by Craig Thomas
Aubrey knew he was full of self-pity. He looked down at the choppy, churned water as if it offered escape, then sniffed loudly. He was filled with anger, too. More than forty years of loyalty. When Joyce and Mosley had become Fascists and Blunt and the others had become Communists in secret, he had enlisted in the service of his country.
And now his country was slipping away below the horizon, only a haze of lights to remind him of its position, its existence. He was going into exile. When they discovered him gone, they would search for him, then they would wait until the mole popped its head above ground in Moscow to collect its medals and state pension.
In the darkness, too, he heard the laughter of his father, that ugly, exultant barking at the misfortunes and come-uppances of others that had served him as a source of satisfaction for as long as Aubrey could remember. The verger had hated the secret life, and Aubrey had often suspected that he had escaped into it to put a final and complete barrier between himself and his father. Perhaps he might not have been able to keep it from his mother, but she died while he was still at school. His increasingly infrequent visits to his father had been filled with that abiding satisfaction, that his whole adult life was a secret from his vindictive parent. Now, years after his death, his laughter at his son's downfall could be heard on the dark wind.
The noises of teenage horseplay — someone threatening to throw someone else overboard, he thought — interrupted his reverie. His body was chilled anew by the wind and the company. One of the group lurched into him, reeling from the spring of one of his companions. Aubrey shrivelled away from the contact. He clenched his lips to prevent an escaping moan of protest.
"Sorry, Grandad," a black face said, and disappeared laughing. Aubrey felt his whole body shaking. He gripped the rail fiercely. The wake seemed to fade close to the ship. Brighton was a smudge of lights, no more. He shuddered with cold and self-pity and fear. England continued to slide beneath the sea like a damaged vessel.
He turned his back on it, and went forward again, towards the lights and noise and sleepers in the lounge.
* * *
The British Airways Trident dropped out of the low, clinging grey cloud only hundreds of feet above the runways of Flughafen Koln-Bonn. No more than minutes later, Massinger and his wife were hurrying across twenty yards of cold tarmac to the terminal building from the aircraft. As she followed Massinger, who moved urgently yet without real purpose, Margaret puzzled at his strange, withdrawn mood, his constant half-smiles tinged with guilty sadness, his reassuring pats on the back of her hand. He seemed to wish to comfort her — or was it that he wished to promise something? Margaret was confused. Paul seemed distracted rather than tense or excited. For herself, she was relaxed after the tensions of their flight from Heathrow. She knew that no one was especially interested in them, that there would be, in all probability, no secret watchers. But she had not been able to believe it, not for whole calm minutes at once. Small tensions heated her body, tickled or twitched at her arms and legs and face. She hated Paul's secret world until they boarded their flight and the Trident lifted into the anonymity of grey cloud, then through to a uniformly blue sky above a white cloud-carpet. Then, with a gin and tonic, she had begun to relax.
But Paul—? She could not tell what seemed to be driving him. He had spent most of the night at the Australian's flat in Earl's Court, using the untapped telephone to talk to Wolfgang Zimmermann. Shelley had been there, too. Margaret had been unable to rest. She had packed and repacked in an attempt at self-therapy until Paul had returned to Wilton Crescent.
The passenger lounge was warm, as was the baggage hall. Their suitcases inched towards them along a conveyor belt, the building around them whispered and purred in its efficiency. Paul Massinger stood near his wife, intensely aware of her even as he concentrated on their suitcases, wobbling like targets pulled on wires across a shooting range. Now that he appeared even to himself to be safely out of England, his guilt had increased sharply, like the return of a virus. He knew he had to establish the truth of Castleford's death, and that he had to persuade Wolfgang Zimmermann to help him. He had to know. By knowledge, by the truth alone, could he repay his wife's loyalty, her decision to throw in her lot with him, believing as she did that he was helping the man who had murdered her father. To repay that…
There was only one way. The truth, even if the truth damned Aubrey.
