For them, killing him would be just as easy.
'Christ—!' he exclaimed in an explosion of breath. '
Then, involuntarily, he picked up the telephone and flicked over the directory of international code numbers on the desk, running his finger down the column of figures. He began dialling, first the code for the UK, then the London number. He could see the telephone — perhaps his cat was sitting by it, or looking lazily up at its summons. It was no doubt ensconced in Ros's flat, above his own.
'Come on, come on…' he breathed.
Give up, some part of him suggested seductively.
'Sod that,' he muttered, then: 'Come on, Ros, come on, girlie…'
She knew where the other passports were, the money, the credit cards in another name. Would she bring them? At least she could send them.
'Come on, darling…' he muttered urgently as the telephone went on ringing in her flat in Earl's Court.
CHAPTER TWO
Meat Market
THE TAXI DROPPED PAUL Massinger at the corner of Philbeach Gardens and Warwick Road and he walked quickly, his limp easing with exercise, along the crescent of the Gardens. Through the spaces between the houses he glimpsed the Earls Court Exibition Building that lay behind the crescent. St. Cuthberts Church, though elaborately Gothic, seemed shrunken and dwarfish by comparison as he passed it.
He felt a cold trickle of danger in his stomach as the afternoon closed in. Gaps in the darkening cloud were blue-turning-black already. There was a chilly sliver of fear in the small of his back. What he had suspected in the taxi was now confirmed. He had collidid with reality and the impact had snatched away his breath and his wits, but he was certain that he was under surveillance.
The blue Cortina had stopped by the Church. It had pulled out behind the taxi in Charlotte Street and, from time to time, he had seen it during the journey to Earl's Court. Now, there could be no fudging, no postponement of certainty. He could not remember having seen the same car in the vicinity of Aubrey's flat, nor on the way to Antoine's. But it had been there when he and Shelley left, and it was still with him.
God, he had done no more that call on an old friend and eaten lunch with a second man, and someone already thought him worth tailing-
Shelly-? he thought, and dismissed the idea. Babbington? The KGB? Who?
He shook his head, ridding himself of the questions as a dog might have done water from its coat. He studied the house numbers in the crescent. Bare trees flanked the railings of the gardens themselves, trunks black as iron. The grass beyond them was patchily white with old snow.
He climbed three steps to a front door, and studied the discoloured cards below each doorbell.
'My name is Massinger — a friend of Kenneth Aubrey,' he enunciated clearly in reply to the enquiry. 'Am I speaking to Patrick Hyde's landlady?'
'You are, sport. He's away on business.' Even through the distortions of the speaker, the voice seemed pinched and tense with knowledge.
'I know that. You know the name Aubrey, maybe?' Shelley knew nothing of Hyde's relationship with the woman. But he had felt Hyde trusted her — she might know Hyde's work…?
'I know it.'
'He's in trouble. He wants to know Mr Hyde's whereabouts, urgently.' Massinger felt the cold of the late afternoon seeping into him, mingling with the chill knowledge of the watchers in the blue Cortina. He was tempted to turn around, but remained hunched near the grille of the speaker.
'I know that, too,' the voice admitted. Then, rallying: 'Shit, what do you want, mister?'
'I'd like to talk to you. I assure you Kenneth Aubrey, Patrick Hyde's — er, employer — sent me.'
There was a long silence. Massinger heard a crow coughing in one of the naked trees. Then, in a graceless, churlish tone, the woman said: 'I'll meet you outside his flat. First floor.' There was a buzz, and he pushed open the door, letting it close behind him on its security springs. The hall smelt of cooking, but was carpeted and quiet. He went up the stairs as confidently as he could, wincing at the pain each tread caused in his hip.
Hyde's door was painted a garish crimson. Standing in front of it was a woman of perhaps thirteen or fourteen stone in a kaftan that billowed around her. She appraised him with keen brown eyes. Her dark hair was dragged back from a broad forehead and held in a pony-tail. She held a bunch of keys in her hand.
'Massinger?' she said.
'Yes.' He held out his hand.
'Ros Woode,' she acknowledged, gripping his hand firmly and then letting it drop. He studied her face. It was impassive almost to the point of boredom, but he sensed that the expression was adopted; a mask.
He gave up the puzzle. Carefully, he said, 'Could I ask you to do something for me?'
'Depends.'
'Just listen, then,' he instructed. 'If you should hear from Mr Hyde—' He held up his hand to stifle her protest. ' — if you should hear from him, would you please tell him of my visit, and tell him also that I am trying to help Aubrey. Tell him — mm, tell him that I am trying to establish why the KGB should have framed Aubrey, and that I believe it is a frame-up.' Massinger cursed inwardly. He needed something, a token of good faith, a password that would convince Hyde. Yet he knew nothing about him. What—? 'Has Hyde worked for Aubrey for long, do you know?'
'He has — why?' The woman seemed subdued now. She appeared to wish to believe him. He realised that she had been in touch with Hyde, and had been warned against visitors.
'I'm trying to find something that will convince him I'm a genuine friend, not a trap. But I can't. All I can tell you is that I'm the husband of the daughter of the man Aubrey is supposed to have betrayed to the Russians.'
'Christ, mate…' the woman breathed.
'That either makes me Aubrey's bitter enemy, or his one real friend. Hyde must decide. If he contacts you again, or if you can reach him, please tell him everything I've told you — and that I must speak with him. I'll do it from here, even from the call-box on the corner to keep him secure. Will you do that?'
The woman hestitated for a long time, and then she finally reluctantly nodded.
'I'll do it
'Thank you. Now, I'll leave you. Good afternoon, Ms Woode.' He inclined his head, and turned to leave the room. The woman made no effort to recall him and Massinger was dubious as to his success. She might just as easily warn Hyde off.
He closed the door of the flat behind him and went down the stairs. A young woman passed him in the hallway, then opened the door of the ground floor flat. The commentary of a Test Match issued into the hall, together with the smell of pipe tobacco. The radio informed him of an imminent English batting collapse before the door was closed upon the commentator's voice. He had never learned the English trick of passionate interest in such a sleepwalking game; especially not in a recording of a game being played on the other side of the world.
He opened the front door.
The blue Cortina was clearly visible in the failing light, against the black railings of the gardens. Two men, driver and passenger. He noted the number, then descended the steps.
He had walked three or four yards in the opposite direction from the parked car when he heard its engine start. A noise harsher than the crow's coughing earlier. His body suffered a violent spasm of shock, as if he had been dreaming the falling-dream and then suddenly awoken. The car passed him. He forced himself to turn his head, and felt a chill of recognition. A type, not an individual. A professional. The driver's glance was vivid with threat.
The car turned out of Philbeach Gardens, and disappeared. Massinger walked on in the chill dusk, his heart refusing to adopt a calmer, more regular beating.
