by Craig Thomas
"What's the matter, darling?" he asked as soothingly as he could.
Her face had hardened again when she looked up. "You know what's happening!" she accused. "Andrew didn't want to tell me — I made him…" She was ashamed at that. "You're still trying to help that man!"
"My dear," he said, moving towards her. Her knuckles were white against the velvet of the arms of her chair. She was wearing only her engagement ring and narrow gold wedding ring. Babbington's face indicated that he had been sufficiently warned, that the consequences were now of his making. "How can I have been helping him? At the club, at my stockbroker's?" The lies came fluently. He turned to Babbington. "Andrew — would you explain this, please? How have you upset Margaret?"
"I'm not upsetl I hate that man!"
"For God's sake, Margaret!" His eyes never moved from Babbington's face. The directorships, the Quangos, the circles that might have admitted him, the respect — they all paled. This was Babbington's real power — this … a woman in tears, almost hysterical with fear and anger and hate. Babbington could, he was amply demonstrating, poison Margaret's mind incurably.
Castleford—
He was made aware once again of how many pictures of her father this room, other rooms, contained. The portrait watched from the wall. Castleford was here, in the room with them, assisting Babbington. He felt nausea and guilt sourly together in his throat.
Then he remembered Aubrey. The pictures stared at him, the portrait watched. Aubrey, in the back of his awareness, pleaded for, demanded help.
Aubrey—
"My dear," Babbington murmured, touching Margaret's hand, his large fingers tapping at the two rings, at the knuckles of her left hand. Massinger clenched his fists at his sides. "My dear, go and calm down a little. I think I may have — well, let me talk to Paul about this… mm?"
She looked at Babbington, nodded, sniffed, and got up. It was mesmeric, a further demonstration of Babbington's power over her mind. She left the room. Massinger pulled off his overcoat, careful of the package as he folded it and placed it across the back of a chair. The wall lights appeared gloomy, the room large and vacant.
"Well?" he accused Babbington. "What the hell are you up to, Andrew?"
He stood over Babbington, who did not attempt to rise.
"What the hell are you doing, Paul? It's my right to ask, I think, not yours. What are you doing, man?" Even then, his hand indicated the door by which Margaret had left. It was as if he had struck her. "What were you doing in Earl's Court, at Hyde's address? Who did you talk with — his landlady? Why, man? What were you doing at the Imperial War Museum, with Shelley? Why did Shelley have to throw off surveillance in order to meet you?" His eyes glinted, but Massinger suspected that he had no answers to his questions, using them as he was simply in the form of accusations. Please don't let him know, he thought, and realised the weakness of his position. He and Shelley and Hyde. The sum total… Inadequate.
"I—" Careful, careful, he told himself, trying to rid himself of images of his wife, trying to press down upon his anger, create a mood of apologetic explanation. Not too weak, not too quick, but start to give in. "I don't see what it has to do with you, Andrew. I really don't think it needs you to come here and poison my wife against me—" He had walked away from Babbington soon after he began speaking, and now he turned to face him. Deliberately, the whisky decanter in his hand as he did so. "Do you?" he finished.
"Poison?" Babbington smiled. "You never possessed much sense of proportion, Paul, did you? I'm not poisoning Margaret against you. I'm just trying to establish what you think you're engaged upon, that's all." The remark invited explanation.
Not too quickly, Massinger instructed himself, pouring a large whisky without offering one to Babbington. Margaret kept intruding, tightening his chest with a physical pain. It was difficult to concentrate on fending off Babbington. "Do I owe you any explanation, Andrew?"
"I think you do, yes. You don't even know this man Hyde. Of what interest is he to you?"
"I—" Massinger looked thoughtful, slightly guilty; almost determined. "Aubrey asked me to check…"he admitted slowly.
"What?"
"Aubrey asked me to check," he blustered. "It's as simple as that. He wanted to know whether Hyde had been heard from. Does that satisfy you?"
Enough bluster, too much—? Had he hooked Babbington, used the man's poor enough opinion of him? Dodged and paltered enough to be dismissed?
