'Shall we begin?' Zimmermann asked, removing a notebook from the pile. 'You understand, this is only a preliminary selection of the material. I have some very enthusiastic, but not necessarily experienced young men who work for me. I think we can make a better job than they could.' He splayed his fingers on the top file. 'Mr Massinger…?' he invited.
'What are we looking for?' Margaret asked, putting down her glass. A barge hooted on the grey river. Sleet melted against the window, traced snail-tracks down the huge pane of glass. 'Are you familiar with the actual arrest of this man Guillaume?'
Zimmermann's face pursed; Massinger could not be certain whether the reaction was a personal one, or some national distaste or hurt. 'I am,' he replied.
'Then, do you think there was — was someone here who tried to help Guillaume?' she blurted.
Zimmermann nodded. 'I do. And I do not think it was Aubrey. Incidentally, with regard to your father—' Zimmermann was already turning towards Massinger, who leaned forward in eagerness.
'I'm not here to discuss that,' Margaret snapped. The window was obscured by snail-tracks now, themselves interrupted or made to adopt new courses as large flakes of snow burst silently against the glass. The river was hardly decipherable in the distance. The room was warm behind its double glazing. 'I'm here because my husband's safety is at stake.'
A glance she resented passed between the two men, and then Zimmermann said with a slight nod of his head: 'I'm sorry. Let me clarify the events of April '74. Guillaume was arrested by officers of the BfV — our security service, like MI5 in England — on the night of April 23rd. He had been under suspicion for some time before that. BfV recommended to Chancellor Brandt that he be allowed to continue in office as one of his close advisers, hoping that the man would eventually betray his network and his control — his pipeline into the DDR or even to Moscow…' Massinger nodded. Margaret, leaning her chin on her fist, listened intently as to a new and exciting teacher. She looked, Massinger realised, almost childlike. He realised that her untroubled, rapt features betrayed how much of her self and her past lay buried at that moment. She was working only with the surface of her mind and feelings. '… I would not have done that. However, what it meant was that, though the Chancellor continued to use Guillaume, even to trust him because he discounted much of the BfV's evidence for many months before April '74, the man himself was put under very close surveillance.'
'So, you have a complete record of his movements, contacts — everything?' Massinger asked.
'Indeed. The BfV calls the official record a failure — because Guillaume must have guessed that he was under suspicion. He led us nowhere. His arrest became inevitable because there was nothing more to be gained from letting him run. The BfV knew that Brandt was still reluctant to believe or to act, so it waited until the Chancellor was on a visit to Cairo, then made the arrest…' There was a gleam in Zimmermann's eye as his voice tailed off.
Massinger, realising that his intuitions were being tested, said quickly: 'That's not quite it, though, is it? BfV had to rush at the last minute, I guess?'
Zimmermann nodded him a compliment. 'Quite so. His telephone had been tapped, his movements watched. He went about his business as usual. We expected the mouse to play while the Chancellor-cat was away — forgive me, incidentally, for using the term we so freely. I was, of course, not connected with the service at that time.' A moment of retrospection, then he continued: 'He became concerned to shake his tail. This he did on two occasions in the week before his arrest. He kept assiduously away from his network, his couriers and his control. They, it seems, were to be kept safe. But he was meeting someone. Someone we did not know was evidently helping him. Warning him.' He thumbed through his notebook, then nodded. 'Yes — April 22nd. A voice speaking German with a heavy English accent telephoned Guillaume, and was warned off the line. Guillaume immediately left his apartment, and went to a public telephone booth. Fortunately, we had bugged all of them within a certain radius. Enough of a radius.' Zimmermann was enjoying himself, as if recounting a particularly pleasing episode in his own biography. Whatever disappointments he had suffered in the past two years, he had evidently flung himself wholeheartedly into his role as special adviser to the German counter-intelligence service. It was as if he had recaptured, entirely and freshly, his Abwehr past.
'And?'
'There was trouble. Hitches. BfV gossip was, however, repeated to Guillaume — gossip that could only have come from us or from people liaising with BfV as part of the World Cup security studies.' Zimmermann looked grave. 'Papers were arranged, a car hired… there were a number of calls to different telephone booths, but we never were able to trace the caller. The flight to the DDR — by car with a false passport — was to take place on the 24th. So, Guillaume was arrested the previous night.'
'Always the same caller?'
Zimmermann nodded. 'Always. An Englishman with good, correct, school-taught German. BfV was certain that he was a professional intelligence operative and that he was relaying the instructions of Guillaume's masters. Whoever he was, he was working for the East Germans or the KGB. And probably still is.'
Zimmermann, his narrative complete, sipped at his whisky, smiling encouragingly at Margaret. Massinger saw the frown of concentration lighten. Her features were still smooth, however. She had hidden or otherwise temporarily disposed of whole parts of herself in order to concentrate on his safety.
The snow had eased, and the window was gradually clearing. The barges moved like flat-backed whales.
'Was there any evidence pointing at a particular individual?'
Zimmermann shook his head. 'Unfortunately, no. The car hire firm was traced — a nondescript man was described. The tickets for a train journey — presumably as back-up — which we found in Guillaume's apartment were bought by someone whose German sounded a little peculiar — no description. No, there was nothing to go on.'
'And how many suspects?'
'Conservatively, perhaps twenty or twenty-five. There were a great many advisers, as well as the normal embassy staff.'
'You have a list of names?'
'Here.' Zimmermann passed Massinger a sheet of typing paper. The list of names was neatly aligned in the centre of the page. The typeface might have belonged to a computer.
'Well,' Massinger sighed, 'no one anywhere has found anything up to now. What have we to lose?'
'I have one other name for you,' Zimmermann said, and was surprised at the hungry, guilty eagerness Massinger's face displayed. He glanced at Margaret, then back to Massinger. He saw their mutual love, sensed the anguish not yet dissolved between them. The scene was a moment of nakedness from which he wished to remain detached. Nevertheless, sensing the crisis that was imminent, he passed Massinger a small, folded sheet which he removed from his breast pocket. 'He's retired now,' he explained.
Margaret realised at once the implications of Zimmermann's words. 'Who is this?' she asked angrily. 'What other name?'
Massinger's shoulders hunched as he began his explanation. 'It's to do with—'
'My father? That's it, isn't it? You've asked Herr Zimmermann to help me?'
'Not you — us.'
'No—!' Zimmermann was pained by her anguish. She suddenly looked older, careworn. Even haunted.
'I can't leave it—!'
'I don't want you to—'
'I must…'
'Leave it alone!'
Zimmermann hesitated, then said: 'I do not think that you will find it was…'
'I don't care! I don't want to know!' Margaret wailed.
'It cannot be Aubrey.'
'Why not? Why not?'
'I believe it can't be.' Zimmermann glanced at Massinger, then back at his wife, then Massinger again. In a hoarse voice, he said, 'But you believe it could be Aubrey, Mr Massinger. You do, don't you?'
'I don't know what to think—'
'You're wrong—'
'Stop it! Stop it! I don't want you to go on with it, Paul — I want to begin to forget it. Can't you understand
