Petrunin was silent for a long time. The wind whispered, puffing snow under the lee of the overhang. Hyde was numb with cold. Then the Russian muttered in the remote voice that had become familiar to Hyde: 'I don't — want to be remembered as the butcher of Kabul.' It was uninflected, passionless yet full of self-pity. Hyde had not reached the place where what remained of Petrunin had retreated. 'I don't want to be remembered as the butcher of Kabul,' Petrunin repeated exactly. Hyde did not think it was even a nickname he had been given. He was describing the state of his self-knowledge.
'Why?' Hyde shouted. 'Why did you need
'I was being used, even then,' Petrunin said, disconcerting Hyde. 'In 1941, during the nine hundred days…' His voice tailed off. Hyde had no idea what he meant. 'Even then, scouting, carrying messages… I was no more than a boy — thirteen when the war began… they've had me in their pockets since I was thirteen… since Leningrad…'
Hyde was chilled by this glimpse into Petrunin's past. As little more than a boy, he had experienced the privations and terrors of the German siege of Leningrad which had last nine hundred days.
'Yes,' he said.
'In their pockets… their man, their thing …'
'But — why?'
Something reminded Hyde to attend to the reality beyond the tiny huddle of himself and Petrunin. Silence, except for the quiet soughing of the wind. The snow was still falling, but more lightly. He could not hear the helicopter's rotors.
Petrunin did not answer his question. Instead, his cold, remote voice said, 'Leningrad…' It was a sigh. Its meaning had become a talisman for Petrunin which perhaps protected him against memories of the more recent past. Hyde felt himself totally identified with the Russian, a fellow-conspirator in a world of enemies. The identification was so close that Hyde could not envisage the border or foresee his escape.
'Why?' he asked again softly and without hope of any reply.
'Why?' Petrunin repeated. 'Why?' He spoke in English once more, a sharper, more amused tone in his voice. 'To place him — to place our man at the apex, the pinnacle… whenever we wished. When the time…' A slight cough interrupted Petrunin. His eyes closed as if to eradicate pain. Hyde looked at him. Only minutes now. Then Petrunin seemed to gather a new, urgent strength. 'The time was right,' he announced. 'Sir William was the — the Chairman of JIC, he had your Prime Minister's ear… your new service, combining intelligence and security, could be set up now—! The time was right… and sweet…' He coughed, then added: 'For our man…'
Hyde heard only that last phrase, as Petrunin's voice faded like a poor radio signal.
Their man. Hyde felt himself shivering uncontrollably. The answer was a moment, one more sentence away, and the realisation of its proximity made him understand his surroundings and his situation more deeply. Once he had the knowledge, he had to stay alive, get out—
'Who?' he asked, but before he received an answer he had pressed his palm against Petrunin's mouth. The Russian's eyes widened. Hyde could not be certain the Russian could see the soldier moving slowly across the snow, forty yards from them, clothed in winter combat camouflage, Kalashnikov carried across his chest, snowshoes lifting and clumping and flattening the snow.
Hyde felt Petrunin's lips moving against the cold flesh of his palm. It might have been the name of the traitor, it might have been a protest at being gagged. It might have been some last, futile epithet. Hyde clamped his hand more firmly over Petrunin's mouth as the soldier continued to pass across their field of vision.
CHAPTER ELEVEN:
Arriving
Two more soldiers came out of the stunted trees, bobbing into view as they climbed the last of the shallow slope. Both of them, rifles angled across their white-clad chests, appeared to be walking straight towards Hyde and Petrunin, able to make out their huddled shapes beneath the overhang. Petrunin's body slumped against Hyde once more, almost into an embrace, and Hyde knew the man was still alive because his lips kept murmuring soundlessly against his palm. His hand was warmed by the faint breathing of the Russian, but it was a fitful breeze, threatening to disappear each time it tickled his palm.
The first soldier passed out of sight and his two companions moved after him. Their exaggerated steps sifted and fluffed the light snow. There was no sound of any helicopter. Petrunin was shivering against him. Ten seconds, fifteen, twenty, a minute… time elongated. Hyde wanted to cry out, to scream as the nerves tautened all over his body; as if the cold had left him cramped and maddened with pins-and-needles. A minute and a half…
They stopped, casting about. Hyde was convinced that he could see, with vivid clarity, the slight depressions left by his laboured footsteps in the snow. He thought he could make out the shallow trough where he had slithered, dragging the Russian, towards the overhang. It must be clear to the soldiers—
They moved off, as if half-afraid of being left too far behind their companion. Hyde's breathing rushed in his ears. He could hear his heart, just feel Petrunin's shallow, irregular breathing. Out of sight, out of sight — go on, go on…
Another few yards, yes, three, two, another step…
They were gone. He heard one of them call after the first soldier. He heard the quickening slither of their snowshoes.
Now, the snow beyond the overhang looked smooth and undimpled except where they had walked. Gently, as if in apology, Hyde removed his hand from Petrunin's mouth. The lips were still working soundlessly, not so much searching for words as for an expression — perhaps a smile.
'Your man?' Hyde asked. 'Who is he?'
'Babbington,' Petrunin replied after the smallest hesitation. His lips found something like acceptance, then the name, finally a smile. 'Babbington!'
'Christ — then it's worked!'
'Of course.' The voice was remote again, but in a superior, Olympian manner. 'Of course.'
'Jesus-bloody-Christ,' Hyde breathed. 'Him?'
'Him.'
'When — how long, for Christ's sake—?'
Petrunin waved his hand dismissively, weakly, as if he considered Hyde was wasting the little time left with the wrong questions. 'A long story,' he murmured. 'It always is. Now — what will you do?'
Hyde rubbed his face. 'God knows.'
Petrunin cackled, and coughed. No blood, but his head lolled as if his body were sinking in something; or filling. His whole form lolled. Ballast shifting, Hyde thought, then: Nothing … I don't have … not even paper, no tape, no record, nothing…
It was if the Russian could read his thoughts. 'You see?' he asked. 'You have no proof. You have nothing. You cannot even escape, I think…' He leaned back, as if trying to sink into the rock. His face was colourless, his eyes, unfocused, studied the rock above their heads.
'Then help me,' Hyde replied desperately. 'Help me to screw the bastards. Help me screw the people who want you dead — who've already done for you.' He leaned his head towards Petrunin until their faces almost touched. He could feel no breath from the Russian warming his cheek. 'Help me. They've killed you. Help me spoil their bloody game.'
'How?' Petrunin asked, and then the realisation of what Hyde had said gripped him. He was afraid. Even knowing, he had not wished to hear it pronounced. Hyde had sentenced him. 'No—' he spluttered. Blood poured from his lips, staining his chin, staining Hyde. It felt warm, ugly and final. Hyde gripped the Russian's arms, almost hugging him like a lover.
'Come on, you clever, clever bastard — where's the proof? Tell me where the proof is and I'll spoil their fucking game for them. Come on…' He was holding Petrunin now, the man's head against him, mouth pressed to Hyde's ear. Wet. His chin was resting on Hyde's shoulder. 'Come on,' the Australian whispered urgently, afraid of time unravelling utterly in the next few moments. Only minutes now — less perhaps…
'It's all on computer — you couldn't get hold of it… only I could do that — from — from inside a Soviet