Babbington smiled. His eyes almost seemed to form words — errand-boy, pet dog… Babbington's contempt for him was evident. Massinger wondered whether the man might not destroy his happiness simply out of amusement?
"Aubrey asked you," he repeated with heavy sarcasm. "And what, pray, did you find out?"
"His landlady hadn't heard from him."
"And the matter of Shelley — your little assignation with the head of East Europe Desk?" Babbington made it seem a very temporary appointment.
"Much the same," Massinger snapped, irked by Babbington's interrogation. "Look, dammit, I was asked by an old friend, a very old friend, if I would seek help for him. Can't you understand? Aubrey was desperate, isolated, afraid. I had to do as he asked. I couldn't turn him down!"
Yes, yes, yes, he thought, his eyes watching Babbington as he held the tumbler to his lips. Loyalty, old friendships — the futility of it was expressed in Babbington's eyes. He had successfully placed him now, understood and dismissed him as a sentimentalist. It confirmed what he thought of Margaret and Massinger together, and the leverage any threat to personal happiness would exercise on him. Massinger held his body unmoving, though a wave of relief swept over him. He'd done it…
For the moment.
"I see," Babbington murmured. "But, with what result?"
"Enlistment isn't fashionable these days," Massinger replied bitterly. "Leastways, not for lost causes."
"Ah. And you — do you feel Aubrey's cause is lost?"
"I don't believe he's guilty."
"That's not what I asked."
Massinger shrugged. "There's — nothing more I can do, either way," he admitted grudgingly.
"I agree." Babbington stood up. "Thank you for being frank with me," he said, crossing to Massinger and extending his hand. Massinger held his drink for a moment, as if in defiance, then Babbington added: "I'll just pop and have a word with Margaret. Don't worry. She'll be fine. Her father was a very special man, you know," he added. "Especially to her." Massinger shook his hand. "I'm glad things are — cleared up, Paul. Thank you for being so honest." There was an evident, cruel amusement in his eyes. And visible contempt—
"Margaret's been through enough already, Andrew," Massinger warned.
"Quite. Goodbye, Paul."
He went through the door to the dining-room, closing it behind him. Massinger swallowed at his drink. Yes — the contempt of power for emotion, for sentiment — yes. He was warmed by the passage of the drink and by a fierce delight in his own skill and intuition. He resented Babbington's returning Margaret to him like a borrowed gift, but he waited for her to come through the doors, smiling.
"Paul," she said. Yes, she was smiling. "Paul, Andrew's explained everything! I understand what you've been trying to do." There was a superiority about her understanding, almost a maternal, comforting sense of his being patronised. He ignored it, holding her close against him, feeling her breathing against his throat and neck. He had beaten Babbington.
And Babbington had shown him his power over Margaret and, once more, the power of dead Robert Castleford. Babbington would use Castleford without hesitation against him as he was using him against Aubrey; to fulfil his own ambitions. What he held, he would keep; the joint Director-Generalship of MI5 and SIS. Absolute power in the secret world. Babbington would stop at nothing to retain that power. The KGB had provided him with the means to finish Aubrey. Babbington cared nothing for the truth of the matter, for the KGB's motives, for the rot that might have set in, for collusion …
He'd see non
e of it. He'd see only his chance, his success.
Massinger felt anguished. Slowly, he held her at arms' length. Her eyes were still bright with dismissed tears. Her face glowed. He ached with love for her, with fear at losing her. He couldn't let her go — wouldn't…
Had to.
"Darling," he murmured.
Her left hand, the one with the rings he had given her, the diamond flashing in the subdued lighting, reached up and stroked his temple, then his cheek. It could not help but seem to him to be some kind of final, parting blessing. He caught her hand as she murmured: "Darling…" Her lips pouted. He was aware of her sexual attractiveness in a swift, piercing way. He knew that she had begun to entertain images of their lovemaking. He could envisage her face smoothed, whitened, dreamlike at climax, and felt roused.
He clutched her hand, but prevented her from moving close to him again.
"Margaret," he began guiltily. "Margaret, listen to me, please."
