The connection was broken and the telephone purred. Slowly, Massinger replaced the receiver, unaware that he was not alone in the room; unaware of the room.
'Is he all right?' Ros asked.
'Mm — what?' Massinger looked up. The cat nestled against Ros's breasts like a stole. 'Oh, yes. For the time being.'
'Can you help him?'
'I think so.'
Ros's face was restrained momentarily then a naked and complete fear possessed it. 'Then for Christ's sake do it!' she wailed.
Massinger turned his back upon the sharp, cruel — and now so personalised — satire of Hogarth's Marriage a la Mode. His eyes caught the timeless glances of Mr and Mrs Robert Andrews, their tranquil security evident to him in a moment, before settling upon Constable's Salisbury Cathedral, white and green and blue, colours of an innocence he could not pretend. Room XVI of the National Gallery was quiet except for the mutterings of a troop of schoolchildren being shepherded through part of their undesired heritage.
He and Shelley stood side by side, almost caricatured in their identical dark overcoats.
'First thing,' Shelley said, 'Hyde's new papers. They've been carefully checked. They should remain secure for at least a few days, perhaps longer.' He passed a small flat package to Massinger, who guiltily hurried it into the breast pocket of his coat. It was as if he had finally accepted membership of some subversive organisation. Shelley's face looked pale and strained with worry and lack of sleep. 'Another thing,' Shelley added, 'there's a recent snap of the Vienna Rezident — his name is Karel Bayev, by the way — included with Hyde's papers.'
'Thank you, Peter. I've spoken to Hyde.'
'How — is he?'
'He's killed one of your people in Vienna.'
'God—'
'He had to.'
'I see. Are they that close to him?'
'He can't have long.'
'We have to have Hyde's testimony.'
'I know. But, it won't be enough. We have to have everything.'
'I know,' Shelley replied glumly.
'Then what do you have for me? Shall we walk?'
They began to patrol the room. Massinger regretted leaving the impossible cleanliness of Salisbury cathedral, reaching out of the placid green meadow. Even its illusory peace was something to be treasured.
Gainsborough and Reynolds portraits; satisfied, aristocratic eighteenth-century faces. Their exuded security irritated him as his glance lighted on them while Shelley recited what he had — gleaned from Registry. Massinger nodded from time to time, absorbing each fragment of information. Turner's Fighting Temeraire, then the misty, swirling rush of his Rain, Steam and Speed. The schoolchildren trooped out of the room; silence returned. Shelley's voice dropped to accommodate itself to the renewed hush. An attendant's heels clicked on the tiles. Finally, they confronted the obscure shapelessness, the formless half-world of Turner's Sun Rising in a Mist. Its reduction of the world to muted colour and pearly, bleared light echoed Massinger's mood.
And Shelley's final words.
'… if, if you go on with this, then Cass is a good man with pentathol. He can get to Vienna tomorrow afternoon. Remember, unless you're skilled at this or familiar with the techniques—?' Massinger shook his head abstractedly. ' — then you can make mistakes. You can close the oyster-shell as easily as you can open it. The whole thing is very risky, Professor.'
Turner's wan sun struggled in the mist.
'I know.'
'Then, do you think you can do it? Why not just bring Hyde out?'
Massinger shook his head, vigorously. 'No, Peter. This has to be done. Desperate remedies. We must know what's behind it. Vienna Station is working for someone other than you. Hyde is right about collusion. We don't know friend from enemy. We don't even know if we have any friends.'
Shelley shrugged. 'Very well. Then you must gain this man's confidence. Pavel Koslov is his closest friend. You speak Russian, Professor — you know Koslov. When you talk to the Vienna Rezident, under pentathol, you must be Koslov.' Shelley announced this in the manner of an examination, a test for his companion.
Slowly, Massinger nodded; the abstracted, detached agreement of an academic conceding an argument. 'I see that. Very well, if that is what is required.'
'But can you do it?' Shelley asked in exasperation.
'I have to, don't I?' Massinger smiled humourlessly. 'Quit worrying, Peter. It's our only chance — isn't it?'
'Do you think it's one of their 'House of Cards' scenarios actually being put into operation?'
'It'd have the same effect, maybe, if it succeeded,' Massinger replied. 'Throw your service into total confusion, sow discord at all levels — I guess that's possible. But it could as easily be a vendetta against Aubrey.'
'But our people are helping them to carry it out.'
'The last twist of the knife. That's why I have to succeed in being Pavel Koslov. Why I have to get the Rezident to talk to me.'
'Couldn't we go to JIC, even the PM, with what we have? With Hyde?'
'I've been warned off once.'
'What about Sir William?'
'It was Sir William who warned me off. We wouldn't be believed. Just Aubrey's old friends and colleagues. Interested parties. No, it has to be a fait accompli or nothing.' He looked once more at the Turner painting. 'Let's walk, Peter. That picture is giving me a chill.'
'You're still relying on a lunatic plan, Professor—'
'I know it. But, if we can get at even some of the truth and tape it — then we can go to Sir William, or even the PM, and show them what good little boys we've been on their behalf.' His smile was both self-mocking and grim. 'There's no other way, Peter. We must have corroboration.'
Massinger felt dwarfed by the large Renaissance canvases lining the walls on either side of them as they moved towards the main staircase.
'What can I do while you're in Vienna?' Shelley asked, as if requiring some form of self-assertion between the huge paintings.
'Check Vienna Station — anything, any means. We must know how rotten the barrel is — and whether it's the only rotten barrel in town.'
Shelley nodded. He appeared relieved to have been given some task; relieved, too, to be obeying orders. Massinger had become a surrogate Aubrey. The weight of the realisation burdened Massinger, and his feet felt uncertain on the marble steps down to the entrance hall. He felt old, rather tired, very reluctant. Ahead of him lay danger, doubt, and perhaps an unsatisfactory outcome. More than those professional risks, however, his wife lay ahead of him in time. As he envisaged her, she seemed unsubstantial, about to vanish like his own tormenting, betrayed Eurydice. If she even so much as suspected, she would never forgive him. She would not remain with him; she'd leave and never return. He was so certain of that that there was a sharp physical pain in his chest.
He would tell her he had been invited to a Cambridge college for a couple of days by the Master; a former academic rival, a present friend. She would accept that. She had a great deal of committee work during that week; she would be relieved that he, too, would be busy, in company.
The lying had begun. He had taken the road he profoundly wished he could have avoided.
He and Shelley parted on the steps. Across Trafalgar Square, a flock of pigeons rose into the cold sunlight like a grey cloud.
'Be careful,' Shelley offered. Then, as if unable to let the matter take its course, he added: 'It doesn't seem sufficient!' His protest was deeply felt, almost desperate. 'It can't be enough to guarantee success — surely?'
'I don't know, Peter,' Massinger replied gravely. 'We simply can't sail a better course or grab a bigger stick.
