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. Even 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.
'Where are they, Voronin?'
The question was involuntary. The Russian's features were burned-out in the centre by the retinal image of the light bulb above the narrow cot, into which Aubrey had been staring. Aubrey moved his head. The glowing filament, haloed in yellow-white, moved aside from Voronin's face. The man's sallow complexion was pinked with pleasure. He stood near the door of the tiny cell, watching Aubrey. Aubrey rubbed his eyes. How long had he been staring at the bulb? The retinal image was still as fierce as an eclipse.
'They are being made ready for transit to the airport,' Voronin replied.
'How?' Aubrey's voice croaked. His throat was dry and constricted. He cleared it. 'How will you smuggle them aboard?'
Voronin shook his head. 'That has been taken care of — diplomatic luggage. No one will see them. Absolutely no one.'
'But then, no one can be allowed to see them, can they? They are—'
'Never to be seen alive again — yes.'
'You've killed them—!' something made him cry; terror or grief he did not know.
Voronin shook his head slowly. 'As yet, they are alive.'
Aubrey felt the rising guilt choke him. 'How — how do they travel?' he asked, fending off other, darker thoughts.
'As part of the luggage of a returning trade mission. It is not a problem. No one searches the transport we use.' Voronin smiled, moving forward to stand at the side of the bed. Aubrey was made to feel vulnerable in his shirtsleeves; prone and old. 'I remember some scandal in your own country, some years ago. When the American President Carter visited — oh, where was it?'
— 'ah, Newcastle-upon-Tyne… the Secret Service and the CIA tried to drive a container lorry full of — souvenirs? — directly onto the tarmac and into a transport aircraft. Our people are known to do the same. No one cares.'
'I remember the incident,' Aubrey replied softly. 'Unfortunately, someone forgot to inform the local constabulary and Customs that that sort of thing always happens.' He nodded sagely, with fierce concentration. 'Of course it will work…' He looked up at Voronin and blurted out: 'Do you have to have them killed once they're in Moscow? Do you have to do it?' Immediately, he recognised the utterance as merely another bandage for his conscience. He was going to have to live with the guilt, and knew he was trying to erect sandbags against an expected flood. It would be terrible, terrible, to face himself after they had been disposed of. He shook his head.
'You see,' Voronin said. 'You realise quite clearly that nothing else can be done. They know everything. It will be — quick and painless.'
'Oh, jolly good!' Aubrey snarled, surprising the Russian. 'And me? What about me?'
'You have an important job to do — in Moscow.' Voronin grinned. His face was still tinged with colour. The retinal image had faded now, and Aubrey could see the narrow, confident features clearly.
'You're sure of that?' It was blurted out, and it was nakedly fearful.
The Russian nodded. 'Of course.'
'What Babbington said — his threats. You're going to use me to protect him, yes?' Again, Voronin nodded. Aubrey loathed himself, but it was like pentathol. He could not control the rush of his words. 'You need me? You do need me, don't you?'
His lips were trembling. He wiped at them.
Voronin looked unconcernedly at his watch as he said; 'Of course, Sir Kenneth Aubrey. You are very necessary.' The meeting was over. For whatever reason the man had come, that reason had been satisfied.
'Kapustin—' he began, but did not continue. The drug of fear had lost its overpowering effect. He sat more upright on the bed, leaning on one elbow. 'What time do we leave?' he asked with forced lightness.
'It is now three-fifteen. We leave for the airport in thirty minutes. Do you wish shaving materials, hot water?'
Aubrey nodded. 'Yes,' he said breathily. Thirty minutes—! 'Yes,' he repeated, more strongly.
'Good. I will have them sent to you.' Voronin nodded, almost clicked his heels together, and left the cell. Aubrey heard the key turn in the lock. He felt perspiration spring out on his forehead, despite the temperature of the cell. Felt his hands begin to tremble. Felt nauseous — sick as a dog. He fought it. Fought the nausea. Fought his own cowardice, and faced the fact of his death. He had been terribly afraid, seated before Voronin, so afraid he had been on the point, several times, of pleading to be told that, unlike the Massingers, he at least was safe, would be allowed to live. Thank God he had not fallen quite that low—! Thank God…
He wiped the already chilly sweat from his forehead. Rubbed his bald head.
And resolved.
He squeezed his eyes very tightly shut. In the darkness, some ghost of the light-bulb's filament still glowed. It had been a bad moment. His worst moment. Perhaps worst ever. But, a moment. Only a moment—
Yes. He would try. If they were to keep him alive for a short time for their benefit, he would try to resist…
Try, in front of a sea of strangers' faces and in the flash and wink of lights, to dredge up the truth. Try to struggle through the chemical bonds with which he would be tied, and say something — create some tiny suspicion, some sense of the truth, some sense, semblance, fragment, sliver, atom of the truth—! Try to regain, if only for a moment, one fragment of himself.
He would owe the Massingers more than that, but it would be the only coinage in which he could make any repayment.
He heard footsteps outside and the key turn in the lock. His hands gripped one another and became still. Stronger, even as the door opened. Steam. A bowl of hot water. A towel.
A beginning.
Hyde watched the policeman get out of the patrol car and saunter across to the empty Skoda. He had been in the process of dialling Sir William Guest's flat when he had seen the car turn onto the forecourt of the all-night garage outside Karlovy Vary. His free hand touched his overcoat, smoothing across his chest to reassure him. Package of Swiss francs. Pistol. Pockets — spare clips of ammunition, cassette tape.
Useless to assume he could run. He was still thirty-five miles from Mytina.
Kill them if you have to. The policeman had reached the Skoda. He rubbed at the driver's widow and peered
