'But—?'
'Despite what it says above my forged signature there, I did not place the onus of SIS secret operations against the NKVD in Berlin and the Russian Zone of Germany at Castleford's door. Castleford was a wealthy, brilliant, ambitious civil servant making the most of his posting to the Control Commission. He aimed very high. I did not like him, we did not get on together. I did not betray him — I did not have him killed.',
'But — you would agree, would you not, that if you had painted this colourful picture of Castleford as some kind of masterspy, the NKVD would have had very good reason to — cause Castleford to suspend operations against them?'
'If I had, then yes. If they thought of him in that way, then yes. None of it, however, is true.'
'When did you last see Robert Castleford?'
'I–I'm not certain—'
Eldon consulted his notebook. The tape-recorder on the coffee table continued to hum in the room's lamplit silence. Shadows and soft light. Aubrey could not rid himself of a persistent sense of menace. Eldon looked up once more.
'There was a meeting between you the day before you entered the Russian sector — in pursuit, as you claim, of your double agent.'
'Was there? Perhaps there was. I don't remember it.'
'Could you try, Sir Kenneth? Could you try to remember what you discussed at that last meeting?'
'I don't think I can,' Aubrey murmured, but in his mind he clearly heard Castleford's voice. Yes, it had been that occasion; that penultimate occasion.
'Damn you, Aubrey, I think you're out to ruin me!'
'No—'
'Yes! Your insane jealousy—'
'Mine, or yours, Castleford?'
'Damn you with Clara, too. You've been investigating me, you arrogant little man. Me? What do you expect to rake up about me? What can you rake up? You intend to smear me, to get me out of your way. I won't let you do that, Aubrey. I won't let a bigot like you take more power than you already have. I warn you, Aubrey — unless you drop this ridiculous, vindictive investigation of me, I'll take steps to see that you are ruined. Understand me? Finished. You'll be finished!'
It was difficult for Aubrey to control his breathing; as difficult to avoid the conclusion that, almost forty years later, Castleford's prophecy of his ruination was about to come true. He watched Eldon watching him, eager for his reply. He shook his head.
'I — can't remember,' he murmured. 'No doubt it was another occasion for reprimand. It usually turned out to be like that, whenever we met. Castleford taking a high-handed moral line towards SIS's work.'
'Yours in particular, I gather.'
'Perhaps.'
'You disliked each other.'
'Yes. Our enmity, however, was not strong enough for me to betray him. I did not wish him dead.'
They do not know about Clara, do they? Aubrey asked himself. They must know, some other part of his mind answered. It was known to others — the quarrels, the courtship, the victory — people in Berlin knew of Castleford's interest in Clara, of my interest—? Why hasn't it been brought up?… Don't let it be brought up…
'I see.'
'Eldon?'
'Yes, Sir Kenneth?'
'What is the mood — of your masters?' Aubrey hated himself for asking the question, but it had eaten at him from the moment that Babbington had broached the subject. 'Will they require a trial? A charge of treason to be answered?'
'Yes, Sir Kenneth — I think they will.'
'Rather late in the century for it, wouldn't you say?'
'Some might say, long overdue rather than late.'
'I suppose they might.'
'You did hate Castleford, didn't you?' Eldon asked quickly.
'He hated me,' Aubrey replied.
'You hated him, also.'
Aubrey stared at Eldon's quietly implacable features. It was a matter of days, no more. He would know how close he was to being charged with treason the moment they gave him access to his solicitor. At that moment, his interrogation would be over and his trial on the point of beginning.
Trial, trial, his mind echoed. Zalozny had offered him that, often. In the intervals between the bouts of cold water, the bucket over his head being beaten with wooden sticks, the blows of huge peasant fists, the standing to attention in the freezing, snowbound yard of the prison, teeth chattering, body shuddering with ague; if he gave in, they promised him a quick trial and execution. The situation was an almost exact parallel.
One of his most vivid memories was of having to defecate into a bucket while an eye watched him through the spyhole in the cell door. Stained, torn trousers around his ankles, buttocks perched on the icy rim of the iron bucket — all dignity gone, only the reduced, tormented, pained animal left.
He dismissed the past. Of his present situation, he knew that whatever he had to do — except confess — he would do to avoid a trial. He would never be led into court, never hear the charge of treason, never face a jury. Whatever he had to do, he would avoid that.
He watched Eldon. Eldon would never understand about the trial. He would never assume that Aubrey the traitor had left to him anything with which he could not bear to part in public.
Hyde raised his head above the level of the dashboard. Glass prickled his neck and the backs of his hands and slithered from his overcoat onto the driving seat. Behind him, he knew that Bayev was dead — one glance at the doll slumped in the corner of the Mercedes had told him that. He had not even looked at Massinger. There was no time to consider him. The Russian was coming on now, heavily jogging the last few strides between himself and the car. Hyde fired through the crazed remains of the windscreen and the man disappeared sideways below the bonnet.
Only then did Hyde turn his head. Massinger was sitting bolt upright in the back, evidently in shock.
'Come on, mate! Time's up.'
'What—?' Massinger might have been drugged himself, so slow and unfocused were his movements. Hyde reached over the seat and grabbed his arm.
'Bayev's dead — we're next. Get out of the car!'
The top of the incline, where the road passed the freight-yard, was blocked by a long black saloon. Two men were standing by it, one of them already advancing the first few paces down the slope. A glance in the wing mirror had shown Hyde that much.
'Out—?'
'I can't move the car!'
Massinger began to move, groaning as he levered himself out of the door. Hyde saw the walking-stick, and his chest and stomach felt hollow with foreboding. Massinger's bloody hip!
Massinger looked up the slope, appearing to Hyde to lean heavily, breathe hard. 'How many of them?' he said urgently.
'Just the one car. They didn't wait for reinforcements. Someone told them to shut Bayev up as a first priority. Tape?'
'Yes.' Massinger patted his pocket. 'For what it's worth, dammit! We both know it's worthless — he knew nothing—!'
'Come on — this way.'
He watched the two men who had halted at the top of the rutted, frosty incline. They were mere dark lumps in the fog, revealed only because of the powerful floodlights. Fog danced and moved around them. Twenty-five yards. The kamikaze had had to come in close in order to pick out his targets. A tactic of desperation, the impetus of a high-ranking order behind him, pushing him on. Now that he was dead, the other two wanted to wait for
