'And the matter of Shelley — your little assignation with the head of East Europe Desk?' Babbington made it seem a very temporary appointment.
'Much the same,' Massinger snapped, irked by Babbington's interrogation. 'Look, dammit, I was asked by an old friend, a very old friend, if I would seek help for him. Can't you understand? Aubrey was desperate, isolated, afraid. I had to do as he asked. I couldn't turn him down!'
Yes, yes, yes, he thought, his eyes watching Babbington as he held the tumbler to his lips. Loyalty, old friendships — the futility of it was expressed in Babbington's eyes. He had successfully placed him now, understood and dismissed him as a sentimentalist. It confirmed what he thought of Margaret and Massinger together, and the leverage any threat to personal happiness would exercise on him. Massinger held his body unmoving, though a wave of relief swept over him. He'd done it…
For the moment.
'I see,' Babbington murmured. 'But, with what result?'
'Enlistment isn't fashionable these days,' Massinger replied bitterly. 'Leastways, not for lost causes.'
'Ah. And you — do you feel Aubrey's cause is lost?'
'I don't believe he's guilty.'
'That's not what I asked.'
Massinger shrugged. 'There's — nothing more I can do, either way,' he admitted grudgingly.
'I agree.' Babbington stood up. 'Thank you for being frank with me,' he said, crossing to Massinger and extending his hand. Massinger held his drink for a moment, as if in defiance, then Babbington added: 'I'll just pop and have a word with Margaret. Don't worry. She'll be fine. Her father was a very special man, you know,' he added. 'Especially to her.' Massinger shook his hand. 'I'm glad things are — cleared up, Paul. Thank you for being so honest.' There was an evident, cruel amusement in his eyes. And visible contempt—
'Margaret's been through enough already, Andrew,' Massinger warned.
'Quite. Goodbye, Paul.'
He went through the door to the dining-room, closing it behind him. Massinger swallowed at his drink. Yes — the contempt of power for emotion, for sentiment — yes. He was warmed by the passage of the drink and by a fierce delight in his own skill and intuition. He resented Babbington's returning Margaret to him like a borrowed gift, but he waited for her to come through the doors, smiling.
'Paul,' she said. Yes, she was smiling. 'Paul, Andrew's explained everything! I understand what you've been trying to do.' There was a superiority about her understanding, almost a maternal, comforting sense of his being patronised. He ignored it, holding her close against him, feeling her breathing against his throat and neck. He had beaten Babbington.
And Babbington had shown him his power over Margaret and, once more, the power of dead Robert Castleford. Babbington would use Castleford without hesitation against him as he was using him against Aubrey; to fulfil his own ambitions. What he held, he would keep; the joint Director-Generalship of MI5 and SIS. Absolute power in the secret world. Babbington would stop at nothing to retain that power. The KGB had provided him with the means to finish Aubrey. Babbington cared nothing for the truth of the matter, for the KGB's motives, for the rot that might have set in, for collusion …
He'd see none of it. He'd see only his chance, his success.
Massinger felt anguished. Slowly, he held her at arms' length. Her eyes were still bright with dismissed tears. Her face glowed. He ached with love for her, with fear at losing her. He couldn't let her go — wouldn't…
Had to.
'Darling,' he murmured.
Her left hand, the one with the rings he had given her, the diamond flashing in the subdued lighting, reached up and stroked his temple, then his cheek. It could not help but seem to him to be some kind of final, parting blessing. He caught her hand as she murmured: 'Darling…' Her lips pouted. He was aware of her sexual attractiveness in a swift, piercing way. He knew that she had begun to entertain images of their lovemaking. He could envisage her face smoothed, whitened, dreamlike at climax, and felt roused.
He clutched her hand, but prevented her from moving close to him again.
'Margaret,' he began guiltily. 'Margaret, listen to me, please.'
'What is it?'
He led her to the sofa, made her sit down. She was half-puzzled, half-amused. He lowered himself into the cushion, his body separated from hers. He held her hands solemnly.
'It's not over — whatever I told Babbington, it's not over,' he murmured. She looked struck, even wounded. 'No, just listen to me before you say anything, please—' He held up one hand to silence her. 'Please listen before you say anything, before you judge me.'
Eventually, she nodded stiffly, a little bob of her head. Her fair hair fell across her cheek, her brow. 'Very well.'
'This isn't about Aubrey,' he began. 'At least, it's not just about Aubrey. No, don't make that face, you can't hate him that much…' He abandoned the argument, and continued: 'I have evidence — from Aubrey's man in Vienna, and Peter Shelley's convinced too — that the KGB are behind this business. Whatever the truth of the matter, they're using it. More than that, Aubrey's man could well be killed by his own side.' He paused. There was little reaction other than puzzlement, a sense of unfamiliarity; then a sense of dismissal, of the light of common sense falling on this dark corner of experience and making it seem ridiculous; incomprehensible and incredible. 'No one else believes it. No one else is interested. Babbington is blinded by his own ambition, Sir William is content to see Aubrey go to the wall because he's persuaded the Cabinet Office and the Joint Intelligence Committee that they want and need a unified security and intelligence service.' Her eyes revealed that she was dismissing each of his statements even as he made them. He waved one hand loosely to indicate his helplessness. 'You see,' he pleaded, 'why I can't give up on this?'
She was silent for a long time, and then she said simply, 'No, I don't see.'
'But, you must—!'
'I can't! All I can see is that you're still willing to help the man who betrayed my father — who caused his death!'
'You don't even know if it's true!'
'And you don't care! You'll help him anyway!'
'My darling, I promise you — I promise, that if I find it is true, I'll abandon him like everyone else. If Aubrey helped to kill your father, then to hell with him. I won't lift a finger to help him.'
'I can't bear this…' she murmured.
'There's nothing else I can do.'
'Why can't you talk to William about this — please?'
'Because he's convinced that Aubrey's a traitor. Just like everyone else. They don't want to look any deeper into it.'
'But you do—' she accused.
'I must.'
'So, only Paul Massinger can be right, only Paul Massinger's priorities are important.'
'You know that isn't true—!'
'How do I know? Dear God, it isn't even your country!'
He stood up, unable to bear her hot gaze, her accusing mouth. He crossed the room, then turned to look back at her.
'I'm trusting you with my life,' he said quietly. 'I've told you because I had to. I promised Babbington that I'll go no further. Only you know I'm continuing with it. I — have to go to Vienna for a couple of days, to see this man of Aubrey's.' She averted her face. His body had taken on a supplicant's stoop, arms akimbo. 'I ask you to tell no one. If anyone asks, then I'm in Cambridge for a couple of nights. Out of harm's way,' he added cynically. 'When I get back, I'll tell you everything. I'll let you decide—'
She turned to him, her face reddened, her hands clenched on her lap. She shook back her hair.
'Don't come back,' she said. 'Just — don't come back.' She, too, stood up. Her body was rigid with determination. 'If you leave this flat on that man's behalf—' He groaned inwardly. She had accepted nothing of what he had said. ' — then you need not bother to come back. I don't care if I'm being unreasonable, or stupid, or even malicious — but I can't bear it! If you go on helping that man, then we're finished. It's over.'
