shadow began to jog with him along the southern wall of the church as he turned into Mostecka ulice. He loped easily, almost with a lightness of mood. A car passed him innocently, its colour a drab fawn. People were behind him, others ahead, emerging from what might have been a club — yes, raw music, a saxophone and drums behind a wall of chatter as he passed the closing, door. He slowed, then. Looked back. People. Overcoated, hatted, scarved. Cover. A few cars moved at a sedate pace along the narrow street, the cobbles jolting their axles. Sirens in the distance, but no uniformed men in the Mostecka. They'd been caught up by the crowd from the church. They'd have to block the exits from Little Quarter Square as a first priority. The pursuit was diluting with each second that passed. Hyde walked on, not too quickly, hands thrust into the pockets of his overcoat, scarf wound round his face, partly to mask his hard, strained breathing. The bridge stretched away ahead of him across the Vltava. One gloved hand gripped the cassette in his pocket.
He'd done it. He had Babbington, clutched in his gloved hand. Everything; the whole scenario; and Babbington's name. The frame, the predicted consequences which perfectly matched the reality, the double agent who was Moscow's man. He'd done it. The knowledge made him catch his breath, bare his teeth in a triumphant grin.
He hurried beneath the dark tower at the end of the Charles Bridge. The wind from the river was icy and he hunched against it. The lamps on the bridge glowed, sleet flying through the haloes of chilly light. The black statues lining either side of the bridge leaned over him, hurrying his pace as if they whispered his lack of time to him. His hand gripped the cassette more fiercely. Now that he possessed the proof he realised, with a growing, gnawing urgency as palpable as extreme hunger, that Babbington would waste no time. Margaret Massinger he no longer considered or cared about. She could well have gone into the bag with Aubrey and her husband. There was only himself, blown across the bridge like a black scrap of paper beneath the gloomy, magnificent crucifixion figure, the gold of its crown and of the inscription gleaming in the sleety lamplight. There was only himself now. The bridge tower loomed over him and he passed through its arch into the Old Town. The wind disappeared. He walked through rutted slush on the pavement, unpursued but hurrying more than before. There was only himself.
Within minutes, he had reached Old Town Square, had passed the astronomical clock and reached the shadows of the Tyn Church. Then he paused, studying the Celetna ulice. Neon lights, hard. Traffic thin, pedestrians few. He could see the bulk of the Powder Tower at the other end of the street. Where was Godwin? He could pick out the darkened windows of his flat. At the back, in the kitchen—?
Hyde knew the flat was empty. Hunching his shoulders, he began to drift along the street, looking for surveillance; ready to run and feeling the Celetna close in on him and the weight of the streets through which he had come press like a net trawling him in. He was alone. He could go to no embassy. He had a tape, nothing more. They wouldn't believe—
Stop it—
He drew level with the Skoda and passed it. The doors and windows did not look as if they had been forced, but he could not check those on the driver's side. He glanced up at the dark windows of Godwin's flat, almost bumping into a young man, who apologised to him at once. Hyde, shivering, mumbled something to the young man's retreating back. Then he continued walking.
He crossed the street a hundred yards beyond the flat and two hundred from the Skoda, then retraced his steps back towards the square. Then once more towards the Powder Tower — the driver's side doors and windows had looked intact — then back towards the flat. There were no parked cars containing waiting men, there were no open windows, no drawn-back curtains. One hand clutched the tape, the other Godwin's spare key. He reached the doorway, almost passed it, then ducked into its shadow. He fumbled for the lock and turned the key. The door creaked slightly as he touched it open. He glanced back at the street, then passed quickly into the narrow hall and mounted the stairs. He listened ahead of him as he reached the first floor. There, he paused. Nothing; no noises from the street, either. Where was Godwin?
He paused again at the front door of the flat, then reached the key tentatively towards the lock, inserted it, held his breath, turned the key — kicking open the door the moment he did so, bundling himself inside the flat and pressing himself against the wall, the gun in his hands. The vz.75 pistol was close to his face, barrel pointed at the ceiling. His thumb moved the safety catch. Fifteen rounds. He listened, holding his breath.
Nothing. He reached out and silently closed the door. Then he moved the few paces to the flat's main room. He banged open the door, gun extended, his weight supported by the door frame. The room was lightless, empty. He flicked on the lights. Neat, orderly — unsearched, no signs of a struggle. Where was Godwin? Swiftly, he checked the other empty rooms. No crutches, no overcoat hanging in the hall. Bed undisturbed, empty coffee mug in the kitchen sink. Godwin had left the flat of his own volition — to keep his appointment at the Hradcany. Where was he?
And who was asking him questions, and what was he saying…? His mind continued with nervous inevitability, completing the scenario. Someone had Godwin under the lights by now—
And he had only the time it took for one mistake, one contradiction — or a confession because they had become impatient with evasion and lies and used force.
He went back into the kitchen. The rear of the building was two storeys lower than the part which contained