"What is it?"
He led her to the sofa, made her sit down. She was half-puzzled, half-amused. He lowered himself into the cushion, his body separated from hers. He held her hands solemnly.
"It's not over — whatever I told Babbington, it's not over," he murmured. She looked struck, even wounded. "No, just listen to me before you say anything, please—" He held up one hand to silence her. "Please listen before you say anything, before you judge me."
Eventually, she nodded stiffly, a little bob of her head. Her fair hair fell across her cheek, her brow. "Very well."
"This isn't about Aubrey," he began. "At least, it's not just about Aubrey. No, don't make that face, you can't hate him that much…" He abandoned the argument, and continued: "I have evidence — from Aubrey's man in Vienna, and Peter Shelley's convinced too — that the KGB are behind this business. Whatever the truth of the matter, they're using it. More than that, Aubrey's man could well be killed by his own side." He paused. There was little reaction other than puzzlement, a sense of unfamiliarity; then a sense of dismissal, of the light of common sense falling on this dark corner of experience and making it seem ridiculous; incomprehensible and incredible. "No one else believes it. No one else is interested. Babbington is blinded by his own ambition, Sir William is content to see Aubrey go to the wall because he's persuaded the Cabinet Office and the Joint Intelligence Committee that they want and need a unified security and intelligence service." Her eyes revealed that she was dismissing each of his statements even as he made them. He waved one hand loosely to indicate his helplessness. "You see," he pleaded, "why I can't give up on this?"
She was silent for a long time, and then she said simply, "No, I don't see."
"But, you must—!"
"I can't! All I can see is that you're still willing to help the man who betrayed my father — who caused his death!"
"You don't even know if it's true!"
"And you don't care! You'll help him anyway!"
"My darling, I promise you — I promise, that if I find it is true, I'll abandon him like everyone else. If Aubrey helped to kill your father, then to hell with him. I won't lift a finger to help him."
"I can't bear this…" she murmured.
"There's nothing else I can do."
"Why can't you talk to William about this — please?"
"Because he's convinced that Aubrey's a traitor. Just like everyone else. They don't want to look any deeper into it."
"But you do—" she accused.
"I must."
"So, only Paul Massinger can be right, only Paul Massinger's priorities are important."
"You know that isn't true—!"
"How do I know? Dear God, it isn't even your country!"
He stood up, unable to bear her hot gaze, her accusing mouth. He crossed the room, then turned to look back at her.
"I'm trusting you with my life," he said quietly. "I've told you because I had to. I promised Babbington that I'll go no further. Only you know I'm continuing with it. I — have to go to Vienna for a couple of days, to see this man of Aubrey's." She averted her face. His body had taken on a supplicant's stoop, arms akimbo. "I ask you to tell no one. If anyone asks, then I'm in Cambridge for a couple of nights. Out of harm's way," he added cynically. "When I get back, I'll tell you everything. I'll let you decide—"
She turned to him, her face reddened, her hands clenched on her lap. She shook back her hair.
"Don't come back," she said. "Just — don't come back." She, too, stood up. Her body was rigid with determination. "If you leave this flat on that man's behalf—" He groaned inwardly. She had accepted nothing of what he had said. " — then you need not bother to come back. I don't care if I'm being unreasonable, or stupid, or even malicious — but I can't bear it! If you go on helping that man, then we're finished. It's over."
Immediately, she left the room, closing the doors to the dining-room behind her with a firm, quiet finality. Massinger's eyes immediately transferred their gaze to the portrait of Castleford. It watched him with what he could only consider malevolence, accusation. Castleford's eyes were her eyes. They had always had the same eyes; now, they possessed the same stare. He rubbed his forehead and groaned aloud.
Finished—
* * *
The British Airways Trident dropped towards the snowbound landscape amid which the south-eastern suburbs of Vienna straggled out towards the pattern of Schwechat airport's runways. The scene was uniformly grey and white to Massinger's red-rimmed, prickling eyes. Bodily, he was little more than a lump that had sleeplessly occupied a hotel bed near Heathrow and then a taxi and then a departure lounge and then an aircraft seat next to a window; a lump that had previously performed, like an automaton, the tasks of packing, gathering passport, credit cards, wallet, Hyde's papers, ordering a taxi, avoiding all sense of Margaret in other rooms in the flat, avoiding him.
