her.'
'Where's the Massinger woman now?'
'Stored safely.'
'And the old man?'
'I don't know. I do know Babbington's booked to Vienna this afternoon.'
'Then he's going to see the old man. What are you fucking well doing about it?'
'There's — nothing I can do. Who would listen?'
'Sir William — he's got a pipeline straight to the PM.'
'He's been Babbington's patron for years. He wanted the new set-up, SAID, and he wanted Babbington to run it. He might look at proof, but he would never listen to assertion. And once a breath of what we know gets out, we're both dead.'
'I'm dead anyway when they catch up with me — remember? Babbington will know by now, and he's bound to believe Petrunin told me everything before he died.'
'Well, we can't try Sir William. What chance do you think there would be of finding Massinger and the old man alive if we tell anybody? Babbington would know in five minutes.'
'Ballocks to Massinger! He's a silly bugger anyway. What does 1946 matter when you could be pushed under a bus any minute?' Hyde paused, and then asked: 'How could Babbington get rid of them without questions being asked?'
'His KGB pals could take care of it for him. They might take the old man to Moscow for all I know, so they can send back pictures of his emergence there before they kill him. As for Massinger, he could be driving a hired car when it leaves the road and goes over a cliff- how the devil do I know? But, he'll do it.'
'The bloody crunch, then,' Hyde murmured. 'The bloody crunch.'
'What can we do about the old man, Patrick?'
'God knows. Where is he?'
'Somewhere in Vienna — there's no one in Vienna Station I dare trust, no one I can even send out.'
'There's only us—?'
'Yes.'
'Christ…' Hyde breathed. 'Then, for God's sake, think of something — someone. Anyone. You must be able to trust someone who knows computers!'
'There's no one. God. I've racked my brains, but I can't come up with a single name — not one I can be certain of.'
'Then tell someone — without the proof- just tell someone!'
'I can't—! It's too dangerous. Look, your job is to go to Vienna and talk to Mrs Massinger—'
'Now I'm supposed to commit suicide— Christ!'
'She's desperate, she's afraid. She may know something — she may be able… look, Patrick, Sir William is her godfather—'
'And Babbington's a family friend. I know the set-up.'
'She could be your only chance,' Shelley said softly and calculatedly.
'You bastard,' Hyde breathed. 'All right, all right. But you — you think of something else. Back-up. This won't be enough, and you know it.'
'All right — I promise. But, if you can get her out, do it. Put her somewhere safe. We could need her.'
'Shelley — what about the old man?'
'Forget about the old man, Patrick — we can't get near him for the moment.'
'For Christ's sake, Shelley — thinking is your bloody job! So thinkl The old man could be in Russia by tomorrow or the day after — find some way to stop it happening. You owe the old man everything.' His anger had provoked a return of the pain in his hands, especially his left hand as it awkwardly clutched the receiver. His cheek, too, burned once more.
'All right, all right — you don't have to remind me. I'll think.'
'Find an answer. Now, give me the number of this Elsenreith woman in Vienna.'
'How — dammit,
Shelley stood before the huge map of Europe, the Middle East, and Asia which he had tacked to one wall of the sitting-room of Hyde's flat. Ros watched him with undisguised disapproval. Hyde was untidy, yes — but during his frequent absences she was always able to restore the flat to an approximation of the perfect reality it had possessed in the Golden Age before she had let it to Patrick Hyde.
And she fussed and tutted about it now because Shelley had told her where Hyde was and the danger he was in and she did not wish to think about either subject.
'I've brought you some lunch,' she said, offering a plate of sandwiches and a large can of Foster's to Shelley's back. Peter Shelley turned, attempting a smile. His brow was furrowed and his face pale. He looked almost debauched by tension and failure. She witnessed fear, too, in his eyes, above the dark smudges. He was afraid for himself and attempting to ignore the feelings.
'Thanks, Ros.' He took the plate and flopped onto the sofa. He drank greedily at the beer, staring at the torn sheets from his notebook scattered on the coffee-table and the carpet beneath. The cat had toyed with his felt pen, wiping it in a thin trail across the green carpet, leaving a broken, blue, wobbly line. As if apologising, the tortoiseshell rubbed itself against Ros's denims. She gently pushed it away with her foot. Unoffended, the cat jumped onto the sofa next to Shelley, attracted by the scent of the tuna sandwiches.
'These are good,' Shelley remarked. There were cat hairs on the lap and calves of his dark suit. Ros forgave him for his patronising tone.
'Will he be all right?'
Shelley looked up, startled. 'I hope so.'
'He could always go back to Aussie — nobody'd find him there. Not that he'd want to…'
'Do you want a sandwich?'
'I've had my lunch, ta.' Nevertheless, she sat opposite him in an armchair that fitted her large frame snugly, even tightly. She watched him, then looked at the map spread on the wall behind him. He had scribbled on it in several places — rings, crosses, names, dates — pieces of torn notebook, frayed-edged, were also pinned to the map, obscuring much of the Mediterranean, some of the North Sea, parts of the Soviet Union and the Middle and Far East. It looked like the creation of a peculiar, fastidious, regimented man planning his holiday or even writing a travel guide. 'What is it?' she asked, nodding towards the map.
He glanced at it almost guiltily, as if embarrassed that it should represent hours of work. His stomach rumbled and he apologised. He looked at his watch. It was after three — no surprise that he was hungry.
'It's every Soviet embassy in Europe and most of them elsewhere, and everything I can remember about them — and about our people in the same places.' He grinned. 'It's all highly secret, of course.'
'Sure,' Ros replied.
Shelley had told her some, but by no means all. She had needed to be assured concerning the importance of what Hyde was doing, required some vague suggestions that all would eventually be well, and had then seemed satisfied. Shelley did not understand her relationship with Hyde, or her feelings for him. And he did not have the time to spare to consider the situation.
His face must have appeared impatient, for she stood up and smoothed the creases from her denims. 'I'll leave you in peace,' she said.
'There's just no way in,' Shelley murmured, his fingertips pushing the separate sheets of his notebook like pieces on a board, with deliberation and intensity.
'What?'
Shelley looked up. 'Oh, sorry. Talking to myself.'
'It — it is dangerous, isn't it?' Ros blurted out suddenly. Her large, plump hands held each other for comfort beneath her huge bosom.
Shelley nodded. 'It is. Not for you—'
'I didn't mean that!' she snapped. 'I meant him — and you, and that Massinger bloke… and your boss. It's a stupid bloody game to begin with, and bloody worse when you find out it's for real!'
'I'm sorry.'