"Mr Massinger?" a slightly-accented voice enquired beside him. His body jumped with surprise. He turned. "I'm Wolfgang Zimmermann," the tall man offered, handing Massinger his ID with what appeared to be amusement. Then the German took off his fur hat, doffing it to Margaret. "Mrs Massinger — welcome to the Federal Republic." His identification of the political reality of West Germany was formal yet intense. Zimmermann's diffidence, Massinger guessed, was little more than superficial. Massinger shook his hand warmly.
"Thank you for meeting us — thank you for your offer of help," he said, smiling.
Zimmermann released his hand. He stood perhaps two inches taller than the American. Massinger could see in him the ability and charm that had, at one time, made him indispensible to ex-Chancellor Vogel. He could also see a sleepless night in the smudges beneath his keen blue eyes. "I have made a start," Zimmermann offered. "There is, as you will imagine, a great deal of material to cover. I have my car outside. I will drive you to your hotel. I thought we might set up our headquarters—" Again, there was the persistence of some secret amusement in Zimmermann, as if the disappointment of his political hopes in the collapse of the Berlin Treaty had left him detached from, and amused at, the antics of the body politic. " — if Mrs Massinger has no objections, of course?" he added.
Margaret smiled and shook her head. Then she said, "I've come to help, if I can. Paul's life is in danger until this business is cleared up." She looked at Zimmermann levelly.
"Quite," he agreed with a slight bow. "Come, I will take one of the suitcases, and we shall make our way to the car park." He picked up Margaret's pale blue leather case and went ahead of them.
Outside the airport buildings, the wind clipped and tousled them coldly. There was snow in the air. Zimmermann led them to a grey Mercedes and unlocked the rear door, gesturing them in.
A minute later, he turned the car south-west onto the autobahn to the Rhine and Bonn. Beside Zimmermann on the passenger seat, Massinger saw a heaped, neat pile of folders, envelopes and ring-binders. As if sensing his curiosity, Zimmermann patted the heap.
"A little preliminary sifting," he explained with a chuckle. "The BfV, fortunately, do not keep as much paper from the past as the Abwehr once did. You, Mr Massinger, were too young for G-2?"
"Post-war experience only," Massinger agreed.
"CIA. A somewhat distinguished record."
"You've checked of course."
"My apologies. My curiosity, not my suspicious nature. My old acquaintance Aubrey is lucky to have you for a friend." He was silent for a time, as if studying the heavy midday traffic, then he added: "As I, too, was lucky to have him — a man of such skill and such loyalty. I was very saddened — even alarmed — at what recently occurred. Surely your MI5 does not really believe it? It is — quite preposterous."
"As was your own frame-up by the Chinese — and the Americans," Massinger snapped, leaning forward in his seat.
"Out of bounds — I'm sorry," Zimmermann said.
"I apologise."
"Don't mention it."
They drove on towards Bonn in silence for a time. An airport bus rushed past them. As always, the newness of most of the cars struck Massinger. They were worn on the country's roads and autobahns like badges of merit and success, even with the German economy in a recession.
Evidently, Zimmermann regarded his own experiences as verboten, even though they so nearly parallelled those of Aubrey. Someone was framing the head of SIS just as someone had tried to frame Zimmermann as a Russian agent. Zimmermann had survived, in part because Aubrey exposed the frame-up — but Aubrey would n
ot survive his trap. Unless—
Zimmermann had been labelled, during his crisis, as a second Gunther Guillaume. And it was the last days of freedom of that same Gunther Guillaume that might hold the truth of Teardrop. Might. Just might.
Zimmermann was speaking once more.
"… a number of areas of interest, Mr Massinger. The World Cup was, of course, a time of detailed cooperation. My service was most concerned to avoid a repetition of '72 in Munich — at all costs to prevent such another tragedy. There were a number of people, apart from Mr Aubrey, in and out of Bonn over a period of weeks, even months. Also, there was, I gather, some internal investigation in the British embassy, regarding accounts or funding — I'm not sure of the details. No security implications, however…"
Massinger listened with a polite, non-committal half-attention while he considered how he might raise the subject of Berlin and Castleford's murder. Surely there must be people still in BfV who might have been there, people Aubrey had used? He had to do it. Now, more than ever, he owed it to Margaret.
