flames echoing on his retinae, Hyde turned over the body of Petrunin, realising that he had lost everything.
CHAPTER TEN:
The Journey to the Border
The block of luxury apartments was no more than a few years old and stood on the east bank of the Rhine, looking across the river towards the old city of Cologne. Even seated in a deep leather armchair, Massinger was still able to glimpse beyond the windows the tops of the cathedral's three spires, sooty and aspiring against the leaden sky. The whisky he had been offered on arrival had made his stomach rumble audibly, and his host had immediately offered to make sandwiches. The plate of neat, afternoon-tea triangles of bread and German sausage now lay between them on the long coffee-table.
Gerhardt Disch was ebullient, clever, alert. Recently retired, he had also become recently widowed. The pictures of his wife — mountains, ski-ing resorts, beaches, the Lower Manhattan skyline behind her — were rather more prominent on the walls and sideboards and cabinets than those of his children and grandchildren. The large, comfortable, warm room was overfilled with heavy furniture, much of it antique, an indication that he had once occupied more spacious premises. There was also an artificial, almost sparkling tidiness about the flat which denoted a fastidious man with too much time to fill. Only one or two concessions had been made to spontaneity, to the continuation of living. Massinger noticed particularly a very old sepiaed enlargement stuck at an angle into the frame of the ornate mirror above the gas fire. A young woman, presumably Disch's late wife, staring into the lens and into strong sunlight; squinting and smiling. Massinger suspected that Disch had found the old photograph when packing or unpacking during his recent move. What was it — first holiday together, honeymoon, just a day trip? Her dress was post-war. Disch himself was only a little over sixty; Massinger guessed his wife had been perhaps a few years younger.
He took one of the tiny sandwiches and bit into it, nodding his compliments. Disch seemed inordinately pleased with the effect of his cuisine upon his guest.
'I believe that Herr Zimmermann has already spoken to you?' Massinger said when he had finished the sandwich.
Disch nodded. 'That is correct.' His English was good, his accent more pronounced than that of Zimmermann. His voice rumbled. 'But only for a moment — and to ask if I would help you. I know Wolf Zimmermann for some years now… I was attached to the Chancellery Security Section, you understand?' Massinger nodded. 'Of course, I am pleased if I am able to help.' He shook his head lugubriously. 'It is a sad thing, what they say of Mr Aubrey — my apologies, Sir Kenneth Aubrey — and, of course, it is ridiculous.'
Massinger felt his heart pluck in his chest, as if uplifted by some great sense of relief. Doubt, however, immediately returned.
'Please go on,' he said. 'I understand you worked with Kenneth in Berlin, after the end of the war.'
'Ah — that is what interests you?' Disch's eyes were bright with enquiry. Massinger felt himself studied, weighed. Retirement and bereavement had not dulled the man's professional instincts or abilities. 'You are in some doubt about the matter?' Disch asked sharply. 'I was not told this.'
'I'm sorry, but I thought—' Massinger began. Disch was studying him with a bright, narrow suspiciousness in his eyes. The German raised his hand. 'What did Herr Zimmermann say to you?' Massinger persisted.
'Only that you wished to speak to me. He explained who you were, of course. And that you were trying to help your friend, Sir Kenneth Aubrey.'
Massinger felt hot with embarrassment; shame, too. Hesitantly, he said, 'I am not here under false pretences, Herr Disch.' Even to himself, it sounded priggish. He was surprised at the evident loyalty towards Aubrey evinced by the German. It was almost forty years old, and still it had not atrophied. With a cynical amusement, Massinger realised it was the same kind of loyalty that had made him visit Aubrey the morning after the fateful news bulletin.
'I wonder?' Disch said. He brushed his hand over his remaining strands of grey hair. His face was cherubic in complexion and shape, and now it appeared almost froglike with suppressed anger. 'Yes, Herr Massinger, I wonder about your motives.'
Massinger resisted an explanation, as if he felt the use of Margaret's name and situation would be an evasion. Yet he was not prepared to admit that it was his doubts that must be satisfied. His disloyalty…
'Please tell me about Berlin,' he pleaded at last.
Disch continued to study him, then said carefully: 'And this will help? It will help Sir Kenneth?' Massinger nodded, his features expressionless. 'What will happen to him?' Disch asked then.
Massinger shrugged. 'I don't know. With luck — with a great deal of luck, his name perhaps can be cleared. I don't know what will happen then.'
'I see.' Disch was like a man guarding a precious hoard, suspecting every caller of being a potential thief. He rubbed his round chin and pressed his jowls into froglike enlargements against his collar, as if he had bent his head to watch his visitor over half-glasses. 'I see,' he repeated softly.
Massinger quelled his irritation and his tension. He received a moment of insight. Behind the bonhomie and the good manners lay the cleverness and the professional training. And those elements of Disch's character were troubled. Massinger's questions posed some kind of threat. There was a secret, then. There was a suspicion hidden in Disch's mind. Of Aubrey…?
Yes. Of Aubrey. Disch had been disloyal in his own way, perhaps only since Zimmermann had spoken to him. Zimmermann had appeared confident, but Massinger had no idea as to Zimmermann's sense of morality. The man was in debt to Aubrey, and wished to repay. He had, perhaps, made allowances, given no weight to what Aubrey might have done in Berlin. But Disch had. Disch knew or suspected something to Aubrey's detriment.
'Please tell me,' he prompted.
Disch shrugged expansively, and attempted a smile. 'Very well,' he said with something like relief. 'But Sir Kenneth, I am certain, is innocent of these charges against him — he is not a Russian agent…' He hurried on: 'I worked with him again in '74, when he was in Bonn. What the press here and in your country have suggested is nonsense!'
'But, about Berlin?'
Disch nodded, and swallowed. He was obviously burdened.
Massinger should have seen it earlier, played upon it. There was a confessional air about Disch, suddenly.
'Yes, yes,' he said almost breathlessly.
'Kenneth was captured in East Berlin and held for some days — then he escaped.'
'I believe that he did escape,' Disch protested, angry and yet somehow relieved that he was under interrogation. 'All other suggestions are nonsense.'
'Why did he go to East Berlin? Wasn't it dangerous?' It was difficult to think of Aubrey as a young man, a field agent. It had been his job — a stupid question. 'I have been told,' he added, 'that one of his networks was threatened?'
Disch nodded. 'Yes,' he said heavily, 'we agreed to that.'
'Agreed? It wasn't the truth, then?'
Disch shook his head vigorously. 'I did not say that—'
'Who agreed?'
'Sir Kenneth — and the others — four of us.'
The voice was laden with guilt. Massinger was appalled. What kind of conspiracy was this—?
'Why was it necessary to agree?'
'I do not mean — agree … I mean we — oh, how do you say, we were told by Sir Kenneth that this is why he had to go over… told to say that…' His voice tailed off. There had been turmoil, then. For how long? Forty years, or just since Zimmermann had spoken to Disch?
'Why?'
'For security reasons. It was a cover story — ' Disch blurted. 'There is nothing unusual in that. It was our cover story from the beginning.'
