'The woman was, as you know, well known in Bonn. She might have been recognised by women in her circle?' To Schroder, it was self-evident that such precautions had been needed.
Zimmermann paused for a moment, then he said: 'You had a telephone installed in your apartment, of course?'
'Naturally.'
'The week of the traitor Guillaume's arrest — Mr Babbington used your flat?'
'Often. He persuaded me that I had been working too hard, that I should take a few days' leave. I went to Bavaria — it was beautiful in the spring. He — he bought the train tickets and booked the hotel… a good hotel.'
Zimmermann contained his rising sense of excitement. The apartment with its untapped, unsuspicious telephone, had been in Babbington's possession for the crucial few days. Babbington's periods of disappearance had been accounted for because of the affair — they even knew where he was, so the surveillance reports and recollections claimed. Babbington had disarmed them by indulging in an affair and finding a hiding place for himself and the woman. It had excused any and all of his actions, giving them the gloss of adultery, not criminality. The telephone calls to Guillaume had begun on April 22nd.
'You returned to Bonn — when?'
'On the 25th of April.'
'And Mr Babbington continued to use your apartment for his meetings with — this woman now dead?'
Margarethe Schroder shook her head. She even appeared saddened by the recollection. 'No. Mr Babbington was very upset. He told me that her husband was becoming suspicious — they had to part, even though he begged her—'
'You believed him?'
'You think I don't recognise unhappiness when I see it?' she challenged.
'So, the affair was over — and, of course, Mr Babbington's new work took up all his time. He was able to lose himself in his responsibilities.'
'Luckily for him. Slowly, he seemed to mend, to recover his spirits.'
'Did he settle your very high telephone bill before he returned to England, Frau Schroder?' Zimmermann asked quickly, startling and confusing the woman.
'How did you…?' Then she dismissed the suspicion that this was the thrust of Zimmermann's enquiries, and said, 'Yes, he did. Every mark and pfennig.'
'It was a high bill. Did most of the calls — local ones — come while you were on holiday?'
'Yes… I think so, anyway—'
'But before that there were many calls — long-distance, even international?' She nodded. 'But the mainly local ones were while you took your holiday?'
'There was never any attempt to deceive me — Mr Babbington explained that he took work to the apartment, that he had to talk to London a great deal — before the bill arrived he told me all this.'
'Ah. Of course. It was nothing.' He looked at his watch. One in the morning. He felt a tired, jumpy excitement tightening his chest. This was, at the very least, a satisfactory beginning. He had method and opportunity now — perhaps he might discover motive, too, given time? He stood up. He shook hands with Margarethe Schroder perfunctorily. 'Thank you,' he said. 'Thank you. I — shall be in touch with your lawyer, Herr Ganzer, within a matter of days. I am sure we can do something to make your next Christmas something to remember!' He tried to smile once more, and almost achieved the expression of sincerity. It was a reflection of his own self-satisfaction that she witnessed.
'Thank you,' she said bemusedly. Zimmermann shook hands briefly with Ganzer, nodding an assurance as he did so, and left. His footsteps clattered along the brightly lit, tiled corridor.
As he passed through the corridors and levels of the prison towards the main gates and his car, beneath the long striplights, he began to escape the pervasive, constricting sense of imprisonment that the interview room had contained. It had radiated from the woman, Schroder. She was the past that imprisoned him and his country.
He accepted what he recognised as his own internment within his talents. He was a spy and an interrogator, and always had been. That he accepted as a willed life sentence. But her — Schroder — she represented those who had made Germany and most of Europe a prison and a charnel-house. He wanted to distance himself from them and what they had done. In part, his whole life had been such a distancing process. But now, his debt to Aubrey had returned him like a planet in a long, elliptical orbit to the moment of Germany's greatest shame. He had come face to face, in that warm, dry, interview room, with the horror of the past.
He hurried into the cold air of the courtyard, turning up the collar of his overcoat. He climbed thankfully into the Mercedes, started the engine and drove to the gates. He showed his pass and the gates opened. He was free.
He had almost reached the slip-road to the Cologne-Bonn autobahn before he realised he was being followed.
Babbington took the telephone call from Bonn and for once envisaged the town at the other end of the connection. He remembered, quite clearly, Margarethe Schroder's small, cramped, neat apartment and the telephone — and the dozens, even hundreds of calls he had made. Sometimes the woman had been there — poor Use, who had died of cancer so painfully — but mostly he had been alone. Use had been a good cover, a good lover, but a luxury he had had to abandon as time ran out for Guillaume. He had covered his tracks, but
'It is done — everything as you ordered. Do you want to look at the stuff?' The accent was American. The KGB officer had, like so many of them, learned his English in the United States, probably as a student.
'What is it?'
'He had all the right files pulled. He was getting close. The woman in Cologne — he's seen her.'
'You're certain?'
'Yes.'
'Then let's hope tonight will be a lesson to him. Many thanks.'
Babbington put down the receiver and rubbed his nose between thumb and forefinger, as if easing his sinuses. Oleg, his contact, sat opposite him in a dowdily covered chair, a tumbler of malt whisky balanced on its wide arm. He appeared at ease. Babbington considered. It would be well — would yet be well…
Zimmermann had, however, moved quickly, with insight and talent.
'OK,' Babbington announced casually. 'It's been done. Zimmermann is due for a shock. It should keep him quiet — at least temporarily.'
'What do you gain by that?'
'Time. Just as we gain time when Massinger and his wife fall into my hands tomorrow. They will be removed from the board.'
'And Aubrey?'
'My reply to that, Oleg, is — and Hyde?'
'Don't worry. He's alone — he can't get out.'
'Petrunin is dead?'
Oleg nodded. Fair hair flopped across his forehead. He flicked it aside. 'Yes. They're certain.'
'Two years too late.'
'Perhaps.'
'I have the right to complain — I'm coming behind with the broom, Oleg.'
'The Centre has ordered me to inform you as to the dangers of too great a degree of ruthlessness in this matter.'
'Too great — how?'
'What do you intend doing with the Massinger couple, for example? And Aubrey, when you locate him?'
'Have them brought back. What else?'
Babbington felt himself studied through a microscope of distrust. They were wary of the very ruthlessness that had attracted them to him, that had guaranteed his seniority with the passage of time. With an effort, he kept his face bland and reassuring while his thoughts raged. A slight tic began at the corner of his mouth, and he masked