They crossed the Rhine via the Kennedybrücke. The river was stormily grey beneath the leaden, snow-filled sky. Massinger noticed that the windscreen wipers of the Mercedes had been switched to intermittent, clearing the first snow flakes. Mistily, wintrily, the group of buildings that comprised the federal parliament, the Bundeshaus, and the residences of the Chancellor and the President appeared white and isolated in their parkland on the far bank. Massinger watched as Zimmermann's head turned sharply, then straightened to look ahead once more. It was the glance of an exile.
A minute later, Zimmermann was turning the car off the Adenauerallee into the forecourt of the Hotel Konigshof. Ten minutes after that, the three of them were ensconced in a spacious suite that looked towards the river — black long barges sliding through the tactile-looking steel-grey water — the heap of files and envelopes spread out on the large low coffee-table. Zimmermann, having carried the documents to their suite, showed no inclination to leave. Massinger felt himself organised, playing a subordinate role; a fact for which he felt a strange gratitude, as if his burden had been lightened. Margaret seemed prepared to begin working to Zimmermann's direction like someone drafted in to do an unpleasant, even distasteful job. Someone who was stoically determined to see the matter through.
She poured drinks for them — a gin and tonic and two whiskies. Then they seated themselves around the heaped files, as if ready to open the parcels that contained their belated Christmas presents.
"Shall we begin?" Zimmermann asked, removing a notebook from the pile. "You understand, this is only a preliminary selection of the material. I have some very enthusiastic, but not necessarily experienced young men who work for me. I think we can make a better job than they could." He splayed his fingers on the top file. "Mr Massinger…?" he invited.
"What are we looking for?" Margaret asked, putting down her glass. A barge hooted on the grey river. Sleet melted against the window, traced snail-tracks down the huge pane of glass. "Are you familiar with the actual arrest of this man Guillaume?"
Zimmermann's face pursed; Massinger could not be certain whether the reaction was a personal one, or some national distaste or hurt. "I am," he replied.
"Then, do you think there was — was someone here who tried to help Guillaume?" she blurted.
Zimmermann nodded. "I do. And I do not think it was Aubrey. Incidentally, with regard to your father—" Zimmermann was already turning towards Massinger, who leaned forward in eagerness.
"I'm not here to discuss that," Margaret snapped. The window was obscured by snail-tracks now, themselves interrupted or made to adopt new courses as large flakes of snow burst silently against the glass. The river was hardly decipherable in the distance. The room was warm behind its double glazing. "I'm here because my husband's safety is at stake."
A glance she resented passed between the two men, and then Zimmermann said with a slight nod of his head: "I'm sorry. Let me clarify the events of April '74. Guillaume was arrested by officers of the BfV — our security service, like MI5 in England — on the night of April 23rd. He had been under suspicion for some time before that. BfV recommended to Chancellor Brandt that he be allowed to continue in office as one of his close advisers, hoping that the man would eventually betray his network and his control — his pipeline into the DDR or even to Moscow…" Massinger nodded. Margaret, leaning her chin on her fist, listened intently as to a new and exciting teacher. She looked, Massinger realised, almost childlike. He realised that her untroubled, rapt features betrayed how much of her self and her past lay buried at that moment. She was working only with the surface of her mind and feelings. "… I would not have done that. However, what it meant was that, though the Chancellor continued to use Guillaume, even to trust him because he discounted much of the BfV's evidence for many months before April '74, the man himself was put under very close surveillance."
"So, you have a complete record of his movements, contacts — everything?" Massinger asked.
"Indeed. The BfV calls the official record a failure — because Guillaume must have guessed that he was under suspicion. He led us nowhere. His arrest became inevitable because there was nothing more to be gained from letting him run. The BfV knew that Brandt was still reluctant to believe or to act, so it waited until the Chancellor was on a visit to Cairo, then made the arrest…" There was a gleam in Zimmermann's eye as his voice tailed off.