His mind was numbed. Not free, or released, merely numbed. He could no longer think of her or about her. He had lost her. That realisation was like a wall in his mind, preventing other images and thoughts.
The wheels bumped, and snow-covered concrete and grass rushed past the window; a moonscape produced by snowploughs. Then the aircraft was taxiing, turning right then left, back towards the strangely provincial, miniature airport buildings. Schwechat was like any airfield in eastern Europe; a bare, flat child's model of a grown-up's real airport. He and Margaret had flown into Schwechat often, visiting concerts, operas, galleries in Vienna…
The thought drifted away, as if he had no powers of retention left. The landing music switched off and the hostess wished him a pleasant stay. People began to gather baggage hurriedly, tumbling it out of the overhead lockers as if prompted by an escape timetable limited to split-seconds. He followed them slowly across the pooled, windy tarmac into the terminal building.
Passport control, luggage, customs; a largely empty hall, echoing, modern, aseptic. He tried to anticipate the events to come, the evening and night ahead, but all he gained was a sense of foreboding and weakness, and he surrendered the idea. He had begun, he knew, to lose interest, not to care. Teardrop, Hyde, Aubrey the old man, the KGB, all became figments of a melodramatic dream, as they had been for Margaret. There was only one thing he now cared about, one fragment of the truth upon which he must lay hold; had Aubrey betrayed Robert Castleford, had him killed in Berlin almost forty years ago?
That could animate him; that question obsessed him. That he would pursue, whatever else…
The doors slid back and he walked into the freezing air outside the arrivals hall. Immediately, a grey Mercedes displaying a taxi sign pulled out from a parking space and, jumping the queue of vehicles drawn up, halted directly in front of him. He was startled into clutching his suitcase more tightly.
"Massinger," Hyde said. It was a recognition, not a question. "All right. I'm Hyde. Note the accent?" Hyde smiled grimly at Massinger's relief.
"How did you—?"
"Money. What else? Just borrowed it. Get in." He pushed open the rear door a
nd Massinger climbed in, sliding his suitcase in front of him. The moment he shut the door, Hyde pulled the Mercedes away, down the ramp towards the main road. "I thought a taxi might come in useful — oh, better be kosher and put the clock on." He turned his head to glance at the American. "You strong on tipping, Massinger?"
"What? Oh—"
"What's the matter?" Hyde asked urgently.
"Everything," Massinger began, then noticing Hyde's alarm, he added, "And nothing. No need to worry. I wasn't spotted and followed."
"I know that. I've been here two hours waiting. No face I know, not even one I suspect I ought to know, has shown up." Hyde grinned suddenly, showing his profile once more. "You're not doing too bad for an old man."
"And you — how are you doing?"
"Ahead. Just. It's only real professionals we have to worry about. Brought my papers?"
"Yes."
On the wide empty road raised above flat white fields, they passed a grey, lumped-together factory complex. A red and white chimney belched dark smoke.
"Good. Well, what's the plan?" Hyde was clearly enjoying a human contact he did not have to fear or suspect. He was almost blithe.
"We — we're going to kidnap the KGB Rezident in Vienna. A simple job—"
"You what?"
Massinger was offhand, almost satiric, because he did not care. He was unable to concern himself closely with the matter. It was no more than a preliminary task to be executed before he could return to London to discover the truth concerning Aubrey and Castleford; he might even confront Aubrey, after he had dug around, yes he might…
Hyde was stunned by his apparent nonchalance. "Did I hear you correctly, Massinger? Did you say kidnap the Rezident? Hands up everybody in the Soviet Embassy, all right, come with us, sunshine? You're talking through your backside!"
"There's no other way. The Rezident must know — I am certain he does know what's going on here. He knows about Teardrop, and what's behind it."
