Wilkes waved his hand towards the others. Obediently, and perhaps with indifference, they filed from the room. Once outside, Babbington could hear the subdued murmur of their voices as they made for their own quarters, even a burst of coarse laughter. The usual assortment of misfits; the greedy, the stupid, the sadistic. He breathed more easily. His stomach had been queasy in the car, and he realised now that it was not travel or tiredness or tension. It was the demeaning proximity of the lower echelons, the infantry of the secret world. Wilkes, of course, was tolerable — usually…
'Massinger's wife's nowhere in sight. The other woman, the German — she's taking a short holiday at her place outside St Wolfgang.'
'You had her followed — yes, I will. Scotch. Neat.' Wilkes had crossed to a highly-ornamented cabinet and removed a bottle and glasses, gesturing towards Babbington with them. He poured two whiskies, bringing Babbington's glass to the fireplace.
'Yes. The police were there, too.'
'Why?'
'She's got influential friends in the Viennese police. She's looking after herself.'
'What will she have told the police?'
'We're checking on that. Not much, I think. Even if she had, there's nothing they're likely to do. If she mentioned Aubrey by name, they'd back away with a horrified expression. They don't get mixed up with us — you know that.'
'I know it. Would the police look for Margaret Massinger?'
'They might. If they find her, we'll hear about it. Don't worry. I doubt they'll look very hard — not in this case.'
'What if she goes to the police?'
'She can't tell them anything. And they'll be their usual reluctant selves. We could even get to her after she goes to them, if that's what you want?'
Babbington sipped at his Scotch and moved a little away from the blazing fire. 'I don't know yet… I want her out of the way, but I'd prefer her to be found by our people. Then we can — arrange matters.'
'What are you going to do with Aubrey?'
Babbington smiled. 'Aubrey goes over the border. Dear old Kenneth is going to appear where everybody expects him to appear.'
'Moscow, you mean?'
'Moscow.'
'I'll drink to that. But will Kapustin agree?'
'He'd better. It's too good an opportunity to miss, don't you think? It simply needs to be arranged. Make contact tonight and get a message to Kapustin.'
'What shall I tell him?'
'Just tell him I want to talk. Urgently.' Babbington frowned. 'I'm not going to let that peasant ignore the opportunity. They can dispose of Kenneth after they've taken their pictures and spread the news he's in Moscow to collect his medals and be promoted to the rank of a full general in the KGB! And we, Wilkes, will be endlessly and completely secure. Oh no, Kapustin can't be allowed to pass up this opportunity.'
'Do you want to see Aubrey?'
Babbington looked at his empty glass. 'No. I think another drink first, don't you? Kenneth's flavour will increase with a little keeping.' He smiled.
'It might at that,' Wilkes replied, taking Babbington's glass.
'There'll be a car, a brown Skoda, waiting for you in the Zidovska, near the cathedral — a knitted cardigan with reindeer on the pockets lying on the passenger seat. The keys will be under the—'
'No! For Christ's sake, for the last time — no! It's impossible.'
'For heaven's sake, Patrick — you don't have any choice. Godwin has the background in computers, you have the ingress and egress skills…' Even distantly down the telephone line, Shelley sounded as if he were pleading. His earlier objections to Hyde's intransigence had sounded like the disappointment of someone who has failed an examination despite being convinced of their own cleverness. Now, however, Shelley was angry, and selfless. It was no longer his scheme that mattered, it was Aubrey. 'You have to do it.' The words were soft and final.
'No. You have to be able to mount some kind of rescue attempt. It's a matter of calling the cops, for God's sake—!'
'And they'd believe you and not Babbington?'
'But Aubrey would be alive,' Hyde protested. His voice was an intense whisper, as if the telephone cubicle at the rear of the village inn was incapable of preventing the carry of his words.
'For how long? And you — how long would you be alive?'
'Mate, I can't just hire a car and skis and drive to Bratislava to collect another car that might or might not be waiting for me!'
'You can. And you can get into the Hradcany. And Godwin can instruct you—'
'God—'
'Look, you don't have to tell me it's desperate remedies. I know it already. But there's no other—'
Shelley's voice had stopped speaking with unexpected suddenness, almost as if he were in the inn with Hyde and had paused to listen to the music that had just struck up from an accordion, a violin and drums. A folk-song, indistinguishable from a hundred others.
'Shelley—?'
'I'm just having a look out of your window, Patrick. I thought I heard the doorbell downstairs.' Apologetically, Shelley added: 'Getting a bit jumpy myself…' Again, his voice tailed off, this time more slowly, as if his attention had become absorbed elsewhere.
Hyde waited. Tension jumped in his fingertips. He knew the conversation could have only one conclusion, and already the guilt was beginning to appear. But, he couldn't — it was impossible…
'Shelley—?'
'Yes, Patrick.'
'What is it?' Hyde asked, suddenly alert, as if an enemy had walked into the warmly lit, already smoky inn. The door had opened, in fact, and smoke from the log fire had billowed into the room. A stranger who was greeted by other customers had entered.
'I — think they must have found me. There're a couple of cars in the street outside. Must have found my car, put two and two together. I think they're already in the house…'
'Are you sure?' Hyde felt himself sweating. He hunched into the telephone cubicle, the mouthpiece closer to his lips.
'Oh, yes — I'm sure. Listen, then… brown Skoda in the Zidovska, cardigan on passenger seat, keys under the driver's mat, papers locked in the glove compartment — everything you need. It'll be there tomorrow morning…' Shelley broke off, evidently listening. Hyde imagined he could hear a knock at his door. 'Got that?'
Hyde wanted to reject the information. 'Yes,' he said.
'Tuck the woman away somewhere safe — then see Zimmermann's chap for the Austrian passport. Change cars and papers in Bratislava, then drive to Prague. Godwin will meet you at one of the bus stops on the E 15, once the road reaches the suburbs. Look out for him—' His voice broke off suddenly. Hyde distantly caught the repeated knocking, loudening in the silence. Shelley's breathing, too—
'Are they in?'
'No. But soon. I've given you Zimmennann's number in Bonn. Call him. If anything goes wrong and you need a fallback plan, call him…' Shelley broke off.
'Are they in, Shelley?'
'Yes… Good evening, gentlemen,' he added, addressing the visitors to Hyde's flat. Hyde heard Ros's strident protests from somewhere outside the room. Someone spoke to Shelley, but Hyde did not catch the words. Then Shelley said to him: 'You see how I'm fixed, darling. I shall be away for some time, I should think. Ring you when I get back. Take care…' The voice faded on that as the telephone receiver was snatched from Shelley.
Hyde listened to the humming silence, then to the breathing that came on the line. The exhalations of someone's effort and anger. He heard Shelley ask who was on the line, but there was no reply. Involuntarily, Hyde