Massinger, realising that his intuitions were being tested, said quickly: "That's not quite it, though, is it? BfV had to rush at the last minute, I guess?"
Zimmermann nodded him a compliment. "Quite so. His telephone had been tapped, his movements watched. He went about his business as usual. We expected the mouse to play while the Chancellor-cat was away — forgive me, incidentally, for using the term we so freely. I was, of course, not connected with the service at that time." A moment of retrospection, then he continued: "He became concerned to shake his tail. This he did on two occasions in the week before his arrest. He kept assiduously away from his network, his couriers and his control. They, it seems, were to be kept safe. But he was meeting someone. Someone we did not know was evidently helping him. Warning him." He thumbed through his notebook, then nodded. "Yes — April 22nd. A voice speaking German with a heavy English accent telephoned Guillaume, and was warned off the line. Guillaume immediately left his apartment, and went to a public telephone booth. Fortunately, we had bugged all of them within a certain radius. Enough of a radius." Zimmermann was enjoying himself, as if recounting a particularly pleasing episode in his own biography. Whatever disappointments he had suffered in the past two years, he had evidently flung himself wholeheartedly into his role as special adviser to the German counter-intelligence service. It was as if he had recaptured, entirely and freshly, his Abwehr past.
"And?"
"There was trouble. Hitches. BfV gossip was, however, repeated to Guillaume — gossip that could only have come from us or from people liaising with BfV as part of the World Cup security studies." Zimmermann looked grave. "Papers were arranged, a car hired… there were a number of calls to different telephone booths, but we never were able to trace the caller. The flight to the DDR — by car with a false passport — was to take place on the 24th. So, Guillaume was arrested the previous night."
"Always the same caller?"
Zimmermann nodded. "Always. An Englishman with good, correct, school-taught German. BfV was certain that he was a professional intelligence operative and that he was relaying the instructions of Guillaume's masters. Whoever he was, he was working for the East Germans or the KGB. And probably still is."
Zimmermann, his narrative complete, sipped at his whisky, smiling encouragingly at Margaret. Massinger saw the frown of concentration lighten. Her features were still smooth, however. She had hidden or otherwise temporarily disposed of whole parts of herself in order to concentrate on his safety.
The snow had eased, and the window was gradually clearing. The barges moved
like flat-backed whales.
"Was there any evidence pointing at a particular individual?"
Zimmermann shook his head. "Unfortunately, no. The car hire firm was traced — a nondescript man was described. The tickets for a train journey — presumably as back-up — which we found in Guillaume's apartment were bought by someone whose German sounded a little peculiar — no description. No, there was nothing to go on."
"And how many suspects?"
"Conservatively, perhaps twenty or twenty-five. There were a great many advisers, as well as the normal embassy staff."
"You have a list of names?"
"Here." Zimmermann passed Massinger a sheet of typing paper. The list of names was neatly aligned in the centre of the page. The typeface might have belonged to a computer.
"Well," Massinger sighed, "no one anywhere has found anything up to now. What have we to lose?"
"I have one other name for you," Zimmermann said, and was surprised at the hungry, guilty eagerness Massinger's face displayed. He glanced at Margaret, then back to Massinger. He saw their mutual love, sensed the anguish not yet dissolved between them. The scene was a moment of nakedness from which he wished to remain detached. Nevertheless, sensing the crisis that was imminent, he passed Massinger a small, folded sheet which he removed from his breast pocket. "He's retired now," he explained.
Margaret realised at once the implications of Zimmermann's words. "Who is this?" she asked angrily. "What other name?"
Massinger's shoulders hunched as he began his explanation. "It's to do with—"
"My father? That's it, isn't it? You've asked Herr Zimmermann to help me?"
"Not you — us."
"No—!" Zimmermann was pained by her anguish. She suddenly looked older, careworn. Even haunted.
"I can't leave it—!"
"I don't want you to—"
